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SIRIUS
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CONTENTS
Siuus ....
The Shkpheko Guide
DlAVOlA
An Artistic Nemesis
The History op Deua
A Miniature Moloch
The Ring of Elyn .
Madame
Miss Latimer's Lover
The Witch's Spell .
The Story of Marina
Her Heart's Desire
Poor Lady Leigh .
Lady Marion's Curse
Frank Wekeney's Bill .
Through Things Temporal
A Latter-day Stylites .
According to His Folly
Philip Mavsfield's Wife
The King's Fool .
No Room in the Inn
'AGS
I
37
53
85
105
>33
•57
177
'93
307
331
333
361
»77
389
»97
343
363
381
397
4»5
SIRIUS
SIRIUS
CHAPTER I
ri -i^'f.f''''^ *''"* y°" """'^ '="'=y him, -Phyllis," said
Gladys Wmterton with a sigh; "he would be such a
suitable husband for you."
•* I should hate what is called a ' suitable ' husband "
replied her sister Phyllis scnrnfully. " Think of tak-
ing a husband as you would take Bovril, or Somatose
°oul" ""^"^ *^°^°*~*''"P'^ "'^'^"'^ ^^ '^"''ed'
^^"Well. I should prefer a suitable husband my-
" Of course you would, because there is no romance
about you, and the greater the unsuitability the greater
the romance. To you suppose that Romeo and Juliet
would ever have become a classic, if the Montagus and
the Capulets had walked home together from church
every Sunday mommg, and dined at each other's houses
in a friendly way once a fortnight? Or that King Co-
phetuas name would be a household word, if he had
kingdom?* ''" '"^""' ''"""'' *""" *'"' "«'-d°or
But the sensible Gladys stuck to her own opinion.
Oh! that sort of thing is all very well in books; but
you don t get half as much fun out of the trousseau and
«je wedding-presents in an unsuitable marriage as you
3
Sirius
do in a suitable one. And the presents aren't so expen-
sive, either," she added as an afterthought
" Who cares about the trousseau and the presents,
you silly, as compared with the man? "
" They don't do instead of him, of course-at least,
LT°'' ''?7,r,r'<'°'t-b"t they are very nice as well,
don t you think ? "
.S ^1- ''°",'' ' '° "^ '°^' ■" *•"= °"'y important thing,
and nothmg else matters at all. If I loved a man I
should be happy with him in West Kensington and
penury; and ,f I didn't love him I should be bored to
death m luxury and Park Lane."
" Well, Phil, if love is your special line, surely Am-
brose Maxwell is an adequate husband; for no man
could be more devoted to a girl than he is to you."
Phyllis shrugged her shoulders. " Oh I I know that
w-ell enough: it isn't he who falls short-it is I. He
adores me, I am fully aware; but I don't adore him
and that is the head and front of his oflfendin? "
" That isn't his fault."
" You stupid child, who blames people less for a
thing because it isn't their fault? If people irritate me.
the fact that they can't help it only serves to irritate me
the more. It is so feeble and inefficient not to be able
to help things."
" Still a husband who adored one would be rather
nice, I think," wistfully remarked Gladys, who was the
plain sister, and had had the measure of life meted out
to her accordingly.
"Not if you didn't adore him: the fonder he was
of you the more he'd bore you. Oh I it would simply
bore m? to death to be married to a man who wore no
^ i
Sirius
ondelr'TV r^"''° ""' ='°"^^** '" "° glamour
of Idealism Th.nk what it would be to see a man as
he actually ,s, and to see him three hundred and sixty!
five days out of every year! " '
"Of course, the less money a man had, the more
We you'd want; I can see that: but if he'd plenjof
money and a good position, I should have thought that
a httle love would go a long way." ^
"The longer way it went, the better I should be
infL'^r "^^'t '^"'"^ " ^^"' ■' ^^'^'"^ "° "«e argu-
ng w.th you; but if you don't take care you'll go
.1 ough the wood, and have to put up with'the pro-
verbial crooked stick in the end."
crolL'^""'* '"'"• ^''^ ""'^^ •'"^^ « ^t'=k that was
crooked n my own particular style of crookedness, than
sUiSls.""^^' ^"°^''"^ *° °*- ^-•'■^•^ '^- °^
Whereupo,, Phyllis went out of the room, leaving
Gladys to meditate upon that insoluble problem as to
why as the Spanish proverb puts it, heaven so persiS
ently sends almonds to those who have no teeth. Now
all th7i„H r "T'l- "'"^ ' •'^^^y -*«= °f 'hankZ
an the good thmgs wh.ch Ambrose Maxwell laid at he
s«ter s feet, and which Phyllis declined to pick up. I
t^f 1T^ hard, therefore, that the oblation was poured
out at Phylhs's feet and not at hers. If Phyllis had taken
he goods that the gods bestowed. Gladys would have
looked on at her sister's superior luck whhout a touch
crumbs which dropped so continually from Phyllis's
Sirius
better furnished toble. and whereof nobody had appar-
ently any advantage at all.
Ambrose Maxwell had been in love with Phyllis
Winterton ever since he had met her at the county ball
three years ago. In the beginning her beauty had struck
him and captivated his fancy; and afterward her wit and
high spirits had riveted the chains. But perhaps the
thmg about her which charmed him most, was her per-
fKt her exuberant, health. The interesting-invalid type
o herome has gone out of fashion nowadays-the sort
of woman who enveloped herself in a shawl, and was
wafted heavenward on smelling salts : now, the attractive
woman has a sound body for casket to her sound mind,
and she never owns that she is ill until she is well-nigh
dead. Delicacy is as antiquated as chignons and crino-
hnes; and the Lydia Languishes of to-day are sur-
rounded by trained nurses instead of by adoring swains.
Perhaps the pendulum-as is the way of pendulums-
has swung too far in the opposite direction : perhaps the
modem woman's defiance and disregard of anything in
the form of dehcacy, is sometimes suicidal in its tend-
ency : nevertheless no one can deny that the error is on
the right side ; and that the woman of to-day, who laughs
and dances so that the world may catch no glimpse of
the fox gnawing at her vitals, is a finer creature than
her grandmother who openly succumbed to megrims,
vapoi s, and the like. At any rate so Ambrose Maxwell
thought; and the majority of his contemporaries are of
the same opinion.
It was at her coming-out ball that Ambrose fell in
love with Phyllis Winterton ; and ever since then he had
wooed her persistently, in spite of the indifference with
6
i
Sirius
which she looked upon his suit. Over and over again
he had asked her to marry him ; and over and over again
she had refused. He was an excellent match for her in
every way: good-looking and of average intelligence,
with a fine estate which marched with her father's The
whole county approved the union, and greatly blamed
fhyllis for bemg an obstacle in the way of it. Even so
pretty a girl as herself was hardly likely to do better-
and as Ambrose was only six years her senior, there
was no mequality anywhere. It seemed to be one of
those marriages which, according to tradition, are made
m heaven, but not carried out on earth— the fate of other
arrangements besides matrimonial ones. If only earth
would second heaven's resolutions, what a much more
comfortable earth it would be I But earth is too fond
of passmg amendments, as they say in the House of
Lommons, when heaven's bills are brought before it—
an amendment being always an alteration very much for
the worse.
In spite of Phyllis Winterton's coldness, Ambrose
did not lose hope; he kept assuring himself that such
laithfulness as his was bound to win her love in time—
and there is no doubt that constancy is an enormously
powerful factor in the compelling of a woman's love.
Hut the gods saw otherwise (as the gods have a way of
seeing), and did not try Ambrose Maxwell's patience
too far. '^
Phyllis was one of those women who are endowed
with a great fund of romance. The ordinary attractions
of what people call " a comfortable settling in life " did
not appeal to her. She felt she must love, as such
women can love; and, given this, she thought she was
7
Sirius
practically independent of outside thing.. To every
va rSr T' ' ""''"'= '"' '"e^i^ing, need^S
nr7- IV ^^"'"'^'"- I' is well for those who are
ordamed by nature to choose the better part: but it U
ex redely „1 for those who-being made, hy no , u
of the.r own, of coarser and commoner material-chooi
iehbeme f " "°T '"' """8^' •"^ " "nderstood-the
deliberate choice of an evil thing must always be ac-
counted sm: but woe to those who, being made of sec
ond-rate material, choose the best instead ofThe second
best given always that the second-best, a ts name
.mpl.es, IS also good, but in a lesser degreefThe 7Z
iToSs". ? "'°r' °"^'^ own'Iimi.aSns.'S
arrange ones lot-as far as in one lies-accordingly.
is uLoubt°edr" T'"" '°"' " °' ^"P™-"* ™P««>-e
" undoubtedly a finer creature than her sister, to whom
rank and wealth .rore powerfully appeal; a^d she wW
become finer still if she follows her h^iven^sent instLrt
and develops more fully the better part of her nature
by leaving the comfortable high-road'of life for the lad-'
de which IS set up from earth to heaven. But her sis'er
will not. therefore, do well to follow her examo e On th!
™,y, it is a fatal mistake for a second bt woman
hiThestir^^rr /" "-^^ "^^' *"-«•' "~
nignest-to make, out of a sense of duty, the choice
etr ZZrT' '°, "" ""'^ spiritual flL-r!
Dace- W f ? ^"■"f^rt^ble high-road is the proper
pace, her feet are not formed to tread in the footsteos
of angels, and her head grows dizzy as she sSs^he
late, that she is neither poetic nor ideal, and that it is in
&
;!
Sirius
the comfortable and the prosaic that her true happiness
hra. Much has been said and written of the tragedy
which underlies the life of the romantic .calist, who
sms agamst her own idealism, and gains the whole
world m exchange for the soul with which God has en-
dowed her— the soul which was made of better material
than ordmary, and meant for higher things: but not
enough notice has been taken of that other tragedy—
whereof there arc scores in this vvorld-when the woman
with a second-class soul chooses, from principle, the
highest path, and finds it to. d for her. For her there
is no admiration, no sympathy : instead of praising her
for her choice and pitying her for her inability to live
up to It, men and women condemn her for so far falling
short of the ideal she once misguidedly set up.
Of a truth, it is sad to see the heavenly vision, and
afterward to be disobedient unto it; and such as do
this are worthy of blame. But should not a lesser meed
of censure be bestowed upon those who see no visions
of angels, and yet endeavour, though in vain, to walk in
the more excellent way? Is not their failure to be
pitied rather than condemned? To Moses, who had
stood beside the burning bush, there was no terror in
the wilderness or on the desolate shores of the Red Sea :
but the common people, who had but followed at his bid-
ding, prayed to be let alone in order that they might
serve the Egyptians once more, and go back into
slavery. And the God, Who had made them, did not
punish them for this : He went before them, and the An-
gel of His Presence saved them, and led them through
the midst of the sea upon the dry ground. And, further
It 18 written that at last the people entered into the prom-
9
Siriui
ihefl«h';;:!''%'r'""" ^^''^^ ^^^ '••«' »«"'««*<> •'ter
1 r,tf i*^ M°' ^«''" ■"'' ^^"^ ''°*'» b^'or* the gold-
..«„ • K .^°'"' *''° '•■'' '"■''• 'h. voice of God .ml
r^r bui'w '° '■*■ "" °"'^ •■" ""'• «" c—" -"h
vvi u :• *" ""' permitted to go over thither
W Inch things are an allegory. ""
CHAPTER II
"I HATE that dog of the Strangewayi." PhylH, «id
one day to Ambrose, who had overtak Jher on he^ ^t
liome from the village. "
T "?,°y°"' f »"• 8° 'orry the brute annoys you. and
would soon relieve you of his presence i' UoM- but
I spoke about him to Strangeways the other d^^old
h.m how the animal hangs about the road and sn». .t
pas.rs-by-and Strangeways did not Uke it af.'!
"How horrid of him I But people nearly alwavs
are sensitive about their dogs. so^Lw, fm .' they
are about their children and their bicycled. I have 2
feed that if you tell people that their bicycle, ^ke^
"o.se those people are your enemies for life, just as thev
are if you say that one of their horses is a roarer I
wonder why it is considered such a disgrace for anything
belonging to you to make a noise." *
"I can't tell why, but it is. I have known a life-Ione
fnendship completely broken because a man complamed
that h,s next-door neighbour's electric-light machine-
dymimo, or whatever they call the thing-was not abs<>
IP
Sirfus
lutely tilent; Ai a matter of fact, the concern wemed
to be a cro»« between a thunderstorm and an earthquake ;
but its posseator had convinced himself that it was the
embodiment of silence, and could forgive no one for dis-
puting this tenet."
" Telling people that any of their possessions make
a noise seems to b« on a par with telling them that they
themselves snore ; and that is an insult which blood will
not wipe out," said Phyllis.
" And they don't enjoy it if you mention that you
find an incessant cough on their par* in any degree
breaks the thread of your meditations," Ambrose added.
" Ah ! we arc, after all, only ostriches of a smaller
growth ; we bury our heads in the sand, and think no-
body has any id?a that we've got colds in them.'
They walked on in silence for a time, and then Am-
brose said suddenly: " Phyllis, I w;sh you could marry
me. Can't you, dear?"
Phyllis shook her head. " I don't love you vdu
see; that's the bother."
" I know ; but surely I love you so much that it is
enough for both."
" No, your love for me wouldn't be enough to inter-
est me and keep me amused. Don't you understand?
To be loved by a person whom you don't love in return,
is duller than playing double-dummy whist, or learning
the alto of a part-song when there is nobody to take the
treble."
" But, my dear, I love you so much."
Phyllis felt distinctly irritated; why couldn't he un-
derstand? " I know you do— that is what I keep say-
ing; but your love for me only bores me as long a-^
• tl
Sirius
don't love you in return. I know it is horrid of me to
«y h.s " she added by way of apology, seeing how whit^
h.s face grew at her words; "but you don't seem to
understand, unless I am positively brutal."
Still Ambrose persisted: "But I would make you
so happy-and I could do that, Phyllis, I am sure I
could. You should have everything you wanted all your
hfe, and I wou d never bother you to love me if you
trTT T 'n^°"''^ ^' enough-more than enough
—for me to be allowed to love you."
" ^"t it wouldn't be enough for me. And I don't
want to have eveo^thing I want; nice women never
do, they only want the man they love to have every-
thmg he wants." ^
"■ u/,f ^f • ^ '^""'^ ""'''' y°" '° ^^ 3« "i" as all that "
Well I am; I can't help it. And it isn't really
n.ceness at all; it is just the way you're made. I^
vouldnt make me happy just to be happy; it would
only make me happy to know that I was making some
body else happy-somebody whom I loved better than
I love myself. Don't you see? "
But Ambrose, it is to be feared, did not see. He
could not understand why his love should not satisfv
Fhylhs-with so much of worldly advantage thrown in
as he was prepared to give her. Even Phyllis herself
did not qia,te understand this: she only knew that it
was so; that she was so made that nothing but love
could safsfy her-love given, that is. not merely love
received It ,s delightful to be loved, as everybody
knows ; but to love brings the greater happiness.
While the two were thus pondering over the per-
versity of human nature in general and Phyllis Win-
13
I
Sirius V
tmon's in particular, the Strangeways' dog turned into
the high road from a lane, and came running toward
them.
J' There's that brute again!" exclaimed Ambrose.
What a nuisance the creature is I "
^ "He looks rather funny to-day," Phyllis rejoined.
bee how his tongue is lolling out, and how queerly he
runs.
" I don't like the looks of him at all. I shall have
to speak to Strangeways again pretty sharply, whether
he hkes tt or whether he doesn't."
As the dog drew nearer it was obvious that there
was something very wrong with him indeed. Phyllis
felt dreadfully frightened, and Ambrose distinctly un-
comfortable; and they could not get out of his way
as there was no opening in the ^edge on either side.
When he was close to them something in Phyllis's ap-
pearance seemed to excite his ire, for he suddenly stood
stock still, and then made a rush at he-
But Ambrose was too quick for hit,^ When the
infuriated animal was close to the giri. Maxwell stooped
down and seized him by the throat, and held him there
m spite of all his struggles. Phyllis shrieked aloud for
help, and in a few seconds some labourers from an ad-
joining field rushed to their rescue and beat out the
creature's brains with their spades ; but not before Am-
brose's right hand had been badly bitten in his encounter
with the mad dog.
Phyllis was trembling all over. " Oh I you're hurt,"
she cried, as soon as she was able to speak. " Whatever
can I do for you ? "
" Never mind me," said Ambrose in a soothing tone,
«3
Sirlus
though his face was very pale- •' T'm i. • ,.
I think I'J] go straight hc,S a ^" "S^""- B«t
ride to the doctS so S he ^1 " """^ '""' ♦hen
without any loss of't!m?' '"" "'='' "'* '"« "»
;; Yes-go, go; don't waste a minute."
of theXTorh;7or /°^ ''' '' - -'^ ^^^ -
but".o°oLr; «f a!?" '°"' """^ '"'-' -.
" I sav Tn ^°" , ""^ y"""" P"""" hand."
gets iSCelnTanothr T ''^' "''^^ ^■"*^«-
and tell them to Sle ° Jo ^ """ °" '° "^ P''"^"
np there almost as '' " "" " °""' ^'" ''^
throwing ™is unZ a IT '"''" ^«*«=" «id.
the assembTed men °""''' "^"^ " '^* ^W"-gs to
phy^st'itr httr-^' 1!!^ »"= -<>
eyes which he had never Teln hef^ "'"! " '*^'' '" ^''
considered amply repaid w^f ^[T* '°°'' "^''^ ^e
•ng or was going to sSer ^ '"' "■^' "-^ ^'^ -«-
satioi.tr n^ss'^'^r 'r^^"'^" ^-'^ ^ -
for and sympa2 with him ' ""'' *.^' P""''= ^''•"'■•^"■°''
that the .-Tdttr^txThrwrdtrTo '"°^''
inoculation " "'"^'^ ^'"'♦^"'- f"*- *« course of
Phyllis heard of this fiat r.n fi,
catastrophe. Her father w.n! ♦•''"^ ^"^ "' *e
and leam what the 2a doctor h'H'""-:^ """ '^""'^°^^
who brought back th^ i I ^^. '^"^' ""'^ '* '^"s he
for Paris that St. ' ''"' ''"'**" *«^ ^t»«i"«
14
Sirius
Without a moment's delay Phyllis slipped out of
the oom and out of the house, and hurried as fas as
her feet could carry her to Maxwell Grange She feh
for%Ta?hrhatr^^ "^T "^ ^^' -^ ^^^
ZTw u ""*• ^"*' '^^ '"'' n°' only want to
thank hnn; there was another feeling than gratitude
now m th .girl's heart. The sight of Ambrose Trlorta
danger and for her sake, had done what all his Sh
h^H n?"^'' P'"°""' ^^^"^ ^"d devotion to herself
had faded to do It had made her suddenly love the man
eT^:' h ™if"''Ur tr r '™^'*^ "''^•' --'^"^
toward h7m h,^ K "" ' ''^'"g-her whole attitude
urTlA r "T" completely transformed by his
unseWsh hero.sm. He had been ready to give his Hfe
TrSl'totm "rr,^"^ T ''^'^ '° giveM: ttS
at ait and n I '"''' '^' ^"^ ^""^"^ ^°' ^ad come
at last, and now she was convinced that Ambrose Max-
iLdSe. ""^'^ '-' '"^''-'^'y - >°"^ - they two
" Mr. Maxwell was upstairs packing," the butler said
■nto the library to wait for Ambrose. He answered W
summons at once, and came downstair^ aTfasttt
you'I^'he y'f ^°r^''y"-. thi' is indeed good of
1^1 A Tu ''"''^' """''"S: ner with outsfretched
hand; and although his face was drawn with paTn and
with undefined fear, nothing could wipe out of'hTeyes
the^gladness which Phyllis had called into them bylr
She kept his hand in he,., and looked up into hi,
face. I have come to thank you for saving my life,"
'S
Sirius
ten you .L aX I^'t;ou •.'°" '"" ''''''• ^^^ *°
'• Thesis Lt • r^r ^ ^''•^' -"-^'^ '- ^o""
and the dog-star my euidW T' '" ''""'^ ""^ ««"''.
born under Sirius an^dhilfr'" J """'' "^^^ •'=^"
Phyllis shudde^d" Oh fn?"^''* ""^ '"'=''•"
beast," she crS ' It is ° ''°" ' *='"' °^ *''^' dreadful
are sufferingJand fo! L^°"^ '° "^ '° "^"^ '^at you
I a« tuSgtr;;„t sir "r r "^^ '- ^''-
outof thepain% Swee^h^r « ' *"'" "" *« ^""S
fering whe' it i borne fory'u'"*r^ "^^^^ *° "« ^-^
Phyllis clung to him wee^i '""I^'S:/?-" .
you are, how good you arei H^ u „ t ^°'^ S°°^
to repay your goodn^s to L- '''" ' ^^^^ "^ =""'
«ve:^'brK^'a^?:;-ixs^[^^-
;:i^n:;°-;SdSa;7-t--s
Ambrose stroked her curly hair tender'y. "My
i6
Sirius
„ A thousand years if you like."
nnrry me. art ih. ,om,„ ,,„ i', ., " "' ""'• »
Pm. - Phdirr 'T' r° •■ '"" "»• '"k l™
CHAPTER III
which are general Lt .v*"'"^ '''■''■'°^=-'«'^"-
generally, from a hterary point of view, the
17
Sirius
best things that a woman ever does write. And they
^nn'f^ T °'' *°"''*rf""y. *ith their girlish gossip
and their shy avowals of love; as indeed they ought to
have done, smce they took up aU Phyllis's thoughts and
more tlian half her time. When she was not actually
engaged m writing to her lover she was thinking over
what she was going to write to him ; and as soon as she
had posted one day's letter, she straightway began to
compose the next. ^
She had been an unconscionable time in falling in
love; but, having at last succeeded in doing so, she had
done It thoroughly, which is not unusually the case with
the women whose wooing has been long in doing. She
was intensely grateful to Ambrose as well as bring de-
votedly attached to him; but. for all that, she hardly
realized how sore was the trial through which he was
now passing_an experience specially painful to a man
the life of the body was so strong.
There is no doubt that our own flesh is dearer to
some of us than to others. Even though " there was
Z7Jnr'''^!^^°^l"' "''" '^""'•^ '"'^"'^ the toothache
patiently, the toothache does not afflict all alike One
man-be he philosopher or not-can bear it with a very
air show of equanimity, if at the same time fortune is
smilmg upon him m other ways; while to another man
boddy anguish takes all the joy out of life, even if his
heart s desire be at that moment within his grasp. And
the advantage is not all on the side of t, fonner; for he
will always require more than mere physical well-being
o make him happy; while, given health and an outdoor
hfe, the cup of the latter will be filled to overflowing.
Sinus
The intellectual man, to whom the ills of the flesh are
not of such vital importance compared with other tn"
knows notlnng of tlut exuberant thrill of pureToy "he
bare fact of being alive, which is so common to his mo e
n>atena brethren, and than which, perhaps, there Tno
more glonous feeling on earth-that pass'onat deUt
m mere existence which makes us to understand why
God stufedryr ""' '°''''"- -^ '- --''
tinn^rr M ^^"' ""^^'^ '"°''="' day= <rf over-civiliza-
^on, the <^d Greek joy i„ life remains in some men and
ot men , and it is such as these that keep the earth from
ner old age. The man of letters may look down from
hs mtellectual eminence upon the sportsman-the S
fomt' L"'^ .'T" '" ^'"""^^ -'- -'- ^'^y-t
yet let them both remember that nature as well as science
.s a handmaid of the Most High, and has her sec "el
which she will disclose to none but her worslnppe7
worli n ^'^VT'^^l'^^ >s they sit in their musty
r th tT""'K r '°°'' '"' '^'^^^'^^ *^ ^-' °f 'he
ages that long before a single book was penned or a
smgle science formulated, God gathered the wa ers o-
gether and cal ed them seas, and He made the dry and
appear and bring forth the herb yielding seed and the
ruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, and saw that both
-re good; and the evening and the morning wt the
thet!i*"°'' ^'r"' ^'' '^' *yp« °f ««" to whom
the body must always be of more importance than th^
'9
SiritM
maid — with whom physical infirmity would completely
cancel any amount of intellectual pleasure. And who
shall dare to blame him for this ? Did not the most sub-
tle of created beings say of the upright and perfect man,
" Put forth Thine Hand now and touch his bone and
his flesh, and he will curse Thee to Thy Face " ? And
does not the enemy, who has been planning man's un-
doing with unceasing vigilance throughout the ages,
know more about that strange thing we call human
nature than do hyper-modem scientists (so called) who
uphold that theri is no such thing as physical pain — ^that
it is a mere fiction of the imagination ? Satan knew bet-
ter than this, when he prayed God to put forth His Hand
and touch Job's bone and flesh: S. Paul knew better
than this, when he passed triumphantly through per-
ils of waters and perils in the wilderness and perils
among false brethren, and yet thrice besought the Lord
that the thorn in the flesh might depart from him : and
the Angel of the Apocalypse knew better than this, when
the Great Voice cried out of heaven that in the new
heaven and the new earth there should be no more pain.
It would hardly be necessary for Almighty Power to
make all things new, and begin the great work of cre-
ation over again, if the former things which are to pass
away were nothing but figmsnts of human imagination ;
surely a less fundamental remedy would be sufficient for
evils which do not really exist.
When Maxwell came home after his visit to Paris,
Phyllis was shocked to see the change the last few weeks
had wrought in him. His usual high spirits had totally
disappeared, and his vitality seemed to be at its lowest
ebb ; even his good looks had suffered temporary eclipse
30
Siriu«
from the cloud which was overshadowing him. Al-
Tr th5' ^'T' ^'' °'"'' ""'^ '"= '«d n°">ing to
fear, the.r words brought no comfort to his soul. He
had never known a day's illness in his life, and the efore
reTeStoT"*'' "''' "^"^ sickness 'was pSS^^
repellent to h.m, as it is to all perfectly healthy orean
rs'eiemelvr^'"' *''™"^'' '^"■^ ^^ P^^
man Of , !!'""/ '"'" '° '^' "^^" "^ '"e bravesf
man. Of sudden danger and death he had no fear-
et'st ad ■' "'"•'" ''''^""' •''' ""^ -- strong a„Ss'
but th U H H '"""^ "^^ '"^'^ ""'' ''"P'"^ "at bay
dSererthSr*;"''"^'"^' --hanging fread was'a
dUferent thing, and was sapping his very life.
At first Phyllis's devotion to him knew no bounds
hiTad^frr f "^"^r^ '" "^^ -" -- "what
ne had sufTered and was still suflering on her behalf-
„? 5.. ' P'"'"* '°"°^' ^he was so busy thinT '
best had no power to content her. So she raised her
P-n that she had been accounted worthy to a^inunt^
21
Sirius
the liighfst that life has lo offer; and— in her heart of
hearts— she applauded the accuracy of that Almighty
Wisdom Which had perceived that she was indeed
worthy to be thus accounted.
But upon Ambrose's present suffering, as compared
1,1 j *''•> her own future happiness, she did not dwell over-
much. It is so difficult to eliminate the thought of self
from even one's most exalted moments. In the very
ecstasy of transfiguration— on the highest summit of the
mountain— we are all too ready to exclaim, '■ It is good
for us to be here " ; too apt to turn from the glory which
is being revealed to notice the effect which its revelation
is having upon ourselves. So with us too, as with the
Apostles of old, it comes to pass that we are led down
again into the valley, where much people meet us with
their evil spirits and their want of faith and their dis-
putations as to which shall be greatest ; and there we are
bidden once more to humble ourselves, and to see how
poor a thing is the human nature which we share with
our fellows at the foot of the hill, unless it be glorified
and sanctified by that Divine Nature which transfigured
it upon the mountain top.
So the weeks and the months of the year of proba-
tion rolled on, and each day found Phyllis more radi-
antly happy, and Ambrose mor^ profoundly depressed.
At first she was very patient with him, and tried all her
pretty arts to woo him back into the light ; but as her
efforts met with repeated failure, her patience began to
fall short, and she experienced a not altogether unjusti-
fiable irritation against him for so persistently looking
on the dark side of things, and refusing to avail himself
of the comfort afforded by 'he doctors' repeated assur-
22
Sirius
ances that in his case Pasteur's treatment had evidently
been successful. He did not believe the doctors ; Phyllis
coiild see that, an,' it vexed her to watch him deliber-
ately makmg himself ill when, if he would only allow it
he was in perfect health. He never complained ; he was
not the man to do that ; but his depression was so pro-
found, and his self-absorption so great, that she could
not help but find him a sorry companion. In vain she
tned 'o mterest him in the local gossip that used to
amuse h.m m times past; in vain she endeavoured to
recall him to that delightful world of sport which until
now had equally engrossed herself and him; he listened
w.th the utmost courtesy to what she said, but evidemly
his thoughts were far away all the time. Neither he nor
she had ever cared much for books, so books were no
resource to them just then; and poor Phyllis was often
at her wits' end as to what to talk about with her melan-
cnoly lover.
h, ^ul". u™''i'"' '°"''' "° '°"S'^'' ''"ff"''' if from
herself that her aflFection was beginning to wane. Love
can generally survive a short attack, be it never so sharp •
but It IS only love of the finest quality that endureth
all things for any length of time, and yet never faileth.
S>he hated herself, and was heartily ashamed of her gross
mgratitude; nevertheless the horrible fact remained
hat Ambrose was fast degenerating from a pleasure
into a duty. She made a point of seeing him every
day, but if by any accident she was prevented from
carrying out this programme, there was a half-holi-
day sort of feeling in the air whch filled her with
ramorse.
At last her mental discomfort was so great that she
23
Sirius
•ppealed to her .i«er-that frequent refuge for the di.-
tressed among feminine souls.
"Gladys, do you think it is possible to over-estimate
the sUymg-power of love?"
"Oh dear I yes; it is possible to exaggerate and
over-estimate anything. However strong a thing may
be. It loses all its strength if you pretend it is stronger
than It really is."
f„ '\^'"'' '°^f I?' "' '"■"' '° «° *■««?«' 'han our.
for them, said Phyllis, witli the eflFectivc sigh of a
pretty woman; "at least, it stands more without
smashing."
"It stands more in a certain direction, and less in
another."
" As for instance ? "
"It will bear big things better than little things.
I believe that there are lots of men who, if the necessity
anses will literally lay down their lives for the woman
they love; but I don't believe there ever lived a man
whose love could stand the test of matching wool.
However much a man may adore a woman to begin
with he II adore her the less if she gives him a skein of
wool, and tells him to go into town and match it exactly "
Phyllis nodded. " That's true; and yet a woman will
match the exact shade without suffering any diminution
in her affection thereby."
"Of course she will. Why, we even do things like
that for each other-let alone for men-without liking
each other any the less in consequence; at least, not
much the less."
" So we ought, for it seems that the big things are
too much for us."
Siriui
Gladyi looked very wise. " I atwayf knew that big
thingi would be too much for me, so I never bothered
about them."
" But I did. I thought that I was the type of woman
who was made for big things, and whom small things
would never satisfy."
" I know you did ; but I knew you better."
" Why on earth didn't you tell me so? " And poor
Phyllis fairly groaned.
" I did ; I kept telling you so over and over again,
but you never believed me. There are heaps of women
like you who think that they are made of better material
than their fellows, and that their spirits are 'finely
touched to fine issues ' ; but they aren't, you know-
nothing of the kind."
"Oh dear, oh dear! Then don't ,ou believe that
any women are as nice as I used to think I was? "
" Some ; but precious few."
" Well, Gladys dear, at any rate it isn't our fault that
we're not perfect."
" No; but it was your fault believing that you were,
and acting on the belief."
Phyllis fairly wrung her hands.
"I've no patience," Gladys continued, "with the
sentimental, romantic sort of women, who are always
crying out for some great thing whereby to show man-
kind how exquisitely refined and tender and superior
they are. The world is full of them. They are waiting
for some fairy prince to come and awaken them from
the stupor of misunderstanding into which (according
to their own ideas) their family circle has cast them.
It never seems to occur tn them that even if the fairy
25
Sirius
prince came he would want a f,.v
no circumstances would h!v !^ P""""'' ""^ ^o in
" I thought was alt:L"'"""5 '° ^° -'" 'hem."
fession. '^"^ princess," was Phyllis's con-
were. I feel like ol/nrs Burstm who"",, 1 "'"'^^ ^°"
her whole household and tnW^ ^'^ ^ """^ with
for my servants and I. M',:tm"''^"f™"''' '' ^-'
a couple of noodles ! " • I'-^'y ^°" "« ^" °f y°«
world of men and women wit '°, T^^ '° *^
their head, and say to th"m<V ^°" ,'"'' ^""'^°^= ^t
of noodles ! ' " ^ ^""' ^°" ^'<= a" °f you a couple
with m;eX::„^,?° --^ ^ -PPose I must go on
having pIa7eTtrprrt"'of nnff '°""°" '''="' ''"^ ^^t
on Playing'he partTpo/ceirt^tr" .""^^ "°^ ^°
wereheseechin/Lth:;,S;;sln'""-" "''^'"='= ^^-
^nrhrr^if''^''^''^'^^-'^""''
pressing." ° depressmg_so dreadfully de-
"fe fhat SSedt-i"?.''-^'- " ^^ was saving your
;r/i;bro7grLSrtotm"grnfm' "^ '"^ '^ ^-^'
Can't you understand? iZuiL. u""" '"^ """''■
26 '
K..-i'ai
self still more for bei ,^ nch aB u -grateful brute as to
hate him. And there we arc ! "
"Still, having ruined his health and spoiled his life
1 don t see how you can break his heart as well "
"I know I can't; it would be too cruel-too dis-
graceful. Oh ! Gladys, I'd give anything if only I could
ZlT :^rVT''"^- ^"' ' ""'^' =""» that's the
tragedy of ,t all. If you don't love a person, nothing
can make you love them, you know."
'_' You loved him once; just after the accident."
I know I did; I adored him. Then I thought my
love was of the best quality and could stand any strain
Now I see that it wasn't."
Gladys was silent for a moment; then she said, "I
can t he^p feehng sorry for you both. It is terrible for
h.m to have given you everything-including life itself
-and to receive nothing in return; and it is hard for
you, too, to realize that you have been weighed in the
balances, in accordance with your own desires, and have
been found so sadly wanting."
" Yes, that's just it. I asked to be weighed accord-
ing to troy weights and measures, as the precious metals
are weighed ; and now I find that avoirdupois was good
enough for me. He will be disappointed in me, I know •
but not more so than I am in myself; that would be
impossible.
" But you must go on with it."
" Yes, I must ; if I failed him now, after what he has
done for me, I should be the most despicable woman
hat ever lived. Nevertheless, I can't help wanting to
h't him when he sits with that gloomy look upon his
tace, taking no notice of anything; and the fact that the
3 27
i^tir^iiiik.flr^z'f*
Sirius
gloomy look was imprinted there «„ ™
«s the sign and sea] of my del ve' nc. 7 '''°""'' *'"'
desire to hit any the lesT Jh !• ' ''°''" ' '""''= "r
it does." • "'"' " * "° "=« pretending that
you:Si':;f?£p^"''^''-''--''-«eredfor
Phylhs thought for a moment. "Yes I'll „,,„ ^•
but I expect I shal. end by hitting him a fthe^J:'::^
beside yo„ to vour ^! ^?, '" ^°"' ='"'' 'I'^" '^-'ked
merry by Ihe ra" ' """"^ "^'"^""^ '""" ^"^'-S
"I verily believe I should."
CHAPTER IV
28 '
.ll>k
/ .^M" 1::
Sirius
and that Phyllis was again as indifferent to him as she
was before he had lain down his life for her?
At last the crisis arrived.
One never-to-be-forgotten day Ambrose came to see
his promised bride with a look on his face that had never
been there before-the look of a man who has borne
as much as he can bear, and has resolved at all costs
to end a misery which has gone beyond his powers of
endurance.
" Phyllis," he said, " I have come to release you from
your bond : the engagement between us must be bro-
ken off."
For one brief moment a feeling of intense relief
flooded the giri's soul ; then her better nature reasserted
Itself, and she began to experience an agony of pity for
the unhappy man before her. So it had come at last
she said to herself; the doctors were wrong after all, and
Ambrose had been right in his conviction that the taint
left in his blood by the mad dog would eventually show
itself. And, with her intense compassion, a faint shadow
of her former love for him returned to her heart.
"Ambrose, I will never leave you," she said, laying
her hand upon his arm ; " whatever happens I will stay
by your side to help and comfort you."
It is wonderful how in moments of strong emotion
the best that there is in us rises to the surface
Maxwell shook off the caressing little hand. " Don't
touch me, Phyllis! I'm not fit for you to touch me"
My dear, my dear, how can you say such things?
Wasn t It for me that you ran into such fearful danger'
And am I the one to turn from you when I see you
suffenng for my sake ?"
29
MM »
Sirius
fed that my agony is" ^7./.^ 7 ^°" '°^^ »«=. ^
Phyllis stroked his hair tenderly • her he,r*
flowing with pity to see thp cf, ' "^ ^^' "^er-
" I could not heblov'n! V ^ *"'" '""""^ht so low.
"te-IIy to lay do^f irj.e" ' "" ^°" ^"^^"^^
have helped it then." ' "° "^"'"^n =°uW
" Oh, I know! Do you thint it u
me that? Haven't I Sn ' necessary to tell
since it happened voir nnr ''°"' ?°°^""= '° "^ ^ver
of it all has been lost upo^ ^e Yo "h! "^' "°' ^ ^"^P
-gd a d n„ one knols Tbettl; thtl "^^" ^ ^^^^^'
stands out in its'crud'estSs "I haLT" '"^""=
for you," she said simnl,, ■ '^*' ''^^" so sorry
done an'ything^the wo^ld to ™T' "'' ' "°""^ "^^
I have unwitfngly tuT/ryru TotffeV" ^°" ^°^ ^^^^
Oh. ;?rcr,.'r,^nrdS;"'^^^'"^"--'
" My poor old boy I " ""''"'^ ^°'«'^'^ «'°"i
^^;;ph. Phyms, if only you had not learned to love
had repaid his unselfishness - Y^sG.ar """'^ '"^
shew.so„,ym .eofsecondXsTLSS:^ "" ""'*'
Pont think of me," she said.
39
•-^f :i .t.i''..*fi
Sirius
" But I do think of you— I can't help thinking of
you— I thnik of you all the time, and it almost kills me
to think how unhappy you will be."
For a moment Phyllis wished she had not acted her
part so well. She had tried her utmost to hide from
him the fact that her love was on the wane, and she had
succeeded beyond her wildest expectations, "nt, alas !
her success only made his misery the greater ... that
the blow had fallen. It touched her to the quick to
notice how even now he thought of her rather than of
himself; though surely any man might be forgiven for
thinking exclusively of himself, with a ghastly death
staring him in the face ! Now that Phyllis realized that
she was made of second-best material, she wished that
Ambrose had been made of second-best material too,
it would have made it easier for him to understand her.'
But since he did not understand her now, he never must,
she decided ; he must go down to his grave believing
that she was as true and as noble as himself. So she
pulled herself together and made a final eflFort to deceive
him anew.
" I should have been a despicable woman if I had
not loved you, Ambrose, after what happened— a des-
picable woman if I ever left oflf loving you ; you know
that as well as I do."
Ambrose fairly shuddered. "How can I tell you?
how can I tell you ? " he moaned.
" There is no need to tell me anything, dear. I un-
derstand."
Then the man looked up, and Phyllis was shocked
to see the abject misery of his face. " What do you
mean ? " he asked hoarsely.
31
Sirius
fort you until the e "d " '^ ^°" """ '=°'"-
undersS"d''°rnr'''"''?^' "^ P'^'" ^''"'l' y°" don't
piexity "" " " '"'"•" "'^'^ ""^ «^^' '" -« Per-
-..ca„,urt4asr:fastIlXr-
;:£^S5H-'--n:t:s:^
thee.o^waAS^dV;:;:^,?-^"'^-''^"''^
froml'f TeS'L'Trr,/"'"^ *''''* ^^ - hiding
«s's breath cS," ."gasps "^ '^"'^"^•" ^"'^ ^''y'
broJe^^Sli^tJLtisT- '^ ^^^""'"^'' -P"^'' A-
heart, as you know wtf ' °''^'' y°" *'"' «" ">y
flew at yo^ i^::^;izziT]L':\^'''" ?^. '°'
ing you how much I loved ^ol" " ""'"" °' ^''°^^-
' Yes ; I understood that "
32
Sirius
1 had bought cheaply such a priceless boon as youf
love."
"Well?" Phyllis prompted him as he paused for a
moment in the telling of his story.
" But when I came back from Paris and settled down
to ordinary life again, I found I had over-rated my
strength of character— had over-rated, more shame to
mel the power of my love for you. I had borne the
shock without any trouble. I could have borne a heavier
blow, had it been sharp and sudden and soon over; but
the cloud hanging over me was more than I could stand.
It was like the slow tortures of the Inquisition, which
used to drive men mad by their very uncertainty and
indefjniteness."
" I understand, Ambrose." Phyllis's face was alert
with interest. " Go on."
" And day by day the horror seemed to grow; and
as it grew, you got mixed up with it somehow. If I
forgot it for a time, the sight of you brought it back to
my mind ; and so I began to want not to see you, and to
feel— despise me if you will— that a day when I didn't
see you was a sort of holiday."
" You mean that I depressed you, and took the joy
out of your life, and became a kind of dreadful, haunting
shadow."
Ambrose sank into a seat again, and buried his face
in his hands. " Yes, I felt all that, to my shame ! After
a time I began to get my old spirits bacK when I was
not with you, and to find life cheerful and natural again ;
but the moment I saw you, the shadow returned, till you
became to me a sort of nightmare. And so my love
lessened day by day, in spite of all my efforts to fan its
33
Sirius
fla,„e, and n,y utter sclf-co„te,„pt at n,y own fickle-
" But why didn't you tell nie this' "
" Because I didn't want to hurt you. I determined
■ouTa7/°";r' '° "''"''' "^ ^'^°'^ life t:~g
ou happy, without ever letting you guess that my lovf
jrength. A woman might accomplish it-but not a
bite' " "dr "'f'''"!f °,' """ <=°"^«q''«ces of the dog's
^.;^^;thi;ttS^:£eLSL;s^
any anx.ety about my own health: there was now „o
rtaTn hat'*!" ' 't ^° "'"' '"" '""^ ''°«- -- -
certam that I was all right; but, alas! my own assured
SnW ^'* "° ""^"'" °' ""y '°- On the co"
I shrank from you more and more, as one would shrink
from the memory of a horrible dream that was over and
done wuh. and that one wished to forget. And, if I S
toward you like that, it would be crt,el to you ;« marry
myself •'• °"''' ""'''" ^°" ^' '"''*^"'''" "= ^ ^''°»''l be
„ P'iy"'s stood up, and drew herself to her full height
Ambrose she said, "you needn't be unhappy about
th.s. My love for you is dead, too; but I intended to
go on pretendmg it wasn't, for your sake; just as you
meant to go on pretending for mine. Thank heaven we
nave both found out our mistake before it is too late! "
34
Sii ius
" y^r love dead, too ? " But there was relief as well
as aston.shment in fie man's voice.
" Ves; just after ;he accident I loved you with my
h cilH T' f"' ' "'°"^''' '"y '°^«= -- - g^eat t^at
.t could stand any strain. But it couldn't. The st a,„
tiC' ?^''''""-°"' '^^P'"^'"" '■"d anxiety poved
too much for it ; so it died, as yours did "
thin7j!!!f Mr'"'' ^''/"" ' ^' ''^^^ ''°th done the same
thing, and fallen into the same error."
" Yes; we each thought that our love for the other
was of the finest quality, and could be submitted to the
severest test. But when it was put into the furnace i
E-S..' ° '''-' '''-' "^ «- ^- --^ -dio:;;
Ambrose was silent for a moment; then he said
pif r Tv "' *'* y°" '°^^ f°^ >»« i^ really dead
" No; I swear to you that my love for you is as dead
as .s yours for me-dead of over-strain and ove'pts
sure the usual modem early death. So let us burv our
two loves side by side, and never tell anybody that thev
were made of such very inferior material'' "^ ^
gramuae . Certamly ; de mortuis nU nisi bonum."
3S
Wl
I
THE SHEPHERD GUIDE
J^^WmMtWi
M
I
THE SHEPHERD GUIDE
They were married at a registry-office for fear of
seeming to support, even negatively, a superstition (so
they called it) which had over-run the earth for nineteen
centunes ; and which-in spite of all they, and such as
they, had uone to stem the tide-was steadily flowing
instead of ebb.ng. So the registrar was witness to thosi
phghted vows, which they refused to flatter the Church
by swearing in her presence; and then Arnold Firth,
and Sophy, his wife, repaired to Scotland for their honey-
moon. ■'
They were an extremely advanced young couple.
X hey wrote articles in magazines for the undoing of that
God Whom the Christian world for centuries has wor-
shipped ; and they never lost an opportunity of refuting
that Creed which has been handed down to men from
the Apostles. Also they had both taken honrurs in the
schools of Cambridge; so that naturally it was difficult
for them to believe that anything in the form of knowl-
edge was as yet unexplored by them, or anything in the
shape of truth as yet hidden from their eyes.
They were not, perhaps, absorbingly in love with
each other: they were not the sort of people who know
what absorbing love means; but each felt sure that the
othei- was a sure stepping-stone tc higher things of a
worldly nature-and that conviction is not altogether an
mefficient substitute when aflfcction of a more romantic
^9
^ .t
II
The Shepherd Guide
and there make a name for himself; and he knew no one
2n SI '"o-^!'' ''^ ''"''''«<1 '" «>« upward struggle
S ^ ^ Pi'kington. Sophy, likewise, was S!
b.t.ous; and scented from afar that social Uttle wh?h
SioTindr^ ^''™'^'' '" *^ '"•'p^ °f <* ~- '
reception and finds its crown of victory in an inviU'ion
to dme with a duchess. There are manj such recruits^n
he g«3t warfare of Society-recruits' who fir ^ h
uZ th?h "»!' *"'' °' Kensington, and finally sLd
upon the battlements of Mayfair. What they undergo
fathom" th' T '"'"■""■ "° °°'= ""' themLlves^
fathom; the.r hearts alone know the bitterness of the
hTve'elten 1 / '"'' ""'^^'* ""' '""^ •"-" '^^ '^
thJt T' " ' "'""^^'^ ""y "°' intermeddle with
the joy they experience when at last they climb the de-
?nsof'tH ?"'"'"' "l '"'''''' '""' «"«> *emselves den -
Ts::!Z'^r' ''-' *•"'=•' «** '° '"^ ^--^'^^^
Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Firth travelled by easy staees
to a comfortable hotel in a small village at^^fS „
a b.g mountam. The hotel was full of visitors, a^the
Firths were not exclusive: on the contrary, they were
ahvays ready to let the light of their deep^ knowledge
so shme upon their inferior fellow-men, that the fatter
world to come. Among their co-tourists there was one
to whom they felt they had a special mission-^ ZtZ
httle man who "travelled" for a firm devoted to hf
h.s hohday. H.S name was Silas Tod. and his local hab-
40
The Shepherd Guide
itation was in Manchester. His chosen form of worship
was that of Methodism, and his office in his church that
of a local preacher.
Now Silas Tod was as ready to teach men the truth
as the Firths were to teach them falsehood; and, al-
though the bride and bridegroom naturally looked down
from a social and intellectual eminence upon the little
commercial traveller, they condescended to deny his as-
sertions and refute his arguments with a force and irri-
tation which were an unconscious flattery to the power
of Mr. Silas Tod— or, rather, not to the power of the
little man himself, but to the vitality of the truths which
he was as anxious to preach, as they were to deny, in and
out of season.
" You say you don't believe in the power of prayer,"
he remarked one day, d propos of a sneer of Arnold's.
" Naturally, considering that I don't believe there is
anybody to pray to."
" Well, I'll just tell you " And Mr. Tod strung
off a list of signal answers to petitions which had come
within the scope of his immediate notice.
" Very interesting," Arnold said quietly when he had
finished ; " very interesting indeed. Iris always strange
how, when once one is imbued with a fixed idea, coinci-
dence invariably lends a helping hand to the delusion." .
"Bless my soul ! Mr. Firth, those aren't coincidences
I've just been telling you about ; they're straightforward
answers to straightforward prayers."
" My husband and I call them coincidences," inter-
polated Mrs. Firth.
" Well, then, if you do, all I can say is that you're
8 sight more superstitious than I gave you credit for.
41
The Shepherd Guide
them: that, accord^ TyU ^Id "" ^°"''' ""«-
but when you write a leC to ^1 T"" '"'*"'-'^'-
answer by return oipoTitl\"""t ""'^ ^et an
that he himself shouid'^ave rep,ied'°M '°"' '''"^'
you have got a funny idelM f u ^^ *°"<'' hut
what isn't 1" ^ ^'"' '^ *° what is likely and
own'iXinatC! ^11? ""^ ^-'^'^ »% ■« my
t° y letters." a;g;ed Sopt; ^'"' '° ^^' ^" ---
-n iX"to thf rnXsioVthrth '"""' ^ "^^ ^-'^
of that name, whether vo^t u''" "^" " ^^"I "-an
didn't; else how could the letrrTH'"" °' "''^*'"^' y°"
a"? And if you beKevId th,?^ '^' ^°' ''"'*"«d at
answered them-weiTll f/''' '"""^""y '^hap had
don, that you . Jp";i;'g::^„ ,T' '«=^^«^ your par-
wast:e^^f;rf:;::^r ^^,r ^-^^ snas xod
and Arnold and his Jf! '1°"^'" '^' ''^"°^tic couple;
to.'oosen the co™; rvSt'ld"'^''^^^
spmtual. Sophy Firth anrih?T[ °^^ "P°" things
happy in their'oL riXst'/h^l^Th ' T/ ^""'^ ^^'^
much in senseless reit^rTw ^hey did not indulge
mutual affection as s'oh"' '' '°. "' "'"''' °' '"^^'^
might havedone bu the^tl'!! ""'^ .«"«ghtened lovers
things they were going rac^mri"""'"^"'"''^^-"
social triumphs fhey^meam °7 '!t'°^"'''='' «"d the
laughed a great deal at Mr Tod anH n V^ ^^'^ '"^°
thusiasts. What was thT' l^ *" ''k«-minded en-
themselves ^^^Z^-^^^: °' %ing
»aaon to an imaginary
The Shepherd Guide
Deity, when their own right hands and their unaided
brains were capable of getting to themselves the victory ?
'If men and women would only take the trouble to
help themselves instead of sitting still and wishing for
miracles to be wrought on their behalf, the raison d'etre
for a God would not exist," Arnold said one day to
his wife.
She fully agreed with him. " You are quite right-
faith is only another name foi spiritual pauperization.'
X can not understand how people can prefer living on the
charity, so to speak, of a Being they call God, to work-
ing for themselves, and being indebted to nothing but
their own efiforts for success. Even if I believed in the
existence of a God-which I don't-I own I shouldn't
nke to be as dependent upon Him as the people called
Christians are; it seems to me an attitude somewhat
wanting in dignity and self-respect."
"That is exactly what I think. Christianity seems
to me to be in direct opposition to Individualism; and,
paradoxical as it may sound, it is in Individualism that
the salvation of the race lies."
Thus these young people rooted and established one
another still more firmly in their unbelief
One morning Arnold and Sophy decided to spend
the day on the mountain. It was one of those lovely
autumn mornings when it seems as if summer had left
something behind her, and had come back to look for
it-m.sty at first, and then breaking out into cloudless
sunshine. So the pair took their lunch with them, and
set out for a good day's climbing. It really was glorious
weather, and yet with just that sharpness in the afr which
made fatigue an impossibility. They had a delightful
" 43
The Shepherd Guide
I III)
if-
morning; and found a sheltered lini. ., m .
heart of the hilb where X . i ''°"°* '" "-e
lunch, and talked orfhehin\'*' ''°^" ""^ »"= '»>eir
fore them. "" '""PP^ '"'"« «'«tching out be-
dayrLl aiird'SlSSr^' f ^''•^ '^ '"'"^
suddenly exclaimed, "^ how'^duTJ " '"'^' ^'"'^
you think it is going to «i„>" ^"" " "' ^^"'"«' D°
it l^hit^rhttd'ollr '' '''\^''^- "^-^ Not
with the glass'aThi; ' tTan^bt' P ''^''\^'
mountain mist; that's all " ""'^ * ""'^
to be lost in the fog." ^ °°" ' want
se./lXXVL^undtdtr' j'°^'^ "-'''^ »>-
««.e ^ook wht^hS"tdt2X'^ -"^ - °' "'^
ley SiSrthTm S '=°"^*'"'^'-" '° fincl all the val-
view wWch hln K '" ' •'""'•^ *»>''« «ist. The
compleTet «,',-",- ^'- i-t before ,„„ch, had
rolling billows o7 he wht £"^ ""' '° "*= ^'=«" «">'
nearer to their feet like^ri^' ^"I'^'^'^S up gnidually
-^^^:^l^Zl^ Whereby they
Arnoi?r^itorkn::'r " "^^'^ "^'^ •" «=■--«»
mounta n even l bro,!^ 7 ,^V ^^'^ '^'" »''°"t this
this lam c^mpl'ely ° 3^^^^^^^^ ''"'' '^'"^ « '°^ «"*
which was the way we earn, ^ " " ''"" '"' '"'^- ^''y-
Sophy shook her head : one might as well have tried
44
The Shepherd Guide
to find out a track across the ocean, as to discover a trail
across that pathless waste of fog.
" It is getting thicker and thicker every minute," she
said, " and coming higher up the mountain."
" I am afraid it is."
And it was ; for the little island of green, on which
the pair stood, was growing smaller and smaller with
amazing rapidity.
Sophy looked at her husband with fear in her eyes.
" Oh, Arnold, what shall we do?"
" That is just what I don't know, my dear."
" I was talking to one of the mountain shepherds
only yesterday," Sophy went on, " and he told me what
fearful fogs they sometimes have here at this time of
year. He said they often last for days and days."
" GooJ gracious I And we have nothing to eat."
■r a pause, during which the waves of fog rose
higl and higher, Arnold said, " Did the . oherd tell
you what he did when he was caught in one of them? "
"He said he did not mind much, because all the
shepherds knew the mountains so well that they could
find their way blindfold; in fact they often have to go
out in the fog to look for missing sheep and lambs, which
might otherwise fall down precipices and be killed ; but
visitors, he said, were sometimes lost in the fog and
never found alive, as they either died of starvation or
else fell down over the cliffs." And Sophy shuddered.
" I wish to goodness we could see one of these shep-
herd-chaps I "
" So do I ; he'd be able to guide us safely into the
valley again."
An hour passed which seemed like twelve. Arnold
4S
The Sheplierd Guide
i I
J :!!
comiTgTowar^ull'-'"' ' ^'"^ '' °"^ "^ "'^ shepherds
tHrots rir^irira„rs,T -- '-'-^
shouting to attract it??*? \- ^^^^ managed by
direction; but "as when t"' ""f " """^^ '" '"eir
be recogn zed it was „o J T'^'f ''^ "^"^ '="°"&'' '"
a lost sleep bu sflas T^dir r^'^*'.'"" '" ^^^^^ "^
selves. Ne^rthele' h . """ P"^''' ^'* ^hem-
thoughhrwrastuch.r'' "T"" "'^" "°»"'''y' -ven
him with ddS'"'"''^ = '"*'*^*''^° hailed
ThesedeLeXsgSlvirHn"' '"^ ^''"'"°"-
of the year; Jd !Hh:S I'Ztchlt'' "' *'^ ^^^^°"
come from the hotel tZl ^^^^"^'P^^y was bound to
to one that t would finder • ^"^ ' '"'"''^''' <="='""«
impenetrabl'mTtt this "^'" '" ^"^'^ ^" exceptionally
""^w^rSe'ti^l^S^:?-''^— 1,
this th.^Mr'Tod'"'!' r<r\'° """'' ^°^^°«- yo"
pancy of fe^^ "or'eic ^^^^ ^'"''' '^'"' ^^e flip-
reach" ' °' ^^'' y°" have strayed beyond ffis
-h. and th\"stl« H Se hnistrZ" °' '"
46
The Shepherd Guide
"Then aren't you frightened?"
" What time I am afraid I will put my trust in Thee.
No, Mrs. Firth, I'm not frightened. The darkness and
the light are both alike to Him; and I know that He
will never leave me nor forsake me."
" Well, He seems to have left you and forsaken you
now," persisted Sophy.
" Not He, Mrs. Firth, not He ! " - '
" Do you mean to say that you think He will save
us yet?"
" If it is His Will ; and if it is His Will that we should
never go down from this mountam-top alive, it will still
be all right. He knows best, and I can trust Him."
" I thought you had a widowed mother entirely de-
pendent on you," Arnold interpolated; "you told me
so yesterday."
" So I have, and I'm her only child."
" Then what will she do if the God, Whom you so
ignorantly worship, sees fit to let you starve to death
here and now?"
" That is God's business, Mr. Firth, not mine. You
can be sure that the work you leave to Him will never
be jumbled or neglected or halt done, as our work gen-
erally is ; and if He sees fit to take me away from mother.
He'll just look after her Himself— that's what He'll do,
so I don't worry about that."
And as he thus gave a reason for the hope that was
in him, the soul of Silas Tod shone through the outer
covering of his small and commonplace body, and trans-
figured the whole man. He no longer seemed provincial
and insignificant; he looked rather like a prince who
had power with God and had prevailed.
47
1^
ill
$
The Shepherd Guide
,. So he woul, ■ never rise inT '^'' ">« "'ght fell
Jament and become a grwtt""'!' '"'' ^° '"'° S-
Md Sophy would be bunV.rf ^ \ ^""*'»d °f that he
churchyard in the valley "2 1^^^ '''^' « 'he Jttle
««nity would flow on f' u ""= ^^'''e "en call rhw
a malefactor's death ^i "™" °'a Man, Who harf a-^
'"o-W defy pnSpalSrard*'^" '"--c^ yea'^ ^^^
centurie,--p,.si„/,j4'"/"%Powers, and outliveX'
W'nethinginth/j'^^ff^' Suppose that there was
F"rth. and such as hfv/L ' '"^ '"d that he Am!^M
i"nun,en.ble folC';; of th ^^" ^""^ '«>'«. insJead oTthe
Je should soon knoTLtSin^^^^^^^^^^ ^""''"- ^S
he wouldhave solved for h!w ^ '^" *™« to-morrow
have proved whether Kd f „?h« r*'^^'^'^' »"^
effete superstition, or mTu t.'^"'" ^'"tingan
^- And if th; fatter !5f' ''".'"«' ^^fi^d the liWn"
one ? 4 ,7 "^"^ alternative wpr» tu *
enft^l.'^"'"''* shuddered as th- !'*'* ^e correct
«fo'ded him still more cloTet °"'' °' ^P^"'
Sophy, too, mediuted in h.J t
4a
I
The Shepherd Guide
had so often pictured herself doing: instead, she would
have to stand before a King greater than any earthly
monarch— at least so people were always saying, and
she was beginning to think that perhaps they were right.
She remembered hearing or reading a story once about
a man who appeared at that Court without a wedding
garment, and was therefore cast into outer darkness;
and she herself had no wedding garment ready if— by
some strange chance— the legend proved true and she
needed one : that she knew well enough. She had spent
her days in cultivating her mind and adorning her body,
but her soul was starved and bare. And as the night
wore on she grew frightened— frightened of the terror
that walked in the darkness all round her; and still more
frightened of that Unknown God to Whom she had
raised no altar, and Whom she had openly denied before
men. Of course Arnold might be right, and there might
be no God to judge both quick and dead at all ; and if so
why need she fear ? But the death that crept nearer and
nearer to her with stealthy footsteps, gave the lie to this ;
there was a God in heaven— she knew it now— and she
had been at war with Him all her life. Now it was
His turn to take vengeance and to repay.
Silas Tod was sitting quietly in the darkness, pray-
mg to himself, when Sophy suddenly said :
" I'm frightened— I'm awfully frightened I Mr. Tod
won't you pray for us ? "
"Of course I will, Mrs. Firth. In fact I've been
doing so all the time."
And then Silas knelt upon the heather and offered
up his simple petition :
" Dear Lord, we are Thy sheep, lost upon the moun-
49
The Shepherd Guide
Hi
SheJherJ'Ieek Thv "If" '° ''" "* ^^ither to go Good
and give us len^^ of dl"^ 'E^'" '"^° '"e valley.
Thee; and if it be Thy WaitbT 'u"" '"'' P«'"
the mount and that no man h m T *''°'"'' '«'= "Pon
fhen lead our souls "pwZ out „?.. "^ °" '^P"'<='^.
'"to Thy marvellous 5t ^H " P'''"="' ''''^'^ne^
'hose of us whose eyes have hi*^'"'''"" '" ">« "ght
*««= hght. Hear usf we beTeeel tT ''T ''°"'«"- ^h«ll
°"r own sakes. but or the Tke Jl'' ?• ^'^' "°' f""-
Who laid down His Life for the 1 ^°°'^ ^''^Pherd
There was silence JfJll^^^^P' ^^en."
-•'ence and a st "n^rX L\' "'"^' ''" P^^—
had vanished, and anot^'calm ^ ^ u ^^""^ °' '^^°r
;"Pped into Arnold's sou, S, '" ?"' "' «''=^P«'> had
°r this. Perhaps it was he «17''' ^^<= "° ««on
their senses with its merci ulJ °' ''^'"' benumbing
^, Suddenly Arnold eS^S'°y/°r Perhaps-- ^
Weatingofalamb!" '''"'•""^''' 'Listen. I hear the
^^^^!J^:^' ''-'■'-%. and sure enough
-^^^tltiS'SS^- to look fori.
f-w louder as tlTe 'S* d 7°" ^ ''''=" '''^ '''^'ing
-SCa::?iai:^""-^^Se^1^
shoulder; bui though thevcT,?;"^ '' """"-^ward o„ his
Pa«nUy hear theirt' ^^t Ve" '"'" ''^ ''" "°' aP"
' 'or he never turned his head.
