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SWAN AUTHOR OF "ALUEKbVDE," "CARLOWRIE," "UATBS OV BDBN«" BTCi BTC. \e JHliJC ti. CHEAP EDITION TORONTO, CANADA WIIvLIAlVI BRIOGS EDINBURGH and LONDON OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & FERRIER 1889 2609(55 ':>rf^ I -t H fj^ d(c I Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine, by William Brioos, Boole Steward of the Methodist Book and Publishing House, Toronto, at the Department of Agriculture. CONTENTS. CBAK I. Dreams, .... II. The Vivians of the Grange. III. Making Ready for the Campaign, IV. A Bitter Hour, V. Up the Scaur, VI, The Mystery op Life and Death, VII, Plans and Hopes, VIII. Shadow and Sunshine, IX. At St. Michael's, X. On Business, XL Anna Trent, xii. Dr. Dunscombe, XII L Op the World, XIV. Conquered, XV. Thanksgiving, . XVI. At Allanton Road, xviL Saint Anna, XVII I. Not Quite Perfect, XIX. Christmas at Home, XX. The Crowning Joy, , XXL Sunrise, . , , tLL US TRA TIONS— Frontispiece, , , , The Young Writer, , , Christmas Morning, . , I STAYED THERE . . . WRESTLING FOR THE ViCTORV, AND Haydon Hall, . . W«NT TO THE PlANO AT ONCB, COT IT, rACB 7 19 33 47 58 70 80 95 109 126 »39 154 170 187 197 208 218 228 236 24S 252 117 123 163 «75 183 URSULA VIVIAN. CHAPTER L DREAMS. ME Misses Warner's establishment for the board and education of young ladies was breaking up for the session. The examination had been a brilliant success, the pupils having acquitted themselves to their own credit and that of their teachers. Many of the boarders had left for home in the afternoon of the last day of school, but those who had a long journey in prospect remained another night, and early on the morrow The Elms would be deserted by pupils and teachers alike. In one of the bedrooms four girls were grouped about the window in the fading evening light, watching the darkness stealing over the moor, to 7 Ursula Vivian, envelop in its folds the roofs of Aldborough and the spire of its venerable cathedral. They were fair specimens of the young woman- hood of England — pleasant of face, lithe of figure, and glib of tongue, as was evidenced by the inces- sant hum of talk which had resounded through the room for an hour and more. " Well, I wonder when we four shall meet again?" said Ursula Vivian, from her perch on the dressing- table. " In thunder, lightning and in rain," quoted Mary Dunscombe, in her merry way, and her mis- chievous grey eyes glanced up into the grave face of the friend she loved above all others. In a moment Ursula's hand was laid on Mary's lips. " I will have no nonsense, Mary," she said threateningly. "We must have some serious talk to-night, for after to-day we are women, remember, and all the frolics of school are done with." "Suppose you prove that you are serious by getting down off that table," said Mary, demurely. " I think it is not quite customary for women to sit on tables, is it, Isabel ?" The young lady appealed to turned from her Dreams. examination of a travelling costume, and answered, languidly. *' Ursula will never learn to be proper, Mary. When she is fifty she will think as little of sittinjj on a table or climbing a tree as she does at this moment." " Eccentricity is the privilege of genius," said gentle-eyed Anna Trent, looking up from her task of arranging her music in her portfolio, ready to put into her trunk. Isabel Fortescue's lip curled slightly, whether in scorn or amusement it was difficult to tell. She was a beautiful girl, and would develop by-and-by into a marvellously beautiful woman. Her figure, though unformed, was all grace ; her golden head was set superbly on a beautiful neck ; her fair, aristocratic face, with its violet eyes and exquisite mouth, was a study a painter might long to trans- fer to canvas. Ursula Vivian rolled up a little bullet of paper, and tossed it at Anna Trent. "Your doubtful compliment has but evoked a smile of scorn on our beauty's face," she said, with good-humoured sarcasm. " Isabel, do leave your everlasting contemplation of clothes, and talk a little while. Let us each tell what we mean 10 Ursula Vh'inn, to do, and what use we mean to make of our lives." Anna Trent laid down her portfolio, and looked up with expectant interest. After a minute or two Isabel hung up her dress and came over to the window, looking^ slightly bored. "You always want something absurd, Ursula," she said. " Well, go on, we are all waiting to hear the programme of your future life." " We will take yours first, Mary," said Ursula, stooping to pull her friend's black locks as she knelt by the open window. "Mine!" echoed Mary, her pleasant face rippling with amusement. " Oh, I am hopelessly common- place. I shall go home to Market Drayton, I sup- pose, to-morrow, and then there will be six weeks' delightful romping with the boys before they go back to Eton. Then I shall settle down quietly at home with papa and mamma, relieve her of half the worry of three small females in the nursery and schoolroom. I shall Icrn to wash, bake, cook, and mend and darn, and do sick visiting, as I shall need tl em all when I go to keep house for John. He will settle somewhere likely in spring." John was Mary's elder brother, who had just re- ceived his diploma in medicine at Cambridge, and Dreams. II ke of our md looked mimitc or >vcr to the , Ursula," ig to hear d Ursula, ^s as she e rippling common- on, I sup- ix weeks' : they go quietly at ■r of half '• nursery ke, cook, IS I shall 'or John. m being at quiet I moment her face was softened into a grave beauti- ful tenderness, the outcome of the lovely hopes blossoming in her heart. She felt the great power stirring within her, and the talent which had hitherto found its expression in school-girl rhymes and nonsense compositions for the amusement of her fellows would henceforth be consecrated to nobler ends. She was very young, and life was all before her. Her dreams were passing sweet Great yearnings to be good and to do good to her fellows through the medium of her pen filled her heart that night, and excluded everything else. The pressure of Mary's mischievous fingers re- called her, and she turned her face slowly towards them. " Well, girls, I wonc'er whether we shall all reach the height of our ambition, or whether some of us "'ill slip on the ladder before we are half-way up," she said, musingly. " Yours is the most uphill work, Ursula," said Mary Dunscombe. " Yours and Anna's. Isabel and I tread on lower ground." " Speak for yourself, Mary," said Isabel with a sharp turn of her haughty head, and Mary im- mediately asked her pardon with mock humility. "Well, we must keep up communication with 1^ i6 Ursula Vivian. \ 1! \ each other," said Ursula. " But I fear, Isabel, when you are society's chicfest ornament you will forget your humble friends." "Oh no," said Isabel, with gracious condescen- sion. " I shall remember you, never fear ; and you must all come, girls, to Haydon Hall. I am sure papa and mamma will be very pleased." Ursula glanced at her thread-bare gown, and, meeting Mary's eye, turned her head swiftly away, choking back a laugh. "Thank you, dear Isabel," said Anna Trent's gentle voice. " I am sure we will all be glad to come. Well, Ursula, it's half-past nine, and we have to be up early. What do you say to bed ? Will you come, Isabel V* " I suppose so," said Isabel with a yawn. *' Pre- cious glad am I this is my last night in the stony couch of the Elms. Good-night, Ursula and Mary I" Then Isabel and Anna, who shared the same room, left the others to their own quiet talk. Mary Dunscombe rose, and, leaning her hand on Ursula's shoulder, looked into her face. " Ursula, your eyes are wet. What is it ?" "I am sorry tc leave school, Polly. We have had some jolly days here. I shall never forget Dreams. 17 sabel, when will forget condcscen- r ; and you I am sure ^own, and, iftly away, na Trent's be glad to e, and we ly to bed ? m. tt Pre- the stony rsula and the same blk. her hand • t ?" We have ^er forget i them. You will think of me sometimes when you are away?" "Of course I will. Don't I love you, Ursula, better than any girl in the world }" "I have no sister, and the love I would have given to her is all yours, Mary," said Ursula, with sudden, passionate earnestness. " It would break my heart to get nothing in return." Mary crept closer to her friend, and there was a little silence. " There is something else saddening me to-night, my Mary," said Ursula, by-and-by. "I cannot tell what, unless it be the thought that we are girls no longer, but women entering upon life. I wonder how it will be with us, and how it will end. Yours will be a sweet and happy life likely, just like yourself. What can mine be but a storm ? I am such a strange, wild, misei ible creature. I am sometimes afraid of myself." " Hush, Ursula," said Mary, touching her lips with pleading fingers. " Do not grow bitter to- night. Let us be quiet and thoughtful, and mind- ful of God. Could we not just kneel down here, Ursula, and pray for guidance in the future ? We have never done it before, but it is the last night." So they knelt down together in the window, and the moonlight stealing in upon them unawares i8 Ursuhi Vivian, \ \ \ 1 touclird iTKrst lovingly these younp; heads bowed rcvcrcMitly before their (lod. Surely the p^uidancc asked would not be denied ; surely that prayer would make more smooth the path of life ; surely it was a sweet and fittinfj beginning to the women's work which lay before thcuL 1 1 CHAPTER II. THE VIVIANS OF THE GRANGE. HERE had been Vivians in Kcssinfjton Grange for generations. In the earlier days of its existence, the Grange h.id been a goodly heritage, but bit by bit the spend- thrift Vivians had squandered their inheritance, until at the time of which I write it consisted only of the rambling old house, the policy about it, and a few fields adjoining, which were let to a neigh- bouring farmer. The Vivians had ever been idle and careless, as well as spendthrift, and their present representa- tive, Geoffrey Vivian, Ursula's father, was no ex- ception to the rule. He married, somewhat late in life, a sweet and gentle girl of good family, but possessing small fortune, and brought her home to the half-ruined Grange. It was a mystery to Kes- sington how the Vivians lived, and as the little 19 30 Ursula Vivian. I ( ones arrived one by one the mystery deepened. The Squire — as he was called through force of old association, the name having long ceased to have any substantial meaning — being a Vivian, disdained all manner of work. His wife and little ones might lack the luxuries and comforts, sometimes even the necessaries of life, but his hands must not be soiled ; nay, more, he must have his dainty morsel at meal times, his faultless linen and gentlemanly attire, his dog and gun, his newspapers and magazines — in a word, it pleased Geoffrey Vivian to live as though the bygone revenues of Kessing- ton Grange were still at his disposal. Such a course either required money or credit, and since the former was not forthcoming, they had to suffice themselves with the latter. Kessing- ton was very long-suffering with the Vivians. Its tradesmen told of almost fabulous accounts run up in the squire's name, but out of respect to the old name perhaps, or from compassion for the sweet and gentle lady, whose face bore the impress of her miserable life, they forbore to prosecute. So the accounts ran on, the Vivians sank deeper and more inextricably into debt, and Mrs. Vivian faded every day. There were five sons and one daughter, whose iif 5 I The Vivians of the Grauf^e. 21 deepened, rce of old i to have disdained nes might mes even St not be ity morsel ntlemanly pers and ey Vivian Kessing- or credit, ling, they Kessing- iaiis. Its its run up to the old the sweet n press of cute. So :cper and 1. Vivian 2r, whose Ml acquaintance you have already made at f:hool in A Id borough. The Misses Warner had been friends of Geoffrey Vivian's wife in her girlhood, and for the sat I u it. The mercantile house which had been so kind as to enfrage him without character or recommend- ation, except what he carried in his honest face and fearless eyes, had had occasion to bless the day Robert Vivian entered their employ. He was now one of their most trusted servants, and there were whisperings among his fellows that the Messrs. Grimsby would ere long make him the head of the whole concern, they being old men now, and anxious to take only a nominal share in the work of the firm. So much for Robert Vivian. Ursula was four years his junior. Next to her came his father's namesake, Geoffrey, a pale, somewhat delicate- looking youth, whose one passion was for music, whose one aim was its pursuit. The hours his brothers devoted to all the games and frolics of boyhood were spent by him at the spindle-legged piano in the drawing-room, where he would grow oblivious of everything, and would draw forth even from that miser- able apology for an instrument sounds which drew tears from those who listened. He had taught himself, and he lived but in the hope that the happy time would come some day when he could go away to the home of music, and The Vivians of the Grange, 23 r music. study under its grcatcit masters. That was Geoffrey's dream. Very different in all ways from his dreamy-eyed, soft- voiced brother Geoffrey was Tom Vivian. He was the embodiment of exuberant animal spirits, giant strength, and unutterable stupidity. At fourteen he could read and write and draw a little, nothing more. He was the plague of Kess- ington Grammar School, the source of unlimited trouble to the masters, his name was before Dr. Abbot for misdemeanour six days a week. If there was a caricature on the blackboard, a live toad in a master's desk, a pin stuck point up- wards on his chair, or some adhesive substance placed there by invisible hands, but which was warranted to bind the hapless victim firmly to his seat, Tom Vivian did it. He never denied any- thing ; he took his punishment like a hero, pro- mised better behaviour, and went and did it again. But everybody loved him, and when he had been expelled once for some unusually grave mis- demeanour a deputation representative of the whole school, including the masters, even the one on whom the trick had been played, waited on Dr. Abbot, praying for a commutation of the sentence. Such was Tom Vivian. Ml < ' -4 Ursula Vivian, The younger two, Charlie and Fred, were ordi- nary lads, studious enough during lesson hours and wild enough at play. These, then, were tlie relatives with whom Ursula Vivian was to make her permanent home,now that school days were past. Fully a year had elapsed since she had been home before, and she was longing to see them all with a great longing. It was nearly a day's jour- ney from Aldborough to Kessington, and Ursula arrived at the trim little station just at sunset. A deputation of four waited her. Needless to say, they were the boys. Mr. Vivian was not so in- tensely devoted to his daughter that he would take a two-mile walk, on a hot summer evening, to meet her, and I am bound to say Ursula was not disappointed. She was the only passenger by the express. So. save for a few grinning officials, the Vivians had the station to themselves. Ursula kissed her brothers all round, gave Tom, her especial favourite, a sisterly hug, then while the porters saw after her luggage, the four surveyed their one sister with critical eyes. " You look just the same Ursula," said Geoffrey, perfectly satisfied. "No, you don't; you look ever so much older, just like Betty almost," said Fred. 4 The Vivians of the Grange, 25 ^ere ordi- on hours were tlie to make were past, had been them all ay's jour- d Ursula an set. A »s to say, lot so in- |Ould take ening, to 1 was not jer by the icials, the Ursula ;r especial rters saw one sister Geoffrey, ch older, i -V 1 " Her eyes are nicer'n Betty's, though, don't you think?" suggested Charlie. " You are a guy, Ursula," said Tom, with deci- sion. " Your frock's too short, and your hair's like a mop. You'll need to make yourself smarter before I take you through Kesbington on my arm )> Forgetful of her e'2;hteen years and her dignity, Ursula administered him a sharp box in the ear, and ordered him off to get her bag. "I am certainly obliged to you, boys," she said, with her sweet ringing laugh. " Come, Geoff., we will lead off. You are the only respectable mem- ber of the Vivian community. Tell me about papa and mamma," " Papa's all right," said Geoffrey. " He said he would come to the gate and meet us." " Unprecedented," began Ursula, but remember- ing a certain new-formed resolution not to make fun of her father's peculiarities, she checked the words, and asked instead — "And mamma?" "I hardly know what to say, Ursula. I don't think mamma's well, somehow ; she's so thin and white, I'm frightened to look at her sometimes." Ursula's lip quivered. 26 Ursula Vivian. m^^ 11 ll'U u. if jii I ! " She never spoke of being ill in her letters to me, Geoffrey." " I daresay not. She says she is quite well, but " " Say, Ursula, I guess you'll be too womanified to field at cricket now, or run races up the Scaur, or go imaginary tiger-hunting in the woods, eh ?" cried Tom, coming up breathless, with his sister's portmanteau under his arm. ** I don't know, Tom, I hope not," said Ursula, very soberly, for her thoughts were all of her mother. " Are you going to get a trailing frock, and do your hair up behind, and wear an eyeglass, and have our new writing-master for a lover ?" asked Charlie, innocently. " Tom said you would." " I'll be even with you, Tom, by-and-by," said Ursula, her face reddening, greatly to Tom's delight. Very easily Ursula slipped into the boyish way of talking, in past holiday times she had amused her girl friends by carrying back to Aldborough a perfect repertoire of words and phrases which would have shocked the fastidious ears of the Misses Warner had they happened to hear Ursula reciting them with infinite relish. "You needn't turn up your nose, Ursula," said ^ a I The Vivians of the Grange. 27 itters to me, luite well, (manified to le Scaur, or ^oods, eh ?" . his sister's ;aid Ursula, all of her pck, and do ^eglass, and ^er ?" asked rould." nd-by," said to Tom's into the ly times she rrying back words and le fastidious happened to relish. Jrsula," said Tom. " Robinson's no end of a swell. He has beautiful auburn hair. The young lady in the stationer's shop says all the girls in Kessington are after Robinson, I tell you." Then suddenly Tom went off into convulsions. " He always walks up the High Street at three, though it isn't his way home. Then you ought to see all the young ladies looking out. One day Williams and I for a lark put some gummy stuff inside his hat." " You did it, Tom. I saw you making the stuff in the stable," corrected Charlie. "All right, young un, I did it then ; and he put it on, and Williams and I dodged him along the ^ High Street. Well, of course in a minute we sees Mrs. Abbot and Miss Agnes coming, and Robinson gets off his hat to make a grand bow — at least he tried to get it off, but it was stuck on to his hair, I you know, and it wouldn't come, and he pulled and pulled till I believe some of his hair came out by the roots. I thought I should have died, and Tommy Williams squealed so loud I had to stuff my hand into his mouth to stop him. Robinson never saw us, but of course he knew it was me, and I got half-a-dozen from him in the morning, and now he locks his hat in the desk. I would not 28 Ursula Vivian. 