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32X

'^'

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER,

SCHOOLMISTRESS.

;

i^iE^roiaES

MARGAlUrr GRAINGER,

SCUOOLMISTKESS.

■T

ANNTE S. SWAN

{AJr.i. lliiniftt-Smith^

AL'TIIOX OK
"ELIZAIE11I 01 KN, M.ll.," " IKiMKM I N, ' *' A BlIIEH bKaT,;*

"a victouv Won," etc.

With luelif full]toyf illu^tmtion
BY D. MURUAY ^)MITH.

TORONTO, CANADA
WILLIAM BRIGGS

LONDON
HUTCHINSON & CO.

K 9 C 5

Entrrbd Acconlint; to Act of the Parllainent of Canada, in the year on*
thouwuid eiirht hundrMi and ninety-six, by William liaiUiM, at the Department
of Agriculture. ^

CONTENTS

A PASSING SHADOW

. 1

9 year on*
[>e|>arttnaQt

II.

A TOUCH OF COLur-R ,

• •

• • ^ (

III

A REVOLTING DAL GUI EK

• • 5t)

IV.

THIS SIDE— AND THAT

• •

. 7S

''''""■'■''' l.r

VI.

THE PRIDE OF KII-L< E .

. 12(»

AUNT CAROLINE .

THE MITE

CONTENTS,

VII.

• • • •

VIII.

. 1.57

. W2

IX
A BARD CASE 20<J

HOW IT ENDED

. 2;i4

XI.
BITTER MISTAKE 2Go

|V[E|viot?iES OF IWarcaret Grainger.

A PASSING S [J A DOW.

T HAVE loii^r l„i,i t},e desire to set down nortain

experiences wliieli have eoiue to me in the

course of a Ion- ami l.nsy life, to nnike some reord

of the gh'm])ses, somefimes very near and sacred,

I have l.een permirfed into the inner sanctuary of

other lives. 1 am a jdain w.nnin, laying- claim

to no special originality or literary ability, and I

am now old, though those who love me will not

permit me to sav so.

It has been my lot to shar.' the joy and sorrow

many, to see behind the scenes, to wit

Mess

downfall of cherished lioi)e8 as well as tl

IC croWMlliLT

of many ambitions, aud it ha

s occurred to me that

I :

r I.

2 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

in these experiences might be found something
helpful to others. These privileges have not been
accorded me in recognition of any special gift or
BervicCj bnt chiefly, I suppose, because through all
the stress of life 1 have striven to keep my heart
young, and mj sympathies large and wide.

I am an old maid, and I have no history, I have
never even had a romance. I suppose I have always
been too busy, and my lot in life has ever been cast
far from opportunities for love-making or marrying ;
anyhow, I have never had a love story, and the
sun-time of my youth was spent in the interests and
concerns of those committed to my charge.

My father was an army man, a colonel, whose
regiment distinguished themselves in the Mutiny.
He fell, himself, fighting at the Delhi gate. My
mother I never knew ; and I last saw my father
when he was home on furlough the year before the
Mutiny broke out.

I was brought up by my grandmother, the widow
of a Norfolk rector, and my youth was entirely passed
in a quiet, quaint little village on the Norfolk
broads.

Army men do not, as a rule, leave large fortunes
behind; my father was no exception to the rule.

fGER.

A PASSING SHADOW.

I something
ve not been
3cial gift or
through all
ep my heart

ory. I have
have always
er been cast
)x marrying ;
ry, and the
interests and

lonel, whose
16 Mntiny.
gate. My
my father
before the

the widow
rely passed
16 Norfolk

ge fortunes
the rule.

He was a free-handed, generous man, of simple tastes
himself, but unable to resist a tale of distress or a
plea for help ; a disposition too readily taken advan-
tage of in this world. He died not only penni-
less, but even in debt, the result of his reckless gene-
rosity.

My grandmother's means were also straitened, and
wlien she died I could only pay off certain of my
father's obligations which weighed heavily op my
heart, and then go forth to earn my bread. I was
fortunate in having had a most thorough education,
and further, in having a singular aptitude for the
acquiring and imparting of knowledge. I made the
most of my opportunities, and through my father's
connections was fortunate in securing a speedy
engagement in a ladies' school, kept by a distant
relative of my own.

She was an intellectual and God-fearing woman,
somewhat narrow, perhaps, in her ideas and outlook,
but who nevertheless turned out from her establish-
ment good women, well equipped in every sense for
the battle of life.

To the influence and example of my cousin 1
attribute tlie larger shan^ of my own success, though
my theories differed considerably from here.

; n

j ■
It I

4 MEMORIES OF AfARG.iliET GRAINGER.

Throiiirh the march of circnnistatict's I foniid ii'vsolf
at tliiity the hcml of ihiit huge cstuhlishmeiit, my
title and desigiuif ion hcing : —

"Mar(;art:t (jraixger,

"PltlNflPAL.

"Fleetwood CoLi.EfJE, Dartford,

" MlDDLKSEX."

The j)IriCP was north of Loudon, and accessible to
it bv irain nndcr an honr ; tlio liouse was l;iru:e and
commodious, the grounds well laid out and i)i('-
luresqne. VViien 1 entered into possession, we had
iifty boarders and an equal number ol' day scholars
from the neighbourhood. 1 was the al)solute head.
Able for my work and thoroughly enjoying it, life
opened for me very fairly.

With the ultimate destinies of my day scholars I
was not so much concerned, but the resident jmpils,
left absolutely in my care, occasioned me a great
deal of anxiety and care. The early years of girl-
hood are so impressionable, that it is well-nigh
impossible to entirely counteract the influences whi'ili
are then brouglit to bear upon the young muid.
Thus 1 felt my responsibility very grea% and tiiough,
looking back, i bave muvii to be giutei'ul for, there

VGER.

found ipvsclf
isUmeiit, my

K, Dartford,

X."

accossible to
us large and
lit and pic-
ion, we had
day scholars
f^olute head,
ing it, life

schi)lars I
dent luipils,
lue a great
ars of girl-
well-nigh
snces whi'jh
lung mind.
,nd Uiongh,
for, there

A PASSING SIIADOIV. %

remains tlie sad favt that some of these lives have
Ijccii shipwrecked. li is sometimes iiupossible to
combat siiceessfiillv inherited tendencies.

When 1 entere(l into possession at Fleetwood,
there was among the pupils a girl named Judith
Sale, a strange, reticent, unlovable kind of creature
who, among so many, kept herself entirely isolated.
She had been with my ])redece-sor for two years,
and we knew practically notl»ing of her. Her
parents were in good circumstances ; she paid the
higiicst board, which included, among other little
luxuries, a room to herself. I have since abollK^hed
the system of granting such indulgences for money,
as I found it tended to discontent, rivalry, and various
otin'r undesirable cpialities among my pupils. When
all are eipial, i)aying for and receiving the same
advantages, no com{)arisons can be drawn.

Tiiese abuses of the old regime had to be abolished
by degrees, and changes gradually introduced.
Juditii Sale was a girl of good parts, brilliant indeed
in some particulars, and she worked most con-
scientiously and constantly. But she took no joy
in her work. Her dark, expressive, and by no means
unattractive face \i^ore a look of habitual de])ression
seldom seen in one so young ; and she was also

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

II,

subject to fits of temper, which I fonritl most difficult
to deal with. Miss Brooke had believed in the stern
rule, and seldom attempted to win the confidence of
her charges. Judith had always interested me, and
when she came entirely under my control, I began
by trying to understand her. I was sitting in my
own room one day, busy with the correspondence
which was daily growing heavier, when there came
a light, hesitating tap n^ the door. My orders were
that, after seeing the work for the day begun, I was
not to be disturbed till eleven o'clock ; and I felt
a little impatient with the intruder. I was surprised
when Judith Sale entered the room, the classes for
the day being at their morning work.

" Well, my deur," I .^aid rather brusquely, " what
brings you here?"

I think I see her now as she s'ood tliat day, a
lank slip of a girl in a straigiit blue serge gown,
her black hair in a long, thick i)luit down her back,
and her large, melancholy eyes set like blue gems in
her dark face.

" I have had a letter from home, Miss Grainger,*'
she said, " and I want to leave to-day."

" When did the letter come," I asked, " and what
does it say ? Is it from your father ? **

I
'I

rER.

ost difficuJt
1 the stern
nfidence of
id me, and
'1, I began
ing in my
3S|)ondence
here came
rders were
?nn, I was
md I felt
« surprised
ilasses for

y, ** what

at day, a
ge gown,
her back,
' gems in

rainger,"

nd what

A PASSING SHADOW.

** Yes, ma'am ; please I want to go at once.'

She spoke quietly, but with a certain decisiveness
which I felt to be a part of her character. She was
repressed, but there were worlds of jM)s.sibiiiry in
that face. She was one who would steer no middle
course, who with one grand sweep would make or mar
her destiny.

" You can't expect me, Judith, to let you go in this
fashion. I have had no communication from your
father. Until he writes and requests me to send you
home, I can't allow you to go."

" I am going," she replied, quite calmly ; " I am
going now."

She did not speak rudely ; nor did her calm
ignoring of my authority irritate me, as it must liave
done in anotlier. I looked at her very steadily, and
I saw that underneath that outward calmness there
was a great deal of nervous agitation.

" Would you mind letting me see the letter you
have received?" I suggested. Her colour rose
swiftly, and her hand instinctively sought her
pocket.

" There isn't anything in it," she replied hurriedly.
"Only I know I must go."

I put out my hand and drew her to my side.

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

'!!'>

" My dear child, you ask an irujxjssibility. It will
be better to trust me a little. I will not betrav tliat
trust. Tell me sometliing about your home."

She drew back from my touch, aud the colour
fluctuated in her face. " I can't ; there isn't anything
to tell ; only 1 must go home," she reiterated.

1 simply shook my head.

" Not until I know why. I shall write to your
father this morning, and inquire the meaning of your
behaviour."

Her eyes flashed in momentary anger. I met her
glance with a smile, and I saw her soften.

" It is my father ; if I don't go she'll marry him,
as sure as fate."

She gave her foot a little passionate stamp, and her
mouth trembled with ill-repressed anger.

I was entirely mystified, because I knew nothing
about Judith's homo, nothing of her father, from
whom I received the yearly payment for his daughter,
unacc()mi)anied by even a formal note. I did not
know what to say, and was puzzled how to act.

"I don't want to go without your permission, Miss
Grainger," she said presently, with that queer, old-
world, unnatural decisiveness. " But I am going, and
this very afternoon."

ft'

ER.

A PASSIXG SHADOW.

ty. It will
betray tlmt
e."

the colour
I't anything
;ed.

ite to your
ing of your

I met her

larry him,

ip, and her

w nothing
her, from
daughter,
I did not
to act.
sion, Miss
ueer, old-
joing, and

" Very well," I said (juietly. '' You can get ready,
and 1 sliull tiike you myself."

Slie started, eyed me keenly, then without any
Wiirniiig burst into a wihl storm of weejting, and
threw lierself at my feet. With this mood it was
less diliicult to deal, and I sootlied iier as best I
could, feeliui? mv lieart 8tran«j:elv softened to the
still, self-contained, passionate child. When she
grew (piieter she drew the letter from her pocket,
and gave it me to read. It was written by an illiterate
person, and ran as follows : —

"South Wold, Suuraov, February \9,th.

" Dkar Miss Jiidy, — If you don't come home soon
it'll be all up witli all of us, an" tliere won't be no
l)la('e for any on us. Please come. Me and Perry
and Wilkes too '11 give notice if you don't come. The
master nor none o' us can't call our souls our own,
an' South Wold ain't no better than the county
gaol.

" Yours respectful,

" Ann Barlow.*'

" Dear me, child," I exclaimed, " what's the
meaning of this? Who is Ann Barlow?"

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER,

rill

'*0h, that*R my old nnrse; she's kept house for
papa since mother died."

" And what is it all about ? '*

" There's a woman at South Wold, Miss Grainger,
the nurse papa has had since his illness last winter.
Oh, she is horrid, a wicked woman, I feel sure. She
has stolen papa from me. When I was home at
Christmas she would not let me speak to him. I
hated her then. I told her one day I should kill her,
and she was frightened."

I felt shocked and pained, and my heart was sore
because 1 had been so little of a friend to this poor,
undisciplined, suffering creature, who had been eating
her heart out in our midst all these weeks, neglected
and misunderstood.

" We were all in all to each other, papa and I,
before that, and now you see what Barlow rsays.
He will marry her, and then I shall have no
home or no father. Oh, Miss Grainger, what shall
I do ? "

She was momentarily becoming more excited, and
I felt at a loss what to say. To allow the child to
depart to her home in Surrey in this frame of miud,
and alone, was not to be thought of.

"It is not well, dear, to act upon ha^ty impulse.

Iir

9EH

t house for

A PASSING SHADOIV.

9 Grainger,
last winter,
sure. Siie
>8 home at
to him. I
lid kill her,

t was sore
• this poor,
)een eating
, neglected

)a and I,

'low ;s{x\s.
have no
hat shall

Kited, and

child to

of mind,

impulse.

Would it not be generous and just to your father to
write to him first and send him this letter ? "

" I must not do that, Miss Grainger, in case poor
dear Barlow might suffer. I must go myself."

I reflected for a moment, and then came to a hasty
decision, a course most unusual with me.

" If you like, Judith, 1 will go down to South
Wold to-day and see your father."

" Oh, if you only would I " she cried ; and her face
positively shone. " You are so good, every one loves
yon, everybody wants to do what you say. I will
be so content and diligent and good if only you
will go."

I was deeply moved, and tears stood in my
eyes.

" Hush, my dear, you praise me too much. I have
failed in loving-kindness to you all these weeks, and
I shall never forgive myself nor forget your trust
in me."

" Tell papa my heart is breaking. Tell him I have
been diligent, that 1 have tried to learn all you could
teach me here, so that I might sooner get back to
him. I want to be his little housekeeper, and I
am sure I could nurse him faithfully — oh, I should
try."

MEMORIES or MARGARET CRAISCER.

»)

She Hpokc with a wistfuliiess whicli b vimI tho
j)assi(nijit(' loiii^nui^ of her liourf. I saw . ,at l«e was
the i<l()l of her licart, tliat licr stillness, hor repression,
ber habitual rL'ticcncc hud hiihh'ii a V( ry <bM']), loviiig,
and passioiiatclv sciisirive heart. Mv own beat with
a s;i(l ]»ain as I turntMl to lock my bureau. I knew
from exi)erit!noe and from observation how much
it is possible for such highly strung natures to
sulfer.

1 looked at the time-table, and found that it was
possible for me to go and return from South Wold
bi'fore night fell. Within tiie hour 1 was in the
train, and it was only after 1 was seated and had
time for reflection tinit I began to tliink of the
painful and delicate natures of my errand. It was
so unlike me to interfere in any way with the affairs
of others, but tliis had been thrust \\\)o\\ me. I did
not know Mr. Sale, but I hoped to find him a
courteous gentlemim, wlio would appreciate the single-
ness of my motive. South Wold was one of the
quaintest and jtretriest of Surrey vilhiges, and the
young spring, not tanly in that slieltered nook, was
bnsy everywhere. The entkins were downy on the
willows, and the smell of tiie brown fields filled the
ail with a delicious freshness suggesii\e of life and

r.ER.

A !\is.^iyn sir.iiHiiv,

' yed the
.at lie was
' repn-ssion,
l«i<'[), loving,
I l.eat with
II. I kuew
Ijow much
imtiires to

hat it was
juth Wold
vas in the
I and had
ik of the
1. It was
tlie affairs
Qe. I did
lid him a
:he single-
no of the

and the
nook, was
i.v on the
filled the

life and

h('i»t' and fiJi^Munce to come. I luid no difficulty in
limlin^ The Park, wliicli was the nuinor house of
the village, and as such resj)ectfully regarded. I
found if an imponing and lovely old red mansion
house set like a gem in a noble park, a heritage to
be loveil and rejoiced in by those who called it
home.

I was sur])rised, I confess, to find the birthplace of
my unpretending and hitherto uninteresting pupil
so line a place. A man-servant met me at the door.
It was my fancy to think he seemed gloomy and
<lej)iessed. I in(juired for Mr. Sale, and was bi Iden
conu^ in, and left for what 1 thought a very long
time in a comi'ortable, well-warmed morning-room.
At hist some one entered, a gentleman not much past
middle age, strikingly handsome, but rather worn
and delicate-looking, as if he had but recently
recovered from a serious illness. I rose a little
nervously. Mr. Gresham Sale did not look like a
person to be trifled with.

" I am Miss Grainger from Fleetwood," I said ;
and he visibly started.

'* Miss Grainger from Fleetwood ? I trust my
little Judith is well."

" She is quite well," I said, a trifle lamely, for I

Mf MOIilES OF M.\RG.\RET CbR.IIST.ER.

(lid not really know how to brouch the subject, or
how rxphiin my errand.

" I expected to see u much (d(h'r lady," he said,
with tliat fine courtesy 1 liave never seen exeeHed.
" It is wonih'rful that you should be the liead of au
estaldishment lii«e Fleetwocid at such an age."

I smiled faintly, and plunged boldly into the
matter. It was tlie only way.

" Your daughter hud a letter from some one here
which has much distressed her. She wished to come
at once, but I thought I had better come myself.
I ought to apoh^'^ise, I feel, for this unwarrantable
intrusion \\\m)\\ your family affairs ; but I trust you
will accjuit me of any desire to pry."

" You may rest assured on that i)oint," he said,
gravely and kindly. " I know quite well to what
you allude, and I am glad you have come, and
that you did not permit Judith to fly down here
in a passion to-day. It would have been most awk-
ward."

I waited, regarding him inquiringly. He reddened
slightly, and cleared his tliroat.

" You can take back my love to Judith," he said
then, with a sliglitly deliunt air. "1 will write my-
self ; but you can break the news to her perhaps more

Hubject, or

%" he siiid,
n excollfd.
Iioad of an
age."
' into the

e one here
uhI to conio
no myself,
warrantable
trnst you

*' he said,
to what
ome, and
own here
nost awk-

/t PASS/\r, siiAnoiv.

" he said
vrife ray-
ap8 more

iii;li< ionslv vonrself. Tt-Il Iht 1 was married tx) MiHS
Wilbur this morning."

I b<»\v«Ml a trifle wnfnsodly. The matter was ended ;
there was notliinj; for me to do but go.

" Yon will do your Iwst, I am snre, Miss Graincfer,
to advise Jnditli wisely," lie said formally. '* She
is j)assioiiat<', and wlieii excitecl unrea'<oiiable. Warn
licr that any exhibition of Ixtsfility towards Mrs. Sale
will (tidy recoil upon lierself."

" I will advise lier \vis(dv, Mr. Sale, and do what
I can to rcitoiicile her to the cliaiijjje," I replied
civilly but coldly. " May I toll her yon will write
or come ? "

"1 shall write, of course, but 1 cannot come at
^)resout. We are sroinjjr on this verv evening to the
Hivicra. The doctors say the change at this trving
seaso'i of the year is imperative, and I am of course
extremely fortunate; in having my dear wife with me.
Give .ludith my love, and say I shall write from San
Remo."

He s])oke with apparent calmness, but was still not
quite at his ea^e. I ditl liim tiie justice to believe

now

that his heart was sore for his motlierless and
nnliapjty child. 1 rose to go, and Mr. Sale pressed
me to remain. They would bring tea, he said, and

V-'h'

'^'

ml:.:or/es ot Margaret grainger.

I I

he should like me to see Mrs. 8ale. My natural
curiosity to behold the woman who Tiad played her
cards so well induced me to accept the invitation, but
she did not appear. As I came out, however, I saw
a lady cross the hall, and she paused a moment to
look at me. She was a woman about my own age,
dark, and with a stern cast of face ; not unhandsome,
but unscrupulous, even wicked, I could see. My
heart sank anew ; tlie ho])e had sushiined me that
one following so noble a profession would be all that
a woman can be, and might prove a blessing to that
wifeless and motherless house. Tliat hope expired
as I looked upon her face, and I hurried out, feeling
her sliglitly im})ertinent inquiring look U})on me, and
her question put pointedly and rudely to a servant,
" Who is that ? '*

I walked very fast down the avenue, and had got
beyond range of the windows, when I ho;i,rd a quick
foot behind me ; and looking round, 1 saw a stout,
motherly-looking woman wearing a big white iipron
hurrying after me. I stood still, of course, till she
came up.

" Excuse me, ma'am, but I am l^arlow. P'r'aps
Miss Judy — bless her poor dear sore heart- nuiy
have spoke ui me. Isn't this orful ? Hqw is the

It 1.

'NGER.

My natural
(I played her
nvitation, but
wever, I saw
a moment to
my own age,
uiiha!uIi<ome,
Id see. Mv
lied me tliat
d be all t)uit
<sing to that
bope expired

out, feeling
pen me, and
a servant,

md had got
;ird a (piick
aw a stout,
ivhite apron
se, till she

w. P'r'jTps
jcurt — niiiy

low ifci the

l!.:!!

-m

^ PylSSrNCr SHADOW.

dear lamb, ma uin ? Toll licr not to take on too
much."

Her lace was so truly kind that I could aot help
resjKtnding to her anxious concern.

" 1 fear it will be a great ])low to Miss Sale. I
dread going back."

7 trlow shook her head and wiped her eyes.

" W(! was all to give notice, ma'am, every one, for
it's not like that we could serve tliat woman, no
better than she should be. We saw what she was
up to the moment she set foot in the 'ouse, wi' her
soft ways, her trailing gowns, and her frilled cap;
but tliere's claws aneath all that, as the master '11
find out. Oh, ma'am, wliy are men folk such blind
cretnrs? Anybody could a' seen through 'er from
the first."

I shook my head. Barlow's question was beyond
my caj)ability to answer.

" It may turn out better than we expect. Barlow,"
I said, trying to speak cheerfully. " Don't leave, if
you can possibly stay on, for Miss Sale's sake."

" Oh, I'll stop as long as flesli an' blood can stand
it, for I've served, girl an' woman, in the lionse for
thirty year, an' my heart cleaves to it. That 1 should
live to see the day ! Give Miss Judy my love, an'

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

all our loves, au' tell Iter not to take

oil.

I ]>

now

-1-

you

11 be kind and wod to 'er ; it's writ

on your

sweet i'ace, just as cruelty and wickedness is writ

on hers

5»

I shook hands with Barlow hastily and went my
way, tliough in no liurry to get back to Fleetwood,
and the ordeal awaiting uie th(M'e. There seemed
not a ray of hoi)e or gladness 1 could offer in com-
pensation for the ciiild's bitter sorrow, and I prayed,
as I was borne ra})idly back to Dartford, that I miglit
be given fitting words to soothe her distress.

Dinner was over when I arrived. I sent for Judith
to my own sitting-room, and I had scarcely laid
aside my bonnet when she came, eager, white-faced,
trembling with apprehensions and excitement. I
shut the door and took her in my arms.

" God will comfort you, my dear, dear Judith,"
I said falteringly. " Try to be brave, for your own
sake and for mine."

"Then he will marry her?" she said, in a still,
passionless voice.

*' He has married her, my dear, tliis morning, and
they have gone to the Riviera. Your fjillier sent
his kind messages to you, and you will hear from
him very soon."

_j^r_

lER.

\\. 1 know
I'it on your
less is writ

(I went my
Fleetwood,
ere seemed
Ter in eom-
d I jmiyed,
luit I miglit
»s.

t for Judith
M'celv laid
liite-faced,
ment. I

ir Jnditli,"
vour own

iu a still,

)ruing, and
jtilier sent
hear from

A PASSL\'(i SI Li DOW.

She withdrew herself, shivering a little, from ray

clasp.

" Sent his kind messages to me, did he ? They
mean nothing. He lias broken my heart."

*' Hush, Judith : it may not be so, bad. Uemember
your father was very lonely ; he re([uired a comj)anion
now "

1 stopped, as a vision of the forbidding face I had
seen a few hours ago in tlie luill at South Wold rose
up ])efore me, seeming to mock me.

"He need not have cliosen her; she was wicked.
No, don't reprove me. 1 know she was. One knows
tliese things, and tliough I am not old I. have
thouglit a great deal. Now I must work even
harder, so that I muy soon be able to get my own
living."

Not a tear or a reproach ; her quiet acce])tance of
the inevitable struck m(; as being unnatural in one so
young. 1 saw that Judith Sale was no longer a
girl ; tlie 1)itterness of tliat one exj)e"ieuce had
changed her into a woman, who looked at life
through saddened eyes.

" My dear, you must not talk of that ; your father
still loves you dearly, still has all your interests at
heart. Don't harden your heart against him. There

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

•I

V \

may come a time; when he may need all yonr
love."

She shook her Ijcad.

" She will part us if she can for ever. I know
that now I have no home."

" She may try, dear, hut he will not allow it.
She may influence him for a little, but a man
cannot forget his own child, the child of tlie wife
of his youth. Promise me that you will not brood
on this too much."

" I won't brood, but I must think. Sometimes I
think too much, and my head gets wild. Oh ! do
you not think God is sometimes cruel, Miss Grainger ?
He gives ns those terrible keen feelings, and slays
us through them."

It was not like a girl's speech. Again I re-
proached myself foi having so little understood this
deep, brooding young heart committed to my care.
It is always the case that the clamourers who
demand our care and attention partake of our firsc
and best. I took her hot hands in mine, and
looked down into her large, beautiful, troubled
eyes.

*' Judith dear, I am older than you, not too old
to sympathise with you, but X have seen much, and

Jaii

NGER.

A PASSING SHADOW.

eed all your

^er. I know

not ullow it.
but a man
of the wife

ill not brood

Sometimes I
Id. Oh ! do
^s Grainger?
J, and slays

gain I re-
erstood this

o my care.
)nrers wbo
of our firsc

mine, and
1, troubled

lot too old

much, and

had my own share of loneliness, of heartache, of
bitter sorrow. God will not try as beyond our
strength. I have prov(;d it."

" He tries us, then, to our utmost limit. I can
scarcely believe in His goodness and mercy eternally
preached to us."

" By-aud-by, my child, you will sec how mercy
walked side bv side with sorrow, even in this. The
purjjose is hid, but it is there ; one day it will
be revealed. You can learn great lessons of self-
sacrifice, of patience, of heavenly heroism from this,
Judith, and by the silent lesson of your life teach
us all."

God gave me the words, and I saw that they
touclied her. Many fine enthusiasms lay unawak-
enea in that reserved heart ; it was not without its
ideals.

Her face grew softer, and her eyes shone.

" I will try, and you will help rae. I have been
80 happy here, working and ho])ing to be fit to be
papa's companion. Perliai)s 1 have thought about
it too much, and not been so kind to others as I
might. T will try to be a better girl."

I was inexpressibly touched, and my tears fell.
I knelt down with her, and prayed very falteringly

MF.MORTFS OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

i! 'I

1 1'

thtit this experience might be blessed to us both.
B'rom that day the bond between ns was very sacred
and close. There was a great (thaiige in tiie child,
a change observed of all. She became less reserved,
more companionable, more attractive in every way.
She won love wliere before there had been a little
distrust. Amoni; the vounger children she was
simply adored, and I saw that she was less imhappy
than 1 had dared to hope. No letter came from
San Remo, and wlien 1 saw the wistful look deej)en
in her eyes, my lieart was sore and bitter against
Wvndliam Sale. As no instructions came from
abroad or from South Wokl, Judith spent Easter
with me. I took her to Bournemouth witli me, and
1 grew to love her more and more. She had a fine,
strong nature, capable of great unselfislmess, of much
achievement ; but she wanted the sunshine of dweet
surroundings to bring it all out. I had many strange
thoughts during these weeks, doubts even of the
goodness of God. The shadow cast so early ou
the child's heart seemed to me so needless and
cruel. But we were very happy together. The
Eastei-tide communion knit us together in the bonds
of a love wliich no time or circumstance has ever
dimmed.

lUuij

VnFR.

A PASSING SNA now.

to U8 both.
"< very sucred
ill the child,
ess reserved,
I every way.
been a little
ill slie was
ess I'.nliappy
caine from
look deepen
tter against
came from
[)ent Easter
th me, and
had a fine,
s, of much
le of rfweet
my strange
en of the
early on
edless and
her. The
the bonds
! has ever

Easter foil earlv tliat vear. Rv the middle of
April we were again settled dowiu to the usual
routine of work at Fle(!twood. dudith was much
in my mind, and seeing that the sickness of hope
deferred was beginning to set its weary mark on the
girl's face, 1 made up my mind to write to Mr.
Sale, sending the letter to South Wold. One wet
morning I sat down, as usual, to my desk, and
Iniving observed at break last that Juditli looked
nnusnjiUy de})ressed, 1 began my letter to her
iatlior. I had not got very far when my maid
brought a card to me.

Mr. Wyndham (ireshau Sale.

I hurried down to the drawing-room, feeling as
excited as if it had been a concern of my own ;
and semeliow, when I saw him, all my hard thoughts
of liini melted away. He looked worn and grey
and old, but the second glance revealed to me a
certain peace of expression which had been absent
before.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Sale, for Judith's
sake."

His lips quivered.

" How is she ? "

" Physically well, but you cannot be snrprised

i r ' ^

MEMOIilES OF MARGARET GRAINGER,

I !)

II I

i i

that she has snfTcrcd much. It is nine weeks this
very dtiv since vou \im\ I met ut Soiifli Wold."

"Nine weeks, is it? It seems like nine ceiiturics,

»>

he said, with n curious vehemen<;e, and then there
was an awkwurd silence.

" Ih Mrs. Hale well?" I forced mvself then to

say, as con

rteously

air

cou

Id.

He flung up his lieud, and «!;!ive his hands a
deprecatory wave.

"Miss Grainier, I thank God there is no Mrs.
Sale."

1 looked at him })laid<ly, not knowing what he
meant. Curiously it did not occur to me that she
might have died. I often wondered at it after-
wards.

" I married a woman without princiides, Miss
Grainger, and my }»unishment has not been lacking.
God has been more merciful to me than I deserve."

I waited, wondering, to hear more, never taking
my eyes from his handsome, careworn face.

" We went abroad, as arranged, to San Remo.
Before we had been there many days 1 discovered
and deplored my mistake, my infatuation, which 1
can oidy account for by my weakness of body and
by her constant presence and winning ways. She

^NGER,

i<* Weeks this
l< \V.)!.I."
iiic coiituric's,"
tl tlien there

yself then to

his htuids a

! is no Mrs.

"iL-" what he
ue that she
at it after-

iples, Miss
t'n lacking,
deserve."
2ver taking
ce.

San Remo.
discoveied
h wliicii 1
' body and
ays. She

-m->

iv^,

A PARSING SUA now.

coiiM 1)0 v<'rv wiiiiiiri<^ and attra(!tive when sho
liked, iiiid wluMi HiiytJiiii«j was to be ^ainod by it.
IJt't'ure we had becji a luontli married 1 discovered
that she was a married woman already, with a
hiisliniid liviiijr."

"Then voii are free, of course?*'

" Entirely so. I owe lier nolhin«r, luit I have j^iven
lier a sum of money snflieient to keep her for some
time lo come. She will not «^o back to Ium* hus])and.
Slie will proltably ^o on with her profession, and
jterhaps take in some other fool, l)nt it will not be
ill tliis country. fShe knows that if I hear of her
here she will be punisiied, even tliou^di 1 should
have to exjiose my own folly. Do you think my
little u;irl will ever be able to forgive me?"

1 c(nd(l not repress a smile, tlionjili I tried. I
wished him to know that she had sutferetl cruelly,
more cruelly than lie, because he deserved the
punishment whicli had followed him.

I ranjx the bell.

" Go to the French class and tell Miss Sale I want
her here," 1 said to the maid : nnd before the girl
came back 1 left the room. When I ventured to
return, I saw that the sun had risen, never to set
again on these two haj)py lives. The term was

I
I

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

.11

i'l- 1 1

brokeu, and Judith returned to South Wohl with her
father, and there slie is to this day. She; devoted
herself to him till his death, and t]ion<2:h often asked
to marry, she lias elected to remain sinf^de, and is
likely so to remain now, being a middie-a<;ed woman,
whose lur i' is tinged with grey.

But I know of no life, married or single, so
crowded with blessed usefulness as tliat of Judith
Sale. Siie is the steward of great wealth, which is
used for the furtherance of every good and noble
work. She is not one of whom the world hears very
much, but I always think of lier as one of those
" who will shine as the stars for ever and ever."

To me, grown old and frail, living alone with ray
memories, South Wold is always open, a liome of
rest and change whenever I feel that I can avail
myself of it. And we have many long talks over
the problems of life, its complex mysteries, its many
hardships. Praise be to God that we can both say
even yet, " Goodness and mercy have followed me
all the days of my life.'

i' "

li i\m\

')iUi.i^

'NGER.

^<)1(I with her
She tie voted
1 often asked
in,^'h', and is
aged woman,

r single, so
it of Judith
Ith, which is
1 and noble
d heai's very
ne of those

ever.

>ne with my
n liome of
t can avail
talks over
s, its many
n both sav
allowed me

II.

A TOUCH i)V COLOTTH.

TT was one afternoon near tlie end of the mid-
summer term wlien I first saw (ieottVey Vance.
His name was brou,i?ht to me as I was having my
7f()ur o'clock cu]) of tea in my own room. I finished
it leisurely before I went down.
I I found him in the drawing-room — a good-looking,
^honcst-taced fellow, looking about eight-and-thirty,
|g(Mitlem;)idy in manner and specch^and I was
u favourably impressed with him even before he

is*

^ spoke.

w " Your establishment has been highlv recommended

^to me, Miss Grainger," he said, at once coming to

the point without hesitation. " 1 have called to

in(|uire whether you have any vacancies for boarders,

\ and whether you would be willing to take entire

; chaige of my two little girls."

"1 have vacancies, Mr. Vance," I replied. "But

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

: 1' 'l.iii

the term is about to end, and we do not reopen until
the first of September."

His face clouded, and he gave his fair moustache
rather an impatieut tug.

" I know it is an awkward time, but don't you
sometimes take charge of children whose parents arc
abroad ? "

" Yes, but I have none at present, and I was
looking- forwiird to a holiday in Scotland," 1 rei)lied,
not very cordially, tor, of course, to take new resident
pupils just then would knock all my little plan" on
the head, and I needed my holiday very badly. I
had earned it well.

" Then vou can't take them — vou won't, in fact ? "
he said cpiickly. " It isn't a question of money."

" I am ([uite in the dark, Mr. Vance," I said
suggestively. " Suppose you tell me something of
the children and the ci'vumstances which necessitate
their being left in England. Is your home abroad ?"

" I live in Trinidad," he said ; and I fancied his
voice took a sterner tone.

" Is it not a hejilthy place for children ?"

" Quite healthy, but I do not wish, for reasons
you may afterwards learn, to bring up my children
there. They have had an English governess here-

not reupen until

^iiir moustache

but don't you
ose parents are

fit, and I was
ind," I replied,
:e new resident
little plan" on
i^ery badly. J

>»'t, in JLmt ? "

luonev."
"■"ce," I said
something of

h necessitate
ue abroad ?"
I landed liis

for reasons
'uy children
'I'uess here-

A TOUCH OF COLOUR.

tofore, but neither Mrs. Vance nor I am satisfied with
their progress, and they are just at the age when
tlicy ought to advance rapidly."

^•They have a mother then?" I said, ratlier bluntly.
He looked at me in surprise.

" Yes, they have a mother, thank God," he said,
so simply and reverently that I felt quite touched.

" IShe would have come with me but slie is not
strong. She is with the children at Filey, near
Scaiborough, just now. She will see you later if
any arrangement can be come to. 1 had to be in
town to-day on business, and thought I would make
a preliminar" call. We must return to Trinidad
next month."

" How long would you wish the children to remain
here, Mr. Vance ? Would they spend all their
holidays ? "

" Except a month at midsummer, when either Mrs.
Vance or I would come to England."

" It is a great sacrifice for you to make."

" It is necessary," he replied curtly. " Will you
consider it, Miss Grainger ? 1 have lieard so much
about Fleetwood ; our hearts would be entirely at
rest al)out our children if we could leave them in

vour care.

»>

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

"I will consider it," 1 replicil, cind he thanked me
gravely.

" If you do not return to Trinidad till next month
there are still three weeks to make arrangements,"
I said ; then, "Curiously enough, I have an engage-
ment in Scarborough next Saturday. I shall stay
there till Mondav, and could tlien call on Mrs. Vance
at Filev if we agree to come to terms."

" Money is practically no object to me. Miss
Grainger. You mav name vour own terms," he said
quickly. " It will relieve my wife's heart very much
when 1 tell her you are favourably considering it.
May I tell her so?"

" You may say I have decided to take your chil-
dren," I said, more imjmlsively than is usual with
me ; there was something about tlie man that won
me, in spite of myself. " And I am sure about
terms there will be no difficulty at all."

" I you will write to me wliere and at what hour
1 can find you next Saturday, Miss Grainger, I can
drive you out to Filey. I am afrnid my wife will
not be able to call on you."

" I shall let you know," I said. " Will ]\Irs. Vance
then not be ablt; to come liere at all ? "

" Possibly ; we sail from Southampton ; if she

% IS

^ h(i

toll

ii..,.,

A TOiCH OF COLOUR.

3»

thanked me

is at Jill a])]e she will bring- the children here
h.'r>.'ir."

So, ii])i>;irently well satisfied, he went away. The
loliowiii.t!; Saturday, acc()r(lin<r \o arrangement, Mr.
Viiiice drove me from Scarboi Mioji to Filev to see
his wife and children. lie drove a very smart tnrn-
out, a liigli dogcart and a lovely liorse ; an immaculate
irroom sat inimovablv behind, and 1 sat with Mr.
Vance while he drove. He was a most delightful
com])ani()n. In the course of the drive he told me
he liad lieard of me through the Wyatts of Trinidad.
]\lr. Wyatt's brother had been an aide-de-camp to
my dear father in India. And thougli we became
very friendly and even confidential as we drove, he
never said whv it was necessarv to leave his children
it: E.ighind, when they had such a lovely home
abroad. I understood afti-rwards tliat the subject
was too sore and bitter to be mentioned excej)t
when it could not be avoided. They had taken
i'nr the season a large house on the Filey cliffs,
iiiid Luth without and within were evidences of
ahuiulant wealtli. I was at once taken to the
drawing-room, a sj)acious a]tartment, with windows
so sliaded that to one coming from the brilliant
smislrlne it seemed almost in semi-darkness, and the

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

air was quite heavy with the odour of hot-house
flowers.

" Lola dearest," said Mr. Vance — and his voice
became inexpressibly tender — " here is Miss Grainger."

There was a soft rustle of silk, and some one rose
from the couch ; a figure of such indescribable grace,
and a face so lovely, with that dark, subtle loveliness
peculiar to the Soutli, that I was for the moment
spellbound. She wore a tea-gown of yellow
silk, and had a bunch of red roses at the open
throat.

" How do you do. Miss Grainger ? " she said, in
a sweet, languid voice. " Take this comfortable
chair. So kind of you to come all this way to see
us ; but we expected it of Colonel Grainger's daughter,
didn't we, Geoii'? She is just like what Nannie Wyatt
said she would be."

I sat down suddenly with a lump in my throat,
drawn to these two people in a way which, to my
practical matter-of-fact nature, seemed utterly absurd.
But there it was. I felt as if they were my brother
and sister, and as if I had known them all my life.
Had they asked me, I would liave given up twenty
♦Scotch trips to do them the smallest service. A
maid brought in tea presently as we talked, and

rER.

A TOUCH OF COLOUR.

hot-house

his voice
Grainger."
Qe one rose
ible grace,

loveliness
le moment
3f yellow

the open

le said, in
)mfortabIe
^ay to see
danghte",
lie Wyatt

ly throat,
ih, to my
ly absurd.
y brother
1 my life,
p twenty
rvice. A
ked, and

drew up one of the blinds; then 1 saw tliat though
distinctly and wonderfully beautiful, Mrs. Vance's
skin was very dark — tliat she was, in face, a Creole.
But still 1 did not associate tluit with their desire
to leave the children in England.

