^ ^ *^*^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGcT (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 !/«■ •f lift ■— !^ li£ 12.0 is 1,25 II, ,.4 U4 < 6" - ► 0% 71 /: O / /# Photographic Sdences Corporation ^^ ^N \^ V (meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the symbol y (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Un des symboles suivants apparattra sur la dernlAre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: la symbols — ► signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbols V signifie "FIN". Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. Tha following diagrams Illustrate the method: Les cartes planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre fllmAs A dae taux de reduction diffArents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre rec^roduit en un seul cllchA, ii est fllmA A partir de i'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite. et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessalre. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 ! 1 2 3 4 S 6 DOROTHEA KIRKE. I DR. KIKKK'S UALGHTKKH— /'«vas a woman whom it would take years to know. She wore a merino dress something the colour of her eyes, plainly made but fitting to perfection; a linen collar and culfs, and a scarlet geranium for ornament. Dr. Kirke looked at her admiringly, as he often did. She was a daughter of whom any man might be proud. " You are tired, papa ? " she said, looking at him keenly and affectionately. **A little. How's mamma; and where 's Florrie ? " DOROTHEA KIRKE. " With mamma, I think. Her head has hcon very bad to-day, papa ; but I think it is better now." Mrs. Kirke was an invalid, and had been unable to be removed from her own apartments for months. *' Florrie's company is not the best when the head is bad," Gaid the Doctor. " Mamma will never heed my instructions about keeping quiet." " I do my best, papa," said Dorothea, quietly. "My dear, I know you do. Without you, Dorothea, this house would go to ruin," said the Doctor, bluntly. " Well have you forgotten we dine at The Court to-night ? " *' No, papa ; but I am sure you would rather stay at home, you look so weary." ** Correct ; but we must not neglect the claims of society," replied the Doctor, drily ; " and it is not every day a country doctor and his daughters are asked to dine with the great folk." Dorothea smiled. " The country doctor privately thinks the loss is the great folks'," she said, mischievously; at which h ji father laughed heartily. "Her ladyship has got some lions at The Court, <( DOCTOR KIRKE S DAUGHTERS. 5 Sir Reginald tells me. Clement, the artist who painted the ' The Two Ways,' you know ; !Miss Fen wick the novelist ; and Western, the writer of those exquisite essays in the Monthly Review." Miss Kirke looked suddenly interested. "I had no idea of this, papa. I am not bored any more at the prospect of this evening. It was kind of Lady Yorke to think of us when she has so many famous people staying with her." " My private opinion, my dear, is that Lady Yorke wishes to show you off to one or other of the mystic three. You know she regards you in the light of that flower which is born to blush " "Papa, you are too absurd," interrupted Miss Kirke. "There is mamma's bell; I fancy she has heard that you have come home." " Probably," said the Doctor, and went off upstairs to his wife's room. On the landing he met his second daughter, to whom he stooped to speak a teasing word before he passed into her mother's room. Florence Kirke was as utterly unlike her sister as it is possible for two mortals to be. She was 6 DOROTHEA KIRKE. littJP, anfl slight, and fragile-looking, with a baby face pretty enough but void of character ; a tangle of golden curls, and big blue eyes, which gave to her face the most innocent and childlike ex[)res- sion. But Florence Kirke was no child ; at nineteen she was a woman, full of vain imagin- ings, puffed up with conceit of herself and her doll face; a poor, empty, silly thing, who had hands but did not know how to use them, and a heart as shallow as a wayside stream in sunmier time. " I was coming for you, papa ; mamma wants you," she said. " All right, puss ; Dorothea 's downstairs. You 'd better get her up and get into your gowns. We '11 need to be up at six, you know," said the Doctor, and opened the door of his wife's room. She was lying on a couch drawn near to the hearth, attired in a rich dressing-gown, and having a tiger-skin thrown over her, though the air of the room was oppressively hot. " Well, my dear, how do you find yourself to-day 1 " said the Doctor, bending himself over her, and laying a kind, cool hand on her fore- head. She pushed down the rug and turned her face to him — a poor, thin, worn face now, as DOCTOR KIRKE's DAUGHTERS. 7 like her younger daughter's as it was possible to be. " No better," she said, fretfully. " My bond bns been frightful all day. I really think, .lames, that if you studied my case you could give me something to cure my head ; but, of course, 1 am nobody. The j)oorest old beggar in Hart field is a more interesting patient than your wife." The Doctor ran his fin^ijers throusfh his hair in a somewhat perplexed way. He ought to have been used to such speeches, but a year's experi- ence of them, and twenty-five years' knowledge of his wife's nature, had not brought him any nearer the best way to deal with her. She was ill, — there was no doubt about it ; but she made herself worse than she was, — took a delight in playing the role of martyr. Many had wondered what the plain, solid, sensible Scotch doctor had seen in the girl he had married ; but there they were, man and wife, and Dr. Kirke had never known real happiness since his marriage day. They were not suited ; that was the beginning and the end. i need say no more. '*This room is too hot, Florence; and tliat 8 DOROTHEA KIRKE. i' chatterbox has wearied you with her tongue. Your head will never mend unless you keep quiet," said the Doctor. *' I think I shall send her off to Janet's for a couple of months. ** Bury the child with an old maid in a Scotch vilhige at Christmas time ! I wonder at you, James," said Mrs. Kirke in tlie same fretful tone. '* It would be most cruel to her, to say i.othing of me. Florrie is my only solace." If cr onlf/ one ! Involuntarily the Doctor turned away biting his lip and thinking of Dorothea, who was the very pillar and guitling light of the house, whose unselfish care and fore- thought for others made all who knew her marvel. But he kept his thought unspoken, and it was better so. *' The girls are dressing, I suppose ? " said Mrs. Kirke, presently. " There are strangers at The Court, Florrie tells me ; who are they, do you know ? " Mrs. Kirke's interest in all the country gossip was as keen as it had been when she was the gay, party-loving Florence Warren of Hartfield Park. " Some literary folk from Loudon, whom I fancy Lady Yorke wants Dorothea to know," said DOCTOR KIRKES DAUGHTERS. the Doctor. " Well, I must go and dross, 1 suppose 1 If you would compose that rest- less brain of yours, Florence, and lie still, not only physically but mentally, you would find yourself infinitely bett^^r." " It is easy for you to speak. No one knows what my trouble is except myself; but there will be rest soon enough, James — in the grave." " Tut, tut I " said the Doctor, rather irritably, and abruptly left the room. Not always could he bear with his wife, and to-night she seemed to be in a trying mood. Ho dressed leisurely, and when he came downstairs the carriage was at the door and his duul(!iiHure, much of pain, Fiilse words and sinilo.s to hide the dart lutciiiU'd for our neiglibour'H heart — All this we call society." HERE were a dozen guests in Lady Yorke's drawing-room tluit niglit, doing their best to amuse each other and to pass that stupid and interminable half-hour which precedes dinner. The dniwing-room at Dudley Court was characterised by her ladyship's admirers as a "love of a room," so aesthetic, and full of art. If a hideous blending of indescribable hues and incongruous designs make a harmonious and beautiful whole, then Lady Yorke's a3sthetic drawing-room was very beautiful indeed. But u 12 DOROTHEA KIRKE. there wore some who thoiinrht that the masaive and soberly elegant furnishings which in t es gone had satisfied the souls of the ladies o. ihe Court, were infinitely preferable to the artistic taste of Sir Reginald's wife. Lady Yorke lived in the very fore-front of fashionable life, dipped in all its manias, followed all its frivolities, and was consequently never content. She was undeniably a handsome and attractive woman. Her bosom friend and con- fidante, the Hon. Mrs. Egerton, watching her as she stood talking to Mr. Western in one of the windows, was obliged to confess with inward chagrin that she carried her age well, and that she did not present such an appearance, though she was ten years her junior. But the Hon. Mrs. Egerton had cares of a sordid nature which never touched Lady Yorke, and she had lived to see five children buried, and these things will leave their mark behind them. Turning from her scrutiny, presently, Mrs. Egerton crossed the room to the western window, where a lady sat with her head bent over an open book. " Dear Miss Fen wick, do I intrude ? I am in- aorlKTY. 