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'>^Si'^W^ 
 
»*'JSr'''Bf^^w 
 
 Oliphant, Anderson, d; Ferrier^s Publications. 
 New Edition, crown 8vo, cloth, 45 cents. 
 
 Across Her Path. By Annie S. Swan, Author of 'Alder- 
 syde,' * Carlo wrie,' etc. 
 
 ' The deservedly popular shilling novel still holds its own, and bids fair to 
 exercise a yot wider sway in time to come. Amongst the most successful of 
 tlieso ventures in cheap literature may be ranked a new novel by Miss Swan, 
 a story almost as powerful as it is bewitching. It possesses, amongst other 
 virtues, the rather unusual one of being entirely free from padding, present- 
 ing no temptations for skipping, even to the most frivolous reader. A little 
 moiiilizing would nevertheless have been pardoned readily in so excellent a 
 tale, and would have imparted to it a solidity it does not now possess ; yet let 
 it not be supposed that an alteration in this respect would have been advan- 
 tageous — we do but marvel that Miss Swan could have had the strength and 
 good taste to suppress herself for the sake of her art' — lAterary World. 
 
 * As to skilful construction of the plot, is one of the most successful efforts of 
 its authoress, a young lady who has, in a remarkably brief space of time, gained 
 a national reputation by her story of " Aldersyde." The interest is sustained 
 in her new story with remarkable skill ; and few readers, when they have 
 taken up the book, will be able to lay it down again until they have reached thu 
 denouement. The scene is laid for the most part in London, and it must be 
 owned that Miss Swan shows herself about as much at home in that Modern 
 Babylon as in her native Lothians.' — Kilimamock Standard. 
 
 * Written in a clear, terse, crisp style, it is at the same time a full and 
 lively portraiture of the phases of English society with which it deals.' — 
 Brechin Advertiser. 
 
 * Has a good plot^ and the characters are well sketched.* — Scotsnum. 
 
 * A story that no one should miss reading. Although published in the now 
 popular shilling edition, it has nothing of the "shilling horror" about it — 
 indeed, the name of the authoress is a sufficient guarantee for that. The plot, 
 although interesting, is far from being sensational, and it is not worked out 
 at any cost to t>>e character painting or to the descriptive writing. Miss 
 Swan s literary s' yle is graceful, and she can write really good dialogue. The 
 authoress of '* Aldersyde" is certainly at her best in " Across Her Path."' — 
 Fifeshire Journal. 
 
 * The story is well and forcibly told.*^C%mtian World. 
 
 * Much originality is seen in the conception and in the development of the 
 
 {>lot. Miss Swan, in her narrative, also shows a marked improvement. It is 
 ree from restraint, and it is not encumbered with the verbose commonplaces 
 which too frequently are made to take the place of dialogue, and which are 
 generally irrelevant besides. The gifted authoress of " Across Her Path " has 
 successfully avoided such blemishes, and has turned out c story which, for its 
 interest and for its style, ranks with the most famous of her works, and in 
 some respects exceeds the best of the rapidly lengthening list.' — Daily Review. 
 
 * The interest is cleverly sustained throughout, the plot being constructed 
 with the skill of the practised story-teller; it is indeed a tale difficult to lay 
 down until it has been tiuished,'— Christian Leafier. 
 
-f^f^Si'V^^^ 
 
 Oliphant, Anderson, <b Ferrier*s Publications. 
 
 Extra crown 8vo, cloth extra, with Six Original Illustrations, $1.00. 
 
 Briar and Palm : A Study of Circumstance and Influence. 
 By Annie S. Swan, Author of ' Aldersyde,' ' Carlowrie,' * Gates 
 of Ede' .' etc. etc. 
 
 *Is as charming a tale as this talented writer has produced. It paints 
 with qoiet force and occasional touches of fine pathos, the career of a yonnt; 
 doctor, Denis Holgate, a character in whom the author arouses a deep 
 interest by the skill with which she has traced his growth through work 
 and suffering to gentleness and nobility of nature.' — Scvtaman. 
 
 ♦ Furnishes another proof that the nuthor of " Aldersyde " and " Carlowrif " 
 is as much at home among English folk, both of the Southern Counties HLd 
 of Lancashire, as she is among the people of Scotland.' — Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 * Some of the chapters indicate a larger outlook on life, and also a more 
 intense dramatic energy.' — Daily Mail. 
 
 ' We find Miss Swan quite as much at home in the Metropolis, and among 
 the people of the Lancashire seaboard, as in her native Lothians. ... She 
 has evidently been working hard, and enlarging her knowledge of the 
 treasures of literature, as well as of places and people.' — Greenock Telegraph. 
 
 ' Take it all in all, the authoress shows a wonderful verbatility and pur- 
 fecMon in the art of telling a story pleasantly and well.' — Pen and Pencil. 
 
 » A lovely tale, honestly worth its weight in gold.' — Sheffield Independent. 
 
 ' The book is instinct with that fine feeling and tender idealism which gives 
 Miss Swan's work the stamp of uniqueness.' — Evening News. 
 
 ' Miss Swan's versatility is truly wonlerful, and in no previous instance has 
 it been more powerfully exhibited than in this highly interesting and dramatic 
 Btory.' — Kiimamock Standard. 
 
 *ln ''Briar and Palm" Miss Swan is at her best, and the characters are 
 so well drawn that they absolutely stand out from the page like living and 
 breathing realities. Taken as a whole, this is the best effort of the taleutt^d 
 authoress.'— Leeds Times 
 
 *■ The whole conception is quite novel, yet vigorously worked out, and 
 with a success that justifies the effort at showing how the influence of 
 geuuine Christian love and sympathy can soften and ultimately conquer, in a 
 naturally noble woman, the harsher teachings of poverty.' — Haddington Courier. 
 
 'Need we say that the tale has a high moral purpose, and that it is told 
 with a charm of st^le which rivets attention irom the first page to the 
 last.' — Northern Ensign. 
 
 'Another good story from this prolific pen, depicting the life of Denis 
 Holgate, a young doctor. She paints some fine characters in the course of the 
 book, notably little Daisy Frew and her good father the curate of the little 
 sea- village, Orosshaven.' — British Weekly. 
 
 ' A story that only Miss Swan could write, and it will be read with deep in- 
 terest and sincere pleasure by her wide circle of admirers.' — Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 ' A new departure for one who has won her laurels in depicting Scottish 
 rural life. The work will in no way detract from the splendid reputation the 
 author has won.' — Helensljurgh Times. 
 
 'A powerful and well -written story, engaging the attention from its 
 opening sentence till its close.' — Dumfries Courier. 
 
 ' Told with all Miss Swan's dramatic and descriptive power, full of good 
 thoughts and healthful suggestions.'— ^rfcroa^A fferaZd. 
 
 ' The work gives manifest token of the growth of the young authoress alike 
 in its analysis of character, dramatic energy, and deftness of literary touch.' — 
 Christian, Leader. 
 
 ' This is one of the brightest and most interesting stories that we have 
 come across for a considerable time.' — Society Journal. 
 
^*«t3SI"'tttMfw 
 
 )3. 
 
 ns, $1.00. 
 
 [nfluence. 
 ie,' ' Gates 
 
 It paints 
 of a youni? 
 868 a dt't'p 
 ough -wiirlt 
 
 Carlowrif " 
 Minties aLd 
 Mercwy. 
 kluo a uiure 
 
 and among 
 i- . . . She 
 Ige of the 
 Telegraph, 
 y and p«r- 
 Penctl. 
 ipendent. 
 'bich gives 
 
 istance has 
 id dramatic 
 
 racters are 
 living and 
 le tuleuttd 
 
 I out, and 
 ifluence of 
 iqupr, in a 
 in Conner, 
 it ia lold 
 <ge to the 
 
 > of Denis 
 urseof the 
 ' the little 
 
 h deep in- 
 Advert'ser. 
 g Scottish 
 itatiou the 
 
 I from its 
 
 II of good 
 
 oress alike 
 r touch.' — 
 
 we have 
 
 A DIVIDED HOUSE. 
 
-^^eem^ 
 
 « 
 
 '4 
 
r 
 
 A DIVIDED HOUSE. 
 
 A STUDY FROM LIFE. 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNIE S. SWAN, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "ALDERSYDE," " CARLOWRIE," ETC. 
 
 CHEAP EDITION. 
 
 TORONTO, CANADA 
 
 WIIvIvIANl BRIGQS 
 
 EDINBURGH and LONDON 
 OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & FERRIER 
 
 1889 
 

 -^^itir^^^ 
 
 2010iS 
 
 Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, In the year 
 one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine, by William Briogs, 
 Book Steward of the Methodist Boole and Publishing House, 
 Toronto, at the Department of Agriculture. 
 
|^> C ONTENTS. ^^^-g^ 
 
 CHAPTEH TAOK 
 
 1. A UNITED HOUSEHOLl^ 9 
 
 II. AFTERNOON TEA, 17 
 
 III. THE DAWN OF LOVE, 24 
 
 IV. ON THE THRESHOLD, 3 1 
 
 V. ACROSS THE RUBICON, 39 
 
 VL BREAKING IT, 47 
 
 VII. TAKING UP THE CROSS, 55 
 
 VIII. TRYING MOMENTS, 64 
 
 IX. AN UNCOMFORTABLE MEETING, . . . . 74 
 
 X. THE FIRST STING, 83 
 
 XI. AT BRAMPTON SQUARE, 92 
 
 XIL A LOVELESS HEARTH, I03 
 
 XIII. THE DARKEST HOUR, Ill 
 
 XIV. UNPALATABLE TRUTHS, II 9 
 
 XV. THE FINAL CRASH .127 
 
 XVI. FAREWELL, 1 37 
 
Vlll 
 
 Contents. 
 
 ^jiT^m^ 
 
 It 
 
 CHAPTRR 
 
 
 
 XVII. 
 
 REACTION, 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 UNUTTERABLE YEARNINGS, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ABIDING PEACE, 
 
 
 XX. 
 
 IN A FAR COUNTRY, 
 
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE BITTER PAST, . 
 
 
 XXII. 
 
 BRINGING IT HOME, 
 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD, 
 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE EXILE'S RETURN, 
 
 
 XXV. 
 
 RE-UNION, 
 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 BLESSED HOURS, . 
 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 AUNT MARY'S SPHERE, , 
 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 IT IS WELLl • 
 
 
 PARS 
 
 147 
 
 
 156 
 
 
 162 
 
 
 170 
 
 fl 
 
 178 
 
 
 187 
 
 
 196 
 
 * 
 
 206 
 
 1 
 
 215 
 
 1 
 
 223 
 
 1 
 
 233 
 241 
 
 f 
 
 
 -■',■¥ 
 
 1 1 
 
JKi^^'BBP^'wl 
 
 PAGB 
 
 . 147 
 
 . 156 
 
 . 162 
 
 . 170 
 
 . 178 
 
 . 187 
 
 . 196 
 
 . 206 
 
 . 215 
 
 . 223 
 
 . 233 
 
 . 241 
 
 
 M^^WM 
 
 
 TvSs^fe. 
 
 mmM. 
 
 A DIVIDED HOUSE 
 
 ^ Stums from ILife. 
 
 * > < - 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A UNITED HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 Sometimes when a sorrow is coming 
 
 To fill up the chalice of tears, 
 It casts a long shadow before it — 
 
 To whisper of mistrust and fears. 
 
 i^ICHARD is late to-night, Aunt Sara." 
 > ^ "Is he, dear? I did not notice; 
 but you are such a precipe timekeeper. 
 Well, I have finished the story I have 
 been so interested in for months. 
 George MacDonald always leaves his 
 readers with ample food for reflection. 
 He suggests things which the mind 
 must dwell upon till it works them out to a satis- 
 factory conclusion." 
 
 " You are growing quite critical. Aunt Sara," 
 said the younger woman, a somewhat amused smile 
 playing about her mouth. "1 am not sure that 
 
■.air<l!'J!!l4''ttlKW' 
 
 10 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 I do not feel very impatient sometimes with George 
 MacDonald ; but I wonder what can be keeping 
 Richard ? It is very stormy, too." 
 
 She moved over to the window and, drawing 
 aside the blind and curtain, peered out into the 
 wintry night. It was very stormy ; indeed, a night 
 of December's fiercest mood. A wild wind was 
 blowing from the north, and snow had been falling 
 in the city since noon ; a fine promise, surely, of a 
 good, old-fashioned, white Christmas. 
 
 " He will have fallen in with Harry, likely," said 
 Mrs. Blake. " Of course you are fretting because 
 your tea has been too long infused." 
 
 " I d(,n't like it ; nor do you ; nor does Richard," 
 said Mary Osborne. " When does Harry go home 
 for the holidays ? " 
 
 " I am not sure, dear, but probably next week," 
 replied Mrs. Blake, and began again to turn over 
 the page of the book on her knee as if it possessed 
 for her an odd fascination. She was a woman 
 considerably past her prime — a widow, also, as was 
 evidenced by her attire. There was nothing 
 striking nor attractive in her appearance. She 
 looked a woman of strong character, and one whose 
 life had not been one of ease. 
 
 She had been early widowed, and the struggle 
 to maintain a respectable position, and to fit 
 her only son for an honourable place in life had 
 given to her an independence and self-reliance 
 which in different circumstances might not have 
 displayed themselves. But she had not lost 
 her womanliness ; her heart was tender and 
 good, her manner refined ; she was one of 
 
■'Ss^n^' 
 
 ■I 
 
 A United Household. 
 
 II 
 
 :h George 
 I keeping 
 
 drawing 
 into the 
 d, a night 
 vind was 
 sn falling 
 rely, of a 
 
 :ely," said 
 I because 
 
 Richard," 
 • go home 
 
 ixt week," 
 turn over 
 possessed 
 a woman 
 so, as was 
 nothing 
 ice. She 
 )ne whose 
 
 struggle 
 nd to fit 
 
 life had 
 
 f-reliance 
 
 not have 
 
 not lost 
 
 ider and 
 
 one of 
 
 nature's own gentlewomen. Her son had grown 
 to manhood, and his mother's hour of ease had 
 come. 
 
 As a boy, Richard Blake had entered the 
 mercantile house of which he was now practically 
 the head, although the gentleman who had been 
 first his employer and then his partner still retained 
 an interest in the business. 
 
 Yes, Richard Blake had been successful in 
 business, and at thirty his income was a very sub- 
 stantial one. Their home, in a quiet but select part 
 of London, bore all the evidences of wealth and 
 taste. There was no ostentatious display or gaudy 
 colouring. Everything was soberly elegant and 
 substantial, the beau ideal of comfort and genuine 
 homeliness. The furnishings of the dining-room in 
 which the ladies sat were of Richard's choosing — 
 quaint carved oak, upholstered in Utrecht velvet, 
 a massive sideboard, and on the neutral-tinted walls 
 a few good pictures. The latter were costly and in 
 exquisite taste, Richard's choosing also, for art was 
 his hobby. 
 
 Mary Osborne called Mrs. Blake aunt, and 
 Richard cousin, but the relationship was not quite 
 so close. She was the only child of a cousin 
 of Mrs. Blake's, who had made an unfortunate 
 marriage, and died when Mary was four years 
 old. 
 
 Though but newly widowed, and in sore trouble 
 herself, Mrs. Blake took pity on the motherless 
 child, left to the care of an indifferent and not too 
 tender father, and offered her a home in the dingy 
 little London house (it was not the spacious abode 
 
■':?SrJRi3y'*'^Jjpslj|ii 
 
 12 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 \ ; I 
 
 in Bingham Street then). So the little Mary grew 
 up side by side with Richard Blake. 
 
 Her father went abroad, and a few years later 
 died in Nevada ; so practically Mary Osborne had 
 known no other home than that which sheltered 
 her for twenty years. She was a lovely woman, 
 but hers was the beauty which does not rivet the 
 eye at once, but which steals over the heart like 
 some sweetest melody. She was slenderly and 
 gracefully built ; her face was sweet and pleasant : 
 but it was in her eyes her power lay. These mirrors 
 of the soul tell no falsehoods, and make or mar the 
 beauty of the human face. They were grey, large, 
 and lustrous, and capable of a thousand varying 
 lights and shades. In their depths dwelt abound- 
 ing loving-kindness, gentlest feelings, infinite 
 sympathies, and when the main-springs of the heart 
 were touched, a well of tears. In all his life Richard 
 Blake had seen no woman he thought so fair as his 
 cousin Mary, and would look at her complacently, 
 sometimes feeling proud and glad that she belonged 
 to him and to his mother, and that she dwelt 
 beneath their roof-tree to make it a sunnier and 
 happier and better place. And she ? But this 
 history will unfold itself. 
 
 She moved from the window by-and-by, and 
 busied herself about the table, which was a picture 
 of taste and elegance and beauty. The tea-table 
 was Mary Osborne's hobby, as it is with very many 
 womanly v/omen. There was no display of silver, 
 but there was exquisite china and spotless damask, 
 aad a wealth of winter blossoms which were no 
 fairer to see than Mary herself. Seven was the 
 
A United Household. 
 
 13 
 
 [ary grew 
 
 ears later 
 
 )orne had 
 
 sheltered 
 
 y woman, 
 
 rivet the 
 tieart like 
 ierly and 
 pleasant : 
 se mirrors 
 )r mar the 
 rey, large, 
 d varying 
 t abound- 
 5, infinite 
 f the heart 
 fe Richard 
 fair as his 
 iplacently, 
 
 belonged 
 she dwelt 
 nnier and 
 
 But this 
 
 d-by, and 
 5 a picture 
 
 tea-table 
 i^ery many 
 T of silver, 
 ,5 damask, 
 
 were no 
 1 was the 
 
 tea hour at 10 Bingham Street, and very seldom 
 indeed did the master of the house keep the ladies 
 w.uting. At the half-hour, voices sounded at the 
 door, and presently a latch-key was fitted in the 
 lock. 
 
 " Harry is surely with him," said Mrs. Blake, 
 laying aside her book, and turning her eyes expect- 
 antly to the door. 
 
 It opened presently, and two gentlemen entered. 
 Both were young, but that was the sole point of 
 resemblance between them. Richard Blake could 
 be easily recognised by his strong resemblance to 
 his mother. There were the same dark hair and 
 eyes, swarthy complexion and firm resolute mouth. 
 He was tall, and carried his broad shoulders with 
 dignity and manly grace. The other was of slimmer 
 and more effeminate appearance, but his face with 
 its winning blue eyes and mobile mouth, about 
 which a smile always hovered, was a pleasant one 
 to see. Everybody loved gay, good-humoured, 
 debonair Harry Kendal, who never had had a care 
 in the world, and meant to get through life without 
 one if he could manage. His very presence was 
 like the sunshine ; there could be no gloom nor 
 sadness when he was by. 
 
 Though so widely different in nature, these two 
 young men were warm friends ; nay more, the love 
 between them was like that of David and Jonathan, 
 a marvel to all who knew them. Their acquaintance 
 had begun in the most casual way at a debating 
 club of which both were members ; but it had 
 ripened into a most intimate friendship. Harry 
 was a medical student studying at the University 
 
! ! 
 
 '-^yf^^'^isasf^ 
 
 H 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 ■'4 
 
 of London, and beyond that Richard Blake knew 
 very little about him. He was not at all curious 
 about his friend's relatives, but he had learned that 
 his father was a gentleman of independent means, 
 residing on his own estate in Kent, and that Harry 
 was an only son, who of his own will had elected 
 to study medicine as a profession. 
 
 He was a frequent and warmly-welcomed guest 
 in Richard Blake's home, and Mrs. Blake loved 
 him almost as a son. 
 
 " Good evening, Mrs. Blake ; good evening. Miss 
 Osborne," he said gaily, shaking hands first with 
 the elder and then with the younger lady, and detain- 
 ing Mary's slender fingers in his a little longer than 
 he need ha^'e done. " I am the reprobate, Miss 
 Mary, for I went to Dick's office and kept him 
 there till after seven trying to extract a promise 
 from him, but it was no use." 
 
 Mary smiled and looked at Richard ; he met 
 that look by an answering smile, which brought a 
 lovelier light into the depths of the grey eyes. 
 
 " Come away, then, boys," she said ; " Aunt Sara 
 can't wait any longer. You don't deserve any, 
 Mr. Harry." 
 
 " Oh ! do I not ? thank you very much," said 
 Harry, and looked at the gentle speaker with 
 undisguised admiration. Never had he seen her 
 look so lovely and so wiiisome. Strange that that 
 thought should be in Richard's mind also at that 
 moment ! but Mary was quite unconscious of it. 
 
 "And what promise was it you were trying to 
 exact from my son, Harry ? " asked Mrs. Blake, 
 when they were seated at table. 
 
A United Household. 
 
 15 
 
 ike knew 
 11 curious 
 irned that 
 nt means, 
 lat Harry 
 id elected 
 
 ned guest 
 ake loved 
 
 ning, Miss 
 first with 
 ,nd detain- 
 )nger than 
 bate, Miss 
 kept him 
 a promise 
 
 » 
 
 he met 
 brought a 
 eyes. 
 
 Aunt Sara 
 serve any, 
 
 uch," said 
 aker with 
 ; seen her 
 I that that 
 so at that 
 s of it. 
 trying to 
 rs. Blake, 
 
 " I want him to go home with me for Christmas ; 
 I promised them last Easter and at midsummer 
 that I would bring my David with me, for my 
 mother is yearning to behold him ; but he won't 
 promise even now unless you give consent first." 
 
 Mrs. Blake smiled. That was like Richard — his 
 mother first in all things. 
 
 *' We will miss him very much ; but I would 
 certainly say Go," she said decidedly. " How long 
 could you spare, Richard ? " 
 
 " Ten days, mother ; but I would never think of 
 leaving you and Mary alone all that time." 
 
 "If you give us a week we will be content," said 
 Harry. " I say. Miss Mary, these are prime cakes; 
 but, look here, Mrs. Blake, why couldn't you give 
 your domestics a holiday and come en famille? 
 My mother would be delighted, I am sure, and so 
 would Frances ; she always has some jolly girls for 
 Christmas, too, and we generally manage to have 
 a good time all round." 
 
 Mrs. Blake smiled, but shook her head ; while 
 Richard laughed outright 
 
 " You do not know what you are asking my 
 mother, Harry ; she would as soon go up to a 
 cannon's mouth as face your unknown relatives." 
 
 " Would you, Mrs. Blake ? They are not very 
 formidable, I assure you," said Harry in his eager 
 fashion. " My father is the soul of good-nature and 
 kindliness, and my mother, though rather stately, you 
 know, is just a fellow's mother and the dearest 
 woman in the world. Frances is a famous coquette, 
 but a real jolly girl, when you don't mind her ways. 
 That 's all now ; won't you come ? " 
 
-^^^.f^ysntOCfrM 
 
 i6 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 " Thank you, Harry, but I am too old to venture 
 among so many strangers," replied Mrs. Blake. 
 " Some day when your dear motlier comes to town 
 you will bring her to see me, so that I may tell her 
 what a good boy you are. Richard, my son, 
 I hope you will accept Harry's invitation this time. 
 It will do you good." 
 
 " Very well, mother ; when is it you go, 
 Harry?" 
 
 "Can't get till the twenty-third," said Harry, 
 dismally. " But it '11 Co. Frances always has a 
 party on Christmas eve. Don't look so dismayed, 
 Dick ; it will do you all the good in life to get a 
 dance." 
 
 " I don't dance, Harry, and I am afraid that with 
 my unpolished ways I will cut but a poor figure at 
 your sister's party." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! " exclaimed Harry. " I could 
 bet you'll be the handsomest man in the room. 
 See if Frances doesn't think so too." 
 
 " Your tongue is too long, Harry," said Richard 
 rather quickly. "]\Iary. you are eating nothing; 
 what can I give you ? " 
 
 " Nothing more, thanks," replied Mary, and 
 during the rest of the evening she was unusually 
 quiet. 
 
 For a shadow, the forecast of what was to come, 
 had crossed her heart ; and even Harry's most 
 brilliant sallies and teasing words could scarcely 
 provoke a reply. 
 
 ►>*«' 
 
fs^'^fofm 
 
 5 venture 
 s. Blake 
 ; to town 
 y tell her 
 my son, 
 this time. 
 
 you go, 
 
 d Harry, 
 lys has a 
 dismayed, 
 ; to get a 
 
 I that with 
 r figure at 
 
 "I could 
 the room. 
 
 d Richard 
 r nothing ; 
 
 ^ary, and 
 unusually 
 
 IS to come, 
 rry's most 
 d scarcely 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AFTERNOON TEA. 
 
 " Give me girls for silly talk. They think the world made 
 for 'em to make love and wear fine clothes in. There's no- 
 thon' else in their heads." — " Tut, tut, Abel ; don't be so 
 hard on the wenches. In spite o' the silly talk, there 's a good 
 wife and mother comes out among them once in a while."— 
 Old MS. 
 
 T was a pirture of ease and affluence, 
 and it may be added beauty. The 
 room was large pnd lofty and exqui- 
 sitely panelled in the latest style of 
 c't. The furnishings A^ere luxurious 
 but quaint, for the craze for the fashion 
 of a bygone day in upholstery had just 
 come into vogue, and Miss Kendal of 
 Kendal Hall dipped into every fashionable folly o% 
 the day. A glorious fire leaped and crackled in 
 the curiously wrought brass grate, casting its ruddy 
 glow upon richly cushioned lounge and tempting 
 easy chair, and lighting up with many a sparkle the 
 dainty tea equipage upon Miss Kendal's pet Queer? 
 Anne table. 
 
 B 
 
^v-»w*.-^"WWm-^ 
 
 i8 
 
 A Divided House, 
 
 This luxurious and beautiful apartment was Miss 
 Kendal's dressing-room, and it held four occupants 
 that winter afternoon — all girls in the first blush of 
 womanhood. At the side of her table, presiding 
 over the dainty refreshment spread thereon, sat 
 Miss Kendal herself. She must be of interest to 
 you, reader, if you are to follow with me the wind- 
 ings of this history. She was without doubt a 
 beautiful woman, with a tall and graceful figure, 
 which she carried with queenly dignity. Her 
 magnificent hair, which in the privacy of her own 
 chamber among her bosom friends was but negli- 
 gently coiled behind her shapely head, was of a 
 bright golden sheen, neither fair nor yellow, but 
 golden ; which in the sunlight was wonderful to see. 
 Her features were not quite perfect perhaps, yet 
 the contour of her face seemed faultless. Her 
 mouth was wide, but you forgave that ; because 
 when the lips parted in a smile it was all sweetness. 
 Her eyes were dark, magnificent orbs, full of passion, 
 and powerful, dangerous weapons which she knew 
 well how to use. I need not describe her attire to 
 you. Tea-gowns had just come into fashion, and 
 Miss Kendal had not been slow to add these costly 
 and elegant articles of a.tire to her wardrobe. She 
 knew how to dress, how to enhance her beauty in 
 all ways, for it was at the present time her idol. 
 The other occupants of the room were a select trio 
 whom Miss Kendal had picked out from among the 
 guests then at the hall, and to whom she talked as 
 freely as it was in her nature to do. She lacked her 
 brother's frankness and openness of manner, and 
 unlike him made but few friends. She was not 
 
T 
 
 Afternoon Tea, 
 
 »9 
 
 universally nor even generally beloved, especially 
 among her own sex, for her eyes were keen and 
 her tongue sarcastic, and she did not even spare 
 the mystic three who were with her now. 
 
 " I say, Fanny," said little Amy Clitheroe, the 
 daughter of a country rector, who was a distant 
 connection of Mrs. Kendal ; "you do look just too 
 lovely in that gown — doesn't she Eleanor ? " 
 
 The individual ad "ressed, a tall swarthy young 
 lady of aristocratic but not very prepossessing 
 appearance, glanced critically at Miss Kendal, and 
 gave a languid assent 
 
 " It should look nice. I talked to madame well 
 about it. I put it on to-night to get it to sit nicely, 
 you know. This is our last cosy five o'clock alone. 
 To-morrow we must honour mamma's table in the 
 drawing-room," said Miss Kendal, somewhat lan- 
 guidly. " Amy, child, if you call me Fanny again 
 I shall scold you. It sounds so like a little poodle. 
 Please to remember my name is Frances." 
 
 " It is the force of habit, dear," said Amy, a trifle 
 humbled. " It always used to be Fanny when we 
 were little." 
 
 " Yes ; but now we are women, and must act as 
 such," said Miss Kendal, absently toying with her 
 teaspoon. " Come, Eleanor, let me replenish your 
 cup." 
 
 "When does Harry come?" asked Amy, the 
 irrepressible. "Isn't he bringing hij great friend 
 with him this time ? " 
 
 " We expect so ; and they will be here," said 
 Miss Kendal, glancing at the timepiece, " in about 
 an hour from now." 
 
 I 
 
■^fS'^^yM 
 
 
 20 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 " I wonder what like he will be ? " chattered 
 Amy. 
 
 " Who is this friend of your brother, P' ^ \vhat is 
 he?" asked Eleanor Tremaine in he ol, swet 
 tones. 
 
 "Harry's friend, Mr. Richard Blake, is a merchant, 
 I believe," said Miss Kendal. " A man who has 
 risen from an errand boy or something akin to it 
 to be the head of an extensive and eminently 
 profitable mercantile house." 
 
 There was the slightest possible curve of Miss 
 Tremainc's aristocratic upper lip and a perceptible 
 shrug of her shoulders — indications sufficient of the 
 effect of Miss Kendal's words. 
 
 " The question is, girls, how are we to comport 
 ourselves towards this Jonathan of Harry's ; my 
 brother regards him as a perfect Bayard, and 
 expects me, I believe, to fall down and worship him 
 at once." 
 
 " You scarcely need to ask how to comport your- 
 self, Frances," said Eleanor Tremaine. " Your 
 repose of manner, the instinct of the Vere de Vere, 
 will do all that is necessary when a plebeian 
 approaches you." 
 
 " Thank's, Eleanor ; your sarcasm is very fine," 
 said Frances, smiling and showing two rows of 
 ivory which were the envy of many of her 
 friends. 
 
 " What if Mr. Richard Blake falls in love with 
 you, Frances ? " said Amy musingly. 
 
 "Would that be something so very unusual?" 
 asked Miss Kendal with a conscious laugh. 
 
 " No, but what would you do ? " 
 
Afternoon Ten. 
 
 21 
 
 Miss Kendal yawned, and folded her fair arms 
 above her stately head. 
 
 •' Ineligibles are not so very difficult to repress," 
 said she serenely. " Only I would be sorry to be 
 unk'ind to Harry's friend." 
 
 Little Amy sighed. She was pretty in her way, 
 but penniless, and at Allingham very few suitors 
 came riding by. 
 
 " When do you mean to marry, Frances ? " asked 
 Miss Trcmaine ; "do tell us who could tempt yo* " 
 
 Miss Kendal waited a little before she spoke. 
 Her eyes were fixed upon the glowing fire, as if 
 trying to read her fortune theie. Her face was 
 serious, but lovely in its repose. 
 
 " When I marry, girls, it will be one quite unlike 
 any I have ever met here or elsewhere." 
 
 " Tell us what he will be like, do ! " cried Amy, 
 clapping her hands. 
 
 " Well — of course he must be handsome." 
 
 " Of course, to mate with you," said Amy with 
 emphasis. 
 
 " He must be noble and true, unselfish and kind, 
 and as stainless as good king Arthur himself," said 
 Frances dreamily. " Of noble birth, and proud as 
 he is noble; if he has a coronet, so much the 
 better." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Amy breathlessly. 
 
 " You are ambitious, Frances," remarked Miss 
 Tremaine. 
 
 "That is my ideal, girls; all women have an ideal 
 at some time or other, you know," said Miss Kendal. 
 " Now for the probable reality with which I shall 
 be satisfied. I shall marry a rich man without 
 
 iii 
 
'ywt>%^'ffBff'T0 
 
 23 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 ! 11 
 
 doubt, and his birth must at least match with mine. 
 I should prefer him to be considerably older than 
 me, because I could then more easily do as I like 
 with him. He must be good-natured and think 
 everything I do perfection ; of course I would be 
 very fond of him, and we would slide along comfort- 
 ably as many do, and our house would be a pleasant 
 one for people to come to, and I would like it to be 
 said that we could dispense hospitalities right 
 royally." 
 
 " Would that content you in your married life, 
 Frances," siid a sweet voice which had not yet 
 been heard since the conversation began. 
 
 They looked round almost in surprise themselves, 
 for while the others had grouped about the tea- 
 table, Gertrude Annesley had stolen away to the 
 wide window to watch the red rising of the winter 
 moon above the lonely pines. She came forward 
 as she s^oke, and looked with clear wondering eyes 
 into the face of Frances Kendal. 
 
 Gertrude Annesley was not a woman to attract 
 notice in a crowd ; she was not one of the many, 
 nay, she was one by herself. Her pale earnest face 
 was lit by shining dark eyes which had a pathetic 
 shadow in their depths telling of trouble past and 
 sorrow to come. She was the orphan daughter of 
 a brave English officer, who had left his only child 
 to the care of a heartless sister who had not faith- 
 fully fulfilled his dying charge. She was one of 
 Frances Kendal's school companions, and it must 
 be told had a deeper hold on that selfish heart than 
 any of the others. Somehow under that calm 
 questioning gaze, Frances Kendal felt ashamed 
 
 ,'iiiii- 
 
fi'^BIJ^'^ 
 
 \ 
 
 Afternoon Tea. 
 
 23 
 
 th mine, 
 der than 
 as I like 
 id think 
 ATOuld be 
 comfort- 
 pleasant 
 2 it to be 
 es right 
 
 rried life, 
 not yet 
 
 em selves, 
 the tea- 
 y to the 
 (le winter 
 2 forward 
 ring eyes 
 
 to attract 
 he many, 
 rnest face 
 pathetic 
 past and 
 ughter of 
 )nly child 
 not faith- 
 is one of 
 d it must 
 leart than 
 hat calm 
 ashamed 
 
 I 
 
 of her words. For the moment she did not 
 speak. 
 
 "It was only a jest, dear," said Gertrude. " I 
 prefer to believe that your ideal is the true instinct 
 of your heart ; the latter would noi satisfy you." 
 
 "There is no such thing as satisfaction or content- 
 ment this side the grave," cried Frances, lightly 
 springing to her feet. " There, I hear a commotion 
 in the hall, caused by the arrival of the inseparable 
 twain, so. girls, run and make yourselves fair, and 
 we will try which of us can best fascinate Harry'i 
 parvenu.'* 
 
' 1 1 
 
 iif 
 
 f''^)w**ft 'i^ttwail 
 
 III 
 
 I ill 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 THE DAWN OF LOVE. 
 
 "'Tis a strange and wonderful thing, this dawn of love! 
 How it creeps unawares into quiet unsuspecting hearts, 
 changing the tenor of life, and even the very current of being 
 itself!" 
 
 HEN the waggonette which had been 
 sent to the station for the late comers 
 swept round the curve of the long and 
 stately avenue of lime trees, and drew 
 up at the imposing entrance to Ken- 
 dal Hall, Richard Blake turned to his 
 companion in questioning surprise. 
 "Why, Harry, I had no idea your 
 
 home was like this, or I wouldn't- 
 
 " Say you wouldn't have come now in the face of 
 the smile on my father's face yonder?" said Harry, 
 laughingly, although Richard was quick enough to 
 note and to admire the genuine tenderness and 
 feeling in the young man's eyes when he looked 
 upon his home. There was no time for further 
 talk, for Harry sprang from the old cc.iveyance 
 24 
 
si'^^Bttwiii 
 
 I 
 
 li:; 
 
 n of love ! 
 
 ing hearts, 
 ;nt of being 
 
 had been 
 te comers 
 long and 
 and drew 
 to Ken- 
 ned to his 
 irprise. 
 idea your 
 
 he face of 
 lid Harry, 
 enough to 
 rness and 
 he looked 
 or further 
 ,:iveyance 
 
 The Dawn of Love. 
 
 25 
 
 and up the steps to greet with boyish heartiness 
 the fine-looking old gentleman standing upon the 
 threshold of the wide doorway. Richard Blake fol- 
 lowed more leisurely, and Squire Kendal came down 
 the steps to meet him. There was no mistaking the 
 true and pleasant smile on his ruddy face, nor the 
 fervent grip of the hand. Richard felt himself 
 welcomed to Kendal Hall even before the Squire's 
 warm and courteous words fell on his ear. Harry 
 had disappeared to look for his mother, the Squire 
 said, and assured Richard that llarry had always 
 been his mother's son. 
 
 '• I like to see it, Mr. Blake ; it is the fashion 
 among young men now-a-days to despise the old 
 folks ; but my lad, I 'm glad to say, is old-fashioned 
 in that respect yet. Well, I am sure you are 
 fatigued and hungry ; you have just time to dress. 
 Dulton, show Mr. Blake to his room." 
 
 A pompous-looking individual in chocolate livery 
 came forward, and, taking Richard's portmanteau, 
 ushered him upstairs. The room set apart for 
 Mr. Blake's use during his visit was a spacious and 
 luxurious apartment provided with every comfort 
 and convenience for the guest. Nevertheless shy 
 reserved Richard Blake did not feel at home, but 
 wished himself back in London, and inwardly 
 [blamed Harry for playing him such a trick. Poor 
 Harry had not been at fault. He had spoken 
 [often and enthusiastically about his home and 
 kindred, but never in a vain or boasting style. 
 Richard could not but wonder now what attraction 
 his plain abode could have for his friend, not dream- 
 ing, O blind Richard ! that the sweet face of his 
 
 I' 
 
 I 
 
 
.T"''*r»W^ir^WW»>TSW 
 
 I < 
 
 In 
 
 i ll 
 
 M 
 
 !: 'il 
 
 '11 
 
 26 
 
 ^ Divided House. 
 
 cousin Mary had anything to do with it. He was in 
 the middle of his toilet when Harry joined him. 
 
 " Getting into war paint, eh ? Well, 'i 've seen 
 them all. Fan looks prettier than ever, and there 
 are such jolly girls here this time. We *11 have a 
 rare time of it, Dick. Well, I must go and dress, 
 I suppose. Heigh ho ! it is jolly to be at home ! " 
 
 Richard smiled. 
 
 " What a boy you are, Harry, in spite of your 
 five-and-twenty years ! " he said ; " I wish I felt so 
 uplifted at the thought of the jolly girls as you." 
 
 Harry laughed, and retired whistling to his 
 dressing-room. In fifteen minutes he was back 
 ready to go to the drawing-room. So together they 
 went downstairs. To Richard Blake Mrs. Kendal's 
 drawing-room seemed a blaze of light and biilliance 
 and beauty, and he felt rather embarrassed at sight 
 of so many strange faces. But that passed in a 
 moment, and he was enabled to return the kind 
 but somewhat stately greeting of Harry's aristo- 
 cratic-looking mother with manly grace and 
 dignity. Mrs. Kendal was somewhat surprised to 
 see such a handsome, distinguished-looking man. 
 She had fancied her son's friend a youth like 
 himself, and was prepared to be very motherly and 
 patronising to him. But it was utterly impossible 
 to patronise Richard Blake. He stood a few 
 minutes by his hostess's chair chatting easily, but 
 all the while his eyes were roaming round the 
 room in search of Harry's sister. There were 
 many fair attractive maidens in the room, but none 
 who came up to his idea of Frances Kendal. Will 
 it surprise you that that young lady had been 
 
 much i 
 Was it 
 I what 
 glimpse 
 tions fc 
 I prove 
 
 Pres( 
 5 and the 
 '■ attentic 
 i was H 
 \ unli-^e 
 ; dressed 
 her ex 
 I creamy 
 \ her ne< 
 \ same fi 
 I of her 
 \ had see 
 f moved 
 ^ room t( 
 I " Ha 
 i whom 
 i dinner,' 
 f Blake 1 
 I shy up 
 j Kendal 
 % turned 
 Uhat fir 
 meeting 
 them, 1 
 future \ 
 crownir 
 ^ they w( 
 
 :l! 
 

 l:'i!» 
 
 The Dawn of Love, 
 
 2? 
 
 He was in 
 ;d him. 
 l 've seen 
 and there 
 '11 have a 
 and dress, 
 t home ! " 
 
 te of your 
 h I felt so 
 IS you." 
 ig to his 
 was back 
 ^ether they 
 >. Kendal's 
 I billliance 
 2d at sight 
 issed in a 
 the kind 
 y's aristo- 
 race and 
 rprised to 
 <ing man. 
 '^outh like 
 therly and 
 Impossible 
 Dd a few 
 easily, but 
 round the 
 here were 
 , but none 
 dal. Will 
 had been 
 
 much in the mind of Richard Biake all that day ? 
 Was it a prevision, a strange instinct forewarning 
 what was to come? I think at times strange 
 glimpses of our destiny sweep across us in inspira- 
 tions for which we cannot account, but which often 
 prove themselves correct. 
 