Tile SliepJiera Guide
I
preceding day On fhl ^ ''' """y '"*"' '^'"'^d the
ing.ightXntunXTL^'''''^'?'""'^'*^'''-
and saw torches gleaming i„^I'' "°"' °' ""="'" ^°'««
party fron, the vi£ Z " f ' ?."'= " *"' " "^'^h
fog lifted a little afd a ch. /""• •^"'' ""'" '^e
seekers as the is 'f thebeT/r ''■°"' "'^ ^^^^ °f
their view. * '"'^'^'^ *"ve"e« burst upon
i.o.e^S—S;;«c,ai„ed Silas, as the
^We^vetr ra ^=''°^^' " ^"-^ ^o^i ' "
fall," the innkee^TsI d " Yoi°hr" "'" """ "'«"*-
fright." '^ • ^°"''*v«g'ven us a terrible
" ins Xt'oTSr " 'If'' ""■" '^'"'■^'' Tod.
like this, for no one e,-! ^' """""'''"^ '" =» '°&
«ve here could po°siblvfinH.r' °' "' ^''^P'"^^''^ '-ho
'ey again. YouTrf Lt ' ^tr 'T "'° ^"^ -'-
never have been saved thho^h^m-l T '°^^°"'''
for three or four days and bv th. '°^ "'" '^^'
helped you." '^^ *''^" "° one could have
fe shepherd was noi^;-: t\Z!' °" "''"■" «"'
51
•^fiiWi:* J\
i
The Shepherd Guide
" Where can he have gone to? " exclaimed Arnold.
" ^ "* .*'*'" '" '''°"' °' "' °"'y ""■** minutes aga"
" It ii very funny," said the innkeeper ; " for we all
distinctly saw four figures coming down through the
fog, and yet now there are only three."
Silas Tod raised his hat reverently. " And the form
of the Fourth was like the Son of God," he said.
52
I
'fMiJS^sM^^'^Mmmmami
fc
DIAVOLA
CHAPTER I
" You'll go to Mrs. Selby's dance, won't you, Aus-
tin ? Just to please me, you know."
" I am not sure ab <: that, Josephine. In the first
place, I hate dances ; anu, in the second, my mother does
not wish me to go ; and I always p ase her when I can,
because she has so few pleasures — her lameness cuts her
off from everything cheerful."
" But you like to please me too, don't you ? "
" You know I do, Josephine," replied the young
clergyman.
" Well, you see, it is like this," argued his Aancei;
" your mother is bound to go on liking you, whether
you please her or whether you don't ; it would be a sin
against all Christian doctrines and all natural laws if
she left off ; she would be a disgrace to the whole parish,
and a blot upon the mother's meeting, and a scandal to
the Church of England. What will become of us all if
the mothers of our clergry turn out to be whited sepul-
chres?"
Austin Laurence smiled. " How absurd you are 1 "
he said.
" But, on the other hand," continued Josephine, " I
am bound by no Christian doctrines nor natural laws to
go on liking you if you vex me. The Church of Eng-
55
^EST
It would indeed I"
probleJ:"^ ;iij^;^^^^^^^^^^ sum. or
knee's liking for you TL^ . """«^- " Mrs. Lau-
and mine is not then ' '"''"P^'«^^'« of circumsU^es
help to the cultt o„ <^'S?,r t°"''' '^"^ ^
you see?" °' """^ rather than hers. Don't
wathematSmJself^buTf"?' ^''"^ something of a
are wrong." '"' •"■' ^ also see that your premises
ore r^eZtlep^^l^'X.^l^^^
we, m parenthesis. ""^ '*'^^w«. remarked Joseph-
'^-p';t:rt;;r-^-exp,ai„ingp.h-
Pre.4r'SSiJ''^-ng.ithmy
^ ^^^ vei: yoTa;rorri,;rr '^ "^ - -- ■'
know not what we may be ' as"ol!?'" "' "^' •""» ^«
bram affection-^, .^ ;emar?2 'itT^emf f °' '''
™. "seems to me as
Diavola
silly to promise never to get tired of a person, as to prom-
"* "'Au ? ^'"^ "°"'' °'' "^''^ '° have the toothache."
^^ Oh, Jo, what a horrid thing to say ! "
" It isn't horrid; it is simply true that it is absurd
to make promises about things that we have no control
over. Of course it would be nice always to be fond of
the same person, just as it would be nice never to grow
stout or never to have the toothache; but the niceness
of a thmg doesnt alter its impossibility," persisted the
girt.
Austin smiled in spite of himself.
"I'm afraid that your promises are even more un-
satisfactory than your premises," he remarked
each other," laughed she.
.. . ''"^'';'' J»'d.the young man, growing grave again.
It would be nice to hear you promise that you would
always care for me. I believe some women make prom-
ises like that— and keep them."
" Oh! those are the women that people call ' sweet
creatures. If you like that sort of thing you should
have put your money on that sort of a woman. I have
no patience with men who fall in love with amusing
girls and then grumble because they don't find them
soothing; It is like buying diamonds, and then crying
because you can't make them up into flannel petticoats "
Perhaps I may settle down with a ' sweet creature '
yet ; there is time still for me to change my mind, accord-
ing to your late improving remarks."
Josephine shook her head.
" No, there isn't," she said with conviction. " You
know that girls are made of—
57
Diavola
"'Suyarandjplce
U,.,. ; ^""l ""that's nice' •
•"•t'famanhasonceustedfh
"^r be contented with he fi ' ^ a"' '"'^"P'' ^' *"'
»ot go back to the swltiJ ^' "'""'' y°" can
savouries." """^'^'^ «««'■ you have enjoyed the
-ves you'l, i"oS fe' ^° ^^^-ts ,„ the way of
stance, would get some IIm? '"'1°'' ^O". fo/in
-"!| a meek and quieTsp °"'' ""^^"^'"'' ««'«= woman,
^ ve no doubt sHpM k '
- exj.me^ ,.,,^^^^^^^^^^^^ and make
Josephine. "I^KTS^'''" '''' ^" -°«ed
"ever speaks to her h, .k ! ' ^°"' ^'^^r's wife who
or putting her hand on tXw'°"' ""''"^ '''-™°
a jelephone and couldn't make £7'"'' "" " ='''= ^e«
were joined." ^^''^ '"'» hear until the wires
" What a lovely idea ( " • j .
^, "I always expe'ct her whe .''"'''"' '""^"ing.
Je parish room.^0 «; '.1?„T^':^ "^""es fussing into
then picture you or tL -m ^ °" *o No. 777'- I
;- hand and'pUV' if frVt'^'r '-• ^'./^
when she cries, 'Are you thTrev'! '^T^'"'' shoulder
and they begin to converse L ''^ '''°"''' ' Yes,'
fashion." °"^««e « approved telephonic
Prol'Sr ■' SSaf"^' J°' " ^i'^ Her lover ap-
j8*^' '"f««.notasamus-
I
w^T^mMLmii^ ^^k3
Diavola
ing as I am with other men. The sad fact is that I am
too fond of you to be brilliant."
" But you are brilliant with me."
•• Pooh ! that is nothing to what I can be. My temp-
tation IS to be melting rather than brilliant when I am
with you ; and one can't be melting and brilliant at once
unless one is a stick of sealing-wax."
" Well anyway you satisfy me. I couldn't imagine
any one s bemg more adorable than you are."
''^ When I am with you," continued Josephine grave-
ly, 1 am impelled by an uncontrollable impulse to ask
you idiotic questions-whereof I know the answers to
begin with-over and over again; this is not brilliant
conversation : also to recall to your memory episodes in
our eariy acquaintance which are not really worth re-
membering at all. much less talking about; this is not
brilliant conversation: also to examine you as to your
possible behaviour under a combination of absurd and
impossible circumstances; this also is not brilliant con-
versation.
Austin .oyal^" ''°"' "' '"'""'"^ *'°"^'''" ""'"
"I could have talked like that had I been a little
dressmaker and you a draper's assistant; in fact, that
IS how we should have talked. And now is all our clev-
erness and culture and finish to go for nothing, .-Austin'
I am ashamed of us ! " -^usun.
. "There is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. It
s merely a proof that we are all pretty much alike in-
t^^f^J w"",'''' ^'"'' unibrellas-no difference as
to frames, but only as to covers."
"I think, somehow," remarked Josephine seriously
' 59
Diavola
that you woul'd LT^Z'^^ uTt "' '^V'^"^
you might become a sodalUt ' r !„ ^'" * '•"■ «"«
or something of that kinH =» ^°^ ' °'' * '"'ssionary,
" Might I ? " ''' "' '"y moment." ^'
"Don't become a missiona:^, dear boy; you arc
"•Acreatur. not ,00 bright andgood
only man I ever loved had h "' °' ""=' *•"=" the
"Couldn't you m ™ r '"'""''"y digested?"
young man tenderly^ " """'""^ "«=• J°"' «ked the
Vou thmk too well of me, dear."
ment"otLr6hris°tJnrl"T'^.*'"''y°">^»teror„a-
bishop of Canted; " '""" '""" '"^ ^^^^ ^ '"e Arch-
"pirrcrproretr' '^""^^^^ ^- -^ '«"*■■•
mathematics bd„gTyo„ not'"?'" °' ""^ Proposition,
60 ^'
Diavola
therefore the Pope and the Archbishop are less impor-
tant than you; thmgs which are more important than
the Mme jhmg bemg more important than one another.
" Admirably worked out," cried Austin with delight
You 11 go to Mrs. Selby's dance, like a good toy,
won't you, dear? " coaxed Josephine.
"I suppose so. as you have set your heart upon it.
But I say, Jo, added the young man, looking at his
watch. I must say goodbye this very minute, or I shall
be too late for evensong."
" I wish that watches and clocks didn't tell the time
—life would be so much less complex if they didn't "
said Josephine pensively. '
"The maker of my mother's drawing-room clock
apparently agreed with you."
" I know. A hopeless mass of flowers and mythoWy
eflfectually conceals the shining hour, and the chimes do
not always strictly confine themselves to the truth "
They do not, most learned judge-most wise young
woman But if you will bear in mind that they alway!
stnke eleven at a quarter before three, and calculate ac-
cordmgly. all wdl yet be well." called out the retreating
And so the two lovers wem their respective wavs-
or^fiSr '"'' "" =""="'°°" """" "-" f^easantlyTd'
profitably spent, and he wishing that being engaged did
not Uke up so large a share of a busy man's time
•11
Diavola
CHAPTER II
rence^s drawing-room. ^ ' ''''" °"' >" MrL lT".
, Ohf Mrs. Laurence" .t,
. ^«^«" will never forle','"'" '" ^» '"ffuish
of -^y-pathy tSd .iXTn"'''''^.'"''^^ "° movement
responded, "But, mydJA'^^^.P''' « 'he cold v^ "e
aWy stupid of you to tdi „ r '"V""' '' '^^ so inexcus!
-St h,,e kno4 that Ih fr [h toT ''"^ '''-"^' """
«ie truth the more he deli<Z • ^ '"°''^ '''M&reeable
""palatable is an J/^J^X "'' '"'' ^^ '^^«o'e
'he dmner which it precede f'^ more fashionable is
aWe hes, and I encou^eL °' T ""« ^ ^"Joy agree
^-/ -" has simpKst ^P'« ""^ ''-"•" £ ;
Captain'Cetl'n'kSs'!;; '?^V'' ^ ''="' «'d that I le^
wou.d have been" fZ^ ^^", ^^'^t^ fiance I'^tt
B« he himself ,J„J°"/"°^ he would."
>ng each other in n,= '^ "" Captain Ta!-l»fn„ u-
J"-' - mncrbCe^rSr' l^ ' -^- ai";
for lettmg Austin see hTm do i L"^ '^' *""" '''"^s you as
°f mex-p icable carelessness.""' ''^^ "^^"^ *° "e a'^piece
.,"'-f°=fPhineonIysoNKed
Diavola
George Washington in his passion for the truth-consid-
ermg also that he had caught you in the act, and that
a he was tli. fore useless-I can not imagine what pos-
sessed you t.. tell him one, and say that you were not
there A he is always wrong, and generally ineflfective."
I can not go over all that again," replied Josephine,
and as I sa.d before, the confession of the crime would
have disgusted Austin no less than the denial of it."
" That is so," agreed Austin's mother. " You cer-
tainly were in an awkward position, with the deep sea
m front of you and the arch-enemy to your rearward.
Men are very like children ; they always want something
to amuse them, and nearly always something to drink-
and It IS equally unwise to tell them what is true and
wnst isn ta
"Austin is so hard on me! " cried the girl.
".There is nothing in the worid so hard as success-
ful virtue," replied Mrs. Uurence; "the nether mill-
stone is as a pillow compared with it. My son's sense of
duty has always been as irritating to his friends as a
mustard plaster, while his conscience is so abnormally
enlarged that I should think it would finally be made into
a sort of spiritual pati de foie gras, for angelic consump-
"I admire Austin's conscience," cried Josephine
taking up the cudgels on her lover's behalf; " I think it
IS splendid to give up everything for one's principles,
as he does." "^
Mrs. Laurence smiled. " He calls them principles,
but they are really only prejudices," she remarked ; " but
It IS easy to confound the two, and I believe it affords
as much pleasure to die for the one as for the other
63
i Ir
to the martyr himself. To the oni^t-
cover. n>y son's consciene^teM" '°"''"«^ «"-
!« apt to prick others as welU K m ^"''''"^ "'"er.
■noculates them with feeli^f ofiT ' '"'' ">" P"ck
h>n>. His conscience is pecuhi.v ,"'' '""'"^ '"'^"^d
-!^!J"'SSr„:rt^;?-"«'''Josephi„ere-
"Of course, I donTulma!^^^^^^
never tned to. And as jZ."'^ him, my dear. I
prehension of his underivinl "',."''' "^ '^'«^««r com-
Parently confer incr^asedTan """'"'^" '^'^^ "ot ap-
tn.stthatn,yi„^a,/;;f^^JP'"«s on j^, ^^^ 'P
don't love him more th'anlThinlT ""^ ""^^'"'=''- And I
to love her elder and onfy smlf • "'?"' f""- » *oman
Mrs. Laurence winceW " v r
Je was a bad son to me a„d J"' J '"--^ Claude, but
Diavola
for loving Claude, he was so bright and handsome, and
sunny, and such a nice change from the faultless, self-
righteous Austin. Like a Bank Holiday just after a
Sunday, don't you know ? "
•' I can not bear to hear you speak like that of Aus-
tin. He is the best man in the world, and could make
a really good and useful woman of me, if only he would
let me sit at his feet and learn of him. But if he washes
his hands of me I can't sit at his feet, you see," sighed
the girl ruefully.
" 1 suppose not," said Mrs. Laurence, with her bitter
smUe; " though sitting at Austin's feet would have any-
thing but a beneficial eflfect upon me. Whenever he ad-
vocates a course of conduct, the exactly opposite direc-
tion seems to me the only traversable country."
"Oh, Mrs. Laurence!"
" It is a fact. I never had the slightest homicidal
tendencies till I once heard Austin preach a sermon on
the Sixth Commandment. Then it was all I could do to
keep myself from slaying everybody I happened to meet.
He has one admirable discourse on the Sins of the
Tongue— I daresay you have heard it— and to that
sermon I always feel indebted for the unblunted sharp-
ness of my conversational powers."
Josephine rose to go. It was one thing to be excom-
municated from the shrine where she had hitherto
adored, but it was another to hear that shrine openly pro-
faned, and this latter was more than she could bear.
"Well, all I know is," she said, "that if Austin
throws me over now, and refuses to forgive me, I shall
never be good myself or put any faith in good people
agam; and you can tell him so. Goodbye, Mrs. Lau-
6S
'ml^
t)iavola
S|« fc/°" -" "o your be« .0 put ma«er.
her t« I^'^.d^Hcr «re.i?' °' '"'^ '^'"^^ -"^ds, did
could, both for Josephine" LTLt.h' "^ '" "«« '"e
'°^e a good husband; and for' W ' ^"' *''°"''' ""'
"hould not lose a rich ^ff" But ,h T' ">'' ^'' ^'^
were alike powerless to touch th' ° ^"""derations
ot Austin Uurence. ""* P"'* ^'n^ "arrow soul
Arm^:i^bi:„lVt!th it^^ °' r l'*"^ ■■" »"«= In^iian
crcumstances. She wL a b ' ve T" '""' '" «^='"-"«'
one. and succeeded in ^vi„. her In?"' ''"'^'' "^ "■"•^^
fon. Austin, the elder rs a '' t^''^*" « g«od educa-
""'h a passion for riehT^'i""''''''; '"'^'P^ctive boy,
manhood he took Ho"foXTnd h^'" "^ ^^^ '°
"-e curate of SunninglySe", -""''"' *™"
home for his mother- and t^,. """''= » "'« little
with, and becameXid ,0 *''-"'''''=" '"'°-
-ster-heiress of oid^olV^' i°2^r ^"'^'"^y- "'e
Claude, the second son o the hh. ^^/'r ^°""«^ ^"«>-
neither morbid nor introsLcle !. °1 ^"'^""' ^"^
worthy indifference tow™rdTh!7v "'' l*!"^^^ '' hlame-
r --•■i^"3• -"^^^^^
Squire's rich sister-in-Ia«,\^.^ ""'°" with the
66
JkTF . '»■
Diavola
ribly bored. oSL^he gr? ■'I'"' '"*• *" *" hor-
- latent irritationS « ith re^h"' ' "•' "' ''"
dering irritation became „,„ .7' . ' ' • " st. i.l
«Pon two people k'ssSTach ^h" '""" '^' ^" " -">^'
"o'Tor, that these twain we« cljt' "t"^? ' ' " '" ' '
wphine Crawley ^ • ^^i"' ' '■ ' d /o-
lover's anger againstTr Shi !^^^^^^ ""^'"^ ''^^
charge and^egfeit;;.'^^^^^^^^^ «>-«' °f the
pnest was as adamant ^ '""*• ^ut the stem young
«id: "b" ^t'Sl^:^^^^-'; ^ '-"■•on." he
loved you and trusted you w^°h „' t^, ° ""^ '''''«• ^
"And can you never^„ ^ "'''°'' '°"1-"
"■ '•N:r£r ^'"^^^^^^^^^ '"' "^ ''^'"'"
Josephine"' rhacTMrff^^ ''^^" ^ '''''"'* *=nt to love you
•t. My motherlXTrX'n ■■'" -1 I was afraid;
my father a.od whileTwas vet r " """^ ^°' ""'• ^"^
I daresay had he lived he wouM hrV°""^ ^''"''' b"'
" No, no; nobody could hJv.^ ^''^"''^ '"^ «°°"
^ The young .an smH b te ,y"^' m\^°"' ^''■■"•"
my own mother takes nn », I, Nobody? Why,
tempt, and my brother jeered °/° '°""^' "^^^ "^o"-
jeered at me from his cradle. Mv
67 •^
Diavola
lot has not been a happy one, but at least it has had
«Je advantage of teaching me not to be conceited
Therefore, Josephine, I tried not to love you, because I
knew well enough that there was nothing in a dull,
commonplace man like myself to attract a brilliant wom-
an such as you are."
" But you did attract me, Austin, from the very first.
I liked you as soon as I saw you."
" I daresay I did very well as a plaything. Even
a poor curate's heart is worth breaking, just for prac-
tice, though a negligible quantity in the more important
affairs of life."
" Austin, it is cruel to speak to me like that I "
" And wasn't it cruel of you to flash into my dreary,
loveless lot, and make me love you, whether I would or
no? Wasn't it cruel to teach me all the unimagined hap-
pmess that was possible in this life, only to prove that
for me it was a hopeless dream? Wasn't it cruel to be
all the worid to me for a time, and then to throw me
on one side when you had the chance of amusing your-
self with a more fashionable and attractive man?"
" Oh, Austin, Austin I have some mercy upon me. It
is your profession to teach people how to save their souls
ahve, and mine will never be saved if you cast me off like
this. I can not be good or do good apart from you."
" I owe a duty to myself as well as to you, Josephine •
a-'.d / can only be good and do good apart from you, now
that I know your words and kisses are alike false. My
ife was wretched enough, heaven knows, before I ever
loved you, it is a thousand times more wretched now
that I have loved and lost you ; but it would be ten thou-
sand times more wretched were I to go on loving you
68
Diavola
after I had learnt how false you are. Plucking out one's
nght eye .s not an agreeable operation, but ther. ,s a
l^^J^r..u.., you Uno.. ^U.n .n.rin, ^^oll
self MorrhV" •'"'!!' *« ^' J°''P'''"^ humbled her-
=i^:^rhifrrs;-^£5
had a high ideal, and ifve^d up Sltlndtth'toX:
fa..ed where he succeeded, he showed neither p'^le
tionfof lift'in'tn'°''r "" "" ^"^''^'"'«'. the condi-
IZf. u ^"""'"Sly were not so easy to the youne
curate as heretbfore, .o he left the country and took f
curacy ,n London. Before many years h7d passed th^
ar and powerful preachers in town, and the vicar of a
n«1„t ""^^ '"'° ' ""^ °' Church House, where
in ,?, ''T^ '°"''^' "'^'^' »"d self-de„;ing as
No mt^'nLl""' "'!'='' *"= ^° passionately' loved
Ao man m London preached more fearlessly or worked
more unflaggmgly than Austin Laurence ; aLwTen he
happened to recall Josephine Crawley, which ^asbm
posse"'ed r " " ""'"; °' thanksgiving that he had
^Il».
Dlavola
CHAPTER III
Who was the author of Diavola?
That was the question which all London was asking,
and which no one, in London or out of it, answered.
Diavola was the cleverest and the wickedest book of
the season, and had taken the clever and the wicked
world by storm. Nearly every one read it, and nearly
every one was the worse for reading it; and still the
authorship remained a mystery, though the pernicious
influence of the author spread far and wide.
Upon this unknown writer the great preacher, Aus-
tin Laurence, poured forth the vials of his righteous in-
dignation, and felt that he did well to be angry. He
read the book because every one read it; but, unlike the
majority of its readers, the stem young prophet did not
assimilate the insidious poison which its brilliant epi-
grams and finished periods breathed forth ; for he was
strong enough— owing-to the singleness of his eye and
the purity of his heart— to resist the defilement of even
such subtle pitch as that concealed in the fascinating
pages of Diavola. But none the less did Laurence rec-
ognize the incalculable harm which such a publication
was bound to eflfect, and against the author of this dan-
gerous work he put forth all his strength. He forbade
the young men under his charge so much as to look into
the book ; and he made an auto da fe of every copy that
came in his way, regardless of its ownership. Moreover,
he lifted up his voice in public, and preached against
Diavola as against one of the most penetrating instru-
ments of the powers of darkness ; and from his pulpit he
70
Diavola
hurled his anathemas ,t the unknown writer who had
ln/.^"H ^ I""' '"'^ '^""^^y P"'^'" '"'° the hearts
and mmds of h.s fellows. It is a terrible thing to lay
~' °" T '':'"^ '°"'' ''"' ^"^t-" La"«n<=e was
young enough and bold enough to do terrible things-
and on one memorable Sunday-when he had made the
hearts of them that heard him melt like wax at the burn!
rrmriV It ''"^ *'" "P*-"^ "'--l his right
arm m the face of h.s congregation, and called heaven
to witness that he cursed the author of Diavola
In the midst of Laurence's fierce crusade against
sprntual wickedness in general and the teaching
D.avola m particular, he was one day surprised to re-
ceive a visit from Mrs. Lumley, the wife of the Squire
of Sunningly, about whom he had heard nothing for sev-
ZZ'fT '} 71 ""' *" 'y^' °f •='«"<= ^hom sen-
timental women delight to honour as the repository of
all their semi-hysterical doubts and difficulties, and for
whom they manufacture innumerable cushions and slio-
pen. ; he was made of too stern stuff to be appealed to by
either fancy work or fancy religion. Tlierefore, he
waited with some impatience for his fair visitor to ex-
plain her reasons for taking up his already overcrowded
■; I know you are awfully busy with good works and
services and things, Mr. Laurence," began Mrs. Lumley
apologetically, "so I won't detain you for more than
half a minute ; but there is something that I must say to
The young priest merely bowed his head and waited •
he knew by bitter experience that a feminine half-minute
IS often as a thousand years to the waiting victim, and
71
te^"^'T% <
Diavola
he also knew that a woman has the inalienable last word
all the sooner if the nuin does not speak at all.
"It is about my sister Josephine," continued the lady
hurriedly; "of course you remember her?"
" Certainly I do," replied Austin ; but he did not
think it necessary to add how very rarely nowadays he
recalled the memory of his faithless love.
" I have only just found out why your engagement
with her was broken ofJ, and I want to explain."
" There is not the slightest need to explain anything
now, Mrs. Lumley," said Austin, smiling; " in fact, such
an explanation would be as much out of date as a dis-
cussion as to who wrote the Letters of Junius, or on
which side of Whitehall Charles the First was beheaded."
" But I must explain— I can't rest till I do. I have
only just discovered that you quarrelled with Josephine
because you fancied you saw Captain Tarletan kiss her
at Mrs. Selby's dance. You were mistaken. It was I
whom you saw in the conservatory with Frank Tar-
letan."
"You?"
" Yes, I ; but Josephine and I were so awfully alike
in those days, don't you know?" continued Mrs. Lum-
ley, growing nervous as Austin's brow darkened, " that
we were constantly being taken for one another. On
that particular night, too, we were both dressed in white
satin. I remember those gowns perfectly, because I had
mine dyed afterward and made into a tea-gown. It dyed
extremely well— a lovely apple-green— and I think it
would have been the prettiest tea-gown I ever saw if my
maid hadn't cut it a little too short in the waist," added
the lady, growing retrospective and therefore garrulous.
72
Diavola
Laurence looked cold and stern.
" Why didn't your sister tell me the truth at the
time ? " he asked.
" She did tell you a part of the truth, you know, and
you were too high-and-mighty to believe her. She
swore to you that she had never entered the conserva-
tory at all that night, and no more she had. But she
wouldn't tell you that it was I whom you had seen, be-
cause she knew what a row my husband would have
made if he had heard of it. He was dreadfully fussy
about things like that."
" And rightly so I " thundered Austin.
For the first time in his life he began to be angry with
himself, and consequently felt the necessity of punishing
some one else severely.
" Of course," Mrs. Lumley agreed pacifically. " But
Frank and I at that time were both extremely young and
extremely foolish. Naturally, if I had had any idea that
the thing would get Josephine into trouble, I should
have spoken right out, and braved my dear old Colonel's
justifiable wrath. But Jo was better and cleverer than I
was, and always took the burdens off my shoulders ; so I
never bothered my head about her affairs— I felt she was
able to take care of herself."
" Women are very selfish I " exclaimed Austin ju-
dicially.
" Some are, but not all. If my sister had been a little
more selfish she wouldn't have lost her heart's desire.
I have only just found out that that nonsense between
me and Frank Tarletan was what really estranged you
and Josephine ; so I have come to tell you how frightfully
sorry I am, and to ask you to forgive me."
73
^-lOH ' • Ao-J^^dUhJIii^
Diavola
"I have nothing to forgive. Mrs. Lumley, for I am
convmced that your sister and I could never have been
happy together. My love for her was a midsummer mad-
ness; when I was with her I was fairly intoxicated by her
wonderful fascmation. and completely lost my head "
; Josephine had a tremendous charm for some peo-
ple, remarked Mrs. Lumley musingly. " I am beiter-
lookmg than she is, actually, but she was always more
attractive. I wonder how she does it."
"You see, I am not a marrying man," continued
Austin, not heeding hei" interruption. " After the first
intoxication was over, I should again have returned to
my work, and found it my greatest interest ; and domestic
life might have interfered with it and worried me. But
by the way, how is your sister? Well and happy. I
trust." ^^^'
" ^.*!" afraid that she is neither," sighed Mrs. Lum-
ley. She married Sir George Serracold a year ago
but It ,s not at all a happy marriage. I think she only
cared for his title and he for her money. But I mustn't
waste your valuable time any longer."
And with a hasty adieu, Mrs. Lumley withdrew
Austm Uurence went back to his interrupted duties
wondenag why on earth the Colonel's wife had thought
fit to hinder him for such a thing as this. True, he had
beheved himself to be broken-hearted ten years ago
when his engagement ended, and when he was so bit-
terly-and as he no- learned, unjustly-disappointed in
Josephine Crawley. He had likewise believed him.elf to
be heart-broken thirty years ago, when he lost the ele-
phant out of his Noah's Ark ; but if any one had stopped
him DOW m his busy life to inform him that he need fret
Diavola
no longer, as the elephant had been found in the old
compound at Lahore, he would have felt much the
same toward that messenger as he Mt toward Mrs.
Lumley.
His day of small things was over, h< said to himself ;
he bad outgrown ahke the elephant and Josephine.
vT
CHAPTER IV
" Do you know, Lady Serracold, that this is the third
time I have picked up your dinner-napkin since we sat
down, and we are only at the first entree? The dinner is
as yet young, but I, alas ! am not."
Lady Serracold laughed.
" I am so sorry. Major Newdigate. I seem to be a
sliding scale ; I haven't the faintest idea what that means,
but it sounds income-taxy and death-dutiful."
" Pray don't regret the circumstance, my dear lady ;
it is a pleasure for me to do anything for you, and in
this case the pie;. ,ure is so intense as to be ' almost pain.'
But don't you think it would be a good plan if I sat under
the table and kept throwing it back ? "
" I daresay it would ; and you would look rather nice
crouching under the shadow of the table-cloth, and hurl-
ing defiance and a dinner-napkin at me. A sort of com-
panion study to Ajax defying the Lightning, don't you
know."
" But it might slightly interfere with the thread of
conversation if Ajax were hiding under the table and
the lightning dining above it. It is bad enough below
• 75
Diavola
thc^Mlt. but Still worse below the table, I should im-
theie?,*! "'lT!?"u'""^"'^ ^''^ "y conversation in
the least, her ladyship assured him: "you see I have
always to talk down to you. and you have to look „p L
me, wherever we may happen to be placed at table "
Ihat IS so; nevertheless, continual dinner-napkin-
hunts in the middle of a substantial meal are thWs
which wither me and stale my infinite variety. Sol
you continue to be a sliding-scale. I think I should pre-
fer to sit under the table and dine off meat-lozenges "
^^^ Did you ever eat a meat-lozenge. Major Newdi-
" Once ; it was made of horseflesh, I believe, to jud«
from the taste, and not very fresh at that "
" It was high horse. I expect: an animal better for
ndingthan eating." remarked Lady Serracold
Major Newdigate smiled. "A very happy suppo
the French for meat-lozenges), have you read Diavola' "
Yes. I have read it," replied the lady ; " but I don't
know what to think about it." ""tiaont
,.1. ^'/' a "larvellously clever book, and extremely un-
U hrmost?' " ''''\°' '^ unpleasantness I think it
^Iprou?'"""^ '°°' ' -^^^ '•««'-«"'> 'he most
;■ Have they found out yet who the author is? "
1 believe they have."
"How ver)- interesting! Do tell me. as I am con-
sumed with curiosity on the subject."
«„.' !i "i?*"- '* x.^ P^"°" somewhere in the East End "
replied Major Newdigate. '
76
f ^
It*
Diavola
"A parson! why, it isn't the sort of book that a
clergyman would write," exclaimed Lady Serracold,
with surprise.
" Don't be too sure of that ! those parson chaps are
cleverer than you think," the major assured her, " and
this is a specially clever one. His name is Laurence-
Austin Laurence— and he is one of the best preachers in
London."
Lady Serracold's face lost its usual mocking expres-
sion, and became extremely interested.
" Did you ever hear him?" she asked.
" Once ; and it was the best sermon I ever heard in
my life. It kept thrilling all down your back like
an electric battery, don't you know, and made you
want to dash out of church, and become a martyr or
a missionary, or something, before you had your
lunch."
" I know."
"And then he had such a fine voice and read the
prayers so awfully well," continued the major enthusi-
astically ; " you felt it quite a pleasure to keep the Com-
mandments, he put them to you so nicely ; and he is such
a good-looking chap into the bargain."
" Yes, he is extremely handsome ; or, at any rate, he
used to be in the days when I knew him. But I thought
that he hated Diavola, and had cursed the author of it
from the pulpit."
"So he did; but that was just his sharpness. He
knew well enough that public condemnation of a thing
is about the best advert;se;iient that thing can have; and
he was cute enoinjh to advertise his own book in that
particular way. It was far more effective and orii
'iginal
77
Diavola
a thing as that." "^™" '» ">« >«« man to do such
The major raised his eyebrows.
learnuLftheYas't'ot^r'l; ' "" "'^ '"°"-"'' »° ^ave
::i:in^&^^^-;-rt
racold h«tir ''"fdotfr^':'"'^""^'^'^ ^<'y Ser-
the days when I believL * u'"' " "" "°*: I'"' '"
So he's TmeLti'g To t"aTt"^ ' "'""'"^ '" """■
gotten faith-like fto^e^e^g Ir the Pa^f °' V^
you know?" Her ladyship L°heS„!Sl' '"'
lievedt^ht^ri^fj^ '" % <^r *"- y°" "e.
curiosity. ^' ''■'"'' ^''J°'- Newdigate with some
ver^'n^^r-"""' '"' ^^"^ ~"^' -«» -O- hard, and
mnlZ\r:^^J '^""^"'"^^ "-» «>« Pa^Henon."
tion^"' Serracold lau.h.d. and continued her descrip-
andit.-^'- -' '' '-' -«-'^ upriLVar:
are.^ouln'ow."'^ ^"" '° ^'"'"^ '" '°''' Some curates
78
Diavola
"Merely as a recreation ; love was to him what foot-
ball IS to some men, and whist to others."
" What an admirable and withal wise young man I
But you do not seem fully to appreciate his merits, Udy
Serracold."
" I hardly ever think of him ; but when I do, it is with
respect. As I told you, it is ages since I saw him; but
even now I feel I could hang wreaths upon him once a
year, as if he were a statue or a tombstone."
And then the conversation drifted into other chan-
nels.
How the rumour first got wind nobody knew ; but the
generally-received opinion was that the popular preach-
er, Austm Laurence, was the anonymous author of Diav-
ola. And it was an opinion which had many and divers
supporters: for the worid did not love the eloquent
young prophet, who had so fearlessly denounced it and
all that appertamed to it ; and was thankful for an excuse
to turn again and rend him. At first Austin laughed the
v.le calumny to scorn, and scouted the idea that any one
could believe so monstrous a lie; but after a time it
dawned upon him that people did believe it, and that
consequently his popularity and— still worse— his influ-
ence were on the wane. Valiantly the young priest faced
the calumniatmg worid, and defied it ; but the lie gained
ground all the same, and, like the grain of mustard seed
grew so rapidly and to such huge dimensions, that all'
those httle birds who carry round the gossip, joyfully
made their nests in the branches of it. At last the report
became such a scandal that his bishop spoke to Lau-
rence on the subject, and told the young vicar that it was
his duty either to prove the falsity of the charge, or else
79
'^^■^^
mm^'
•"ooeory usoiution tist chait
(ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2)
A APPLIED IN/MGE In
^B". '6S3 Eott Moin StrMi
g'-ig Roch««t#r, New York 14609 US*
■.aae (7t6) 4S2 - OJOO - Phona
^= (7161 288 - 5989 - Fa»
DiavoJa
i^^^hir.sJfi^'JyZ^^'i^J'^': 'hat he declined to
curates and lav-helnir °"" dismissed all the
not long aLftht fere ~^^^^ '"."'^ '^"-ge; and
deigning to offer any exoW; ""' ^T^ '"=°' ^"hout
but natural in a man of wfrr- ^°°"^'^' doubtless,
persons of his type of^„H:' ''™P"'"'"' = '°^ '°
spite their faces rcomeTio""'"? ""^ '*'"' "°-'' '°
tion as vaccination ZhoT "' '"'^''"''' ^" °P««-
quick by the thrght^;'^2 L^r" •l"^'' ''"" *° '''^
whom he had wof ked cIm h , *'*' T^ ^^""^ «nd for
thing, he could not tpelt^^^^^^^^^^^ f"'^ °' ^"'^
savoured of his style and Zf k '""'^'' '" ^'^^°'''
though the matter 'was unsp akab^abh""" "" '"''
The voice that snake w^ r t.. \ abhorrent to him.
the hands of Esau a„d he a' ''"' "'^ "^"''^ ^«^c
of the traitor who had th»,K^^ *° '^'"'°^" '^e name
away his bleslg o'e thr.T?''' '""^"^ ^"^ "»'^^"
Laurence in the vallev of '''°"f' .^'°"« «Pheld Austin
was travelling- nlielv the""" '•'°" *''^°"^'' ^^ch he
all men spoke ev"uft-' ';°°=<=l°"^ness that, though
guiltless of the sin t^To Irt "^'' °! ''^='^^" ''<= --
iron entered into hs soul -^ ^'^'" ^""^"^eless the
to scorn by a ^rd e ^^f an^ hTt 'l"^^" '^^"' "^
truth sneered at as a cunnint !. testimony to the
tention to the bo^k h "hT^ advertisement to draw at-
addition to hL oThtti:tr"o"'!:' *° '^"°""- ^^
rence in the face; for as^nTh.r "^ f°" ''""^ Lau-
had given away all th" Lta'Torharr ^ ''
treasure for himself against the iv°fi.H'^ up no
-n,o„of„„HghteoUs:tt7„'etr/,,^^^^^^^^
80
Diavola
and now that he had failed, its habitations v-ere not open
to him. But the end was not yet
himlliT'^ h"°u!!' '*■' """°'^ °' J°'^P'''"« haunted
h.m m these dark days as it had not haunted him for
years. Now that he was cut off from his former muS'
fanous dut.es, he had time to remember that she had
not kissed Captain Tarletan alter all, and that the real
Josephme and the ideal Josephine were again reunitedTn
one person. All the old feelings, which had lain stagnan"
for years came over him, like accumulated interest in the
savmgs-bank, which increases all the more quickly when
no applied for; and he remembered with tenderness the
old days at Sunningly. He realized, with distressing
clearness, that Josephine would never have believed a
word against him, whatever the world might say; and he
could not help smiling as he imagined the extremely vig-
orous and injudicious epithets she would have applied
to all those (not even excluding the bishop) who had
leagued themselves together against him. He also won-
dered why it had not occurred to him to kick Captain
larletan on that memorable evening in the conservatory •
and he blamed himself for the omission. He would not
actually have kicked the man, he decided— it would have
degraded his cloth to do so; but it degraded his man-
hood not to have wanted to do so, and for this he thought
scorn of himself. It also distressed Austin to recall how
Mrs. Lumley had told him that Josephine's marriage was
not a happy one : and then he wanted to kick Sir George
berracold for not making her happy : and then he wanted
to kick himself for having made her so dreadfully un-
happy all those years ago : and then he wondered if she
were much altered, and if the curly wisp of hair, that
8i
Diavola
CTOund A„H ft, '"^^'"'°" °v"- the same delightful
hive be-entgeS:" ff'h'e laf °/ !L°" '"''P^^ ^''^^ " '^'''
«i lugemer it Jie had not been such a self-ri<rlit
eous, conceited young ass; and with all his th nkinfhe
never once thought of the fact that Tf he had mTlvH
Jos^Wne. he would never have been as "4^^'
as he „a3 „^^_ Josephine's money had ever been a ^-
hgible quantity in his estimate of her ^
One memorable day. as Laurence was sitting alone
L L7'''!"'"'* '°'^^"^- » ■«="" was Sghfto
S:r^d2j-Si-'----- H--
cently and m order, and as a fashionable woman should
And there ts something that I must tell you before I Jo
I was I who wrote Diavola. Perhaps you are shocM
at this— you were so easily shocked in tL »[« ^nocked
Jnow ; but it was you who^ rtnd'r^d Lt; .X^
ofyrrVanSrr /wTa^rw'"^^ ^^ ^^'
engaged to you-I shi ^^r^eeTaTilltrr ^^e^
cold'rndT't"'" ^"* ^°" ^^« ^*- «»'' ha^ and
myself an unworthy helpmeet for'such ajiece o'fTr
you now know, an unfounded one-but thafis imma-
82
I^iavola
any one so unmercifully was your sin .nHfu-^^*^
n^ust answer You rnaL reli^ srhiist '^: Z
profitable; but had y^ute' ^3^^^* '"•'"'^""^
SasTaLTn ^°" .''— '''--cH aTl a'S'
suet) as I am, I have written Diavola I hear fhaf i
afterward X? ,^^ ^' y°" l>ve-and perchance
Yours, as you made me,
"Josephine Serracold."
knew'ir.t'h-''* ^"f " ^°''"^ •"■= •'^^d ■■" his hands, and
knew that h.s cup of anguish was filled to the brim No
83
Diavola
longer could he stand upright in his integrity and defy
t) ; calumniating world ; no longer could he raise a bold
■ front among his fellows, and protest in his innocence; for
he felt that in the sight of heaven he verily and indeed
was the author of Diavola.
84
AN ARTISTIC NEMESIS
" She is a lovely girl. Tredennis ; I don't know when
1 nave seen a more attractive face."
" Yes, she is very pretty ; and I also think she is one
of the most interesting-looking women I have ever come
across.
.u- " ^"'"["t-ng-that's it; and that's the best of every-
thmg! There are scores of handsome women in the
world, and ten times as many pretty ones. But the in-
terestmg women are scarce-confoundedly scarce when
one is well over thirty."
Tredennis sighed. " Yes, there is a terrible sameness
about women, I must confess. Their expressions are
different ; but what musicians would call their underlying
ntottf IS the same." *
His brother artist laughed. " My dear fellow, there
IS nothmg to sigh about in that. It is one of the most
sustammg facts in existence; because if you once take
the trouble to understand one woman thoroughly, the
rest of the sex are as printed posters to you. You never
have to go over the same ground again ; and, as in skat-
lea^r^^d •^' "^' ^°" "^''^ '°'^^* '*'''" ''°" ''^''' °""
".Lf?, "x°* ^ '"■■* °' "'^t •" '^°"'"^'l Will Tredennis.
Well, I am," asseverated ~
87
George Carteret.
An Artistic Nemesis
h. Ijf^^^'' """^"^ '" *"*"" ''"■ » '«« minutes; then
!f ^' ° y°" ''"°* anything about the girl ' "
Only what I have learned from our excellent land-
lady : namely that she comes here for quiet now and then
and hates to be disturbed ; and that she works very hard
w. h her pen-too hard. I shou.J say. for so young and
dehcate-lookmg an individual. I conclude that she is a
newspaper woman, and can not afford to take a regular
holiday; so comes to this cheap and out-of-the-way place
!?^tT °l."™-'J«'*=''ed vacation in which she works
a" the time.
Treden'iljl ""'*' ^'' ' ^^^ ^°°^' '"''^ ""'' °^'«'«d." said
<:., ^,f"'? '''"^''"'- " ^'""y ""'*= S'^'' I should say I
i>he has the most wonderful blue eyes I ever saw-the
eyes of a child who has once peeped into heaven, and
is now trymg all she knows to get another peep ; and her
heart is breaking because she can not get it. I mean
to pamt her as the Peri entering Paradise."
■' Oh, Carteret 1 I shouldn't do that."
" Why not, may I ask. most wise and tiresome coun-
sellor r
" Because she seems so young and inexperienced, and
It would spoil her life if she fell in love with you. And
shed be sure to do so; your lady-sitters invariably do"
George stroked his handsome moustache with de-
ight. " I don't know about that." he purred (but he be-
lieved It implicitly): "I suppose I'm a good-lookinR
chap in my way. but I don't see why every woman should
think so. Probably our iittle blue-eyed friend will be
an exception."
" Not she ; you won't let her be an exception. ' You'll
I
An Artistic Nemesis
make her fall in love with , m, and then you'll follow
your usual programn- and .ide away. And what will
become of the poor little girl then ? "
Carteret shrugged his shoulden;. " I don't know, my
dear fellow, and I don't care. Perhaps I shall fall in love
with her."
" Not you— with a newspaper woman I You would
never marry a girl without money or position, however
pretty she was; you are far too consistent and devout a
Mammon-worshipper for that."
" That is true. May Fate deliver me from a marriage
with a woman who is nobody and has nothing! But I
dont mind amusing myself with the species; they are
often much more attractive than the eligible young ladies.
I think I shall give those wonderful blue eyes another
peep into heaven. I should like to see how they look
when all the sadness has gone out of them; and that is
how they will look when she sits for my Peri."
" For shame, Carteret ! Would you break a woman's
heart to make your picture more effect've? "
" Undoubtedly so : I should feel it my duty to sacri-
fice a woman's feelings for my art ; and when the woman
IS as pretty as this one the duty becomes a pleasure "
Well I call it a beastly shame! You would not
thmk of playing with a smart girt in that way ; then why
should you with a girt who is poor and downtrodden? "
Simply because she is poor and downtrodden. As
you say, I shouldn't dare to trifle with the affections-if
she had any— of a woman of fashion."
Tredennis smoked on savagely. " I am disgusted
wth you, Carteret. You will spoil that poor child's life
And she isn't such a child as you suppose, which makes
89
An Artistic Nemesis
sot/inov"''" ^°' *'"■ ^^' '* "'"^^ "■"" 'he looks ; .ad
so will love as a woman and not as a child "
will .rrn! ^""^^"u l-?''"^- " ^'"^f »"'' """'^n'" It
and^e f*^ '''"' ^°^'^' amusement for both the girl
a summer wasted.
.'.' m^'AV' ^"^ ^'■''* """'^ " «''''«d Tredennis.
T .u . f """' *° ""'"' '""'"^ss informed me- and
I Kathered from the same source that the old lady in
charge of the fair Matilda-whom I take to be her
rm/;!f'-M'~".'^"°^" '° ^''''"^ ''y 'he absurd pet
name of Narty,' but to the less favoured public by L
■mpressive cognomen of Miss Amelia Cox "
Tredenms smiled in spite of himself. " Miss Amelia
t^m- and r^'.'r'f P^"°"- She is an ultra-PrTtel
tant . and the s.ght of the convent opposite is a source of
never-faihng mterest and horror to Ter. She spoke to
me to-day. while I was sketching by the stream and e^-
She ha, T "' '"""^ ""^'' "' '° 'he evils of Popeo".
She has-to put it mildly-an ingrained prejudice
who l;e „1 "''^"' *° ''^"'^ ^' J''""' «°^t people
who are not so w.se or s6 fortunate as to belong to her
special denomination " *
Poor. W^fow, little Matilda! She has mv hearti-
est sympathy," sighed Tredennis ^
Carteret laughed. " I hope I sha'n't make her dis-
90
An Artistic Nemesis
satisfied with the men of her own class.' he remarked,
with much conceit. "'""j,
■• I expect you will ; for you really are a handsome fel-
tow, George, though just now you are behaving like a
rnnZ"'?^^''' ^^' ^'" °"«''" '° '«'^<= ^""^ heartiest
dear W.U; for the woman to whom I am happening at
the n'oment to make love. has. for the time bring, the
most delightful experience. I flatter myself that I am
a past master in the art. Why, bless you. my dear fellow I
if the girl has the artistic temperament-as with those
eyes she is bound to hav.--she will enjoy the pastime as
much as I shall, and it will do her no more harm "
And then the young men rose from the seat under
he shadow of the mn. where they had been smokin --n
the summer twilight, and strolled up the hill to Ir^^
a final look at the view before turning in
George Carteret and Will Tredennis were on a
sketching tour, and had stopped at Mawgan, that most
picturesque of all Cornish villages. They had already
been there for three days, and on the morrow Tredennis
was going on to Tintagel, while Carteret meant to stay
at Mawgan to make some more sketches in that delight-
ul neighbourhood. In a week's time they were to meet
agam at Penzance and do the south of Cornwall together,
the only other visitors staying at the little rose-cov-
ered mn were the ladies so freely discussed by the two
artists. They were right in saying that Matilda Dunn
was attractive. She was tall and fair and delicate-look-
ing, but with that capacity for hard work which only
dehcate-lookmg women possess. Miss Amelia Cox was
7 9'
An Artistic Nemesis
^dZ'^T ''^"f «-!°<"''"g; but she was a cheerful,
the tr, ^ r '' 1^"°'^'^ ^^ " P'^'°"»t« devotion to
the girl under her charge.
The following day Tredennis left ; and then Carteret
devoted himself to bringing that look into Matilda's eyes
which would render her fit to be the model for his Peri.
It was not difficult to make friends with Miss Cox-she
was only too ready t^ enter into sociable conversation
with any one, as she found Mawgan decidedly dull • and
she soon pointed out to George Carteret its obvious in-
fenonties, as a holiday resort, to Margate. Of Miss Cox
George intended to make a stepping-stone to lead to Miss
Dunn ; and m a few hours he had established most
friendly relations between himself and the elder of his
fellow-tounsts.
By tea-time Miss Cox had already treated him to
short biographies of all the ministers whom she had " sat
",, r ^ ll"?"^ **' '=°"'''' °^ ^" ^"Wy pilgrimage ; and
she had added to this semi-theological instruction much
information of a more personal character. She had
informed him that her departed father had, in the days
of his flesh, kept a small bookseller's shop in Blooms-
bury, but that he made so little profit thereby that
she and her sisters had all been obliged to earn their re-
spective livings. Son^e of the sisters had married and had
had children; but wealth had never been an appendage
of the Cox family, or of any of its collaterals. And al-
though her surviving sisters were what Miss Amelia
called " fairly comfortable in their old age," all their
daughters had to work in their turn as their mothers had
done before them. She even went so far after supper as
to confide in George that one of her nieces, who worked
92
An Artistic Nemesis
in a telegraph office, was receiving " honourable atten-
tions " from a young man whose father owned an ex-
tensive grocery business; and the Cox family were ap-
parently dazzled by the brilliant prospect which this
opened out
"If Maria catches that young man," concluded
Maria's proud aunt, " she need never soil her fingers with
work again as long as she lives, for she'll have a little
servant of her own from the day she is married ; take my
word for it ! "
Having charmed Miss Amelia, George devoted the
next day to the conquest of Matilda ; and was even more
pleased with his success. At first the girt seemed shy,
and a little in awe of him; but gradually her reserve
thawed, and George found her a delightful companion.
She did not talk much, but she listened attentively; and
the naive comments she made upon all that he told her,
showed that there was much intelligence, and also a
quamt humour, hidden away under her demure exterior.
After this, the friendship between the two throve apace.
At first the giri was loth to neglect her work; but soon
she succumbed to Carteret's tender entreaties, and left
her writing to take care of itself while she sst by him
and watched him sketching.
As they thus sat together during the long summer
days, George strove his utmost to captivate the giri's
fancy ; and gradually he was rewarded by seeing the look
he longed for steal into her blue eyes. Those wonderful
eyes ceased to be sad when he was there, and brightened
up at the mere sound of his footstep.
Matilda did not talk of her relations, as George had
feared. She was a woman of infinite tact, and she soon
93
An Artistic Nemesis
Ihoul^ T^'^l' "^''^ '"'''^^'*^'' him most were the
houghts and words and works of George Carteret. Esq. ;
so those subjects occupied most of the conversation be-
tween them-^specially as Matilda found them almost as
mterestmg as he did.
George told her the story of his life (that is to say,
h.s own personally compiled edition of it-the edition
wh.ch he had persuaded himself was true, but whkh Ws
mnmate friends and relations knew to be chiefly fi
t .ous); and confided to her his intentions of cutting out
all nval artists, and of setting the Thames on fire for °he
warmmg of h.s own hands ; and showed forth to her the
Utter vdeness and ignorance of those beam-eyed crit cs
who, out of sheer jealousy, pretended that they perceS
motes m h.s finest productions. Matilda listened w^an
mterest that almost assumed the appearance of a^e, h
was so senous; and the blue eyes softened at George's
flashed at the ev.l do.ngs of the envious critics till even
his egregious vanity was satisfied.
^one-r/'"'' ^"y "^' *■" ""^ *° -J^^* «»'^n ^ am
gone, he frequently said to himself. But there was no
P.ty m.xed with the thought-nothing but v "trHe
was proud to think he was writing his name so indeliSy
eLtV ^^°r^ '"^" *''^* "° =f'«' y^ars would
efface the scar. That scars are not unmixed joys to their
S^dintir "" °^^"^ " •"- ■' -' '^ -""^ - •>-
voice^'n!: ' ''' 'f ''' °"' '"°™'"^' '" ^'' «""«* «ressi..g
vo.ce I have a favour to ask of my little queen. Do
you th,nk she will grant it to me? " He had taken to call
her Matt.e ; he thought it a prettier name than MatUdr
94
An Artistic Nemesis
The girl shyly raised her eyes to his. " It seems
funny for you, who are such a great artist and such a
clever man, to ask favours of me."
"You sweet, simple darling! Don't you know that
beauty makes every woman such a powerful queen in her
own nght that all men-even the cleverest-are her sub-
jects ? And George fairly bridled with pride as he said
even the cleverest."
i»^ !'.?"* you-you-are so diflferent from all the rest,"
Matilda added timidly.
" Only in your eyes, dearest— the sweetest eyes in the
whole worid. I am not much better nor much worse
than other men of my class."
Now George would have been mortally offended if
any one else had said he was no better-and much more
so If any one else had said he was no worse— than other
men. But we all say things of ourselves-and of others
—that we should never forgive others for saying of us.
" Do you mean that all real gentlemen are as wise and
as clever and as learned as you are, Mr. Carteret I " and
the sweet face grew incredulous.
" My sweetheart, how often have I told you not to
say Mr. Carteret! Unless my little girt says George. I
won't answer any of her questions."
" But I don't like to say George to a real gentleman.
1 m sure Nanty wouldn't like me to call you that."
" Never mind Nanty— mind me. You see, I call you
Mattie, so why shouldn't you call me Georgef "
The giri shook her head. " You don't call me Mattie
when Nanty is by. I've noticed that."
ur ■??''^^ '- Jghed. " What a dear little innocent it is !
Well, look here, we'll make a compromise : when Nanty
9S
^»n Artistic Nemesis
is listening we'll say Miss Dunn and Mr. Carteret, and
when she isn't we'll say Mattie and George. Will that
"I don't know; I'm not sure that it's quite proper
for me to call you George even when Nanty isn't lis-
tening."
"Sweetheart, don't look so distressed about it : you'll
get lines across your white forehead and crowsfeet round
youT pretty eyes if you take trifles so much to heart.
Now say George once, just to show that you'll do always
what I want, and not what Nanty wants."
The girl looked down and was silent, making patterns
on the ground with the point of her little shoe.
" Say it," persisted George.
" George," she whispered, " I don't believe there is
anybody in the whole world like you."
George felt a wild longing to take her there and then
in his arms and cover her face with kisses ; but some-
how, for all her naivete, there was an innate dignity about
the girl that held him back.
" And now that I have done as you bid me, tell me
what is the favour you want to ask," she said.
" You know that I am going to paint a great picture
for next year's Academy."
Matilda npdded. " I know : the one you read me the
beautiful poem about, don't you me'an ? "
- " Yes ; and I want to make a sketch of you, so that
my Peri's face may be yours. Then if my picture is a
great success— as I mean it to be— it will be the triumph
of your beauty and my art in one."
The giri flushed with joy, and almost held her
breath. " Oh ! you don't think I'm pretty enough for
96
An Artistic Nemesis
that, do you?— for my face to live for ever on your
canvas?"
" I do, my sweet; I think you are beautiful enough
for Michael Angelo to have painted you as an angel. So
you'll let me make a sketch of your head, won't you? "
" Of course I will But it seems almost too good to
be true I Nanty will be proud to see me in a picture."
" All the world will be proud of you when they see
your face as I shall paint it," replied the artist grandilo-
quently; but Matilda gazed at him as if his utterances
had been those of an inspired prophet instead of a very
conceited young man.
" I shall paint you ':. a blue, clinging garment," con-
tmued Carteret. "A woman's cloihes should always
match her eyes."
" Should they ? How clever you are to know all these
things I "
So George made a sketch of Matilda's head, with
the expression in her eyes which they wore when they
caught sight of him coming toward her in the old inn
garden. And because the artist in a man is something
apart from the man himself, George's work was wholly
good, and the face on the canvas was verily the face of
an angel.
As for Matilda, she put away her writing altogether,
and gave herself up entirely to the enjoyment of George's
society. He was happy enough, for he was in the en-
viable position of people who think that they are in love
and know that they are not. And because he was happy
he was attractive— the two frequently go together; so he
laid himself out to make the present as full, and the future
as empty, as possible to ths girl beside him.
97
An Artistic Nemesis
Of course lie told Matilda that he loved her : and of
|i ii : course he said he could not ask her to marry him until
he had talked the matter over with his father, as he was
principally dependent on that father's allowance : and of
course he had no intention of doing any such thing, or of
ever mentioning the name of Matilda Dunn to George
Carteret pire.
But the wondering blue eyes drank in every word he
said, and there was no shadow of doubt to cloud their
childlike wonder.
Mattie was very quiet the day before he left Mawgan,
but she was not the sort of girl to vex a man with tears
and hysterics.
" Tell me your address," she said as they walked by
the stream that last evening, " so that I may know where
to write to you."
But George was wary. " I can't do that, darting, for
my plans are so uncertain; but I'll write to you in a
couple of days, and let you know where I am and what
I am going to do."
" Promise that you will write to me soon," Matilda
entreated.
" I promise."
"Faithfully?"
" Yes, faithfully."
But still the sweet face looked anxious. " Will you
give me your word of honour that you'll write to me
by next Monday at the latest? Because to-day is only
Wednesday, and it is a long time from Wednesday till
Monday, you know."
" Of course I will, you silly Hi ,le girl."
" Say it, then," persisted Matilda.
98
An Artistic Nemesis
George laughed. How deliciously simple she was
he thought. " I give you my word of honour that ni
write to you before next Monday. There, will that do ? "
Matilda gave a little sigh of pure contentment
Yes; because real gentlemen always keep their word.
don t they? At least, Nanty says they do."
George laughed again. The middle-class female
mud was elementary, he decided. " Of course they do
you httle Didymus of a child." '
The next morning George Carteret said goodbye to
Matilda and to Miss Cox, with many promises of future
meetings, none of which he kept or ever meant to keep,
bo the girl had to take up her work again without him
and Mawgan saw him no more.
When Monday morning came, MatUda looked anx-
iously out for the promised letter, and again on Tuesday
and Wednesday. But it never came then, nor on any
following Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday.
The next spring found George Carteret on a very
pmnacle of vaulting ambition, for his picture of the Peri
was hung on the line, and pronounced one of the best
pictures o* that year's Academy. But in vain did Ma-
tilda s eyes appeal to him from the open gates of paradise.
o" h!;tri-f C ""' "^'' "''^*^"'=^' -^^ ^^ «>« "x^^'
Early in the season there was a large ball at Lady
Silvertompton's; and as George was making his waj
toough the crowded rooms his hostess tapped him o^
"Oh! Mr. Carteret, Udy Maud Duncan has asked
me to present you to her. She hag sew your picture
Md wants to talk to you about it." ' ' ^ /"*"- ?'"""•
99
An Artistic Nemesis
George's heart fairly swelled with pride. This, he
felt, was fame; for Lady Maud Duncan was the only
child and heiress of the wealthy Earl of Comleydale, and
a celebrated beauty to boot, and one of the most brilliant
novelists of the day into the bargain. Not to know Lady
Maud was indeed to argue oneself unknown ; while to be
known by her was to be in Society.
Lady Silverhampton piloted George to a secluded
seat in a flowery alcove, where an exquisitely-dressed
young woman was sitting alone; and then pronounced
the magic words of introduction and left him. His con-
ventional bow, however, was arrested half-way ; for the
girl sitting on the secluded seat was none other than
Matilda Dunn.
" How do you do, Mr. Carteret?" she began, with
an easy assurance that had not characterized her in the
Mawgan days ; " ' am so glad to meet you here to-night,
for I have heaps of things to say to you." And she
made room for him beside her on the settee.
" I don't understand," said George limply, as he sat
down.
" Of course you don't. How could you ? But I am
going to explain."
All the starch had suddenly gono out of George;
so he remained silent, and waited for further revela-
tions.
Lady Maud continued : " You see, it is impossible for
me to find time either in London or at Comleydale to
write my books, we have so many visitors and know such
heaps of people ; so when I am working at a novel, I fly
incog, to some remote country place, and there go on
with my writing in peace. On these occasions I always
100
An Artistic Nemesis
rail myself Miss Matilda Dunn; and my old nurse
Amelia Cox, goes with me to Uke care of me."
"Oh! I see." George looked strangely ill at ease
tor so distmguished an artist.
Lady Maud began to laugh. " Now I am coming
to the amusmg part of my story. I happened to be sit-
tmg at my open window that evening at Mawgan when
you confided to Mr. Tredennis your praiseworthy inten-
tion to tnfle with the youthful ailections of Matilda
Uunn; and I thought what fun it would be to fool you
to the top of your bent, and to use up all the idiotic things
you might say as ' copy ' for the story I was then writ-
ing. Do you follow me ? "
whit/*'*'''"^' ^^^ ^*'""" ^*^*"'''' f«« w« very
" At first you bored me a little, I must confess ; you
were so very conceited, and had to have your flattery laid
on so awfully thick. But after a time I warmed to my
work and immensely enjoyed hearing you make an idiot
of yourself. I have so often wondered what sort of silly
things silly men say to girls whom they think silly. Now
I know.
George's lips trtmbled. " Do you think such treat-
ment was fair, may I ask?"
Her ladyship shrugged her white shoulders. " Most
cerUinly. You meant to make a fool of me for the sake
of your picture: I meant to make a fool of you for the
sake of my book : m what were we not quits ? "
" Is it the custom, then, to caricature the men who
love you ?
" Never-never : if I sank as low as that, I should be
on a par with you, Mr. Carteret. I consider that a wom-
lOI
An Artistic Nemesis
an who plays with a man's affection is as contemptible
I could put It stronger I would, but I can't "
Wge's brow was damp with misery. "I can't think
how I came to be such a confounded ass."