'I i! * I: t \ ill i, * ii'l \ have missed the lark though I'd got ten half- dozens." . Ursula laughed, because it was impossible to help it. She wondered privately whether she would by-and-by be able to show Tom that such mischief-playing was not becoming, and so make him see that he was not sent to school for his own amusement, but to fit himself for a man's work and a man's responsibilities, which were coming to him very fast. She could not repress a sigh, for her whole soul was in the fun. She was herself Tom's very counterpart, and enjoyed playing tricks or talking nonsense as much as he. " Here we are, and there's papa," said Geoffrey, and Ursula quickened her pace a little. A massive iron gateway gave admittance to the policies of The Grange. There was also a lodge, but it was uninhabited, and crumbling to decay. A wide avenue of beech trees, with boujg^hs inter- lacing over head, led up to the house. It was oeautiful still, and bore traces of a past grandeur. At the open gate stood Mr. Vivian, waiting to greet his daughter. He was a tall, slenderlv-built man, of gentlemanly appearance, and faultless attire ; but there was a languid air about him which told something of his idle propensities. His hair and The Vivians of the Grange. 29 »t ten half- ipossible to i^hether she n that such nd so make for his own man's work e coming to ; a sigh, for was herself laying tricks id Geoffrey, tance to the so a lodge, ig to decay, ouj^hs inter- ise. It was LSt grandeur, ting to greet -built man, tless attire ; 1 which told iis hair and beard were tinged with gray, and his face was beginning to show its wrinkles, for he was years past his prime. Ursula came to him somewhat awkwardly. She loved her father in her way, but she felt that they were out of the same order. She did not offer to kiss him even, till he bent toward her, saying, blandly : " Well, Ursula, so you have got home." "Yes, papa, thank you," said Ursula, and then drew back beside Tom, glad the greeting was over. Mr. Vivian turned with them, and walked slowly up the avenue, critically eyeing his daughter. She was very plain, offensive almost in his eyes. Mr. Vivian admired the beauty of form and colour rather than that of expression, and he rather re- sented Ursula's brown and scraggy unloveliness. "What will I do with her?" was his mental ques- tion, and it was still unanswered when they reached the house. In the low, ivy- wreathed doorway stood Mrs. Vivian, leaning slightly against the lintel, as if she required support She was a lovely woman, with a pure, sweet, refined face, sadly wan and worn indeed, and large, dreamy blue eyes like Geoffrey's, about which lingered mary dark shadows. Ursula 30 Ursula Vivian. '1 i i w ^' ,1 \ sprang to her with a sob, and took her in her strong young arms — the frail mother whom she worshipped, who was her ideal of everything saintly and sweet and good. " Mamma, mamma, oh, dear mamma," she whis- pered ; and Mrs. Vivian, smiling through her tears, smoothed the rough head, and answered back as only a mother can. "My daughter!" "Is tea ready, mamma?" inquired Mr. Vivian, looking as if he thought enough fuss had been made over Ursula ; and Mrs. Vivian, slipping from Ursula's clasp, answered with her usual readiness to please her husband. " Yes, I think Betty took it in when I called to her that you were coming. Come, Ursula, run up and take off your hat ; papa does not like to wait, you know." " All right," said Ursula, and ran first into the kitchen for a word with the faithful old woman who had served the Vivians for love alone for forty years. In an incredibly short time Ursula, who never spent any superfluous time over her toilet, had given her face a vigorous scrubbing, made a wild attempt to smooth her tangled hair, set her collar The Vivians of the Grange. 31 her in her whom she everything 1," she whis- Th her tears, red back as Mr. Vivian, ;s had been lipping from ial readiness I called to rsula, run up like to wait, first into the old woman one for forty ;r a, who never toilet, had made a wild et her collar straight, and was ready, and ravenously hungry for tea. It was a pleasant meal. Never had the great gloomy dining-room, with its faded, shabby fur- nishings, seemed so dear and pleasant a place to Ursula Vivian. Never had the Babel of talk sounded so like music, never had the dear mother seemed so sweet, so lovely, so unutterably precious. Ursula spoke as much as any of them, but some- times in the middle of a sentence she would break off suddenly to look at her mother with eyes full of dread. What was it that sent such a strange sharp thrill to Ursula's heart as she looked ? It was not ex- actly that her mother looked ill, it was the ex- pression in her eyes which struck Ursula mos^ of all. " It seemed to me," she said, talking of it long after to Mary Dunscombe — " It seemed as if mamma had tasted heaven before she said good- bye to earth. I never saw anything so beautiful and yet so solemn in my life." When she bade her mother good-night before she went upstairs she put her strong young arm about the drooping shoulders and whispered tenderly : 32 Ursula Vivian. \ " You will rest now, mamma. I am as strong as a lion, and will do everything for you." " My darling, I know it," returned Mrs. Vivian, looking up in the brown face, thinking it the dearest and sweetest in the world. " My rest is close at hand." Ursula did not ponder on these words — though they were meant to convey to her a deeper mean- ing. Well, there was time enough — oh yes, time enough. All too scon the truth would come home to Ursula Vivian ; all too soon she would need to leave her girlhood behind her and take up the duties and cares of womanhood — taking up with them too a woman's cross. % "^'h as strong as m^^'^.^:^ Mrs. Vivian, iking it the rds — though eeper mean- oh yes, time come home ould need to take up the :ing up with CHAPTER III. MAKING READY FOR THE CAMPAIGN. HEN Ursula awoke next morning the sun was streaming brilliantly into her room. She sprang up and looked at the little old-fashioned watch which had kept time for her at school. It was just seven, and the house was very still ; but listening intently she heard faint sounds pro- ceeding from the lower regions, which told that Betty at least was already astir. Now if Ursula had a besetting sin it was a disinclination to get up in the morning, and in the list of her new-formed resolutions "early rising" had a prominent place. So by a mighty effort she conquered the desire to jump into bed and dream for another hour, and began to get on h^r garments in a great hurry, lest the temptation should prove too strong for her. When she was half-dressed, she was wide enough 33 C 34 UrsN/a Vivian. m !';■ i H awake. So slic mnvcd over to the window, drew aside the blind, and looked out. Oil, how gloriously fair tlic world that sununcr niornini; ! The mists were clcarinj^ slowly from the p^rcen slope of the Scaur, the miniature mountain of which Kcssington was s'^ proud, and which had been the scene of iiuiutniMable gipsy gatherings and other juvenile escapades of the Vivians every holiday-lime for years. A broad, beautiful meadow, dotted thick with daisies and buttercups, int'Mvened between the Grange woods and the Scaur, and there the cattle were alreatly browsing peacefully, enjoying a dainty bite, unmolested yet by their enemies the Hies. The woods were living green, and resoun'ling with the song of a thousand birds. Listening, Ursula easily recognised the various notes, for the boys kept her well versed in bird lore. The sweet eyes of the honeysuckle peeping in at the window were wet with dew, and the diamond drops glittered on every blade of grass, and filled to overflowing the dainty cups of the daisies on the lawn. Unable to express the exuberance of her delight, Ihsula broke into a merry snatch of song, till Mdl'iiii:;- Ready for the Cnt. 35 ulow, (hew at suinincr the pjrccn ountain of vvliich had ^athcrin^s viaiis every thick with etwecii the c the cattle in^ a dainty ic flics. resoun'iing Listen in[]j, 3tes, for the ccpinj:^ in at ic diamond s, and filled lisies on the her delight, )f song, till t •M sud(l(Mily rcinciiihering slu* would surely awake her mother, she erfi'dually silenced herself by i)luiJ};in;j face and hands into coi 1 water. In ten minutes sh(! was dressed, and openinjj her door softly, she slipped downstairs and pciired into the tliniii'^-room. The window was oj)en, the curtains looped up, and the place rcatly for sweei)ing. Just then lk;tty entered with her broom. "liless mc. Miss Ursula, what arc you doinjj up at this time?" " Why, it's half-past seven, Iktty," said Ursula. "I'm going to get up every morning to help, you know. Tell mc all the things mamma does, and I'll begin at once." Betty looked more than pleased, the .igh she did not say much. "Well, you see, Miss Ursula, I generally call your mamma about this time, an* she comes down in time to dust the dining-room. When that's done I set the breakfast, and she goes down and sees after the master's chicken, or bacon, or fish, or whatever it is. He's very particular, and she always does it herself" " Well, Betty, I'll not meddle with the cooking this morning, but I'll dust the dining-room and T'lf t 3« Vrsiifn I'rrii/n. \ i I i , (. i \\ i' T then I'll set the hrcakfast, while you put ou imp.i'g chicketi or whatever it is he f^ets," said Ursula. *• Here, let nie sweep the (loor, for I need to leani, you know, and I'm abler than )'ou, I believe." Hetty, nothing,' loth, ^ave up the broom, and retired to the kitehen, leaving; the dinini^-room in Ursula's hamls. Mifidful of her hair, Ursula lifted a brilliant-hued anti-macassar from the sofa, and wound it fantastically about her head. Then she set to work with a will, and raised such a cloud of dust that she was enveloi)ed as in a nn'st. Then she shut the doc.r, went outside to cool herself ;uid to let the dust settle. Lookiuj^ at the wealth of Gloire di Dijons j^rowini; in wild lu.xuriance in the ncL;lected shrubbery, it occurred to her that a few in a glass of water would be a temptin<^ addition to the breakfast table, so she plucked them, and retired indoors to procure a f^lass. The shrill whistlint; *" a popular sonj:^ warned her tliat the boys were stirriuL^, so she made haste to i;et the dining-room dusted and the cloth laid. Not being very experienced in house work, her dusting was of a very superficial nature, and she forgot the table legs altcv^ether. Nevertheless, the dining-room presented a very tidy appearance when she was done with it. She ran down to the t j M I'm sorry I slci)t so lon^." " You need not be, mum," said IJetty's voice, "for Miss Ursula's been up since goodness only knows when, and she's cle:).ned the dining-room, and set the table, and everything." Mrs. Vivian entered the dining-room, saw that it was in perfect readiness, and turned to Ursula with a tender kiss. "My helpful daughter," was all she said, but was it not enough, ay, more than enough, for Ursula? " Didn't I tell you I was going to do everything for you, mother miiie?" she said, gaily. "When do the boys generally make their appearance?" "Tliey drop in one by one, Ursula," answered 38 Ursula Vivian. i. ' n \\t n If ;\ if ^1 Mrs. Vivian. "We seem to be unable to keep rcG^ular hours here. I have made all sorts of rules, but they seem made only to be broken. I " " Hulloa ! here's an Indian Begum or a princess of the Fiji Islands," cried Tom's voice in the door- way, and with one bound he sprang to Ursula, caught one end of the anti-macassar, and caused her to execute a war dance through the room. In the middle of the interesting performance Mr. Vivian entered, looking gravely displeased. " Tom, leave your sister alone," he said, sternly. " Ursula, I am ashamed to see that you are still the hoyden whose unladylike behaviour made us forget your sex. Mamma, I wonder you do not check them." " It is only a little harmless nonsense, Geoffrey," said Mrs. Vivian, quietly. "We cannot expect Ursula to be an old woman all at once." " Harmless nonsense, indeed ; it is very unbe- coming to a young woman. My sister Frances at eighteen was as sedate and dignified as she is now," said Mr. Vivian. Tom made a grimace, which nearly upset Ursula. "I'd rather see Ursula like a red Indian than a ■?i ,4 Mahin^ Ready for the Campaign. 39 to keep sorts of I broken. a princess the door- o Ursula, id caused room. In ance Mr. d. id, sternly, u are still r made us 3U do not Geoftrey," lot expect ^ery unbe- Frances at as she is arly upset iian than a "i poker like Aunt Frances. She's enough to hurt you, even to look at," said Tom, daringly, and immediately made his exit to escape his father's scathing rebuke. Mr. Vivian rang the bell furiously, which brought Betty up with the breakfast, and Geoffrey having appeared, the meal was begun. Ursula sat silent, keeping her eyes on her plate, but she noted, oh, verj' keenly, how little her mother ate. There was not much to tempt the appetite truly, coffee and bread and butter being all that was on the table, except the dainty morsel of chicken which lay on Mr. Vivian's plate. It was an unsociable meal, and Ursula began to feel for the first time in her life that there was some mistake, some jarring discord, in the home life, and she made a silent resolution to do her best to improve matters. She had won a great victory already that morning by keeping a bridle on her tongue while her father was speaking. In times gone it would not have cost her a qualm to speak back, smartly and even impertinently ; but, if she was to be of any use to those she loved, if she was to do good to her unruly brothers, she must first be gentle and humble herself Tom did not appear in the dining-room again, T 40 Ursula Vivian. liii ! i Ilii !)ii \^ ::! ,ii ' 11 I: ii- •'1. \\ I, !■ 1 1^ u - ij , ! but coaxed a few scraps from Betty, and in about fifteen minutes Ursula heard him go whistling down the avenue. She looked out and saw that he had his books under his arm, and was evidently off to school. It was a fortnight yet till breaking up at Kessington Grammar School. Presently Geoffrey and the others followed him. Mr. Vivian went out with his campstool and his newspaper to the lawn, and Ursula was left alone with her mother. " Now, mother, what do I do next ?" she said. "Wash cups or make beds?" " Betty will wash up the things, dear ; you can come and help me to make the beds, if you like ; that is always my work." Ursula was rather a harum-scarum housewife. She made a gale flapping the sheets up and down, and caused pillows to fly about in rather an alarming fashion ; but she was strong and very willing, did not mind being scolded or laughed at for awkwardness, so she was a most promising pupil. " Now, that is so much. You are a great help, Ursula," said Mrs. Vivian. " I am going down to see after dinner, and you can read or play, or go outside. There is nothing particular to do now." Making Ready for the Campaign. 4t in about whistling saw that evidently breaking wed hiin. I and his left alone she said. you can you like; lousewife. md down, rather an and very aughed at promising reat help, ing down )r play, or ) do now;' "Very well, mamma," said Ursula, and suddenly taking her mother in her arms with a grip which hurt, she murmured passionately, " My own, own mamma, how I love you ; I* could die for you, I verily believe!" Then she dashed off, hummirg a song, and her mother saw her no more for hours. Ursula only went up a garret on an exploring expedition. The attic flat of the house was only used as a place for stowmg lumber, and there was plenty of it in the shape of old trunks, broken furniture, and every conceivable kind of rubbish. There were three apartments, and Ursula went from one to another eyeing them with a critical air and as if she had some object in view. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision, for she threw open the funny little diamond-paned window in ti ? smallest room, and immediately began to carry the lumber out of it into the other. When it was quite empty she glanced ruefully at the cobwebbed roof, the dusty walls and floor, for a few minutes, and then darted off to the kitchen like an arrow. No one was there, so she purloined Betty's broom and dust-pan and flew upstairs again. Then she tied a piece of an old counterpane round her head, pinned up her gown, and set to work. In about half-an-hour there was a considerable improvement I '11, ! H I^T-- 42 Ursula Vivian. W':. P liir linM I i! ' U il ;M' ■Tsl. I'ii. •i \ in the appearance of the place, but the floor looked as if it would be infinitely the better for an application of a washing-cloth, so Ursula stole down again, and after a hasty scramble got a pail, emptied the kettle of its contents, and trium- phantly retired. She had to get off her knees sometimes to laugh at the thought of what Isabel Fortescue and the rest would say if they saw her now. She gave the floor a vigorous scrubbing, washed all the cobwebs off the window panes, and then regarded her work with unalloyed satisfaction. The walls had no plaster on them, to be sure, and the traces of sweeping with a not too clean broom were very visible on the whitewash, but all the cobwebs and the spiders were demolished, the floor was respect- ably clean, and if the window was rubbed up Ursula's first attempt at house-cleaning was complete. She set the pail on the landing outside, took off her head-dress, and worked as vigorously on the glass panes. She paused often to watch the sunny picture which stretched away beyond the low-lying roofs of Kessington, a beautiful picture of hill and dale, green meadow and dark woodland, and waving corn almost white unto harvest. Mahiiig Ready for the Campaign, 43 floor looked iter for an Jrsula stole e got a pail, and trium- Ties to laugh cue and the 3he gave the the cobwebs led her work alls had no le traces of n were very :obwebs and was respect- rubbed up eaning was ding outside, IS vigorously en to watch way beyond a beautiful >w and dark white unto A great rugged beech tree grew just at that end of the house. Its topmost bough reached far above the windows ; its green leaves made a pleasant shade from the burning midsummer sun. When the window was duly polished Ursula retired into the larger attic to select certain articles of furniture for the sanctum. It was a rueful collection of dilapidated articles, some of them ancient enough to be almost curiosities in their way. Ursula proceeded first to examine an ebony table lying face downwards on the floor, with three scratched and chipped legs sticking appealingly into the air. She turned it up, propped it against the wall, and regarded it with favour. It was the very thing if she could but find its missing leg. She proceeded to hunt for it, but in vain, so the next course was to find a leg of something else and make it do duty on the table. To her delight she came upon a paper of small nails and a hammer, which Mrs. Vivian had mislaid in the garret ; so she would be saved another journey downstairs in search of these articles. After considerable delibe- ration she knocked the leg off another small old- fashioned tea-table, which had been laid aside because one of its folding ends was broken in two, and proceeded to nail it pn the vacant :| m place. By I > '^ ^ 44 f't\f//,f l^n-itt *f. 1«» lu'l ji>\ \]\r \;\])\r i;(ni)il pi tin ||\ ^;|r;|i)\- (i|| l|||r(' M.uk 1 tr aiu 1 ) 1 >ioun niH' HM mint 1 inn. m^t il M<';nnsl 1 he wnll ni;n IhiMvimlnw A\{' i Ml I il il il inti > (iiKinr, i.nr In pl.n c llic l»mv\n Ics; in iIh> 'jIckImw. ;\ntl ihcn sIomiI l>;irK \n ndnnir Ini in;;i'iniil\-. .Mh< >vn'^ ii>'<<"U; t>n l.nnioislw All '^lic \v;inlril ikiw \\i\'i A rb.ni .nul .'