13 RifTcrnMy l)oro(l by our woll-moanin^, but fn'^lit- fully iiisii)i(l, curate ; have juty on nie, and talk to me," she said in winning tones, and laying a jewelled hand carelessly on the lady's shoulder. She started and drew hack a little — a very little — as if she disliked the touch, and answered in a voice of exquisite sweetness, " I am afraid 1 shall continue the boring process, Mrs. Egerton, but I am quite willing to talk if you suggest a subject." Mrs. Efferton showed her faultless teeth in a' smile which was no smile after all. "Just as usual, Miss Fenwick, brusque and to the point — the privilege of genius I su})pose — eh?" Miss Fenwick turned her head away, and her lip curled; perhaps it was just as well she kept unuttered the thought in her mind. She was a middle-aged woman evidently, for her hair w\as abundantly streaked with grey, and there were deeply-drawn lines on her broad forehead, which told either of years or suffering. Her face was a striking one ; the features strongly marked to harshness; the eyes small, but keen and far- seeing ; the mouth too large for a woman's, and marked by masculine firmness and decision. In attire she was what feminine critics would call 14 nonoTHKA KIHKE. flowdy; niid hrr wlinlc n|)|H';ir{innc was plain and un.'it tractive in the (!xtrcnie. But tiiat unlovely casket contained a soul as high ahove that of the woman by her side as the sky ia above the earth ; a soul in which tlwre was no room for the miserable aims and petty weaknesses which occupied the minds and lives of so many of her sex ; and a heart wide enough and deep enough to feel for all the woes of poor humanity. She was sought after by Lady Yorke and otliers of her class because it was fashionable to know the first novelist of the day ; and because her society and conversation, with its delightful flavour of clever sarca m, kept guests in a country house from being bored — that was all. Not one of them could sound the depths of that grand nature, nor read between the lines ; but Mary Fenwick revealed herself to very few. "Have Lady Yorke's guests not all arrived yet, Mrs. Egerton ? " she asked presently, turning a serene face to the smiling dame beside her. *' No ; we wait, I fancy, for Doctor Kirke and his daughters. It is in very bad taste for him to be late." The emphasis on the him said very plainly fMil'i SOCIKTY. 15 tliat the Kirkcs, standinij; a few sto])s lower on tlio ladder, showed grctt4r-f)reHiiinj)ti(>!i in kj'cpifig the' higher ligiitsufew miniiteH from their dinner. *' Oh, y(»s, I remember Lady Yorkc spoke of them. She seems to have a great love for one of the young ladies." ** Yes, Dorothea, a very sweet girl ; good stylo too, considering what she is. I say, Miss Fenwiek, I think Mr. Clement just simply too charming. How clever he looks, and how artistically he dresses. One could easily know him to be some- thing of a higher level." Mrs. Egerton delivered herself of her enthusiastic speech with her eye-glass directed to the hearth- rug, where a slender individual, attired in a Amtastic suit of claret-coloured velvet, was holding converse languidly with his host, whose counten- ance wore an expression of hopeless stupidity. " Poor Sir Reginald, he knows nothing, absolutely nothing, about art ; could not tell a Titian from a Raphael, I believe ; it is easy to Bee Mr. Clement has taken him out of his depth. Just too teasing of him, isn't it ? " '* j\ir. Clement thinks the world was made for him to paint in, and unfortunately other people 16 DOROTHEA KIilKE. don't agree with him," said Miss Fenwick, drily ; whereat Mrs. Etrerton laujxhed a shrill little laugh, and tapped the authoress approvingly on the shoulder. ** You hit hard, Miss Fenwick ; it is quite refreshing to hear you. By-the-by, I quite forgot I came over purposely to tell you what a sweet book * On the Heights' is. I was quite in love with it ; but what a shame to make that poor Rachel Brand live unmarried till her death ! How could you be so cruel ? " Miss Fenwick coloured slightly, and her lips tightened. Some of my readers will know what an agony it was to her to listen to such words about the book over which she had travailed, and wrestled, and prayed with unutterable yearnings that it might approach at least near to her ideal, and that it might purify, and elevate, and lead heavenward those who read it. And it was a *' sweet book " — that was her reward ! " I am glad if it amused you, or wiled away an idle hour," she forced herself to say, in calm and pleasant tones. " It did ; but I don't mind telling you, Miss Fenwick — I know you like candid criticism — SOCIETY. 17 ^, drily ; 11 little ingly on is quite te forgot a sweet in love lat poor death ! her lips ow what ;h words led, and earnings er ideal, md lead t was a away an aim and ou, Miss ticism — that I was disappointed in it. Of conrf^o it is very fine; it reminded me of some of ^liss Brad don's best, — you have read 'Aurora Floyd'?" Miss Fenwick rose. " I do not like talking of my books, Mrs. Egerton. Shall w^e change the subject ?" " By all means," said Mrs. Egerton, glibly, d(-'lighted that her little shaft had gone home, for she was wickedly envious of the woman's genius. " I say, I am frightfully disappointed in Mr. Western. He is quite commonplace in conversa- tion. Not a hon mot or a remarkable saying one might carry away ever falls from his lips." Miss Fenwick smiled, now, a broad and amused smile ; and glanced in the direction of Robert Western with a changed softened look in her flashing eyes. " You are in a critical mood to-night, Mrs. Egerton," she said ; and presently Mrs. Egerton moved away to inflict herself on Mr. \¥estern. But he was too many for her, and in a moment was at Miss Fenwick's side. "What has the woman been saying to you, I\Iary '? " he asked, bending his honest grey eyes ou her face. 18 DOROTHEA KIRKE. "The old story, Robert. I write about the lioights, but I am i)aiii fully conscious that I am very far from them myself. Mush ! here are the late comers. Oh, how beautiful these girls are ; especially the tall one ! " The servant aimounced Dr. Kirke and his daughters, and Lady Yorke moved forward all smiles to greet them. " You are late, naughty child," she whispered to Dorothea. " But never mind, I will be good, and send you downstairs on Mr. Western's arm — an honour every lady in the room, my dear, is coveting." The next moment her ladyship had beckoned to Mr. Western, and he came forward, nothing loath. '* Allow me to introduce Mr. AVestern to you, Dorothea; though I think he needs no intro- duction,'* said her ladyship, bluntly. " Mr. Western, this is my darling child of whom I have so often spoken — Miss Dorothea Kirke. Mr. Western uttered some commonplace expression of pleasure, and offered his arm. Dorothea laid her hand upon it, and looked at him as she did so. SOCIETY. 19 Tie was a man past his early youth, and bearing on liis face the impress of hard study and deep tliinkino^. It was a fine face : it mi^iht even he called handsome; and it was, moreover, the face of a truly good man. "I am afraid you will find me a very indifferent cavalier, Miss Kirke; I am not accustomed to the society of ladies," he said, looking down into the fair, calm, Wvjmanly face, with a smile which made him look years younger. An answering smile stole to Dorothea's lips, and from that moment each was at home with the other. CHAPTER III. MARY FENWICK. "There is no sorrow I have thought more about than that — to love what is great and try to reach it, and yet to fail." '.-George Eliot. Hi OST people were disappointed in Robert Western. He was not a brilliant conversationalist, and his manner was so reserved as to cause remark. Yet he was quietly attentive to Miss Kirke at Lady Yorke's dinner- table ; and though no sustained conversation was carried on between them, there was sufficient interchange of remarks to make the society of each pleasant to the other. Miss Kirke was intensely amused listening to the lofty sentiments concerning literature and art being expressed by Mr. Clement, who sat opposite 20 MARY FENWICK. 21 to hor, with Mrs Egerton by his side. That lady listened to his remarks with a rapt attention and undisguised admiration, which must have been highly gratifying to him. ** I suppose it is the privilege of acknowledged genius to talk such utter nonsense ? " whispered Dorothea, unable any longer to restrain or conceal her amazement. Mr. Western's eyes met hers^ and then glanced across the table, while a peculiar smile touched his lips. Miss Kirke fancied she would not like to be the object of that smile. " Can I help you to some sherry ? " he said, coming back presently to his duties of cavalicT. "No, thanks; I never drink wine," answered Miss Kirke. " I. am glad you do not ; I have long since given up the use of stimulants," said Mr. Western. *' Indeed I I fancied it a necessity in the lives of literary people," Dorothea ventured to say. Mr. Western shrugged his shoulders. " It is a necessity if you make it one/* he said drily, and glancing again in the direction of the 22 DOROTHEA KIRKE* painter, who was helping himself libernlly from the decanter. ** I have tried it, Alias Kirke, and found it harmful. It produces a certain amount of energy while its influence lasts. Afterwards the mental powers sufier from sluggishness and stagnation. So, in the language of the vulgar, it doesn't pay. For hard-working people an hour's brisk walking in fresh air is worth all the stimu- lants in the world." ** / think so,** answered Dorothea. " What do you think of our neighbourhood — rather unin- teresting, is it not ? " "To me no English landscape is uninteresting. It is my calling to find beauty in the commonest things, and I generally succeed. How does life flow for you in Hartfield ? " ** Monotonously ; but I have many duties and cares at home, and time never hangs heavily on my hands." " I fancied looking at you that such was the case," said Mr. Western. " Will you excuse me if I say how very lovely your sister is ? It is refreshing to see her." Dorothea smiled, and glanced at Florrie's flushed face and sparkling eyes, which betrayed ■i' MARY FEN WICK. 23 r unin- that she found the curate much less insipid than Mrs. Egcrton had pronounced him