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'^' 
 
MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER, 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 i 
 
; 
 
 i^iE^roiaES 
 
 or 
 
 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. ^ 
 
^n 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. 
 
 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(» 
 
I 
 
 vW 
 
 AUNT CAROLINE . 
 
 THE MITE 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 VII. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 VIII. 
 
 . 1.57 
 
 ^u 
 
 . W2 
 
 IX 
 A BARD CASE 20<J 
 
 HOW IT ENDED 
 
 X. 
 
 . 2;i4 
 
 XI. 
 BITTER MISTAKE 2Go 
 
|V[E|viot?iES OF IWarcaret Grainger. 
 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 
 of 
 
 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 
 
 tl 
 
 le 
 
 IC croWMlliLT 
 
 of many ambitions, aud it ha 
 
 s occurred to me that 
 
I' 
 
 I : 
 
 
 
 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 
 
 k 
 
 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. 
 
 i 
 
 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. 
 
I 
 
 ; n 
 
 j ■ 
 It I 
 
 t 
 
 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 
 
 4 
 
 i 
 
 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 ? ** 
 
 4 
 
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. 
 
 t> 
 
 ** 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. 
 
8 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 V) 
 
 '!!'> 
 
 " 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." 
 
 i 
 
 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?" 
 
# 
 
 10 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER, 
 
 I 
 
 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. 
 
 It 
 
 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." 
 
It 
 
 MEMORIES or MARGARET CRAISCER. 
 
 ») 
 
 Ki 
 
 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. 
 
 1 
 
 V) 
 
 (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. 
 
 >S 
 
 " he said 
 vrife ray- 
 ap8 more 
 
 4 
 
 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 
 
 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 
 
 4 
 
 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!.:!! 
 
 1 
 
 -m 
 
 n 
 

 ^ PylSSrNCr SHADOW. 
 
 '7 
 
 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. 
 
 19 
 
 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 
 
ao 
 
 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. 
 
 21 
 
 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 
 
 f 
 
 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 
 
22 
 
 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. 
 
 a3 
 
 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 ' ^ 
 
 24 
 
 MEMOIilES OF MARGARET GRAINGER, 
 
 I !) 
 
 
 II I 
 
 i i 
 
 in 
 
 
 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 
 
 1 
 
 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^, 
 
 o 
 
A PARSING SUA now. 
 
 n 
 
 i 
 
 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 
 
26 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 iv 
 
 .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. 
 
 i> 
 
 >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 
 
 27 
 
38 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 n 
 
 : 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. 
 
 29 
 
 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. 
 
 »> 
 
30 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 1' 
 
 "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 
 
32 
 
 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. 
 
 33 
 
 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 
 
 34 
 
 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. 
 
 35 
 
 ■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 ? " 
 
36 
 
 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. 
 
 li 
 
 " You are intimate with the Wyatts," I said after 
 a moment. " Do they not belong to good society ? " 
 
A TOUCH OF COLOUR. 
 
 37 
 
 "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 
 
 <i 
 
.?8 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAiNGER. 
 
 yk 
 
 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. 
 
 39 
 
 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 
 
 \ 
 
40 
 
 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. 
 
 41 
 
 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-; 
 
42 
 
 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. 
 
 43 
 
 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 
 
 44 
 
 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. 
 
 45 
 
 " 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 
 
 
If 
 
 46 
 
 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. 
 
 47 
 
 ^ 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- 
 
4S 
 
 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. 
 
 49 
 
 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! 
 
H 
 
 50 
 
 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 
 
 11 
 
 •j " 
 
 to ;;ive luc r' 
 
 (icrtnidc, licr work done, iiiid in \v 
 
 urs, 
 
 (led 
 
 so 
 
 (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 
 
 '\ 
 
5* 
 
 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. 
 
 
 11 
 
 
 
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 
 
 53 
 
 III: 
 
 f' \ 
 
 ■r 'I 
 
 i.,r" 
 
 I 
 
 ,5 1 
 
54 
 
 MKMORIhS OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 •i! 
 
 .■' I f 
 
 1! 
 
 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 
 
 55 
 
 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 
 
 Ic 
 
 \M 
 
 Pj 
 
 1 !i 
 1 
 
 % 
 
 
 ^\ 
 
 
 ■ 1 
 
 
56 
 
 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. 
 
 57 
 
 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:. 
 
 
 
m 
 
 :| • 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. 
 