And I can't think how you came to be fuch a-con-
ounded cad " And Udy Maud went off into a S "f
silvery laughter. " It is really horrid for you," shelon
mued, through her merriment; 'I can not deny hath
■s. For every one will recognize you when my „ove
comes out-which will be in a week or two from "ow
and as every one w.U recognize me as the woman in youi^
aTthe fil?' 7^. "il' "^ ""' ^^- ^^^^^^ '-'• '^■"'^-
thinl „f 1 ",!^'''" '''" ^°'''' ^"' ^y- " I know any-
th ng of the world. And the world despises people who
are laughed at, my dear Mr. Carteret "
too?X r '"'•"' '■ "'" ""'"^y ^"^ ''^~'°«K «'"'o^t
too terrible for a van man to bear
vou"th™ t" °' '' "" '""''" ^''y M"""! ««nt on. " that
rthfsT/.. ""r ?'""y y°""8= »"d I W^-^ed you
am u'"h •""'!! °' ""^ '''''^^»- As a matter of fact
irthtnest!:dd°e;T"''.= '"' "'* -"^ "S"^' hair and
my tmnness— added to a simple and Pirlish toilette-
Srtxr"Tr''"''"^-^'^-*'"^
pass tor eighteen. This is very satisfactory."
_ You are the moSt heartless woman I ever saw "
You misjudge me; I am only taking a leaf o„t
secret , I made up my mind that if after all you repented
and wrote the letter as you had promised I woudS
you down as genUy as I could, and would not^ut ylu
103
An Artistic Nemesis
into my novel at all. I looked out for that letter o„
Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday ; and I oSed out
have hke a gentleman at last, and so render mt ncapab e
of making any use of one of the cleverest and most amu !
mg character-studies I ever portrayed. ButTortu^t ly
be laughmg w.th me at you by this time next month."
chie? He fTPP'** .■"", ''^°* ^'"^ his pocket-handker-
cniet. He felt positively sick.
to Z^^lirSV-^'^ """" ""'"K" I want to say
to you, Lady Maud nppled o., r voice shaking with
you shouir: ""'T- "^°" "'" '° ^^- Tredenn^Th t
woman of fashion. You haven't An/i t ««
««-><. ti udvcn I, Ana 1 am sure vou
can t blame me for talking too much about mv rdaTions
for I never once told you that Lord Comley^ale ' was a'
sp m 'Alrr' "' '"=" "^ '^"^ ' suffered I;"™
spasms. Also I can assure you that you have not as
you feared, made me at all ' dissatisfied with the mei o
my own class.' Oh I it is really all too funn- ! " A^d the
girl gave way to unrestrained laughter. '
As for George, he was past speaking, and could only
bury his face in his hands and groan ^
.,-l'7^r\l' """ ^"""^ °' Camstaple looking for me "
Goodbye Mr. Carteret: I'm so glad to have met you
again and had this nice long talk with you. Tnd you
a'nTllnt TtH^ ' ''''' ^°* '"' artistic temp^ram^
103
I
THE HISTORY OF DELIA
THE HISTORY OF DELIA
I KNOW that it is the fashion nowadays for people to
wnte the.r own lives, and to give an accurate diagnosis
of all their feelings for the benefit of the world ; so as I
am nothing if not modem (fin-de-siick I used to call
myself last year, but have discarded the expression since
now It seems a century behind the time), I have decided
to write my autobiography, and to give as graphic an
account as m me lies of the workings of that which I
am pleased to call my mind.
Nevertheless the task is not as easy as at first sight
It appears. First, in describing events, it is so difficult
to distinguish between what really haipened, and what
ought to have happened if one were w;:!:ing a novel in-
stead of a biography : in fact this difficulty is so great that
few biographers succeed in overcoming it ; and this is the
reason why biography, as a rule, is readable. And, sec-
ondly, it is impossible to find out, to one's own satisfac-
tion, what sort of a person oneself— the leading lady of
the piece— actually is : and it is very confusing to write
a book, and know so little about one's heroine. For
instance, mother thinks I am a child, Mr. Satterthwaite
thinks I am a girl, and I think I am a woman : and good-
ness knows which of us is right I If is no light matter to
sit down to tell a story without even knowing what gen-
The History of Delia
eration one s heroine belongs to. It ;» bad enough not
to know what century one is i„, which everybody vvas
quarrelhng about last year : but it is even «.-' puLhng
not o know which generation one is in-nc , feel surf
whet e ht to be dressing dolls, or writing lov
letters, or making one's will.
As for me, I feel quite an old woman-I am turned
one and-twenty-and that is wbv I have decided to write
story at all. However, that, I suppose, is true of everv-
one who-unlike the knife-grinder-has a story to te«
It IS only when our stories are other people's stories that
«iey are worth the telling-which sounds like a pa dox
but IS really only a platitude. Just as it is only wherone
has given oneself to another person, that one be^ns to
possess one's own soul. All of which sounds verrpuz!
J.ng till one has learned how to do it : and then it seems
the simplest thing in the world.
And this brings me to the point that my story is reallv
Gilbert Satterthwaite's story : his life was the primed ma^
ter, and mine only the meadow of margin through wWch
the nvulet of text meandered, as Sir Benjamin lackS
Of my life has been nothing but margin, like mv eood-
a'nda fieTd o^" ' ^"^^ ""'^ "''' "" ^"^^ -'^-'-- =
IS hMf K '^'"' '""'' "° "^"'^' °f 'yP<= to water it
■s but a barren pasture for the reading public to brow e
upon. Neither is it a cheerful and salubrious ste wheT !
on to build one's dwelling-house and take up o^el
abode: but now I am afraid I am confusing my meta
Phors-a trick my tutor never could endure
io8
The History of Delia
I am an only child, and it is very dull to be an only
child. I think that children— like tea-things— should al-
ways be in sets. It would be absurdly inconvenient to
have only one cup-and-saucer in a house : and it would
be dreadfully dull for the cup-and-saucer. I often wish
I'd had a brother to help me to understand Gilbert Sat-
terthwaite ; and a sister to help me to misunderstand him.
It wo d have made everything so much more interest-
ing and amusing. But the fact that I am an only child,
and a very solitary one, leaves all the more room in my
heart for the taking in of lodgers. When a family-party
fills a house, there is no space for visitors : and I think
hearts are a good deal like houses in this respect.
Wherefore it came to pass that when onre Gilbert Sat-
terthwaite appeared above my horizon-line, he soon filled
up half the landscape; so that such part of my life as he
had no share in, could be put upon the point of a needle
without overflowing.
Gilbert was Lady Summerford's agent, and lived
alone at the agent's house—" The Agency " he used to
call it— in the comer of Summerford Park. Lady Sum-
merford herself was a very wonderful person— one of
those people who seem to spend their lives in cotton-
wool and tissue-paper, and to be altogether too good
and too beautiful for everyday use. Wherever she went,
men and women fell down and worshipped her: they in-
stinctively gave her the best ..i everything, and she took
It all as her right with the most gracious smile in the
world. She was never too late for anything, because
nothmg began until she arrived ; and however crowded
an assembly might be when she entered, the best seat in
the room was at once vacated for her use; and the per-
109
The History of Delia
i'
-h»xei ,* ™; r„ T„ «;* ^ri
clever L I '' ^'"f *"' "°*- Gilbert was verj
clever and knew something about eve-^thing; and he
used to give me lessons when I was a child He wal
sorry for me, he said, because I seemed - so only and so
ZI'J:^/ ^^'^^ f^"^^^ *° '« - come up to Th^
Agency and do some lessons with him. Oh, whatTovdv
"a ™ '' ''='-;°^«her! All the iessol Jet
Mr L3 'u"'^ '"" "'"^^ ^^^-"'t »° bad when
no
The History of Delia
I despise, as coarse and elephantine, men who are bigger
than he. It never struck me that he was too Uttle — only
that other men were too big: just as it never strikes
the Summerford people that they are too old — only
that I am too young ; and I really am not, being turned
one-and-twenty. I never was clever, but I worked hard
to please Mr. Satterthwaite ; I 'ead all the books that he
recommended, so that by the time I was seventeen I
was what people call " well-informed " — a horrid word,
I.r. Satterthwaite used to say.
My father and mother are the rector of Summerford.
That also sounds like a paradox to those who don't know
them ; but the parish would understand that it is a plain
statement of a very palpable fact. They are very kind
to me ; but their tastes rather than mine rule the estab-
lishment, two to one being a good working majority for
any government — especially for a government as strong
as mother. She never cared for Mr. Satterthwaite : she
said that he made fun of her, and that no sound church-
man would make fun of his rector's wife. Of course no
ordinary sound churchman would, and of course it is al-
ways wrong to make fun of sacred things ; but Gilbert's
fun was the most delightful thing imaginable, and gave .
one a delicious feeling of being pelted with rose leaves.
I used to love it when he made fun of me : but then I'm
not a clergyman's wife and so there was nothing wicked
in laughing at my mistakes. Mother and I never enjoy
the same things ; and it always strikes me as funny that
father's sermons don't bore her, while Gilbert's jokes did.
Yet Gilbert Satterthwaite was the one man in all the
world who never could have bored anybody — at least so
I should have thought : and sermons are somehow always
III
The History of Delia
i
hand the strait paths ^h^'^^'^Z'^Z''' ''""^ ^''^^^-
1-ad you, and the bypa'h "11' "T'^"-'' "« going to
are meant to warn/ou ajy "'''' '"' *"'^
days wLVm' Sat^S^warr'^^ " ="' ^'^'^"^ ^''e
'ong ago. Only one or two T ^ '"'°^' "^^^ ^^^ ^°
'he rest run to/ethe .nto a sort"of °"' "'''"'"^'^- ""^
shot with gold, hke a "1" er ^ °^ rose-coloured haze
special occasio;s which 7"!:, '''"'"• ^"' °"- «' the
Lady Summerford .nterrL ed i""\' """^'"^ ^^^^^^
tling down to work. She wL lit ^"f '" ^' ^"^ «-'-
in a white muslin dress trilmlTv! '°''"''" "'^" "="^'.
large black hat • and sU ^^ <^ ""^^ '^"' ^"'l «
stuck into her b ack Jaltban/ a "'" °' "■'"''°" ■•--
(which she always did at The A '°°" " "^^ '"'^^^'^
or ringing), the ex„r«- '^f'"'^^ ^'"'°"t knocking
f-cly rummeir^cre '^'' 'j"^ '° '^'^ "^^'
face. It was such a strl? , ? ^'^ ^atterthwaite's
brought it into hi, face 1^' '^''' '""^ "° ""^ ^ver
veil, it seemed to b , ntended tfh"^ '°^ °' '"""""^y
neath; though what that sol ^ =°™^"''ng ""der-
makeout. ^"^ '"""^'hmg was, I never could
he?"'s^id?r'Llroar''"^ ^°"^ ^"^"-"o". is
in. elegantly intoif :^;;:2 "' '"' ^""^ '"'" ^'"'^-
ford i's%o'm"Sficert2'V''^'^' ^^"^^ ^ummer-
Plain and awkS "d ' ""'"y^ ""^de me feel
a very comfoSle jeetr""''" ^ '"' *^' '^ -'
"P- little g,Vl,...,e went on, with her musical
112
The History of Delia
laugh ; " why can't he let you play i:j the sunshine with-
out troubling you with lessons? Life will bring them
soon enough, and then you will have to learn them
whether you will or no."
" Not necess-rily," put in Gilbert. " Some people ap-
pear to skip life's lesson-book witn enviable ease, and to
be extraordinarily uneducated at the end of it."
Lady Summerford laughed again. " There are so
few thmgs worth learning, that it is often cleverer to
skip than to read. True cleverness consists in discrimi-
nating how much may be skipped and how little need be
learned— just as the most reliable memory is the one
which knows exactly how little it is necessary, or even
wise, to remember."
" Ah ! I haven't a good memory."
I looked up at my tutor with surprise. " You?— not
a good memory? Why, Mr. Satterthwaite, you never
forget anything."
" I know. That is where my memory is so defec-
tive."
" You had better come to me for lessons than to him,
little one. I can teach you far more things worth know-
ing than he can. He will only teach you the things that
are not worth knowing."
I felt so angry at this that I forgot my shyness for
a moment. " Oh, no ! Lady Summerford, you are mis-
taken—isn't she ? " I added, looking up into my tutor's
face for confirmation.
" No : she is quite right." And his expression was
more inscrutable than ever.
Lady Summerford seemed amused. " You had bet-
ter change your teacher, child," she said, stretching out
113
The History of Delia
k^c'etZ' '""' «r«si„gly, .' and transfer your alle-
gance from my cousin to me."
I f VT^'"'^ '^°"''' *"= *'^«'" Gilbert added
own'sake tL^r"'' ""'t" •""'• ^' """ '^"'■'''y fo' your
own sake that I was oflering the advice."
aliv^wth reS'^'c'h"' '°r'' ''^^ •"=«"«"' '-
„,i,; u T "^"^^^- Choose between us, Httle Delia •
. '^''a' nonsense we are talking! You will be tWnV
mg us two very silly old people, Delia " ^"
«e him about rebuilding Sl'i;™ ^^ ''^ """' ''"'^
114
The History of Delia
"All right: ril go this afternoon."
would be better " °^ *""* morning
hurry abouuhe h nf a'"' ""' '^ ""' "'^ ^"^'"-t
a;terlu„ch.ifyouaresosetr::;yst!!,j;britr
of others. * ""^y "^a" fo"" 'he sake
.00. s.4er thaX ^^^ ,1^ ^otf,— ^
i-er^ffrr;sr^r*--^--
»o-k.- ""'''" "'"' '" ""y Impomni
115
The History of Delia
and tell me wlut Wiliianisun lias decided about the cot-
tages."
Mr. Satterthwaite also rose, and drew himself up to
about three-quarters of Lady Summerford's full height.
" It would be more convenient to me to go to William-
son's farm this afternoon," he said very politely : " but, as
your ladyship's paid servant, I am bound to obey your
ladyship's commands."
" And it would be more convenient to my ladyship
for you to go this morning," she called over her shoul-
der, as she strolled out of the open French-window. " I
shall expect you to lunch at two o'clock."
So I got a holiday that I had not bargained for.
While we were having tea one afternoon, a long time
after this, mother said to father :
" '^ou appear to me somewhat worried, William, love.
Is anything wrong in the parish ? Because, if so, I will
put it straight at once."
" No, Selina, there is nothing wrong in the parish,
as one may say " (father always qualifies his statements
by expressions such as " so to speak," " as one may say,"
and the like : I think he feels that they somehow give him
a loophole of escape when he has to explain them away
afterward to mother) ; " but I have heard a rumour to-
day which has caused me uneasiness — considerable un-
easiness, in fact ; considerable uneasiness."
It is funny how preaching lecomes a habit with some
men, so that they never leave it off even in their own
homes.
" And what is that, love? " asked mother, with par-
donable curiosity.
" I will tell you at a more convenient season, my dear;
ii6
The History of Delia
at a more convenient season," answered father, with un,
pardonable caution.
"Well, VVilliani, I hope to goodness that Fred
Cozens hasnt taken to .Irinking again, or that Emma
Jane Perkms hasn . left the last situation I got for her
That s the worst of Emma Jane. She is a good servant
m her way, and has plenty of work in her; but she will
not settle down. And how can she expect to get first-
class situations, when she never has more than a six
months' reference, I should like to know ? "
De ,r mother has such a habit of jumping to conclu-
sions, and such a vivid imagination. If she happens to
mvent a statement, and nobody happens to be at hand
to contradict it, that statement at once becomes history
as far as she is concerned. Just now father was think-
mg of something else, and so let the Emma-Jane-Perkins
tinued"°" ^^'^ ""•='^^"«nK«d; whereupon mother con-
T "m' '' i"f what I expected. I told Emma Jane that
I really would not give her another recommendation if
she d.d not stay in this last place for a year at least-
and I shall keep my word. She is a good enough girl I
know, and an excellent daughter; and no cook of mine
ever made flaky paste as well as she does, though for my
part I always consider her short paste a little too rich
and I ve told her so. But. as I said to her, what is the'
use of keepmg all the Commandments from your youth
up. .f you don't stay long enough in one place for people
to see that you keep them ? I shall speak to her mother
very senously about her. I shall go and see her mother
to-morrow, and point out to her how Emma Jane is ruin-
ing her life by this rolling-stone manner of going on."
117
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The History of Delia
By this time father's wandering attention was secured.
" Emma Jane Perkins ai home again, do you say, my
love ? Dear me, dear me, I am sorry to hear that, very
sorry, very sorry indeed I I saw Mrs. Perkins only yes-
terday, only yesterday, my love, and she w s telling me
that Perkins's rheumatism was so bad that she feared he
could not go on working much longer— that he would
have to take sick-leave, so to speak, to take sick-leave.
But she did not mention that Emma Jane was out of a
place again, so let us hope that this is what one might
call a false report — a smoke without any fundamental
fire. Who told you that Emma Jane was at home, my
love?"
" You did, William."
" I ? " Father's face wa:. blank with astonishment.
Though he has been married to her for over twenf\ y.. s,
mother's free translations of father's statements never fail
to asto- id him afresh.
" Yes, you, William."
"But, my dear, 1 never even mentioned Emma
Jane Perkins's name ; it never so much as entered
into my thoughts, much less passed the doors of my
lips."
" My dear William, you distinctly said that she was
at home again, and that the reasons of her dismissal were
such as you could not mention in Delia's presence. I
heard you with my own ears."
Then I felt it was time for me to interfere, as I always
do when I think that father and mother have played at
cross questions and crooked answers long enough. I
can't imagine how married couples, who have no children
to interpret them to one another, get along at all ; be-
ii8
The History of Delia
cause neither of them can have a notion what the other
has — or has not — said.
" It was you that brought Emma Jane into the con-
versation, mother. Father only said that he had heard
a rumour in the village which caused him uneasiness."
"Then why on earth, William, can't you tell us
straight out what the rumour is, instead of throwing sus-
picions on Fred Cozens and Emma Jane Perkins, and
generally bearing false witness against your neigh-
bours ? "
" Because, as I have said before, my love, I must
postpone my confidence to a more convenient season — a
more convenient season as one may say, a more con-
venient season."
And then I knew that I must wait for an interview
with mother alone, before my thirst for information could
be slaked. Father always tells things to mother alone,
and then mother invariably tells them t- me ; it would
be against every tradition of the family for father to tell
anything to mother and me en masse; and yet the result
would be the same, and much time and breath saved.
But I have noticed that this ritual obtains in other cir-
cles besides ours, so I suppose there is more in it than
meets the eye ; though it seems to me rather an eflfete
custom, like locking the door of the House of Commons
in the face of Black Rod. In the same way parents con-
sider it wise to converse in cyphers in the presence of
their offspring ; and yet I am convinced that " the young-
eyed cherubins " see through the verbal disgfuise long
before the parental cyphcree does.
When mother and I were alone together next morn-
ing, I asked her what father's secret was ; ami I I'cU sure
119
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The History of Delia
that It was a specially confidential communication, be-
cause she vyas so eager to divulge it that she could hardly
Deir^?. r"5^ '^' '"''°'""y f°™"'^ °f reluctance.
.? wLTll' t ''" "°' ^''^ " ''"'' ■• ''"d that I think
IS what makes her so nice and interesting to live with
People who don't tell everything that they know, are in-
sufl'erable-especially in the country
at h'J- " '^rf ^'' ^f "^--'hwaite. my darling," she said
sJo:ki;g;"''"""'^-"'''=*°*^"^°"''''-°-dand
I felt myself turning white.
" Tell me at once, please, mother," I begged
Well, Deha, your father has heard upon very good
authority that Gilbert Satterthwaite once served hLS
in gaol on a charge of forgery."
J I don't believe a word of it," I cried angrily.
^_ Father ought to know better than to listen to such
" Hush, my love, hush," said mother; " lies is not at
all a mce word for a young girl to use ; and you may rest
assured that your dear father would never believe so
serious a calumny until he had thoroughly sifted i* "
it " T r.rrj"'f '° ^'- S^«^^*waite to want to' sift
It I retorted, but you are always prejudiced against
him because he isn't tall."
mMt.?''' "°' "'^ ^°^" ■ ^ '''°"''^ "'^^^ ^"°^ =° trivial a
TuaZJ'I ?T '''''°"'' ^PP^^--^"" to influence my
judgment of character. But I confess I never could have
marned your father if he had been a little man "
I was too angry to argue, so I snatched up my hat
and rushed pell-mell to The Agency.
" Whatever is the matter, my lady of the whirlwind ? '
120
The History of Delia
asked Gilbert, in surpnic, ; s I bounced into his sitting
room witli flushed che ks and flashir j eyes.
"Oh! Mr. Satten ixv ./le, hern ' people are telling
lies about you, and I -in af>r?M father and mother are
going to believe them."
Gilbert's face turned a shade paler, but he smiled his
usual quizzical smile as he said, " Tell me, Delia, what
form these terrible calumnies take."
" They actually dare to say that you were once in
prison for forgery! Did you ever hear anything so
wicked and absurd and altogether idiotic ? Horrid spite-
ful beasts ! I could kill them for saying such cruel, un-
truthful things." And then I burst into tears, I was so
angry.
Mr. Satterthwaite's thin white hands stroked my
ruffled hair. He had beautiful hands, and there was
something wonderful in his touch — as if it could heal all
sore places and straighten all crooked ones. " Poor little
girl ! if you take other people's troubles to heart like this,
Delia, and fight their battles so valiantly, you will have
no strength and no ammunition left when your own bat-
tle-time comes."
" I don't want strength and ammunition," I sobbed :
" I only want to punish those loathsome fiends who dare
to tell such vile falsehoods about my dear, dear tutor."
" By the way, did you believe the story, child; or did
you treat it with the contempt which you apparently
thought it deserved ? "
" Believe it ? " I cried indignantly ; " of course I
didn't. I don't believe you ever did anything wrong
or anything foolish in your life ; and I wouldn't believe
it if all the world said so."
131
The History of Delia
''But supposing / said so. Delia? "
whatevL'ouS'a^^rit'''' ' '"'"' "''' '° "^
ihen your conscience is a fool " I rpnl.VH • « ^
far/h^ ^ " ""''"^ ^'' Whimsical smile; then his
face became very grave as he saiH - ti,- • ,
HeTetia" td'th'T, ^t^ '"^ '"''^ '' ^'^ '"''^-ffai::^
JS:^:L::itf\S'ir^:,;Xiu;S'^'^
evr;o?2tr'H^'^°"'^"°^-"'^^^^^^^^
vou/nH ,H '^^''^"' y°" '^y- ^ =hall always trust
Tbest and"''? '°" """"^ *"'" ^"^"'"''y' -^^ '^ink you
''Thank you, little one. I thought I had gone be
yond the stage of ever feeling glad or sorry any more
but your belief in me has still the powerTo makTme'
happy. Therefore I owe it all the more to Jou t'te'l y"!
123
The History of Delia
the truth; and the truth is I once spent five years in
prison for forging a cheque. So, my dear pupil, you
must go home, and you must not come here again until
your father gives you permission, which I am bound to
admit— after what he has heard— he is extremely un-
likely to do ; I should not do so nyself, were I in his
place. Our lesson times have been very pleasant ones ;
and though I fear I have taught you but little in them,'
I have learned much."
I begged and prayed Mr. Satterthwaite to let me stop
on for lessons as usual, and assured him over and over
again that nothing would ever make any difference in my
friendship for him. But he was as adamant about my
going home, and my father was as adamant about my
not coming back again. So my happy lesson days were
over.
After that I hardly ever saw Mr. Satterthwaite again.
I don't think he could have had any idea how terribly I
missed him, or he would not have cut himself off from
me so entirely ; but I suppose men can't feel things as
much as women do, they have so much more to interest
them in their lives. Still, I wonder he didn't guess how
much he was to me ; but I presume he never thought
about it.
My father was sorely perplexed as to whether or not
it was his duty to inform Lady Summerford what manner
of man her agent was. It is so difficult for any one— even
for a clergyman— to know exactly where influence leaves
off and interference begins. Mr. Satterthwaite had told
father exactly what he had told me— neither more or less
—and father said he had behaved like a gentleman in
quietly withdrawing his friendship from us, without
9 123
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The History of Delia
ful one." ^ '"'^ '° ^° '°' *o«gh a very pai„-
"And what did she say?" I asked
" She said she had known about it all the Hn,» ^
bora, to«l Ll ""r. ,,k"7 r-'." ™ °' ■ "'"-
hav^n. Mr. ^ZZ :t: S'' ''' ''°"°"^ '"
phen^Ju's'Th^nTto ray-' TSlt^'^^" ^T* *"-
could ever be rLrdeJ.= f • i^u ""''^PP^ ""'" ■"«"
He was a relation," I argued. ""nertord.
134
The History of Delia
Only a cousin, Delia, and I consider cousinship by
no means an unbreakable bond, if one wishes to break it ''
I was silent but unconvinced. Of course I don't
know what it feels like to be rich and beautiful: I only
wish I did : but I can not conceive of any combination
of financial and physical endowments which would ren-
der me insensible to such an honour as Gilbert Satter-
thwaite's friendship.
The years have rolled on (three of them) anH T have
never married. The one or two men who hav 'len
m love with me were too big and strong and ignorant
for my taste. They didn't care a bit for books, but, as
my old nurse said, " did nothing but eat and drink and
play tennis all day, like the lilies of the field." And now
I am twenty-one and an old maid. It seems rather dreary
work being an old maid, I think, and I don't much like
It as far as I have got ; but perhaps it is an acquired taste
and grows upon one, like Gruyere cheese or Wagner's
niusic. I help father and mother a good deal in the par-
ish, but somehow I don't find a parish as satisfying as
an old maid ought. And I read the books that my tutor
used to read, and try to be the sort of woman that he
would have wished me to be if he hadn't gone away I
am not really unhappy— only a little dull : but all the time
my heart feels like a house that has gone to ruin before
It was finished, or like a forsaken churchyard of graves
that have never been dug. It is sad enough to lose what
one has once had ; but the missing of what one has never
possessed is a bitterer pain to bear.
Gilbert Satterthwaite came into a small fortune from
a distant relative, and left Summerford about a vear after
father made that unfortun.ifc discovery; and until just
I2i
&
The History of Delia
yesterday/" ° "'' ^°°' ^"^^ Summerford
gucis/ ''°"' '"°"' '"°"'^^' ^"<^ I <=°«ld not possibly
he-\r2lTJ° ^"".'^ ^"^^^ "Other's news is going to
thecorl?./ '^'^Womts people if anybody guesses
the correct answer to a riddle which they have afked
n>othe'r\„rstrurL\r^'"^' ^°" •'"°< ^'^^
descHbe^„yb:dr:fthrrarrr„"et-;\;ras:
all ! ■• tried'^'thf "r '"""''^ ''^^'"^ ^ ----e at
fin; ladv Tor' .n T '"'"""^ '° '"^ '°° "^"-^h of a
thwaufus °d to saTTa X °' "^^ "''• ""'■ '^""-
carriage and I cZcSL .•' "' ''"=°" "^^'^ "^^P' ^
among the lower c7a" es • "' '° '° ""<^'' '^^^'»
he saidTt 1":^''::'' "^ '' '° "- '-- <^-es, mother.
" The principle is the sa„,e, n,y dear; a thing which
126
ri^ 43^1f^r
The History of Delia
can not be said to everybody ought not to be said to
anybody, or else it is certain to do harm to somebody,
and nobody can be the better for it— if not the worse,"
replied mother, with a certain confusion of expression,
more than compensated for by the excellence of her in-
tentions.
I' But do go on about Lady Summerford," I urged.
" Well, my dear, I regret to say that the misguided
woman was not so perfect as she appeared to be."
" I never did think her perfect," I interrupted.
Mother looked shocked. " Then, my love, you ought
to have done so, for so attractive an appearance, coupled
with such elegant manners, I never beheld before."
" But you yourself have just said that she was not as
perfect as she looked."
" That, Delia, was no excuse for your not believing
her perfect until you found out to the contrary. I can
not bear to see the young people of the present day
forming their own judgments, in the sad way that they
do ; and for them to be in the right when their parents are
in the wrong, seems to me a distinct and reprehensible
breach of the Fifth Commandment."
"^ Do go on about Lady Summerford, mother."
" So I will, my love, if you will not so persistently
interrupt me. And that reminds me that interrupting
your elders, when they are speaking, is also in a measure
tampering with the Fifth Commandment."
Again I endeavoured to lure mother away from the
Fifth Commandment, and this time with more success.
" But Lady Summerford ? "
" Well, Delia, she told your father— and he particu-
larly warned me not to mention it again, so see that you
127
:..-..-%w#^^i
The H;
istory of Delia
don't do so, Delia-that before her,
•nJ .Ou.ll, l„J,Z "', '" *"' °'" '"»»'<.".
.«.» ,o .e'e^s srr «rr L";^ -'"h'"
well off." '°°'' "' ^"y ™" ^ho was not
" Poor iMr. Satterthwaite ! " I remarkeH " R,.f u
;; Do you mean that everybody falls in love? "
tened^o explL"" h"^ '"^' "^'"""'^ "°''" ^^her has-
" Did you and father fall in love ? " I asked R„t tl,„
moment the unseemly inquiry was out of my mouth
It mT ? rP^°P™'y' ^"d would fain have recSn'ed
.t. Mother looked as much shocked as I expected
Oh. my dear, what a question to ask I This comes of
readmg too many novels. Do you suppose DeHathnt
a mm,ster of the gospel would be guided this Iii;i!
the selection of a helpmeet suitable'to h callgf fam
surprised at you." "-"""ig. i am
I hung my head. "Of course not," I murmured
128
^\(A ■..
'Wfl
The History of Delia
(Wlien I came to think of .„ it was an absurd question.)
But do go on with your story."
" Well, Gilbert Satierthwaite saw that his beautiful
cousin would be rui led, ai.d her brilliant marriage would
fall through, if her cri.ne was discovered ; so he took her
guilt upon himself, and allowed it to be thought that it
was he who had forged the cheque. And he bore the
punishment, while my lady married her rich lover and
lived happily ever afterward. By the time that Gilbert's
sentence had expired, old Sir Robert was dead ; so Lady
Summerford made her cousin her agent, to keep hiiii
from starvation."
" I wonder she did not marry him after all," I re-
marked.
" Oh I my love, how could that beautiful and elegant
creature have married a man who had actually been in
gaol?" asked mother, with an admirable sense of the
fitness of things, though a somewhat perverted sense of
justice.
I wasn't really surprised at mother's story, because
I had felt sure all along that Mr. Satterthwaite could
never have been anything but noble and true. But I
couldn't help being envious of the dead woman up at the
Hall, whom he had loved so perfectly, with a love which,
I felt sure, would never change nor grow old even
though the object were no longer here. It is only beau-
tiful women who are loved like that, I suppose— with a
wonderful, sheltering love, which will only cling to them
the more closely and wrap them round the more warmly
when the world is growing cold to them because of their
fading charms. If one were loved in that way, one would
not mmd growing old: old age would only mean the
129
The History of Delia
qu.et evening after the parties were all over-and with a
person one really loves, one quiet evening is nieer than alt
he parties put together. Heighol it must be exquL'"
to have a straight nose and a devoted lover- but he
Cpedir^"^''^ -''" -' '- -^ ^-- wi;:
beea';se'[l.K%"°' ""Z' '.° ^»"""-^°^d 'o the funeral,
because Udy Summerford, according to her exoressc '
himself had told them. The truth never wouldlave been
revealed by him, he added; but he was gratefuT o w"
poor cousin for clearing his name before she died
w-ole /f ?"T'''^"' ^"^ "° ^''"'l^^": 'O she left the
^v..ole of her late husband's fortune and estates-over
as a tardy reparation for the sorrow which he had en
dured for her. So Mr. Satterthwaite is com ng ba k
again to live at Summerford, after all these Tears i
wonder ,f he has put a book-marker in the story oo«
fr ndship, so that we can go on from exactly where we
eft oflf; or whether I shall have to begin at thebegfnnir^
and read the preface of him over again. Peop'e are so
different in this respect : with some.^one can be^i aga „
with others, ,t IS necessary to go through the preface
afresh every „,orning. Time is hardly^ong enough
for this latter species; and I doubt whether\e shS
130
I
The History of Delia
th^k it worth while to wa«e .„ch of eternity upon
how'jrwaVtUtrSh'''- ^r"*""' *" ^«» "-
-:^^^^^^^^^^:^^
f^ro,Kj^SJrsrt::^S
'rr:!Se'^;?--rf-^^^^^
spite or the sories'/^rrw^Xr;^^^^^^^
such a queer answer from him ; this is itf- '""'
"My dear DELIA,-Many things have oleaseH m,
lately ; but nothing has pleased „e sf much as th/^"
you have given me of your constant S M your ^Td
LI . r.^'"'' *'"" y°" "'""y '""sted me-I am sSll
more glad that, whatever my shortcomings may be I
you :;T '7^ '"'^'"'"^ :.'"'=•' -■'^ - unrrthy'o
f^ I- M "°""'^"' my dear, you think a great deal
too h>ghly of me, as you always did ; so that you arl cer
remarks about my love for my poor cousin (the most
beaufful woman I have ever seen) are very p ettyTnd
very characteristic ; but I greatly fear me aTfar as T "m
IZZL' fd" ^^^°"^'^ '-'' the^m^ln^cTiie^"^
your nature I daresay you are right in saying that the
love wh.ch bears all things and belfcve, all things is vi
13!
The History of Delia
fine— and that the love which never fails and never trani-
fers Itself to another object is still finer. I believe I could
at one time have pleaded guilty to the former: hardly to
the latter. If your ideal hero is one who can love but
once and for ever, then, my dear. I'm not your man. I
don t set up for being a hero-so you had better quickly
pluckme from my pedestal, lest a worse thing befall me.
' However, I am coming down to Summerford the
day after to-morrow, when I will explain this to you a
little more in detail.
" Till when, believe me to remain,
" Your affectionate old tutor,
" Gilbert Sattehthwaiie."
I wonder what Mr. Satterthwaite means by saying
that I shall be disappointed in him. I am quite sure
that I shall be nothing of the kind, because he is so good
and true that he could never do anything unworthy of
himself. Still the mere suggestion makes me a bit un-
comfortable, for fear it should again mean that some-
thing IS gomg to turn up that will spoil our friendship.
But It IS no use worrying : he will explain it all to me
when he comes to-morrow, and I must just wait patiently
till then. One day is not long to wait, after one has
waited for three years ; but it seems the longest bit of the
waiting, all the same,
132
^w^u :#i .^ j^^:^
A MINIATURE MOLOCH
I
I
A MINIATURE MOLOCH
sessed refined sensibilities, whUe she owneH* \^"
more distinguished than de^ feeini tT^lt J","^
■n^the a te, ,,„,, „^ the^.ortfhi,:':he waV^^
student of human nature ; he thoup-ht th,f t. ^
este e and being no longer the metropolis of Europin
lovelmesa, the gold, whereof she once made " a comelj"
'35
« %
A Miniature Moloch
has been distributed over the face of the globe; and it
happened that a portion of this "red, red gold" fell to
the lot of Hester Murrell, and saved her from being-as
she would otherwise have been-a very ordinary-looking
young woman. **
She was the eldest daughter of a family of eight, who
had all been bom and brought up over their father's shop
m the central square of an old-fashioned, provincial
town; nevertheless (though Herbert Greene was consti-
tutionally mcapable of ever grasping this fact) the Mur-
rells were true gen«epeople-that is to say, if true gen-
tihty IS a synony/n for high principle, culture, and refine-
ment, and the exact opposite of everything that can be
covered by that broad term "vulgarity." In religion
they belonged to that most cultured and intellectual form
Of i-nghsh Nonconformity, the Independent body, which
;-avoidmg alike the poetry and symbolism of Anglican-
ism on the one hand, and the familiarity and homeli-
ness of Methodism on the other-founds its faith on the
workings of reason rather than on the beauty of ritual-
ism or the excitement of revivalism, and worships with
Its intelligence rather than with its emotions. Too cold
a spiritual home, perchance, for the artistic tempera-
ment, which hungers and thirsts for that other side of
the breast-plate of Righteousness which men call Beau-
ty ; but a fine school for all those who inherit the stem
spint of their Puritan ancestors, and who are of one
flesh with the men who fought for religious freedom at
Naseby and Sedgemoor.
All the little Murrells were clever children, but
Hester was the cleverest. She had been to a good
school; and her father-whom she adored-had never
136
.at -^j»
fir
A Miniature Moloch
ceased to educate her between times; consequently,
when she grew up and found that it was time for hf;
to begin to earn her own living, she went to live in
London and took to journalism, thinking it was pleas-
anter to teach the whole world than one famiWof
children, govemessing seeming to be the only altema-
l^htf^^rf'n'"'*/''' '"'"^"^ '° "'^ '"" 'hat most de-
lightful of all professions open to women. The freedom
of her hfe exactly suited her; and as she h-d never
belonged to that class whose daughters are trained in
the shadow of chaperonage, she did not feel that sense
of lonelmess which girls and women of higher rank
lelve? '"" "^^'^ '^"' °''"^''' '° ''^"^ ''y *«="-
Then came her great success. She was just twenty-
seven when she wrote the novel that made her name.
It would be difficult to say why Waters of Babylon took
the town by storm; it dealt with life at the East End
of London, but so do tens of unread stories; it cap-
ped w,th several of the great social problems whichlvere
disturbmg the last hours of the dying century, but so
did scores of unsuccessful novels; it depicted the in-
fluence of Nonconformity upon the uneducated masses
of the English people, but so do hundreds of uncut
books. The scientist who can demonstrate the exact
flash-point " of the River Thames will have made a
discovery which will throw all former discoveries into
the shade ; but at present that scientist is unborn. Each
of us goes into the wilderness, staflF in hand, but it is
only Aaron s rod that blossoms; each of us goes forth
in the morning from his father's house, but it is only
Saul who is anointed king. The secret of success is as
137
▼^.
A Miniature Moloch
yet the Sphinx's- riddle, and is as great a mvsterv to
those who find i. as to those who^fail in tTs^d
But et those of us who find it not. remember that^t
the staves wh.ch did not blossom entered as soon a"
^olLTu'^' ^'°'^'^ '""''• «°'' '« those of us,
wo^t^^f h^ '" ""'' "^' ^"' P'°-^ himself un:
Set rr"""'"' '"' ""' *' "^'^ ''''^^' """
tweeTS '^" "'°f'^''^ freemasonry which exists be-
tween all men and women who live by their pens, Hes-
thei^ Z^r-TV" "" '"""•"' ^^ " '^ had been
their own-as, mdeed, in a sense, it was. A reallv fine
much to the many who enjoy it as to the one who created
It And the girl rejoiced in her success in a quiet way
while her somewhat reserved nature expanded in the^'
preciative atmosphere which surrounded her. As for th^
tmil H f -'??'''°"!<' P-vi„ciaI town, it was sim^y
Illuminated by Hester's fame; while the "light that
sX r^H Z ""^ °/ '""'^ " '''^"' '""^ ^"'^ °f the book-
seller and his wife, and made them both feel young
sh.?r'f ' ""« ^u'^ !^ "^"^ "" ^'' ^«~°'» hook when
she first saw Herbert Greene. She met him at the house
of a mutual friend.in the country, where they were both
staying for a week-end; and at once his delicate frame
hlr-""*. "!"""'' f P'^'"'' '° 'he motherly instinct
Mden in the heart of the stem-looking Scotchwoman.
His conversation also attracted her; for she had lived
aU her life in an intellectual atmosphere, and Greene
was a well-read and highly-educated man.
" Did you have a pleasant journey? " she asked him
138
V ^ «
A Miniature Moloch
when their hostess left them ainne f^, „ t
after tea minutes
"No, a detestable one. There were some vulear
people m the carriage who disturbed me. and I do ^
dishfce travelling with strangers " ' '" ^ ao so
to fin?^ r.' ^ "'" " •■ ^ "''""y" '""^ to them, and try
to find out what sort of people they are "
tast" ""'■'" "''"** •"'' '^""°*^ "What a peculiar
I. J'^'"^"'' r." '"'"«''«'! in people?" asked Hester
bokmg puzzh^d. She lived in a worid where everyS
was mterested in everybody else vcryuoay
"Not in the least. Why should I be? People al-
ways bore me; and those whom I know borrme f
poss.be, more than those whom I do not know " '
i i-cn what are you interested in ' "
Nothing much : there is so little in life to interest
an. ne, so far as I can see." '"rerest
.^ester's generous soul was filled with pity A
woman wrth a keen sense of humour would have
^ughed at Herbert Greene: as a matter of fact, hi
was a personahty that aflForded a considerable amoun
rcLr;:r"''/° '''^'^ •"^-^^ *- endowed-he
loomed so very large in his own eyes, and so verv small
m the eyes of everybody else. But humL was no
Hester's strong point. °'
"Don't you care for reading?" she inquired gently
writ. u "*" ^'' '"^^^S fit to read : but M
French K u u "^ ""'' ""^ °"^ ^"^^ "cross a clever
French book, but modem English fiction appears to
me to be too utterly banal for words."
139
-%'.
A Miniature Moloch
A vainer woman than Hester would have been
P.qued at this, for was she not one of the hS priest-
esses of modem English fiction ? But she was tcllrl
mmded for the thought of herse.f to ^^^^Z
sne said m a deprecatmg voice. " It is so much easier
to understand and enter into than the literature of an
h^r.h^f '"k" '°""''^' "* '''''• ' fi"d i' ''o- But per-
haps that .s because I am lacking in imagination It s
difficult for me to look at anything from another p rso„'
pomt of view; that is where I am stupid"
But why should you look at things from another
person's point of view? It would bore me TutteSblv
to do so," replied Herbert, who, because he was st^i
had never found out that he was. No man is stupid who
knows that he is; to know oneself to be stupid ^he
best proof to the contrary.
at tSn«']°°''"* f "'"''• " ^* " '° '"t^^^ting to look
« rtmgs from other people's standpoints, don't you
" I can not see wherein the interest lies. I am not
:nT-it"^'-^'"-"°'''--p'-"^^«;rs°c'
ter Inf H °u 'i"' ''"^"■'"•^^ °^ "P'"'""' however, Hes-
w^k-end in t'h ^°' °" """l "•=" '"^^'''^ ''"""^ that
r^Hi/eTl V '°"""^- ^^' ^^^ f«^ *°° humble to
S her t me r'l" K.'"^ "^'"^"^ " '^-"^ i" wast-
soul and a shnvelled mind ; and he was far too conceited
to .magine that this Iarge-h.arted woman of genTus was
.n any way h.s intellectual equal, much less hU sujerfor!
140
A Miniature Moloch
So does compensating Nature throw in a make-weight
of vanity when she is engaged in manufacturing hearts
and souls below the "ordinary gentleman's size."
Therefore the man patronized the woman and the
vvoman admired the man, as befitted their respective
characters: and they both enjoyed themselves in the
uomg of It.
On her return to town on Monday Hester had much
fjTV° %' ^!?'".'? *'"' ^^°"' *•>' ^''"^d her little
flat, Barbara Kenderdme. Barbara was better bom than
Hester, and had a higher opinion of herself: and, being
a small woman while Hester was only a large one, was
much more fitted to fight life's battles and to com; out
of them tnumphant. To her, Hester told the story of
her meeting with Herbert Greene. Half the pleasure
of any treat is m the telling of it afterward; when there
IS no one to tell, things soon cease to be worth the tell-
mg; and Barbara sympathized with Hester's joy, and
was full of interest in Hester's new friend.
" I am sure you will like him," Hester said in con-
clusion ; he IS so highly cultured and such a thorough
gentleman. I wish I had lived all my life among people
like that; there is such a finish about them, somehow,
whiich those, who have their way to make in the world,
Barbara shrugged her shoulders. "I have lived
among such people," she said drily, "and I have often
regretted that they had not even more 'finish,' as you
'^*'\J'— enough to finish them oflf altogether."
"Oh, Barbara! how can you? You see,*! have been
brought up among men who have had to fight the battle
of life for themselves, as I myself have had to fight it,
141
A Miniature Moloch
|i I
1
■
ill
1
'! 1
J
1 :
tomed to is always attractiv^" °°' '""'*-
ness to those who arrSliir *u° *"'''^' «'^^-
thrust upon them " *^ ' °' *''° '«*^' ^«»'»«»
n.en^rarho'tJ^Sn,;^^-^'"'' ' '^^ ^"^
the others- thev h,?I V ff """''' "'°''' ^^y than
desire for effeJt^. "''' ''^^^ "^'f-consciousness and less
-:s:^r^tLr^^-''^-^^««'nea^
failure''°bore Irilfr "r;!!-'^' " I believe that
more than ^lU^::,^!:^'''^^^^]' """
grander to fail and not care^h,n t ^* '''"'°''
pleased about it." ' " *° '""=*=«=d and be
Mr.^Gt'e'TS''- 7°"'»-r.cleveroldfooll Does
know?" '' ""^ "°* '^''' I should like to
"Yes; that is what attracts me to him ti
doing." '''"* "'^s nothing worth
me:k^^o^^::;;T„Trhtrisi^^^^^^^
arer srcesr^ tr,*'° '""^ ^"' y^* ^-''ers
while the m^llttdlsTro^dl^^^^^^^^^^
succeed neither in this life norXrottr ^ ^^
'43
A Miniature Moloch
what your mstinct tells you to do, and don't burden
riXt r?'" ''•' *''°"«''* °' consequences on" do
aloe, and then I invariably regret it I had a ^a ;!,
stance of this last Saturday " *"^ *""
" Why, what happened ? "
"You know I went by train to Reading, and then
up the nver with some friends to Goring; and at Pad-
was but natural But now nature ceases and grace comes
Z'a ! T' '"'•^ *''" *''°'^ **y fro-n Goring by tr^n
and actually took an extra ticket f:x>m Gorinlba k to
" It was."
"So I thought; but then the trouble began. Nobody
'43
I
A Miniature Moloch
esty as lone as vou li™ t 'a "' "^^^"^ «<> dabble in hon-
nr/fi» k ^ * ' ^"'^ ^ am sure I hope vou'll
trv fn^H i"^"'" °' ^"'•""^'^ '"'^'«' Hester continued to
Mn^'uT W ' "" "^'■'' ^"^ °»'y -«"ded „
^Uithnf. 1 "T' "^"^^-^ "°' oncommon error
Herii J° fi' !'''• •^°"' "''^ *"''"'^'" '^id Barbara after
Hester looked grieved. " Oh, Barbara I "
^^ I do. He finds fault with everything and every-
'' That is because he is so fastidious."
Rubbish! It is because he is so disaereeable H-
fa . regdar little crab. I saw a dish cMl^tegl^,l
»44
A Miniature Moloch
on the menu at dinner last night. Now Mr Tr^n •
what I should call rr„hh, »i ^ . ' ' ^^'^* '»
thing I abominate." *' "^''' '"*' "''^'" ^'^'^ « «
-iitK'utrcintc;; itz::^-' ''-v-^ -"^-''
Barbara made a face " <;fi,ff -_ j
exorbitant Whv fhi. „- ?. " ^^ "° "leans
see couldn't S Ind 2Z Du T" "'^ "'" ^'^^ °'^''-
and that John Oliver HoKKu ^"""^ '°"'*'"'* '^""=.
and that Anthon w ''" "'^'^ "° "«="'«= °f humour,
^nd^that Anthony Hope didn't understand women.
•' Barbara, you are very unkind I "
nonsen^ Oh "^e^fhf "^""'■^»>«' "-e most arrant
-e. I can asTr y" colC 2.fj"'= '°^* °"
monds that fell from h s £ S fa ,h p"'''" *"*^ "^^
fairy tale) and stnZ T '^ ^ "" ^""""^ '" the
^_ H«ter, m her gentle way, still stood up for her frienrf
He can „ot help being critical and hard to pl«s "Ind
Jf^e^thmks certain thing, I admire him Sl^S
»4S
•^ £m
A Miniature Moloch
" My dear Hetter, he can not help being a fool, I
admit, but he can help showing it Lots of men do."
It wai not long before Herbert Greene and Hester
Murrell fell in love with each other, according to their
respective lights. She admired him because he wu so
utterly different from the men of her own household ; and
he allowed her to admire him, and found pleasure in such
admiration, because she was the first woman who had
been content to take him at his own valuation. For all
her cleverness, Hester was singularly simple, and it never
occurred to her that in any question she could possibly
know better than the man whom she loved. This pos-
sibility never occurred to the man either, for the which
he was to blame, and not she.
When Herbert asked her to become engaged to him,
and to wait indefinitely until he should be appointed to
some visionary post and so afford to marry, Hester's cup
ran over, as most of our cups have a knack of doing at
least once in our lives. We can not expect such glorious
overflowing^ to last for ever ; they never do ; and the hap-
piest among us are those who can find no drop of bit-
terness left in the dregs when the cup is empty and the
time has come for washing-up. For such drops of bit-
iemess spoil even the memory of the season of fulness,
and make it to us as though it had never been.
Hester was one of those humble-minded .people who
consider the qui^ities which they possess so much less
imporUnt and attractive than those which they lack ; and
consequently she felt a pride in the social status of her
lover which her own genius had never been able to
arouse in her breast. Herbert, on the contrary, consid-
ered all gifts wherein he was lacking not only undesirable
146
%.miMmw.^AF^i Mm.
A Miniature Moloch
and .o d.eoura.e 'JZ ^^1^ " """'^ -'"
never dXmy"::;:";; ea™"" '° "" °"' ^^^ " " *°"'d
'eel i. ex.e„Tht;ni:r,72 f^r^v' ""T
IS not d (mified for ;• m«™- . j ° ""^ """«• "
cniical taste and sensitive fastidiousness— am D-nin„ /
lower myself to become a teacher of r^^^Thoul ?
; easily could if I wished." ^^ ^
Hester looked up at him with awe To nat„r=.ll
.mpressive about an iconoclast; and she had woSped
books for so long that the man who dared to desoi e her^
tXed m" '" "rr^ ''''' - » -oSiTd we"
tailored Marsyas challenging the very gods themseTve
She never doubted that Herbert was right in condei.:
147
.,30.. r.
A Miniature Moloch
ing the art which had hitherto been the breath of her nos-
trils; she put away her pen from her as an accursed
thing; and although she mourned in secret over the ab-
sence of the work which had hitherto been all in all to
her. she regretted such mourning as an unholy hanker-
mg after the flesh-pots of Egypt.
And all the time Barbara looked on and disapproved
She did not say very much. What is the good of saying
much— of saying anything, in fact— to a person who hap-
pens to be in love? But she knew that the less was
absorbing the greater, a trick to which the less is so
sadly prone; and she also knew that there was more
power of doing good in Hester's little finger than in the
whole of Herbert Greene, and in all the host of uninter-
esting and well-behaved relations on which he so justly
pnded himself. She even went so far as to doubt whether
a woman's genius is justified in extinguishing itself for
the satisfaction of a man's mere whim ; but in some things
Barbara Kenderdine was what Herbert Greene called
modem to the verge of vulgarity."
If our right eye ofifends somebody, and we therefore
pluck It out, we have no warrant for supposing that the
voluntary nature of the operation will in any way act as
an anaesthetic; and although Hester was proud to im-
molate herself and her ambition on the altar of her lover's
Ignorant prejudices, her soul was starved within her for
the want of expression. To be filled with the power and
the longing to make music or pictures or books, and not
to make them, is an agony undreamed of in the philoso-
phy of those comfortable mortals who are haunted by
no visions and disturbed by no dreams; to Herbert
Greene, telling a woman not to write books was exactly
148
is^jBit.'iar:..^
A Miniature Moloch
shouWstiUbe "seenand^h J.^'"«^ '^' *°'"^»
gnmdmothers before them !„;"'{ "l ^''' «heir girl-
the code of whatTconsH^reH '" ^" ^'"^ "° '"^"^ '^'
ping Hester's life ^LT ^°°'^ ™""«=" *« sap- ^
lessit Jr ' '''''''°^'"«''*'^it«>'ty- Neverthe-
-JS:HSca^ot" "f ^''^ ^^ '"-"' - i
^eav.^do.Hp-C^J-^->'
wo^r-.^— ^-be^^-so.u.
so ^I^^d1^''?r " '"" °' ^^'"P^'-hy. " Oh ! I am
help S." "' ""'** '' "' »"<» P^haps I ca^
in ^nZZ^T: *•"■ '""^-heart was strong
ing to comfort U ' "'"=' "^^ *^°"'"^ -'^h°"t yearn!
a ^^^'St^f''^' " *« -e time ago
his. I did nomft^'rels °r 7^""" V '''" °'
a peer." * """' ** he was the son of
of i^S"*"^ "°*'" -'' H«t-. with no consciousness
I am ttr^oT^tTal *' "h' "^ ^^"^" ''-■ -"
■ne in a most uncomfolh, "'""'^ P°""''^- ^^ P'«es
take it out of capS°l T T* "m" ' "" "°' "■'^« '°
replace it, and T? 'shllVSu """ ^ '''"^ '°
small income for the rest of 1^7 T "^'''"^y '°°
can not include the JSte! 7 •'• ""''•. """^^ ''^^ '«"
pa. a thousand pou^r Of :^re^:f-S
»49
A Miniature Moloch
I really am the most unlucky of
hundred a year,
mortals 1 "
Had Hester been fashioned after the same pattern as
Barbara, she would have asked her lover whatever pos-
sessed him to do such a foolish thing as back a bill for a
fnend ; but Hester's was the love that believeth all thip
and thinketh no evil.
" I am so sorry for you, dear," she said gently. " I
wish I could help you."
" I wish to goodness you could ! "
" But I don't see how I can. I can not ask father for
money, for it is as much as he can do to make both ends
meet with such a large family; and since I have left oflF
writing books and only stuck to journalistic work, I have
ceased to make large sums."
Herbert's face looked old with misery. " Then I shall
have to take it out of capital, and that will mean a smaller
mcome for the rest of my life. You see, I can only just
manage to get along as it is, since, being a gentleman,
expensive tastes are my inalienable heritage ; and it seems
as if the appointment, for which we are both waiting, re-
cedes farther and farther into the dim distance."
" I am so sorry — so dreadfully sorry. How I wish I
had saved all the money that I made out of Waters of
Babylon, and then you could have had that I But I sent
most of it home to help in the schooling of the little
ones."
" But have you not anything else at hand on which
you could raise money? I believe you told me once that
you had written another novel called Gog and Magog,
or some such absurd name : where is that? "
" I put it on one side and never published it, because
150
■ 'iiwm^
A Miniature Moloch
you^^said you didn't approve of women who wrote
K /.w*"""/ ^°' ^ '=°"^''^^'" 'hem most unladylike-
but that ,s not the question which we are now di cus ing
The ques .on before us is. How can I get a thousand
pounds without touching my capital ' " 'n°"»"d
oft:;s?^u:;rrda"'" ^^^"^^ «-'-"- «^«^"»
cern^stillXTou'? " '"' '"" '"'^ ^« ""^ ^''^°^ <=-
"Yes; the manuscript is now in my desk." And
had tak ;'it ouf"d ' """"^^ '" '''''°- °"
latest chUd of he T '""^' °^" " ^°' '°"°* 'hat this
latest ch.ld of her bram was condemned never to see the
" Could you get money for it ? "
"Of course I could, if I oflFered it to a publisher • but
I w,U never do that as long as you disapprove of it "'
fn . ♦ •? "^ ''''• " ^ *"" 'f'^'<^ I ''hall be compelled
to put as.de my prejudices for once, and not to consWer
ZZ" l::^' "' '" "" '"^ ™"^'- '" he «icl sorrowfuHy
asteXte^er-''^^^ ^""^ '^^""^ ^ - -"i
Hester's face grew very white; slowly his meanintr
me^to" offer "•"" '^^- " °° ^°" ■"-"* hat you 3
Z,l "y U«nuscript to a publisher, and to give
you the money ? " she asked bluntly ^
whZLm ",!''''• 'T '°*"^'y y°" p«' things i
When shall I teach you to behave as a lady ? Believe me
^s^redii-^'""^^ ^"' ^''^^^'' '^ '" '"*^^' ''-"
" But is that what you mean ? " persisted Hester.
Wt\A^M
A Miniature Moloch
of t'he^fffic'uS?' "" "" "' *° "' ** °"'^ """''*»
" You want me to do something which, according
to your ideas, no woman ought to do ? "
own'lf °r''!4°°' 'f ^'^ recommend a woman of my
own c ass to do such a thing; but. as you have done it
once. I do not see how you can offer any objection to
domg .t agam," replied Herbert, inwardly groaning over
the unreasonableness of the feminine mind.
Hester's voice was strained and unnatural. "Let me
be quite sure that I do not misunderstand you. You
want me-the woman who has promised to be your wife
-to do a thing which you consider to be unwomanly, in
order that a certain pecuniary advantage may accrue to
you thereby. Is that so?" "uc ro
"Really. Hester, your coarseness of expression is
positively vulgar. It grates upon me most terribly."
Uut is that what you mean? "
bruilnrR"^!^ "' ''' ''"' "° '"''y *°"''» have put it so
wSLS"'-^°" "'"' "'"" ''^^" ^''^•'^d at the
writing of books-It is only I who had been shocked on
side, there is no mo.e to be said ; you have no prejudices
to put on one side in this matter." prejuaices
Hester held up her head proudly. " I know that ; I
have always thought the writing of books is the grandest
LtTrw ''r, •' "'°^'"' "y "*"" '"''" °^ woman,
an-l 1 think so still.
Then what are you looking so cross about ? I con-
fess I am suipnsed at your inconsistency in objecting to
do a thing which, according to your ideas, is a fine thing
to do. It seems to me most unreasonable, and also very
A Miniature Moloch
however absurd that di^r^vfl Xt'''^''"'''^ °''
say so ,„, ,_^^„^^ ^^^^ - j^ s .rs:
eno^gl/' "'' "°' *"= ''^"'''- I ^''''" »-' -yself fast
kn.^'"""'' ^ff ''^"'^- "Then that is all right I
knew you would see the thing clearly in time RU „ i
your n^nners 3nd your „ofes of e'xprSn S
taste and breeding, my dear Hester. Your heart is in
vanably in the right place." '"'
saidl^e^rt "h^/*"*""!"* °" ^^^ ^"^ °f "' ^'^'"^ that the
vou'iL!!"" '' ?" ^°" '"'''* '° "y- ^ t*-'""^ I ""St bid
you good morning," said Hester wearily. " I have some
work on hand that I must finish." ""vesome
" Veor well," agreed Herbert, taking up his well-
brushed hat; "but do you think that any publisher wi 1
g-ve you a thousand pounds for your book ' "
rights/"' ^ *'"'' '°' " ^ "'" " "^''* °"* ""'' ^'='«'" "O
153
§:-y -%
A Miniatire Moloch
' How ridiculously overpaid you
The man laughed. '
writers are ! "
And so they parted
BarL'rK^'dSn^.^^'^" "'^ ''"^-' '^ » -' '-
hJ/°V'' ''?''*''"' '"'P"'*'' *° «« "«=." she began
handmg h.m a cheque for a thousand pounds. " butS '•
Mu.rell asked me to bring you this aid to tdl youS
aff,^ ^ uf'' ?""°y"^ ' ■"= ''''*''' '° have his private
affairs made pubhc in this way. Here was another pr^I
of Hesters want of refinement, he said to himself.
BarbaraTnS;" ""' '^'^ ''' '"°"^^^" "'"-''«<'
"I have no alternative, Miss Kenderdine. I have
^:^:^' ""' '° -"•" ^°- ^^'--^ Miss r
youThtritwryt"^ "' ^°' "^ " ''° •'^ - -"
nn, 1!/'''^''^° "?' ''°"'''*='" "'^P"*'' the man coldly. " I
am afraid that the opinion of the modem young Lson
has not much weight with such a man as myself."
Probably not. Still, I am going to tell you what I
thmk of you not for your good, but for my own pJels
ure; and I think that you are the lowest, meanest, mo t
d.sgustmg httle worm that I ever came across n the
whole course of my life."
Herbert was pale with anger. "Do you know to
whom you are speaking?" "
"Perfectly ; and I can assure you the fact your giand-
the slightest effect on me. Grandparent! never do im-
"54
A Miniature Moloch
Z'"orXTl^°"'- ^y ^"dfather was the younger
son of a Scotch peer, and he was the most disagreeable
^Ireras aTce"?.^*^ '' «- ^ » '- ^^ainT^-
ingSXSl'tS; ;^s^- '---«— -
anrt".h '"'r'"'-;, ^ '''" '=°"'^"" ""y ^^-narks to yourself
and then I will go. I consider you a vulgar littUr,H
and as vam asyou are vulgar; and'how a glo^ou "wom„'
and a rare genius like Hester could havf been talerfa
by your snobbish aflfectations I r=.n !!>» • ^
periority But I hi v . Pat^on-^ng assumption of su-
pcnonty. aut I have two pieces of advice to ci ve von in
conclusion. When next you choose a wife seTecI a foor
as only a fool will permanently be able to admle "2
unable to appreciate you; and remember ,n future Mat
the possession of half-a-dozen dead grandfathers !n no
SSSTn" ^^ ''' --'''^ ' ^ "--^i >^-
youMHli"^^' °"' °'"'^ ^-^ ^^^ ^ «-ce
amil.iT,''"'' ''"'° ^ '^'''' *^^'"''""? a" over. "I
h^ elf - ir;' '"^.^^'"^"t '^ •"•o''- off," he said to
h™e b'n It " T '" '"'"'' ''^''- ''"* I "«ver could
lady " ^^^ '^^ °"" '"''° wasn't a perfect
intots^ttft-lr"'^''^''^''''"''''^'^''^''"-^''^
»5S
THE RING OF ELYN
k'M^ ^
THE RING OF ELYN -'
The Rev. Theophilus Dixon was always an excl
en man but it was not until after his vi hto NewSy"
Up to r/t' '"r""' '""' P°P""^ preacher '""'
drums were of the most elementary sc.rt M„ S^on"
>.kew,se, was an admirable matron after heV kin? th;
perfect Index F?n . ' ''"""'^ '" •"='" °*" "wd a
nof nowhlm to eat S" .°' ^.'.^ '""^^ ='"•= '^""'^
r """'y> *no when once Mrs Dixnn'« fio» i, j
r^h. neither TheophiU,s nor"th?rofe t^ S
One memorable summer the worthy couple came to
'59
The Ring of Elyn
li'r
^^^^T.:^t:i;'::'^\::, t^^^^ -'<^« pia-.
be n, J^roU rwervirr 'C^ rt " ^°""'
ophiiu'i" AV:r,;ira^''' """-«' ^''-
drives, as he had Sc« hi.M *"" *'"' '«P*« '»
day before-^rorfhTil r**/° '•* '^''^K"" «he
<and.b«..adehidl«i„ThesS^^^^^ '" ="^-
presence of a nunnerv Th, • • ,^"- °'*°" ^X the
otherwise Protru„U,„ J,^ "';:°» °' '"" '"°» "P"" 'he
matron upon a fien^ i„Sf ^^ had started the excellent
and on thVwav hoL-?K ^ "" "" conventual system,
lus as bitterT^as rhVhLT"'';'^ "P""'"^" ThLphT-
and endowed it J h her fli*^ *'' '=°"^"" *""»«"
«»«-^greei„y wTth aid a l?"!: '"'*'»*' °'-«» *« the
«nd years ago, which^Z K f '^.*'"™ "^riy a thou-
of its sinfulness" And The Jw '" *'" «"" ''«^"-
together with unction f'l V l^" "'^^'^ ''» bands
i6o
MMjmmLMimi^.