< '^Iiip nl i ,\iprl Im llw !ln(»t. .Sn )>,ulv sluMAinl In llu' Mn it'sil \ sli»»p. All I Ium li.iii,'? ImiI on«' \;\y Kctl rilluM nnr or hvn li'i;*^. Mnd IIkiI nno liiul a hinKtMi b;\rK. I'lMiln snncvcd il nn iHIm- (nrh lor a minnlr or ^o, and iIum) Knoi kcd Ihc hai k oil" rnlin 1\- wilh Ihc hatntnci, llnis inakinj; a lonr k^rjM^I slool. wlii'.h wa-^ c^NatlU- wlial '^Ik' \\anlr>i.il ilwcMc^hnl In-di JMionsdi. I 'nl'M iiinalrlv it was not, hut that i onld «^»';il\- hr iiMni-dicd l>v piittni!^ a hasmuk on it vvhrn sIk^ wanted to sit at {\\c talilt\ A strip of lad(^l Hrussils was joinid. one o\ w ln» h was laid in Iront «)!' tlir luai 111, llu* t>th(M at the labl(\ TIumi indeed Ursula's lahnuis wer'^ (Mided. her stud\- iead\ ; she had iiolhin;; to K\o wow hut !;et a hii\ lor her >nainisrii|)t, i ,n i \' up }>ens. ink and pa|HM', and hi^jdn. No \(>iu>j; house keeper e\ cm telt sueh a |dow ol lovinj^ priilc t)V( r )ur prett\ viraw inL;-n)on\ as Ihsula \i\ian felt over lier.iUic s.uicUnii tluU sunuuci iiu)iinn!'. llcr late Afiflhtji Kritiiy foi the C "////v7 /;•//. ^'^ l\- < tU I \\\vv I ird it iiiti* \\v wnwlow, Mil\-. Mh- inlril IIDVV !ln()i, S(» I the rluiiiR III llwH MH(' il mrdilM MM k«'(l t lir s lUMAiiu; a \\\\\\\ "Aw rmtMnalrly mnlicil l)v mI t.» sit ;il was lomul, h(-;nlli, llir la's lahnnis iintliiii;; 1<» A, (any n|) >Mn;; house pride over i.iM II It over Her lace WM*? Im .imlii'; llitiHijdi file mniMltjes u';is n Vvy \u\ flir dn Txikiii^ Ini yon !" she exc laiiiHMl. "I've licen up ^^aircf, fiiainnwi," hinjdied (/i ;nla, ''fillini; up ;i ( h;iiiil»er of horrorn. C.onie ;uid see," and she set the pail on the drawintj-rooni m,it and turned upstniis a;;ain, followed by her amused and woiideiiii}; mother. " Don't say f can't clean li(Misr," she said, fliiif;- iii;; ojien the door of the transhained attic. "'Will you walk into my |»ailouri'' said the spider to the lly. All the sj)ideis are dead and drfiwnf:d, inaiiima. And what a lot there were! 'Ihey ran ii|) and down me lik(! anythinj;. i believe tliere'.«i bome roosting; in my hair yet." "My dear, you have certainly done wondera W" 4<5 Ursula Vivian. If i , I ' here, but what is it meant for — " a place to study in, or what?" said Mrs. Vivian. "It's an author's den, mamma," said Ursula, more soberly. " Seriously, I think I can write, mamma ; at least I am going to try my hand, and I wanted a quiet place away from the boys. I've been carpentering, too; didn't you hear the hammering?" "No, we can't hear any noise from the attics downstairs, you know, owing to the construction of the walls and ceilings, I suppose," answered Mrs. Vivian. " You have done very well, Ursula, and I wish my daughter every success." Ursula turned and kissed her mother, gravely and quietly. " You will not tell, mamma, honour bright," she said, with a little rippling smile. " I shall be dumb," Mrs. Vivian laughed back. So the study was set in order. Little dreamed either of the two who Ir.ughed that morning what great things were to be done in it, and what widespread influences for good were to emanate by-and-by from the garret of Kessington Grange I A JM '^^^^, ciiArrER IV. r, gravely right" she d back. e dreamed ning what and what emanate 1 Grange I iOT^<-X A BITTER HOUR. AM MA, how long is it since Robert was home?" asked Ursula one morning a few days later. " He was down for a few days at Christmas, dear," returned Mrs. Vivian. " He does not care very much about The Grange, Ursula. Your father and he do not get on very well together." " It is eighteen months since I saw him," said Ursula, with a great sigh, " and he never writes to me. What a funny family we are, mamma ! Why did Robert choose to go to London and bei^in business? The Vivians used always to be pro- fessional, were they not ?" " Yes ; but it was stern necessity in Robert's case, Ursula, There will be no college course for any of the present Vivians." Ursula opened wide her eyes. 47 1 4S Vrsuin Vivutn, " VoT ncMir of tlirin ? Why, mainiiia, Cli.nlic must he a iniiiislor. Would you tn»l like to sec the yoiinj;est of Ihe boys a der^^yinaii ?" " Like it?" echoed Mrs. Vivian. bidrMly. "When you j;ro\v okler, Ursula, you will learii that it is not what vvt would like in this wuild that falls to our lot, rather the reverse." Never had Ursula heard her ryentlr mother spcnlc with so niuc'li bitterness, and another tjuest ion forceil itself from her lips before she was aware of it. " Is papa's income smaller than it was ? Are the farms let at a lower rcnt.d, or what, that money is such a scarce commotlity with us now .''" "Farms!" rc-cchocd Mrs. Vivian. "Come and look here, Ursula." In considerable astonishment Ursula joined her mother in the window. INlrs. Vivian piMiited with her thin finger to the meadow lying at the foot of the Scaur. " That and two other fields arc al! that remain to us of the Grange lands, Ursula; their rental all the Vivians hav^e to live upon. Myslciulcr fortune is all gone long ago ; so you sec I was right in say- ing there could be no college course for any of my sons. This must be Geoffrey's last session at Kcssington, and I must bestir myself, for your yi lUttn Hour. 49 ;. "\Vlicn at it is lint nils to uur that remain :ir rental all idcr lortunc i^^ht in say- r any of iny session at If, for your Titlicr will not, abont ^'cltinjj him somctliint; to (In. Slic (lid not spralc rotnplaininjdy, tlir tinic liad 1)(*(M) ^onc for that, hut there was an nndeitnnc of •1( [1 (1 h 'hi( h \\'< ()|HMessncss and despair aitnosr \\\ her voice wni( n 111 to Ursula's heart Iil<(; a knife. She had not dreamed thin;^s were so bad as this. In tliat moment many thinj^^s she had niarvelled over, even in her unthiid>;in^ }.;irlhood, were iiiade j)lain to her. '1 he mea^y'e tabh', tiic shabby clothes, tlu! l,ir!< of needful domestic help in the house, all had their explanation now. One thin^, however, re- (juired to be cleared uj> to Ursula's satisfaction. "Maimna, where did the money come from to pay my bills at Aldborou[;h ? They were lonj; ones, 1 know." Mrs. Vivian's face flushed, but the truth could not be kept from Ursula now. "The Misses Warner were old and dear friends of mine when I was a ^irl like you, Ursula, h'or- tune had been very kind to them, not so kind to me. Can't you j^uess how it was? The hot blood rushed to face, neck, check, and brow, ^^lyein^ even her f n<;er tips. ]5etter, far better, she thought, that she had been tau'dit to >» '}->"'-» read and write at h(jme. rather tl lan receive r ri 50 Ursula Vh'tan. I i the highest education without payment ; but, for her mother's sake, she kept her thought unspoken. There was no more said on the subject then, and presently Ursula, taking thought of her neglected household duties, left the room slowly and went downstairs for a broom and dust- pan. As she neared the kitchen door she heard Betty in conversation, or rather altercation, with some tradesman out in the back-yard. Peering through the scullery window, and seeing a butcher's van in the yard, she lifted her broom and was about to retire, when a sentence fell on her ear which made her stand still. " Well, all I can say, missis, is that you can't get any more meat till there is cash paid down for what's gone," said a man's voice rudely and sullenly. " Them's my orders. My master's not goin* to be took in as Barnes was. He's only beginnin' busi- ness, an' has a lot of mouths to feed, tell the squire ; an' he's as good a right to live as the squire has — better, indeed, for he's an honest man." Ursula waited to hear no more. Dropping her broom, she rushed upstairs and into her mother's presence with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes. " Mamma, there's a man at the kitchen door — a butcher's man — quarrelling with Betty. He seems ?il*i A Bitter Hour, 51 to want money, and he is insultinfr papa. Give me what you have and let me go down to him." Mrs. Vivian shook her head. " What I have by me, Ursula, would be of no use. We owe him nearly ^40." Ursula absolutely stared. " Mamma," she gasped, " have we fallen so low as to be a butt for all the vulgar, spiteful imperti- nence of tradesmen's boys ? Do we eat meat every day which has not been paid for? Tell me, it is some mistake." "Sit down, Ursula, and hear me speak," said Mrs. Vivian, her white lips quivering sorely. " It is time now that you knew all the truth — time you were told of the burden which has been killing me for years. Yes, time," she added, under her breath, " for the burden ere long will change hands." But Ursula could not sit down. She paced to and fro the room like a caged lion, while her mother recited to her all the pecuniary embarrassments which you already know something of. When done, Ursula ran out of the room up to her garret and locked the door. She did not sit down to cry or to fret over the terrible humiliation and degrada- tion of the Vivians. No ; she drew her stool over to the table, sat down, and opened the box which 1' 1; I \ 52 Vrsuh ]''ivi(in. rotilninril hex mnnu'^rifpl, writtrn an«l unwiitlrti. Sli(^ « nisli(>il nil tli(^ «los(M\- filU^l papns up in luT hanJ, to>^soil Ihnn into \hc cinptv f^atr, Mini «ha\vii\i; a iloan sheet lowauls her, hltcd her ]>en. Her h'ps were eotnpn^'^'^eil, her Inows lrth thcM*' !n«r;t he no idle serihlilin;; o{ sentimental v< rse or eonn't prose tor luM v>\\ • aniii^enUMit ; no, hrnri-forlh it nnist be \viitin>: in tlead earnest, with a si Mtled ann n vi(nv. It was pivssihl(\ with \\cy one tal(Mit, to w- tleeni the h«inoi;r e»l tlie \'i\ians ; to hit the load i^( carkuii; eare tVoni her mother's heart ; a\ <\ and to sliame her tather in his selfish indoh^it iiuhiUuMU e, in hissintnl nej^leet ot" liis mo'^t saered duties! He- \o\c she wrote a wn>rd that morning Ursula reiMs- tered lier vow, tirst to eonscerate her powor to the ser\ iee ot llic l.v'ui. and seeontl, to know n«> weari- ness nor taintini;", to oeeupy every availahU^ minute o\ her leisure hoius in her study ; and thirdl\-, to dexote entirely whatever jMoeeeds she nu;;ht de: ixe tVom lier laboiu's to erne aim. She dropped her head down upon the pai;e for a briet' moment, and up fVom the dci)lhs oi her sore heart went the voiceless prayer; A fUf/rr ffiur. 53 " Ciod lirip iTin ; (i(ime and see us. There is no nonsense about her, and she is such fun." "Ten years aflcM" this I\liss Vivian will be the handsomest woman in Kessini;ton, see if I'm not rii;ht," said Laurence. "She has i^lorious eyes, and as you say, Ai;nes, there is no nonsense about her. She will be a splentlid woman some day." "I am very sorry for her," said Mrs. Abbot, in her j^entle, motherly way. "Her mother is evi- dently far gone in decline, and their affairs are in a friq;htful state, your father says. There must be a i^reat crash some dav." " I'd like to horsewhip old Vivian," said Laurence Abbot, with boyish irreverence. " lic'i: the mean- est old vaiiabond in Christendom." "Strong language, my son," said Mrs. Abbot. " No stronger than the occasion warrants, mother mine," said Laurence lightly, and the subject of the Vivians was dismissed. Meanwhile the picnic party had managed to get across the swoll "n stream, at the base of the Scaur without more serious mishap than the loss ot the I i t'li up the S III III' ^3 :an- thcr of p"i ct laur the sticks, vvliirh Charlie Irt drop as lie tried to fmd footing on soiiu! piMJloiis sl(|tpin;^-st()n(S. 'I I\(^ inatclu's were fortunately rcsiiUMi, and they pro- ceeded to clinil) up the steej) side of the Scaur, hopinij to find some firewood on tlie summit. It was hard work, and tiiey had to pause often for brcatli, but at lenj^^li their climb was over, and they stood on the j;reen hill-toi) and looked down on the clustering roofs of Kessin^ton, lyin^^ far below. Ursula could have feasted her eyes on the beautiful panorama for hours, but the boys were impatient f^^r tea, and bct^an at once to build a fireplace of ioosc stones, while the younger ones went hunting for sticks. " I'll look after the fire, Ursula," said Tom, " if you'll get out the things. Oh, I say, we've for- gotten to fill the kettle." Each one looked blankly at the other, and at last Geoffrey volunteered to descend the hill and get the most indispensable element for tea-drinking; but Tom, snatching the kettle without a word, went flying down over the slippery stones with a speed which occasioned Ursula some anxiety for the safety of his neck. The fire was built and kindling beautifully when Tom returned with the lull kettle, so it was If 64 Ursula Vivian, planted firmly in the middle of the flames, and in an in-rredibly short time was singing gaily. Need- less to say that their meal was enjoyed. They were as hungry as hawks, and though the tea savoured of smoke it was pronounced to be splendid. " Tell MS a story, Ursula," cried Charlie. " You always used to, you know, up the Scaur. Didn't she, Tom ?" "Yes. Come on, Ursula, a real adventure, one with plenty of ghosts and robbers and fearful things in it. We can sit ever so long up here ; it's so jolly and warm, and the sun won't be down for hours." Ursula looked towards the west, and shook her head. . *' He will be down in one hour, or less, Tom. Can't we be quiet for a little while. I don't mind any stories just now," she said. " Tell the one you are writing up garret," sug- gested Tom, slily. Ursula blushed, and Geoffrey looked mystified. " You wouldn't like it ; besides, I don't know the end of it yet," said Ursula. " Suppose we talk together — a real nice chat, you know, about all we are going to be and do in the future." Up the Scaur. 65 "You first, then," said the incorri^^ible. "Tell us what kind of a frock you'll have on when you marry Robinson, and who are to be the bridesmaids. That's the kind of talk girls like, isn't it?" Again Ursula's hand was applied with some force to Tom's ear. " That's the kind of punishment small boys get when they are pert to their elder sisters," she said. "Geoffrey, tell us what you are going lo do ?" " I know. He's going to buy ?. piano and sail away in a balloon with it," said Tom. " Well, Ursula, if you'll tell us really all you are going to do, I'll sit quiet and be dumb. Come on." "Very well," said Ursula, half-dreamily. "Well, do you see all the lands round and round the Grange, boys ?" "Yes!" they cried in chorus. " Once they all belonged to the Vivians, and I'm going to buy them all back again." " How ?" cried Tom. " You haven't any money, not a copper ! for you couldn't lend me a penny for toffee the other day." " I'm going to make it," said Ursula, more dreamily still. " I'm successful." oing to work hard and be £ .i\ II 1 i 66 Ursula Vivian. \ vfii (. ,: "Oh, I know you're goincr to write books up garret," said Tom, half scornfully. Ursula nodded. "And, Ursula, when you have made all the money and bought back the lands, what will you do? That won't be the end of your life," said Geoffrey. " I hope not, Geoffrey, but at present I look no further than that." " I'll tell you. She'll marry Robinson, or perhaps Laurence Abbot, and live happily ever after." Ursula reddened, and turning to Geoffrey, said it was his turn. " Well, I'd like to go to Germany," said Geoffrey, timidly almost, for he was making public a very cherished dream. " I'd like to go and study under Wagner or Litsz, and compose music like them. And that's what I mean to do if I can." "V/e'U shake hands. We are kindred spirits," said Ursula, laughing a little, but speaking earnestly too ; and brother and sister shook hands over it accordingly. For a wonder Tom didn't laugh. " Well, I have nothing to say ; I haven't any ambition ; and when I grow up I don't know what I'll do with myself," he said. " Spend my days up the Scaur. 67 at Jys in humble obscurity, and live off my rich rela- tions." " I'm going to sea," said Fred, without a moment's hesitation. " And I'm going to be a clergyman, and preach every Sunday, like Mr. Gresham," said Charlie. " I'd like to stand in the pulpit and swing my arms about like he does." They all laughed, but presently Ursula turned to Charlie, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, said in a low voice : " Yes, Charlie, I hope to see you in Mr. Gresham's pulpit some day, and I'll just give you a text now for your first sermon." "Well?" They all waited breathlessly, and after a few minutes' quiet her answer came, in a very grave voice : " Owe no man anything, but to love one another." Ursula's text seemed to sober them somehow, though none of the boys knew anything of the feelings which had prompted her to say it, nor suspected its hidden meaning. She rose and began to gather the cups together in the basket. Geoftrey sat still, watching with dreamy eyes the crimson setting 01 the sun, while Tom and the Hi;l ti i \\ V 1 i r>s Vfsf//,f Vit'inn. fail •MluMs anuisrd Ihomsrlvcs Rilrntly !>>' '^t'ltin}; little stonrs rollins;. ami walrhinj; ihrm t hai^in^ ca» h otluM o\\{ »>r sis^ht. " 1 ihinU \vo\l best l)p iiunfiu^. 1h>)'s," «5ai;in ami feel pokey and «>ld," said Ursula ; rt st.ilemont which so ilisqusted Tom thai he set off at a trt>l vlown hill, to the music of the crockeiy r.\lllin;; in the basket. He kept ahead t)f them all tlie way. whistlini; \o himselt". but pausinl at the wii ket opening; from the meadow into the wootls. •' 1 \\o\-\c yini've hail a pretty quiet walk, Sober- sides." he saiil \o Ursula. Slie did not answer. There was a stranp,e sink- ing at her heart, a prevision of evil, for which she could not account, and which she did r.ot care to .speak to her brothers. \' he LO Vp the Scaur, O) Tofn trDUt'd off nj^airt, {pliriacirif^ violently, atul pirsciilly lliry wrio at hoiiin. Tlir front flnnt wa'? \vi«lr open, ninl at s(»iifi(l ol Tom's wliistliiijj lU-tly canu^ nii)inii{; out, hoMiii}; up a waniin}; \\\\\\*ix. " Hush, Inish !" hIio saiM, in a .