to be. " Yes. They call her * The Flower of Hart- field,' " she said. " I am glad you think my sister pretty." Again Mr. Western's eyes rested very keenly on the beautiful refined face beside him. Dorothea did not dream what was his thought as he did so. Presently Lady Yorke rose, and the ladies followed her example. " I hope for a few minutes' chat upstairs, Miss Kirke," said Mr. Western, as she passed him ; and Dorothea answered with a smile, which betrayed that she re-echoed the hope. In the drawing-room the ladies grouped them- selves about the hearth, and fell to talking over feminine matters, in which the younger members appeared to have but a slight interest. Florence Kirke sat on a low chair, meditatively contemplat- ing her dainty slippers, and looking excessively bored. Dorothea listened for a few minutes to Lady Yorke and Mrs. St. Clair, the rector's wife, talking of servants, and then moved away to a corner of the room where a tempting ottoman stood in the shelter of a draught-screen. As if> u DOROTHEA KIRKE. rilie pafjsed one of the tables she picked up a book, and seating herself, opened it rather inditferentJy. But her inditierence vanished when she saw upon the title j^age the name of Mary Fenwick. In a moment she was engrossed, and became oblivious of everything, till a light hand touched her shoulders, and she looked up to see the authoress standing by her side looking down at her with a glance of deep interest in her pleasant eyes. " May I intrude ? I want to talk to you. I have been looking at you all the evening," she said, in the clearest sweetest tones of an exquisite voice. " Lady Yorke has not introduced us, but I heard your name — mine is Mary Fenwick." **I know," said Miss Kirke, pointing to the book in her hand, and making room on the ottoman, as she spoke. " I have not seen * On the Heights ' before. Miss Fenwick." "Have you not?" Miss Fen wick's hand closed over the book, and she gently removed it from Dorothea's knee. " Do you think me rude ? I believe I am a fool about my books. I am forty years old, ^liss Kirke, and I have been writing ^*or twenty years, and I am as shy about the MARY FENWICK. 25 tiling as «aiiy school-girl about her first love. Don't be vexed with me. Do let us talk. I am not afraid to say to you that the couvcraatioii yonder is a weariness to the flesh." Dorothea smiled. The words were only the expression of her own thought. She was ch.irined with this woman ; and now sitting near to her, watching the expression of her face, and the changeful light in her eyes, she marvelled that she should have thought her plain. "I know all about you, Miss Kirke, from our hostess, who seems to love you very dearly. You probably know nothing about me." "Only by name and through your books," answered Miss Kirke ; " which have been to me a stimulus and incentive to all good ; nay, I ivUl say ;t — I owe you a debt of gratitude which I am glad to be able to acknowledge personally." Mary Fenwick looked pleased. '* I accept that as it is offered, knowing its value. Miss Kirke," she said. "I am glad I have seen you ; glad I shall be able to carry away from Hartfield a memory of your face and kind words." " You have had a pleasant visit ? " said Dorothea, inquiringly. 26 DOROTHEA KIRKE. Mary Fenwick shrngored hor fihouklorg slightly, and looked towards the group on tlie hearth, with a little sarcastic smile playing about her mouth. ** Well, yes — as pleasant as could be expected under the circumstances. Of course, you know, I am not here on the same footing, f'^r instanro, as the Bishop of York's daughter, or Lady Cecil Maine. I am asked to Dudley Court, and other stately habitations, because I am useful for entertaining the guests in a country house. They regard me as a kind of curiosity, something in the same way as children regard a performing bear. Yes, my dear ; it is absolutely true," she added, laughing at Dorothea's blank amaze- ment. " Why do you come ? " asked Miss Kirke. The laughter died out of Mary Fenwick's eyes, and a somewhat bitter expression took its place. " We daren't refuse ; at least I can't afford to do so. It is people like these who buy and read my books ; and besides, experience of all sorts and conditions of men is money to me ; so I come, — despicable, isn't it ? " pay. (( MARY FENWICK. 27 shoulflorg ip on the playing I expected ou know, • instance, ady Cecil and other iseful for ry house. JomethincT erformins: true," she k amaze- Cirke. Fenwick's I took its afford to and read ' all sorts ne; so I li ti It must be very unploptsant," said Miss Kirke. That is a mild word. It is agony to mo at H( I much •h times. However, l extract e more, amusement out of them than they do out of me. I know you are shocked ; but it is done all the world over, that and worse. Thank God every day of your life. Miss Kirke, that you have not to earn your bread by the sweat of your brain, to which that of the brow is child's i)lay. If we have a larger gift we have a heavy price to pay." " I have often envied you, Miss Fenwick, and pictured you a rich, and happy, and all-satisfied woman." Miss Fenwick nodded. " That is the common idea. I do not believe there is a happy literary woman in the world, though there are rich ones. I know I am not one. I have a home which swallows all my resources. Do not think 1 grudge it — God forbid that I should ; on the contrary, it is my chief joy that I can provide for it, and I am more than repaid." Miss Kirke sat silent a little, not knowing whether to pity or dislike this strange woman 23 DOROTHEA KIRKE. who spoke with such bitter and pasaionnte eariiostucHS. ** You are very unlike your books," ahc naid at last. "Probably, but my whole soul is hore," snid Mary Fonwick, lightly touching the cover of "On the Heights." ** But I cpicHtion if after all it i.s wise to make one's soul public property. TIkm'c are only a few, a very few, who are interested beyond the mere story i)art of a novel. I to(>k five years to write this book, Miss Kirke, and it was finished and sent to press with a miserable consciousness that I had not attained the ideal for which 1 had struggled. It is good, they say, but it is not what I meant it to be. I suppose it will be thus to the end of life ; we are all striving after what we cannot attain. Thank God, all these longings, these indescribable cravings after somethinor hi<]jher and fuller ^tA Diviner than anything we have here, will have their satisfaction in heaven. It is that idea w^hich makes it so desirable a place to me." Dorothea sat very still drinking in the impassioned words, fearing to move lest she should break the spell cast over her. MARY FEN WICK. 29 At tlmt momont Miss Fcnwic^k liarl form>tto!i hicr, juid she know it. ** What have I hccii H.iying'?" she asked (juite 8U(hlenly, breakin<^ tlie Ihrief silence. "I beg your pardon, Miss Kirk(;; I fear you think me a harmless lunatic, do you ? No. Well, let us talk of something else. My woman's tongue delights to wag sometimes. What a lovely child your sister is I She is younger than you, 1 fancy ? " " Two years," answered Dorothea, not sorry to change the subject. Miss Fenwick had already given her sutHcient to think over for days. " Is that all ? You look older. Yes, she is pretty, but you are beautiful. I suppose you know it. It is a strange sensation for a plain woman like me just to look at you, and wonder what it must be to be so pleasant to the eyes." A very slight colour rose in Dorothea's cheeks. ** Nobody ever called me beautiful except my father out of his love for me," she said, laughing a little. " You are very unlike all the women I have met.** ** And therefore to be avoided, eh ? No. I see t have not quite turned you against me. 30 DOROTHEA KIRKE. Forget all I have said, or regard it as thf^ wandering of an over-driven brain. Here are the gentlemen. Excuse me, Miss Kirkc, but just look at the change on the pretty face of that sister of yours. Au I'evoir." <^ 9 CHAPTER IV. THE BEGINNING. "They want no guests : they needs must be Each other's own best company."— -Longfellow. 'R. WESTERN glanced round the room when he entered it, and then made straio'ht for the corner where iw^^ Miss Kirke sat. Bat Lady Yorke V intercepted him by the offer of a cup of tea, poured by her own fair bnnds into one of the marvels of the potter's art, which were the envy of all her friends. ]\Ir. Western accepted it, stood chatting till it was cold, and then carried it across to Miss Kirke. " Will you accept it ? — this is my stimulant," he said ; and Dorothea took it at once, with a word of thanks. She put her lips to it, and then set it down on the tinv table beside her. ^ , ir-h m M^ am^, ,.*-««.^.4« 32 DOROTHEA KIRKE. " Why, it is as cold as can be I " She laughed, whereat Mr. Western looked rather ashamed. " Of course it must be ; I stood talking to Lady Yorke after she gave it me. Let me get you some more. You see I spoke within bounds when I said I was an indifferent cavalier." By-and-by he returned with the cup replen- ished ; and while Miss Kirke sipped it leisurely, he lifted the book she had been reading when he interrupted her. " I am going to ask Lady Yorke for a loan of tliat book, Mr. Western," she said. " It is Miss Fen wick's ; of course you have read it." Robert Western turned over the pages almost with tenderness, Dorothea thought ; and then sprang into her mind a sudden idea that perhaps the two were more than friends. ** Yes ; I have read it more than once. It is a splendid book, and its author is a splendid woman." "A little odd, I think," said Dorothea; and Mv. Western looked at her suddenly and sharply to see whether the words implied more than they expressed ; but her clear eyes met his truthfully, and he knew that she spoke simply and sincerely. "Odd? Well — perhaps she is. I do not THE BEGINNING. 