The Ring of Elyn
thing! .he could not understand, an.l thcrcrorc I.ad no
patience with ; but a city which w. ..Yd U. the 2d
theatre, wa. something which .i-. :, ,m ap,,,....!^^, J!
even enjoy with a holy and cf.asu.u ! ,, .. ^Jrc
, txactly, my love, exact !•. Wi:Ht i x- „:. „i ^u
of language you have, Mar>- \;n | - '""' **
"It i. more than you have, Ttu ,;.I , ^ "
Certainly, my dear, certainly ; J nov r foi - m, ««,»
compared my powers with you«" '°' - """'"'t
s^^eT of the n • r"'"'"''^ •"''"•"•^' '" «"dy in-
stance, of the punishment of sin and frivolity, and it
"delCH*" '"'""'"« '"""P'^» described fully
irestiJ,! "iu '' ^"^ ^' ''"' ^ *'^'' y"" fo^ the sug-
gestion A. you say, there are few spectacles more eli
vating than the visible chastisement offrivol^ Fri^^
D^hhi ';! '"'°"''"«^ ''''""P'' °' "-^ «""«= than M^2
Drabble, who sits next me at the tabU d-hote "
have 0^°,^^ *°"^"' "^"^hilus I I wonder that you
I a^ anTlT' '° *""' *° ""• W'-y- »•«= '» « °ld as
iwenty. I have no patience with such folly ! "
Mrs. Dixon looked pleased. It was always a great
i6i
• *
The Ring of Elyn
satisfaction to her to feel that there was no nonsense
about her, and she was glad to know that her Theophilus
rejoiced likewise at her immunity from the follies and
vanities of her sex. Nature had not made Mary Ann at-
tractive, and she herself augmented Nature's handiwork
by dressing as unbecomingly as possible, and believing
that such unbecomingness was counted to her for right-
eousness.
During the drive Mr. Dixon was in an extremely
contented mood, and therefore inclined to be loqua-
ciou.«.
" Look at that aged man seated at a cottage door,"
he pointed out to his spouse; " it is a great pity for the
poor to keep their old and useless relatives with them-
the workhouse is the proper place for such worn-out
members of society. I have no patience with their ob-
jection to ' going into the house,' as they call it ; it is far
better for them to be there than living on as a burden
to their family."
" You are quite right, my love— as, indeed, you al-
ways art," agreed Mrs. Dixon. " Silly sentimentality is
at the root of much that is bad and troublesome in the
wrld ; if only every one had common-sense what a much
better worid it would be ! "
" It would, indeed, Mary Ann. I never can make out
why people want to be sentimental; it all appears such
utter rubbish to me."
" And so it is. Look, for instance, at those two fool-
ish young lovers, walking hand-in-hand ; could anything
be more idiotic? And I actually saw them kissing, just
as we turned round the comer."
" Surely not, my love ! " exclaimed Theophilus, look-
162
The Ring of Elyn
And yet the girl
Ing shocked. " How very unseemly I
IS such a very plain girl, too I "
" 1 don't see what that has to do with it." remarked
l^Sr* ."'"'"';"• *^''- " ^' '^ i"** »^ f«"«h and
improper to kiss a plain girl as a pretty one."
hastilv "Z" «°' '°""'' "^ '°^''" ^'-^ ^^' husband
hasWy but, as you say, one wonders that grown-up
people l^ve not more sense. The newly-marrie^uples
m our hotel, for instance, daily amaze me by the insanity
of their proceedmgs. They are always going about
hand-m-hand, and you never see them Lke „p^a S
What they can find to talk about I can not imagine^n
look at the newspapers-not the very b.-,d and recent
thin?"' '^^P" """'"^ her broad, comfortable smile. " I
coir "'*''* ^'^ '"'"""'^' ^'^'^ ^ ^^""0" upon
common-sense, my dear, and the dangers of self-dec™^
tion and sentimentality." ^
,, The Reverend Thcophilus beamed at the suggestion.
it^s^n'tTL:'?' '''''^■''™' ^ ^hall ceruinly adop
form r^ ?,. '"if '["' **' <=ommon-sense is merely a
oZ^ri f" . • '"'' ^''"' '''^""«°" "'«' sentiment-^,
bTondeSn^nrsr"'"" ""'*^ ""^ ««' -<* ^''-'^
"Admirable!"
"I consider all idealization unhealthy," continued
mond w"' r™'"? *° ""'' "°'-''-" ""h^l'hy and im-
d«mof^' "i K* *•"" "°^''' '^ '^ ^"«y °f 'ears a
sh^^/I r* ""'' *"*™""- Is it meet, then, that we
.hould dwell upon such poor beauty as it stil reUir
Pni ricvat, wb,t is in reality a wilderness of sin !„t ,'
163
The Ring of Elyn
veritable Canaan ? We know that man is but a worm of
earth, whose beauty shall consume awav. and whose
righteousness is as filthy rags. Is it meet,' then, that we
should ra.se this fallen creature to the height of a demi-
god and allow ourselves to indulge in admiration of such
feeble gifts as he still possesses?"
" Certainly not, Theophilus."
" For my part I have no patience with what is called
the worship of the beautiful ; it is really a form of idolatry,
and should be denounced as such," continued the elo-
quent cleric. " Shall we prostrate our minds before some
unworthy object, just because our eyes find that object
attractive? Shall we, I say, be led away from our duty
by such fleeting things as natural scenery or human
affection ? "
And Theophilus continued to hold forth in the same
strain, till the carriage arrived at Crantock; while Mrs
Theophilus accorded to his words that warm appreciation
which we all of us accord to denunciation which shoots
wide of our mark ; for let Theophilus call down the wrath
of heaven upon the beautiful never so fiercely, not a hair
of his wife's head could be injured by the fulfilment of
his curses. This she knew, and, strange to say, found
satisfaction in the knowledge.
After duly eiamining the quaint old church at Cran-
tock, Mrs. and Mr, Dixon clambered down to the shore
and there saw the sand-hills which, according to tradi-
tion, cover the buried city. In poking about, it happened
that the point of Mr. Dixon's umbrella disentombed a
small object, which, on examination, turned out to be an
old ring, encrusted with age, in all probability an orna-
ment belonging to one of the women who formerly in-
164
The Ring of Elyn
habited the city. Theophilus picked it up. put it into his
waistcoat pocket, and forgot all about it
Mr. Dixon and his Mary Ann were duly refreshed
by tea at a small cottage at Crantock; and^or he first
t.me m h,s life during a meal, Theophilus did not thtk
or talk about the food set before him Instead "rthis he
was conscious of a stnnge feeling of exhilaration b^^^^^^^^^^^
thert wa! ' '"'"' '"' " "'" ~"''<=i°-ness tha
wmd and the summor sea. He was so silent on the
se^eS thTv"" r°""' °' '"'' °- joylt pLs!
sessed him, that his wife remarked :
" I am afraid you are not well, Theophilus • vou must
hJi ^ r.?"'*^ '^^"' **"'' y°"' M*^ Ann," replied her
fore. But I have been thinking that I shall never preach
that sermon we were talking about on our way h^lT
coursT^' "^ " ' ''"'"'^'^^ '° ^ " -"^^ '«»'"i«We dis-
" But its teaching would have been all wrone It
s nonsense to say that the beautiful is oppo^ d to the
true for they are really one and the same. S luhi!
tftT nor°;'t r r ^ ' °"'- ^redationT^s W
ties s not Idolatry, but a form of religion. Some of the
greaest poets that have ever lived have risen tolhei
finest he,shts m describing the beauties of nature"
Mrs. Dixon sniffed. "I do not approve of ooets-
they are generally the most irreligious^'f men'' "^
Book r/ uf"""^ '" "" """""^^ °f "'^ P^tas and the
Book of Job," remarked her husband drily
i6S
< 'J
The Ring of Elyn
The lady turned round and looked her unruly spouse
full in the face. " I do not understand you, Theophilus."
" Possibly not. As a matter of fact, I do not think
you ever did."
"Good gracious, what rubbish I Why, you are a
most ordinary man."
" Precisely. A man that you could understand would
be a most extraordinary one."
" Theophilus, I am certain that you have eaten some-
thing that has disagreed with you, or you would never
talk in this peculiar way. It must have been the lobster
at lunch."
Her husband smiled. " But, if you remember, my
dear Mary Ann, you countermanded my order for lob-
ster, and made the waiter bring me cold chicken instead.
Sin intended may be as reprehensible as sin actually per-
formed : but lobster intended can not be as indigestible
as lobster actually eaten, whatever the casuists may
say."
" Oh lif you begin to argue "
" Argument was far from me, my love : I was only ex-
plaining away facts— which, being interpreted, are lob-
sters."
" There are those vulgar lovers again I " exclaimed
Mrs. Dixon, changing the subject, like a wise woman.
But her husband winced. Suddenly he looked into
Eden, and knew that the ridiculous people were not those
who fed among the lilies there, and walked hand-in-hand
over the enchanted ground ; but those who stood jeering
outside, among the thorns and thistles, and prided them-
selves in that they trod upon the one and lived upon the
other ; and he knew, further, that it was no cherubim with
160
The Ring of Elyn
never heard of .uchait^' "^""^ "'"=' '
" Nevertheless we were vulgar Marv Ann t. • .
«.ppL"Mri£r" "'" ""' "" ^ •" <«"•■
Dn.hM'''K"''u'^'''°P''''"^ ''="' "^ "''"a', next to Miss
abTurS ' Fo th T '°"^" '""""^ "^^ contemptible and
absurd. For the first time in his life he saw the pathos
of a woman's growing old before she had ever been pro^
erly young and clinging to the skirts of a vanS
spnng wh.ch had passed her by without ever stopi o
speak to her ; and he could have wept for the pity'of ?t
That „,ght he had a strange dream. Hitherto he had
never dreamt of anything more exciting than chuXa'
dens; but now he thought he was standing ofthe sho"
16^
■M
The Ring of Elyn
went away to fight the heathen, my love" gave me 1 nW
and .t .3 still given to me to teach'all that^I have ^
to whosoever owns that ring " ^
oph'i'lut' "''* '''''"* °' ^°"'- '°-'?" -"^ed The-
i he dream-ma den smiled " t .„.
lo tan,, ThcopKto... r. i .f S '"" I"" ™<l'
c»wn ».id' of?,'; »^;r,' %;•■""'" '"*'"' '"-
168
The Ring of Elyn
town, and there he learnt to sec tl,e ideal in human
nature, and, seeing, to cultivate it Because he inter-
preted to them the dreams of their youth and the mes-
sages of the world around them, great men loved him.
and would have given him high rank had he allowed it;
but he preferred to live and work among the poor. This
self-abnegation was undoubtedly trying to Mrs. Dixon,
whose soul was always athirst for glory and honour; but
she pnded herself upon being " a good wife." and there-
fore obeymg her husband meekly when she perceived
that resistance was futile; and, further, upon being 'a
good manager," and therefore making the poverty
chosen by Theophilus as little uncomfortable as pos-
sible. *^
Still the dream-maiden visited Theophilus. and
showed h.m the beauty and the pathos of the things men
call common, until he learned to discover heroes dis-
guised as copying-clerks, and angels hidden under the
giitse of seamstresses. At first Mary Ann, and her way
of measuring men and things, sorely tried him ; it was so
smal and smug and self-satisfied. Excellence was in-
visible tc her, It seemed, unless clothed in velvets and
satins ; and no amoum of love, he thought, could flavour
to her taste a dinner of herbs. But, as he continued to
wear Hie ring of Elyn, his irritation against his wife was
gradually drowned in his pity for her ; and he yearned to
teach her what he had learned, and to show her what he
had seen ; and at last this desire grew so strong within
him that he longed to give the ring to Mary Ann, al-
though he held it his chiefest treasure.
Once in a dream he said to Elyn :
" Udy, if I give the ring to my wife, shall I lose my
169
-i^'-i^:i^ ^1^
The Ring of Elyn
"Uwif
-fe .0 the BloXrtl^f^J^r.''' 'y- of my
happy, even in such a woriH ?f . '''• *^»" ^ •"=
this, while the shades of S '*^ """^ '°^« «
her ia?" ' °' ""« Pnson-house still shut
" And yet you never loved her " ,„, j .
.o«r heart iorl^^ll^^-^ ^ -"^^ ^"
Thedep^h^on^UlfiJasurTdb'" '.^''^ '°^« "^ "-•
not by the one wh^ i~1 Ld „rr° 't^^ '^-
points of her nature as 1 nev r «w them Ir "l' *"*'
I were young." "^^ *hen she and
The dream-maiden only smiled.
an's soul-.ven t^ mf t ptcti^!!;; /» "^^ -■"-
romance when she is vo«n^ t . u "^^ '^ * "P^""' of
heart of Ma:^ iLuIT^J n "''"" '^"^ ^^ ■" 'he
senseless chatter a^ut^om J,'' """P''' °"' ^•"' ""^
than senseless bli„^«s toT r"'"' "^^ "^ ^orsi
life." *' *° ""* meaning and beauty of
: ' z.iri^M^^'4.
The Ring of Elyn
'■You have learnt much. Theophilus."
1 rue ; and my wife must learn it also. As I hdo«d
to clo^ her eye.. ,et me also help to open them "'*'
•na your success as a preacher ? "
" Even then."
abTe^'o^'^:-' "" ""^ *"''" '""^ '^"^ '- -"-^ and
" Even then I will try."
So it came to pass that TheophUus Dixon wiUino-lv
renounced the ring, which had brought ^ta tya^d
peace and power and fame, in order thlt his wifi LS
lean, such things as belonged to her peace ^
whic^^.--Ci;t^:/i::/^.rs-
me unless you also shar.- it." '°
.^/"ii^'T'" '^•'y "''''= «y« glistened,
n^vl • /:°"*^""«' her husband, "to an ancient
Briush nng which I found when we were :,tC^nZl
and which I have worn ever since " ^°^^'
stanS'S."'' ''" '"' = '-' '^"•'''*<^ '- « -e sub-
l^a-i;----n;p^^^
state of mmd h.s better-half was not ripe to receive such
mformat.on, but would laugh it to scor^. ^
Mrs Tiiv<-i« ^maI. >i_ « , .
bauble rather ungraciously
II
I much to look at," she said.
»7i
The Ring of Elyn
call, upon your slender mLT"' "^ ^^" "^ """>^
Theophilus groaned.
17a
The Ring of Elyn
" Besides," continual his wife, " I do not think it
behooves the vicar's wife to be shabbier than anybody
.n church outside the free seats; such shabbine^K
he position of the whole parish, in my opinion. It is n«
Z th T :T °' '"' «=»"''=hwanie„s to look dow^
h„M V^'^ "^f" a most elegant velvet mantle edged with
contmued the lady, " so I felt that Mr. Brookfieid's ofr;r
wa iTJ,e " r^'"^"^!^' '"""""on. and that this mantle
or th7, .u '**• " *" ""«"'" """ he offered me
for the rmg the exact price of the mantle "
I hope the mantle will make you happy, Mary Ann
and msure you your lawful no«tion ,•„ J^*^'' ' "'J' ™n,
of the saints " ^ ^ congregation
th,7.!'*^^!j""'JP°''' '•'"'^'y- ''"» '» *" hard to reflect
that he had probably given „p fa„e and place and poww
of th7.w '' "r^* *"• "^^Ph""' ^ you must hear the end
? n. aZ °" r ''"^ '° P"'''""'* '° buy the mantle.
I pas ed Moms the tailor's and saw a most warm and
"Well?"
" And it struck me, my dear, that your overcoat had
grown ven, th.n of late, and that you looked cold and wet
th inlT K '" °"- '" *' "'"■ ^ ~"'d "»' bear to
thmk of your begmnmg the winter with only that old
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The Ring of Elyn
vSv\VL*::SlV::f -- -//ecMed . ^ve up the
instead. You see ,> h ^. Inverness-cloak for you
even « I IZZ^^^^lf^y ^f " '•^*'«''"""
able to afford to dress be«S buHt '"7" '"^^ *° ''«=
if you are wet and cold" "* " ""'"'^" dreadfully
Theophilus wanted to thank Marv a
came such a lump in his thr^^th,. t^ ?' ''"' ""=^«=
And while he stL sS nt s^fett/^^^^^^ "°^ '^''■
andarrayed him therein with ^e "" ^""''"'
-rea^^t:Smr 'V""" "■«' ^^ ""-y^
asgoodCi„rnoTryru':s:r„"^^°''^'^--
In spite of the I..m„ r" '^efe when you courted me "
help smihV " I nT^wa: '^\ '''' ^'^^ -"W "ot
n.ydean«t friend couW„r «^-'°°W"g « my life;
fatal gift of beawy ° ' ""^"^ ""* "' P°«''«sing the
^-TXriXgr;o?r""^- ^^ver,^^^
'ooking mani had ev"r seen a„d ? T't ^^^"^"''ed-
" My dear Mary Znr '""^ ^ "°'^-"
'cnoIi^buVjor'cTi.'TS r "'i! '^' '^' ^-
your bearing is quit?md^ """i '" ^''' ' *ink
'74
The Ring of Elyn
I should have married you all the same if you had been
cle'rSTnr"'^ " ' crossing-sweepe/instead T.
" But why did you never tell me this ? I had no idea
you cared for me in that way, Mary Ann "
m. '1-n*" ^7"* ''•''^''*- ^ "'°"S''' y^" *°"Id think
me sily and sentimental, and despise me. You know
you always cherished a great contempt for all kindH
oily and ,t r«dly did seem foolish for a woman of th rty
to be feehng the raptures of a girl in her teens. Now!
" I don't think so, my dear."
T f«i°°"'' T-. '^'^ ^ '^° "°* "'"'I teU'ng you that
Ir T.^'i ''^'^^ '"*' Theophilus, that you are the
best and handsomest and cleverest and wisest man in
the whole worid, only I wish you would be a littirr^o e
careful w.th your diet, as it makes me so extremdyTux!
.ous about you when you eat unsuitable things h is
only ,n matters of diet that your wisdom is ever« fault "
Maiy Ann, what a blind idiot I have been! Can
you ever forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive," replied Mrs. Dixon
m surpnse. " But it is such a relief to me to find tTat
you do not think me foolish. I was afmid you would bl
sure to do so, if you knew how I felt about you "
vo«?«' T""'" ^°'" '^^'"W'd ^ he said, " I can not tell
Z«Z "'"' T ^^' """^' •"*•• "°^ ^'^ I thank you
enough for your love and for the handsome gift which is
. s expression. But I am sorry for you to losf your ma.^!
tft!"! u' '^f"^'' ^ '"" ''^P'y '""-^hed by your u^-
upon his wife's shoulder.
m
The Ring of Elyn
5«. ISn ' ""^ ?*"• "^ '^'^' *•«" ''°«» it "natter? Noth-
kissed h.s wife there were tears in his eyes.
n..li r'*i""*'^ Theophilus wore his new Inver-
evrJ^thtH ^^r '■'' ' ^^"^' '''"»°" than he had
ever preached before in his life, and the heart of M^
Ducon swelled witn a double-barrelled pride
As for Elyn, Theophilus saw her no more But he
did not miss her; for he had learnt that ordinary lovine
wan the loveliest dream-maidens, if only men have th..
11 ij
«;<
^n«J:M
MADAME
mj\u AMI
"MoRECOMB Grange is let at last," said my father
iust^fter the '^onJkon'^Zti::^^^^^^^^^
the morsel of new "for 3^1^'^ ^'""^ y°" ^"^ '""g^""
ing. Morecomb Grtge i let to'rr "■' '"^^ ''""^^'-
who has forsaken hTsf!.' . / ^°"-"^'"- Grammont.
Germany, and prefS the'w s' """ "" ^°"^""' ^^
to the wars an/tutr:f '7^^ ""^ ""^'^^
cHedl^ifatdirnTlfit;^ ''^ '"'^'' ^ '"^^^^••
only ^vTlllLr He J T ^'°"* "'■'" « -« -"
y &■ e me time. He is old, and has a very beautiful
*?9
Madame
wife a great deal younger than himself, and they have no
children. This is the extent of my knowledge concern-
ing Monsieur Grammont, so don't bother me with any
more questions about him. Miss Winifred."
Whereupon I, finding that no further information was
forthcoming, stole away into the picture-gallery to gaze
at my favourite picture, and to build castles in the air for
the habitation of our new neighbours. I was quite a
young girl at that time, and a very lonely young girl ; for
I was the only child of Sir Roger and Lady Treheme.
Treherne Court lay in a very quiet locality, the only
neighbouring house, Morecomb Grange, having been
untenanted ever since I could remember. Consequently
" I lived with visions (or my company
Instead of men and women, years ajfo.**
And I think that on the whole these visions afforded
me as much pleasure, and considerably less pain, than
the more substantial companions of later days. So my
childhood was a happy though a solitary one; and I
dwelt apart in a world of my own, peopled by the crea-
tures of my imagination.
There was one picture in the gallery at Treheme
Court which took- a great hold upon me, and attracted
me with intense though weird fascination. It was a scene
in the French Revolution. A beautiful young girl was
being led to the guillotine, while an old man stopped
her progress and bargained with her murderers for her
life. The girl in her white gown, and the old man in
his black velvet robe and skull cap, formed a marked
contrast to the drunken soldiers and infuriated mob, and
it was a striking picture; but it was the story connected
i8o
Madame
with it that so completely enthralled my childish im-
agination. Which story ran as follows :
Ursule de Brie was a daughter of the aristocracy, and
one of the victims of the Reign of Terror. All her family
had perished on the scaffold, and -tie same fate was about
to be awarded to her, when a strange old man-reported
to be a wizard and an astrologer-who was a friend of
Robespierre's, begged for her life on scientific grounds.
This terrible old man had long studied medicine, and
had tortured countless living creatures in his search for
knowledge. But brute beasts had failed to tell him all
that he longed to know, and consequently he craved for
a human victim whereby to unravel the ghastly secrets
of nature. Ursule de Brie was young and strong and
healthy, a subject after his own heart and ready to his
hand ; so he begged for her life, and the boon was granted
to him. Poor Ursule was carried away to his laboratory
there to suffer a far more awful doom than the swift and
sure stroke of the guillotine could have meted out. And
the laboraton^ kept its gruesome secret, and none knew
exactly how Mademoiselle de Brie had perished. It was
a horrible story, and used to fill my childish mind with
morbid imaginings as to what hideous torture that ten-
derly-nurtured giri must have endured before death mer-
Sye"d :' Jrhror '^' ^-^ ^^^^-^^ °' --
fnr !"' \'''^'*'^^ phase of life was destined to begin
CrZ. Tu I ^^^"""""'^ "-"e to live at Morecomb
Grange The shadowy Ursule de Brie ceased to be the
central figure in the romances I loved to weave, and was
gradually ousted from her place in my thoughts by the
real and living charms of Madame Grammont. Even
i8i
Madame
now I could not give a cool and calm description of the
mistress of Morecomb Grange ; for I fell over head and
ears in love with her, as young girls often do fall in love
with women considerably older than themselves: and
everything she said and did was illumined to my eyes by
" the light that never was on sea or land." The sound of
her voice and the touch of her hand made life seem t3
me like some lovely midsummemight's dream ; and the
spot where she happened to be became at once . n earthly
paradise. The rooms she lived in and the books she read
are even now, in my eyes, unlike any other rooms and
books in the whole world, so intense was the charm of her
personality. And yet it is over twenty years since she
was laid to rest beneath the shadow of Morecomb
Church.
When Madame Grammont came to live in our neigh-
bourhood, she was a well-preserved woman of apparently
about fifty years of age; but her husband looked at least
twenty years older. They had been married for more
than thirty vears. Madame was very tall and slight, and
her dark h^ir was barely touched with grey. Her black
eyes were wonderful, and were set oflf by the marble
whiteness of her complexion, which never had the least
tinge of colour to relieve its intense pallor. Her features
were perfect in their regularity, and altogether she was a
most beautiful woman.
But her manners were even more charming than her
appearance. There was a stateliness of the ancien regime
about her which was highly distinguished, and she was
the perfection of a grande dame. To the last she was
thoroughly French ; and when surrounded by the wives
of our county magnates, used to look like a tal! white lily
I83
Madame
n
I
m a garden of cabbage-roses. But she was a lily which
could not flourish in our cold English climate; and after
three winters at Morecorab Grange she slowly drooped
and died, leaving me to feel that some nameless charm
and graciousness had passed out of the world, and that
life could never be quite the same to me again.
There are ready-made niches in one's heart that will
hold almost any image, and when one idol falls out of
them another is quickly found to take its place ; but there
are other niches made to order to fit some special figure,
and when that figure is removed no other can ever fill the
vacant space. The niche which Madame Grammont oc-
cupied in my heart was of the latter sort— doubtless the
better sort too, but a sort that it does v.rA do to indulge
in too freely, or else as life goes on one's heart becomes
nothmg but a deserted temple lined with empty shrines.
How happy I was when Madame first came to More-
comb! She was then— as she always will be— my ideal
of perfect womanhood, and she soon became the /• miirc
dansmse on the stage of my girlish imagination. VVhi,
long and delightful talks she and I used to have together
Their sweetness abides with me still, like the sweetness tM
long-dead rose-leaves. One day she rebuked me, I r.
member, for saying that I should hate to grow old.
" Little one," she said, stroking my hair tenderl)
" there is no such thing as growing old really. How long
one has lived in the world is an accident, and is of no
matter to anybody. But ape is a question of the char-
acter : some people do seem to begin life at fifty, A-hile
others do live for eighty yer.rs and yet are never more
than eighteen. When I do meet new people, I do look
to see how old they are : how long they have been vvalk-
183
Madame
ing about on the earth does not interest me in the
least."
" How old am I, according to your reckoning?" I
asked, laughing.
" You, my Winifred, are twenty-eight. You have
only happened to live for fifteen years, I know; but you
have the thoughtfulness and tenderness of a wonian.
When you have lived seventy years you will still be just
twenty-eight."
'' And what age is mother? " I further inquired.
" Ah ! Lady Treheme is forty. I have no dcubt that
she was forty when she was quite a little girl, and trained
up all her dolls most strictly in the way that they should
go. I once knew a child who rose early every morning
so that her dolls should have a grammar lesson before
breakfast. Now she is as excellent a mother as Lady
Treheme." '
"And my father?"
" Your father, sweet one, is young, very young— not
more than nineteen years of age, I should say."
" Yet he is really five years older than mother."
" But that is nothing, silly child ! Now, my husband
seems old to you, but he was just as old when I married
him thirty years ago,, when really he was only forty He
■s no older at seventy than he was then. I once met a
man who lived to be eighty-three, and yet he was never
more than six. He was very lovable and vrery trying.
I should have boxed his ears sometimes, only I was
afraid of being reprimanded for cruelty to children."
"How old are you, dear Madame ? " I asked, fondling
her beautiful white hands.
" In my heart I am twenty, as I was at my dear old
1S4
Madame
home. But my real age-as men count age-I should
be afraid to tell you, little one: you would say I was too
ancient to be a friend of yours."
Whereupon I fell to kissing my adored Madame, and
assuring her that if she were a hundred she would always
be young and beautiful to me.
One evening, when the Grammonts were dining with
us, my father and Madame quarrelled laughingly over the
merits and dements of country life: he expatiated upon
the delights of rural pleasures, and she complained of
their dulness.
"I do hate them," she said decidedly; "in fact I
think I do hate all the things that Wordsworth did rave
about. Mounuin-streams and pet lambs and weather-
cocks are alike too dull for me. They one and all do
Lore me to death."
" .'ou have a great dread of being bored, Madame,"
said father.
" ^ iiave, indeed— it is the bete noire of my existence.
I often think how ghastly it would be if my husband did
begin to bore me: there would be no relief from him at
that too dreary Morecomb."
" I hope I do not bore you, my dear? " said Mon-
sieur Grammont smiling.
" Not yet ; but you did come too near to it on that
night that Mr. Grazebrook dined with us, and you did
let him talk to me about potatoes."
" Did Grazebrook talk to you about potatoes' " ex-
claimed my father. " How exactly like him ! "
„„"^.''' ^" ^"S^*""' ^^ was terrible," cried Madame.
He did tell us all about his potato crops, and did call
them by their names, and did orove to us which kinds
I8S
Madame
were the best, and when, and where, and why. It was
«y l7?nXr ''^''^^'''^^'^^^re.p.otilrpoLZl
myself in their proper place, but I could never be .W.W
wi h them or call then, by their Christian nTme.B"
BunS.1% °°'' "T^'^ '° •"'"'<= "''^^ Wends o them
Dunbar Regents and Newcastle Champions were hi soT'
^.n.7r° °^ *''" P"""P^' "''"^^ '" '"^•" continued Ma-
dame Grammont, meditatively, "are to keep one's se«
from atnm and to retain one's ideals "
" I suppose for the latter," joined in my mother " it
prettTmuTh*" "'"^ °"^'^ '^"^ '°^^' -^ havrthin^
h[i^er T^ *' °"' """"*'' °'^''^''^ People become
keSng"" '"''=°"'^°*^''' -d 'heir ideals ^ow sour f^m
" I°"."f "^'"' F'-ances," agreed my father, " I al-
ways think that disappointed people must soon become
horribly disillusioned and realistic."
" Then you are quite wrong, both of you," cried our
guest, with her worted animation. " It is by J, ma^
mg one's first love and by „a, obtaining one's heart'!Z
su-e.^ that one's ideals do live for ever."
" I don't see that," objected father.
me.'l^T'l!'''"' ^■"''" '"'' '^°^ y°"' ^'" ^°S^'- ^hat I
mean Take an mstance. Mary Ann, we will say. is
your first love; in the days of your youth you do firmly
believe that life will be a paradise if only you can m^J
186
Madame
Mary Ann. That is your ideal of perfect felicity. You
do wm what you desire, and Mary Ann is yours Then
vouTh; "'"" ''° ^»<^"«"y become disillusioned, and
you do discover that your goddess is but a most com-
monplace woman. Where is your ideal then? You have
found that even Mary Ann has become betise and tfre-
some : so you wring your hands and cry aloud that the
world ,s hollow and that all your dolls are stuffed wVh
the sawdust. But suppose, on the other hand, thr a
cruel fate separates you from Mary Ann in the earliest
days of your love-making. You do recover from the
soL u u u^"* commonplace and betise and tire-
some, wh.ch she does, oh, so quickly! But your ideal
do s remam w.th you all the same. You say to you«e«
Ehza IS s up.d and life is dull ; but the worid is not alto
Sl'st ' I'd " f "' ^"" "^^^^ '^'^ ^'"^^'^ ^^
your iL 5 m:;' aI/ ^ ^°" "" '"" ^°" '•^ -°"' '-
" Your wise saws are only rivalled by your modem
msunces, dear Madame," cried father. '^You mTke m™
qu.te regret that I married my first love," he addTd looT
>ng fondly across the table at my mother
But mother only smiled.
in hi";1*K'"^ "'"'' "''"''*'•" '^''^ Monsieur Grammont
m h.s dehberate way, "our ideals soon wear ouTwhen
exposed to the friction of everyday life, are we not b^»er
w.thout such unserviceable thing' altogeth"? " '""
snouiaers. Our boots do soon wear out, do thev not ?
m the fncfon of everyday life ; but is that ;ny rea^„ t
always walking with the bare feet ? "
» 187
I :;, I
Madame
•' Certainly not, ma chMe; but it is a reason for pre-
ferring to be shod with soUd leather, rather than with
fairy glass slippers."
" That is just like Philippe ! " groaned his wife. " He
is so afraid of being carried away by the feelings that he
never does reaUy admire anything. I would not be so
wise as he— no, not for a million francs. As for me I
do love to idealize everything and everybody. I am al-
ways raising the altars to new and unknown gods; then
Philippe passes by that way, and alas! there is not one
stone left upon another of my beautiful shrine."
"Then does Monsieur Grammont smash "p your
idols as well as his own? That is very rough on you, I
thmk, said my father, much amused.
" Ah, but you are good to take my part like that. Sir
Roger! You never did see a man with such a gift for
broking the idols as Philippe. He does prove to you
in his cold, superior way, that you are wasting your
adoration on a mere stick or a stone; then you turn to
your poor idol, and lo! it is all in little pieces. If ever
my husband does set up a.i idol of his own, it will have to
be made of the india-rubber, so that he can not break it •
just as the destructive children do have india-rubber
dolls, IS It not so?"
" I have but one idol, and that is yourself, Madame "
exclaimed Monsieur Grammont gallantly.
"Ah! I wonder if I am made of the india-rubber,"
S"""* '''' *"*■ "^ *'"'' '' may be so, I am so
I learned a great deal from my talks with Madame
Grammont. She would tell me all about her home in
beautiful France, and how happy she was there in her
* 188
■
Madame
ever quite forgot the social dispa'nlttlL'"''''"'
in.?H Tl!""^' ''^y' *'"=» Madame and I werTwalk-
mg hrough the picture gallery .at Treheme Conn, 7tl
her the story of my favourite picture It seemed Vn i
cmate her as much as it did mj and for at me she ^ed
at It with rapt attention. Then she said- " ChL
do no, ,e„ the history aright. Th': Z^st^^^/Z
d": wxr 'j:^?" ''""^'°' °^ -^ '-^-i -<• ^
lieht°"llf ''/° '"!•,•''='' M"''^"'^'" I -^ried with de-
ls K V "^'*' ^°' y^" *° l'^' """re about the
fate of my be.ut.ful lady. It seems too horrible to "Link
of her bemg tortured while she was still alive, and vrt
I want to know the truth as regards her fate." ^
call a C'^t' ■ ^.'^' T "f"""' '°""«d. It is what you
" Listen Inirrn' "'"^ ^"^"^^ *''»' ""''"ation.
Listen and I will tell you the story : Ursule de Brie wa,
the only daughter of a noble family?^a„d alas ! her parent
and her brothers did perish on the guillotine She 7n
her turn, was going to the executiorwh „ old P^'r^^
Grammont (a citizen of some note and a learned ma"
m one of his experiments of science. But he did not
till
Madame
desire to torture her: he was never cruel, only cold and
wise, as are all the Grammonts. He did hold a theo^
that when any one is cast into an artificial sleep the life
.s suspended; and that, in consequence, such a person
can exist without the food or the drink as long as the
coma lasts; and can take up the thread of the life again
exactly where .t was dropped, though in reality the in-
terval may have been years and years in length. For a
long time old Pierre had sought in vain for a subject on
whom to try this interesting experiment, for his work
had come to a still-stand without one; but when human
creatures were being killed like the vermin, and the blood
was runnmg like water in the streets of Paris, surely, he
Aought. one of these apparently worthless aristockts
Sbfe'? '■''" '°'° ' '''^'^ '° '^° ^'*'' '"' ">« bought
;; I understand." I murmured, and Madame went on •
^°Lrsulede Brie was snatched from the guillotine
and given to Pierre Grammont. He did not hide Tm
her what he was going to do; but the poor giri was so
utterly crushed and overwhelmed by th^oifo s of the
come of her; and she did at once consent to be Thrown
nto an artificial sleep by means of the passes and incanra"
tions of the aged astrologer. Grammont therefo e made
her as one dead, placed her in a leaden coflin, and burld
" oVm ?'""' "' "^^ •'""' ■" his garden."
Uh, Madame, how ghastly ! "
"Shortly after this the old man died : and in his will
he did command his heirs that fifty years after his delth
they should open the vault in the garden, and should do
as It seemed good to them with the treasure they should
190
Madame
therein f5„d; but he added that if they did venture t^
break open the vault before the fifty LrX,T ?
they should be haunted by his cu^XXut e„d'"S
.. w . ^''" ''"'■'' °^^y ''™-' " I asked eagerly
me present time, a great-grandson of old Rerre's d,^
burst open the vault, and also the leaden coffin within
fTsfalf? n "'^"" *° '"^'^-- ther^a yojg ^^•
pl 5 ea?t"of r? "' ?" °^ P-'""- t'whi/hty
upon the breast of the sleeper, he did read the story which
he was overnowereH win, tV,o •• j «";' P<»sses, and
Je young Jrl arke^l^ K^yVerors^p^''^^^
d.d seem to her that she had only been asleen for a
few hours; and her heart was stil/sore for he ,oss of
those dear ones who had been dead for half a centurv
Mo„s,eur Grammont did his utmost to onsoTe th'e
anger, who appeared young enough to be his dtgh
ter and yet was seventy years old when first he Iw
de bS' "'' ^'°"'^ ''^*^"^^'-''' "«= ^^'^ «P0- Ursui:
191
Madame
"And was he kind to her, Madame?" I asked with
intense interest.
" Kind to her, child ?— what a word to use with refer-
ence to the behaviour of a plebeian toward an aristo-
crat I He did always regard her with the most profound
respect, and did deport himself toward her with the most
deep reverence; and he was never unconscious of the
honour he had done himself by marrying into the haute
noblesse."
" And was she happy with him? "
"Oh! happy enough, child, as women's happiness
goes. But have you yet to learn, little one, that men
can make their happiness just as they may please, while
the women do have to be content with what is ready-
made ? And the ready-made clothes do never fit as well
as those that are made to order ; they are sure to give the
pinch somewhere."
" What relation was this Monsieur Grammont, the
great-grandson of old Pierre, to your husband, Ma-
dame?" I asked.
" They are one and the same."
" And you " I began in breathless excitement.
" I myself was once Ursule de Brie," answered Ma-
dame.
19a
MISS LATIMER'S LOVER
J'!
/
MISS LATIMERS LOVER
girl; she was tS ITLT «r^"*'"•''"«^
have found a»,p7e «tf,f ^ T' I*''''' •''"'• °"»ht to
clothing clubs and .1 • °'' •"" *P'"«ter soul in
-idenf. d- statlXt'aKeS ^"^'^ °"'-
she was well on her way down the ,h H T ^''°"^''
she was actually guiltv of T ^^"'^^'^y "lope of forty,
life-the object of h S 2nZ k '' ^J'^' ""^^^"«"'
organistofMarley Church ? .'"^ *''' ™ddle-aged
Scott." U=ked'aS"dtb :rS-^^^ " °'^ H»">
heart was the secret of Ann? T .• , ''"" °*" gentle
Scott; but she Cher shed rfon^'""*''^ '''"°*'°" »° Mr.
thing he did was dott'^'r^LTh?^'^"- =^^■^-
rounded by a halo of romance tL K Tr ""^ '"'■
recommended became insDiJd , °°'"' *"" ^^'"' ''"d
played and taught sremlT- •''°'""'*'= ">« tunes he
spheres. ^ '""""'' ^^^'O"'' °f the music of the
Miss Latimer's daily walk ,„a
«IIing of a governess Id \ f °=<="Pation was the
vicar's little boylTth; cl" ' '''" '"'''^'^''^d the
strued it herseff afte 'the Toff'"^ °' '"^' ^"^ ^°'-'-
::^^eautycouldnot£er^K!iS^-
'95
Miss Latimer's Lover
To the ordinary observer Harry Scott appeared to be
a disagreeable, fault-finding, cynical recluse; but the
gods — notably the god of love — see otherwise, and with
diflferent eyes from the ordinary observer.
" Would you believe it ?" cried Madge Lacey, rush-
ing into the vicarage schoolroom one day, " a baronet
has been lost or made away with somewhere about here."
" Oh, my dear, how very shocking I " exclaimed Miss
Latimer, nervously looking behind her, as if the k
baronet might be lurking somewhere in the schoolroom
window-curtains, ready to pounce out at any moment :
but the eyes of the little boys gleamed with unholy joy.
" What fun I " they cried as one man.
" His name is Sir Henry Denham," continued
Madge, " or rather was, for I suppose he was murdered
years ago."
The governess shuddered as she pictured the ill-fated
baronet weltering in his own blue blood ; but the san-
guinary little boys thrilled with delight.
" Who murdered him ? " they yelled in ecstasy j " do
tell, Madge, there's a brick I "
" Nobody knows," replied their elder sister ; " that's
the mystery. Twenty years ago he disappeared, and no
one has heard anything of him since."
" But why didn't they look for him twenty years
ago?" inquired one of her small brothers, with some
sense.
" Because they didn't want him ; he wasn't a baronet
then, but an unsatisfactory younger son who had lost
nearly all his money, and was a disgrace and burden to
his relations. So they were very glad when he disap-
peared, and gave them no more trouble,"
196
Miss Latimer's Lover
Jn^:: ? '■ ' •" '"'^ '^"•""^ '° «>« 'he old ch,p „p
was heard of that now n„k J f "^ *«° *'"" he
him. Therefore! isp7es„t2^Hrr ""^""'"^ "h^""
Marley Moor by «m«n ,''* *"' "'"'''"='' <">
jeweliy as he LTT' V- "" '*'«= °' ^^^^ "oney or
L'i2:ilo«:fthe';i';r'' '■"'• '"^^ '"e bodyU
••^^^:aK:JrSer/ *--«--
caUpuUin^santKsSf^^^^^^^^^^
was;;a.I of a tremble." afshe «id ^"' ''"'' ^'""^'■
.. ?lT„T' ""^ '"^We I " she murmured.
197
Miss Latimer's Lover
Her pvMceful home was made dreadful by viiioni ot the
lost man and hii unknown murderer; and the remem-
bered once "laving heard something (she could not recall
what) about a baronet's " bloody hand," which memory
lent additional weirdness to the state of affairs. Miss
Latimer confided some of her fears to the cynical organ-
ist ; but he was such a rabid socialist, and cherished so
bitter a hatred against the upper classes, that he seemed
to regard a baronet as better murdered than not, and
could not be induced to approach the tragedy in at all
a proper spirit.
" I daresay he is b ..ter dead than alive. Miss Lati-
mer," he said gruffly. " Rich people generally are."
"Oh, Mr. Scott, what a terrible thing to say!"
gasped the gentle Anne, who had all a single woman's
veneration for the powers that be.
" I hate rich people," continued the blasphemous or-
ganist . " they wear gorgeous raiment, and eat indigesti-
ole things, and behave generally like blots on the face
of creation."
"But," suggested Miss Latimer, timidly defying
the oracle, " think of the refinement and culture of the
upper classes, and what England would he without
them."
"I know exactly what England would be without
them; it would be like the garden of Eden in the pre-
serpentine days. And as to their culture, my dear friend.
It is all rubbish! I don't believe you could find a so-
called fine lady who could spell mattress, or who had ever
heard of the ablative absolute."
" Dear me, dear me, that is sad," remarked Anne,
lookmg becomingly shocked ; " but still the women of
198
Miss Latimer'5 Lover
ncr:2lLSTer" "S^' ^ "■''' ^"^^ --
the pur,« of rich men ,nMK '""'"*'°" '^ '° """«
hearts of poor one, lujl h ^ ^'''"" '° ''«="' ">e
fooled byZ exor^' 1, *^\''°* ""»"»'» ">« can be
-ore than I carCSne /' " ' '"' *"""^ ""«'«• '»
"But surely you admire Ladv Marlov? cu •
lovely and has such sweet manner, " '' ^"^ " *"
"Wh^tXarroil^'f '' '"« -■''"<'' Scott,
vicaraie J^l^^^^^^l^ -"er day at the
Anne looked amazed.
out It had not been a ra.» «f .', j-
part. She wonderedTf \l ■'"'"'« " °" Anne's
how they couW S 1 J T""!. "'''''' "^^ A'"^*"
of keen perceptlo^ fn tVeT^ '"! '""^ " '^°'"-
argued with a man ITl » r."* ''*^'' '^^ "'^^'■
at once ceasedtoexpLss them f.'' "l" "P'"'""^' ^^e
ments, she at one adm"tedThat I" """''" "'' ^'*'«=-
misinformed. After 17 "e fela 1 '""'' ''"''^ '"=^«
199
i
Miss Latimer's Lover
more fathers and fewer husbands than the majority of
her fellow-women. She understood, further, that the
woman who takes her opinions ready-made from some
stronger, masculine brain, is happier than the woman
who manufactures them at home out of such scanty raw
material as her limited knowledge and experience of life
can command ; which proved that Anne Latimer's out-
ward adorning and ornament were of the pattern recom-
mended by apostolic advertisement; a pattern unfortu-
nately considered somewhat out of date by the modern
woman, but nevertheless infinitely more becoming than
the most elaborate atrocities of post-apostolic fashion-
plates.
Anne confided to Mr. Scott the fear which beset her
that the baronet's ghost or his hidden murderer might
waylay her on her way home from the vicarage on a
winter's evening; but he relieved her spirit by assuring
her that he considered either alternative highly improb-
able; and as the subject was evidently distasteful to him,
Anne at once dropped it, though she longed to discuss
more freely the horrible possibilities which the tragedy
conjured up.
But though the little governess kept silence on the
gruesome subject, it engrossed her thoughts night and
day, and made her lonely walks from the vicarage in-
creasingly terrible; and gradually a ghastly suspicion
crept into her mind, which she tried in vain to exorcise,
though she combated it as a suggestion of the evil one.
She could not help remembering that, about the time
of the baronet's disappearance, Harry Scott was a pen-
niless wayfarer, little better than a tramp, getting what
odd jobs he could from any one who was kind enough
200
'taM^
Miss Latimer's Lover
strange part of the n„« u ''"^' """'j ^ut the
with terror at the m J u^-" ^""^ ^^^ "^""'y fainted
derer might rev'sirth! r"'"f.."'^' S'-" "^"'•/^ "«■•-
mentitstfuckher hlf J c' °^ •"' "™"'- •>"' ^^e mo-
and that Scott's crime wln-r . °*" P'°P'^ ^''°-
broughtto justice a^dhaneedT'''' '"' ^'^^ ""' ^'^«
in suggesting such rnnl-^ • "" ""Agination ran riot
burdf^to hfr "for e'iTsTot? """ " "^'^ ''^^ "'^ ^
that when once Zs^cL uT T"' '""°""'' ^''^ ^^^
dence would be aS ? h,m 1'" "P°" ''''" ^"^^ «=--
for him to dispSs ^^'r '"' " "°""^ ''^ ''■«-"
inXru°rtL";eSittr^ '"' '^^" "-^^^ ''--
culminated in a vSit i f ' e°^«™ess; and at last they
a v.s.t to the mysterious organist himself.
201
Miss Latimer's Lover
" I have come to see you on a most delicate matter "
began Anne timidly; " so delicate, in fact, that I hardly
know how to begin."
The organist smiled; MissUtimer always uncon-
sciously aroused his sense of humour.
" Surely there is nothing that you can not say to me
Miss Utimer," he replied kindly; " •• e are such old and
firm friends, you know."
" The fact is," stammered Anne, " that my visit has
reference to the murder of Sir Henry Denham "
Scott's smile died out, and his face became very
white, but he said nothing.
"Oh, I can not, can not say it!" continued poor
Anne begmning to cry, '■ it seems so base of me to think
dread ul things about you; and yet if I don't say what
1 think, how can I help you ? "
Still Scott was silent.
"You see I can not help remembering," sobbed the
poor little woman, " that Sir Henry Denham disappeared
just about the time that you were so— so "
" So poor and unknown, you mean," said Scott, com-
mg o her rescue; " so poor and hungry, in fact, that I
would have sold my soul for a mess of pottage."
" Yes, yes; and I want to say, dear Mr. Scott, that
If you think It better, under the circumstances, to eo
right away from Marley, I hope you will allow me to give
you this, just to help you on your way. I think you
should go at once ; and !' -ccurred to me that you might
be short of ready money. So few rich people have
enough ready money by them to start on a long ioumev
at a minute s notice, you know. Please, please don't think
me impertinent, but I do so want to help you," cried
202
Miss Latimer's Lover
The organist did not speak
^n^in^dlrhe^fl^sh^^^^^^^ '^:f^;^''^ -- «'"
it out of the banic to offer o you ll ,"" '"'* T^i
can no, ,«„,, ^„„ ^„^^^ but if °"a./l hTve° ""' *'^' '
"T"JnZTt"' '""' "''' ""'"^"^ *='^ ^'^y husky,
good as to offerthernToTe""' '"'"" ^°" "^'"^ ^
-r:o:;;sr-^raLr?^^
brought you a few trinkets which really are of no u^
to me as jewelry would be quite out of pLe on a per "n
of my advanced years and humble position- but v^«
might d,s^se of them, you know, an'd make'some use
o the tnfle that they would fetch. Oh I Mr Scott
please do not think me forward or interfering bS
you^c^n not tel, how sincerely I have your Sst J
of tET"T5''' ^*'"''' P^""-^^ °"' '"'° *e hands
led n r , °'^r' ""'' "^'"^ ^^^"« = ^hich con-
sisted of a coral necklace, a pair of amethyst ear-rings
two jet bracelets, a cairngorm shawl-pin, th'ee mou™"S
rings and an enormous brooch. This brooch resembled
a gold warmmg-pan, and had wrought upon its centre in
«« 203
Miss Latimer's Lover
human hair, an artistic design composed of a tea-urn sup-
ported by two weeping willows, and surrounded by a
wreath of sea-weed; the hair whereof these strange de-
vices was composed having been grown upon the head
of Miss Latimer's long defunct maternal uncle. But in
spite of the humour of the situation, Harry Scott did not
laugh ; instead his eyes filled with tears as he said :
" Thank you n.i than I cgn ever say, my dear, my
only friend. If I had i^nown s .ch unselfishness as yours
years ago, I should never have been the worthless, good-
for-nothing wretch that I am. Perhaps I can show my
gratitude for your kindness in no better way than by ac-
cepting it; so I will take the money and the jewelry— but
only as a loan. Some day you must let me repay you.
In fact, the intention of repaying you will be an incentive
to me to be a better man in the future than I have been
in the past"
"Just as you think best," agreed Anne; " but please
believe that there is no way of laying out my money
which would give me as much pleasure as spending it
upon you."
" Anne, do you love me? " asked Scott suddenly.
Anne's faded face flushed all over.
" You know I do," she said simply. " How could
I help it when I "have seen you nearly every day for the
last twenty years?"
" I am not worthy of your love, Anne," continued
the organist in a broken voice; " I am not a good man
and never have been. I had an unloved, an unhappy,
childhood, and the iron of it entered into my soul; then
poverty stepped in, and made me worse and bitterer than
I was before. Your suspicion against me is a correct
204
»\§ *^ ^
Miss Latimer's Lover
one. It was I who murdered Henry Denham; but per-
haps when you hear my whole story you will see that I
was not without provocation, nor was I quite the blood-
thirsty viUam that you now suppose. But what touches
me IS that you love me now— since you discovered my
cnme, and before you hear my defence. It is such love
as this that saves a man's soul alive."
"I hope it is not wicked of me to love you, dear "
said Anne, smiling through her tears; " but I'm afraid I
couldn t help it if it were."
"Wicked ? It is divine," cried Scott. " Dear Anne
I believe I could be a good man now if you were always
with me to love and to help me. Will you come away
wi h me now as my wife, and let us begin a new life to-
gether?
For a minute Anne hesitated. She recalled reading a
story years ago called The Murderer's Bride, and how
she had shuddered at it, and now she actuaUy thought of
becommg a murderer's bride herself. It was a terrible
thought I But then she remembered that Harry Scott
was alone and in trouble, and he wanted her; and what
true woman could be proof against such an argument
as that? Certainly not one of the good old sort, whose
outward adorning was after the apostolic pattern.
So Anne promised to marry Harry Scott, and go
away somewhere where they could begin a new life.
They arranged that he should leave Mariey at once and
wait for her in London, where they would be married
quietly by licence, so as to avoid all fuss and gossip This
plan was carried out ; and a month after their momentous
interview, Anne Latimer said good-bye 'to Mariey and
the vicarage boys, and met the ex-organist in a dreary
205
Miss Latimer's Lover
London church. A prim, legal-looking individual acted
as Scott s best man; while poor Anne had nobody but
the female pew-opener as her bridesmaid. It all passed
off very quietly. " I, Henry Scott, took thee, Anne." in
the face ot all possible contingencies; and, "Anne" re-
turned the compliment. The poor litt e bride was a good
deal flustered when they retired to the vestry. First the
clergyman and Harry signed their names, and then the
legal-looking mdividual handed the pen to Anne, saying.
Now It IS your ladyship's turn."
" What does he mean ? " she whispered to Harry with
a puzzled look on her happy face.
"It is all right, dear," he answered ; " you are a ' lady-
ship now. you know; you are my wife, and I am Sir
Henry Scott Denham."
I III'
206
THE WITCH'S SPELL
I
THE WITCH'S SPELL
cr,,?'"?'.' McMallt was a terrible woman-a hard
cruel, w.cked. terrible woman. She had ruled at c2
n J /'°"- ^" P~P'*= f^'^^d her with a blind.
.ne^aTeTndT ""' '"''' "" """ * '"'"^' ""~
mL ; f T"^ *'™°"8^ ^^^"^ hated and feared her
FIo« M M 1', ""'S."'' ""' '"''"^ y°™« kinswoman!
Flora MrMally. Flora had spent as many of her twenty
years as she could remember at Castle McMally and
many a t.me had she been punished for a childish Lt by
time h J 1""" ^"'T ^'^■^""y •''"^»; and "any a
thTdarl H ""^"'i "^ '"'='• J"^^""^ shortcomings i*
v,l i*"?^^""" °^ **"= castle. It had been a tertble
ch.Idhood, followed by a dreary girfhood; and yTt ft
than ITh r ''"!!="" '° ''"'' =• ■"-«= beautifulC
riwh ^ ^"'' *"' """ ^"'•'y '«"=•««"' of poor Flora's
crushed and tortured spirit. Masses of red-gold I^ir
crowned the queenly little head, which (if it had"
seemed almost too small for the tall and graceful fi^re
sent /t.'^.'.r'' u '^'^ ''' "'^'" ^"<1 as myste^us
sent a thnll hrough every heart which they took the
rouble to look into But these wonderful orbs had a St
above and beyond their beauty ; they possessed a remafk
able power of compelling whomsoever they chose to do
209
lie
The Witch's Spell
their bidding— a power which nowadays would be called
mesmenc or hypnotic, but which then, in 'hat wild and
primitive region in the far north of Scotland, was con-
M x7 „" "°'^'"*^ '"' "'»" witchcraft. Mistress Bridget
McMally was fully aware of her kinswoman's weird 4.
and would gladly have given the two eyes out of her ^n
head for a pair to match Flora's; failing this, she made
Flora use this power as she (Bridget) willed, and the poor
g.ri was far too much afraid of her hard task-mistress
ever to dream ot disobeying her.
Now it came to pass, one bitter winter's day, that two
snow-bound travellers sought shelter at Castle McMally.
finding ,t impossible to push further through the deep
drifts which threatened to bury them alive ; and Mistress
McMally, for a wonder, received them graciously, and set
before them the best that she could offer, and pressed
them o stay with her until the snow should abate and
the wild roads again be traversable.
The strangers were two officers. Captain Lennox and
Captam McBean; the former was as superbly handsome
a young man as one could wish to see ; the latter a some-
what disreputable old soldier, very much the worse for
wear. Such were the travellers who claimed the hos-
pitality of Castle McMally, and (which is not to be won-
dered at) both fell in love with Flora McMally at first
sight. Which sudden awakening of the tender passion
did not escape the lynx eye of the mistress of the castle
but served to add fuel to the already lighted fire of her
hatred for, and jealousy of, her fair cousin's beauty so
«ie cruel woman laid her unholy plar accordingly.
That snowy day which brought the two strangers to
Castle McMally was the birthday of happiness to Flora;
210
The Witch's Spell
Lennox had looked im ^ ' '""' """ »'"= ""d Henry
had formed a faWy accll ^^ T"'" ' "^'"'"«' »he
pines, was like " "*" °' *»«« Perfect hap-
she^roX?SrI^?;^^^^^^^^ -<> When
ready to repair to her own K.!i .^' "*'"• ^"^ «"
was r.a.,e^ hy h° r l^r. ^ ^S' °' " =''"'"''-• '"'
which it was her custom t„' '!.'"' *' ''""'' submission
The sharp eyes SBriH''?M'?/''*y"''''''"=hests.
ciously. ^ ^ ' °' ^"''5^* McMally twinkled mali-
"anZri: Spuin^Lr ^^■^^-" ^^^ -'".
beautiful as you. Fo he^s the% T "'*' ' '"• "
seen, and I have m,H ^ ''"*^s* ""an I have ever
^e wondlriuTbtck 7 ™"' '° "^"^ ''''"•"
horror. '''''"' "^^^ ^rew dim with fear and
^>>I°a„XSt"tha;'"' ^°"^'" ^^''^<' "ied the
besought her ^ithLtter^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ''- -«-- and
so cruel, so inhuman *° '""''' "P°" anything
going to have it all youToln w, ^°" u'"."'' """* y°" are
face of yours ? Do Jou th^t 7 ''' ""'^ '^' P'"'"^ ''''''y-
already given your's^ hea AoT°' "' ''"* ^■°" ''-'^
s"iy neart to this man. and that for
211
The Witch's Spell
the present his soft head is turned by your empty beauty?
But understand that from to-morrow he is mine ; and that
it is you who will give me the priceleu gift of your hand-
some lover's love. Hal ha I ha! " and the elder woman
fairly shook with her fiendish amusement
" I will not do it I " cried Flora, defiance taking the
place of despair.
"Won't you?" replied Mistress McMally. "And
have you forgotten what it feels like to be flogged ? and
how cosy the dungeons are afterward? and how none
of my people would dare to interfere if I chose to starve
you to death in there? But if your memory is short, my
orettv child, and has forgotten all these trifling little de-
tails, you will soon be reminded of them ; and I hardly
think you will ever forget them again."
The unfortunate girl trembled, and lifted tearful eyes
to her tormentor's jeering face ; for well she knew that
her cousin's were no empty threats, but all this and more
could Mistress McMally do to her, and not one of the
servants —ould dare to interfere, or to tell afterward what
diabolical cruelty had done to death this defenceless or-
phan. So, fixing one look of unutterable despair on
Bridget's hateful face. Flora rose from her knees, feeling
that resistance to that inflexible will was impossible.
" If you are so anxious to have a lover," sneered Mis-
tress McMally, " you can turn your attention to Captain
McBean. He is in love with you already, my beauty."
" I hate him," sobbed Flora, with righteous indigna-
tion ; " he is a wicked, horrid, nasty old man ! "
" I quite agree with you," laughed Bridget sleepily,
" but you shall marry 1 n all the same, or my name isn't
Bridget McMally. You can go now," added the fiend
213
The Witch's Spell
I^S^;Z^^^f^:^"- '° - '^- caput
but what cafed sSet ZV. ''' ^"'""' *^« =
than herself > The two /on "°''' "' *°""=" '"'^^
the castle together InH M ! T'"^ ""' «'«» ^all of
object Of h'eTaSr st t XS? T'^^'' '''
Flora. ^"^' •"' adminng eyes sought
hrZh°,7J'"^^^^/ ^''"''" '""^ "Claimed, below her
Ti,_ » " "" °" 'he innocent viVfim
St^B^----:^-r
cheerfIlLrrH:n'';"L:„r • """^^ ""'"^^ '"^ "-
ner with all , ., t heart. You are v/.ld with love'for
213
The Witch's Spell
her, and you will marry lier witliin a week from now.
Do you understand ? "
" I understand," answered the unearthly voice of the
victim. " I love Mistress Bridget McMally with all my
heart, and will marry her within a week from now."
Then Flora awoke her unconscious subject and went
out of the room, leaving him and her cousin together.
For a moment the captain looked dazed, and then, as
his glance fell on the woman standing beside him, an
expression of such admiration animated his features as it
was impossible to misread. He rose at once, and took
her hand into his.
" How are you this morning, dear lady? " he inquired
tenderly.
" Very well, thank you," said Bridget, with delight at
this unwonted solicitation for her well-being. "And
yourself. Captain?"
" Oh, I am all right," replied the soldier ; " but I
think our hard journey through the snow must have
wearied me somewhat, for I have actually been asleep
again since I came downstairs, asleep and dreaming of
you," he added, gazing into the cruel face with such pas-
sionate devotion that Mistress McMally felt inclined to
scream for joy at the success of her diabolical scheme.
"What did you dream about me?" asked Bridget,
with an expression of such triumph as would have
arour ed the suspicions of any man in his senses.
I hardly dare tell you." And the brave soldier
fairiy tre...Med with fear of his idol's displeasure.
But Mistress McMally coaxed and cajoled until she
got her own way.