«»tranf(r awr-sttuck voice. "Strp lifjlit, l»oy.s, for thcro's ((imr an awfnl tronhir on tlir honsn. Mi'^i Ursula, dear, your father ^ot thrown from that wild horse out- side KessinfMon, and " She paused, unaMe to complete ihc sentence. " I knew," said Ursula, with a stranjje (|uiet ealin. " Tapa is dead, Betty. Let mc go to mamma." N ' I' '' I' 'i.U ■ 1 1 : 5 CHAPTER VI. THE MYSTERY OF LIFE AND DEATH. T was a strange, still, miserable house next day. The boys crept about on tip-toe, looking as if they did not know what to do with themselves. They avoided the western room, where the quiet sleeper lay, waiting to be carried to his last rest ; but they would creep often to the door f another room, to knock softly and ask Ursula how mamma was now. The shock had Utterly prostrated Mrs. Vivian, and she lay white and still upon her bed — so still, indeed, that Ursula, watching beside her, sometimes feared she too had slipped away. The physician had come in the morning, and had shaken his head. He looked at Ursula keenly and curiously, as if to judge whether she was able to bear his verdict. Then he called her outside, and laid his kind hand on her shoulder. " The heart's action is frightfully weak," he said. The Mystery of Life and Death 71 ce a, d. "The whole system has received a shock which, in its present condition, is very serious — nay more, absolutely dangerous." Ursula lifted her eyes to the doctor's face, and asked, oh so calmly — '' Is my mother's recovery a matter of question. Dr. Hall V* " It is, Miss Vivian, a matter of very grave question indeed." Ursula heard, and was calm v/ith the calmness of despair. " I shall look in again in the evening. My dear, I would advise you to take care o^ yourself," said the physician, disturbed by the strangeness of Ursula's look and manner. " There may be much for you to do in the sick-room yet." Only " may be." These words rang their changes in Ursula's ears, but she only lifted her eyes some- what wonderingly to the doctor's face, and asked if he had any charge to leave concerning his patient. " She is asleep now," said the doctor. " Do not wake her, for sleep is life. But when she does awake give her the medicine, as I directed. Good morning." Mechanically Ursula returned his good-bye, and went back to the sick-room. The blinds were closely drawn, but a stray sunbecm crept in at the corner, and touched lovingly the white face on the il! ■f I. 1 72 Ursula Vivian, III pillow. Ursula knelt down by the bed, and fixed her eyes on it. She had never felt such a dead, stony feelincj in her heart. She had read of mental anguish which dried up the well-springs of natural grief, anguish without tears or outward sign of any kind, and this was it. She looked on the sweet face so deathly pale, at the long lashes swcci)ing the cheek, at the white lips with the strange blue lines encircling them, then bowed her head and tried to pray. But she could not. J Tor lips were dumb, her heart would not uplift itself even to ask that the beloved might be spared. "While slie knelt, there came a low tap to the door, and Betty entered with a telegram in her hand. " What did the doctor say, Miss Ursula .?" asked the faithful soul, her eyes overflowing. "There is no change since last night ; he cannot tell how it will end," returned Ursula, breaking the seal of the envelope. " This is from Robert. Are the boys about, Betty ?" "Yes, Miss, hanging round downstairs. Poor things, it makes my heart sore to see 'em." "Come away down then, Betty. Mamma is asleep. She needs no watching for a few minutes," said Ursula, and they stole softly downstairs to find Tom sitting disconsolately on the bottom step. The Mystery of Life and Death. 73 Ursula laid her hand gently on his bent head, and tried to say something to comfort him, but failed. " Mamma is much the same ; no worse, at any rate," she whispered. "This is a telegram from Robert. He will be here at once. Some of you had better go to the station and meet him. You and Charlie, and Fred perhaps, Geoffrey might be needed while you are gone." Tom got up — glad, thankful for something to do — took up his cap, and went out to tell the rest. Then Ursula stole down to the kitchen to see what there was in the house for dinner. It was strange how, even in her great agony, she was so mindful of little things. Not one needful duty escaped her memory. She thought of everything and every- body, as she had need, since all were dependent upon her. When she had given Betty all neces- sary directions she stole upstairs again, but before entering her mother's room a strange impulse bade her cross the corridor and enter the chamber of death. She did so very quietly, but her heart was beating wildly, for Ursula Vivian had never yet looked upon the face of death. The night before she had been entirely occupied with her stricken mother, and other hands had prepared the Squire of Kessington Grange for his burial. !i^ h\:- 21 1^ ^■■\' W Pi I .' ':: Ji m Hi 1 ■ i| '■!* i m 1' w 1 ■ 74 Ursula Vivian. In this room a^'o the blind was down, but Ursula, before j^lancing at the bed, drew it up to the top, and admitted the full glory of the sun- shine. Then she approached the bed, turned down the sheet, and looked upon her father's face. It was perfect pea i. F i death had been immediate and painless. Ti • 'as not a trace of struggle on his face. There .XxA^ u\\o Ursula's heart as she looked a strange deep peace, and before she was aware her eyes were blinded by tears. In that moment she remembered all that was good and loveable in her father ; remembered only his kind words and looks — all the rest was for- gotten. Into her heart, too, there crept bitter pain over her own past conduct, unavailing regret, a great longing that she might but whisper into ears which heard all her love, all her sorrow for the lack of daughterly tenderness and care. It is ever thus ; our grief over our loved and lost would be less hard to bear were it robbed of the sting of self-reproach. Oh, that we had done more ! is our constant cry ; oh, for one, only one, opportunity to gladden the quiet heart with a word of unutter- able love, to ease our own burden by one prayer for forgiveness. Too late ! Ursula knelt down there and prayed for forgive- The Mystery of Life and Death. 7S ness, for help, for strength, for endurance, and rose comforted. Bending over the lifeless figure she touched the brow with her lips. " Farewell, my father, I know now how I have loved you." Then she stole back to her mother's bedside, to watch and wait and pray. About two o'clock she heard footsteps approaching the house, and rising she drew aside the blinds and looked out. It wr eighteen months since she had seen her brothci Robert, and during that time he had grown rroK- manly in appearance. He was very like Ursui „ but his face lacked something that hers poss- ^^eH. It was a hard, stern face to see in one so young — the face of one who had done firm battle in the field of life. After that look Ursula dropped the blind with a sigh, and, stepping from the room, stole down to welcome him. She came so softly that Robert, busy with his portmanteau at the lobby, was unaware of her pre- sence till she spoke. " Robert, I am glad you have come." He wheeled round, looked her all over with his keen eyes before he kissed her. He vas astonished at the change in Ursula, she looked so old and worn and sad. 4 I:.: i I i; ■I !. 1.) $1 i. arK' a little, and watcliinij Ursula's pontic, womanly tiMidcrnoss m.uvilliMl greatly, for this was not tlio wild tomboy who had {^cniMally t;rati'd on his sensibilities, but instead a sweet, helpl'ul woman, with ;;entle hands and a low, soothinj; voiee — a very ani;el in a siek-room. Ah, there were possibilities in Ursula's nature un- dreamed of by many besides her brother Robert. A tew sympathisiui; friends ealled at Kessini^toii Granite in the eourse of that ('ay and the next, but Ursula, absolutely refusinj^ to leave her mother, saw none of them. Amoni; the fust to eome were Laurenee and Ai;ties Abbot. Robert \'i\ian made all the neeessary arrangements, and upmi the third day they carried Geoffrey Vivian the elder to his last rest in Kessinqton church}ard. Ursula aU>ne remained at home, but from the window she watched the sad procession out of siijht, and then went back to her now unconscious mother. Doctor Hall had told her plainly that morning that there was no hope now, and that it was only a question oi hours. He could not tell whether she would recover consciousness bciore The Mvstny <>f Ia/v and Drnfft. 79 tlio riid, hut thoiitjht it itnproh.iMr. Ursula, kiu)vviii|.; all tliis, kept caliti, i)iit all that desolation at hand. Her [)raycr was answered. 'Ihe brothers returneil from Kessin}.jton about four o'clock, and Ursula called them all up at once, for she observed a tremor in her mother's whu j lids which seemed to indicate the return of consciousness. While they watched, a sad-eyed band, the mother opened her eyes. "Arc they all here, Ursula?" she asked, clearly and distinctly. "All here, mamma," Ursula answered. "That is ^ood. Love one another, stick close toi^ethcr, and never forget God," she murmured. " Ursula, my darling, I leave them all with you." These were her last words. Even as they looked, another Watcher stole into the room, and the happy spirit recoj^nising Ilim and obcyin<; His call, exchanged a cross for a crown, and went to " be with Christ, which is far better." " It is all o\ <:r, Ursula," said Robert Vivian. "Orphaned in three short days. How great is the mystery of life ! " \ I'M'' li i! ii I ciiArri'.K VII. PL A NS AND llori'.S. 1\SIM,A. 1 must n^lvmi to T.otidon to- inonow," s.ii',1 Uohoit Vivian. Il was tlio cvouiiiL; of tlic day in which Mrs. \'i\ ian hacl Ihxmi laid ti> rest bcsiilc her luishaiul in Kos'^ini^t on rhuuhyartl. The bovs wtMo all in bed, and Robert anti Insula alone in the ilinin«.;-rooni. Robert was standiui',. leaning; a!.;ainst the mantel, I'lsnla with luM hantls listU ssly t\»ldeil in her laj>. There was i}o{ a \estii;e ol" eoKmr in her faee, ami there were j::;rcat deep sh.ulows aliout lier eyes anil mouth whieh tvild oi shn plessness and sorrow. She lifteil her e)es to her brother's I'aec and asked bstlessly : •• Is it imperative that you ^o to-nntrrow ?" "Absolutely si\"' returned Robert, in his brief, curl wa\-. "So now that we are alone we had better discuss what is to be done with you all." rid lis ami Ho/^cs, 8i as th led c ad Ursula winced. She was a w(nnaii now, and sli(^ did not lil^e to he spoken of in that maimer. *' I have been thinkin-^ it all (»vcr," said l\ohert Vivian, "and the best thini^ will he to sell the (jrani;e, and eome all of yon to London. I shall leave my lodjdii'ys, of eonisc, and rent a house." Ursula sat U[5 sud('enly, all her listk:ssness j^onc. "Sell the (jran^c!" she repeated. "'Jhat would be a strange and, to my thinkini^, a very wronj.^ thins; to do. VVc- have no ri^^iil to sell the hirth- I'iidu of th(* Vivians," " It is mine," her brother reminded her some- what unkindly ; and Ursula liad no answer ready for that. "None of us can afford to indul<.;e in any sentimental nonsense at this time, Ursula," said Robert, with as[)erity. "These lads upstairs must leilrn to work for themselves , and what seoi)e is there in this country place? I cannot afford to keep up two establishments, so the Granite must l;(). Perlia[)s tit some future time we can buy it back, and imi)rovc upon it." Robert Vivian meant kindly ; his heart was all ri^ht at the bottom, but he had not the knack of sayiiii; disai^reeable thiny^s pleasantly. Ursula put her hand over her eyes a moment, fur rebellious 81 Ursula Vivian. ill tears were \vrlHi\i; up in tluMii. whirh sIk? did not choose \\vx brotluM' sliould sec. " I have heard jour ]ilaii, Robert," she said, after a brief silence. "Will you h"sten to mine?" He noddcil, and Ursula continued : " I have thonidit the matter entirely out. and I am certain that 1 could keep myself and the boys off what income will still be comintj in every year fn^m the fields, which are ours yet. You would only have the Ixn's', h^etl's and Charlie's, school fees to pay for. (jcoffrey antl Tom nuist leave at once, of course. Will you let mc try it for six nu)nths?" " VVh.it income is there?" asked Robert. " About a hundred jiounds," returned Ursula, and ai;ain there was a silence. The plan was feasible encniqh, and Robert Vivian was not altoL^ether sorry at the prospect of a release from the necessity of making a home for his brothers in London. " It will be pretty tough work for you, Ursula," he said ; " but if you are bent upon trying it, you may." " Thank you," said Ursula, very gratefully. " You will not regret it, I promise you." " I shall look out for somcthinj^ for Tom to do in London. As for Geoffrey, I don't know what P!(Vis (Vui flr'rs. R3 he is fit for, ncill.cr one thinj^ nor aiiotlicr. I h.'ivc no p.ilicncc vvilli him. When I vv.is his at^e I was fii^litinp^ my own battle, atid winm'n^ it too, unaided in the city," said Robert, with conscious [)ritle. " Do you know what Geoffrey has done, Robert?" "No. What?" " lie told me not many irnnntes apjo. Tie has hired liirnself as shop-boy to Mr. Aarons, the music-seller; and Mr. Aarons' son, you know, is the ori;anist of St. Michael's, and will, I am sure, help him in every wny, if he j)roves satisfactory." Robert Vivian looked much surprised, but also pleased. " I did not think Geoffrey had so much pluck- in him. Well, Ursula, how will you like to see a Vivian sweeping out a sh(jp and sellinj:^ cheap music over a counter?" he said, with just a touch of sarcasm. "Work is not dishonourable, even to a Vivian," Ursula answered quietly. " There is another thinr^^ Robert, about the debts," she said, hesitatin^dy. " Papa owed a lot of money in Kessington." Robert Vivian's brow grew very stern. " How much ? Have you any idea ?" I 'ii ill • 1 i i 1 'ii '::? '■ 1 i; ■' l!'i I ; ■ ! I'll I*- r 84 Ursula Vn'ian. Ursula shook her head. " Hundreds of pounds, I should imac^ine," she answered. "These must be paid, Robert." Robert Vivian began to pace up and down the floor with his eyes bent upon the ground. " I am going to Kessington to-morrow, to ascertain the exact sums from the different trades- people," said Ursula, " and we must pay them between us." Robert Vivian stood still and stared at his sister, thinking she was losing her wits. *' I must pay them, you mean," he said, with unmistakable bitterness, for it meant giving up the greater part of his hard-earned savings to pay debts which ou-jht never to have been incurred. " No, you will pay one half, I the other," said Ursula. " I can work for myself too, Robert, and in time be as rich as you." She rose as she spoke and too' a magazine from the sideboard drawer. lurning over its pages she pointed him to a story which occupied a prominent place. " That is mine," she said. " I got ten pounds for it, and the editor asks me for something more, as soon as I can write it." If ever man was amazed, Robert Vivian was at Plans and Hopes. 85 that moment. He had never received so many shocks of surprise in his life as Ursula had given him since he came to Kessington a week ago. "You wrote it, Ursula? Impossible!" "Yes, I did. My initials are at the end, and the cheque is right enough," said Ursula, without pride or elation. " So, Robert, if you will pay all the debts I shall consider myself your debtor for the half of it. I shall be able to pay it, I expect, in a year or two at most. Will you ?" Ursula rose considerably in her brother's esti- mation, and he regarded her with interest. " You are a brave woman, Ursula, as well as a clever one," he said, with a heartiness which brought a faint smile to Ursula's lips. " I promised mamma," she said, with a sob in her voice, " that I would restore the honour of the Vivians; and I promised myself, Robert, that I would buy back all the lost Grange lands ; and I will, ay, every acre of them !" " If you do that, Ursula," said Robert Vivian, " I shall relinquish all my small claim on the Grange, and it will be your own. I wish you every success." " Thanks," said Ursula. " Well, will you arnee to my plan ?" " Certainly. Tell the tradesmen to send their 1 * I' m "l,!-,l 86 Ursiila Vivian, accounts to me, and I'll return cheques at once. Then we can make out our contract, Ursula, which will form a new relationship between us." " Debtor and creditor," repeated Ursula. " How I hate these words ! Then that is settled, Robert V* Robert Vivian nodded. Then Ursula bade him good-night, and went away upstairs. It did not occur to him that there was anything mean or unbrotherly in his conduct. He simpl}'' knew the value of money, and if Ursula cculd get her £ lO cheques so easily and so quickly, it was but fitting that she should share the burden with him. He- was essentially a worldly man. His chief aim and ambition was to be rich, to count his money by thousands and tens of thousands, and to enjoy all the prestige v.calth gives to its owner. Don't judge him too hardly; he had been trained in a hardening school, and as yet very few of the softer, sweeter influences of life had crossed his path. Over his last cigar — the only luxury he permitted himself — Robert Vivian thought about his sister and her independence till his admiration and respect for her ivicreased still more. And Ursula, in the meantime, v/ds kneeling by her bed weeping, and prayin^^ tliut" ti'o aching void in her heart might be filled ^ priyingthat all rebellious bitterness Plans and Hopes. 87 might be removed, and that she might truly and humbly say, "Thy will be done;" and that she might be kept from useless repining, and enabled to do her duty in all the relationships of life as befitted a woman and a Christian. These were the terms she applied to herself — the madcap Ursula, who had been the plague and the sunshine of The Elms, and of whom nobody expected either usefulness or good. Surely this was a change indeed ! Early on the morrow Robert Vivian left for London, and the little band of orphans were left in their desolate home to make the most of what was left, and comfort each other. As she had planned, Ursula dressed herself in the afternoon and proceeded to Kessington on her unpleasant business. Many pitying glances followed the girlish figure In deep mourning wending its way through the streets, and many wondered that Miss Vivian cared to be abroad so soon after the double bereavement which had fallen upon the Grange. She performed her task unflinchingly, and was received by the various shopkeepers with a courtesy and respect she had hardly dared to expect. They were without exception surprised, not expecting such Hi- ll 8S Ursula Vivian, speedy and satisfactory settlement of their claims upon the estate of the late Mr. Vivian. When Ursula was done she breathed freely, and came back through the High Street walking with a lighter step and holding her head more erect, feeling that she was without reproach in the eyes of the trades- people now. Al the music shop she paused half-a-minute, and then went in. Mr. Aarons was behind the counter himself, and received her blandly. He was a fussy little German Jew, who by some queer trick of fortune had settled in Kessington, and who purveyed for the musical taste of its inhabitants. "I have called, Mr. Aarons," said Ursula, lift- ing her veil and looking straight into the old man's face, "to thank you for your kindness to my brother Geoffrey, especially at this time when we need it so much." " Not at all, not at ail, my dear madam. It was but a small thing," said Mr. Aarons, in his fussy way. " I needed a smart lad who had a taste, mark you, a taste for the profession, and they are very few, believe me, in this dull place. I knew your brother boy, Miss Vivian. He often dropped in here on his way from school, so when he asked, 11 would I give hir chance, of course Ursula smilec doing a favour. could learn of h " I think Gcof said, "if you don ments. I warn ; he forgets everyt "Don't I kno^ fully. " Haven't I want — a being Your brother he great man yet. his voice as if h( " my son Franz w land some of thes brother to take hi: so. The lads are Ursula's eyes { hand to the old m " I don't know v simply and earnes your great kindne; Suspicious dro eyelashes, and wl Plans and Hopes, 89 li would I give him something to do, I jumped at the chance, of course." Ursula smiled. That was Mr. Aarons' way of doing a favour. She wished others in Kessington could learn of him. " I think Geoffrey will suit you, ]\Ir. Aarons," she said, "if you don't let him dream over your instru- ments. I warn you when he sits down to a piano he forgets everything." "Don't I know it?" said the music-seller, glee- fully. " Haven't I seen it, and is not that what I want — a being with a soul for the profession ? Your brother has that soul, and he will be a great man yet. Listen," the music-seller lowered his voice as if he were imparting a great secret, " my son Franz will be going back to the Father- land some of these days, and he will prepare yo'^r brother to take his place at St. Michael's. He says so. The lads are great friends." Ursula's eyes glistened, and she held out her hand to the old man. " I don't know what to say, Mr. Aarons," she said, simply and earnestly, " except that I thank you for your great kindness to an orphan." Suspicious drops glistened on Mr. Aarons' eyelashes, and when Miss Vivian left the shop ; % 90 Ursula Vivian, he had to blow his nose very violently, and it was some little time before he could settle to his work again. As Ursula was passing St. Michael's Church she saw Laurence Abbot on the other side of the street. She bowed to him, and was about to pass on, but stood when she saw him taking strides towards her. He offered no words of con- dolence or greeting, but he held the thin hand in a grasp of iron, and looking straight into her ^yo^'s said : "Come up and see my mother. Miss Ursula;" that being in his idea the surest way to comfort her. "Thank you, I think I will," said Ursula simply, wondering why she should feel so com- pletely at home with this young man, and why she should ever feel a kind of comfort in his presence. So in the eyes of Kessington thej'- tur; ed to- gether round St. Michael's corner, and up tiie hill to the Grammar School. " I was sorry I did not see Agnes and you when you called," said Ursula, feeling that she must say something, she was so dangerously near breakintr down. ii i flans and Hopes. 