 50 
 
 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 
 
 'H 
 
6o 
 
 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 
 
 Ml 
 
 Ii5 
 
 
62 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 I 'J 
 
 !l 
 
 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. 
 
 63 
 
 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 
 
 ' H.. 
 
 '1- 
 
I '' 
 
 ■I : < 
 
 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. 
 
 65 
 
 "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 
 
 »■!. 
 
 w 
 
 •III 
 
66 
 
 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 
 
 f^ 
 
 
 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. 
 
 67 
 
 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;; 
 
 'I 
 
I 
 
 
 68 
 
 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. 
 
 69 
 
 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 
 
70 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 if 
 
 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. 
 
 7t 
 
 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 
 
 Hi 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 .■i 
 
 f 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 'jl' 
 
 %: 
 
 72 
 
 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. 
 
 
 
to 
 
 It 
 
 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^' 
 
74 
 
 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 ? 
 
 M 
 
 •)1 
 
A REVOLTING DAUHGTER. 
 
 n 
 
 n '• 
 
 t 
 
 " 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 
 
J 
 
 76 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARCAIUIT GRAINGER. 
 
 1 
 
 j: 
 
 11' 
 
 
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 II 
 
 
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 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. 
 
 77 
 
 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. 
 
It 
 
 IV. 
 
 H 1 
 
 in 
 
 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 
 
 78 
 
 I li 
 
Ill 
 
 THIS SIDE AND THAT. 
 
 79 
 
 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 
 
go 
 
 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. 
 
 8i 
 
 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. 
 
 t3 
 
 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 
 
'i 
 
 i^ 
 
 
 ■■ h "■■ 
 
 ml 
 
 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 
 
 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 
 
 86 
 
 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. 
 
 87 
 
 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 
 
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 ■ s. 
 
 I'i 
 
 88 
 
 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. 
 
 89 
 
 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 
 
 i* 
 
ill 
 
 Oo 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 li 
 
 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! 
 
 I! li 
 
 I. il 
 
 i 
 
 ii 
 
 ni 
 
 
 i! 'iiiil 
 
 II' 
 
 92 
 
 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. 
 
 93 
 
 " 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 
 
vi 
 
 <M 
 
 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. 
 
 M 
 
 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. 
 
 It 
 

 : 
 
 
 I 
 
 
 . ;!1 
 ■'** I' 
 
 K 
 
 11 1 ^^^ 
 
 96 
 
 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. 
 
 97 
 
 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 
 
 i 
 
El '."'I 
 
 \\ 
 
 5 ' 'it 
 
 
 "J 
 
 :, ■ 'I 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 98 
 
 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 
 
nil 
 
 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 
 
 \ '!.| 
 
 \ , 
 
 \ I 
 
 ,;: 1 
 
 
 I I 
 
IC2 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 Ml ' 
 
 !■ lii 
 
 m 
 
 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 
 
M i 
 
 ^•^. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 
 
 103 
 
 I 1 
 
 ill 
 
 I 
 
 f ! 
 
104 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 '".«? 
 
 I I'll 
 
 III *'' «: ! -I 
 
 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 
 
 ' -;, 
 
 i ■• ' 
 
 I • I 
 
i|i 
 
 to6 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 Ill) 
 
 
 r s' 1)1 
 
 1 
 
 h 
 
 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 
 
 M 
 
 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 
 
 I I 
 
 I 
 
loS 
 
 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, 
 
 il 
 
 \f 
 
 ! ' ■ I 
 
 
no 
 
 MEMUKIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 ^n 
 
 
 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 
 
 iilli 
 
 ! !l> I I 
 
 ;? If 
 
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' 
 
 iia 
 
 Ml.MOKIES OF MAKi.ARH GKAINGEK. 
 
 '\ 
 
 1; 
 
 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 
 
 if : i 
 
 Mr 
 
M^ 
 
 
 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. 
 
 Hi 
 
 ??i 
 
 M 
 
 " 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. 
 
 
 
 M 
 
 m 
 
 
 i Mi. 
 
 '!li;lt 
 
 1 
 ■ i 
 
 (■I 
 
 ft' t 
 
 irP'i 
 
 "III :^| 
 
 ft ,:'! 
 
 HI ^i 
 
 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 
 
 \ 
 
;> ! /ll 
 
 luS 
 
 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 
 
 ": . , i 
 
I". !l 
 
 12U 
 
 MKMOKIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER 
 
 ;t 1 
 
 \. •: 
 
 I 'i 
 
 
 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 
 
 i 
 
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 
 
 ( . 11? 
 
taa 
 
 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. 
 