33 think so, but I have known her very long. Have you had some conversation with her ? " '' Yes ; quite a long talk. Is she very unhappy, Mr. Western ? " Kobert Western laughed. "No. She labours for others consciontiouply, lovingly, and unselfishly ; and, as she tenfli<^s in these pages, that is the secret of true happiness. Odd," you said ; " well, perhaps she is," repeated Mr. Western, slowly ; " but I would to God more women were odd in the same way ! " Dorothea sat still and said nothing. Shall 1 tell it ? There was just a little impatience in her mind. I think that word best expresses her feeling ; a kind of soreness that plain-faced, blunt- mannered Mary Fenwick should arouse such enthusiasm ir the most brilliant essayist of his time. Again assisted by his keen perceptions, Mr. Western divined her unspoken thought. " Let me tell you a little about her. Miss Kirke, in case you lay zeal without knowledge to my charge. I became acquainted first with Miss Fenwick twenty years ago, when she was fresh from a Parisian boarding school, and I was a lad at Harrow. There was no thought of book-writ- 34 DOHOTJIEA KIRKE. ing in either of our minds at that tin^e. Her father was a medical man in Surrey ; and shortly after her return from Paris she became engaged to his assistant, one of your handsome men with little brains and less heart ; nevertheless he won hers, and she was happy. I can remember yet the sunshine on her face T/hen he was by. I have not seen it often these many years. The next summer her younger sister, who had been in Paris witn her, came home also. She was the beauty of the family, and the assistant speedily trans- ferred his affections from the elder to the younger. I need not enter into details ; it is sufficient that they were married and went to settle near London, where Willis had secured a second-rate practice. Dr. Fenwick was so furiously angry that he never saw his daughter afterwards. She did not live very long, and her two motherless children she left in Mary's care. After his wife's death Willis went abroad, and has not been heard of since. If he is alive he has forgotten his children's existence evidently, for they live still with their Aunt Mary in London." *' She spoke as if she had a large household/' said Miss Kirke. THE HKCIXXTNG. 35 "Yes, thore are other two — lier wiflowecl mother and an invalid 1)rotlior ; all these Alis8 Fenwick supports with her pen. By-the-by, she found her gift junt when life was at its darkest ; and it saved her, — for if ever a woman loved, truly and whole-heartedly, she loved Willis." Dorothea's eyes were strangely tender, and she looked with a new interest at the face of the authoress. She knew the meaning of those lines on the broad forehead now. "Thank you for telling me," she said softly. " I do not wonder that you reverence her above women." ** It was a good thing for the world and for me that she did not marry Willis," said Mr. Western. " Why for you ? " asked Dorothea. " Because without her I should have been nothing. I have not a feminine relation in the world, and she has been to me mother, sister, and friend all in one." "How beautiful ! " said Dorothea, involun- tarily. " What a blessing such a friendship must be to you both I " " It is. I fear I weary you, Miss Kirke," said ^1 36 dorothe;v kirke. Robert Western ; and somehow Dorothea could not meet the honest grey eyes quite so fearlessly. " Oh, no ; I am deeply interested. We in Hartfield have not many opportunities like this ; our lives are necessarily monotonous : and except when The Court is occupied, there is literally nothing to disturb the tenor of our ways." " Do you never go in sear^.h of pastures new ?" asked Mr. Western. The slightest possible shade of surprise crossed Dorothea's face. " Oh, no ; my mother is an invalid, you know, and I have to fill her place. Five years ago I went to Scotland to visit my father's sister. That is the extent of my travels. 1 have never been to London." " It seems almost incredible," said Mr. Western, " Well, there is a revelation in store for you. I have travelled much at home and abroad, but I never saw anything to equal London. A breath of pure air, and a change like this is very grate- ful to me ; but I always return to the city glad that my lot is cast in it. It is a fountain which never runs dry, an ocean whose depths never can be sounded. Sometimes the intensity of liie in THE BEGINNING. 87 Ys new r Lonflon, and my utter inability even to compre- hend or even to try to think it out, oppresses me hke a nightmare. My heart is in London ; it is my study, my " " So sorry to interrupt what appears to be so interesting a conversation," said Lady Yorke's smooth and well- modulated tones at Mr. Western's elbow. " But, Dorothea, my sweet child, I have promised that my guests shall hear you sing. Mr. Western, you must not be angry with me, but I must positively steal her away." " I do not know how I can sing before so many people. Lady Yorke," said Miss Kirke ; but' she rose at once. There was no nonsense about her — she could sing, and never refused or required to be pressed to do so. Yet there was no affecta- tion nor vanity, nor ostentatious display of her gift. It was given her for use, and she used it, that was all. Miss Kirke crossed the room with quiet and graceful step, opened the piano, and began to play. Her touch was exquisite ; but she was only seeking her melody ; while singing, she scarcely touched the instrument. I cannot describe Dorothea's singing ta you. 38 DOUOTIIKA KTRKE. I liavo lionrd it, jukI it 1)n)iin'lit t(\'irR to my ejo^. Thvtv. was intiMisc silence when the tones of that full, elear, supiu-hly swiu't V(Mee souniled throuu;li the room ; evoii the most iVivoloiis heart was stirred by its ])ower, and those with deejxT feel- ings were spell- hound. She s;it (piite still for a few seconds when she had iinished, and then moved slowly ovvr to her (H)rner again, iu)t seem- ing to hear the buzz of ])raise and flattering words being show(U'ed upon her. Dr. Kirke looked ju'oud juul pleased ; but Flol'enee was ])ut out. TIkmv had not been sufHcient att(Mition })aid to her that night ; none but the curate and a disagreeable old baronet had spoken a pleasant word to her. By pleasant Florence meant complimentary, and compliments were the honey of her life. Somehow after Miss Kirke's sins^inc^ con versa- tion did not liow quite so glibly, and presently the guests began to exhibit symptoms of weari- ness. Dr. Kirke was the first to go. He had ample excuse, for there might be a dozen messages lying for him at home. Before he left the room with his daughters, Robert Western came to Dorothea's side. THE BKCINNING. 39 "May I say wliat a surprisfi and iinspo;ikjil>l> London e down. I feel so be long .. Is it your head or your back which troubles you ? Can I make your pillows straight for you ? " " Never mind, it is all right. Read to me, Dorothea, something out of the Bible. When it comes to this nothing else will avail." Dorothea lifted the Bible from the side-table, and began to read in clear, sweet, distinct tones the beautiful fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. In the middle of her reading her mother fell asleep. Then she rose softly, laid down the book, and drawing the window curtain to subdue the red light of the sunset, stole out of the room. " Has papa come in, Jane," she asked the maid she met on the stair. " I thought I heard hira come." " Yes, Miss Kirke, he has just come. " Thanks. Step lightly as you pass mamma's door, Jane ; she is asleep," said Dorothea, and passed downstairs. She found her father looking over his letters in the library. " Papa, I wish you would write- to Aunt Janet and ask her to come to Hartfield for a few days," she said quite suddenly. " Why, my dear ? " he asked in surprise. " Because you know mamma is not any better, 52 DOROTHEA KIllKB. and I feel so alone and weary sometimes, and I am afraid I shall not be able to bear up to the very end," said Dorothea; and then, to her father's surprise, she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. Doctor Kirke was greatly surprised and dis- tressed. It was so unlike Dorothea, but he guessed it was only the overflowing of a heart oppressed by sorrow and many cares. "My daughter, we have been forgetting you this while," he said with infinite tenderness. "You have been too much alone. Yes, I will send for Aunt Janet at once." "Thank you, papa," she said, gratefully. " She makes me feel so strong and brave always. She is so different from any one I have ever met. I feel as if all my cares were rolling away at the very thought of having Aunt Janet here." Dr. Kirke wrote to his sister that night, and when her reply reached him two days later she was already on her way to Hartfield. Dorothea only heard the news of her coming when her father came home to luncheon at one, and by six o'clock Aunt Janet would be with them. A light like the shining of the sun stole into her face, ' AUNT JANET. 