 Presently the opening of the drawing-room door 
 and the entrance of a lady riveted Richard Blake's 
 attention. He did not need to be told that she 
 was Harry's sister ; she was so like and yet so 
 unlive after all. She was quietly but most richly 
 dressed in a robe of crimson velvet, which set off 
 her exquisite complexion to perfection. Rich 
 creamy folds of delicate lace were gathered low at 
 her neck by a bunch of Christmas roses, and the 
 same filmy n aterial hid, yet revealed the contour 
 of her white arms. In all his life Richard Blake 
 had seen no lovelier picture than she made as she 
 moved with girlish yet queenly grace up the long 
 room to her mother's side. 
 
 " Harry's friend, dear ! My daughter, Mr. Blake, 
 whom you will be so good as to take down to 
 dinner," said Mrs. Kendal, and rose. Richard 
 Blake bowed low, offered his arm, then with one 
 shy upward glance from her fine eyes, Frances 
 Kendal laid her finger tips upon it, and they 
 turned to follow the others from the room. In 
 that first brief, but to Richard Blake momentous, 
 meeting of the eyes, did there come to either of 
 them, I wonder, any foreshadowing of the strange 
 future with its deep tragedy, its passion of pain, its 
 crowning bliss ? Not to Frances surely, for before 
 they were half way down the broad staircase her 
 
 !' 
 
 i . 1 '1 
 
 ; I 
 
 : 1 
 
 i i 
 
""^^i^rn^KBKW^^ 
 
 ' 1 
 
 I ■ i 
 
 f , 
 
 i:|ii 
 
 28 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 tongue was loosened, and the staid sober man by 
 her side thou«Tjht her voice the sweetest music he 
 had ever heard. 
 
 " We are so pleased to have you at Kendal Hall 
 at last, Mr. Blake," said the sweet caressing voice 
 when they were seated at the table. " We really 
 began tci think you quite a myth. May I tell 
 you, just in confidence, you know," she added, with 
 a bewitching side glance, " that you are not at all 
 like what I fancied ! Harry is so full of nonsense, 
 so boyish, how can you be bothered with him ? " 
 
 The emphasis on the pronoun was intended to con- 
 vey a compliment, but poor Richard did not see it. 
 
 " I am a plain, blunt man. Miss Kendal, to whom 
 your brother's friendship has been something like 
 sunshine," said Richard gravely. " The question 
 I often ask myself is, how Harry can be troubled 
 with my old-fashioned ways ? " 
 
 "You are pleased to underrate yourself, Mr. 
 Blake, as all really-worthy people do," said Frances 
 smiling. " It is only the moths of society who are 
 vain of their little selves. Of course you meet 
 many famous and interesting people in your city 
 circles. We country folks hav;: just to content 
 ourselves with the same monotonous round, and so, 
 as a natural result,, our interests are narrow and our 
 prejudices strong." 
 
 " Indeed 1 The same may be said of people in 
 cities also. Miss Kendal. I do not see anything of 
 London society. We live very quietly ; business 
 men cannot afford much recreation." 
 
 " I suppose not. Harry tells us you work very 
 hard. You have no sisters, Mr. Blake ? " 
 
 1% 
 
 'MA 
 
 i 
 
if?*'WWvWW^ 
 
 The Daivn of Love. 
 
 29 
 
 5ber man by 
 3st music he 
 
 Kendal Hall 
 rcssing voice 
 "We really 
 May I tell 
 ! added, with 
 re not at all 
 of nonsense, 
 th him ? " 
 ^nded to con- 
 id not see it. 
 dal, to whom 
 imethincc like 
 rhe question 
 be troubled 
 
 yourself, Mr. 
 said Frances 
 ;iety who are 
 5e you meet 
 in your city 
 to content 
 )und, and so, 
 rrow and our 
 
 of people in 
 ; anything of 
 ly ; business 
 
 )u work very 
 ?" 
 
 " No, but a cousin who has been a sister to me 
 
 iiince we played together," replied Richard Blake ; 
 ind the woman by his side felt impatient of the 
 Dok which accompanied the words, a look which 
 old that for the moment he had forgotten her, and 
 hat the face and memory of his cousin were upper- 
 ftiost in his mind. So even before they met 
 l^'rances Kendal was jealous of Mary Osborne. 
 
 "Mr. Blake, you are a most ungallant cavalier; 
 don't you see my plate is empty ? " she said petu- 
 lantly, and in a moment Richard was himself again, 
 quietly attentive and polite ; nor did his thoughts 
 Ji'ander again during dinner. In the drawing-room 
 |ater in the evening Miss Kendal sang for the 
 Iruests ; and Richard, whose musical sensibilities 
 Is well as artistic tendencies were very strong, was 
 Entranced. He had many opportunities of hearing 
 iicfh-class music, but it seemed to him that all the 
 glory of the finest professional singers of the day 
 
 !aled before Frances Kendal's rendering of a quaint 
 nd simple old English ballad, with which he had 
 een familiar since his boyhood. He would have 
 [one to her side to thank her, but in a moment 
 pie was surrounded by others eager to praise, so 
 Lichard held aloof and watched from a quiet 
 )rner her gay coquetting with her admirers, 
 ("hough to all appearance deeply engrossed, Miss 
 tendal was not unobservant of her brother's friend, 
 id when she saw him deep in conversation with 
 Gertrude Annesley a curious frown gathered on 
 Her fair brow. Very different in every respect 
 ffom the gilded youths to whom she was accus- 
 tomed was this pla'n, sensible matter-of-fact man, 
 
 'li 
 li 
 
-r'SJMK"'W*»,uil 
 
 •M! 
 
 30 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 and it piqued Frances Kendal to see him appar- 
 ently so indifferent to her charms. Only once 
 when the ladies were retiring did Richard secure 
 another word with her. As she passed him on her 
 way to the door she inclined her head somewhat 
 distantly, and bade a stiflf good-night. But he 
 took a step towards hei and offered his hand, and 
 she did not refuse to touch it with her own. 
 
 " May I thank you for your beautiful singing ? " 
 I have heard nothing like it for very long," he said 
 quietly, but very earnestly. An unwonted blush 
 rose to Miss Kendal's fair face, and through it a 
 smile broke like the dawn of a summer morn. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, very gently. "You 
 speak sincerely ; I am glad if you were pleased." 
 Then she passed on, but that smile changed for 
 ever the tenor of Richard Blake's life. It is a 
 strange freak of nature that to still reserved natures 
 love comes so often like an inspiration, a flash from 
 another world. It is not always with them the 
 slow growth of years. 
 
 As was their wont, the favoured trio came flock- 
 ing to Frances's dressing-room for their nightly 
 chat over the incidents of the day. They were 
 specially eager to hear her verdict on Harry's 
 parvenu. But to their amazement she would not 
 speak of him, and begged them to go off to bed as 
 she was very weary. She dismissed her maid also, 
 and sat down by the fire with her fair arms folded 
 meditatingly above her head. 
 
 And for the first time in her life Frances Kendal 
 fell asleep thoroughly dissatisfied with herself. 
 
%i'WPCWW 
 
 ! him appar- 
 Only once 
 :hard secure 
 i him on her 
 ,d somewhat 
 ht. But he 
 is hand, and 
 own. 
 
 ul singing?" 
 ong," he said 
 i^onted blush 
 through it a 
 r morn, 
 ntly. " You 
 ere pleased." 
 changed for 
 life. It is a 
 erved natures 
 , a flash from 
 th them the 
 
 D came flock- 
 their nightly 
 They were 
 on Harry's 
 le would not 
 ofif to bed as 
 ler maid also, 
 r arms folded 
 
 mces Kendal 
 herself. 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 " Love with knit brows went by, 
 And with a flying flnger swept his lips 
 And spake, * Be wise.* " — Tennyson, 
 
 Richard BLAKE was enjoying a 
 morning stroll in the policies of 
 Kendal Hall. The air was clear and 
 sharp and bracing, but chilly yet ; for 
 it was not very long since the winter 
 dawn had crept redly up the eastern 
 horizon. He had walked briskly to 
 the end of the long avenue, and now 
 :ut through the trees by a little pathway which led 
 ^n a circuitous route back to the house. It was 
 pleasant in the woods in the early morning. 
 ;*he ground was crisp and delightful to the tread, 
 ind the out-door world was beautiful to see ; for 
 the hoar-frost glittered in the red beams of the 
 yiorning sun like diamonds of the purest lustre. 
 |t was very still. The only sign of life was the 
 kreaths of blue smoke curling upward from the 
 
^' 
 
 ^.rHJK: 
 
 , 
 
 i 
 
 32 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 great house to the clear sky. Now and then a 
 grey rabbit would scuttle hurriedly acoss Richard 
 Blake's path, or a tiny bright-eyed robin chirp 
 pertly to him from a bare bough or glossy holly 
 tree ; yet Richard Blake was unobservant of these. 
 His own thoughts were absorbingly interesting to 
 him, for without a doubt this Christmas visit to 
 sunny Kent was likely to prove a crisis in his life. 
 He slackened his pace presently ; and with his 
 hands in his pockets, and his eyes bent on the 
 ground, he pursued his way until he came to an 
 abrupt pause in front of a close-trimmed privet- 
 hedge. Then he saw he had gone out of the way 
 and strolled nearly half-a-mile westward from the 
 house. Through the thickly-wooded space he 
 caught the gleam of water, which told him he was 
 near the river Ken, which ran its winding course 
 through Squire Kendal's lands. Just as he was 
 about to retrace his steps, he caught sight of some- 
 thing else — a gleam of golden hair, the flutter o^ a 
 bright crimson dress, and a glimpse of a face which 
 had been very vividly before him during the last 
 hour. His heart leaped within him, and a i'cw 
 strides took him through the trees to the water's 
 edge. The crackling of the brushwood under his 
 heavy tread caused the solitary stroller by the 
 river's brink to turn her head hastily. Was it a 
 mistake, or did the sight of Richard Blake bring 
 that warm rich hue to the fair cheek of Frances 
 Kendal ? She was confused for a moment, but 
 before he was close to her she had recovered her 
 self-possession, and greeted him with a bewitching 
 smile. 
 
On the Threshold. 
 
 33 
 
 and then a 
 •OSS Richard 
 robin chirp 
 glossy holly 
 ant of these, 
 iteresting to 
 mas visit to 
 ;is in his life, 
 nd with his 
 bent on the 
 
 came to an 
 nmed privet- 
 xt of the way 
 ird from the 
 d space he 
 1 him he was 
 nding course 
 3t as he was 
 ight of some- 
 "le flutter of a 
 
 a face which 
 jring the last 
 1, and a lew 
 to the water's 
 Dod under his 
 roller by the 
 ily. Was it a 
 . Blake bring 
 ;k of Frances 
 
 moment, but 
 recovered her 
 
 a bewitching 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Blake," she said, gaily. 
 " I thought I was the only eccentric person in the 
 house. The girls laugh at me most unmercifully ; 
 but I would not give my morning walk by the river 
 for all the world. I have come here every morning, 
 unless when it was very stormy, for many years." 
 
 " Were you here yesterday ? " asked Richard, in 
 his quiet way. 
 
 " Yes ; of course. It was beautiful yesterday. 
 I never feel the cold. The morning air is so 
 delicious. Later all the freshness seems gone." 
 
 •' It is true," said Richa.d Blake, and stood look- 
 ing on the upturned face, which glowed with health 
 and beauty. " It is a pity your friends do not 
 profit by your example." 
 
 " Miss Annesley comes sometimes ; but she h 
 not so strong as I, and cannot so well stand the 
 bitter morning air. Isn't it lovely here ? " 
 
 " Very," answered Richard Blake ; and together 
 they stood by the side of the river, watching its 
 restless, fitful flow, its tiny ripples dancing in the 
 sun. 
 
 " It makes me thoughtful to come here," said 
 Frances Kendal at length, shading her eyes with 
 one bare dimpled hand. " I am not at all a senti- 
 mental or poetical kind of person, but I always feel 
 how like our life is to a river. It flows on and on 
 every day, and we do not know how or where it is. 
 to end." 
 
 " It has its source in the Infinite, and will find 
 its ending there, or its beginning, I should say ; for 
 this hfe is but a preparing for that which is to 
 come," said Richard Blake, finding words at last, 
 
 c 
 
r 
 
 ! i 
 
 I 1 ! 
 
 
 34 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 and speaking with a quiet eloquence which sur- 
 prised his listener. 
 
 "That is well put, but it is very solemn," she 
 said, with a slight shiver. " Do you really believe 
 that our life is only given to us to make prepara- 
 tion for what comes after death ? " 
 
 " There can be no doubt '^f it Do you not 
 think so ? " asked Richard Blake. 
 
 " I have not thought much about it. But if it be 
 so, well — all the pleasures and enjoyments of life 
 must be waste of time ; they are not preparation, 
 are they ? " 
 
 "Well, scarcely. But though I said that this 
 life was only the beginning of the other, I did not 
 imply that because it is so it must be void of any 
 sweetness or beauty. God has given us faculties 
 for enjoyment, and He intends us to gratify them." 
 
 "That is better," said Frances Kendal. "Do 
 you know, Mr. Blake, I fancied you too staid and 
 serious to care for anything except religion ? I was 
 not quite sure, even, whether you approved of my 
 party the other evening, and that made me cross 
 with you." 
 
 A curious smile touched for a moment the lips 
 of Richard Blake, but he did not meet the upward 
 glance of his companion's eyes. Perhaps he pre- 
 ferred that she should not see the expression in his 
 own. " I am glad you have so explained your 
 distant manner," he said ; and Miss Kendal bit her 
 lip. Had ever man a better opportunity for saying 
 a pretty thing, and had ever man so wilfully passed 
 it by? 
 
 " It is nearly nine o'clock," she said, petulantly 
 
 ■'m 
 
On the Threshold. 
 
 %l 
 
 " If you have done moralising on the river of life, 
 will you take me home ? I am prosaic enough to 
 be ravenously hungry." 
 
 •' I beg your pardon," said Richard Blake, humbly, 
 and turned to go at once. 
 
 •' I always return the opposite way, over the stile 
 and through the shrubbery, but if you are tired of 
 my company you can go the direct way," she said, 
 wilfully. 
 
 " Perhaps you would prefer your walk alone. 
 I fear I intruded upon you," he said, quietly, and 
 again Frances Kendal bit her lip. She could not 
 in the least understand this man ; he was almost 
 rude, and yet she could not dislike him ; nay, more, 
 she was craving for one word of approval from his 
 lips. 
 
 Richard Blake looked at her inquiringly, but she 
 made no reply ; therefore he turned with her and 
 walked in silence by her side. 
 
 " I fear I have unwittingly offended you. Miss 
 Kendal," he said at length. " If so, may I ask 
 your forgiveness ? I am not much accustomed to 
 the society of ladies." 
 
 To his astonishment a clear, ringing laugh broke 
 from his companion's lips. 
 
 " In your anxiety to free yourself from a small 
 dilemma, you pay a doubtful compliment to your 
 mother and your cousin, of whom you speak so 
 highly," she said banteringly. "Are they not 
 ladies?" 
 
 Richard Blake joined in the laugh against him- 
 self. 
 
 " Most assuredly they are," he replied. " What 
 
 
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 11; i 
 
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 A Divided House. 
 
 I meant to 
 
 that I 
 
 )t 
 
 iiig 
 
 mucli arm 
 tomcd to stranc;crs. l\Ty motlicr and Mary, b( 
 used to my eccentric ways, do not mind them." 
 
 " Is your cousin's name Mary ? " asked Miss Ken- 
 dal, with quick interest. 
 
 " Yes ; Mary Osborne. Has Marry never spoken 
 to you of her, Miss Kendal ? " 
 
 " Never ; I did not know of her existence until 
 you spoke of her," she answered ; and a little 
 silence ensued. 
 
 " Tell me what like she is," pursued Miss Kendal. 
 " Is she very beautiful, and good as she is beauti- 
 ful ? " 
 
 " I do not know that I have ever thought her 
 beautiful. In the strict sense of the word, I believe 
 she is not so," answered Richard. " But I do think 
 her the ideal of perfect womanhood. Her character 
 is without a flaw." 
 
 " Indeed ! she must be a very uncomfortable 
 kind of person to live with," said Miss Kendal, 
 decidedly. 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Because, if she is so perfect, she must make one 
 feel so very conscious of one'; Hefects. I prefer the 
 company of ordinary people to that of saints and 
 angels. We of common clay cannot appreciate 
 them here below." 
 
 Richard Blake looked perplexed. He could not 
 understand this way of talking ; it was a new and 
 rather bewildering revelation to him. 
 
 " You are mistaken in thinking my cousin prides 
 herself upon her goodness. It is her utter uncon- 
 sciousness of it, her humility, which makes it so 
 
 ^ 
 
Cn the T/ireshohf. 
 
 37 
 
 beautiful," he said, warmly, not sccincj, foolish 
 Richard ! that he was only aggravatinjj his fair 
 companion more deeply still. 
 
 " Mow pleasant it must be to be thought so well 
 of! Of course such sentiments can have but one 
 termination — or rather consummation," she said, 
 daringly. 
 
 " I do not understand you, Miss Kendal." 
 
 "When a man singles out from the world a 
 woman for such unbounded admiration, what does 
 it usually tend to ? " she asked, saucily. 
 
 Richard Blake turned his head away and bit his 
 hi). 
 
 " You are mistaken," he said, very coldly. " We 
 will chani^e the subject, if you please ; allow me to 
 help you." 
 
 Frances Kendal placed one dainty foot on the 
 bar of the stile, laid her hand in Richard Blake's 
 profrercd palm, and, ere she vaulted over, lifted her 
 eyes to his lace. All the laughter and banter and 
 haif-veilcd bitterness was gone from them, and 
 they were dangerously eloquent and tender. 
 
 " I was very rude. Will you forgive me ? " she 
 said, tremulously. "It was a miserable conscious- 
 ness of my own shortcomings which made me speak 
 as I did of your cousin." 
 
 Not many men could have resisted that exquisite 
 appeal. Did it come from the heart, K ichard Blake 
 wondered, or was it only a part of the coquette's 
 policy, one of her most dangerous weapons of war- 
 iaie? His hand trembled under her touch, and 
 bending his head from its stately height, his eyes 
 looked into hers. 
 
 
II 'I 
 
 F' i 
 
 ■i h 
 
 'I i 
 
 '! 
 
 !"''! 
 
 
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 T'^'ttlC^lttttCtift 
 
 $9 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 "You made a mistake, and you know it," he 
 repeated, but his tone was not hard and cold now. 
 " I have seen but one woman in the world who ever 
 made me think of love, and she is here." The 
 colour rose in his cheek as he spoke. Frances 
 Kendal quickly withdrew her hand, and sprang 
 over the stile, but not until he had seen the 
 answering flush which rose to her face and dyed 
 it red. 
 
CHAPTER V, 
 
 ACROSS THE RUBICON. 
 
 "What is all the world to me? 
 Is it not enough for me 
 That thy heart responds to mine?" 
 
 N the dining-room at lo Bingham Street 
 sat the women of Richard Blake's 
 household on the evening of New 
 Year's Day. In Mary Osborne's hand 
 was a dainty piece of wool work, to 
 which she was putting the finishing 
 touches. It was her New Year's gift 
 for her cousin, but she had not needed 
 to make haste with it, for Richard Blake had failed 
 to keep his promise for once, and was still at Ken- 
 dal Hall. They had looked for him on the pre- 
 vious evening, but instead of his living presence 
 came a post card with the words hastily scrawled 
 upon it that he would not be home, but would 
 write a long letter that night. Need I say how 
 great a disappointment it was to these two ; or 
 how empty and desolate the home was without the 
 
 ifi 
 
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 i'M 
 
 1 
 
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 flii 
 
 i ,.: 
 
 11] 
 
 I : 
 
 
 11 
 
 ill: 
 
 40 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 absentee ! Ah, me ! how wc women folks bind 
 ourselves up in sons and brothers and husbands, 
 and how we allow our hearts to be uplifted or cast 
 down by them. They had need, I think, to be true 
 and steadfast, and worthy the dependence placed 
 upon them ; yet how many are unworthy after all. 
 
 " Mary, I think it a real misfortune to have but 
 one child," said Mrs. Blake presently, and the 
 words told something of her heartache. 
 
 "Why, Aunt Sara, that is a very treasonable 
 thing to say, in Richard's absence too ! " said Mary, 
 with a little smile. 
 
 "May be, but it is true. The heart clings too 
 tenaciously to one, and is too dependent upon one 
 being for happiness. It seem a very trifling and 
 rather foolish thing to say, but it is a real pain to 
 me that my son has not fulfilled his promise to 
 me." 
 
 " Pon't be so hard on poor Richard, dear auntie ; 
 we do not know what may be keeping him/* 
 said Mary gently. " Who knows, perhaps he may 
 come to-night ? " 
 
 Mrs. Blake shook her head. 
 
 " He will not. I do not think Richard has done 
 his duty to us, Mary. I don't want to grudge him 
 his hard-earned enjoyment, but he knows how 
 lonely we are. I am surprised at him." 
 
 Perhaps it may seem to you that Mrs. Blake was 
 hard and exacting, but remember he was her one 
 son, and she was a widow, and had toiled and 
 struggled for him, denying herself the necessaries 
 of life in his early days that he might have enough 
 and to spare. Mothers are unselfish truly, yet 
 
 •IS' 
 

 )lks bind 
 lusbands, 
 d or cast 
 o be true 
 ;e placed 
 ifter all. 
 iiave but 
 and the 
 
 asonable 
 id Mary, 
 
 ings too 
 ipon one 
 ling and 
 pain to 
 Dmise to 
 
 auntie ; 
 
 y him," 
 
 he may 
 
 las done 
 dge him 
 ws how 
 
 ake was 
 her one 
 ed and 
 essaries 
 enough 
 ily, >et 
 

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Across tJie Rubicon. 
 
 41 
 
 their very unselfishness has in it an alloy of self ; 
 their love is a jealous love, which would fain have 
 measure for measure, pressed down and running 
 over ; you see it around you every day. 
 
 Just then they heard the shrill whistle and sharp 
 tread of the postman outside, and presently the 
 bell rang. The servant brought the letters — two 
 for the master, and one for Mrs. Blake from him. 
 
 It was brief enough, ''"hus it ran : — 
 
 "Kendal Hall, 
 " SUTTON-THE-WiLLOWS, \st January. 
 
 "My Dear Mother, — I am exceedingly sorry that 
 I was unable to fulfil my promise to come home yester- 
 day; but Mrs. Kendal had a dinner party and would 
 not let me off. I expected to leave to-morrow ; but they 
 ire urgent that I should remain till the end of the week. 
 I have reluctantly consented ; but I am enjoying myself 
 very well. I had no idea country life at Christmas time 
 was so pleasant as this. You may expect me, without 
 fail, on Saturday evening in time for tea. I hope Mary 
 and you are quite well, and that you have had a happy 
 Christmas. With love to you both, and wishing you the 
 happiest of New Years, a greeting in which Harry heartily 
 joinS; — I am, your affectionate son, 
 
 Richard Blake." 
 
 Mrs. Blake's lips quivered, and she tossed the 
 letter into Mary's lap. Mary read it, folded it up, 
 laid it on the mantel, and resumed her work. For 
 a time neither spoke. 
 
 " I can come to but one conclusion now, Mary," 
 said Mrs. Blake at length. 
 
Ill 
 
 iii 
 
 iM 
 
 i: 
 
 42 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 " What is that Aunt Sara ? " 
 
 "That Harry's flirting sister h?.s captivated 
 Richard, and is keeping him at her side ; not rv very 
 pleasant thought for a mother." 
 
 Mary smiled slightly, but her eyes were troubled. 
 
 " You take little things too much to heart. Aunt 
 Sara. Richard will marry some day," she said, 
 quietly. 
 
 " I suppose so. A woman's life is made up of 
 little things, Mary, with a big sorrow now and 
 again to test her powers of endurance. Hitherto 
 I have had no sorrow with my son. Perhaps it 
 was too much to expect that I should never be so 
 tried. My heart is very heavy to-night." 
 
 Mary Osborne looked at her aunt in surprise. 
 She appeared deeply moved, and the lines on her 
 brow seemed more distinctly marked. There was 
 no tangible reason why she should be distressed. 
 Yet how often are we borne down by indefinable 
 fears, imaginings of trouble which may never come. 
 Face to face with trial, moat of us can bear with at 
 least a semblance of dignity and patience ; but how 
 few can bravely overcome vague uncertainty, uneasy 
 previsions for which we can hnd no explanation or 
 excuse ! 
 
 " There is one thing I have observed during my 
 life, Mary," said Mrs. Blake, rising and walking 
 nervously up and down the floor. " It is that it is 
 the undeserving who are called upon to bear the 
 most in this life. The drones of existence sip the 
 honey provided for them by the toiling, self- 
 denying bees. It is a great mystery." 
 
 " Yes ; but the active bee has the completed, 
 
 I ■■•M 
 

 captivated 
 not a very 
 
 e troubled, 
 leart, Aunt 
 ' she said, 
 
 lade up of 
 
 now and 
 
 Hitherto 
 
 Perhaps it 
 
 sver be so 
 
 n surprise, 
 les on her 
 rhere was 
 distressed, 
 ndefinable 
 ever come, 
 ar with at 
 ! ; but how 
 ty, uneasy 
 mation or 
 
 luring my 
 d walking 
 that it is 
 > bear the 
 ce sip the 
 ling, self- 
 
 :ompleted, 
 
 Across the Rubicon. 
 
 43 
 
 more satisfying life, auntie, if I may continue your 
 form of spjech," said Mary. "A fully-occupied life 
 is the happiest, I am sure." 
 
 " It may be so. I am not in a good mood to-night, 
 Mary. It is well Richard is not here. I should 
 say very bitter things to him. The remnants of 
 the old passionate nature are in me still. It is easy 
 to be good and amiable when one is not tried." 
 
 It was well, perhaps, that Richard Blake's 
 mother could not see him at that very moment, 
 else her heart had been sorer still. 
 
 There was a skating party from Kendal Hall upon 
 the lake on Sutton Common. It was a lovely nic;ht; 
 tiie frost was hard and keen, the sky clear as 
 crystal, the moonlight marvellous to see. 
 
 It was a gay inspiriting scene. The ice was in 
 splendid condition ; and there was plenty of 
 l;iUL;hing and talking and coquetting among the 
 skaters. But some were too intent upon their 
 recreation to take part in anything else, while 
 others were like to find more serious pastime than 
 skating on Sutton lake. 
 
 The beautiful sheet of water was fully a mile in 
 length and took manv a winding curve among tall 
 chestnuts and gloomy pines, through which the 
 moonbeams played weirdly and uncertainly, mak- 
 ing strange fantastic shadows on the ice. 
 
 There was one pair who had reached the farthest 
 limit of the lake, and who were standing there in 
 the bright weird light, apparently oblivious of 
 everything but each v.ther. They were Richard 
 Blake and Frances Kendal. He was standing 
 looking down upon the slight graceful figure in its 
 
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 ■Ml" 
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 44 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 costly sealskin wraps, watching with passionate 
 eyes every play of the lovely downcast face. 
 
 " Why do we stand here ? it is idiotic ! " 
 exclaimed Frances petulantly at last. " Let us go 
 back ; you have no right to keep me here, 
 Mr. Blake." 
 
 "You are right,*'* he said quietly, unable to 
 understand the wilful nature of this woman who, 
 not two minutes ago, had been gentle, tender, 
 conscious, as if but waiting to hear him tell his 
 love. 
 
 " Well, shall we turn ? " 
 
 Miss Kendal tossed the end of her bright silken 
 scarf across her shoulders, stopped for a moment to 
 examine the fastening of her skates, and then 
 darted off, leaving her companion to follow. He 
 did so leisurely, biting his lip in chagrin. He 
 despised himself for having succumbed to the 
 coquette's power ; and yet one glance from her eye 
 was sufficient to make him forget everything but 
 her beauty and his love for her. Before turning 
 the final curve which would reveal them to the 
 others, Frances Kendal turned suddenly and glided 
 back to Richard Blake's side. Involuntarily he 
 stood still waiting for what she had to say. 
 
 " I — I hate myself ; won't you forgive me ? I am 
 so rude to you," she said, ai.d the uplifted eyes 
 were suspiciously dim. " I cannot help it I want 
 to be better, but it is very hard." 
 
 A scrange light sprang into Richard Blake's 
 eyes, and he took one of the slender hands in a 
 grip which hurt, but she stood it bravely. " If you 
 are playing with me, tell me so and let me go," 
 
Across the Rubicon. 
 
 45 
 
 em to the 
 
 he said hoarsely. '* You know I love you ; I am 
 a plain man, not wor^h the winning for the win- 
 ning's sake. Tell me what you mean before I let 
 you go." 
 
 She stood absolutely still, not resisting nor 
 responding to his passionate words. Her head was 
 bent so low that he could not see her face. Yet 
 her whole attitude whispered of hope to him, and 
 his heart beat almost to suffocation. There was a 
 brief interval of intense silence. 
 
 " May I go now ? " she said at length almost in 
 a whisper. " Our long absence will be commented 
 upon." 
 
 "What do I care?" he said quietly but resolutely. 
 " You may not go till you answer me truly. Have 
 you been playing with me, only doing your best to 
 bring me to your feet, as I have heard it is the 
 way of some women to do ? " 
 
 Again there was a brief silence, and slowly the 
 dawn of a lovely smile broke over Frances Kendal's 
 face. " I was ; but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "Jest has turned to earnejt. Trying to win, 
 I — I — O Richard, cannot you guess?" 
 
 Wliy should I linger here ? Love scenes are not 
 of absorbing interest to outsiders ; nay, in their 
 very depicting they become only amusing. Richard 
 Blake could not, dared not try to realise what had 
 come to him. Yet there he stood that winter night 
 beside the first and only woman he had ever loved, 
 and whom he had wooed and won in the space of 
 a few days — a strange position, surely, for sober, 
 staid, reserved, matter-of-fact Richard Blake i But 
 
 M 
 
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 A Diviflcd Ilou^e. 
 
 Love, the mighty conqueror and leveller, had him 
 fast, and the whole current of his life would hence- 
 forth be wonderfully changed. 
 
 To him, in his new manliness and deep devotion, 
 and to Frances Kendal in her womanly tenderness 
 and shy exquisite yieldings to the first love which 
 had ever touched her selfish heart, the chain which 
 bound them seemed to be of purest gold. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BREAKING IT. 
 
 ^ Ah ! well for us all some sweet hope lies 
 Deeply buried from human eyes ; 
 And in the hereafter angels may 
 Roll the stone from its grave away." — Whittier. 
 
 GAIN Richard Blake failed to keep 
 his promise to his mother. Instead 
 of being home in time for tea on the 
 Saturday evening, as he had said, he 
 travelled from Sutton - the - Willows 
 by the late express, which arrived 
 in London at eleven o'clock. He 
 thought that they would have retired 
 to rest at 10 Bingham Street, but there was a light 
 in the dining-room window which told that he was 
 expected within. His knock was answered by his 
 ccusin, for the servants had gone to bed. 
 
 "Well, Mary, how are you? Am I to be for- 
 given — eh ? " he said lightly ; and stooping, as was 
 his wont, touched the fair cheek with his lips. For 
 the first time in his life he fancied she shrank from 
 
 47 D 
 
 It 
 
in i\. 
 
 m 
 
 111: 
 
 ,;! 
 
 i| 
 
 4» 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 his caress, but then he was just in the mood to 
 magnify trifles, and imagine things which had no 
 existence. 
 
 "I am well, thank you, Richard," she reph'ed 
 quietly, and he did not know how sore a heart 
 underlay the gentle words. "You are very late; 
 Aunt Sara is very anxious." 
 
 " I am very sorry, but I could not get away. 
 Country hospitality is very pressing. Well, mother, 
 how are you ? " 
 
 They had now entered the dining-room, and 
 Richard Blake took his mother in his arms and 
 kissed her affectionately. Somehow at sight of 
 him Mrs. Blake felt all her resentment ebbing 
 away ; for love is ever the strongest attribute of a 
 mother's heart. 
 
 " I am glad you have come home, my son, at 
 last," she said. Surely there was some great 
 attraction at Kendal Hall, or were they kinder to 
 you than Mary and I have ever been ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," said Richard, and there ensued an 
 awkward silence. It was broken speedily by Mary 
 making some inquiries about his journey, and then 
 the talk flowed on till presently Mary with her 
 usual thoughtfulness went away to prepare a cup 
 of coffee for the traveller. Mrs. Blake's sharp eyes 
 noted that her son seemed nervous and ill at ease ; 
 therefore she was not quite unprepared for what 
 followed. 
 
 After he had partaken of his refreshment, she 
 rose, saying it was almost midnight, and they must 
 all retire to rest. 
 
 " Wait one moment, mother ; I have something 
 
Breaking it 
 
 49 
 
 particular to tell you," he said rather hurriedly. 
 " No, don't go, Mary ; I have no secrets from you." 
 As he spoke he rose and, leaning against the 
 mantel, looked down for a moment into the clear 
 embers of the dying fire. For the moment he had 
 forgotten those beside him, and they knew it. 
 
 •• I could not in a letter explain to you the cause 
 of my protracted stay, mother," he began at last. 
 "Being a woman, I thought perhaps you might 
 surmise it." 
 
 " I am not given to surmising, Richard ; I like 
 plain facts stated in plain language," was his 
 mother's reply given somewhat coldly. Mary 
 Osborne turned away a little and busied herself 
 about her ferns in one of the windows where they 
 could not see her face. And she waited there 
 almost, I fancy, as one wait for a sentence of death. 
 
 " I went to Kendal Hall simply to please Harry 
 and you, mother ; for, remember, you urged me to 
 go," said Richard Blake, and it seemed as if he 
 mentioned that to extenuate what followed. 
 
 "I went expecting very little enjoyment, and 
 I have found what I expected least of all, a — wife ! " 
 
 For a time there was nothing said, and no sound 
 broke the strange stillness but the tick of the clock 
 and the wailing of the wind outside. Mrs. Blake 
 covered her face with her hands ; Mary stood very 
 still by her ferns, and Richard kept his eyes on the 
 fire, seeing there the beautiful piquant face of his 
 betrothed. 
 
 "Is it Harry's sister?** Mrs. Blake asked at 
 length, and her voice was hard and cold, her whole 
 manner indicative of displeasure. 
 

 h 
 
 50 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 "Yes, it is Harry's sister, mother. I do not ask 
 you to congratulate me until you have seen her. 
 She is the most peerless women I have ever seen. 
 My wo^^der is that she should have stooped to a 
 plain unattractive being like mo." 
 
 Mrs. Blake shook her head impatiently and 
 looked curiously at her son. Strange words these 
 to fall from his reticent lips, especially on such a 
 subject. Surely this visit to Kendal Hall, with its 
 momentous issues, had changed the very current of 
 his being. 
 
 " I cannot say I am " she began, but was 
 
 interrupted by Mary's voice, which sounded clear 
 and sweet as a bell through the quiet room. 
 
 " If you will let me I shall go upstairs, Aunt 
 Sara," it said. " I am sure you and Richard would 
 talk better if I were gone ; good-night ! " She 
 glided from the room as she spoke, and neither of 
 them had seen her face. Just then it was better so. 
 
 " What were you about to say, mother ? " asked 
 Richard when the door closed. 
 
 " I was only saying, Richard, that you can hardly 
 expect me to be rapturously pleased," she said, 
 slowly. " I suppose I am selfish ; all mothers are : 
 but it seems to me that you have been miserably 
 blind to your own best interests." 
 
 " My best interests, n.other !" repeated Richard, 
 " Have I not won one of the loveliest and best of 
 women ? What is that but one of my best, nay, 
 my chief interest in life ? " 
 
 Mrs. Blake held her peace. Her heart was very 
 sore. She was set aside, and henceforth must 
 occupy a second position in the heart and estimation 
 
 '■'l 
 
 |!il 
 
 I'll 
 
 ill 
 
Breaking it. 
 
 51 
 
 of her son. There was another thing which hurt. 
 She had built up many fair castles — had pictured 
 to herself Richard and Mary husband and wife, 
 with little ones growing up about them, who would 
 call her grandma, and be unspeakably dear to her 
 heart because of the love she bore to their father 
 and mother. But her sweet dream was dispelled, 
 and she saw herself and Mary supplanted by a 
 stranger. She was a proud woman, therefore she 
 hid her pain. 
 
 " You have not been a laggard in love, Richard," 
 she said, with a slight smile which had in it a touch 
 of scorn. " When I was a girl good wives were not 
 so easily won." 
 
 "You do not understand, mother," said Richard 
 impatiently. " To see my Frances was to love her; 
 therefore how could I, seeing her every day, living 
 under the same roof, fail to recognise her worth? 
 It is not love which can stand aside and wait, 
 calculating every turn of fortune's wheel, which 
 can think, and plan, and weigh, and measure before 
 it speaks. True love is a divine inspiration which 
 sweeps over the soul in a flow which there is no 
 resisting." 
 
 "O Richard, do not talk so foolishly!" cried 
 his mother. " It may seem true and beautiful to 
 you, but to me it is wholly absurd. I -would have 
 love make a man of you. My son, the truest and 
 most enduring love says least of all ; perhaps you 
 will live to prove it." 
 
 Richard Blake was effectually silenced, but of 
 
 course not convinced. 
 said. 
 
 For a time there was nothing 
 
 
52 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Blake rose, and involuntarily a 
 sigh escaped her lips. 
 
 " It is the Sabbath morning, Richard," she said, 
 and looking at her son she felt her heart soften. 
 After all he was not wholly to blame, and though 
 she had ridiculed his words they contained a 
 Tneasure of truth ; for love is not a thing which can 
 be taken up or cast aside at will. 
 
 "My boy, fc;_*ve me if I seem hard and 
 unsympathetic. This is naturally a shock to me, 
 but by-and-by when I get this rebellious heart 
 subdued I will be able to talk to yo\' as I should, 
 and as I wish to do," she said, and her eyes were 
 full of tears. " Only tell me one thing ; still one 
 misgiving in my heart. I do not doubt that Miss 
 Kendal is beautiful and fascinating and lovable; 
 but, Richard, is she a woman who will be to you 
 what a wife should, a helpmeet and companion in 
 the upward way ? Will she make for you a home 
 which will be an altar for the Lord ? " 
 
 Richard Blake winced and slightly turned away. 
 
 " I have no doubt that Frances will be all even 
 you could desire, mother. Well, I will not keep 
 you longer ; good-night ! " 
 
 " Good-night, my son I May God bless you and 
 her!'' said Mrs. Blake, with deep emotion, and 
 went away upstairs. Richard tried to rid himself 
 of these words, but they would not go ; and some- 
 how in the solemn stillness of that midnight hour 
 the first shadow fell upon his happiness. In his 
 innermost heart he knew that the wife he had 
 chosen would not be a help to him in the strait 
 and narrow way, but rather a hindrance ; for she 
 
 1 
 I 
 
 m 
 
Breaking it. 
 
 53 
 
 was of the world, worldly ; ay, to the very heart's 
 core. Biit she loved him ; that was his hope, the 
 beacon light which pointed to a perfect union. 
 Richard Blake was an earnest God-fearing Christian 
 man ; who did good . openly and by stealth ; who 
 was known in the abodes of sin and misery as one 
 of those who out of their own fulness yearn to fill 
 the empty chalices of other lives less blessed than 
 theirs. In his Christian work would Frances 
 Kendal aid him with all a woman's gentleness and 
 loving-kindness and infinite power? Ah no! it 
 was more likely that she would smile and shrug 
 her dainty shoulders, and say, " Dear me, how odd; 
 how can you be so interested in such things ? " 
 
 But he had hope, and it is hope, that blessed star 
 of heaven, which helps us over rough places, and 
 spurs us on to great efforts, and makes the agonies 
 of earth easier to bear. 
 
 Mrs. Blake, on her way to her own room paused 
 for a moment at Mary's door, but it was dark 
 within and all was still, so she did not seek to enter. 
 We may, and yet heart and pen fail me. 
 
 People are apt to smile at the mention of unre- 
 quited love ; it is not a subject which excites much 
 sympathy or compassion. Perhaps it was foolish 
 of Mary Osborne to give her heart without being 
 sought, to allow her life to be bound up in that of 
 another without first ascertaining what was to be 
 the result. But the thing was done ; it is done all 
 the world over every day. Often it is never known, 
 and then it is deepest and hurts most keenly. So 
 it would be henceforth with Mary Osborne. She 
 must turn that page which had been the sweetest 
 
 I r 
 
 i h 
 
 ■,|i!i 
 
 II 'i: 
 
54 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 ,\\i\ 
 
 in her life history and seal it down for ever. She 
 must take up the life she would most wi "igly lay 
 down, and so live it that the world mi'^ nt never 
 guess what lay beneath. No easy task. God help 
 her. Yet it is to such sorrows we owe many lives 
 of loveliest consecration to the service of God. 
 The ministry of pain is one of the most potent and 
 most blessed in its results. It can be borne nobly, 
 for it is, after all, but for a day, and the shadows 
 of earth's darkest night point toward the morning. 
 