They came in presently, two lovely little girls, so
utterly nnlike that it seemed ridiculous to think of
tliem as sisters. Gertrude, the elder of the two,
was fair-haired and fair-skinned like any English
child, the image of her t'jitlier : Lohi, the younger,
litid her mothei-'s dark skin and eyes. I noticed
oven then a slight melancholy about her, and her
father's tenderness towards her was ji, thing to marvel
over. We had a long talk, the children took to me,
and I found them intelligent beyond their years,
though of course I learned nothing of their educa-
tional acquirements that day. All the arrangements
were made, and it was decided tluit IMr. Vance
should himself bring the cliildren to Fleetwood the
diiy before he and his wife sailed for Ti'inidad. They
did not seem to realise yet tluit it was a long parting,
but seemed much interested in their new home,
asking a great many (piestions about the other girls
and our life at the old college.

Mrsc Vance came out to the drawing-room door,

t 1

MEMORIES Of MARGARET GRAINGER.

and laid her liaiid ou my shoulder as she bade me
^ood-bye.

" You will be kind to mv durliMji:^. It is like
death to leave them, but tlieir fatlu^r thinks it best,
and I do too — yes, I do too. I can better leave them
than him ; but oh, it is liard."

Her ma'niiticent eves swam in tears. She was
violently tremblini,^ and seemed on the verge of a
passionate outbreak.

" I will treat tliem as my own, Mrs. Vance, as
Heaven is my judu'e," I said, speaking as if I were
taking a vow. "You can trust them with me."

" I feel I can ; your face is good, your eyes kind
and true. Money will never pay you for this, Margaret
Grainger, but the undying griititude of a motlier's
heart will be yours."

My eyes were full of foolish tears as I ran down
the stairs. Mr. Vance saw them as he lielped me
once more into the dogcart.

" You need not come, Hewitt," he said to the
groom. " Take off the back seat. One moment,
Miss Grainger. Yes, that's riglit."

He swung liimseli into tlie seat beside me, tucked
the apron about me, took the reins, and drove off.
We went about a mile in complete silence.

A TOUCH Ol- COLOLR.

■i

"This is a terrible blow to my poor wifo," he said
iit Icii^th ill a low voice.

"Yes, it is. Mr. Viiiue, as you are trnstiiig me
so far, will you not tell me why, as the climate
is not injurious, your chiMreii cannot remain in
Trinidad?"

"I tliought, having seen Mrs. Vance, you
would not need to ask the reason," lie re})lied
curtly.

1 was complete^v mystified, and looked it.

" I see you do not understand," he said, with a
touch of sad im])atieiice, " and that I must explain.
You do not know, then, of the prejudice against
colour in Trinidad, that any one even sus})ected of
being tainted witli creoh* Idood is ostracised from
English society ? My wife is a pure creole. She
belongs to an old family, and is herself one of the
finest gentlewomen, as well as one of the sweetest,
whitest souls God ever made, yet she is not received
ill English society ; and that will be the fate of our
children. Thev begin to feel it alreadv."

I looked as I felt, inexpressibly shocked.

" Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Vance, that pre-
judice is carried so far among Christian people in this
nineteenth century ? "

MEMORlliS OF MARGARET GRAl/\/GER.

"1 do. Prejudice dies hard always. Lola and I
thoiifijht ourselves stroiijj^ to coniiiier everything;.
I was well warned that in marryinjjf her 1 was
accomplishing my social ruin. That was true. I
do not regret it. God bless her, she has been a true
and loving wife? to me ; my only sorrow is that I
have been unable to shield her from the bitterness
of her position."

" Why do you remain in Trinidad, Mr. Vance ? "
I could not help asking. " You owe nothing to a
place which behaves in such an idiotic and wicked
manner."

*' I have a good position. It is easy to throw up
a good ])Ost, not so easy to find another in these days.
True, my wife has jjlenty of money, but I could not
live on that. I have again and again applied for a
change ; it has been ])romised me, but again and
again I have been disappointed. We were in hoj)es
that I should be removed this year to London, but
another has been preferred before me. We are quite
determined not to take the children back to Trinidad,
and can only hope that I may be more fortunate

soon.

" You are intimate with the Wyatts," I said after
a moment. " Do they not belong to good society ? "

A TOUCH OF COLOUR.

"Certaiiilv; but, wo are not intimate with them.
Nannie WvaM coJues to see ns in the lace of lier
whole i'amily's opposition, but we are not asked back.
We are ])ractically tal)ooe(l/'

1 was silent, filled with a vn^ne wo^Jer over the
nns]ieakable lolly and unreasonableness of that section
of tiie human family representing " good society " in
Trinidad.

" Perhaps my wife's pedigree would not bear the
strictest investigation," he said gloomily. " But how
many pedigrees would ? There, it is no use arguing ;
we only knock ourselves against the stone wall of
race prejudice, which is as cruel as the grave. We've
got to accept it, I suppose, and raeanwhih; we are
glad that we have found a haven for our children.
You see the younger of the two has inherited the
characteristics of her mother's familv. You will not
suffer it to influence you, Miss Grainger?"

I was touched by the wistfulness of b's tone, but
a ilush of indignation rose to my face.

'• God forbid ! " I said quickly. " I thought you
trusted me, Mr. Vance."

'' So I did, so I do ; pray forgive me, and let us
talk of some happier theme."

We parted at the door of my hotel in Scarborough

.?8

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAiNGER.

like olfl iViciKls, juid, us inav be oxpcctt'd, I thought
iniicli of my new pupils diiriii^ the next I'cw vvecsks.
I was nblc Jil'tcr till to inuki' out my Scotch visit,
thoii<^li it was somewhat shortened, and towards the
latter end of An<i:iist returned to rjond(»n, where 1
saw Mr. V'aniu' and receiv<'(l my (dmr;;es from liim.
Tlieir motlier had not been able to come from
Ventnor, where tlie last ])art of tiieir fiirloui^h had
})een spent, and from which she was to travel direct
to Southampton to join the steanu^r. Mr. Vance was
deeply moved as lie [)arted from tiiem. 1 saw tluit
his heart was wrunLi:. Ciertruch; indulged her natural
grief after the manner of a liealthy En,ii;lisii child,
wee})ing coj)iously, and making a great deal of ex-
cusable noise.

Lola made no sound, shed no tear, but I saw lier
lips grow white, ajid it seemed to me that her face
grew old and shrunken as she huddled herself in the
corner of the carriaji^e which bore us awav. 8he was
one who would bury grief, heartache, disai)j)ointment,
and who would taste the bitterness of that inward
pain which, finding no vent, feeds upon itself. My
heart was sore, and not without cause, for Lola
Vance.

For four vears I had tliese ciiildren entirelv under

/i TOUCH OF CULOUR.

luy curi'. Diiriiii,'- tliuf tiiiM^ they only onoe saw their
|i,'ir(Mits. Needless to sjiy, 1 jj^n-w to love them dearly.
.Miiiiy pupils have comic and «;oiic from Fleetwood,
and 1 have uiveii to all a measiir(» of atfcetion, hut
tliese two 1 re«;ar(h'(l as my own. The pceuliar eir-
ciuustaiices under whieli tliev e;imo to me, tlie un-
certainty of their futurii, tiieir brilliant <i:il'ts and
\vinnin<^ personality, all coinl)incd to make theni
specially dear to me. New-comers were drawn first
to Gertrude, who was high-spirited, full of fun and
happy nonsense, and naturally demonstrative. Lola
was beloved by few. She was shy, self-contained,
sensitive to a degree. Tiien she had a passionate
tt'ni])er, and her pride was jimazing — pride in her
own birth, in iier mother's family, in the touch of
colour which diviiled her from others. What others
rcgard(!il as a reproach was her y;lory ; her brown
skin, her velvet eyes, her dark curly locks, she loved
them all. I found the kev to her heart, and had no
trouble with her, but to others she was sometimes
disagreeable and intractable. The old domineering
spirit handed down to her from a race who had ruled
tlieir slaves with a rod of iron too ol'ten sliowed itself
in her. I often thought of her future and trembled.
1 did mv best to j::uide tliat wavward heart, to show

MEMORIES OE MARGARET GRAINGER

her the beanty of holiness, the ornament of a meek
and qniet spirit. 1 ^jiave lived, thank Goil, to see
the harvest of that anxious sowing, and that is much.

I shall not soon forget the day their father took
them awa}^ It was winter time, a few weeks before
Christmas. Government business had brought him
to London, and it was a good opportunity, their
education being ended, for them to return with their
father. He had not seen them for three years, but
he asked first for me. I found him a little older
and more careworn, but the same frank, noble, trust-
inspiring face smiled upon me as v/e silently shook
hands.

" I cannot say I am glad to see you," 1 replied,
and I felt my voice tremblii'g, " I cannot imagine
Fleetwood without my two children."

He did not say nvach, but I felt J had his deep
gratitude, that he owed me a debt he could never
repay. I had done no mor(i than my duty, and my
reward was passing sweet. Tiiey came in presently,
two lithe, liealthful, lovely girls, of whom I was
passionately proud. What then must their father
have felt iu looking upon them, so changed after that
long, sad parting ?

" Whv, mv dears, how vou have grown I I left

■I

th(

wlj
th(

A TOUCH OF COLOUR.

them children, tiiul find them women. My darlings,
what will mamma say to this ? "

Tliey answered half laiigliiiigly, liull' in teats.
Naturally elated and excited over their iiome-going,
they were yet sad at parting from me, and from
Fleetwood, where tliey had fonnd a hap])y liome.
1 saw that their father's pride in tliem was chastened
by a kind of anxious sadness wliich I well understood.
We had another opportunity, while tliey dressed for
their journey, to touch upon the question of their
future.

'' You are still in Trinidjid and likely to remain?"
I said inquiringly.

" 1 am ; as I said before, posts are not so easily
got, and I have given up hope of a change. It may
become necessarv to do as mv wife has often wished,
retire from the service and take a country place in
England. But I am loth to give up my work. We
sometimes think tlie prejudi(te is less harsh, and we
hope our girls may make a place for tin mselves.
Are they not lovely creatures, Miss Grainger, enough
to set a whole town by the ears ? "

1 smiled at his pardonable pride, sharing it to the
full, and encouraged the hope he expressed.

" 1 am the bearer of a message from Mrs. Vance,

■ \

1-;

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

i;i ;i''

! 'Mil i"

that you will try to arrange a visit to us in Trinidad ;
we have a beautiful home. Of your welcome I need
not speak."

My eyes shone, and the sorrow of the imminent
parting was softened.

** How long would it take ? "

" It could be comfortably done in three months,
even less. Have you a responsible person you could
leave ? "

" Yes ; next year I shall come, Mr. Vance, if all
is well and you are still of the same mind."

So I parted from my darlings, and long, long
seemed the time till I again looked upon their sweet
faces. Two years passed before my promise was
fulfilled. At last, upon a lovely October day, my
steamer landed at that far-off i)()rt, and the whole
familv met me, with a welcome which nearly broke
me down.

Their home was the old familv house of the
Tavedos, where (jeoffrey Vance wooed and won his
wife. It had been the centre of a cotfee plantation in
the old days, and was surrounded by lovely grounds.
Within, it was spacious and magnificent, filled with
every luxury and all the beautiful tilings money can
buy when a correct and artistic taste dictates. Sitting

: t U

'rinidad ;
le I need

mminent

months,
oil could

e, if all

ig, long
ir sweet
iise was
ay, my
e wbole
y broke

of the
von his
ation in
rounds.
id with
ley can
Sitting

out (
odoro
tliese
vemo
them
Lola

Willi

shot
all t
her
worn
It
as ^
tired
louii<
altso]
aci'oi
Mrs.
I I'el
as r
theii
ever
the
as ]
som

A TOUCH OF COLOUR.

out on the verandah that evening after dinner, the
odorous air wrapping us as in a tender vfil, 1 thought
these ])eople to be envied. They seemed to live
remote from care, and yet how closely it pursued
them I was soon to h'arn. Of my pupils, I found in
Lola the greatest change. Gertrude was still a girl,
wall a schoolgirl's taste for fun and frolic. Lola had
shot up into slender woman "lood, maturing early, like
all the women of her mother's race, and, watching
her closely, I detected in her the awakening of a
woman's heart.

It came upon me quite suddenly next morning,
as we sat in the verandah indolentlv, I too
tired after mv long vovage to do anvthing but
lounge. The relaxing, enervating atmos})here, the
ahsolute absence of any incentive to effort or activity,
accounted to me for the indolence which characterised
Mrs. Vance. The place was lovely as a dream, but
1 felt glad it was not my home. Well, that morning,
as my two girls waited in their I'idiug habits for
tlicir fatlier to come and ride with them, as he did
every day before luncli, a horseman came riding up
the U'cify avenue, und raised his hat to the ladies
as he aj)proached. He was young and very hand-
some, English, I could see, to the backbone.

'^'1

MEMORIES OF xMARGARET GRAINGER.

'iiii'i

HapiK'iiing to <ilaiice at the j^irls, 1 saw soincthiiiir
in Lola's face tliat startled me iiiul <javo me a
sudden terrible pang. Mrs. Vance rose and went
down the verandah steps to s])eak to him, and
he aliglited presently and came up to be presented
to me.

"Mr. Rupert Dare."

It was a good name, and suited him, I thought.
He greeted me in his frank, winning, b<»yish way,
and after a few courteous inquiries about my journey,
turned to the girls. Gertrude chaffed him most
unmercifully. Indeed, it somewhat scandalised me
to hear them, though their niotlier smiled indulgently,
evidently well pleased. But though Mr. Rii])ert
Dare had most to say to Gertrude, his eyes
were oftenest on Lola's dark, grave face, which
sometimes grew hot at his look. When Mr. Vance
came round on his horse, I thought he seemed
annoyed to see young Dare on the verandah
steps.

" He.e already. Dare ? I shall have to talk
to your fatlier. When do you work ? May you
ride with us this morning ? No, my boy, you
mayn't."

The girls' faces fell, and Rupert bit his lip.

A lOUCJI Ui' CULUUR.

" Now tluit's too bad, Mr. Vuiice. ^Vllat have I
done to deserve such a snul)bing ? Won't you put
ill a good word for me, Mrs. Vance?" he asked,
turning pleadingly to the elder lady in the lounging
chair.

" Let him go to-day, GeoiT, as he has come uj) all
the way,*' she f- id indulgently.

" AVell, it is the last time, Rupert, remember that,"
said Mr. Vance, quite ungraciously for him, whose
manners were always so courteons.

As we watched the party ride away, I saw that
Mr. Vance rode ch)sely by the side of his younger
daugliter. He thonglit, as I did, tliat Gertrude
was })'jrfectly safe.

" AVho is that remarkably prepossessing young
man?" 1 asked Mrs. Vance.

'' Why, the son of one of our great men, 8ir
Percival Dare, of the Turret."

"He is in love with Lola," I said bluntlv. I
could not forget the circumstances in which the pair
had come to me, and 1 wondered that no anxiety
visited the mother's heart.

'' Oh, nonsense. Everybody knows Rupert- Dare.
He is only a boy, and falls in love and out of it once
a Week."

! ^:

Hvi

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER,

iiii.)'!

" Tiola is not iiiditforcnt to liini," I said then,
wondering uiiyhody conlvl bo so })lind.

" Oil, 1 tliink yon nre mistaken. Rupert is moro
like brother or cousin to tlu'in," she replied.

" Do his j)arents visit here ? " I asked, putting
an awkward (inestion, because rav terrilde anxietv

I'M •/

would not let me rest. Mrs. Vance coloured slightly
and shook lier head.

" No, but tlie girls have been asked to a dance
at the Turret. I know what you are thinking
of, but we believe and hope that bitterness is
past."

" I think Mr. Vance is wise, dear Mrs. Vance,
in seeking to discourage young Mr. Dare's attentions
here," I said ; and the subject dropped.

When the riding party returned minus Mr. Dare,
the cloud had deepened on Mr. Vance's brow, and
during lunch he scarcely spoke. He asked me to
walk round the orchard with him while he smoked
a cigarette, which soothed him a little.

" You saw that little play this morning. Miss
Grainger ? " he began, quite suddenly. " Do yon
think there was anything in it ? "

" Yes, I think Lola and young Dare are in love
with each ether."

A TOUCH UF COLOUR.

^ 1 I

He lookctl at me witli such uiigiii:<h in his eyes
tiiut I was afraid.

" Don't say it has gone so far as tiuit," he said
hoarsely. " His father and mother wonhl never
consent ; you know why. Tliey are the proudest
j)('Oi»le in Trini(hid, and the most bitter against those
witli the race taint."

We talked lonu* and earnestly on this bitter and
unsatisfactory theme, and decided in the end that 1
should take Lola back with me to Fkn'twood. 1
acquiesced in his suggestion, but mentally shook my
head. Of what avail was it to lock the cage after
the bird had flown ? Lola's heart was uo longer
in her own keeping.

Tiiat evening, as we lingered over dessert, a mes-
sage was brought to Mr. Vance. I saw him flush,
and lie rose hastily and left the room. We had
heen a long time in the drawing-room when he joined
us. He asked the girls to leave the room for a little, •
and then turned to his wife, signing me to sit still.

" Tluit was young Dare, dearest, asking me to
give him Lola."

Mrs. Vance became deadly pale, and began to
trenil)le.

" Oh ! Geoff'rey, the trouble over again 1 " she

• ■\

tii-

MLMuRIES UJ- MAKLAKLI GKALNGER.

^Hr^

wailed. "It is all my faiilL 1 have Itccii too care-
lt!ss — too blind. Oh, my poor, poor child I '*

" 1 have sent liim avvav, and jjohi mnst leave home
to-morrow. He says he thinks his father may be
invluced to consent, but I told him I would allow no
child of mine to enter on sufferance another
home. God help the cliild ; the blow lias fallen at
last."

" Does Lola know he has been, and on what
errand?" 1 asked, my heart bleeding for the unhai)j)y
parents.

" No, and 1 dare not tell her," said Mr. Vance.
" She looked at me so wistfully this morning because
I would not permit her to ride with him. Will you
s])eak tc her, Miss Grainger ? "

" I will," 1 replied ; and I did. That night in my
own room, witli the cliild's dear .lead on my knee,
1 told her as gently as I coidd of the pain and
disapi)ointment in store. She received it quietly,
and again that wan, weary look which betokened
heavy sorrow dwelt on her face.

" There is a curse upon us, Aunt Margaret. You
have tanglit me to believe that God is loving. How
can He bear to liave things so ? It must hurt Him
too."

.; TOUCH or colour.

I was silent bctoii! her (lUcstioiiiiiiL^. Hovv vain JH
it to s(H>k to still the yoiiii<; lioart's first hot rcholiion
with wist! words tivun iVom Holy Writ ; tliey tail on
tilt' cars in mockery.

There were several sad, sleephiss liearts that ni«,4it
in the luxurious home of tlie V'anees, and more tlian
one pillow wet with tears. We met at breakfast
([uietly, and no allusion was made to the event of
the })reeeding ni«^ht. Mr. Vance went oft* to the town
earlier than usual, and said nothing to Lola. Sliortly
afterwards Gertrude disappeared, and nobody knew
where she had gone. She did not even return to
luneh. We had liio'shed that meal, and were begin-
ning to be anxious about the. child, though thinking
it likely she had gone to see some a(;<piaintance in
tlu! town, when a roll of wheels sounded in the
avenue, and a carriage, elegantly eipiipped, and drawn
by a pair of handsome bays, came rapidly u}) to
the door. From it, to our amazement, alighted
Gertrude and a lady whom I did not know, a slender
little person, with very aristocratic features and the
whitest of hair.

^' Lady Augusta Dare," said Mr. Vance ; and he
looked like a man in a dream. Anybody could see
that Gertrude was wildly excited. Her pink cheeks

lifv!

MllMORIlCS OF M.tKG.lNl'lT C.R.UNCFR.

were as red as the reddest rose, uiid licr eves almost
glittering. I slisill never fori^^ef that moment when
wo trooped ont to tlie hull to meet them, all bnt
Lola.

" I have l)ron<'ht vonr rnnawav diuijrhter, Mr.
Vanee," said Lady Anirnsta ; and of all sweet voices
that was snrelv the sweetest. " And I ask vonr
pardon, my dear Mrs. Vanee, beeuuse this is the
first time I have set foot at Tavedos.''

The grace of her sjieecli was iiideseri])al)le. We
looked at her spellhonnd.

'^ I may as well ont witli my story," slie said
sunnily. " Our boy, of eonrse, told us last night of
his interview with you, and of your positive rejection
of him on certain grounds. You were justified, Mr.
Vance, in your decision ; too much justified, 1 regret
to say. I will admit it was a disa})pointment ; he is
our only boy, and we had other views. I will say
this because the dear girl of his choii^e, I see, is not
present to hear it, and frankness is best generally.
But all these doubts this runaway daughter of yours
has dissolved, and she has shown me in five minutes
the mistake, the injustice of a lifetime. Dear friends,
mv husband knows I have come to-day, and for what
purpose. May I hold in my arms the girl my son

I »

A TOUCH OF COLOUR.

5«

luvos — tlic (luiiulifcr I trust you will ix^rmit l>ii

•j "

to ;;ive luc r'

(icrtnidc, licr work done, iiiid in \v

urs,

(led

(lid I, and tlie jiurt'iits were left. Wluit passed
lictwf'cii tliciii I do not know ; only I know tliat
wlien fjiidy An<j:nsta left, the sunsliinc she liad made
rnniiined. What had tenij»t('(l (lertrude to )Ik)
and jdead iier sister's cause, or wluit ar<;un»ents
she liad used, we do not know to this day. She
kept lier own counsel, and I^ady Augusta never
t..ld.

So the marriage, tlie talk of Trinidad, came off
Ix'fore I left tliem. The Dares heing the leaders of
society in everytiiing, set an example whicii did more
towards killing an unrighteous prejudice; tlian any-
thing else could havt; done, and to their influence is
duo the fact that Trinidad has become tolerable
even for those atllicted witli a touch of colour.

Many a holiday liave I spent at Tavedos and at
the Turret, where abide Kujtert and his lovely wife,
iiis father and mother having retired to a smaller
demesne. She has made a man of Idm, irivinir to

' 6'

his character the necessary touch of earnestness, and
hringing out all that was noblest in him ; and I
am blessed, looking on, because it pleases them,

ti';.i|j

t^ ill

;»1

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

just because they love me so much, to stiy th<at I
have made lier what she is. And though I know
very well it is only their love for me that makes
th m say so, yet it is ])jissing sweet to my heart
to believe it, even to this day.

III.

, '!

J
1

A RKVOLTING DAUGHTER.

T HAVE always beeu interested in the charac-
teristics of families, which my ])rofessioii lias
afforded me many opportunities of studying. I have
been much struck, as every observer of human nature
must be, by the extreme contrasts of character pre-
sented bv different members of one familv, and the
releutlessness of the laws wliicli govern heredity lias
been brought home to me again and again. In
common with all thinking men and women who face
the jiroblems of life, I have constantly deplored the
tlioughtlessness with which unsuitable persons marry
without giving a thouuht to the possible hostages
they may give to fortune.

A verv striking instance of tliis came under
uiy observation a good many years ago ; one which
eouiirmed my conviction that very few persons are

III:

f' \

■r 'I

i.,r"

,5 1

MKMORIhS OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

•i!

.■' I f

fitted for the great and higli responsibilities of parent-
liood.

At the beginning of one of my school terms, a
lady called npon me at Fie" wood regarding her two
daughters, about whom she had previously written.
The arrangements were indeed all but completed, and
Mrs. Bellamy o:;ly came because she wislied to satisfy
herself by a ])ersonal visit to the place where her
daughters would reside for the next few years. I
had had a somewhat lengthy correspondence with
her, and had formed rather an unpleasant opinion
of her. I l)elieved her to be a woman of the world,
full of ambition, and extremely anxious to get the
fullest value for any outlay of time, or money, or
opportunity.

This o])inion my interview witli her confirmed.
When I entered the drawing-room, I found myself
confronted by a tall, handsome woman of singularly
youthful aj)pearance and unmistakably aristo-
cratic bearing ; a wcnan of keen observation too,
I gathered from the swift, keen scrutinv with whicli
she favoured me. I was, liowever, inured to that,
and did not flinch under it.

" You look rather vounu', Miss Grainii'er," she said
affablv, yet with a touch of condescension I was not

A REVOLTING DAUGHTER

slow to resont. " In fact, T may say yoa look quite
objectionably young. Are you sure you can maintain
order and discipline in a large establishment like
this ? "

I could not repress a smile at this question, but
I answered (luite courteously : " Tliat I huve been at
rlie head of it for seven years, Mrs. Bellamy, surely
proves some degree of fitness."

She showed her faultless teeth in a faint, apologetic
smile.

" Of course it does, and I stand corrected ; but after
all, no woman can resent ])eing thouglit young, so yon
need not look so grave. Well, now that our arrange-
monts are nearly comj)leted, I thought I should like
to see the school, and I must say everything looks
perfection."

" You can see through it now if you like, Mrs.
Ikllamy."

'' Oh, bv-and-by. I don't think it is reallv neces-
sarv. I am sure evervthiiio- is satisfactorv, bat I
rlionght I should like a little final talk about the
unrls before tliev come. There are some things it
is not easy to express in a letter. I told you, 1 tliink,
tliat they are very different : my younger daughter
Audrey is so much brighter in every way than her

'- \ III

K , 'I

f. ill
III

1 !i
1

■ 1

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

\\i 1'

sister tluit reallv I can hardlv believe them to be
sisters. 1 am only sorry Audrey is not the elder
instead of Margaret."

" It is quite possible that Margaret may develop
and become more brilliant than her sister. We are
constantly seeing instances of it," I said hopefully ;
but Mrs. Beliamv shook her head.

" You will not say that when you see her. Poor
dear Margaret, there is no use denying the fact that
she is positively unattractive. In fact, I often say
to (/olonel Bellamy tliat I cannot imagine how
we came to have such a ])lain child. It was a
disaj)pointment, to begin with, that she was not
a son, and I was ([uite inconsolable till my sweet
Audrey came. kShe is as lovelv as a dream, and
you will not wonder tliat we idolise lier, though
her father is always warning me to be just to
Margaret."

" Is she Colonel Bellamy's favourite, then ? " 1
asked, growing more and more interested.

" Well, I could liardlv say tliat : he has seen very
little of them, being stationed at Malt.i, whicli I
cannot endure. I have promised to go, however,
wiiile the girls are here, and afterwards, it is to be
hoped, his regiuient will come home. I do not

.1 REVOLTING DAUGHTER.

wish them to come into the society of a garrison
town ; they are apt to meet so many ineligibies."
And so on, after the usnal manner of the society
mother, whose one desire and aim in life is to
launch her daughters well, and to gain for them a
great position.

Next day the two girls arrived, and I wont myself
to meet them at the station. The contrast between
them was undoubtedly great. Audrey did justice to
her mother's description ; she was certainly lovely
as a dream. Margaret was decidedly plain, big,
awkward, undeveloped, with a sallow face and heavy
features, and a ratlier sullen ex^jression. It was
impossible not to be drawn at first towards the
younger; Audrey the bright and gay — poor Audrey,
who made sucli sliipwreck of her life. But tliere
was a sad uj)lifting of Margaret's eyes to mine at the
moment of greeting, which revealed a fleeting glimpse
of the hidden heart, hungering f^r the affection, the
attention, and the praise Audrey received so royally
everywhere as her due. It passed in a moment,
leaving her cold, impassive, uninteresting as before,
but 1 never forgot it ; it gave me the key, never again
lost, to Margaret Bellamy's great, loving, sensitive
hear:.

:| • 1 •

'I'', I'i ■

; ^1 :''A

;,r! i.

1 ^i/i ■

': ■ i

5«

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

Very quickly the two made theniHelves at home
in Fleetwood, and I, watching them closely, as 1
did all my pupils, soon learned the outstanding
qualities of each, marked the contrast between them.
Audrey was her mother's child. 8he was only
fifteen, but was already in thought, mind, and feeling
a woman of the world. Her accomplishments, easily
ac(p"iired, were only regarded as the necessary weapons
of warfare when she should go forth to conquer and
win the great j)osirion her mother desired and
expected for her. She had a certain happy way, a
gay, laughter-loving manner, which won her many
friends, but which was only the outward cloak of
a quick temper, an unreasonable selfislmess, a
boundless self-will. These I did my utmost to
check, but I cannot truly say that I have seen an}
fruit of my labour where Audrey Bellamy was
concerned.

Margaret was entirely different. She applied her-
self to work for the love of it. Her studies were
prosecuted conscientiously, and what she learned she
made her own absolutely. She was slow and solid
rather than brilliant. Her mother had unconsciously
used tiie word which best describes her. Slie was un-
attractive, and her stillness of demeanour and reserve

■■■4

A REVOLTINC DAUGHTER.

rei)elled most jtcoplc. Audrey treated lier with a
species of affectionate contempt, wliich Margaret did
not a})])ear to resent. Thut she felt it keenly, I
afterwards learned. They were attached to each
other l)eyond doubt, but Audrey invarial)ly spoke
of her sister as " poor Margaret." But the whirli-
gig of time brings in its revenges. The sisters
remained with me for three vears, and then suddenly
their father died at Malta, and they were removed
from my care by Mrs. Bellamy, who took them
abroad.

I heard no more of them for more than twelve
months, and was one day considerably sur])rised to
receive a letter from Mrs. Bellamy written from
Brigliton, asking me to come and sj)end a few days
with them and renew my acquaintance with my old
pupils, who, she assured me, had never forgotten me.
1 was not surprised to read towards the close of the
letter that she had a particular reason for wishing
to see me. Mrs. Bellamy was not the woman to
cultivate the friendship of a schoolmistress out of
pure kind' jss of heart. My interest in the sisters
was still so lively that I at once accejtted the in-
vitation, and went down to Brighton on Friday
iit'ternoon. Mrs. Bellamy, looking more youthful

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

^i ill

} • I

and liandsome thaM ever in her becomiii*]^ widow's
garb, met me at the station cordially, even cfl'iisively,
I thought.

" So good of yon Iv 40v >e ; the dear girls are
delighted. 1 did not le, .siu fome, as I wished a
little talk with you before you raw them. Great
changes since we last met, ?/Iiss Grainger."

" Yes," I said, rather Ip.mely, for somehow the
re":ret in Mrs. Bellamy's voice did not sound sincere.
We stepped out of the station, and entering the
well-appointed carriage waiti; g for us, drove off
towards Hove. Judging from outward ap])earances,
the death of Colonel Bellamy had not in any way
reduced the circumstances of his widow. But
appearances cannot always })e trusted.

" You will find a dift'erence in your pupils.
Margaret especially lias grown quite a woman.
Audrey is as sweet as ever, and my greatest comfort.
I have a little trou})le with Margaret, but not
more, perhaps, than was to be ex])ected. She has
always been peculiar. I wislied to consult you about
her."

" There is a great deal that is sweet and lovable
in Margaret, Mrs. Bellamy," I said warmly. " It
is deeply hidden, and she requires careful handling."

A REVOLTING DAUGHTER. 6i

Mrs. nclliiiny gave her slioulJors a little sliru*;.
'<lt is very good of you to say so. 1 Hud lier
headstrong and uiimanageahle, and she is so totally

igiiora

nt oftli

)f th

)rld, it

il)l<

:lie ways or tlie world, it seems impossihle
to drive any common sense into her."

]\rrs. Bellamy suddenly stopju'd, and turning
round, regarded me keenly.

" I am about to talk very jtlainly to you, ^liss
(Jraiiiger, because I rely ui)on your conunon sense
and sound judgment. I want you to lielp me with
^Fargaret, whom you sef'>^ to understand. Slie
adores you — yes, '^loies you — there is no other word
for it, and because you have such an influence over
lier, 1 hope you will exert it for the furtherance of
her best interests."

" I shall endeavour to do so," I replied, though
thinking it likely that Mrs. Bellamy's idea of her
best interests and mine were likely to be wide as
the poles.

" Well, then, to begin with, Colonel Bellamy's
death has made a great change in my circumstances
— in fact, I may say we are quite poor. It is with
the utmost care and economy I manage to keep up
a})i)earances at all, and of course it must be done
for the girls' sake, lest their prospects should be

' : II

Ii5

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

I 'J

seriously dumaged. They mn.sfc make good raar-
riagcH ; it is their only chnnee."

I did not agree with Mrs. Bellamy, of course.
My lather's death had left me almost totally un-
provided for, and I had made a career for myself,
not disdaining to work, though better born than
the woman who luid always treated me with that
patronage those of her class bestow upon persons
lliey regard as inferiors.

" I do not ex{)ect any trouble with Audrey. She
is lovely enough to achieve anything ; but Margaret
has always occasioned roe a good deal of anxiety.
She is so sadly uninteresting, and now she has
developed a more serious characteristic, and has
become quite aggressive— talks of earning her living
even, and cannot be made to see the monstrous
unreasonableness and ingratitude of her wish. Why,
it would ruin Audrey's future, to say nothing oi
her own,"

I remained silent, because I could think of nothing
to say, only my heart went out in a great wave
of pity and love to the lonely, high-souled, sensitive
girl, who regarded her womanliood as too precious
a thing to be bartered as an article of commerce.

" What I want particularly to say — and I must

' I

..U--,.-^-

A REyOLTlNG DA UG I IT EH.

make hrsto, because wo aro ulmofst homo— is that I
liavo luid an oH'or of injirriuji^o for Murgjirct, a very
u(lviinta<j:o(His offer, and I wjuit yon to co-oporato witli
nie to indnco Iior to accept it. She mnst accept it ;
slio will cortainlv never have atiotlier."

'' Wiio is the gentleman?" I asked ea«;erly, more
(leeplv interested than I could say.

'^ A very we;dthy man, well connected, and most
irenerous ; true, he is some years older than Mar«(aret,
l)Ut that is notlung, and the ditference is on the
ri^dit side. Why, it would simply be tlie making of
the whole family if slie would consent to become
iAIrs. Godfrey Darrell."

" Darrell, of the Sussex Darrells, Mrs. Bellamy?"
I asked.

" The same family, as old as the hills ; is slie not
fortunate ? "

"Their record is not very good. The wild
Darrells were a by-word in the lust generation."

'' Oh, well, granted. Our Mr. Darrell has sown
his wild oats, and is now a respectable middle-aged
gentleman, a justice of the peace, and everything
that is proper in his own neighbourhood, and
Kingscote is a lovely place, with a rent-roll of twenty
thousand a year."

i't

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li'

64 MEMORIES OF MAf^GAKET GHAISCER.

" But these tliiii^^s csimiot make ii, woniiui luij»py,
Mrs. Hcllamy/' 1 said boldly, " especially u woman
of Mariraret's ty])e."

*'0h, tlijit is all iioiiseiise, Miss (iraiii«]^('r. Kapjii-
ness is not evervtliinj'. We owe, u dntv to soeietv,
and (Might not to look lor mere sellish hapjii-
ness. 1 am sure Mar<::aret's duty is plain. 1 am
very ])oor, and not in robust health ; tiien there is
Audrey. Margaret ought to be charmed, 1 think, to
have a chance of doing so much for her family. 1
liave sacriliccd myself for my children, jVliss (Jrainger,
for 1 could marry again any day I liked."

*' 1 should like to know wlnit you wisii me to say
to ^largjuct, ]\Irs. JJellamy. 1 do not wish to enter
tlie house under false 2)retences."

" Oh, well, 1 can hardly specify ; only I should
like you to tell her lier duty is plain. kSIib has a
great fortune offered to her ; tell her it would be
criminal to refuse it. You and I, as women of the
world, know (|uite well that poverty is the unpardon-
able sin of to-day. If one has no money, one might
as well be dead."

Before I could reply the carriage drew np before
one of the handsomest houses in Hove. As we
entered, Mrs. Bellamy turned to me inquiringly :

A fiLroLTI.WG l).]U(.IITER.

"Can I roly upon you at least not to ])ias Mar-
garet in the wron^ direction ? You can at Icawt
spoak from experieiuM', and toll Iicr how hard and
unsatisi'actory it is tor a lady to try to earn her
l)read."

I was too Kiuch astonished to speak. 1 could only
vajjrnelv wonder wliether I had ev<'r (expressed anv
such opinion to Mrs. Bellamy. She luid tlie curious
effect of eausiii«if me to donht my own opinions. I
he^i^au to think her a very clever woman. The girls
were botli in the hall to meet me, iiiid 1 liud no fault
to find with the ^reetin*:: of either. Audrey had
(levelo])ed into a wonderfully beautiful woman, with
her mother's ease and grace accentuated bv the
special charm of youth. But my lu^art did not warm
to her as it did to the grave, d.' ' browed i»;irl whose
future we had just so seriously discussed. She also
had become a woman ; and I thought her motlier
blind when she saw uo attractiveness in her. Siie
looked older than her years, which numbered only
twenty, and a woman's soul, (questioning, l)eautiful,
iuid pure, looked from out her serious eyes, troubled
too soon by the sore problems of life.

There was plenty of gay chatter over the tea-table,
spread in the bay window looking to the sea ; but

»■!.

•III

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

Margaret did noc say very much. I caught her
once or twice regarding me with a kind of steadfast
look which puzzknl me. It nermed to ask some-
thing — help, gnidance, strength, to tread a difficult
way.

mi\

I:t

After dinner Mrs. Bellamy and Audrey departed
to some private theatricals at a fricMid's house,
leaving Margaret and me alone.

" Suppose we go upstairs, Margaret," I suggested.
" This big drawing-room looks rather formidable.
We can sit down by the fire in my room and have a
cosv chat. 1 want to liear so much all that has
happened in the interval since we met."

She assented readily, and we adjourned upstairs.
Margaret went before me, and I. rather admired her
figure vhicli was tall and well develoj)ed. She wore
a black gown with a touch of scarlet in the bodice,
which suited her sombre colour ; and she carried
herself gracefully. In ten or even twenty years, I
decided, Margaret miglit be the handsomer of the
two. We sat down oj)posite eacli other and talked,
at least Margaret talked and I listened, much struck
by the keenness of observation evinced in \\Ql' de-
scription of the places they had visited and the

A REVOLTING DAUGHTER.

people they had seen, k^nddenly, however, Margaret
stopped, and sitting forward in her chair, regarded
me keenly.

" I was awfully snr])ristd, Miss Grainger, when
mamma told me you were coming, and I want to
laiow what it means."

There was no cliance to evade that straight ques-
tioning, even if I had wished to do so ; therefore I
answered truthfully :

" Your mother wanted to consult me about yonr
future. She has told me about your prospects."

'' And she wants yon to urge me to accept them ;
isn't that it ? " she asked calmly ; but I saw the
colour fluctuate in her cheek.

" Yes ; but I made no promise. I want to under-
stand it all, and to hear wliat you feel about it."

" It is quite easy to understand. I will not marry
Mr. Darrell, and that is the end of it."

'' You do not care for him, then ? " I liazarded,
simply to draw an ex])ression of opinion from her.

Tile supreme contempt in her face answered me
before her words.

" That is out of all (piestion, but is the least of it.
The point is, Godfrey Darrell is a bad man, has lived
a scandalous life, which everybody knows, yet my

' "- ni»

^f;;

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAIAGER.

motlior will nr<xe me to marry liim sim])ly hocanse he
is rich. It is iiitolenible tJuit siicli a sui2:o:estion
shonJd even be made to me. I am only a girl, Miss
Grainger, and have not mneh experience of life, but I
know that it is an ini(|uitous thing to ask a girl to be
wife to such a man. If 1 ever marry it will be a m* n
whom I can respect — not one whose very presence
polhites the moral atmospliere."

These were strong words, giving forth no uncertain
sound. My heart glowed within me to think that
one woman had still the courage to be true to the
best instincts of her sex. She saw bv mv look, I feel
sure, that I loved her for what she had said.

'* I see you will help me. I Ivnew you would, for
it is your teaching which has made me feel so about
such things. But let me hear you say it with your
own lii)s that aniything would be preferable to such
bitter, such degrading bondage. Why are you so
silent ? Am 1 wrong in thinking you will look at it
from the same standpoint ?"