91 his to- hill " We hardly expected it," returned Laurence. " Miss Ursula, I wish I could toll you how I feci for you. It is in moments like these one feels the miserable inadeqviatcness of the English language." " I know very well," said Ursula, gently. " One feels unexpressed sympathy just as well as the other kind. Your hand-shake was enough," she added, with a trace of the old smile not quite lost yet. " My fingers tingle 3'et." The rest of the way was gone in silence. In silence, too, Laurence took her into the house, saying, when he opened the drawing-room door, "Mother, I have brought Miss Vivian to you." Then he slipped away to look for Agnes, who was busy in her own garden behind the house. " Agnes, I met your friend Ursula Vivian in the High Street, and I brought her up. She is in the drawing-room with mother," he said, when he found her. Agnes Abbot laid down her hoe, and began to draw off her garden gloves. " What does she look like, Laurence V she asked, with a suspicious tremor in her voice. " Like a brave woman who has passed through sorrow like hers, but who can bear it nobly," IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /./ «?^V^ 4t % 1.0 I.I ■^■2.8 m 12.2 us lU u L° 12.0 IL25 «» 1.4 1^ ^ A5 o%> V ^ y Photographic Sdences CorpoMon 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14SS0 (716) •72-4903 \ V iV k •SJ 92 Ursula Vivian. returned Laurence; and his sister wondered at the earnestness with which he spoke. " I am afraid to go in, Laurence," she said by- and-by. " I don't seem to know this Ursula. The one I knew was a wild girl, who led me into all kinds of scrapes ; and besides, I am so stupid — I can only cry when I am speaking to people in sorrow." Laurence thoui]jht of the Bible words, "Weep with them that weep," and smiled a little. "You always know just the right thing to do at the right moment, Nessie," he said, using the old childish name which Agnes had rebelled against in her young ladyhood. "But we will wait a little, and let mamma do the comforting, which is her forte." So they lingered awhile among the flowers, talking of Ursula, and then went together into the house. Mrs. Abbot and Ursula were sitting side by side on an ottoman in the drawing-room. Both had been weeping. Agnes took her old friend in her arms, and whispered her ready words of sympathy. Then Mrs. Abbot said pleasantly : " Ursula will stay tea, dear ; take her upstairs, and I will order it at once." !!i Plans and Hopes. 93 s. So it came to pass that Ursula spent an un- speakably pleasant hour, the first of many to come at Kessington Mount. To Ursula Vivian sympathy and love were very precious, and comforted her as nothing else could have done. If ever Mrs. Abbot deserved the name, the " Doctor's Angel," which the pupils of the Grammar School had given her when she came among them thirty years before, she deserved it that night for her treatment of Ursula Vivian. It was little wonder that Laurence Abbot thought his mother the most perfect woman in the world. She was as nearly perfect as it is possible for humanity to be. She lived so near to God that her very presence seemed to raise the thoughts of those with whom she came in contact to higher and better things. At sundown Laurence Abbot took Ursula home. "My boys will be thinking something has happened to me," she said, when they paused at the gate. " Perhaps I ought not to have stayed. I am the head of the house now, you know." Laurence Abbot looked at her compassionately. ** Pardon the question, I cannot help it, but do you intend to remain at the Grange still ?" " Yes. My brother Geoffrey has got a situation I iii !• ; h mw 1 'H !l| 1 [ IB i f 1 1 1 iiji 94 Ursula Vivian. in Mr. Aarons* shop, one after his own heart, seeing he is a born musician," said Ursula, without hesitation or shame. " My brother Tom will go to Robert in London. I expect the others will be with me, and continue at school here. These are our present arrangements." It was Ursula's way to be perfectly frank and open, but she felt already as if she had known Laurence Abbot for years. "Won't you come up to the house?" she said, presently, wondering why he did not speak. " No, thanks, not to-night. Another time, I will bring Agnes, if you will permit your invitation to stand." " Of course, why not ? Thank you very much for your kindness, Mr. Abbot. I have been greatly comforted to-day," said Ursula. Then they shook hands warmly, and went their separate ways. Qi>^j^ w CHAPTER VIII. SHADOW AND SUNSHINE. ITHIN a fortnight, Ursula received a letter from Robert stating that all tho accounts had reached him from Kessington, and that the debt, amounting in all to ;{J"420, was now paid. Ursula breathed freely when she read it. She had let her imagination run away with her at times, and had magnified the sum to double and treble that amount. So it was ;{^2io she had pledged herself to pay. How many hours up garret would be required to make that sum, she wondered, with a little smile ; then she turned the page to finish the letter: — "You will get Tom ready as fast as possible," Robert wrote, "and send him on to me. The Messrs. Grimsby have agreed to receive him, as they received me, into their warehouse as an errand boy, and he will have exactly my chance. If he 95 I 1 III ;,i 1 1 ' I Pi I- \ \^' !i I I III) 96 Ursula Vk'ian, does not improve, it is his own blame. He will board with me, of course, and what he earns will be sufficient to keep him in clothes. He had better come on Tuesday by the mornin^^ train, and I shall meet him at the station. Hoping you are all well, and in good spirits, — I am, your affectionate brother, R. Vivian." The letter was wholly satisfactory, yet Ursula could not repress a sigh as she folded it up. It was a good thing for Tom in all ways, yet what would the Grange be without the harum-scarum youth, whose gay laugh and irrepressible fun were the life and sunshine of them all ? What v/ould become of him, working hard with his hands all day, and in the evening confined to the com- panionship of his grave, silent, practical brother. In Ursula's eyes Tom's was likely to be the hardest lot of any. She put the letter in her pocket, and proceeded out of doors to look for the boys. It was holiday time now for them all, save Geoffrey, who trudged contentedly into Kessington to the music-shop, every morning at eight o'clock. She found them apparently holding a solemn con- clave on the roof of the hen-house. *• Come down, Tom j I want you for a lew few Sha(iow and Sunshhiei 97 minutes," she said ; and Tom, sliding like an eel from his elevated position, was at her side in a moment. "A message to Kcsslngton, is it?" he asked, shaking the dust off his jacket. " No, there is a letter from Robeit," she answered, so gravely that Tom immediately asked, "What's up?" Ursula took the letter from her pocket, and pointing to the last page bade him read, which he did, and then handed it back without a word. " Well," said Ursula. " Well, I suppose I've got to go," said Tom, in a choking voice; "though I'd about as soon be hanged. I can't go back to school, and then fear them as I thought." " No, Tom, we cannot afford it," Ursula answered very gravely ; and Tom turned his face away to hide the great shadow clouding his bright eyes. " On Tuesday, he says ; this is Friday ; three days. O Ursula ! how can I bear it ?" he said ; and breaking down very suddenly, Tom leaned against a tree and buried his face on his arm. "It will be hard for you and hard for us, dear," said Ursula, in voice very tremulent, " but if it is to make a man of you we must all bear it. You G 4 li ti •li ' ti Hi pi 9« Ursula Vivian. .i know, Tom, life cannot be all play. The days for work and real living must come sooner or later, and it has come sooner to you than to some per- haps, that is all." " I don't mind the work. I'd work my hands off for yoii, Ursula, if I could only stay at home and do it like Geoffrey," said Tom, rebclHously. " I'll never get on with Robert ; he won't let a fellow laugh scarcely. I don't feel as if he were my brother at all." What answer could Ursula make to that } None at all. " You will keep up a brave heart, Tom, for my sake ' he said at last, "and do your best in London. Alv i; s remember that mamma would like you to do your duty, and that I expect it from my brother." Hci V. ords touched the better nature of the boy, and he flung up his head with a new, bright look of resolution in his face. " I will do it, Ursula. You won't be ashamed of me. I'll be a man, and, though I am dying of home sickness and general misery, I will never give in," he said ; and Ursula laid her arm about his neck and kissed him tenderly. Such endearments were not common between the Vivians, and meant a great deal. Ursula was doing her best to fill her Shadow and Snns/iine. 99 mother's place, doing her best to speak words of strength and comfort to the young brother, for whom life was just about to begin. " God bless you, Tom. He will help you to suc- ceed," she said, almost shyly ; for in the past such expressions had never crossed her lips, and she was not sure how they would be received. Tom looked up at her with all his heart in his eyes, and his answer was characteristic. " Ursula, you are an out-and-out brick, I declare. I didn't half know you before. Well, it'll go hard with me if I don't raise a little fun among the fellows in London. There'll be larks going there as well as here." Ursula smiled, for Tom was himself again. He went back to the hen-house by-and-by to impart the news to Fred and Charlie, while Ursula retired to the house to fill yet another mother's duty, viz., to examine Tom's wardrobe, and see what repairs and alterations were necessary to fit him for going from home. Since Ursula returned to the Grange she had heard only from Anna Trent, who was busy with her painting in London, working to win, like Ursula, although she had not such stern necessity for an incentive. Isabel Fortescue was away to a LI :i 100 Ursula Vivian. pay vvatcrinc^-place with her family, and was too much engaged with the occupations of a young lady at the seaside to remember her promise to write to her school-fellows. The morning after the arrival of Robert's letter brought one to Ursula, addressed in the most lady- like handwriting, which had been Mary Duns- combe's chief accomplishment at school. Thus it ran— " CoMHF House, •* Market Drayton, September \^th. "My own Ursula, — I would have written to you long ago, but I did not know what to say to you. Where would I find words to express all I feel for you in your terrible, terrible sorrow? I can only say, God comfort you, my dear, dear friend, and help you to see that what is His will is good. Mamma thinks and speaks often about you, as I do. If we could only have you here a little while we could show you how full of sorrow and sympathy all our hearts are for you. I have so often thought of you, especially during the last few days, for you will be beginning to realise tbfet you are the head of the house now, and that you need to be father, mother, and sister in one to your dear brothers. Oh, my poor darling, what a Shadow and Sunshine, IOC responsibility for you. You will find it h.ird perhaps, at first, especially as your household duties will inevitably involve considerable sacrifice of your own favourite work. I have felt rebellious about it for you, because I know you would be so successful in literature ; but I am calmiuj^ down again, when I think it may be God's leadincj, that in the end, purified and sanctified by sorrow and self-abnegation, your works may go forth into the world to touch the heart like living water. I wonder so how you feel about it. Whether just at first you felt wild and wicked, or whether you were enabled to bear it all calmly and beautifully, because it came from God. I had not meant to write so much, Ursula, but the words would go down. I have had a letter from Anna Trent, but none from Isabel, who is at Brighton this month. You will be surprised to hear that my brother John has given up the idea of travelling altogether, and that papa has bought a practice for him at Sunnybeach, the village nearest to Isabel's home, Haydon Hall. He will settle there in October, and I shall have to take up housekeeping, without much knowledge or experience. Now, even I am not afraid, for though John is so particular in everything he will not be hard on me. After we 11 PI J I n I i^' 11 n 102 Vrstf/tt Ft: inn. arc settled, Ursula, I shall expect yn\i to come, ami you will sec Isabel too, for she will be at home. That should be a tloublc inducement. I am very busy always. Tapa has such a lot of patients amoni; the poorer class this autumn, and he likes me to visit them as mamma used to do. She has not hail time to ilo much in that way for some years. Well, I will be done, I think. If you are able to write, dearest, I should be so ^lad, even of a little line, sajin^ you arc well in health. I dare not hope you can be well in spirits. That will come in God's good time. Now, and at all times, believe, my Ursula, your sincere and loving friend, " Mary Dunscombe." That letter comforted Ursula as nothing else could have done. It came just when she was feel- ing very bitter about Tom, just in the very moment when she was asking herself rebelliously what good there could be in the double bereavement, and in all the woeful change it involved for her and hers. " God's leading," Mary said. Oh, how sweet and precious the assurance. It was like balm to her aching heart. She stole away upstairs by-and-by, and, locking herself in her garret, sat down by the window to read the letter again, and to pray once S/in/ III io8 Ursula Vivian. "Things have come to a pretty pass when you can't look a young man straight in the face. Yes, you are a fool ; but, all the same, you can't help being glad he was so earnest about it, and you hope he will come back, that's alL CHAPTER IX, AT ST. MICHAEL'a N Tuesday morning Tom went away. He bore the parting bravely. So did Ursula until he was fairly gone, then she let her grief have its way. But it was past when Fred and Charlie, with very sober faces, returned from seeing Tom away, and she was able to talk to them cheerfully. "Now, boys," she said, "I want all these ugly weeds rooted out of the avenue, and if you would do a little bit every day while the holidays last it would soon be tidy. Run for your hoes, and do a bit this morning, and I'll give you something very nice for dinner." Ursula knew what she was doing when she put up her plea for the neglected avenue that morning. She had proved by experience that work was the best antidote for care, and knew that if she could 109 (I i I no Ursula Vivian. interest the boys in outdoor operations they would not be so apt to fret over Tom's absence. Wilh'ng^ and eager to do anything for Ursula, they went off to the toolhouse for hoes and a barrow, and, look- ing out shortly after, Ursula saw that they were working in real earnest, and enjoying it too. Then Ursula's thoughts turned to her own work. She had promised the editor of the Family Maga- zine to try a long story for its pages, and it was already maturing in her mind. She set apart a portion of each day to be spent in the garret, always reserving the evening free for her brothers. She was always in the dining-room when Geoffrey came home at seven. Then they would have a little music, for Ursula did not think there was any want of loving respect for the memory of those gone before, though they made the slow evening hours pass more quickly and pleasantly by listening to Geoffrey's exquisite playing, or join- ing together in the singing of some beautiful hymn. Ursula could play well herself, and her voice was as clear and sweet as a bell. So the music and singing was enjoyed by them all, and sent them to bed, I am sure, w ith lighter hearts than sober talk- ine would have done. A letter came from Tom in the course of a few At St. Micharts. Ill days, full of fun and grammatical mistakes. 1 1 is descriptions of the various employes in the Messrs. Grimsby's establishment v;ere a source of consider- able amusement to Ursula and the rest. "There are six kids downstairs in our lodg- ings, and when Robert is out, which he often is," he wrote, "I bribe old Mother Hill, the land- lady, you know, to let me down among them, and we do have fun. Hill junior, the eldest of the family, a clerk in the city, is an awful swell, and gets himself up to kill, regardless of expense. I mean to have my fun out of him yet. Tell Fred and Charlie, and Tommy Williamson, when you see him, that Hill junior is a second edition of Robinson, only more so. Robert is speaking of seeking quieter quarters, where there's no kids you know, but I hope he won't. I hope you're all getting on fine, as I am. — I remain, your affec- tionate brother, 1 . ViviAN.'