"Well, if you insist upon my telling you, I, whose
2t4
The Witch's Spell
Si . ' T'^ '''PP'""' '=°°"^» ■" °b^yi"g your
aUast Tr ' T.r f ^ ^°" "''•" ^^■'» the captain
at last. I dreamed that I loved you tnaUIy-that you
and you alone were the lady of my choice; and in my
dream I swore that I would win you as my br de, and tto
ere many days had passed. And listen, my a;gei:" he
ontmued, se.z.ng both her hands and drawing her nUre
oh™, "when I awoke and saw you standing beside r^e
orthT \r' ""'"" ''"' '"""' '™^' -d that hen" :
forth I could never find happiness apart from you. I
know I am a rough soldier, dear one, unfit to mate with
gur sweet beauty ; but won't you try to love me"
iSridget, because I love you so much ' "
on Ju^ **'^.'^«= McMally dropped her scheming head
on the cap am's broad shoulder, while he covered her
face w.th kisses, and whispered in her ear such nonsense
Pot°eKrr •'"•, '■'"'^ ^'""''^ ^P^" '-^^ "-""too
for him r '""P''-"''"''^^' unsuspecting warrior; ak :
pitain^"'^^' "" ""= '''' ^^"°"='^ '° "^^^ "P the
of tStuidt'r ■ "" "" '''''''' '' ""^ -^'-^
" Hush, hush, my pretty one ! " he whispered. " You
must never call me that again-you must say Harry "
^ Warry. then," said the young woman
Say, my own dear Harry," commanded the be-
witched wooer.
"My own dear Harry," repeated the evil-minded
wretch, with infantine obedience:
'' Well, sweetheart, what is it ? "
" Don't you think we might have some breakfast? "
215
The Witch's Spell
suggested the lady, who was of so greedy a nature that
no love-makmg, be U never so charming, could stand her
in stead of meat and drink.
Her lover's face fell somewhat at this mundane in-
lad/s will '° ' '^^■'^'^'''"- •'"» •>« ^"bmitted to his
'' First tell me that you love me," he entreated.
I ove you I " shrieked Mistress McMally, flinginff
her snaky arms round her lover's stalwart neck in a trans-
port of fiendish joy.
^./^''i *? "'^ '"'^'" "^^"^ °^ '° t^'^* *eir breakfast,
theVhad dt:: '"' "'''' '^° "''"''-' °' ^'^ p-^ -'•-
The next few days seemed to Mistress McMally and
her gallant soldier to fly by on the wings of the wind • he
was so completely enthralled by the spell which had been
cast upon h.m, that he had neither eyes nor ears for any
one but his Bridget ; and she, who had never had a lover
be ore m all her thirty years, was so intoxicated with joy
at the sight of so brave a wooer at her feet, that she was
simply beside herself with delight. But though to the
seeing eye she was even more dangerous in this amorous
mood than she h^d been in her former malicious one, the
captain was blind to all her imperfections, and seemed
day by day to become more infatuated. He insisted
upon fixing an immediate date for the wedding, and he
had no difficulty in inducing his lady-love to agree to this
arrangement. In consequence of this absorption of the
lovers in one another, the gentleman's brother-officer and
the lady's yoiujg kinswoman were left entirely to their
own or each oAer's devices, whichever they pleased
Captain Lennox just now had no thoughts for anything
2i6
The Witch's Spell
but love-making, and Captain McBean was reduced to
pretty much the same state; so the wintry days did not
hang heavy on the gallant warriors' hands, nor were the
gentlemen at all anxious for the imprisoning snow to
melt, and so release them from their respective ladies'
t!f n" ^? "^'"^ ''^PPy ™°"S''' ''"t "°' ^ Mistress Mc-
Mally She was filled with rage to think that the love
and admiration, which she found so delightful and which
were only hers by deceit and sorcery, were Flora's by
simple nght of her amiability and beauty ; and she swore
an oath that when once her adored lover was united to
Zy "''["''8:e-a bond which the withdrawal of
f^TfU T\ "'"" '^. ^' P"^**"'"^ '° break-she would
turn the hapless girl out of her doors for ever, and never
permit that beautiful face to be seen inside Castle Mc
Jln mT"' ''* ^" ''"^''*"'^''' "°^ '''■«'°rted fancy
should return to its first and fairer love. Wherein Mis-
": sr T't ""= ='""^'°"^'^ -^^- °f tTe se -
coJmLr^^^u^'t^ ^'*"''''= '*"'' Mistress Bridget
her aThe fea eH h T'T °' ""^ P'^"' -"o feafed
nl of Lr .^ ^^''°.''*'^ """""y' '° ""''^ her to the
man of her choice m the little chapel attached to the
cruelty, that Flora should be her bridesmaid, so that the
g.rl might have the anguish of seeing he; rich kins!
woman mated to the man whom she hefself loved The
oSc f "To? 'r '" ""' •"=■" "'^ ^"-^ -d b;other!
stfanl r "^u" ""' "^ ^hite as death during the
strange marriage, but otherwise she made no si™ of
what she was feeling. When the ceremony wa'^on
217
The Witch's Spell
eluded, and " I, Henry," had taken " thee, Bridget," for
every v.c.ss.tude of human life, and the twain were unit^
beautiful bridesmaid and thus addressed her •
cnmnl"** "T' "^ '^'' '°'"'"' ^^*- I '■'^e ^««red a
wTI"7 '°""y "' "" "^* ^ <^°"'d desire, I shall
henceforth dispense with yours,and shall therefore expect •
you to leave my castle this very day. But-i„ that spirit
of consideration which I have always shown you-I
unnrl M f7^ '^ "^^ ^°" °"* '"'° ">« ^"^^ alone and
unprovided for: so I will have you married at once to
tlie gentleman who now stands beside you, so that the
pleasing duty of providing for you, which has hitherto
b:;rshrde'::^'.""' '^ '--'°''' ^--^-^ - ^^
befo^:TnSped oT"^ ^ ''''' ^^'^ ''^ ^'^ ^^
T jy^'u°,' "? ' ^' " s«"dalous to dispose of me as if
1 were a bale of goods."
fro J!h X'"^^ '°^^:"° "°"" °' ""'' =PP^^'' but turned
from the bridesmaid to the best man.
h.f " 7^" '"''< 'l"' P«""""s »s she is (according to your
we£ rt^ ''""?'"'• "^^^ y°" ""y "bjfction to
wedding her here and now ? "
"in"fi!rlwJT'" ^"^^"^ '^^ "?*=>'" i" triumph;
in fact It IS the dearest wish of my heart to do so "
of cI^r^TZZ *'' 'u"P'' '' °""'='" "'*<» *e mistress
of Castle McMally to the poor little minister; and he-
knowmg by experience that that particular tone of her
Wddir"' ""'"'"'''-'''''"''^ •" f^rf°™ his tyrant's
Flora did not further rebel-what was the use when
218
The Witch's Spell
all of them were against her?-but went through her part
statte thaf rr'' °°'''"^ ""^ "''^ "" «''"'"'« ""'^
statue than a living woman. When the second pair were
united as securely as the first had been, the elder br,de
agam addressed the younger: "w onae
vnrLif -"Jr' r '""'* '°"'''"' y°"' bridegroom and
yourself will make yourselves scarce as speedily as pos-
dol't " "'n'r'''"' ^""^ ' "''''' '° •'^ a'lono 'ard^ou
doubtless will have much to say to the husband of your
m^''ii'^\l f^".^""^ '^^ ''""^'•^'^ "' ber malicious
httle joke with a laugh that was full of triumph
Then at last the marble statue awoke into a real
woman, her face alight with scornful indignation
1 will go willingly," she exclaimed in Gaelic " from
a house wherein I have known naught but misery all
these years: but before I go I have a word to say to
you. Cousm Bridget. You made my childhood miser-
able and my girihood desolate by your cruel ways; and
you further decided to blight ray womanhood by initing
me with a man whom I had told you I loathed. What
had I done that you should hate me so mercilessly and
punish me so maliciously? Have I not done your bid-
ding all these years? Then why should you ordain that
so hideous a lot should be mine ? But stop I "
And now— before Bridget could prevent her— Flora
made the movement whereby she released from her hyp-
notic spell those who h-d lain under it. And lot The
first wedded couple gazed at each other for an instant as
If transfixed ; and then simultaneously exclaimed:
" You abominable fright ! "
" You hideous frump ! "
For the bridegroom suddenly discovered that he had
'5 319
I
-,W^^
The Witch's Spell
wedded an ill-favoured fury ; and the bride perceived that
she had married Captain Henry McBean.
"Yes," continued Flora, still in Gaelic, while the
twain stood gazing at each other in horror; " it was my
only escape from the cruel fate which you had devised
for me, so you have no one but yourself to thank for what
has happened. Was I going to sacrifice not only myself,
which was a small matter, but the man whom I loved, to
your diabolical device? No, a thousand times no I There-
fore I made a desperate resolve. When— on that night—
you said that you felt sleepy, you were really falling under
my spell ; and I then commanded you to love devotedly
the first man whom you should see on coming downstairs
next morning: and I took care that Captain Henry Mc-
Bean, and not Captain Henry Lennox, was the first to
meet your gaze. The rest you know. Mistress McBean."
During Flora's speech, whereof neither of the bride-
grooms could understand a word, Bridget had been trem-
bling from head to foot with bafHed rage and disap-
pointed malice ; but at last she succeeded in giving utter-
ance to the fury which possessed her.
"You minx! you wretch! you hussy!" she
screamed, " how dare you trick me so ? But I'll have my
revenge. I'll scratch your wicked eyes out, you viper,
and leave you to rot in my darkest dungeon, you ill-con-
ditioned serpent, you "
And she was rushinp forward with claw-like fingers
to put her horrible threat into execution, when Captain
Lennox's strong arm held her back.
" Gently, madam— gently ! " he cried ; " you dare not
lay a finger upon Mrs. Lennox. Remember that she is
the wife of a British soldier! "
220
_,«»M-*!
'■'_%-V^."i'
THE S70RY OF MARINA
-- 4^
r-c ^^^:'^ak,^^m^-j:
THE STORY OF MARINA
There was no doubt that Marina was a wonderfully
beautiful woman. She somehow reminded one of the
sea whence she came. Her hair was as yellow as the
nbbed sea-sand ; her eyes were grey-green, like the deep
sea-pools ; and her skin was as white as the soft sea-foam
And yet it was more than thirty years since a little baby
had been washed up alive on the shore of St. Aubyn's
after a night of fearful storm and wreckage; and the
cnildless rector had adopted her, and christened her Ma-
ma, after the sea which had brought her to him; for
clue to her real name and parentage was there none,
either then or ever after. The fisher-folk said that such
clue was not forthcoming because Marina was one of the
sea-maids who are allowed now and then to assume mor-
tal form for a time to allu.. men to their destruction.
Age and death can not touch them until they fall in love
with a mortal man ; if the love is mutual, the man bestows
his mortality (or rather his immortality) upon the sea-
maid, and she receives a human soul ; but if her love be
unrequited, the sea-maid's spell is broken, and she is
doomed to bewitch humanity no more, but to return to
her own people That was one of the legends of St
t^^uV-' '""Hf '?" fi'her-folk firmly believed that it was
fulfilled m Manna, whose beautiful face and cold heart
223
The Story of Marina
fostered the idea. True, she showed no signs of age as
yet, and looked younger and fairer than many women ten
years her junior; but well-preserved charms are not
peculiar to the sea-people, and doubtless the men whose
h;.^rts she had broken (and their name was legion) had
proved unlucky, and turned out badly ; for to be made
the sport of a heartless flirt is not conducive to a fortunate
life or a prosperous career, even when the enchantress has
nothing superhuman in her composition. Nevertheless,
the fisher-folk of St. Aubyn's said that in all these things
one could see signs that the rector's adopted daughter
was no child of man, but a witch from the depths of the
ocean. Marina knew perfectly well all about the super-
stitions attaching to her, and she rather enjoyed them
than otherwise. And she sometimes wondered whim-
sically if there were something in them after all, and if she
were indeed as heartless and soulless as they said. Cer-
tamly not one of her many lovers had ever made her heart
beat for one instant the quicker, and Marina herself was
surprised at her own coldness. But " It is an ill wind that
blows nobody good " ; and the cold wind of Marina's in-
diflFerence was an unmitigated blessing to the Reverend
William Winter, for, in spite of the many chances she
had to leave it, it kept her at his side in the old rectory,
which would have been gloomy indeed without the girl's
presence— as gloomy as it was after the rector's young
wife died, and before the sea gave up that treasure which
was to fill the blank in William Winter's desolate heart
and life— his adopted daughter Marina.
But it came to pass that Anthony Armstrong, a great
scholar and an old college friend of the rector's, spent
a summer at St. Aubyn's; and then everything was
324
The Story of Marina
serious, well-read Tllu *"' '"°''°^"' ^''"'^ '"'I
look, LT ■ *" """8;s *»^« 'he lore of women's
her aZ, I' ^^^ ^^^ "° doubt that he loved
change rhrh^'T"" T-""'''''' "— ""^
old fector^ It sHub """" "''' ''''''' "^^ '""""^ '"e
heart and AnthonyWsn^t^HT ''!*^'"" ^"""'''''
the garden. ^ '*°°'' ""'''^'^^ '" *« "idst of
'jmu^'^it^.
The Story of Marina
But trees of knowledge arc not as a rule ordained to
remain untastcd for ever ; and Marina's partaking of the
mystic fruit fell out in this wise.
It was a hot, sultry evening late in the summer, and
Anthony and Marina had gone out on the sea in a little
boat in search of a breath of air; they had drifted into
a conversation upon love in the abstract — a dangerously
interesting subject when the concrete form is looming
near.
" If I were a young man," said Anthony, " I wouldn't
marry one of the fashionable girls of the period for all
I was worth."
" But she would probably marry you for all you were
worth," suggested Marina.
Armstrong laughed. " How sharp you are, child I
However, I shouldn't be worth enough for it to
be worth her while, and so I should find profit by
losing of ■ purse, or rather, by the non-existence
thereof."
" That," wisely remarked Marina, " would entirely
depend upon how long your fashionable girl of the period
had been ' out.' Have you ever attended the ' July sales '
in London, when, toward the close of the summer, the
prices are reduced ? I think there are ' July sales ' in
more worlds than one, when the glory of summer is on
the wane, and consequently there are ' great reductions '
in price. I myself, for instance, were I a denizen of the
world of fashion, should even now be ticketed with, say,
one and elevenpence three-farthings, instead of my
original two shillings, as I have certainly reached my
July."
Armstrong looked at the laughing face as he smiled
336
The Story of Marina
man Jne'votT" """ °"' """*' " '"^ f"^'"-""- °f one
Armstrong pulled up short, lookine shock^rf " v
make a^ioke of ever^hing. Marina. a^dtXht^^^
forgave the culprit on the
227
i
spot. " I am
M-."l
The Story of Marina
not vexed," he said (but he had been terribly near it), " I
was only trying to improve your mind, my child."
" And reprove my manners," she said.
" I did not say so, or even think so. But you always
misrepresent what I say, Marina, and it is not kind of
you."
" If I sometimes, in my ignorance, fail to completely
comprehend your occult meaning, my stupidity is my
misfortune, not my fault, and ought to be pitied rather
than blamed," demurely explained the young lady.
" But you do understand, and you wilfully misinter-
pret me— that is what I complain of," said Anthony, with
some warmth.
" Well, I'd rather be a rogue than a fool any day—
wouldn't you?" exclaimed the enemy, changing her
front. Whereat they both laughed.
Then Marina continued more graciously : " But to
return to nos moutons; I think it is possible to find all
one's ideal qualities bound up in a single volume of hu-
manity."
Her friend smiled and shook his head ; he loved to
listen to Marina's quaint ideas, though he hardly ever
agreed with them.
" Now, I have an ideal man," she went on, " and my
ideal is brave and good and true ; clever and cultured in
the deeper things of life, but careless of little social
graces, and unlearned in the ways of the worid ; with the
courage of a hero and the tenderness of a woman ; old
enough to have profited by life's experience, but not so
old as to have lost the vigour and freshness of youth ;
outwardly so stem as to be feared, yet inwardly so gentle
iw to be loved."
338 ■»
iMt m
The Story of Marina
.i«.iTl7''"°''°"' ""'•■■'' ""'■""■■I. u,...
Ins In *. ;^" '^""«' "■■• ""Si'" "M •»*.-
339
^i%m
i
The Story of Marina
have been married, she and I. But she died just a week
before the day that was to have been our wedding-day,
and all women have been alike to me since. I do not
know why I tell you this. It is more than twenty years
since I spoke of it to any one; but you are so different
from other people that I thought you would understand."
Marina's face had grown very white; but she was
conscious of no feeling save a passion of bitter hatred
for this woman who had been dead for thirty years.
" How old was she when she died? " she asked.
" Only eighteen, poor little girl I "
" Then," said Marina, with quiet scorn, " she was too
young to understand such a love as yours."
" I think she understands it now," answered Anthony
gently.
Marina was silent. Who was she that she dared de-
spise a woman who had solved the two great secrets of
the universe. Death and Love, thirty years ago?
Wounded to the quick, she wrapped herself again in the
mantle of cold cynicism, which, until she met Anthony
Armstrong, had been her only wear; while he — good,
stupid soul !— gazing at the proud pale face, understood
why some people called Marina heartless ; for surely, he
thought, a tender and loving woman, who had found the
fairy prince of her dreams, might have shown, in the
midst of her own happiness, some sympathy with a
friend's love-story.
During their conversation these two had not noticed
that the breath of air, which they came on the water to
seek, had developed into a strong wind ; and even now
the heavy rain began to fall, and the great storm was
upon them. What a storm it was I It seemed impossible
330
v.X^.'^wmm'
The Story of Marina
but the, i^ri'zf:s^{:r.iT.^S'r^^
seen-the great wave had carried her with if i
S^rXr- ""*-'■ *^'"* '»*'"'"
a lovely Dale fare ..T ""^""'^^ ^^^"^ after by
hair, a/d b^Lt^nVre^™ £t T"^ ^^"°-
which had been so sudfenlf cut nff . ^^^* ^°""^ '"«
his grey head had passed LoulhthV h°^"'''^' "''"'=
He often wondered how thaUdtl,! °'''''t' ""=<=^"^«<^-
had found and whose nLe he nf T"' ''''°'" ^"'"«
of the woman who had ,oved him" '"'"' ""^ ^"^ '°=^
The rector did not long survive his adopted daughter
231
The Story of Marina
—life without her was so dreary that he gave it up alto-
gether.
The tides ebbed and flowed at St. Aubyn's, but Ma-
rina's body was never washed ashore ; and that, said the
fisherfolk, was because she had not really been drowned,
but had gone back to her own people.
«33
m.#
HER HEART'S DESIRE
■1 ' - #
HER HEART'S DESIRE
PROrOGUE
An angel (of those that excel in strength)
Looked down from above on the breadth and length
Of the ways of men, and he heard the cry
^L^^^ '™'" ^ *°''''" that is all awry:
Oh! If we were happy, or rich, or great,
S m J'"' ^°'' '""" '" °"^ ^^eh estate;
«ut blank disappomtment and black despair
Are handicaps greater than we can bear! "
And the argel said, "It is hard on these
IM «tt'^f " ??'"' ^ '" the way they please:
If I ^tra-ghtened the crooked and smoothed [he rough
The children of men would be righteous enough "
Then he prayed, "If only I might aspire ^
fo give to one creature its heart's desire.
That creature would come of its own accord
With joy and thanksgiving to serve the Lord"
CHAPTER I
Constance Grey and Ethel Fisher were having tea
with one of they many dearest friends, Maud Leslie"^
^es. said Constance, "I'm glad I am engaged
* 235
Her Heart's Desire
having; it takes Llf t X -t ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ "
were jnu-ned and.sentiJXdl MalT '''"'''
^mSdtroSeTSr° '^"" '"'• ^""""-P'-'"
don't°sa"v'?h.tTT' ^'''^'"* *^ commonplace; I
Her Heart's Desire
But Constance Grey's moral reflections were «,»
short by the footnian's announcing " Major Glyn^'
Miss Leslie duly welcomed the new arrival intro-
f "a arri^r- .n"-- apportionedri t^
ot tea and a seat by his Hanch. George Glyn was fullv
ten years older than Constance, but did 2 look it in
account of his smart, soldierly bearing, h" tas a„ ord"
nary, brave honourable, unintellectual En^ gen £
n^an. who had retired from the anny on succeed^S to
his uncle's estates, and had fallen over head anHars
in love with brilliant Miss Grey; and Miss Gr^v wl!
warmly congratulated by all her iriends iLth^Jo d
aCdv i /"^ '^'^'' ''*'• «"^'"'«« added, had
already seen good service, being by no means new
weapons in the field. s / no means new
Plea'sa^tl?" '' f "^ ^7 ^""^ ^°"' ^^^ ^ " "'''«' Constance
storiLyL:^t:"'^'''^'^°"'<^'-^--ifin
;; Oh 1 1 managed it somehow, and got here all right."
anybody!" '"'' ^* ^°" ''' "°* ''"1"'"= *"= ^^^ f-"
" No, I didn't."
"I was certain of it. Being a man, you would rather
d.e than submit to the indignity of a^kingThe ^S i
woman.'' ""^'""^ '"^ '''' '° '^^''^-•'- ^ ^"^am a
"Well, Connie, here I am, safe and sound, and-
C™ ""P°^-*-P-«-l." observed the Ma^r,
" ^"d 7«'y <:'ever it was of you," said Miss Grey en-
couragingly. " I think I shall write a letter about you "o
237
f
t t
Her Heart's Desire
sagacity. You know the sort of thing —
tually in time tr tea 'jT"'^ " "" ''°"' ''°°' P""<=-
vou/h for'th^tShli thisX"""' ^'"'^ ""^ ^"'
" ' I am, sir, etc.,
"'C. Grey.'"
homeward walk As sn/,„ .u Y ^ ™"e«l on their
238
iMW
Her Heart's Desire
nev Uni!! ""''*'■ '"f '°' ""y^y « '^e cared for Syd-
ney Thome, remarked Ethel with conviction "She
years I wonder what made her sheer off at last "
I know; she said she had reached the age when
n mety nme women out of every hundred wanf h^me"
h ve"Y°o:rVH'°'"^ °' '" °^" ''^ '^" ^^™
nave You see, Sydney was awfully clever, and she was
.47 for*?""' '"' "' ^°"'''"'' ''«^-^ '" -4 H
tried for the appomtment of Chief Constable of the
Dy that. If he succeeded, she should marry Sydney at
once; but .f he failed, she wouldn't wait a^ lont" r fo
somethmg to turn up, but should accept Ma°of Gl "
who was even then tremendously in love with her As
you know, Sydney failed to get the appointm ent-I sup-
pose because he was a barrister and not a military man •
and Connie accepted Major Glyn " '
saidEtS"''.' W P''4/''" ''■•^ "°t *»■■' a ««le longer,"
2 an5 'h ^'^V. ^"""^ " '" ='^^«'- ""d ^ « Con-
nie and they would suit each other admirably Mv
paStlv r "' '" •"IP^^f"^-™. if he will only wak
usuaTmen> r'" ?°^ •"" "°"''^ "'^ ^""^'dered of un-
asTLrband.-^°"*^"" "°""' "''^^ '°-<' =■ "^--^ '-
"Constance would have loved Sydney anyhow if she
th a" ChieTr '' !""m' r "''^ ^"^ '"ghtfufly ^u; bS
al She *??"''=''?'«''!?. But she was very philosophi-
cal She told me that a great man had said that ' PolLs
hat ifHnr °'-"'' --"d-best," but she had leaS
that life IS the science of the second-best; so she would
239
AMi^X
n
Her Heart's Desire
'^Tot:^^ '"' •'-"'•■''- -d -ke the b„t o< i,
;; Do you think Sydney minded ? "
But w^a/cou'id thtd:1 TrT' ^'^'^ ^'" Bonnie,
girl myseU-nor would vL I I T' '''"'"' ""= 'I"'
over the Chief Con.Jbleship"" "'" '°" ^""^ ""'"
wouiiwe\L't.';:?"t' '"^''"' "^'"^^ "-^ ''
-VC oeen Detter, persisted severe little Ethel
you,r«^;^a°r^ '''"' °" ^°""'-^ ''""•' Slit
" Yes, Maud, I do like h^r t tji. t. .
finTfhe • ^"' ^'''" y°" ^''' t° 'he end of he Jou
find she ,s nothing but an advertisement after all-an
£""7"' °' '" °"" '=^""--- She S o ten ve „
kind and says really nice things, and when she has been
^n7fo'«c,Tim'."^,r' -'^ -■•^"jr manner?:,:: :
240
Her Heart's Desire
ionable wedding, foSdby^ZTW^'' " ''^''-
thought 5he shouM die'ordulness^ tt. '""""°"'
decorum of her new ho^-i:. '''* conventional
tions, she didn't d,V and ''"'• ^""'"'y »° her expecta-
she l^gan to for^t'herV" '\"'" '"°'' ^^^^^able)
thin«^ri, .-. '°""*^'' '"'■""•s of doing great
Sfdrt'^s^r^iirCntf^'r^'i''^'''''--"
ci% to the dreaded dSl" "t™" 1^^^ '^^
thing passed out of h.., v.u u , ' '"^t some-
whic1,':^ot,^n7eult t ; ftrmlK^
a :l:t^rset;j-^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
not have what sh? Ul,.^ i, "^"°*" "lat if she could
Herhusbandior'dSlttler' '"'t""^* ^'"= "*''•
habit of finishing to the Ser eX'^ '"' '^ '"^'^
which he embarked °.„?*t -f." ^"^y sentence on
stance. whrit;rrdwt"re"" "'^^^
say, and whose favourite fon^n'^^"""=^°"'&*°
series of hints, this Tas Ser" eS^Th^ T h'
tSrL'srrut^-'^^^^^^^^^^^
-who,e.a„di^Zs;?X:rb7a^^^^^^^^
241
Her Heart's Desire
votion to herself. Admiration was as the breath of life
Certainly not," replied Constance "T h,„.
nn. i-''i'* "^^"^ dishonourable, somehow, to let anv
Er'donSr '"" '''" ^°" '"''•" ---^^^e
them if they didn? I h-r; 1 "^"^C ^ '^°"^'^ ^ate
" W#-ll Try, tu II, ' ^'" '"* Major,
well, t m thankfu to sav I don't " r.«i!-j i.-
ter-of-fact wife " r „. j ' ™P"«d his mat-
' 'act wite. I never understood folly."
J42
^M.
Wer Heart's Desire
a dirty trick, an^h h!s 2hT '■■ ^ °"" '^''^ y^"
showed his ignorance of wlL'' """''"' ^''^■•"='" ^e
Glyn in parti^Iar '" '" ^*"''^' ^"d of Mrs.
about?" ^' "^'"'* °" earth are you talking
Mrs rivf ,7 "^*'" *"h°ut telling you "
bandt;o^n£sLrittrS'''":!L'°^
she was so accusto.'^'toti„g bof^bv ? ^ ""* "°^
she could bear it beautif.,ll„ ^ ^ ^ George, that
to feel be was so'^S^C' l"eat that tb ^^
"r„it^S^--'--^-adlythl^^^^^^^^^^
away!'™ '"''"'"^' ''*'"••" =">« «« sweetly. "Fire
'ow! Th"L^:^;f j;,",;~^^^ ^'t''^^ clever fel-
George. in his cluit/btn'Si^C "'' ' " ''^"^"
-S^;:i^ri-u/n;n-r--
243
gl
Her Heart's Desire
fluence against him, and proved to the other magistrates
that he was not suited to the place because he was a
civilian. But that wasn't the real reason."
Constance's face had grown very hard and white, but
she ' not speak.
;now I was a brute," continued Major Glyn, his
voice breaking; "and I could almost shoot myself for
havmg behaved like such a low cad, but I heard a rumour
that If Thome got the place you and he would marry;
and I could not bear the idea of giving you up to that
book-writing fellow."
But still Constance did not speak.
"I know you are disgu-ted with me," went on
George, his voice trembling more and more. " and I well
deserve it But I could not go on any longer without
telling you. I was mad for love of you, Connie, and that
was how it happened. If I hadn't been mad, I couldn't
have done such a thing. But you'll forgive me, won't
you, darling ? I know you didn't really care for Thome ;
for If you had, you'd never have looked at me, and you'd
have stuck to him through thick and thin. You're just
that sort. And I'm sure you're much happier here with
everything you want, than you would have been writing
books in a garret with Thome. I say, Con, speak to
me, and say it is all right. I can't bear you to look at me
like that.
And then Constance spoke. " You mean hound! "
she said in a low, thrilling voice. "You unspeakably
contemptible cur ! If I had had any idea of this, I would
have died sooner than marry you. You are right in sup-
posing that I should never have looked at you if I could
have had Sydney Thome. But he was too poor to
244
I
^mmm^i^-^
Her Heart's Desire
marry; though we should have done so at once had he
got that appointment. You plotted well, Major Glyn
and your plans turned out as you intended. I congratu-
late you on your success! Will I forgive you, do you
ask ? I eople do not forgive cads-they despise them too
much for so high a thing as forgiveness to be possible
But I will tolerate you-that is all you can expect. As
your wife and mistress of your house, I will look well to
the ways of your household, and will entertain your
guests : but I will never speak another word more than is
necessary to you as long as I live. I have only one life
and you have spoilt it-and I might have been so happ^
If It hadn t been for you. Oh ! George, how could you-
now could you ? "
And then poor Connie buried her face in her hands
and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Major Glyn stood looking at his wife for a moment
as if stupeiied; and then-feeling that he had no right
to comfort her, though he would have given his life to
be able to do so-he stumbled out of the room, blinded
by an agony of remorse, and not caring whither he went
From that time George Glyn's punishment began,'
and sometimes he felt it was greater than he could bear
Constance was always polite to him— always indiflfe-ent
Never again was she betrayed into saying an angry word
to her husband; but though she no longer chastised him
with the lash of her tongue, her silent scorn stung him
like a scorpion. Gladly would he have exchanged her
coldness for some fiercer feeling: but it was too late
Constance also was unhappy, though not quite as miser-
able as she fancied she was. She was still smarting from
the discovery that she had missed her ideal happines..
24S
Her Heart's Desire
Lm
only by a neck ; but her ii^art was not smashed up to the
extent that she believed: partly because Mrs. Glyn's
heart wr-s not nearly as brittle as she supposed, and partly
because a fat sorrow is always more endurable than a
lean one, especially to a pleasure-loving nature such as
hers. In time Constance began again to derive a chast-
ened pleasure from her goods and her chattels and the
strangers within her gates; and the house-parties at
Handilands were once more delightful to every one but
the host ; toward him Constance was as adamant. She
was perfectly conscious of his abject devotion to her —
of his agonizing remorse for what he had done ; but she
relented not one whit. Constance felt that her husband
had slain her better self— or, rai-her, that the better self
which a happy marriage would have called into being,
was now doomed by him never to see the sun. And she
mourned this might-have-been self accordingly; not
knowing — in her foolishness and ignorance — that virtues
which are slain by adverse circumstances are growths too
feeble to be called virtues at all ; and that people who fail
to make the best of themselves because of the disappoint-
ments and disillusions which darken their lot, would fail
equally though fortune smiled on them, and legions of
good fairies fought on their side. Circumstances can not
really mar a man's character, although they may spoil
his life. Bui Constance Glyn had not learnt this. Every
time she heard of Sydney Thome's successes in the liter-
ary world (and Sydney had written several popular
novels by this time), she hardened her heart still further
against her husband : and consequently her husband had
a bad time of it.
" What a good woman I might have been," she said
346
Her Heart's Desire
to herself, "if only I could have chosen my own lot I
With Sydney to help me, my better, higher nature would
have developed ; for it is love, and love only, that teaches
a woman to be unselfish and true and good. Now I
shall grow into a hard, shallow, worldly woman, unloving
and unloved. I am handicapped heavily in the race of
life. Surely I am not to blame if I never now realize that
ideal which, in other circumstances, would have been
possible to me. Everything is in a horrid jumble, and
the world is all awry. I must make the best of a bad bar-
gain ; but Providence has made my lot too hard for r-e."
CHAPTER 11
It came to pass one spring— about five years after
Constance's marria —that Major Glyn went yachting
in the Mediterranea He had not been very strong all
winter, but the doctor assured him that a cruise in the
sunny south would set him up completely; so to the
sunny south he went. He meekly suggested to his wife
how delightful he should find it if she accompanied him ■
but Mrs. Glyn nipped this daring suggestion in the bud,'
and definitely decided to dwell among her own people
while her husband was seeking health on distant shores;
and the Major had not the spirit to press the matter
But just before he started he screwed his courage to the
sticking-point, and ventured to mention once again to
his wife the tabooed subject of their quarrel.
" I say, Connie," he began shyly ; " one never knows
what may turn up on these voyages, and I do wish you'd
247
Her Heart's Desire
'■'■
forgive me before I go. I've never ceased to be sorry for
what I did, and I think you might make it up now.
Heaven knows my punishment has been hard enough ;
and even a criminal is pardoned when he has served his
time."
" I never know what forgiveness means," repUed Con-
stance coldly. " If you ask me whether I am still so
bitter against you that I have any wish to injure you as
you injured me, I tell you, no — a thousand times no. I
have no intention of punishing you — I have long ceased
to care whether you are punished or not. If you were
tortured, it would not help me one atom. You do me
an injustice, George, when you think me so vindictive.
But if by forgiveness you mean do I love and respect you
as I ihould have loved and respected you had you never
done this thing, again I say, no. How can I? What
once we know we always know ; and now as long as I live
I shall know how cruelly and meanly you once behaved
to me."
" How hard you are ! " groaned Major Glyn, bowing
his head on his arm.
" But, George," continued Constance more kindly,
" I should like you to know that I have not been alto-
gether blinded by my anger against you; I have seen
how good you have been to me in other ways, and I have
not been ungrateful. When first you told me what you
had done, I thought I could never be happy any more;
but after a time I forgot how much I had cared for Syd-
ney, and, owing to your unceasing kindness, I became
contented in a blind kind of way. I am contented now.
You killed the Constance who used to be so gloriously
happy and so utterly miserable in the old days ; and the
24R
l^m a9§M
Her Heart's Desire
Constance who took her place is neither happy nor mis-
erable. She does not love you or anybody else ; but she
IS quite satisfied with her position as your wife, and she
IS wishful that you may forget as nearly as she has done
the old. unhappy, far-oflf things ' which made you and
her so wretched once upon a time."
And with that scanty comfort George Glyn had to be
content. Nevertheless this conversation brought the two
nearer together than they had been before; and during
Georges cruise in the Mediterranean he and Constance
wrote longer and nicer letters to each other than they had
written since their quarrel.
When Major Glyn had been absent for about a month
he wrote to tell his wife how he had found his old enemy
Sydney Thome, lying sick of a f< /er in a dirty little for-
eign town, and how he had removed the invalid to his
own yacht and was nursing 'lim himself. On hearing
this, Mrs. Glyn admired her husband more than she had
thought It possible that she could ever admire anybody
again. Then there came accounts of how well the sick
man was going on now that he was properly looked after ;
then for a little time there came no accounts at all ; and
then there arrived a note from Sydney Thome himself,
saying that Major Glyn had caught the fever, but that
everything was being done for him that was possible, and
begging Mrs. Glyn not to worry herself. Mrs. Glyn fol-
lowed Sydney's advice— she was not given to worrying
herself about anything, especially about her husband;
but gradually the reports of Major Glyn's health grew
more and more serious ; and finally, one bright day, when
the spring had almost grown up into summer, there came
a preparatory telegram, followed by a sorrowful letter
249
I-
Her Heart's Desire
from Sydney, telling how G rge Glyn had quietly
passed away, " babbling o' green fields " and calling
upon Connie to the very last
Constance Glyn mourned for her husband with a sor-
row that was by no means hopeless. She patted herself
upon the back for having spoken to him kindly before
his departure, and written to him still more kindly after- "
ward ; and when she found that he had left her sole mis-
tress of his large estate and handsome fortune, she felt
still more glad that she had thanked him for his goodness
to her before he went away. And so George Glyn's time
on earth was ended, and the place which had known him
knew him no more.
Eighteen months after the Major's death, Sydney
Thome and Constance Glyn were sitting together at
Handilands in the garden. Constance had put ofiE her
weeds and was making ready to put on a new woman,
viz. Mrs. Sydney Thome ; for she and her old lover had
at last found all the obstacles to their union swept away,
and felt that for them— as for the folk in the fairy tales-^
there was to be a marrying and a living happy ever after-
ward. They were both very radiant, and could hardlv
realize the fact that, after all the long years of hope ap-
parently dead, the desire of their hearts had come at last
to be a tree of life growing in the midst of an earthly
paradise. The hard look had vanished from Constance's
face and the bitter one from Sydney's, and they were now
like a pair of happy children.
Mrs. Glyn had begun to tell Sydney how her hus-
band had come between them in the matter of the Chief
Constableship; but Sydney had stopped her recital with
the information that George had already told him the
250
Her Heart's Desire
whole stoty. and that he never wished it mentioned again
in his presence as long as he lived.
^ And did you forgive him ? " a^ked Constance in sur-
«n, ' °' V "T ^ '''''• ^ '^"^y ^ ^'»°«W have done the
same m his place, poor fellow! "
" Oh I no, you wouldn't," cried Constance. " You
are incapable of doing anything mean or cowardly "
Dont, darling!" said Sydney, wincing at her
thoughtless words. "I can not bear to hear you say
anything showing a shadow of disloyalty to poor
George's memory." *^
«„ A^f'^ y°"?-not even when it proves how much
tonder I am of you ? How funny ! "
Q n°^- 1.°".''' F°»"'«'" cried Sydney, turning away.
L ?r" i 1'''" '•" '''""^'= ^"^ P^^"'^«d 'hat U vexed
him, though how and why it vexed him she hadn't the
ghost of an idea.
" If Syd had married anybody before me," thought
cZTri ^ "'u"'^ '"'' *° •'^^ him say he hadn't
t^^ p r °"' *"'= " *°"''' *"= 'he greatest comfort
to me. But men are so queer."
Although Mrs. Glyn failed to understand men's
peculant.es, she knew enough of them to see that
rt^ was now high time to change the subject, so she
" Syd are you sure that you like me well enough to
do anything I wanted?" *
" Yes, Connie, anything."
" Would you go to the length of altering the shape of
your collars? ^
Sydney laughed. "Certainly. But what is wrong
'7 351
Her Heart'e Desire
with my collars that makes you think a change therein so
adriaaUe?"
" Nothing is wrong with your collars — I only used
the word collars as a modem instance. The thing about
you that really distresses mc is your necktie."
"What on earth is the matter with it?" inquired
the devoted swain, vainly endeavouring — by means of a
violent squint — to catch a glimpse of the offending gar-
ment.
" It is red," replied Connie, with decision ; " and I
loathe red ties."
" 1 am so sorry, sweetheart ; I will straightway dis-
possess myself of the red rag and destroy it, so as not
to offend my lady's taste again. But why didn't you
mention this before ? "
" I didn't like to— I couldn't tell how you'd take it
I should be simply furious, you see, if you found fault
with anything I wore."
" Well, I am not in the least furious ; I only regret
that for so long a time I have resembled ' young Lau-
rence ' in the poem when he wore —
" ' That acroH hla throat
Which. you had hardly cared to sec'
What colours would you care to see for the future across
my throat ? Say the word, and the colour shall be worn,
even though it be one that turns the interesting pallor of
my complexion to a green and yellow melancholy."
" My favourite ties are navy-blue, or navy-blue
spotted white."
" All right — so be it ; henceforth I will appear before
men clad in the guise my lady loves, so that she may
252
v:%al-
Her Heart's Desire
thtttby her true-love know from another one. In proof
alapt'tirU't^'"" ''"' '' """" ""^ "*'"• ^ -» (^o
"' Set the jewel-print of jrour feet
In neckties blue ai ) riiii ijm '
Could man do more ? "
" That is very nice of you."
" No nicer than setting the jewel-print, &c.. in neck-
ties m red as your mouth. The two compliments are
" Oh I no, they are not. My eyes are much more im-
portant than my mouth, you see, because it is two to one
7-a good working majority-and the wishes of the ma-
jority ought always to be paramount."
"Then am I to believe that which your eyes sav
wlVf mni-- '■'^'' ^°" ""^^ '- -^ '"--'- 'y
love' ?J" '^' '*'' **"' '*'"' ""'"^ '° y°"' """"^'y *•"»' I
Whereupon Sydney promptly bestowed upon the
mmonty member sundry tokens of his appreciation of
the ser ments of the good working majority, and the
majoruy appeared to be eminently satisfied
Shortly after this Sydney Thome and Constance Glyn
were married, and went abroad for a month's trip. Con-
stance had a very happy time at first, and found her hus-
band a most delightful companion. She thought she
should never grow tired of hearing him talk, and of read-
ing his books, and of looking over his manuscripts ; but
-contrary to her expectations-she did grow tired of
all these things; and was moreover increasingly con-
«S3
mm^^rn^^^^ j^ jh^'^jA "...
Her Heart's Desire
•cious of being menully always on tip-toe when she was
with Sydney, which consciousness became very fa-
tiguing.
Then they spent two months in London, where Con-
stance was duly introduced to all Sydney's literar>
friends. It had been the dream of Connie's life to m> .t
people who, as she said, " did things " ; but in her drenii
the people who " did things " were somehow always : i-
ferior to herself, and oflFered freely the savour of their
talents as sweet incense on her shrine. Now — when her
dream was realized — the clever people turned out to be
cleverer than she, which Constance felt was an intolerable
impertinence on their part ; and it never seemed to oc-
cur to them to raise a shrine to Mrs. Thome at all— much
less to oflfer up incense on the same. Connie had fully
appreciated the fact that poor George had been known
in his circle as " Mrs. Glyn's husband "; but she felt less
pleasure now that the positions were reversed, and she
was tolerated in society as "Sydney Thome's wife."
True, this circle was more brilliant than the former one :
but Mrs. Thome considered that serving in desirable
places was poor fun compared with ruling even in very
inferior ones — an opinion not without a precedent.
Another surprising thing was that the good and won-
derful Constance, who was to have been brought into
existence by the genial atmosphere of a heart's desire at-
tained, never put in an appearance at all. Connie was
just as selfish and discontented (she called it being just
as lonely and as much misunderstood) under Sydney's
regime as under George's. She put it down to the fact
that Sydney was not so sympathetic and appreciative as
she had imagined : it never occurred to her that the fault
254
Her Heart's Desire
ay-as It had la.n all along-not in tlic man beside her,
but in the woman inside her. It is diffieull for more peo-
ple than Constance to understand that the cure for their
fauhs must be inwardly applied: they are so prone to
ake refuge m remedies " for outward application only."
After the Thornes left town they paid a round of
visits to country houses, which Sydney found somewhat
o. a bore but which Constance infinitely preferred
o the battle of wits with the lions of London; for
the easy and unintellectual life of the ordina. v country
house was the atmosphere in which she had hitherto lived
and moved and had her being. Finally the pair brought
heir wanderings to a close, and settled at Handilands for
the winter ; where Sydney intended to write a new book,
and where Constance meant to return to that trivial
round of httle social pleasures and duties, which she afore-
time considered irksome in the extreme, but for which of
late she had begun to feel homesick. Mrs. Thome en-
joyed her return to the beaten paths amazingly; but her
husband soon grew weary of them, and suggested either
a run up to London or an importation of his friends to
relieve the tedium. Constance decided in favour of the
latter alternative (she hated London in the winter)- so
a house-party of Sydney's special literary cronies was
bidden to Handilands. Constance resented the fact that
her husband was not a sportsman, as she had been
brought up in the faith that sport is the first duty of man
" It is such a pity you can't kill anything," she com-
plained ; " you'd never find the country dull if you did."
" Well, I can't, you see— I can't even kill time— so its
dulness does somewhat depress me," was the reply.
Therefore Mrs. Thome felt it her duty to rill her
S55
Her Heart's Desire
U
house with the people whom she detested and Sydney
loved; and she did it with the best grace she could
muster.
" By the by, Con," said Sydney the day before the
arrival of the visitors, " you needn't mind about always
dressing for dinner while these people are here. Old
Sandford (the chap who writes those clever novels, don't
you know?) hates the bother of rigging himself out in
evening dress every night ; so I'll tell him he can put on a
smoking-jacket and it won't matter."
" Not mind about dressing for dinner?" said Con-
stance in amazement. " I don't know what you mean."
" I only mean that such a literary swell as Sandford
can't be bothered with a lot of silly little conventionalities.
It is a great honour that he has consented to visit us, I
can tell you ; so we will make it Liberty Hall to suit him.
Of course we can all be neat and tidy, but the men
can dine in their smoking-coats, and the women can
wear tea-gowns instead of all their low dresses and dia-
monds and things. Don't you see ? "
" No, I don't see. We must dress for dinner."
"On what compulsion must we? — ^tell me that,"
quoted Sydney.
" The servants will think it so queer if we don't."
" Who cares for the servants or what they think ? It
is no business of theirs."
"They will think it so awfully queer, and will tell
about it to other servants, and then people will talk."
" What on earth does it matter whether people talk
or not ? Darling, you are foolish."
" No, I'm not : it is you who are foolish, Sydney-
foolish and impracticable."
256
.f .;i:.. Mmmmmm^mm
Her Heart's Desire
" Besides, it is quite possible that Sandford may pre-
fer to dme quite early-about five or six o'clock-so that
he may work all evening at his coming book: and I
know Mrs. Morgan, the poetess, would infinitely rather
have a high tea ' sometimes than that long, dv^ary func-
tion you call dinner. A ' high tea ' is her favourite meal,
bhe told me once that indulging in a ' high tea ' was like
fallmg m love with a man who had no money : it was an
open defiance of all society's traditions, and would prob-
ably disagree with you afterward-but all the same it was
dehcious at the time. Therefore let us give Mrs. Mor-
gan her heart's desire now and then: and in that case
no one could expect us to don all our war-paint."
"Mr. Sandford can't dine early here, Sydney: it
would be too queer, and I'm sure the servants and the
neighbours would make unpleasant remarks upon it.
And I wouldn't have such a vulgar thing as a * high tea '
m my house to please a hundred Mrs. Morgans."
"Of course you are mistress in your own house, Con-
nie ; but It IS silly to be influenced so completely by what
the neighbours and the servants may say. Surely the
opinion of two of the most gifted writers of the day, such
as Mr. Sandford and Mrs. Morgan, is of as much impor-
tance as the opinion of your footman and of Mrs Mor-
timer, the vicar's wife ; at least I should have thought so
Moreover, vulgarity is not a matter of lunches and din-
ners and teas, but of thoughts and words and works I
hate vulgarity as much as you do, Connie; but I hate
conventionality almost more: in fact I am not sure that
conventionality isn't a form of vulgarity. Of course you
must do as you like about the time and the manner of
meals m your own house : it is a question in which I have
a57
AJ.i^fc
-wm
Her Heart's Desire
no right to interfere. But one wish I must express,
which is that on the night of the dinner-party Sandford
shall take you in to dinner, and not that ass. Sir Vincent
Dashwood."
" That is quite impossible, Sydney."
" Why impossible, if I wish it ? "
" Because Sir Vincent is a baronet and Mr. Sand-
ford is only a "
" Genius of the highest rank, and one of the most
distinguished men of the age : and therefore I insist that
at my table he shall take precedence of the son of a suc-
cessful brewer."
" You are very silly and tiresome, Sydney."
" Am I ? I am sorry, dear. But I will hear reason,
although I am only that unreasonable being, a man.
You shall have your own way about the times and sea-
sons of the meals — you shall eat and drink and make
merry at the most orthodox hours to which the clock
can point — if you will in return do honour to Sandford
at the expense of Dashwood."
" Very well," grumbled Constance ; " of course I
shall have to give in: but you are extremely ignorant
and stupid all the 'same."
" Well, darling, we needn't quarrel about it ; though
I own it is incomprehensible to me how a clever and
cultured woman like yourself can be in bondage to such
trifling considerations as what the servants and neigh-
bours will say. If I do what I think to be right, I am
profoundly indifferent to any remark to which my con-
duct may give rise ; and I fail to comprehend why you do
not feel as I do. But, tike the lady in the poem, though
' I can not understand, I love.' "
238
Her Heart's Desire
tine to th ^""^ ^°"'*'"" ''°°^ '°°'''"? f°' »« long
thought, and w..h a puzzled ircvn upon her pretty fore-
" I believe I liked poor George best after all," she
sa.dto herself with a disappointed sigh. " But oh' what
aitterent. Sydney is so tiresome and inconsiderate that
U .s impossible to be amiable with him ; ' ,:t poor (£oS=
was so patient and thoughtful and well-bred Zt hemafe
every one about him good-tempered. It is g^d b"ee J
■ng. and good-breeding only, that makes th^ wheels of
^ImTndTf^ T'™ ^~'^^ ^'^ "-"^ I --tay
calm and cool and pleasant; but now I shall grow into
an impatient, irritable, old hag. These highlyTelS
tual, conversational people drive me neariy^ofT my head
and bring out the worst side of me. They despisTme for
am^'ft' "".' ' "''"''' '''^'" *- not betg I^rt I
am heavily handicapped in the race of life. Surely I am
ha e betTnde ''"' "°* " '^^' ^"'' -'=">'^ « ' '^-'^
tiresome to fS ' """Iff'^ circumstances: but it is
^^tr^rdtr^e?------^^^^^^^^^^
>»9
Her Heart's Desire
EPILOGUE
An angel (of those that excel in strength)
Looked down from above on the breadth and length
Of the ways of men; and he sadly sighed,
" A failure indeed was the course I tried.
Not glorious summers nor cloudless morns
Can draw figfs from thistles or grapes from thorns:
'Tis not talents withheld from his lifetime's plan.
But the thoughts of the heart that defile a man.
The mean and the worthless would prove the same
Under blessing or ban: yet they lay the blame
On their lowly positions or lack of parts.
And not where 'tis due, on their evil hearts."
i.i
^s
POOR LADY LEIGH
A
•ill
1
I .
■
9
ift
m
'£%^
tt>f
POOR LADY LEIGH
patiently. "It "^ 'T ."'^, '"°""=''' °^- B^°wn, im-
" T L ** ndiculous 1 "
I nave ceased to wonder at it '■ t
now two years since ^. ^ '^'^ »* "• I «plied. " It is
bride homeTnd not n T""" '''°"^'" ''« American
old serva'nu if L^h ^oun 7? T °", "" ^"^ ''^
existence, and his tLfTiu ^ '^ ''^""'^ ^''gotten her
never „,e;tsl~herr"^ ""'"^^ °' "«''■ '^ °-
doctoi! " ""^^ "''-■"ous!" repeated the in,te young
" Perhaps she is an invalid," I suggested
she is well." 'aays^'P. i>.r Uurence always says
"Not Thi^H""!"""'^ ""■"'»' *en."
"""• '^' -^^P'-n^d Dick confidentially.
iiM^^f^^^ Aj:
Poor Lady Leigh
" that Leigh happened to be in the club to-day, and a
miniature fell out of his pocket and rolled to where I
was sitting. In returning it to him I made some remark
about its not being injured by the fall, and he said he
was glad of it, as it was a portrait of his wife, painted not
long before her marriage. He is such a proud, reserved
beggar that one daren't ask him any questions."
"What was the portrait like?" I asked with much
mterest.
" Like the loveliest face you ever saw in your life— a
face to dream of— an angel's facel" exclaimed Dick
rapturously.
"Dark or fair?"
" Golden hair and a fair complexion," answered my
brother, " and the most glorious eyes you can imagine,
with dark brows and lashes. You never saw anything
so exquisite. It is a thundering shame, I say, for a man •
to hav< such a beautiful wife as that and to shut her up
out of every one's sight 1 "
And then Dick went on his rounds, banging the door
after him in futile rage against the master of Leigh Court.
Dick hau bought a practice in the quaint little town
of Linley. As he was a bachelor, I had come to keep
house for him, and we had been very happy Cjgether for
over three years. After the noise and bustle of a large
family, I enjoyed the repose and importance of being the
mistress of Dick's house, and if ever I felt dull I could
always go home for a few days to be cheered up again.
Although Linley was a sleepy old town, there was a fair
amount of quiet visiting going on, which Dick and I
found very pleasant. The only bijr place in the neigh-
bourhood was Leigh Court, a handsome bui rather deso-
a64
* ^x^^w^Wla
^r*4i
Poor Lady Leigh
?om n? '"r""^''» by a fine estate, about five miles
too much of a rover ever to settle down in the dull
country home he had inherited from his fathe Then
he news came that Sir Laurence was going to be mar-
w e'rumrrfoT ^'"-- "-"'y = an'd aft^er that the^e
rival. All Lmley was agog to see the bride when at last
she came home to Leigh Court, but, .trang^ to saj no
one from outside was ever permitted to set% s on^'her
Th was a nme days' wonder at the time, but after a
while people grew tired of talking about the Lei^hs anH
STr^d' tT i'Tr-' '°''" Uship^tVa;.
peared at all, and Sir Uurence received any overture,
from h.s neighbours ,o coldly that such ovenuTs were
not long contmued. The baronet was civil to every one
m h« stately way, but no one had been admit^d to
Sh couTrn'r '"?"''''' *"" "'^ -"'" s
but I did not pay much attention to him, he was so dul
and heavy looking, I thought; and though mrimeS
m Lady Leigh was revived by Dick's description "f her
beamy, the little duties and pleasures of m'y busy He
PrraiTaJsi"!' °' "' "r^"'^ *^^'"- ^ '-'' '" '^
lIu7/ nil -f ^"«"« Leigh, fifth baronet, married
Laura, only daughter of Ralph Vanden, Esq. of Vir-
t'hol^ht I sh^Mr ^''' '""' '^'"'y info^atr "l
thought I should have to be content. But subsequent
events proved otherwise. ^uusequent
26s
I'il!
Poor Lady Leigh
One day it happened that 1 went with Dick on hit
rounds for the sake of the drive, and as we approached
Leigh Court we met a man on horseback riding as hard
as he could. He pulled up on meeting us, and said :
" If you please, Dr. Brown, I was coming to fetch
you. Sir Laurence Leigh has had an accident, and is
badly hurt."
We at once hurried on to the Court, the man riding
beside us; and on our way we learned from him that Sir
Laurence had been thrown in his own park by a new
horse he was trying for the first time, and had been car-
ried home unconscious. On reaching the house we
found everything in confusion, the devoted old servants
being completely upset by this accident to their master.
As Dick was hurrying to Sir Laurence's room he said
to me:
" You had better go to Lady Leigh, Margaret, and
find out if you can do anything for her. They have not
let her see her husband yet, I hear, and I am sure sh-
needs a friend now."
And then he went to his patient and left me alone.
The fine old house had a very desolate appearance.
The Leighs only kept a few faithful old servants, and
these were all crowding round their master, trying to
revive him from his unconscious condition, so I had to
find my own way to her ladyship's apartments. Luckily
the first passage I tried was the right one, and took me
into a dainty little ante-chamber leading to a larger and
even more elegant room beyond. The rest of the house,
as I said, had a bare and deserted appearance, but there
was no trace of anything of that kind here. I had never
seen such an exquisitely furnished room in my life be-
2fi6
Poor Lady Leigh
fore; no expense had been spared to increase its luxury
and beauty, and it was made still lovelier by the tare hot-
house flowers which filled every available space. It was
a room fit (or a queen. All this I took in at a glance, and
then my attention was absorbed by the sole occupant of
this fairy chamber. A tall and very graceful woman was
standmg with her back toward me; her figure was per-
fect and the pose of her small head most queenly, while
he luxunant hair coiled round and round that dainty
little head was of a beautiful golden colour
" How lovely 1 " was my mental ejaculation; then I
said aloud :
"Lady Leigh I"
Immediately the golden head was turned round, and
I saw, oh, horror I the most awful (ace it has ever been
my ot to behold-a dreadful, distorted, hideous face,
hardly human m its deformity. There seemed no shape
in It, no features; and the contrast between this terrible
visage and the lovely, giriish form beneath it was too
ghastly for description. At first I felt that I must scream,
but by a strong effort I controlled myself, and I heard a
sweet voice saying pleadingly :
"What is the matter? I do not know your voice.
1 ell me, please, who you are ? "
And, as Lady Leigh approached me with groping,
outstretched hands, I saw that she was blind.
I at once explained my presence to the poor lady, and
told her of her husband's accident-of which she had
not yet heard-making as light of it as I could. She was
not as much alarmed as I expected, and never expressed
a wish to go to Sir Laurence. She seemed to be one
of those selfish, easy-going people who never trouble
'• 267
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Poor Lady Leigh
Hi!
IHrni'l^lT' *"^''°''^ '"•^"P' themselves, and she soon
turned the conversation from her husband to herself
Leeo ™.t f " "°*'" '^' ^°"°' ""^^^ I '"*d in vain to
keep out of my voice whenever I looked at that awful
" I am so glad that you have come," she said. " It is
so dreadfully dull here, and Laurence never will let me
have any one to see me. Isn't it cruel of him? Here
am I_only twenty-two-shut up in this prison, with
Emma.-'" '^'"' *° *""* "^ ^"'^'""^ '""^ ^'' °''' """«'
"But do you want to have people to see you?" I
asked m wonder, thinking that if I had a face like that
I wou^d h.de myself for ever from human gaze.
Of course I do," answered her ladyship. " i had
such a gay hfe at home in Virginia that I feel the change
all the more It is stupid of Laurence, I think, to be such
a recluse! Of course he is very good to me, and spends
mos of his time m reading to me and trying to make
tne forget my blindness; but I'd rather he would go
out more and let me have a little change of society "
^^ Do you ever go out ? " I asked.
*• ui °"'/ '" ^^^ garden," answered Lady Leigh pet-
tishly : Laurence takes me out walking every day when
It IS fine, but that is as dull as staying in. It is bad
enough to be blind, without making matters worse by
becoming a hermit into the bargain."
Here we were interrupted by the old nurse, who came
to report to Lady Leigh my brother's opinion of Sir Lau-
rence. Dick had informed her of my presence, so she
showed no surprise at finding me there, but I detected
268
Poor Lady Leigh
a shade of annoyance under her respectful manner. She
ne^rtdTV n' '^ ''"'""'-■^' "^ '^'^«--'' -----
ness and that Dr. Brown said, with perfect quiet and
The d TT:, '" "°"" •'^ ^" "^'" ■" » --k or two
The docto, had sent his trap back to Linley for some
med.cme, and would remain with Sir Lauren'ce until Ttl
in lI!^y°TT.T^ "^'"^ "'^' Miss Brown," chimed
L i ^ p"^ ' "" ^°" "'" ''"^^ ''='<=k with your
brother. Brmg us some tea, Emma, at once "
order."'' '''' "''' "'°"'''" '"''^'^'^'^ *° '""^' ''^■" '"istress's
tell wM*" K ""t"?', ^""^ "'''' "<= ^'t ''"i'l* her and
Snd how "' ^'"> '"" "'^^' t''^ P^°P'^ «"e 'ike.
aJive pllr ""'"^^ *° ^""'^ °"''"^" '" '"'^'' = '^""^•
" it IP^ ^k7 ^ u''** ^ ~"''' '*•= y°" ' " she said at last ;
It IS terrible to be blind ! "
" Have you always been blind?" I asked, my curi-
osity growmg stronger than my good manners ; but Lady
L«gh was always ready to talk about herself, o did not
object to my impertinence.
hjy\ "°^" '^ ^ns^^^ed. " I will tell you how it
happened. People said that I was the prettiest gW in
m S' "l°' ^°r ' ''"' ' '°^^'^ "~^ '"^s of ad-
miration I was first engaged to a Mr. Abela, a half-
Spaniard, but threw him over when I met Lauret^ce He
was a very dark man, with a vile temper, and he vowed
last s:"nl'i r"''"- °"^ '°-'^ --'"^-it wasThe
last sunset I ever saw, so I can remember it distinctly-
Laurence and I were saying good-night to each o her
m the garden at home ; and just as Uurence was kissing
269 ^
Poor Lady Leigh
me Mr. Abcia fired at us from behind a tree. After that
I can not remember anything for weeks and weeks; but
reSr [j°J"'i^°'^^"o^^ri.ss again I found that Lau-
rence had been but slightly hurt, while T was perma-
nently bhnd. Wasn't it cruel? And I was only ntae-
teen. At first I was afi^id I had lost my beauty as well
as my s,ght. and then I wanted to die;'but w/en Lau-
rence came to see me, and told me that he thought me
1 had always thought so much of my beauty, that I felt
to me f.W.' '?" 'T" '"'■ ^"* Laurence Jas so love y
o me all the fme I was getting better, that I quite ceased
o m.ss my favourite occupation of looking at myself
m the glass. It is like poetry to hear LfurencT I
you^how charming you are. By the way. are yo!I
;; No," I truthfully answered ; " I only wish I were ! "
Never mmd," sa.d Lady Leigh soothingly ; " heaps
of n.ce people aren't at all pretty; and there is'onecom-
your good looks. Ever since I was a tiny child I havf
been m constant terror of growing plain. Ugly girls h^ve
a homd tm,e. I think. I had far rather have^ost m^
s.ght than my beauty; and Laurence says he loves mv
face better now than he did when he first saw m" I t^e
reignmg beauty of Virginia."
My heart was filled with a passion of pity for the ixjor
hadeous unconscious creature, and I said g'eSy "^ '
With such a devoted husband as Sir Laurence
you were old and ugly.
"Not he," laughed her ladyship derisively; "men
270
Poor Lady Leigh
He^rrt tn:ff." -' ^- P'^i". and Laurence
spo:eitrt?^'^;^rj.r-H ' r ---
pathetic deception he had p actisej Z h""^^' °' ""=
w^^Happi„ess .ade .e SS X t™ tttliS
"'™?i;;:-;:i:^^-^;;,^^^2;;;' he.de.
•>e haH Pit, anTrSiS;' d^tTthS^^ ^°"'^
Altogether over our tea tebL- -"'' '' "=
Lady Leigh told n,e furtherh^'™*' "J"'*^ '"^"^ly ; and
sufficiently recovered frSer.tr Si^^^r ''" "^^
"ed her and brought h^r k ' Laurence mar-
home. Where the on^y drlbS £T *° ""^ ^"^"^^
strict seclusion in which h^tru. ^^P'"'"' "as the
Why. I now .ne': X^l^^^' ^'^^^ kept her.