" No, dearest ; I was but wishing y(mr father had
lived to hear yon speak so nobly."

Her dark eyes filled with passionate tears.

"My father was a good man, and God forgivf* me
if J judge my mothe • harshly, but I cannot think it

! I

A REP'OLTIXr, DAUGHTER.

was right to cut liim ofl us she did IVoiu his children
simply because she did not like the ]»lace where
his lot was cast. I ara so weary thinking of
these problems, and trying to reconcile the fearful
contradictions of life. My mother I do not love ;
sometimes 1 find it hardly possible ''0 respect her.
Who is to blame ? Am 1 quite unnatural, and ought
I to love her simply because she is my mother ? I
iun always regarding her from the critical standpoint
of an outsider. 1 judge her as one woman would
judge anotlier ; it is misery to me, but I cannot help
it. I often wish I were more like Audrey. She
reijards evervtliing lio:htlv, and means to waltz
through life, as she says, to gay music. I believe it
is the better way."

I shook my head.

" Life is real, dear Margaret, and the day will come
when Audrey will be forced to face it."

" My mother professes to love me, to have what
she calls my best interests at heart ; yet since I
said decidedlv I would not marrv Mr. Darrell, she
has been positively cruel in a thousand petty ways
I could not bear to tell you. She hrs said that I
have always been a thorn in her flesh because I am
plain and uninteresting. I have often begged to be

t»

.,. f;,» i

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

allowed to earn my own living. You know that I
am capable, and I liave l<oj)t up everything I learned
at dear Fleetwood, and honestly tried to improve
every opportunity ; hut the very sugg(;stion appears
to make mamma so angry that I am afraid to mention
it. What am I to do ? "

I hesitated a moment. A grave responsil)ility was
cast upon me, and I had to consider all the con-
8 3({uences.

" Mamma has led Mr. Darrell to think 1 do not
know my own mind, and that I wii* ultimately
accept him, if he })erseveres. He is coming again
this week, and slie has said that if 1 persist in
refusing him, she will cast me off."

*' In that case vou will not for<iL4 that I'i'. twood
is open to you, dear child, and that what I have
is yours."

She burst into tears ; the long strain gave way at
last.

J could not sleep that night for thinking of her
position, and my anger waxed hot against the wicked
woman who no poorly fulfilled the obligations of
motherho( d. Tl)- ugh I am au eld maid, 1 hold that
a wise irar: ■ii:^f; is thp ha])})iest of all earthly con-
ditions, iui T also bold that the degradation of that

i I

A REVOLTING DAUGHTER.

blessed estate, so common in these days, is the worst
of all fates which can befall man or woman. And
it has been ray aim in my years of dealing with
girls and young women to place before tliem the
highest ideal. It was therefore no mean reward to
me to hear Margaret Bellamy ^peak with the very
words I shonld myself have chosen. Mrs. Bellamy
did not question me next day regarding my couver-
sati.)n with Margaret. I was rather astonished at
her confidence in me, and I felt even a trifle o-uilty,
knowing how little sympathy or aid I could give
her.

Next day I had an opportunity of seeing Mr.
Godfrey Darrell, who came to luncheon. I must
say he was cpiite different from what I ex])ected,
gentlemanly in appearance, deferential in manner,
entirely agreeable in conversation. He could be
entertaining, and evidently exer.ed himself to the
utmost to be so. Audrey talked gaily to him, that
species of gay badinage such girls use as a constant
weapon. Margaret sat silent, cold, and stately,
never opening her lips. The meal was not par-
ticularly enjoyable. There was a peculiar suspense
in the air indicative of something about to happen.
Once or twice Mrs. Bellamy looked at me appealingly,

1;.'

. i;li

.■i

'jl'

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

and tlieii siguificiintly at Margaror. Once involun-
tarily I sliook my head. I Ibnnd myself impelled
to join in the conversation, the fascination of Mr.
Darrell's manner extending even to me. Watching
him closely, J observed that, thongli he talked t(>
others, iMargaret was entirely in his thoughts. It
needed no special vision to see that he loved her,
and the mystery of it a])i)eared to me unsolvable.
For what a man of Godfrey Darrell's type could find
attractive in the still, cold personality of Margaret
Bellamy it was difficult to say. Truly life is full of

curious anomalies.

Aiter luncheon Margaret at once went to her own

room. Audrey and 1 adjourned to the drawing-room.
Mrs. Bellamy remained at tlie table with Mr. Darrell.
About half-an-hour afterwards a maid came and
requested me lo go downstairs. 1 found Mrs.
Bellamy and Mr. Darrell in the little library, and
both turned exprciantly to me. To my astonisliment
and considerable embarrassia:»nt, Mrs. Bellamy, with-
out sj)eaki!ig a word, left tiie ro<»).u. I then saw
that Mr. Darrell had ;~()mething to say to me, and
he said it well Had i not known him by repute,
1 fear 1 mig'it that day have been won to his
side.

A REI'OI.TING DAUaUTER.

/.•>

" Miss Gruiii'^er," he said courtcouslv — and 1
could not help, woman-like, admiring him as 1 looked
at his fine fiij-ure and handsome i'aee— " Mrs. Bellamv
lias told me you know the whole drcumstances of
the case as it stands between IMiss Bellamv and
myself. I wish to ask yon if you can do anything
to help me to win her. I love lier as dearly as it
is possible for a man to love any one in this world.
1 would do anvthing for her sake."

I looked at him keenly, and then spoke out. In
such a case absolute candour is surely tlni best
course to pursue. " I do not think there is any
hope, Mr. Darrell. I had a conversation witli
Margaret last night. She will never marry you.
It is the best kindness I can do to tell you so quite
frankly."

" Why will she not ? I can give her much that
women j)rize," he said, with a touch of impatience,
which indicated that he was not accustomed to be
thwarted. " What is the objection ? Is it my
age ? J am forty-six, but there has been greater
disparity in marriages that have turned ort well.
You have her confidence, her mother says ; tell me
what it is."

"You said a moment ago that you could offer licr

M^'

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

ranch til at women prize, but there is one thing
wliieh women sncJi as Margaret IJelhimy estimate
above evervthinij, and which von cannot offer her."

'* What is that?" he asked, and a faint flush rose
on his chee:.'-

" A ch^an record. 1 know Margaret Bellamy well,
Mr. Darrell. She will r^jnire in the man she
marries a record as clean as her own, and I honour
her for it."

He bit his lip, and the flush ceepened on his cheek.
He took a rapid stride across the room.

"That is surelv carrying Puritanism to excess. Is
a man to be kej)t down for ever because he makes
one or two slips ? "

Somehow the tone of his voice angered me, and
I suppose I showed it in my face.

" Look here. Miss Grainger, 1 have never had a
chance. I belong to a wild lot, and have had no
good influences about me. I feel that if I had a good
wife like Margaret Bellamy I should be a different
man. 1 thought a woman would do as much for a
man's salvation."

" She would if she loved him/' 1 replied.
" Ma-'garet does not care for you.'

" And you think she never will ?

•)1

A REVOLTING DAUHGTER.

n '•

" I am sure of it."

" Then no more need be said, and I may as well
go to the bad at once," he said, and would have flung
liimself out of tlie room, but I laid a hand on his
arm.

" Mr. Darrell, I have been very frank with you
because you desired it, and it is far better. I am
a woman who has no right to advise or preach to
vou, but one thing I want to sav. There is such a
thing as joy in goodness for its own sake, without
looking for reward ; try it, and win the respect of
Margaret Bellamy, if not her love."

I saw a curious spasm cross his face. He wrung
rav hand, and hurriedlv left the house. I have heard
no more of Godfrey Darrell, but he has very often
been in my thoughts and in my prayers. He was
a sad example of tine powers laid waste by riotous
living, great opj)ortunities for useful work in the
world wilfully ])assed by, or turned to baser uses. I
had a strange yearning over him, but at the same
time I thanked God for the courage Margaret had
shown in this crisis, in her life. It is impossible that
she could ever have been hapi)y with Godfrey Danell.
A man who had spent his prime among godless nnd
vicious people could be no companion for a pure-

I ;

I I

MEMORIES OF MARCAIUIT GRAINGER.

11'

■

hearted girl like Murj::}ireL \\\\\ Ikm* decision cost
her dcur. As 1, soiiKswinit disturbed by vvliat liad
passed, sh)\vly went npstuirs, I lieurd the voice of
Mrs. Bellamy niised in bitter an^rer. The drawing-
room door was open, and as 1 stepped on the landin*)^,
Margaret, pale and an<;iiish(^d-Iooking, run out, her
mother's bitter words pnrsning her.

" You can go, then, you wicked, ungrateful girl.
1 will haye nothing more to do with you, and you
can get your living as you tliink best. As for you,
Miss Grainger," slie said, turning furiously to me,
" you have betrayed my trust, and it can l)e your
privilege now to look after the admirable specimen
you have turned out. You set up as a pro})er tsacher
and trainer of youth, pretending to fit them for any
station ! I shall expose your system, which incites
children to wickedly disobey their parents, and to
set aside all the laws which Providence has set to
govern society. You are a fraud, and as such I shall
expose you to the parents of the pupils unhappily
committed to your care."

And much more to the same effect. I went
hurriedly to my own room, and j)ut my few things
together. I had not again seen Margaret. When
1 was quite ready to de{)art I went in search of

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A REVOLTING DAUGHTER.

Mrs. Bollaray. I found her calmer certainly, lint
still Witter and disdainful. 1 had my bonnet on, and
my fj^lovcs in my hand.

" fc?o you aro goin*:^ ? I hope yon arc taking your
precious pupil with yon. I have uo further use for
her here."

" That is all I came to ask. I mav tell Mar-
garet she has your permission to return to Fleet-
wood ?"

"There is no question of permission. She has to
leave here ; where she goes I care nothing. I hi«,v.»
warned her well. She has thrown away her last
chance, the best any girl ever had. I am penniless.
1 cannot keej) her. It is (piite fitting that you who
have made her what she is should take th(^ responsi-
bility of her livelihood. 1 daresay you will find her
useful as a shining example of the pernicious
principles you teach."

On occasion Mrs. Bellamy could forget her
breeding, and descend to the vulgarity of the mark(;t-
womau. 1 thought it best to go (piietly away, taking
Margaret with me. Her story is not ended yet. The
rest I may tell you another day.

IV.

H 1

THIS SIDE -AND THAT.

"T HAVE not hitherto said anything abont my own
relatives, of whom I had a goodly number
occupying higlj i)ositi()nH in society. Many of tliose,
however, elected to forget their kinswoman, Margaret
Grainger, when she was obliged to earn lier bread.
Of them I do not wisli to write bitterly, nor indeed at
all. They belong to the great army of fair-weather
friends who cannot stand the test of adversity. In
my younger days their behaviour sometimes gave a
bitter sting, which, however, has long since passed.
The few who stood by me in my struggling years
have amply atoned for the indifference of the rest ;
and to tliem I feel grateful for much true sym-
pathy and loving attention through a long and busy
life.

Among the family connections who came to the old
Norfolk Uectory when I abode under its roof was my

I li

Ill

THIS SIDE AND THAT.

consin Harry Soacombe, tlie son of my mother's only
brother. Harry was an only child, and must have
been spoiled had he not been blessed with a singn-
lurly sweet and wholesome nature in wiiicli there
was scarcely an alloy of self. He was seven years
younji^er tlian I, but he adored me, and I him. Dear
old Harry — I have often said that the woman who
married him would be a lucky and enviable woman,
and I say so still. He was lieir to a baronetcy and a
great estate, but he loved an active life, and cliose a
soldier's h)t, greatly to tlie regret of his fatlier and
mother. They tolerated his fre(juenL visitations to
the Rectory, but 1 was never asked to Seacombe
T(twers. Tliey belonged to the branch of the family
who disapproved of \ oor relations. 1 had not seen
him for some years, he being on foreign service, but
1 thought very much of him and of my own early
ex])erience8 when 1 took Margaret Bellamy back to
Fleetwood.

I thought it probable that when Mrs. Bellamy
came to her senses and realised the inevitable, she
would probably relent towards Margaret, and with
this in view, I persuaded her to live at Fleetwood
us my guest. She was useful to me in many
wuys, and I accepted her little offer of service, but

MEMOIUES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

1 ■

after a few weeks I perceived that she was dull
and depressed. I wondered, indeed, whether she
was not rrettin<:c after her home, and regrettinj^ her
haste in leaving it. At last one day I broached the
subject, wliich liad not been mentioned between
us for some weeks.

'' 1 have observed that yon are very dej)ressed, my
dear. Tell me frankly of what you are thinking."

She looked instantly relieved.

" 1 am so glad you have spoken, Miss (irainger, for
1 am ])ositively unhappy. You must see for yourself
it is iin])ossibie 1 can remain here."

" Why, you are my dear comjjanion anil friend.
You have not taken long to tire of me."

Her dark eves filled with tears.

" It is not that. How could you think I should be
so unjrrateful ? It is because I am idle and useless.
I cannot remain here a burden on you. Give me
something to do. Do you not think I might teach
the little ones something?"

I thought a moment, regarding her steadfastly.
She was very clever, but she lacked the power,
essential to the true teacher, of being able to impart
the knowledge she possessed. She was too reserved
and self-contained ; her rare qualities had to be

THIS SIDE .IND THAT.

discovered by jmtience mid I'aitli on the part of those
who loved her. I have seen her in a coinpuuy of
people remain al)solately silent for some liours, and
create a most disagreeable imj)ression,

" I am afraid you would not like tliat, Marp^aret ;
hilt if you like to take over my housekeeping 1 shall
be very glad to resign."

She stared at me with wide-open eyes.

" Your housekeeping I Why, I am as ignorant as a
l)aby. I know I sliould love it, but I sliould die of
terror over the responsibility."

" Peoi)le do not die of terror so easily," I said,
ratlier drily, for exaggerated speech always displeased
me. " And thongh you may not know much, it is
possible to learu. We shall begiu the new regime on
Monday."

And we did. I helped her, of course, as much as 1
thought wise, but believing that to be left to her own
resources and made to feel that something depended
on her would be the making of Margaret, I did not
interfere too much, and I must say I was surprised at
the result. Of course she made manv mistakes, and
f'ven at times became quite discouraged ; but after
some little experience she justified my higliest liopes.
Of the relief her careful, competent manngement

MEMORIES OF M.'IRn.lRET CR.ilSGER.

i.A

V 1/ .

gave me, it is iinpossiltlc to spcjik. T Iwid hud my
own share of trvin*:: and iiiiskilh-d hihoiir ; and I'onTid
that a woman wlio bronjjjht conscience and brain
to bear upon lier work, achieved results the most
satisfactory.

Marjj^aret herself was contented and liapjiy, we were
the best of good friends, and in such happy union of
interests time sj)ed with us. For two years we heard
absobitely nothing of Mrs. Hclhimy or Audrey. We
lived far I'rom the great gay world, and knew little of
what transpired there. Great was our •. nishment,
therefore, wiien on'» day a lady came to me, Mrs.
Van der Voonie, according to the card, and I went
down to find Audrey Bellamy.

*' Yea, I am married," she said flippantly; "three
months ago. Mamma would not let me even write to
Margaret. She will never forgive her, Miss Grainger,
as long as she lives. But now 1 am beyond mamma's
jurisdiction ; in fact, to be (^uite frank, Van der
Voome and I have quarrelled with mamma, and
really I don't wonder at it, she was so abominably
rude to him. She is sorry for it now, yon may be
sure, but my husband keeps u]) sj)ite, and she has cut
herself out with him for ever."

The whole tone of Audrey's remarks jarred upon

THIS SI 1)1-: .l.\P THAT.

nip. Slio wiis ^rcjitly (•liiui<j:^'<l. All hor •jirlish-
iicsH was gone; she looked old and weary, and the
elejxanr.e of lier attire could not hide the f'aet that she
had jLfoui! oil' iti looks.

''Your liushaud is a foreigner?"

" Oh yes, Dutch, one of the Atusterdam Voomes,
diamond merchants ; rich, oh yes. 1 iiave sold
myself, or rather mamma sold me, for diamonds.
Hut we are very iine people. We live in ik'lgravia,
and we get Royalty to our balls. How is Mar-
garet?"

" Margaret is very well, and very h{ij)py," I said
ratlier constrainedly, my heart sore for the unha[)py
woman before me. I thought of my pure, lionest-
hearted girl uj»stairs, of the peace which dwelt iu
her soul and on her face, and I thanked God for the
courage He had given her to choose the better j)art.

" It is very good of you to have kept her so long,"
she said (piickly, but avoided my earnest gaze. " I
supj)ose she helps you in some way ? Do you think
she would come and stay a little with me? Tliere are
six weeks of the season to live through vet. Dear
Miss Grainger, do let her come."

" My ])0or Audrey 1 " i said, and she gut up rather
hun'iedly from her chair.

'■'\

• I

■■ h "■■

S4 MEMORILS OF MAI<(,.U<Er CKAISGER.

** Don't K|M'jik to 1110 like that. I trout In* j»itio«l.
I am very well ol!*. I am wear thousjiiHls of poiuuls
oil my neck at every party I ^o to. Everybody envies
nu', and wlieu 1 drive in tlie park I hear tliem Kay,
'That is Mrs. Van der Voome, the rieliest woman
in London.' I Inive (h)ne verv \\v\\ for mvself."

" Yon iiave broken your heart," 1 replied.

"No, I liavcn't. I haven't a heart to break. It is
vnlgar to liave a heart ; mamma says so. Van der
Voome lias no heart ; it is encrusted with dia-
monds. When one has to live in the world, feel-
ings are an awkward commodity. I have disj)ensed
with mine."

1 got nj) to leave the room ; nothing was to be got
from such talk. 1 saw that Audrey was worked up to
a pitch of nervous excitement. At any cost, I must
si)are Margaret to her. The time had come for
Margaret to do something for those who had treated
her but ill.

" I shall send I\Iargaret. I am sure she will go
with you to-day, if you wisji it, dear Audrey. I shall
miss her here, but I know she will come home when
she can."

" Home I She has a home, 1 have none. I have
a bouse — a palace they call it— but 1 hate it. Some

■I

THIS siin:~Asr> that.

<luy, unless Murtfjirct suvcs me, I >luill burst my
prison Imrs," xln' cried, with an iiwfnl hitferness.

I liiirried uwiiy, und sent Mjir<;an'l down ; and as
I sat alone in my own room, jirayinj; tiiut (lod mi;,'ht
liloss tlip words Miiriraret spoke, my lieart burned
liotly a«,niinst tlie woman wlio had so poorly I'ullilled
the ohliirations of her mothi-rhood.

Marjjaret. was a lon^ time downstairs, and when
she camo to mo she was very jtiile.

" Dear Miss (iniinL'"er, you can s])are !ne to ^o to
Audrey. It seems sellisi» ami un<^'ratef'ul, hut her
need is very ;;;roat.'*

" 1 tohl Audrey, dear, tliut you could «^o to her at,
once."

'* Uh, thaidv yon ; yon are always i^ood. Oh,
Miss (Jrainj^er, sometimes I have not been thankful
enoujjh (or mv mercies. Wiien I see Audrev, and
hear her sj)eak, I know what I have been saved
IVom. Oh, surely tliere ou,i:;ht to be a ]tuiiisjim<'nt
for thos^ who make; such shipwreck of human hearts

(1 1

and lives

»»

Siu; was tremldini? violently, and I was ,i>lad to
direct her attention to ])reparations for her journey.
1 went with her upstairs, and helped her to get her
iliin<(a together.

^?i

"Il

MEMORIES OF M.IRn.lh'/:/ GRAIXGER.

il!

Sill'

" Thcro is only Ji innnth of the fcnii left,, dear. I
shall hoar from yoii, uml if v(ni tliiiik it hctfor for
your sister that yon rcniaiii with her, onr little holiday
mnst be set aside. I can always go to the Sales at
Sonth Wold."

" Yes, bnt I hope I shall he buck by then.
Audrey's life is not mine. lint it is just possible I
mav be able to show her the extemnitinc: circnni-
stances of her lot, thon«]^li, Heaven help her, slie says
there are none."

I said notliin«(, but in my heart of hearts committed
them to the <i:ni(ling (!are and consolation of God.
In less than hall' an hour she was ready, and as we
returned to the drawin«]:-room 1 heard some one elsa
asking for me at the hall door.

" Sir Henry Seacombe."

I flew past Mar«raret, for it was my own boy Harry,
back safe and sound from the Afjrlian (•ami)ai,<rn, a
brv'>nzed and decorated soldier, of whom anybody
might be proud.

** Hulloa, cousin ! von don't look a bit like a school-
marm ; that I should live to see the day I '*

His banter was assumed, to hide the very real
emotion he f(dt at meeting again the cljum of liis
boyhood. I felt my heart glow witii })ri(le in him as

■ ?
i

•I V

THIS SIDE -AND THAT.

I stood before him, looking into hia dear open face,
his fine, true, honest eyes, and saw the medals on his
breast.

*' You foolish boy, you make me forget the dignity
of my position. I could positively sliout for joy,"
I said. '* To think I see you again, after all these
years 1 Why, how they roll back to the old Rectory
days I But you are a man and a hero now, and it
does my heart good to see you have not forgotten
your old cousin."

" Old cousia, indeed I Let me tell you, ma'am,
you look younger than ever. Why, who are
these ? "

It was Mrs. Van der Voome and Margaret on the
stairs. Audrey looked lovely, and I saw the innate
coquetry of her nature flash in her eyes at sight of my
handsome cousin.

I introduced them, of course, and I felt a Lttle
vexed that Margaret showed to such little advantage.
I loved her more dearly than anybody on earth except
Harry, and it was natural 1 should wish them to like
each other. Margaret gave him greeting most slight
and cold. She was well dressed, and her fine figure
had developed to its full beauty, but her face, always
requiring a touch of life and colour, was cold and

Iff

t:l'

.'I

m !

a;'

■ s.

I'i

MEMORIES OF MAf^CARET CRAINdFR.

expressionless — ut Iciist, so I tli()n<::li|- I saw that
lier mind was oc('nj)ie(l by one idcii— the case of the
pretty, frivolous, unhappy woman hy her side. They
did not lin«2;er, and when I letnrned to the house after
hiddinij^ them good-bye at the carriage door, Harry
repeated the ([uestion :

"Cousin Margaret, who are they?"

I gave Jiim in as fevr words as possible a brief
outline of their history.

"The tall oiie is a beautiful woman," was his
verdict.

" Margaret, do you mean ? Mrs. Van der Voome
is considered beautiful. Margaret is the plain one;
she has been a thorn in the flesh of her mother
always."

" Nevertlieless, in my eyes there is no comparison.
I hope I shall f^-ee Miss Bellamy again. Van der
Voome ! What a name ! There would need to be
something to make it smell more sweet. Well, and
so the dear old dad has gone over to the majority
since I went on active service. The Towers will be
a queer place without him. I suppose you have
heard nothing of mv motlier latelv?"

I smiled a little scornfully, 1 could not help it.

" Lady Seacombe never liked Margaret Grainger.

THIS SIDE AND THAT.

Harry ; she likes my present title ?iml designation
even less. Did slie meet von in London ? "

'* No ; we only arrived at Portsmouth this morning,
and I said to myself, before 1 go another step I'll look
lip Margaret.'*

"Then you haven't seen your motlier?"

" No, I'm going down this evening."

The little attention, the genuine outcome of a
♦Viendly affection, pleased me. I was a lonely woman,
who received such attention and consideration from
lew.

" I think you're a br^ck, Margaret, and I've alway:-
told the mater so. Perha})s she'll see it one of these
(lays herself. I'll do my best to convert iier. Now,
don't you think I am very magnanimous for a re-
iccled suitor ? "

He looked at me mischievously, and I may as well
sav here that Harrv had asked me to marrv him more
than once, being one of those who fall in love at first
with a womai: older than themselves, an experience
which generally does them more good tlian harm.
Anyhow, it had left both Harry and me perfectly
lieart-whole.

" We must forget the follies of our youth, Harry,"
1 said severely ; and then we fell into a cosy, hai)j>y

ill

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

talk, in which I told him all that had befallen me
since that sad day we parted when his regiment was
ordered to the East. And then I in turn listened to
the recital, modestly given, of his exciting experiences,
and felt the glow which all women feel over the
heroism of son, brother, or husband who fights and
wins for the land that bore him.

During tlie next few weeks I heard regularly from
Margaret, but her letters were meagre and unsatis-
factory. That slie was far from happy I could gather,
and her anxietv about her sister was not concealed.
She repeatedly said she would tell me everything
when she returned to Fleetwood, but she could give
no promise about her coming. When school broke
up 1 went into Surrey to Judith Sale, feeling a little
disappointed that the trip to Switzerland Margp.ret
and I had planned was thus deferred. In August she
wrote that she was going with the Van der Voome-*
to Scotland on a visit to a shooting lodge, and then
for some weeks I heard no more.

On the twentv-third of the same month she wrote
abruj)tly that she was returning to Fleetwood next
day, but that I was on no account to hurry my return.
She would occupy her time in setting everything to

THIS SIDE AND THAT.

9«

rights for the new term, and would give cook a
liolidav. She did not mention Audrey's name, but
simply said she had done what she could to avert the
I'jitastrophe that had taken place, and which I would
|)ro])ably learn from tlie newspapers before we should
meet. This letter puzzled and concerned me so much
tliat I went U]) to town that very morning after
breakfast, and out to Fleetwood. I found, as I
expected, the house in a turn-up, and I\largaret as
busy as she could be. 1 gently hinted as 1 greeted
lier that there was no need for sucii an earthquake
ill the house.

*' I had to do something. Miss Grainger, I am in
that state of mind that inaction renders desperate.
Somehow I thought you would come. What a relief
to tell you everything I "

We sat down together, just as we were, in the little
morning-room, and I think 1 see Margaret yet, with
a gay-coloured kerchief bound not unbecomingly on
her head, a. id her big housewifely apron tied decently
above her neat morning gown. That picture remains
with me now that she is a greai; lady, guiding a large
establishment of her own, and I see yet her paie,
earnest face, and her deep eyes lit up by the intensity
of her feeling. She leaned her arms on her knees,

I! li

I. il

i! 'iiiil

II'

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

and lookino: mo stniiiijhtly in the face, said, " Aniit
Margaret, Audrey is lost."

1 did not at first comj)rehend her, and sat waiting
inquiringly for lier to go on, which slie did presently
with a little sobbing breath.

" I knew there was something behind it all that
day Audrey was here ; something more than the
mere uncongenial yoke whicli bound lier to Van dcr
Voome ; and in a dav or two 1 found it out."

'' Another man ? " I said at once ; and Margaret
nodded. I saw slie felt it keenly, that th(! confidence
she longed to give wus yet a bitter pain. But I knew
she wislied to tell me, and that she would be better
when she had shared it with another.

" I would not admit it to myself at first," she said.
" 1 was |)re])ared to find tliem unhappy, but 1 did not
know till I entered that great house how awful is the
degradation, the misery of a marriage bond where
love is not."

" What kind of a man," I asked, " is Mr. Van der
Voome ? "

Margaret shook her head.

" He miglit have been better had he married a
suitable wife. He is not a gentleman, and Audrey
never allowed him to forget it."

M' t Ti

THIS SIDE- AND THAT.

" Yet she (lid not scruple to spend his money,"
1 said rather hotly, my sympathies entirely for the
moment witli the diamond merchant, who had given
his ungrateful wile freely such things as he had.

" No, she spent it royally, but we Uiust not be
too hard on her. ISlie only followed out in spirit and
in letter every })rineij)le of her training. I hope my
mother is j)ruud of lier to-day."

"You did not yourself dislike Mr. Van der
Voome ? " I said, to divert her mind from such a
bitter channel.

"No, he was very kind to me. He was not an
attractive person, even to look at, and in some ways
he was (juite objectionable ; but 1 pitied him, married
to Audrey, and ojjcnly treated with such scandalous
contempt. I often wondered, indeed, at the man's
patience with her. But after his jealousy was once
fully roused, he did not spare her. He saw it
tirst — though everybody had been talking of it
for weeks — one night near the end of July, when
they had a ball, which was spoken of next morning
as one of the most brilliant successes of the season."

" Who was tlie man ? "

" Captain Wynford. They oidy met soon after her
marriage, and it appeared to be a case of love at first

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

sight. Yes, 1 know wliat you would say — that it
oright not to have been so, esjjecially with her. But
you know what Audrey has always been ; how she
has taken everytliing that life couhl offer without
consideration for anybody but herself. Yet slie is
not entirely to blame. Well, tlie thing (juite visible
to everybody but Van der Voome culminated on the
uiglit of the ball."

" Did you never remonstrate with her ? "
" Y'es, and sometimes I thought 1 had made an
impression on her, but Wynford's influence was
stronger than mine."

" AVas he a man tot.ally without principle?"
'' 1 do not know. He loved Audrey, and perhaps
he had been trained in the same school. On the
night of the ball she seemed to forget everything
but that he was present, even neglecting her duties
as hostess. Van der Voome was furious, and after
it broke up there was a scene.

'* He took us off to Scotland next day, and I hoj)od
the trouble might be at an end. It had only begun.
She disappeared the other day. Wynford met her
in Edinburgli, and they are now on tlieir way to
New York."

Here Margaret burst into tears, and my own eyes

THIS SIDE A ^D THAT.

were not dry. Tlu; same thou^lit dwell with us both,
that ])Oor Aiidivv luid but taken the first downward
step, that something even more bitter miglit yet
ensue. I pondered on her briglit beauty, her winning
ways, her many gifts which, riglitly nsed, would have
blessed herself and others. 1 thought how j)oor they
were in comi)arison with honesty of heart and life,
with j)urity vof soul. Many more details of that
unblessed and fatal marriage did Margaret give me,
and wiien we laid the subject aside, I shared her j)ity
and respect for Mr. Van der Voome. Unattractive,
plebeian, purse-proud he might be, but he had proved
himself not unworthy of resj)ect, and Margaret never
failed to speak well of him, though she never met
him again. There was the usual buzz of ex(ntement
over an event so interesting to the special circle of
society in which the Van der Voomes moved ; though
it was a little milder on account of the season of the
year, all the butterflies of fashion being scattered to
the four winds of heaven. Thus the unhappy affair
was not exaggerated and distorted, as it would cer-
tainly have been had it happened a month or two
earlier. Mr. Van der Voome souglit no divorce, and
we heard nothing about his poor, unhappy wife for
a long time.

. ;!1
■'** I'

11 1 ^^^

MLMORIES OF MA KG A RET GHAINGER.

Before the term heroin Hurry ScucomiIm' came
again to Fleetwood, beariiiji; a message from us
mother — a gracious invitation to ])ay a short visit
to tlie Towers. Had the boy not ph-achMl so earnestly,
I shouhl at once liave rel'nsed, ])nt Ills lieart was set
npon it. I was surj»rised that tlie invitation inchided
Margaret, and said so. He looked at me eomicallv.

"Scenting tronhk' afar, Consin ^largaret ? Well,
and what if 1 did?"

"Did wliat!" I asi<ed, though I knew too well
what his mischievous eyes implied.

" Well, walked off with yonr parngon. Yon told
me yourself she was a ])aragon, and yon can't go
back on your word ; no school marm ever does."

" Harry, it would never, never do ! You ought
not to require me to tell you that. It would break
vour mother's heart."

"Why, pray?"

" Well, she is nobody, and then this dreadful
trouble about her sister. I really am amazed at
Lady Seacombe extending her invitation to Margaret.
I must not encourage it. It would never, never
do."

I saw Harry's lips, usually so gay and gentle and
smiling, grow ominously grave and stern, and 1

THIS SIDE-AyO THAT.

tli(»u«rlit that, if lu' went lor ilie wild Al'^liuiis witli
Midi u luce it WHS no wonder they lied hclore
liiiu.

*' I sun the b(?st jntlge of tluit. I\Iy niothor knows
1 moun to chooso my own wife, iMurpinH or another.
Coiui? now, cousin, don't be cross-<;niiii(Ml, You are
not huilt that wav, and it doesn't suit you."

He talked on, but 1 did not take Mur^^arct to
Seacombe Towers. 1 did not wisli to take a singh;
step towards bringin<x about any niarriatre between
tliese two, tiiou<j^h 1 loved thorn botli dearly, and
believed that thev were made for each otlu^r.

I found my Aunt Seacombe very j>leasant. Since
her husband's death she Inid become more gentle and
tolerant ; but I saw that her heart was bound up ia
her boy. She talked of him incessantly — of his
goodness, his valour, his devotion to her. She was
keenly concerned about his matrimonial future, but
was too wise to dictiite to liim. He had a very
sweet disposition, and was amenable to control within
certain limits, but she seemed to luive divined that
iu his choice of a wife her boy would brook uo
interference.

It was no use my trying to keep back the tide of
utFairs, Harry came to Fleetwood in spite of me, but

El '."'I

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:, ■ 'I

MLMUKltb Ul- MAH(jAt<Li OKAliSOLH.

wutc.h UH 1 nii;::lit, I could detect iu Mur^urrt. no HJgn
that hIio divined the oliject of his ('ouiin;^:. Slic waw
at her best with him ; the touch of KUiishine in his
nature was just what liers uee(h'd. 1 saw her grow
more noble, luore woniunlv, more h)valde dav hv
day, and knew tluit h)ve, oninipolent and divine, was
adding' the cr()wnin«( touch to her fine cliaracter.
And 1 said to myself, tluit tliou^h Harry Seacombe
should take her a penniless bride from her menial
j)osition at Flecitwood, JSeacombe would bless the day
her foot crossed its threshold.

I wrote to my Aunt Sei»"ombe about it at last, and
her reply was to ask me to go down to talk the
matter over. I found her disa]>|)ointed, even a little
angry, but when she heard what I had to say about
Margaret, she became mollified.

" Of course it is a frightful nK'salliance^ especially
after that Van der Voonie affair, but though Harry
is so good-natured, le is as obstinate as — well, as his
father was before liim."

"Then you will be kind to her, Aunt iSelina, if
anything should come of it ? "

" I'll do my best," she said sincerely, if with but
a doubtful grace ; but 1 knew 1 could rely upon her.

" You are greatly changed, Aunt Selina," I could

iiiii

r///6 .'6ll)E AND Ili.iT.

not lu'lp MayiiijT. "Tinu' was when yoii woiiM not
liuvc accept ('<l siu^h a (laii^lifcr-iii-luw so lucckly."

" Muylx', but 1 have Icurncfl sonictliiii},'^ since thon,
iiiid slie Ih fairly well coiiiicctcMl. I respect her,
Mari^aret, for liaviii^ had the conraije to stand out
against that \vi(tk(Ml niotlier ot' hers," slie said, with
trrcat "^ood humour. " Jiiiu'jj Iier down next time von
come, it' it is not necessary for me to come to iier
before then."

1 spoke to INTariraret on my return. It was rather
a dillicult task, for she was not one whose mind dwelt
upon such matters ; and she was totally unconscious
how nuitters stood, not only with Harry, l)Ut with
herself. I think 1 see her yet, looking' u]> from her
pile of housewifely darning,', her eyes meeting mine
with a slow wonder in them.

" It is very kind of Ladv Seacombe to ask me so
often, but I am sure it is better for me not to go."

" Why ? "

'•'' Oil, because those who work oujjflit not to go out
of their spiiere. It often ends in disaster."

1 tnrned round to her, smoothing out my bonnet
striuij^s, and eved her very keenly.

" Margaret, I don't know what to make of you.
Do you mean to say you don't know what it all

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100

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

-s- \

means, that it has never dawned upon you what
brings Harry Seacoinbe here two or three times a
week ? "

" Why, he comes to see you, I suppose," she said ;
but her voice was a little unsteady, and 1 observed
her tremble.

" Tliat is quite likely. Oh, my girl, my dear, dear
girl, you will make a queenl\ I^ady Seacombe. You
are getting the best and dearest fellow in the world
besides, and you deserve it all."

1 sa'7 the colour flood neck and cheek and brow,
and knew her heart was revealed to herself.

I went away just then, for 1 heard him at the door,
and knew he had followed me, impatient to know his
fate. I met him on the stairs and told him where
to find her, and 1 bade God bless him, and kissed
him as 1 said it ; and as I stole away I tlianked God
for the many sweet as well as bitter things in the
world.

They were a long time there alone, so long that at
last I had to go to them. And when 1 opened the
door, 1 saw that it was well with them, and that my
Margaret was won. And when I looked upon her
face and saw what love had done for her, and saw
her eyes as they rested shyly yet with all a woman's

THIS SIDE— AND THAT.

101

liappy pride on lie?' soldier lover, my teurs fell again
for very joy For in these two I saw the possibility
of perfect marriage, whicli is the choicest earthly
estate.

]\lur*2:aret was marked by a ji^reat huinilitv, her
constant crv that she was not worth v. And she fell
asleep that night sobbing for her lost sister, who,
had slie but waited and remained true to her best
instincts, might have tasted of happiness as sweet and
lasting.

So Margaret came into her kingdom, and I have
not time to tell yon all the ins and outs of it here ;
bnt I must not forget to say that Mrs. Bellamy
turned up overjoyed at this desirable alliance, and
with one grand sweep souglit to make her past treat-
ment as if it had never been. But Margaret could
not meet her half-way. Memory was too bitter, and
the awfulness of Audrey's fate too recent.

Mrs. Bellamv has not as vet stormed the ^rates of
Seacombe Towers, though she is still trying tlie
ussoult. Margaret is kind and civil to her, l)ut dis-
tant. It is a painful thing to look upon such strained
relations between mother and daughter, but I cannot
tind it in my heart to lay the blame on Margaret.
Ties of blood are strong, but they can be loosened

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

Ml '

!■ lii

ami even siiai)po(l ]jy such troatniont. ^Vo liave only
once heard of Andrey, that she is livini;' in Paris.
Margaret lias seen her there many times, but in the
meantime nothin<^ ciiii be done for her.

As for Marij:aret, I have always said that the
woman who became Harry 8ejU'onibe''s wife would be
beyond reach of the ([uestiou, " Is marriage a
failure ? " and I sav so still.

■r ■ I

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^•^.

KATHLEEN.

^T^HE stress of life sometimes brings to the surface
qualities hitherto undreamed of, and extreme
circumstances can awaken many a dormant capability.
In a wordj necessity is a more powerful agent than
we are inclined to think.

As I write down these trite but true statements,
my mind is full of the experiences of one of my old
pupils, with whom I am still on terms of intimacy
and friendship. She was an Irish girl, and came to
me quite in the ordinary way, and was so ordinary in
every respect tliat Iier achievements as a thoroughly
capable and even brilliant manager in circumstances
exacting the exercise of no mean talents, surprised
me not a little. Her name was Kathleen Moran,
and she was the daughter of a country gentleman
iu the south of Ireland. The f.imily was old and

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

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proud, the estjife lurge and burdciisonie. I use the
word advisedly, because the hind was not only of
meagre quality, bnt so mortgni^ed that it h;id hung
like a millstone about the Morans for at least three
generations. An English lady, the sister of Mrs.
Moran, came to me about Kathleen, and told me
a good deal ubout her. JMrs. Tresidder was the
wife of a wealtliy London magnate, one whose money
and influential position in the mercantile world won
him entrance into very good society. His wife was
ambitious, and they had done well socially, but it
was a great sorrow^ to them that they were childless.
I was not drawn to Mrs. Tresidder. Her long
struggle to reach the u})])er plattorm of society
had given to her character a certain nnjjleasant
touch. She was intolerant, too, of all wlio did not
get on.

*' I have come to you, Miss Grainger, about a
yonug niece of mine in Ireland," she said that day
I saw her. " I have just come from Ireland, from
spending a month in tliat impossible place, \vhere
my sister has elected to bury herself alive. I said
to Mr. Tresidder, it will take me quite twelve months
to recover from the experi(Mice."

I looked interested. I certainly felt so.

•ii..

KATlll.ELN.

105

J '!

"My sister, iVesli from a Ijosinliug-srhool, married
Mr. Moran Jit nineteen, and they have nine chihlren.
Kathleen is the eldest. She is seventeen. My sister
has taught the children all they know ; the boys
get a little assistance from the parish priest. Imagine,
if vou can, the result."