53 and she went oflf with a glad heart, and willing happy hands, to make ready the room looking out upon the orchard, which had been her aunt's favourite during the only visit she had ever paid to Hartfield House. That done, Dorothea went to apprise her mother of the impending arrival. The subject had to be broached gently ; the slightest excitement now sent the invalid off into violent hysterics, which might be fatal in their results. So Dorothea came round to it very gently ; but when her mother comprehended at length what she was telling her, she looked angry and annoyed. " What 's bringing Janet Kirke here just now ? Is it to pry upon me ? " she said sharply. " I don't make so much show of religion perhaps, but I 'm just as prepared for another world as she is." ** Hush, mamma ! " said Dorothea, laying her cool firm hand with infinite gentleness on the hot forehead. " Aunt Janet will be a great help and comfort to us all. She knows so much about trouble and sickness, and I sometimes fear I am not just so good a nurse as might be." *' You do well enough," said her mother, ungra- ciously. " But of course you 've grown tired of 54 DOROTHEA KIRKR. it — I can't complain. Consideration is not to be expected from young people, even for a mother in time of trouble." Dorothea's lips twitched just a little, but there was added tenderness in her touch, increased gentleness in her voice, when she spoke. ** Dear mamma, you know anything I can do for you is an unspeakable joy to me, but I have not been so well of late — I am not well enough now to give you the attention you require. I knew you would not bear a stranger near you, so I asked papa to send for Aunt Janet." "You look the picture of health, I'm sure," said Mrs. Kirke, petulantly ; but the sudden fall- ing of a tear upon her hand made her raise her eyes swiftly to her daughter's face. " Never mind me, Dorothea ; I just say any- thing. I sometimes think my senses are leaving me altogether," she said with sudden gentleness. " God knows where I would have been without you, my child; in my grave, probably, years ago. )} Dorothea bent down, and kissed her mother ; that rare caress meant a very great deal, and her mother knew it. AUNT JANET. 55 18 not to ' a mother but there increased • I can do it I have 1 enough quire. I tear you, ra sure," iden fall- raise her say any- i leaving itleness. without Yi years mother ; and her " Have you got a room ready for Aunt Janet, and have you ordered something nice for dinner? " asked Mrs. Kirke presently, with all the old fussi- ness which so often made Dorothea's life a burden to her in days gone past. She could not trust her daughter to do all that was necessary, but treated her as a child, or as one might treat an inexperienced and awkward servant-girl. " Yes, mamma ; everything is ready," said Dorothea, cheerfully. "And now I must go and change my dress for Aunt Janet. I shall not be many minutes." "Will you not?" The sick woman cast her eyes up to her daughter's face with a strange wistful look, which Dorothea never forgot. "Very well. Just open the window a little and let the wind blow in. There is wind, isn't there, to-day ? I heard it among the trees. I feel so strange to-day, Dorothea, I can't tell you. When is Florence coming, did you say ? " " I did not say she was coming, mamma ; she was here only on Tuesday. It is Aunt Janet who is coming to-night," Dorothea explained. " 0\\ ! yes, I forgot — yes, Janet Kirke. I never 56 DOROTHEA KIKKE. ii;()t on well with her ; I suppose because she is Scotch. But she is a good woman — so your father says. Well, well, run and dress ; we must show her all respect, for your father's sake. I 'm going to sleep, I think my eyes are heavy. Don't be long, Dorothea." Dorothea left the room and rang the bell for the housemaid to remain in Mrs. Kirke's dressing- room, out of sight, in case she required anything. Then she made a hasty toilet, ran into Aunt -billet's room once more to see if there was nothinor ]acking, then down to the dining-room to see that the table was right, and finally came back to see her mother. She was asleep. Looking at her face, a great and strange fear stole into the girl's heart. She had seen sufficient of death among her father's poorer patients to know his harbingers. As she stood there holding her hand to her heart to still its quick throbbing, she heard the opening of the hall-door and the bustle of an arrival downstairs, and stole from the room, closing the door gently, so that the noise below might not awaken her mother. Looking over the banisters she saw her Aunt standing by her trunk, looking expectantly AUNT JANET. 57 luse she is —so your ; we must Eike. I 'n y. Don't le bell for } dressinir- anything, nto Aunt IS nothing ►m to see ame back e, a great rt. She |r father's As she t to still g of the 'Vnstairs, gently, ken her saw her ctantly rounci, and in a moment she was beside hor, ith h about her neck and her head d« arms upon her shouhler. " Aunt Janet, dear auntie, I think my heart will l)reak I " she said, brokenly. " Hush, my dear ! just come in here," said Aunt Janet ; and pushing open the lil)nny door, drew her niece in and shut it again behind her. Tlien Dorothea stood up and looked at the dear face and figure with loving eyes. There was no- tliin2 strikinj^ about either of them. Janet Kirke was a very ordinary woman to look at. She was forty-five years old, and looked her age and more. Her hair was grey and curled all round her head, as it had done when she was bonny Janet Kirke of Elie, five and twenty years ago. Many changes these years had brought ; and many tribulations had stolen the lustre from the bright grey eyes, and the bloom from the rounded cheek, and planted some big broad lines on her brow. She was as like her brother as she could well be, therefore there was close resemblance between her and Dorothea. There was something more ; there was a strong, deep, passionate love — such as does not often exist between women. 58 DOROTHEA KIRKE. Looking at her, Dorothea felt an unutterable sense of peace and rest steal over her weary heart — she was so strong and self-reliant, and steadfast, and yet so tender, and womanly, and gentle ; her very presence was a cup of strength at all times, but especially in hours of trouble. " Now, bairn, that I get a look at you, I see it 's time I was here," said Aunt Janet, presently, with her sweet Scotch accent. "How is your mother to-day ? " " Very ill, Aunt Janet. I think it will not be very long. I am so thankful you have come. I feel as if I could just sit down and fold my hands, and say to myself, All will be right now auntie has come." A smile, very like Dorothea's own, stole to the elder woman's lips, but her eyes were very grave. " Come then, Dorothea, take me upstairs ; for if your mother is so ill, I must not waste any time. I know such a change on your father, lassie ; he looks ten years older. You are changed too, and that foohsh, misguided sister of yours has married an old man for his gear ? Is she happy, think you ? " " No," replied Dorothea, with a si^h. " But I ; AUNT JANET. 59 anttcrable eary heart steadfast, intle ; her all times, yon, I see presently, kV is your vill not be s come. I my hands, tow auntie iole to the sry grave. |irs ; for if any time, assie ; he too, and ,s married |py, think will tell you all about Florence again. I '11 need to run up to mamma now, in case she awakes. You know the v/ay to the orchard-room. It has been dear to me ever since you occupied it before — five years ago ; how long it seems ! " ** Ay, it is a long time never to see one's kith and kin; but there's a reason for everything," replied Aunt Janet ; and they went upstairs to- gether. Dr. Kirke and his sister had to dine alone ; for Mrs. Kirke, out of a sudden whim, would not allow Dorothea to leave her, even for half-an-hour. When the meal was over, Aunt Janet came up- stairs and tapped softly at the sick-room door. Dorothea opened it, and admitted her ; then stole downstairs to keep her father company while he enjoyed his after-dinner pipe — the only one he permitted himself daily. (( But I CHAPTEH VIL ADRIFT. / ', . « . It is an awful aiffht To see a soul just set adrift On that drear voya^je, from whose night 1 he ominous shadows never lift." — LowELti. ANET KIRKE shut the door, and going over to the bed took her siscer-in-law's thin hand in hers, and bent her brave compassionate eyes on her worn face. " Florence, it is a sore heart to me to see you like this." " Is it? How are you, Janet? Sit down, will you ? Is Dorothea away ? " " Yes ; away down to her father for a little. 1 can do anything, or everything for you. For, remember, when you lived in the little house on the hill, and the children had scarlet fever, what a good nurse I was." 60 61 wi tr E; till ADRIFT. 61 Mr^. Kirke norlded. Then Janet sat down, and a little silenne ensued. Janet had no great love for her brother's wife, and his marriage with her had been a sore trial to her heart. She had only been twice to Hartfield, and Mrs. Kirke had travelled once to the quiet little town on the Fifeshire coast to see her sister-in-law, and that was all they had seen of each other. But Janet could be gentle with tlie weaknesses and failings of others ; many sorrows had taught her that ; and, besides, she was drawn to her brother's wife because she was Dorothea's mother. Well, Janet, you are getting old. Your hair is greyer than mine. Am I much changed ? " said Mrs. Kirke, presently. ** Yes ; I would be deceiving you if I said you weren't changed, Florence." ** I don't want you to say I 'm not," said Mrs. Kirke, in her querulous way ; '* I '11 never be better again, I suppose. James will have told you my life cannot be prolonged many days now. » " I can see it," said Janet Kirke. Then she bent her head forward and looked .straight into 62 DOROTHEi». KIRKE. her sister-in-law's fare with cleiir, earnest, questioning eyes : " J^lorence, how is it with you ? " Her meaning was unmistakable ; but the sick woman did not at once answer the direct question, " May I ask you something, Janet ? " she said. " Assuredly ; ask me anything," Janet answered — adding under her breath, " God guide my tongue to-night." " Don't you think people who live good Christian lives, who go regularly to church, and read their Bibles, and v/ho look after their homes, and brin^ up their children well, are sure to g< to heaven when they die ? " " God help me to be faithful I " prayed Janet Kirke again, and then answered quietly but decidedly — " There is but one way to heaven, Florence — by the Cross of Christ. The Bible says all our righteousness is as filthy rags ; and that except through Christ no man can enter the kingdom. ' Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.' These are Bible words, Florence." " 1 know ; but do you mean to say that all ADRIFT. 