" oL "'h^f Tl?^ ^'- Abela ? " I asked,
on ou??ives .' '"""" '""''"'''"^'y ««- his attempt
andlt rn~So" "" '° ^° """^ ^'^' ^'-^ •
I parted from UdJTe^h ' ''^"" """ *° ^^ "er.
Cou5. 'S ^rilnSf" ""■ ""^ '"'''"'■^''*^ °f Leigh
«---;sxrthT;r^^r£
'7« '
jfij
Poor Lady Leigh
had once seen his wife, Sir Uurence did not object to our
being ith her as much as we lilced— indeed was only
too graceful for our company; and as great a friendship
sprang up between him and Dick as between Uura and
me. He never mentioned his wife's disfigurement to me
but once.
" I always feel it was my fault," he said ; " if it had not
been for me that scoundrel would never fave shot her
and It was a pure fluke that I wasn't the victim instead
of poor Laura."
I felt that this was a somewhat strained idea, but for-
bore to throw the blame where it was really due. on to
my lady s thoughtless vanity in playing with two lovers
at a time.
"I always wonder how she lived through it," con-
tinued Sir Uurence, witl: a break in his voice : " i* was
only her superb physique that kept her alive. H^r poor
face was actually almost all shot away, and for weeks
and weeks the doctors said recovery was impossible. I
am glad that she was blinded; it would have killed her
to see herself as you see her now ; and I vowed that, if I
could prevent it, she should never know how she was
altered, my sweet darling!"
lihJ=.f"* .''°/''?,»i"'' '' ""^ "S^"' *° t^" her a de-
hberate falsehood ? " I asked.
Sir Laurence was silent for a moment; then—
I never lied to her," he said slowly ; " I told her that
to me she was still the fairest woman in the world-and
so she was and so she ever will be. The beauty love has
once seen, love sees always, no matter what changes time
and chance may bring. As those we love are always
young to us, so they are always beautiful. Age and
♦ 273
Poor Lady Leigh
mcnt which is sTapMr^; t ' '"*"• '^' ''*'«^'^'<=-
rence'ilsrelSr '"'" ^•" ''~^<' ^^ La-
saw again sth£;"f 3 ^P,^];:^; -'husiasm; "I „ever
when first we met aS," J hUfof rhaf .^'^ '"^""^
my society ; she and her I, fcK T f ** P'**'"""' fr"™
many a cheerful even^L^ u'' '""^ ^''^ ^-x* ^ «!•««
of him the mte d^^ " vf 'T"""- '^''' "'°''= "« '''^w
SirUurenTeLeth R-'^ '""'''"'''^''»''^«P««
derful; he?s was ffriv?' f f" *° '"" ^"^ ^"^ >«'"-
finite patience wL an her°"t''''"°^ ""'"''=' ''"* '"^ '""
r became used to tr J? « ""^ ""^ ^"""^^ "«ver failed.
friends as 4 wl „1;'fr''Tr '" *'""=• ''"*• '"«'"«'«=
her. I never S its. T T' ''"^^'"^'^ '"
her terrible unsightifness and sh. ^^f '°° ""''' ^'°'"
373
Poor Lady Leigh
caught a chill, from which her system— accustomed to
the warm climate of Virginia, and weakened by the tre-
mendous shock it had susuined when she was shot-
was unable to recover. To the last she was shallow and
exactmg; to the last her husband's devotion to her never
failed; and when she had been laid to rest in the quiet
churchyard, and we had returned without her to the
empty house. Sir Laurence once more showed me the ex-
quisite miniature, saying in a trembling voice:
" It is thus that I always think of her. Margaret, will
you try -"nd do the same ? "
" I will try," I answered.
" It seems like sacrilege now to remember that she
was not always as fair as this; but, thank heaven, she
never knew it, my beautiful darling! "
And so the place where I had met and loved poor
Laura knew her no more. Her husband went abroad
again after her death, and Leigh Court was once more
shut up and deserted.
It is now ten years since Laura died, and these years
have brought many changes to us all.
A new Lady Leigh reigns at Leigh Court in Laura's
stead, and the stately old house now rings with the music
of children's voices and the patter of tiny feet; while Sir
Laurence has lost the sad look he used to wear, and
seems almost as light-hearted as his sturdy little sons.
A wife has also come to reign in Dick's little home,
and has ousted me from the place I loved so well in the
dear old days. Dick looks happier than he ever did
rnder my benignant rule, and I have learned not to fed
jealous.
And M for myself
»74
"^•fc.
Poor Lady Leigh
P-ret," while good old Emr r'=^*h°"'in?. " Mar-
and saying: "" '* '"'ocking at my door
"I think Sir Laurence is calling you, my lady."
i^i
LADY MARION'S CURSE
II
LADY MARION'S CURSE
And Z"^V' m'"°'^ °' ^""y ^'"°"'* "=""«• Helena?
Lelar?Ca°y " ^''"' "^^'^ ^°" ""'' "^'^ " '"^'O
oveHXr;."""""- ^'" ""=• •"" "^•" -"^^ -"^
The girl shuddered. " Don't laugh. Leonard; Lady
Manon might hear you." ^
^h^^^u'^"^^ ^i''' ''°* '^" ' d'«K^eeable old woman,
who has been comfortably deceased for a couple of cen-
turies, be caught listening at doors like a latter-day maid-
of-all-work? But tell me the story."
hundred years ago, was Udy Marion Garstang. widow
of Sir Cuthbert. She had one child. Althea, heiress to
he Garstang property ; and Althea wanted to marry her
kinsman Lionel Carey. But Lady Marion hated the
Careys, because Sir Richard Carey, Lionel's father, had
Jilted her in the days of her youth, before she met Cuth-
bert Garstang. So she swore that the Garstang estates
should never go to a Carey ; and when Althea persisted
in the match, she brought enchantments to bear upon
her daughter. Poor Althea, by day a beautiful girl, was
279
■T m
Lady Marion's Curse
turned at night into a large white bear. The consequence
was she became so miserable that finally she died of a
broken heart."
" And what happened to Lady Marion ? "
" She was burnt as a wit-h, but not before she had
laid a curse upon any Garstang who should ever wish
to marry a Carey, and so join the two estates; and she
swore a terrible oath that she would prevent such a mar-
riage, even though she had been dead for centuries. At
her death the Garstang property went to a brother of Sir
Cuthbert's, and from that day to this no Garstang has
ever wanted to marry a Carey till you and I fell in love
with each other."
" But was there no way whereby Lionel Carey could
have defied her ladyship's enchantments?"
" If her lover had sprinkled some water from the holy
well in Garstang Glen over the white bear, Althea would
have regained her natural shape, and her mother's en-
chantments would have been thenceforward poweriess to
touch her. But this could only be done by a lover who
loved her for herself, and not for the sake of her wealth ;
and Lionel Carey only cared for the lands, and not for
the lady of Garstang."
" Poor little Althea I She wasn't the first woman, or
the last, whose life has been spoiled because her lover
loved what she had better than what she was."
" Let us talk of something else now, Leonard," and
Helena said it impatiently.
And they did talk of something else, and preferred
it, which was not to be wondered at, considering that the
loves of one's contemporaries are more interesting than
the loves of one's ancestors; and that the love of one
280
mm'
Lady Marion's Curse
particular contemporary is the most interesting thing
t^nt ""^' '"""^ "'"' •»"- anything worth
fear^Seir^ '°°" °''"=*'"' "^'^""'^ superstitious
lears, and their engagement was announced. Every one
was pleased thereat, notably Mr.. Garstang HeTena'I
widowed mother; and at first the course of th^ affat ran
w.th a most unorthodox smoothness. But after a short
hke a white bear, had been seen in the dead of nigh
wandenng along the corridors of Garstang GraT
to laugh It to scorn, but equally in vain. The servants
one after another gave notice, and the guest speedily di
which M '''\'"' P""'"^ engagf ments'elseihe .
which could not be postponed. The existence of th'j
ed^^oTr r '°"''' "°' '°"^ ""^ ""^P* f-" 'he know !
edge of Miss Garstang, and it filled her with unspeak-
able horror. At first she wanted to break off her enga't
ment because of it, but her lover held her fast
, Wi ♦!!'"' '^""«^'" •" ^'''' "" i« rather "rough on
i h°eLlf 71 ""'^ '""^* *"= ^"" *•"= — ' °' the
girl herself and her near relations when he wants to get
tWrH"''/."' °!.^' "*' ^'^'- '''^''' ancestors to tlie
third and fourth generation. Just think of rejecting a^
otherwise eligible suitor because your great-great-gfea^
gr^t-grandfather did not altogether a^ee m!^.
«emans political opinions, or because your equally
Sro"nt" " ""''"'' "' "°^^ ' "^"^"^^ °^ -
but "tJethlr^ ""'" '° '"^ ""'' '^"^'^ '' °ff' Leonard,
but the ghost never appeared till our engagement was
281
Lady Marion's Curse
settled-the first engagement between a Garstang and a
Carey for two centuries. How do you explain that ? "
Leonard shook his head. He could not explain it.
and he knew he could not; but he did not want Helena
tohfm "' "°^*'^ *'"'' mysterious apparition appeared
"And," she continued, "the Thing, whatever it in-
comes in the form of a white bear, the shape into which
accordmg to tradition^ Althea Garstang was metamor-
pnosed. How can you explain that ? "
And again explanation was beyond the power of
i-eonard Carey.
One night an awful cry broke the stillness of the
slumbering Grange-shriek after shriek of mortal terror.
The rudely awakened household rushed to the west cor-
ridor, whence the screams proceeded, and found Lilian
Garden (a fnend of Helena's) lying in a dead faint. Re-
storatives were at once applied, and the terrified giri soon
regained her senses ; but it was some time before she was
able to tell her tale coherently. When she did, it ran
as follows : —
For several nights Lilian had been awakened by a
noise m the passage outside her door, as if some laree
and heavy animal were shambling along the corridor ; but
she did not say anything about it, as she knew that He-
lena was already very unhappy about the ghost. On
this particular night Lilian awoke suddenly with a hor-
rible feeling that something was in the room; and then
she heard a peculiar shuffling sound, as if a heavy body
were crawling over the floor. Gradually this strange
sound came nearer; and then she saw, slowly creeping
toward her round the foot of the bed, the lumbering form
282
Lady Marion's Curse
of some large white animal. Nearer and nearer the
u^.u.^r°'' """^^ ""<* indescribable was her fear
when the Thmg put one of its white paws upon the bed,
and gradually drew it along toward her face. Then the
poor girl became unconscious from sheer terror- and
when she came to herself the mysterious presence was
gone. She rushed to the door in time to see the awful
creature disappear round the end of the corridor. Then
uncn„?'""V''"f f " '^"'^- '^' ^'"^ «g»in become
unconscious from fright.
Great was the excitement that thrilled through Gar-
stang Grange after Lilian Garden's unearthly adventure.
Ihe few remaining guests packed up their belongings
and fled not danng to spend another night in the
haunted house. But Leonard Carey remained.
sift thk1r'".'''f '5 "^ ^''" '^'^' "P -"y ™nd to
sift this thing to the bottom. I shall sit up all night in
the west corridor, and meet the creature' on its own
punish the perpetrator ; if it is the doing of that old witch.
Lady Manon, I will break the speU of her enchant-
" How, Leonard ? "
well" Jhh"' ^1' "'^- ^T^e-^"'^ with water from the holy
cestor ough to have done two centuries ago. Where he
ailed I shal succeed for I love the heirefs of Garstang
for herself alone, and not on accoum of her lands and
money. I should love you just the same if yl we"e
homeless and penniless, Helena ; and surely a man'sTove
.s stronger than any wicked old woman's curseT"
bo Leonard Carey kept his vigil that night.armed with
»9 383
f
Lady Marion's Curse
a flask of water from the holy well. For a long time
he thought his watch was in vain; but suddenly he saw
in the moonlight a ghastly object making its way along
the corridor. For a moment his heart stood still, brave
man though he was; the white Horror was exactly as
every one had described it With a slow, shambling gait
it came shuffling along in the moonlight, rolling heavily
from side to side, and making the dragging sound which
always heralded its approach. Only for a moment did
Leonard hesitate ; then he rushed forward with a shout,
and poured the contents of his hunting flask on the crea-
ture's head, which was just then in the shadow on one of
the heavy window muUions. The Thing uttered a
strange groan, and fell on its side, rolling as it did so
into the moonlight again ; and then, to his unspeakable
amazement, Leonard saw that the object at his feet was
none other than the unconscious white-robed form of
Helena Garstang.
By this time Mrs. Garstang and Helena's old nurse
had appeared upon the scene, roused by Leonard's war
cry ; and as they stood round the prostrate girl she slowly
opened her eyes.
" What is the matter ? " she cried. " Why am I in the
corridor? Mother, my hair is all wet, and I am lying
on the floor, and I am afraid of the ghost I "
Mrs. Garstang and the old nurse succeeded in sooth-
ing Helena and conveying her back to her room ; but as
they wt it the mother turned to the speechless Leonard,
saying, " You shall have an explanation in the morning ;
I must attend to my child now."
Early the next day Mrs. Garstang summoned
Leonard Carey to her presence.
284
' i
Lady Marion's Curse
"I have sent for you. Leonard," she said, "to ask
you to hsten to my story, and then to forgive me The
ytS."" •"""' '° "''' ""' ''^ -°"d -'^ with
^^^ Leonard silently bowed, and waited for her to pro-
"When Helena was a child." continued the lady
she contracted a bad habit of walking i„ her sleep /and'
her Lrer^ndT^' °' "'"""^ '" "" '-^ ^aturalj
fter father and I were anxious to keep secret even from
herself so uncanny a peculiarity, particularly a the do"
fact she did outgrow .t, and the habit ceased when she
was seven years old. She never had the slightest return
of .t unt.1 now The only explanation I can offer of th™
murr7h i ' '''''"""« "^'"'y' •' ^••^t «he dwelt so
much on the dangers of a forbidden union of a Garstang
and a Carey, and brooded so incessantly over Lady Ma-
s"at"e X^hh'"'?"' ''" '"'° ' "'°''"'' '""^ ='>"°"»»1
order " "^ "^^ ^^ ^"^ '° *''*' °''* "'"^""^ '^'''-
Leonard's brow was dark. " Why did you not tell
me this before ? " he said sternly.
Mrs.- Garstang burst into tears. "Because I loved
you as If you had been my own son, Leonard, and I
longed to see you the husband of Helena and the master
of Garstang Grange. I was afraid that you would not
marry her if you found out that she was a somnambulist,
and that then my child's heart would be broken and he^
hfe spoiled. I thought that her nurse and I could watch
her while she slept, and prevent her from leavine her
room; but two or three times she has escaped our vigi-
285
Lady Marion's Curse
lance, with the results you know. You have heard my
story, and it now rests with you to say whether you for-
give me and still wish to marry my daughter, or whether
your friendship for me and your love for her are alike at
an end."
" My friendship and my love never come to an end,
Mrs. Garstang. I wish to marry Helena as soon as you
will let me, for I think that the happiness, which I feel
sure I can give her, will be the best tonic that her over-
wrought nerves can have."
And Leonard Carey was right Her horror of Lady
Marion's curse, and her doubts as to whether she ought
to break off her engagement because of it, had under-
mined Helena Garstang's health and had brought back
the nervous malady of her childhood ; but after the whole
truth had been laid before her, and she realized that the
dreaded ghost was no one but her sleeping self she
speedily regained her health and strength, and Leonard
Carey won his bride after ?'l.
One day, six months after ner marriage, Mrs. Carey
said : " I sometimes think, Leonard, that there was more
m Udy Marion's curse than met the eye. It all had a
natural explana.tion, I know; nevertheless there was an
engagement between a Garstang and a Carey after an in-
terval of two centuries, and the heiress of Garstang did
again appear as a white bear, and it was the water from
the holy well that broke the spell and made her into a
woman again."
"It was a queer business altogether," replied
Leonard.
" And," continued Helena, " if you had loved the
lands and not the lady of Garstang, as Li nel did, per-
386
Lady Marion's Curse
•' Perhaps not," assented her husband.
And If you had thrown me over because I walked
m my sleep, as mother feared you would, the union be-
amed a^d"^ n' ' ^"'^ *°"'^ »^'" '«'«"-'
prevented, and my heart would have been broken as
Perhaps so, said Leonard. " Who knows ? "
Mif
FRANK WEKENEYS BILL
FRANK WEKENEYS BILL
F»A^K Wekeney, Esq., M. P., was wh.t i, called a
2" of parts whatever that may mean. He had once
TZr 7 u '" ^"'"''' '"'' ™"«q"en"y possessed a
perfMt and exhaustive knowledge both of the way in
which that counto^ ought to be governed and of the dif-
ficult question of the rupee. Not that this in itself proved
tlnAT °1 T" •' '"^ P"^" *''° '>"' *P«"t »« weeks
m India and does not know everything there is to be
known about that country and the Government thereof.
IS— well, a most exceptional individual. But Frank We-
keney had more than this ordinary form of intelligence;
he had travened m Thibet, and had there chanced upon
a barbarous h. l-tribe where this singular and interestkj
ZTJir V^^ ^"""■P''' •"^'' « "" the marriagf
vT^^- "^"""y '"d'&estiblc counterpart of our Eng-
lish weddmg cake-is the mother-in-law herself
It is not necessary to dwell upon the advantaees of
thissystem,bothasadeterrenttomatch-makingSer
and a preventive of post-nuptial domestic unplwsantness.
SntinTof '° "' """"' '"*^"'='=*' -'^ "-'^ -
Now Frank Wekeney was a man gifted with the
power to grasp fresh ideas and to adapt them to estab!
lished «nv.ronments-the art, i?, f^ct, of mending oW
291
Frank Wekeney's Bill
garments with new cloth : he was, further, a married man;
and Mrs. Wekeney's mother was in her prime. Conse-
quently he had the wisdom to perceive that the great
English-speaking nations have much to learn even from
the barbarous hill-tribes of Thibet ; and consequently also
he was fond of travelling.
Mrs. Frank Wekeney was a handsome woman ; but
her mother, Lady Wilverown, was decidedly handsomer.
People called her an ediliott de luxe of bcr daughter (and
they pronounced it hoks). Lady Wilverown was never
actually unkind or violent to Frank ; but she had a way of
saying, " Dear Mr. Wekeney I " when she disapproved of
him, which froze the very narrow in h-. bones. And if
saying it once did not silence him, she said it again and
again until it did. The first time that " Dear Mr. We-
keney I " occurred in a conversation, Frank generally
tried to explain his meanings and vindicate his actions :
the second time he humbly and sweetly apologized for
his very existenc-: and the third time he merely sat
mute, and decided in his own mind that a mother-in-law
was an evil and a bitter thing.
When Parliament reassembled, Frank Wekeney
brought forward a Bill to the effect that the aforemen-
tioned custom of the Thibetian h'" tribes should become
the law of England. It was, as might be expected, a
most popular measure. The Prime Minister was de-
lighted with it, and with the young member of his party
who had proposed it ; for the Parliament was moribund,
and the Premier was in sore need of a new and popular
cry wherewith to go to the country. Here was one after
his own heart ! The world was weary of annexing con-
tinents, and disestablishing churches, and disintegrating
392
Frank Wekeney's Bill
empire,, and inaugurating new era,; in vain were these
temptmg programmes dangled before men's jaded eye,
a .ke-a touch of nature which made the whole w^d
km The contest between Church and State-between
he Classes and the Masses-between Repose and Re-
form-may come to an end ; but there is nVtruce in the
w-.r between Man and his Mother-in-law
sta«, S°"' T"'^ "1'""^ "'^°"Kh it, earlier
stage,. Frank was able to give his whole time and at-
ent.on to .t, as Lady Wilverown was at that time holding
a succession o meetings throughout the provinces
agamst he m.quitou, custom of a ma^ed man's keepTne
an opm.on of hi, own without a licence, whlh .'m i
cence to be procured only from his mother-in-law and
Mrs. Wekeney was accompanying her mother on thi m
fK,rtan missionary tour. On one memorable occasion
the Bill was nearly wrecked by a north-country member
who spoke at great length on the dangers arisingTom
so heavy (and presumably tough) a meal in the middle of
the day ; this speaker had considei-able knowledge of the
subject, as his excellent wife suPered from consdentioul
scrupes agamst dining late upon the Sabbath; conse-
Rr",!V!. '"'^™'^ '*"= House^very Monday was
Black Monday to him ; and it was invariably Wednesday
before Richard (whose real name was Robert) was him-
self again. But the political catastrophe was averted by
a bnlliant young Radical, who saved the cause and estab-
lished his own reputation by suggesting that " the words
roh, en aspK, or cut up into sandwiches, stand part of the
question ; for-as he pointed o„t-in a s,-,ndvvich, as in
a sausage, the ignorance which is bliss is the attribute of
«93
Frank Wekeney's Bill
the consumer. This train of thought led the young
orator into brilliant speculations as to a satisfactory man-
ner of finally disposing of all one's poor relations at one
evening-party, the guests who had partaken thereof being
none the worse and none the wiser; which opened up
lurid possibilities as to the sandwiches of a man's past as
well as the sandwiches of his future ; but the honourable
member was recalled to better and brighter thoughts by
cries of " Question."
One peaceful summer's evening, when the course of
the great Bill was running as smoothly as the course of
love which is not true, Frank Wekeney gave a little din-
ner in one of the dinner-cells underneath the High Court
of Parliament.
"Isn't everything going splendidly!" cried Lady
ir3rbert Fitzcoddlington, who was seated on Frank's
right hand. " We shall pass the Bill without any diffi-
culty ; and then, if the House of Lords gives us any
trouble, we shall go to the country on it, and come back
with the largest majority our party has ever had."
" I certainly think it would be a popular cry," said
Frank, in the sweetly instructive manner he always
adopted toward women not of his wife's family : " to my
mind, dear lady, it is questions of domestic policy such
as this which demand the attention of eve:y Government.
' The greatest happiness of the greatest number ' is the
only solid foundation whereon any political superstruc-
ture can be built— by which, of course, is meant the hap-
piness of that section of the community to which one be-
longs one's self."
" And do you think that this measure will ensure the
greatest happiness to the greatest number?" inquired
394
Frank Wckcncy's Bill
"Without doubt," answered Frank. "I have
brought my mathematical knowledge to bear -pon the
question, and can prove to a demonstration that wMe the
number of a woman's sons-in-law is regulated on y bv
he quantity of her daughters or the quflity of their at
tractions, it is unusual for any sane man to have more
than one mother-in-law "
of thr\'°"''' "°' ''"P ^°"dering what the thick end
sented their ""''.*"= "'^' " ^ady Wilv^rown repre
7nTft .", °"' • ''"' ^' '""'^y ^^'d, in hi. ColumbuL
and^v^f "^ r'™'^' " '' '^ ^" °W ^y^t^™. <^ear ladj
and a very simple one. I have only tried to adapt it to
our modem civilization." ^
"By the v,ay, I see that Mrs. Wekenev and hep
mother are at home again," chattered Lady Herbert.
. What makes you think that?" asked Frank trv
.ng to ,ook careless, while a great fear chflled ht'sS"
thlet^^.::el"" ^* '"""' -''^" ' ^-^ '° '■'^ ^ous.t
I ca'm? tre°" ''"' ^ "!! u'"' ^"^'"^ ^■•°'" Waterloo as
i came here, answered her ladyship.
like a'wolf!rl'.''";M'-'''l'''' ^^^y"^" ''^'' <=°'n^ down
I'ke a wolf on the fold .n his absence; and the cold grip
295
I
Frank Wekeney's Bill
of fear and coming disaster grew tighter round his heart.
But he tried to be brave, and kept saying to himi that
he was an English statesman and need fear no man's
mother-in-law; and then he remembered that Canute
had been an English king and yet had not the slightest
influence over the incoming tide when it chose to come
in ; for no one knew better than Frank Wekeney that
though " man marks the earth with ruin, his control stops
with the shore," or with the bodily presence of his
mother-in-law.
Let kind hands draw a veil over the rest of the sad
story. Suffice it to say that Lady Wilverown held only
one conversation with Frank on the subject of his great
Bill, wherein the expression " Dear Mr. Wekeney " oc-
curred seven times. Frank— though a good deal shat-
tered—survived that conversation ; but the Bill did not.
So Frank Wekeney's Bill was withdrawn on the third
reading; and the lengthened sweetness of the long-
drawn-out Parliament evaporated in a Dissolution ; and
Frank's party were hopelessly beaten at the general elec-
tion. His own seat was contested by some local mag-
nate, and Frank came out of the battle crowned with
what is called " a moral victory." He found it an un-
satisfactory k^nd of thing, it is true ; but, at any rate, it
was more than he had ever had in his own home.
Frank never went back into Parliament. He spends
most of his time travelling in outlandish districts where
there is no accommodation for ladies, and says he shall
continue to do so as long as health and strength are spared
to Lady Wilverown. He is also writing a great poem on
one of the hill-tribes of Thibet, and he calls it The De-
light of Asia.
296
,,pp^
THROUGH THINGS TEMPORAL
THROUGH THINGS TEMPORAL
CHAPTER I
" Now, mamma, what does this cock-and-bull story
tT"T.^" '"I"* '""^ '^^' "^^^^dful young Thorn-
ton ? Tell me eyerythmg at once," demanded Lady This-
letop, who had just driven over to her ancestral home
beaSu! sC ""'^^^ °^ "«•""« '"^ '--'^-^ °f »•-
The Countess of Roehampton trembled at this man-
Emma, but she shrank from holding up her beloved Mil-
hcent as a target for the Thistletopian scorn.
It IS really nothing to make a fuss !.bout, Emma
nothmg at all ; but, of course, it has worried your fathe.^
and me a good deal. And you ought not to say, ' That
dreadful young Thornton'; it is most unjust He is
such a mce person-not one of our set, of course, but
quite a gentleman in his way; and he has behaved very
reasonably about the whole thing."
"Reasonably!" snorted Lady Thistletop; "what a
for my"e?" ^"' **" "^ '"^ ^'°'^' ^"'' ' -» i"dge
Her mother felt sure that she would. From her
youth upward Emma had judn^ed for herself, and now she
judged for Lord Thistletop as well.
"Well, you see, dear Emma, it came about in this
20 299
Through Things Temporal
way," stammered poor Lady Roehampton. "The
Thorntons are artistic people— paint pictures, you know,
and things of that sort— and they took the Grange after
old Mrs. Woodruff's death, so as to be able to copy all
the pretty views round about. There is only Miss Thorn-
ton and her brother; and Millicent set up a great friend-
ship with the sister. You know how dear and sweet
Milly always is to people of that kind."
" I should think I do know," snapped out the scorn-
ful Emma.
"And so," continued Lady Roehampton, ignoring
the interruption, " Millicent and Miss Thornton used to
go out sketching together, and after a time— as I under-
stand—the brother began to look over their sketches.
And then he helped Millicent; and they used often to
meet each other in the village or the park when he had
been fishing ; and then they went and fell in love with
each other. It is very unsettling," concluded the poor
lady, with a sigh. •
"It is very absurd! I can't think why Millicent
wants to go wandering about parks and villages," re-
plied Lady Thistletop.
"Poor little Milly! She is so young and so
pretty that one- must make allowances for her," ex-
plained the fond mother, bravely defending her absent
lamb.
" I don't see what that has to do with it" retorted the
irate Emma, who had left oflF being youn^ .nd had never
begun to be pretty. But though Millicent's youth and
beauty might have nothing to do with her wanderings
about parks and villages, it had a great deal to do with
the question as to whether the said wanderings were soli-
300
Through Things Temporal
tary or otherwise ; and so Lady Roehampton tried to ex-
plain, but lier daughter would not Hsten
"I have always disapproved of the vay in which you
It M. hcent walk out by herself in country lanes and
places persised Emma; "and now I find that she was
not wa king out by herself, but with this dreadful youne
man. It was terribly vulgar I " ^
" Millicent could not possibly be vulgar," said Lady
Roehampton, flushing angrily.
"She evidently could be, and was," persisted Milli-
cen s .mplacable sister; "and where the pleasure lay,
1 fail to see I never wanted to walk in a dirty country
lane m my hfe-not even with Thistlttop "
butlt ?°TT ^t "°' ^ ^"y ^^'" ''"'' °' humour,
but she augfied at th.s ; for she felt that the presence of
her noble and respected son-in-law would rob the most
idylhc pathway of its romance.
am "le°''^.^"°\u^'r" "'" '""^"^'"^ ^'' """"">='. I
am sure. I ee nothmg funny in the idea of Thistletop's
takmg a walk. In fact I believe he does so every dav
on account of his liver." ' '
" But a walk on account of one's liver and a walk
on account of one's lover are quite different foLTof
tTsln.'iLX''"^''"" "^^^ ^^^ ^-'^^-
iJ^^TW ^^^' u '° ^^ '^^ '"'^ °f the aflfair?" asked
Lady Th.stletop haughtily, feeling that her lord's aristo-
cratic hver and her sister's plebeian lover were not things
to be spoken of in the same breath. ^
"Oh ! of course Milly is so sweet and good and rea-
sonable, that she quite sees it would never^do for he to
marry out of het own class, so she has agreed to say
301
Through Things Temporal
goodbye to Mr. Thornton and to think no more about
him," said the mother, wliose conscience did not alto-
gether agree with her worldly-wisdom in thus sacrificing
her daughter's happiness on the shrine of the Moloch
which she worshipped. But her ladyship had worshipped
Moloch too long and too consistently for nonconformity
ui this respect to come easy to her; so she stifled her
maternal conscience. " He is quite satisfied about it,
Milly says; but, as frr as I can gather, the sister has
turned rusty, and is really nasty to dear Millicent."
" If Millicent will make such friends, what can she
expect ? "
" Still it is ver>- unreasonable of Miss Thornton," said
Lady Roehampton. " She could hardly expect Milly to
marry her brother ; and if he behaves well about the mat-
ter, I don't see why she should make herself disagreeable.
But it is always the way— middle-class men are so very
superior to middle-class women."
" I think it is six of one and half a dozen of the other ;
and I know I would never mix myself up with such
people. But here comes Millicent herself across the
lawn."
" Please don't say anything to her about it," cried the
anxious mother, knowing that Emma's touch upon a re-
ceiit wound was by no means possessed of healing prop-
erties. And so the burning subject was dropped for a
time.
Lady Thistletop was the elde?* child of the Eari and
Countess of Roehampton, and had always been more
feared than loved by her obedient parents. Between her
and the only other surviving child. Lady Millicent Ca-
rewe, there had intervened several little brothers and sis-
302
ff.** r »'
Through Things Temporal
ters who had not outlived their infancy; so that Ladv
Emma was fifteen years older than her sister, and had
,„ hTT"f '° ^'■^ '^"'^"''"P ^''"^ Millicent was stm
n the schoolroom. Naturally Lord and Lady Roehamp
mh rued all the love which belonged by right to the little
brothers and s.sters who could not stay to enjoy it and
tiful and refined as a lovely white flower. Until this affaire
de ca-ur with Edmund Thornton, Millicen had nter
g.ven them a moment's anxiety ;and even now she bowed
ire in" hT'" ^"''^'"'"'' '""' S^^« "P her heart's de-
sire in obedience to the parental decree. But the Roe-
hamptons were no tyrants ; and had Millicent but had the
courage to convmce her parents that her life's happiness
was at stake, they would quickly have sacrificed'the^
class prejudices to their darling's wishes. Yet for all her
sweetness, Millicent was of her world worldly; and to
her the things which are seen and temporal were decid-
cSr ' *^"'^''' *"' "°* a"°ee'her pe-
It would have been impossible for the most affection-
ate parents to have doted upon Lady Emma Carewe
She was one of those people who seem middle-aged as
soon as they can speak ; and who begin to make use of
the art of conversation, immediately after acquiring it
by setting right their less sensible fellow-creatures For
thirty long and (to them) weary years did the' Lady
fcmma Carewe exercise unstintingly her reforming pow-
ers upon the parents committed to her charge, until at
last they began to regard their first-born as a " fixture "
303
I' i
Through Things Temporal
from which no fairy prince would ever essay to deliver
hem : then-to their unfeigned joy and surprise-she
transferred her beneficent sway to Lord Thistletop, a
widowed and neighbouring nobleman, whose dulncss
and decorum were beyond reproach. For five years
tmma had reigned supreme at Thistletop. She re-
gretted much that she had no children, or even step-chil-
dren (half a loaf being better than no bread), to train
up m the way they should go, but she kept her hand in
by attendmg to the education of her lord and master-
and even the small and sordid soul which nature had
allotted to John, Lord Thistletop, he was not permitted
to call his own.
But Millicent was wholly diflferent from her sister.
She was beautiful, while Emma was plain; she was tall
and graceful, while Emma was short and increasincly
inclmed to "slowly broaden"; and further, she lacked '
that mdomitable will which is the heritage only of
women under five feet three, whereby they are enabled
to drive their taller and weaker sisters to the wall In
short, Millicent was amiable and charming, and everv-
thmg that Emma was not.
In a wooded.hollow at the edge of the park Millicent
Carewe met Edmund Thornton for th- last time to say
goodbye She was very loving and tearful, and very
wretched at the thought of parting from her lover; but
the Idea of trampling on her traditions and casting
in her lot with his, never entered her head for a mo-
ment. Edmund was far too honourable a man even
to think of suggesting to Millicent to disobey her
own people, but he did ask her if she could not wait
until he had made a name for himself as an artist,
304
Through Things Temporal
saw la ' "^"^ '° """' ''"• °"' ^''^ M""«"t
"But, my darling," pleaded Thornton, "suppose I
were to work day and night until I became aTrea
pamter, wouldn't you marry mc then ' "
^o,^!':lT' ''''-''■ "^'-^^-'^'t wouldn't
_ "Wouldn't do?" cried Edmund, with some scorn.
Why wouldnt .t do.' You see, dear, it isn't as if I
for,n n'" '"'' "°f'^f' ''^""^ '° «'^' y°" ^very com-
fort and luxury. As I have told you. my father left me
a large fortune, and I only paint for the love of it-not
because am obliged to work. I do not ask you to
hat with the men they love; but I can not see why the
fact that my father was what the world calls ' a self-made
man should stand between you and me for ever if we
love each other."
"Oh ! please don't be angry with me ; it frightens me
so when you are angry," said Millicent through her tears.
It seems impossible to make you understand how my
people feel about a thing like this! "
" I am gfad that it is impossible for me to understand
that mere pr.de of birth can be stronger than love; for
1 bel.eve that you do love me, Millicent," said Edmund
gnmly.
that .t will be impossible for me ever again to love any-
one m the same way. Do you know how, when one is
TiX r."^; ' '":„ " '° ^' '" unanswered question?
I felt that always till I met you, and then I knew that
you were the answer. You seem somehow to be mixed
30s
Through Things Temporal
up with everything that is good and beautiful, and
the whole world appears to me good and beautiful be-
cause you are in it."
"And yet— feeling thus— you can give me up for
ever, merely because of the difference in rank! I can
not understand it, as you say."
" It is so diflScult to explain, but I thought you would
see it."
" No, Millicent, I don't see it, and I think I have a
right to an explanation."
" But an explanation would make you angry."
" I can't help that ; I must have the explanation not-
withstanding."
" Well, what mother says is, that your people are so
different from my people, and your way of looking at
things so different from ours, that we should never be
really happy together; and she says that if I married you
my set would drop me, and I should have to live in your
world instead of my own. Oh, Edmund I I know it is
horrid of me, but I really haven't the courage to face
it all."
" And yet you say you love me ? "
" Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. And, what is more,
I shall always love you, though I will not marry you. I
am not at all brave, Edmund — I never was — but when
once I really care for a person I never change. You do
not speak ; I know you are angry with me."
" No, I am not angry, only bitterly disappointed and
wounded to the quick. But I think I do understand a
little. If you married me, you would have to give up
the fashionable world in \vhich you have hitherto lived
and moved and had your being ; and that you consider
306
through Things Temporal
too prodigious a sacrifice for even love to demand If
you seriously tfiink that the lot of a frivolous, fine lady
•s a happier and higher one than the lot of a tender and
true woman then I can only say that you are acting in
strict accordance with your convictions if you finally dis-
miss me and my middle-class affection. I have never
pretended to be what I am not, and I do not attempt for
an instant to deny that all my relations-my married
sisters, for mstwce, and my only brother-are what your
adyship would describe as ' common.' That is to say
they live in unfashionable London suburbs, and dine
early, and fill their brand-new houses with unlovely fur-
niture and ormolu clocks. All this is true ; and it is also
true that if you married me you would have to '-r^sy
these persons and to learn their habits, for no wife of
mine, be she ever so high-bom, shall ever come between
me and my own people. Therefore, Millicent, if you have
not the courage to face this thing, you are right to bid
me go ; hut if you have the courage to stand by my side
and let us face the world together, then you shall be loved
wi h a love passing the love of women, and shall lack
nothing that wealth or affection can obtain. It rests
with you to decide."
" Edmund, forgive rae, but I must dwell among mine
own people," replied her ladyship sorrowfully
And without another word the man turned on his
oot r ' V i'^'u'" '° ^"J°y '"^^ ""-^ °' society-
pottage for which she had deliberately bartered her
woman's birthright of love and happiness.
But though Edmund Thornton might feel anerv
Tbuse her""' '"'"""' '' "°"" "°* ^"°" "'^ ^'^""^^
307
Through Things Temporal
"You can't understand her; you never could," he
said, when Maria expressed her surprise at Lady MiUi-
cent's decision. " She's surrounded by a hedge of cus-
toms and traditions such as a girt brought up as you
have been can have no idea of."
" And you regard this hedge of customs and tradi-
tions as the divinity which doth hedge a queen," re-
marked Miss Thornton scornfully.
" Yes, I do," replied her brother. " To me Lady
Millicent is, and always will be, a sort of divinity, and I
can not allow even you to lay rough hands on the shrine
which I have raised to her in my heart."
" Stuff and nonsense I " retorted Maria. " I know
one thing, however, namely, that if I loved a man, a mil-
lion relations should not prevent me from marrying him,
nor a million customs and traditions. I can stand against
the stream, I am thankful to say, and I despise people
who can not."
Edmund smiled. " A little brown rock can sUnd
against the stream and a lovely white water lily can not ;
yet the rock could never despise the water lily "
"Why not?"
" Because in the scale of creation the water lily is a
whole kingdom higher than the rock in spite of its mu-
tability."
"Oh! you are absurd. I believe that giri has be-
witched you. Now for my part I think her a "
" Maria, be silent ! " said her brother sternly. And
when he spoke in that tone Maria always obeyed.
A few days later she said to him, " Edmund, have
you heard that the Roehamptons are taking Lady Mil-
licent abroad for the winter? "
308
Through 1 lungs Terr , oral
" No, I had not heart
Lady Mtlicenfis'far'f ""'■ ^°"'"= """^ ""'■ "^ -^s
about her X '™™,^'™"&' ^"d they are anxious
and fori; everythSat ' t" ''' ^" "^"^^ °"' "'-'^•
with somebody ',3^" ''"^P'"'''' ^"'l '«" '" >°ve
Edmund was silent
iipiiii
derest p^y fo/Se ^riT '-^T'' ""^ °"'^ ^^e ten-
ying snaaow— shadows having a way of vani<iii;r„v i.
CHAPTER II
» t. would „ .oo„ to. ,j„„jj, „, S5^,4"^;,';
3=9
¥ i
Through Things Temporal
tlie laws of nature as against the social traditions of her
class, she was spared the wear and tear of continual chaf-
ing, a thing no mortal can stand for long without a break-
down of some sort. Perhaps her cheek grew a little
paler, a little more delicate in its oval outline, while her
brown eyes acquired a pensive look which had never
been seen in them before; but she soon regained her
^yonted health and strength, never robust at the best of
times, and if her stately manner was even more quiet
and reserved than it used to be, it only added to her
charm.
" I hope you are not angry with me, my darling," said
Lady Roehampton one day.
"Angry, mother? How could I be angry with
you?"
" I am sure that your father and I influenced you for
your own happiness. Of course, Milly dear, we should
never forbid you absolutely to do anything on which you
had set your heart ; but if you set your heart on an un-
desirable object it is our duty to point out to you your
mistake, though the ultimate decision must always rest
with you," continued the Countess, whose conscience
was apt to be troublesome when she perceived the length-
ening oval of her daughter's cheek and the sad look in
the brown eyes.-
" Of course, dear mother; and you know I hate de-
, ciding things for myself ; I like some one else to make
up my mind for me."
" Yes, yes, dear ; quite right and proper of you. And,
by the way," added her ladyship in the studiously care-
less tone which always betrays preparation, " have you
heard that Miss Thornton is engaged to marry little Dr.
310
Through Things Temporal
Collins ? Milford " (Milford was the housekeeper at Ca-
rewe Court) " told me in her letter yesterday."
"No, I had not heard; and I am surprised— very
much surprised. Dr. Collins is very nice and clever, and
all that, but don't you think he is a little— a little— com-
mon, mother?"
"Of course he is, darling. He is a dear little man
and I am quite devoted to him, but he never pretends
o be a gentleman. His father kept a chemist's shop in
the village, when first I married and came to Carewe-
and then the son became a doctor. All that is quite
; charmmg m its way, you know, and I wouldn't say a
word agamst it for the world; in fact I always feel
the greatest respect for what are called ' self-made peo-
ple ; but still, my love, it would be quite impossible,
woiildn t It, for you to be sister-in-law to little Dr.
Colhns?
Millicenfs eyes dilated with horror: "Oh, mother
what an idea ! I should as soon think of being sister-in-
law to Milford. But of course, if-if-things had turned
out differently, Edmund would never have let his sister
marry such a person as Dr. Collins."
" But, my sweetest, how could he have prevented her
even if he had wished to do so?— which I doubt, as there
was nothing snobbish about Mr. Thornton, and that
would have been a very snobbish thing to do. If the
brother had the right to please himself, the sister had
the right to please herself also. Therefore, darling
though I can't deny that Mr. Thornton is a charming
person in his way, you see it is really best not to be
mixed up at all with people of that sort."
■ And the girl, who under all her amiability was an aris-
311
fi^y ''f^jl^i!^!!^
I
Through Things Temporal
tocrat to her finger-tips, saw the force of her mother's
reasoning, and in her heart of hearts agreed with it
But though Lady Millicent Carewe could so far obey
the traditions of her class as to shut out of her life Ed-
mund Thornton and his love, she could not go so far
as to put any one else in his place. Lovers loved and
lovers rode away again, but Lady Millicent was cold and
indifferent to all alike. Her father and mother loved
her too wch to insist upon anything that was distasteful
to her, and were, moreover, only too thankful to keep
their adored daughter at home to be the light of their
eyes and the joy of their old age; so beautiful Millicent
Carewe seemed destined to be an old maid. But she did
not appear unhappy or dissatisfied. Hers was one of
those calm, unemotional natures that take life easily • and
time seemed willing to "write no wrinkle" on that
sweet white brow of hers.
The years rolled on, and the Earl of Roehampton was
gathered to his fathers ; after the lapse of another decade
the Countess followed him; and then Lady Millicent
reigned alone at Carewe Court, as co-heiress of William
sixth and last Earl of Roehampton. By that time she
was close upon forty years old, and a very grand lady in-
deed. She wa^ the ruling spirit of the neighbourhood
and was treated as a kind of royal personage. If Lady
Milhcent said a thing, that thing became as law to all the
country-side. She opened bazaars, and instituted guilds
and patronized charities, and superintended parishes, and*
was in short the ruling queen of her little worid. To know
her was a pleasure— to be known by her an honour • and
she was the most popular as well as the most distin-
guished woman in the county. From time to time she
312
Through Things Temporal
heard news of the Thorntons from Mrs. Grear, the vicar's
wife. Dr. Colhns had died some years previously, and
h.s widow still lived in the village. Millicent called upon
her once; but her ladyship was received so coldly— or
rather rudely-that she decided never again to repeat the
experiment; but she learned from Mrs. Grear that Ed-
mund Thornton was married, and had several chi. -n
who came at intervals to stay with their aunt, Mrs'
CoUms.
"Oh I Lady Millicent," exclaimed Mrs. Grear one
day,^ have you heard of poor Mrs. Collins's trouble? "
^ No, mdeed : what has happened to her? "
"She has lost all her money, poor thing ! at least her
brother, Edmund Thornton, has done so for her He
has been speculating, I believe, and has lost his own for-
tune and his sister's as well."
" Oh ! I am so sorry."
T 1' \'i",?."' ^°" *°"''* ''^' y"" "« ^ sympathetic, dear
Lady Milhcent. I hear that the rest of the family are
so funous with Edmund that they refuse to help him at
all; and they are equally furious with Maria for sticking
to him. °
"That seems rather rough on Mrs. Collins and her
orotner.
"It does ; but of course it was wrong and foolish of
nim to speculate."
"Of course it was; nevertheless I feel deeply sorrj-
for his wife and children." ^
"So do I, Lady Millicent; and all the more so be-
cause Mrs. Edmund Thornton is a silly, feeble, little
thing, who will have no spirit in meeting trouble."
" Who was she before she married? "
3'3
^irnX'-.m^u i:".j:^»k:f..
I h
Through Things Temporal
Mr"T^o''°f^ P^'icular; only a governess whom one of
to aL rt" ' '"""fi^'^'''^- Mrs. Gurly, was unkind
to, and so he married her out of pity. This sister is a
ternble woman, I beHeve, and the poor littl goTern 3s
underwent a martyrdom at her hands. It was chiv "ou
of the hands of her tormentor; but people say his heart '
was buned years ago m some early romance'tha came
;L"trd"" '" '' ''' "" '"-'' -- --^^ '^ -r-
stoj!'";.^'"*'' ''"'^ """''"^ °f 'he Thornton-Carewe
?arT;e ""' ""'"' '"'°'^ ''*'°^^ ^^e came To
"Edmund Thornton is a good man," said Lady Mil-
cent gravely, and it was just like him to take pi on
■ ;l-P^.f''ttle governess. Did you ever see her' Mrs
" Yes, and she isn't even pretty ; a stupid little crea-
whom"sr'''r r''"^ ^"^ """"^"y ^-'^^^ "-"- .
m= T J .f '^l'^ '"^°'''- ^* '' '^ Pi'y '° think of a cleve;
man hke Mr. Thornton being tied to a nonentity ! Peop e
SaVhe tri 7: '/'"l'^ "^^"'' '^^PPy '" his'maS
hat he tred to divert himself by speculating. And now
see what it has led to! "
andVri^'" '^^"'.'h-'o^gh Udy Millicent's heart,
and through her conscience also; for a shadow she had
do wTat h" r.'^'^r "^- ^"^^P^ ^he had a Jht o
do what she hked with her own; but had she any right
to throw Edmund Thornton's soul into the scale Ta
rnake-weight ? It was not a pleasant doubt to enter nto
itrMrfcrSn^e-d:'"^- ^^ ^'---'''P ^as
3«4
W^72^m
Through Things Temporal
" There are four children— all girls— oreftv ll»i-
thmgs but dreadfully spoilt. Mr. anT^rThUton
are now staying with Mrs. Collins, so the vicar a^d?
have asked them all up to dinner t;-morrow we tWnk
>t IS kmd to do so just now, as people who krTin h.
m-dst^of money troubles are oL^otn^rand
it ■ '^J^T' ""^ T"' °' ^°" ="'' '^^ ^'«^ to think of
.t . and I am sure that Mr. Thornton, at any rate, win ap
preciate your kindness." P
"The only thing that bothers me is whether or not
we shall ,nvite any one to meet them. It is, perhaps no
very pohte to ask only just themselves, as ff thej were
no good enough to meet our other friends; but on the
other hand .t would be worse to have any one who wol
tr Sii^hT ; ''' ^^' """■ «°"-<^- "^^ ■'-■<-'
wite, telling her who were coming; but she turned ,m
her nose and said she was very sorry to re us" m' in
vnation, but she had rather not meet outsider aTtheJ
always presumed upon it afterward." ' '^
D^gusting woman! I have always thought Mrs
Holland a most vulgar person, and that loudly dres^d
want a h.rd element at dinner to-morrow night, I shall
be dehghted to come in and make up your number Yol
and he v.car owe me a dinner, you know, Mr, Grear-
you have rfmed here twice since I dined with you and
.t doesn't do for the reciprocity to be all on o'ne^ide '
as the Irishman said." '
wnn'f^°"' ^"^l^ ^°" ^'^' ''''^'' L^'Iy Millicent! But it
won t be at all a suitable evening for you."
What nonsense I I shall enjoy myself immenselv."
3'S
/:li-^^
_i 1
Through Things Temporal
" I expect you will frighten poor little Mrs. Thornton
into fits by your grand air."
Lady Millicent laughed.
" I won't be at all terrible, I promise you. I'll clothe
myself with humility and with my oldest dinner-gown,
and will be graciousness itself."
" You are always that, dear Lady Millicent, but you
are a little frightening all the same; you are so very
regal. Did I tell you what old Dobbs said after you
had visited him the other day ? "
" No."
" He remarked by way of description, ' Her were the
Queen o' Sheba, and no mistake.' "
Lady Millicent laughed again, and then added—
" That is not as bad as what Thistletop said of me
lately. He told Emma that I was like a church without
a heatmg-apparatus— very orthodox and improving, but
bound to give everybody a chill."
" Well, anyhow, that is better than being like a heat-
mg-apparatus without a church— which is what a great
many people resemble," retorted Mrs. Grear, taking up
the cudgels on behalf of her adored Lady Millicent.
" I shall tell Thistletop what you say; it will shock
him terribly."
"I don't care; I rather enjoy shocking Lord Thistle-
top."
" So do I ; it is, in fact, ' my favourite occupation,' as
they say in Confession AlbUms. But, by the way, don't
you_^thmk that Thistletop is a very disappointing per-
" Yes, very."
": My father always used to say that a good old
3'6
■mrZ" ^^mi^'AMh^M
Through Things Temporal
at all but he .s too stupid to see the difference."
respects /!„;'''"' *°"'' ='' "'^ '''ff'=^^"'=«= '" both
respects, I can assure you," said Mrs. Grear. lauchin^
And there the colloquy ended. '^"gh.ng.
Car?wVattend'.t^ °' '"' '°"°^'"^ ''^^ ^^^ ^illicent
Se Mr, r'' ''"""f • "^ ""'^ 'l'""" ^' the
hTver; a^rinc^r "^^ '" '" '"^ •'^" '' ^"^ ^"'^
whispered '°"Th°' ^""^ ''"' ''"'^^"'P '° =°"'^." =he
TveTrv ^I •'"''^'' '='y' y°" &^°w ""ore perfect
eveiy day, and this is just li: you." ^
"And my dear ladyship has put on my shabbiest
gown, as promised," said Lady Millicent ; " dthouS
was as gall and wormwood to my maid t^ se me tke
Emd, m my worst and meanest dress. I am as^habb!
now as she was in her faded silk " ^
" Shabby, indeed ! You look like a queen, my dear
and always will, whatever you wear" "• ""y "Jear,
smiiel'' ^"'" °' ^'"'''' ' ="PP°^^" And they both
Mri' Grear""" andl'n' '" ''! ""^^^ ^'''''^y'' -"''"-d
-irVo:i^uSst:/rt;r^s^
was simply green with rage at having, thr^ug "1- own
folV. missed meeting Lady Millicent Care'we face^o
" Hateful woman I Don't talk about her to me."
3>7
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^ And then the two ladies entered the pretty drawing-
timf hln*'."!!,'"*",! " "*"'''' '° ^•'*'»""'' Thornton that
time had stood st.Il, and that the past twenty years had
been a dreatn; for the stately woman, who held out a
gracious hand to him, looked very little older and decid-
edly more beautiful than the girl from whom he had
parted m the wooded hollow all those years ago. But if
t.me had dealt lightly with Millicent, it had done the op-
posite w.th Edmund; for w . storm and stress of life had
made their mark upon, his Uce, and he already began to
look an old man. Poor little Mrs. Thornton wore an
obviously home-made construction of vermilion velve-
teen relieved by the cheap white lace wherewith dress-
mg-tables are usually trimmed; and she shook with ter-
ror when she was presented to the lovely lady whom
every one treated as a queen. Mrs. Collins was stiff and
wretched and was, moreover, consumed by a crushing
dread of being (what she called) " patronized "-as if she
were a concert or a fancy fair, with a list of would-be
patronesses at her head. . ,
At first Mrs. Grear feared that her party was going
to be a failure; between the Scylla of Mrs. Thorntcn's
terrified humility, and the Charybdis of Mrs. Collins's
quarrel with society in general and Lady Millicent iA
particular, utter wreckage and destruction seemed im-
minent.
But the vicar's wife had reckoned without her guesL
With a tact that had reached the level of a fine art, Lady
Milhcent first set her fellow-guests at their ease, and then
guided the conversation into channels where she knew
there would be smooth sailing and no rocks ahead. She
318
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Through Things Temporal
n..-..Ie as much effort to pLasc as she ha.l ever done in a
London draw,„g-roon, ; and, consequently, tliis was the
shrined" W>"J '"""""'""^ ""= -cara,. had ever en!
shrined. Without bemg brilhant herself, Millicert Ca-
rewc possessed the gift of making other people brilliant ■
she took the trouble to find out what they were interested
m, and to let them talk to her about it ; and, consenuenty
conversation always flowed freely under her benign in-
fluence After dinner, even timid little Mrs. Thornton
found heart of grace to confide in Lady Millicent, though
m cold blood she would as soon have thought of making
a friend of the Monument or the Marble Arch as of an
Earl s daughter; and she was surprised to find that this
great lady, on hearing their loss of fortune, did not treat
.t as a crime and shame, as Edmund's sister had done,
but rather as a tiresome accident, such as leaving ore's
prayer-book in church, or forgetting to bring onf's um-
I , i" ^lr-n'"°" ''""°y'"S '>"d provoking for you," said
Lady Milhcent graciously. .7 , -m
•■It is so bad for the children, you see, Lady Milli-
cent," explained Mrs. Thornton.
are "Jl7ru'"^l^''' ""'" '' '' '""'' " ^""'"^ '^at they
Z ' ^ r '^ T ?' "' '° ™""'' "'°'^ expensive than
g.r , replied Lady Millicent, who had never inhabited a
world where boys were expected to earn their own
"I don't know about that," sighed Mrs. Thornton
in whose world both boys and giris were expectTd to
u'ssrSsr ''' '''''-' '-'- '^" --"^
"Have you decided where you will live? I think
319
..ibaillff-Mt^uf.
>i 1
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Through Things Temporal
your husband said at dinner that you intend to leave
i-ondon.
" We are going to live in Lowton, a little town about
five miles from here. Edmund has taken a situation in
Mr. Hollands bank," replied Edmund's wife, blushing
as she made the (to her) disgraceful confession.
But in Udy Millicenfs aristocratic eyes, a clerkship
in a bank and a share in a cotton-mill were socially on a
par; so she did not seem at all shocked, as Mrs. Gurly
Had been, m whose commercial and mercenary sight a
situation in Mr. Holland's bank was the depth of human
degradation.
"That will be very nice for you," said her ignorant
adyship. I sometimes drive into Lowton to do a
httle shopping; and I can assure you for your comfort
that there are some decent shops there, and quite an ad-
missible dressmaker, whom I sometimes employ myself
just for moming-gowns," she continued, oblivious for
the moment, of the vermilion velveteen and the pitiful
tale It told. " It will be pleasant also for you to be near
Mrs. Collins."
"Yes, Lady Millicent; and it will be a comfort to
send the children to her sometimes. Maria is always
very fond of children, and, as she has none of her own
she has been like a second mother to mine."
And then Lady Millicent asked all about the said
children, and lent a sympathetic ear to long and pointless
chronicles concerning the same, until little Mrs. Thorn-
ton lost her heart once and for ever to the beautiful lady •
and her timid soul grew hot within her as she recalled
certain blasphemies which she had heard her husband
and his people utter against the aristocracy. And Ed-
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mund, meanwhile, stood afar oflf, and wondered l,ow l,c
CHAPTER III
hJT\^A: ^'^r"'^ ^''°""°" '"d "°t long survive
tXT^ '," "^ '"°""'' "''" ""= '"i""*^ "t 'he'vicar-
age she died, leaving her four motherless little children
mhe charge of Maria Collins. Then Edmund broke up
Collms at Carewe walkmg to his work at the bank and
back every day Often in his walks he used to be over-
f«h^ K,' ^''"''T' '^™^' ""•» P"''- therein sat a
fash,o„ably-dressed woman who accorded him a gracious
bow ; and as Edmund contrasted his foot-sore, caTe^wom
self wth the brilliant occupant of the dashing equipagT
he smded gnmly. and congratulated the shades of the
Hn^'?. ^'1 1"'' ^°""'"' °' Roehampton on the wis-
dom they had shown during the days of their flesh in oo-
posmg the sentimental folly of their beautiful daughter-
but underneath this grim pleasantly he felt-as he had
•elt for twenty years and more-the unhealed smart of an
f^M-u-'^"* disappointment, and he knew that his love
for Mdhcent Carewe would last as long as he did. But
all his love and h.s unalterable d-votion availed him noth-
ing, so long as he sat at the ,f ,he air-castle men
•'21
I
Through Things Temporal
call Society, and was not admitted therein. Now and
then Edmund met Lady Milliccnt in the village or at the
vicarage, and these occasions were red-letter days in the
sad-coloured routine of his life ; for the charm she exer-
cised over him had increased rather than diminished, and
her exquisite culture and refinement— as contrasted with
the commonplace mediocrity of the people among whom
his lot had always been cast— appealed to his refined sen-
sibilities as irresistibly as it had done when first he met
her all those years ago. Lady Millicent called upon Mrs.
Collins, and invited her and the children up to the Court ;
but poor Maria's nature had not been sweetened by the
uses of adversity, and her always vulgar dread of being
"patronized" had assumed gigantic proportions since the
loss of her money, so she repulsed Lady Millicent's over-
tures so rudely that her ladyship never ventured to re-
peat them. Edmund remonstrated feebly ; but after his
ill-usage of Maria, supplemented by Maria's goodness to
his motherless children, he felt bound to respect Mrs.
Collins's wishes in every possible way ; therefore his red-
letter days were few and far between. Moreover, Mr.
Thornton discovered that after a glimpse of the above-
mentioned carriage and pair on the Lowton road, the
drudgery at the bank seemed more dreary, and the little
house at Carewe more squalid than ever ; which, after all,
was 3 heavy price to pay for the privilege of taking off
his hat once or twice a week to a fine lady. So, perhaps,
the less he saw of Lady Millicent the better for his peace
of mind. Edmund hated his life at the Lowton bank.
The work was naturally distasteful to a man who had
hitherto had enough and to spare of the good things of
this life, and therefore had the time to devote himself to
322
.. %.
Through Things Temporal
Holland s behaviour to him. When fhe Thorntons Uved
at the Grange, the Hollands had been to some extent in
nvalry with them ; and now that his enemy had been d"
hvered into his hand, Mr. Holland was too vu^a -
While Edmund Thornton was too sensitive not to feel
this advantage to the uttermost, and to be cut to the
quick by Mr. Holland's well-directed snubs. But the
t*heVrir°' ^'^"''""^'' humiliation was not yet filled to
" Oh I my dear, have you heard the news about the
Thornton man ? " asked Lady ThisUetop one day, a she
H^s taking tea with her sister at Carewe Court abou
two years after Mrs. Edmund Thornton's death
., No: IS there any news?" asked Lady Millicent.
f,.l T^ '■ . ^'"'"**°P t°'d me yesterday that that dread-
S« SikT '" "*""=" "'' '^""^'^ -' °^ ^'■
_'' Impossible ! I don't believe a word of it."
ton . ^^''^f'"^'"^' 't is true. Mr. Holland told Thistle-
top himself, when Thistletop called at the bank yester-
it but^S T." " ^°"'' ""'^ "° °"» ^""'d have taken
It but that Thornton man, because no one else knew
where it was except Mr. Holland and his nephew a^d
of course they couldn't have done it "
"Why not?"
hiJJl't^l- "°"f "'^ ""'"""y ^°"''' "°t steal from
bZl; *"t "'^''"'^ *""'''"''• ''^•^''"se he has been
brought up by the Hollands and is like their own son."
w™,M n~ !"" how being brought up by the Hollands
would prevent a man from turning out a rogue or a cad,
323
Lj
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p
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Through Things Temporal
or anything else disgusting," said Lady Millicent, with
fine scorn.
" Oh, Milly I what things you say. However every
one is certain that that Thornton man must have taken
the money, because he is so poor he must have wanted
It badly."
"What nonsense I Really, Emma, I wonder how
Thistletop can demean himself by gossiping with such
a creature as Mr. Holland; and I wonder still more how
you can allow him to repeat such vulgar tales to you."
Lady Thistletop, however, was not abashed by her
sister's magnificence as the rest of the world was, so she
continued :
" Well, I believe it, anyhow, and so does Thistletop;
and It IS all over Lowton. Mr. Holland has very gener-
ously decided not to prosecute, but of course he has dis-
missed the man at a moment's notice."
" I repeat, I refuse even to listen to such low scan-
dal; and I wonder that Thistletop could so far forget him-
self as to do so. But your husband has always been too
fond of gossiping about Lowton, Emma. You should
make it more cheerful for him at the Castle. If you en-
tertained a little more, and he had more of the society of
his equals, he would not be tempted to make all these
common confidants," said Lady Millicent, who could
show fight as well as her sister when she chose.
"Perhaps so," snapped Emma. "But about this
dreadful Thornton aflfair: I believe he is a person who
once presumed to make love to you, Millicent, but I
daresay you have forgotten all about it, it was such ages
ago."
"No, I have not forgotten," said Millicent quietly;
324
^^Ril
Through Things Temporal
"though, as you say. it happened centuries ago. I saw
In/IT"" "' 'u' ^'"'"^'- °°* '°°^ before her dea^
tnem. They are dear little things."
onrfl{l'*"^^M"'''!"'' ^ ^°'"^'"' ^°^ y°" "" "otice sec-
ond-class children like that."