" They live far from a town or from schools ? "

" I sliould think they do. Why, they are twenty-
three miles from a railwav station, .:hong!i there
is a new line making which will bring them
twenty miles nearer. What a life ! It would
kill me in a week ; but the astonishing thing is
that Sybil — Mrs. Moran — appears to be entirely
happy."

" Perhaps she has much to make her so. Country
life is deligiitful to those wlio are accustomed to it,"
I suggested.

Mrs. Tresidder shrugged her shoulders. "Country
life — it isn't country life, it's live burial, nothing
short ; and they are so friglitfuUy ])oor. Killoe is
a large estate, but nearly all ])0gland ; a kind of
feudal system pertains on it, and the poverty is
appalling. Mr. Moran literally divides his substance
with his tenants. It's like a big co-operative society,
with this exception — the largest shareholder gets the

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

Ill)

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least ; and nine chiJdron, five of tliem boys — what
ifi to bcconio of tlicm ? "

I said I did not know, but that probably there
would ])e a wav out of the dillieidtv. Mrs. Tresidder,
if a trifle over-frank, was at least interesting ; but
my time was precious. I suppose something in my
manner suggested to her that 1 wanted the interview
over.

" I brought Kathleen back with me, after a kind
of scene. I pointed out to Mrs. Moran the iniquity
of rearing a girl like that, and of refusing any
advantage that came in her way. She is a lovely
creature, but as undisciplined as a bogland colt. Mr.
Tresidder and I are childless — we wish to adopt her ;
but she will require a lot of breaking in. Will you
undertake the process ? "

I laughed a little, perfectly understanding her.
Mrs. Tresidder was known to me through other
friends, and I knew exactly what she wanted done
with Kathleen Moran.

" I shall do what I can for her while she is
here, Mrs. Tresidder. I wish she had come with
you."

" Oh, she can come another day before the term
begins. We are at Mortlake just now. Mr. Tresidder

lip

Kathleen.

107

is amnsinw himself with his lionsp-boat and a new
steam launch. Later on we u:o abnuul, probably in
Se})teiriber, after Katlileen is placed here."

She paused a moaient and then went on :

" She is a very impulsive creature, and (piite nn-
(lisei])lined. She thinks Killoe is the only earthly
paradise, and only consented to return wi<^h me in
order to qualify herself for usefulness at home. She
must not be told her parents have given her np to
me. She would certainly run away. After she
has been here some time her views of things in
general, and Killoe in particular, will probably be-
come modified."

I could not help shaking my head.

" It is not so easy to root out a }»assionate uttach-
ment, Mrs. Tresidder, especially from an Irish
heart."

" But you will do what you can, Miss Grainger.
I have heard so much of your wise guiding and
judicious training. You have the reputation of turn-
ing out splendid girls."

"A high standard of dutv will be set before vour
niece, Mrs. Tresidder, but I cannot promise to
curb her natural affections."

" Oh, I don't want you to do that ; I have no

I i

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MEMORIES OF MAlUiAKET GRAINGER.

doubt that sifter two yetirs here, miiiglinji: with
Englisli j^ii'ls, jiiid lier h()]i(hi\s spent with me.
Kathleen will be quite amenable. 1 don't want Iut
sliorn of her briojht oriu-inalitv ; it is onlv tone she
wants to make her the rage of the season tliat
witnesses her ih'hut. She will be so absolutely fresh,
she may achieve anything. 1 assure yon I have
great hopes for her. 1 am only sorry that I did
not know sooner that my sister possessed such a
promising daughter. It is three years since I was
at Killoe, and then Kathleen was quite uninteresting
and objectionable. But there is material to work
upon now."

Mrs. Tresidder went away, leaving me a trifle
uncomfortable, and somehow 1 rather dreaded the
advent of Kathleen Moran. My fears were quite
groundless. Shall I ever forget the day I saw her
first, my bright, high-spirited, precious girl, with
her red cheeks and her bonnie eyes, clear as the
blue waters of Killoe, where it shimmers under the
fitful Irish sun ? She was high-spirited, and full of
fun and frolic. I could see, but she had the gentlest
spirit, the truest heart, quick to respond to the
slightest touch of love or kindness. In a week she

became the sunshine of Fleetwood,

KATHLEEN.

109

She lia<l boon bronjjflit np in an atmosphere so
full of lovo and snnshine that she t'.\i)ecte(l it every-
where, and indeed created it for herself. Her
IVankness, her bri^jfht originality, her fniid of fun
were bewitching ; all so truly Iri.;h tluit it some-
times made me smile. Bnt her natnre liad its
scrions side, whicli showed itself in her anxions,
jtathctic desire to make tiu; most of every advantage
in lier way. In this I thought her old beyond her
years.

" It is so good of auntie," she would say sometimes
when I remonstrated with her for over-diligence,
'^and 1 must learn everything I can, so that I may
be of more use to mother and the children when I
go back to Killoe."

Her voice always took a tender, tremulous note,
and her blue eyes grew dim at that dear name, and
often on her face I saw a far-off, yearning look,
which told me that the child's heart was home-sick
for Killoe. Then I felt like a hypocrite, yet I liad
to keep faith with Mrs. Tresidder and hold my
tongue. But I knew very well that there might
arise circumstances which would lift this matter
clean out of her hands or of mine. While Kathleen
was with me I made a new departure at Fleetwood,

! ' ■ I

MEMUKIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

organised a hitherto untriefl hrarich of boanlinjj-scljool
life—the teaching of hou^eliold management, down
to the Hmallest detail. And I may say here that
not only has this experiment earned for me the
gratitnde of many women, but it has givcn nie
more solid satisfaction in results than the educational
department of my school. It was an effort long
thought of and carefully planned, and when it did
come into force was very efficient. I aimed at
leaching everything, from tlie washing of a duster
to its use among priceless china, cooking, dj'.iry work,
household management — everything was inc hided.

From the fif t Kathleen, though diligent at her
music and lessons, threw herself into the new move-
ment, and seemed insatiable of knowledge. She
took the prizes in every department ; and when I
heard her commendation on every hand I only sighed,
for I knew that one incentive had moved her — the
little word Killoe. And I knew that a strong
struggle was at hand, and that if Mrs. Tresidder
did keep Kiitliloen, it would be Kathleen with a
crushed and broken heart.

She remained at Fleetwood nearly two years,
during which period she never saw Killoe or any of
her own folk. This was part of Mrs, Tresidder's

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KATHLEEN.

Ill

plan, by whicli she th(>ii«i;ht, to wean the c.liihrs
heart from lior early home ; but absence in her case
oiilv wcrved to bind her more closelv to all slie had
Itl't Ix'hind, and gave to her love tliat passionate
touch which only the exile knows iu it« fullest
intensity.

I well remember the day I parted from Kathleen.
It was the month of May, and summer, early wooed,
liad burst upon us in all its loveliness. The girls
were out for their afternoon walk, and the lionse
was very quiet, when Mrs. Tresidder was announced,
i went down to find her attired in mourning, and
looking just a little disturbed.

" I have come to see you, Miss Grainger, because
1 have bad news for poor Kathleen. My brother-
in-law, Mr. Moran, is dead."

I looked as I felt, inexpressibly shocked.

" It must have been very sudden."

" Not 80 very sudden. He has been ailing for
several months. Of course death is always more or
less sudden. Mr. Tresidder returned only last night
from Killoe."

" Mrs. Tresidder, I don't know what Kathleen will
say. She was passionately attached to her father.
1 think it was cruel not to send for her."

I f I'

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Ml.MOKIES OF MAKi.ARH GKAINGEK.

l|il

i iif 1 '

''My (Icur ^liss (iniiii^^'cr, what was the use of
harntwiii^' up the cliihl's s(»iil ? She can be fnl.l
]i(! died suddenly. We did it lor the best,. She
l)el()n<;s to us now, and more than ever recjuires
our care. 1 confess I (h) not know wlnit on earth
poor Syltil will (h). Where is Kafhk'en? Shall
I leave you to tell her, or would you like me to
do it ? "

" Wlioever tells her will hav(» a diflicidt task. She
will be in presently. If you can remain it will
certainly be better."

In about half an hour Kathleen came in. Her
demeanour towards her aunt was ulways respectful
and gentle, but not affectionate. Love was not to
be ex])ected. Between a woman of the world like
Mrs. Tresidder and such a child of nature as "lathleen
Moran there could be little in common. She did
not appear to observe the change in her aunt's
attire, but immediately asked her a question. " Aunt
Gertrude, why have they not written to me for so
long ? Have you lieard from mother ? "

" Come here, my dear. There has been great
trouble at Killoe. Everybody has been too sad
and too busy to write, though you have not been
forgotten. Will you promise to be brave?"

KA / ilLLEN.

113

I saw the child's lips pale.

"Tell me wliiit liiis hiipjiciird, Aunt (icrfnidc',
please, ([iiickly."

"Your poor f'aflior, ray love. fJod has seen fit
to take him. We eaiiiiot uuderstaiiU j we mu«t
only be resiu;ned."

"Is father dead?"

1 turned my luce away ; the chan;L^e in the ^^nrl's
hri<j;ht face and voic(! was so wol'id.

" Yes, my dear ; a great sorrow to us all, hut it
is better for him."

Kathleen witiidrew herself from her aunt's clasp,
and I saw her eyes grow rather sus])iciously
brilliant.

" Why was I not sent for, Annt Gertrnde ? JIow
dared you or anybody keep me here when })apa was
dying ? It was cruel, wicked. I shall never forgive
you."

8he stamped her foot, her eyes flashed ; ^:ihe looked
magnificent in her anger. 1 could not find a word
to say.

" My dear, do not get so excited," said Mrs.
Tresidder soothingly. " It wjus very sudden, and
the long, expensive journey had to be considered."

" I could have begged my way. Mother would

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III?

114

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

miss me ; she will think I have grown cold ; but
I will go to-day."

" My dear, be reasonable. It isn't possible. You
can do no good at Killoe."

" I can — I can comfort motlier. I can do things
for her like nobody else. She always said so. If
you will not give me money to go home, Miss
Grainger will, and I will work with my hands to
pay her back."

I saw Mrs. Tresidder becoming nettled, yet I could
not interfere. The question at issue had to be settled
between aunt and niece, and I saw that it would
be speedily done.

" I am willing to make any allowance for you,
dear Kathleen, but you must try and control yourself.
It is not advisable for you to go to Killoe. It is
probable they may have to leave it."

" Leave Killoe ! Have they even spoken of that
without me ? " she cried in a great burst of passion.
" Oh, it is time, time I was there. I will go to-day.
Dear Miss Grainger, pray, pray lend me the money.
1 will work to pay it back. Oh, if I do not go I
shall die 1 "

She had now quite lost her self-control, and for
a moment we allowed her to sob in silence.

KA THLEEN.

??i

" Mrs. Trenidder," I said at length, " I fear it will
be necessary for Katlileen to go. 8he will come
back. It wonld be neitlier kind nor desiralile for
us to keep her now."

Mrs. Trcsidder cast upon me a warning glance,
and then turned to Katlileen.

" Listen to me, Kathleen. 1 must talk very plainly
to yon. Yon are very yonng and lieadstrong, and
ignorant as well. There are some things you must
try to understand. You must know, of course, that
your father has always been very poor. Things are
a great deal worse now. There is not only nothing
left, but tliere is a great deal of debt. Your mother
will be obliged to sell Killoe, and move into Cork
or Dublin to try and find openings for your brothers.
You are to remain with your Uncle Tresidder and
rae. It was all arranged before you came here.
You are to be my daughter now, and you will be
able to help them at home."

T saw all the light fade out of the girl's face as
these things were made plain to her. She remained
silent for some time, and at last turned quietly to
lior aunt.

" Aunt Gertrude, I quite understand. I beg you
to forgive me for being so rude. I am much obliged

Ii6

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

i Mi.

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for your kindness, but I cannot stay. I must go
home."

" But you can't, Kathleen. There is no room for
you. You may not even get bread to eat."

" Mother will not say there is no room for me —
at least, I must go and see. I can't stay, Aunt
Gertrude. I slioald be miserable and ungrateful
and horrid. Perliaps Nora will come. She wanted
to come when I did ; she wanted to go away from
Killoe. Please, please. Aunt Gertrude, give me
money to go home."

Mrs. Tresidder was very angry, but it availed
nothing. Kathleen had her way. Next day, un-
protected and fearless, she set out for Killoe.

I heard at rare intervals from Kathleen, and her
letters, tliough sad and full of anxious care for the
future, breatlied a spirit of contentment, because
she was at home. She told me that they were in
the midst of many serious anxieties and pecuniary
embarrassment, but that she had not quite lost hope.
In her last letter she incidentally mentioned that
her sister Nora had gone to Mrs. Tresidder, and was
being educated at Clifton. I therefore concluded
that she had not been satisfied with the effect of
my training upon Kathleen.

KATHLEEN.

t>7

For nearly twelve months I licard no more about
the Morans, wlieii one day in Jnno, about five weeks
before closing for the summer vacation, I received
a long letter from Kathleen, written from Killoe.
It was a happy letter, breathing buoyant hope and
gladness through every line. It did not, however,
enter into many particulars ; the burden of it was
a petition that I should come and spend all or part
of my holiday at Killoe.

** I have made an experiment, dear Miss Grainger,"
she wrote, "and I want you to come and see how
it is working. Come and see how you have saved
Killoe."

Now these last Tvords were so tantalising and so
tempting that, though I had made many other ])lans,
I set them aside and accepted the invitation, which
promised enoug^i of interest to repay the journey. It
was rather a long and tiresome pilgrimage before
I reached that part of the green isle where the
Morans had thei" home. But everything was fresli
and delightful, and when I alighted at the little
roadside station which had brouglit Killoe within
three miles of civilisation, and saw my dear, briglit,
happy girl waiting for me, my heart gave a sudden
bound. She was greatly changed, grown more

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MEMORIES Of MARGARET GRAINGER.

womanly and certainly more beantil'iil, with a
strong, healthy, ruddy beauty, which we do not
see in England.

She was attired in a skirt and coat of heather
home-spun, and a blue cambric shirt, a little felt hat
with a pheasant's wing, and she had no gloves on her
sun-burned hands. Her eyes filled with tears when
she saw me, and for a moment I, too, was moved and
could not speak.

" Oh, I'm glad you haven't much luggage, for I've
only Mike and the cart. Mike is my pony. I broke
him in myself. Here he is."

We stepped out to the little station yard, and I
beheld Mike, a shaggy Irish colt, witli rather a
wicked eye, standing demurely in a very primitive-
looking cart. But it was no bad seat when one got to
it, and Mike trotted with exemplary steadiness, and
without mucli attention from his mistress.

It was about sunset, and the day was one of
summer's own gems. Shall I ever forget that wild
ride over rough roads by the edge of dark bogland
and over purple heather braes, with the amber clear
sky above us, and all the wide wild loneliness of what
appeared to me a great lone land shutting us in ? 1
sat spellbound by the uniqueness of the experience.

!;•

KA THLEEN.

119

i: I

iind listened to Kathleen while she talked, scarcely
following her.

Suddenly I pnllcd myself together.

" It was a pleasant surprise to get your letter from
Killoe. Things did not turn cut so badly there, as
you were able to remain."

" They turned out badly enough, Miss Grainger,
but I had my mind made up, if God would let me, to
keep Killoe, and He showed me how to do it."

" My dear," said I, inexpressibly touched, " how
did you do it ? "

** I put into practice every single solitary thing you
taught me at dear Fleetwood."

" Well, but, my dear, I don't see how that could
save Killoe. A big undertaking, was it not ? "

" Very big — oh, just tremendous," she said, with a
great deep sigh. " But it's done — or nearly — and it's

the happiest family on earth we be, asthore but

I'm not going to tell you anything more till we get to
Killoe. It's an object lesson, dear Mis? Grainger, and
Killut is the object."

" I see ; well, then, may I ask about your sister
Nora, who went to your Aunt Tresidder ? "

"Oh yes, Nora's all right; slie was here this
•summer — a transformation scene. Aunt Gertrude

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MKMOKIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER

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has made her wliat I should never have been — a fine
lady. The boys " — liere Katlileen's eyes twinkled
mo t wickedly — " tbe ])oys didn't think it an improve-
ment, and said so."

" She is qnite hjipi)y, is she not ? "

" Oh, entirely so. !She has got wlnit she wanted all
alon<>:, and — and so have I."

"Room to breathe," I said, as Kathleen let the
reins drop, and stretclied her strong young arms
above her head.

She nodded rather soberly, but presently smiled
again.

" Tell me, dear Miss Grainger, do I look, as Aunt
Tresidder and Nora said, exactlv like a dairymaid ?
Aunt Tresidder talked verv seriously to me. She said
Providence had given me beauty, and that J. was
wilfully abusing His gift. Nora is not so good
looking, they say, and I believe that is the thorn in
auntie's side. Oh, isn't it too funny ? as if that sort
of thing mattered at all."

I turned and looked at her. She spoke in an
entirely undisturbed and matter-of-fact wav about her
beauty, as if it were a mere episode in her career,
and the healthy contempt in lier last words en-
tirely reassured me. It was evident that something

KA THLEEN.

121

of the wideriess of her heritage liad tonclied the
girl's sonl, and lifted her above personal vanity of
every kind.

"Look, Miss Grainger ; there is Killoe I"

I started, and looked in tlie direction indicated.

First I saw a lonely sheet of water, growing
(Uirk with twilight shadow, set like a gem
among flat fields, which slightly undulated as they
rolled back to meet the horizon. Trees there were
none, save a few stragglers surrounding the old
mansion house and its out-buildings, which covered
no inconsiderable space. It looked so like a little
town that I could not forbear an expression of
surprise.

" Oh, that is Killoe village ; it is quite near—
horribly near, Aunt Gertrude says — and for some
things it would be better to have the cottages at the
other side of the lake, but it has its advantages too.
You will learn what they are after you have been a
few days here."

" The land seems of poor quality," I said, eyeing
dubiously the spare patchf^s of corn growing between
the dark stretches of the bog and the living green of
the pasture land.

" Oh yes, it is poor, and we have no money to feed

1 1

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

it. We have nothing good bat the pasture, and I
tliink I am making the very best of that. Just look
at that lovelv lij'lit on Killoe ; it is just striking;
mother's window. We do have sunsets at Killoe, if
nothing else."

We came presently to the place, and as we drovo
past the cottages I saw that Kathleen was the idol of
all wlio looked upon her face. The house itself was
approached by a carriage drive through a "^omewliat
tumble-down gateway. Before we reached the house
the members of the family had gathered on the steps
to give me a royal welcome.

It would take too long to describe the Moran
family — suffice to say it consisted of healthy, hap])y
boys and girls, who looked as if they enjoyed life to
the full.

Terence, the eldest, a handsome lad of sixteen,
came forward rather shyly, and took Mike by the
head.

" We're all here, Miss Grainger, except Nora :
aren't we a nice family ? " cried Kathleen gaily.
" Now let's go and see mother. She's not able to
come downstairs very much, and she is so anxious to
see you."

I followed Kathleen into the house. It was barelv

KA TULELN.

I'lirnisbed, but with a certain fitness which suggested
comfort and taste. Everything was ])hiin, ])ut scrn-
pidously clean. 1 foiuul Mrs. Moran on a sola in the
drawing-room, wliich, from its three long windows,
commanded an uninterrupted view for nniny miles.
She was a sweet, fragile, gentle creature, as great
!i contrast to her sister, Mrs. Tresidder, as could
well be imagined. It was most beautiful to see tlie
perfect understanding between her and Kathleen,
who hovered ovt" her in a protecting way, as if
iifraid the wind sliould blow too rudely upon her.
It happened later in the evening that I had an
o])portunity of talking alone with her, and, as was
to be expected, Kathleen was the burden of our
thoughts.

" I thought when my husband died, Miss Grainger,
that despair and darkness had overtaken my life.
You sent Kathleen home to me a capable woman,
able for any emergency. I cannot thank you — I will
not even try."

" But, Mrs. Moran, what has she done ? I want to
hoar that."

" When she came home, as you know, Mr.
Tresidder had strongly advocated selling Killoe,
and had even begun negotiations with a possible

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET (.RAlNGER.

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pun^ljaser. Katlileeii (juictly stepped in, and said
no.

"'Give me twelve months, Unele Jolin, and lend
me two liundred pounds, and if my experiment tails
I'll give in.'

" I think it was the audacity of her recpiest that
staggered him. Anyhow, he gave in without a
demur. He is a very generous-hearted man, thoui^h
he and my liusband did not get on very well together.
I was too weak, too glad to be allowed to remain in
my home. I scarcely asked a single (question, and
Kathleen, with only the boys to help her, began her
experiment."

" What was it ? "

" Well, it was manifold. The first thing she did
was to buy twelve cows — we had six already ; and she
got a lot of new butter-making api)liances from
Dublin and started a dairy. We needed no outside
help, for all the women were glad to work under lier
supervision. She went herself — v.'ould you believe it ?
— to Cork with a sample of her butter, and obtained
large orders. By keeping up the quality she kept up
her prices, and now the supply of Killoe butter does
not equal the demand. Then with the ready money
her sales gave her she bought some of the finest

itl'H!

KA rULELN.

breeds of poultry. Terry looks after that, and he
says we'll soon have a poultry farm. It is all done
economically, and the children are so interested ; you
have no idea how much. Each has his and her
department ; even little Eileen hunts for eggs that
are laid away."

"Dear Mrs. Moran, this is delightful to hear; and
what ahout the mortgages ? "

Mrs. Moran slightly shook her head.

" They are heavy, but Kathie aims even as high
as that. Very soon the boys will be able to earn
something, and our expenses will be lighter. Terry
will turn his attention to the betterment of the land ;
the place is his, of course, and I believe that brighter
davs are in store for us."

" Assuredly they are; meanwhile you are all happy
at home, and in this bracing spot the children are
laying the foundation of lifelong health. I would not
have missed seeing and hearing all this for worlds,
Mrs. Moran."

" Ah I Kathleen says she owes everything to you,
because you taught her that idleness is sinful, and
that it is possible to make the best even of circum-
stances that appear hopeless. Then the practical
lessons in housekeeping and dressmaking. There is

136

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

jlli

till

not hirij^ Kathleen docs not try, in order to kL'0|) down
('X[)on8cs. She is teai'hiii^ her sister Mary, and ))iiys
tweeds by the bale ; so our clothiiijtj costs lis very
little. vShe is a marvel, a perfect marvel, and so
sweet and jj^entle and loving. I often ask God what
1 have done that He has blessed me with such a
dauf^hter. She is givin<^ the children their lessons
now. Often she is tired at niglit, but slie says the
lessons do her good, and keep her from rusting. Is
she not a blessing to Killoe ? "

She came in at the moment, and my heart warmed
as I looked upon her sweet face. Lithe, strong,
sound of body and of heart, she made me thank God
as I looked at her for the destiny she had souglit.
1 thought of the bondage from which she had freed
herself — pictured that large, passionate soul bound
by the fetters of conventionality — and I said to myself
she had chosen the better part. We had a long talk
that night, and though I sometimes withheld praise
lest it should uplift too much, I gave it to my dear,
bright, noble girl without stint.

" Miss Grainger," she said hesitatingly, and with
u faint colour in her face, " you don't think what I am
doing is unwomanly. Aunt Tresidder says so, and
that no man will look at me. Not that I want uuv

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KA THLEEN.

127

man to look at me," she added whimsically, " though
two keep on asking me to marry them ; but I do not
want to be unwomanly."

"Banish that fear for ever from your mind, my
darling ; you are fulfilling the tine mission of woman-
hood, which is to help, to comfort, to sustain. You
have not only saved Killoe, and given rest and
happiness to your dear mother, but you have found
scope for the development of your best gifts. I have
never been so proud of Fleetwood as I am to-day,
because you are such a credit to it."

She was so happy, she told me, that she could not
sleep. Next day it was her pride and joy to take
me over the whole domain, to show me everything ;
and her absolute capability impressed me marvel-
lously. She was mistress of every detail, and her
organising power was not less marked than her
inventiveness.

I spent my whole summer at Killoe, never more
happily, more healthfully, more beneficially. Ay,
and many a happy summer since then, though my
dear girl has now gone from it to a home of her
own.

Her love story I have always thought one of the
sweetest in the world, and one day, if she gives me

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128

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

leave, I may tell it here, though it is ont of tlie
province of my experiences. Before I write again in
this magazine it will be my privilege to see her, so
it may be that when next we meet, Kathleen will
still be the burden of my pen.

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VI.

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

T AM sure you would like to hear Kathleen Moran*s
love story, and I am equally sure I like to tell it.
As I said before, I liave always thought it one of
the sweetest in the world. Within driving distance
of Killoe there is a little garrison town wliich is
quite gay in its own way, and provides amusement
for the young people of the country houses for miles
around. Some of the produce of Killoe found its way
to Burnevin, and speedily, on account of its prime
quality, became much in demand. Katlileen had
often to make little excursions into the town on such
business matters, and several times I went with her.
It was a quaint little place, not particularly beautiful,
since the surrounding country was flatly monotonous,
though green as grass in spring always ; the town
itself was uninteresting and dirty, and the great
barracks, the centre of its very existence, looked like

129 9

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

a convict prison. It had a dilapidated, weather-
beaten town liall in the middle of tlie market-pla(!(\
from the roof of which waved a rather bedrai'iiled
Union J nek.

" Don't look so scornfnlly at that imposing'
strnctnre," said Katlileen one day, as we drove past
it. " I assurer you it is a j)lace of great importance.
The county balls are held there, and many private
ones too, \vlicn peo})le liave no room or don't want to
disarrange their houses."

" Balls in Burnevin ? " I said dubiously, for the
place looked dead that briglit summer morning, the
very curs too idle to do anything but snore on
the sunny stones of the i)avements.

" Yes, balls ! " answered Kathleen severely ; " and
very good balls too ; grand people come to them. 1
only wish I had a chance."

" Have you never been asked ? " I in(j[uired.

" Oh, often, but there's a very good reason why I
shouldn't accept."

'• What is it ? " 1 inquired with interest. " Yon
look as if you could enjoy a dance."

" Shouldn't 1 ? I haven't had a dance, except in
the barn at Killoe, since the last Christmas at dear
Fleetwood," replied the girl ; and 1 saw from her

"> ■WiL \

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

face that, though she was doing more than a woman's
work in the world, lier heart had not grown cokl
to tlie fun and frolics of girlhood. And 1 was glad
of it. Yontli is too priceless a possession to let
slip from us liglitly or too soon. Middle life and
age come (piickly enough. Let our children be
cliildren while they may.

" But what is the reason that you cannot accept
the invitations ? " I asked curiously.

"No clothes," she replied lightly enough, but
immediately turned her head away, though not
( [Hackly enough to hide the big tear which dropped
from her briglit e3^e. That tear stabbed me to the
heart, if I can so speak of a tear. It was (piite a
minute before I could speak, and then it v/as of
something far remote from balls.

We arrived at the chief shop in the place just
then, and it was my business to mind the frisky
and knowing Mike while Kathleen went in to bargain
for her butter and eggs, obtaining for them the best
possible exchange. I could just see her from where
1 sat, and I noted two little wrinkles between her
Itrows as she talked to tlie sliopkeeper, and my
heart rebelled for her. There was somethinir in-
0( ngruous in the idea of that bright creatuve beir-^g

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132

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

com])elIe(l by the hardness of destiny to sell her
wares like any market-woman, thou<^li 1 have always
said that that experience was the very making of
the brilliant woman who is now one of the leaders

of society in ])nt I am anticipating. Well, her

marketing done, Kathleen came out, followed by the
shopman with the box of groceries, wliich was safely
stowed under the seat of the cart.

" He's an old skinflint, that Brannigan," she said
soberly, as she took Mike's reins from ray hands ;
" ftnd I should just like for once to box his ears. He
thinks because I am a girl he can bully me, but I'm
his match."

" You amuse me very much, Kathleen," I said
with a laugh.

'^ Do I ? I am very glad, I am sure, for I don't
feel much amused myself sometimes. I bear
Brannigan a grudge, because when I first began to
come to Burnevin he tried to rob me in two wavs—

4.'

by under-rating my goods and over-rating liis own.

I didn't know the value of things, and just paid

twice what I ouglit."

" But why do you keep on dealing with him ?"

" Why, because he is the cliief merchant, and

supplies the garrison. I'iTow they won't have any-

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

»33

thing but Killoe Imttor, jind I make him pay for it.
But let's forget Mr. Braiiuigaii. I have had enough
of him for one week."

"Tell me more about the balls hehl here, Kath-
leen," I said then.

Kathleen turned and looked at me witli a kind of
whimsical affection.

" You are so difterent here, Miss Grainger. One
can say just anything to you. And deep down you
are just a girl, and that is why we all feel so much
at home with you, and love you so much."

" Was I such a bugbear at Fleetwood ? " I asked,
more for the pleasure of hearing her contradiction
tha\i anything.

" You were perfect there too, keeping us in our
places and making us stand in awe of you, though
we were never afraid."

"I su})pose they don't have balls in summer?" 1
said, and Kathleen laughed at my persistence.

" Don't they ? You have never lived near a
garrison town. It's my belief the boys would dance
all night and every night if they got the chance.
They have too little to do. Why, there's one next
week, on Friday. Lady Fitzwiliiam wrote to mother
and offered to take me ; but of course we couldn't

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'34

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

fell her I luitl no clotlics, the prido of the Moraiis
not being- (piite extingnislied. Motlier was much
pleased at my being asked, and we tried to j)hiii
a new gown. But it was no good, for there are
thousands of other things we need, and I wasn't
going to })e selfish. AV\> did try to fake up mother's
wedding-gown, but I grew dismal over it and gave
up. You see, one isn't going to one's first ball a
guy, is one ? "

" No, certainly not ; next Friday, is it ? "

" Yes ; now are you quite satisfied that the
Burnevin balls really do take place ? "

" Quite," I said, rather absently, my mind full of
something else, not very remote, however, from the
Burnevin ball.

Kathleen was very busy after we returned
to Killoe, and I saw her no more till tea-time.
During the interval I had a little talk with Mrs.
Moran.

" Kathleen h.is been telling me about the Burnevin
ball next week. Don't you think she would rather
like to go ? "

" 1 don't think it, I know it, Miss Grainger,"
she replied with a sigh. " It is very hard for the
child, but not harder than all the rest ; only I don't

\k^

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

know when I felt so rebellions over onr poverty as
that day we decided it was impossible she conld

U"0

»)

" For want of a gown ; and yet I snppose Nora
has more gowns in London than she knows what
to do with."

" She has, bnt she will never wear them with
Kathleen's grace ; and my sister could give Kathleen
a new frock just as easily as she gives her goldfinch
a bit of sugar in the morning, only she has not quite
forgiven ht yet."

" Do you know Lady Fitzwilliam well, Mrs.
Moran ? " I asked then.

" Oh, very well ; she is my husband's cousin, and
a very nice woman. She does not live much in
Ireland, however ; it is too moist for her. She
only comes for a few weeks now. Next month she
will be off again. They have a lovely place at (Hil-
bragh."

" Then if Kathleen had a gown there would be no
difficulty about her being chapc^roued ? "

" Oh, none. Emily would never ask a ques-
tion. All 1 have to do is to write and sav we have
changed our minds, and that Kathleen would like
to go."

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»36

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

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" Very well, Kathleen slmll have her gowu. Have
von an old bodice that fits her well ? "

" Yes ; but, Miss Grainger, you must not.**

" I will. Kathleen shall have tliis little pleasure,
but a feiible return, after all, for your sweet kindness
to me. It will be doing me a kindness and giving
me unspeakable pleasure if you will let me se::;l
to Dublin for what Kathleen retjuires, and her
clever lingers will soon make any little alteration
necessary."

Mrs. Moran's face beamed, but her soft eyes filled
with tears.

" Since you put it so, dear Miss Grainger, I can
only accejjt. You will have your reward in the
happiness of the child."

I sat down and wrote my order to the Dublin
firm, and it was despatched at on" . I liad no
hesitation in deciding upon what Kathleen should
wear, and I was as impatient for the arrival of that
box as if I had been young and beautiful, and
going to my first ball myself. But never a word to
Kathleen. Ladv Fitzwilliam called another dav,
and I had the pleasure of meeting her, a sunny-
faced, pleasant woman, uniting all the grace and
style of a leader of society with tlie sweeter attributes

; h

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

«37

of a devoted wile and mother. She was rather
amused at the idea of all Kathh^en had done for
Ivilloe, but knew too little about the value of money,
or the lack of it. to aj)i)reeiate the girl's jjjood work.
She looked upon it ratlier as a hobby Kathleen had
taken to ride, as another girl might take to tennis
or boating.

"Take Katlileen to the ball? Delighted, I'm
sure ; Florrie and Ted will be charmed to hear it,"
she said gaily, when Mrs. Moraa somewhat nervously
asked her. " Tm glad she's been sensible over it.
She's a lovely girl, Anna, and ought really to be
seen. She had better come to Culbragh. I'll scud
for her on Thur. lay. Then she can atay over
Sunday with us. We give a little dance ourselves
on Saturday night, and though 1 say it, you will
not find a more desirable house party in Ireland
than we have at Culbragh at present."

" It will be a great treat for Kathleen, Lady
Fitz William," said Mrs. Moran, quite gratefully. It
did not occur to her, as it immediately occurred to
me, that with the exception of the cream silk gown
now being made in Sackville Street, Katlileen would
possess nothing fit for a house party at Culbragh.
Money, however, can do something even in a limited

■I-

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•3«

MEMORIES Of MaKCARET CRAINGER.

tiiue, und witlioiit savin;;- a word ('V(!ii fo Mrs. Morim,
1 wrote to Diililiii a<,^aiii. On Wcdiicsdav tlie Im».\
arrived. Katlilcen and I W(!r(! sitting on tlio lawn
wlicn tlio stilt ion curt caiiie up the avennt'.

" Now wliat can this be ? I don't expect anythin*,' ;
a hu<^e box from Didiliii. Not lor Killoe, Terrv, nir
boy, so you can trot it back."

'' It is ; it's all right ; it's mine, dear," I said
confusedly. " Let him take it in, and I'll tell yon
all about it."

Kathleen looked much mystified, but tlie box was
carried into tlie house and up to Mrs. Moran's little
sitting-room.

" I want you to stay and see this box opened,
Kathleen dear ; the things are for you," I said rather
desperately.

" For me I " she repeated helplessly.

" Yes, dear ; and if you please, not a single word,"
I said, and witli great haste began to unpack tlic
things. There was nothing very fine or extravagant,
but it was a pretty outfit, and I have often spent
fifty pounds with less return. Kathleen had all a
girl's natural and j)roper love for pretty things, and
her eyes shone as she lovingly fingered the soft,
spotless folds of her dainty ball gown, while her

THi: niilDk OF Kll.LOE.

mother wuxeil nipturoiis over the phiiiier i^anuents,
which miglif in the end j)rove more useful.

"All these for me?" stti«l Kathh-eii, in iin Jiwe-
strieken voice. " Talk of fairy godmothers ; there
never was one like mine."

She turned to me with a look of sober and (juiet
gladness on her faee, whieli repaid me n, tlionsand
times more riehlv than words could Inive done.

''From Thursday till Monday at Culhrsigh, and
all those pretty clothes. Mother, I wouldn't change
places with a queen."

It was right that she should rejoice over these
simple pleasures, the heritage of her youtli. The
time comes when it takes more than pretty clothes
or a dance to satisfv a woman's heart.

For the delectation of the younger mendjers of the
family, Kathleen arrayed herself that niglit in her
new gown, and came down to the shabby old drawing-
room, which even in its palmy days had never belield
a more radiant vision. I saw her mother give a
little start when she entered, and all of us were
surprised at the change. The children pranced round
her at a respectful distance, and little Eileen said she
looked like an angel. When I went up with her to take
it off' again, she turned to me with a sudden wistlnlness.

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140

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

" It makes a great difference, doesn't it ? I feel
a little afraid."

" Of your own fairness ? " I said jokingly. " You
are very beautiful, Kathleen, and it is quite right
that you should rejoice in it ; only when you are
among those who will constantly tell you what 1
have just told you, you will remember, dearest, that
there is no ornament more becoming to a woman than
a meek and quiet spirit. I should regret even this
little pleasure if it spoiled my bright, brave, un-
selfish girl."

" It will be a very different life at Culbragh," she
said in a iow voice, as she laid oft* the dainty skirt
on the bed. " If it made me dissatisfied with mv
hard \70Tk, I should not go, though I want to go so
dreadf'illy. Do you think it will ? "

" No, if you do not dwell on that side of the
question, dear. Just think of the comfort you have
been to others, how you have kept the family together,
and saved Killoe."

" I shall never love any place like Killoe," she
said, with a little tender smile. " And I don't
think you need be afraid that this is going to change

me.

Next day we all assembled to see Kathleen ride

THE PRiDE OF KILLOE.

141

away in the Culbragh carriage which had been sent
to fetch her. We were all in tears as she bade ns
good-bye, except Terry, whose face wore a look of
settled gloom.

" Cheer up, Terry ; it is only fonr days. Kathleen
will be back on Monday," I said cheerily,

'■'■ She may come back, but she'll be different. I
like her best in her old frock. You take my word for
it, she'll never be the same again."

Time proved poor sore-hearted Terry to be right.

On Saturday afternoon Lady Fitzwilliam called.

" I thought you'd like to know how the ball went
off, Anna," she said to Mrs. Moran as she kissed
her, *'and possibly to hear that Kathleen has set a
whole county on fire."

" How, Emily ? " inquired Mrs. Moran, with a faint
flush of pride and pleasure on her faded cheek.

" Don't pretend to misunderstand me, Anna," she
said gaily. " She is lovely, positively lovely, and
whoever chose her gown knew how to make the
best of every point. Florrie used to be rather
admired. She was totally eclipsed last night, and I
consider that it is very civil and magnanimous of me
to tell von so."

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

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" It is very kind of yon, I am sure," murmured
Mrs. Moraii, not sure whether her cousin were in jest
or earnest.

" Every])0(ly was asking who she was, and I
shone with (^uite a reflected glory. As for the
garrison "

Lady Fitzwilliam's eyes twinkled, and she gave
her hand a com^jrehensive wave. Then she turned
to me.

" Miss Grainger, Kathleen has told me of your
goodness to her. You would be repaid if you had
seen the child's delicious enjoyment of everything. It
infected us all ; slie is charming, lovely, distinguislied,
and we owe it to you that she has been discovered.
Now, Anna, what I really came about was to ask if
we might keep her another week."

" If she wants to stay — it is very kind of you— I
daresay we can manage, though Killoe is rather dull
witliout Kathleen."

" It will be duller by-raid-by, when she leaves
it altogether. You may face it, Anna ; you can't
keep Kathleen, nor is it desirable that you should.
She is made to shine, and she will have a brilliant
future."

"Who is staying at Culbragh?" Mrs. Moran asked.

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

»43

" We are about twenty, chiefly young people ;
that is why 1 want Kathleen to stay. They are
irre})roachable, 1 assure you, and we only send
jndic'ous invitations to Burnevin. You may trust
lier with me."

" Oh, I do, Emily. I hope you did not think
1 meant that."

" Come over to lunch on Monday at two o'clock
with Miss Grainger, and you will see for yourself.
I'll send a carriage for you ; so good-bye."

We were afraid to teli the children, and especially
Terry, that Kathleen's absence was to be so much
prolonged. On Monday, however, as we were pre-
])aring to go to Culbragh, the carriage arrived
!in hour earlier than we expected it, and it
brought Kathleen. She came bounding up the stairs
beaming, though there was a curious dimness in
her eyes.

" Why, my dear," I heard Mrs. Moran say, " what
does this mean ? "

" Why, that I've kept my promise. I said I would
come back on Monday, and here I am."

" But Lady Fitzwilliam came specially to ask that
you might stay another week."

' But she never consulted me," said Kathleen

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

calmly. " No, mother darling. I've eiijoyod it
awfully — 1 shall never forget it as long as I live —
but I've had as much as is good for me, and here I
am. Now where's my Terry ? I must see if he has
been conducting things properly in my absence. It'
not, woe betide him."