63 performaTice of Christian duty will count for nothing, and that I, for instance, must get to heaven by the same means as perhaps some vile sinner who has spent a lifetime in the devils service, and only repents at the end ? " ** There is only one road, Florence. The simple act of faith, belief in Jesus Christ and accept- ance of Him as a Saviour ; one means of graco for saint and sinner alike. Do you believe it, Florence ? " " I can't sec it ; it is all dark, somehow. I hope I '11 go to heaven, Janet. I have a right to hope. I have never been very wicked ; I have never done any great wrong to anybody ; and I have done a great deal in my time for the poor and for missions, and other good works." " ' Except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of God,'" said Janet Kirke, solemnly. " You must look away from self to Christ. No man or woman can be saved by works. Without faith works are dead.*' " I don't know what you are talking about," said Mrs. Kirke, impatiently. ** Do you think you would go to heaven if you were to die to-night ? " 64 DOROTHEA KIRKE. " I hnoiv ^ would," roplied Jriiict, her face kind- ling ; " because I believe that Jesus died for me, and so I hioiv that my Redeemer liveth and has prepared a place for me." Mrs. Kirke sliook her head. " That sounds like presumption. When you f'ome to lie where I am to-night, your assurance will not be so perfect. I am just trusting in God's kindness. As a Father of love He will not be so cruel as to shut the gate of heaven against me just because I cannot grasp that one thing. I believe Jesus died for us all. The Bible says so ; but it does not affect me individually.'* " But, Florence, that is just it. The redemp- tion ought to affect you as an individual. Christ died for you just as much as if there was not another sinner requiring salvation except your- self," said Janet, laying her hand on the trans- parent one on the coverlet to enforce her words. The sick woman shook her head. " I don't understand. Is Dorothea there ? I want her. I believe it will be all right, Janet ; I have not much fear. No, I dont want to talk any more about it, for you can't help me, I see. King for Dorothea 1 " ADRIFT. 65 ice kirifl- for me, and litis hen you ssurance sting in will not 1 against le thing, ble says y" redemp- Christ was not pt yoiir- le trans- r words. there ? :, Janet ; t to talk .6, I see. Janet was ol)liged to oboy her. The slightost resistance to her whim brought on liysterics. She had never Uvqu a woman of sound nervous temperament, and now it was wrecked entirely. When Dorothea came, Janet escaped to her own room, and kneeling down there prayed as she had never prayed before, wrestling witli God for the poor soul drifting out upon an unknown and terrible sea. The household retired early to rest that niglit, because Aunt Janet was very weary. They were to watch by turns at Mrs. Kirke's bedside, the Doctor taking the first part of the night. She lay dozing quietly for more than an hour, while he sat near the bed watching her and pondering many things. His professional eye did not deceive him, and he knew the end was coming very near. He, too,, was in uncertainty regard- ing her hope for eternity. An earnest, happy- hearted Christian himself, he had yearned un- speakably to see his wife one with him in Christ; but neither his prayers nor his plain and faithful dealing with her had been blessed with success. He was no believer in the larger hope with which so many deceive themselves, but was convinced F (j6 DOHOTIIEA KTIIKE. that only acceptance of the Saviour on earth can secure the inheritance of bclieverH in lieaviin. It was of these tliinked full 3ok. It am not ITHEK? CHAPTER VIII. TWILIGHT TALK. "Streti<,'t}i is born In the deep silence of long-Hull'iiiing hearts, Not amidst joy." EPTEMBER wore to its close ; Octo1)er swept in with a wild gust of nortli wind, presaging an early winter, and still Janet Kirke remained at Hart- field House. They would not let her go, and she was not sorry to stay. In spite of the love and companionship of many outside friends, her life in her far-off Scotch home was necessarily very desolate ; therefore it was an unspeakable joy to her to be beside her brother, and his daughter, whom she loved next best on earth. It was well for Dorothea that she had such a friend durinij the weeks succeedinir 67 r.8 DOKOTIIKA KIKKR. li(M' niotlior's (IcNith. Few of us but have oxpori- onccd tlijit t(MTil)lo sense of luiviiiij notliiiiijj to do which comes wlien one who lias h)ng reijuired our care is caMed away ; jmhI had Dorothea, heen left ah)ne to realise that straiiu'e desolation, it is })rol)al)le that she would haA'e hecoiue ill herself. As it was, the sweet, glad, strong compaiiionshi)) of her iiunt kept her from brooding over the inevitable, and from thinking too much of self. reo])le said that the death of his wife had greatly changed Dr. Kirke ; and pointing to his grey hairs and bent shoulders, the llartfield gossips whispered how he had loved his wife. None knew that the burden of pain left by that midnight cry was almost greater than he eould bear. He never spoke of it even to his sister ; but it w^as the hopelessness of his sorrow which had aged and changed him so surely and rapidly. In the subdued light of one of those gr(>y October afternoons, Dorothea was sitting in the drawing-room with her aunt. They had just endured a visit of condolence from Lady Yorke, who had come from Scotland to the Court, bring- inix with her her usual train of guests. Lady Yorke did not patronise the Kirkes so ^\\ th tc ni TWIMCfIT TAI.K. GO \ cxpon- [hin^ to riMjuircd oil, it i.4 iiionsliij) )vor tlic of self. A'ifo li.'ul lijf to luH Jai-tfii'ld liis wif*\ , by tliat he colli cl s sister ; w which rapidly. )se grey r in th(3 ad just Yoike, , briiig- irkes so t I pnlf)al)ly now ainco Florence, had l)ornmo Tiady Wyvillc. Sh(5 had hccn (compelled to rc(*('iv(5 th(^i:i on (Mpial ground. She was very elliisive and tender, and synn)athetic to the motlierless girl ; nevertheless Dorothc^a was not sorry to see her go. "Oh, Aunt Janet, if p(H)[)le would oidy let us alone ! " she cried, when the roll of F^ady Yorker's carriage-wheels died away in the distaiuje. iMiss Kirke the elder smiled and shook her head. *' People will not let us alone, my dear, in my youth, when many sorrows came upon me, [ used to wish that as much as you d(> now ; hut hy-and-by I got used to noisy sympathy, and even got some comfort out of it, after a while." " Many sorrows, Aunt Janet ? " repeated Doro- thea, qucstioningly. " I thought grandpapa's and grandmamma s deaths were all the sorrows you had had." Janet Kirke laid down her sewinij, and there came upon her face that strange far-oti' ex[)ression which we see only on the faces of those who live in memories of the past. " Let me tell you, Dorothea. When I was a girl younger than you I had not a care in the world. We were liviner at Kincaid then, and 70 DOROTHEA KIRKE. your father was at collooro in Edinbiirprli, nomin^ homo every week-end, generally with one or two elass-mates with him, wiio nijuU^ plenty of stir at the farm. Oh, what happy Sundays I 'vc aeen at Kincaid 1 My heart warms even yet thinking of them. We had a boat — it hiy at yon little ereek just below the field where the cows feecause death had stolen so many from me. Everybody was kind to me, and by-and-by folk began somehow to come to me in all kinds of troubles, and 1 had other folks' bairns to look after sometimes, and my bit house and garden to TWILir.HT TALK. 73 j kopp f'uV 111(1 so Jill t\\{'. I'avcllcd tlir(\'i(ls m)t to<'(.'tlu'r till there wiis a web for ni(3 to clint? to ; and tlien when (iod saw, I sii])|)ose, that I needed a little stren^i^theninij,-, lie sent you to me that blessed summer, and 1 'vc been a dill'erent woman ever since." " Am r so very much to you, Aunt Janet ? " asked Dorothea, hniniiiir forward in her chair and looking v/itli wistful, earnest eyes into her aunt's face. " I love you as dearly as a mother could, lassie," answered Aunt Janet, and risinix took tho fair, earnest, womanly face in her hands and kissed it once very fondly. Just then there came a tap to the door, and the housemaid entered with a letter for her mistress. Dorothea looked at it curiously, the small, firm, neat handwriting was not familiar to her, and it bore the London post- mark. It could not be from Florence, who was already on her way to a warmer clime, with her fidgety and selfish husband. She broke the seal, and before reading the letter turned it over to see the signature. A bright smile touched her lij)s when she saw ** Mary Fenwick." Thus it ran — 74 DOROTHEA KIRKE. •* 23 Ormond Square, Cresswell Road, S.W., "14 I the look in the oyes which ^lary Fen wick bent upon the tired and sorrowful face under the mournuig bonnet. ** Thank you," Dorothea replied ; and the feel- ing of shyness which had come upon her when nearing her jourrxcy's end, at the thought tliat she was about to meet so manv stniniiers, some- how vanished at once and for ever. *' Of course you are tired," said Miss Fen wick, 77 78 DOROTHEA KIRKE. signing to a porter to take the lady's luggage. " We have a long way to go, but as we would need to wait for a train at the other station, we sliall just drive all the way. Come ! " bhe drew Dorothea's hand within her arm, and led her across to the cab-stance, and in a few minutes Lliey were being whirled rapidly through the streets. ** It was so good of you to come, Miss Kirke — so unexpectedly good," said Mary