I J!L'"? ^°"'^ °'^" "''"'''""' ^^ y°" ''"°«. Emma, and
thev woufdT ""L ' °'**=" "'^'' "'"* y°" '•»d «°'"^. -
hof. Jr "^f '^'" " «^"^' '"'*'^^t in 'ny life, ana I
Millicent'" T^t " '"°''' ™iden-aunt," remarked Lady
Castle Thistletop, and was as capable as most women
The arrow entered the gold. Millicent did not often
ouse herself; but when she did, even Emma MiZ
ThLT'" 1-^^""'' ^"'y- '* '^ ^*^ «<> f°r these poor
Thorn on children, whether the charge against thdr
mother I shou d qu.te like to send them some gar-
fXmTX'"'; r^""' Needlework Guild,' but tfeir
lather might not like it, you know."
.n.-/' ^^l"^^y,^^^^ he would," said Millicent, smiling in
spite of herself, for she knew that the " Udies' Neele"
work Guild was as the very apple of Emma's eye, and
to the^ r '' ""T"' '"'*=""" ^™^"'^' " -''^ eounted
"plt^-»?M^-^*"r'"''' '" ^'^y Thistletop's eyes,
tbfr J k"^V ^ ^'^'' ^ ^""'-^ -^^ something fo
them, Emma, but I can't, because they live with Mrs.
325
'LV._#
Through Things Temporal
2m" .^^t '' l""*" " disagreeable person that it is im-
possible to show her any kindness."
Thi'Jf'^''^' '^^- '"'"''' "''' ^«- Collins." said Udy
Thistletop, treading with the caution of the alr^dy
wounded, and feeling that peace was more comfomS
less glonous than war. " The brother, I remember was
qm e n.ce-looking and gentlemanly when first the^ 'am
here, but she was always ugly and common."
Wasnt she?" agreed MiUicent graciously, being
Z1TV° f "i'^" ^'' P^"" °" condition that shf
m.ght keep her knight; and being moreover enough of
a won«n. underneath her gra.d manners, to Lnt
"AnH\''"T"^ '''''""'"* °' ^^' distinguished self.
And she always had such horrid manners and such a
nasty temper. I remember mother used to say that a
man can nse to any position socially, but that a woman
always sticks to the station in which she was bom7'
Very sensible of mamma!" said Emma cordially.
oTh'rXtf ^'^'"^ ''"^' ^"'° '^°"^^-«°" "P°"
she had !;^.? !f'"'""! '^''^ °°* ^°'&^t the news which
she had pretended to despise. She took the trouble to
earn a 1 the details from Mrs. Grear, and her heart ached
was^r wv^" f '" '•'' ^''""^ ^''=" '°'' straits he
Mr Hon !, ri the slightest ground fo^ his suspicion,
Mr. Holland had decided that Thornton had stolen the
missing fifty pounds, and had accordingly dismissed him
at a moments notice; and poor Edmund-who had
neither the means nor the spirit to bring an action for
hbcl against h.s employer-quietly accepted his dis-
missal and returned to the cottage at Carewe a broken-
hearted man. But even then his troubles were not over.
336
u.-m i»
Through Things Temporal
S heaThTJr"' f-.''^'' """ ^ "'" M- Coll"
tmed by this fresh':rreirdfst7e\Ke'
could not rally from the shock, but died £ a fortni'l!
after her brother's dismissal from Mn Ho laLrb'S
was no one to look after them; and their father, who
by th,s t.me was almost penniless, was at his witWnd
to know what to do or where to turn for help. X^he «t
pa tU^^v'teai' '^f ^ ^^^ '"' '-''«<> '>act on ht
past life, realized how the world would congratulate
hi auTho '"' °" '^"^ '''^^' '° '--^ "e"^ S^
hi/ ^ r ^"^^ "^°- ^'"" ^l'* had said him nay he
had steaddy gone down into the valley of failure while
,.H K ^"'^ P^""''"?" 't had been well for her that it
had been so. Nevertheless, though his love was too
perfect ever to ca,t a shadow of blame, Edmund TW
ton could not help being conscious that with MHHcem
li e it r h "°;" "'^" *''"^ """"^ "'^'^ havoc ^^
hfe, It was her dismissal that had made him first de-
spondent and then reckless. If only Millicem h d had
the courage to take her life into her own hands twenty
years ago, and to declare that her world of fashioTab e
frivolity would be well lost for love, he felt that h couM
have made a name worthy of her. and would have Sn
himself down m the book of human history as a 'rcess-
327
* '
Through Things Temporal
ful man. But because Millicent bowed her neck to the
yoke of rank and fashion, and chose to walk softly and
to he delicately among her own people rather than to
face the scorn of her little world for making what it would
call a misalhance, Edmund Thornton had signally failed
m the race, and his failure was Millicent's fault as well
as his own. True, it was weak of Thornton to let a
woman thus wreck his life; but this did not indemnify
the woman for her share in the wreckage. The weakness
of the weak brother did not exempt the great Saint from
abstaining from meat while the world should stand if
by that meat the weak brother should be caused to
oitend.
"I really don't know what to do. Lady Millicent,"
said Mrs. Grear one day with tears in her eyes. " Mr
Thornton's maid-of-all work. Kate Green, is leaving him
to-day, because she says she won't remain in the service
of a suspected thief; and for the same reason-absurd
though It appears-I can get no one in the village to
take her place. As if any one who had the merest ac-
quaintance with Mr. Thornton could for a moment be-
lieve him guilty of anything that was not strictly hon-
ourable! I have no patience with people for listening to
that homd Mr. Holland's vile accusation, but about here
they are so ignorant."
"Do you mean to say that that poor man is alone in
the house with four sick children, and no one to help
him to nurse them? » exclaimed Lady Millicent.
Yes; isn't it dreadful? And, what is worse, I am
afraid he has no money," replied Mrs. Grear, fairiy cry-
ing by this time.
Lady Millicent did not cry— she was not of the cry-
328
Through Things Temporal
ing sort; but her eyes were very bright, and there was a
red spot on either cheek as she said warmly :
" But this is too terrible I What is the matter with
the children? Are they very ill ? "
" Only severe colds to begin with ; but the poor little
things have been so neglected since their aunt's death
that now I fear they are very bad indeed ; and they will
be worse unless I can get some one to look after them at
once. I would gladly go myself, but the vicar is suffer-
ing from one of his worst attacks of gout, and can hardly
bear me out of his sight; and none of my servants will
go on account of this ' suspected thief ' nonsense."
"It is nonsense, and worse than nonsense," said Lady
MiUicent, with flashing eyes.
"I know it is ; but, nonsense or no nonsense, it will
be the death of those poor children, and will prevent
everybody from offering that desolate man a helping
hand." ^ *
" Not everybody; it will not prevent me," said her
ladyship.
"No; you are always good and kind. But in this
case I fear you are poweriess, as your servants will ob-
ject as much as mine to go and nurse the little Thorn-
tons."
" I shall not ask my servants to go and nurse the
little Thorntons; I shall go and nurse them myself," said
Lady Millicent, with her grandest air.
" You, Lady Millicent ? " gasped Mrs. Grear, breath-
less with amazement that this fine lady, who had never
done a stroke of work in her life, should suddenly offer
to undertake a menial duty, at which even little Kate
Green had turned up her plebeian nose.
329
I
Through Things Temporal
Mrs" Gre^r \ ^ f, 7'?' ^°°^ ""^' ^ =»" "»"'«= XO".
"; orear. I shall dnve straight to the cottar an,
f nL T i .^ ""^ "'"" '^^'^ t° *e Court with me •
•f not I shall suy and nurse them at the cottage "
~,.. r^lT/ ''^""'' '***y' *'>»' wi" people say'" ex-
';it doesn't matter in the least to me what people will
whoH^n' '?'" *"' *'y "'^''- " P*"«t«d Mrs. Grear,
who d.d not approve of mountains being uprooted from
ttmo^r '""=' ^" °^^- '° P-ueLWmS
rnv!i ^"'? **'i'/.?" **"" **y *^" *'nk if they are wise "
Ca ttShoi T' "t^ "'" """"^ *"' M"«-nt
atbJt" ^ f •""" " ''°* ''"'y ^°^ forty years-has
at last begun to be a woman ; and that, having spoilt Ed
mund Thornton's life twenty years ag^ by her S fnd
coward.ce, she has now the cou4e to t^ to make
will thmk Mrs Grear, and they will not be far wrong."
h,Inl r "i ^°"'^°" «t in his wretched home,
helplessly endeavouring to soothe the sufferings of his
IKXjr httle children, he felt that life was over for him, and
In", p"! ^^ "^^^ ''"''''"• "«= ^'^ ^'■""ed with Fate,
and Fate had conquered ; what was the use of struggline
any more? Kate Green had left him that momingfanf
the giris insolent explanation of her reasons for thus
forsakmg him in his extremity, had cut him to the quick
His brother and s.sters-to whom he had humbled him-
330
JSSm^m ».-:
Through Things Temporal
»elf to ask for help-had definitely i„d finally refused to
have anythmg to do with him and his starving children ;
and now he was m a sore strait indeed, and knew no
wh ch way to turn. But while he sat in dumb misery,
fcelmg that h>s burden was too heavy to be borne, a
radiant vision entered his shabby little parlour, and the
vo.e which had made the only music in his life, sIS
come to C^ll!"' "' "^ "^ •" *'°"'"^' »"'• ' ""
CHAPTER IV
lir-ft'^r "'"' '^"?''^°'' ""tened spell-bound while Mil-
Si f'T r^?''*"' '° ''''" •"=' P'»" °f "-rrying of!
,t ht? f ""v"'""' *° ^"'^' C°"«' ""-J ther7nuSi„g
Ln. H? "°T' ''"""*'■ ^' ''"' he was sorely
provided, and make no demur; but on second thoughts
Mt Sr*" '" *"" ^r^'"^ P^^^'^y '""^ ^'^•"^ had still
left mtact) rose up and spoke.
" You are very good, Lady MiUicent ! " he said " I
TZrZV?"'''^^T'' ^"^ '"'*"^«'y I appreciate your
sible for me to accept it."
.,.„". °h I you are wrong, you are wrong," cried Lady
tor the folly of twenty years ago! "
" I am not punishing you. You never deserved pun-
ou'r;,:.:"'' " ^°" '•'• ' *"" *^ '^^^ -- *° --"
331
Through Things Temporal
"Then you are too proud to let me help you. Pride
may be a good thing in n.oderation (though I have my
doubts about that) ; but now you are carryi^ng it tZ"'
But It IS not pnde now that stands in my wav As
a^matter of fact I think that the pride which «„ not' sub!
deed anT?" """^ "j"'""' " " ^'^^ ^^eap affair in-
"The ^./l" P^?"'' !° «y 'hat I never possessed it."
.in u , "" ' P"''" ^hich prevents you from let-
ting me help you. what is it?" demanded her Sshb
«mpat.ently, for the queen-regnant of Carewe was unac-
customed to the slightest opposition.
It IS love," cried Edmund eagerly takino^ her .,„
a? a thie?^ I°rf . n" "'"""'' '° ''^^^^^ ^^ branded
TherS T " " '"'"-""•^ ^ "''" *ho loves you.
vou stm T \ i""""" '°^'^ y°"^^ " I didn't love
S'rif °"'^ "'°^' gratefully accept your offers of
sSthe r^?"; r ™°*"'«'' children, and should
spend the res of my dishonoured days in trying to show
S,oTo a^'""'' '°r' "^ "^'y BountiL^ do „o^
stoop to assure you that I am innocent of the vile thing
a.d to my charg^it would be an insult to your friS
to It, but though I am still honourable and honest I
am nevertheless steeped in misery and disgrace 'l
to?e iLKlr" 'n ^"•^'^ " '"^" - -y-^ to ofTe
to the Lady M.lhcent Carewe his love; but none the
less^ would it be impossible for him 'to accept Jer
"^ ''^"''',? "?'= '^°"^' '°^« and charity are really
synpnymous," said Millicent softly; "but, if you w3
332
Through Things Temporal
prefer it we will call the thing which I an, offering to
}ou by the former name." "'Jinng lo
"Oh MiUiccntl don't tempt me above what I am
able to boar Vou know as well as I do thaU would
be madness or you to marry me in my present position
but for puy-s sake don't add to my mLry by^lay'g
with me. I can not bear it." P'-^'ng
th/.^K?"' ^f'"""''; '*'=n'y y«rs ago I threw away
^1T^T^" '°' *"' "''^°^' ^"^ I ""ve been living
among shadows ever since till I am half sick of them
Ucti ' : ^i' °' """°"- ^°" ' --' t° change m;
Uctics and throw away the shadows for the substance
1 am not an mexperienced girl as I was then; I am a
woman of the world, and I know what I am ddng H
by marrymg you I lose my place in society, let it go I I
ha ve had my fill of it, and can be perfectly hkppy iJ
It. A woman can be happy without being a fine lady;
but a fine lady can not be happy without being a woman
When I was young and foolish you asked me to marry
you and I refused. Now that I am old and wise I as^
you to marry me; will you refuse as I did, Edmund?"
And of course Edmund did not refuse
fU ^°vf^, ^!"''=*"' """^ ^" °*" ^»y- and «med ofl
he sick little Thorntons to the Court, where she nursed
them back to health; and thereby implanted in their
youthful breasts a passion of devotion to her sweet self
which nothing thereafter could shake or diminish. Her
engagement to Edmund Thornton was a nine-days-won-
der of the finest quality; but its edge was slightly taken
K [ u ',^^'^'P' °P'"'°") ^y 'h« discovery at the
bank that Mr. Holland's nephew had stolen The fifty
pounds after all, so that Edmund became a hero on his
333
i-.-,.^'
i^^l_l ^
Hi!: ii
Through Things Temporal
own account. She would have preferred to nwrry hira
with the stigma still on his name, to prove to the world
he intensity of her devotion to the man she loved ; and
lor his name to be cleared afterward. But then Lady
Milhcent was only a woman ; Thornton very much pre-
terred the arrangement as it stood.
Lady Thistletop drove to Carewe, as was meet on
heanng the astounding news, on a sort of special mission
to point out to her misguided sister the error of that
sister s ways. For some hours previously to her expedi-
tion, Lady Thistletop carried on such an impressive con-
versation with herself, that her lord and master feared
that he wife of his bosom was demented, and ventured
to ask why she thus greedily consumed her own smoke.
I am preparing what to say to Millicent." replied
her ladyship, with the ominous quietude which precedes
a storm.
"It is always useless to prepare what one says to
people, observed Lord Thistletop; "they never seem
to have leanit their part properly, so fail to give one the
correct cues.
.. r "^Tu ^ "° ^""•" '*'*' ^"''y Thistletop scornfully,
I shall have to be very severe on Millicent "
For a moment the hen-peckf^d peer trembled for the
ofTender for whom such punishn.ent was fore-ordained ■
but when he recalled ho^ the thunders and lightnings
of his ladys wrath-which scorched his poor soul to a
cinder-played apparently harmlessly around his sister-
in-law s pretty head, he took comfort, and thanked a
kindly Fate which reserved its fiercest storms for those
who were strong enough to endure them. In which
phalanx of heroes Lord Thistletop was not numbered.
334
^mmmpK^xM^mimt^.^M^.
Through Things Temporal
Ai her husband had foretold, Emma's carefully re-
hearsed duUogue was not histrionically a success. Mil-
licent certainly had omitted to learn her part properly-
at any rate she was never ready with her cues, so that
when Lady Thistletop at length uncorked the vials of
her wrath they were as flat as bad soda-water
fh.r'' '^"/ ^° ».'"*' "'^ "" °' discussing it any fur-
ther, said Lady M.llicent at the conclusion of the whole
matter. 'I have made up my mind, and surely I am
old enough to please myself."
" But think what people will say about such folly "
groaned the agonized Emma.
.1, "l"'"y *=^"'' «y nastier things about my folly than
they do about your prudence," replied Millicent, with
her sweetest smile; "and yet you and Tb:stletop don't
plunge mto reckless extravagance just because a lot of
stupid people call you mean and stingy. I often admire
your mdiflFerence to people's opinions in this respect and
your superior sei.se in calmly pursuing your own way
in spite of impertinent remarks," continued the younger
sister, knowing full well that the free comments of The
country-side on Lord Thistletop's publicly-practised
economies were as gall and wormwood to his hospitable
wife's soul. '^
" And it is such a wretched match, too," remarked
Emma, wisely ignoring her sister's counter-attack, " for
you who have always been so much admired."
"As if I cared about that! The fact is, Emma I
have had all that the world can give, and it hasn't satis-
fied me. I have had wealth and rank and worship and
adulation till I am heartily sick of the whole show Be-
cause the world's best gifts have been mine, I havo been
335
i^"
Through Things Temporal
able to examine them closely and to prove their true
worth; and I have found that not one of them has the
hall-mark of reality, but that all are nothing better than
electro-plate. I feel that my life is empty and desolate,
and that I have been near to missing the best altogether.
I am tired of shams, Emma; and I am thankful that I
have found out their worthlessness before it is too late
for the realities to become mine. To know the good and
to eschew the evil— that after all is our principal duty;
but twenty years ago I was so blinded by the cares of
this life and the deceitfulness of its high places, that I
deliberately eschewed the good and chose the evil— for
my conduct was ruled by my own selfishness and my
love of ease and pleasure."
" Stuff and nonsense ! I couldn't have believed that
a woman of your age could be so school-girlish and ro-
mantic."
" I am not school-girlish and romantic ; but the ex-
perience of life has taught me that the best things in the
world are free to rich and poor alike, so happiness is not
so unevenly distributed as it sometimes appears. I am
tired of being a great lady, and now I hope to be as
happy as the lodge-keeper at my own gates."
So Edmund Thornton and Millicent Carewe were
married, and lived happily ever after, as the story-books
say. And of course society did not drop them, as Lady
Thistletop had hoped and foretold. Lady Millicent's
worid had hailed her as a queen for so long that it
felt she could do no wrong ; and it was accordingly ready
to bow the knee to any king-consort whom her majesty
might be pleased to select. The worid is somewhat like
a nettle after all; it stings those who fear it, but upon
336
Through Things Temporal
those souls who dare to defy its sordid and frivolous
traditions it is poweriess to work any evil.
Set free from the chains of poverty, and with the in-
spiration of Millicent always at his side, Thornton took
up his art again, and became a painter of no small dis-
tinction; and proud indeed was Lady Millicent when
her husband was acknowledged to be one of the foremost
artists of the day. The children were an mterest to her-
and under the constant influence of that most perfect of
all creatures, a well-bre> Englishwoman, they developed
into charming girls, distinguishcr' by much of their
fathers beauty and their stepmother's ease of manner
In the eariy days of Lady Millicenfs married life,
the hearts of the Hollands were heavy within them It
was characteristic of Mrs. Holland that, though it was
she who had egged her husband on to drag the name
of tdmund Thornton through the mire, she blamed her
spouse unceasingly for his vindictiveness, now that their
enemy had triumphed over them; and she never rested
until she had induced Mr. Holland to go himself to Ca-
rewe Court, in order to make his peace with the oflFended
ruler thereof. But the offended ruler, for all her gracious
ways, was not made of such light elements as the
bankers wife imagined. Lady Millicent looked out of
her window one sunny morning, and spied Mr. Holland
driving through the park toward the house ; whereupon
she laid her plans and made her ready for battle re-
joicing that Edmund was out at the time, so that' her
enemy would be delivered into her hands with no fel-
low-man near to help him.
Mr. Holland tried to hide his sinking heart under his
most busmess-hke and banking air, as he rang the bell at
337
1 l?i
Through Things Temporal
Carewe Court. He feared the lady he was about to en-
counter, but he feared the lady he had left behind still
more; so between the deep sea on the one hand and the
unmentionable alternative on the other, the prosperous
banker was in a sore strait.
The butler answered in the affirmative to his inquiry
as to whether Udy Millicent were at home; but, to Mr
Holland's amazement, the man left him standing in the
hall while his card was carried in. The emissary quirkly
returned. .- i /
" Her ladyship says that if you want anything you
had better apply to Mr. Thornton himself, or to the
agent. She never sees people on business."
Mr. Holland could hardly believe the testimony of
his own ears. Could the lady realize to whom she had
sent this message? But yes, she must, as the banker
had sent m his card so as to prevent any mistake as to
his identity.
" Tell Lady Millicent Thornton," he replied in his
most pompous manner, "that I, Mr. Holland, the
banker, most particularly wish to speak to her. Neither
Mr. Thornton nor the agent would serve my purpose."
The butler carried the message into the morning-
room. On his return he said —
" Her ladyship is too much engaged just now to speak
to you; but if you will wait in the housekeeper's-room
for an hour she will see you then."
Again Mr. Holland felt that he had received a blow.
The housekeeper's-room! What an unseemly spot for
an honoured banker to sit down in I But he had no
redress, so meekly followed the stately and imperturbable
b^tler down a long stone passage to his unhallowed rest-
338
ii lit
■^Lmm d^-
:^VJ -t 14 i
through Things Temporal
Sne' r., \^'- ."°"'""' ''' '°' "'°- '"=>" =•" hour
alone in the housekeeper's room the spirit gradually
went out of him, and his fears of the woman hf had S^
behmd became as nothing in comparison with hi lar
of the woman he was about to meet. After all, it is the
unknown that terrifies us, and the Gehenna of Mr .Ho,!
land s wrath was by no means an undiscovered bourne to
her much-endurmg husband ; in fact he felt almost hTm ?
s^k for th.s oft-trodden valley of humiliation, when he
pictured the un.magined torments to which £ady Mil!
h"s coural , ^^^^^^ «="'"?' during which time all
h.s courage oozed away through his finger-tips, Mr. Hol-
nto the n T' ''^ "" ''''''' ^''°''=^ ^"d ^°"d"cted
an ea,v T^ T''""' ^^^^^ '^'"'=^»t was sitting on
an easy cha.r m her pretty morning-room, looking more
1 n^t ? "^l"^- "^^''^ *"«her discourtesy
did not serve to put the wretched banker more at his
Zt ?>. '■°°'^ "' '•"" '^°°' *'"^ ^^ hat in his hand,
looking the picture of misery, and feeling even worse.
Mr. u ,^.°" """"^ '° 'P'^'^ *° '"«'" ^id hT lady-
ship in her coldest manner, without even the prefix of
(jood morning.
The banker'.s knees trembled beneath him; it was
worse than he had pictured in his wildest nightmans
but the thought of the storm that awaited him attome
sEd ht"" "°' '° '"" ''*"'°"' ''"''-'"^ ' '"°'" '°^ ''™-
"I wanted to speak to you. Lady Millicent, on a
little matter of business," began poor Mr. Holland won-
dering how it was that his voice seemed to come out of
3.^9
it
Through Things Temporal
the top of his baW head instead of out of his mouth as
usual.
" If it has reference to taking one of my farms, or
anythmg of that sort, you must see Mr. Thornton or
the agent about it. I told my servant to tell you so : did
he not.'"
" Oh ! yes, he did— he did. But it isn't about that "
gasped Mr. Holland.
" Perhaps it is about a nephew of yours," said Lady
MiUicent more gra'ciously, " who, I was sorry to hear,
got nito trouble some little time ago. If he wants to
make a fresh start, and if you think he would be more
out of temptation working in the country than in a bank,
. should be very glad to help him to take to better ways
by findmg him something to do on my estate; but that
also must rest with my husband. He understands busi-
ness so much better than I do that I leave everything
to him; and of course his wishes are paramount here
But I am sure he would be willing to help any young
man m trouble, so I shall be very pleased to refer your
request to him."
But this was more than even the afTrighted banker
could stand, so at last he found words.
" It was about your husband that I came to speak
to you. Lady MilHcent, and not about my nephew I
wish to explain to you that unfortunate— er— mistake
conn, .ted with Mr. Thornton's dismissal from my bank."
" Excuse me," said Lady Millicent freezingly, as she
rang the bell, " if I decline to listen to your explanation.
I should regard it as an unpardonable liberty if a friend
of my own presumed to discuss my husband and his
afTairs with me ; but from a perfect stranger such ns your-
340
lici:
:!?!^:- "^
Through Things Temporal
Telr'^r'T"""" ^"''"^'' =■" intolerable imperti-
nence Show this person to the door," she added to the
man who answered the bell.
For one moment Mr. Holland stood irresolute It
was msupporuble to be called a "person" by a fine iady
with an miperturbable butler looking on. But on the
o her hand, of what profit was speech? for it woumL
d fficult to prove by force of argument to the most un!
prejudiced audience that a middle-aged banker was not
.^«srAnd\?fl\r"^'^^'--'"-^-'^^^>-
I punished the old wretch thoroughly " she mused
with complacence ; " he will never forget il'as Tonkas he
l.ves But I am glad Edmund was not at home he
would never have allowed me to be so rude to anybody
m my own house-not even to Mr. Holland. Men are
so dreadfully magnanimous. I am very thankful, there-
lore that 1 am a woman-otherwise that horrid banker
would never have got his deserts."
h.r=!j!?"°"'l'" "'?!""" **" ^'^y ^""""t t°°>t it upon
herself to see that Mr. Holland had his deserts ; and if her
ladyship had heard what his better half and domestic
Nemesis was pleased to say to the offending banker she
would have felt that Edmund had been amply avenged
341
I!
": I!
II
li^
I c
A LATTER-DAY STYLITES
! 1
A LATTER-DAY STYLITES
The Reverend Mark Tyrrell sat in his dingy little
vicarage, trying-as he had been trying as far back as
he could remember-to soothe the garrulous complain-
ings of his invalid sister. And the soothing of Julia Tyr-
rell was not a task to be lightly undertaken : it combined
the maximum of effort with the minimum of reward ; for
the smiles of Julia when gratified were by no means as
effecUvc as the sneers of Julia when grieved. Neverthe-
less it was a task in the fulfilment whereof Mark never
failed or even lost his patience. His mother, at the close
of her life, had made him promise that he would care for
her spoiled darling henceforth as she had done hitherto •
and smce Mrs. Tyrrell's death, some four years ago
Mark had kept that promise to the uttermost. Every
one else had grown tired of Julia's ill-health and Julia's
Ill-temper ; but not so Mark. The more their little worid
weaned of Julia, and cast her oflf (as everybody's little
world will do sooner or later to those whose afflictions
are long drawn-out), the more did her brother cleave to
her, and sacrifice himself on the shrine of her whims
and fancies. Untried friendships are those which last the
longest; and Julia tried her friends so sorely that they
soon ceased to be her friends at all : Mark, noticing this
and yet poweriess to avert it, did his utmost to prove
345
' i
A Latter-Diy Stylites
himself an antidote to the poison which disillusion and
d.sappomtment had instilled into his sister's soul Ju"ia
one"? h::: ""' '° "^ ?"-<•— '"bly in that she w^
one of those women, unfortunately not a rare type, whose
ms^des and outs.des in no way match each other. iT
than i ""' ';"'• '"'"'""'= «'^'' """S for little else
than pleasure and uxury and admiration; and, had she '
been nch and good-looking, she would have cm a very
fair figure m the worldly world for which her needy S
sou hungered. But outwardly she was a sickirwoml?
pas her first youth, whose slight pretensions "[o prett"
e4^e« of f?^""" ^ "'"•^ °"' "y 'hose merciless
th^ !r t"' ''"'""'• "'■•'«''"' ""d '™i'ed means •
therefore the poor, warped creature spent her useless
days m devouring sensational novels, and kicking feebly
Jough unceasingly, against the pricks. Her brXS
SlS'he" "" '"^'''"'-«''>-- in all the stress of hi
full hfe he was never too busy to sympathise with her
suffenngs, nor too tired to lighten the gloom of her
rSmoTthT""- •^"'' '"'*''*^' he denied hir^:
self almost the necessaries of life in order that lulia
should have enough and to spare of those it^^ux!
nTtLctef "^^'" "^ -•"^'' -- P'-"->°v4
said M^rk JeX"^ '"^^ ^°" ^^^' ^ "' '^'^'^y- <•-,"
th,l' J^""" '* """"'"^ *° ''" especially sorry about to-day
that I can see," replied Julia pettishly; "I alwaytfeel'
■11, but you are too busy to notice it." ^
r?*!; "?' ^'"' "°*' J"'^y- I am sure it makes me
wretched wh«, I think that you are in pain; aLd Vd
pladly bear it for you if I could." . «iu i a
346
A Latter-Day Stylites
"But you can't, you see," snapped Julia, "worse
luck for me I "
"Nevertheless, cheer up. old girl I I daresay you'll
feel better to-morrow."
" Cheer up, indeed I That is just like you. You are
so strong and well yourself that you find it easy to be
cheerful; and therefore you think that everybody is as
happy and as comfortable as you are," grumbled Julia.
Mark was silent for a moment. " Cheering up " was
not as easy a task to him as his sister imagined, and as
for being "happy and comfortable," he had long ago
decided that such blessedness was a dainty not written
down on his mem of life. Then he said tenderly : " Isn't
there anything that I can do for you, little girl? Let
me take you out in your bath-chair."
" Take rae out in my bath-chair? I'm far too ill to
dream of going out to-day, and you ought to have the
sense to see it."
" You do seem ill, darling," apreed Mark lamely.
He felt that somehow he had been a brute, but could not
quite understand wherein his brutality lay. " Of course
I noticed it as soon as I came in, but I thought the fresh
air would do you good."
" Strong people are always so stupid about the fresh
air," whined the invalid; "they think it is such a treat-
but delicate people detest it I wish you could enter into
other people's feelings a little, Mark ; but you never seem
able. You judge everybody by yourself, and you think
that all mankind are as strong and happy as you are."
The young vicar smiled sadly. " I could hardly be
accused of optimism if I did, Julia; but let that pass.
And I have a piece of news for you: Beatrice Earle is
347
I
J^
'
m
I III
i! i ^!
• I
! I
I' u
III 'k
rl\
A Latter-Day Stylites
ftsT '° ^"""'"''- '° "- -'" "«" rich Old uncle
and worn her bSr'IVe hidt ""' "°"" '"'* "'^
" Beatrice told ^e herseU fhT" """ ^"'"'''^•
Mar. in a voice that w^Xitror ^' '*''"«'
I dont wX'^h": i^^sf r;v,-^^'' °' "- --•
Australian uncle She ZS ''^' *'"• "«•» °'<1
father's death a„d her it ^f °" ?"' *"' ^'"« h'^
and comfortable" "'' """^ "^"y'' '°°''» "right
|o.:fS^i^2^— -^-r^:^Bea.ce
At any rate she is sure to secure a hu.!h:.n^ «
bands are as plentiful as blackberrils^utX I bt
"And, moreover, such a speech is absurd when ap-
348
■ rl
mw'i-'mm^i
A Latter-Day Stylites
plied to a beautiful girl like Beatrice," coi> , i Mark,
ignoring the interruption.
Julia pouted. " Oh I everybody knwv , r,„ ,;c -,i,n
ply infatuated with Beatrice; but, for my f,„.t, . ould
never see her charm. She is too vigiioti, ,, rl cneigai>-
for my teste; and I am sure that m.- 1 aclm: -> r.tii^ ,:..
fragile little women more than those 'i,g stioi fr ■ ne« "
"They may in novels, Judy; I dou!K ,t ui r'al
life."
But Miss Tyrrell was so overjoyed at the n. a ^f La-
friend's exodus that, for a wonder, she did not feel in-
clined to quairel; though her custom was to twist any
and every remark into an insult for herself, and to resent
It accordingly. But for this once she did not make her •
self ready for battle, and she continued :
" I am extremely glad that she is going away for an-
other reason. Do you know, Mark, I have sometimes
felt afraid that you might fall in love with Beatrice and
want to marry her? It would have been fearfully hard
on me if that had happened. I scarcely think you could
have been so selfish as to do such a thing; but still
It was just possible, as long as Beatrice was on the
ground."
Mark crossed the room and looked out of the win-
dow, for he did not want Julia to see his face or hear
his voice just then. When we have just buried our hap-
piness, we do not care to see our friends dancing and
making merry over the grave. After a time we allow
them to picnic there at will ; but while the grave is quite
fresh, we feel inclined to put up a notice : " Visitors are
requested to keep oflf the grass." As Julia continued her
silly, selfish chatter, iu serene unconsciousness of the
349
A Lattcr-Day StyJites
brother as befom ^^ P*'''°'' unemotional
cause mother made you 11 ^ ^'''•'" ^'•''' be-
after me. Even withYhTo7|:r°"'1 ''"'^^ '-''
you could hardly have afforln ft '""""<= '°rt»ne.
and if you could! I wouM nl^ 1° ^''^ "«= *^° °f "s
house with that ;ir l^nr^r^Thr 7 *'^ """^
Mness of hers would have eiven mt u ''"'^'' =''^"-
added Miss Tyrrell whoiT ? ^^'°"'' '"^'^ache,"
and who regar^e?;v:ryft „'X^^ ^'» ^^ ^-tilit;.
and natural and heakhv 1,7^ '""' '''"'^htforward
treme. To her minTa Ll T."""" "''' '"'^ '" ""e ex-
Wood, and an untested d,n' ^^ '"'*' ^^' ''^ °' ""We
finement. "'' "^'""'^ *he acme of genteel re-
said 'hl^titrlSn-'^ .^:°tt Tr "-' W
♦hat I have given vou „„" "P^^h for you to know
n«rry.butwirco^^myseVtoZ" '"'* ' "'" "--
li^htening-as far as in me "l^Jl"? T °' ^°"' '^'^
been laid upon you. Therefo- T "'"''"" *'"^h has
self, or make youLf mSi^'r" "^'" '^"^^ y^""--
woman. howeL chi'^^^i^' -^^"'"^ '""^ ''"^
-vou and me. I have^V.^' *"■ *=°"«' ''^'^een
final; and as itJs a s'bSct I dTnoT ""'' '"" "'='' '^
ther, J shall be obliged to v^""' °"^ '' '"'■
from mentioning iSii An/ '°'' ^" '""'^'y '^f™"
ns change the topic an^ talk of 1"°!^-'"^ ""'' ''"'"■ '«
any one been to' 00^0^11^1^- '"^ P'^='«'"'- ^
People hardly ever come to see me now. The way
A Latter-Day Stylites
° Th,* ^,"'' ^°" ^°"^^ "°t let him call here "
That s just like your selfishness. Mark I Here am
I shut up m this poky little hole, wLile you a" goi™
about enjoymg yourself; and yet you grudge me ^^
i '.ouirStHcT s r " ^''°"^' •'-■'"^ ^-'"^•
to be " S i t^ r ''"^'''' J"''^; I "rtainly try not
"Well, his visits are a pleasure to me anvhow"
-d^the .nvalid crassly; "and that ought to'bre'nt^h
fh,rv "' *", i". '"'''' " ^'fi^"" "»"' dear; and they sav
that his wealth is by no means well-gotten " ^
Stuff and nonsense! I hate tlie stupid, gossioine
people about here, Mark; and the fact that hTaC
self ^hatl .?r,!" u*.^ '°"^''* ^"•^'^ » battle with him-
self that day, that he had not the heart to begin another
had h '"'"■• ."' '""' '^""""^^^'l' i' " t™e; bu h^
had been so sorely wounded in the fray that he longS
to he down and d.e. Therefore he capitulated at once
IHaV^-^"" ^°^^"^ '^''""" "P i" h" study Md
Zll .."^ """"P" '" "^^ '"«' """d he realized tC
though the victory was his, the pain of such victory™ .
351
A Latter-Day StyliteS
III ■'
It ' ■«
It-
mi
harder to bear than defeat; for the garden of his life
had been the battlefield, and it was so scorched and
blackened, and trampled into dust by the fury of the
fray, that it could never rejoice or blossom any more
for ever. For he loved Beatrice Earle, ai.d he knew that
she loved him: nevertheless for his oath's sake, and for
the sake of the worthless sister who daily sat at meat
with him, he put love and all its attendant happiness out
of his life, and deliberately chose rather to sufifer with
Juha than to rejoice with the woman he loved. Mark
was fully aware that no one would have the patience
with poor Julia that he had, and he believed that, apart
from him, she would mope and pine away; and he also
knew that she would never consent to live in the same
house with Beatrice, as she was terribly jealous of all
women more fortunate and more attractive than herself.
Therefore there seemed nothing for it but to let Beatrice
go; though in that case their parting would, in all hu-
man probability, be a final one. And— which was the
cruellest cut of all— Beatrice would have to go away
with hard thoughts of him in her heart; for if once he
spoke the words of love, whereof his spirit was so full
no parting would be possible: therefore his lips were
sealed.
Ever since they had been boy and giri together,
, Beatrice Earie had been the one bright element in Mark
Tyrrell's dreary little worid. She was the salt of his
life, and kept his spirit fresh and wholesome, in spite
of the depressing counter-influence of his selfish and
exacting sister. There are many people who are like
salt on the earth : th; presence of one such gives savour
to the dreariest party, and flavour to the dullest day;
35a
A Latter-Day Stylites
and yet they are not necessarily better than their fellows.
But they have the gift of a strong personality; and
without such as these in the world, life would soon lose
its savour for most of us. Deprived of Beatrice's brac-
ing and invigorating influence, Mark felt that he should
soon grow as dissatisfied and bitter as Julia herself; nev-
ertheless—so strong was his sense of what he believed
(though wrongly believed) to be his duty— he had de-
cided to put away from him tl.i only gladness he had
ever known ; and, having once decided, he was as iron
—nothing 9n earth could alter his decision. With the
tendency of all morbid and ascetic natures to see only
one side, and that the darker side, of a question, Mark
did not realize that a duty which coincides with inclina-
tion may possibly be as urgent as a duty which involves
self-sacrifice; nor did he understand that a brilliant,
capable woman, such as Beatrice, had after all as great
a claim to consideration as a sickly, unattractive woman,
such as Julia. He still clung to the mediaeval heresy
that what is unpalatable is invariably to be commended,
and what is pleasant, invariably to be condemned ; and,
further, he was ready to uphold, even to the death, what-
soever he imagined to be of faith and not of sin. Never-
theless he could not yet bear to face the idea of a daily
life wherein Beatrice no longer lived and moved and had
her being.
During the weeks which preceded Beatrice Earie's
departure, the girl bore herself bravely, though a life
apart from Mark was to her mind the very abomination
of desolation. But Beatrice had her full complement
of that useful article called pride, and this came to her
help in her time of need. .She was enough of a woman
353
^Am\
;ri f:>
A Latter-Day StyliteS
».. ~«.y „^,», If h'liirr^,*',;'-^
Tln^l-'"^u^'^ *° '"* '"=^ °"t °f her Happy vL-
™ag,„ed) his tiresome sister to h^r r tm s^elf and
she was al,ke incapable of fathoming the dep hs o1
Ma^k s s.ent devotion to her, and of si ling the hdghts
of h,s quixotic powers of self-sacrifice, fifatrice couW
thl". ?'!."''. "'''' ^P'' ""y voluntarily le up
tE!I t^'''"* =" ""= «"' °' '^^^■' « they th^gave
them up, she simply believed that the forfeked artfde!
were^not their hearts' desires at all, but dummies nl
7,Z:. . ' "''"'"y ■"'t'^'nents, capable of meas-
out fhet '°'"'"°" *''"^' '"'^ "°' •^"•e^ed for m^tlTg
out the precous metals; but, such as thev were Mark
the least b.tter drop i„ the young man's cup of renun
354
A Latter-Day Stylites
ciation was the knowledge that of the two women dear-
est to him upon earth, one was unconscious of, and the
other disdamful toward, his great sacrifice. But all this
moved him never a whit.
H,/ f ^'J'r" '*/'' ®^*"" °"^ ^y- "°' '°ne before the
date fixed for her departure, "when I am in Australia
1 shall often think of you, and wonder what has hap-
pened to you, and what you are doing."
The vicar's face had grown very worn and haggard
of late, but he answered cheerfully: "A less vivid
imagination than yours would hardly need to experience
wonder on that score; for I shall always go on doing
the things that I have always done, and nothing wiU
happen to me till I die."
T ''1?°"'"'^'°°*"™ of 'hat, reverend sir. Perhaps
I shall hear of your leading about a wife as well as a
sister some day."
"Never, Beatrice. I once promised my mother that
I would never marry and leave Julia, and I mean to
keep that promise to the end. I feel that my life
Le"r!» ""^ °^"' ''"' " '^"^''"'"^ '° ™y *"ff"'"K
Mt,"J^\1 ""^ ''*"■ ''"'' ''"'=^' °f y°"' yo" know,
Mark, and I can not tell you how much I admire you
for t. In fact I don't believe there is anybody in the
whole world as good as you. Nevertheless I can't help
thinkmg that such extreme unselfishness is unnatural
and to some degree morbid. like the hectic flush on a
feverish person's cheek, in spite of its beauty"
I kuow that you and I could never think alike on
such a subject. Beatrice," replied the young man sadly,
for you have always been a bit of a pagan. You are
355
1
, s .a
rii
1 ti
A Latter-Day Stylites
so prone to take the world easily and cheerfully, and
not see the self-sacrifice which the ideal life involves."
" Good gracious, Mark ! you really are too good for
anything. Being with you is like living in a cathedral
—very ennobling and improving, but apt to make one
cold and hungry if one lived there entirely. But, for
all your goodness, you are terribly misguided. I can
not for the life of me see why Julia's happiness is all-
important, while yours counts for nothing."
" I can not explain, Beatrice ; but I see my duty
plain before mc, and I mean to do it. I am perfectly
aware that you consider me a fool ; but that only means
one more prickle on my already thorny path of life."
Even a worm will turn — much more a highly re-
spected ecclesiastic. Beatrice knew that she could make
this particular worm turn whenever she liked, and for
years these enforced gymnastics had been a spectacle
much patronized by that younp lady ; so she was glad
to discover that her hand had not lost its cunning in
worm-turning exercises, and cheerfully con*in-.ied the
same.
" I don't Ihink you are a fool, my good Mark ; I have
always knoum it. One doesn't think about self-evident
facts. But don't be depressed, my dear boy; yours
isn't at all a peculiar case."
But Mark was a little cross by this time, and held
his tongue; so Beatrice, nothing abashed, continued
musingly :
" Curtius was a hero when he jumped into that hor-
rid, yawning pit, but he was none the less a fool ; Sim-
eon StyHtes was a saint when he sat all his days on
the top of that nasty old pillar, but he was none the
3SC
A Latter-Day Stylhes
less a fool; the Reverend Mark Tyrrell is both a hero
and a saint, but he is none the less a fool. I have
spoken. ' "^
" And spoken to the point, as usual," said the vicar
whose anger had been ephemeral. "'
" I always do-it is a rule of mine. Now, for my
part, I never understand pe^k like Curtius and Sty-
htes. If a thing is of any practical use. do it by all
means; but I have no patience with folks who sacri-
fice themselves to some absurd fetish created by their
own imaginations. You are rather like Stylites Mark
now I come tc think of it; if you thought it your duty
to live on the top of a pillar, to the top of a pillar you'd
stick all the days of your mortal life. Now to me
such an existence would be capital punishment indeed
(please pardon the pun). It would not amuse me
at all."
" I dOT't think it exactly 'amused ' Stylites," inter-
rupted Mark drily.
" Then why on earth did he do it, for certainly no
one else benefited by the saintly escapade?"
'' He felt he was doing what was right, I suppose."
" Nonsense ! Now, in my humble judgment, it is a
far better thing to found a hospital or to open a soup-
kitchen, than to jump down all the pits or to climb up
all the pillars in creation."
" Nevertheless I think I understand why Stylites
stuck to his pillar," mused Mark.
" Of course you do, ' for 'tis your nature too.' But
—to change the subject abruptly from saints to sinners
—why do you let Julia see so much of that terrible Mr
Roper?"
357
.J^
A Latter-Day Stylites
•i
Ui V
ill
ft ^t
" I don't let her ; she will do it. But I hate to inter-
fere with her pleasures, she has so few."
" You are very good to her," said Beatrice gently.
" I try to be, because I am so sorry for her. You
see, she is completely shut out from everything that
makes life so pleasant to pretty, healthy girls like you;
and I am always endeavouring to make up to her for
what she has missed, poor child! The little jaunts and
junketings, the sweet secrets and love-aflFairs, which
make up the lives of other women, are a closed book
to Julia. She never had any real youth; and it is hard
to grow old before one has been young."
"Still I don't think that in any circumstances
Julia would have gone in much for love-aflFairs," said
Beatrice seriously; "the taste doesn't run in your
family."
"Simply because we are neither in a position to
marry," replied the vicar quietly.
"Stuff and nonsense! That has nothing in the
worid to do with it. Love, my dear boy, is a pastime
for one's youth— marriage a provision for one's old age.
It is stupid of you to confound the two."
"Oh, Beatrice, Beatrice, what a cynic you are'"
Miss Earie laughed. " But," she said, " to return
to Julia; I think that, with such a brother as you in
one scale, all the delights you have mentioned will not
be heavy enough to weigh down the other."
" Yet I utterly fail to make the poor giri happy, or
even contented," sighed the vicar.
"I can't bear Mr. Roper myself," remarked the
young lady, with decision.
" Nor can I," agreed Mark, who with regard to all
3&8
j^m^w
iWkJim.
1-41
A Latter-Day Stylites
things save matters of conscience was as wax in Bea-
trice's capable liands.
'■ He is so vulgar," continued the law-giver
added ."hederi?"' ""°" *° "'" "'"^ ^^""''°"'^'"
^ "And so eager to marry a lady," cried Beatrice.
as those common men always are."
" I don't see what good that would do him : marry-
mg a lady wouldn't make him a gentleman."
" It would be just as good," corrected Miss Earie
Have you lived all these years and not yet learned
that .t IS immaterial whence C«sar comes to see the
worid he IS about to conquer; but that the name of
Casars wife must be written in the Red Book, or else
nobody will care to visit with the Caesar's'"
my^hM.'-'""'"" "' '""" '°" "' '''' woridly-wise.
"No, reverend sir, I am not; but I have learnt a
thing or two in my life, which use you do not appear
to have made of yours."
„,e 'i "p''"?'' ^n ^"'' "=^" '"'"<'• This Roper asked
me to Rawley Court times without end, but I invariably
declined his invitations ; then he took to calling or Julia
and bnnging her books and .lowers. I should prefer
to have nothing to do with him; for, if report be true
Hie money which he spends so lavishly at Rawley
Court was wrung out of the savings of widows and
orphans by sundry bogus companies which Edgar Ro-
per promoted. And it is only, I believe, by his ex-
traordinary sharpness and cunning that he has hitherto
escaped detection and punishment."
" No wonder thon •■•'a* ^r '-nn.- t • i t
3S9
A Latter-Day Stylites
glove with such a saint as my dear old Stylites." said
face "'a J?^"^."" »?'^"°"«"='y '"'" the vicar's won.
face, and to bask in the light which your halo exudes."
And I have heard also, my dear Beatrice " con
tmued Mark " that he presumed'to offer hTdin'y Cd"
and sordid heart to the lovely Miss Earle, but that-in
spite of his enormous wealth-she had the courage and
the good teste to say him nay."
"Nasty beast!" said Beatrice concisely. "I hate
him. Let us telk about something else."
And then Mark and Beatrice fell to telking over
happy times long gone by, and tried to forget for a
while the agony of separation which lay straight before
l-hose days before Beatrice's departure were bitter-
sweet days for Mark Tyrrell ; but he endured bravely to
the end. He kept his lips from speaking words of love,
though his silence was pain and grief to him; for he
knew that he must be either all or nothing to Beatrice
iiarle, and his warped conscience decided in favour of
nothing. Therefore he felt bound to leave the giri free
to make fresh ties and to form fresh interests in the new
worid to which she was going, untrammelled by even
the confesswn of his >...>. He reasoned within himself
that Beatrice could do v ithout him, but Julia could not •
and that therefore Julia's was' the stronger claim. His
heart was sore as he pictured Beatrice in a happy home
of her own, surrounded by the admiration and devotion
which beauty and high spirits such as hers can alw?ys
comrnand. and utterly forgetful of her childhood's
fnend : but he knew his heart would be far sorer if
he could picture Julia, lonely and deserted, in the midst
360
A Latter-Day Stylites
of strangers who had no patience with her fretful misery.
knew that h.s sister would probably grow weaker and
more discontented a, the years rolled on. until he and
she went down the dark valley together. They would
bt together-there was always that comfort; and
Mark s promise to his mother would be fulfilled in the
sp.m and in the letter. After all, duty was more im-
portant than love, he thought in his ignorance.
But in spite of his unselfish devotion to his sister
It was a relief as well as a surprise to Mark when Julia
suddenly decided she .vould go up to London to spend
a month or two with a widowed aunt who lived there
The yicar of Norton was thankful to be alone when
Beatrice actually went away, so that he might wrestle
with his agony unseen; and after the first bitterness was
over, he vowed to himself that he would bury his sor-
row out of sight, and be equal to the task of making
the home cheerful for Julia when she returned to it
For Mark was not one of those people who sacrifice
themselves for their friends, and thenceforward keep
sending in to the said friends the bill, until all their
httle world grows weary of the "account rendered"
and relets that the martyrs were not selfish enough
m the first instance to take their own way, and have
done with It. Such self-made martyrs, alas! are rot
rare; but Mark had not enlisted in this noble army
He ran up to town for a day to see Beatrice Earle
sail in the Calliope; and even in his anguish of parting
he found time to call upon Julia at his aunfs, and was
coinforted in the depths of his misery by finding her
better and more cheerful than she had been for years.
361
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RochMtw. Nmt York M609 USA
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A Latter-Day Stylites
He felt that this improvement in his sister's health was
«^e first-fruits of the joyful harvest which his LZ
«.wmg would one day bring; and when he heard her
he ?H? I ',1 "°' ^''^^"^ "'"" her mother's death,
he «.d to himself that his sacrifice had not been in ^in
One evenmg, some weeks after Beatrice Earie's de-
parture the vicar of Norton sat alone in his study. The
&e had gone out, the room was bitterly cold, and it
was ^y hours since the weary man had Ust;i S^
But Mark Tyrrell heeded none of these things. Over
Ztr^'lT^ ^"/'^'^ **° paragraphs in the local
paper which seemed to bum themselves into his brain
The first one ran thus: " On the 4th instant, at S
Nm«n's Church, Kensington, by the Rev. D. Smith
vicar of the parish, Edgar Roper, Esq., of Sy
^^T^nT' '° ■^""'' °"'' ''"^"" *'' *^ '''' ^''■
And the second was as follows: "On the 30th
aSdi"'' '" *' '"'''' °' *' ^"'""P*' ^«'*ri« Eirle.
3&
h was
earful
d her
death,
vain,
'sde-
The
nd it
food.
Over
local
irain.
at S.
nith,
wley
Rev.
30th
arle.
ACCORDING TO HIS FOLLY
ACCORDING TO HIS FOLLY
" I'm sure you'll be glad to hear, Mr. Brunton, that
a really good thing has come in my way at last," said
Algernon Carmichael, whose sunny curls and sunnier
face seemed to mark him out as an " official receiver "
of the good things of this world.
Wilfred Brunton smiled satirically: it was so like
Algy to expect other people to rejoice when he rejoiced,
and to wetp when he wept; and so utterly impossible
to Wilfred to rejoice or to mourn over anything that
did not actually concern himself and his own interests.
Nevertheless, he asked, with a faint pretence at sym-
pathy, " What may your stroke of luck consist of, Car-
michael ? "
"Read this letter, and you'll see. It is from old
Rooke, Lord Meerschaum's agent."
Brunton took the epistle thus eagerly profJered to
him, and read as follows : —
" Dear Mr. Algy,— I feel so old and so broken-
down in health, that I have to-day informed Lord
Meerschaum I must resign the post of agent which I
have so long filled. I know that you have finished learn-
ing the business at Mr. Brunton's, and are anxious to
take an agency yourself: therefore I make bold to write
365
!"■■
fm
According to His Folly
S't",r ""' ""; ■n»l"'"~t -ill now b..om,
uk;ts"^:s,;in -„,■"*" ""1.1-y.h.™
" I remain,
" Yours obediently,
" V/lLLIAM ROOKE."
turn!dT.:"t:tnt' '-SfL""^ "'" "^'^^ »"= -
Carmichael, as aXes Jo ndVll"" ' '''' '>
well to see after it Vn„ h , "^ ''°" *°"'d ^o
I have to telch you and l" '"" "''''' ""'"='' "" '••«'
setupo„yo„.orarjr.r ^- w-X' «^e to
Oh I It isn't altogether that" r»r.i:^ .u
It is s much as my motheTanH T T^ '°«ethi„g.
ends meet as it is LTv ^''" ''° *° '"^'^^ both
sive eveay y!ar." "^ '"'='" '° ^^' -""^^ ^xpen^
"What a queer fellow," said Brunton to him«lf.
}66
According to His Folly
" He doesn't seem in the least ashamed of being poor,
as I should be ; these swells are strange beggars." Then
he added: " I shall be happy 1o give you an excellent
testimonial whenever you wish to leave me, as you thor-
oughly understand the management of an estate, and
are a capital worker."
Carmichael's boyish face glowed with pleasure " I
say, you are a good chap," he said, " and far kinder to
me than I deserve; but old Rooke told me once that to
have been taught by you was a testimonial in itself.
But there won't be any need of rot of that sort, as Meer-
schaum is a second cousin of my mother's, and so will
be sure to give me the post as soon as he knows that
I want it."
This easy self-confidence irritated the elder man-
why should Algy have everything for the asking, when
better and cleverer men than he had to fight every
inch of their way through the world, and only meet with
defeat m the end? But Algernon, unconscious of his
offence, continued cheerfully, "I think I'll write to
Meerschaum at once, if you approve; but I wouldn't
do anything till I'd consulted you."
"Why write at all? It seems to me it would be
far better if you went over to Meerschaum Court your-
self and interviewed his lordship: conversations are so
much more satisfactory than letters in a matter of this
kind."
" What a clever old chap you are I Of course it will
be the best plan to go straight to Meerschaum Court
myself: it is only a couple of hours by raU from here,
and the station is close to the park. I'll go to-morrow."
" I'm afraid I can't spare you to-morrow," replied
367
According to His Folly
..H]
self, and there is no onX'.oTtSiT m' ^° "'^-
my place." ^ ""' ^ ^o^^d trust in
Carmichael's face fell " uru » . .
such a funk that someSdy el« w ,\t „ "k /'"" '"
if I don't see after th. ...■ '''^P '" ^^^o^e me
an awfu. ^LpSr^t^ TheTair f ? ^"""^ \^
mind about the thino- tJ '"^, "f ^'^- I don't much
^eart upon itl'sh^'nl ^S roulh"^ "' '''
ss/nr.'?'"' "^' ^ ''° -^ef tHivrsUt
at present no one SoL of hh ''°°'^'^"^ ^°" »"«'
self and Lord Meerschaum l'fJ'''^'''°" ''"* y^""
mg for it. The day «£?; ' """ =""'* ^' apply-
day : you can go then " "°'' " ^"'"'''^-'' "ank
the SunV traLte'sitort;-^'-'- ^" ''-'''-
MondTt^y^uSf -r?^^^^ " Vou can have
tmvelKng." ' ^' '^"'' '^ y°" object to Sunday
my taSr-htl I Sl^'^ n°' ^"^ -"" '^ '''-
best fellows thaH^r Hved^^Xt^r ' "' """^ °' "-
Sundays; so I promi^ t^f ? ''' ""^ '"^^"'"^ °"
help it; and I h Wt '^ ™ ^ "*^" ^°"'^ « I could
"Tnen go on Monday: one day won't make any
368
According to His Folly
difference, I should imagine. The advertisement of
Lord Meerschaums agency can not be in the papers
before Monday at the earliest."
" All right. I must go home now, and talk to the
mater about our stroke of luck. Good-night, old chap "
Good-night, Carmicbael ; but remember I don't ba-
heve m luck or fate or Providence or anything but
cleverness. Every clever man is his own Providence."
After Algy had gone, Brunton stood for some time
ookmg into the fire. " Wlat a fool!" he exclaimed
to -mself; what an arrant fool! He entrusts his
safety to his God and his secrets to his frierds. I be-
lieve m neither God nor man, and I trust in no one
but myself; and I shall be a rich man, while that simple
lad and his aristocratic mother are still struggling with
the poverty that they are too high-and-mighty to be
ashamed of. Again I say, what fools these high-bred,
high-principled people are ! And yet, for all their senti-
mental piety, they despise me because I am not one of
themselves. Let them wait; I may be neither a gentle-
man nor a Christian, but Til be even with them yet!"
And he laughed aloud.
Before Wilfred Brunton went to bed that night he
wrote and posted two letters :—
"Mir Lord,— I have just heard incidentally that Mr.
Rooke ,s compelled by ill-health to resign his post as
your lordship's agent, and I venture to offer myself in
h>s place. I have been agent to Sir John Pontifex for
fifteen years, during which time I have taken pupils,
all of whom have done me great credit, so that I thor-
oughly -.irderstand the management of a large estate.
369
According to His Folly
tak« in''»h y°"^.'°'<«»Wp wUl pardon the liberty I have
?o1^T ""?/""•« '«> y°"; but I thought th^t b/so
doing I could save your lordship the trouble of adver
twing, interviewing applicants etc if v™. ?i o' *<>*"-
I .houid ftufi, you'r zr;:::xz:''^''' '"'^
Believe me to remain,
" Your lordship's obedient servant
" Believe me,
" Yours very truly,
"To Sir John Pontifex, B^"^'""'" ^"™'°''-
for the askinT wl\f1 ^^ *"""™ *'" »«= ">!««
5;o
According to His Folly
science 'I They deserve the obloquy wi ch fans to th,!,
share; they call ill-luck what is merely id oty U Ca
sen ndThetdt "^^^'^ ''"'-<' "^-wled^" t^hi^!
self, and If he had known better than to btlieve in God
and .f he had known better than to believe in honour
tZ: rlZ '"'r f '"'^"^^ P--- to his dead
JatJier Therefore the three-fold fool will be but an-
swered according to his folly when he finds L"d
Meerschaum's agency already given to a better manl^an
Wi /r:d B "f "^ ^'" "' ^"^''^^"^ °' - h^h Id "
Wilfred Brunton was the eldest son of a small Lon
don shopkeeper, and by his unusual talents and efficiency
eage tne tact, and he was terribly ashamed of al! hi.
ov™ people, with the exception of the young bro he'
He had ho '"" °"^ °^ '"■" "-"^^ P^-isfngTuS'
s fat";:r'sbr"'T.- ^'*'^ ^'"-'^ iZri/s^
According to His Folly
«nd Khetning and plotting and striving for. Was it
and Willie s, because of some absurd whim about keep-
ing faith with Algernon Carmichael? he asked himself
And self answered that he need do no such thing
Carmichael was the son of a clergyman, who died
just after Algernon left school, bequeathing a scanty
and msufficient income to his well-bom widow and
handsome boy; and it had been a hard struggle with
poverty for Algy and his mother ever since. One of
Mrs. Carmichael's rich relatives paid the premium for
2^T°u,^° ''"°'"' ^'- Brunton's pupil; and now
that he had thoroughly learned his business, the lad was
anxious to set about earning something. Therefore
the news of Mr. Rooke's retirement was joyfully re-
ceived by Mrs. Carmichael and her son. Algy had one
of those loving, trustful natures that think well of every-
body and everything; and lie was err-H:iany devoted to
Mr. Brunton, whose cynical cleverness was of a type
peculiarly attractive to younger men. The idea that
his hero could play him false, was an idea that had never
come into Carmichael's curly head ; but the light-hearted
boy had much to learn which his two-and-twenty years
had not yet taught him. The thirties and the forties are
better schoolmasters than the teens and the twenties;
but the lessons they set are not always pleasant forms of
learning, and they are increasingly chary of their half-
holidays.
On the following Monday Algernon Carmichael
went over to Meerschaum Court to request his noble
kinsman to give him the agency. He explained to Lord
Meerschaum that he had heard from Rooke, and had
372
According to His Folly
come over on the first opportunity to offer himself in
Rooke s place. " Oh 1 1 say, old fellow. I am so awfully
sorry but you have come just two days too late," his
lordship said.
Algy turned pale. " What has happened ? " he asked.
I thought Rooke had told no one but myself that the
plate would be vacant."
•■ K Wu^", "°' ""'!«"'»"d i« at all," replied Meerschaum,
but the fact .s I had a letter from your chap, Brunton,
on Saturday morning, saying that he had heard that
Rooke was leaving, and asking me to give him the
agency. I knew what a clever fellow he was, and how
well he had managed Pontifex's place, and I was only
too thankful to be spared the bother of advertising and
mterviewmg applicants; so I wrote by return, appoint-
ing h,m as Rooke's successor. I wish to goodness I
hadn t been m such a hurry I I should have been only
too glad to have given you the place, if I'd had any
idea you wanted it."
Algernon was silent. He could have borne the dis-
appointment about the agency, though that was great;
but the knowledge of Brunton's disloyalty to him like
the proverbial too^h or foot out of joint, seemed for the
moment unendurable.
Lord Meerschaum put his hand on the boy's
shoulder. " I can't tell you how awfully sorry I am
old man," he said ; " I should have been so tremendously
pleased to do you and your mother a good turn Be-
sides, for my own sake, I would far rather have had you
here than that cad Wilfred Brunton, who for all his
cleverness is nothing but a bounder. But cheer up, my
boy! Something else is sure to turn up before long."
373
According to Mis Folly
" Thank you, Meerschaum," said Carmichael, swal-
lowing down a tiresome htmp in his throat. " I know
I'm an awful ass to be knocked over Hke this, but it is
such a disappointment to me."
At first Algernon thought he would tell Lord Meer-
schaum wherein the real sting of the disappointment
lay; but he had been so devoted to Wilfred Brunton
and so loyal to him, that he could not bear to expose
the breaking-down of his altar and the overthrow of his
idol to careless eyes ; so he held his peace.