Before I had begun to undress that night Kathleen
came into my room. She was very tired, I could
see, having been all over the place with Terry as
particularly as if she had been away four years instead
of four days.

" It is nice to be home again," she said, with a
big sigh. " Are you very slei-jiy, dear Miss Graihger,
or can you let me sit a little beside you ? I am too
excited to sleep."

'^ I want you to sit ; I expected you," I replied, as
I threw on my dressing-gown and sat down in the
low rocker at the fire. I always had a little fire in
the evening, for we had a good deal of rain, and
Killoe was not exempt from the usual country-house
chills and draughts.

" Are you glad to get home agi«in, dear ; as glad
as we all are to see you ? "

" Yes, I'm glad ; and I don't know whether 1 am
glad or sorry that I went away."

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

She laid her head down on my knee, and 1 saw
that her cheek was rather pah\

" It gave me a glimpse of lite I have read of. I
shouldn't care for it ; it is better here."

" Why ? "

" It is so aimless — well, they have an aim certainly,
and that is to enjoy themselves as much as they can.
Lady Fitzwilliam is very nice and good too. I think
her life is not quite so empty ; but the girls, they
talk of nothing but clothes and lovers. Even Florrie,
though she is so sweet and amiable, thinks only of
making a good marriage."

" And the young men ? " I inquired with interest,
anxious to hear tliese fresh impressions of her new
experiences.

"Oh, they are insufferable — at least, some of them,"
she said hotly. Tlien suddenly she raised her head
and looked at me, and her colour had come back to
her face. " Miss Grainger, do you think it right
or necessary that if a man hap})ens to admire you
he should be always trying to impress you with the
iact? I think it hateful myself. I cannot suffer

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" I am sure I cannot say," I re])li('d vaguely,
though inwardly much amused,

146

MEMORIE::> OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

1' V

" It seems to me that j^irls have themselves to
blame for all th(5 silly stuff that is talked to them.
They like it ; tliey even seek it. I am afraid they —
the young men, I mean — thought me dreadfully rude,
but I had to shut them up somehow."

" At the ])all ? "

" Yes ; but for that it would have been perfect."

There wa?^ something, to me, inexpressibly touching
in this ingenuous confession ; it showed an absolut

purity of heart and 11 singular freedom from coquetry
or vanity, which impressed me deeply.

" Were they all so objectionable ? " I asked at
random, for the sake of something to say.

" I did not mean objectionable," she said (piickly.
" Only I thought them very silly. There was only
one man there I enjoyed talking to, and tliat was
why I came away."

I gave a little start. This was more serious than
I expected.

" Who was he ? "

'■ Mr. Dennis Mountjoy ; he was staying at
Culbragh," she replied quite soberly. '' He was very
kind to me, and we. talked a good deal to each other.
It was because of something Florrie said this morning
1 came away."

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

«47

I did not ask what it was, knowing she would tell
me if sho wished.

" Don't you tliink it horrid that a man and woman
can't be in the least friendly without having such
horrid tilings said to tln-m ? "

" Wliat did she say ? "

" Why, that he was making love to mo, and that
I ought to encourage him, as he is a great match.
His uncle is an earl and a lord lieutenant or some-
tliing, and tliey are very rich ; so I came away."

" Out of the way of tem})tation ? " I suggested,
with a little smile.

" No ; but because I felt so liorrid. It just spoilt
everything, and of course he is too great and grand
for a beggar-maid like me ; so here I am."

I saw tears on her cheek, and my heart was sore
for her, because I knew just as well as if she liad
told me that what is either the greatest joy or the
heaviest sorrow of a woman's life had come very
near to her, and that it had left its mark. For the
moment I, regretting the awakening, wished I had
been less generous. Before I could speak she jumped
up.

" Now I have confessed I feel better, and I'm going
to bed. Good-night, dear, dear Miss Grainger. I

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER,

shall thank God in my prayers to-night that I am
back in dear KiHoc."

Two days went by 'ineven'fnl?y, and we ai)j)eared
to have returned to on* ii'a'n happy routine. It was
natural, of course, thai ' Lij",u]d watch Kathleen
closely, and 1 did not fail to delec' in lier a certain
restlessness at times, an abstraction of manner, wliicii
convinced me that Killoe no longer occupied a fore-
most place in her heart. On the third day I was
convinced of it. I was on the lawn with my book-
after lunch, when, far down ^he flat, dusty road, 1
could discern the figure of a horseman approaching
Killoe. Mrs. Moran had gone for her afternoon nap.
Kathleen and Terry had driven in the cart to a
neighbouring farm about some calves. 1 had there-
fore to receive the visitor myself.

I had a very good opportunity of criticising his
personal appearance as he rode up the avenue, and
I admired him very much. He was not a lad, but a
man of eight-and-twenty or thirty ; and he had a
grave, handsome, high-bred face, with a sincere
frankness of expression which won my regard even
before he spoke. He rode a su])erb liorse, which he
perfectly controlled by tlie lightest touch.

" You are Miss Grainger," he said, raising his liat

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

149

jia I advanced to meet him. " My name iw Dennis
Mountjoy. I am staying at C.nlbragh at present.
Can I see Mrs. or Miss Moran ? "

" Both, I hope, ])resently. Mrs. Moran takes a nap
after luncheon, but I will send some one to tell her
you are here. Miss Moran luis gone out driving, but
will be back within an hour."

" Well, witli your kind ])ermission, I shall take
my horse to the stables and come back to you here."

" Very well," I said, and went indoors myself to
rouse Mrs. Moran, who nppeared so much mystified
by the arrival of «'.;oh a visitor that I guessed
Kathleen had not mentioned his name to her.

I had about fifteen minutes' talk with Dennis
Mountjoy on the lawn, and I felt more and more
drawn to him. I quite understood the attraction he
would have for a girl of Kathleen's temperament,
who beneath all her gaiety and fun had a passionate
regard for what was earnest and sincere — in a word,
for all that was good.

Mrs. Moran appeared a little fluttered when she
came out, looking very sweet and fragile, with a white
shawl round her, but Dennis Mountjoy's manner
speedily put her at her ease. We were talking as
happily together as old friends when the little cart

't, 1:, "

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

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(^ame rnmbliiig np the avennc with Terry and
Kathleen in it, and the sof'f, innocent face of a little
})rown calf lookin<i^ out between thera. That calf
relieved tlie awkwardness of the monient, hut I felt
sorry to see the colour flnsli so redly in my dear girl's
face ; she had not yet learned the art of concealing
her feelings, and I fear now she never will.

Tea was brouglit out to the lawn, and after it Terry
and Mr. Mountjoy, who seemed to find some affinity
one with the othei, went oft' on a tour of inspection of
the out-l)uildings and dairies.

" He'll tell everything," cried Kathleen in comical
dismay. " Terry's as guileless as a baby ; he'll tliink
nothing of telling him that I scald the milk-cans
myself, with an old dressing jacket and the sleeves
rolled np to the elbow."

" You are not ashamed of it, dear ?" 1 said quickly.

" Not a bit ; but think of the earl and the lord
lieutenant; what a shock it would be to him!" she
said in a stage whisper, and 1 breathed freely ; it
would have hurt and disappointed me, I think, had
Katiileen been ashamed of the good womanly work
she had so snccessfullv carried on. We went into
the house before tliev returned from the farm, and
somehow, after we were all in the old drawing-room,

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THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

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tlu; tulk became less iiriiiniited. I telt, though I
could not have told why, that Dennis Mountjoy had
corae on a serious and special errand, and 1 asked
Terry as naturally as possible to eoine downstairs
with me.

" He'll think it ([ueer us going off like that, won't
he ? " asked the lad. " Isn't he an awfully niee chap,
Miss Grainger ? No airs or stuck-up-ness, and lie's
an awful swell too. Fancy, more than forty horses
in the stables at Mountjoy now, and a stud farm in
Norfolk, in England, and isn't that a beauty he's
riding to-day ? "

" It is," I said rather absently, my thoughts being
upstairs.

" He asked an awful lot of (piestions, more about
what Kathleen has done than anything. He didn't
seem able to get over it all, and he always looked
rather odd. What can make him so interested in us
all of a sudden ? "

"Why, Terry, do j't you know?" I said impul-
sively. "He has conir to take Kathleen away."

The boy looked at me incredulously ; then, without
a moment's warning, burst into tears, and ran away
so last that I could not follow him. I let him go,
knowing he was best alone to tight out his first heart-

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

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break. >Stninj''e, is it not, liow tlio web is evenly
woven, joy and sorrow, smile and tear, in due course,
and never far apart ?

I was wandering about aimlessly on the lawn, when
I heard voices, and looking round, I saw Dennis
Mountjoy and Kathleen come out of the door together;
and I knew from their faces, his so grave and manly,
and yet passing tender, hers so shy and sweet, that
it was well with tliem, and that, please God, they
would so walk side by side to life's end.

They came to me, and said a great many things
which it is sweet for me to remember still, but which
I shall not here set down ; and when they left me
again, I looked up to the soft blue sky, and I thanked
God because though there is sorrow and tears, dis-
appointment and disaster in the world always, yet
love is left, and will be till the world is done. 1
be.uought me at last of the lonely mother thus
blessed in one sense, in anotlier bereft ; and I stole
up to find her on her knees in prayer, in the shabby
old room where ber children had so often played,
and where joy and care had been so strangely
intermingled.

" I cannot realise it. Miss Grainger. It seems but
yesterday she was a child, and now she is to be a

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THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

153

L;reat lady, an earl's wife one day, my little Kathleen,
tlie pride of Killoe," was all she said ; but we sat and
talked of it as if it had been a wonderful fairy tale till
darkness fell.

I did not see Kathleen alone that night, nor did she
come to my room. I understood her reticence, how
she felt that it was a thing apart, Ox fhich she could
not yet trust herself to speak. That she was happy
was written on her face, but it was a trembling,
uncertain kind of happiness, which could scarcely yot

trust itself.

Next day Lady Fitzwilliam came, full of excite-
ment, and for such a sweet woman a trifle unchari-
table, I thought, and hard.

" My dear Anna, of course it is an undreamed-of
match for Kathleen, but pray don't build yourself on
it too much. I know Lord Mountjoy very well, and
liis pride has passed into a proverb. It has always
been said that Dennis has remained a bachelor so long
because it was impossible to please his uncle. Ah,
Kere comes Kathleen."

Kathleen, not knowing Lady Fitzwilliam had

arrived, would have run off, but there was no escape.

" Come here, you naughty schemei What do you

deserve, do you think, for coming into my covert and

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«54

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

putting every nose out of joint ? Kutlileen Lady
Mountjoy, 1 forgive you, and congnitulate with all my
heart."

The banter was iiiudly meant, but it hurt Kathh'en,
I could see. Before any one "ould say another word,
there came a tremendous ])eal at the front-door bell,
and presently there was ushered into the room " Lord
Mountjoy." Lady Fitzwilliam did not know where to
look. Mrs. Moran, however, rose to the occasion,
and I admired the ease and grace with which she
moved forward to meet the haughty and rather grntf
old man who had come to see with his own eves what
manner of girl his nephew had chosen to bear the
name he lield in such esteem.

"Mrs. Moran?" he said interrO;.,>at'yelv, and
entirely ignoring the rest of us. ' Is this yonr
daugliter ? "

Mrs. Moran merely bowed, and took Kathleen by
the hand. The little scene had its pathetic side.
Hitherto Katlileen had cared for and shielded her
mother. The positions were now reversed. Mrs.
MosjiK t,)i>k lier proper place, as the })rotector of lier
chihl. And truly the old earl looked tierce and
forbiddif g • .I'jugh, witli hiS shock of white hair juhI
shuug} biows, to strike' awe anywhere, it was a

THE PRIDE OF KILLOE.

«55

sceae for a picture, aud for a moment there was
a strained silence. Tlien, as the old man's eves dwelt
on the sweet face of our dear girl, who stood by her
mother's side, modest and nuassnming, yet bearing
herself with a certain queenly pride, I saw them
soften.

" He has chosen well. Madam, so good a daughter
should make a good wife. I hope she will never
regret what she will give up when my boy brings her
to Mountjoy.'*

It was a courtly speech, gracefully made, ;Mid he
kissed Katlileen when he had finis jed. Then lie
rnrned to Ladv Fitzwilliam with a rather i -jnical
smile.

" How do you do? They have long been anxious to
provide a wife for the boy. I hope everybody will be
pleased."

For a wonder Lady Fitzwilliam had no retort ready.
After a little the earl unbent in (juite a wonderful
manner, and when he i)ointedly asked Kathleen to
show him the wonderful dairies which she, had managed
so successfully, I could have lauglnnl outright at the
ox])ression on Lady Fitzwilliam's face. The very
tiling she had volublv hinted at being an insuperable
harrier seemed to have won the old ii:eutleman's

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

special approval. Truly it is tlie unexpected tiuit
always bapi)eiis.

The old earl lias been dead these many years, and
his nephew reigns in his stead. And our litth'
Kathleen is a great lady now, moving among the
highest in the land, familiar with courts and palaces,
and beloved equally in all. For through it all she has
kept that sweet purity, that fresh, bright, ha])})y spirit
which creates sunshine everywhere. And she often
reminds me on the happy occasions when we still
meet that she strives to carry with her through life
certain words i sj^oke to her long ago in my bedroom
at Killoe. Not many days since, at^ 1 saw her fii a
tiara of diamonds on her dark hair, she turned to me
and spoke them with !> smile :

" There is no ornament more becoming to a woman
than a meek and (piiet sj)irit."

To think that in her brilliant life Kathleen should
remember ai'd fi^niofr on these words is to me a more
rich and preck<u» reward th"u 1 can here set down.

VII.

AUNT CAROLINE.

I HAVE had several Scotch pupils at, Fleetwood,
most of them interesting and attractive girls. But
the flower of mv Scotch flock was niidoubtedlv Flora
Maciireiror, the one dans^hter of a Scotch laird who
had his castle among the wilds of Inverness-shire.
I well remember that the commnnicntions regarding
the coming of Flora were all addressed to me by a
lady who signed herself Caroline Macgregor, and
whom I at iirst natarally thought to be lier motlier.
Slie wrote in an old-fashioned and formal style,
and I gathered from her letters that she had old-
fashioned and formal ideas about the up-bringing of
children.

She informed me that I had been recommended to
her l)y Lady Garthland, whose dauii^hters were sit

Fleetwood, and that from all she had heard she

157

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAIMGER.

believed I was a Hiiitable person to have the care
of young gentlewomen such as her niece Flora
Macgregor.

" I do not mnch approve of boarding schools,"
she w ■ jte in one of her lengthy epistles. " My
observation has convinced me that the young women
educated at them acquire but little knowledge
and a great deal of 'superficial nonsense. But as
it has become advisable that mv niece should leave
home for a time, her father — my brother — has
agreed that she shoidd be sent to Fleetwood for a

year.'

I took an unaccountable aversion to Miss Caroline
Macgregor tliivugh the perusal of her epistles, whicli
was certainly' unreasonable and absurd, as I hiid never
seen her. Afterwards, however, when 1 did see hor.
I had no reason to change my mind. My new pupil
came iSouth with the (Tarthland girls, in charge of
Sir Malcolm Garthland himself, who was going to
Constantinople on diplomatic business. I met the
party at King's Cross, and took them down to Fleet-
wood.

I found my new pupil rather older than 1 expected.
8he was sixteen, but beside the verv voutlifnl
Grartblands looked quite growr i^. I could not at

AUNT CAROLINE.

159

first mako np my mind wliothor to cull hor pretty
or not. Slio was tall, slonder, and rather dark,
with a lovoly clear, ruddy tint on her cheek, and her
eyes were as blue as the forget-me-not. They were
very lar«;e and questioning and serious, tliough when
her face lit up they slione like wells of water in the
sun. Her exjiression was rather sad, even hard in
repose. Slie did not look like the (Jarth lands, who
cjime from an exce])tionally happy liome, and who
(lung about their handsome father as if they would
never let him go. She was not well dressed, thousrh
her clothes were made of expensive material. The
hand of Miss Caroline Macgregor, spinster, was visible
in everything pertaining to Flora, her niece. 1 do
not set this down in malice, or with any intent to
impugn the good taste of spinsters in general. I am
one myself, and it has been my good fortune to
know many elegant and charming women who have
remained unmarried from ch')ice, but among these 1
do not number ('aroline Macgregor.

1 was very busy, of course, at the beginning of the
term, and tliinking my new pupil was all right with
the Garthlands, I paid but little heed to her. It was
euly after 1 had got everything into full working
order again that I had time to tarn myself, if I may

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

use that exj)ri'ssion, ami begin to tliiiik about ray
now j)U])il.s. There is generally a good deal of liomc-
sickness among tliein at first, fo which 1 am so
aceiistomed that, beyond speaking a cheering and
sympathetic word as opportunity oilers, 1 do not
mucli concern mvsell' with tlieiu.

I was sitting in my sanctum one afternoon, look-
ing comjjlaeently over my books, wliicli had never
been in a more satisfactory state, when, suddeidy
glancuig out of the window, I belield Flora Mae-
gregor sitting on a little rustic seat under a l)eeeh
tree. I was astonished to see her there, for that
little space cleared just beneath my windows,
and that })articular seat, were supposed to be
sacred to me, and nobody went there without my
express sanction or invitation. She was sitting (juite
still, with her hands on her lap and her hat lying
on the sward at her feet. She was looking straight
before her, and thougli the view was considered verv
fine in its way, exhibiting all the picturesque features
of a truly English landscape, 1 saw that she was
totally unconscious of it. I have never seen in a
human face a look of such intense and sorrowful
yearning, and it smote m(» to the heart. 1 rose np
hastily, opened the French window, and stepped

AUNT C A KG LINE,

l6i

ont, stii,rtlin<^' hor witli iriy foot on the i^nivel bolow
th(3 window. I was at Iht side Ixd'on; slic could
rise.

"Sit down, dear cliild," I said, as kindly as I knew
bow ; lor J fVlt that I l)<id not done nil mv dntv 1)V
her. " I have heeu wjitchiiiLT yon from the window.
2sow tell me what makes you look' so sorrowful. 1
do not like anybody to look so at Fleetwood. 1 hope
you are not nnhaj)i)y here."

"Oh no," she said faintly. "Everybody is very
kind. 1 like it much better than 1 exjxcled."

" Why come liere by yourself, and sit so broodingly?
It is not like a youn<»- girl. Will you not tell me,
my dear, of what you are thinking ? "

I laid my hand on hers, and she turned to me,
looking intently into my face. What she read there
1 know not, but suddenly a sob, which seemed to
come from the deep recesses of her heart, parted
her lips, and she began to tremble from head to
foot. 1 saw that sue was trying to control her-
self, which she ])resently did, and looked at me rather
timidly.

" You are home-sick, my dear," I said cheerfully.
"1 understand it all very well, but in a few
weeks you will feel better. 1 have even had

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MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRALSGER.

pupils who were iKunc-sick for Fleetwood after they
left it."

Slie smiled, and tlie cliaii^'e that passing smile
made on her face reminded me of the snn i^leamin*:
suddenly on some dark mountain lake.

"The (iarthlands are like thaf. They wen^ always
talkinn; about Fleetwood. It isn't that," siie said
frnnklv, evidently feelin*:; at home with me. "It
is that 1 have luid no letter from ])aj)a since 1
came."

"But your aunt has written, has she not?"

The lip curled a little, and the smile died out of
her face.

"Yes, Aunt (-aroline writes every week, but I
cannot read her letters ; thev are so like her. I
would give them all for a line from ])apa, and 1 know
she is ke('j)ing him from writing. I felt that she
would."

1 looked at her in astonishment.

" My dear, that is a very strange thing to say.
Why should your aunt keej) him from writiiig ?
Probably he is too busy. (Jcntlemen generally arc
too busy to write any bnt business letters.

She smiled a little incredulously.

" Papa is not very busy ; he is only partridge

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AUNT CAROLINE.

163

shooting jiisf now. I was thinking of it ])efore you
came. I used to go witli him on the moors hefore
Aunt Caroline came. She said it was not ladvlike,
and mack; pajia bid me stop at home. Mamma did
not think it nnhidylike, and she knew a great deal
better."

I sat silent a moment, feeling rather perplexed. J
knew nothing at all of the history of the Macgregors
bnt 1 saw tliat I was face to face with one of those
painful family matters which are so difficult to deal
with.

" How long is it since your mother left
vou ? "

" Two years— it is like two hundred ; and 1
am (piite sure she would be living now bnt
for Aunt Caroline. 1 liave told her so, and papa
too; it was for saying that that 1 was sent to
school."

I did not know whetlier to ask any more questions,
I'Ut thought it better not. 1 couhl only hear one side
fnnu Flora, and the young do not always see clearly ;
at least, they are inclined to judge jiastily and harshly
through lack of experience. I tried to interest her
in other things, but always her talk drifted back to
her home, and i saw that the child's heart was fain

i ; ■

Iff]"

164

^f EMORIES OF AU RCA RET GRAL\GER.

for her own country. I tried not to think harshly of
Caroline Muei^rej^mr, who no doubt acted according to
her lip:lit, and had tlx' cliild's interests at heart ; but
somehow my symituthies refused to keep company
with my better judgment. They were entirely on
Flora's side.

I watdied her pretty closely during the next few
days, and though to j)lejise me slie tried to apply
herself cheerfully to her tasks, the questioning
wistful h)ok did not leave her eyes. I then took it
upon myself to write a few lines to her father. Some
(lavs afterwards I received a letter from ]Miss !\l}ic-
gregor, whicli rather astonished me. She began it
(piite abru])tly :

" The letter von addressed to mv brother came all
right to Drum, but 1 have not given it to him. 1 am
sorry to hear that Flora is so stupidly fretting,
though it does not greatly surprise me. As to her
father writing, it was agreed before she left home that
he should not write. The effect of his letters would
simply be to unsettle the child still more. You may
consider this rather hard, but 1 would beg to remind
you that you are not competent to judge, and tl1.1t
whatever Flora may have told you, the story lias
another side. She is at that age when strict dis-

AUNT CAROUNE.

165

cipliiie is <!:ouemlly nect'ssary, in her case* absolutely
so, lier (lisj)osition and clmractcr \)o\\\^ more tryin<(
tliiiii is common. 1 trnst mv tVienil LjkIv (larthland
has not been mistaken in her reeomineiidation, and
I must be«i: of yon to attend to my wislies in this
matter, and not eneonr5i.i!:e Flora in lier heailstron^
and rebellions disjjosition. She has the misfortune
to be an only ehihl, and her mother was sinfully
indulgent to her. 1 have written thus frankly to
you, a stranjijer, because 1 would wish to guide
vou somewhat in vour dealing with mv niece, of
whom I hoj)e to hear better accounts at no distant
date."

I have seldom received what the Scotch call such a
good " dov.'n-setting," and 1 will not deny that I did
not much like it. 1 said notliing, however, to Flora,
and some little time afterwards I received some
further lij'ht on the matter from dear Ladv Garth-
land, who, j)assing through London to join tier
liusband in Turkey, came down to see her girls. 8he
was a very sweet and gra.^ious j)erson, who created
an atmosphere of cheerfulness and grace wlierever
her lot was cast. 1 did not feel tliat she would
misunderstand or resent my asking cautiously,
wluit sort of a person was Miss ('aroline Macgregor,

1 66

MEMOKIES OF MARGARET GRAINdER.

!ii!

of Drum. She shook her head hh Hhc listened t<»
my (luestion.

" Caroliiu^ Mii('«ri'<',i,^»r is a very struiii,^' woniuii.
Miss Grainger, and she ought never to iiave hecii
taken back to Diuni."

"Did she live there hetbre, th(!n ? lias it not
alwavs been her home ? "

"No; she kept house for Mah'olm Maegtegor
before his marriage, winch sue bitterly resented. It
was quite a romantic story. Macgregor met liis wife
abroad, at Nice, 1 believe, wliere she was acting as
companion to an English lady. She was the daughter
of a clergyman, a native of the Cliannel Islands, and
there was a good deal of French blood in her veins.
A sweet creature, she was lacking j)erhaps in any
very strong (piality, but there is no doul)t that she
made Macgregor hu}>j>y, and thai he has been a
changed man since her deatli."

" His sister did not much approve of his wife,
then ? " I suggested.

"No, she took the most unaccountable dislike
to her from the first, and was at no pains to conceul
it. She resented the marriage, to begin with,
because it dethroned her from her ])osition as
mistress of Drum. Macgregor made the mistake

AU.\'l CAROLINE.

Ib^i

\'\

of thiiikiii*? it possible they iiii<,'lit all live together
iiiid \)v hiippy -a risky expcrinioiit at all times,
hut in this case simple lunacy, nothing less."

^' Was it tried ? "

'* It was ; and lor two years poor Mrs. Maegregor
surtered it. Before Flora was horn she got into
such a poor state of health that the doctors feared
she would never rei'.over. They could not under-
stand her listlessness and apathy. She seemed
to have no desire to live. It was I — and a bold
woman I was to do it — who suggested to them
tliat the cause was to be found in the person of
Caroline Macgregor."

*' And what came of it ? " I asked, with intense
interest.

"Oh, it took a good while to convince Macgregor,
for he is rather fond of his sister, and j)roud of her
too. Siie is considered one of the handsomest
women m the North, and men do not see things
so quickly as we do. lie is a great s])ortsman,
and sj)ends little of his time in the bouse. Naturally
he wants that time to be peaceful and hai)py, and
I must say he deserves it, for he is as good-hearted
a mnn as ever breathed."

" And did he send her away ? *'

i: 'lt-;.t'

1 1-

1 68

MEMORIES OF M.hRGARET GRAINGER.

ii.,.a i\

H.i

'* Well, yes ; Imt not I'ar enonj^'h. Thcro is a
little (lower-liouse in the grounds, not a iiiile tVum
Drum, and to it, after weveml stormy scenes. .s|ie
retired. Bnt it was a mere farce, for slie was
never out of Drnm. She told me lierself tliat her
presence was absolutely necessary there, for Mrs.
Maegregor knew notliing of the conduct of a hiri^^e
establishment, and was totally at the mercy of her
servants.

" I told her that was Macgregor*8 own out' k
now t she did not see it; and it's mv o' •''
that .ihe worried the poor thing into her grave. Of
course, when she died, Miss Macgregor shut up
the dower-house and took up her old place in
Drum, and now the warfare is about to begin, only
it will be active hostilitv this time, for Flora lias
a good bit of her father's nature in her, and will
stand up for her own. I must say I foresee nothing
but troublous times for Drum."

" Has Miss Macgregor no means of her own ? "

" Means, my dear — more than she will ever sj)end
in this world. But she wants to live at Drum, and
at Drum she will live in peace or war."

" Um ! I think Mr. Macgregor owes a duty to
his daughter first, don't you, Lady Garthland ? "

AlWT CAROLINE.

169

" Indci'd I do. My husband is fnrions over if.
Caroline Muc^roi^or is a woman he cannot statul.
But we mnst allow them to Hi^^ht tlicir own battles,
havin^^ enou«^li to do with our own. How do you
find Flora? Not the rel»el her aunt paints her."

" She has been most exemj)hiry so far, and her
disposition is very lovable."

" So we think," said Ladv Garthhind with a
sigh. " Come up to Garth next July, and then
you can see for yourself. If Sir Malcolm and I
are not at home, Sybil will be delighted to do the
honours."

I had not heard a story so interesting to me for
a long time, and 1 ])ondered much and often on
what was likelv to be the outcome of it all.

I had Flora Macgregor at Fleetwood the whole
year. At Easter she and I had a little trip together
to the (Channel Islands, which were hallowed to the
child as the birthplace of her mother. During that
brief holiday I had the fullest opportunity of studying
her character, and I grew to love her very dearly.
She had a fine, sensitive, highly strung nature,
generous to a fault ; her temper was quick and

17"

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

|mHsioiuit<', but not sullen or resentful ; for hasty
word or action slie was quick to ajjoloji^isc and
anxious to atone. Witli careful guidance and
loving syin|»atliy slie would devidop into a splendid
woman, but I trenilded to think what might be tlu'
conse(|Uences were she left to the tender mercies of
her Aunt ('aroline. 1 dreaded her return to Drum,
though there was a visible brightening of her whole
appearance as breaking-up day approached. She
travelled as she had come, with the Garthlands, and
I was to follow later on, when I had paid my usual
midsummer visit to Judith Sale. I arrived at (iarth
on the ninth of August, in the full tide of i)reparation

for the twelfth. Sir Malcolm and Lady (jarthland
had arrived, and the house was full. 1 was exceed-
ingly anxious, of course, to see Flora ; they told me
Drum was within driving distance of 'Gartli, and that
we should go one day ; but there never seemed time
to make the excursion. Shall I ever forget those
golden days among the heather, revelation of a life
of which I had never dreamed ? It was a hai)py
home, full of mirth and jollity from morn till
night, yet not wholly given up, like some, to selfish
enjoyment. There was still some sympathy, some
practical and kindly thought for the suffering and

AUNT CAKULLSE.

•7«

tin* iicpilv, and miiiiv lieurts liIrsNcd tlie iiuiue of
(uirtlilaiul.

One wet (lay there came driving' up to (Jurtli, about
liiiich-tiiiie, a smart <l(»<;i;art, in wliieli sat two figures
encased in waterproof's, with lii«j:h-pe)ilied lioods
drawn over their liead-j^ear, and the rain dripj)in«(
\){\ them everywhere, A few venturesome spirits
were on the moors, but tl»e house wais more tium
usually lively, and the arrival of the new-comers was
hailed with delight. It was Macgregor of Drum
und his daugliter Flora, looking rosy and lovely
after a sixteen-mile drive tlirougii the iiills in blind-
ing rain.

She ran to me before any of the others, clinging
to me with an affection not simulated or affected,
but real and very j)recious to me. 1 saw Mr.
Macgregor regarding her with evident surprise on
his dark, handsome face. He was a great giant of
a man, well and powerfully built, and the kilt he
wore seemed to make him lo<»k even taller and
more striking. He ai)peared to me at first sight a
rather awe-insi)iring figure, but there was a softness
in his eye, a mobile curve about the mouth which
indicated the gentler side of the rugged northern
character.

mM '^^*

nHE''

•72

MEMORIES OF MARGARET CRAISGER.

'lliJ't

"She would ^fivc me no ]»cu(e till I Itnni^Hif lior,
MisH Grainj^er," he Kuid, >is he ^uvc me a ^jn-jit
graHp of tlic hand. "How do yon (h), iiiu'am ? I
am d(di«.cht('d to mak(> your a('<{uaiiitaiH-(>, and oiir
errand to-day is to see when we can bid you wehonu*
to Drum."

" We have been talking of it every day," I n'plied.
" 1 can come, I suppose, whenever it in convenient
for you."

" Well, suppose we stay till it fairs, if Ljidy
Garth land has no objection, and you can ^et your
gear together and go back with us ; would that
do?"

'* I thonght only of coming to spend the day."

" Ob, nonsense ; we don't have folk spending the
day at Drum. We must have a week of vou at
least, tliough I question if even that will satisfy tlie
bairn." So the matter was settled, and after tea
that very day we dej)arted, I being very reluctantly
spared from Garth.

The rain had cleared, and a roval sunset blazod
all down the sky as we drove into the Drummairn
valley, at the head of which stood the mansion-housu
of Drum. I had thonght the rounded heather-clad
hills, and the thick birch woods surrounding Garth

AUNT r.\ HOUSE.

\TS

srrnnry beyond comjiun', ])nt now I wrh introdnrcd
to Hometliin^ «:nuHlcr and iiion' HW(vins|»irin»:.
Indfctl, it 8o ni(»v«*(l me that 1 couM not spcnk.
The valley was lon^ and narrow, and watered hy »
wide brawliii",^ stream, from wliosc hnnks the
mountains rose sheer up bare at tlieir erests, but
;;lowing purple where tiie lieatlier grew. Tiie solemn
jieaks seemed t<> toueh th<^ sky, washed eleun by
the rain, and now shining ujhju us radiantly. As
we neared the h« ad of tlie glen it widened eon-
s'derably, and became densely wooded — tin* be-
giiuiing, 1 was told, of the famous deer forest of
Drum.

The house itself, not unlike a royal n'sidence, came
njjon us quite suddenly through a gap in \\w. trees.
I thought it then, and 1 think it still, one of the
loveliest and most sublime spots I have ever seen.
Its loneness, standing there in the unutterable
solitude of these grand mountains, tliese solemn
woods, a]>pealed so strongly to me that, I felt
my pulses thrilling with a kind of subdued excite-
ment.

As was natural, I thought much of Miss C^aroline
Macgregor as we drove, anticij)ating my meeting
witii her with the liveliest curiosity, uot unmixed

i^
.i>:

(;!i

\ .'i

IL t-

'>!

'74

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

with a oortnin amount of trejiidation. I had no fauh,
however, to find with her greeting. Her manners
were those of a gentlewoman of the old school, stitl',
I¥;lished, but scrupulously courteous. She was one
of th'j handsomest women I have ever seen ; but
her flashing eye was cold and critical in its glance,
and her very smile seemed to have a chilling etFect.
That first evening I saw that there was only between
aunt and niece a kind of armed neutrality. Miss
Macgregor caught at everytliing Flora said, reproving
her sharj>ly more than once when there was no
occasion for it. In Flora's demeanour to her aunt
defiance and dislike were distinctly observable, Al-
together the domestic atmosphere was far from being
serene.

Flora was summarily dimissed to bed at nine
o'clock, and I saw that slie went in a very rebellious
aood. When we were left alone, Miss Macgregor
turned to me with her faint, chilling smile, whicli
always struck me as being more disagreeable than »
frown.

" You see how perverse the child is, how very
rude to me, Miss (Grainger," she said pointedly. " I
regret very much that her year at Fleetwood has
wrought Hit little im})rovement."

^P^^PXV^V^HPI^^

AUNT CAROLINE.

175

There was no sort of ambij'uitv abont Miss
Macgrngor's remarks, and 1 felt jnstified in answer-
ing witli eqnal candour.

" I can only say that 1 found her docile, obedient,
most exemjdary in every way, aijd she was a universal
favourite."

Miss Macgregor raade her mouth very long and
thin, and she ktiit lier brows over a piece of fine
knitting with which her industrious fingers were
occupied.

" That is very extrao'dinary," she replied coolly.
" But there are people, I believe, who keep their best
manners for strangers.""

I made no reply. Tlie injustice of her attitude
towards the child, her stolid complacency and belief
in her own perfection, raised within my usually mild
bosom quite a little storm of indignation. I have
never felt such an antipathy towards any human
l)eing as I did at that moment towards Miss Caroline
Macgregor.

" I am willing to make every allowance for her,"
she began, after a moment, but the metallic tones of
lier voice belied her more gracious words. " The
taint was in the blood to begin with, and it is
impossible to quite overcome that."

176

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

"What tjiiut?" 1 iiskc'd flatly.

She siisjK'iKk'd lier kiiittiii;ijj a moment, and regarded
me in snrj)rise.

" Did you not know that her mother was partly
French ? "

It would be iniTiossible for me to convev to von
the imnieasurnhle contcnijit and condemnation ex-
I)ressed in tliose words.

" Yes, and I liave iieurd that she was a very
sweet and cliarminu" woman.'*

'' AVlio was your authority ?"

"Ladv (iarthlaud."

"Oh, Graee Garthland ! — a sweet smile and a
gracious word are enough for lier. She has no dis-
crimination of character."

1 felt tliat it was time to change the subject, which
I did with speed ; Imt I could not sleep that night,
and the i'uture of Drum lay heavy on my soul. Next
morning Mr. Macgregor asked me to drive with him
to the little town, and though Flora begged to come,
he left her at nome. 1 was not surprised when he
began to s}»eak of her before we were well away from
the house.

" Things are not well in Drum, Miss Grainger," he
said, in his honest, blunt way. "1 hear from Lady

AUNT CAROLINE.

177

Gnrthlaiid and otlior folk tliiit yonr jndfxmont ia very
sonnd — and I like yonr face. What am I to do
l)et ween the hissic and her annt, ? "

As I looked at liini my lieart warmed to him. Pie
was so bisr, and honest, and sincere, hnt as unfit as
a l)a1)y to cope with tlie strong wills of the women
of his house. He threw a very grave responsibility
on me, and 1 did not so readily res])on(l to it, I
sni)j)<)se, as lie expected, for after a few minutes'
silence he turned to me with a disai)pointed, anxious
air.

"Can't you say something. Miss Grainger? Do
you not see tliere is not likely to be peace in Drum
between the two ? "

" I see that quite plainly. Before I say what I
think, Mr. Macgregor, will you toll me (piite frankly :
can your sister afford to live away from Drum ? Has
she any means ? ''

Macgregor gave a little laugh.

"Yes, indeed she can. Her tocher was fifteen
thousand pounds, and she has never taken a husband
to spend it for her. It's twentv bv now or more, and
she has some houses as well."

" Then there is only one course open to you, and
you must take it. Tell her that as there is no

I '

i !

178

MEMORIES OF MAKGARET GRAINGER.

prospect of them gettiii*^ on togotlior, Flora must
now take her place as mistress of Drum."

He turned to me with a great light on his holiest
face.

" That's the matter in a nutshell. You wonM
really advise me to do that ? (iod hless you, Miss
Grainger. I'll do it. Yes, I'll do it this very day."
And he did.

At dinner that evening there was some talk of our
driving to tlie moors to join the gentlemen's lunch— a
harmless little diversion, of which the ladies availed
themselves every day at Garth. And very jolly
parties these moor luncheons were. But Miss
Macgregor said no.

" You have more need to stoj) at liome. Flora, and
learn to mend your manners ; you are too young to Ite
lunching with the gentlemen ; you are ])ert enough,
in all conscience, without that."

I do not know what came over the woman to speak
out so boldly before Macgregor about his own bairn.
Flora bnrst into tears. Fortunately we were at
dessert, and could therefore leave the room. I saw
that Macgregor's face was very dark as he rose from
the table.

" Stay here a minute, Caroline," he said. " I have

AUi\'I C A ROLLS E.

179

i^omethin*,^ to siiy to you. And you, 31iss (iniiiigcr.
1 wish you to hear wlijit I have to sjiy. 1 see,
Caroline, tliat FJor.i and you will never get on, and
that there never will ])e any peace in tliis house.
Teace I must have ; Flora is seventeen, and ought
to be able to see to things. It will be better ior
you to go eitlier to Fortmaree or Fort Augustus
to live, and that speedily. Fm sick of this, and it
cannot be the l)airn's fault alwavs."

She looked at him incredulously a moment, with
her faint, cold smile.

" Ye are doited, Macgregor. How could a bairn
like Flora see after Drum ? Ye muy be grateful
to me that I do not take vou at vour word."

"You must take me at my word. I mean it.
It may be not your fault that you have not a kindly
way with bairns. You are cowing all tlie ;sj)irit
out of Flora, and I'm not fit to see it. So let there
he no more of it. It can be no hardship to you
to go to your own house. You luive often cast up
to me that you stop here as a sacrifice to oblige
me, an obligement I have never wanted."

I saw Miss Caroline's anger gradually rising, and
when she spoke it was to cast a slight on Flora's
mother, wliich was more than Macgregor could stand,

i8o

MEMORIES OF MAFiGARET GRAINGER.

So tlio storm rose and raucil, tlie ficrct; Hi^'liland
toniju'r of cjich Icsipiujir beyond bounds, and almost
tc»rrifyin«r nic. 1 havo never seen two [ktsohs calling
themselves Cliristians or «^entlelblks condnctinu; them-
selves in sueli an extraordinarv manner ; mueli less
brother and sister, who ought to have been forbearing
with each otiier.

In the middle of it I esca})ed, for ('aroline jMac-
gregiM" did not s])are me, railing me a sj)y and an
instigator of evil, a destroyer of family j)eace. But
words spoken in sueh fearful passion are not to
be considered, and need not much vex anybody's
soul, except that of the unfortunate person who utters
them.