Fenwiek. " I scarcely dared hope for it ; but I repeat it, I am very glad to see ^-ou. Had you no hesitation in trusting such a stranger ? " " None ! noi had papa : yet he is Scotch," laughed Dorothea, feeling somehow a^ if she had left ail care behind, and was to be at rest and happy for a time. ** He trusted you at once, as i did." A strange softening r>tole into Mary Fenwick's deep eyes, and she answered quietly — "It shaJi be my care that neither you nor Dr. Kirke shall ever regret that trust. Well, do you feel any cr.riooitv about the members of my household ? " " Mr. Western told me how many were under THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 79 Inornrnore. ^e would tion, we irm, and a a few through Kirko — pk. " I it, I am at ion in Scotch," she had est and Dnce, as nwick's ^ou nor ell, do of mv under your roof- tree, but I have not thouii^ht much about them. It was in you all my 1io|k»s of London centred," answeicd Dorothea, smiling a little. " We are a trio of women-folk at present, my nephew being at school. You wnll like my mother, and my niece will not trouble you much. 81ie has but one interest in life, and that is Kosamund Willis's pretty face," said Miss Fenwick, drily. " I have one domestic, who has been with me since I set up housekeeping on my own account, and that is all. Do you feel nervous ? " " Not at all. How these lights gleam on the river, and what a noise there is I " said Dorothea. ** Do you grow accustomed to that continuous din after a time ? " " Yes ; but where we live it is as quiet as in Hartfield," replied Miss Fenwick. " You w^ill see London in all its phases by day and night, but I am going to make you rest at home for a day or two."' " I shall be obedient," laughed Dorothea. " I have trusted you so far that I shall just let myself lie in your hands." 80 DOROTHEA KIKKE. *' Is it your nature to trust readily ? " inquired Miss Fenwick. " As a rule, no. When I do, it is with my whole heart," answered Dorothea, and then there folh)\ved a long silence. *' Here we are ? " exclaimed Miss Fenwiek, when the cab turned into what appeared to Dorothcu, to be a very quiet and retired square. " Tea will be waiting, i fancy. We are very old- fashioned folk. We din e at two, and take tea at six. I do not readily accommodate myself to the ways of society when I am a\vay from my own home." In answer to the cabman's vioorous rinoj at the bell of No. 23, the door was thrown wide open, and Dorothea was ushered into a large, well- lighted lobby, tastefully furnished and spotlessly clean. *' Just come upstairs at once ; there is a fire in your room., ma'am," said the domestic, pleasantly, while lier mistress was dismissing the cabman ; and taking Miss Kirke's wraps she preceded hei upstairs, and ushered her into a large, pleasiiiit bed-chamber, in which a bright fire burned cheerily, throwing a ruddy gleam on all the pretty appointments of the room. THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 81 quired :li my L there nwick, red to square, ry old- L at six. e ways home." r at the i open, well- tlessly fire in antly, jnian ; ed hei oasc.nt burned pretty LS Dorothea approac] cd the fire with a delicious feeling of rest stealing over her, and presently slie was joined by her hostess. She came close to her, laid a kind linnd on her shoulder, and turned her face to the light. " Let me see you now. Ay, the sorrow has left its traces," she said, with an infinity of tcnderuess which surprised Dorothea. " Were the deeps very bitter, or was there strength mven from above?" "It was varij l)itter ; but we can bear any- tliing, I begin to think." Dorothea answered evasively. She could not truly say strength had been given from above, for as yet Dorothea Kirke was a stranger to that close communion with God which imparts such strength and consolation in the very darkest hours of human life. Miss Fenwick misunderstood her ; thought she did not care for allusion to her sorrow, and clianixed the subject. " Let me help you," she said, beginning to unfasten her guest's jacket. " Don't smile ; I am really of some use other than writing books. You needn't, unless you your gow G 82 DOROTHEA KIRKE. you particularly rlosire it. We don't dress for meals in this unpretending abode." " Very well ; I shall be glad to be relieved. J have grown so indolent of late, especially since Aunt Janet came, I am sometimes quite ashamed." While she was speaking, Dorothea had removed bonnet, and jacket, and boots, and after washing her face and hands, was ready to go downstairs. She was not nervous, but she felt odd when she was ushered into the pleasant dining-room, and saw the strange faces turned towards her curi- ously. " Mother, this is Miss Kirke," was Miss Fen- wick's introduction ; and there rose from her corner in the sofa a lovely old lady, with a thin, bent figure and snowy hair, who took both Dorothea's hands, and bade her a motherly welcome to London. " And this. Miss Kirke, is my niece, Rosamund Willis," added Miss Fenwick ; and Dorothea turned to greet a pretty and stylish-looking girl of eighteen, who in these brief moments had taken in every item of the visitor's dress, and noted every detail of her appearance. (( s for cved. cirtUy quite aoved Lsliing stairs, in she n, and c curi- 3 Fen- her thin, both therly lamiind ii'othea Iff orirl Its had is, and THE AUTHORESS AT HOMR. 83 Rosamund's face had a certain charm of fenture and colouring, but it was insipid, clinrac- terlcss ; and Dorotiiea was relieved to turn lier eyes upon the phuner-looking, but intellectual and pleasant, countenance of Miss Fenwick. Tea was an enjoyable meal, enlivened by the novelist's interesting chat about persons, places, and things. Never in her life had Dorothea felt so completely at home in a strange house in so short a time. When it was over. Miss Fenwick bade her guest come upstairs, telling her, laughingly, she had a writer's den to show her, if she was not afraid to venture into such a chamber of horrors. " It is a remarkably pleasant and inviting- looking den," was Miss Kirke's verdict when she entered the cosey little study, which was furnished in quaint carved oak and ruby velvet. A commodious wTiting- table stood in the wide window, and though piles of MSS. and unused paper told their tale, there was no litter or untidiness such as Dorothea had expected to behold in the sanctum of an author. " I sweep and dust this place myself," said Miss Fenwick, shutting the door and ap]_)lying IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I bil2j8 12.5 m ^^ ■■■ ta lii 12.2 !!? lia |2.0 1 '-2^ 1 'i i^ ^ 6" ► yy /, f ^> V ^ # §f Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. M5S0 (716) 172-4503 84 DOROTHEA KIRKE. the poker to the smouldering fire. ** Nobody ever enters it except very particukir individuals, and I know where to lay my finger on every book I want for reference. All my letters, see, are in this escritoire, numbered and dated. I am a woman of method, Miss Kirke ; I divide my days methodically — so many hours writing, ditto study, ditto house- work. Are you highl}^ amused ?" " No, but highly astonished," answered Doro- thea. " I like this room. I shall sit here while you write. I shall not distUx^b you, 1 promise you." " Oh ! but I shall not write much while you are here, I am going to give myself up to enjoyment and sight- seeing," rejoined Miss Fenwick. " I am glad you like my study. I have spent many happy hours here, and many miserable ones, tortured by my utter inability to put my thouglits into words, and sometimes they thronged upon me till I felt as if there was a steam engine going in my head. You would not envy the life of a literary woman, I think ?" Dorothea shook her head. " No ; I have not an atom of literary ability. THE AUTHORESS AT HOME. 85 Nobody /iduals, I every rs, see, dated. [ divide writing, higlily i Doro- re while proniise lile you f up to d Miss study, d many )ility to netimes ere was u would hink r ability. You will find me to be a very stupid and unin- teresting kind of person, ^liss Fcnwick." "Do you think so?" queried the authoress, drily. " I may be permitted to hold my own opinion, which differs considerably from yours. I don't want to talk any more now, only to stniid here and look at you when you sit. The rM firelight makes quite a picture of you in thnt quaint oak chair. I really think you are the most beautiful woman I ever saw." Dorothea laughed and blushed slightly. " I really must exact a promise that you will not talk such nonsense to me," she said depre- catingly. " Very well, I will not repeat it. But tell me this : How do you feel when you look at your- self? Of course you know you are beautiful beyond the majority of women." "Ti-uly I think nothing at all on the subject," Dorothea answered simply and unaffectedly. " How odd I That niece of mine downstairs makes an idol of her pretty face ; but then she came of a bad stock, and is not altogether respon- sible. Poor thing I her father was the vaiutst man I have ever met." 86 DOROTHEA KIRKE. " Was he ? ** asked Dorothea, and the story Mr. Western had told her rose up freshly in her memory. ** Yes ; Rosamund is very like him in all ways. Some; day, Miss Kirke, I shall tell you a story of a womiiu's misplaced affection, and of its result. I wish you would tell me what kind of books you like. These are my favourites on this shelf, see, just above the arm-chair, where I throw myself when I am very weary. I am very fond of poetry, though I cannot write it. Do you care — —'{ ** A knock at the door and the entrance of the servant interrupted her. " Mr. Western is in the drawing-room, ma'am, and would like to pay his respects to Miss Kirke, if she is not too tired." Was it only the reflection of the firelight, or did a deeper crimson steal into Dorothea's cheeks