 • I! 
 
 1 
 
 '■i 
 t 
 
 
 i! 
 
 ■ik 
 v4 
 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TAKING UP THE CROSS. 
 
 " Is it so, O Christ, in heaven that the hic^hest sufiTer most, 
 That the mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain ? " 
 
 Sadie. 
 
 HE Blakes attended the Presbyterian 
 Church. Mrs. Blaise had been reared 
 in the Church of England, but in her 
 later years had found a plainer form 
 of worship more to her taste. They 
 were eminently church-going people. 
 The minister of St. Mark's knew that 
 as certainly as he entered the pulpit 
 he should see them in their pew. But the Sabbath 
 following Richard's return from the country, 
 Mrs. Blake was absent for the first time for many 
 months. She professed to be well enough, and 
 said simply that she preferred to stay at home that 
 morning. She was a conscientious woman, and 
 she knew that she could not fix her attention on 
 things Divine that day when things human so 
 absorbingly occupied her mind. So it came to 
 
 ! 
 
I 
 
 "I 
 
 iM 
 
 1 1 
 
 II 
 
 l! I 
 
 i\! 
 
 I 
 
 !'i \ ' 
 
 $6 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 pass that Richard and Mary walked alone through 
 the clear and frosty air of that New Year's Sabbath 
 morning. When Mary came down ready dressed 
 Richard Blake glanced at her admiringly, as he 
 had done many a time before. She was faultlessly 
 neat in her attire — a brown velvjt dress, made with 
 simplicity and taste, a close fitting sealskin jacket, 
 and a brown bonnet, with velvet strings tied de- 
 murely beneath her chin, composed her toilet. She 
 was neat, but she lacked a certain careless, nameless 
 grace with which Frances Kendal invested every- 
 thing she wore. In his own mind Richard contrasted 
 the two ; needless to say large!}^ to the advantage 
 of the absentee. 
 
 "If you are ready, Richard we will go ? " she said, 
 " It is nearly the half-hour." 
 
 " Come and kiss me, Mary," said Mrs, Blake. 
 "My dear, you look very nice, but pale. Late 
 hours do not agree with you. The air will do you 
 good." 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Sara," replied Mary, gently; and 
 turning her head slightly away left the room, her 
 cousin following, buttoning his gloves the while. 
 
 Sabbath morning though it was, Richard Blake's 
 mind, like his mother's was occupied with but one 
 theme, and he longed to speak of it to his cousin, 
 knowing she at least would give him the sympathy 
 he was beginning to feel the need of. Buc Mary 
 seemed to be in no mood for conversation, and half 
 the distance was accomplished in perfect silence. 
 
 " I was at Sutton parish church last Sunday 
 morning, Mary," he said at length tamely enough. 
 
 " Yes. Did you enjoy the service ? " 
 
 .^ 
 
Taking up the Cross. 
 
 $7 
 
 " Thoroughly. The music ^'\as good ; the preach- 
 ing excellent The service was decidedly High 
 Church, yet I enjoyed it very much indeed." 
 
 A little dry smile touched Mary's lips for a 
 moment ; but she spoke no word. Richard saw 
 that smile, and it made him feel uncomfortable. 
 For the first time in his life he felt thoroughly out 
 of sorts with the inmates of his own home. 
 
 Two of the worshippers in St. Mark's church 
 that morning found the service dry and profitless ; 
 and once during the prayer a mist of bitter tears 
 crept to Mary Osborne's eyes — though her head 
 was bowed so low that none saw it. How small a 
 thii.^ can distract our thoughts in the house of God ! 
 the common things of life, week-day weariness and 
 heartaches, which ought to draw us nearer to the 
 Comforter, oftentimes prove the strongest barrier 
 between the human and the Divine. It is easy to 
 forget that all our cares, our veriest Weaknesses and 
 failings are of abounding and tenderest intei -^st to 
 "our Father which art in heaven." The cousins 
 again pursued their way through the streets in 
 silence. But when they entered the quiet precincts 
 of Bingham Street, Mary turned suddenly and up* 
 lifted her eyes to her cousin's face. 
 
 " Richard ! before we go in, let me wish you joy 
 from my innermost heart," she said in a voice 
 which had no faltering in it, for she had schooled 
 herself to say the words. " You will believe that 
 none can wish you and Miss Kendal greater happi- 
 ness than I ? " A sunny smile dawned upon 
 Richard Blake's somewhat gloomy face, and re- 
 gardless of the possible scrutiny from overlooking 
 
 ; 
 
 
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 ! 
 
 ■ 
 
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 I 
 
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 1 lili 
 
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 58 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 windows, he lifted one of the gloved hands to 
 his lips. 
 
 " Thank you, Mary ; these words are a great 
 comfort to me," he said sincerely. " Without them 
 my happiness would be incomplete." 
 
 "A slight flush rose to Mary Osborne's cheek. 
 He did value her opinion, did set some store by 
 her words after all. She was glad she had forced 
 herself to congratulate him, though the task had 
 not been easy. 
 
 " I shall want to talk about Frances to you a 
 great deal by-and-by, and I shall want you to be 
 as truly a sister to her as you have been to me, 
 Mary," he said when they reached the steps of 
 their own door. "Wi!l you do this for my sake, 
 Mary, until you do it for her own ? You will love 
 her, I am sure ; I have never met any one the least 
 like her in my life." 
 
 " Yps, I will do all you ask me, and some day 
 perhaps more," she said, lifting her faithful eyes to 
 his face ; and if the words sounded a little prophetic 
 Richard Blake did not heed them then. " And 
 I will love Miss Kendal for your sake, Richard, 
 until, as you say, I learn to love her for her 
 own." 
 
 These words sent Richard Blake beaming into 
 the house, and again the world was fair, and there 
 was no jar or discord to iTiar the music of his 
 happiness. Truly a kind word hath in it a mar- 
 vellous power ! 
 
 There was evening service at St. Mark's ; but 
 Richard Blake was never present. He had other 
 «vork to do in one of the lowest mission fields in 
 
 M 
 
Taking up the Cross, 
 
 59 
 
 the east end of the city. He went out as usual 
 after dinner, leaving his mothe. and his cousin 
 alone. 
 
 There was an organ in the dining-room which 
 Mary played occasionally, though it was her 
 cousin's instrument, at which he generally spent 
 his leisure hours. Mary was no musician. She 
 could play simple tunes with correctness and taste, 
 but the master-touch was lacking, and her perform- 
 ance could never make a listener's pulse throb more 
 quickly or excite the least emotion. It was simply 
 mechanical. She sat down after Richard went out 
 and played over some of the church music to wile 
 away the time, and to occupy her attention while 
 her aunt dozed in her easy chair. 
 
 " I wish you would come and talk to me, Mary," 
 said Mrs. Blake, by-and-by ; and her tone was 
 rather sharp, for she was all out of sorts. " I am 
 tired listening to the music, and I have scarcely 
 heard your voice to-day." 
 
 Mary shut the organ and, coming over to the 
 hearth, sat down by her aunt's chair and laid a 
 hand on her arm. She knew — ah ! none 
 
 gentle 
 
 better ! — something of the bitterness lingering still 
 
 in the mother's heart. 
 
 " Dear Aunt Sara, you are not well to-day. Let 
 me read to you some poetry or a little bit from 
 Dr. Raleigh— shall I?" 
 
 " No, no ; I could not fix my mind upon it, my 
 dear. I am a miserable, foolish old woman ; fretti r.g 
 at what I should be glad of Come tell me what 
 you think of this love affair of Richard's ? " 
 
 Little did Richard's mother dream what a heart- 
 
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 N 
 
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 \h 
 
 ■111 
 
 60 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 probing question she was putting to the gentle girl 
 by her side. 
 
 " If it is for Richard's happiness, Aunt Sara, we 
 should be happy too," she said, calmly. 
 
 " I suppose so. I know I am a hard-hearted, 
 jealous-minded woman. But, O Mary ! it is hard 
 to be a mother and to have all the plans of a life- 
 time cast aside so suddenly." 
 
 " I think it is Mrs. Gaskell who says, God seems 
 to be against human planning, He so often mars it 
 all," said Mary, with a slight smile. 
 
 "There is truth in that, without doubt," said 
 Mrs. Blake, musingly. " The estimate 1 have 
 formed of Miss Kendal may be wrong; I hope it 
 is ; but you have heard Harry repeatedly refer to 
 her as a coquette. Who knows she may even yet 
 be playing with my son, just to throw him over 
 with a broken heart ! " 
 
 " Oh, hush, Aunt Sara I She has promised to be 
 his wife," said Mary. 
 
 " Yes. But that species of our sex have not 
 much respect for a promise," said Mrs. Blake, 
 grimly. " I am very much astonished at Richard." 
 
 ••When you see Miss Kendal you will not be. 
 I understand she is very beautiful," said Mary, with 
 a scarcely perceptible sigh. 
 
 Oh, how she wished it was not necessary to 
 discuss the subject of Richard's love with Richard's 
 mother ! It promised '"O be the hardest part of her 
 daily cross. 
 
 " What is beauty in comparison with sober 
 worth?" quoth Mrs. Blake. "Beauty will not 
 make a man's home happy, nor keep the pot boil- 
 
Taking up the Cross. 
 
 6i 
 
 ing, as the old saying goes. The cares of wifehood 
 soon steal away the outward beauty which charms 
 the eye ; and if there is no higher foundation than 
 that, marriage is a mistake, Mary." 
 
 "Aunt Sara! in justice to Miss Kendal, whom 
 I have never seen, I forbid you to speak in that 
 strain," cried Mary playfully, yet in real earnest 
 " What has changed you so ? You ought to have 
 
 been at church this morning, auntie. Doctor 
 
 preached from the words, ' The greatest of these is 
 charity.' " 
 
 Mrs. Blake smiled. It was impossible to resist 
 Mary's look and words. 
 
 " My dear, you are right I have need to learn 
 of you. My gentle teacher will by-and-by bring 
 me into a better frame of mind," she said, and 
 wondered a little why the brown head was so 
 softly turned away, and why the fair cheek had 
 paled so visibly. 
 
 " O Mary ! I wish Richard had not been so blind 
 to his best interests. Where would he have found 
 a wife to equal you ? " 
 
 Mary sprang to her feet, her bosom heaving, her 
 face flushed with shame. 
 
 " Aunt Sara ! Hush ! that is most cruel ! ** 
 she said piteously; and then the scales fell from 
 the eyes of Mrs. Blake, and for one brief moment 
 the heart of the woman before her was revealed to 
 her in all its wealth of unselfish love, its passion of 
 pain, beside which hers sank into utter insigni- 
 ficance. Before she could utter a word Mary had 
 flown, and she was left to reproach herself and to 
 brood over this new element in the affair which 
 
 ^ 
 *« 
 
62 
 
 A Divided House, 
 
 !i A 
 
 1 'A 
 
 was so sorely troubling her. This revelation, so 
 unexpected (for it had never once occurred to Mrs. 
 Blake that Mary might have already learned to 
 love Richard), did not by any means lessen her 
 perplexity. 
 
 When Richard returned, towards nine o'clock, 
 he found his mother sitting alone by the smoulder- 
 ing fire, apparently deep in thought. "Where's 
 Mary ? " was his first question. Ay, even yet, 
 a room without that gentle presence seemed empty 
 to Richard Blake. 
 
 " Mary is not well ; she has gone upstairs, 
 I believe, to bed," replied his mother nervously ; 
 and he was shrewd enough to see that something 
 was amiss between them. 
 
 *' She was well enough when I went out," he 
 said. "What has happened? you look dis- 
 tressed." 
 
 Then Mrs. Blake did what she had no right to 
 do ; what she never would have had done had she 
 allowed herself to reflect a minute — she let Mary's 
 secret out of her keeping. 
 
 " You may well ask, Richard," she said : " what 
 has upset me has upset Mary in a much greater 
 degree." 
 
 The significance of the words and the tone might 
 have opened the eyes of a less shrewd man than 
 Richard Blake ; yet he answered back coldly 
 enough — 
 
 " I do not understand you, mother." 
 
 " No ; men in love have seldom much considera- 
 tion for the feelings of others," she replied drily. 
 "But do not let your own happiness make you 
 
 f \ 
 
 arc, 
 his : 
 T 
 mot 
 Blal 
 time 
 beer 
 
Taking up the Cross. 
 
 6.3 
 
 forjijct what you owe to her who has been so much 
 to \-()U all your life." 
 
 "Mother! you are mistaken ; I pray God you 
 arc," said Richard lioarsely, and a red flush rose to 
 his brow as he spoke. 
 
 Then he abrujitly quitted the room, and his 
 mother saw him no more tiiat ni^ht. Poor Mrs. 
 Blake! Her indiscrcetness had destroyed, for a 
 time at least, the happiness and peace of what had 
 been so long a united household. 
 
 B 
 
t i!!,: 
 
 1J, 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 TRYING MOMENTS. 
 
 "A kindly warning finger-post at the parting of the ways." 
 
 i^HEN Richard Blake left Kendal Hall, 
 I %^ yiY and Mrs. Kendal were not aware 
 that their daughter had pledged her- 
 self to become his wife. Mrs. Kendal 
 had not been slow to see his devotion 
 to Frances, and if it at times occurred 
 to her that she treated him somewhat 
 differently from all other admirers, 
 she only set it down as the outcome of some new 
 caprice, and did not give the matter a serious 
 thought. To do Richard Blake justice, he had been 
 most unwilling to leave without speaking to the 
 parents of his betrothed. Shy, reticent, diffident 
 he certainly was, but in matters of conscience he 
 knew no fear. But Frances, who knew so well that 
 it would renuire no small diplomacy to make her 
 engagement palatable to her mother at least, 
 pleaded so winsomely that they might keep their 
 secret just till he came back in one little fortnight, 
 64 
 

 Tryin^^ Moments. 
 
 ^5 
 
 le ways." 
 
 lal Hall, 
 )t aware 
 ^ed her- 
 . Kendal 
 devotion 
 occurred 
 >mewhat 
 mirers, 
 )me new 
 serious 
 ad been 
 to the 
 iffident 
 ence he 
 ell that 
 ake her 
 least, 
 ip their 
 rtnight, 
 
 \ 1 
 
 that Richard was unable to resist. She promised 
 tliat before he returned she would have connded 
 her important decision to her mother, and Richard, 
 thoui^h feeling that she was making him shirk a duty, 
 was bound to obey. But during that fortnight his 
 mind was not at ease, and his mother and cousin 
 did not find that his love had changed him for the 
 better. When the fortnight ended he was off to 
 Sutton by the afternoon train, v/hich reached Sutton 
 in time for six o'clock dinner at the Hall. Richard 
 Blake felt somewhat nervous, for Harry was not at 
 home, and he had a trying ordeal to face. He got 
 over it better than he expected. The Scjuire, blunt 
 and outspoken as usual, said with a good-humoured 
 smile and a slap on the back, — 
 
 "So you are going to run off with my girl, eh ! 
 Too bad of you. But if you can satisfy me that 
 you can keep her comfortably, I 've no objections." 
 
 Mrs. Kendal's s^rectin"- was somewhat fricrid, and 
 fiom it Richard surmised that she had not received 
 the news with unalloyed pleasure. She was polite 
 and attentive enough to him during dinner, but he 
 felt that she had something to say to him which 
 would ease her mind. And Frances? Ah! she 
 was lovely and tender and caressing. In the 
 radiance of that smile Richard felt all unpleasant- 
 ness melt away. For her dear sake he could do or 
 dare anything. 
 
 " When you have discussed your wine with the 
 Squire I shall be glad to see you in the drawing- 
 room, Mr. Blake," said Mrs. Avendal, when she rose 
 to leave the table. 
 
 Richard bowed, and if he was not very well able 
 
 
IIS 
 
 ■) .' 
 
 llil 
 
 m ;>! i 
 
 66 
 
 A Divided II on ^c. 
 
 to concentrate his thoughts on what his futun 
 father-in-law had to say about the game laws, it 
 need not be wondered at. Many a bolde- man 
 than Richard Blake might havp quailed at the 
 prospect of such an interview with the haughty 
 mistress of Kendal Hall. 
 
 " Try the Madeira, Blake," said the Squire, 
 affably ; " it will bear criticism. You won't taste 
 its equal '.,\ town, I assure you." 
 
 " I believe you, sir ; but I never drink wine," 
 replied Richard Blake, a little absently. 
 
 " Never drink wine ! Why, bless me, what do 
 you drink ? " 
 
 " Water," answered Richard, with a smile. 
 
 The Squire made a wry face. 
 
 "What's that for, eh? Doesn't it agree with 
 you ? My medical man assures me there 's nothing 
 like Madeira for dyspepsia, and I fancy he is 
 troubled with it pretty often ; ha, ha ! " he said, 
 with a huge laugh at his own joke. 
 
 " I abstain from principle, and because I have 
 seen so much of the evil resulting from its abuse," 
 said Richard, in his straightforward way. 
 
 "Well, every man to his taste, and I wouldn't 
 ask you to go against your principles," said the 
 Squire, good-naturedly. " But, I say, let me give 
 you a hint Don't air these opinion before Mrs. 
 Kendal, at least not just yet. Women, you know, 
 are — are — well, not easily understood ; and it might 
 damage your cause, or at least make things not so 
 pleasant. I daresay you have guessed that Mrs. 
 Kendal 's not very highly pleased. The fact is 
 sh'; had other views for Frances. The ladies for 
 
 I 
 
Trying Moments. 
 
 67 
 
 futur? 
 \vs, it 
 man 
 Lt the 
 u^hty 
 
 5quire, 
 : taste 
 
 wine," 
 
 hat do 
 
 e with 
 
 lothing 
 
 he is 
 
 said, 
 
 I have 
 abuse," 
 
 ouldn't 
 
 lid the 
 
 le give 
 
 e Mrs. 
 
 know, 
 
 might 
 
 not so 
 
 Lt Mrs. 
 
 fact is 
 
 ies for 
 
 ambition, Blake ! You see, Mrs. Kendal numbers 
 a peer among her kinsfolk, and I believe she 
 wanted Frances to win a coronet or something of 
 that kind. I have no such ideas. Give me an 
 honest man, the noblest work of God, as somebody- 
 says. And I believe you will be good to my girl " 
 
 " I will ; so help me, God ! " said Richard Blake, 
 with an earnestness which brought a sudden mois- 
 ture to the old man's eyes. 
 
 So they shook hands upon it, and then Richard 
 went away upstairs to face his ordeal alone. He 
 half hoped to see Frances in the drawing-room, for 
 the sicrht of that sweet face would nerve him for 
 
 CD 
 
 anything, but he was disappointed. Mrs. Kendal 
 sat on a low chair in the wide oriel window, with 
 her hands folded on her silken lap, her whole 
 demeanour indicating that she was ready to discuss 
 the important question of her daughter's settlement 
 in life down to the minutest detail. She motioned 
 her future son-in-law to a chair, but he preferred to 
 stand. 
 
 " I understand that Frances has told you of the 
 unspeakable honour and happiness she has bestowed 
 on me ? " he began at once. " I am here to-day to 
 show you upon what grounds, unworthy though 
 they be, I presume to ask your daughter from 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Kendal bowed. 
 
 Really the man could express himself very well, 
 and his fearless manner commended itself to her. 
 Women can tolerate almost anything in a man 
 except cowardice. For that failing they have an 
 immeasurable contempt. 
 
IP 
 
 n 
 
 i'l 
 
 ii4 
 
 68 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 "You are right; Frances has told me," she said, 
 a little less icily ; " and if the news was rather a 
 shock than otherwise to me you cannot be greatly 
 surprised. The very short acquaintance, your 
 slight knowledge of each other, and — and — other 
 things" — she added, not caring to express all the 
 thoughts in her mind just at once — " scarcely pre- 
 pared me for the announcement made to me only 
 yesterday." 
 
 Only yesterday ! Richard Blake bit his lip ; but 
 he would not clear hiniself at the expense of his 
 beloved. 
 
 " I am not blind to the fact that in point of posi- 
 tion and everything else Frances is immeasurably 
 my superior," he ^aid with the humility of a man 
 very much in love. " I cannot as yet offer her 
 what she deserves ; but I can and do offer her a 
 comfortable home and a true honest love which 
 will shield her from every breath of hardship and 
 sorrow." 
 
 Mrs. Kendal waved her hand somewhat impa- 
 tiently, and her handsome face assumed a slightly 
 scornful expression. "I do not doubt your devotion, 
 Mr. Blake; it is apparent: but when a parent has 
 to decide upon giving a child into another's 
 keeping, it is plain facts and figures which must be 
 dealt with. You see the manner of home in which 
 Frances has been reared. I would not like, nay, 
 I would not permit, her to step lower on the social 
 ladder. She is not one who would wear poverty 
 gracefully." 
 
 "While I live poverty shall never touch her," 
 said Richard Eiake passionately, for the woman 
 
 !i ' 
 
■|! 
 
 Trying Momtiits. 
 
 69 
 
 ; said, 
 ther a 
 reatly 
 your 
 -other 
 ill the 
 y pre- 
 e only 
 
 p ; but 
 of his 
 
 )f posi- 
 5urably 
 a man 
 fer her 
 r her a 
 which 
 lip and 
 
 impa- 
 slightly 
 svotion, 
 ent has 
 mother's 
 Tiust be 
 n which 
 <e, nay, 
 le social 
 poverty 
 
 bh her," 
 woman 
 
 tried him sorely. "Business men, Mrs. Kendal, 
 cannot easily estimate their income down to the 
 uttermost fraction, but for the last four years mine 
 has not been less than fifteen hundred." 
 
 " Fifteen hundred!" repeated Mrs. Kendal slowly, 
 and her tone was not re-assuring, by any means. 
 
 " My business is increasing year by year ; at no 
 distant day I hope to give Frances a home some- 
 thing approaching to what she has been accustomed 
 to," continued Richard. " In the meantime she is 
 willing to share with me what I have." 
 
 " Why not wait till then ? Neither of you is old ; 
 you can afford to wait," said Mrs. Kendal stiffly. 
 
 "Why wait when she is willing, Mrs. Kendal?" 
 asked Richard quietly. " I am almost thirty ; 
 Frances is five-and-twenty. Our youth cannot be 
 urged as an objection to an early marriage." 
 
 Mrs. Kendal was silent ; but the expression on 
 her face was not an amiable one. She was bitterly 
 angry, bitterly disappointed, and yet somehow to 
 this man she dared not show it. The nobility and 
 manliness of his nature almost made her ashamed. 
 She turned her head towards the window and 
 looked away beyond the spreading trees in the 
 park to a stately mansion on the other side of the 
 river ; and for a moment there was a constrained 
 silence. 
 
 "You would live in London, I presume?" she 
 said at length. 
 
 " In the meantime yes ; but do not for a moment 
 suppose that I would expect my wife to live in the 
 city all the year round. Every advantage within 
 our means she shall have to the full, Mrs. Kendal." 
 
 Iti 
 
 'tr 
 
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 iilii'i' 
 
 
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 1^;.^ !', 
 
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 70 
 
 ^ Divided House. 
 
 Again Mrs. Kendal looked towards the mansion 
 in the distance and at length she spoke. 
 
 "You see Sutton Grange yonder," she said, 
 pointing with slender finger to the grey towers and 
 turrets ::learly discernible in the full bright moon- 
 light. " It is in the market. It is a small estate. 
 Why not purchase it and make your home there ? 
 London is not so far distant. Mr. Lancaster of The 
 Willows travels to business in the city everj' day. 
 Then we would not be separated from our daughter 
 altogether." 
 
 Again Richard Blake bit his lip and began to 
 walk restlessly up and down the room. By-and- 
 by he paused in front of Mrs. Kendal's chair and 
 looked her straight in the face. 
 
 " It IS impossible. What money I have laid 
 aside will be utilised before I marry in purchasing 
 an annuity for my mother. I must also make 
 provision for my cousin, who is my sister in every- 
 thing buc name. These are sacred as well as 
 imperative duties which I am sure you would not 
 ask me to shirk." 
 
 " No, no ; of course you must provide for your 
 mother; but really your cousin — is it not too much 
 to expect that you should also portion her ? " said 
 Mrs. Kendal, with ill-concealed irritation. 
 
 Richard Blake reddened. 
 
 " Pardon me, Mrs. Kendal, if I decline to discuss 
 these matters. They are purely personal ; and my 
 mind is firmly made up," he said quietly but 
 decidedly. Mrs. Kendal rose. She was angry and 
 did not trouble to conceal it now. 
 
 " I regret that this interview should have proved 
 
 %-t 
 
I i 
 
 ansion 
 
 i said, 
 ;rs and 
 moon- 
 estate, 
 there ? 
 of The 
 y day. 
 lughter 
 
 !gan to 
 ^y-and- 
 air and 
 
 ve laid 
 chasing 
 5 make 
 1 every- 
 well as 
 uld not 
 
 or your 
 •o much 
 ■ ? " said 
 
 discuss 
 and my 
 tly but 
 gry and 
 
 proved 
 
 ■■ '4 
 
 Trying Moments. 
 
 71 
 
 po iinsritisfactory, Mr. Blake," she said coldly ; 
 " I may as well say to you that I do not approve of 
 this engagement, and that nothing but a desire not 
 to stand in the way of my daughter's happiness 
 would ever have induced me to countenance it. 
 It is not a marriage which will meet the approval 
 of our relatives and the circle of our immediate 
 friends. As to what my cousin the Earl of Elles- 
 mcre will say I dare not permit myself to think." 
 
 With that parting arrow Mrs. Kendal swept from 
 the room, leaving her future son-in-law to digest it 
 at his leisure. He stood still in the window, where 
 she had left him, so absorbed by his own conflicting 
 thoughts that he did not hear the soft opening of 
 the door, and the light footfall crossing the long 
 room to his side. But presently he was made 
 aware of the presence of his betrothed by the rustle 
 of a robe, and a clinging touch of his arm. 
 
 " My darling," he said almost hoarsely, and 
 drawing her to his heart stood a long time in 
 silence. 
 
 "Was mamma very hard, dear?" whispered 
 Frances at length. 
 
 " Yes, my darling ; it cost me an effort to keep 
 within the bounds of prudence," he answered, 
 trying to speak lightly, but his face was stern, his 
 eyes troubled. 
 
 " Poor Richard ! it was too bad," she murmured 
 caressingly. " Never mind, it is over now." 
 
 Over! Only beginning, thought Richard Blake; 
 
 but he did not say so. 
 
 " Did mamma 
 Graii'^e?" asked 
 
 say anything to you about the 
 Frances, lifting her head and 
 
 hi 
 

 ' :« 
 
 Ti 
 
 A Dh'ided House. 
 
 looking beyond to the home upon which she had 
 set her heart. 
 
 "Yes; but " 
 
 "But what, dear?" 
 
 " I cannot give it to you yet, Frances ; but it, or 
 some other as desirable, will be yours some day, 
 dearest." 
 
 "Must \^' '. live in London, Richard?" she asked, 
 and Vi vv quick he was to note the disappoint- 
 menv iu lu r voice ! 
 
 "Yc 'i\iy 'darling. Will it be a hardship, 
 Frances ? " , 
 
 " I thought you were very rich, Richard ? Harry 
 told us so." 
 
 "Harry was mistaken. I have enough — some 
 day I will have more ; but I am not a man of 
 fortune, Frances," he said quietly. " If — if — you 
 think you have made a mistake," he added, though 
 his voice shook, " if you fear you cannot be happy 
 or content w'lh such as I can give you, it is not yet 
 too late. 
 
 " Could you give me up so easily, Richard ? " 
 
 " Better the sharp pain now than a lifetime of 
 sorrow and unavailing regret. It would kill me if 
 my wife ever showed me that she regretted having 
 married me," said Richard Blake still quietly, but, 
 oh ! the throbbing of his heart, the tumult of wild 
 longings, cravings of the spirit surging within ! 
 How little the shallow heart of Frances Kendal 
 guessed at the intensity of the nature she had 
 moved to the very depths. 
 
 " I will try to be content ; I love you, Richard," 
 she said. " I know I am weak ; I am very fond of 
 
 the £ 
 Rich; 
 
 It 
 ible s 
 went 
 
 Oh 
 vvhicl' 
 were 
 it woi 
 only 
 which 
 prayii 
 at las 
 
 "• li 
 
Trying Moments. 
 
 73 
 
 he had 
 
 it it, or 
 le day, 
 
 I asked, 
 ppoint- 
 
 irdship, 
 
 Harry 
 
 the good things of life ; but because I love you, 
 Richard, I will try to be content." 
 
 It was a sweet assurance, but a scarcely percept- 
 ible sigh followed the repetition of the word, and 
 went like a knife to the heart of Richard Blake. 
 
 Oh but this was a strange and rugged way into 
 which he had come ; its very beauty and sweetness 
 were touched with keenest pain ! How or whither 
 it would lead him, whether to weal or woe, could 
 only be revealed by that mystic future towards 
 which we drift like mariners upon an unknown sea, 
 praying and hoping to reach some sure haven 
 at last. 
 
 — some 
 man of 
 if — you 
 though 
 i happy 
 not yet 
 
 time of 
 11 me if 
 having 
 ly, but, 
 of wild 
 within ! 
 Kendal 
 le had 
 
 ;! 
 
 ichard," 
 fond of 
 
I'f 
 
 j: ;ii I 
 
 '''■ill'' 
 .11 . 1 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN UNCOMFORTABLE MEETING. 
 
 "We should not be in a hurry to fix and choose our own 
 lot. We should wait and be guided " — George Eliot. 
 
 OTHER, Mrs. Kendal and Frances are 
 coming to town the week after Easter; 
 will you write and ask them to make 
 our house their home while they are 
 here?" 
 
 That question Richard Blalce, awk- 
 wardly enout^h, asked his mother one 
 morning in April just as he was going 
 off to business. 
 
 " To come here and stay, Richard ? " she asked. 
 " Yes, of course ; we could not do less, and they 
 will not come on my invitation alone." 
 
 " But we are not grand enough for them, 
 Richard," said Mrs. Blake. Perhaps they would 
 not feel at home in our humble abode." 
 
 " Oh nonsense, Aunt Sara ! We can make them 
 more comfortable than 
 
 much 
 
 ley 
 
 hotel," said Mary pleasantly • for which kind 
 speech her cousin inwardly blessed her. 
 74 
 
 takins 
 
 1^' 
 

 0& 
 
 our own 
 
 ices are 
 Easter ; 
 :) make 
 hey are 
 
 e, awk- 
 lier one 
 s going 
 
 isked. 
 d they 
 
 tliem, 
 would 
 
 :e them 
 )e at a 
 kind 
 
 An Uncoynfortahle Meeting. 
 
 7S 
 
 Mrs. Blake marvelled to hear her, and her 
 conscience pricked her, for beside Mary's unselfish- 
 ness how mean and miserable her own spirit 
 appeared ! 
 
 " Very well, Richard ; I will write to Mrs. Kendal 
 to-day," said Mrs. Blake, and just then the house- 
 maid called her from the room to see a tradesman 
 downstairs. 
 
 Then Richard Blake turned to his cousin. He 
 had long ago settled in his mind that what his 
 mother had told him concerning Mary's feelings 
 was but an imagination of her own. He had 
 watched his cousin, and had failed to find any 
 confirmation of his mother's assurance, and the 
 discovery had considerably restored his peace of 
 mind. 
 
 " I tell you, Mary, what I have nut yet mentioned 
 to my mother : that the object of the ladies' visit 
 is to go house-hunting with me," he said, nervously. 
 
 "House-hunting! Are you to be married so 
 soon ? " exclaimed Mary in surprise. 
 
 " Through the summer ; probably in August," 
 he replied. " There is no need for delay." 
 
 " I suppose not. And where do you think of 
 taking a house, Richard? Near Bingham Street?" 
 
 " No ; I will need to move further west to suit 
 Frances's taste, I fancy," he replied, with a slight 
 smile * I was looking yesterday at the houses 
 both in Queen's Gate and Brampton Square. 
 There are several to let in both streets." 
 
 "But, Richard, those are great houses, surely? 
 The rents must be enormous," she said, and her 
 eyes were troubled. 
 
 1 1 
 
 i I 
 
 'flf * 
 
I . I 
 
 '6 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 " In Queen's G.ite they vary accordinir to size, of 
 course. Four hundred is the lowest. In Hrami)t()n 
 Square, the houses bein^ uniform, the rents arc all 
 one figure — seven hundred." 
 
 
 Seven hundred, Richard ! I know nothii 
 about your income ; only that seems a great sum 
 to pay for rent alone. Do not think me meddle- 
 some or presumptuous, cousin, but is it wise to 
 attempt so much at first ? " 
 
 " I can't say. I believe not ; but I am in the 
 position of a man who has only one way to go if 
 he would reach a desired haven. Unless I can give 
 Frances just so much, you understand, I must 
 forego the happiness of making her my wife. 
 I cannot face that, Mary." 
 
 " Who has placed you in that position, Richard ?" 
 asked Mary, a little sadly. 
 
 *' My future mother-in-law ; and Frances herself 
 is not inclined to play the ro/e of economist. When 
 you see her, Mary, you will not marvel that she 
 insists upon certain rights. She might have 
 married so much better, that I feel I owe it to her 
 to give my utmost." 
 
 " Undoubtedly ; but ^ow will you do it, 
 Richard ? " 
 
 " I '11 just need to apply myself with redoubled 
 energy to business, and extend my connections as 
 far as possible. Hitherto I have been content to 
 keep within very modest bounds, because with you 
 and mother to economise for me I have had but 
 small expenditure. I believe you have spoiled 
 me," said Richard, with a smile. But there was no 
 answering smile on Mary's face, for in her heart 
 
 
An Uncomfortable Meetinj^. 
 
 77 
 
 \ size, of 
 ampton 
 > arc all 
 
 eat siua 
 meddlc- 
 wise to 
 
 1 in the 
 to go if 
 can give 
 
 I must 
 ny wife. 
 
 ichard?" 
 
 s herself 
 :. When 
 that she 
 ht have 
 it to her 
 
 do it, 
 
 edoubled 
 ctions as 
 intent to 
 with you 
 5 had but 
 
 2 spoiled 
 re was no 
 ler heart 
 
 ..■^ 
 I 
 
 ■Mi 
 
 she was convinced that this step of Richard's was 
 wrong from the beginning. 
 
 " And what about this house, Richard ? " she 
 asked presently. 
 
 " 1 have bought it, and will settle it upon my 
 mother. At her death, it will revert to you. I am 
 also about to purchase an annuity for my mother, 
 and there will be a sum invested for you, Mary." 
 
 lie was interrupted by his cousin rising from her 
 chair, with flushing face and glowing eyes. 
 
 " No, no, Richard ; it is kind of you to think of 
 me : but my mind is made up, has been maae up, 
 indeed, ever since the beginning of the year." 
 
 "Made up — what for?" he asked bluntly. 
 
 " You have given me a home all my life, Richard, 
 and so long as I was able to be of some use, I was 
 content to be dependent on you. It is or will be 
 different now. I intend to take a situation as 
 governess or lady-housekeeper." 
 
 "Mary, what absurd folly is this?" exclaimed 
 Richard, beginning to walk rather angrily up ? v. 
 down the floor. " I will never permit it ; what 
 will my mother do if we both leave her ? " 
 
 '* If I find that Aunt Sara is to miss me very 
 much, I will remain with her and go out teaching 
 or have pupils in the house," said Mary quietly. 
 " But I will on no account accept money from you. 
 Your wife will have a 1=^'.:, to it all, Richard ; and 
 she could not be blamed if she saw no necessity for 
 you bestowing your means on me." 
 
 So saying Mary left the room, for she was unable 
 to pursue the discussion further just then. 
 
 Richard Bi^ke went off" to the city in rather 
 
 • 1° 
 
78 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 I'SI 
 
 ii 
 
 I 
 
 a troubled frame of mind ; he had not expected 
 this turn of affairs, but he had yet to learn that his 
 cousin was as proud, self-reliant, and independent 
 as she was gentle and kind. 
 
 Mrs. Blake's note to Mrs. Kendal was duly 
 written, and brought the reply in a few days. It 
 was courteous in tone, but very distant, and the 
 invitation was declined on the plea that as they 
 would have a great deal of shopping and running 
 about the city it would suit them better to put up 
 as usual at Claridge's ; but they would be happy to 
 call at 10 Bingham Street and make the acquaint- 
 ance of Mrs. Blake. 
 
 Mrs. Blake elected to be displeased with the 
 reply. Mary herself, though trying to smooth it 
 over as best she could, Iclt that the invitation 
 ought to have been accepted. However, there was 
 not much said about it, and after Easter week 
 accordingly the ladies from Kendal Hall arrived in 
 London, During that week it may be imagined 
 Richard Blake was frequently absent from busi- 
 ness, and his mother and cousin saw very little of 
 him. One afternoon Mary was sitting alone in the 
 drawing-room, putting the finishing touches to a 
 little water-colour she had taken down at Walton- 
 on-Thames the preceding Saturday, when visitors 
 were announced — Mrs. and Miss Kendal ! She 
 rose somewhat confusedly, for their call was quite 
 unexpected. They were alone, having out of some 
 whim chosen a day when Richard was busy at his 
 office. 
 
 In a moment Mary recovered her self-possession, 
 and received them with quiet and cordial grace. 
 
 air at 
 
 fatifq 
 
 o 
 
 "I 
 Franc 
 
 She 
 pale, 
 
An U ncomfoi'table Meetin^ 
 
 & 
 
 79 
 
 vcpected 
 :hat his 
 pendent 
 
 L 
 
 as duly 
 ays. It 
 and the 
 as they 
 running 
 put up 
 lappy to 
 .cquaint- 
 
 with the 
 iTiooth it 
 nvitation 
 here was 
 :er week 
 rrived in 
 imagined 
 om busi- 
 
 little of 
 ine in the 
 :hes to a 
 
 Walton- 
 n visitors 
 al ! She 
 was quite 
 t of some 
 asy at his 
 
 " If you will excuse me one moment, Mrs. Kendal, 
 I shall tell my aunt you have come ; she has gone 
 to lie down for a little," she said, with her true and 
 pleasant smile. " I suppo.se you will have guessed 
 that I am Mr. Blake's cousin, Mary Osborne?" 
 
 Mrs. Kendal bowed graciously Frances smiled 
 very slightly, and Mary left the room. 
 
 " Rather a nice-looking person, Frances," said 
 Mrs. Kendal when they were left alone. "Accom- 
 plished, too. That is a very pretty sketch, isn't it ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about painting, mamma," said 
 Miss Kendal, rather crossly, for she had imagined 
 Mary Osborne a very different person from this 
 sweet, dignified, graceful woman, who comported 
 herself so well in a trying situation. 
 
 Presently she joined them again, and resuming 
 her seat, inquired pleasantly how they were enjoying 
 their stay in London. 
 
 " Mamma likes it, but I am very sick of it this 
 time. Everybody is out of town for the recess." 
 
 "We came simply for shopping, Miss Osborne," 
 said Mrs. Kendal, " and I knew that we would get 
 our business done most expeditiously when there 
 were no interruptions in the way of friends or 
 pleasure-seeking." 
 
 " You are wise. But the city is very trying in 
 these hot days. You must feel it after your lovely 
 air at Kendal Hall," said Mary. "You look very 
 fatigued. Miss Kendal." 
 
 " I feel it. May I remove my gloves ? " said 
 Frances, languidly. 
 
 She certainly looked very weary. But though 
 pale, her face v/as the loveliest Mary had ever seen. 
 
 F 
 
 i ■ 1 ' 
 i 
 
 Ui 
 
li ! ii 
 
 i.:! 
 
 80 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 Her costly attire, the most clcg^ant and approved of 
 the spring fashions, became her rarely well, and 
 showed every line and curve of her figure to perfec- 
 tion. When she drew off her gloves, Mary noted 
 that there was but one ring on her left hand, 
 Richard's betrothal circlet, likely — a gem of cosily 
 brilliancy, such as it befitted the beautiful daughter 
 of Kendal Hall to wear. 
 
 " You are very retired here, considering how near 
 you are to the city's centre," said Mrs. Kendal. 
 
 " Yes, we like Bingham Street. It suits Richard 
 for business. Have you seen him to-day?" 
 
 " He called this morning just after breakfast, but 
 he was to be occupied all day. We purpose going 
 home to-morrow." 
 
 " So soon ? Aunt Sara will be disappointed that 
 she has seen so little of you," said Mary ; and just 
 then the door opened and Mrs. Blake entered the 
 room. It was a trying moment for these four 
 women, and, perhaps, poor Richard was t)est away. 
 A keen glance, then a somewhat stiff bow, passed 
 between the respective mothers, then Mrs. Blake 
 turned almost sharply to the elegant figure leaning 
 back languidly in Mary's low chair. 
 