J^ext day, in high dudgeon, Miss Macgregor
dei)arted witli all her gear to her own house of
Portmaree, which I was happy to hear was five-and-
thirtv miles distant from Drum. And from that dav
to this she has never crossed the threshold of her
brother's door. I will not sav that the new reign
under the untried sceptre of Flora \vas a success
just at first. She made many mistakes, and Miss
Caroline's competent management was missed. But
all these minor trials were am])lv atoned for bv
the peace which from that day took up its q-bode

AUNT CAROLINE.

iSi

in Drum, nevor more to leave it. It seemed to me
that Muc<,'reg()r hccame a yomiger man every day,
!ind his Itairn was all in all to him. She was always
with him in sjtort and at work, and 1 must say
that although she was so much in comjjany with
gentlemen, I never could see that the girl's sweet,
wholesome nature suffered bv it. Everybody loved
her, and spoke her name with resj)ect and esteem.
Macgregor has nlvvays said he owed the happiness
of his later life entirely to me.

W:K>¥

[- 1

Tl: i^*':

"vW

VUJ.

THE MITE.

T FIRST saw the Mite when she was thirteen. Her
-^ name was Ajjatha Westcott. She was brought to
Fleetwood one day, shortly after a term opened, by a
middle-aged gentleman, on whose card was written
the name, John Westcott, Westcott Manor, near
Birmingham. When I saw the two in my little
recej)tion-room, I came to tlie conclnsion tluit they
were father and daughter ; but I at once learned tliat
thev were onlv uncle and niece.

" Good afternoon. Miss Grainger,' said Mr. West-
cott, bluntly yet pleasantly ; " this is my niece,
Agatha, ('an von take her in ? "

" Yes," I replied, " I can. How are you, Agatha ?
Am I such an ogre that you won't look at me ? "

The child smiled a kind of elfisii smile, knit her

brows, and shrugged her shoulders, but she took no

182

THE MITE.

•83

other notice of my outstretched hand. She was an
undersized girl, stunted in growth ; hut the thin
l)rown face was lull of })o\ver, h(!r line dark eyes
»rlowed with spirit and intelligence. She was not
attractive, yet interesting in tin? extreme.

" Agatlia is rather odd," ohscrvcMl Mr. Westcott —
indulgently, I thought, for a man who had such a
stern cast of fac(\ '' Perhaps she could go out into
the garden for a little."

" While you talk about me, Unch' John," observed
the Mite calmly. '' No, I thank you ; I prefer to
remain here."

Mr. Westcott smiled again, this time rather ai)olo-
getically, and looked at me. 1 opened the French
window, and pointed to the gnmp of girls swinging
under the trees.

" Wouldn't you like to join them ? " I suggested.

" Not I. I hate girls ; they're so fearfully slow,"
she replied promptly. " 1 wanted Uncle John to
send me to a mixed school, wiiere there are bova.
He savs he never heard of such a thing, and I want
to know why somebody doesn't catcli on to the idea.
Vou do I you'd get a lot more girls to your place.
Say, won't you ? "

I was very much amused, and sur])rised as well.

I 1

;«• <i

II^H

1
A

*T9 H> >«^^H|

lHBft|||k|^|^a^^i^

It4

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GR.tl^r.ER.

"A^utha is a little odd," repeated Mr. Westcott,
a trifle helplessly. *' Ah, yes, that is better."

I beckoned one of ray girls, and, as it happened, it
was Kathleen Moran who came.

*' Take Agatlia with you lor a little, Kathiciui.
She may be a new companion. Come back to ns in
about half an hour."

I saw that Katiileen was amused by the child's
appearance, and she it was, indeed, who christened
her "the Mite," a name which remained with her in
certain quarters for many a day.

Agatha did not demur, though slie looked rather
defiantly at Kathleen. But sometliing in my dear
girl's bright, sweet face seemed to attract her, and
they trotted away together.

'* Yes, Miss Grainger, Agatha is a very queer
child," observed Mr. Westcott.

"Your niece, Mr. Westcott — your brother's cliild?"

" Yes, my only brother. There are two children
— a boy and a girl. 1 don't know whicli is the
queerer, nor do I know what I am going to do with
them."

" You are not married yourself ? "

" No, or the difficulty might have been disposed of.
1 am a bachelor ; but I must do my duty by these

Tllh. MITE.

tss

cliililreii. The bov lltTiimn is at Clifton, anci von
will take cai't^ of Airiitlia for a year or two. I bhall
have time to tiiink wiiat is to bo done."

" Arc they orphuns ? "

" Yen ; ray brother was a rausieian— a professional
ninsician, 1 mean. lie left a comfortable and luxur-
ions home at an early age to ]»nrsne that preearions
calling. He had a hankering after a Bohemian life.
Onr father was an ironmaster, and he never forgave
Charlie, thongh he allowed him a yearly income till
his death. Our home was in the Midlands, near
Birmingham. Charlie never came back to it after
he left. He married a ladv who had been on the
staj'e, 1 believe — a very clever, and, 1 hear, a good
woman. I never saw her. It is hardly to be ex-
])ected, perhaps, that the children should be — well,
like other children."

'' There is a great deal in Agatha's face. She is a
clever child."

" I should think sbe is ; she is too smart and
clever by half. I assure you, her tongue is like a
razor. If you can do anything to make her — well,
more like other girls, I shall be very grateful. 1 am,
comparatively speaking, a rich man, and 1 don't mind
what I pay."

r 1

186

Ml..\t(il<IES OF MAKC.AUEl (.liAlNHER.

!. ■<:

:it:

! 1^

ii ,1

"Who nToiiiinciidtMl me to yoti ? '' I aski'd.

" VisitouiitesH RayiK'. She lias a plurc not fur
from UK," said Mr. WcHtrott ; ami J ol)stMv<M| a v<'rv
curious change iu his cxpreHsiou, which I oulv
und(;rst()o(l a i;ousi(h'ral)h' time after, though 1 often
tliouglit of it. I liked tlie inau exceedingly. He
was frank, honest, and true hearted, a litth' bhnit
of manuer and of speech, and [K^rlnips of disposition
a little Htern, but a good man, I thought then, and
1 never had any reason to change my mind. He
took the Mite awav that dav, and she returned a
week later, in a slightly rebellious mood, to Fleet-
wood.

" How prim you look I " she said to me tpiitt?
Hatly, as 1 met her at the door. " Are you going
to cut and carve me into that ? Is that what Uncle
Westcott wants ? It can't be done."

" Would you wish to ;^;T0w up into a rude-spoken
young woman, whose actpiaintance uo one woukl
seek, Agatha?" I asked pleasnntly.

" Oh, 1 shouldn't mind. There are phnity of jolly
])eopUi in the world who <lon't care anything about
prunes and ])risms. Did Uncle Westcott say how
long I was to stop here ?

" No."

»»

THE MITE.

187

"Well, if I (lori'f like it or if yon jnm mo \\\\ too
niiicli I'll init Hiid mil," oliscrved this precocious
creature calnilv. " Uncle Wi'stcott's u iollv rich mun,
hut. he's never seen life. Yon slionid hiivc seen the
fnn I used to have in our flat vvIkmi |»oor iiininniy
was alive. We stopped up to supper every ni<;lit,
and it was twelve niostlv ; then inniiiinv's friends
came from the tlieatre, and papa used to play the
violin to them. That's the sort of thing Herman
and me like, and it's pretty rough on us heing shut
up like this now."

" I am not going to shut you up, child," 1 said
gently, for really my heart was sor(^ for the world-
wise and world-weary atom of humanity looking up
at me with her uncanny eyes. Her stunted growth
and old-world look were accounted for now, and
1 felt inwardly peri)lexed, and even sent a mute
message of 8ymj)athy to my brother in tlie [)ro-
fession at (!lifton who had undertaken the other
one. " There is plenty of room in the house, and
plenty of room outside. You can do just as you
like after you have conformed to certain rules. My
lirst care must be to get you strong, and try to put
some flesh on those })Oor little bones of yours."

" You needn't talk to me as if J were a mere

i88

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

child. I am thirteen, and old for my age. Every-
body used to tell me so, and Muduiue Sainton
said I sliould soon make my drbut with lier, and
here Uncle Westcott has knocked all that on the
head."

" Well, we must find out what you know, Agatlia,"
1 said. " You wonldn't want to yrow up into an
ignorant young woman, would you, to whom nobody
would care to talk ? "

" 1 don't mind, I am sure. I can play the violin
— anyhow, papa always said so ; and Signor Frangini,
who taught him, said my touch was divine. iShall
I be allowed to play on the violin here ? "

" Certainly, as much as you like when you have
prepared your other lessons. Suppose we see now
what vou can do with books."

Not very much, I found ; she had a smattering of
most things, out knew nothing fluently except the
violin and the use of her own tongue. Her knc>w-
ledgre of the latter was marvellous. She never held
her peace a moment, except under extreme comi)ul-
bIod, and would make remarks aloud in her classes
which upset the gravity of every one in the room.
No sort of punisliment seemed to liave any effect on
her ; she sprang up after it like an elastic ball, and

THE MITE,

1S9

Straightway rpi)oato(l the offonce. Certainly the
l)iinishments were of tlie mildest order, for Fleetwood
discipline was never harsli, even to the most re-
fractory, hnt the ^lite seemed really devoid of any
moral sense. She was very untrutliful, and woidd
nut be made to understand the virtue or necessity
of truth.

Sometimes I was in despair, and more than once

1 was on tlie ])oint of writing to ^Ir. Westcott,

savin"- I could not continue the charge of his

niece. But I never did it. The child interested

me. You never knew what she would do or say

next. The element of uncertainty in her character

exercised a singular fascination over me. I grew

really fond of her. She was pretty docile, on ttie

whole. She never refused to do a tiling, but simply

neglected it, unless it exactly suited her ; tluit

anybody should "mind" about anything was a

perpetual source of mild wonder to her. She

appeared to be fairly happy, and made friends with

several of the girls, though she was not by any

means a favourite.

Kathleen Moran was her es])ecial churn, and I
was glad of it. Kathleen was bright and lovable,
but hers was a purposeful, earnest nature, and

i:i . '"'

: i

190

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

having been trained by a good mother her ideas
of right and wrong were clearly defined. It Wiis
inevitable that her companionship should, through
course of time, exert its wholesome influence on the
wayward Mite. By degrees she began to drop her
slangy manner of speech, though I only reproved
her when the words were really objectionable ; I do
not believe in nagging, nor in laying down rules too
rigidly. But having no one to talk to in the same
strain, and hearing little exce})t simple English
purely spoken, the Mite gradually laid aside tin;
speech which had been a j)art of that strange.
Bohemian, unwholesome life she had led in a
London flat.

She did not go home to her uncle's house at
Christmas, but he came to see lier, bringing the boy
with him. 1 was extremely interested to behold the
brother of whom Agatha talked so incessantly. He
was a complete contrast to his sister, being large,
and fair, and ruddy, with a good-tempered boyisli
face and honest blue eyes, just such a boy as you
see any day in tlie playing-fields or on the ice.
1 saw that the Mite had invested him with a great
many attributes he did not possess, and that he
was a very ordinary boy, easier to deal with than

l; . I

TI/E MITE.

191

mo^t. IIo was entirely luippy at his school, en-
tliusiastic over its pastimes niul sports, and bored
to death, I could see, by the intense talk of his
sister.

They went away out together, and Mr. Westcott
turned to me witli some concern in his face.

" "Well, Mis^■ Grainger, wluit are you going to make
of her ? Anytliing ? "

"I hope so," I said bravely, though really at that
time I had but little hope. " 8he is the most
extraordinary child I have ever seen."

"A bit uncanny. I confess she completely
bewildered me. She doesn't grow much, does slie?"
" Not much. Her health makes me rather anxious
at times. Her mind is so active, her head filled with
so manv dav-dreams. What a terrible misfortune it
has been for a child of such susceptibilities to have
had such a training ! Imagine these two sitting up
to midnight suppers after the theatres closed I It
will be difficult to eradicate the effects of that
environment, Mr. Westcott."

" The boy's all right. They've vastly improved
liim at Clifton, and I think he'll turn out well. 1
had him over the ironworks vesterdav, and he
displayed quite an intelligent interest in everything,

! I

n t

192

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRA/.XGER.

Ill !

*i ;;! '

which practically disposes of his future. It is a
great concern, and tliere is room enoiigli and to spare
in it for half a dozen like him. But tlie girl — it's
mothering she wants, Lady Rayne said."

Again I noted that curious look in his face, and an
inflection in his voice which puzzled me. 1 wondered
if by any possibility there could have been any love
passages between the Midland ironmaster and the
Viscountess Kavne.

'* I do the best I can for her, Mr. Westcott, and
she is not nnliappy here. The companionshi]) of her
schoolfellows may be her very salvation."

" I am sure it will, and I am sincerelv oblisjed to
you, Miss Grainger. I may as well talk about the
Easter holidavs now 1 am here. If you have anv
girls who do not go home at that time, if you couM
arrange for them to come with Agatha to Westcott
Manor, I shall do the best I can for them. Herman
will be there with some of his companions, and they
might all have a very ha])py time."

" It is an excellent arrangement. I shall carry
out my part of it, Mr. Westcott. Pray look at those
two."

He followed my glance across the lawn, where the
brother and sister were walking, Agatha with her arm

THE MITE.

«93

tlirongh her lirotlior's, {uul looking np t^arnestly into
his face. I had learned to read most expressions
of that weary litth^ face, and I saw tliere at tliat
moment disappointment of the deepest kind. Herman
was looking bored, and once wliile she was speaking
he burst into a loud laugh. Tiiey came towards the
house, and as they passed beneatii the window where
we were we heard Herman say, —

" Agatha, you do talk a lot of rnbbish."

They came into tlie room together, and 1 saw the
shadow Iving very dark on the ehikl's })row.

" HaviMi't you anything to say to me, little
woman ? " said Mr. Westcott, laying his large, kind
hand on the Mite's shoulder.

" Nothing, thank you, uncle," she replied, and 1
did not like her meek tone. The Mite's boisterous
and talkative moods were the most wholesome for
lier. There was not room in that small body for
pent-up feelings of any kind.

" You are quite happy here, I think ? " he said,
with a certain anxiety which struck me as rather
pathetic. He was so anxious to do his duty by the
two orphans committed to his care, and so perplexed
us to the best way.

" Oh yes, thank you ; it's not a bit like school.

il 1*

194

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

If:

It's as good as any other place," observed the Mite,
with characteristic caution. 8he was very quiet,
sitting demurely while we talked. Once I cauglit
her looking intently at her brother, and there was
a large, fine sorrow in her eyes, such as might
have been directed by a mother towards an erring
child.

She bade them both good-bye coolly, and there
was an air of resignation in her demeanour towards
Herman which rather interested me. After I had
seen them off, some other business waited for me, and
it was quite an hour before I was at liberty to think
of the Mite. She had not been seen for some time,
and 1 found her sitting on her bed in the room she
shared with Kathleen. She had her violin in her
arms, and was leaning her little face close to it, as
if seeking some comfort from it.

" My dear Agathf^," I said, " what is the meaning
of this ? "

" 1 was only telling my violin that I have nobody
else now to comfort me. Herman has deserted me ;
he has become a horrid ordinary boy."

The extreme emphasis with which the last phrase
fell from her lips gave the words new meaning.

1 comprehended the whole drift of the child's

';li

^- ). - " .lipi* .

THE MITE.

»9$

mind at once, and really the pathos of it struck me
to the heart. Perhajts she saw my inward feel-
ing in my face, for she looked up at me quite
confidingly.

" We meant to have a career, Herman and 1,
though we had not (piite decided what he was to do.
Something on the stage, of course. 1 should never
be anything but a violinist. And now it's all up
with the poor violin and me, so far as Herman is
concerned. He's horrid : talks of notlii ng but cricket
and football, and about other boys as horrid as
himself. He even says he'll go into the ironworks,
and be glad to get there, and that Uncle Westcott
is a splendid great man. Hard lines on me — don't
you think so ? "

I saw her firm little mouth quiver, and presently a
great sobbing shook her and she could not calm
herself. I stayed with her a long time, doing my
utmost to soothe her ; but it was no easy task, and
from that day a shadow seemed to lie upon the Mite's
heart and life.

She remained at Fleetwood two years, and during
that time she acquired a great deal of knowledge.
She was so quick, I would have kept her back if I
could, especially as her health continued to give me

I I

196

MEMORIES OF MAHGAKET GRAINGER.

kk;

consideraMo anxictv. Dnrin;^ tlio socoiid voar of hr r
stay with us she ])egaii to slioot up into tall girlhood,
which quite cliangcd her appcamtico, though hor
name, *' the Mite." still (dung to her. In music, <>f
course, she excelled. It was not mere talent, hut
genius of a very higii and rare order ; and often 1
tremhied for her future. Her iu'altli hroke down
during tlie last term, and slie liad to go Jiome iM'fore
we broke up. I promised to go and see her during
the recess, and I wnttv- to iier in the interval. She
sednel to be quite Iiaj>py in her unch^'s home, and
spoke of him in a way altogether new in her letters.
It seemed, as if she were learning to love him
Certainly slie was m-jiteful to him with no common
gratitude.

" I see things so differently now, dear Miss
Grainger," she wrote in one letter. " There are
other things in life besides having a career, but 1
shall teli you when you come. I am counting the
days till I see you."

I had not arranged to go to Westcott till late in
August ; but on account of a letter 1 received from
Mr. Westcott I altered my plans, and went imme-
diately the school was closed. He met me at
Birmingham Station with a carriage and pair, which

THE MITE.

"07

lio explaiiu'd would take ns out to Wcsti^ott (juickcr
than tho little local train. It was a lovely smniiicr
eveniii*:;, and after driviii*]^ several miles tliroiijj^li
depressin*:: wastes of cliimiiey-staeks :md ^ijreat works,
we entered an opener country where some green
things bloomed. Mr. Westcott spoke very tenderly
of the Mite.

" She's an odd little girl, but we've got very fond
of her," he said, his storn face softened into a rare
gentleness. *' I only wish we could keep her with
us."

" In it ao bad as that ? " I asked, much startled.
I had thought her weakness would be easilv out-
grown, and that strength would only be a matter
of time.

" They don't give us much hoj)o," he said soberly.
" I have had the best possible skill, a pliysiciian from
London onlv on Mondav. Tliev can do nothiu": for
her, and say she will slip away before the frosts
come."

1 could not speak for a moment.

" She has a happy home, Mr. Westcott, and her
])assiug days will be sweetened by love and care,"
I said at length. " And perhaps it may be better so.
I have often pondered on her luture. A nature so

':*

198

MEMOHIES or MANnAREl <.l<.\l\(,i:R.

highly orgaiiisod would of necessity HuU'er uciitcly.
Is her brotlier at home?"

" YeH, he eunie only oti Suturdav. She seems to
enjoy his comi»any, but in a curious way — as one
would enjoy tlie companionshij) of a child. I think
Herman greatly improved. 1 like a hoy to be ])oyish,
and it pleases me to see liis heultliy interest in every
boyish pursuit ; but 1 see quite well that he has
fallen from the pinnacle on which Agatha had set
him."

" And become a horrid ordinary boy who does not
desire a career," I said with a sliglit smile. "That
is how Agatha described him to me. Ordiiiury
people, Mr. Westcott, have the best of it in this life.
One has to pay a heavy price for the higher gifts."

" I suppose so. The children have done me good.
1 wish I had had them before. A solitary existence
is bad for any one, Miss Grainger, but especially for
a man."

" You may yet marry," I suggested, growing more
and more interested in the ironmaster.

" It is not likely," he said rather quickly. " I
have had the misfortune to care all mv life for one
woman whom I cannot marry."

I said nothing, but I thought of the curious change

THE MITE.

which I haul ohscrved on liis fjic(» on fwo orraHionK
wIkui ho spoke of tlic V' is('(nint('ss Uii\ nc. W'r cutne
shortly to the jL^^atcs of Wcstiiott Manor, u lino (plaint
rt'd-brii'k mansion stun(lin<; in a noble park, and
approneht'd by a nnijj^nificent avenue of chestnut trees.
Within, the house bore every evidence of wealth
and taste. My rooms were s|)acioUH and elegantly
furnished, and every tiling had Ik^ou done for my
comfort. After I had refreshed mvself a little, 1
was taken by the maid who waited on me to Agatha's
room. It was a large and ])leasant chamber, whose
windows overlooked the park and the ornamental
lake, where two magnificent white swans disported
themselves majestically. The sight of the Mite's
face gave me a great sliock, but I tried to hide it,
and to greet her as if nothing had happened and we
had parted only yesterday. Slie was not in bed, V)ut
on an invalid couch drawn up to the window, and
she extended her hand to me with a sweet smile.

" How nice it is to see you again ! Do call me
'the Mite.' Nobody has ever said it since 1 left
Fleetwood."

" My poor little Mite," I said, as I stooped to kiss
her forehead, in which every blue vein could be traced
distinctly.

itoo

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

ml '^

VfSv

" How are Kathleen, and Florrie, and little Sybil,
and all the rest ? "

"All well, dear; all gone home."

" It is so good of you to come. Has Uncle John
told you I am not to get well ? "

"He has said something, but life always holds
hope, my dear," I said, struggling with my tears ;
for somehow the sight of the young, frail creature
lying there, so calmly talking of death moved me.
She was the first pupil I was to lose, and I felt it
most keenly.

" I shall not get better, and I don't mind. I think
on the whole it is better than having a career, don't

^''

you i

" We are told so, dear one, but the human part
of us clings to life."

" Not after it has got weary lying still. I don't
in the least mind going, and, as you know, dear Miss
Grainger, I have got to believe that my career is only
beginning — i3erhaj)s."

" It is \ *ie mercy and love of God which gives you
sucli blessed hope, my Mite," 1 said tenderly, so
filled with wonder and tlumkfulness that I could not
express myself in adequate words.

Agatha nodded, and her great eyes followed the

THE MITE.

201

movements of the chestnut trees as their branches
swayed to and fro in the «j:entle wind,

" Herman is here, did you know ? " she said
suddenly.

" Your uncle told me."

" He is (|uite a nice boy, and I tliink he will
be a comfort to Uncle John. I don't think, if
1 were a man, I should choose to be an iron-
master, and to go every day to those terrible works
where the black smoke pours out of the chimneys
as out of a burning pit. Don't you wonder to hear
me say I am glad Herman will be a comfort to
Uncle John ? "

" Indeed I do."

" I didn't use to like Uncle John— that is, I never
thought about him. He was beneath me," said
the Mite, with a queer, silent laugh. " Now I know
it is possible to be an ironmaster and a king. Uncle
John is both."

She spoke with an enthusiasm and a passionate
tenderness it is not possible for me to depict in
words. I saw that Mr. Westcott, whatever he mis:ht
be to others, had won the whole liiart of this poor
orphan child. She simply worshipped him ; she
could talk of nothing else.

f'.f '

r'f

'4ii' 'fl

202

MEMORIES or MARGARET GRAINGER.

'^ Do you think Uncle John is (jiiite happy, jMiss
Gminger ? " she said next.

" I have seen a shadow on his face, dear, but I
am sure he never suffers it to darken the hearts
of otliers."

" Oh no I but it is there. I have seen it manv
times. There are two tilings I want you to do for
me which nobody else can do. Miss Grainger, and
that is why I hurried Uncle John to write to you,
though I did want to see you badly too."

'' What are they ? "

" One is to bury my violin with me."

" Oh, Agatha ! " I cried, inexpressibly shocked—
not at the request, but at the child's familiarity with
everything pertaining to the end. She had, beyond
a doubt, thought out every detail.

" I dd. I love the old thinj]^. U'^cle John savs
if only I'll get well he'll hunt the length and breadth
of the Continent to get me a real Strad, but it would
never be half so dear to me as the old one, and 1
want to take it with me."

" If it is necussary it shall be done," I promised
mournfully. "And what is the other thing?"

" I want to see Lady Rayne most particularly,
all by myself. She has been here twice to ask for

THE MITE.

203

me, but I have never seen her by herself. I have
something very partienhir to say to her ; and please
I want her to come while Uncle John is at the
works — in the morning', before lunch, if she can."

" Do you wish me to write to her ? "

" No, please ; you could go to-morrow, afte: Uncle
John goes to town. It is not far, and you can take
my carrijige. AVill you?"

" I certaiidy will, dearest, and anything else yon
wish me to do."

She was tired then, I could see, and her attendant
came in to see that she had some stimulant. I left
her bv-and-by, hopin' she would get a little sleep,
and mv heart was verv sore as I sat in my own
room pondering anew the great mystery of life
and death. Dinner was a pleasant, sociable meal,
Herman enlivening us with his happy talk. I liked
the boy exceedingly, and I saw tliat he, too, adored
his uncle, and that the relations between them were
of the happiest kind. I felt at home in the house,
and every hour increased my respect and honour
for its head. He did not sav verv much about the
Mite, though I saw his heart was full of her. I
prayed that night that if it were God's will He
would spare the dear young life which was so

*^r

204

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

precious to tlie lionse — spare it to be a cointbrt and
a blessinsi^ to the heart and home of a lonelv man.
Next morning, after Mr. VVestcott liad driven off
in his brougham to the works, I was taken in
Agatha's pony-cai'riage to Hayner Place, the house
of the Viscountess Ravne.

She received me at once, a gracious and lovely
woman nearing middle life, yet wearing her years
so lightly that she might have passed for thirty.

" I have heard of you often and often, Miss
Grainger," she said cordially, " from my old friends
the Mallories, and also from Lady Garthland, who
is my cousin, so we ought to be friendly. And how
is that poor little girl at Westcott ? How pleased
she will be to have you I "

'' 1 think she is. I liave a message from her,
Lady Rayne. She wishes particularly to see you.
She says she has something important to say to
you,"

" Poor little lamb ! Could you take me now ?
It would save time, and I could walk back, or tell
them to send a carriage after me to fetch me," she
said at once.

We were back at Westcott Manor before noon,
and I saw a look of deep satisfaction on the Mite's

¥:

THE MITE.

205

fane when Lady Rayno entered the room. She cast
a look of quick gratitude on me, and I stroked back
the hair from her brow.

*' Lady Rayne will not let yon tire yonrself too
moch with talking," T said, and lt\ them together,
wondering a little what could be the important
matter the child had to speak of to a great lady whom
she knew so sliuhtly. It was nearly an hour after-
wards when I heard the door open, and I ran out of
the drawing-room to meet her coming down. I saw
that she had been weeping, and there was on her
face a steadfast radiance beautiful to behold.

" I have remained a long time, Miss Grainger, but
not too long," she said, and she laid her lumd in
mine, and I felt it tremble. " Agatha is all right.
I do not think she is unduly tired."

" Yon will remain to luncheon, Lady Rayne. It
will be served almost immediately. Besides, your
carriage has not come."

I saw a delicate flush rise to the sweet, high-bred
face, and she seemed to hesitate. As we reached the
drawing-room some one (;ame in the hall door, and
we heard Mr. Westcott's voice. The flush deepened
in Lady Rayne's face, and she looked at me with a
strange imploring look.

206

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

" I did not know Mr. Westcott would be home
now. I wish I had not stayed so long," she said,
as shjJy as any schoolgirl ; but almost directly, as
his firm foot sounded on the stairs, her composure
returned, and she was able to meet him with the
sweet, gracious repose of manner which was one of
the most beautiful things about her. As for him, in
her presence he was conscious of nothing else.

I slipped away up to the Mite, leaving them
together, and before I entered Agatha's room I heard
the closing of the drawing-room door. The Mito
was lying upon her couch smiling, and the colour
was high in her cheeks.

" My ears are sharpened, Miss Grainger. That is
Uncle John come home to lunch, and now he is
talking to Lady Rayne, and everything will come
right. I have asked God that it may, and now it is
coming just at once. Oh, I do love to see people
happy. It is better than having a career."

I laid my head down on the cushion beside her, «nd
made no attempt to speak. They had told me
nothing, but it was all as plain as day before me.
John Westcott had loved the lady of Kayner Place
all his life, and she him, maybe, and the Mite was
doing her utmost ere her passing to join these

A\ f

THE MITE.

207

divided lives. A mute prayer went out from my
heart, as I lay betside her silently, tliat the child
might have her heart's desire that very day. And
she had.

The luncheon bell rang, buf no one heeded it.
I stayed by Agatha, waiting upon her while slie
ate her light refreshment, and at last we heard
them come. Mr. Westcott opened the door and
brought her in, the woman he had loved so faithfullv
and long, and whose heart was now his, absolutely
his. It was written on his face and on hers, which
absolutelv shone.

I rose to go, but they would not let me. Lady
Rayne knelt down by the Mite's couch and hid her
i'ace, and Agatha looked uj) at her uncle agitatedly
with an imploring eagerness almost painful to
behold.

'^ It is all right, isn't it. Uncle John ? "

"All right, my darling, thank (lod," he said
huskily, and the tears were in his eyes. I felt that I
ought to go, and they let me slip away. For with
that little scene, sympathetic and interested though
she might be, no stranger ought to inten^eddle.

1 heard the whole story long after— how John
Westcott had loved her before her marriage to the

2o8

MEMORIES or MARGARET GRAINGER.

|!H1

Viscount liayiie. It was the old story of higli liiic'au:e
iuul fiimily prido burring tlio way ; and though slio
had been a widow and her own mistress for nnuiv
years, someliow tlie ohl barrier had never been swept
away. It was left for the frail liands of the Mite to
break it down ; it was lier last work on earth, and, as
she said, it was better tlian liaviiiir a career. Thev
had wa tid long, and happiness had been so nearly
lost to them for (^'er that they yielded to the Mite's
most earnest (h'sire and were married before slie died.
It was the talk of a whole connty, but they cared
nothing, and it was the white, gentle hands of Unchi
John's wife that smoothed the Mite's dying jnllow,
her voice that whispered the last words of hoj)e and
j)eace. And though that liappened many years ago,
the Mite is not forgotten. lier monument is the dee])
peace and haj)piness of that truly perfect home to
which I am privileged to come from time to time,
because I am the only one who knows that they owe
it entirely to the wise, womanly, far-6eeing child
whom we called "The Mite."

.If

IX.

A HAIU) CASE.

r REMEMBER wlien I read " Doinboy and Son " I
tlioiight the clianicter of Mr. Donibey impossible,
and his cruel and sidlisli treatment of his dangliter
so exaggerated and unreal as to be very painful
reading. But there came under my observation, soon
after I became principal of Fleetwood, a case so
similar in many points, that it made me very careful
in my criticisms afterwards. For it })roved to me
that the great novelist knew human nature and the
facts of human life a great deal more accurately than
I did then, though exj)erience has taught me as the
years rolled on, and now I could draw from the
storehouse of my memory many facts stranger than
any fiction I have ever read.

My first introduction to Lucy (^ray and those
belonging to lier was made by a somewhat lengthy

209 14

310

MF. MO HIES OF MARC. A RET CRA/XCER.

corrcspoiideiico wliicli took place Ix'twccn Imt father
and myself helore J saw liini. The letters were
written from an address in tliat busy ])urt, of London
adjaeont to the Mansion Honse and the Haidx- -tiie
business address of a liouse well known and very
inflnentiiil in tin; commercial world. Thev were
written to dictation, bnt sii::;ncd in a somewhat
craiajjed, peculiar hand by Waldon Cray. The name
was not common, jind there was something in the
letters which rather interested me.

To begin with, Mr. Waldon Cray objected to my
terms, and asked me to rednce them. I wrote back
politely saying that was impossible, and hinting as
delicately as 1 could that, as my fees were stated
plainly in my prospectus (which he said he had seen
before he wrote), he need not have written unless
prepared to give the terms, which were certainly no
higher than those of any first-class establishment.
And 1 claimed Fleetwood to be first class if any-
thing at all. Then he wrote and asked me to come
to his office and discuss the matter, which I declined
to do. Then there was a lull in the correspondence,
which ended in my having a visit from Mr. Waldon
Cray.

When I saw him I thought of Mr. Dombey, and

A HARD CASE.

311

I havo nfton said (hat surely Dickons mnst have
known mv WaMon ("rav before he jravo that
adniira])le picture of the purse-proud ma<^nate to the
worhl. He was tall and spare, v-ertainly the most
meagre-Iookinjj: person 1 liad ever seen, and yet he
had a certain di<,niity of mien wijidi strangely
im])ressed me ; and liis eyes had a lightning glance
whicli I could well imagine would strike terror into
the souls of any who had earned his disj)leasure.

He bade me good-morning grufHy, and I felt tliat
he was taking me in, if 1 may use tlie exj>ression,
from top to toe.

" I liave come liere at great personal inconvenience,
very great indeed," he said with emphasis, " to try
whether we cannot come to terms about ray daughter.
I have said that I consider your terms r'xorbitant,
Miss Grainger."

" If you tliiiik tliem so, you are under no obligation
to consider them, Mr. Cray ; tl»ere are less expen-
sive schools than Fleetwood," 1 replied, showing
that I was nettled at the (piestion being re-o])ened
after I had declined it by letter.

" But I am anxious to have ray daughter here.
My partner's wife, Lady Vine, has highly recom-
pieuded you to me. She says your discipline is

aia

MEMORIES OE MARGARET (.RAINGER.

i i

fc;]:

ex('i*ll(Mit ; and I r('<^r('t to suy that, it is (lis(!iplirie
I rcqniiv lor my (lau;^'lit(^r liiury."

1 bowod, not sayiiii,' wliat, I tliouji^lif, that I\Ir.
Cray's idea of (liscijiline and miiio wore; likely to be as
opposite as the Doles.

" She is a very lieadstron*? and nnmana<j:('!d)l('
girl. It is a ^reat misfortune at any time to have
a daugliter, but to have one like mine is a positive
trial," said Mr. (Vay <j;rimly. " Witliout entering'
into any domestie j)articulars, I think it wise to
m<'ntion tliat she has liithcM'to been the sole eom-
panion of her motber, who, admirable in some
respects, and prudent, as women go, is totally unfitted
to rear a child like ours. Fortunately, we have only
one. Had that one been a boy, I should have been
a happier man tlian I am. As it is, 1 suppose it is
my duty to be resigned."

" Few fathers take that view of an only daugliter,
sir," I said, wondering what kind of terrible child
this must be who had inspired such feelings in the
mind of her father.

" I look to you, when I pay yon this very liigh
fee — I must repeat tliat I consider it exorbitant — 1
look to you to cliange and mould lier into a different
creature, into all a woman should be."

A llAUO CASE.

2«3

I liciird tliis liir^'^*' oiulcr with nlunu, tuid I thought
1 had h(!tt»'r siirci;iitii(l mvscll'.

" lV'rliii|ts you will jjjive ine some more explicit
dircctioiiH, Mr. ('my; what is your idea of all a
woiiiaii should he v "

*' It should b(! unnecessary to instruct you, nuidam ;
l»ut I siiidl expect her to return home docile and
obedient, grateful for the l)h'ssin<jfs of a *j;ood home
and an independence she has m;ver earned. At
present, 1 rei^nvt to say, she exhibit uuue of these
qualities."

" How old is she ? "

" Fourteen ; and hitherto she has been tauj^ht at
home by a daily governess, snj)posed to lie super-
intended l)y her motlier. At lirst, at least, I should
consider it better that she should not come too often
home. Do you ever keep pupils here during the
Ohristmas holidays?"

" Sometiuies ; but only those whose homes are
too far distant to make it worth while for them to
leave. In your daughter's case it would be quite
unusual."

" Well, that can be arranged afterwards. One
condition I must make, that she shall not carry on a
perpetual correspondence with her mother ; it would

2t4

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

be injurious and unwise for both ; and if discipline
is to be maintiiiiH'd, and the change wrought in her
character which 1 desire, she must be cut off from
the associations which have hitherto influenced
her."

"Would not that be hard upon her mother?"
I ventured to suuiiest.

Mr. Cray replied })y a frown, but took no further
notice of that bold remnrk. After some furtlier talk
he took his leave, having arranged that his daughter
should come to Fleetwood on the first day of the
Mew term. During the next few days I had a great
deal to occupy my t"me and attention, and did not
tTiink of Lucy Cray apart from the other new pupils
I expected. She arrived in company V/ith her fjither
about eleven o'clock in tlie morning, and was, in
fact, the first of tlie new arrivals.

I felt mucli interested when I went down to
receive them, all the particulars of my interview
with Mr. Crav returning to mv mind with much
vividness. Mr. Cray was standing at one end of
the room when I entered, his daughter at the other,
gazing out of the window. She did not move at
all when I entered. I observed that she was tall
for her age, and very well dressed. " Lucy, turn

1^'

A HARD CASE.

215

round at once and talk to Miss Grainger," Mr. Cray
said liarslily, and she turned round with an air of
nonchalant defiance which I miglit have resented
in another, but I felt nothing but pity for the un-
welcomad and unloved daughter of Mi-. Waldon
Cray.

" How do yon do, my dea]' ? I am glad to see
y-^u. I hope you will be happy here," I said; and
the speech I made to every new pupil was invested
with more than usual warmth of feeling. She did
not speak, but she looked me all over with large,
serious, penetrating eyes, and I saw the hardness
fade out of her face. It was a singularly handsome
and striking iiice ; in five years Lucy Cray would
be a fine and distinguished-looking woman. We
are accustomed to invest the name of Lucy with
the meeker attributes of the feminine character,
but there was nothing very meek in the appearance
of this Lucy. I decided as 1 looked at her that
she possessed a good deal of her father's rature.
The interview was short, strained, and unsatisfactory.
Lucy, in the presence of her lather, altogether
declined to speak, and took no noticu' of his repeated
commands. 1 saw that there was so much anta-
gonism between them that it was better that they

y . , ■

2l6

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

I-

h^^

ill

should be apart for a time. I lioped in the months
she would be under my care to set before her a
high ideal of a daughter's duty, though 1 confess
that Mr. Cray did not look a very promising subject
to help any one to live up to it. I left Lucy in
the room while I went downstairs with her father.
In the hall he turned to me significantly.

" You see how obstinate she is, that I liave not
exaggerated her. Sometliing must be done to tame
her. Do you think the task will be beyond you ? "

" I shall be able to tell you in six months, Mr.
Cray. I cannot say anything now."

" Well, I'm glad to get her off my hands. Her
motlier made a fine scene this morning, and I had
to be very decided."

" I hope you have not finally decided to allow
no letters to pass between Lucy and lier mother,
Mr. Cray. I could not approve of that."

" You know nothing abont it, madam. In the
meantime I absolutely forbid it. Lucy has defied
my authority, and she must be punished for it,"

" But it is not Lucy alone who is to be considered,"
I pleaded ; but he only shrugged his slioulders
and went out. I tliought him positively the most
disagreeable and unlovable person it had ever been

i \

A i:4RD CASE.

217

iir

mv lot to meet. I went back to Lucv, and fonnd
her watching her father walking down tlie avenne.

" Did he say how long 1 was to stop here ? " she
asked abru})tly.

('ertainly her manners were bad, and she would
need a considerable amount of training. I could
see that.

" No ; nothing has been said ; but T trust you are
not going to look upon this as a gaol, Lucy, or me as
a taskmistress."

"Oh no," she replied carelessly. "I tliink you
are very nice. I was (piite surprised, I must say,
when I saw you. I can't think what papa nu'ant
by sending me here. I don't believe you'll break me
in, as you are expected to do."

I was not accustomed to this style of address
from pupils, new or old, and I felt inclined to rebuke
her rather sharply ; but recollecting the wliole circum-
stances of the case I foi'bore.

" Are there any girls here with no fathers ? " she
asked presently.

" One or two. Why do you ask ? "

" Oh, because I don't want to know them. I
shall envv them so horribly. I hate mine. I
sometimes pray that he may die," she said in the

•I . 1

2l8

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

most mutter-of-fact voice. " But of course mamma
will die first. In life it is alwciys so. Nice people
die ; horrid ones live on for ever. I can't think,
really, why any of us are born."