as she heard the announcement ? A peculiar smile touched for a moment Miss Fenwick's lips. "Ah, I thought he would call to-night. I told him you were coming. Well, shall we go ? ** And Dorothea rose without a word» he story [y m her all ways. i story of :s result, ooks you lis shelf, I throw ^ery fond Do you ce of the , ma am, js Kirke, it, or did heeks as ar smile )S. ffht. I »ve go ? ** CHAPTER X. A BOLD REQUEST. ** A kind, tnie heart, a spirit hi{];h, That would not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye, And on his manly brow." — Burns. R. KIRKE was enjoying his after- dinner smoke in the dining-room at Hartfield House. His sister was sitting opposite to him, busy with her knitting. Since Dorothea went away the two had used the ^ lining-room as a sitting- room, and the drawing-room had been deserted. Nothing could be more to the Doctor's liking than the quiet routine of home life under his sister's supervision. It was like old Kincaid days come back, he told her sometimes, and would say it was a dream that he was on the shady side of fifty with two young women 87 88 DOROTHEA KIRKE. drangliters, and \ lifetime to look back upon. Old stories were told .,Tid re-told on these quiet evenings ; bygone days lived again ; hidden and sacred memories brought to licjht ; fullest con- fidences exchanged ; and the brother and sister, whom circumstances had parted so long, drew near in heart again, as they had been in th(^ old Fifeshire home. Yet both missed Dorothea unspeakably, and hungered for her return. They had been talkinop of her that evening, were talk- ing of her indeed, when >he servant tapped at the door and said there was a gentleman in the library waiting to see the Doctor. " A stranger, sir," she said in answer to her master's question. " I have never seen him before, and he did not give me his name." Dr. Kirke laid his pipe on the mantel-shelf and proceeded to the library. On the threshold of that room he paused a moment, and somehow a sudden idea flashed upon him ; therefore, when he entered, he was not surprised to see Robert Western standing upon the hearth-rug. He shut the door and came forward into the room, eyeing the stranger in rather a suspicious manner, and yet he was as well aware of his errand as if he A BOLD RKQUKST. 89 upon. e quiet en and st con- si.ster, 5, drew th(^ old oi'othea They re talk- >ped at in the to her m him lelf and hold of lehow a , when Robert ie shut eyeing icr, and IS if he had sent a herald before him to proclaim it. There are things which some unseen monitor whispers to us — inspirations for which it would be difiicult to account. " Good evening, Dr. Kirke," said Rol)ert Western, in his grave and pleasant voice ; " I ho|)e I see you well ? " " Yes — thanks ; very well," said the Doctor, somewhat drily. '* Mr. Western, 1 think that is the name. Have you come down to The Court for Christmas this vear ajyain 'i " " No ; 1 came straight from London this even- ing. Dr. Kirke for the purpose of seeing you," said Robert Western, with just a shade of embarrassment in his tone, for Dr. Kirke's manner was very dry indeed. ** Straight from London ? then, of course, you have not dined," said the Doctor. " Come to the dining-room. The cloth is removed, but I believe my sister will be able to set a bite before you." " Thank you ; but if you are not engaged I should like a few words with you now." " All right ; sit down," said the Doctor, bluntly. ** What do you want to say to me ? " Robert Western did not sit down ; but facing 90 DOROTHEA KIRKB. Dr. Kirhe where he gtood, said in grave earno,st tones, such as a man uses when he is dealing with momentous questions — " I do not know whether you have any idea of my errand, Dr. Kirke ; nor do I know what you will say to me when I tell you. I have come to ask whether you will give me your daughter for my wife I " Dr. Kirke turned his back upon Robert Western, and paced slowly to and fro between the hearth-rug and the door for about threa minutes. Then he stood still, directly in front of him, and looked him straight in th %ce. ** You may well wonder what I wiJ : y to you. ■^he is my one ewe-lamb, Mr. Western ; and I am not inclined to give her up to the first who asks her. But of course you have settled it between you, and the old man's opinion is only asked in a formal way." " You misjudge me, sir," said Robert Western, warmly, with a somewhat heightened colour in his face. " I have not yet spoken to your daughter, and should not have dared to do so till I had laid my position and my intentions before you. I am an utter stranger to you ; and my errand to-night A BOLD RKQUEST. 91 3 earnoflt I dealing y idea of ^hat you ! come to ghier for I Robert between >ut three ' in front f'ace. y to you. and I am who asks between asked in Western, our in his daughter, '. had laid )U. I am I to-night is to show you upon what grounds I presume to ask your daughter from you." " Not spoken to Dorothea I I like that," said the Doctor, slowly. " It is the way of young people now-a*day8 to settle up the thing all right, and then come along and tell the old folks they 're going to be married. Yes, I like that, Mr. Western ; it is about the best recommend- ation you could bring — that is, if you need any." With the last words, Dr. Kirke looked into the fine manly face before him with an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. Seeing it, a sunny smile stole to Western's lips. "May I infer from that. Dr. Kirke, that you would think me not unworthy, if your daughter does not say me nay ? " ** I say more than that ; I say, God bless you I and Dorothea too ; and I hope she will have you," said the Doctor, in a burst of genuine feeling, "for you are the most manly fellow I have met for many a day." Then their hands met in a warm clasp, and the errand upon which Robert Western had come to Hartfield House was well accomplished. " I should like to tell you, Dr. Kirke," said 99 DOROTHKA KIRKR. Western, by-and-by, " that my income from all sources at the present time is about a thousand a-year; but in the course of time I am in hopes that I may double, even treble that — if my health does not fail me." "That's it," said the Doctor, significantly. ** Be content with the thousand ; it is more than I have at present, and I can live very comfortably Be miserly over that brain of yours. You look overworked now, and I may tell you that that niujht I saw you at Dudh^y Court there was a look in your lace I did not like. Be careful of yourself — for Dorothea's sake. I would not like to see her early widowed." " I will be careful. If Dorothea will trust herself with me, Dr. Kirke, need I sa3^howI will care for her ? Of my love for her I cannot speak. It has come to me somewhat late in life, and I believe is all the deeper and stronger on that account. I was thirty-five yesterday." "Thirty-live ! and Dorothea was twenty -six in the summer. You are well enough matched. It will not become me to praise my own. Western ; but as she has been a perfect daughter, I believe she will be a good wife. There are not many A BOLD KKQULoT. 93 roTTi all lousand Q hojH'S r health irantly. re than ^rtably, )u look at that wa3 a L'cful of act like 1 trust IV I will : speak. , and I )n that r-six in atched. estern ; believe I many Buch as her in tlio world. I am very pflad a true and honest heart like yours has IcariuMl her wortli. It will be an unspeakable satisfaction to me to leave her in such care." " To leave her I you will be with us for many years yet, surely, unless aj>i)eanuices are unusujilly deceitful," exclaimed Robert West(?rn. " They are ; you wouldn't imagine, would you, that I suffer from an affection of the heart which may cut me ofl" at any minute ? Dorothea doesn't know — don't tell her ; but you can under- stand now my anxiety to see her settled in life." Robert Western looked surprised and d(jeply concerned ; but his words were very few. " She will not be a penniless bride," said the Doctor, after a while, " and Hartfield House is hers. By-the-by, have you any idea what she will say to you when you ask her ? " " No ; I have none. Sometimes of late when I have seen her at Miss Fen wick's I have been full of hope ; at other times the reverse. I can but ask her an honest question, Dr. Kirke, believing she will give me a direct and honest answer." " She will • there 's no nonsense about her ; 94 DOUOTHEA KIUKB. and if she does care for you it will be with no ordinary love, for she is no ordinary girl. Write or come whenever it is settled, and if she is will- ing don't delay. Let the marriage be soon. I should feel more at rest. Well, you will stay all night ? Of course. So now you had better come and make the acquaintance of my sister, who will console me when you steal my daughter; and I hope you are prepared for the scrutiny of the sharpest pair of feminine eyes you ever encountered in your life/' with no Write I is Will- ie soon. n\\ stny 1 better r sister, LU<>jhter; utiny of )u ever CHAPTER XI. THE NEW LIFE. " Love took up the glass of Time And turned it in his glowing hands.' -Tenntsow. R. WESTERN remained over night at Hartfield House, and returned to London late on the following afternoon. From the station he went straight to Ormond Square, and asked for Miss Kirke. He was ushered up to the drawing-room, where, by a happy chance, he found her sitting alone in an easy chair on the hearth. There was no light in the room, save the deep red glow from the fire, which played tenderly upon her face, hiding and not revealing the deeper glow which sprang to her cheek when she heard the visitors name. She rose, and 95 96 DOROTHEA KIRKE. W I'M gave him her hand, however, without any sign of eonfusion, save that her eyes did not immedi- ateiv meet his. " Good evening ! You have found me day- dr(»amiu