* Then on the blank page was a clever pen-and- ink sketch of Hill junior, which showed that Tom had not forgotten that part of his education. The letter lifted a load from Ursula's mind, for unless Tom were actually in good spirits she knew he would not have written in such a tone. N \h\ fH m -■ M M 'H W i H Mi 1 pfl »' mi mi ■HI m llHH ifli ' taHi w sH tIi 1 113 Ursula Vivian, So things promised brighter for the Vivians. The younger boys went back to school, Geoffrey continued at Mr. Aarons', growing fonder and more proficient at his work every day, and Ursula went on with her story for the Family Magazine, It was not all smooth sailing for our young authoress. There were days when she grew sick of her work, when she felt so miserably conscious of her own ability to write something worth writing, that she could have tossed the manuscript into the fire. She could not work up to her own ideal. What author can ? And she could not be content to ^o upon lower ground. In despair, one day, s\\c dc ^patched the first eight chapters in its rude state to the editor, begging him to read it and tell her if he thought she should go on with it ; she was so dubious about it herself. It was returned in a day or two with the following brief note : — " Dear Madam, — Go on with your story by all means. It will make its mark. — Yours faithfully, "Samuel Mayfair." So Ursula took up the unfinished threads again, and wove them into one beautiful web, without a flaw or blemish. It was a marvellous production for one so young. Yet Ursula felt anything but At St. MichaeVs, "3 elation or pride over it. She read it over when it was ready for despatch, trying to judge calmly and clearly of its merits. But she failed, of course. Some of its parts pleased her, but others fell very far short of what she thought they should be. So one morning, early in December, it was despatched to the editor, with sinking of heart. She permitted herself a few days' rest after that, and then took up the pen again, for it must knov no weariness while that two hundred and ten pounds remained unpaid. Ideas crowded in upon her, but she could not always find appropriate language wherein to express them. She was in- clined to favour a high-flown style, the absurdity of which was made plain to her when she re-read it Then she would begin to re-write, and go to the opposite extreme. In the end she generally managed to hit the happy medium, but it was the outcome of a labour and thought which none can guess save those who have experienced it. A month slipped away. And Ursula, unac- quainted with the ways of editors and publishers, grew heart-sick with hope deferred. When the business-like letter at last arrived, one morning in December, when they were all at breakfast, she was frightened to open it, and her fingers trembled U 1 1 I 1 5P 114 Ursula Vivian, I : ):! I as she broke the seal. But the manuscript was not retur ?d, so there was hope for her yet. I will transcribe it here, in the hope it may prove a tithe as interesting to you as it was to Ursula. *• Paternoster Row, London, ** December 15M, 187 . "Dear Madam, — I have finished the perusal of your story, and am wholly satisfied therewith. It surpasses my expectation, and is undeniable proof of your ability. If you will but pursue diligently the line you have taken up, the world will hear of you yet. I herewith beg to offer you the sum of fifty pounds for permission to print it in the pages of the Family Magazine. When it has run its course there, it might with great advantage to you be published in book form. Anyway, it is sure to be popular, for it possesses the charm of simplicity and perfect naturalness. Should this offer be ac- ceptable to you, upon receipt of a communication to that effect, I shall enclose cheque to you and make immediate arrangements for its appearance in the new series to begin with the year. — I am, Madam, yours faithfully, S. Mayfair." When Ursula read the letter to the end she let it flutter from her hand, and leaning her arms on M At St. MtchaeVs. ns the table, hid her face upon them. Her joy was too much for her. The boys looked at her in con- sternation. •' Has anything happened to Tom ?" was the threefold cry. Then Ursula lifted her face, which was radiant through her tears. " Oh no, boys, something very different. I must tell you, I suppose. Well, I've written a story, and this is a letter from the editor, and he offers me £^o for it, and I was so glad I could not help crying — that's all." Blank amazement sat on the faces of the three ; then Charlie, remembering perhaps what Tom would have done had he been with them, sprang up and cried, "Hip! hip! hurrah!" Presently the others joined him, and Ursula had quite an ovation, the noise of which caused Betty to pause in her work, and wonder what it was all about. Such explosions had not been so common in the house since Tom went away. Needless to say the offer was gratefully accepted at once, and in due time the cheque arrived. Ursula went to the town to cash it, and returned with five crisp ten pound-notes, which were care- fully locked up in the safe in the study, the nucleus J- I'] !' '% ' h\ Ii6 Ursula Vivinn. |ll|i|; of the ;^2io. It was a very good bepjinning, she thoutrht, with pride and joy, and yet in the middle of it all there came a terrible aching at her heart, because whatever success the future might hold for her she must be content to miss always the sweet smile — the glad, loving pride of her whose approval would have been Ursula's best reward. It is ever thus. God wills that in this life there should be no joy without its attendant pain, no rose without its thorn, so that we may the mere firmly fix our thoughts on the sure hope that is to come. Her success gave her an impetus to go on with her new story, and her work grew easier and pleasanter for her every da^ . The cold winter weather forbade her writing in her garret unless a fire was lighted in it; but being a prudent, careful housewife, Ursula did not see any necessity to burn coals solely for her own use when there was a fire in the dining-room all day. So the writing materials were carried downstairs, and " up garret'* deserted till summer. While Ursula was busy with her literary labours, Geoffrey was equally so with his music. Ursula noticed a daily improvement in his playing, and she began to think Mr. Aarons might not be far 1- • ■ t m 1 1- The Young Writer. II At Si. MichaeVsi. 119 wronjT in thinking GeofTrey would soon be ready for St. Mich- el's. One night he came home looking unusually glorified and excited. " I'm to play in St. Michael's on Christmas Sunday, Ursula. Mr. Franz asked me to do it long ago, and I have been practising every night vMth the choir. I didn't tell you for fear I shouldn't get proficient enough, yo^^. know, and you would be disappointed." Ursula grew more excited than her brother. Ilcr cheeks flushed and her eyes danced with pleasure. "And Mr. Franz thinks you are proficient- enough ?" she asked, eagerly. " He says I shall do far better than he could do," said Geoffrey, modestly. " O Ursula ! to think I shall actually play on the grand organ in St. Michael's on a Sunday, and Christmas too," he said, with a strange trembling in his voice. Then he broke down all at once, and sobbed for very joy. "Mr. St John, the choir- master, you know, was afraid at first," he said, by- and-by. " But now he's more anxious for it than Mr. Franz, and he hopes I'll be the organist altogether some day." \ 120 Ursula Vivian, m f;.^ "So you will, soon enough," said Ursula, emphatically. Geoffrey shook his head. "Not for years and years. I should never survive it, any way." "Christmas Sunday!" re-echoed Ursula. "Every- body goes to St. Michael's on Christmas Sunday. The family will be there from Aldencotes, and the Earl and Countess of Derrington, and all the aristocracy. O Geoffrey! you must do well. It will be the making of you." " I shall be shak'ng with fear till I have played a few notes, then I shall forget all about where I am, likely," said Geoffrey. " I wish Tom could be down. He won't be commg for Christmas, I suppose ?" " No, Geoffrey, we could scarcely expect it. He will need to be content with a full and detailed account," returned Ursula. During the ten days which intervened till Christmas, Ursula was so much occupied thinking of G -offrey that she could not fix her mind on her own work. Thac Sunday morning they were all up early, and Ursula was very particular both in her own dressing anc. in looking after that of the boys. .' I H i At St. Michaers. 121 Geoffrey looked well. He was a handsome lad, and nobody could ever take him for anything but a musician, Ursula told him, laughingly ; and truly the refined, earnest face, the dreamy blue eyes, and the curling fair hair, gave him a look very different from that of his rosy-cheeked, rollicking brothers. He could not eat any breakfast, and Ursula did not press him. He left half-an-hour before them, and they followed more leisurely, y^t they were among the first to enter the church. From the Grange pew there was a good view of the organist, and Ursula could not take her eyes off* him. He sat very still, looking at his instrument, Mr. Franz beside him. It was not time to play the voluntary yet. The church filled rapidly. All the aristocracy of the county flocked to St. Michael's on Christmas morning, for in addition to Mr. Gresham's reputa- tion as a preacher, the music was always something worth hearing. By-and-by, when the seats were nearly all full, Ursula saw Mr. Franz touch Geoffrey's arm, and she held her breath in an agony of suspense. Only for a moment, for presently there stole through the building the sweet, grand strains of the Christmas hymn, played without doubt by a master-hand. All eyes were turned ''I 1.^2 Vrs:ii\v;nni loi Ins profession, llisnl.i had lo how hor lu\ul oftcMi to hitlc the tears bron;.;hl by the iniisie, aiid h\- tlu^ thnni;ht ol ^\ hat a joy it would Iiave been to hei inotluM to have been .i listenv^r with \\c\. At (he elosf the serviee Ursula aiiul leisuix'ly, an'i 11' 'Ml 140 Vtsulit ] 'ividtt. "T nerd to conic at any rate, Kohctt," she answorcil; "1 am ^oint; to Krnt to stay a fortnij^lit nidi one oi my srliool fiirnJs. 1 liavc not been well for some tin\e, and Doctor Hall aiiviscd a chani;e to the seaside." Robert had no more to say. Lookini; at his sister he was forced to atlmit that she looked thin and worn, and perhaps she was takiiii;^ precautions in time. " I have a friend in London, Robert," said Ursula, by-and-by. " Mer address is I'arkside Crescent. Is it far from here? Could I call for her to-niQlit, do you think ? I should like it very much." " Run round to the stationer's, Tom, and ask a loan of the directory," said Robert. " I know iiothini; <^^ the streets about here, Ursula. It may be quite near us." Tom darted off like an arrow, then Ursula turned to her brother eagerly. " I low is Tom doing, Robert?" " Better than I expected," he answered, drily. " The firm seems to have taken a fancy to him. He works well enough, but the tricks he plays on the others arc scandalous. He surely had not been properly checked at home. The habit has qrown upon him till it crmnot be overcome." /\nn(f Trent. 141 •ily. lim. on Inot Ihas "Tom's tricks iwv. li.irnilcss," Ursula vrtitiircd to say. " II(! raiinot liclp his iniscliicvoiis naliirc" *' It is to be hoped lie will sober down as lie };row3 older. Weil, Ursida, arc the KessiM};lon trades- people satisfied now?" "Yes," answered Ursnla, and takinj^,^ her purse from her po(l^UlLi^Wl.lMUNUiJW Dr. Dunscombe, 1 " " apt to attribute to his own merits. He was a skilful man in his profession, and deservedly popular. Although he had not been a year in Sunnybeach, his name was known far and wide. Such was Dr. Dunscombe. Mary was a sun- beam, as of yore; a little more womanly in her way, perhaps, but just as winning, just as sweet, just as loveable as in the old days at Aldborough. She wore a muslin dress, forget-me-nots on a white ground, a knot of blue ribbon fastening her bonnie brown hair, and a half-blown rosebud at her throat. She was a fair picture, and one any man might long to see in his home every day. Dr. Dunscombe was very fond of and very kind to his pretty sister, whom everybody loved. She was just the kind of woman he most admired — high-spirited, but tractable ; void of any strong-minded ideas, but full of reverence for masculine intellect, as embodied in himself; a thoroughly good house- wife, who allowed nothing to be wasted or thrown away ; and a lady besides, who could comport her- self well in any society. Mutually satisfied with each other, the brother and sister dwelt most amicably together, and Beach House was a favourite house for visitors in the neighbourhood. Dr. Dunscombe merely glanced up from his :|i i 1 f I $6 Ursula Vivian. ■Kill! II' newspaper when his sister spoke, and waited to hear the contents of the letter. " Listen, John," cried Mary joyfully. " Hear what Ursula says. It is just a few lines. "'The Grange, KEssiNGTON,y/m^ 14/A. "*De\r Mary, — If you will have me, I shall come down to Sunnybeach on Friday evening, leaving London by the four o'clock train. A line in reply will oblige. — Yours, in great haste, URSULA. '" Dr. Dunscombe did not look particularly de- lighted. " Friday ; this is Tuesday," he said, drily. " You will need to write at once, Mary." "You are not displeased because Ursula is coming, John ?" said Mary, quick to note an inde- finable something in his manner. " Displeased ! No, why should I be ?" he asked indifferently. ' I have no admiration for strong- minded or literary women, such as Miss Vivian appears to be, but that is no reason why you should not have your friend here." To Mary it seemed reason enough, and for a moment her sunny face clouded, and she felt vexed with her brother. " Ursula is not that ; she is a splendid girl, John," she said, a little warmly. Dr. Dunscomhe. 157 " Oh, of course, young ladies are always raptur- ous over their feminine friends," he said, in his cool, sarcastic way. " Let her come by all means, but don't let her spoil you, Mary. I can't have my model woman imbued with any absurd and un- womanly ideas, remember." Mary smiled a little sly smile. She was a woman, and perhaps there crept into her heart a notion that her brother might receive at Ursula's hands a punishment he would not relish. Dr. Dunscombe did not understand that smile, and it annoyed him. But the subject was laid aside then, and was mentioned no more till th(* day on which the strong-minded woman was ex- pected at Sunnybeach. If Dr. Dunscombe had guessed how very little he was in Miss Vivian's thoughts he might have been surprised. She was thinking too much of Mary to have any corner left for her brother. On Friday Dr. Dunscombe had a long round, and, dining at the neigh- bouring town, only reached home in time for tea at six. *' Miss Vivian has arrived, and tea is waiting, sir," the servant said, in answer to his question when he entered the house. Dr. Dunscombe did not deem it iicccbsdiy to make any change in his toilet in K H ■\i 158 Ursula Vivian, honour of his sister's guest. He simply took off his dusty boots, washed his hands, and proceeded to the dining-room. He was conscious of a sliji^ht feeling of curiosity about the young lady, but when he entered the room he was surprised. " My brother, Ursula. John, this is Miss Vivian," Mary said ; and a figure rose from behind the window curtain, and Dr. Dunscombe saw a slight, graceful figure clad in deep mourning, relieved by linen bands at throat and wrists ; a grave, sad, earnest face, lit by the loveliest eyes he had ever seen : a perfect lady in appearancd and in manner, and very different in all ways from the being he had pictured during his ride home. She bowed to him, just looking him keenly in the face ; then she offered him her hand. " I am very pleased to welcome you to Sunny- beach, Miss Vivian," he said, taking the white hand in his ; and she answered simply — and very musically he noted — " Thank you. Dr. Dunscombe." Then Mary made a movement towards the table, and tea began. Ursula did not talk much that first evening. She was werry, and somehow felt the presence of Dr. Dunscombe to be a restraint. She mental! v Dr. Dunsconihe. 159 >» very 1 the compared the brother and sister, very much to Mary's advantage, and wondered why Mary thought him such a piece of perfection. It was Ursula's way to come to quick concUisions — to form opinions of persons and things almost instan- taneously ; and she did not feel particularly drawn to the most popular doctor on the Kentish coast. After tea the girls retired upstairs to the drawing- room, and, seating themselves in the wide oriel window, prepared for a long talk; but for a little while Ursula could do nothing but feast her eyes upon the blue sea, shimmering in the sunshine, and watch the ships floating past like white-winged birds. She had all an inlander's enthusiasm for the sea, and Mary enjoyed her enjoyment of it. Beach House stood in a delightful garden, sloping down to the beach, and had an uninterrupted view of the sea from all the front windows. " O Mary, how beautiful ! How glorious it must be to live here!" exclaimed Ursula. "I had no idea you were so near the sea, nor that Sunnybeach v/as such a lovely place '* Mary laughed. " It is famous for its beauty, Ursula. But come, sit down, and let us talk. There will be plenty of time by-and-by for sight-seeing." n irt li f- 1) 1 60 Ursula Vivian. Ursula resumed her seat, and brought her eyes back to her friend's face. " You are just the Polly of old, only prettier," she said, layini; a lii;ht, caressini:^ touch on the sunny head. " Mary, I have hun,L;cred to sec you." Mary took the slim fir.^^crs in a clasp, which was answer enough, and for a little while there was nothing said. " I have not recovered yet, Ursula, from the surprise the change in you gave me," Mary said, by-and-by. *' You have improved so much ; you look like a princess, or something. Only when I look at your mouth, and see the droop of the lips, I remember what has done it, and my heart bleeds for you." Ursula was silent a little, looking away across the shining sea. " Mary, I want to thank you now from my deepest heart for that letter. It was like a message direct from God," she said, in a low, quiet voice. " I was just beginning to fold my hands in useless repining, and asking myself very bitterly the wherefore of God's dealing with me. Your letter gave me the key, and with it unutterable peace I have never felt the same since, even in my darkest moments, which do come sometimes «■. it. i. Dr. Dunscombe, i6i ■SI r eyes ctticr," on the c you." ich was :rc was om the .ry said, :h; you when 1 the lips, It bleeds ly across from my Hkc a low, quiet ly hands [y bitterly le. Your lutterable lince, even iometimes yet. Mary, the thoucjht that God is leadinpf me never leaves me, and comforts me inexpressibly." " O Ursula ! I am so thankful, dear, that I was able to do even that for you," Mary whispered; but Ursula did not seem to hear. " I can look back with some calmness now, Mary, to that terrible time, though I shudder still at the struj^gle I had to say, * Not my will, but Thine.' That is the hardest lesson human hearts have to learn on earth, Mary," said Ursula, and suddenly rising began to pace restlessly up and down the room. " Mamma was my idol," she went on. " It was in her all my hopes were centred, around her all my interests clung ; I was her only daughter, you sec, and the bond between us was a peculiar one. I need not enlarge very much here, but must tell you that ours was not a very happy home. My father was not quite all that he might have been, and on that account mamma's life was harder than it need. I was just beginning, Mary, to be of use to her, to spare her fatigue and anxiety, and it was an unspeakable joy to me to be able to do even so little for her. I was just beginning to repay a little of all she had done for me when that terrible thing happened, and she was taken away. 1 piay, ill 1 62 Ursula Vivian. M i\\\\ i ; f-; ill Mary, that you may be spared the agonies 1 endured for days after her death. It was all dark. I could see no reason for such sundering of hearts, such sudden ending to a life so precious as hers. I could find no wherefore for my affliction. I just felt like a mariner out in a frightful tempest, without rudder or compass. I feared I was lost altogether.