This sort of philosopliising was not to my mind,
so I suggested that we should go up and see the
room she was to share with a fellow-pupil. I was
already casting about in my mind wliich of my
girls \ should irifiict her upon, and which would be
most likely to exert a beufftcial influence upon her.
I did not dislike her. There was something in
the straight glance of her eye which appealed to
my heart. I felt sure she was honest, straight-
forward, and that she would be amenable to the
rule of love. I was qiite right in my surmise.
During the three years Lucy Cray remained with
me I never had the smallest trouble with her, nor
had I occasion to find any grave fault with her.
She was not particularly intellectual or fond of
study, but she did her school-work with a fair
amount of intelligence and success, and excelled
rather in the branches of tuition which are supposed
to be more successfully studied by boys. Had she
been a boy, she would have been suited to commercial
life. About a week later she came to my room one

A HARD CASE.

ai9

Bainma

day in the lunch hour, and she had a letter in her
hand. I thought she looked a little neivous and
ashamed, but she came straight to the point at
once.

" Miss Grainger, did papa say anything about
pocket-money? I want to post this letter to
mamma, and I have not a penny even to j)ay for
a stamp."

'Come in, dear, and shut the door," I said quite
gently, glad to have this opportunity of a little
talk with her. She did so, and stood before me
with that air of independence and self-reliance
which always struck me when 1 looked at her.
"Your papa said that he preferred you should
not write to your mother, Lucy. I am afraid we
must obey him, and try ^o believe that he acts
from the best motive."

" He doesn't," she replied quickly, and her colour
rose. "It is only because he thinks it will make
us more miserable. 1 will write to her, Miss
Grainger, and send it without a stamp, if you
won't give me one."

I turned to my desk and took up a letter
wliich had come to me only that morning.

" He did not forbid me to write, dear Luv'v, and

220

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAHS'dER.

" 4

; , ' ■

,.-^i' - ...

if ;'

11 ;.

Brii. '*^

l^tl

R1 I

1 have written twice to your mot her siiiee you came.
This is the answer I have iiad from her to-duy.
There is a message fcr you in it. Yes, you may
read it."

She drew a quick breath, almost like a sob ; and
her hand trembled as she took the letter from
me. She read it through to the end, and returned
it to me without a word, but I did not misunderstand
her silence.

" You see that yonr dear mother is well, Lucy/"
I said, "and that she thinks witli me that in the
meantime you had better not write. I can send
her a few lines every week, and no doubt she will
reply. Perha})s for a little while tliat will do."

I saw tliat she was struggling hard with repressed
feeling, and I felt very sorry for her.

" Miss Grainger, can you tell me why papa is so
unreasonable and hard? He seems to hate us. He
is never happy except when we are miserable."

" Hush, dear ; don't exaggerate. Your father
thinks you have been undutiful and rebellious.
Perhaps if you try to show him you respect his
wishes, he will change towards you."

" If to resent his unkindness to my mother is to
be undutiful, then 1 am, and I shall never be any

: y.i ■■<■

A HARD CASE.

221

better. She has told me he never loved her, nor
she him ; that she married him for a home. He
wislied for a son to succeed to the business, and
when I was born, he was so angry, he never spoke
for days."

I did not know wliat to say. Mrs. Cray had
been unwise enou<';h, evidently, to make a confidante
of her young daugliter, talking to her of things
which she could scarcely comprehend or discern.
And yet Lucy was vei^y womanly for her years. She
looked more like seventeen than fourteen at tliat
moment, as she ?lood before me.

" He thinks we are in league against him, and
we are.," she said bitterly. " When I am a woman,
and can earn bread for my mother to eat, I shall
take her awa.y from that prison. We look forward
to that."

It was a very painful case, and though I talked
as hopefully as I could to her, I was really much
perplexed as to how to deal with her. She listened
respectfully to what I had to say, and there was
no dou})t that she was grateful for my sympathy ;
but I felt tliat 1 was very powei'less to cope with
all the pent-up feelings of that undisciplined young
heart.

222

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

For the next few weeks she was ontwardlv con-
tent. I wrote regularly to Mrs. C'ray, and received
her rej)lies in due course. I could not gather from
her letters what kind of a woman she was. Tliev
were absolutely commonplace. Her father only
wrote as the Christmas liolidavs drew near, enclos-
ing his cheque and repeating his desire that slie
should remain at Fleetwood till the school reopened.
In this also she accjuiesced silently. Often 1
thought about her, and wondered wliat was in her
mind. She was a general favourite with her com-
panions, being helpful and unselfish. But I noticed
that she ])referred the society of her juniors, and
would play for hours with the children in the
school. So matters went on until March, when 1
received a letter from Mrs. Cray begging me to
come up and see her, as she was very ill, and had
a good deal to say to me. I was much surprised
and interested ; and I went that very day. The
Crays lived in Wimpole Street, in one of the smaller
houses, which was certainly very dull inside, 1
arrived there about lunch-time, and found that 1
was expected, and that a meal had been laid for
me in the dining-room. Everything was well
arranged and handaome ; the room looked as if

A HARD CASE,

423

it had been a family room for gonorations ; there
was fine })late on tlie table, and I was waited
on by a man-servant of unimpeachable ap])earance.
Evidently wealth was not Jacking in the home of
the Crays. Wlien I liad finished mv lunch Mrs.
Cray's maid came to me. She was an elderlv
woman, rather hard-featured and brnscpie-mannered,
but I did not dislike her.

''My mistress will see yon j)resently, ma'am. I
hope Miss Lncy is well ? "

" She is quite well. Is Mrs. (.'ray so seriously
ill as her letter led me to believe?"

" Yes, she's ill, very ill indeed, poor thing."

" Perhaps I ought to have brought Lucy with
me?"

" I hoped you would. Oh, ma'am, will you say
a word to my master before you go? You look
like a good woman, and he'd take it from you,
when the like of us dare not sj)eak. My mistress
is fretting herself into the grave for Miss Lucy,
and she ought to come home."

" What does the doctor say ? "

*' Oh, he's in league with master. I've served
the Grays for forty year an' more, an' I was
housekeeper here when master married. She

324

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

was ])iit a poor ^irl, a daily ^ovcnmss, and he
married lior for licr looks, an' to have a son to
come after liim. There never was any love, an'
after Miss Lney was born, master lie ([uite ciianired,
as if his disappointment had eat into him, an'
he's often said to me lie'd have stopped a bachelor
had he known. Of course it's not for the likes
of me to speak np to him, Imt I have spoke out
sometimes as to wliat I thought liis duty, an' got
tlireatened wi' my notice for my pains. Not that
I'd take it unless drove to it, luivin' been in the
familv, as I said, over fortv vears."

" Does Mr. Crav know I am here to-dav ? "

" Yes, I told him myself, and 1 tiiink he'll come
'ome on purpose to see you."

" Well, then, can I see Mrs. C^ray first ? "

" Yes, ma'am, now, if you j)lease."

I felt tliat I was })laeed in a very odd position,
but it had been my lot to take part in some stranue
family liistories, and I asked God as I walked upstairs
that if He had anything for me to do in this house
He would set the way plainly before ray eyes.
Mrs. Crav was Iving in a comfortable and luxurious
room, and her eyes turned eagerly to the door ns
we entered. I was astonished at her youthful

A IlAliD CASE*

32;

aj)pearance. She was very fair, and lookod more
like Lucy's sister than lier motlior. Her face was
pretty still, but it was weak and clianicterless. I
could easily understand liow a man of Mr. Cray's
temperament had completely (;o\ved her.

"It is very good of you to come," slie said
with a gentle, feeble smile. " Is Lucy well ? "

" Yes ; 1 tliink I ought to have brought her
with me."

" Not to-day. I wanted to see you alone. Per-
haps, if you see Mr. Oay, you will ask him to let
her come to-morrow. 1 don't think I shall see
the week out, and I don't want to live."

" Not even for Lucy*^ sake ? " 1 said softly.

She shook her fair head sadly.

"No; Lucy must fight her own battle now.
Perhaps you will help her ; she will need a friend
after I am gone— some one to stand between her
and her father."

I looked round uneasily, to see the maid standing
in the window.

"Oh, it's only Holford. She knows evervthino-
Slie's on our side," she said ([uietly. "Now tell
me about Lucy. How do you find her ? "

" Most exemplary," I said warmly.

1»

226

MlCMOklES OF MARGARET GRAL\(.ER.

"1 knew you would. Sh(^ is a dear, ^ood ^irl ;
it is in\\\ to Iht I'utlicr slic shows tcuipcr. There
will be a fj^rcat hattlc souk^ day, Miss ( Jniin<:f(>r,
and Lucy will eoine ofl' victor, but 1 hIuiII not be
there to see."

" DocH .Mr. ('ray know yon are so ill ?"

"He doesn't believe it. The doctor says I am
gettin»5 well. I shall die this weiik. One knows
one's own streii'ji'th. I be^an to tail after liUcy
left. I had no one; and when he would uot let
her come home at Christnuis 1 lost heart."

My eyes filled with tears, and 1 laid my hand
on hers. She had paid dearly fo^ the <j:;o()d thin^^s
of life she had sought to obtain by giving her hand
without her heart. Yet she looked 1 sweet, amiable
person, who would make home hapjjy for those
she loved. Destiny had been hard indeed upon
poor Annabel Cray. We talked a little longer,
she without restraint telling me the whole story of
Lucy's birth and her father's keen and bitter
disai)pointment, which he had visited on them.
1 felt hard against him as I listened, and my
tongue was sharpened with plain speech when the
man-servant came up and told me Mr, Cray was
below waiting for me.

A HAKD CASE.

237

He rocoived me in the driiwing-ro(>rn, and bowed
to me forma I ly.

" You have seen IMrs. fVny. She imai^iiies herself
seriously ill. Wliat do you think ?"

*' Sir, she is dyiii;j:," I replied. '* I luive seen
d(nith on luauy faces. His seal is on hers."

He started.

*' Oh, nonsense ; it*s ])ut on to frii^Hiten me.
She has had the best advice in London ; my friend
Clarkson, of Wiirmori' Street, one of thi; first men
of tlie day, says he can find no trace; of disease
in her wliole system. H(; saw h(!r only a few
days ago."

'* Doctor Clarkson knows as well as I do tiiat
there are things that kill other tluui disease. Mrs.
(Jray's heart is breaking for her daiigliter. She
ought to iiave come home at Christmas, in fact,
she ought never to luive gone away."

He frowned heavily.

" It was impossible that she could remain. Some-
thing had to be don(!. She defied me in my
own house. No man could stand that from a chit
of a girl."

I did not speak, and he looked at me keenly.

" I do not know why 1 should suffer this inter-

228

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

fercnco from a stranfrer ; but will you tell me what
is the meaninf^ of that look on your face ? It implies
heavy blame of me."

I asked 3od for coura,<!;e, and opened my lips.

" Mr. Cray, you brought your daugliter to me
with many complaints. You told me she was rude,
defia«.'t, unmanageable. I have had her six months,
and I have never had a better i)Uj)il. Slie is diligent,
obedient, lovable. If she is a trifle headstrong,
an appeal to her better self never fails. Her mother
bears the same testimony. Site is a child of whose
beaut V and abilitv any man might be proud. She
could make this home the bright and happy place
it ought to be. Give her a cliance. Let the child's
heart turn to you, as it would if yon would let
it. Harsh rule has failed, let love prevail."

I had seldom made such a long speech, and I
marvelled at my own temerity. He received it very
well, tliough without much comment.

" You are not afraid to speak. I will think of
what you say. Could I trouble you to bruig Lucy
here to-morrow ? "

I hesitated, for the claims u})rn me were very
many. But the case so interested me that I could
not refuse.

A HARD CASE.

3a9

" Do yon particularly wish me to come ? I could
send her with a proper escort."

" I wish you to come," he said, with the air of
a man who was accustomed to instant obedience.
I felt myself dismissed, and left the house pondering
upon its inmates all the way home. I prepared
Lucy as well as I could for the sad change in
her mother, and I also begged her to be gentle
with her father, who I thought had more feeling
than we gave him credit for. The man's eyes had
been opened for the first time in his life.

Travelling by the same train, we arrived at
Wimpole Street about one o'clock ; and Lucy sprang
out of the hansom almost before it stopped,, through
the open door of the house, and up the stairs to
her mother's room, passing her fatlier as he came
from the dining-room without so much as a look.
Mr. Cray looked haggard and worn, as if he had
not slept. I thougiit he seemed relieved to see
me, and he gripped my hand in quite a friendly
way.

" Yod were quite right about: my poor wife.
Clarkson came yesterday after you left, and was
appalled by the change for the worse ; he says
nothing can save her. I want to know what women

' k i

230

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRA/MGER.

■I

mean, what they are made of, that they die off like
that, of no disease, and witli no reason."

He spoke savagely. I saw that remorse, cruel
and relentless, held him in thraP., and I felt glad
of it.

" I can't exi)laTn it, only I know that it is so.
When yon are tempi^d to be Inirsh to your little
daughter, Mr. Cray, you will remember that she is a
woman, with the same quick feelings as her mother,"
I said ; and somehow I felt sorry for the man who
had allowed his selfish disai)pointment so to sour
him that he cut the sunshine away from all who
came within his reach.

" My marriage was a mistake. Miss Grainger,
and I have sometimes regretted it," he said, with
astonishing frankness. " But I did my duty as
I knew how by Mrs. Cray. She was not my
equal ; I took her from a poor home, and she never
rose to her position. She kept me down when
I wanted to rise, and when his child was a daughter
my disappointment was comjjlete. I daresay I
was soured, that I might have bettered the matter,
but there it is. I gave her everything that money
could buy ; but perhaps I ought to have done

more.

A HARD CASE.

23t

He was trying to jn«tify himself, but it was a
miserable attempt. I listened to it in silence.

"Money cannot confer happiness," I said at
length. "It is one of the blessings free to rich
and poor alike."

Mrs. Cray died that afternoon, and at eigh^ o'clock,
as I was preparing to go, Lucy cr.me down to the
dining-room dressed in her out-door things. Her
father was in the room ; he looked at her strangely,
and I saw his mouth trenble. She never suiFered
her eyes to alight upon him.

" Holford told me you were ready to go. I hope
I have not kept you waiting," she said.

" But, my dear, it is imj)ossible that you can go
with me. Your place is here."

"It is impossible I can stay here. Mamma does
not need me," she rejdied (iuite quietly. " You
have often said I had a pleasant way with the
little ones. I will teach them, or work for you
in any way, do anything you wish, only take me
with YOU."

I rose up, looking at Mr. Cray. The crisis had
come. An unspoken prayer tilled my heart.

" You must stay here, Lucy," he said. " For
a time at least."

K ?■■

23,2

Memories of marc, a ret crainger.

! , i

'ii.'

^l 'n

f I "

She lifted her sad eyes to his fare calmly, as one
miiiht have looked on a stran<i;er's face.

'• I will not stay here," she re])lied. " Will you
take me hack, Miss Gj-ainger ? I have no home
but only with you.'

A (leep groan came from Mr. Cray's lips ; he
turned away his head, drooped it on his folded
arms ; and so we stood.

" Lucy," I said falteringly, " your place is with
him, with your father. Go to him," I whispered
eagerly. " It will be different. He is a crushed
and miserable man. Your place is by his side."

She did not look at him, only shook her head
Then he turned to us, and the look upon his face
remains in my memory still.

'- She is right, madam," he said with difficulty.
" Take her away. Perhaps later on she may come.
The hand of God is heavy on me this day. Take
her away."

She looked at him then, and I saw her wince.

*' Come, then, Lucy, if you will," I said, and
went towards the door, she following me to the
outer hall ; the attentive man-servant waiting, as
he thought, to show me to the carriage, which had
waited some time. Li our haste we left the dining-

J HARD CASE.

i33

room door open, and looking back, we saw Mr.
Cray sitting at the table with his liead buried in
his hands. I glanced at Lucy, and saw that she
had seen him too. 8he hesitated a moment on the
threshold, looking back. Then she spoke.

" Perhaps I had better stay," she said ; and then
as if she had lost control of }ierself, she ran back
to the dining-room and sliut the door.

I went ouo to the carriage, and my tears fell
as I took my seat. And my thoughts were in that
sombre family room where father and daughter were
together, and 1 prayed that all might be well. And
it was ; but the road these two had to travel together
was new and untried, and another day I must ffive
you a short account of their pilgrimage upon it, and
of the difficulties and trials and doubts which beset
them on the way.

HOW IT KNDKD.

"FpROM time to time I heard from. Lucy Cray,
and the second Christmas after she left
Fleetwood I was asked to spend with them in
town. I accepted the invitation with interest
and }>leasnre, because I was truly anxious to
see how father and daughter got on together.
Their story, so far as I knew it, had interests]
me beyond measure. I arrived at King's Cross
in the afternoon of the day before Christmas, and
Lucy met me on the i)latform. She liad grown.
and was very womanly and staid, looking older
than her years. She greeted me aifectionately,
and led me out to a very well-appointed brougham,
at the door of which stood a footman in chocolate
livery, iind wearing one of those immense fur

capes which always appear to me to give men-

234

/yo^F IT ENDED.

^.?5

servants a top-heuvy a})i)eara,nce, though no doubt
they have need of tliem.

"Tell me how dear Fleetwood is, and Kathleen,
and little Sybil, and all the rest," she said, her
face lighting np as she asked these (juestions.

" I have lost Kathleen, dear. Didn't I tell von 1
hud been to Ireland this year to see her at Killoe? "

" No ; have you ? How delightful I Tell me
how she is."

" She is very well, the dear girl, and doing a
sj)lendid work in the world," I said warmly.

" Is she ? How ? Tell me about it."

I told her in a few v/ords the story you already
know, and she listened with a most breathless
interest.

" Fancy Kathleen doing so nobly ! How happy
she must be to think she has been of so much
use in the world."

" She is very happy ^ dear, but otliers have done
as well," I said, looking at her keenly. " You,
for instance. I think you are making a happy
home for yo"rself and your father."

A kind of wistful and troubled look came on
her face— a look I did not like ; it made her
seem so old and sad.

236

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAIXGER.

:!V '

\'i

5t|

" Do you think so ? I uiu not at all sure ;
but 1 will not speak of it n(>\v. You will
see for yourself. We luive a few friends coming
to ( nner to-night, (»ni; ):;«{ a's partner and liis
wife, and Alderman Wy. u »v;th his wife, who
is the sister of an earl. Arc we not very
grand ? "

" Rather ; and does this net worry or fret you,
Lucy, lest everything should not go right ? "

" Oh no ; that sort of thing doesn't trouble
me at all. You see, we have h«,d our servants a
long time, and they know everything that is
required. I have simply to order. I do the
flowers myself, but that is nothing but a delight,
and papa does not care what I spend; so of course
it is very easy."

" How is he ? "

" Papa, do you mean ? Oh, quite well ; but
he is not <j[uite pleased with me just now. I will
tell you why afterwards, if vou do not find it
out for yourself to-night."

"But you have been getting on nicely hitherto?"

" Oh yes ; I do my best, and so does pa])a ;
but, you see, we beerau as &trans>:ers, and it takes

a lonff time

IH-

HOIV ir ENDED.

237

I thought these words most pathetic; they
touched me to the heart.

"He is very, very ^ood to me— p^ood and kind.
If money would make me happy, I should be the
hajtpiest girl in London," she said ((uiekly. " And
he is very ])roud of me, too, though I don't know
why."

I knew, though I said nothing. She was fast
fulfilling the jmtmise of her girlhood, and develop-
ing into a beautiful and queenly woman. Her
manner, however, was listles.^, and her exj)ression
lacked vivacity, but her features and carriage
were perfect.

" It seems queer to speak of papa being proud
of me, doesn't it? but he is. He has quite
forgiven me, I assure you, for not being a boy."

She smiled brightly as she said these words, and
the momentary light made a wonderful cliange in her
face.

" We look at things from a different standpoint,
and I think always will. Papa is very ambitious.
If I had been a boy he would have made me a
politician, and expected me to marry into the peerage
}it least. As it is, he has his views."

I detected iu her last words a certain bitterness,

23S

MllMORIES OF MARGARET GRAIiVGER.

which suggested a good deal to my mind. But
j)r(!.s('iitly we arrived at the house in Wimpole Street,
and Luey took me at once to my room. It happened
to be the same room in which 1 liad last seen Mrs.
Cray, and thongli it liad been newly furnished and
looked entirely different, t!iat scene rose up vividly
before my mind. I saw t'lat Lucy thought of it too,
and that she was a good deal agitated, but neitlier of
us made any allusion to the T)ast.

" Ilolford will bring you tea. Yes, she is here
still, and she adores you. Hlie begged to be allowed
lo wait u})on you while you are here ; and then you
shall not be disturbed till the dressing-bell rings.
We dine at half-past seven. It is so nice to have
you here. You make me feel ever so strong and
brave."

1 did not like these words, and I saw that some-
thing was troubling the child.

Holford came to me presently, and was inclined
to be talkative, but I did not encourage her very
much. I had a little sleep before the dressing-bell
rang, and felt very fresh and well, and ready to enjoy
my evening. Lucy came back before I was quite
ready. I could have cried out when I saw her, she
looked so beautiful and so striking. Her dress was

HOIV IT ENDED.

239

plain wlii'to satin of tiio riclipsf, make, and she liad a
^'I'cat bnncii of vivid scarlet berries in the bodice,
which was cnt h»w and siiowed a neci^ wliich shamed
the satin in its whiteness. Dn'ss makes a woniU'rfnl
difference, and I iiave often observed tliat (\\\\\(\ phiin
women assume a distinj^nislied and (de<.ni.nt aj)j)ear-
ance in tlieir evenin*; dress. Certainly in hers Lucy
Cray looked like a yonn*j^ queen, though my Hrst
glimpse of her at King's Cross had made m^; think
her a trifle disa])pointing and uninteresting.

" I don't tliiiik 1 mentioned nil our guests, after all.
Miss Grainger," she said as slie entered. " We are
ten in all. My aunt, Mrs. Dunford, and Mr. Jervis
Wynne, the son of Alderman Wynne, and Mr.
Cardrew."

I was fastening my laces with the diamond star
which was one of my pupils' gifts, and through the
long mirror I could see Lucy's face ; and though I
said nothing, I made a mental note regarding Mr.
Cardrew.

" Quite a large party, Lucy dear," I said cheer-
fully. " And I shall much enjoy seeing you play
the role of hostess."

" Oh, I don't do anything. Papa entertains. He
really talks splendidly. Well, 11' you are ready

•#0

MEMUKIES Of MJRC.AKET C.liAlNC.ER.

we mi^rlit <^'o down. I know pjipu is in flip drawing-
room now, and lie would like to nee you before tin-
peo])le eotne."

1 took my <!;loveH in my hand, and wo wont
downstairs. I had not been in the drawing-rooni
before, and was astonished to find it such a s])acions
and ele<rant room. Mr. Cray, lookinj^: very handsome
in his evenin*; elothea, camti forward to receive me
with i^rcat cordiality, and made me feel at once
that I was welcome to his Ikhisc. Our talk was
coninionjdace, and the few minutes i)ei'ore the arrival
of (lie guests passed ijuickly. They came ])unctually
U})on the heels of each other, and dinner was an-
nounced five minutes after the half-hour.

Lucy had exjdained to me, witii a word of apology,
that her father would take in Lady Laura Wynne ;
but as I Silt on his other side and had for my partner
Mr. Cardrew, I had no reason to complain. Mr.
Cardrew was a man about eight-and-twenty, and his
appearance im})resse(l me favourably, though he could
not be called handsome. His fac>e was strong
rather than fine, jind there was a great deal of
very decided character in the square jaw and ex-
pressive mouth. His eyes were very fine, however,
and his smile pleasant to behold. He talked

HOIV IT ENDED.

241

remarkably well, and onr cmkI of tlio table was
very lively, thonjj^h Lady Laiini was cerhiiidy (lie
most, uninterestiti*? earl's dnutj^liter it had ever been
my lot to meet. Mr. (-ray was Hcriipulously attentive
to her, but he was interested in our conv(!rsation,
and joined i:: it a g^ood deal. Usinjjj my ])ovvers
of observation still further, I detected a kind of
nnexpressed anta<j^onism between my host and Mr.
Cardrew, and 1 also observed tluit Mr. Cardrew's
quiet eyes very often wandered to the other etid
of tlie table, where Lucy sat b(^tween the Alderman
and her father's partner like a young (jue<Mi. The
dinner was absolutely perfect in every detail, and
not being unduly prolonged, was much enjoyed, by
me at least. I must not forget to say here that
Mr. Jervis Wynne struck me n- being almost as
nninteresting as his mother. He was not bad-looking,
but dressed in the extreme of fashion, and wore
a single eye-glass, which always, to my thinking,
gives a yonng man a vaiu look. He also had many
looks towards Lucy, while doing his best to entertain
her aunt, Mrs. Danford.

Upstairs, before the gentlemen joined ns, I had
an extremely pleasant chat with Mrs. Danford, who
struck me as being a very amiable woman. She

fr<

242

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

quite won my hc.a't by the way she talked of her
sister-in-law, Lucy's mother, and also of Lucy herself.
When the gentlemen came we had some music.
Lucy sang with some sweetness of expression, and
Mr. Cardrew poss^essed a fine baritone voice, but I
saw that it was not agreeable to Mr. ('ray that Lucy
and he should be much at the piano together. Mr.
Jervis Wynne also saujir to his mother's accom-
paniment, and I played a little myself. By this
time I had studied the little i)arty, and had come
to a pretty correct conclusion. Both the unmarried
gentlemen were in love with Lucy ; and her father
had made up his mind that she should marry the
Alderman's son. Lucy favoured Mr. Cardrew, and
I had yet to learn his position and claim to be re-
garded as an eligiV)le suitor.

Afte the guests liad departed and Iiucy had gone
to give some charge to the servants, I was astonished
by Mr. Cray plunging into the subject at once.

"How did you like our guests, Miss Grainger?
Pleasant people, are they not ? "

" Very. I liave enjoyed my evening very much ;
and I am very proud indeed of Lucy. She is cer-
tainly one of the most beautiful girls 1 have ever

seen.

of her
herself.
I music,
ion, and
;, but I
at Lucy
er. Mr.

accom-
By this
ad come
nmarried
er father
arrv the
'ew, and
to be re-

lad gone
tonished

ice.
rainger ?

y much ;
e is eer-
ave ever

'' \

' ;■. ■■i.rJ> rT£.^

X.-

HOIV IT ENDED.

243

" Yes, she is handsome. She has developed
amazingly, and I am proud of lier, I don't deny
it. Yon have seen for yourself to-night that she
can make a great future for herself."

" What do you mean by a great future, Mr. Cray ? "
I inquired. I saw that he felt towa"^'^ me as to a
friend ; and I therefore wished to discuss the
matter from a fair and friendly point of view.

" I suppose you saw that Mr. Jervis Wynne is —
well, in vulgar parlance, in love with her? He has,
in fact, already asked my permission to pay his
addresses to her."

" And Mr. Cardrew," I said, lifting my brows.
*' Who is Mr. (Jardrew ? "

" Nobody — our confidential clerk, a man of excep-
tional ability, I admit, but a mere nobody. His
father has been a bank cashier all his days. I asked
him to-night to show him he is nobody, that my
daughter is not for such as he. It is preposterous
that he should have needed the lesson."

" He didn't look as if he took it to heart," I
observed frankly. " I never saw a man more at
his ease than Mr. Cardrew ; nor have I ever
had a more delightful com})anion at a dinner-
table.'*

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

"That's his impndence," said Mr. Cray angrily.
" He has the airs «>f a dnke. I sliall be obliged
to show him more plainly still. It was a mistake
inviting him to the house. I can't think what made
me do it, though my sister, Mrs. Danford, had
something to do with it. He is a protege of hers,
but Cecilia never liad any proper sense of what is
fitting and becoming. 8he'd as lief sit down to
dinner with a clerk as a lord. I've heard her
say so."

I saw that the ambition of Mr. Cray, far from
being destroyed, had taken a new and more danger-
ous channel, more dangerous because it involved the
serious welfare of his daughter.

"What about Lucy?" I inquired. "' ^^Iie after
all, is the one to be considered."

" She has all the arrogance of youth in such
matters. I have never exactly brought her to my
view, but she says Mr. Jervis Wynne amuses her,
and that he would never inspire a serious thought.
I believe that she entertains some romantic ideas
about vJii.drew. These must be crushed, and I look
to you. Mis . Grainger, to show her what will be
for her best weiia 'e. If she marries into the Wynne
family, t^iixugli Lady Laura she will have entrance

HOIV IT ENDED.

245

to the very highest society. This alliance must go
on, Miss Grainger. It would be a positive sin to set
it aside."

I bit my lip, and for the moment felt a quick
resentment against the man staiiJing there, so calmly
and arbitrarily deciding the destiny of others. For
this, then, I had been brought ; but I would be
true to myself, and to the dear girl whose best
interests I had at lieart.

"After all, Mr. Cray," I said quietly, "is it not
Lucy's happiness we m(j8t desire ? "

" Certainly ; but there is evervtliint? in such a
marriage to make her happy. He is a very tine
young fellow, plenty of brains ))o]iind that eye-glass,
and will get past the clothes-wearing stare by-and-
by. His father tells me he has a very good business
head, and he is an only son. Everybody knows that
Alderman Wynne is one of the wealthiest merchants
in the City."

" Wealth cannot buy happiness, Mr. (-ray," I
said, uttering that platitude with a sigh. " If Lucy
does not care for Mr, Wynne, you will not insist
upon tlie marriage ? "

" But there is no reason why she should not care
for him. Will you try and lind out what her

:: ! 1

,..v,.,v^yf

346

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

>' ■ !<

views are ? She is rather stift' and reserved with
me. If anybody can influence her, it is yon."

" I can find out what she thinks, certainly ; but
Lucy strikes me as a person who will not be very
easily influenced. She has lier own opinions of
persons and things, Mr. Cray."

She entered at the moment, and I saw his eye
soften as it rested on her radiant beauty, and hope
revived in my heart. It might be a stifl' fight, but
I believed that love and Lucy would win in the
end.

" Well, were you pleased, papa ? " slie asked,
going to him and folding her two hands on his
arm.

"Yes, my dear. Everything was perfect, and I
was proud of my daughter. She is fit to sit on a
throne," ht! said fondly.

'' Nonsense ; but .f yon are pleased, that is all I
want. Now, dear Miss Orainger, you are tired,
and it Ik half-past eleven. G >od-»>iglit, father."

She came to my room as I was undressing. She
had laid off" her gown, and wore a white dressing-
gown falling loosely to he;' feet.

'' May I come in just a little while ? It is so
nice to have somebody to come to talk to, and my

. ^

HOIV IT ENDED.

347

fire is ont, though Holford has not forgotten yours.
Did you have a nice evening, Miss Grainger?"

'' Very. You astonished me, Lucy."

"Did I? But tell me first how you liked the
people. Isn't Aunt Cecilia sweet?"

" Very."

" And how did you get on with Mr. Cardrew ? "

She asked the (question ratlier shyly, and the
colour was pink in her cheeks. 1 turned round
to her, and laid my hand on her shoulder.

" Lucy dear, which is it to be, Jervis Wynne or
Mr. Cardrew?"

" Which do you think ? "

" I know which your father would wish."

" I shall never marry Jervis Wynne, Miss Grainger,
and I have told papa so."

" But you might Mr. (Jardrew ? "

" Do you like him ? " she asked shvlv.

" Very much. He is a man of character and of
principle, I should say," 1 replied trutlifully. " Do
you like him, Lucy ? "

Her ftice flushed deeply.

'' I— I am afraid 1 do, Miss Grainger, and thouo-h
he has not said anything, 1— i know he likes me
too."

Z4»

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER,

" Your lutlier is against it, dear.'

" Oh, 1 know.'*

" And he lias asked me to point out the advan-
tages of a marriage with the Wynne family," I
said.

" What are they ? " she arked rather scornfully.
"Only raouey, and on Lady Laura's side, I suppose,
family : but there is the ma?i, and it is I who have
to live with him."

"' If you feel like that, Lucy, there is no more
to be said. You must win your fatiier to your side
by degrees."

" It will be a long fight, l)ut 1 will never enter
upon matrimony wirhout love, ]\Iiss Grainger. 1
have seen the misery of it, and I confess 1 wonder
at papa ; but he is ambitious."

" Very ; and proud of you too. He wishes you
to take the high station you would so adorn."

"What is it all? Nothing; especially when
weighed down with a breaking heart. Whatever
becomes of me, Miss Gramger, 1 shall never marry
Jervis Wynne," she said firmly, and she kept her

word.

# # • • •

I heard only once or twice IV'-r.- Lucy during

tl..

f.Oif^ IT ENDED.

249

the early part of the season, and thouo^h slie gave
me no particulars, I saw that tilings were not
running smoothly with her. In June she wrote
me a longer letter, in whieh she said matters were
very strained between her and lier i'atlier, on
account of IVIr. Cardrew, wlio had been dismissed
from the firm. I saw that the child was very
unha})py, and 1 resolved to go and see her without
delay ; but it was a very busy time with me, and
a fortnight passed before I could even find time to
write. Then I received a letter from Mr. Cray
saying they were going abroad in July, and that it
would be a great pleasure to Lucy, and a personal
favour to him, if I would, acconijjany them. They
proposed to go to Switzerland first, then south to
Munich, going from tluuice to Oberammergau to
witness the Passion Play. It was u very nice,
courteous letter, and conveyed to me delicately that
the trip would cost me nothing, and that they
would do their utmost to make me luippy. Lucy
added a postscript, which decided me to accept.

I was a little puzzled to understand it, because
Mr. Cray knew quite well that I was not favourable
to the idea of Lucy being coerced into marriage
with a man for whom she did not care, and further

250

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

that 1 liij:;lily approved of Mr. (Jardrew. As 1 was
thus going under no false pretences, 1 pre})ared
to enjoy myself to the full, and I did. There
seemed to be no feud between Lucv and her fatlier
80 far as the outward eye could discern — nay, I
observed in him a watchful tenderness which was
quite a new trait in his character. All the same,
he was (luite determined, as he took care to
inform me, that Lucy should enter the Wynne
familv, and Lncv was as determined she should
not. So with these two strong wills pitted against
each other, the battle was likely to be a long one.
I confess 1 was not greatly siirj)rised when we
arrived at the Swiss frontier to meet the Wynnes.
It had flashed upon me that such an arrangement
might have been made. Lucy evinced no emotion
of any kind at sight of them ; she was simply
tranquil, indifferent, undisturbed.

" 1 am very much amused at papa," she said to
me quietly. " He is taking so much trouble, and
putting himself so much out of his usual way, to
accomplish the impossible."

The Wynnes made very agreeable travelling
companions on the whole. Lady Laura, if a trifle
pompous, was kind and cheerful, and her son was

HOty IT ENDED.

25'

80 invariably amiable that 1 felt Horry for him.
Lucy did nothing but poko fun at him. Alto<^ether
it was a very pretty comedy, wliich I watched
with a «rood deal of amused inten'st. Lu(;v attracted
a great deal of attention on account of her beauty
and her distinguished bearing, but she appeared
quite nnconscious of it all. We travelled in the
most leisurely and luxurious manner, seeing and
enjoying everything without fatigue, and so came
by slow and easy stages to the pictures(iue village
in the Bavarian highlands where the Passion Play
was being performed. The ground was new to
us all, and it charmed us beyond measure. The
influx of sightseers being very great, we had to
wait nearly a week for our seats in the theatre,
and spent these days in a delightful old-world
Tyrolese village called Garmisch, lying in the
valley of the swift-flowing Loisach, and under
mighty snow-crowned crests of the Zugspitz and
the Waxenstein. We agreed that the scenery of
the Bavarian Switzerland pleased us more than
Switzerland proper — it was so exquisitely varied,
so surpassingly lovely, as well as majestic and
awe-inspiring.

We lived in one of the inns where no English was

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252

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

Spoken, and tlie German a queer jjatois, somewhat
difficult to follow ; but we enjoyed it all. A little
distance from (iarmisch there was another village,
if possible more (juaint and picturesque, and rejoicing
in the odd name of Partenkirclien. It was built on
a steep slope, and so irregularly that the houses
seemed all tumbling on top of each other. There
was a treasure-house there in the sliape of an old
silver shop, where the quaint silver buttons and
ornaments pertaining to the national dress could be
bought, as well as many other old curios dear to
the heart of the collector. I found this shop by
accident, and took a walk to it alone one evening to
buy a silver chatelaine 1 coveted for Lucy. Next
day we were to drive to Oberanimergau, and from
thence over the mountains to Innsbruck. 1 had made
my purchase, and was walking leisurely down the
middle of the roughly paved street, when I saw two
gentlemen emerge from the door of one of the inns.
One was Mr. Cardrew. He recognised me instantly,
and with a word of ai)ology 10 his companion, crossed
the road to my side.

'<Miss Grainger. What a surprise to see you
here I "

" Is it so much of a surprise ? " I asked, with a

IJOIV IT ENDED.

253

keen look, and then reproached myself for the thou<(ht
that it might have been a concerted plan between
Lucy and him that they should meet.

"Indeed it is, and yet it need not. One meets
all sorts of unlooked for ac(iuaintances in a place
like this. Are von alone ? "

" No ; I am travelling with Mr. Cray and Lucy,
and the Wynnes."

" Heavens I are tliey here ? " he asked, and his
ruddy face slightly paled.

" Yes ; we are in Giirmisch, at the Hotel Drei
Moliren," I answered mechanically. " And we go
on to Oberammergau to-morrow."

" So do we ; that is my uncle from whom I have
just j)arted."

I glanced down the road at the tall, distinguished-
looking, military figure of an elderly gentleman.

" And you did not know we were coming ? "

" No. Surely you have heard that I have left
Mr. Cray's firm ? "

" Oh yes ; but lovers sometimes delight in over-
coming obstacles," I said slily.

He smiled, and my heart warmed to him, his face
was so good and true, and he looked every inch a
gentleman.

ini

IH',:

254

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

h •"■;-'»»

" I have asked for Lncy, Miss Grainger, and 1
mean to ask for her again ; but I shall never do
what is not absolntely open and above board, nor
will Lucy. Thank God, we don't need. Tell me
how she is."

" She is very well, and Mr. Jorvis Wynne keeps
her in amusement," I said, with a little laugh of
pure enjoyment, for I thought how blind ]\Ir. Cray
was to think an empty, good-natured, over-grown boy
like Jervis Wynne could stand the smallest chance
beside a noble English gentleman like John Cardrew.

" Does she ever say anything about me ? " lie
asked ; and I liked the boyish and eager look with
which he asked the (piestion.

" Not often, but her heart is true, Mr. Card re w,"
I said (piickly. '' Don't be downcast ; it is only
a question of patience, and everything comes to
those who wait."

"Yes, but sometimes the waiting is dreary," said
John C^ardrew. " I may be encouraged to-morrow
by a look at her dear face. Mr. Cray cannot forbid
that, anv more than he ean forbid the sun to shine
upon lier."

I said nothing, but I thought many things, and
wondered more.

nOlV IT ENDED.

255

1 believe I can gness yonr thonghts, Miss
Grainger. Yon are wondering how the diHcharged
clerk has means and leisure to be sight-seeing so
far from liome," he said whimsically.

" You are a wizard," 1 made answer, with a
langh.

*' Not at all ; it is j)erfectly natural that yon shonld
wonder, and it shall be exj)lained to you by-and-by.
May I be permitted to introduce my uncle ? I see
he is waiting for me."

" ('ertainly," I said, not being without a natural
curiosity to behold any relative of Lucy's lover,
since it was his family connection that stood in
his way. The old gentleman came towards na,
and then I saw that he had only one arm, and that
the empty sleeve was j)inned across a breast ablaze
with medals.

" Miss Grainger, may I introduce my uncle,
Colonel Cardrew ? " John said simply ; and I forgot
my manners so shockingly as to gaze upon the hero
of a hundred fights with eyes that saw notliing,
and lips that were absolutely dumb.

I was preoccu})ied and silent at dinner that night,
but still I observed an unusual sadness on Lucy'

i '

3',

■%

256

MEMORIES OF MAFGARET GRAINGER.

lit

face. Lady Lanru was lying down with a headache
through the heat, arul we were a very dull party.
Wliile the gentlemen remained to 8moke and rail
at the vile foreign tobacco, as they juTpetnally did,
Lucy and I went nj) tc my room. It was very
j)lea(sant, with a little balcony just big enough to
hold our two chairs, and a red awning to shade ns
from the sun.