 " Is this Frances T " she said, with eagerness, and 
 Frances, rising, offered her cheek to be kissed b)- 
 Richard's mother. Then they sat down and 
 looked at each other rather stupidly for a few 
 seconds, Mary nervously playing with the leaves of 
 a plant in the jardiniere by her side. 
 
 " You have been in town all week, my son tells 
 me," said Mrs. Blake at length. " You have been 
 long in finding your way to Bingham Street." 
 
An Uncomfortable Meeting'. 
 
 8i 
 
 m 
 
 " We have been so occupied, my dear Mrs. Blake," 
 said Mrs. Kendal, with all the suavity of an accom- 
 plished woman of the world, "you really must 
 excuse us this time. Won't you promise to come 
 to Kendal Hall and bring your charming niece with 
 you before the event takes place which is to unite 
 our interests ? " 
 
 "I cannot promise; I do not travel much — thank 
 you ; " said Mrs. Blake rather snappishly. Poor 
 woman, she did not show to advantage. Her grave, 
 stern face, her sombre and severely simple attire, 
 presented an almost painfr' "ontrast to the brilliant 
 appearance and youthful garb of Squire Kendal's 
 handsome wife. 
 
 " Ah ! but you will be persuaded ; mustn't she, 
 Frances ? " 
 
 "Yes, mamma," said Frances, but without 
 cordiality ; and Mary felt how sorely lacking she 
 was in respect to the mother of her future husband. 
 It was an unsatisfactory, uncomfortable interview, 
 and all were relieved when the visiters rose to take 
 their leave. 
 
 "What stiff people! what a frightful old woman!" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Kendal, with more energy than 
 grace, when they reached the carriage waiting for 
 them. "If you take my advice, Frances, you will 
 not permit your mother-in-law to come very often 
 to Brampton Square." 
 
 " I don't intend to, mamma," was Miss Kendal's 
 reply. 
 
 " Nor that cousin either ; she is one of the sly, 
 soft, gentle tilings who can make all kinds of 
 mibchiel and yet keep up their reputation as saints. 
 
 ' ' ISM'.. 
 
82 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 i' J 
 
 She has taught Richard to consider himself a 
 paragon, born for the admiration and adoration of 
 all womankind. You must disabuse his mind of 
 that idea." 
 
 " I think I shall be able to manage my own 
 affairs, mamma," said Frances irritably. She was 
 all out of sorts, and did not trouble to hide it. 
 
 Meanwhile in the drawing-room they had just 
 left, Richard's mother and Richard's cousin looked 
 at each othe. blankly, for both were wofully dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 "Miss Kendal is really beautiful," said Mary at 
 length, in a cheerful voice. 
 
 " Don't speak to me, Mary. God forgive me if 
 I judge harshly ; but I prophesy that between 
 them these two will break my son's heart," said the 
 unhappy mother ; and what could Mary :-ay to 
 comfort her when her own heart was as heavy as 
 lead ? 
 
 It fell to her lo.. to tell Richard of the ladies' 
 visit. As was natural he was eager to hear all 
 about it, and to be told what im|)rcssions had been 
 made on either side. But Mary said very little, 
 and it was not quite "^ suring. 
 
 "Miss K(. idal is sv> h autiful, Richard, T could 
 scarcely lift my eyes Lorn her face. But she seemctl 
 weary and out of sorts. I think it a pity they 
 came alone. If you had been with them it would 
 have been better for us all." 
 
 f^:^^:^ 
 

 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FIRST STxNG. 
 
 Oh 1 must the cup that holds 
 Tlie sweetest vintage of the vine of life 
 Taste bitter at the dregs ? — Matthew Arnold, 
 
 AM tired of this lounging abcnt, 
 Richard ; let us go home.' 
 
 The words v^'ere petulantly ut^^-"^ 
 and the expression en the speUivL - 
 face was one of intense weariness and 
 languor. 
 
 Not many younL, wives weary df 
 the honeymoon trip b-^forc it is half 
 over ; but so it was with Frances biake. They had 
 been a fortnight on the Continent, and though s 
 month had been the intended ''?ngth of their 
 holidays, the bride was already tired of sight-seeing, 
 perhaps tired also of the companionship of hei 
 quiet, grave husband ; although she loved him as 
 well as it was in her nature to love any human being 
 but herself. They were drifting idly in a little skiff 
 on the beautiful lake of Geneva, above Ve- ly, 
 
 8i 
 
 : is 
 
 WW 
 
 w 
 
 w 
 
 
 M-l 
 
 1 
 
 II 
 
 1' 
 
 \ 
 
 (l 
 
 li 
 
 1 
 

 
 1^ 
 
 I !i 
 
 * !t' 
 
 
 !il(' 
 
 i ' 
 
 84 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 within sii^ht of the lonely Castle of Chillon. It was 
 a day of August's sunniest mood ; unpleasantly 
 hot on the dusty roads and exposed mountain sides, 
 but dcliciously cool on the lake where the gentlest 
 of zephyrs moved the crystal waters into tiny ripples 
 which glittered in the sun. 
 
 Richard Blake looked up suddenly and quickly, 
 and the expression on his face was one of the most 
 painful surprise. He was himself so unutterably, 
 blissfully happy, that to him that quiet and lovely 
 spot seemed the very gate of Eden : he so grudged 
 the days passing one by one, that it was a shock to 
 him to hear such words from his wife's lips. He 
 bent towards her, laying his firm fingers on the 
 dainty ungloved hand, and looked with tenderest 
 solicitude into the lovely but discontented-looking 
 face under the broad sun hat. 
 
 " My darling, you are tired ; the heat has over- 
 powered you," he said gently. " Let me row back 
 to the chateau and you 'ill lie down for an hour." 
 
 She shook her head impatiently. 
 
 *' No, no ! I am quite well ; only it is so stupid 
 here. There is nothing to see. Couldn't we go to 
 Taden or some place where there is life ? Why, 
 R!chr4,id, what is the good of all my lovely dresses 
 if we are to vegetate here all the time ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I have been selfish, Frances. To be 
 alone here with my wife has been and is to me 
 unspeakable happiness. But I should have though!: 
 of you. If you wish it, dear, we can go on to- 
 morrow anywhere you like. Nice will be very gay 
 just n!..',v." 
 
 W.i .'6poke quietly and kindly, but his voice 
 
 ITiX 
 
 iilli'i 
 
 If! I 
 
 ! 1.^ 
 
The First Sting. 
 
 85 
 
 IS voice 
 
 betrayed his keen disappointment. To him the 
 ^^aiety of such fashionable resorts would be irksome 
 in the extreme, especially at the present time. 
 
 " I have been to Nice in the season before. Let 
 it be Baden, Richard, dear. The Lancasters are 
 there this month, and Colonel St. John and his 
 daughters. Well, shall we go to-morrow? " 
 
 Her listlessness was gone. Her face was now lit 
 by a sweet smile, her eyes sparkling and vivacious. 
 
 " To-morrow be it. I shall make arrangements 
 when we land. Shall I steer for the shore now ? " 
 
 " Not unless you wish it, dear," replied his wife, 
 and stooping with matchless grace she touched 
 with her lips the hand resting on hers. 
 
 Her husband scarcely smiled. For him the 
 beauty was gone from sky and lake and shore. 
 There was a shadow on the sunshine of his Eden 
 now, for there crept into his heart the consciousness 
 that the wife whom he loved so well, and for whom 
 he had sacrificed much, had not given him all her 
 heart in return. Life with him alone was not 
 sufficient for her. They had been but two short 
 weeks together, and already she was longing for 
 change. 
 
 " A nd, Richard, dear, we will travel home by 
 Paris, at the end of the month. Mrs. Lancaster 
 promised to get me a maid in Paris — a sister of her 
 Marie, who is a perfect treasure." 
 
 Richard Blake rested on his oars and looked 
 again at his wife, 
 
 " What kind of a maid, Frances ? " 
 
 "Why, a waiting-maid; a lady's maid, you stupid 
 boy, to dress my hair and alter my rovvns — an 
 
ll 
 
 i! ,, .'i 
 
 w 
 
 Bf 
 
 h 
 
 M' 
 
 I '^\ 
 
 I I 
 
 
 m^'v 
 
 86 
 
 A Divided House, 
 
 indispensable article among a lady's possessions," 
 she said gaily. But Richard looked grave almc^st 
 to sternness. 
 
 " Frances, how many servants are engaged to 
 come home to us already ? " 
 
 '* Only five, dear, and my maid will be six ; they 
 have more than a dozen at the Hall." 
 
 " Yes, but a city merchant's house and Kendal 
 Hall are two different things, Frances. You know 
 my income, and if you have even a slight know- 
 ledge of household management you must be aware 
 that it would take fifteen hundred twice told to 
 support such an establishment. I am sorry to 
 grieve or disappoint you, my love, but you must 
 not engcjge a Parisian maid, and one of the do- 
 mestics already engaged must be dispensed with." 
 
 He spoke quietly but decidedly, for the time had 
 come when he must lay a firm hand on the reins, 
 else misery and confusion would ensue. It was a 
 keen pain to him to speak thus, to see the hot 
 flush mount to his wife's brow, and her eyes flash- 
 ing with anger. It was very soon after marriage 
 to have a dilference of so serious a kind. 
 
 " Why, Richard, do you expect me to do the 
 work of a housemaid in my new home?" 
 
 " Don't be absurd, Frances ; there is no need for 
 anything even approaching to that. I only ask 
 my wife to be content with a quiet life for a time, 
 and the large establishment will come all the 
 sooner. Much as I love you, Frances, I cannot 
 even for you go beycnd the bounds of prudence 
 and right, nor can I sacrifice my own seif- 
 respecL" 
 
 E| 
 
 VVhi 
 
 i 
 
 for 
 
 1 
 
 begi 
 
 old 
 at 1 
 
The First Sting. 
 
 87 
 
 Perhaps h^ spoke too sternly, but he was deeply 
 hurt. His wife made no reply, but drawing her 
 hat down over her eyes, turned from him and 
 amused herself" by dipping her hands in the shining 
 water through which they were gliding swiftly to 
 the shore. 
 
 " I think, Richard, we had better go home to 
 London to-morrow," she said, as he helped her out 
 at the little pier. 
 
 "Why, my darling?" 
 
 " Because we are spending money here every 
 day!" she said coolly, and walked on to the 
 cliateau, leaving her husband to digest her ungen- 
 erous speech at his leisure. 
 
 He secured the little boat to its fastenings and 
 proceeded slowly up the green slope to the garden 
 of the chateau, with his head bent on his breast in 
 dccip thought. There was a rustic seat standing in 
 the shelter of a tall almond tree in bloom, and there 
 Richard sat down, and leaning his head on his 
 hand tried to look into the future, to picture what 
 his home life was likely to be with Frances Kendal. 
 Their wills had clashed already ; and on the sub- 
 ject of expenditure they could never hope to agree. 
 What was to be done? It was a painful positioii 
 for a newly-made husband ; and already he was 
 beginning to think that there was truth in the 
 old saying that those who marry in haste repent 
 at leisure. He would brook no delay, and his 
 passionate love had blinded him to Frances Ken- 
 dal's desire ior wealth and ostentatious display of 
 every kind. She was not of that sisterhood who 
 for love can deny themselves, aid make home 
 
88 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 •x\ 
 
 happy with their sweet unmurmuring content. Sit- 
 ting there with a load of care and anxious forebod- 
 ings on his heart Richard Blake prayed more 
 earnestly than he had ever prayed before that he 
 might be given strength to deal gently and lovingly, 
 yet firmly, with the wayward being whose life was 
 now linked to his. At whatever cost he must 
 keep blameless in the eyes of God and of his 
 fellow-men ; there must be no incurring of debts 
 which they could never hope to pay, no livinL^ 
 beyond their means. On these points Richaid 
 Blake was firmly determined. He had a strong 
 will, so also had his wife. It remains for us to see 
 which conquered. Yet how he loved her ; how 
 unspeakably dear was every thread of gold on her 
 queenly head ! He would have willingly denied 
 himself to give her a moment's pleasure. Would 
 his love win her to a nobler womanhood, whose 
 aim would soar higher than the latest styles in 
 furniture and dress? Time would tell. He 
 rose at length and sauntered into the house. In 
 their private sitting-room he found his wife lying 
 on a couch where, overcome by the sultry air, she 
 had fallen asleep. It was a troubled sleep ; and 
 there were tears on the fair cheek and sparkling on 
 the long lashes, which smote Richard Blake to the 
 heart. Perhaps he had spoken harshly to his 
 darling, for she, the petted, indulged child of a 
 happy home had never heard a cross word, and 
 doubtless the tender heart had been wounded 
 by his abrupt and stern remarks about the servants. 
 He knelt down by her and looked into her face 
 with eyes so full of love that they seemed like some 
 
 I'll: 
 
The First Sting, 
 
 T.0 
 
 ie some 
 
 magnet, for presently the g^olucii head stirred on 
 the pillow, and she looked up. 
 
 " Is it you, Richard ; arc you cross with me 
 yet ? " she asked, and one fair arm stole about his 
 neck, while the uplifted eyes were filled with all 
 the winning entreaty of a child. 
 
 " My darling, forgive me ; I was a bear. I don't 
 deserve such a sweet wife," he said ; all the firm 
 resolutions of an hour ago melting away in the 
 radiance of that tremulous smile. So, like children 
 at play, they made it up, and again Richard lilake 
 was blissfully happy. Next morning saw them on 
 their way to Baden, where for ten days they took 
 part in all the gaiety of that gay and fashionable 
 resort. At the end of that time they travelled with 
 the Lancasters to Paris, where young Mrs. Blake 
 engaged the sister of her friend's " treasure " as a 
 maid. So she won the day. They arrived in 
 London late on a Saturday evening ; and as they 
 were not expected until the beginning of the foUow- 
 insf week there was none to welcome them to their 
 new home in Brampton Square. Richard only felt 
 it for his wife's sake, but she was not one to fret 
 over such trifles. She was so absorbed in seeing 
 whether all her orders to the upholsterers had been 
 fulfilled that she missed no familiar face in her 
 new abode. 
 
 •' By -the -by, what church do you attend, 
 Richard ? " she asked at breakfast on the follow- 
 ing morning. 
 
 " St. Mark's Presbyterian, in Albion Road," he 
 replied. " It is just half-way between Brampton 
 Square and Bingham Street." 
 
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 " A Presbyterian church ! Oh, yes ! I remember 
 now ; you told me that ; but of cours6 you will go 
 with me now. I could never feci at home in a dull 
 Presbyterian church. I was talking to Florence 
 St. John about it. They go to St. Peter's, in Eton 
 Square, and the service is deliriously High Church ; 
 suppose we try it this morning ? " 
 
 Richard Blake was dumfoundercd. 
 
 " But, Frances, is it not your duty to go with 
 me ? " he said with a slight smile. 
 
 His wife shrugged her dainty shoulders and 
 laughed. 
 
 " Oh, come, Richard ! you are not going to 
 tyrannise about such a trifle ? Suppose we split 
 the difference then — you go with me to St. 
 Peter's in the morning, and I '11 go with you to 
 St. Mark's in the evening when I am not too tired ; 
 will that do, you tiresome boy ? " 
 
 She bent towards him with her bewitching smile, 
 and pushed back his hair with her white, jewelled 
 hand. Her caressing ways were irresistible as yet 
 to her husband, so he kissed her and said they 
 would try that experiment for a Sabbath or two at 
 least. 
 
 And what of the mission in Seven Dials? What 
 of ihat faithful band of workers who looked to him 
 as their guide and head — what of the army of need- 
 ing ones to whom in Sabbath evenings gone by he 
 had been wont to break the Bread of Life ? Must 
 his labours among the outcast come to an end now 
 simply because he had built up a home for himself? 
 Was there not a greater call for him out of his 
 abundant gratitude to continue his mission of mercy 
 

 The First Sting. 
 
 91 
 
 to others less blessed than he? These thoughts 
 ofcupied the mind of Richard Blake, and made the 
 first Sabbath of his wedded life at home miserable 
 and unsatisfactory. He had married a wife indeed, 
 sweet and lovely and fascinating ; but was she a 
 helpmeet who would strengthen his feet in the 
 upward way? 
 
 i I 
 
 :'^:'"t| 
 
 )H 
 
I' 
 
 I i 
 
 II 
 
 II I! 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AT BRAMPTON SQUARE. 
 
 Oh ! the crooked path is tempting, 
 In its wealth of summer bloom ; 
 
 But its sunshine, false and smiling, 
 Must ere long change to gloom. 
 
 SAY, Mrs. Blake, don't you tlilnk, 
 Mary — Miss Osborne, I mean — is 
 working too hard? She looks ill, and 
 even old ; it's a confounded shame." 
 
 The speaker, as the reader may have 
 already guessed, was no other than 
 Harry Kendal. He had "dropped 
 in," as he often did, at lO Bingham 
 Street, one evening, and had been struck by the 
 change in Mary. 
 
 " I don't know, Harry. I see her every day, 
 you know, and she always says she is quite well ; 
 but now that you speak of it, I do think she does 
 not look so fresh as she did a year ago." 
 
 " 1 should think not either. What 's she doing 
 now? Oh, I hear the monotonous grind of the 
 
 92 
 
At Brampton Squwe. 
 
 93 
 
 five-finger exercise upstairs ! How many pupils 
 has she ? " 
 
 " Only three. Mary is not a musician ; and it is 
 a task for her to teach music. Painting is her 
 forte, you know ; but music and drawing so often 
 go together that she could scarcely get pupils for 
 the one without the other," replied Mrs. Blake. 
 
 " I see," said Harry, grimly. " When did you 
 see Dick, Mrs. Blake?" 
 
 "About a fortnight ago," replied Mrs. Blake, 
 with a sudden hardness in her voice. " He called 
 for a few minutes. As I said to him, he might as 
 well live in the wilds of Siberia as a mile from us." 
 
 " Don't you ever go to Brampton Square ? " asked 
 Harry. 
 
 '• No. Excuse me saying it, but I am not wel- 
 comed there. Mothers-in-law are best kept outside, 
 Harry." 
 
 Marry bit his lip. 
 
 " Frances is a fool, Mrs. Blake. There 's some- 
 thing wrong at the Square ; 1 hate to go. There's 
 something wrong everywhere. The world 's all at 
 sixes and sevens;" said Harry with an enc.gy 
 which made Mrs. Bl.ke iiinile in spite of herself. 
 
 But there was truth in what he said. Of late 
 there had been many discords, many heart-burnings 
 both in Brampton Square and Bingham Street. 
 But the worst had not come yet. 
 
 " When were j^?/ at Richard's, Harry?" 
 
 " To-day ; but Frances was as cross as a bear, 
 and Dick wouldn't speak. The only decent person 
 in the house was Miss Annesley, an old school 
 Iriend of Fan's ; but she doesn't look as if she were 
 
 t- '■^y 
 
!>. I I 
 
 I (I nil 
 
 94 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 enjoying h r visit immensely," said Harry. "Hulloa! 
 the s\'cct symphonies upstairs have collapsed, and 
 I hear the front door shutting. The lesson is surely 
 short and sweet." 
 
 Just then the dining-room door opened and Mary 
 entered. She smiled to see Harry, and gave hiin 
 her hand cordially, as of yore. Yes, Mary was 
 changed. The freshness of her youth seemed 
 gone ; her face was pale, and worn, and even sad. 
 Of late old Time had not dealt tenderly with our 
 gentle Mary. 
 
 " Wh)' liave you sent Julie away so soon to-night, 
 dear? "asked Mrs. Blake. 
 
 *' She had not practised, and my head ached so 
 that I could not be so patient with her as I liJce to 
 be, auntie,'' replied Mary. " Well, Harry, how have 
 you been ? What a long time it seems since we 
 saw you ! " 
 
 "I was here last week ; do you think it long?" 
 exclaimed Harry. ** I say, you look wretchedly 
 ill ! It is a glorious night ; you can feel the spring 
 even in this smoky Babylon. Let me take you 
 out?" 
 
 " Thanks ; so I will. I want to go to Bramp- 
 ton Square to-night, Aunt Sara. I promised 
 Richard. He said Mrs. Blake was wondering why 
 I had not come to see them for so long." 
 
 Richard's wife was always spoken of as Mrs. 
 Blake ; even his mother never used her daughter- 
 in-law's Christian name. That in itself told that 
 there was a gulf between Brampton Square and 
 Bingham Street. Yes, a gulf indeed ; and growing 
 wider every day ! 
 
At Brampton Square. 
 
 95 
 
 Harry's face glowed with pleasure at the ready 
 assent to his request. He had not outgrown his 
 boyish passion for Mary Osborne; nay, it had 
 grown stronger and deeper and more manly, and 
 of late a new element had crept into it, a kind of 
 protecting tenderness, such as strong men so often 
 feel for gentle careworn women whom they would 
 fain shelter from all the storms of life. Mary quickly 
 made her toilet, and in less than fifteen minutes 
 they were walking together by the quietest route 
 to Brampton Square. 
 
 " I say, Mary, what do you suppose is up at the 
 Square?" inquired Harry, abruptly leaving the 
 subject of art and the approaching opening of the 
 Academy which they had been discussing during 
 the first part of their walk. 
 
 " Up at the Square ! what do you mean, 
 Harry?" 
 
 ** Oh ! Well, Dick and Fan don't seem to get on 
 — do they now ? not, at least, as I would like to 
 get on if I had a hou.^e and a wife of my own." 
 
 Mary was too much troubled to smile at her 
 companion's rather amusing way of expressing 
 himself 
 
 " If their happiness is not quite perfect, we can- 
 not mend it by discussing it, Harry," she said ; so 
 gently that he could not take offence. 
 
 " Of course you are right — you always are ; only 
 I want to say that the blame isn't Dick's, it 's Fan's. 
 It always is and always was. She wasn't the wife 
 for him at all. He deserved a better." 
 
 "Oh, hush, Harry! Mrs. Blake is your sister," 
 pleaded Mary. 
 
 \ I 
 
 t^». 
 
96 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 ihr 
 
 " Ye.= that's what makes me so mad at her when 
 I look at Dick. He isn't the man he was. Well, 
 I won't say another word — upon my honour 1 
 won't ; but I say, Mary, how different you are from 
 other women ! They mostly like to discuss people's 
 failings and differences, especially those of married 
 people." 
 
 " Harry, our talk about the pictures was more 
 edifying than this, wasn't it ? " asked Mary with a 
 little smile. 
 
 " Perhaps it was ; but I won't talk another word 
 about pictures. I want to talk about you," said 
 Harry, daringly. " Do you know you are working 
 too hard ? " 
 
 " Am I ? Who told you so ? " 
 
 " I see it on your face. It can't go on, Mary, you 
 know." 
 
 "Well, if it can't go on it iri^si stop, I suppose," 
 said Mary, smiling, still all ui xious of the drift 
 of her companion's remarks. 
 
 "Yes, it's got to stop," 
 kind of desperation. " I say, 
 a fool. I know you are ten 
 good for me, but I wotdd love and care for you — 
 upon my honour I would ; and you wouldn't have 
 anything to do except keep me in order." 
 
 It was a proposal characteristic of the man — 
 abrupt, impetuous, boyish, but sincere as he was to 
 the very heart's core. 
 
 "Harry!" 
 
 Oh the deep distress in the voice and on the face 
 of the woman by his side ! That one word, that 
 look told the downfall of all his hopes. 
 
 said Harry with a 
 
 , Mary, I know I am 
 
 thousand times too 
 
\ 
 
 At Brampton Square. 
 
 97 
 
 " Forgive me, Mary," he said humbly. " I — T — 
 thought you didn't hate me. You seemed to like 
 me to be with you. And I love you so dearly ; 
 couldn't you manage to put up with me? You 
 might learn to care a little for me, by-and-by. 
 I 'd strive to be more worthy, and I 'd be so good 
 to you !" 
 
 "O Harry, Harry!" 
 
 The tears were overflowing now in Mary's eyes, 
 and she stood still, for they were just entering 
 Brampton Square, and as all the windows were 
 closed in for the night, nobody could see them. 
 
 " My dear Harry, I am so sorry, I don't know 
 what to say." 
 
 "Then you can't have me, Mary?" 
 
 There was something intensely pathetic in 
 Harry's handsome face ; he was in such terrible 
 earnest. 
 
 Mary shook her head. 
 
 " I never suspected such a thing, Harry. I have 
 been so grateful for your kindness, your care 
 for me, never thinking what was in your heart. 
 Forgive me if I have unwittingly encouraged you, 
 or led you to hope that my answer would be 
 different." 
 
 " You didn't ; you are an angel. But tell me 
 why you can't have me ? Is there anybody else ? 
 That fright of a doctor with the eyeglass who comes 
 to see Mrs. Blake?" 
 
 " No, no ! " 
 
 Then Mary's eyes involuntarily travelled across 
 the square to the stately mansion with the pillared 
 doorway wherein dwelt Richard Blake and his 
 
 'I 
 
 r 
 
f 
 I 
 
 m 
 
 ii' 
 
 \-n\ 
 
 n i ; 
 
 
 98 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 wife. That look was enough. The scales fell from 
 the eyes of Harry Kendal. 
 
 " Of course it was Dick. What a fool I was. 
 I had no chance beside him. Forfjive me, Mary, 
 and forget what I said," he said, quickly. " Let us 
 be friends still ; and let me assure you I never 
 loved and reverenced you as I do now. You are 
 the best and noblest woman on earth. Good-bye ! " 
 
 So saying poor Harry wrung her hand and strode 
 off to battle with his pain and manfully master it 
 in solitude. Mary understood, for had she not 
 passed through these very deeps herself? She 
 was faithful to the one love of her life ; the blessed- 
 ness of womanhood had but whispered itself to her 
 and for ever passed her by, but it had left her a 
 better woman than it found her ; to her sorrow had 
 been sanctified indeed. 
 
 She walked slowly across the quiet square 
 pondering the mystery of life. Oh but it was a 
 ravelled skein ! and but for her firm clinging to the 
 mighty Hand which held it, she had lost her way 
 altogether. Thus as we grow older, and sorrows 
 thicken about our path, we feel more and more the 
 unutterable need of a faith which will stand the 
 test, which will sustain even when our eyes are 
 blinded to the wherefore of much we see around us. 
 Oh the sweet peace and blessedness of that faith, 
 tiiat calm trust in a Father who knows all about us, 
 all our innermost needs and heart-longings, far 
 better than we can tell Him ! I think sorrow 
 is the very pathway to the gate of heaven. 
 
 " Mrs. Blake is out, ma'am, but Mr. Blake is in 
 the library. Will you see him ? " 
 
 
At Braripton Square. 
 
 VO 
 
 So said Mrs. Richard Blake's smart houscinaid 
 when she answered Miss Osborne's rin^^. 
 
 Many of young Mrs. Blake's fashionable friends 
 wondered why she did not keep a footman. To 
 their polite wonderings she would shrug her dainty 
 shoulders and reply, 
 
 " Poor dear Mr. Blake has notions, you know. 
 IJkes woman servants about the house ; and a 
 man's prejudices, my dears, have to be overcome by 
 dci^rccs." 
 
 Ay, truly ! And if women of Frances Blake's 
 stamp (there are many such) would lay bare their 
 married life to public gaze it would exhibit 
 triumphs of diplomatic skill before which the 
 tactics of the most brilliant statesman would 
 pale. 
 
 Miss Osborne hesitated a moment. Her visit 
 was intended for Richard's wife, not f'^r Richard 
 himself. But she knew he would be hurt if she 
 did not wait to see him. Therefore she bowed 
 assent, and the maid ushered her upstairs to the 
 drawing-room. It was a magnificent and beautiful 
 apartment, which would have borne lavourable 
 comparison with the neighbouring drawing-rooms 
 in Park Lane. Mrs. Richard Blake had given one 
 of the first-rate London upholsterers carte blancJie 
 to furnish her house, and when the bills came in to 
 Richard Blake he stood aghast, for he had not the 
 wherewithal to pay. So the young couple began 
 life under the shadow of debt. It weighed lightly 
 on Frances, because she had never learned through 
 the fine experience of poverty the value of money ; 
 but it was a burden upon the mind of her husband, 
 
 ! 
 
 t .,. 
 
100 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 'J I !: 
 
 day and night. Mary was not long left alone. In 
 a few minutes she hoard a footfall on the stairs, 
 and the door opened to admit her cousin. He was 
 in evening dress and looked every inch a gentle- 
 man, but he was not the Richard Blake of old. 
 There were silver threads gleaming among the 
 heavy dark hair and lines upon the broad open 
 brow which thirty-three years of ordinary life could 
 not have brought there. The anxious careworn 
 mouth, the restless troubled eyes, told of inward 
 care. At sight of his cousin the smile of old lit up 
 his face, and he took her hands in a warm kindly 
 clasp. 
 
 " Mary, it is good to see you," was all he said ; 
 but the words meant much. 
 
 " I came to see your wife, Richard," said Mary, 
 quietly. " The maid tells me she is not at home." 
 
 " No. You will seldom find Frances at home of 
 an evening. She receives on Wednesday afternoons. 
 But you would not care, perhaps, to encounter her 
 guests then. She and Miss Annesley have gone 
 to spend a quiet evening at Lady Conroy's in St. 
 James's Square. I promised to drop in late. 
 Well, how has the world been using you? You 
 look pale and wearied." 
 
 " So do you, Richard," replied Mary, with a 
 slight smile. " But we are both growing old." 
 
 " I suppose so. The world seems changed since 
 the old days at Bingham Street." 
 
 " I should imagine so. With a lovely wife and a 
 house like this you should be a happier man, 
 Richard." 
 
 " You think so ? " 
 
At Brampton Square, 
 
 loi 
 
 Richard Blake took a turn across the lonj^ room 
 and then came back to the window. Then he stood 
 a moment looking out on the network of fresh 
 green boughs in the gardens of the square. 
 
 "Do you ever go down to the Dials Mission now, 
 Mary ? " 
 
 " Yes ; eve«*y Sabbath evening." 
 
 " How is it getting on ? Well, I hope ? " 
 
 *' Yes. But you are missed everywhere, Richard. 
 They will never get a superintendent like you." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 After that brief exclamation from Richard Blake 
 a long silence ensued. 
 
 " You understand, I suppose, what caused me to 
 sever my connection with the Mission," he said at 
 lenc[th. 
 
 " Perhaps I can guess. Is it not the same which 
 caused you to change from St. Mark's church to 
 St. Peter's ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and yet there is more. I believe that 
 though my wife is desirous that I should appear 
 with her at church on Sabbath mornings, she would 
 not greatly care where 1 spent my evenings. But 
 at the present time my life is such that were I to 
 go down to the Dials and speak as I used to speak 
 to the poor creatures there I should be acting the 
 part of a hypocrite, Mary." 
 
 Mary Osborne shivered slightly, and her lips 
 trembled. 
 
 " O Richard, that is a terrible thing to say." 
 
 *' It is true," he said, bitterly. " Let me speak, 
 Mary ; it will relieve me, and I know you to be 
 true as steel. At the present time I owe hundreds 
 
 I' 
 
:i:l 
 
 'U. 
 
 r. *ai 
 
 il 
 
 
 ■' i 
 
 ji' '• 
 
 :i« 1 
 
 ■ ' 
 
 11 
 
 \\i 
 
 II 
 
 
 11 
 
 '|iff 
 
 1 illl 
 
 103 
 
 ^ Divided House. 
 
 of pounds at least The debts have been chiefly 
 incurred by Frances, but it is the same thing. To 
 try and retrieve such a wretched position I have 
 phmged into speculations, which are sometimes 
 neither very safe nor strictly honourable, hoping for 
 a chance in my favour. As yet I have had bad 
 luck. Ihe income I derive from my business 
 scarcely pays the house rent and servants' wages ; 
 so that wc are literally robbing trades-people to 
 make an appearance before a world which does not 
 care a straw whether we sink or swim." 
 
 " O Richard, Richard ! " said Mary, in a kind of 
 wail. " Do not tell me any more. Let me go. 
 I cannot bear it ; I cannot, indeed !" 
 
 " I have no home," continued Richard Blake, as 
 if he had forgotten the presence of his cousin, "and 
 a wife only in name. Our marriage is a mockery 
 of the name. We " 
 
 He stopped abruptly, for there was the noise of 
 an arrival or an entrance downstairs. 
 
 " I hear my wife's voice," he said in surprise. 
 " Something must have occurred to Lady Conroy. 
 She is not strong. No ; sit still, Mary. You must 
 see Frances now. Assume for once, if you can, a 
 little of society-hypocrisy, and look as if our con- 
 versation had been ot the most commonplace kind." 
 
 
 

 P^ 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A LOVELESS HEARTH. 
 
 MucTi must be borne which it is hard to bear, 
 Much given away which it were sweet to keep; 
 
 God help us all ! who need indeed His care ; 
 And yet I know the Shepherd loves His sheep. 
 
 Bitliuer Lyiton, 
 
 N spite of her cousin's advice, Mary 
 Osborne looked flushed and ill at ease 
 when the ladies entered the room. 
 
 Richard's wife entered first, a fair 
 vision in shimmer and sheen of satin, 
 with rare jewels sparkling in her hair 
 and at her throat. The hue of her 
 dress was certainly dark, but its elabo- 
 rate make and trimmings, and its sweeping train, 
 made it suitable for any assembly, however gay and 
 fashionable. Her face, though beautiful as of yore, 
 was marred by its expression of discontent. Frances 
 Blake was not a happy woman. She looked keenly 
 from her husband to the lady sitting near him, 
 recognised her by a distant bow, and threw herself 
 
 10^ 
 
104 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 W\ 
 
 !ii 
 
 languidly into a chair. Then she seemed to 
 remember the lady who had followed her into the 
 room — 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Gertrude " she said, with 
 the slightest approach to a smile. "Allow me to 
 introduce you to Miss Mary Osborne, a connection 
 of my husbaiid's : Miss Annesley — Miss Osborne." 
 
 Mary turned with unspeakable relief to the 
 gentle refined face of Gertrude Annesley, and, 
 imp.-^lled by her frank and lovely smile, held out 
 her hand. 
 
 T.Trs. Blake smiled slightly at this breach of 
 conventional manners ; but Gertrude immediately 
 took the offered hand and pressed it warmly. 
 Their eyes met, and these two women, meeting 
 thus for the first time, became friends, for the soul 
 of each spoke to the other in the language of 
 simplicity and truth. 
 
 "You are early home, Frances," said Richard 
 Blake, as he placed a chair for Miss Annesley. 
 *' I trust you did not find Lady Conroy indis- 
 posed ? " 
 
 " No ; she was quite well when we went, but she 
 took one of her hysterical fits, and we were glad to 
 leave. We hurried home, thinking we might be 
 in time to catch you for the Vaudeville. Lady 
 Conroy raves about the new comedienne now 
 appearing there," said Frances, looking straight at 
 Richard. 
 
 He bit his lip, for her treatment of Maiy was 
 rude in the extreme. 
 
 "Three nights at the theatre in one week is 
 quite enough, Frances." he said, coldly. " I am 
 
';/ 
 
 A Loveless Hearth. 
 
 lo:; 
 
 sure Miss Annesley has no desire to see the new 
 comedienner 
 
 " I cannot say I have ; but I am in your wife's 
 hands, Mr. Blake," replied Gertrude in her quiet 
 way. " But, Frances, you look tired. I think you 
 would be best at home to-night." 
 
 The spoiled beauty shook her head impatiently. 
 
 "You are quite mistaken, I am never better 
 than when in the midst of excitement and gaiety. 
 I am a perfect butterfly. Had it not been for that 
 tiresome Lady Conroy we might have enjoyed the 
 pleasantest of evenings at Mrs. Lancaster's." 
 
 "My love!" said Richard Blake, rather nervously, 
 "you have not asked Mary to take off her bonnet. 
 If she would stay we could enjoy a pleasant even- 
 ing with some music from you and a game at whist." 
 
 " If Miss Osborne is enchanted at the prospect 
 of so much enjoyment let her take off her bonnet 
 by all means. Be good enough to touch the bell, 
 Richard, and Hervett will show her up to a dress- 
 ing-room," said Frances Blake ; and at her words 
 her husband's brow grew dark. 
 
 Mary rose, her face flushing most painfully. 
 
 "I see I am intruding, Mrs. Blake," she said, 
 with gentle dignity. *' Had not Richard told me 
 you wondered why I did not come oftener to 
 Brampton Square, believe me, I should not be here 
 to-night." 
 
 A slight flush tinged Frances Blake's cheek, and 
 she bit her lip. She prided herself upon her perfect 
 manners, and yet before this quiet, unobtrusive, 
 yet thorough gentlewoman, she felt ashamed. 
 Gertrude Annesley, looking an^l feeling intensely 
 
 i'l 
 
 '1 V ft ^ 
 
io6 
 
 j4 Dhnded House. 
 
 uncomfortable, turned over the leaves of a book on 
 the table beside her. She only looked up to return 
 Mary's look and smile, and this time her hand was 
 outstretched in token of farewell. 
 
 " I hope we may meet again," she said sincerely. 
 
 " Thanks ; if you could spare the time my aunt 
 and I would indeed be pleased to see you at lo 
 Bingham Street," replied Mary as sincerely ; then, 
 turning to Frances, she made her a bow as distant 
 as her own and left the room — Richard followincj. 
 
 When the door was shut Gertrude closed her 
 book and looked with sorrowful eyes into her 
 friend's face. 
 
 " Frances ! what do you mean ? What has that 
 sweet and gentle girl done to merit such rudeness 
 at your hands ? " 
 
 ** Don't lecture me, Gertrude ; you are deceived 
 in her. She is one of those pretending saints who 
 do so much harm in the world. My husband thinks 
 her perfection ; and I know compares her with me — 
 therefore I hate her. She shall not come to my 
 house. I believe Richard and she were sweethearts 
 or something before ; and I believe she adores him 
 yet," said Frances passionately. " She will turn 
 him against me. My marriage, Gertrude Annesley, 
 was the grand mistake of my life." 
 
 " Why so, Frances? Your husband is noble and 
 good, and he loves you devotedly. If your marriage 
 is a mistake, the mistake is of your own making," 
 
 said Gertrude with warmth. " It is wrong and sintul 
 of you to speak in that strain." 
 
 " A great deal you know about it ! Wait till you 
 arc fast tied to a • man whobc tastes, habits, and 
 
 1 m; 
 
 ■■■ \-i < 
 
A Loveless Hearth. 
 
 107 
 
 disposition are as widely opposed, and we will see 
 what you will make of it," said Frances, idly turning 
 her rings round upon her slender finger. " Suppose 
 we order the carriage again, and play the part of 
 uninvited guests in Harley Street ? Mrs. Lancaster 
 would be charmed to see us. Richard is off to see 
 his paragon home, and he will go in to the house 
 with her, and with the aid of my respected mother- 
 in-law they will sit in judgment on me as one of 
 the ungodly. O you little fool ! are these tears in 
 your eyes ? What are they for ? " 
 
 " They are in pity for you, Frances ; for I cannot 
 see the end of the web of misery you arc weaving 
 for yourself with your own hands." 
 
 " I am content to drift with the tide, ma chere. 
 I am a firm believer in a remorseless fate which has 
 us in its grasp, and we cannot escape if we will. 
 That doctrine, that our lives are all mapped out for 
 us, is a very consoling one for those who, like me, 
 strand on the rocks of matrimony." 
 
 " It is also misleading, Frances," said Gertrude, 
 gravely. *' It may be true in one sense that our 
 lives are ordered for us, but it is also true that we 
 hold the making or marring of them in our own 
 hands. I know you well, so I am not afraid to tell 
 you that you make no attempt whatever to make 
 either yourself or your husband happy. You 
 appear to me to live only to oppose his wishes." 
 
 *' Indeed ! let me lay some of my husband's zvisJies 
 before you, Gertrude, and see whether even you 
 would conform to them all. It would please my 
 husband were I to dismiss all my domestics but one, 
 and myself superintend the cooking of his dinner. 
 
 I I 
 
 'i I 
 
 •»f '1I 
 
1: 
 
 '4 i! 
 
 I 
 I I 
 
 1 !i; 
 
 iii 
 
 »i 
 
 !!i 'Mil 
 
 wm nil' 
 
 'A 
 
 io8 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 It would please him to see the horses sent to 
 Tattcrsall's and the carriage back to Drewette's. 
 He would wish me to go to church three times a 
 day and teach a ragged school at night ; to hold 
 prayer meetings in my drawing-room and old 
 wives' tea-parties in the kitchen. He would never 
 let me inside a theatre or a concert-room, or permit 
 me to enjoy myself in any way. If I could succumb 
 to all that then I might enjoy the felicity of know- 
 ing I was coming nearer his ideal of wifehood. But 
 in the meantime I do not intend to emulate such 
 an ideal, even from afar." 
 