** She paused a moment, and Mary, looking at her, dared not speak. Her face was very pale, her eyes shining, her breast heaving with intense .igitation. "That evening after she was buried, Mary, I stole away to Kessington churchyard in the moon- light to her grave. I stayed there, like Jacob of old, wrestling for the victory, and got it. A glimmering of peace stole into my heart, and I could weep, which I had not been able to do for days. I could pray too, and God heard and answered His poor, weak, suffering child. It is through deeps like these, my friend, some must go to bring them to submission. How foolish we are trying to set up our puny wills against the sweet will of God ! and how much easier it is to be in His hand, and say, ' As Thou wilt,' if we would only do it at once and always; but there is a kind of ) ! I slaj-cd there . . . wrestling for the victory, and got it. Dr. Dunscojuf:'e. 165 rebellious spirit in our nature which seems to be stronger than the submissive element. I think God knows it all, Mary, and pities us with an infinite compassion." Ursula paused again, and moving over to the window stood looking with dreamy, far-away eyes upon the sunset gilding sea and sky. There was a long silence. " That is all, Mary. I have never told it before, and may never tell it again," said Ursula. " But you are my friend." " For life, dearest," Mary answered ; and their hands met in seal of the bond. " I am sobered now with a vengeance," said Ursula, by-and-by, with a return of the old girlish way. " I am housekeeper, mother, sister, and author — all in one. A family is a great respon- sibility, Polly." Mary laughed again. " I must come to the Grange and view you in your fourfold capacity ; but I know you will do it all splendidly, Ursula, you are so clever." " Nonsense, Polly. I make ridiculous failures ; but I thank God I can make a home for my brothers, and that there has never been a cloud between us. They help me in every possible f I? i I 1 - \ \66 Vrsiila Vivian, way. You know all there is to know about my private occupation, and what success I venture to hope for in the literary world ; so now \vc v/ill talk of you." " Oh) there is nothing about me. I live here in peace and quietness with John, and do my best to please him. We are very happy, and he is very kind to me; that is all. What do you think of him, Ursula .?" " It would be unfair to answer yet. When I have been a week here, you may ask me again," Ursula answered, wkh a slight constraint in her voice. " I saw Anna Trent yesterday, Mary." " Oh, did you ? Isabel was calling here yester- day. She said she had not had a letter for a long time. We are to go to Haydon Hall to-morrow, Ursula ; but what of Anna ?" "Anna is a kind of angel, I think, Mary, and you will hear of her presently in the world of art. She—" The opening of the door interrupted Ursula, and Dr. Dunscombe entered. "May I come in, ladies; or are the confidences not all exchanged yet ?" he asked, in that cool way of his. Mary jumped up at once. Dr. Duitscombe. 167 "Yes, come in, John ; we can talk another time. Have you not to go out to-night ?" " Not to-night. Well, Miss Vivian, what do you think of Sunnybeach, now that you have rested a little and had a better view of it ?" " It is a beautiful place, Dr. Dunscombe," Ursula answered, but did not offer to prolong the conversation. Mary wondered much why Ursula should freeze up so suddenly whenever John entered the room. "Miss Vivian, do you sing or play?" he asked, glancing at the piano. " A little, a very little, Mary knows," assented Ursula. " Do you still live at war with the piano, Polly? Do you remember practising hours at Aldborough?" "Too well," laughed Mary. "That is my one drawback, I believe, in John's eyes. He loves music and knows nothing about it." " Will you favour us. Miss Vivian ?" said Dr. Dunscombe. " I am passionately fond of music, and this sister of mine is too lazy to practise, or she might do wonders." Ursula rose at once, greatly to the doctor's amazement. The majority of the young ladies of his ac- hll;! i63 Ursula Vivian, quaintance required so much pressing, and had so many apologies and excuses before they would perform, that this frank readiness was something quite refreshing. There was nc nonsense about Ursula. She knew her i,i> . al performances were not faultless, but if she Tould give the slightest pleasure she was always willing a characteristic vrhich made her a great favourite at home. " I play and sing from memory, and not always correctly," she said, looking up into Dr. Duns- combe's face as he opened the piano for her. " You must not blame me if I disappoint you." She ran her fingers lightly over the keys, and in another moment her voice rang through the quiet room, sweet and clear as a bell. It was a simple song, set to a simple but exquisite melody, which was played as if her heart guided her fingers. Dr. Dunscombe stood leaning a little towards her, his face softened almost to tenderness. Music was one of the few things which could stir his heart. When she ceased there was a moment's intense silence. " Something else, please," Dr. Dunscombe said, entreatingly. f£ *t Dr. Dunscomhe. 169 But she rose, saying hurriedly : " Oh no, not to-night ; another time. I should not have sung that ; it always upsets me." And as she gh'ded past him in the shadow. Dr. Dunscombe saw that her beautiful ^y^s, were' brimming with tears. ,-s. CHAPTER XIII. OF THE WORLD. IE are to dine at Haydon Hall, Ursula " Mary said next morning, when the doctor went off upon his rounds, and they were all alone. "John will not be home in time to walk up with us, but he will join us later. He is a great favourite with Mrs. Fortescue, and she always excuses him, though he is late." " I fear dinner at Haydon Hall will be a doubt- ful pleasure to me, Mary," said Ursula. " And my gown is hardly fine enough to go among fine folks." " Nor is mine. We will sink into utter insigni- ficance before Isabel, whose attire will probably be a triumph of Monsieur Worth's ; but we need not mind for that." "What like is Isabel now?" asked Ursula. "So lovely I can do nothing but stare at her; 170 1'!' ' ii • i a. ! I Of the World. 171 but she is very vain and frivolous," answered Mary. ** Her talk is vciy wearisome." " What like is her brother ? Is he at home ?" " He is very nice, Ursula," Mary answered, and Ursula was quick to note the rising colour on her check. " Isabel and he do not get on very well together. I think he shocks her aristocratic ideas, being a plain, blunt, country squire. You will like the old gentleman. Mrs. Fortescue is a lady of fashion and a woman of the world. Are you satisfied now ?" " Quite ; and now, shall we go out, or have you housewifely cares to occupy you for a time ?" " Not to-day, when we are dining out," said Mary, laughing, '* Let us get our hats, Ursula. I have a message to the village, and then we can stroll along the shore/' The morning was one of June's sunniest mood. Sea and sky were cloudlessly blue, and the tiny waves lapped the shore with a musical murmur, just as if there could be no such thing as a storm in the world. Yet it Was a wild coast in winter time, and the angry seas had been known to roll up to the very doors of the cottages which stood nearest the beach. The village was very small, — only a few straggling cottages, a schoolhouse standing in the iM V'l rkJ 173 Ursula Vivian. ii shelter of a stunted chestnut tree, and the church, an old-fashioned building, vveathcr-bcafen with the storms of many winters. Miss Dunscombe's errand was to see an old widow woman who was bedridden and entirely dependent upon charity for the little which kept her in life. Ursula followed her friend into the poor little cottage, watched her pull ofif her gloves, and set to work to light a fire and get the invalid some breakfast, chattering to her all the while to prevent her words of thanks and blessing. When she had made the old woman comfortable, and given her a nice cup of tea and a morsel of chicken which she had brought in her little basket, she took the worn Bible from the mantelshelf and read a Psalm in a low, reverent voice. That was how Miss Dunscombe's mornings were spent, ministering to the poor and needy, caring for their souls alike. What wonder that she was almost worshipped in SunnybeachI " How well you do it, Mary," Ursula said, when they were out of doors again. " I like the work. Mamma did a great deal of visiting in Drayton before she had so many other claims on her time, and I suppose I inherit her liking for it," answered Mary. " But we have not many very poor in Sunnybeach — old Sally and an Of the Worlil 173 old man at the other end of the village are really the only needful ones. I have a class of poor children on Sunday afternoons at home. That is interesting work, Ursula." " I should imagine so. I do nothing of that kind, Mary; all my superfluous charities are ab- sorbed at home." " Of course, you can't do everything. It would be to my shame if I did not try to do a little good during my abundant leisure." "Do you remember our talk that last night at Aldborough, Polly ?" asked Ursula, with a smile. "Yes, I have often recalled it. Life has begun in sober earnest for some of us already, Ursula." " Yes, these were happy days at school, Polly," said Ursula, with a sigh. " Void of care, we were as light-hearted as the wind. I often wonder, can I be the same person I was then — I feel so different" ••The same, the same, Yet not the same, Ah, never, never more,* hummed Mary. "There is not much difference in Isabel, except that she is more grown up, you know, and has assumed all the airs of a fine lady. ( * ^ id 174 Ursula Vivian. \ ' m :• .» ' !■ She i^atroniscs nic extensively, and will try to do it to you." *' Probably ; but I would not chanf^e places with her, Mary, thoi'!_;h she has so many worldly L^iftS." So in pleasant, sisterly talk of persons, places, and thiui^s, the morning" hours were wiled away, and they sought their way back to Beach House to luncheon. At three o'clock they dressed, and set ofF on their three-mile walk to Ilavdon Hall. It was a princely heritaj^e, indeed. Ursula could scarcely repress a cry of admiration when a sudden curve in the wide avenue of stately chest- nut trees brou.;ht them face to face with the massive pile of buildiiii^, with its towers and tuiH'^-, mullioned windows, and wide doorway, iTu.'!.;.icd on either side with huc^e stone lions, carved out of blocks brought from the Squire's quarries in Wales. " I do not wonder Isabel speaks so proudly of Haydon Hall, Polly," said Ursula, as they stood a moment on the steps, before seeking admission. " No, it is a lovely place, and it is as magnifi- cent without as within," Mary answerca, and rauii the bell. # m ; I. ! • l\V^\' Of the World. 17; A stately individual in purple livery then opened the door, and ushered them upstairs at once to the drawing-room. Mary was right ; almost a limitless wealth and refined taste had been at work in the furnishing Haydon Hall, and the result was something to be remembered. The drawing-room had lately been re-furnished, after the new aesthetic designs, and, if rather confusing and peculiar to homely eyes, there was no doubt about its magnificence. The footman announced the ladies, and with- drew ; then, from a couch in a shady corner of the room, a figure rose, and came forward to greet them. It was Isabel, exquisitely dressed, and look- ing as lovely as a poet's dream. " I am glad to see you," she said, the old sweet, haughty tones a little haughtier than of yore. Then she kissed them both — a little, cool kiss — and looked Ursula all over. "You are very much changed, Ursula," she said. " Will you sit down and chat a little, or I think you ought to come up to my dressing- room at once, and we can have a cup of tea together. Mamma always lies down in the after- noon, you know, and papa and Gilbert will not be in for hours." M T7S Ursula Vivian. \\\ I i! I'll! \\\ \ i ■ "Yes, we will go upstairs, Isabel," Mary answered promptly. " We are dusty and tired. It is a long walk on a June day." " Did you walk ?" asked Isabel, in languid sur- prise. " I don't know how you do such things. A mile upsets me for days. I hate walking." "All the world cannot go upon wheels," said Ursula, a little drily, for Isabel's speech partook of the spirit of boasting. '• Now, I know you are Ursula Vivian," said Isabel. " That is just how you used to spea.:. Well, come away upstairs." She led the way to her dressing-room — a large, light room, fitted up with every requisite; nay more, every luxury an idle taste could suggest and money could buy. Isabel drew the blinds to subdue the sunny light in the room, pulled in the lounge from a corner, and ari v^asy-chair from another, bade them be sealed, and rang the bell. " Tea at once, Ellen," she said to the smart housemaid who answered the summons. Then she flung herself into an easy-chair, and watched her friends removing their dusty boots and wash- ing iheir hands. " or course you are frightfully vexed with me \ ' li A Of the World. K9 Mary tired. 3 sur- hings. » " said a r took ," said spea.:. 1 large, 2 ; nay mggest blinds pulled ,y-chair d rang smart Then i^atched i vvash- rith me for never writing, Ursula," she said, "but really I have no time. Mary will tell you how much I am occupied one way and another. We have either visitors or arc out somewhere, and you know this was my first season in London." "There is no need to apologise, Isabel," said Ursula, pleasantly. " I never expected you to write. Ornaments of society are not generally voluminous correspondents, you know," she added, slyly ; but the point of the good-humoured sarcasm was lost upon Isabel. "You do not look quite so old, now that the tired look has gone from your face," she said. " But still you look about thirty-six. You surely work very hard, Ursula." " Perhaps I do, and sorrow ages one, they say/' Ursula answered, simply. The entrance of the maid with the tea-tray spared Isabel the necessity of answering, and she skilfully changed the subject. Her frivolous mind could suggest nothing fitting to say to anyone in sorrow or trouble. " How do you like Sunny- beach, Ursula," she asked. " It is very beautiful, and the sea is a great revelation to me." Isabel shrugged her shoulders. I l! M I I 80 Ursula Vivian, " It is frightfully dull after London. I pleaded with mamma to remain the season out, but she was inexorable. She did not want me to see too much gaiety, nor to be verv widely known the first season, especially when I am so young, so she brought me down here just in the height of all the pleasure. Half the entertainments are to come yet. We received cards for the Duchess of Arlington's ball on the 23d, and I should have seen the Princess there ; but mamma declined the invitation. All the world wondered at her hardihood in refusing the Duchess's invitation ; but mamma is the soul of independence, you know." "Do you like going to dancing-parties every night, Isabel ?" asked Mary. " Is it not weari- some?" Isabel smiled, as if in purest amuse- ment, and stirred her tea meditatively. "You dear little goose, it is a charming life. One never has time to think such stupid thoughts. I enjoyed it very much ; it is such fun snubbing the ineligibles. Mamma says my manner is quite perfect." Ursula laugiicd outright behind her tea^cup, and at that moment Mr.^. Fo rescue entered the room, and greeted the gi. is with somewhat condescend- ing cordiality. I Of the World. i8i aded : she ; too : first ) she Df all re to ichess have clined .t her I ; but » w. every weari- muse- life. lughts. ibbing , quite p, and room, ;scend- She was a handsome woman, of haughty and proud demeanour, not a loveable person by any means ; yet a certain graciousness of manner she could assume, when necessary or advisable, made her very popular in society. She was just the woman to train a foolish, frivolous-minded girl likf; Isabel into all the miserable ways of fashiondble life. She stayed a few minutes talking with them, and then went to dress. "Your brother will dine with us, of course, Mary," said Isabel, and there was an indefinable something in her voice or manner which caused Ursula to wonder — she could not tell why. " Yes, John will be in time, if possible ; if not, he will need to be excused, as usual," laughed Mary. " A doctor cannot always observe the amenities of social life." " I suppose not. Well, shall we go to the draw- ing-room now ? Perhaps Gilbert or papa may be there. It is past six now." In the drawing-room they found Gilbert For- tescue standing in the window humming a scrap of song. He wheeled round when the ladies en- tered, and gave them a hearty g»-eeting. Ursula thought he held Mary's hand in his longer than he need have done. He was a fine, manly fellow, like l82 Ursula Vivian. m ■\' ill ■ sifi li?.' \ l' rill. I ■1 f 1 M' I his sister in appearance, but in nothing else. He had a hearty contempt for all the frivolity of fashionable life, preferring Ilaydon Hall at any season of the year to the town house in Portland Place. He was the very heaii-ideal of a country squire — free-handed, generous, warm-hearted, and fearlessly honest. Everybody loved the young squire, and said that he was a true chip of the old block. Ursula liked him, and because she did, spoke to him frankly at once. That was her way. Dr. Dunscombe did not appear in time for dinner, and the company had been in the drawing-room nearly haif-an-hour afterwards when he was announced. He was warmly welcomed, but scolded by Mrs. Fortescue. The Squire gave him a hearty grip, and Isabel gave aim the tips of her dainty fingers. Ursula felt impelled to look at her at the moment, and there was something in the lovely violet eyes which could have but one meaning. Could it be that all Isabel's ambition would end in becoming the wife of an obscure country practitioner? It she remained true to her motaer's teaching, surely not. Some time was spent in general conversation, then Dr. Dunscombe asked for some music. Irtiibel . . . went to the ))iaiio at oni'c. ff " Jl! :! I ■lis Of the World. 