" I can't think why Rooke was such a fool as not
to remind me that you were on the look-out for a place
of this kind, or why I was such an idiot as not to re-
member it for myself," grumbled his lordship. " And
I can't for the life of me make out how Brunton got
wind of the thing. 1 suppose I couldn't throw him
over now, could I? I wish I could. What do you
think, Algy ? "
" Oh ! no, no ; a thousand times no ; I wouldn't take
the place from him like that, if you did ; I should feel
I was behaving like a cad. Never mind. Meerschaum,
don't worry about it; I daresay something else will, as
you say, turn up before long."
" I hope to goodness it wili, old chap, for I shall
never feel happy till it does. Now come and have some
lunch. You are always such a favourite with my lady,
and I know she is dying for a chat with you."
And so Algernon went in to luncheon and talked
of other things, and made himself delightful to Lady
Meerschaum and the children; and meanwhile deep
down in his heart he dug a grave for his boyish devotion
to Wilfred Brunton, and felt that nothing would ever
374
According to His Folly
grow there again. But Algy was only twenty-two.
Among the things taught by the thirties and the forties
are valuable lessons in gardening : one of the most im-
portant being the recuperative nature of the human
heart, where the graves of old loves form a fertile and
admirable soil for the planting of new ones, and the
graveyard is quickly turned into a garden again by the
spade of that clever horticulturist. Time.
Wilfred Brunton had his way, as unscrupulous peo-
ple often do, and succeeded Mr. Rooke as Lord Meer-
scli urn's agent; while his younger brother, Albert,
stepped into his shoes as manager of Sir John Ponti-
fex's estate. Whereupon Wilfred congratulated himself
on the success of his scheming, and on his want of
honour and principle; a man hampered with scruples
could not have done the trick as neatly as he had done.
So the Wilfred Bruntons moved to the picturesque
house on Lord Meerschaum's estate, and were delighted
with their new home. It was indeed a beautiful old
house, barge-boarded and ivy-covered and oak-panelled,
like the frontispiece to an historical novel ; and the gar-
den was as charming and quaint as the house.
But when they had been in their new home for a
few weeks, little Willie fell sick ; and the doctor, after
a day or two of agonizing doubt, pronounced the child's
complaint to be typhoid fever. For some time the boy
battled for life ; and when the struggle was at its height,
and its issue most doubtful, Willie's mother— his clev-
erest nurse and strongest ally against the foe attacking
him so cruelly — was stricken down by their common
enemy, and was unable to continue to wait on her dar-
ling. The doctors pronounced Mrs. Brunton's case
375
i
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According to His Folly
hopeless from the first; and when his r.iother was no
longer beside him Willie began gradually to sink.
" Is there no chance for either of them? " asked the
stricken husband and father one terrible night.
"None, I fear," replied the doctor. " Your house,
Mr. Brunton, must be in a most unhealthy state, for I
have never come across more virulent cases of typhoid
anywhere."
" I never bothered about the drains," said Brunton
m a hoarse voice ; " more fool 1 1 My predecessor told
me the house was periectly healthy, and I was idiot
enough to take his word for it."
" You see, my dear sir, Mr. Rooke had lived here
so long that he had become accustomed to breathe
sewer-gas, and was none the worse for it; but to new-
comers the poison was most dangerous. I wish I could
do something more; but I fear it is impossible. How-
ever, I have given the nurses full instructions, and will
look in again the first thing in the morning. Good-
night."
That night Wilfred Brunton had a strange dream.
He thought he was in a foreign land, surrounded by
a people he had never seen before; and these people
were busily engaged in sprinkling their door-posts with
blood. When he asked them what it was for, they an-
swered : " The angel of death will pass through the
land this night, and will smite aU the first-bom; but
when he se^s the blood upon the lintel he will pass over
our doors and will not suflfer the destroyer to come into
our houses."
Then a great fear filled Wilfred's heart for Willie,
his first-bom; and he too strove to sprinkle his door-
376
According to His Folly
posts with blood. But his striving was in vain, for the
blood turned to water when he touched it, and his door-
posts remained as white as ever. Then he cried to the
others to help him, but they turned away, saying : " You
are not one of the Lord's people ; you are a stranger in
the land, and the Lord knoweth you not" Then he
offered all that he had if only the people would help
him and save his child; but they told him that the sal-
vation he asked for was not to be bought by money.
And presently it became dark, and the air was stirred
with the rustling of unseen wings ; and as the rustling
drew nearer the whole earth was filled with the sound
thereof, till there seemed nothing in the universe save
the rushing of those mighty angel-wing^. In vain Wil-
fred shrieked for mercy, and flung himself upon the
unstained lintel of the door of the house where Willie
lay; the door-posts gleamed spotlessly white through
the darkness, and he knew that no bolts nor bars could
keep' out the awful visitant For weeks and weeks, as
men count time, that agony lasted, for Wilfred himself
lay under the shadow of the death-angel's wing^. But
after many days the ghostly rustling ceased to sound
in his ears ; and Wilfred Brunton slowly came back to
life to find that his wife and son were peacefully sleep-
ing in Meerschaum churchyard, and that he himself had
wrii-nigh been overthrown by the enemy that is feared
of men.
A month or two after this, Algernon Carmichael
received a letter from the Earl of Meerschaum : —
" My dear Aloy, — I am extremely glad to be in
a position to offer you my agency, though very sorry
m
1
!■
J' i
' ,
^ 'lifl'iij
m
m ! ' '"
According to His Folly
for the sad events which have made this course possible.
tvohoM? '" '"" '"^^ "'"^ '" ">"^ BruntonfclugS
typhoid fever as soon as they came to live in my aKem's
hous^ It appears that the d«i„s were in aS
conduion, but old Rooke was inured to them! a"
never found it out. Mrs. Brunton and the cWld died
and poor Brunton himself is such a wreck ncehil "
agam. He has gone to live with his father a small
^adesman in Hoxton, so that his mother and s sTers
may look after him. as he will have to lead auite 7n
.nvalid's life. It is awfully sad, and I f e U 's om"
how my fault. I wish to goodness I hadn't b „Tct
self IBur?r' '"*."'','' '°°''"=^ ^ft- 'hings a bit my-
self But I hope It isn't too horrid of me to feel thank-
ul that It was to Brunton and not to you that I gave
f vnT:r!T"' ^''"'' ""^^ would have happ^ed
I can not bear to thmk of it. The place is now being
put in a state of thorough repair, and will not be hato
able and healthy for several months; but Adela joins
me in hoping that Mrs. Carmichael and you„e.f' wH
i^rr '"""^ ""' *^ ^°«^ ""'" your orL:^:^^
IS ready to receive you.
" Yours very sincerely,
" Meerschaum."
settS'in^''tC;'''"" '^u ^''™''=»'««'^ w««= comfortably
settled in their new home, and the story of Wilfred
Brunon's treachery and its punishmen" was ^most
loSlXt- '^ '"'' ' ""'-^'^^ -"-<• *"«= '"
378
According to His Folly
"Dear Carmichael.-I wish to beg your pardon:
not for stepping into shoes which were destined for your
feet, and thus saving your life at the expense of my
wife and my son's-for this surely you would offer me
thanks rather than forgiveness, though I want neither-
but because I took you for a fool, and despised you'
accordingly. It was I who was the fool-not you; for
I said m my heart, ' There is no God.' But there is.
" Yours truly,
".WlLFBED BkuNTON."
379
>
PHILIP MAYSFIELD'S WIFE
PHILIP MAYSFIELD'S WIFE
"And what have you been doing this afternoon,
Bertha?" asked the Rev. Philip Maysfield, as he came
in, tired with his hard day's work, and kissed his wife's
welcoming face.
" Oh ! I have had the sewing party here— such a
lovely sewing party I Honourable women not a few
have permeated my d^awing•^^oom with the odour of
sanctity and unbleached calico, and have beguiled the
way of duty by reading aloud a most pathetic and grue-
some little tale. Every one in turn read aloud till she
began to cry, and then her next neighbour took up the
parable till she began to cry also; and so on, till our
eyes were red, and our tele was read and our spirits
were down in our boots."
" You should not make fun of everything, dear,"
expostulated the weary young divine somewhat sadly.
"I didn't make fun, Phil: I behaved beautifully.
I wore my pale blue gingham gown, and felt so sweet,
simple, and forget-me-not-like, and mingled my teara
with the tears of the saints over the gruesome little story.
By the way, I am sure one's clothes have a tremendous
effect on one's feelings ; for my part, I am always my
nicest in blue. I make you herewith a present of this
original idea, Philip; it would work up into a superb
383
Philip Maysfield's Wife
sermon, and you might gently remonstrate against the
putting on of brown apparel. Have you ever noticed
how horrid people always are in brown clothes ? I often
have. I think it is old Mrs. Cribble's brown frock that
makes her so snappy and disa£Teeable. I dare say that
she'd be quite wee, and modest, and crimson-tipped, iti
pink."
" You are talking nonsense, darting, and I am too
tired to laugh."
Bertha's bright face grew serious at once.
" Are you really tired, you dear old boy ? I am so
sorry, and I won't bore you any more, but will become a
•gracious silence,' like Mrs. Coriolanus (I forget her
other name), and give you your tea in peace and your
bread-and-butter in pieces, all en suite."
When Philip had had his tea, and the weary look
had faded a little from his face. Bertha laid her hand on
her husband's arm and said softly:
"I'm sorry I vexed you, Philip, about the sewing-
party. I'm always frightfully unhappy when I vex you,
and yet I do it every day. But I won't laugh at a sew-
ing-party again, as long as the wortd standeth, if I
may thereby gain your good graces. You know I don't
really care about anything but pleasing you, Phil."
" But that is where you are wrong, my darling,"
answered her husband gravely. " As I have so often
told you, you should do right for right's sake, and not
just because you think it will please people."
" I didn't say people, I said you," corrected Bertha;
" do please be accurate when you quote me."
" Well, then, you should no* do it just to please
me: I am no better than any one else."
384
Philip Maysfield's Wife
"Oh I yes, you are; you are better than every one
else, or I shouldn't have married you; and whatever
I do that is good and nice, I do it to please you."
" But that is not right, dear, and it pains me when
you say it. Surely duty is as high a thing as love;
and conduct should be guided by abstract principles
rather than by emotions, however powerfull"
"I hate abstract principte»— they always give me
cold," shuddered Bertha. " I infinitely orifer you to a
whole code of ethics; and I like to thinK lat you are
perfection, and must therefore be implicitly obeyed in
everything."
" But that is foolish : I am very imperfect, and you
must be able to see it"
" Well, I have noticed it once or twice, but I hoped
I was mistaken, and looked the other way. The minute
you show the tiniest little fault, I shut my eyes tight,
and never open them until I feel sure you are perfec-
tion again."
" What a childish darting you are I To believe what
is not true is always a source of weakness. I am no
more perfection than any one else, and you can not
help knowing it."
" I can not help knowing that the mailed figures in
the Tower of London are stuffed with straw; but the
Tower was a much more interesting and thrilling place
to me in the days when I believed that every suit of
armour concealed a live and terrible hero, who might
jump upon me and slay me at any minute. I remember
now the delicious horror with which I used to tremble
as I thought I saw them move. In the same way it
makes life a very dull affair to discover that the heroes
38s
i
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Philip Maysfleid't Wif'e
in iti battlefield arc only suit* o( armour ttuffed with
straw — in (act it takes the shine out of the whole show.
Can't you understand that I want to believe you are
perfection ? "
" It is folly to want to believe anything that you
know isn't true, dear."
" It is folly of my dolls to stand up and tell me that
they are filled with sawdust I Why on earth can't they
leave me to find it out for myself? I am sure to find
it out sooner or later ; and the later the better, both for
me and for them I Taking the gilt oS the gingerbread
may be a very beneficial exercise, and must doubtless
enhance the wholesomeness of the viand; but for my
part I prefer it with the gilt left on. I will take sugar
in my tea and gilt on my ginge: bread as loi g as I live,
or else I will abstain from gingerbread and tea alto-
gether."
And, with an impatient pout, Mrs. Maysfield
marched out of the room.
The course of true love between Philip Maysfield
and Bertha Deans had run with an unevenness suffi-
ciently marked to satisfy the dreams of poets. Fierce
opposition had thwarted their attachment ; and they had
so often parted for ever and met again — so frequently
written Unis at the end of their love-story, and crossed
it out to put to be continued over t'' top— that their
hearts were fairly sick with hope deferred when at last
the gates oi paradise were opened which led to the de-
sired tree of life. Paradise was at first all — and more
than all — ^that they expected ; but in theirs as in every-
body's Eden, apples grew and serpents crawled; and
Mr. and Mrs, Maysfield learned — as we all have to
386
I'M
Philip Maysfield's Wife
'**"^'^' « cloudlewly blissful paradise is too clo«=ly
guarded by flaming cherubim, for u, errinrmoi^k
to gain a footing therein: therefore we havT"f tTeTh
apple-grown, serpent-haunted gardens of earth as they
St.". ""''* ""' ^'' °' ''""" """'"""K to o""-
h«^!f Vr* V"^^ "'°"«'" ^'^» • bit too light-
hearted and fnvolous. and Bertha considered Philip a
shade too severe and dogmatic; and they both were
nght and both wrong, for they did not yet know each
other w^ I enough to discern the idealism below the
frivohty, and the tenderness beneath the severity But
they were thoroughly in love, and so were bound to
understand one another sooner or later, either in this
world or a better one.
than^uslir"'"^ Philip came home looking more jaded
"What is the matter, dear?" asked Bertha, quick
to perceive any sign of suffering in her beloved hus-
t>an<I. You seem quite worn out."
"I am rather worried, darling. Fever has broken
out m the town, and I am afraid there will be a severe
epidemic."
Bertha turned pale.
"Oh, Philip! you won't go and .see any of the
sick people, will you? it would terrify me to death if
you did."
"Not go to visit my sick people. Bertha I Why
whatever are you thinking about, little girl?"
" DariingI " cried Bertha, clinging to her husband's
arm, and trying in vain to stifle the little catch in her
voice, "let us go away together out of this nasty, un-
387
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!
1
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1
1
Philip Maysfield's Wife
healthy place. You are so tired and worn with one
thing or another that I know you will catch the fever
ir you stay here, and I simply could not go on living
if you were ill. Oh, Phil ! we've only had such a short
time of happiness together, and we waited for it so
long : don't let anything happen to spoil it yet."
" Bertha, you mustn't tempt me to neglect my
duty," said Philip gravely.
" Do let us be happy a little longer," sobbed Bertha,
"and then when we are older we will give ourselves
up to duty and self-sacrifice and things of that sort.
Oh, Phil ! don't spoil my happiness. I've had so little
of it in my life at present; and I love you so dearly
that it would kill me if anything happened to you."
" Poor little girl ! you are frightened and overdone,
and you don't understand what you are saying. Our
happi.iess is quite as precious to me as to you, Bertha
— perhaps more so. I sometimes think you don't realize
how dear you are to me, because I am not clever like
you in saying pretty little speeches. But duty must
come first; and if I were to fly with you from the
danger which threatens us, I could never face my flock ■
again."
" That, is so like you," wailed poor Bertha, " to
think of the flock and take no thought for yourself
and me."
" But, sweetheart, you would be the first to despise
me if I proved a selfish coward. You may not beUeve
it, but my wife's high opinion of me is one of the great-
est joys of my life, and I would not forfeit it for worlds.
I can not tell you in words how your ideal of me has
Stimulated and strengthened me, and filled roe with
388
-2Jibw.
Philip Maysfield's Wife
longings really to become what you believe I am. But
if we were to run away together now, darling, we could
never idealize one another any more ; and love without
esteem is a poor thing, my Bertha."
" I don't care. Love without esteem is a good deal
better than fevers and funerals; and I'd rather be the
wife of a live dog than the widow of a dead lion any
day. Solomon said that, or something like it, and I am
sure he knew better than you do. What will all your
goodness and heroism matter to me if you catch fever
and die? I don't care whether you are ' a selfish cow-
ard ' or not, if only you will make earth like heaven
to me by staying on it. Now I know you are angry
and think I am wicked, and I dare say I am; but I'll
be good for the rest of my days, if only you'll come
away with me to some safe, healthy place. L.ie is too
short for such sacrifices as this."
" It is because life is so long that I can not do as
you ask me, Bertha. If it were short, as you say, t
would do as you suggest ; but in the light of eternity,
sweetheart, I think your plan would look but a sorry
one. Therefore be brave, my own dear little girl."
So the fever spread through the town, and Philip
Maysfield stayed at his post to face the foe, to comfort
the afflicted, and to pray for the dying. And at last it
came to pass that the pestilence seized on him also, and
stopped him in his work. He had felt very ill for the
whole of one day ; and on his way home he called at the
doctor's, where he soon learned that what he feared
was true, and that he was sickening for the fever.
" I shall not return home, doctor," he said, " but
shall go at once to the fever hospital."
389
III
ill
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Philip Maysfield's Wife
The doctor looked surprised.
" You'd be more comfortable in your own home,"
he expostulated.
" No; my wife is at home, and I would rather u.c
than one hair of her head should be harmed. She is
so nervous that she would take the infection from me
at once, and my anxiety about her wouW do me more
harm than the fever could do. I shall go to the hos-
pital, and I shall not allow my wife to come near me
while I am ill."
And Philip Maysfield, being a quiet man, had his
own way. In the fever hospital, surrounded only by
hired nurses, he wrestled with the grim enemy, and con-
quered; and came back, sorely tried yet triumphant,
from the valley of the shadow. He sternly refused
either to see his wife or to write to her, though his
heart alone knew the bitterness of its constant unsatis-
fied longing for her presence. At first Bertha rebelled
against this prohibition, and vowed that in spite of
everybody she would nurse her husband ; but when the
doctor assured her that such defiance of his commands
might prove fatal to Philip in his weak condition, she
bowed to her husband's decree with bitterness in her
heart.
"It is just like Philip!" she said to herself in her
anguish. "He thinks I am too selfish and frivolous
to be of any use in sorrow and sickness. Just because
I am not as serious and gloomy as he is, he never be-
lieves I have a soul at all. Good people are very hard."
And then she burst into tears, and cried for her hus-
band as if her heart would break.
But suddenly it was borne in upon Bertha Maysfield
390
Philip Maysfield's Wife
that she need not be treated like a spoilt child any
longer, but could show Philip that there was a real
woman beneath the mask of her whims and fancies. So
she straightway put away her horror of infection, and
inade herself ready for the battle; and went down into
the squalid slums of the plague-stricken town to take
up the work which he; .lusband had been forced to lay
down. The people who had hitherto regarded Philip's
wife with aflFectionate and indulgent contempt, were
astonished beyond measure at this new Mrs. Maysfield
who had suddenly appeared among them as an angel of
mercy. Bertha was naturally an excellent nurse, and
her bnght face and winning manners made her doubly
welcome in a sick room. The sick folk simply adored
her, and even dying eyes grew bright at her approach.
For Philip's sake she gave herself up entirely to Philip's
work, and took little rest day or night in the fulfilment
of her self-imposed duty. And by following in her hus-
band's footsteps and going down, as he had done, into
the dark places of the earth. Bertha began to fathom the
depth and intensity of his character, and to comprehend
the unselfishness and nobleness of his life. By facing
realities she learned to despise shams, and to perceive
how paltry her own passing emotions had been in com-
parison with Philip's unbending principles and high
Ideals. But Mrs. Maysfield firmly refused to see her
husband, or even to let him know what she was doing,
lest, in his , .esent weak state, it should worry and alarm
him; and the doctor thought that she was right, and
upheld her in her decision.
" I see now that Phil didn't keep away from me
when he was ill because I was selfish, but because he
391
'Ijl Hi
Philip Maysfield's Wife
was utterly unselfish," she said to herself. " I am glad
I am learning to know him better. I shall have a lot
to say to him when he gets well." (Bertha always had
a lot to say to everybody, well or ill.) " I used to think
him cold and hard and unfeeling, but that was my
stupidity. He is like a great rock against which silly
little waves dash themselves to pieces; but when they
leave off dashing themselves to pieces and go round to
the other side, they find that the great rock makes a
sheltered haven where there is rest and peace. I have
wasted a lot of time in dashing against the rock; but
now I mean to be safe and happy inside the haven."
For weeks the epidemic continued to rage in the
town ; and just as Philip Maysfield was pronounced con-
valescent. Bertha in her turn fell sick of the fever.
Then, of course, Philip was allowed to see his wife,
and was told by doctors and nurses the whole story
of her bravery; and how she had been like an angel
of God standing in the path of the pestilence. It would
be difficult to say which was the greater, his sorrow
that his darling was ill, or his joy that she had proved
herse'f to be all that he had ever imagined in his most
ideal dreams of her.
But the new-found happiness of Philip and his wife
promised to be short-lived. From the beginning the
doctors pronounced Mrs. Maysfield's case to be a hope-
less one; she was so thoroughly exhausted, they said,
by continual and unusual work that the fever seized
upon her, and she had not strengrth left to grapple
with it ; and poor Philip soon gleaned from them that
the desire of his eyes was to be taken from him at one
stroke. At first the idea fairly stunned him; and then
392
Philip Maysfield's Wife
he devoted himself entirely to Bertha, feeling that he
should have the rest of his life for mourning after she
had gone. Those days were very sacred ones to the
two who had only just begun to understand each other ;
death seemed to bring them nearer together than life
could ever have done.
" Darling," said Philip one day, taking Bertha's thin
hand in his, " I can never forgive myself for not finding
out :,— • good you were before. I always knew you
were bndiant a'l: : cnarming and altogether lovable, but
I didn t quite realize that you were a saint as well."
" But I wasn't good till you made me so," answered
Bertha, laughing softly. " I am all the other things on
my own hook, but the goodness is simply your good-
ness reflected in me. I should never have been nice
at all if it hadn't been for you."
" Oh ! yes, you would, darling."
" No, I shouldn't. And look here, Phil, I can't bear
you to think better of me than I deserve. When I went
and looked after the fever people, I didn't do it because
I wanted to be good, but because I wanted to please
you. After a bit I began to be sorry for them, and to
want to help them ; but at first I hated going, and I only
did it for your sake; it would be a story if I said I
did not. I know you don't like to hear this, dear;
but God is not as hard as you are, Phil, and I think
He'll understand."
" Oh, my darling, my darling," sobbed Philip, " I
never meant to be hard on you, but I was afraid that
I loved you too much. What a blind fool I have been
all along in imagining that love and duty were not one
and the same thing!"
393
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Philip Maysfield's Wife
" Poor old boy 1 " whispered Bertha, gently stroking
her husband's bent head with her transparent hand,
" I don't think we need ever be afraid of loving any-
body too much. It is to those who love much that
much is forgiven, and we all stand in need of foreive-
ness."
"Can you ever forgive me. Bertha?" groaned
Philip.
" Forgive you, Phil ? Why, what nonsense I Think
of my presuming to forgive you I The earth might just
as well forgive the sun for shining upon it. I suppose
there must have been some good dormant in me all
along, as there is in everybody ; but nobody ever woke
it up till you came by, like the prince in the fairy story.
As long as you live, dearest, I want you to remember
that it was you who awakened the soul in me, because
I know that it will make you glad to think of it years
after I have gone away."
But Philip bowed his head on his hands, and re-
fused to be comforted.
Bertha, with her usual inconsequence, defied the
doctors and recovered after all. She was a long time
in getting well, but she succeeded in the end, and came
back from the gates of death to life and to Philip. One
day, after she had grown quite strong again, she airily
remarked to her husband:
" It was a very good idea of yours to marry me,
Phil. I don't wish to hurt your feelings ; but in time
— if left to yourself, without my stimulating ociety —
you might have grown just one tinge dull and heavy,
and the heaviness of your character would have per-
meated your sermons and spoiled them."
394
Philip Maysfield's Wife
" It was indeed a good idea, my darling, the best I
ever had. I am a dull, stupid person, you see; but I
keep your high spirits from running away with you,
so perhaps it was a good idea of yours too to marry
me. You are the balloon. Bertha, and I am the biUast."
"A very palpable hit!" laughed Mrs. Maysfield.
" If you will follow out your happy metaphor to the
bitter end, sir, you will perceive that a balloon without
ballast is still a balloon, and can go soaring away by
itself among the stars ; but as for ballast without a bal-
loon — who ever heard of such a thing? It is not bal-
last at all, but ordinary dust and rubbish and stuff. It
is the balloon that makes the ballast, not the ballast
that makes the balloon. Your similies are most flatter-
ing to me, my dear Philip."
" You are too clever by half. Bertha; you push .my
beautiful parables to the verge of absurdity, and hail
my metaphors with most unbecoming mirth," said
Philip, smiling, and softly caressing his wife's curly
hair. " But, all the same, my metaphor will bear fol-
lowing out, for I should be ' dust and rubbish and stuff '
without you, my darling."
Bertha's mocking face grew wistful.
" And after all, Phil, dear, you are glad that your
balloon didn't go soaring away by herself among the
stars, aren't you ? "
Philip didn't answer the question in words; but
Bertha knew how great his gladness was, and was sat-
isfied with it.
395
v
I 1
THE KING'S FOOL
THE KINGS FOOL
The summer sunshine streamed into the morning-
room at Ashleig'h, and illumined the three occupants
thereof : Theodora. Lumsden, the deformed and crippled
master of the house; Mrs. Jessop, an ancient and
widowed relative, who was at the head of his establish-
ment; and Violet Lumsden, his cousin, whom he had
adopted on the death of her parents ten years previously.
Violet was now nineteen, more than twenty yerrs
younger than her cousin, and was still — as she had been
when a child— the light of Theodore's eyes and the bane
of old Mrs. Jessop's existence. At this particular mo-
ment Miss Lumsden was looking out of the window,
while a frown puckered her pretty forehead.
" I wish you wouldn't make fun of everything, Theo-
dore," she exclaimed petulantly.
" I don't ; I only make fun of you."
" Well, I wish you wouldn't make fun of me, then."
"Why not, my fair cousin? Surely you would not
deprive me of the greatest pleasure of my life?"
"The fact is," continued Violet angrily, ignoring
her cousin's last remark, " that you trot out other peo-
ple's thoughts and feelings, and make fun of them ; but
you take care that other people don't have a chance of
Seeing yours. You never low your real self to. any-
399 ' "
The King's Fool
body; so that nobody can laugh at you. You are like
London tree, that have iron paling, .11 round them o
fear the crowd should come too near "
of L^n"lr" "'•' ^'•,''™ ""'"«'' y°" ""^y disapprove
of pal mgs on pnnciple, if they are there you have no
?herefore if I^r ^''"'i '"' '°''"^ "''" ^'^ S
Iherefore If I choose to have palings round me vou
yo?ca°„T' "°' '° T' P^yiHK^rofgh the ba"' Bu"
mere is no harm m that."
thel W°"\r"M''' ""'^ """K^: I *°"'<ln't have
them for worids. I'm glad to say I make no secret of
my feehngs about anything or anybody "
That IS true, my dear Violet; your courage In ex
cretion. Allow me. however, in passing to draw your
TTT °"* P^""" ''<'-ntage of thf paling S
namely that ,t prevents passers-by from carvfng thdr
names upon the trees. Now. in your case, for inftancT
people are always carving their names u^n thelree
there are so many names carved thereon tha"^! re Jly can'
not keep count of them. How many 'dearest friends"
have you possessed, my dear, since I first had the honour
o makmg your acquaintance? By the time you have
uLtTumr''^'°.r ^'°"" intelligence'that th
current number of the dearest friend ' is but little lower
thmg that displeases you; then you straightway turn
StLtrT "V'^' '"^ ^'°^^-"^ fam^iliar s'piri" is
Jor me. From change to change the creatures run '
400
The King's Fool
with such marvellous rapidity that I am powerless to
pursue them."
Violet was silent, but a smile began to play about
the comers of her mouth.
" My question is not prompted by mere vulgar
curiosity," continued her tormentor, " but by a com-
mendable desire for the acquisition of accurate informa-
tion. I should really like to know how many names
can be carved upon a human heart without permanently
injuring the bark."
" You'll never learn by experience," responded Vio-
let. " I shouldn't think you ever had a name carved on
your heart in the whole course of your life."
" Perhaps not ; but if ' experientia ' will not ' docet,'
then Violet must. Which further proves the desirability
of the 'palings.' (I thank thee, Vi, for teachi- g
me that word!) Not only do they prevent the pub-
lic from cat-ving vulgar names upon the tree, but they
also hinder curious persons like yourself from seeing
if any names have already been carved thereon. By the
way, whose name is now in process of being carved on
yours? Judging from my own imperfect observation,
I should say it is Basil Keene's ; but it is quite possible
that I may be mistaken."
Violet's pretty face grew very pink. " You are
always hard on Basil," she said, " because he happens
to be poor."
" You misjudge me ; I have the greatest regard for
Basil, personally if not financially. But he seems to
me to be a depressing though a deserving young
man."
" You ii . always hard on people who are poor,"
40J
i'
The King's Fool
persisted Violet; "I've noticed it often. I think it is
because you are so rich yourself, and have had every-
thing you wanted all your life; and so you don't under-
stand how horrid it is sometimes for people not to be
ablo to aflFord things."
" Had everything I wanted all my life, have I ? I'm
glad you consider me such a fortunate being. ' Now
Naaman, captain of the host of the king of Syria, was'
a great man, and honourable; he was also a mighty
man in valour, but he was a leper.' I daresay I'm almost
as much to be envied as Naaman was."
"Oh! but that's diflferent. It was much worse for
Naaman than it is for you."
" I don't agree with you ; for he had a Mrs. Naaman
you see, and I haven't."
" You wouldn't care for a Mrs. Naaman," said Violet
scornfully. " You'd be bored to death with one."
" I'm not so sure of that. I've no doubt, when the
leprosy was more than usually troublesome, or when
thmgs went crooked in the house of Rimmon, that Mrs
Naaman was the greatest comfort to the captain of the
host.
"If Naaman had been as poor as Basil Keene, he
wouldnt have been able to aflford a Mrs. Naaman at
all, for there d have been nothing for her to eat," said
Violet, firing this parting shot as she went out into the
garden.
"O noble judge! O excellent young woman!"
called Theodore after the graceful retreating figure
Then he mused bitterly within himself: "And Naaman
had a river Jordan to wash in and be made whole, while
I have to wallow in Abana and Pharpar all the days of
40?
^
The King's Fo
my life. There is no river Jordan fci t le— rt lesA, not
yet," he added, smiling sadly.
It was now ten years since Violet— then a little
girl of nine— had come to live with Theodore Lums-
den (her only surviving relative) and old Mrs. Jessop ;
and no one but Theodore himself know how, during
that decade, the pretty, wayward child had wound her-
self about his heart ; nor how frequently and how fer-
vently he wished that he had been strong and straight
as other men are, so that he might have asked his petted
protegee to become his cherished wife. Violet herself
had no idea of the state of her cousin's feelings.
There was once a distinguished blind professor who,
on taking a walk near Cambridge with a bevy of under-
graduates, was much amused to overhear two of them
discussing his age. "How old is he?" asked one.
"Oh!" answered the other, "he's beastly old— he's
forty." Violet Lumsden counted time as undergrad-
uates count it ; and the idea that so antique a personage
as Theodore the aged should have any leanings toward
such youthful pastimes as love and love-making, was a
thing undreamed of in her nineteen-year-old philosophy.
She would as soon have suspected Mrs. Jessop of flighti-
ness as Theodore of romance.
One summer's afternoon she and Basil Keene were
sitting together under the veranda at Ashleigh, talking
such pretty follies as lovers talk, quite unconscious of
the fact that the morning-room window was open,
and that Theodore Lumsden could hear every word
they said.
" It is a horrid nuisance that I am so poor," groaned
Basil disconsolately.
403
The King's Fool
" It is a bore," sighed sympathetic Violet.
" I say, don't you think old Lumsden could do
something for me?" suggested the desponding swain.
You see, my father, being only a poor parson him-
self, can do nothing at all to help me. I daresay I shall
get on at the Bar in time, but it's uphill work; and by
the time I can make enough money to keep you, you'll
have got tired of waiting, and will be married to some
nasty rich brute, I expect. I wish to goodness old
Lumsden would fork out, and allow us just enough to
begm on." *
"Oh! it would be no good bothering Theodore
about It, it would only make him laugh at us for a pair
of noodles. Theo doesn't understand anything at all
about love. Of course, he's too old, for one thing; but
i thmk being a cripple has always made him different
from other people."
" But, darling, he must know there is such a thine
m the world as falling in love."
" He only thinks of it as a childish thing that silly
people do, and despises it accordingly. If you were
to talk about love to Theodore, he'd just laugh at
you m his quiet way till you'd feol deadly ashamed
of the thing yourself. I know Theo better than
you do."
"I never think, Vi, that you do Mr. Lumsden jus-
tice. '
"Oh, yes. I do! I'm very fond of him in a way
he is so clever, and says such funny things. But I
understand him too well ever to dream of talking senti-
ment to him. I don't believe that cripples have quite
the same sort of feelings as ordinary people-they seem
404
The King's Fool
to be all head, don't you know, and to have hardly any
body or heart."
" Well, we've got any amount of heart between us —
you and I — haven't we, darling? and that is all that
matters to us," said Basil tenderly ; and then the lovers
wandered off, hand-in-hand, over the daisied lawn, while
the hunchback, lying in the darkened room, turned his
face to the wall, and wished that he had never seen
the sun.
A few days after this, Theodore Lumsden said to
his cousin : " Violet, I gather from young Keene that
he wishes to marry you, and that he has also an idea
that you yourself would not object to the arrangement."
Violet blushed and played nervously with an anti-
macassar. " 1 knew you'd think ' it silly," she mur-
mured ; " I told him so."
" He did not seem to think it silly, at all events ;
it was his want of pence, rather than his want of sense,
that appeared to trouble him. So I told him that, as
you will be my heiress when I die, I shall be pleased to
make you a handsome allowance, as befitting my heiress,
while I live. Therefore, you are in a position to ally
yourself with that personification of penury, a church-
mouse, if so the fancy takes you. Not that I consider
you a suitable partner for so ecclesiastical a functionary
as a church-mouse — quite the reverse ; all that I wish to
intimate is that my little girl can afford to please herself."
" Oh, Theo, how lovely of you I " cried Violet, while
her eyes glistened with unshed tears. " I don't know
how to thank you."
"For goodness sake don't try! Be happy, sweet
maid, and let who will be grateful! I hate gratitude
40s
11^
1
\
"A:
IH'
il
The King's Fool
-Ive had so much of it poured upon me during mv
hfe and .t always bores me to extinction. There is
nothmg to make such a tremendous fuss about I
' d™°f ";' '"/ '"" '° "' '' P°°^ '' ^hat quondam
cated in n °' ^°"^^ ^' '°'^" ^hat name she
carved, m passmg, upon your too susceptible heart),
who marned so mdigent a wooer that they had to go
and hve upon a South Sea island, because there she
sajd, they should want no clothes and could eat each
other, and so would avoid the two most heavy itTms
." housekeepmg. Now you and Basil will have to ,Ve
qu, te close to Ashleigh ; so, as I could not spare you to
go to a South Sea Island, I am bound to pLde you
out ot my abundance, with such food and'clothbg as'
are adequate to the exigencies of our English climate
and customs. That is the long and short of the matter "
You are awfully good, Theo," said the girl, laying
a t,m.d hand on her cousin's shoulder. "Vo;Ve^o
ht'ti?,, "''l^""'^' '"'^' ^""' ''"^ '"<=• I should
hke to tell you how much we love each other, and how
us : but I daren't, for fear you should laugh at me »
You are wise, Vi," replied Theodore, trembling
under the touch of the httle hand ; " you had better Z
ell me how much you and Keene love each other, for
fear, as you say, I should-Iaugh "
and^s°etHeH''/''"' '"'' ^'°''' ^"'"^''^" ^"^ '"^"i'^'.
nto ThtnH V^y/'"' '°"^'' °" « "«« in'^est came
.nto Theodores hfe. Violet's small son, Teddy-who
tamed to it-devoted himself, from the time of his baby-
406
M-MmjmjF.
The King's Fool
hood and upward, to his crippled kinsman, and Theo-
dore learned for the second time how great is the heal-
ing power that lies in the touch of a little child. These
twain became inseparable friends, Teddy feeling in-
tensely flattered by the fact that Cousin Theo always
treated him as if he were a " grown-up." The people
who talked " baby talk " to him were dowered with
Teddy's undying scorn. And the sick man enjoyed the
friendship as much as the boy did.
But when Teddy was about five, Theodore's health
— always very frail — beg^n to grow still feebler; and,
although the doctors could find nothing actually the
matter with him, they shook their heads and talked
of " failing powers."
One afternoon, whin his small cousin was estab-
lished as usual in a comer of his sofa, Theodore asked,
" Teddy, do you know who the king's fool vvas ? "
" Not 'zactly," replied Teddy, who always discreetly
strove to hide the full extent of his negligences and
igrnorances from the quizzical gaze of Cousin Theo.
" Well, then, I'll tell you. As you grow older you
will perceive that nowadays there are still plenty of peo-
ple who are fools by nature, but none who are so by art.
Folly, I may say, has ceased to be a profession, and has
descended to the level of a mere pastime. But hundreds
of years ago there lived certain persons whose business
it was to make fools of themselves ; they were well paid
for it, and every king and every great lord had a fool
of his own."
"What was they made of?" asked Teddy politely,
just to show that he was following the conversation.
He would rather have died than confess that Theo-
407
f
1 1
mi.
I !! .|
IfTlWMi
The King's Fool
dore's "grown-up talk," as he called it, was unintel-
I.g.ble to h.m; and his cousin, knowing this, useS To
dehght m multiplying words without knowledge to the
further mystification of the boy. ^
hu^l^'l r'" ^'"'""^ dwarfs-little deformed or
humpbacked men, you know."
' Like you, you mean.'"
.J ^H '/"'" "''. "^ '''"'^- ^""^ ^-^y '^"^ very quaint,
and said funny tiiings, and kept everybody in fits o
laugmer. It was their business to make people laugh°'
L,ke you again, Cousin Theo ; you are awful funny
you know. Mummy thinks you are'the funniest persoL'
she knows ; and I do." p^son
self' "^vl'^' ""'^ ""'' ^' entertaining as my humble
SLrl I ' ^T "P"*"'*" ^°' ''™"'^^. n^y dear
Edward; I can not tell you howl admire it"
prefer^d°the"'°"' "'' '°°'''" ^"^^^^'^-^ "^^^^y, who
"Well they used to have a splendid time The
trinfm Tv- '"'^ ^°'' '""^'y- '"^ny-coloured clothel
trimmed all over w.th little silver bells. He had a fine
geafitorhirvr'i"^*''^'''"^'''-^^-'^-
Hked " '""' '^° P''"y ""^h a'' he
" And where are they all now ? "
"They are altogether out of it in these advanced
sort of kmgs d.sappeared-1 mean the regular out-and-
out kmgs who wore their crowns at breakfast and a1
ways went out walking with a sceptre instead oi ^^ um-
408
tg^ift'lgi „ ,. xl' ' .-/.^
■.J^4i
,S, T -t
The King's Fool
brella to keep the reign off, or, rather, on— nobody
wanted the poor fools any longer, so they were scattered
all over the country with nothing to do, Uke ' the unem-
ployed.' The modem utilitarian kings, who wear frock-
coats and top-hats, wouldn't give them situations at
any price— they couldn't be bothered with such silly,
useless creatures."
" They was out of a place, like nurse's nephew? "
" Is nurse's nephew out of a place ? "
" Yes ; he wants a place as first footman. He says
he won't be second footman any longer."
" Indeed ? And is he a nice person — one that you
would think suitable for a first footman ? "
" Oh, he's just splendid! You should see him bowl
at cricket ! " cried Teddy, waxing enthusiastic at the
memory of the hero's prowess ; " you would like him ! "
" I don't know about that," said Theodore, playing
with the boy's yellow curls. " I'm not much of a hand
at cricket myself, you see."
" But he's such a nice man all round. He carves
the loveliest teeny-weeny little boats out of walnut
shells, and he plays bu'fuUy on the concertina. He's
fine! Nurse and I think he's good enough to be a
butler, we do."
" He seems from your account to fulfil the duties of
a butler admirably — bowls well, carves walnut shells,
and playr the concertina. My present butler can do
none of these things."
" But your butler is a nice man, too. He is too fat
for g^mes, but he is very kind in letting me help him
to wash up. There is one partic'lar teacup I always
wash ; it's a cracked one."
409
The King's Fool
playedHarrHa^rt Sour: h°^ '"' '""^^>^' -" -
you see." ^""^ "^''^ him play Sunday tunes,
youL"^""' -P"^- '•PPears to be a great friend of '
nurse?nephew/°" "' "^ ^''''^* ^'^d, and then
nor play the conceS:^ - ' "°^ '^^'^'^ "^'""' '^ells.
exclaimed, in a different vL ""n;. ^ Tf'" ''^
that we'd forgotten all about h; kit '^1 "'m ' ""=
nephew put them clean out of my tfd " ' """"^ "
poor tl^lb^t, Z o7;U? ^-^^ ^'^"- '''ese
press it-have nothing f„H J' ''"" '° "^^"^ ex-
body wants ther^Iltrl„d°t" '°,^°- ^°-
-^,^^..eS^:?^:----,...ng
been one -' " ""' '''"'^'' '°°'^ "°w, you'd have
410
then
The King's Fool
the person to be the king's fool. Real kings don't de-
spise people for being lame and <vc?k ^nd sickly and de-
formed, as the rest of the worH do. I should have
done my very best to serve the king, and the king
would have said, ' Never mind being lame, poor fool I
You have your work in the palace as well as ihe soldiers
and the stewards have ; and my fool is as much my serv-
ant as is the captain of my host I ' "
" You'd have liked it too, I 'spect. It r ould have
been jolly living in the king's palace, and wearing the
little silver bells."
" Very jolly."
"It seems a pity you can't be one, doesn't it? —
because it must feel rather dull lying here all day with
nothing to do."
" So dull, Teddy, that, to tell you the truth, I am
thoroughly tired of being ' out of a place,' and I think
I shall set up soon as a king's fool n my own account."
" Really ? " asked Teddy, with saucer-shaped eyes.
" Yes, really. Some day you will come to Ashleigh
to see me, and I shall be gone away ; and then you will
know that I have got a situation at last as a king^s
fool."
" But you will come back again, won't you? " whis-
pered Teddy, thrusting a hot, sticky, little hand into
Theodore's transparent palm.
" I don't know about that ; I don't expect I shall
want to. You see, I really haven't had a particularly
rosy time in my present situation."
"Then youll let me come and see you?" persisted
the child ; " because you'll want to hear how the rabbits
are getting on, and if the seeds I sowed in my garden
411
The King's Fool
P
!'<
ly^
1 =
"L^eT? ""' '"' "" "'°" """^^ "'«' you -e .0 ta-
"Of course you will come and see me, old fellow "
with riiSriiir /rs/" ''- "^-^'^ ''^'-' -<• p-^-^
" I hope so."
;; That'll be jolly, won't it? " cried Teddy with elee
-yiKt^fTf^u^r---^-'-^^^^^^^^
cousi„°\i' " ''"°"^'" '''"''• ^"^P'"« <=•-- to his
and ail the rest o The fine'tV '^^'"'" "'"'' P^"'^"''
him. but they sad' You are„'"'"°T°'"' *° ""P'^^
»' . .k.H i. . U,„e n,o„lta wS " r""^ "'
■".W Wnd; „ „. ,„„, ,„„ H.„;t:?L ^Xt
412
The King's Fool
ing the country for a king who would employ him.
' But alas I ' he sobbed, ' there is not a single king to
be found in these parts.'
" ' Yes, there is,' said the old priest ; ' there is my
King, Whose I am, and Whom I serve : He is not far
from any one of us ! '
" ' And does He want a fool ? ' cried the wanderer.
" ' Yes, He does,' replied the old priest ; ' He is
always looking out for one.'
" ' Then show me where He lives, so that I may go
to Him at once,' prayed the poor fool.
" ' This is His House,' said the priest, pointing to
the chapel ; ' but you are too faint and weary to go into
it now. Come home and sup and sleep with me ; and
in the morning I will tell you all about the King.'
" So the fool went home with the kind old priest,
who fed him and gave him a bed. But while it was
yet dark, and the old priest was fast asleep, the poor
fool woke up and felt he could not wait any longer for
a master ; so he stole out alone into the blinding snow
to find the King's House ; and when morning dawned
the villagers found him lying frozen to death on the
doorstep of the chapel. But the old priest said, ' Do
not weep for him, my children; for he has gained his
heart's desire at last, and is gone to be the King's
fool!'"
" I don't quite understand that story," said Teddy
solemnly : " but it seems rather a sad one."
" I knew you wouldn't now ; but you will when you
are older; and then you will learn that it isn't sad at
all, but quite the reverse."
"When I'm six?"
4»3
The King's Fool
" Hardly J perhaps when you are $ixtv lii» - r
•« very tired, mo you n,u« «, home P-vJk * ^
nice little boy." ^ *' ^^'^^yf. you
" Goodbye, you nice little man Mat* h...- j
go to sleep and get well again " ^" »"'*
sation whiVh i,. i . . 6*"'*'^*° 'rom a conver-
King's fooL" * ^ 8^"« '° »>« 'he
414
NO ROOM IN THE INN
ilif !,
^tr
rj; '■'
■ ■
1':
1
/ 1'
)
*
i
NO ROOM IN THE INN
" Is every room in the house taken for Christmas,
dear Sarah ? " asked Miss Selina Williams, with an anx-
ious look in her faded blue eyes.
" Every room, I am thankful to say ; there won't
be one to spare. In fact, I shall have to turn one of
the servants' rooms into a visitors' room just for Christ-
mas week, and let Jane and Matilda sleep at Smith's
cottage."
" Dear me, dear me ! " exclaimed Miss Selina, wring-
ing her pretty little hands. " It is just as I feared. I
wish I had spoken to you before, dear Sarah, I do in-
deed ; but, as you know, I have such a poor memory,
such a shocking memory! And now, alas! it is too
late. Oh dear, oh dear! however shall we manage? "
"Why, what is the matter, my dear?" asked Miss
Sarah soothingly.
Miss Sarah, busy as she always was, was never
too busy to attend to the whims and fancies of " poor
Selina," as she invariably called her younger sister. For
Selina had been confided to her charge forty years ago
by their dying mother, and Sarah had justified her
mother's trust to the uttermost. When Selina Williams
was seven years old she had a fall from the back of a
big carthorse, which she was riding home from the hay-
417
No Room in the Inn
body was, but her LnHK iV '"*"" '''^ «^«<^ ""'e
was not in the S J oh'^ 'f '^ °.' " "»«« ^hild. She
-t grown mei sS're^t'r'''''''^' ^-^"^ "^^
the back of her head fiv"a„d fortv "' "'' ""' °" *°
always spoke of " noor wf c r ^ T"' "8^°- P«°P'e
have beilr nearer C J^ ^ if teV i '/ 'f"=^ """"^
"poor Miss San.h." For S 1? ^^ '"'*'''''
and as free of care as tW nf t , *" *'" "" happy
while Sarah borr^LS 1 ' """''^' P"'"' =hiW ;
had done so fo" ^Z^.'tZT iLV'' ?"' ''"'
rence Arms at ConmK» r ^ ^''^ "'^t 'he Lau-
^andfather hS £n?befo';:"hr;„d\;^^ '""" '^^
more comfortable i„„ in Tth/; . ^Z" """ "°' =«
Miss Williams' ^mc:::^^^^ """'''' ''''"' "
therrL°;;;r:trsX*;;%!i:.Tr^ -
the few spare dats Lv ' "I'f "° "^"'^ «'="' 'o spend
life at Bamscomhe *^i~"'^ '"'^^^ from their ^sy
shore oVrweTtSnTea """'°"'"^ °" ■"" "y the
to wh'^m *t?e*tr^^^^^^^^^ ''^'^' M- Sarah,
nick-named "£toftf ' """"""' *hat the villagers '
pretty, dainty Crifwhor'."7" ""^'''"^ hut the
petted because of h"^ sweet f?.r^ "'*'"'='' ''"''
And Sarah simply ZZ^lZZl^tir" '^''''■
»te, tender, protective J^ouZ t^S^^'eS^r
4«8
No Room in the Inn
Miss Selina's brow puckered with anxiety. " Oh ! I
have just been so shocked, Sarah— so terribly shocked I
in fact, it has sadly distressed me. Of course I must
have heard of it before— I feel sure I must— but I
had quite forgotten the incident. You know I have
such a bad memory, dear Sarah— such a wretched
memory I "
Which was quite true. A story which had absorbed
Miss Selina's attention on a Monday afternoon was news
to her again by Wednesday morning.
"Well, what is it, dear? Tell me, and perhaps I
can put it straight," said Miss Sarah, with the unfailing
patience that was always hers in dealing with anything
that concerned " poor Selina."
"Well, sister, as Christmas is approaching, I have
been reading over again the story of the first Christmas
Day. I daresay you remember it, dear Sarah ; you have
such a wonderful power of retaining all that you read.
In which case you were doubtless as much shocked and
distressed as I have been to hear of that sad incident at
the inn at Bethlehem. Could you believe it, Sarah?
The Holy Child was born in a stable, because there was
no room for Him in the inn I No room for Him! It
really seems incredible, does it not, sister? "
"Oh, yes!" replied Sarah soothingly; "but it all
happened so long ago, you know, that you needn't
worry about it now."
Miss Selina drew herself up. " I don't see, Sarah,
that the date has anything to do with it ; it is the inci-
dent itself which is so amazing. It happened a long time
ago, you say: well, I have no memory for dates, and I
can not $ee that they signify. The terrible thing {5 to
419
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war„ototrHir fr T '''' ^^"^ *"- ^-e
^' was° ;:S^iK: °' '^-„„ Z!tL WHO
Miss Sarah sug^ '^"^ ^°<"" -"ost probably."
ment, very bad ma^ ^* ^^^>' ''^d manage-
when'! h:^:'^^!' fr" ' ''°"'' ''»^-
" Never minH T^ °''''''' "^ «° «"'ch."
else." """"• '''''^' '^^ t° think about something
at P^fsi'lTcatfl' a«To"ar7th f -^"^"^"^ ^-
happen over again now th,^ . ^' " '' ^°^S to
rooms for Chrl^ mas Snn ''°" u'^' ''"''' "P '"' *«
(He is coming aS„JJ^'^ '^''!. ?' """^^ ^«='"
room for Him h^e /thlt t ^ .1 *"^^ "'^^^ '^ »°
of it-I do iLed Oh d ,'^l" '^''^ °f *'''= '^'^Srace
we do?" and M?sSeS; °1' '^'"' ^^"at shall
" It is such a pky ha von hr'"^«n!:i ''""'^ '" ''^^P'""'-
without leavinVone f^° n'm u "" "" '''^ '°°""
wonder at vou Sarah • ^'"'~''"'^ " «>d pity 1 I
"But. s':Llt;Te7oeTr"^^°'^^-^-'"^"
now, you know." °""* ^°"'^ '" that way
"Hdw can you tell' Wh^., - <.t.-
Pened, it mav LIT' . """^^ ^as once hap-
Twould be » h! '^ ^'"- ^"'^ 'hink how terrible
warnd'ro:m for H^ i^T ''''\'^';!^^'^'^^- -d theie
This isn't like your usir.l„V"" °''' ^''^''' ^^^^ '
faded blue eyes' fiL ^^K'"''""'^'"'^"*" ^"<^ '"<=
4»
.^^mmfm^^-vmi^ I . «*
No Room in the Inn
But the younger one refused to be comforted. " My
dear Sarah, He will understand the truth, and the truth
is we were so busy looking after our own concerns
that we forgot Him altogether. I really can not see
that the Laurence Arms is a bit better than that disgrace-
ful inn at Bethlehem."
" Never mind, !<ive," said Miss Sarah absently, set-
tling down to her accounts.
There was a short silence, and then Miss Selina
suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, sister! I've just had an
idea— a capital idea. I can't imagine why I didn't
think of it before; but my poor head is always slow
and stupid— so different from your promptitude, dear
Sarah."
"Well, what is ' now?"
Miss Selinr -lapped her hands in delight. " I shall
give up my ov -itting-room, and turn it into a visit< — '
room for the t-. .e being, and then there will be a roon.
ready for Him if He does happen to come. I couldn't
bear for Him to come and not find us ready to receive
Him : I couldn't indeed ! It would place us on a par
with that dreadful innkeeper at Bethlehem."
" My dear child, you can't turn out of your sitting-
room," remonstrated Miss Sarah. " Why, you would
be perfectly lost without it."
Now Miss Selina's room was the best room in the
house, and was, moreover, a sacred spot which no one
was allowed to meddle with. It looked over the western
bay across to Hartland Point, and on a clear day one
could almost count the houses at Westward-ho and
Appledore and CloveUy, All day long the 5un shone
on Mi» Selina's room, so that one forgot that there
431
I •
No Room in the Inn
were such things as east winds and winter days, until
one went outside again. It was daintily furnished with
every luxury that the wit of Miss Sarah sould devise,
and was more like the nursery of a petted chUd than the
sitting-room of a half-witted old maid. And here Miss
Selina, with her books and her fancy-work and her
piano, spent most of her peaceful days.
"My dear Sarah, I must turn out of it; there it
nothing else to be done. And for the few days that
the house is so full, I can sit with you in the parlour
behind the bar. It will not inconvenience me at all—
not at all; and I shall have the satisfaction of feeling
that He can never come and find no room for Him in
the inn."
Miss Selina, as usual, had her way ; her sister always
humoured her when it was possible. She turned her
pretty sitting-room into a bedroom, and put it all ready
for visitors, not even omitting to fill the vases on the
chimneypiece with flowers out of the little greenhouse.
When it was all completed, she surveyed her work with
much satisfaction.
"It makes a charming visitors' room," she said;
"quite charming! I can not help feeling that it would
have been wiser if you had reserved the best room for
Him, dear Sarah; but He will understand that, though
we forgot Him at the moment, we were sorry after-
ward and did the best we could; because He never mis-
judges, you know, like other people do, but always
counts our wanting to do anything for Him the same
as actually doing it."
It was Christmas Eve, and every one was very busy
at the Laurence Arms, Miss Selina persisted in staying
4^3
X- «•
No Room in the Inn
downstairs in the little parlour behind the bar, in spite
ol her sister's remonstrances.
" You'd much better go to your own room," Miss
Sarah said. " You can sit in it all right though it is
furnished as a bedroom, and you'll be tired to death
if you stay down here. There are so many people com-
wg m and out, and you know how bad any sort of
bustle is for your poor head."
"My dear Sarah, what a suggestion! As if I
would let any one sit in my room and make it un-
tidy again, now it is so spick and span and all ready
for Him."
" But you might sit in it yourself, my dear."
Miss Selina frowned. "Certainly not. Sit there
with my embroidery, and drop bits of silk all over the
carpet? I am surprised at you for making such a sug-
gestion, Sarah— quite surprised! Do you go and sit in
the rooms that you have just prepared for important
visitors, I should like to know, and leave your sewing
lying all about?"
At that moment the village doctor was shown in.
It was raining and sleeting heavily, and his coat was
running down with water.
" How do you do. Miss Williams? " he began in his
cheery voice; "and how is my friend Miss Selina get-
ting on?" "
" We are quite well, thank you, doctor," replied
Miss Sarah, " but very busy as we always are at this
time of year."
" It is a dreadful day ! " exclaimed the doctor, " so
cold and wet. I really am not fit to come inside any-
body's house, I am in such a state; but I could not
423
No Room in the Inn
pass by your door without appealing to you for hdp,
of which I am in great need at present."
"Why, what is amiss, doctor?" asked Miss Wil-
liams; " not old John Smith had another stroke, I hope
-nor anything gone vv jng with Susan Fanner's new
baby.
" No, no; it is not one of my regular patients that
1 am concerned about, but a little lad belonging to a
party of gypsies that are camping out on Coombe
Heath. The poor little chap has got double pneumonia,
and unless I can get him inside a warm house to-night
hell be past help in another twenty-four hours. So I
have come to see if you can take him in here. Miss Wil-
liams ? Any sort of a room will do, and the parish nurse
shall come and look after him."
Miss Williams shook her head. " I am so sorry, Dr
Mortimer, but every crevice and cranny in the house
IS full.
"Couldn't you put up a little extra bed some-
Where r
"Quite impossible; every available scrap of room
m the p ace is occupied this week. I've even had to
arrange for the two maids to sleep out, so that I could
put visitors m their room."
The -doctor's kind face fell. " I am so sorry, but
M .^^^P^'^- ^ "^"ow y°" would help me if you '
could. Miss Williams."
" Indeed I would, only too gladly. If I'd a spare
comer anywhere in the house, I'd willingly take the
poor child in, and so do all that I could for him; but I
really haven t.
"Well, I must be off and see what other arrange-
424
No Room in the Inn
njent I can make. Another night in the draughty cara-
van—and such a night !— would kill the little chap right
off; and I doubt if he could stand the long drive to
Bamscombe. Yet I shall have to risk it, I'm afraid, for
I know of no place between here and there where he
can be taken in."
Suddenly Miss Selina joined in the conversation.
" My dear Sarah, what are you thinking of? Of course
we can make room for the little child. The room I
have prepared, you know," she added in a whisper.
Miss Sarah looked aghast. " Put a gypsy-child into
your pretty sitting-room, Selina? "
" Of course, of course," said Miss Selina ; " that is
His Way. When He doesn't want things for Him-
self—and of course He never really does want them
—He lets one of the least of His brethren have them
instead, and it counts the same as giving them to Him.
Dr. Mortimer," she continued, to the puzzled doctor,
" I have prepared a room specially for this occasion,
and I hope you will bring the sick child into it at once.
And if you will allow the parish nurse to sit up at nights,
I will look after him in the days myself."
" But— Selina " began Miss Williams in remon-
strance.
" My dear Sarah, I am ashamed of you — positively
ashamed ; it is not like you to be so dense and obtuse !
Don't you see. He has sent this sick child in His place ;
and if we turned the child away, it could be truly said
that again there was no room for Him ? Think if such
a thing could be said of us, dear Sarah ? Why, we could
never get over the disgrace of it— never ! I am so thank-
ful that I prepared the room— so very thankful ! If I
425
No Room in the Inn
!Si5' ^,^°"l^']°'^ ^hat we should have do„e-I don't
ndeed; for absolutely there would again havrbe« no
room for Him in the inn 1 " ^" °°
trembS ''" Sh ' "*^'"'" '^'^ ^'" ^""'' »"<• her voice
trembled. She .s a wiser woman than I am after all "
tin^es wtrltTan'tTdir-t --"'^ ' *°"^"
at the moment that tWs was Sis W, '"V °''".'° '"''
welcome that we hlJ prZ " L Him 7*^'"^ "'
bered to ma:e°S fo; h"' ' rT ^°" *''* '—
to me» " ^ °' """• ^ '°'erot, more shame
stand, sister-He Win indeed. He LTy" ^:;,^ £;«
426
No Room in the Inn
" I know He does ; still I ought not to have for-
gotten." And Miss Sarah sighed heavily.
" Never mind, dear Sarah. But it was a good thing
that I thought of it, wasn't it ? — or else He would have
come and found no room in the inn. And there would
have been that disgraceful neglect of Him all over again.
I really don't know how we could have borne the re-
morse for it — I don't indeed! It would have looked
like such terrible indifference on our part."
" Well, I will go straight off to the gypsy camp,"
said Dr. Mortimer; and there was a very tender expres-
sion on his handsome face. " I believe that, with care,
we shall pull the little lad through ; and if so, the thanks
will be due to you. Miss Selina."
" Not to me, doctor— certainly not to me ; but to
Him, for putting it into my mind that He might be
coming to spend Christmas with us."
So the poor little gypsy boy was brought to the
Laurence Arms, and there fought a brave battle with
the enemy that men call Death. The parish nurse and
Miss Selina were unremitting in their care of him ; and
because he had them on his side, with Dr. Mortimer,
and all the warmth and comfort of a well-built and well-
furnished old house instead of the cold and discomfort
of a gypsy camp, the battle was not to the strong this
time, but to the weakly little child. In a week he was
out of danger ; and in a fortnight he was sitting up and
listening, with open mouth and eyes, to all the wonder-
ful tales which Miss Selina composed and related for
his benefit.
She told him over and over again the circumstances
to which he owed his reception at the Lauren' '. Anns ;
427
F
i
- »
'! i
No Room in the Inn
nursing were inl/eqi h T' °" ""' ""''J'" <"
fhe «me; and partlyTJ^^.f';' 't'*! 'P'orance of
ing Miss Sarah^, rh^T! . ''" "«' " was strain-
r-jrular custom", an tk„o ^'' •""•*'' «"«<» ^''^h
for whose honesty he e^Idnl" '°T ^^P^y-^on-an.
boy was well agai^ the moler ''°"'''- ^"^ '^''«' '^e
•-ck to the catS^; which rfth/"' *'"* '°' *° '«^'' '"•"'
from Coombe Heith a„H w """"''""• '"'* '«"oved
of Dartmoor. ' ""'' *'** ""'^ P't-^her) on the wilds
the?,Ls'oT!cisrSa"1;:"' "'^ •'°^ '-='' at
eyes. "' ^^""'' *"h tears in her beautiful
■•» he"rus"^ RoX vie'^t'-'ir V'"' -"»
«hat you have saved by uWn'hin, "'' '''"'''^ "^^
and k J M. .aJS.t^:r;-"-^i''^ -"«'
SeHnaVhrmTstXi^::- ^-^-.^C^^ed Miss!
wasbomonChristmas^fv "annor; "but Him Who
No Room in the Inn
Mortimer ; " otherwise I couldn't have pulled him
through."
" It was a blessed thing for us that when He came
He found us ready to receive Him," replied Miss Selina ;
" it would have been too terrible for Him to have come
and found that now, as in olden times, there was no
room for Him in the inn. If such a thing had hap-
pened here, I should never have got over it — never;
neither would my dear sister Sarah I But one should
never be unprepared for Him, you see; as He always
may be coming."
" I do not think He always may be coming," said
the doctor softly ; " I think He is always here."
429
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