 Gertrude Annesley sighed, for she could make 
 nothing of this wayward creature, and such dis- 
 cussion could not mend matters. Therefore to end 
 it she opened the piano and began to play, while 
 Frances still toyed idly with the jewels which, 
 because they were not all paid for, she had no right 
 to wear, her heart full of bitterest, most unhappy 
 feelings. Oh ! but she was heaping up a great 
 burden of pain to recoil upon her in days to 
 come. 
 
 Meanwhile Richard and Mary were walking 
 together through the streets in constrained and 
 uncomfortable silence. For both the beauty of the 
 summer night was gone, and life seemed a bitter 
 tree, whose fruitage was only sorrow and heartache 
 and pain. 
 
 " Dare I ask you, for my sake, Mary, to forgive 
 my wife ? " asked Richard at length, in a low and 
 troubled voice. 
 
 " Do not speak of it, if you please, Richard," she 
 said, very gently. " You know me well enough to 
 
A Loveless Hearth. 
 
 109 
 
 Ic sure that there is no bitterness in my heart, but 
 only a vast pity for you both." 
 
 " You see what my home life is," continued 
 Richard, gloomily. " In additioji to the burden 
 imposed by our extravagant livinp^ I have the 
 miserv of a loveless marria^^e to contend ai>ainst. 
 My wife does not, and I believe never did, care for 
 me. I have tried every means to win her. I have 
 been gentle and kind and indulgent — too much so, 
 I find now, when it is too late." 
 
 " Richard! I have no right to listen to you speak- 
 ing so of your wife," said Mary pleadingly. " Spare 
 me, Richard, and her. She would not like it." 
 
 " I am not speaking evil of her, Mary, only 
 simple truth ; and it is an unspeakable relief. Do 
 not deny me your sweet sympathy. It is the only 
 oasis in the desert. I know my innermost thoughts 
 are safe with you. I would not have my moiher 
 know we are so unhappy for the world." 
 
 " She shall never know from me. T will hope 
 and pray for you, Richard," Mary said very low, 
 and unknown to him «, vcn then an unspoken grayer 
 underlay the words. 
 
 Richard's marriage had been a sore blow to Mary 
 Osborne, but to be made the confidiuite of the 
 misery of his married life was harder still. For 
 such a trial prayer was needed, else she could not 
 have borne it. 
 
 " We are perfect strangers, my wife and I," con- 
 tinued Richard Blake ; " she never consults me. 
 She goes where she likes, asks whom she pleases to 
 the house, orders what she wills. There can only 
 
 Mary " 
 
 be one ending to her extrava 
 
 gance. 
 
 -ifl 
 
 I 
 
no 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 \ ^5 
 
 ;iH 
 
 IV^^ 
 
 " What ? " asked Mary with a start. 
 
 " The Bankruptcy Court ; which would probably 
 be followed by a separation, seeing that Frances, 
 on her own confession, is not cut out for the role of 
 a poor man's wife." 
 
 " Richard, you must go away ; I shall not hear 
 any more," said Mary, and stood still at the 
 entrance to Bingham Street. " I do not like to 
 say it, but I think you are to blame also. You 
 have been weak where you ought to have been 
 strong. No man should allow his wife to become 
 so completely mistress. Do not blame her alto- 
 gether ; be gentle with her, Richard, and remember 
 that perhaps instead of helping her to a better 
 way you have hindered her in it by weak indul- 
 gence. Now, good-night ; I cannot listen to you 
 again, Richard, for between husband and wife no 
 third person has a right to interlere. Only God 
 comfort and help you and her." 
 
 She left him standing there and went slowly 
 on towards the house. Her heart was a chaos of 
 bitterness and sorrow and yearning compassion; 
 and uppermost in her mind, above even anything 
 Richard had said, were the prophetic words of Holy 
 Writ :— 
 
 •I 
 
 ** A house divided against itself shall not stand." 
 
 iiii' 
 

 CHAPTER XT II. 
 
 THE DARKEST HOUR. 
 
 And life is thorny, and youth is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love, 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 
 S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 HEN Richard Blake reached his home 
 that night he found that his wife and 
 her friend had gone to spend an hour 
 at the house of Mrs. Lancaster in 
 Harley Street. It was already late in 
 the evening ; but early hours were 
 not kept in Brampton Square, Mrs, 
 Blake seldom returning home till 
 Richard Blake wandered listlessly 
 through the deserted house, and finally came down 
 to the library, where some of his business books 
 and papers waited his attention. But though he 
 sat down and placed them before his eyes he could 
 not fix his mind upon them. Yet they sorely 
 needed calculation and deep thought, for the affairs 
 they represented were in a state of strange 
 
 III H 
 
 midnight 
 
 i^i' fl 
 
 " 
 
 ti 
 
 ».,,. 
 
112 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 W' m 
 
 confusion. There were burdening cares in the 
 office as well as in the home. 
 
 Richard Blake was much annoyed to ' f that 
 his wife had ^one to Mrs. Lancaster's. •, was a 
 woman of frivolity and fashion, not at all ^.articular 
 about the circle of her friends, provided they were 
 rich and gay. Consequently very objectionable 
 people were occasionally to be met with in her 
 house. Her husband was known upon the Stock 
 Exchange as a most unprincipled speculator, who 
 had amassed a fortune by trading upon the weak- 
 nesses and failings of his fellows. At Sutton-le- 
 Willows, where they had their country seat, they 
 had not been received into the best circles, and in 
 London, of course, they hung upon the skirts of 
 society. But Frances Blake, reckless in her love of 
 gaiety and display, had grown less particular about 
 the character or social position of her acquaintances, 
 and was Mrs. Lancaster's bosom friend. 
 
 It was of course a subject of frequent remark that 
 Mrs. Blake was so often seen alone in public ; 
 and the scandalmongers were not slow to say that 
 she and her husband lived unhappily together. 
 Only a i^^ days previously Richard Blake had just 
 pleaded with, and then commanded, her to cease* 
 her intimacy with this lady, and it was as gall to 
 him to have this new proof of how little store his 
 wife set by his wishes. His cousin's words of 
 gentle reproof had gone home, and sitting there in 
 his loneliness he reviewed the past three years, and 
 took himself to task for his share in the unhappiness 
 of the present. It v^^as true what Mary had said. 
 He had been weak at the beginning, when a little 
 
The Darkest Hour. 
 
 113 
 
 firmness mingled with gentleness might have won 
 the day. Too easily he had let go his hold ui)()n 
 all the earnest and much blessed Christian labours 
 in which he had been engaged previous to his 
 marriage ; too easily had the world and the things 
 that are in the world encompassed him and ensnared 
 his heart away from higher good. Instead of 
 guiding and directing his wayward wife, he had 
 allowed himself weakly to be led until he lost 
 control of her in every respect, until they were so 
 hopelessly involved in a frivolous and extravagant 
 way of life that it was well nigh impossible to draw 
 back. But the end was at hand. Some day very 
 soon the crash must come, and the old and honour- 
 able house with which he was connected would be 
 dishonoured in commercial circles, and made the 
 common talk of the Bankruptcy Court. Ruin, ruin 
 stared him in the face. Overcome by all these 
 thoughts Hichard Blake buried his face in his arms 
 on the table, and a deep groan escaped his lips. 
 He was almost in despair, and in all the wide world 
 there was none to help or speak a kindly word. 
 Ah, no! the world would have nothing but 
 condemnation for him ; it would point the finger 
 of scorn at him, and tell how he lived in princely 
 style, riding through life in a carriage, robed in 
 purple and fine linen for which the poor and the 
 honest had to pay. To a man of Richard Blake's 
 mental calibre such thoughts were fraught with 
 keenest agony. Cares could not sit lightly upon 
 him ; to him life had ever been a thing of terrible 
 earnest, and it was a great mystery how he had 
 ever been led into such a maze of sin and shame. 
 
 i, 
 
 *«■»!• ■I 
 
 1 \ 
 
 ii, 
 > .'i 
 
114 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 '•A ■ 
 
 Such instances of a nnan of stroni:j individuality 
 bcin^ held in thrall by the influence of a woman 
 have their parallel in every day life. A woman's 
 power is well nij^h boundless : let her sec to it 
 that it be used wholly for good, else great will be 
 her condemnation. 
 
 Shortly after midnight the roll of carriage wheels 
 broke the stillness of Brampton Square, and in a 
 few minutes Richard Blake heard the opening of 
 the hall door and the ladies entering the house. 
 They went directly upstairs, and shortly afterwards 
 he put out the library gas and followed them. In 
 her dressing room, as he expected, he found his 
 wife. She had removed her jewels and thrown off 
 her rich attire, and having dismissed her maid, was 
 sitting idly by the fire with her golden hair all 
 unbound falling like a cloud of glory around her. 
 Oh, but she v/as fair ; lovely enough to turn any 
 man's head I b t for Richard Blake the beauty of 
 that face seemed gone, and the brief passion of a day 
 had well-nigh burnt out upon his loveless hearth. 
 She looked round carelessly at his entrance, then 
 reached for a novel from the mantel, opened it and 
 began to scan its pages. Her husband moved over 
 to the hearth and stood there looking down upon 
 her with so intense and earnest a gaze that somehow 
 her eyes were presently raised to meet his. 
 
 " Why do you look at me so ? " she asked 
 pettishly. " How wretched you look I Are you 
 ill?" 
 
 " No," he said, in a voice of curious calm. "You 
 have been at Mrs. Lancaster's to-night again, 
 Frances, 1 am told." 
 
The Darkest Hour. 
 
 »I5 
 
 "Yes ; and a most cnjoyalile cvcnin!:^ wc spent— 
 Gertrude was quite charmed," said slic defiantly. 
 
 '• I do not believe it. So lovely and pure minded 
 a ^\x\ as Miss Anneslcy would find nothinij in 
 common with a woman of Mrs. L.incaster'.s stamp. 
 May I ask if it is your intention to retain her as 
 your bosom friend in .spite of my earnest desire to 
 the contrary ? " 
 
 " I cannot for a whim of your prejudice, give up 
 the friendship of one who has shown me .so much 
 kindness since 1 came to London," replied Frances, 
 sullenly. "I .sec no harm in her." 
 
 " I have heard her spoken of as I should not like 
 you to be spoken of," said Richard Blake. "Yet 
 when you are such close friends I can hardly hope 
 that you have escaped." 
 
 Mrs. Blake abruptly changed the .subject. 
 
 "Well, did you see your paragon cousin safely 
 home? and did you enliven your walk by discussing 
 my faults and failings ? " she asked mockingly. 
 
 "You made me blush for you to-night, Frances," 
 was the cold reply. " Not one of your servants 
 would have been guilty of such rudeness as you 
 showed Mary to-night." 
 
 " I don't like her, never did, and never shall ; 
 and whatever my faults, I am honest and open as 
 the day. I cannot put on a mask of friendship 
 when I feel none," said Frances carelessly. "Of 
 course you compared her with me greatly to her 
 advantage, and pictured what a beautiful and good 
 life you could have lived with her if you had 
 married her instead of me. It is a pity for us both 
 tliat you did not think of that in time." 
 
ii6 
 
 A Divided II flitse. 
 
 \'a\ 
 
 A flush rose to Richard Blake's brow and dved 
 it re-!. How very near his wife's words had hit 
 the mark even she did not guess. She mistook 
 the flush for one of anger, and fearing lest she had 
 gone too far, once more abruptly changed the 
 subject. 
 
 "Where shall we go this summer?" she asked. 
 *' I was thinking of Scarborough. I have not been 
 there since I was a young girl. I remember it as a 
 lovely place." 
 
 " We cannot go anywhere this year, Frances " 
 said Richard Blake coldly. " You will have to be 
 content with a visit to Kendal Hall." 
 
 A frown gatheiod en the brow of Frances Blake, 
 
 " It is the same story every year ! " she said, 
 passionately. " You grudge me everything ; but 
 I will go — and with Mrs. Lancaster too ! She is 
 to put up at the Grand Hotel to be saved house- 
 keeping worries." 
 
 During the outbursts of his wife's passionate 
 temper he generally preserved a prudent silence ; 
 but to-night it was doubly hard. 
 
 " God knows, Frances, I would grudge you 
 nothing if I had the wherewithal to pay," he said 
 at length in low hoarse tones. " I have frequently 
 warned you before of the probable ending of our 
 mode of life, and implored you to retrench for a 
 time. You would not listen ; and now nothing on 
 earth can arrest the calamity which will overtake 
 us. Before the holiday season commences we will 
 be in the Gazette, and the chances are that I may 
 be charged with fraudulent bankruptcy." 
 
 The book fell from the young wife's hands, and 
 
 iitii t 
 
The Darkest Hour. 
 
 117 
 
 the lovely bloom faded from her cheek, leaving it 
 deathly pale. 
 
 " You are telling me the truth, Richard ? " she 
 asked faintly. 
 
 " I would to God I could say otherwise, Frances." 
 
 Then there was a long silence, during which 
 Richard stood with his face still covered, while his 
 wife gazed blankly into the dancing flames. 
 
 " Papa will help us surely ? " she said at length. 
 
 " He has helped me frequently. But seeing 
 plainly that he was but throwing his money to the 
 winds he refused some time ago to advance any 
 further sums. I cannot blame him. We who have 
 sinned must suffer the consequences," was Richard's 
 reply ; and again there was a long silence. 
 
 " I wish I had died before I married you, 
 Richard Blake," came at last passionately from his 
 wife's lips, and she burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 He looked at her for a few minutes in silence, 
 then his heart yearned over her, and he went close 
 to her and put one arm about her shoulders. Even 
 when she wounded him most deeply he would not 
 turn from her. He would try once more the power 
 of gentleness and love. 
 
 " Frances, my darling, this is no time for 
 recrimination. Let us try to look calmly at the 
 future, and see what is to be done. Though we may 
 be stripped of all our worldly goods we have each 
 other left, and it is possible to build up a new life 
 from the ruins of the old, which may be sweeter and 
 dearer and more noble beca. ^e our hearts are only 
 purified by the bitter experiences of the past," he said 
 gently, yet with yearning passion in his voice. 
 
 i . 
 
 'tiM ! 
 
 f -f^ 
 
ii8 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 II i ■ 
 
 She remained for a little passive in his embrace. 
 If in that moment her heart was touched the brief 
 soften in^T swiftly passed away, and she rose with a 
 gesture of weariness. 
 
 " It is no time either for sentimental talk. The 
 time for that is over for you and me, Richard. I am 
 going to bed. My head aches so I can scarcely 
 see," she said coldly, and moving over to the dress- 
 ing-table began to put her jewels in their cases, 
 looking at them admiringly the while, for soon they 
 would be wrested from her. Her husband then 
 quitted the room and went down once more to the 
 library. In his present state of mind he could not 
 sleep, and the sweet spring dawning found him 
 pacing restlessly up and down the long room. 
 During the silent watches of the night som_e unseen 
 hand had surely drawn some deeper furrows on his 
 brow, for his face was as that of an old man. 
 
 The sutTerings of a lifetime had been crowded 
 into that brief space, and Richard Blake never 
 could look back upon it without horror. When 
 brighter days dawned for him he was wont to say 
 that that was the only period of his life when he 
 felt himself abandoned of both God and man. But 
 with the dawning the light shone in and found him 
 
 on his knees. 
 
 •■'■ '!! 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 UNPALATABLE TRUTHS. 
 
 He entered his home — his home no more, 
 
 For without hearts there is no home ; and felt 
 
 The sohtude of passing his own door 
 Without a welcome, — Byron. 
 
 'N his oHce in Mark Lane sat Ricliprd 
 Blake on one of the loveliest of June 
 mornings. A pile of letters lay on the 
 desk before him ; but on one par- 
 ticular document his troubled eyes 
 were bent, and his face wore an ex- 
 pression of perplexity amounting to 
 despair. It was a bill which would fall 
 due upon the Friday, and this was now Wednesday. 
 It was for a very large amount, and failure to meet 
 it meant immediate exposure of the state of his 
 affairs. The sooner the better, thought Richard 
 Blake ; and yet, like others who have been 
 honoured in the commercial world, and who by 
 misfortune or through their own folly have im- 
 mersed themselves in such a sea of difficulty, he 
 had a most painful shrinking from the crash which 
 
 119 
 
 ! I 
 
 I I 
 
 ■J \ • \ 
 
ii i r 
 
 I '1 
 
 
 120 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 must come. Sitting there in his soh'tude, a thouc^ht 
 which carried some hope in its train flashed across 
 his mind. Down at Walton-on-Thames dwelt 
 Mr. George Devonshire, the former head of the fiim, 
 an old bachelor, who had amassed an enormous 
 fortune, and who, though several years had elapsed 
 since the severance of his connection with Devon- 
 shire & Blake, might yet retain sufficient interest in 
 the concern to be willing to save it from disgrace. 
 
 No sooner did the idea of applying to Mr. Devon- 
 shire occur to Richard Blake than he put it into 
 execution. The noon train took him down to 
 Walton-on-Thames, and he was at Devonshire 
 House early in the afternoon. 
 
 Its master was at home, the servant said, busy 
 among his flowers, which were his hobby, and upon 
 which he spent a great amount of money. It was 
 his only expensive taste, for he was a man of 
 simple, almost austere habits ; for the enforced self- 
 denial of his early years had taken so firm a hold, 
 that even when affluence came it did not bring the 
 desire to spend with it. 
 
 Mr. Blake was shown into the library, and it was 
 not long before his former principal joined him 
 there. He was an old, hard-looking man, for he 
 had long since passed the allotted span, a-.d though 
 he had never been robust, his abstemious and simple 
 way of life had preserved him in good health even 
 in his old age. He was dressed in a suit of rough 
 tweeds, his hands were sunburned and hardened by 
 his constant labour in the garden, and a big sun hat 
 shaded his withered features. From underneath it 
 there peered out a pair of grey eyes, which had lost^ 
 
Unpalatable Truths. 
 
 121 
 
 none of their early keenness of perception. He 
 looked immeasurably surprised to see Richard 
 Blake at that hour. ' 
 
 " Hulloa ! what 's up ? " he said, gruffly ; and 
 taking off his hat, rubbed the perspiration from his 
 brow with his silk pocket-handkerchief " You look 
 ill, Blake. Quite an old man since I saw you last." 
 
 " A harassed and troubled mind ages one before 
 his time, Mr. Devonshire," replied Richard Blake* 
 " 1 will go at once to the point. I am in trouble, 
 and have come to you for help." 
 
 Mr. Devonshire did not at once reply. Rumours 
 had reached him from time to time regarding the 
 embarrassments of his old firm, but he had not 
 credited them. Even now he attributed Blake's 
 trouble to something else. Some of his city friends 
 who came occasionally to Devonshire House had 
 given him an inkling of the state of Richard Blake's 
 domestic affairs. 
 
 " Well, well ; glad to help if I can. What kind 
 of trouble is it, Blake ? Domestic-^eh ? I 've 
 heard your wife is a high-flying dame. If you had 
 taken my advice, Blake, you 'd have kept clear of 
 womankind. They 're the source of all evil. Do 
 you suppose that if I 'd had a wife and a lot of 
 extravagant, strong-headed boys and girls I 'd enjoy 
 such a peaceful old age ? Not I. But comey what 's 
 bothering you now ? " 
 
 " It is not domestic but business cares which are 
 annoying me at the present time," said Richard 
 Blake, though he could with truth have said both. 
 Then, without further parley, he laid before Mr. 
 Devonshire a plain and unvarnished statement of 
 
 i 
 
 I I 
 
 il. 
 
 *f. 
 
122 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 ;i .il 
 
 the affairs of his firm. The old man's face while 
 he listened was a study. Oc<:asionally he would 
 put some abrupt, curt question, but he made no 
 comment until Richard Blake ceased speakin;^. 
 Then he rose, and bes^an to walk up and down the 
 room with his hands folded behind his back. 
 
 "Do you know what you deserve, Blake?" he 
 said at length, pausing in front of the unhappy man 
 before him, with a look on his face before which 
 Richard l^lake's eyes fell. 
 
 He made no answer. 
 
 " I laboured and toiled for fifty years, Richrrd 
 Blake, to make that business what it was," he said, 
 in slow, measured tones, which Richard Blake knew 
 of old. " I made my fortune in it, certainly, but it 
 was after the best years of my life had been spent 
 in poverty — poverty, mark you — for I made a suit 
 of clothes serve me for two or three years. I lived, 
 as you know, in rooms above my warehouse, because 
 I could not afford to pay a house rent. I kept my 
 own books, attended to all my own correspondence 
 even long after I could have afforded to pay some- 
 body else to do it, and that is how I made my 
 fortune. I made that business from its very founda- 
 tion, reared it out of nothing, and I was proud of it 
 — of course I was ; I had a right to be ; it was my 
 life work, and where is it to-day ? " 
 
 He paused in his indignation, and Richard Blake 
 involuntarily rose. It had been a grand mistake to 
 come to old George Devonshire with the story of 
 his business cares. 
 
 " Sit down ; I may as well tell you what I think 
 of you when I 'm at it," continued the old man, 
 
 I ' 
 
 -. S' 
 
UupauJable Truths. 
 
 123 
 
 with the same bitterness. "Well, when you came 
 to me a little lad, I said to myself, * I like this boy, 
 I'll train him up in the faith. I'll teach him the 
 secret of success, and then, if he is worthy, I '11 give 
 him the whole concern when I 'm done with it.' 
 Well, I did train you ; I tau^c^ht you how to succeed 
 in the commercial world, and, when the time came, 
 I L^ave you the business, and retired with an easy 
 and satisfied mind, thinking you would prove worthy 
 of my confidence, and that Devonshire incorporated 
 with Blake would still be an honoured name in the 
 commercial world. I was a fool. I mic^^ht have 
 known you couldn't stand on your own icet, th;it 
 you 'd marry, and let a woman squander the whole 
 concern. Yes, I was a fool ; I 'd have had more 
 satisfaction to-day if I 'd sold the whole concern to 
 the highest bidder." 
 
 Richard Blake sat silent under the weight of the 
 old man's scathing rebuke. 
 
 " I wouldn't have minded you marrying if you 'd 
 waited till you had years on your head, and had 
 taken a prudent, sensible, economical woman like 
 that cousin of yours. She 's the only worthy mem- 
 ber of the sex I ever met. But no, you had to go 
 courting above your station, and marry a silly, vain, 
 empty-headed thing, who, you might have known, 
 would bring disgrace and ruin to you. No, Richard 
 Blake, I might have helped you out of any reason- 
 able difficulty, but to bolster up a tottering concern, 
 rotten at the core, would be throwing money to the 
 winds, and would do nc good to you or any other 
 person." 
 
 Again Richard Blake rose and began to move to 
 
124 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 I • 
 
 the door. That his spirit was miserably crushed 
 was evidenced by the fact that he had no word to 
 say in self-defence — none, for every word which 
 passed George Devonshire's lips was but bare and 
 simple truth. 
 
 " Before you go let me give you a piece of advice, 
 Blake," said the old man. " After the failure (you 
 won't likely get a settlement) look out for a place 
 as clerk or manager to some other person; you 
 haven't sufficient balance to stand on your own legs; 
 and when you 've left your fine house and given up 
 all your party-going and party-giving, don't forget 
 the lesson of the past. Try and remember, and 
 teach your wife and your children, if you have any, 
 to remember, that, if you want to live a peaceful 
 and happy old age, free from unpleasant memories, 
 you must live honestly in the sight of all men, and 
 give every man his due. There is one text I would 
 recommend to your consideration : * Owe no man 
 anything, but to love one another.' If report speaks 
 truly, the latter part of it is as applicable to your 
 case as the former." 
 
 He had had his say and now allowed Richard 
 Blake to depart. He had not spared him, but he 
 had spoken out of the sincerity of his heart. If 
 there was one sin more heinous than another in the 
 eyes of George Devonshire, it was the sin oi a man 
 living beyond his means — spending what was not 
 his own, forgetting the principles of honour and 
 honesty in the love of ostentatious display. It was 
 the vice of the age, he was wont to cry ; and he 
 never ceased to lay it down as his maxim that, 
 supposing a man's income to be twenty shillings a 
 
 Wr^m: 
 
1 ' 
 
 Unpniatable Truths. 
 
 125 
 
 week, whatever the claims upon him he was in duty 
 bound to live upon nineteen. It was the faithful, 
 unflinching carrying out of that principle, he was 
 also wont to say, which had enabled him to rise 
 from abject poverty to aflluence, from obscurity to 
 an honourable position in the world. 
 
 In no enviable frame of mind was Richard Blake 
 on his way back to town. He was crushed, 
 humbled to the very dust. He could almost have 
 prayed for death. I believe there is no greater 
 mental anguish than thar endured by men of 
 Richard Blake's calibre when they find themselves 
 upon the eve of bankruptcy, especially if it has been 
 in a measure their own doing. It is no marvel that 
 some seek relief, or rather oblivion, in self-destruc- 
 tion, for the load of their agony is more sometimes 
 than the human heart can bear. But Richard 
 Blake, though utterly crushed, was not coward 
 enough to take, or even think of taking, his own 
 life. There were germs of manly independence, of 
 a noble spirit, in him still, which would assert them- 
 selves after the worst was past. He did not again 
 seek his office, but went straight from the station 
 .0 Brampton Square to acquaint his wife with the 
 fact that on the morrow he intended to place his 
 books in the hands of a firm of solicitors, and 
 announce the state of his affairs to his creditors. 
 He forgot that this was her reception-day, and that 
 the house would probably be filled with the giddy 
 throng who were wont to spend an hour or two at 
 Mrs. Blake's " Wednesday afternoon." The sight 
 of several carriages at the door, however, brought 
 the fact to his mind, and the shadow deepened on 
 
 lii 
 
126 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 his face. His warning to his wife had been fruitful 
 of no good ; she had not for a moment changed the 
 tenor of her way. Nay rather, she became gnycr 
 .than ever since that painful evening, as if deter- 
 mined to enjoy to the uttermost the brief time she 
 had to spend in her luxurious home. He hesitated 
 a moment whether he should return to the city ; 
 but finally he entered the house, opening the door 
 with his own latch-key. He wen<- straight to the 
 library and, ringing the bell, ordered some refresh- 
 ment to be brought to him there. When he had 
 partaken of it he went upstairs to his dressing-room 
 to wash the dust of his journey from his hands and 
 face. As he passed the «^rawing-room, the door 
 being slightly ajar, he had a good view of the 
 interior. It was full of guests ; among whom he 
 recognised Mrs. Lancaster, and others of that 
 objectionable set. At her dainty tea-table sat 
 Frances, attired in an elegant -ostume of silk and 
 velvet, and looking the picture of animation and 
 bv,-iUty. Looking upon that unclouded face, hear- 
 ing the sweet music of her laugh, who would have 
 thought that such a shadow hung over her. Ah ! 
 but young though she was, Frances Blake was an 
 inimitable actress, and it is thus every day the 
 world is deceived ! An exceedingly bitter smile 
 touched Richard Blake's lips as he turned away. 
 Would anything touch that vain and frivolous 
 heart ? was there a power on earth strong enoui^h 
 to awaken her to the reality of life ? No ; but the 
 day was coming when the Word of God, sharper 
 than a two-edged sword, was to pierce the heart of 
 Richard Blake's wife. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE FINAL CRASH. 
 
 Though dark, and thorny, and rough the way, 
 O lose not faith, my friend ! 
 
 T breakfast in the mornincf-room at 
 Kendal Hall sat the squire and his 
 wife, discussinc:^ the affairs of their 
 daui^hter's husband. By the morning 
 mail a letter had come from Frances 
 stating^that ascircumstances demanded 
 that they should leave the house in 
 Brampton Square, she was coming 
 down to Kendal Hall for an indefinite time. There 
 was no mention made of her husband, or what he 
 was to do in her absence ; the letter was full of 
 self, of her discontent, her grievances, her indiffer- 
 ent health. Mrs. Kendal was full of most anxious 
 solicitude concerning her daughter: but the squire's 
 face, when he perused the characteristic epistle, 
 wore a peculiar expression, in which scorn largely 
 commingled. 
 "A nice, dutiful kind of wife Frances has been 
 
 127 1 
 
 if 
 
 ll 1 
 
 f^n\ 
 
flf 
 
 I 7 
 
 i 
 
 
 ! 
 
 1, 
 
 •"'lif. 
 
 
 f28 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 'f i.!:! 
 
 to poor Blake," was all his remark, as he tossed the 
 letter aside and went on with his breakfast. 
 
 "What do you mean, Marry?" asked his wife 
 rather indignantly. " I am sure Frances has made 
 a good mistress of his house. He may be proud of 
 her. She is greatly admired in London." 
 
 " It depends upon what constitutes a good mis- 
 tress of a house," said the squire drily. " My ideas 
 may be old-fashioned, out of date in this railroad 
 age, but to my thinking a good wife is one who has 
 her husband's best interests at heart and who 
 regulates the expenses of the household according 
 to the amount of his income. Frances's reckless 
 expenditure since her marriage has been a shame 
 and disgrace, and you have encouraged her in it, 
 Maria." 
 
 It was not often that the good-natured Squire 
 spoke out thus plainly, but it had a visible effect 
 upon his haughty wife. 
 
 " Well, well, Harry, supposing she has been a 
 trifle extravagant, let us excuse her on account of 
 her youth and beauty. She will learn experience 
 by-and-by," she said in a conciliatory tone. " Let 
 us leave discussion of Frances's faults and failings 
 and consider what is to be done. The question is, 
 Are you quite agreeable to face "e disgrace of 
 seeing your son-in-law in the Bankruptcy Court ? " 
 
 " It cannot be averted now, Maria," was the 
 Squire's unsatisfactory reply. 
 
 " Really, Harry, you are most absurd. Do you 
 mean to say you are not going to help them ? " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Kendal, impatiently. 
 
 " Bless me, Maria, am I made of money ? 
 
 Hi 
 
The Final Crash, 
 
 139 
 
 Haven't Blake and Franccj between them squand- 
 ered two thousand pounds of mine already? No ; 
 I'm not going to help them. They've brought it 
 on themselves, and they richly deserve to taste 
 poverty now." 
 
 Mrs. Kendal sat silent, wondering what she 
 should say next. Really, the Squire was in a very 
 perverse, headstrong mood this morning. 
 
 " Look here, Maria. Try and take a .sensible 
 view of things," said the Squire. " Supposing, now, 
 that I was to set Blake so far on his feet again that 
 there would be no need for them to leave their 
 house, no need for a public exposure of any kind, 
 would they change their mode of life, think you ? 
 Would they lessen their expenditure and be content 
 with ordinary comforts ? No ; because they would 
 get off too easily, without having learned the value 
 of money. Therefore, I hold that if I stand aloof 
 and allow them to depend on their own exertions, 
 I am proving myself their best friend. Poverty is 
 a fine school for such as Frances, and were it not 
 that she is my daughter I 'd not let her come here 
 just now. She has no right to leave her husband 
 in the midst of the ruin she has so largely helped 
 to bring upon him." 
 
 The Squire paused, breathless with his long 
 speech, and, as if fearing the result of his plain 
 speaking, rose and left the room. 
 
 His wife sat long alone, pondering the thing ana 
 trying to contrive some means of averting the 
 inevitable. It even occurred to her to apply to her 
 cousin, the Peer, but on second thoughts she con- 
 cluded that an application of that kind would 
 
i ; ; .' 
 
 m 
 
 130 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 not be likely to raise her family in the eyes of the 
 Earl. 
 
 At that very hour Richard Blake and his wife 
 were sitting at an uncomfortable, unsociable break- 
 fast in the morning room of their house in Brampton 
 Square. Between them there seemed to be a great 
 gulf fixed, which widened every day. Richard 
 looked anxious and harassed, Frances pale and out 
 of sorts. 
 
 Since they sat down at the table not a word had 
 passed between them. When the silvery chime of 
 the timepiece rang nine Richard Blake rose. 
 
 " You will excuse me rising, Frances. It is 
 imperative that I should be in my office at half-past 
 nine. I have much to arrange before the meeting 
 at twelve o'clock," he said quietly. He referred to 
 a meeting of his creditors to be held at noon that 
 day. 
 
 " Don't apologise ; I have finished," she replied. 
 "When will you be home for dinner?" 
 
 " It will probably be late ; don't wait for me," 
 he answered, and turned upon his heel to quit the 
 room. 
 
 " Richard, could — could you give me some money 
 to-day ? " asked his wife. 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 The question was uttered in a curt, brief way, 
 which made her wince. 
 
 "A few pounds; I — I forgot to tell you I had 
 written to mamma promising to go home to-day," 
 she said in rather a constrained voice. 
 
 " Home ! " repe^.ted her husband. " Oh, yes, to 
 Kendal Hall, I presume you mean ? " 
 
 h>A 
 
 ■1:' 
 
The Final Crash. 
 
 131 
 
 me money 
 
 " Yes, and I have not enough to pay my fare to 
 Sutton," she said in rather an aggrieved fashion. 
 
 " How much is it ? " 
 
 "IIS. 6d." 
 
 He took out his purse, and laid a sovereign on 
 the table. 
 
 " I cannot give you any more. When do you 
 mean to return ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I have not thought about my 
 return." 
 
 Richard Blake stood a moment with his eyes 
 bent upon the floor. 
 
 " Have you given the servants notice to quit, 
 Frances ? " 
 
 " Yes, a fortnight ago. Their time will be up on 
 the 27th." 
 
 " I presume you will not be back by that time ; 
 that it is your intention to remain at the Hall until 
 it is all over." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be better." 
 
 "' For you, perhaps it would," he replied, with a 
 touch of scorn in his voice. " I was foolish to 
 expect any consideration at your hands ; but there 
 have been instances when a man turned, and not in 
 vain, to his wife for comfort at a time like this." 
 
 " Of course, if you insist upon me staying, I 
 shall," said Frances irritably ; " but really I could 
 do you no good, and probably would just fret 
 myself to death." 
 
 " I do not insist upon it," replied Richard Blake, 
 "go by all means, and enjoy yourself if you can." 
 
 " You will come down sometimes ? " she asked. 
 
 " It is not probable. I cannot afford to spend a 
 
I : f :| '■' "I 
 
 132 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 I'.ii:- 
 
 guinea a week for travelling as I once could. When 
 my affairs are all wound up and I have decided 
 what to do, I shall come and see you, Frances — not 
 till then." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Both felt con- 
 strained, and Frances Blake's conscience was busy 
 at work. She did not require to be told that at 
 such a time her place was at her husband's side, and 
 that it was her duty to try to atone in some degree 
 for the past. But selfishness prevailed. She thought 
 of all the pleasant luxury of her early home, of her 
 indulgent parents, of the blessed freedom from 
 care of every kind, contrasted all these with the 
 gloom of her own home, with her harassed, care- 
 worn husband with his quiet scorn and few but 
 biting words, and her heart was hardened. 
 
 " When do you go ? " he asked presently, open- 
 ing the door. 
 
 " At one o'clock." 
 
 "Ah, I .nail just be facing my ordeal then," he 
 said bitterly. " It is pleasant to be a woman, to 
 run away from such disagreeable things. Well, 
 good-morning." 
 
 " Good-bye, Richard ; try and not be vexed with 
 me," she said, and coming towards him held up her 
 face to be kissed. 
 
 " Vexed with you ! God knows I am not, 
 Frances. I have more need to pity you. May 
 God pity and help us both," he said with a strange 
 sad smile, and bending forward lightly kissed not 
 her lips but her brow. Then he went away. 
 
 When the door closed upon him, Frances began 
 to cry helplessly, she did not very well know what 
 
The Final Crash. 
 
 133 
 
 for, but her tears were of short duration, and in an 
 hour she was busy with her packing, her heart full 
 of pleasant visions of home. 
 
 Late that night a visitor came to lO Bingham 
 Street in the shape of Richard Blake. Mrs. Blake 
 the elder, who had failed very much of late, was 
 already in bed, but Mary was still in the dining- 
 room poring over a book. She started up when 
 the bell rang, and when Richard Blake entered the 
 room she looked unutterably surprised. He was 
 haggard and worn, and his face bore traces of the 
 keenest mental anguish. 
 
 " Richard, what is it ? What has happened ? Is 
 your wife ill ? " she exclaimed in alarm. 
 
 " No, has my mother gone to bed ? " 
 
 "About an hour ago. It is nearly eleven, 
 Richard." 
 
 " Is it ? I seem to have lost count of time. I *m 
 glad my mother is in bed. I can talk more freely 
 to you. Well, Mary, it is all over now." 
 
 " I was thinking of you and praying for you to- 
 day, Richard. How has it gone with you?" 
 
 "Fair, r well, the world would say. They were 
 very lenient with me. I 've got a settlement, which 
 I didn't deserve ; but some of ihem, remembering 
 what I used to be, took pity on me." 
 
 Mary breathed a sigh of relief. 
 
 " From what you said the last time I saw you, 
 I feared you would not get a settlement. Well, 
 you must cheer up now and begin again," said she 
 hopefully. " The future may be very bright yet." 
 
 Richard Blake listlessly shook his head. He 
 seemed like a man utterly crushed, out of whom the 
 
 ' I 
 
 ' 
 
 >• w 
 
134 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 '. ',1 , 1 
 
 very spirit of manliness had gone. It was but the 
 reaction after the unnatural excitement, the fierce 
 mental strain, which he had endured so long. 
 
 *' Oh, nonsense, Richard ; don't shake your head 
 so dolefully. Many have failed in business and 
 succeeded again. You know that. Why should 
 you be so downcast? How is Frances? Bearing 
 up well, I hope ? I would have come to Brampton 
 Square, Richard, but for fear of intruding." 
 
 " Frances ! I don't know. She is off, you know, 
 to Kendal Hall." 
 
 "Off! Has she left you, Richard, at a time like 
 this ?" exclaimed Mary, unable to hide her feelings. 
 
 " Yes, a devoted wife, isn't she, Mary ?" 
 
 Mary Osborne was silent. She would not unite 
 in condemning, but she could find no words to 
 justify the conduct of Richard's wife. 
 
 " 1 ve made up my mind, Mary. I shall just wait 
 to see the house sold off and other thing's wound 
 
 o 
 
 up ; then I 'm off to the Cape," said Richard 
 presently. 
 
 " To the Cape ! " repeated Mary blankly. « Will 
 Frances go ? " 
 
 " Frances ! no. She has left me. She did not 
 even say she intended to return," he said bitterly. 
 " I am in earnest, Mary. 1 will iwt continue in 
 business here — I should never succeed. Confidence 
 in me is lost, and I could never regain the position 
 I once occupied in the commercial world." 
 
 " And nothing less would content you. You are 
 very proud still, Richard," said Mary sadly. 
 
 "Am I? God knows I have little enough to be 
 proud of. What a wretched life this is, Mary I At 
 
The Final Crash. 
 
 135 
 
 times one does not care how soon it comes to an 
 end." 
 
 " We hold the making or marring of it largely in 
 our own hands," said Mary. " In spite of all this 
 trouble, Richard, don't lose faith in God's goodness. 
 There will be better days in store." 
 
 " I wish I could thinl: it. Oh ! Mary, what would 
 I not give if Frances were a woman like you ! " 
 
 " Hush, hush, Richard," pleaded Mary, " don't 
 lose faith in your wife ; her heart will turn to you 
 yet.'' 
 
 " If it would I would have an incentive to go on. 
 Frail though she is, Mary, my heart clings to her 
 ivith a fearful yearning. It is her coldness which 
 has made my despair so hopeless." 
 
 " If you go away to the Cape her heart will 
 ivaken to its love, Richard. I do not despair of 
 seeing you happy together yet. This is a fierce 
 discipline, Richard, but like the pruning knife it 
 may be for lasting good." 
 
 Richard Blake rose, and the look of hopeless 
 despair was gone from his face, and a brighter, 
 better light shone upon it. 
 
 " God bless you, Mary, my more than sister. It 
 is such as you who preserve our faith in woman- 
 hood," he said hoarsely. " I shall see you again. 
 , Good-night ! " 
 
 "Good-night, dear Richard," said Mary, with 
 earnest shining eyes. " May He help and guide 
 you and Frances through these thorny ways, and 
 in His own time give you peace." 
 
 When she was left alone she fell upon her knees 
 and prayed long and earnestly that ihese lives so 
 
 I' I 
 
 ■. I,: 
 
 m- 
 

 ^^^H 
 
 
 
 
 '4! 
 i 
 
 llfl 
 
 '^? 
 
 '!r I 
 
 
 136 
 
 ^ Divided House. 
 
 dear to her, so nearly shipwrecked, might be yet 
 bound together by the cords of love, and be able to 
 breast bravely the world's stormy sea. 
 