185 Isabel, not hard to persuade, went to the piano at once at his request, and played skilfully enough a brilliant piece, which showed her white fingers and the gleaming of her rings to perfection. Dr. Dunscombe stood beside her, turning over her music, but did not look entranced. When it was done, he thanked her, and looked appealingly at Ursula. " Do you sing or play, Miss Vivian ?" asked Mrs. Fortescue. " Ursula's talents do not lie in that direction, mamma," said Isabel, sweetly. "She is literary, you know." "She is musical also, as I have proved," said Dr. Dunscombe. "Miss Vivian, may I beg you to give our friends the pleasure you gave to me last night?" "You are pleased to flatter me, I fear," said Ursula, but went to the piano at once. There was perfect silence all through her ex- quisite singing. Perfect silence, too, when she had finished, till the Squire spoke. " By Jove, now that's what I call singing ! that music — eh, Dunscombe. My dear, will you oblige an old man by giving us another ?" Ursula was quite willing, glad indeed that she IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 ^^ ta 1.1 Uj 1^ :^ 1^ 12.0 IL25 li 1.4 i: 146 WV^ '/ Photographic Sdences Corporation 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 8/2-4503 fV iV ^N ^^ <> ^ o^ ^^^' ^^* * w- n 1 86 Ursula Vivian, was giving pleasure, quite unconscious that in Isabel's heart there was rising something very akin to hatred against her. Yes, Isabel had given her heart unasked to Dr. Dunscombe, therefore it was not sweet to her to see him hanging upon every note of Ursula's sing- ing ; nor to see how often his eyes rested upon her face when she returned to her seat and began to talk to Gilbert. When they left an hour later, Isabel did not ask them to come again. Kr 1 r HB ' \ CHAPTER XIV. CONQUERED. « l'/^..T*^n SHALL go in, Dr. Dunscombe," said Ursula, her voice sounding- clear and sharp in the still air, as if she was sorely displeased. They were walking along the shore, by the edge of the receding tide. It was Sunday afternoon. Mary was busy with her class indoors, and the doctor had persuaded his sister's friend to take a Etroll with him, but evidently they had fallen out very speedily. He looked at her curiously for a moment, then turned his head away, and there was an awkward silence. " Have I offended beyond all forgiveness, Miss Ursula," he asked, by-and-by, with a half smile upon his lips, "because I ventured to express a candid opinion regarding strong-minded women ?" " Of whom I am an objectionable type. Go on, ""■ -T- 1 88 Ursula Vivian, W Dr. Dunscombe," said Ursula, with curling lips. She was very angry, and she could not hide it. "Pardon, I did not say so," corrected Dr. Dunscombe, in his coolest way. "I only gave it as my humble conviction that home is the woman's kingdom, and that when her chief interests centre there, her best energies employed to make it happy, it is better for her and fcr all connected with it." "And what of those who have no homes in which to centre their interests, in which to employ their best energies V inquired Ursula. " I speak of the rule, not of the exception, Miss Vivian." Then there was another brief silence, during which Ursula recovered her equanimity. " Let us discuss this subject a little. Dr. Duns- combe," she said at length. "Would you give a woman no place beyond the four walls of her own home, simply because she is a woman ?" " Women were not intended to fight life's battles on equal ground with the sterner sex, Miss Vivian." "They do not seek it as a rule. But what of that noble band of women-workers whom neces- sity compels to earn their bread by daily toil, physical or mental, outside their homes ? Are they to be called unwomanly for so doing ?'* t I Conqvered. 189 " Not when necessity compels them. They are worthy of all respect. But I have no respect for certain young ladies I have known in my time, who considered themselves specially called to redress the fancied wrongs of their sex. These ladies who go about clamouring on public plat- forms for women's suffrage, and other equally absurd things, have laid aside that womanly sweetness, which, like the aroma of the violet, is their chiefest ornament." " You wax very eloquent. Dr. Dunscombe," said Ursula, smiling a little. " I have not studied the subject very deeply, but I see no reason why women householders should not have the franchise, if they desire it. So far as I have been able to judge, women are as capable of voting as fairly and impartially as their " " We will not go into this part of the question, Miss Vivian, because I feel very strongly about it, and I might offend you still further." " Not at all. It might ruffle me on the surface, as that breeze is ruffling the sea yonder. Yet why should you fear to offend? Is it because I am a woman, Dr. Dunscombe ?" " Courtesy is due to a lady," returned the doctor, curtly, "and if the battle were to be fought on ;;rF 190 Ursula Vivian. I i [; . I I equal ground, courtesy would need to be dispensed with, not only in the matter of discussion, but in everything else." "Will you tell me what your model woman is like. Dr. Dunscombe?" asked Ursula; " 1 am curious to meet her." She spoke quite soberly, but beneath the broad-brimmed hat her eyes were dancing. Her momentary annoyance past, she was enjoying the talk very much. "Willingly; but in all probability she will only meet with your contempt," returned Dr. Duns- combe. "Well, she must be gentle, cheerful, willing to oblige, acquainted with all house-wifely accomplishments, but able at all times to comport herself like a lady. She must find her first and best interest at home, find her chief happiness in making it a dear and pleasant place for its inmates. There are two verses of Lowell's which contain the sum of the whole matter. May I repeat them?" « Surely," said Ursula. "Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair ; No simplest duty is forgot. Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine shares Conquered. 191 pcnscd but in iman is curious th the y. Her njoying rill only . Duns- :heerful, c-\vifely omport rst and iness in n mates. Itain the em?" *• She doeth little kindnesses Which most leave undime or desptse, And givelh happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes." ** I have not heard them before ; they are very beautiful," said Ursula, when he had finishctl. " They are an exact description of }our sister Mary. You are fortunate in having your ideal with you in your house, and perhaps that makes you a little hard upon others less blessed than she. Hut I would remind you, Dr Dunscombc, that all human lives arc not cast in such sweet and pleasant grooves." Her face was very grave, and her eyes were looking away across the shining sea with a strange shadow in their depths. At that moment she seemed to have forgotten the presence of hei companion, and they stood for a space at the garden gate in silence. She was not a beautiful woman, nor a charming one in any way, — still less was she anything at all approach- ing to Dr. Dunscombe's idea of womanly excellence, yet — as he looked he felt his heart go out to her as it had never gone out to living woman before. He was not in love yet, but he was interested — ff' f :ii II 193 Ursula Vivian. straiij^cly, deeply interested in Ursula Vivian. She was at once a revelation and a study to him. "Miss Ursula, I have been talking at random this afternoon," he said, leaning; a little towards her. " You will bear me no grudj^c for it, I hope." Slowly Ursula turned her head and looked at him through eyes that had tears in their deepest depths. " Oh no ; I was not thinking of anything you said," she answered, gravely and simply. " Look- ing upon the sea, my thoughts flew to that other sea which men call Death, and on which so many embark every day of every year — embark every moment of every day. It is a great and grand mystery, Dr. Dunscombe, which we are content to leave unravelled, because it is of God." So saying, Ursula went very slowly through the gate, and up the wide path to the house, leaving her companion to his own thoughts. They were all of her, and though he did his utmost to banish her from his mind, he failed utterly and entirely. Ursula did not care for her friend's brother. She liked him for his kindness to Mary, and tried to believe all the praise the fond sister bestowed upon him ; but as the days went by she did not feel herself drawn to him any more than she had ! Conquered. 193 Vivian. him. r.intlom towards I hope." okctl at deepest ling you " Look- uit other so many rk every id grand ontent to ough the :, leaving hey were :o banish ntirely. brother, and tried bestowed did not she had been the first night slic came to Sunnybcach. On that account Dr. iJuiisconilic never saw the sweetest, sunniest side of Ursula's cliaractcr. She was generally curt of speech, blunt of manner, and rather grim of face in his presence, and yet he was interested in her in spite of himself; jxissibiy he enjoyed the n(welty of being contradicted without hesitation, and snubbed also, when Ursula thought fit ; in fact, Mary was at times rather pic^ued at Ursula's treatment of her brother. The days slipped away pleasantly enough, and the fortnight came to an end. Ursula looked better and stronger t! 1 she had done when she came. She had enjoyed her visit exceedingly, yet she was unspeakably glad at the thought of going home. She left Sunnybeach early one morning, taking with her Mary's promise to spend Christmas at the Grange. They parted as sisters part, with true regret on either side. Each had done the other good, and the bonds of the old friendship had received a new and stronger seal. They would indeed be friends for life. Dr. Dunscombe drove Miss Vivian to the station himself. He was very quiet all the way, and Ursula felt no inclination to speak ; her N If 104 Ursuta Vivitin. tbou^lits wrrc all of iKtmc now. He took licr ticket for her, l«)nk('tl alter her liii'j^a^e, and then came baek to the door of the carriaj;c in which she had taken her seat. " 1 have the nicin«)ry of a trnly pleasant visit to take away with me, Dr. Dnnscomhe," she said, with more ^raci«)us cordiality than she had shown to him any lime dnrin;.^ the past forliiight. "Many thanks to Mary ami to y«)U." lie answered nothing, hut stood there lookinjif her full ill the face. Strange that no suspicion of the truth came home to Ursula then. " You are so overjoyed to j;et rid of me that you have got no words to say," she snid tauntinj^ly. " We arc movini; ; };ood-bye." Then he took her hand in a t;rip of iron. "Good-bye, Ursula," he said; but at the moment she did not observe that he used her first name. "When Mary visits y^ou I shall come and brini^ her home." " Do ; we shall be pleased to see you," saiti Ursula courteously. " Good-bye." Then the train steamed out of the station, and Dr. Dunscombe retired out to his gig. Beach House seemed strangely dull that night to the Dunscombcs. Couqitt'vril. v.)'; , atnl i«,;c in t visit c saiil, shown "Many [ookinpj cion <3f hat you ntinj^ly. moment It name, bring aid u." s lion, and Beach to the "How I mi'ns Ursula," said Mary, with a ^rcat si;;h, as Ihcy sat at ihrir late Ira-lahle in th(! j;alhcriiij^ shadows of the summer twili;;ht. "Now, John, do you lil^e Iilt better than y(»u antici- pated ?" " I am not sure of that," rctiirncd Dr. Duns- cond)c, with the contrariness of his sex. " She is certainly a superior j^irl, and cotnmands respect; but I am very doubtful about the home where she presides." Yi t Dr. Dunscombe would have f;ivcn a world to sec Ursula in his home every day ; it was the desire of his heart to make her its mistress, for he loved her — as a man loves but once in h'fe. His mode of speech was characteristic u{ the man. " I have no doubt about it whatever, Jolm," Mary said, " but wc will see for ourselves when we go to KcssinL;toii. If you knew all that I know about Ursula Vivian you would talk differently." Dr. Dunscombe held his peace. " I am very vexed with Isabel, John, for her treatment of Ursula," said Mary, after a lilLle pause. "Yes, Miss Fortescue can annihilate when she chooses," he answered drily. A silvery laugh fell from Mary's lips. '(■ \r,6 Ursula Vivian. • ; < 1 "Annliiilatc! Do you imac^inc she did that to Ursula Vivian ? It would take a very skilful person to annihilate Ursula. She pities Isabel, John, with a vaster pity than Isabel bestows upon her, and she would not chan^^e places with her for triple the glory of Haydon Hall." " I do not wonder at it," said the doctor with emphasis. "Miss Fortescue is not a woman to be envied." A silence fell again, and to both the lack of Ursula's presence was very sad. It was at this hour she had always sung and played for them, filling the quiet room with echoes of sweetest melody, and that was stilled now. "You will miss the music, John," said Mary, rising with a sigh. " It would be well for me, Mary, if I missed nothing but her music," he answered brusquely, and quitted the room, leaving his sister sitting like one in a dream. So Ursula had conquered after all, not by her intellect, nor her music, nor her beauty, but by her chielest charm — that exquisite womanliness which had been born of a great sorrow, and which sat so beautifully upon her. How would it end ? ' 1 1 lat to ikilful sabcl, upon cr for r with I to be lack of at this r them, ivveetcst Mary, missed asquely, sitting by her by her }s which bich sat cv,!^^ CHAPTER XV. THANKSGIVING. RSULA received a royal welcome home. The boys hung about her, not sayinjj very much, but their look and touch told the sister who loved them, and whom they loved, how she had been missed. It was very sweet to her. Who among us do not prize such evidences of love from those dear to us ? She was rested and refreshed by her visit to Sunnybeach, ready for the campaign once more, eager to fling open the doors of the garret and again work to win. Not many days after her arrival home she received a communication from Mr. Farrel con- cerning her story. I need not transcribe it here. Suffice to say that it was entirely satisfactory, and Ursula foresaw a speedier severing of that hateful bond of debtor and creditor between her i»7 IfFr it 198 Ursula Vivian. brother and herself than she had dared to hope for. Her contract with the publisher was sealed, the story went to press, and Ursula wrote on. Slowly the days went by, and the anniversary of their sorrow came a.^ain. Its approach cast a gloom upon the Grange, and strive as she might Ursula could not always appear bright and cheerful to her brothers. Her heart grev so rebelliously sore at times that she had to creep away to her garret and utter that passion- ate prayer which seemed to live in her heart, " Lord help me to say. Not my will, but Thine .'" Sometimes the longing to see her mother's face^ to touch her hand, to hear her speak only one word, grew uncontrollable ; sometimes she felt so awfully alone, so desolate, in the orphaned household, that even God seemed afar off. V/e who have suffered the like know how it was with her. Geoffrey continued his studies under the organist of St. Michael's, and it soon became public talk that when Mr. Franz left in the autumn his pupil would succeed him. Every one was pleased, and not a little proud also, for the boy-organist would make St. Michael's famous in the country. Ursula heard the rumours, but hardly dared believe them; they seemed too good to be true. Thanksgiving, 199 lope aled, rsary cast 5 she )right giev id to Lssicn- heart, hine /'* s face, ly one le felt Dhaned 7e who L her. >rganist lie talk s pupil ed, and t would Ursula e them ; On the anniversary of her mother's death and her father's funeral Ursula rose feeling ncrvouj and depressed. She would fain have stolen away up the Scaur out of sight of all which brought up so many painful memories. But there were others to be thought of; so she de- scended to the dining-room at the usual time, cind was in her place at the table when the boys came down. It was a sad and silent meal. " I can't eat any more, Ursula," said Charlie at last, and ran out of the room with a great burst. In a moment Fred followed him, and only Ursula and Geoffrey were left. "O Ursula, if mamma wer^j only here!" ,^.e said, in a choked voice. " It is like a century since she left us." " Have I filled her place so poorly, Geoffrey ?" Ursula asked, with quivering lips. "O Ursula, surely you don't think I meant that ?" said Geoffrey, in distress. " You know all you have been to us, and how we love you for it." " Yes, I know. Forgive me, Geoffrey ; I spoke without thinking," she said, smiling a little. " I feel so sad to-day, I hardly know what I anx saying." I' ^ w I 'w u ] > 200 Ursula Vivian, " Ursula, I am to be ippointed organist of St. Michael's next week," said Geoffrey, by-and-by. "Next week! Ori;an^ of St. Michael's! Why did not you tell me last ni;^ht ?" " I don't know ! 1 feel funny about these thin^^s, Ursula ; and, besides, I wanted to tell you this mornin!:;'. >» Ursula understood him, guessing that he had thouijht the announcement would be a comfort to her to-day, and so it was. "Mr. St. John told me last night, Ursula; and I am to have a salary of £/\.o\ and, with the private teaching there is in Kessington, I shall be able to keep myself and help you," said Gcoifrey. Ursula could not speak. Even at the moment when she was questioning* God's dealing with her and hers, He had assured Geoffrey's future. One anxious care He had lifted entirely from her heart, and she had indeed rcce'ved a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. " God is very good to us, Geoffrey," she said, with fast-fiiiing eyes ; " even when we have least faith in Him." " He has been very good to me, Ursula, I shall never iorget it," said GeoftVey, lorgetting his shy* Thanksgiving. 201 f St Why lings, I this i had imfort ; and h the shall ' said omcnt h her One ~icait, praise said^ least I shall s shy- ness, and spcakinjT all his thou[;hts. " When papa and mamma died, I knew Robert thouirht of me as a useless piece of lumber, who couldn't make a livincj for himself lie always despised my music. I wonder if he will despise it now, when it is to give me bread enough and to spare ?" " I think not," answered Ursula, with a little smile. "Yes, Geofrrcv, it is a great joy to me that your gift is to be as useful to you as mine is to me. When I rose this morninfr I thoucrht the world was very dark, and yet it is all blessing — all blessing, if we could but see it ;" and under her breath she added the prayer, ' Lord, forgive my little faith." After tea that evening Ursula went to Kes- sington on some errands, intending to call at Mr. Aarons' for Geoffrey at seven o'clock, but insen- sibly her feet turned towards the churchyard — to that sacred grave which it was her joy and privilege to keep lovely with the blossoms of the year. It was a beautiful spot, that quiet God's acre on the sunny hillside, removed a little way from the stir of the busy town, upon which it looked down as if to keep the inhabitants in memory of its many silent lessons. It was just the sunset when Ursula opened the gate, and walked slowly with bent head to the enclosure 'f 203 Uf'sft7(f l^iriim. If wlicrr slrpt tlu)sr slic had lovrd so well. Tlirrc was nn hra