 \2 
 
 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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 il 
 
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 124 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET (.RAlNGER. 
 
 IH 
 
 
 M' 
 
 
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 T I 
 
 ' + 
 
 
 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. 
 
 US 
 
 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. 
 
 w 
 
 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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 11 
 
 man 
 
 two 
 
 want 
 
 "] 
 (larli 
 hood 
 have 
 happ 
 scop( 
 neve 
 becai 
 
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 sleej: 
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 and 
 lous 
 
 org-a 
 
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 haj)| 
 and 
 dear 
 own 
 
 H 
 swe( 
 
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 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 Y \ 
 
p 
 
 
 1 
 
 ^1. 
 
 w 
 
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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. 
 
 
 rfl 
 
 II 
 
 If 
 
 I'' 
 
 ill 
 
 if 
 'III 
 
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 
 
 ! I 
 
 'k! 
 
II p^ 
 
 •l ' 
 
 >3o 
 
 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. 
 
 lU 
 
 I) 
 
 
 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 
 
 ■1i,U 
 
 N. 
 
 i ; 
 
 
 

 ,fii' 
 
 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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 '' I 
 
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 I 
 
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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. 
 
 US 
 
 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." 
 
 I M 
 
 'm 
 
 
 \ I 
 
»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- 
 
 '% 
 
 i ; 
 
 ! ! 
 
 ', ^ 
 
 1 t 
 
•3« 
 
 MEMORIES Of MaKCARET CRAINGER. 
 
 
 If 
 
 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 
 
Mf 
 
 THi: niilDk OF Kll.LOE. 
 
 m 
 
 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. 
 
 t. 
 
 ''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. 
 
 ! I 
 
 --if 
 

 IP tt I 
 
 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." 
 
 I I 
 
 i\ 
 
 'M^ ,.. 
 
 \\ 
 
Ill i' 
 
 142 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 m 
 
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 }' 
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 :li|li:^^^ 
 
 " 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 
 
 -I'; 
 
 ,1 : 
 
 I! 
 
 ' I* 
 
 I 
 
 ^^^ tiM 
 
 I ! 
 
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 ■ii ' 
 
 m 
 
 
 '44 
 
 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." 
 
 II 
 
THE PRIDE OF KILLOE. 
 
 MS 
 
 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 
 
 ^•i\ jft- .'*■ 
 
 t •' 
 
 J i i' 
 
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 f 1 
 
 t I 
 
 " I am sure I cannot say," I re])li('d vaguely, 
 though inwardly much amused, 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 MEMORIE::> OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 1' V 
 
 m 
 
 " 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 
 
 re 
 
 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 
 
 ^|!i 
 
 I i 
 
 I I 
 
 i' sr 
 
 ! I ! 
 
f*^ 
 
 r 
 
 148 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER, 
 
 II 
 
 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 
 
 i 
 
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:, " 
 
 \ i 
 
 ■■/\- 
 
 i 
 
'50 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 ! 
 1 
 1 - 
 
 ] 
 
 11. 
 
 1 
 
 ( ■ 
 
 Sj 
 
 (^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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 <''i- a -' i 
 
h- 
 
 illl 
 
 lii 
 
 ti 
 
 ec 
 
 T( 
 
 w 
 
 he 
 
 M 
 
 ail 
 
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 Xc 
 
 rid 
 
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 sc 
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 sivl 
 
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 so 
 
 Icii 
 
 Ipili 
 
THE PRIDE OF KILLOE. 
 
 »5« 
 
 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- 
 
 Iff f 
 
 i I 
 
 i i 
 
»52 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET GRAINGER. 
 
 '- w'4 
 
 I : Hii » 
 
 ;jMm ijii .i,. 
 
 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 
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 ao 
 
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 
 
liiii 
 
 «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 
 
1 ' 
 
 
 
 
 ■ * ■ ■ 
 
 hi 
 
 1 .,■,,, 
 
 11 
 
 156 
 
 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. 
 
 A' 
 
 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 
 
p^' 
 
 u 
 
 •58 
 
 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 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 
 i6o 
 
 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 
 
1 
 
 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 
 
* if 
 
 i l! 
 
 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- 
 
 m 
 
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 ? " 
 
1^ 
 
 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. 
 
 
 H 
 
 |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. 
 