 Surely since the prayer of the righteous ava^ leth 
 much, that hearttelt petition was heard and 
 answered. 
 
 m 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 *• Not wisely, but too well* 
 
 T his mother's request, Richard Blake 
 took up his abode at Bingham Street 
 for the next few weeks during the 
 winding-up of his affairs. The house 
 in Brampton Square was sold off, and 
 on the day of the auction it was 
 noticeable that many of Mrs. Blake's 
 former friends were among the bidders. 
 It was a grand tit-bit for them, and how they 
 revelled in it ! How they condemned the extrava- 
 gance which they had helped to increase ! How 
 they recalled past hospitalities and entertainments 
 in that splendid mansion, and spoke of them as 
 disgraceful, and wondered that the crash had not 
 come long ago. 
 
 They whispered to each other that there had been 
 a bitter quarrel and estrangement between Richard 
 Blake and his wife, and that she had gone home to 
 her parents while he remained in town. They said 
 it was " awful " and "very iid" but not surprising ; 
 
 137 
 

 I. ^ 
 
 11 
 
 138 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 they always knew it would end in something like 
 this. The world's knowledj^e and penetratinrr 
 foresight is very wonderful, and oh, its charity is 
 boundless ! But I need not enlarge ; it is no new 
 truth that the world delights to trample on a man 
 when he is down. 
 
 There was peace in the old home in Bingham 
 Street, which was very grateful to the storm-tossed 
 soul of Richard Blake. His mother, grown gentler, 
 never referred to his fallen fortunes, to the folly 
 which had brought the ruin upon him. In sorrow 
 for him she laid aside the old railing spirit and 
 showed only her motherliness. And Mary? Rut 
 you know what she was ; sweetest counsellor, 
 gentlest sister, truest friend of all. 
 
 I have read somewhere that that quality, so 
 rare in woman going solitary down the hill of life, 
 and so beautiful because it is so rare, of being able 
 out of the content of their own nature to make 
 others content, is one of the most blessed influences 
 upon the earth. It is the outcome of self-abnegation, 
 of consecration to the service of God and human- 
 kind, therefore it must be blessed. Such was the 
 influence of Mary Osborne — felt wherever it went. 
 
 In the course of a few weeks everything was 
 wound up, and the names Devonshire & Blake 
 became a thing of the past in the world of com- 
 merce. It was a great blow to the old man at 
 Walton-on-Thames to read the history of the 
 disgraceful failure of his old firm, and it but con- 
 firmed him in his conviction that the soul of truth 
 and honour in trade was dead, and that extrava- 
 gance was the crying evil of the age. 
 
Fareivell. 
 
 139 
 
 During these weeks few and brief were the letters 
 Ricliard Blake received from his wife. What she 
 was doing or how she was feeling at Kendal Hall 
 he had no means of kno ving, for she scarcely- 
 alluded to herself in her short epistle. Harry was 
 in Germany. He had taken a roving fit, and was 
 desirous of travelling for a year before settling 
 down. So he was in ignorance of the change in 
 the fortunes of his sister and her husband. But 
 when he heard of it he was not surprised. Richard 
 Blake took out his passage to the Cape before he 
 went down to Kendal Hall to see his wife. It was 
 a trial for him to face the Squire and his wife, 
 especially the former, knowing that the opinions 
 he held regarding certain things very much re- 
 sembled George Devonshire's. And then he could 
 not quite rid himself of the idea that he had spoiled 
 Frances Kendal's life. But she had come to him 
 quite willingly, and indeed had spoiled both their 
 lives with her own hands. But there was not 
 an atom of selfishness in Richard Blake's nature, 
 and any feelings of bitterness against his wife 
 had long since died away. He pitied her with a 
 vast pity, and would willingly have released her 
 from her marriage tie, knowing it ./as irksome for 
 her. Yet he loved her ; wayward, erring, cold 
 though she was, he would have laid down his life 
 to save her a moment's pain. Strange that his 
 heart should so cleave to a selfish, worldly woman 
 like her ; truly his great love had been his ruin — 
 with him it had been " not wisely, but too well." 
 
 He went down to Sutton without announcing his 
 intention to his wife. On the platform at Charing 
 
140 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 Cross he encountered Mr. Lancaster, who would 
 have spoken, but Richard passed him with a distant 
 bow. That very man had assisted in his ruin, had 
 tempted him into worthless speculations, and iiad 
 been the first to condemn him when that ruin came. 
 Also his wife's influence had done Frances bound- 
 less harm, which might never be effaced. For all 
 these reasons Richard Blake desired to drop all 
 acquaintance with Mr. Alfred Lancaster of the 
 Willows. That gentleman watched Richard Blake 
 enter a third-class carriage, then jumping into his 
 own luxurious compartment, related his friend's 
 story, with many embellishments, to his travelling 
 companion. 
 
 It was afternoon when Richard Blake walked 
 through the fields (already grown white unto 
 harvest) to Kendal Hall. Every bye-way and 
 leafy lane was familiar to him, and inseparably 
 associated with that brief madness which had 
 ended in his unhappy marriage. Oh, if the past 
 could only be undone ; if he could sweep aside the 
 bitter waters of memory ; if the mind could only 
 dwell upon things sweet and pleasant it would be 
 well I and yet if these sad memories awake in us a 
 desire for better things, they are wholesome and 
 not to be banished from our hearts. 
 
 Richard Blake chose a bye-path to reach the 
 Hall, and it brought him by way of the lake, where 
 often, in days gone by, he and Frances had idly 
 drifted in the dainty " Firefly," talking happy 
 nonsense, all unconscious of that which was to 
 come. Surely these were only dreams and fancies 
 of a restless brain, he thought, so far away and 
 
Farewell. 
 
 141 
 
 unreal did they seem beside the sad rcah"ty of the 
 present. Presently, turning aside from the quiet 
 water, he came in sicjht of the house. He stood 
 still a moment looking at it. It was Frances's 
 home but not his ; he was homeless now ; his was 
 the house divided against itself which could not 
 stand. No home ! Beneath the stately rooftree 
 before him he never had been truly welcome, and 
 now, would his presence be even tolerated there ? 
 Perhaps not, but he would not long oppress their 
 sight ; he had but come to bid his wife good-bye 
 before a foreign land claimed him perhaps for ever. 
 I cannot describe to you the state of Richard 
 Blake's mind. He had gone through so great and 
 
 through 
 
 fierce a mental struggle that now, as' if 
 exhaustion, he was at peace. It was the peace of 
 indifference, the carelessness of one who had lost 
 the sweetness and the brightness of an aim in life, 
 and now simply existed. It was the inevitable 
 reaction after the long and severe strain upon the 
 brain and nerve powers. 
 
 Walking with slow and almost reluctant step 
 through the shrubbery he came suddenly, without 
 any preparation, upon his wife. She was sitting in 
 a little arbour, which also in by-gone days had 
 witnessed many of their happy meetings. There 
 was a book lying open on her knees, but she had 
 fallen asleep. His footfall, deadened by the rich 
 softness of the velvet turf, did not disturb her, so 
 he could look without restraint. She wore a black 
 dress, and the snowy folds of a soft white wrap 
 enveloped her head and shoulders. But the corner 
 which had been drawn over her head had fallen 
 
 i I :-! 
 
 i t 
 
143 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 T 
 
 It: 
 
 back, revcalinjj the shimmer of her golden liair. 
 One white arm and hand supported her cliin, the 
 hand upon which shone, without companion or 
 keeper, the plain j^olden wedding ring. She was 
 deadly pale ; her eyes looked out from shadowy 
 hollows ; the sweet perfect mouth seemed sad and 
 drooping ; the whole face thin and sorrowful, as if 
 she too had passed through the fire. Oh, how the 
 heart of the man before her yearned over hn ! 
 How he longed to clasp her close to his hungcriii;^^ 
 heart — to carry her far away from all the hollowncss 
 and deceit and misery of the world they had lived 
 in, away to some blessed land, where it would be 
 possible for them to begin life anew, built upon tiie 
 strong foundation of mutual love and faith! His 
 arm, stirring the interlacing boughs of the willows 
 about the doorway, caused Frances Blake to awake 
 with a start and open her eyes. At sight of her 
 husband a red flush swept across her face, but she 
 held out her hand. 
 
 " So you have come at last, Richard," she said ; 
 and to the ears of her husband her voice sounded hard 
 and cold. " I was beginning to despair, and to think 
 you had left the country without letting me know." 
 
 " I would not do that, Frances," he said, gently, 
 and lifted the offered hand to his lips. " But I have 
 come to say good-bye." 
 
 *'When and where do you go?" she said in a 
 quiet, passionless voice, as if she had been asking 
 the most commonplace question. 
 
 "The day after to-morrow, in the Pembroke 
 Castle to Natal." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 It I 
 
 
Fareivell. 
 
 143 
 
 She put up her white hand and drawinjj the 
 folds of her shawl close about her throat, moved to 
 the door. 
 
 " You had better come in then. Of course you 
 will stay till to-niorrow." 
 
 "I think not; what end would it serve? unless 
 you wish it, Frances," he said ea^^^crly, longinj^ to 
 hear even that assurance from her lips. 
 
 " I would not ask you if your time is to be fully 
 occupied," she said, and walked away towards the 
 house. 
 
 He followed her, with eyes bent upon the 
 ground, through the long open window into the 
 library, and thence up to the drawing-room. 
 
 " Mamma, here is Richard," she said, quietly, and 
 sat down in a shadowy corner of the room, where 
 her face could not be seen. 
 
 Mrs. Kendal's greeting was icy in the extreme. 
 She merely touched the tips of her son-in-law's 
 fingers, and that without so muc' as rising from her 
 chair. Somehow that roused him, and he found 
 his voice and spoke even with something of the 
 dignity and manliness of yore. 
 
 " I cannot expect to be welcome here, Mrs. Ken- 
 dal, but I shall not intrude long. I have but come 
 to bid my wife good-bye, and to make some 
 arrangements regarding her with Squire Kendal 
 before I leave the country." 
 
 " Oh, where are you going, may I inquire ? " 
 
 " I sail for the Cape the day after to-morrow, 
 Mrs. Kendal," he said courteously but briefly. 
 "When or where can I see the Squire?" 
 
 " He has gone to a meeting at Bray, and should 
 
 K 
 
 I : 1 
 
 i II 
 
144 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 M;i I 
 
 ■' !(i:ii 
 
 I -i 
 
 have been home ere this. I hear his horses* hoofs. 
 I daresay you will find him in the library," was the 
 reply, and Richard Blake took the hint at once. 
 His wife sat on in her shadowy corner, looking 
 straight before her, as if seeing, yet seeing nothing. 
 Evidently Mrs. Blake was not herself to-day ; where 
 was that quet; ly grace of manner? t'^at dignity of 
 repose? that haughtiness characteristic of her in 
 the past ? 
 
 Richard Blake did find his father-in-law in the 
 library. He did not offer him his hand, fearing 
 lest it might be refused. A slight bow passed 
 between them. Then the Squire spoke. 
 
 "U'm! you have turned up at last, Blake," he 
 said drily. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; there was no need to come before. 
 I could not expect a welcome. I have not come 
 either to excuse the past or to make promises for 
 the future, Squire Kendal," said Richard Blake, 
 quietly, for he vvas driven to bay in this house, and 
 made to feel himself the worst of all mankind. 
 And yet the fault had lain as much with Frances 
 as with him ; but he was contfent, ay more, glad, to 
 bear it for her, so that she was spared reproach. 
 "The day after to-morrow I sail for Natal, and 
 I have simply come to ask for Frances shelter under 
 your roof until I can either come or send for her." 
 
 " That is a needless request. She is my daughter, 
 and since there is no one else to provide for her 
 I must." 
 
 It was a bitter thrust, and it went straight as an 
 arrow to the mark. 
 
 " You are mistaken, sir. Although I request the 
 
Farewell. 
 
 145 
 
 shelter of your home for my wife, I shall pay 
 for that shelter," he said, striving to keep cool. 
 " I expect to succeed in business abroad better 
 than of late I have succeeded at home." 
 
 " I 'm sure I hope so," said the Squire, with 
 increased dryness ; then there ensued a painful and 
 awkward silence. 
 
 "Of course you think I am a bear," said the 
 Squire, at length ; " but upon my word it is a very 
 unpleasant thing for a man to have his daughter 
 flung back upon his hands like this. It causes so 
 many remarks, and altogether Humiliates a man." 
 
 " Spare me your reproaches, sir," said Richard 
 Blake passionately. "God knows my own are 
 hard enough to bear." 
 
 So saying he abruptly quitted the room, and 
 went upstairs to the drawing-room. 
 
 " Will you put on your hat, and walk a little way 
 with me, Frances?" he said, without looking at 
 Mrs. Kendal. 
 
 Frances rose at once, put her shawl over her head, 
 and preceded him downstairs. They went straight 
 to the arbour where they had met not an hour ago. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, Frances," he said quietly, 
 though his whole soul was a chaos of agony, of 
 unavailing regret, of indescribable, unutterable 
 yearning like to overwhelm him. 
 
 " I am to stay here while you are away ? " she 
 said, in that same strange, still voice. 
 
 " Yes, that is arranged. I shall write, and directl)^ 
 I am able I shall either come or send for you, if you 
 will come to me, Frances," he said, still quietly. 
 
 " Very well," she said. " Good-bye." 
 
 ft-r.. ■. 
 
146 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 1; 
 
 (1 
 
 He put his arms round her, and drew her face to 
 his breast. Shall I write it down ? Burning tears 
 started in his eyes and, overflowing, fell upon her 
 golden head. He angrily dashed them aside, as if 
 ashamed that he should be so weak. 
 
 " My darling, tell me you forgive me for having 
 made you my wife. I would free you, my poor 
 Frances, if I could," he said. 
 
 She arew herself back. 
 
 How could he know t^at his words stabbed her 
 to the heart ? 
 
 She lifted her colourless face, and kissed him of 
 her own accord for the first time since the halcyon 
 days of their honeymoon, 
 
 " Good-bye, P.ichard ! It was a mistake all 
 through," she said. "But write sometimes, and 
 I will come when you are ready, for we cannot 
 break the bonds." 
 
 So saying, and as if unable to bear any more, she 
 glided away from him into the house, up to her 
 own room. 
 
 She stood still there and pressed her hands to 
 her eyes as if to shut out some unpleasant vision. 
 He was gone, and he had not once said "Come 
 with me ! " Nay, he had assured her he would set 
 her free if he could. Oh, what misunderstandings 
 arise out of pride, the prejudices, the hardness of 
 our hearts ! What sorrows we heap up for our- 
 selves with our own hands ; how often do we sweep 
 away unconsciously the greatest good lying at our 
 very doors ! 
 
 On Wednesday afternoon the Pembroke Casile 
 sailed. 
 
r face to 
 ig tears 
 pon her 
 ide, as if 
 
 • having 
 ny poor 
 
 jbed her 
 
 1 him of 
 halcyon 
 
 take all 
 nes, and 
 e cannot 
 
 more, she 
 ip to her 
 
 hands to 
 mt vision, 
 d "Come 
 would set 
 standings 
 irdness of 
 » for our- 
 we sweep 
 ng at our 
 
 ike Casile 
 

 1 
 
 
 :|:illilli 
 
 ',4 
 
 'i; 
 
 iiiiii 
 
 
 Mh J' 
 
CHAPTER XVIt 
 
 REACTION. 
 
 So we are led, 
 By ways we know not o^ 
 Into the better way. 
 
 HE world seemed very much changed 
 to Frances Blake. Friends were few 
 and cold, the select circle of society in 
 Sutton-le-Willows had not so much 
 homage for Richard Blake's wife as it 
 had for Squire Kendal's daughter. 
 The circumstances not being fully 
 known, a diversity of opinion was held 
 regarding her position. Some said there had been 
 a bitter quarrel, which ended in an open rupture ; 
 others, that Richard Blake had deserted his wife, 
 and all united in shrugging their shoulders and in 
 saying that it was decidedly queer. She was not 
 included in the invitations sent to Kendal Hall. 
 Formerly no social gathering had been considered 
 complete without the Squire's handsome and accom- 
 plished daughter. But it was not so now. She 
 
 147 
 
 I '!: 
 
ii 
 
 m 
 
 
 148 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 was eclipsed by the lesser lights, and v/as made to 
 feel that she was nobody in society, that she had no 
 position of her own. To a woman like Frances 
 Kendal, who all her life had been a person of 
 paramount importance, who had been accustomed 
 to flattery and homage and admiration, such a 
 change was most galling. Then, within Kendal 
 Hall itself there was a great difference. She was 
 only tolerated in her father's house, and she knew 
 it. Her mother had never really forgiven her 
 marriage, and its unhappy results seemed to justify 
 every objection she had raised against it before it 
 took place. She was a woman of few words at a.i 
 times, and would never descend to vulgar recrimina- 
 tion, but in her quiet way she made Frances feel — 
 and keenly, too — the humiliating nature of her 
 position. So, for all these reasons, as I said, the 
 world seemed changed to Frances Blake. She was 
 most unhappy. First, there was notiiing bui; bitter- 
 ness in her heart against her husband, against her 
 parents, against the whole world. Then that 
 gradually died away, and there came in its place an 
 agony of unrest, of wild and painful longings to flee 
 to Richard. By-and-by that passed also, and then 
 she sank into a state of listless indifference and lost 
 all interest in life. She went about the house a 
 dull, heavy-eyed spiritless creature, who looked as 
 if she had drunk life's bitter cup to the very dregs. 
 She would wander for hours in the fields and woods, 
 lingering often by the river's brim, which seemed 
 to possess for her an odd fascination. 
 
 In six weeks the first letter bearing a South 
 African post-mark came to Kendal Hall. It was 
 
Reaction. 
 
 149 
 
 very brief, almost formal, merely stating ihat the 
 writer had arrived after a pleasant vr'/age, and was 
 about to proceed up the country to Kimberley. 
 Brief, unsatisfying as it was, Frances Blake cherished 
 that letter. How she prized it, ay, and what bitter 
 tears fell upon it, how little the writer of it guessed! 
 Her health was indifferent, and even the sweet, 
 clear bracing air of the early autumn failed to 
 restore the languid, exhausted frame. In August, 
 Mrs. Kendal went to Scarborough, but did not 
 expect nor ask her daughter to accompany her. 
 Frances was not sorry. In times past she had been 
 the gayest of the gay at that fashionable watering- 
 place, but it was different now. She would not 
 greatly can to m.eet all her old friends, to encounter 
 their pitying looks or wonderingly impertinent 
 remarks. She was glad to be left alone at the Hall 
 to spend her days as she liked ; and it was in this 
 pleasant solitude that Frances Blake found herself 
 face to face with her life for the first time. She 
 tried to banish self-reproach ; to keep away from 
 every thought or memory of the past ; to forget all 
 the brief, strange dream of her married life. But 
 that was impossible. There was with her night and 
 day visions of that past. Sometimes the memory 
 of the tender, devoted care which had been lavished 
 upon her before her own hands had shut her 
 husband's heart against her, swept over her with an 
 agony of longing, of unavailing regret. Then the 
 haunting spectre of self-reproach because of how 
 she had repaid that love and care made miserable 
 her waking hours. Now that miles of sea and shore 
 lay between her husband and herself she knew how 
 
 U; 
 
 _L ^_ML 
 
150 
 
 A Divided House, 
 
 she loved him. It was an utterly new experience 
 for Frances Blake. Hitherto she had not been 
 accustomed to be denied or to deny herself any- 
 thing. She had said, and it was done ; she had but 
 expressed a wish, and it was fulfilled ; but now her 
 training was to be in a different school. She was 
 to know the heart-sickness of hope deferred, the 
 agony of a longing unfulfilled — that pain, like to 
 which there is no other upon the earth, of being 
 separated, perhaps for ever, from the being we hold 
 dearer than self With the awakening of the heart 
 to human love there came another experience, also 
 quite new, to Frances Blake. It was a vague desire 
 for something higher, diviner, more lasting than 
 anything earth could offer. She had heard of God 
 as a Friend, a Comforter, especially to those 
 oppressed by sorrow or care. She had read of the 
 peace which passeth all understanding, which can 
 still every tumult in the heart of poor humanity. 
 In prosperous times, when fortune smiled, she had 
 not felt the need of any such Comforter ; she had 
 never had a thought beyond the moment with her, 
 but now the longing would not be stilled. She 
 opened her Bible, read it carefully, pored over its 
 many assurances of hope and peace and joy to 
 those who believe, but therein found no comfort. 
 She was as one whose eyes are holden, who cannot 
 see. In her blind and feeble groping, her hours 
 of dark, deep loneliness, there came to her a 
 strange yearning to see Richard's cousin, Mary 
 Osborne. She remembered with tender, lingering 
 regret her gentleness of tone and manner; her kind 
 true smile; her sisterly bearing towards her who 
 
Reaction. 
 
 151 
 
 had so ill-deserved it. She also remembered with 
 keen humiliation and shame her treatment of the 
 gentle girl — her rudeness the very last time she 
 had been beneath her roof. She tried to banish 
 the desire to see her. She told herself Mary would 
 never forgive her ; yet something whispered that 
 not only would that gentle heart forgive, but that 
 she would comfort and help her out of any difficulty. 
 So it came to pass that one afternoon, greatly to 
 the astonishment of the servants of the Hall, young 
 Mrs. Blake journeyed to London alone. When she 
 arrived in the great city there came upon her a 
 desire to behold once more the house of her married, 
 life. She drove in a close cab from the station to 
 the West End and walked slowly up Piccadilly to 
 Brampton Square. The house was closed. It had 
 found yet no purchaser or tenant, for the ticket 
 intimating that it was to let or sell was still at the 
 door. She drew down her veil hurriedly, and 
 walked away again with trembling limbs, and, 
 without being conscious of it, proceeded towards the 
 Park. She chose a seat there, and sitting down 
 under a spreading tree watched the gay throng in 
 the Row, and the stream of carriages rolling up the 
 wide avenues. She recognised many of the carriages 
 and their occupants. Not so long ago her well- 
 appointed brougham had held its own among 
 them, but that was over now. She did not fear 
 recognition, for who would ever see in the plainly 
 attired, closely veiled figure Richard Blake's gay 
 and fashionable wife ? She seemed to forget that 
 time was fleeting, until with a start she pulled out 
 her watch and saw that it was half-past six. She 
 
152 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 It ;; n 
 
 ■1 H 
 
 !» I 
 
 rose then, and turned with weary feet towards the 
 city again, treading the familiar way to Bingham 
 Street. When she reached the entrance to it she 
 paused reluctantly, for it was not Richard's cousin 
 alone she would need to meet, but Richard's mother, 
 who might well heap reproaches on her head. 
 Well, she deserved them all, and she would accept 
 them humbly, as she ought, as part punishment for 
 her sin. 
 
 Her knock was answered by the tidy housemaid, 
 who had been with Mrs. Blake for many years. At 
 .sound of the sweet refined voice the girl started, and 
 said somewhat hesitatingly, 
 
 " Mrs. Richard Blake ? " 
 
 " Yes. Are the ladies at home ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. Will you come in, please ? " said 
 the girl, greatly amazed at the change in Mrs. 
 Richard's manner and appearance. 
 
 When the door was closed, Frances turned and 
 laid her hand on the girl's arm : " Kindly show me 
 into the drawing-room, and ask Miss Osborne to 
 come to me, without saying who I am ; " and the 
 girl obeyed at once. The drawing-room was 
 unoccupied of course, the ladies preferring always 
 to sit in the dining-room. Mary did not long keep 
 her visitor waiting. When she entered, Frances 
 was standing in the window with her back to the 
 door, so that Mary did not immediately recognise 
 her. But when she turned, and putting back her 
 veil from her pale face, hehl out a pleading hand, 
 the tears welled up in Mary', gentle eyes. 
 
 " Mrs. Blake — impossible ! " she exclaimed, and 
 clasped the proffered hand ; and then, moved by 
 
Reaction. 
 
 153 
 
 something she saw in the beautiful eyes, she leaned 
 forward and kissed her on the lips — the first kiss 
 which had ever passed between these two women, 
 but not the last. 
 
 " How and when did you come, dear ? " said 
 Mary, and led her to a chair, for she saw that she 
 w^s weak and weary and far spent 
 
 " I came from Sutton this afternoon, but I have 
 been wandering about for an hour and more," said 
 Frances. " No — thanks : I must not take off my 
 bonnet. I must go home to-night." 
 
 " Must you ? I think not. Aunt Sara would 
 not permit that, nor would I," said Mary, cheer- 
 fully. " Come, I will take you to my bedroom, and 
 then tell auntie you are here." 
 
 Like a child Frances obeyed ; but when they 
 reached the upper chambers, and Mary was about 
 to leave her, she turned and laid her hand on her 
 arm. 
 
 "Will — will — Mrs. Blake be glad to see me? 
 I — I have no claim upon her," she faltered ; " only 
 I thought of you and her so much that I was im- 
 pelled to come." 
 
 " Dear Frances, I am quite sure Aunt Sara will 
 be more than delighted to see you," said Mary, but 
 did not feel so very sure after all, for Mrs. Blake 
 had said very many hard things about Richard's 
 wife. But surely the sight of that pale face, with 
 the sad mouth and wearied eyes telling of an aching 
 heart, would sweep away every hard and bitter 
 memory of the past ? Trusting to that, Mary sped 
 to the dining-room, where her aunt was busy 
 alternately with her book and her knitting. 
 
 ff,}-: 
 
 !l1! 
 
154 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 " Dear Auntie, guess who is here — who has come 
 a long way to see you ? " she said, breathlessly. 
 
 Mrs. Blake shook her head. 
 
 " I have not the slightest idea, child. Tell me." 
 
 " Richard's wife ! " said Mary. Then seeing the 
 expression on her aunt's face, she knelt down by 
 her chair and folded her pleading hands on her arm. 
 
 " And, dear Aunt Sara, she looks so worn and 
 pale and sad, and I am sure her heart is very sore. 
 Be good to her, auntie. Let us try to keep her 
 with us a little while. I think she so needs rest. 
 For Richard's sake, dear auntie; and who knows 
 we may thus help them both to a happier life ? " 
 
 " It is not my duty She was good neither to 
 my son nor to me," said the proud mother, re- 
 belliously. "What right has she to come here?" 
 
 " She is Richard's wife, auntie, and we have no 
 right to turn her away from us. Dear Aunt Sara, 
 let your heart speak. Let me bring Frances to 
 you. When you see her you will be so sorry for 
 her that you will love her with all your heart." 
 
 Mrs. Blake shook her head and shaded her eyes 
 with her hand. Mary rose and left the room. In 
 a few minutes the sound of footsteps and the soft 
 opening of the door made Mrs. Blake rise from her 
 chair. She turned her head, and her eyes fell on 
 Richard's wife. It was as Mary had said. She 
 was conquered. 
 
 " My dear, my dear ! " she said tremblingly, " what 
 has come to you? Have you been ill? I am 
 grieved." 
 
 She got no further, for Frances crept into her 
 arms and laid her head on her breast 
 
 
Reaction. 
 
 155 
 
 ^ery sore, 
 keep her 
 2eds rest. 
 10 knows 
 
 life ? " 
 leither to 
 other, re- 
 
 here ? " 
 5 have no 
 unt Sara, 
 ranees to 
 ) sorry for 
 ■^lart." 
 
 her eyes 
 
 room. In 
 
 the soft 
 
 from her 
 
 es fell on 
 
 iaid. She 
 
 " Forgive me," she said brokenly, " for Richard's 
 sake ! " 
 
 Oh ! if Richard in his lonely home in that wild 
 African settlement, could but have beheld that 
 scene, what joy it would have infused into his 
 barren life ! 
 
 But not yet. The rugged discipline necessary 
 must be borne a little longer, the lesson masterec 
 to the very end. 
 
 I' t 
 
 : into her 
 
Si 
 
 nrm 
 
 ':|;Mi 
 
 ^l-, 
 
 'I f. 
 
 ''I 'ii 'i ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 UNUTTERABLE YEARNINGS. 
 
 **How beautiful to watch the sweet waters of humility 
 and love stealing over a proud spirit, and making it meet for 
 the kingdom." 
 
 ERY gentle, very tender was Mary 
 Osborne with Richard Blake's wife. 
 She skilfully managed to keep her 
 aunt from talking much of Richard 
 before Frances, and so the quiet 
 evening slipped away without any- 
 thing jarring upon its harmony. Mrs. 
 Blake retired early, and the two 
 younger women were left alone in the dining-room. 
 Then, as Mary had expected, Frances began to talk 
 of herself. She walked restlessly up and down the 
 room for a few minutes, with her white hands 
 lightly clasped before her, and her eyes bent upon 
 the floor. Mary tried to busy herself with some 
 work, but her thoughts wandered so that she came 
 but little speed with it. She was glad when 
 Frances stopped her restless walk at last, and 
 pausing by her chair looked down into her face. 
 i<i6 
 
Unutterable Yearnings. 
 
 157 
 
 " Don't you wonder what brought me to London 
 to-day ? " she asked abruptly. 
 
 ** 1 may have been a little surprised, but I was 
 none the less glad to see you ; and so was Aunt 
 Sara," said Mary truthfully. 
 
 " So you say, and so I believe. T cannot under- 
 stand women like you, Mary Osborne. I have 
 never met any like you. How can you be so 
 good?" 
 
 Mary smiled slightly, and shook her head. 
 
 " I am no better than others, dear, only my life 
 has been so quiet I have never been tempted as 
 many others are," she answered gently. 
 
 " Then see how humble you are I How you deny 
 yourself the credit of your goodness ! " exclaimed 
 Frances. " Yes, yes, you are good. Richard told 
 me so long ago, and I know it now." 
 
 Slowly the tinge of red touched Mary's cheek, 
 and she bent her head over her work once more, 
 for her eyes were troubled. If Richard had been 
 in the habit of praising her to his future wife, the 
 cause of Frances Blake's coldness to her from the 
 beginning was partially explained. 
 
 " Hush, dear, if you please. Let us speak of you. 
 I was and am concerned to see you look so 
 poorly." 
 
 " 1 ? Oh, yes ! I am not well. How can I be ? 
 Mental and physical strength are inseparable, are 
 they not? and my mind is not at rest. I am a 
 very unhappy woman, Mary Osborne," said Frances, 
 resuming her restless walking to and fro. 
 
 " But you will be happy yet, please God," said 
 Mary, gently. 
 
 .,1 i^i 
 
158 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 " Do you think so ? How ? " said Frances, and 
 pausing in front of Mary again, she looked wistfully 
 into her face. " Looking into the future I see no 
 such certainty, not even a chance of happiness. T 
 am parted from my husband for ever, and I love 
 him." 
 
 The last words, ppoken almost in a whisper, sent 
 a thrill of joy to Mary Osborne's heart. 
 
 " Of course you are astonished. Let me speak. 
 It was the nee J of such relief which drove me to 
 London to-day," said Frances in low, clear tones. 
 " This longing for human sympathy comes to even 
 the most matter-of-fact persons at times, and it 
 has come to me, who have never given way to such 
 weakness before. Yes, I came to-day to speak of 
 my husband to you, because my heart is breaking 
 for him at this moment." 
 
 She broke off with a quick sob, and there was a 
 brief silence. 
 
 " I have been a wicked woman, Mary, for my 
 conduct was wicked. No milder term would suit 
 it ; but I have had my punishment. How long is 
 it since Richard went away ? Not yet two months? 
 Why, it looks like a lifetime to me. I have been 
 so desolate, so miserable, in all ways. I have 
 even wished that I might die. I am not my 
 father's daughter as I used to be. Kendal Hall is 
 not to me the home it was. I am made to feel my 
 position there — to know that I have in a manner 
 disgraced them. I do not complain ; it is my just 
 reward ; but it is none the less hard to bear. What 
 am I to do ? " 
 
 Mary let her work drop on her knee, and leaning 
 
Unutterable Yearnings. 
 
 159 
 
 nces, and 
 i wistfully 
 1 1 see no 
 piness. T 
 nd I love 
 
 isper, sent 
 
 me speak. 
 Dve me to 
 [ear tones. 
 les to even 
 es, and it 
 ay to such 
 D speak of 
 s breaking 
 
 there was a 
 
 ry, for my 
 would suit 
 low long is 
 vo months? 
 have been 
 s. I have 
 m not my 
 idal Hall is 
 ; to feel my 
 I a manner 
 t is my just 
 ear. What 
 
 and leaning 
 
 her head on one hand, looked full into Frances 
 Blake's face, her gentle eyes full of tears. 
 
 " Do ? What have you thought, or what do you 
 think of doing?" she asked. "What does your 
 heart say ? " 
 
 "If i obeyed the impulse of my heart at the 
 present moment, I should take my passage to South 
 Africa. Would not that be a very foolish step, 
 Mary?" asked Frances, with earnest, shining 
 eyes. 
 
 "Not foolish, only not quite practicable nor 
 advisable ; yet — " answered Mar\ with a slight 
 smile, " come and sit down here, and let us talk it 
 over. My dear, my dear, my heart is so glad for 
 you and for Richard that I could cry for joy." 
 
 But Frances did not sit down. She seemed 
 unable to be quiet or still ; that she was deeply 
 moved was evidenced by the restless movements of 
 her hands and the strange trembling of her lips. 
 
 " No ; as you say, it would neither be practicable 
 nor advisable," she said musingly. " Besides there 
 is the fear in my heart that my love may have come 
 too late." 
 
 " Hush, hush ; if ever man loved woman, Richard 
 loved and does love you, Frances." 
 
 "Ah! how can I be sure? When he bade me 
 good-bye that day at Kendal Hall, he did not say 
 'Come with me,' and yet my heart was breaking 
 for these words. I must have starved all the love 
 out of his heart else he had asked me, Mary." 
 
 " But, Frances, how did you speak ? Did you 
 let Richard understand that ? " 
 
 " No ; i was prouder then than I an? now. Oh, 
 
i6o 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 B '! 
 
 rU 
 
 what pain this pride works ; and how completely it 
 masters us at times ! " 
 
 " But you will write, Frances," said Mary eagerly, 
 " and you will let your heart guide your pen ? " 
 
 " I have written. Richard's letter was very short, 
 and to me it seemed cold and distant. Again pride 
 ruled my will, and, obeying the impulse of the 
 moment, I sat down and answered it in tone and 
 words corresponding to his own." 
 
 " But you will v/rite again to-morrow, Frances ? " 
 pleaded Mary, " and let love conquer pride. Then 
 so soon as it could be arranged you will take the 
 South African voyage." 
 
 Frances shook her head. 
 
 " That may not be for a long time, for a reason 
 I will tell you by-r.id-by," she said; and there 
 was a strange, deep light in her eyes, whereat Mary 
 wondered. Then a long silence ensued. At length, 
 waking from her reverie, Frances came and knelt 
 down by the side of the woman who, through weal 
 and woe, had so truly been her friend. Oh, hovv 
 sweet and fair was the uplifted face of Richard 
 Blake's wife at that moment ; how beautiful in its 
 new tenderness, its wistfulness, which was as that 
 of a little child asking a question from a parent. 
 
 " Mary, suppose my husband forgives me, will 
 God forgive me? You know Him. He is your 
 friend," she said in a low voice. " I have read the 
 Bible, and tried to think of holy things ; I have 
 prayed too, but I cannot feel anything of the peace 
 which shines so beautifully in you, which is the 
 mainspring of your lovely life." 
 
 " Dear Frances ! " With what infinity of tender- 
 
 ■V^ 
 
Vmitterable Yearniiii^^s, 
 
 l6i 
 
 ncss did Mary's hand linger on the sunny head. 
 " Is the Divine less than the human ? If we can 
 forgive, will not God forgive? Is He not our 
 Heavenly Father, to whom we are unspeakably 
 dear?" 
 
 "I like to hear you speak, but I do not quite 
 understand. You see my life has been so different 
 from yours, so far removed from everything good 
 and high and noble. Do you know I can scarcely 
 recall one well-spent hour. Vanity, vanity, ail 
 vanity, Mary ; can all that be forgiven?" 
 
 " All that ? You have read, dear, that though our 
 sins be red like crimson they shall be rr ade white 
 as snow, by simply casting them at the foot of the 
 Cross." 
 
 Again Frances shook her head. 
 
 " It '-eems simple, but 5^et I cannot understand. 
 I cannot grasp it. Perhaps some day soon the 
 light will break upon my soul. You will pray for 
 me, Mary, and to-morrow we will speak of it again. 
 I am so wearied to-night. I think I shall go to bed. 
 Will you let me share your room ? I have grown 
 so nervous of late. I cannot stay alone at nights. 
 What if I die before my husband knows of my 
 repentance ? " 
 
 *' Hush, dear ; no fear of that. You are but worn 
 out. Yes, come upstairs with me," said Mary, and 
 rising laid a gentle hand upon her companion's 
 arm. 
 
 Frances leaned her head upon it, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 *^r^ 
 
 '^i 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ABIDING PEACE. 
 
 A soul in mercy led 
 Home to its surest rest 
 
 'ANUARY was wearing to its close. 
 It had been a bleak and wintry 
 month, a month of heavy rains and 
 destructive gales, which left their 
 mark behind alike on sea and shore. 
 It was not by any means a pleasant 
 month to spend at the coast, and, in 
 common with the majority of water- 
 ing-places in winter, Merlin-on-Sea was like a city 
 of the dead. The wide stretch of sandy beach, 
 the little pier so gay and busy in the season, were 
 deserted ; and the row of villas facing the sea, such 
 desirable residences in the summer time, were shut 
 up. Life was confined to the High Street of the 
 town. 
 
 Yes, it was undoubtedly quiet at Merlin-on-Sea 
 during the months of winter and early spring, and 
 for that reason, and because, though it stood upon 
 162 
 
Abiding Peace. 
 
 163 
 
 the coast, it was a sheltered nook, it was chosen by 
 tlie two ladies who came down from London while 
 the year was yet young. Their advent was 
 a kind of God-send to the dwellers in Merlin-on- 
 Sea ; and they became subjects of endless surmise 
 and comment. Both were young, and both fair to 
 see; one indeed strikingly beautiful, but she looked 
 fragile and delicate ; evidently it was on her 
 account they had come to inhale the fresh breezes 
 on the Merlin shore. 
 
 They took rooms in a cottage residence at the 
 end of the street nearest the beach, and when the 
 weather was favourable were much out of doors. 
 They seemed much attached to each other, and 
 one was never seen without the other. 
 
 On a grey and cloudless afternoon these two 
 might have been seen walking arm in arm up and 
 down the beach, quite near to the waves, so near 
 that the foam broke at their very feet. It was a 
 wild, grey, restless sea, tossing under a wintry sky, 
 and they could hear distinctly the hoarse roar of 
 the billows breaking against the cliffs round the 
 headland. Merlin was snugly sheltered in a little 
 bay, where even in rough weather the sea was 
 comparatively smooth. They paused beside a 
 chain of jagged rocks, and both looked out to sea. 
 Their faces were grave and sad, and the eyes of 
 one were full of tears. 
 
 "We have been long enough out to-day, 
 Frances," said the other gently. " Come, let us go 
 home." 
 
 " Not yet," said Frances Blake ; " I cannot be at 
 rest in the house. I am better here. There is 
 
 
 A '^ 
 

 
 Hi 
 
 1 i 
 
 Ej( 
 
 it 
 
 Ml 
 
 V, 
 
 mml 
 
 }'" ' 
 
 H'! 
 
 \i 
 
 I'i''^ 
 
 I^Bt't] 
 
 m 
 
 „i; 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
 164 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 something in that 
 
 wild 
 were sunny and 
 
 tossing 
 
 sea which soothes 
 beautiful I could not 
 
 "But, Fancep 
 indulge in 05 
 the fresh sc - 
 well. Unles 
 I shall think it 
 
 me. If it 
 bear it." 
 
 As she spoke she leaned heavily on her 
 companion's arm, and her head dropped slii^htly on 
 the faithful shoulder, ever ready as a resting-place 
 for her. 
 
 dec r, it is not good for you to 
 
 I fancies. We came here so that 
 
 ■"s might make you strong and 
 
 ..u ^.ry to be more cheerful, dear, 
 
 a mi. .v.^ce that we ever came here." 
 
 " Perhaps it was. Didn't Dr. Alleyne say that 
 unless I had a change I should not live? It was 
 not change of air I want, Mary ; and sea breezes 
 cannot cure the hunger of the heart. Do you think 
 Richard will oe dead? Should I give up hope 
 altogether and try and resign myself to my life, 
 such as it is ? " 
 
 " My dear, / ha^ .: not given up hope yet. I am 
 no believer in superstitions, Frances, but I do think 
 that in a case like this there would be some con- 
 viction brought home to your heart, if — if your 
 fears were so well-grounded as you think. The 
 time has seemed long to us, but remember the diffi- 
 culties in the way of getting letters forwarded from 
 the interior of Africa," said Mary hopefully. 
 