'' Papa was very angry with me to-day, Miss
Grainger," she said slowly, and the colour was hot
in her check. " He says it is impossible that I
can go home witliout announcing my engagement
to Jervis Wynne ; that by travelling together as
we have done, we have made it necessary. The
Wynnes leave us at Oberammergau, and papa says
it must be settled. Do you not think it cruel to
have placed me in such a position ? But I will not
give in."

I thought of John Cardrew as I had left him on
the white road between the villages, standing with
his arm through his uncle's arm, and an air of proud
assurance on his face, and my heart was at peace ;
but 1 was pledged to silence.

" It is the darkest hour before the dawn, Lucy.
There will be light to-morrow."

I/Oiy IT ENPED.

257

She looked at me intently.

'* AVhat makes you think so ?"

'* I don't think, I know. Von will never foriret
Ohenimmer«ran, dcan'st ; it will l>i' the l)irth[>la('e of
th(! greatest happiness of your life."

Lucy was retieent by nature, not i;iven at any time
to mucli ([uestioninj^ or abundance of sj)eeeh.

" There is sometliinj; in vour look and tone 1 don't
understand; but I ean trust and wait eheerfuUy even
yet, as you have so often bid me do."

My eyes tilled witii fears, and 1 was hard put to it
to hold my tongue ; but havin*; ])assed my word to
John C'ardrew, 1 was in honour bound. Hut the
morrow— longed for ever by so many, year in, year
out — seemed long in eoming. Yet come it did, and
we drove through the glory of the mountains down
into the sweet little village, awakened and startled
out of its natural stilliu'ss by the babel of many
voices, the tread of thousands of feet. It struck
me, as many others, that tlu; crowds of hurrying
sightseers, among whom were only a few reverent
and devout souls, seemed to desecrate tliat simple
and holy place, turning their rude gaze, wliich
respected nothing, \\\\o\\ the inner life of tlnsse
primitive peasant folk, and tilling them with a vague

1; t

258

MEMORIES OF M AUG A RET GRAINGER-

wonder unci discomfort to wliich they were wholly
unaccustonied.

Of the play itself it is not my province here
to speak ; snftico to say it left upon my mind a
Htran<?e and sad imjircssion. It seemed to me like
a sacrament desecrated by the public <!:aze, the
tribute of a devout and religious community laid
bare for gain. But the people impressed me by
their simple unconseiousness, their disregard of praise
or blame, thei" absolute indifference to the avalanche
of humanity w- .ii had suddenly swooped upon them
as if swept thither by the four winds of heaven.
They looked upon it all with a lofty serenity, which
maybe came to them from the cool sublime crests oi"
their own mountains.

That evening, after having settled upon our limited
quarters, we sallied forth for a walk through the
village. I confess to a little inward excitement,
momentarily expecting tliat we should meet John
('ardrew face to face. And meet him we did, just
outside the emporium of a wood-carver, where
Lady Laura wished to make some purchases. He
came round a corner suddenly, alone, and Mr.
Cray was the first to see him. I saw him go white
with anger, and I knew what he thought, that Lucy

HOW n ENDED.

259

and he liiul concerted to meet. Cardrew lifted his
hat. Mr. Cray lookid liiin straifcht in tlie face and
cnt him (h'ad. John did not flinch, but turned on
his heel and walki'd back the way he had come.
Lucy was witliin the sliow with Lady Laura, and
saw none of this. Mr. Crav turned savajirelv to me.

" You saw tliat scoundrel. Lucv must have told
him we were to be here. We must leave this very
night."

" Hush I " 1 said peremptorily. " There has been
no arrangement. AVait ; everything will be satis-
factorily explained — perhaps this very night."

He was still frowning heavily when the ladies
came out, but Lucy appeared not to notice it.
Only a few steps further (there being but small
room for escape in that little place, with its handful
of narrow streets) we encountered John Cardrew
in company with his uncle. They stood straight
in the road-way in front of us, and Lucy became
deadly pale. I put my liand through her arm. Mr.
C'ray positively glared ; there is no other word for it.
The Colonel had his eye fixed on Lucy, and 1 read
approval therein. He took the bull by the horns.
Slipping a card out of his vest pocket, he handed
it to Mr. Crav.

a6o

AfLMOK/IiS OF MAKCARLT Cli.UN(>EIi.

t- '

iii

''-■;

!;i

*' Sir, 1 liavo a little Imsiiu'ss matter of my
nepliew's to diseiis.s with you. If you will kindly
tell me when; you are «|uart(!re(l, I mIihH wait upon
you within the hour."

Mr. (Vay took the card and lo(»ke(l at it in a
kind of dazed wav. The Wvnnes walked on. IMr.
Cardrew made s(mie trifliii«jf, eonimonplace remark
to Luey and me about the nn»UMtain(H*rs in tlieir
picturesque Tyrolese dress. The e.olonr stole hack,
pink and soft and sweet, to Lucy's white cheeks.
The Colonel held himself as if he were givin<?
orders to his men. Mr. Cray looked as if some one
had suddenly punciied his head, and 1 saw a twiidde
in John's eye. Mr. (^ray gave the somewhat
complicated direction mechanically, the C-olonel
thanked him, and we parted ; but after the incident
our conversation, perhaps naturally, flagged.

Lucy and 1 did not return to onr lodgings when
Mr. Cray went back to keep his apjjointment with
the Colonel. Poor, dear girl, she was very ner.ous,
and clung to me as if afraid something terrible
was about to happen. We lingered about the
village for a little time, watching the medley of
people witli but a languid interest, and as the dusk
was beginning to I'all I suggested a short atroll

}

noir IT r.snrn.

lei

al()ii«r the vvliitc roiid we lm<l coiup. I felt that
we wnntt'd a little (juict. Lucy htokod as if she
iR't'dcd it. The strain on Iht was very ^reat, all
tlic j^Teatcr, I cunld sec, that, she did not seek
relief in speech. We hjid not irone very far when
we heard a (jiiick tread behind us, and 1 was not
surprised on htokincr round to hehoM dolin Cardrew.
Ilis strongs true face was radiant • if he saw me
he did noi appear to think nie of any aeeount, and
aH tliere was no one else in si^'ht, it did not greatly
matter.

" Lucy, Lucy, darlin<!: ; mine now, and for ever."

He took her in his arms, and she clung to him
in affright.

'* l*a])a — John, wiiat has he said?"

"Tliey are settling it between them, Uncle
Laurence and he. 1 have his gracious permission
to seek you."

I turned away then and left them, feeling in
my heart, not for the first, no, nor the second time,
that singular and opj)ressive sense of loneliness
which a solitary woman must necessarily feel when
she beholds the inner and dual life which she does
not share. But I never suffered it to make me
unhaj)py, and 1 was happy that night as I pursued

86a

MEMOKIES Of M.\l«,AHEl (,liAli\Gh:R.

n. .i ]

my way l»u<k to tin* Imsy village, for Lucy Cniv
WUH (luur to me iiuh'cd. I ^Ihiht'I ])au'k oiico en*
a bend in the roiul hid tiifin, and I siiw tlicin
walk to^ictluT aH lovors walk, hIh' with licr head
near to his slioiddcr, and the tender in<»(>nli<i:ht
falliii^^ on them in softest benediction. And i
wondered if these solemn mountnins had ever
listened to the whisper of a sweeter love tab*
than theirs,

Mr. ('ray was staiidin*,' in the doorway of the
house in which we lod^red, and his face won^ a most
curioiiH expression. He was van<inished, but did n(»t
look as if he enjoyed tlie experience. He appeared
relieved to see me, nnd drew me indoors at once.

" Let's talk over this thing ; it's the queerest
story I ever beard. "What does a man mean goin<:
about under false pretences, as dardrew did ? How
was I to know he had an uncle like that, a grand
old chap, wearing the V.C. and all?"

" Reticence in such matters is as rare as it is
commendable," 1 said. " Too many peo])le in this
world are occu])ied in hanging on to the coat-tails
of their line relations. It says a gooil deal for John
Cardrew's manliness that he preferred to stand
on his own legs, and 1 honour him for it.'*

//O/J^ IT ENDED.

263

"Oh, tlmt's till ri;:lit, l)Ut i fee;! very Hiiiivll about
it," said Mr. <'niy, iukI I huvv liis priilc was smurting
yet.

"Old ('ardrow, our Cardrcw's fiiflicr, waw i\w.
failure of the family, it seems ; all the rest are
well-doiiii,' uikI well-eonuected. The Colouel is a
bachelor, been in India all his days, as rich as
(yfiKsus, and wants to mak(^ his nephew his heir ;
but he gave it me vtjry hot, 1 can tell you."

" Is the marriage to take jtlaee ? "

" Why, of course. I can't pnnent it. I was
beginning to think 1 should have to give in in any
case ; and I was seriously considering u i)artuershijt
for Cardrcw."

"No one would have tlionght it.'*

" No, 1 didn't want to do it. I've left no stone
unturned to bring about the Wynne alliance, but
Lucy's so obstinate. She's one of tlu; ([uiet sort,
who says nothing and goes her own way."

" But Mr. Cardrew is far worthier of her than
Jervis Wvnne. You'll admit that?"

"Yes, 1 Vi'ill ; he's a good fellow, and I've been
too hard on him. I'll admit tluit things have turned
out a deal better than I deserve."

What can you say to a man who admits himself in

264

MEMO/y'IES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

1 1 i

the wrung, and talks so reasonably ? I said nothing,
only rejoiced. Next day the Wynnes dei)arted
alone, and with evident signs of disappointment,
to Innsbriicif. The rest of our travels were taken
in company witli John Cardrew and his nncle.

1 have heard of transformations. I saw one
take place in the person of Lucy (h-ay. She became
brilliant, lovely, fascinating ; that was what happi-
ness did for her, and the old Colonel told me
dismally he had fallen in love with her himself.
And I thank God that it was a happiness which has
stood the wear and tear of fourteen years of
married life.

•^, .

.■V

•i'-i ■

XI.

A BITTEK MISTAKE.

T HAD many trying and backward pnpils at

Fleetwood, and some upon whom all care,

attention, and kindness seemed absolutely thrown

away. There are natures, it appears to me, born

with a warp in them somewhere, and which are

difficult, nay, almost impossible, to deal with.

To this category undoubtedly belonged Adelaide

Brand. She was brought to me in despair by

her mother, the widow of a country gentleman in

Sussex. They were very well off, but Mrs. Brand

preferred to let their estate and live at Brigliton,

where they had a handsome house at Hove. She

also possessed a town house in Port hind Place, and

had all that wealth could give to make life worth

living. She came to Fleetwood alone the first time

to consult me about her only child. She was still

265

■

I,!

Ml-

f^.:...

266

MEMORIES OF MAIU,ARET GRAINGER.

young, six-and-thirty, she told me, thongli she might
have passed for ten years younger ; a very sweet
and noble-looking woman, with that exquisite air
of gentlehood, never acquired, which carries such
an influence with it. Her speech impressed me as
much as her appearance and maimer, and the whole
woman interested me very much.

" I have had a great deal of trouble with my
daughter. Miss Grainger," she began, after having
told me who had referred her to me.

" Even as a child she was refractory and
wayvard, and now she is very troublesome in-
deed."

" How old is she ? " I inquired.

" Fourteen — yes, rather old. I know she ought
to have been to school before now, but her father
had a great dislike to boarding-schools, and insisted
upon her being educated at home. It was no use
to tell him I was very happy myself at school
for nearly five years. I never could overcome
his prejudice, and we have never been able to
get a governess who could control Addie in the
least."

" Is she backward in her lessons ? "

" Oh, very ; but that does not trouble me so

A BtTTEk MISTAKE.

267

ranch as her Jibsolute disregard of authority. She
will simply do nothing bnt exactly what she likes,
and it is in the hope that you will be able to do
something with her that I have brought her to you.
Every one tells me what a splendid disciplinarian
vou are."

" If she comes here, she will certainly have to
obey rules, Mrs. Brand," I said. " I have had
several troublesome pupils who through course of
time have become quite amenable to discipline."

"Do you punish severely?" inijuired Mrs. Brand.
" My husband had the curious idea that girls
suffered j)liysically at boarding-scliools, and that
their moral nature did not improve under such
treatment."

" We have no .nrporal punishment liere, if you
mean tliat," I replied. " 1 trv to make mv
refractory girls feel my displeasure, to reach them
through their higher nature ; sometimes tlie process
is tedious, but it is generally successful in the end,
and lasting, which is more important."

"Certainly it is," said Mrs. Brand, with a sigh.
'* Well, I do trust you will be able to make some
impression on Addie, for really she appears to be
quite deficient iu that higher sense of which you

268

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAI.\GER.

M
m

'' if I '•

speuk. And I ciinnot understand it, for her father
was the best of men, the truest gentleman in every
sense of the word."

*' Is she quite pleased at the prospect of coming
here ? " 1 asked.

" She doesn't care. She laughed when I told
her, and said she'd lead you a dance."

" Well, we'll see," I said. " Don't worry about
her, and I should advise that she is not allowed to
run home when she likes between times. I mean,
especially when you are in town. I find it generally
most unsettling, this Friday to Monday visiting
which many parents insist on. The terms are not
so long as to be unendurable."

" Oh, I shouldn't think of such a thing," she
replied warmly. " Whatever conditions you make
will be kept. I am going abroad for the winter,
anyhow, with my sister-in-law, and the house in
Portland Place will be shut up. She will spend
Christmas with her cousins in Herefordshire, but
I shall write about that later on."

So we partt'ii, and the refractory daughter arrived
in due coarse. She was rather a pretty girl, of
the pink and white order, with a profusion of fluffy
fair hair, and large blue eyes which had a certain

A BITTER MISTAKE.

269

baby innocence in them, though untouched by the
light of any real feeling. 8he looked ([uite six-
teen, and was matured in her manner and wavs,
though I found her extremely backward in her know-
ledge.

While not appearing to pay any special attention
to her, I kept my eye upon her for a wliole week.
Her mother had interested me, and I wanted to
work some improvement in her daugliter if I could.
I found it, 1 may say, a pretty hard task, and I fear
I may write down frankly here that Adelaide l^rsind
was one of my failures. 8he was incorriinl^lv idle,
and the truth was not in her. 8he could stand
before you and tell a falsehood with the most
utter nonchalance ; it indeed appeared to me that
she was deficient in moral sense. She was not
a favourite in school, being selfish and domineering
in her ways ; she was indeed the only one against
whom I have heard my dear Kathleen Moran utter
a harsh word.

There was a kind of cunning about her, too,
which made it most difficnlr to detect her in
any serious fault. vSJie was (Otwardly fairly junen-
able to rule ; it was in small ways that she was
found disobedient, ungrateful, and rebellious, {She

270

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

occasioned me mnch inward annoyance, owing to
the fact that 1 felt myself completely baffled in
thorouglily understanding her character or getting
any real grip of her nature. I no longer wondered
at her mother's despair about her, and I felt that
it would be interesting and worth while to trace
back the pedigree of the Brands, in order to see
what bad blood was showing itself in this gene-
ration.

One little incident, before I pass on to later
events in the life of Adelaide Brand, may serve to
show what were her views regarding conduct in life.
I had occasion to reprimand her very severely for
having been engaged with some of the younger
girls in a midnight supper in the dormitories. Such
a thing had never before been heard of in Fleet-
wood, and the very fact that we had never had
any trouble witli such frolics, more common in
boys' schools, had made us quite lax in supervision,
otherwise it could not possibly have taken place.
Adelaide had told me a distinct and deliberate
falsehood about the purchase of the provisions,
which I liad proved by inquiry at the nearest con-
fectioner's shop. Of course I was very angry, and
I spoke to her quite peremptorily, threatening her

A BITTER MISTAKE.

271

with expulsion if she did not at once express her

contrition.

" Bnt I'm not sorry, Miss Grain <;er," she said,

with that cahii, stony glance of her round blue

eyes. " It was a jolly lark, and I don't see any

harm in it."

" If that is the view you take of it, Adelaide,
I fear there is notliing to be done except to send
you home. The sin was the more serious that
it Itl some of the vounj^er girls into a breach of
the rules, which they would never have dreamed
of but for -ou."

" No, they wouMn't," she assented. " They were
frightened to death all the time."

She stood on one leg as she uttered these audacious
words, and I felt my temper rising. She was
without exception the most aggravating piece of
humanity it had ever been my lot to encounter, and
tlie least lovable. I have had mischief-loving and
mischief-making girls, who were often in disgrace, but
tney could generally be touched with some penitence
for their faults. This one was totally unimpression-
able. As I said before, I came to the conclusion that
sHe lacked in moral sense.

*' If you are likely to remain in that frame of

l^2

MEMORIES OF MARGAKET GRAINGER.

ti'.

mind, I shall be oblij^ed to write and ask yonr
mother to remove yon from Fleetwood — a disgrace
she will feel keenly enoiit^h, if you do not."

" I'm snre I don't mind ; I'm nearly sixteen,
anyhow, and on^^ht to come out soon. I think
it's a shame that mother should be having such
a jolly good time at Monte Carlo and everywhere,
while I'm mewed up here. Of course it's to lier
advantage. I'm getting grown up, and she wants
to be a young widow as long as she can."

The shocking vulgarity and bad taste ot this
speech, to say nothing of its absolute want of feeling,
nearly paralysed me.

" I think you had better go upstairs to your
room, Adelaide, and remain there until I consider
what is to be done with you. You will have your
meals tliere and walk in the Spanish garden with
Miss Payne until 1 give further orders."

She nodded carelessly and went out, and I sat
down to write to Mrs. Brand. I felt it due to
myself and my establishment to remove this bad
influence from our midst ; and yet I hesitated,
feeling sorry for the mother, who was happier
about her troublesome daughter than she had been
for some time. She was then in Rome, and did

/ nil l\.R Mi ST. IK I:

-ij

not iiitci.d to return to L .iidon till .lime, if iu,|,.,-(l
tlicn.

So I li(»sit;i(('(l, and fiuidly de.id-d not to worrv
hor meunwliilc, but do my Ix-st with Ad. -laid,'
until i;rs. Hnind should return to town. She ca.nie
to her town iiousc in tlic second week of d
and innnediiitely paid a visit lo Fie-twoo,!. I

niie

• ' eani' down

saw lier, ol' course, hefore Adehiid

1 could not lu'lp admiring Ium- as 1 ciitenMl tl

room ; she h)oke(l simply beautiful, and seenu'
to have «,n'own youn.Lr.'r instead df oMer. .\,>h .d
could have l):'liev(>d her to he tl

le mntJM'r of

great, ta.Il, womanlv u-irl like A<lel.!idt

How are von, Miss (xrai

nge:-, and h(»w is Addie ?

I can't tell you how ha]»py 1 have been about 1
all the tinie I have been abroad."

lei"

Addie is quite well, but I have to oonf

ess iiiNseJi

beaten, 31 rs. Brand. I dou't Ijelieve 1 have d
her a bit of u'ooJ."

one

It was a certain relief to me t

o sav this, for I

had liardlv admitted it

even to mvself. Mis. r,r.i:id'

face clouded over i)aiid'ully, and she h-aned forward
iu her chair, lookinu* at m

e eaixerlv

Tell

me (juite frankly and hcmestlv, M

iss

Grainger, what you think of her.

>»

274

MEMUKIES CI' MAKGARLI GKAl^^LLR.

lil

"You rcallv wish mr sav?"

" I do. I have Iiu'cmI nil lior faults mvKclf,
and r am i\\\\\v prciiared to licar it."

"Will, I think she lucks in tliosc fiiior quiillHes
which keoj) the bahiiic.e hctwocn the hij^lior nature
and the lower. Nothinj; will teach her but
hard experience."

Mrs. r.rand si<rlied, and her troubled look
vexed me very iniicii.

"How does she get on with her lessons?"

** She is idle, but she has a certain aptitude,
and has advanced a ^'<»od deal. She has a
talent for languages, nnd is quite j)roficient in
French and Italian. Music she abhors, and hns
made very little progress in it."

" Well, what do you think I should do with
her? She is almost sixteen. I should like to
leave her another year with you if you don't mind."

I did mind very much, but I did not like to
say to the mother that I wished her to leave.

" I don't think she would benefit by it," I
said, a little evasively. " Peiliaps a little foreign
travel soon might be good for her."

Mrs. Brand rose, and licr colour had heightened
ft little.

m-n

A BITTER MISTAKE.

'* I ought to ti'll yon t'lat 1 am thiiikirij^ of
marryin*^ a;,Miiii, in fact it is (jnito fieftled ; and thfi
Wedding will take place iioxf mouth."

I was not much surprised, and no one could l)larae
her. Her life was lonely, auv. she was still attractive
enough to win both admiration and regard. I said I
was pleast'd to hear it, as indeed I was.

" I am marrying a very old friend of mine ; we
knew each otlier as hoy and girl, though Colonel
Nugent and 1 liave not met for a good many years.
He has been on foreig; service for the last ten
years ; and we met ([uite by a(M;ident at Naples
this spring, as he was on his way home from
India."

" Wluit does he think about Adelaide ?"

" He thinks we ouglit to take her home with us
at once. His place is in Huntingdon, and we shall
live there a good deal. I intend to sell the Brigliton
house, and keep the one in town, because it is larger
than Colonel Nugent's ; besides, his is let on lease.
Perhaps, after what you say, his plan would be
better, and it is just possible he may have more
influence over her than you or L She has missed
her father's authority very much. Yes, I want to
see her now, but I should like you to tell Addifi

276

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINCER.

11 t '. .

m':\>

abonfc my marriii^e alter I am •^onc. It is a drlicate
matter a mother does not car^ to talk of to liof
yonnj; daiipjliter, and I don't know (juite liow KJie
will take it."

It did not seem to affect her very nmcli. She
came to me after her mother waw gone, looking
Berene and nndisturbed.

" Didn't yon think mother looking well, MiHH
Grainger? — quite fetching, 1 think, now slie liaH
put off that hideous bonnet. She suid you'd some-
thing to tell me ; what is it ? "

There was no use beating about the bush with
this young person, so I merely stated the fact as
briefly as possible.

" Married again, is she ? Well, I sui)pose it's
nobody's business but liers, and j)erhaps mine. 1
hope it's somebody who will do his duty by me. Do
you hai)i)en to know wIkj it is ? "

" Yes, Colonel Nugent, a very old friend of your
mother's."

" Never heard of him. 1 suppose he didn't visit
ns in poor pa])a's time. Well, when is it going to
take place, and what's to become of me?— that's
what 1 want to know."

" About the end of the season, I believe, and you

j4 niTTKIi MISTAKE.

•!7:

are to go to your mother'H now home with them Hooa,
if not imnu'diately uftorwanlH.**

" Thttt doesn't sound Imd. I hope it's a hunting
county, and tliaf there'll be Home life. Theu this
is my last term?**

" Yes."

"Well, I'm not sorry, and I don't think you
are. I haven't been a model pupil, have I, Miss
Grainger ? "

" You have occasioned me a good deal of anxiety
and worry, and it is nothing to be proud of, Adeluide,"
I said stiffly, for she had the most subtle power of
irritating me, and I was always afraid of losing luy
temper with her.

" No ; 1 was never cut out for a model pupil.
All the same I've been tolerably comfortable here,
and I don't bear you any grudge," she replied
magnanimously. And in that spirit, two months
later, we parted from each other.

I did not hear anything about the Brands for a
long time, and they had indeed passed entirely out
of my mind till two years later, when I happened
to be paying an Easter visit to the house of a relative

278

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

i'i

:'il !

of mine in Huntingdon, where to my surprise I
found among the guests Colonel and Mrs. Nugent.
I was extremely pleased to meet the lady I had
known as Mrs. Brand, and also to see her husl)and,
who was a soldierly and pleasant man, devotedly
attached to his wife.

" 1 was very pleased when I heard from Mrs.
Northcroft that you were to be here, Miss Grainger,"
she said, after dinner. " I have often intended
writing and asking you to pay us a visit, but
somehow my life has been very full in the last two
years. Have you heard that I have a little baby—
a son ? "

'* No ; I. have not heard. Your life has indeed
been full, Mrs. Nugent," I said, thinking how young
and pretty she looked. " And how is Adelaide ? "

" Adelaide is ])erfectly well. I nm sorry to
say, Miss Grainger, she is not less troublesome
than of yore."

" I should have thought that she would have
gained some common sense by now."

" She hasn't ; she is very headstrong, and
inclined to be fast. There is nothing Colonel
Nugent dislikes so much as a woman of the
pronounced type, which Adelaide is fast becoming ;

A BITTER MISTAKE.

and I am often very nnliappy about her, and full
ol" tlie most dismal forehoili i,u:s about her future."

"Is she not intotvsted in her little brotlier ? "
1 ventured to ask, and wan glad to observe a
smile on Mrs. Niiirent's facMi.

*' Oil yes, a!'ter a fashion. She was very much
disgusted at first, but 1 think she likes the child

»»

now.

" And wh it pursuits has she, or companions ?"

" None we j»,irti(;ularly a])f)rove of. Her hobby is
riding and everytliini;- pertaining to it. Colonel
Nugent does not [)arcieiihirly adjuire hunting women,
and he thinks to be eonst vuMy in the field quite
objectionable for so young a girl. But Addie simply
doesn't care, and we have had one or two rather
trying scenes."

I could well inia'j:ine it, rememberino- the ajr-
gravating manner and disj)osition of Adelaide
Bland.

"She will grow out of it," I said hopefnlly; for I
saw the old worried look creeping back to her
mother's fa e.

" 1 am lioping so ; meanwhile she is just its un-
numageable as siie can well be. Colonel Nuirent
is one of the best of men, kind, indulgent, generous to

MEMORIES OF MARGARET (jR.l l.\GI.R.

ii I

ji.

a fault, but he is hot-tempered, and lias been accus-
tomed to have some attention \m<\ t*) his expressed
wishes. Addie is openly indifferent to anytliing lie
says, and of course it is quite painful to me. I beg
you to excuse me for talking to you so freely about
such ])Uiely personal and private matters, but 1 do
assure vou it is a i^reat relief."

" I am truly interested, Mrs. Nugent. If Adelaide
could make a suitable marriage, it would relieve you
very much."

" It would, but I confess that very thing costs me
more anxiety than anything. She doesn't at all mind
whom slio talks to or consorts familiarly with ; in
faet, when we are both away for a. day or two, as
now, i have very little jxace of mind, not knowing
wli;i,t she niav be doiii<>- in our absence. She prides
licMxlf Upon setting every conventional law at
delijince."

"It is a hard case," I said sympathetically, "and
ot:e (lillicnlt to understand."

" indeed it is ; when I remember her father, and
rliiiik of my own iintnre and disposition, I an:
eoin]tl( tely at S( a. How long are you going tc
st:iy here, IMiss (ilrainger? Conldn't you come to
Bai grave Towers for a day or two before you reti. to

K vi i

! -i

A BITTER MISiAKE.

a8i

Fleetwood, if only for a Saturday to Monday? It
is not at all out of your way."

"Thank you. 1 shall think of it, Mrs. Niiijent,
and see what my cousin says," I rt'j)lied ; and so
the matter dropi)ed.

I was able to accept the invitation before t'oing
home, and w:is verv kiiidlv welcomed to B.irnTave
Towers. It was a tine old place, well timbered and
beautifully kept ; and Colonel Nugent was a model
country gentleman. It would have been a very happy
home but for Adelaide, who took but little trouble to
make herself agreeable. She came to meet me at
the station, driving her own cart. She had grown
and changed a good deal, and was good-looi<h.g after
a fashion, but it was an empty, unattractive face, a
fitting index to the mind, given up entirely to
frivolous and unwomanly pursuits. She was dressed
in the extreme of fashion, in that style affected by
horsey young women ; and her talk I did not find
particularly edifying.

" How do you do, Miss Grainger ? I hope you
don't mind only me coming to meet you. Rather
wanted to come just to give myself a chance. Of
course mamma has been going for me properly to
you. I see it in your face."

282

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

" The same old Adelaide," I said, wit li a slight
smile. ** Suppose you keep your pony still and give
me a chance to get iuv"

" Steady, Joey, steady," she said, l(>ol:ing at her
steed with a very real affection. *' There, are you
all right? No, we won't take the luggage; they'll
fetch it for you in good time. You are not a bit
changed. I guess you'd be just the same fifty years
after this. But there, it's about mvself I'm sfoino-
to talk. It's alow at the Towers for a go-ahead
yoimg woman like me- I'm only enduring things
till I'm of nge ; then I get a tidy bit of property.
I'll show them then what life is, and that A. B. can
enjoy it. The domestic felicity up here is rather
stale."

"Your mother is very happy," I said severely.

" Oh, I suppose she is. I'm not calling that in
question, though I want to box the Colonel's ears
fifty times a day. He's a perfect antediluvian about
women. He'd like to "hut me up a? he does mamma,
but I won't stand his interference."

" And what will you do when you do come into your
property, Adelaide ? " 1 asked, out of curiosity.

" I — oh, lots of things. I'll slide from the Towers
first of all, and take up house-keeping with a chaperon

W's

your

A BtTTER MISTAKE.

283

who is ha,lf blind. My chief interest will be in the
turf; it's the only thing worth living for."
"Perhaps yon won't always think that."
" Well, perhaps not, but meanwhile these are my
sentiments. Well, how's the old place ? any of the
girls I knew still with you? How do, Ttddv?"

Her last remark was made to a man on horseback
who passed us on the road, a very ill-bred looking
person, who, however, rode well, and had a certain
kind of good looks. He stopped his horse, shipped his
gloves to his hat in salutation to me, and then spoke
to Adelaide.

'' It's all right for Thursday," he said. « Half-past
two at Enderby sharp."

" All right," she said tranquill} , though her colour
rose a little. " I'll be there."

" Rain or shine ? " he said interrof^ativelv.

" Rain or shine. Ta, ta," she said and gave Joey

rem again.

" Who is that, Adelaide ? " I asked.

" Oh, that's my riding master. He's got a new colt ;
wants me to see it before she goes in training for the
Derby ; a glorious creature, he says. I'll certainly
go."

Afterwards looking back, I was dumfoundered,

s^^t

MEMOKIES OF M-IRGARET GRAINGER,

]

I;;

thinking of tlio absolute matter-of-fact way in which
hhe littered tliis outru<(e()ns falsehood.

" I tliought he looked like a groom," I observed
earelesslv.

" Do yon Miitdv so ? Half his pupils were in love
with him wlieii I was there, and he rides like Dick
Turpin. But of course I guessed he wouldn't com-
mend liiniself to you."

" It is rather extraordinary that you sliould call
your riding master Teddy," I said, looking at her
keenly.

She reddened just a little.

" Oh, everybody calls him Teddy, even Colonel
Nugent, for whom he has bought several horses,"
she said carelessly ; and I thought no more about
it, the explanation seeming natural enough.

I arrived at tlie Towers on Tuesday, and I did not
see very much of Adelaide that night or next day.
On "\Ve<lnesday evening there was a dinner party, at
which I was introduced to a good many of Mrs.
Nngent's neighbours, and very pleasant neighbours
thev were.

It struck me tliat Adelaide was very quiet and
subdued that niglit. She looked very well, too, in a
gown of pink satin, which was most becoming to her

11 1

i' ^

A BITTER MISTAKE.

885

fair prettiness. There was at least one man there wlio
admired her very niuch— Godfrey Hills, the only 8(»ii
of a neighbonring baronet, whose lands ruarclio(l with
those of tlie Towers. [ confess I could not see anv-
thing in Adelaide Brand likely to attract a man like
Godfrey Hills, who was a bookish, earnest jjerson,
interested in social problems and every phase of
intellectual life. But admire her he did, and the odd
thing was that Adelaide seemed entirely unconscious
of it. She was at least absolutely free from tiic vice of
personal vanity, nor did she flirt or cociuet in the least.

I sjjoke to Mrs. Nugent that night about it, and was
not surprised to learn that it was no new i lea to her.

"Yes, Godfrey Hills has always admired her, and
he is a very flne fellow, but Addie will never look at
him. His tastes are too (puet. I confess 1 am
astonished that she should be in the least interestiiM'
to him."

" In course of time slie may learn to appreciate his
good quaHties," I said hojtefnlly.

" She will never marry GodiVey Hills," said
Mrs. Nugent, shaking Jier head. "1 sliall W. re-
lieved if lier choice falls upon anybody even liall' as
eligible."

I was considerably astonislied when Adelaide came

286

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER

i ,

J .

ill

!}■'

to my room that night. She was not a girl for whom
a cliat by a cosy fire in undress had any charms ;
nevertheless, I bade her come in.

" Well, how did yon enjoy our highly respectable
society — a bit slow, wasn't it ? "

" No, I liked them all very much. You have nice
friends h^e, Adelaide."

" So mamma says, and I'm sure it's a great
matt3r she is pleased, since she is compelled to
endure them. What do you think of Godfrey Hills,
who is the a])ple of their eye, possessing all the
(jualities they would wish to see in their — ahem —
son-in-law?"

She was laughing, but there was a little under-
current of seriousness beneath which rather puzzled
me.

" I have not thought about him much, but I should
think he would make a good husband."

" Yes, to the right sort of woman. I should
drive him mad in a week. I have told him so, but
he keeps on. Men are dreadfully persistent, don't
you think ? "

" Sometimes, in matters on which they have set
their hearts," I observed, in a vague, general sort of
way.

^1 hlTTLli MISTAKE.

287

" Woll, he mnv spare his pains, Itccniiso I'm not
^oiii- to marry him. If I\l |,eo,i lik,. mumnm I
• larcsav I shoiiM have fallen in niecly v\ifli rlieir litflo
I'lans. 1 som.'fiiues wish I had hecri born like
rnaninia. It niake'^ some tiiini^^s easier."

I looked ut her intently. Some inward feelinij was
stirring lier. A strange ereatnre of moods and
impulses she urKbuhtedly was; and 1 felt more
drawn to her than 1 had yet been.

"It is easy to try to be like jjer now, Adelaide.
Yon would be hjij.j.ier yourself, and make others
liappier," 1 caid warmly.
She shook her head.

" It's not so easy as yon say. I've got a twist in
me somewhere. I always want to do tlie wroncr
thing, and it is I who shall have to pay."

She stood at the door with her hand upon it, the
loose folds of her blue dressing-gown falling to her
feet ; a certain sadness seemed to dwell upon her face.
I was casting about in my mind for some words which
might guide and help the girl, when she put an odd
question to me.

"Miss Grainger, do you think me a perfect
brute ? "

It wfts not ft word I was accustomed to hear io

inn

MEMOIUES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

»'r.'-'

i ^

M i

that scuHO froin ;i j^iil's lips, but it si'i'ined to have
full 8i>;nili(taiuH* tor Iicr.

" I've got sotiic little (Iccent It'cliiig in mo, though
it's jn'ctty deep down, aii<l (htcsii't oft on sliow," Hho
said, Ixloro 1 had time to answer. " I wisli yoiiM toll
mamma tliat to-morrow, and that I'm not so had as 1
try to make m\ self out/'

So saying, she kissed me Imstily, not giving me
opportunity to say a siniilc word, and ran oil' to her
own room. I thought of her a greiit deal that night
before I slept, and I resolved not to let this little
awakening pass, but to try and work upon it for good.
But my op])ortunity was gone, never to come baek.
Next day we had to attend a limcheon party about
five miles distant. The invitation intduded Adelaide,
but she so sehlom went anywhere in company with
her mother and steid'ather that nobody paicl any
attention to her remaining at home. It was only
when we were on our wav home, about five o'clock in
the afternoon, that 1 remembered her a])pointment
with, the riding master at Enderby ('ommon. I did
not mention it to her in;ither at the moment, and no
more was said a! ou her till we sat down to dinner
and she made no appearance.

" Now where can Adcdaide be to-day, I wonder ? **

A BITTER MISTAKE.

280

Mrs. Nui^'fiit sjiid, ratluT irrifuldv fnr her. "She
pays no sort of attention to hours of any kind.
Ilewetson, just ^o and intjuiro if anytinng is known
of Miss I^rand."

The man departed, and returned in al>ont five
minutes.

" Rosa says, madam, tliat Miss Brand left
immediately after yon, takin<; lng<,M<,'e with her, and
that the cart was sent back from Enderhy dnnctioii
at five o'clock in charge of a groom from tlie
Enderby Arms."

Mrs. Nugent grew rather wliite. Colonel Nugent
looked distinctly annoyed.

"Another freak of Adelaide's. Don't worrv
yourself about it, Winifred. No doubt we'll have
the explanation to-moriow."

Mrs. Nugent tried to recover herself, and no
more was said about her till llewetson left the
room.

" Arthur, I don't like this at all," she said then,
in tones of distress. *' She does a lot of queer
things, but i tliink she would iiave mentioned if
she had been going away on a visit to i»eoi)le we
know anything of. What do you think ? "

" She had an ai)pointment with a gentleman this

290

MEMORIES OF M.U^ CARET GRAINGER.

;;,■(

If-

afternoon," I said then. " I heard her make it the
day we drove from the station."

" Who was it ? " asked Colonel Nugent sternly.

" I don't know his name. She told me he was
her riding master."

Colonel Nim-ent threw down his dessert knife and
fork, and sprang to liis feet.

" Depend upon it, AVinifred, she's run off with
that scoundiel. Poor girl, poor girl. God help
her."

He went out at once, ordered a trap, and drove
to Enderby Junction, and was there told that the
pair had gone oif together in the London train. He
could do nothing but come back to his stricken
wife ; pursuit of them being out of the question.
But he put a skilled detective on their track, and
in two days received notice that they had been
legally married by special licence at a church near
Charing Cross, and had gone off the same day to
Paris.

So Adelaide Brand made the final shipwreck of
her life. The man was un})rincij)led, and of low
l>reeding and tastes ; ha])piness was out of the
I nestion. All that could be done was done by
I 'olopel Nugent, whose tenderness, forbeaT^-nce, and

A BITTER MISTAKE.

29»

true kindness to them all made an impression on
me I never forgot. He got Arleluide's money so
far settled upon herself that her husband could not
touch the principal, though he did his best to set
the provisions aside.

Her home was at Newmarket for many years
her house the resort of those who made their living
on the turf. She was tlie mother of three little
children, and her husband was proud of her in his
way, and never actively unkind. Once a year she
paid a visit to Bargrave Towers; and her mother
told me that she was a disapi^inted and miserable
woman, who had lived to see the awful folly of
the step she had taken, })ut had accepted the
consequences with a fortitude for which few would
have given her credit.

While comparatively a young woman the death
of her husband set her free from an existence
absolutely uncongenial, and she returned to the
market town nearest to the Towers, and there set
herself to rear her children. 1 saw her once there^
and the hardness of life had set its mark on
Adelaide Brand. Yet was she incomparably more
lovable than of yore. All tl,e good in her had
come to the surface, and her one desire, expressed

292

MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER.

■ i"

'■-\"

%.:

'4.

to me passionately, was to atone to her children
for the accident of their birth. In course of time
she came to a brighter frame of mind, and a less
bitter view of life.

With poor Adelaide Brand's mistake my
memories, for the time being, must be brought to
a close. Lest it may have seemed to some that
I had more excej)tional experiences than fall to
the lot of most schoolmistresses, I wonld only
remind my readers that these few have been
culled from the long period of thirty-five years,
and that during that time I had in my hands
hundreds of girls, of whose family and life 1
knew a good deal ; and that many of the most
tragic and dramatic stories which came to my
knowledge have never been told. Of course the
great majority led placid and commonjilace lives,
and it is true that the happiest women have no
history.

Looking back upon my long life, one thing 1
have seen, and that I shall liere set down ere 1
bid you farewell. Amid t) e fierce strife and
stress of life, which is to many one long striving-
after the unattainable, 1 have proved again and
again that the love of truth and right — in a word.

A BITTER MISTAKE.

2(j]

a fixed and controlling religions principle-is tbo
stronghold of the tempted and the tried, the solace
of the afflicted, the crown of tlio prosperons ; the
only guarantee of hai)])in('s.s in a worM where sin
makes suffering the daily portion of most.

THE END.