1 
 
 
 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>: 
 
 ii 
 
 (;!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 ! 
 
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, 
 
3| 
 
 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 
 
 f 
 
 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 
 
\n 
 
 ;«• <i 
 
 
 II^H 
 
 1 
 A 
 
 *T9 H> >«^^H| 
 
 L 
 
 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. 
 
 
 W 
 
 !. ■<: 
 
 :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 
 
li 
 
 
 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 
 
Ij 
 
 I* 
 
 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 
 
iP 
 
 i:i . '"' 
 
 
 : i 
 
 
 pi 
 
 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. 
 
 13 
 
 u 
 
 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 
 
 '8 
 
 ';li 
 
li 
 
|i 
 
 ^- ). - " .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. 
 
 m 
 
 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 '^ 
 
 A: 
 
 VfSv 
 
 A 
 
 
 " 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 
 
 M 
 
'I 
 
 THE MITE. 
 
 201 
 
 M 
 
 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. 
 
 tS 
 
 w 
 
 
 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 
 
1 
 
 ¥: 
 
 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. 
 
 ^1 
 
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 
 
 ^1 
 
 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. 
 
 vc 
 
 
 |!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 
 
 "I 
 
 1 
 
m 
 
 310 
 
 MF. MO HIES OF MARC. A RET CRA/XCER. 
 
 M 
 
 it 
 
 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." 
 
n 
 
 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 
 
M 
 
 B 
 
 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 
 
 M' 
 
 ; , ' ■ 
 
 
 ,.-^i' - ... 
 
 . 
 
 if ;' 
 
 
 11 ;. 
 
 
 
 
 Li 
 
 ' 
 
 
 Brii. '*^ 
 
 n 
 
 ii 
 
 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 ■■<■ 
 
 
11 
 
 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. 
 
'H 
 
 
 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 
 
 11 
 
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. 
 
 15 
 
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. 
 
r 
 
 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. 
 
 i> 
 
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." 
 
 V 
 
 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. 
 
X. 
 
 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 
 
 n 
 
/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 
 
 >i 
 
 
r 
 
 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 
 
^l 
 
 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. 
 
 » 
 
 :i 
 
\ 
 
 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 
 
 ' ;■. ■■i.rJ> rT£.^ 
 
 m 
 
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. 
 
 
 I] 
 
 It 
 
 "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. 
 
 Br 
 
nOlV IT ENDED. 
 
 255 
 
 u 
 
 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' 
 

 t 
 
 i ' 
 
 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 
 
 17 
 
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. 
 
m 
 
 
 a6o 
 
 AfLMOK/IiS OF MAKCARLT Cli.UN(>EIi. 
 
 t- ' 
 
 1 
 
 iii 
 
 if 
 
 Ul 
 
 
 .1 
 
 ''-■; 
 
 !;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 
 
m 
 
 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 
 
H 
 
 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 
 
 mi 
 
 '7 
 
 •i'-i ■ 
 
 m 
 
 r 
 
XI. 
 
 A BITTEK MISTAKE. 
 
 P 
 
 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 
 
 J! 
 
 fi 
 
 r\ 
 
 ■ 
 
 I,! 
 
 p 
 
 !| 
 
 l! 
 
 Hi 
 
 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 
 
 M 
 
 '' if I '• 
 
 lU 
 
 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 
 
 mm 
 
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 
 
I 
 
 
 V 
 
 
 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'. 
 
 w 
 
 
 
 n- 
 
 m. 
 
 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 
 
b 
 
 / 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 
 
 le 
 
 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 
 
 u 
 
 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" 
 
 u 
 
 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 
 
 u 
 
 Tell 
 
 me (juite frankly and hcmestlv, M 
 
 iss 
 
 Grainger, what you think of her. 
 
 >» 
 
 18 
 
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. 
 
 m 
 
 '* 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 '. . 
 
 I 
 
 m':\> 
 
 fa 
 
 W: 
 
 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. 
 
 H; 
 
 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. 
 
 m 
 
 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 
 
2^ 
 
 MEMORIES OF MARGARET (jR.l l.\GI.R. 
 
 ii I 
 
 1? 
 
 ^% 
 
 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, 
 
 W. 
 
 m 
 
 ] 
 
 
 f 
 
 
 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 
 
 !}■' 
 
 m 
 
 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 
 
 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 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 MEMORIES OF M.U^ CARET GRAINGER. 
 
 ! 
 
 ;;,■( 
 
 m. 
 
 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.