 "Well — but, Mary, it was in September I had 
 the last letter, and it was no answer to mine. You 
 remember it merely said he was about to journey 
 into the interior on some business which was likely 
 to be remunerative if it was successful. These last 
 words implied much. I fear it was a dangerous 
 
Abiding Peace, 
 
 165 
 
 mission, and one which has proved fatal. Other- 
 wise how could five months have elapsed without a 
 line reaching me? Can you answer that, Mary ? " 
 
 " I can only repeat that there might, nay, there 
 must, have been many difficulties in the way of 
 getting letters forwarded," repeated Mary, still 
 gently. " Come now, Frances ; see, the day is 
 closing in. Come away home." 
 
 She drdw her arm within hers, and they turned 
 their faces towards the town. 
 
 Just then, through a parting in the gloomy 
 clouds, a feeble ray of sunshine, the first they had 
 seen for days, fell across their path. It touched 
 the face of Frances Blake, and showed how worn 
 and thin it was, how unlike the bright, beautiful 
 face which had once captivated Richard Blake. 
 Ay, Frances Blake had passed through the deeps 
 since then. She had tasted of remorse, of bitterest 
 most unavailing regret ; she had borne the heart- 
 sickness of hope deferred, the yearning which 
 cannot be satisfied. For only two brief epistles 
 had reached her from that far-off land whither her 
 exiled husband had gone, and now this was the 
 second month of another year. Ah, indeed, had 
 her remorse, her love, come too late? would he 
 never know that the heart of his wife had turned 
 to him at last with all the love of which she was 
 capable, and that was much ? had he gone to his 
 rest on that far shore all unconscious of the 
 woman's heart hungering at home for his return ? 
 
 Mary Osborne had remained the steadfast friend 
 of Richard's wife, and when the physician had 
 peremptorily ordered a change for the Squire's 
 
 
 „■.,:, :■•; 
 
iC6 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 \t ' I 
 
 daughter, Mary had been found willing to go with 
 her into her solitude and make it less hard to bear. 
 Mrs. Kendal was very grateful, for a sojourn at an 
 out-of-the*way corner like Merlin-on-Sea, in the 
 depth of winter, too, would not at all have suited 
 her. The Squire, heartily sorry now for his poor, 
 delicate daughter, came often to Merlin, and saw 
 that fruit and flowers and all sorts of dainties were 
 systematically sent to the little cottage bj^ the sea ; 
 also his admiration for Mary Osborne was un- 
 bounded. Harry came sometimes when he could 
 be spared by his patients, for the Squire's son had 
 settled down to life in earnest now, and was making 
 for himself a reputation in the northern city where 
 he had cast his lot. 
 
 "You are tired, Frances," said Mary gently, 
 feeling her companion leaning more heavily upon 
 her. " We have stayed out too long." 
 
 "No, let me stand here a few minutes just to 
 look at the sea ; it seems to bring me nearer, some- 
 how, to Richard, and I shall not be able to come 
 out to-morrow." 
 
 Mary let her have her way, and they stood for a 
 few minutes in silence at the garden gate looking 
 towards the restless sea, which was tinged by the 
 weird, yellow gleam from the edge of the lowering 
 clouds. 
 
 Then, shivering slightly, Frances Blake laid her 
 hand on the gate, and they entered the house. The 
 cosy sitting-room was warm and pleasant, and the 
 red glow of a cheerful fire sparkled on the appoint- 
 ments of the tea-table. 
 
 Hearing the ladies come in, good Mrs. Boscoe 
 
 fi: i' 
 
Abiding Peace. 
 
 167 
 
 bustled in with the teapot and set it on the tabic. 
 Mary turned her head to thank her, and then, 
 unfastening her friend's wraps, bade her lie back 
 among the cushions, for she was plainly wearied 
 out. Frances did so, and languidly closed hT eyes. 
 Mary, looking on, noted with anxious heart the 
 great purple shadows encircling them, the wanness 
 of the cheek, the lines about her mouth. Ay, 
 Richard's wife was far from well, and Mary resolved 
 to send without delay for Squire Kendal and his 
 wife. 
 
 •' Mary, suppose I die ; I fear I shall," said 
 Frances presently, fixing her hollow eyes on the 
 sweet face before her — " what then ? Do you think 
 there will be any place in heaven for such as 
 I?" 
 
 " Surely." Mary took the cold hands in her 
 firm, warm grasp, and chafed them tenderly. 
 " I have often spoken and read to you of the love 
 of God. It is a Father's love. You know some- 
 thing of that." 
 
 " Yes, papa is very good to me ; but then I have 
 not sinned against him as I have done against 
 God." 
 
 " Dear Frances, it was not the righteous Christ 
 came to save, but sinners, such as we all arc," said 
 Mary, earnestly. 
 
 The weary head tossed uneasily on the pillows. 
 
 " Yes, yes, so the Bible says ; but though it is 
 plain enough, I cannot grasp it as you do. It is 
 easy for you to believe ; you have always been 
 good. But I — think of my married life, Mary ; of 
 the wrong I did to others beside my husband-^ 
 
163 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 I cannot recall one well-spent hour during the 
 whole of the time I lived in London." 
 
 " My dear, do not let that trouble you now. 
 God knows all that, and is waiting to forgive you, 
 if you will but ask Him. My darling. He knows 
 all your heart-sickness ; if you will but look up to 
 Him, He will comfort you as none else can." 
 
 "Tell me, Mary, have you ever had any great 
 trial in which God comforted you ? " asked Frances. 
 
 " Yes. My life has nvit been without its cross, 
 Frances. What life is ? It is not sunshine which 
 will prepare us for our other home, but sorrow ; and 
 so our hearts are weaned away from this world and 
 fixed on that which is to come," replied Mary, very 
 low, and Frances listened, not guessing the nature 
 of that trial, nor how largely she had contributed 
 to it. 
 
 " I would like to believe, to feel that peace which 
 must be in your heart ; it is so plainly shown in 
 every action of your life. I feel just like the drift- 
 wood tossed upon a fickle wave," said Frances, 
 wistfully. " I want something to lean against. All 
 my friends were but summer-day props, who could 
 not weather a storm. Show me the way." 
 
 " My dear, how can I show it you ? It is just at 
 your feet. Only look up to God as your Father ; 
 let your heart rest upon the assurance of His love, 
 and you will know His peace, which passeth all 
 understanding." 
 
 Frances covered her face with her hands, and the 
 woman kneeling by her prayed. A long silence 
 followed. At last Frances spoke in tones low and 
 tremulous, yet wondrously sweet. 
 
 i' ! 
 
tididtng Peace. 
 
 1 69 
 
 " Kiss mc, Mary. God has forcjivcn me ; I can 
 bear whatever lies before me with patience noWf 
 because I know He loves me." 
 
 So, after her long tossing on the sea of unrest, of 
 worldly care and pain, Frances Blake anchored in 
 the sure waters of God's love. Desolate she was. 
 licreft of that she loved best on earth, bitter, bitter 
 was the reaping of the whirlwind she had sowed in 
 days gone by. It indeed seemed as if she had 
 drank the cup of sorrow to its dregs. Yet peace 
 remained, the only true peace which we of ea-th 
 can kn^w — that rest which abideth only in God. 
 
 A few days later, in the chill, grey dawn of a 
 wild February morning, Richard Blake's first-born 
 son saw the light. 
 
ii :■ I: 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IN A FAR COUNTRY 
 
 'i} 
 
 I' ^: 
 
 OHN, is it not time Mr. Blake was 
 putting in an appearance again ? " 
 
 The speaker was a young and 
 pretty woman, seated in a cool and 
 pleasant nursery in one of the best 
 appointed houses in Kimberley. It 
 was the abode of Mr. John Ingram, 
 one of the largest storekeepers and 
 most successful business men in the stirring South 
 African town. The lady was his wife. Twenty 
 years before, John Ingram had emigrated from 
 Scotland, a raw lad of nineteen, fresh from school, 
 possessed of little knowledge of the world, yet with 
 one determination — to make a place for himself in 
 the new continent. He had succeeded well. There 
 were years of hard toil and small reward, seasons 
 of hopelessness approaching to despair, times when 
 the impulse was upon him to throw the whole con- 
 cern up and return to the slow money-making and 
 orthodox business transactions of his sleepy town. 
 But he remained true to the Ingram characteristics. 
 170 
 
 I 
 
Blake was 
 gain?" 
 roung and 
 1 cool and 
 )f the best 
 aerley. It 
 in Ingram, 
 eepers and 
 ring South 
 Twenty 
 -ated from 
 "om school, 
 d, yet with 
 • himself in 
 ell. There 
 .rd, seasons 
 times when 
 whole con- 
 laking and 
 eepy town, 
 racteristics. 
 
 II I 
 
iM'S' 
 
 i IB 
 
 Hi 
 
 ab( 
 
 hoi 
 
 ten 
 
 brc 
 
 sue 
 
 tow 
 
 imf 
 
 ten 
 
 can 
 
 to ] 
 
 mai 
 
 had 
 
 grej 
 
 beai 
 
 oft] 
 
 who 
 
 the 
 
 time 
 
 char 
 
 ther 
 
 begc 
 
 grov 
 
 hain 
 
 Johr 
 
 of t 
 
 thou 
 
 liom 
 
 cable 
 
 inter 
 
 bont 
 
 unex 
 
 the I 
 
In a Far Country. 
 
 171 
 
 His indomitable will, his heroic endurance, and 
 above all his sterling uprightness and unblemished 
 honour, which remained untarnished even among 
 temptations such as few men could have withstood, 
 brought him to success at last. It was no ordinary- 
 success, for he was among the earlier settlers in the 
 town, and had thus a better chance than the later 
 importations from the old country. At the end of 
 ten years he was enabled to leave his business in 
 care of a trustworthy manager, ana pay a visit 
 to his early home. As was inevitable, he found 
 many changes there. He found the parents he 
 had left in their prime grown somewhat old and 
 grey, brothers he had left lads at school grown 
 bearded men, sisters married and settled in homes 
 of their own, with little children about their knees, 
 who spoke quite glibly of Uncle John from across 
 the seas. He had been made aware from time to 
 time, of course, of the events which marked those 
 changes, but until he found himself face to face with 
 them he had no idea how real they were. Then he 
 began to look and think of himself. Likely he was 
 growing old too. His sister Ellen's little fair- 
 haired girl found some silver threads among Uncle 
 John's glossy curls, and immediately apprised him 
 of the fact. Yes, he was growing older ; and 
 though he was loved and made much of in his old 
 home, he, somehow, felt thar. he was not indispen- 
 cable to them, that each had his and her own 
 interests and ties, while he had none but business 
 bonds. That visit proved as eventful as it was an 
 unexpected crisis in John Ingram's life. Many of 
 the girls who were his sisters' companions in the 
 
 M 
 
 , *'■ 
 
^: 
 
 lii; 
 
 172 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 old days were now wives and mothers too, but there 
 was one left, and, somehow, when John heard that 
 Louie Elliott was unmarried still he was glad. 
 I need not enlarge. When John Ingram set sail 
 again from the shores of England there was a 
 sweet-faced, gentle-eyed wife with him, and hence- 
 forth Kimberley was home to him. Louie Ingram 
 carried her years well. But yesterday she had 
 completed her thirty-fifth year ; yet to look at her 
 as she sat there, *^er face so tender in its sweet 
 motherliness, you would have said she was ten 
 years younger. Two children had been born to 
 them — little Walter, a wild, stirring lad, with his 
 grandfather's cxhaustless fund of fun and spirits, 
 as well as his name, and the little blue-eyed 
 daughter on Mrs. Ingram's knee, who had onh 
 been four weeks in the world. John Ingram was 
 lying on a couch lazily scanning the columns of the 
 Weekly ScotsmaUy which found its way as regularly 
 as Saturday morning ime round. Of course it 
 was a few weeks late, but what of that ? It was 
 the news from a far country, for which exiled 
 hearts ever hunger. He was five years older than 
 his wife, and he looked it r"^ry day. There were 
 more than a few stray rhiea 's among the glossy 
 curls now, and his figure A»ad grown stout and 
 broad ; but he was a fine-looking man, and his 
 face was one which seemed made to be trusted. 
 Needless to say, his wife thought him the hand- 
 somest man in Kimberley, and the best I believe 
 she was right. He looked up from his paper 
 when he spoke, and his glance was one of admir- 
 iii^j love. 
 
 I 
 
In a Far Country. 
 
 173 
 
 "I do declare, Louie, you grow prettier and 
 youiigcr every day. I just wish the birds of evil 
 omen by Gala water who predicted for you an early 
 death could see you now." 
 
 The happy wife laughed, and that sound was the 
 sweetest music on earth to her husband's heart. 
 She had given up much for him, and it had been 
 the aim of his life to make sure that she never 
 regretted it. That laugh, the music of a happy 
 heart, the serene contentment which dwelt ever 
 on her dear face, told him he had succeeded. 
 
 " Did you hear what I said, John ?" she repeated. 
 "Isn't it time Mr. Blake turned up in Kimberl*^ 
 again ? " 
 
 " More than time, my dear," he said, and flung^ 
 aside his paper as he spoke. " In fact, Louie, I am 
 very anxious about Blake — very anxious indeed." 
 
 "Was it a very dangerous expedition, John?" 
 asked Mrs. Ingram anxiously. 
 
 •* Rather. A journey into the 'nteriur, even on a 
 peaceable errand, is always attended with more or 
 less danger. The Kaffirs, I have proved b) experi- 
 ence, are not too scrupulous about their treatment 
 of their white brethren." 
 
 " From experience, John ? Have you ever been 
 in trouble with the Kaffirs ? " 
 
 " Many a time and oft. I have haci some hair- 
 breadth escapes, with which I have never dared to 
 harrow up your soul. Yes, Louie, I wish to good- 
 ness Blake would turn up. I like the fellow, and I 
 would be thankful to see him, suppose his journey 
 should lose me a few hundreds. I 'm really begin- 
 ning to think I had no right to rick his life for the 
 
174 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 I'C '' I' 
 
 7<' !-\ 
 
 V' 'el 
 
 sake of bartering with these miserable wretches. 
 What do you think ? " 
 
 " Did you explain to Mr. Blake the nature of the 
 expedition? did you make him aware of the 
 dangers he had to encounter ? " 
 
 *' Of course I did. Bless me, Louie, what do you 
 take me for? Do you think I 'd send a man into 
 the jaws of death without warning him ? He asked 
 me for the job. He knew as well as I do that it 
 would be a stroke of fortune for the firm. I never 
 saw a man with a clearer head for business than 
 Blake. He beats me all to sticks. The more 
 I study him the more I am mystified about 
 him." 
 
 "Do you think he has been disappointed in love, 
 John ? " inquired Mrs. Ingram in a sympathetic 
 voice. 
 
 " No, I don't. It 's been a more serious trouble 
 than that, though I grant that may be serious 
 enough some times. I don't know what I'd have 
 done if you had refused me." 
 
 " Nobody could have refused my John," said the 
 little wife. ** Could she, baby ? But, seriously, 
 John, when Mr. Blake comes back we must be very 
 good to him, and have him often here, and try and 
 make him forget his troubles, shall we?" 
 
 "Bless your dear heart, yes — we'll give him 
 permanent board here when he comes back if you 
 like. I wish he were back ; that 's all." 
 
 " Don't get worrying over it. I daresay he '11 be 
 .Scife er on[;b, John," said Mrs. Ingram reassuringly. 
 " I fee' quite interested about him. If we were 
 very gcod and kind to him, and he got to feel quite 
 
In a Far Country 
 
 I7S 
 
 ; do you 
 I an into 
 le asked 
 D that it 
 I never 
 ess than 
 le more 
 d about 
 
 said the 
 seriously, 
 it be very 
 i try and 
 
 f/ive him 
 !ck if you 
 
 ^ he'll be 
 ssuringly. 
 we were 
 
 at home with us, he might tell us a little about 
 himself." 
 
 " Oh, you little diplomatist ! I never thouf^ht 
 you were so imbued with curiosity. My own 
 opinion is that he has been involved in business 
 difficulties, and that there isn't a woman in the 
 affair at all." 
 
 " You 're only a man ! " said Mrs. Ingram, wisely. 
 " Why, you stupid John, don't you know there 's 
 always a woman in it. Will you promise me a new 
 dress if I 'm right ? " 
 
 " I never bet, Mrs. Ingram," said John, with 
 dignity. "But I daresay you are right. You 
 always are, you know. I am very sorry for him, 
 any way, woman or no woman ; and I hope he '11 
 stay with us when he does come back. I 'd make 
 him a partner to-morrow if he'd accept it. It 
 would be worth my while, I tell you." 
 
 " That is unlike your Scotch caution, John. 
 Surely Mr. Blake must possess an extraordinary 
 fascination for you." 
 
 " He is as fine a fellow as I have ever met, and 
 as thorough a gentleman. You don't need to know 
 a man a lifetime before you trust him. How long 
 was our courtship, Louie ? " 
 
 " Don't ask me, sir. I am ashamed when I think 
 what a shockingly unconventional engagement we 
 had. But ours was different. You sec, I knew 
 your people and all about you, not to speak of the 
 mild flirtations we used to have when we w^ere all 
 children together in the dear old Border town." 
 
 "Where's Walter, Louie?" queried Mr. Ingram, 
 his thoughts suddenly reverting to his first-born. 
 
 \ 1 
 
 
 1^ 
 
176 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 ii "I '. 
 
 it 
 
 " I don't know. I never do know where he is. 
 He knows every man, black and white, in the town, 
 1 believe. He is the funniest child. It is a marvel 
 to me he never comes to grief." 
 
 " A* body's bairn 's aye in luck, I Ve heard, Louie, 
 and nobody would have the heart to harm our wee 
 Walter," said John, softly. " Everybody loves him 
 for his mother's sake." 
 
 " O John, you old flatterer ! Why, there is 
 Walter shouting at the pitch of his voice," she 
 exclaimed, starting up. " And I believe he 's 
 bringing somebody in with him. Why, bless me, 
 if it isn't Mr. Blake ! " 
 
 Yes, it v/as Richard Blake, travel-stained and 
 weary with his long and rough jolting over the 
 wild mountf^in tracks, the little Walter clinging to 
 his hand as if he found him an old and dear friend. 
 
 " Blake, upon my word, I 'm thankful to sec 
 you ! " said J ohn Ingram, taking Richard's hand in 
 a grip of iron. 
 
 " And I also, Mr. Blake," said the sweet wife, 
 and the beautiful eyes uplifted to his were full of 
 t'^ars. 
 
 '* Thank you," said Richard Blake, quietly, yet 
 with earnestness. " I met your little boy at the 
 other end of the street. He said he was watching 
 for me." 
 
 " He must have heard us speak of you," said 
 John Ingram. " But come and get refreshed. 
 I suppose dinner will be ready soon, Louie ? " he 
 added to his wife. So that kind and happy family 
 strove to make Richard Blake feel at home with 
 them, and they succeeded. He was not altogether 
 
In a Far Country, 
 
 177 
 
 friendless in t e strange land, nor did the loneliness 
 of his position oppress him so strongly as it did his 
 wife fretting for him at home. He was too thank- 
 ful to be freed from the old bonds, to be among 
 people who did not despise him — too glad to see 
 before him once more a prospect of gaining a 
 position in the world. He had been accidentally 
 thrown in John Ingram's way, and that shrewd man 
 of business had not been slow to estimate his new 
 acquaintance at his true worth. An oiffer of 
 employment in his office had been at once accepted, 
 and when the subject of an expedition into the 
 interior to trade with the Kaffirs had been broached 
 Richard Blake had offijred his services so eagerly 
 that John Ingram could scarcely refuse. Besides, 
 he could not have found a better man, as was 
 evidenced by the success which had crowned the 
 object of his journey. 
 
'1 
 I! 
 
 
 'i)'. 
 
 I in 
 
 111 
 
 ml 
 iiiii 
 
 I 
 
 
 ['•is ;r 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THE BITTER PAST. 
 
 O memories ! 
 
 O past that is ! — George Eliot 
 
 |ES, I am very glad to see you safely 
 home again," repeated John Ingram's 
 wife, as they took their places at the 
 dinner-table half-an-hour later. " Your 
 mother or sisters would not have 
 thanked my husband for sending you 
 on such an errand." 
 
 Mrs. Ingram looked keenly at 
 Richard Blake as she uttered the concluding part 
 of her speech, but he bent his head over the little 
 Walter, who had again stolen to his side, as if 
 drawn to him by some magnet. 
 
 "Thanks. But I assure you there was little 
 actual danger in my expedition, Mrs. Ingram," he 
 said quietly, and then he looked at her, and she 
 could gather nothing from his face. 
 
 " You are brave to make so light of it, Mr. Blake, 
 but John was anxious too, and he is no coward," 
 asserted the pretty wife, shaking her head. 
 178 
 
The Bitter Past. 
 
 1/9 
 
 " Death is often farthest away from those who rlo 
 not greatly care whether he steals upon tlicin 
 unawares or not, Mrs. Ini^ram," said Riciiard 
 quietly still, and gently smoothed away the curls 
 from the earnest eyes of her little son. 
 
 Mrs. Ingram's eyes met those of her husband, 
 and he immediately changed the subject. lUit 
 Mrs. Ingram pondered these thin;;s m her mind, 
 and, being of an imaginative turn, conjured up 
 a very pretty romance, in which Richard lilakc and 
 some sweet English girl were the central figures. 
 When she went away upstairs by-and-l)y to put 
 her little ones to bed, John Ingram turned to 
 business talk with his friend. 
 
 " I am deeply indebted to you, Blake," he said 
 with honest heartiness, " and I have a proposal to 
 make to you." 
 
 " Yes," said Richard, but neither face nor voice 
 betrayed any absorbing interest. 
 
 " First of all, then, have you a mind to settle?" 
 
 " As well here as anywhere else, I suppose, 
 provided I can get a living," he answered. 
 
 " There 's something to be made here yet, though 
 they say it's played out," said John Ingram, slowly. 
 "The thing is to strike the right vein, and to work 
 it skilfully when it is struck. Do you know I 've 
 made a fortune here, Blake ? " 
 
 " So I have heard ; and you are a young man yet." 
 
 " Comparatively speaking, yes ; but here a man 
 grows old before his time. I like the place well 
 enough — which is scarcely to be wondered at, 
 seeing I Ve been in it twenty years — but I 've never 
 got over the feeling that I 'm only a sojourner in a 
 
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 (716) 872-4503 
 

i8o 
 
 A Divided House, 
 
 strange land ; and for my wife's and children's 
 sakes it is my desire and intention to spend the 
 latter years of my life in the old country." 
 
 "I am astonished that you should still feel an 
 alien after so long a stay here," said Richard, 
 musingly. 
 
 " It is true. The love of the old home sticks to 
 some men to the last, while others never feel it. 
 There are few advantages here for children ; 
 I should not care to see Walter in business in this 
 town, and I know that my wife's heart is across 
 the seas as well as mine." 
 
 "Mrs. Ingram seems happy and cheerful," said 
 Richard in a slightly constrained voice. 
 
 " Yes, God bless her ; she gave up everything 
 for me, and made a paradise of this wretched place 
 because she loved me," said John Ingram with 
 unwonted emotion. " Ah, Blake I the best of tts 
 can never come near to a good woman in unselfish- 
 ness and devotion, and a wife teaches us many 
 things about ourselves we didn't know before, our 
 own unworthiness among them. You will find that 
 out some day, when you are blessed as I have been 
 and am." 
 
 "All women are not like Mrs. Ingram," said 
 Richard Blake a little harshly, and abruptly rose. 
 
 John Ingram started slightly, for it seemed as if 
 his wife might not be so far at sea m her surmise 
 after all. 
 
 "Well, well, what am I saying? .A lot of stuff 
 likely," he said hastily. " What I meant to be at 
 was, that if you arc willing to settle in Kimberlcy, 
 what do you say to a partnership with me ?" 
 
The Bitter Past 
 
 I8i 
 
 Richard Blake looked much surprised. 
 
 "You are very good, but I have no money, no 
 securities to offer, nothing in fact which you have 
 a right to expect from a man you would ask to 
 share your business," he replied. 
 
 " I don't want anything. I haven't known you 
 very long, but it has been long enough to make mo 
 trust you. The advantage won't be all on your 
 side. Don't think it. I know very well what I 'm 
 doing, Blake, so if you agree just say so, and we '11 
 shake hands upon it and discuss terms another 
 time." 
 
 John Ingram again looked with a start at Richard 
 Blake. A c^.ange seemed to have come over the 
 man. He stood erect, his bearing seemed prouder, 
 more independent, his face brighter than he had 
 ever seen it before. These words, "It has been 
 long enough to make me trust you," had wrought 
 the charm, and Richard Blake felt that an honour- 
 able place in the world might yet be his. 
 
 " God bless you, John Ingram," he said huskily. 
 " Some day I will be able to thank you, but not 
 now. It will be my endeavour to prove worthy of 
 the rare and undeserved confidence you have placed 
 in me." 
 
 •• Nay, not undeserved," corrected John Ingram, 
 with a sunny smile. " I have proved you. You 
 needn't have come back to Kimberley now, you 
 know, unless you had a mind to. Some day, 
 perhaps, when you get better acquainted with me, 
 you '11 tell me something about your troubles in the 
 old country." 
 
 ''I failed in business and came off in disgu.st with 
 
l82 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 t 1 
 
 myself and all the world," said Richard, briefly. 
 " I '11 tell you the rest another time. Well, I won't 
 trespass on your kindness longer to-night. Will 
 you make my apologies to Mrs. Ingram, and let me 
 off to my own quarters ? " 
 
 "If you wish it, yes ; but you know you are 
 welcome to come and go here when you like. I 
 can speak for Louie as well as for myself, I know." 
 
 "Thanks," said Richard Blake, and wrung the 
 offered hand like a vice. 
 
 Oh, but it is a blessed thing to grasp the out- 
 stretched hand of friendship when the world is 
 darkest to us ! John Ingram's words fell that night 
 upon Richard Blake's heart like the sweetest dews 
 of heaven. When Mrs. Ingram, re-entered the 
 room she found her husband alone and apparently 
 deeply absorbed in thought. 
 
 "Has Mr. Blake gone away, John?" she asked 
 in rather a disappointed tone. She was as much 
 interested in Richard Blake as John was himself. 
 
 "Yes, dear; he was tired, and I said I would 
 make his apologies to you. Well, Louie, I've 
 offered, and he has accepted, partnership. Was it 
 wise in me, little woman ? " 
 
 " You should know best, John ; but I am sure 
 you can trust him. What beautiful, true, kind 
 eyes he has ! Of course you smile. That is a very 
 silly reason to give for trusting a man, but eyes 
 can't tell lies, aren t they the mirrors of the soul ? 
 Besides, unless Mr. Blake was a good man Walter 
 would not love him so. I am amazed at the child. 
 Just think what he did to-night!" 
 
 " I couldn't guess, Louie," said John with interest 
 
The Bitter Past. 
 
 183 
 
 lift 
 
 " He had said iiis prayers, 
 him into bed, when he 
 
 mamma, I 've forgotten something.' 
 again 
 
 h interest 
 
 and I was about to 
 said suddenly, ' Oh, 
 Then he knelt 
 down again and said, * O Lord, I forgot to say, 
 •' Bless dear Mr. Blake, and don't let him go away 
 any more among wild men, for Jesus' sake. Amen." 
 Wasn't that to the point, John ?" said Mrs. Ingram 
 with a smile and a tear struggling for the mastery 
 in her eye. 
 
 "Very much to the point, indeed," was John's 
 reply, and somehow after that a silence fell upon 
 them both. 
 
 Meanwhile the subject of their talk has reached 
 his own lonely lodging, and locked his door. Then 
 he opened his trunk and took from thence a letter 
 case, a dainty thing in finest morocco, with clasps 
 of gold, a relic of the old luxurious Brampton 
 Square days. If Mrs. Ingram could have peeped 
 over Richard Blake's shoulder as he sat at the table 
 and took out the contents with tender fingers, she 
 might have flattered herself that she was a very far- 
 seeing and penetrating woman. There Vv'as a bundle 
 of letters held together by an elastic band, a 
 photograph in an ivory case, and a tiny piece of 
 tissue naper, in which was wrapped a lock of hair, 
 every tnread of which was like living gold. Richard 
 Blake touched the spring of the ivory case, and oh, 
 how fair a face revealed itself to his stern gaze! 
 lie looked at it very long, yet without change of 
 expression, without any tenderness creeping into 
 his face. Then he shut it with a quick sharp click, 
 tossed it aside, and took from the elastic band the 
 last letter he had slipped within it He carefully 
 
 i> ■ 
 
 i. .- ,1,: 
 
 ■il/ ': 
 
f 
 
 i. 
 
 ; 1 
 
 n 
 
 m 
 m 
 
 184 
 
 A Divided Nouse. 
 
 spread out the dainty fashionably-tinted sheet, from 
 which emanated a faint sweet perfume like wood 
 violets in the spring. The words written thereon 
 were few, and not of absorbing interest. We may 
 read them with him : — 
 
 Kendal Hall, 
 SuTTON-LE-WiLLOWs, August^ 18—. 
 
 Dear Richard, — I duly received your letter apprising 
 me of your safe arrival. I am pleased that you had a 
 pleasant voyage, and that you are satisfied with the new 
 country. I hope your expectations of it will be still 
 further realised. I am not quite so sanguine as you, for 
 we had a gentleman dining here the other evening who 
 has travelled far, and it is his opinion that there is 
 no more money to be made in the South African settle- 
 ments. That is papa's opinion too. He thinks you 
 would have done better in Queensland. However, now 
 that you are out, I suppose you will need to make tiic 
 best of it. I am glad to gather from your letter that 
 leaving England cost you so little pain. I am quite well. 
 Thanks for your kind inquiries about my spirits. If 
 they are not exhilarating, perhaps I am to be excused. 
 I shall be glad to hear from time to time how you are 
 keeping, and I shall not fail to answer your letters 
 regularly. — I am, your affectionate wife, 
 
 Frances Blake. 
 
 Brief and cold enough of a truth. And these 
 were the last words which had reached him from a 
 far country ! If Frances could have guessed what 
 bitter pain that letter (written in a hasty moment 
 when " pride ruled her will ") was to inflict upon her 
 husband's heart, how it would but serve to harden 
 
The Bitter Past. 
 
 185 
 
 him againPt her, ay, even while he was heartsick 
 with love for her, she would never have written it 
 Already it had been repented of, as we know — ay, 
 seventy times seven, and words of loving entreaty 
 for forgiveness had been sent after it, but they had 
 not reached the eyes for which they were intended 
 and never would now, for Richard had shifted his 
 quarters many times since these penitent words had 
 been penned, and so had missed his English letters 
 He did not greatly care. He had waited anxiously 
 for the first epistle from his wife, and when it came 
 it chilled him to the heart. He read and re-read it 
 that night until every word was imprinted on his 
 memory. Its tone seemed to reproach him, although 
 it was not intended to do so. He pictured to him- 
 self how contemptuously they would discuss him at 
 the Hall, thinking it impossible, or improbable, at 
 least, that he could do any more good from a 
 worldly point of view. A grim smile touched 
 his lips, and he slowly gathered together these 
 relics of the past, and replaced them in his trunk. 
 He would trouble his English kith and kin no 
 more. For a time he would be as dead to them ; 
 he would let them think or say of him what they 
 willed, and he would labour on. For what end ? 
 To make a great fortune ; to build up for himself 
 a name and a place in the land of his adoption ; 
 and then if the desire for triumph still remained, to 
 return in the pride of his success and shame them 
 into silence. And from that day he threw himself 
 heart and soul into the business of which John 
 Ingram had so generously offered him a share. 
 His partner was amazed. It seemed impossible to 
 
 
1 86 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 weary Richard Blake ; he had the energy, the 
 perseverance, the indomitable working powers of 
 seven men. Money flowed into the coffers of 
 Ingram & Company. But while the balance in 
 favour of Richard Blake grew bigger and broader 
 in the bank day by day, he remained a moody and 
 miserable man ; and at the end of two years Louie 
 Ingram was as far from penetrating the secret of 
 his life as she had been at the beginning, so she 
 gave him up in despair. 
 
 £' *f. 
 
 msj 
 
 w£^ 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 BRINGING IT HOME. 
 
 "The veil is rent sometimes, and we see that what we 
 thought nobleness in our own actions was only u form of 
 selfishness. It is a wholesome lesson." 
 
 |OW, Mr. Blake, I will take no refusal. 
 It is to be such a quiet affjiir. Just 
 half-a-dozen friends to dinner, and a 
 little music afterwards. Even a hermit 
 could scarcely object to that. Say we 
 we mav be sure of you on Thursday 
 night ?'" 
 
 So said Mrs. Ingram to her hus- 
 band's partner one Sunday evening as they were 
 walking home from church together. Hitherto all 
 her persuasions had failed to induce Mr. Blake to 
 make one at the happy social gatherings for which 
 she was famous. 
 
 " I am not a company man, Mrs. Ingram,** he 
 said, making use of the excuse which had served 
 him so often before. " And I should probably act 
 as a kind of damper on your pleasant evening. 
 Pray excuse me. 1 am best left to myself" 
 
 i«7 N 
 
iSS 
 
 A Divided H<u:se. 
 
 n 
 
 " Nay, I will not excuse you," said Mrs. Inffram, 
 wilfully. "We expect some friends whom 1 am 
 very anxious you should meet. Good evening;. 
 I shall look for you at six o'clock on Thursday 
 eveninjT, and if you fail me — but I know you will 
 not. Come, Walter." 
 
 So saying the little lady tripped away to join her 
 husband, who was walking with the clergyman in 
 front, and Richard Blake, against his will, was 
 obliged to consider himself bound for Thursday 
 evening. 
 
 Mrs. Ingram hardly dared to expect him. Never- 
 theless he appeared a few minutes before the 
 appointed hour, and a smile of real pleasure lit up 
 her sweet face as she offered him her hand. Mrs. 
 Ingram's dinner parties were celebrated in Kim- 
 berley. They were always small, and as she had 
 the happy knack of bringing together people who 
 suited each other (the greatest secret of all success- 
 ful social gatherings) there never were any jarring 
 discords to mar the harmony of an evening in John 
 
 Ingram's home. Then her vienu was always 
 delightful, her table exquisitely appointed ; and she 
 and her husband were such good entertainers in 
 themselves that their invitations were never refused. 
 When Richard Blake entered his partner's 
 drawing-room that night he recognised all the 
 guests save one, a handsome, distinguished-looking 
 j'oung lady, who was introduced to him as Miss 
 Maynard. He took her in to dinner, and found her 
 a pleasant, well-informed, and thoroughly enjoy- 
 able companion. Mrs. Ingram's eyes shone with 
 brighter lustre when she saw how attentive Mr. 
 
Biin^ing it Ho;;::» 
 
 189 
 
 Blake was to her friend, and how earnest and 
 apparently interesting was their conversation. She 
 loved both these two, and had a plan in her hc.d 
 concerning them which, like so many human plans, 
 was made but to be set aside. It was truly a 
 pleasant evening. There was music, but not too 
 much to prove irksome, varied by quiet and 
 enjoyable talk about literature and art and society 
 at large ; for Mrs. Ingram permitted no business 
 talk in her drawing-room. Richard Blake came 
 out of his shell, and even John Ingram, who knew 
 and admired his friend so much, was amazed to 
 hear his critical and appreciative remarks upon 
 topics so far removed from the business of his daily 
 life. It but increased the mystery which hun^r 
 about his past life, and deepened John's conviction 
 that Blake had been "something" in the old 
 country. 
 
 The guests left at nine, but Richard, being quite 
 at home at Ingram House, sat still playing with 
 little Walter, who had been allowed to sit up an 
 hour beyond his usual bedtime. 
 
 John Ingram stood a few minutes discussing the 
 events of the evening, and then went down to the 
 study to write a letter, leaving his wife and his 
 friend alone. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Blake, confess that you enjoyed 
 yourself ; that you had a pleasant evening in spite 
 of your determination to be bored and generally 
 unhappy," said Mrs. Ingram playfully. 
 
 Richard laughed. 
 
 "You are very hard upon me, Mrs. Ingram. 
 Yes, I had a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Time 
 
 li!: ' 
 
1 90 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 lon^r.' 
 
 he 
 
 >t 
 
 nice,' said Mrs. 
 a beautiful and 
 
 Ingram, 
 amiable 
 
 <i 
 
 She 
 
 has not sped so swiftly with me for 
 answered readily. 
 
 *' Our friends are all 
 *' Is not Miss Maynard 
 girl ? " 
 
 "Very much so, indeed," replied Richard, 
 does not reside in Kimberley, surely?" 
 
 " No ; she is on a visit to her aunt, Mrs. Van 
 Dcrne. Her home is in Durban. Her mother 
 was a widow, but has lately married again, and so 
 home is not what it was to poor Emily." 
 
 " I should think it likely that Miss Maynard will 
 not be long allowed to lack a home," said Richard 
 Blake, quietly. " Especially in this benighted 
 land," he added with a smile. 
 
 "Mr. Blake !" said Mrs. Ingram, suddenly break- 
 ing the brief silence which ensued, " why don't you 
 seek some good woman and make a home for your- 
 self here? Do not think me impertinent, but if 
 3'ou only knew how dear you are to John and to 
 me, and how sorry we are to see you so lonely 
 and unhappy, you would not be vexed with me for 
 asking you such a plain question." 
 
 Richard Blake put down Walter from his knee 
 and began to walk restlessly up and down the room. 
 Looking at his face, which betrayed the keenest 
 emotion and agitation, she regretted her question. 
 
 "Because you are so truly my friend, Mrs. 
 Ingram," he said at length, rather unsteadily, " I 
 will tell you the truth : I have a wife in England 1" 
 
 Mrs. Ingram's face grew pale with the very 
 intensity of her surprise. Even her wildest imagin- 
 ation had never reached this, had never got beyond 
 
Brhi^'uig it Home, 
 
 191 
 
 iiig," he 
 
 Incjram. 
 amiable 
 
 Irs. Van 
 
 mother 
 
 1, and so 
 
 nard will 
 
 Richard 
 
 )enightcd 
 
 ily break- 
 don't you 
 : for your- 
 nt, but if 
 ,n and to 
 so lonely 
 th me for 
 
 his knee 
 the room, 
 keenest 
 uestion. 
 lend, Mrs. 
 adily, " I 
 ngland \ " 
 the very 
 St imagin- 
 ot beyond 
 
 a lovo disappointment or family trouble;'.. Her 
 eyes grew very troubled, and there were no further 
 questionings on her lips. 
 
 *' You have heard the adage, Marry in haste, 
 repent at leisure. Mrs. Ingram, such was my 
 experience, although my repentance was on my 
 wife's account rather than on my own," said Richard, 
 quietly. " I was not suited to her in any way ; I 
 could not give her such as she had been accustomed 
 to, and so — she was not happy." 
 
 Then briefly, yet concisely, he related to John 
 Ingram's wife all the story of the past. What a 
 relief it was to the man's sore heart to unburden 
 himself thus, I cannot try to tell you ! In the 
 middle of the story John Ingram opened the door, 
 but his wife motioned to him and he at once with- 
 drew. The little Walter climbed into his mother's 
 lap and fell asleep there, while she listened with 
 absorbing interest to the history of Richard Blake's 
 life. 
 
 When he ceased she did not speak for a little ; 
 there were some things she must ponder in her 
 heart, for she did not quite understand them yet. 
 
 " I cannot quite comprehend how your wife 
 allowed you to come away here alone," she said at 
 last. " Did you ask her to come with you ? " 
 
 " No ; it was useless. I had spoiled her life for 
 her, Mrs. Ingram, and the truest kindness I could 
 show her was to rid her of my presence," replied 
 Richard, bitterly. 
 
 "You did not ask her to accompany you?" 
 repeated Louie Ingram. 
 
 " No ; I knew too well what her answer would 
 
 1^ 
 
 ■3:t i|l. 
 
192 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 ■M 
 
 m 
 
 be ; besides, she was better at home among her own 
 people. What had I to bring her to ? How was 
 I to know I was to find such friends here as you 
 and John?" 
 
 " But another thing I cannot understand. Why 
 have you not sent or gone for her long ere this ? 
 You see it is possible to build up as pleasant and 
 happy a home here as in England. Why hdiWQyoti 
 not done so ? " 
 
 Richard Blake was silent for a moment. Some- 
 how, brought face to face with it now, the resolution 
 he had thought so noble, the line of action for which 
 he had commended himself during these past years, 
 seemed not only mean and pitiful, but wrong. 
 
 " You cannot quite understand how I was placed 
 
 m regard to my wife's relatives before I left 
 England, Mrs. Ingram," he said. "They despised 
 me. They blamed me utterly and entirely for 
 our wrecked fortune, forgetting that Frances had 
 helped to wreck them. Why, that day I left, my 
 father-in-law looked at and spoke to me as if I were 
 a felon convicted of some heinous crime. A man 
 cannot endure for ever, Mrs. Ingram ; therefore I 
 resolved that they should hear no more of mc until 
 I could prove to them I was not the useless hulk 
 they thought." 
 
 Graver and more troubled still grew the sweet 
 face of John Ingram's wife. 
 
 " And you have never written to your wife all 
 these months ? " she said slowly. 
 
 " Never since I apprised her of my safe arrival 
 and a few lines following, telling her I was about 
 to start on an expedition to the interior." 
 
Bringing it Home. 
 
 193 
 
 " O Mr. Blake — your . poor, poor wife ! I am 
 very sorry for her ! How could you be so cruel, so 
 unkind to her?" 
 
 " Not more so than she was to me ! " said 
 Richard hotly, roused mto self-defence as much 
 against his own consciousness as against his open 
 accuser, 
 
 *' That has nothing; to do with it. I never heard 
 of anything so unkind," repeated Louie Ingram. 
 " Why, think of what she must have endured all 
 this time ! Perhaps the suspense may have killed 
 her." 
 
 Richard Blake suddenly and swiftly turned his 
 head awav. In all his thousfhts of his wife — and 
 they had been many and varied — that had never 
 occurred to him. 
 
 " She never cared enousrh for me to fret for me. 
 I question if even my death would have occasioned 
 her much pain," he said in a low voice. 
 
 " Oh, hush ! I am a woman, Mr. Blake ; and 
 I know what a wife's feelings are. She may not 
 hav^e loved you when you were married, but I am 
 sure her heart has wakened to you now. There is 
 nothing like separation from those we love for 
 teaching us all we feel about them. Marriage is 
 not like any other thing, Mr. Blake. There is a 
 bond, a strange clinging of the heart which does 
 not enter into any of the other relationships of life. 
 I know just as well as if I had been told that your 
 wife at home in England loves you now, whatever 
 she' may have done in the past. You will write to 
 her this very night before you sleep. You will ask 
 her to forgive you, for you need her forgiveness, 
 
 :'.l«' -M ) 
 
 M,i"ll 
 
.'t 
 
 194 
 
 A Divided Hotise. 
 
 and you will beg her to come to you now. You 
 should have asked her long ago." 
 
 The pleading, tremulous voice ceased, and there 
 was no sound in the quiet room but the ticking of 
 the clock and the solemn sighing of the night wind 
 among the leaves of the creepers about the ver- 
 andah. 
 
 *' Though you may not love her as a man should 
 love his wife, Richard Blake, you are none the less 
 bound in duty to her ; and though you devoted a 
 lifetime in care and tenderness for her it would not 
 atone for what she must have suffered during the 
 years you have left her in such cruel suspense." 
 
 " I have suffered, too/* said Richard Blake, *' for 
 she probed very deep." 
 
 "You deserved to suffer. You inflicted the pain 
 with your own hand," said Louie Ingram fearlessly. 
 
 " Your poor, poor wife ; my heart bleeds for her. 
 O Mr. Blake! don't allow the fact that you no 
 longer care for her to prevent you from fulfilling 
 your sacred duty to her. God requires it of you. 
 The mc rriage bond cannot be .snapped so easily and 
 lightly. Her sins seem to have been those of heed- 
 lessness and waywardness, and, as you said, she 
 was very beautiful and very young. Perhaps you 
 did not take the right way with her just at first." 
 
 Again there was a silence, and still Richard 
 Blake kept his face hidden from the clear searching 
 eyes of the woman who had told him the truth 
 about himself. At length he tumed to her and 
 took her :5lender hand in a grip of iron. 
 
 " I will do as you say. I will not write ; I will 
 go to my wife and ask her to forgive me. My very 
 
Bringing it Home, 
 
 195 
 
 soul cleaves to her. I never loved her as I do at 
 this moment. You have opened my eyes. May 
 God forgive me for my pride and hardness of heart! 
 May God W^s^you my friend." 
 
 A week later a homeward bound vessel set sail 
 from the African shore. Strangely enough her 
 name was the Pembroke Castle, and she numbered 
 among her list of passengers the name of Richard 
 Blake. 
 
 ■ijJB'V-x' 
 
 ■t«i'':4,Hi,„ 
 
 I;' ,; 
 
 ''if 
 
:t: 
 
 n 
 
 I I 
 
 l- 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD. 
 
 •* A cup of cold water to a thirsty soul." 
 
 OME, Harry, it is time we were away 
 home, my pet It is past your dinner 
 time." 
 
 " Comin', ma," answered back the 
 sweet, ringing tones of a childish voice; 
 but the little one lingered a moment 
 yet by the river's brim to watch the 
 dog swim after the stick he had glee- 
 fully thrown in for him to catch. It was a picture 
 a painter might have loved to study. It was a 
 clear and beautiful day ; somewhat wintry in its 
 aspect, perhaps, for the year was very near its close. 
 But the air was sharp and bracing, the woodland 
 paths crisp and pleasant to the feet, and on the 
 bare boughs and the ever- green branches the hoar- 
 frost sparkled like diamonds in the sun. It was 
 the first frost of the year, and at the edge of the 
 lake there were thin cakes of ice which the sun's 
 rays had not been powerful enough to dissolve. 
 196 
 
 ,., ^' 
 
 '* 
 
 ''lf!» 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 197 
 
 Leaning against the door of the boathouse was a 
 lady, young and very fair, with a sweet, patient, 
 tender face, which to look at was to love. She was 
 dressed with the utmost simplicity — a dark, close- 
 fitting tweed dress and jacket, with trimmings of 
 fur, and a hat of the same material. She was 
 watching with tenderest interest the gambols of a 
 little child not very long able to toddle alone — a 
 sturdy fellow, with his mother's eyes and bright 
 golden hair. 
 
 Obedient to her repeated request he toddled 
 towards her and slipped his tiny hand in hers. 
 She clasped it very closely, and a sudden change 
 swept across her face. Well might the little hand 
 cling confidingly to hers; it was the one link which 
 bound her to earth, the solace of her desolation, the 
 ray of sunshine which relieved the sombre gloom 
 of her life. They walked slowly along the moss- 
 grown path, the child chattering all the while, the 
 mother answering at random, for her thoughts were 
 far away. 
 
 " There 's gan'pa, ria ! " cried the little one when 
 they emerged from the trees out upon the wide 
 avenue. "Gan'pa!" 
 
 Grandpapa was on horseback, and but for his 
 mother's firm grasp the fearless child would have 
 run at once among the animal's hoofs. 
 
 " Hulloa, young man ! are you for a ride with 
 granddad to-day, eh?" said the Squire, reining in 
 his spirited steed and looking with loving eyes on 
 the bright, eager baby-face uplifted to his. 
 
 " Es, gan'pa. Let me, ma," he answered, strug- 
 gling to free himself from his mother's hold. 
 
 >|pi|. 
 
iqS 
 
 A Divided Hotise. 
 
 " Don't tempt him, papa," said she ; " you know 
 he can't get on King Harold's back. Are you 
 going into Sutton ? " 
 
 " Yes. I heard your mother asking for you. 
 Something about the folks she is to have for 
 Christmas. Try and cut down the list, Frances. 
 A crowded house doesn't suit me. It bores a man, 
 you know, to make himself agreeable to people he 
 doesn't care a fig for. Hulloa, Harry ! what a long 
 face ! Going to cry, eh ? Never mind, you shall 
 have a ride when I come home, as sure as I 'm 
 your granddad." So saying the Squire rode away, 
 and the mother and child went on towards the 
 house. 
 
 Little Harry Blake was spoiled and petted by 
 everybody in Kendal Hall except his grandmother. 
 He was rather afraid of her ; she never took him 
 on her knee and kissed and fondled him as his 
 mother and other ladies did ; and she scolded him 
 for very small offences, such as carrying flowers 
 into the house or building castles with grandpa's 
 books in the library. Poor wee Harry, he could 
 not know, of course, what an eyesore he was to 
 those proud eyes ; he was too young yet to realise 
 that he had no home in the world (for Kendal Hall 
 was no home to him nor to his mother) ; that he 
 had no heritage, like other children, nothing in the 
 world, indeed, that he could call his own except 
 his fair, young mother, the joy and solace of whose 
 heart he was. 
 
 A nursery had been fitted up in the upper regions 
 of the house, and Mrs. Kendal required that 
 Frances should keep her baby there, out of sight or 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 109 
 
 hearing. It had been no difficult matter so long as 
 he was in arms, but directly the small feet found 
 their way to the floor the nursery walls could not 
 keep him in. And now the mischief-loving and 
 mischief-making elf was in every corner of the 
 house. Even grandma's own boudoir was not 
 sacred in his eyes ; and a severe whipping she 
 administered to cure him of his propensity for 
 taking forbidden articles as playthings failed to 
 have any effect. The child was as wild as the 
 wind, as daring and frolicsome as a colt, and 
 nothing would tame him. His dinner hour was 
 one o'clock, and thereafter he would compose 
 himself to sleep for an hour, when his mother had 
 leisure to read or work. After he was asleep that 
 afternoon she went away down to her mother's 
 sitting-room to see what was required of her. 
 Mrs. Kendal was at her davenport busy writing, 
 and only slightly turned her head at her daughter's 
 entrance. 
 
 " Papa told me you wanted mc," said Frances, 
 quietly. " Can 1 help yon with your writing ? " 
 
 " Yes, in a minute, i was poing to talk to you 
 about ihc people I expect i.oxt week," replied 
 Mrs. Kendal, folding up the dainty epistle she had 
 just finished and slipping it into an envelope. 
 
 " The Earl and Countess have accepted, Frances, 
 and they will be here on the twenty-third." 
 
 " Yes, mamma," was all that Frances said. 
 
 What did it matter to her who came or went to 
 Kendal Hall since the one for whom she had so 
 long endured the heart-sickness of hope deferred 
 would never come again ? 
 
 lil^'^r 
 
200 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 " It is five years since they spent Christmas with 
 us before," concinued Mrs. Kendal, rapidly address- 
 ing her letter. "Things were very different with 
 you then." 
 
 "Yes, mamma, they were. That was the first 
 Christmas of my married life, and Richard and 
 I were here," replied Frances, very quietly still, yet 
 with a slight tremor in her voice. 
 
 "Yes, you are right. Well, Frances, I don't 
 want to hurt you, but I really wish you would 
 consider the advisability of wearing a widow's dress 
 now. It would make your position more — more — 
 respectable, shall I call it ? At present it is neither 
 one thing nor another ; and surely, after the lapse 
 of two years and a-half, there cannot be the slightest 
 hope that your husband still lives. It is evidently 
 beyond a doubt that he never returned from that 
 expedition about which he wrote to you." 
 
 Mrs. Kendal spoke rapidly and wrote while she 
 was speaking, for she knew very well that she was 
 saying a very cruel and unnecessary thing. 
 
 There was a brief silence. 
 
 When Mrs. Kendal at length ventured to look at 
 her daughter's face she saw that it had grown paler, 
 and that the beautiful eyes, looking away through 
 the window, had a strange expression in their 
 depths. But that was all. Whatever Frances may 
 have felt she hid it well. Those weary years had 
 taught her absolute control of herself and her 
 emotions. 
 
 " Would it please you very much, mamma, to see 
 me going about in a widow's dress ? " she asked. 
 
 " What an absurd question ! " said Mrs. Kendal, 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 201 
 
 impatiently. " You ought to know very well I am 
 only thinking and speaking for your good. Richard 
 Blake has done you sufficient injury already. There 
 is no need why you should waste the prime of your 
 life in mourning for him. And beautiful as I have 
 seen you look, Frances, I never saw you so beauti- 
 ful as you are just now." 
 
 Very slowly Frances Blake brought her eyes to 
 bear upon her mother's face. Was there any 
 hidden meaning underlying these smooth words? 
 she wondered. Could it be that her mother could 
 be contemplating anc.her settlement in life for her? 
 She rose, shivering slightly, and shook her head. 
 
 " I am sorry to disappoint you, mamma ; but so 
 long as I have no proof of my husband's death 
 I will continue to hope that he is alive, and that he 
 will come back to me. In these circumstances it 
 would be a folly and a crime in me to appear in 
 the garb of widowhood before the world, and it 
 might bring upon me a righteous punishment." 
 
 " Please yourself, of course," retorted the mother, 
 rather angrily. " Really it is most unpleasant for 
 me to require to answer the inevitable questions 
 which will be showered upon me next week by my 
 guests." 
 
 Frances hesitated a moment on the threshold of 
 the door. 
 
 " I may as well tell you, mamma, that I had a 
 letter from Miss Osborne this morning asking me 
 to spend Christmas with her at Merlin. Her pupils 
 leave on the twenty-third, and she could receive 
 me the following day. As I shall only be out of 
 place among the gay company assembled here next 
 
 
202 
 
 yi Divided House. 
 
 week, I would rather, if you would allow me, write 
 an acceptance at once." 
 
 "1 have no objections, of course," said Mrs. Kendal, 
 inwardly rather relieved. " Though I cannot for 
 the life of me think what v u find to amuse or 
 interest you in the socict^ ' an old maid like 
 Miss Osborne." 
 
 " She has proved hersclt my truest friend on 
 earth, mamma ; that is what makes her society so 
 sweet," replied Frances, and stole away up to her 
 lonely watching by her baby's cot. If her eyes 
 grew dim, and her heart ached with an added bitter- 
 ness when she bowed her head above him, who 
 could blame her? Life was very hard for her, and 
 likely to be harder still. 
 
 On the twenty-third Mrs. Kendal's most dis- 
 tinguished guests, the Earl and Countess of Ellcs- 
 mere, arrived at the Hall. They were an elderly 
 and childless couple, kindly and unostentatious in 
 their ways, although their wealth was boundless, 
 and their name and lineage among the most 
 ancient and honoured in the kingdom. 
 
 At the select dinner-party Mrs. Kendal gave in 
 their honour Frances did not appear. In answer 
 to Lord Ellesmere's inquiry for her he was told 
 that she was not very well, and that her little son 
 engrossed all her attention. He said nothing, but 
 he missed his favourite very much, and meant to 
 see her before the night was over. He had his 
 way. Leaving the gentlemen in the billiard-room 
 he stole away upstairs and, meeting a maid on the 
 way, asked her to take him to Mrs. Blake. Some- 
 what astonished, the girl took him to the ui)pcr 
 
 P'-j 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 203 
 
 storey, and showed him the nursery door. He 
 pushed it ajar very softly and looked in. It was a 
 large, wide, low-ceiled room, comfortably furnished 
 and lifThted by a cheerful fire and a readinj^ lamp 
 on the centre table. By that table sat Frances, 
 busily plyini^ her needle and thread for her darling. 
 He slept soundly in his cot, with one dimpled hand 
 outside the coverlet and his golden hair lying about 
 him like a halo. The first step the intruder took 
 into the room caused the young mother to look 
 round. She started to her feet then, her sewing 
 falling from her hand in her surprise. 
 
 " Lord EUesmere ! " she exclaimed, and her face 
 flushed deep crimson. 
 
 " It used to be Uncle EUesmere m the old days, 
 my dear," said the old man, and he took the tremb- 
 ling hand in his and raised it to his lips. " I missed 
 you downstairs and came to seek you. I want to 
 see your boy." 
 
 " He is here, uncle," answered Frances softly, and 
 they went together to look at the sleeping child. 
 
 " He has your hair but he is his father's living 
 image," said the Earl. " My dear, I am very sorry 
 for you. You have had a hard life of it since you 
 married. How did it all come about? I thought 
 your husband a fine manly fellow the only time I 
 ever met him. How did he make such a wreck of 
 his fortunes ? " 
 
 " It was my blame, Uncle EUesmere ; all my 
 blame," said Frances. "But I have haa my sore 
 punishment." 
 
 " Ay, ay ; so you have. But you might have 
 come to me for help before you let him away to 
 
 O 
 
 r-" 
 
 %, 
 
! 
 
 ■fc' 
 
 m 
 
 
 204 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 that foreign land. You were always my favourite, 
 my dear, and I would have gladly helped your 
 husband too, for I liked him — I did indeed." 
 
 Frances said nothing. The proffered kindness 
 had come too late. 
 
 "And you have never heard of him, I suppose? 
 Do you think it possible he can still be alive?" 
 
 " I don't know. I hope against hope, else I could 
 not live," said Frances, her eyes full of tears. 
 
 "That's right, that's right. Keep up your 
 heart, and it'll all come right somehow — if not here, 
 yonder," said the old man, pointing upward. 
 
 "Ycd must come to Ellesmere with the boy. 
 Your aunt would like it, I am sure. She will be up 
 to see you to-morrow ; but I couldn 't wait, so 
 I found the way for myself." 
 
 P'rances smiled. The kindly sympathy of the 
 Earl did her good. How little her mother, acting 
 the graceful hostess in the drawing-room, dreamed 
 of what was going on in Harry's nursery I Perhaps 
 it was as well she did not know. 
 
 " You look younger and prettier, but your face 
 isn't the same as it used to be. It minds me of 
 my Madonna at Ellesmere," said the Earl. " Well, 
 good-night, my dear. Keep up your heart, and 
 it '11 all come right. God knows all about it. Your 
 aunt would tell you so, too. Good-night ! Good- 
 night!" 
 
 So saying, the old man, lest his feelings should 
 overcome him, hastily kissed his favourite niece and 
 withdrew. But he left a ray of light behind. His 
 visit was indeed like a cup of cold water to the 
 thirsty soul of Frances Blake. 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 205 
 
 On the morrow the mother and child went away 
 from the Hall to visit once more the little sea-side 
 town where Harry first opened his eyes upon the 
 world. 
 
 How little either of them dreamed that it was 
 their last parting from Kendal Hall, and that ere 
 many days were over they would be no longer 
 homeless in the wide world ; for where love is there 
 is home. 
 
 j^ilw. 
 
11 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE EXILE'S RETURN. 
 '^Change, change, the lot of poor humanity !• 
 
 N the morning of the twenty-fourth of 
 December the Pembroke Castle landed 
 her passengers safely in London Dock. 
 It was a raw and foggy day, with a 
 cold, easterly breeze tossing the river 
 into miniature billows, and causing 
 the vessels to sway uneasily at their 
 anchorage. A number of people 
 awaited the arrival of the steamer, some of whom, 
 anxiously expecting the loved and longed for, had 
 kept a patient vigil for many hours. It was a 
 pleasant, heart-stirring sight when the passengers 
 got ashore, and to some at least the cold and dis- 
 agreeable morning mattered not at all, for the very 
 sunshine of the summer time was in their hearts. 
 There were some sad sights also amid these joyful 
 meetings, for some had come home in haste ere 
 death claimed some dear one in old England, and 
 arrived but to find themselves too late. Others 
 206 
 
 !J '.; 
 
The Exile's Return, 
 
 207 
 
 were like strangers in a strange land, forlorn and 
 lonely beings, to whom none stretched out the hand 
 of friendship or spoke a kindly word. These hurried 
 away to their respective destinations, glad to turn 
 aside from the glad babel of welcomings in which 
 they had no part. 
 
 Among the passengers who had no friends 
 awaiting his arrival, and who hailed the first cab in 
 sight and immediately drove away, was a hand- 
 some and gentlemanly man, who would at once 
 have been recognised in the commercial centres of 
 the city as Blake, of Devonshire & Blake. He 
 drove to Anderton's Hotel, where he breakfasted and 
 exchanged his travelling garb for a v/ell-made suit 
 of English tweeds, which he had last worn on the 
 day he had gone to Sutton to bid his wife farewell. 
 What had been necessary to keep out the cold of 
 the raw English climate he had found useless in 
 the land of his adoption. 
 
 When he stepped from the hotel door into the 
 busy thoroughfare of Fleet Street the bell of St. 
 Paul's pealed the hour of noon. That solemn and 
 musical chime, familiar to him since his boyhood, 
 stirred his heart with a thousand memories of the 
 past. He walked on like a man in a dream, with 
 his brows knit and his eyes bent upon the ground, 
 but his feet, knowing whither the spirit desired to 
 go, led him by way of Oxford Street to Bingham 
 Street. Cool, self-possessed man though he was, 
 Richard Blake's heart throbbed violently as he 
 neared the old and well-remembered home. How 
 would they receive him ? how reward for the wrong 
 he had done to them ? Would a mother's heart be 
 
 I>V|,:|, 
 
!' 
 
 i 
 
 i-i 
 
 if; 
 
 i 
 
 i'rt' 
 
 208 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 large enough and tender enough to forgive such 
 long neglect ? The cruelty of his silence was the 
 uppermost thought in his mind is he stood for a 
 moment on the steps before ringing the bell. To all 
 outward appearance the house was unaltered. The 
 windows were adorned with their ncbt Venetians 
 and shaded by curtains of a warm crimson hue 
 bordered with an edge of lace. There were flowers 
 and ferns, too, in the oriel window of the dining- 
 room. But what was that beyond the fern case ? 
 The figure of a man attired in a dressing-gown ? 
 An old man, evidently, for there was a thin fringe 
 of white hair visible below a richly-embroidered 
 smoking cap. With trembling fingers Richard 
 Blake hurriedly pulled the bell and a neat maid- 
 servant at once answered the summons. His heart 
 sank, for the girl's face was strange to him, and he 
 could scarcely frame the words his lips would 
 utter. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Blake at home, or Miss Osborne?" he 
 asked ; " can I see either of them ? " 
 
 The girl looked surprised. 
 
 " I am afraid you have made a mistake, sir," she 
 replied courteously. " No ladies of that name live 
 here. My master's name is Mr. Ellis ? you can see 
 him, sir. He has just come in from his walk." 
 
 " Ah ! thank you ; it does not matter," said 
 Richard Blake unsteadily. ** Ah ! well, if you 
 please, I will have a word with Mr. Ellis," he added 
 on second thoughts, for the tenant of the house 
 would probably be able to give him some informa- 
 tion concerning his predecessors. He was shown to 
 a small ante-room opposite the dining-room, which 
 
The Exile's Return. 
 
 209 
 
 in old days had been his own private sanctum, 
 but which the new tenant had converted into a 
 small library. After one hurried glance round 
 Richard Blake sank into a chair and covered his 
 face with his hands. What was the meaning of 
 this great and woful change? whither had the 
 dear ones gone? had he but come home to find 
 himself a stranger alone and uncared-for in the great 
 wilderness of London ? If he had erred, surely this 
 moment of bitter pain, of agonising suspense, was 
 punishment heavy enough? 
 
 The library door opened and the old gentleman 
 entered. 
 
 Richard Blake rose to his feet, himself again, 
 and made a brief apology for his intrusion upon 
 one who was a stranger to him. 
 
 " I have just returned from abroad, sir, and not 
 having heard of any changes I expected to find my 
 friends, Mrs. Blake and Miss Osborne, where I left 
 them two and a-half years ago." 
 
 " No apology is necessary, sir," replied the old 
 gentleman kindly. " I shall be happy to give you 
 any information I can, though it may grieve you, 
 I fear. The elder lady, Mrs. Blake, died here " 
 
 "Died!" 
 
 The abrupt monosyllable, uttered in tones of 
 anguish, interrupted the old gentleman's speech 
 and caused him to look keenly into the face of the 
 stranger. 
 
 " You seem overwhelmed, sir ; pray sit down," 
 he said kindly. " May I ask if you are any near 
 relative of Mrs. Blake?" 
 
 " I am her son," was the brief reply, and Richard 
 
210 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 ! !! 
 
 W\ 
 
 i,n 
 
 II 
 
 Blake turned his face away. In the darkest hours 
 of his home-sickness in that far-off land he had 
 never dreamed of this. 
 
 " If I do not trouble you too much, sir, would 
 you kindly give me what particulars you possess 
 concerning her death and the subsequent proceed- 
 ings of the younger lady. Miss Osborne?" he said 
 at length, striving to speak calmly. 
 
 " I regret that I know nothing whatever about 
 the circumstances of the lady's death, Mr. Blake. 
 The house was advertised to let at Whitsuntide, 
 and when we called about it we found the younger 
 lady you mention sole tenant and proprietrix. She 
 told us her aunt had died a few months previously, 
 and that the house was too large for her ; also, that 
 she desired to remove into the country — to the sea- 
 side, if possible." 
 
 " You know where she has gone, I hope ? " inter- 
 rupted Richard Blake impatiently. 
 
 " She is our landlady, sir, and we are frequently 
 in correspondence with her," said the old gentleman 
 with a slight smile. " Miss Osborne's address is 
 Sunset House, Merlin-on-Sea, on the Sussex coast, 
 1 think ; but I am not sure." 
 
 Richard Blake took out his pocket-book and 
 carefully noted down the address. Then warmly 
 thankinj Mr. Ellis for his courtesy he withdrew. 
 His destination now was the station at CharinGT 
 Cross, where he had to wait half-an-hour for the 
 afternoon train to Sutton-le- Willows. We need 
 not wonder that that half-hour seemed interminable 
 to him, for his mind was full of forebodings dark as 
 night. What if Frances also had crossed the 
 
 1 1 
 
The Exile^s Return, 
 
 211 
 
 bourne ! What if he had come too late to clasp his 
 wife once more to his hungry heart! Rememberinf^ 
 her fragile look, the sharp outline of the beautiful 
 face, the purple rims about the eyes, as he had seen 
 them last in the arbour at Kendal Hall, his heart 
 almost died within him. As the train sped rapidly 
 across the wintry landscape he buried his face in 
 his hands and prayed. It was the passionate out- 
 pouring of a human heart to its Creator in its sorest 
 need, and brought at least a semblance of peace 
 with it. But it could not still nor drive away the 
 agony of suspense and apprehension. 
 
 He was recognised by the station-master at 
 Sutton, and that individual, after a prolonged s^are, 
 respectfully touched his hat. But Richard Blake 
 did not return the salutation, but strode off through 
 the fields to the Hall. The station-master, after 
 carefully watching which way Mr. Blake took, 
 went into his office and discussed the arrival with 
 his assistant with infinite relish. It was dusk when 
 the train arrived, and dark when Richard Blake 
 entered the park. It was a moonless and starless 
 night, and had he not known every foot of the way 
 he might easily have gone astray in the dense 
 woods for which the Squi^-e's place was famous* 
 At length there glimmered through the trees the 
 lights of the great house. They were many and 
 brilliant, for as you know Mrs. Kendal's most 
 distinguished Christmas guests had arrived at the 
 Hall. Richard Blake did not hesitate here as he 
 had done at the London house, because he dared 
 not. Only he wondered as he stepped from the 
 turf upon the wide sweep of gravel in front of the 
 
 i.i'^, ,, 
 
212 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 house which of all these gaily-lighted rooms held 
 his darling. He knocked at the door, not caring to 
 send the echoes of the great bell sounding through 
 the house. He wanted to enter quietly and almost 
 unobserved, if that were possible. The men- 
 servants were all engaged in the dining-room, but a 
 maid passing up to the bed-rooms heard the knock 
 and ran back to the door, thinking it would be an 
 expected messenger from the town. She had been 
 some years in service at the Squire's, and had risen 
 from the kitchen to the post of upper housemaid, 
 so she had frequently seen Mr. Blake at the Hall. 
 But when her eyes fell upon him standing where 
 the light from the lamp struck full upon him, she 
 started back and nearly screamed. 
 
 "Don't be afraid, Jessie," said Richard, smiling 
 to reassure her. "It is not a ghost but myself, 
 real flesh and blood, just arrived from Africa this 
 very day." 
 
 Then to his amazement the girl burst into tears. 
 
 " My wife, Jessie ? " he said in his eagerness, and 
 laid his hand upon her arm. " She is alive, I hope, 
 and well?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir," and a sunny smile broke through 
 the girl's tears. " Only she is away from home just 
 now. Forgive me crying, sir, it was for joy, for 
 dear Mrs. Blake's sake, ard for " 
 
 Whatever Jessie had been about to add she was 
 interrupted by the messenger she had been expect- 
 ing appearing at the door. While she spoke to him 
 Richard Blake stepoed into a small room which was 
 used by the Squire for keeping his guns and fishing 
 tackle, and where he was in the habit of transact- 
 
The Exile's Return, 
 
 213 
 
 ing busines ; with his steward. In a moment Jessie 
 looked in. 
 
 " Shall I tell the Squire, sir? They are at dinner. 
 It is an hour earlier to-night, as they are goin"^ to a 
 ball at Lady Humphrey's. The Earl and Countess 
 of Ellesmere are here." 
 
 "And where is Mrs. Blake, Jessie?" 
 
 "Away to Merlin, sir, to spend Christmas with 
 Miss Osborne. But I will go for the Squire, Mr. 
 Blake." 
 
 " No, Jessie. I shall just go back to the station ; 
 I shall be in time for the last up-train. Tell your 
 master I have been here, and that I will be back 
 again whenever I have seen my wife. Good-night, 
 my girl, and a merry Christmas to you to-morrow, 
 when it comes." 
 
 So saying, he slipped a Lovereign into the girl's 
 hand, and before she could recover from hsr aston- 
 ishment he was gone. She could scarcely convince 
 herself that she had not dreamed it all ; only there 
 was the bright coin glittering on her palm. Half- 
 an-hour later, when the gentlemen were coming out 
 of the dining-room to join the ladies upstairs, the 
 housemaid requested a word witii her master. A 
 few minutes later he burst into the drawing-room 
 in a state of great excitement. 
 
 "Why, my dear, what do you think?" he said, 
 addressing his wife. " Blake has actually come 
 back ! He has been here, and is away again, one 
 of the girls tells me, so that he can catch an early 
 train for Merlin. I can hardly believe it ! " 
 
 The guests looked much interested, the hostess 
 confused and a trifle uncomlortable. But Dr. 
 
 :i 
 
i m ill 
 
 214 
 
 A Divided House, 
 
 Harry, who had come from Scotland for his usual 
 Christmas holiday, uttered a very hearty "Hurrah!" 
 thereby showing his disregard for the convention- 
 alities of his mother's drawing-room. 
 
 And the old Earl, turning aside, said to his wife 
 in low tones, but with unmistakable earnestness, 
 " Thank God I " 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 REUNION. 
 
 **'Tis a solemn, almost terrible joy when one we have 
 given up as dead is miraculously restored to us. Such joy 
 is as difficult to bear as sorrow, but it seldom kills." 
 
 JHATEVER it may have been in colder, 
 more northerly regions, the old-fash- 
 ioned Christmas weather was lacking 
 at Merlin-on-Sea. The dawning was 
 fair and lovely, and seemed fraught 
 with the promise of an early spring. 
 Great masses of soft, dove-coloured 
 clouds, capped with rose and yellow, 
 undulated above the horizon, and when the sun 
 burst his golden chains, sea and shore lay bathed 
 in a warm, mellow glow, and the air was genial 
 enough to make one dream of summer. As usual, 
 the little town was in the height or depth of its 
 winter dulness, with tenantless houses, deserted 
 beach and promenade, quiet streets, where few 
 pedestrians walked abroad. Only two trains from 
 the centres of civilisation stopped at Merlin railway 
 station daily during the winter months. The first 
 
 215 
 
 !:,;, 
 
 I( ,. 
 
2l6 
 
 A Divided House, 
 
 r 
 
 arrived shortly before noon, the second between 
 seven and eight in the evening. By the first train 
 on Christmas Day one passenger came to Merlin, 
 and walked rapidly away from the station, as if in 
 haste to accomplish some important end. The line 
 of rails did not run close to the town, and some 
 visitors complained of the mile walk which lay 
 between. It led by two ways, one along a wide, 
 well-wooded road, and the other by the beach. 
 The stranger chose th** latter, as many did, because 
 it was the pleasanter of the two. The sea was as 
 smooth as a mill-pond, save only where it broke 
 with low and restful cadence on the sandy shore. 
 Merlin was famous for its sands — they stretched 
 right along h\ smooth unbroken sweep to Wilder- 
 mouth, the most fashionable watering-place on 
 that much-frequented coast. The tide was coming 
 in, and each succeeding wave seemed to lessen the 
 space betwixt sea and shore. It was a fair, heart- 
 soothing picture, b':t the stranger saw it not. I le 
 walked with his head bent and his eyes upon the 
 ground ; and if his step was hurried and nervous it 
 need not be wondered at, for a great crisis of his 
 life was at hand. A few minutes would bring him 
 to the fulfilment or the dispelling of his greatest 
 earthly hope. He had seen no living thing since 
 he left the station, and almost started when, 
 suddenly rounding a ledge of rock which jutted 
 out from the base of the cliffs, he saw a little child, 
 with pail and spade beside him, intently examining 
 the depths of a shining little pool left in a hollow 
 of the rock. There was no one in sight ; probably 
 his nurse or guardian would be round the further 
 
 ;N I 
 
Reunion. 
 
 217 
 
 Icdj^e, which shut in the little bay. In spite of iiis 
 haste, tlie stranger paused a moment beside tlie 
 child, and looked down upon him with that rare, 
 kindly smile which had stolen away little Walter 
 Ingram's heart in far-off Kimbcrlcy. The child 
 looked up into the stranger's face without fear 
 or hesitation, and then gave a little prance of 
 delight. 
 
 " He 's there — I saw 'im," he said, in a kmd of 
 solemn ecstasy. " 'E has four legs, and he runs fast!" 
 
 *• What runs fast, my little man ? " inquired the 
 stranger, strangely fascinated by the eager, uplifted 
 face, with its big, earnest, blue eyes and fringe of 
 golden hair. 
 
 " Dunno. See 'im run," exclaimed the child, and 
 pranced again in the purest delight. The stranger 
 looked into the pool and saw therein a huge crab 
 enjoying himself immensely in its clear depths. 
 He thrust his hand into the ice-cold water and 
 brought up the struggling creature for the closer 
 inspection of the child. 
 
 " Did you never see a crab before, little man ? " 
 he asked, smiling. 
 
 " No," said the child, doubtfully, and slightly 
 drew back, preferring to behold the creature at a 
 safe distance. " Let 'im go ; he '11 bite." 
 
 "Where's your nurse?" asked the stranger, 
 letting the crab fall into the pool with a great 
 splash. 
 
 "Ma an' auntie's round there. I runned away," 
 said the child with great glee, and pointed back- 
 ward in the direction of the turthcr ledge. " They 's 
 sittin' and didn't see me runnin'." 
 
 If: 
 
2T8 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 ft" 
 
 ill:; 
 
 "That was clever. What's your name?" asked 
 the stranger, still drawn to the child by a deep, 
 yearniniT tenderness for which he could not account. 
 
 The child took up his pail and spade and looked 
 very inquirinj^ly and rather doubtfully into the 
 stranger's face before he made answer slowly in his 
 sweet, imperfect baby tongue, 
 
 " Richard Harry Blake. What 's yours ? " 
 
 What change was that which swept across the 
 stranger's face? and why did he tremble as if he 
 had received a sudden shock ? The child looked at 
 him wonderingly, and then turned away, as if in 
 fear, to run back to his mother. 
 
 *• Where do you live, child ? " the stranger asked 
 in a deep, husky voice, so unlike his former pleasant 
 tones that the child shrank still further away. 
 
 *'We live at g'anpa's, ma and me, but we've 
 come to see Aunt Mary. I like Aunt Mary ; so 
 does ma — good-bye, man," he answered, and was 
 about to run off, but the stranger suddenly and 
 swiftly clasped him in his arms, holding him with a 
 grip which hurt 
 
 " And your papa — where is he ? " 
 
 A slight shade crossed the child's face, and he 
 pointed with his spade across the shining sea. 
 *' Papa away — away in a big ship ! Ma says he '11 
 come some day to ^^arry. Will he come, man? 
 Do you know papa P " 
 
 Great beads of perspiration stood out upon the 
 stranger's brow, and his eyes were wet with tears. 
 Closer, closer still, he pressed the child to his heav- 
 ing breast. 
 
 " Yes, yes, Harry ; some day papa will come," he 
 
 i 'W\ 
 
Reunion. 
 
 219 
 
 said, and lool^cd lonij and hunp^rily into the child's 
 face, knowing it was the face of his firstborn son. 
 Oh, he niJLjht have known ere this, for these eyes 
 were his darhnc^'s own, that smile but the retlection 
 of tiiat which had been his own some time lony; 
 ago! 
 
 " Let me go to ma, I *se afraid," said the child, 
 his red hp drooping. " Good-bye, man ; let me 
 down." 
 
 The stranger pressed a close, passionate kiss upon 
 the cliild's blue-veined brow, set him to the ground, 
 and turned away. He could not meet her yet ; he 
 must needs be alone for a little with the strange, 
 deep, unlooked-for joy — alone with himself and his 
 God, to pour out his soul in thanksgiving to calm 
 himself before the crowning moment came. 
 
 He rapidly retraced his steps, and when the child 
 looked back ere he turned the ledge on the other 
 side, he was out of sight. 
 
 The two ladies met the little one, and his mother 
 shook her finger in gentle reproach. "Where did 
 you run to, Harry?" she asked. "Come, auntie 
 and I are going home now ; it is dinner time." 
 
 "I saw a crab, ma, runnin' in the water, an' a 
 funny man took 'im out and hanged him up ; such 
 a big, funny one, ma ! " 
 
 "What was big and funny, Harry, the man or 
 the crab ? " asked Aunt Mary, smiling down into the 
 flushed and eager face. 
 
 " The crab, auntie ; an', ma, the rrian asked where 
 papa was, an' lifted me up an' kissed me till I cried 
 to get down," continued Ha;ry, eager to tell all his 
 adventures. 
 
 il, :';i 
 
I 
 
 
 220 
 
 A Divided House, 
 
 A slight shade crossed the sweet face of the fair, 
 young mother, and she pressed the little hand ve;y 
 closely in her own. 
 
 "You must not run away from mamma an(' 
 auntie again, dear, and annoy strange gentlemen," 
 she said gently. 
 
 " I didn't 'noy him, ma ; he kissed me like 
 g'anpa does, an' letted me see the crab ! " said the 
 child in such an aggrieved voice that both the 
 ladies laughed. 
 
 " How lovely the sunshine is upon the sea to- 
 day ! " said Mary. " It seems like a promise of 
 beauty for all the year." 
 
 "Yes; what good you do me, Mary," replied 
 the other. " I came to you so wearied and sad. 
 Life seemed so purposeless, the world so full of 
 shadows without sunshine, and though this is my 
 first morning at Merlin, I feel like a new creature." 
 
 " It is our lovely sea air," replied Mary, with her 
 sweet and happy smile. " Life can never be pur- 
 poseless to you, dear Frances, while Harry is spared 
 to you." 
 
 " You are right ; only at times there comes upon 
 me a sense of such weakness, such povverlessness, 
 that I feel as if the responsibility of his upbringing 
 would be too much for me. It is a terrible thing 
 to be a mother, Mary ; doubly so to be a desolate 
 one like me, without one to turn to for help and 
 guidance." 
 
 " You are not alone, dearest ; you know who is 
 the Father of the fatherless, as well as the Husband 
 of the widow." 
 
 "Without that assurance, Mary, believe me, 
 
Reunion. 
 
 
 believe me, 
 
 J should be in despair. God has indeed been to 
 me a help in time of trouble." 
 
 " He is and will be to all who ask Him ; blessed 
 be His name!" was Mary's low and reverent 
 answer, and they walked on tor a little m silence. 
 
 " Some day very soon, my darling, you will be 
 able to lean on your son's strong arm," she said, 
 with a sunny smile, when they paused for a moment 
 at the garden gate ; " and in his love and care all 
 the weariness of these days will be forgotten." 
 
 "Yes, and when I have lived to see my boy 
 grown to manhood and he no longer needs mc, 
 1 will close my eyes on earth some night and open 
 them in heaven. And then I shall tell his father 
 there how I have striven to do my duty by our son, 
 and what a joy that will be!" said Frances 
 dreamily ; and then she added very softly, as they 
 turned to go in, " There will be no divided houses 
 there ; only unity and love for evermore." Later 
 in the afternoon, while his mother was lying down 
 to rest for a little and Aunt Mary was writing 
 letters in her own sanctum, little Harry contentedly 
 played alone in auntie's pleasant garden where the 
 mild and genial weatlr^r had tempted some sturdy 
 flowers into bloom. While he was busily engaged 
 picking these precious blooms to p.v-ces the garden 
 gate swung on its hinges, and to his surprise he saw 
 the stranger whom he had encountered an hour or 
 two ago upon the sands. 
 
 Not many minutes later the door of Aunt Mary's 
 dining-room was unceremoniously tnrown open, 
 and Harry's siirill tones awoive his motiier ironi iier 
 slumber. 
 
222 
 
 A Divided House, 
 
 "Ma, ma, here's papa! The ship's comed from 
 'way over the seas! an' he's the funny man that 
 showed me the crab this morn in , ma. Here he is ! " 
 
 Franccj Blaise flung aside the rug which covered 
 her and started to her feet. Her face was deadly 
 pale, her eyes dilated with surprise and dread. Could 
 it be ? Ay, thank God, her husband stood upon the 
 threshold of the door with Harry's arms about his 
 neck, his cheek pressed close to his father's bronzed 
 and bearded face ; and there was room for her ! 
 Aunt Mary, hearing the unusual noise, hurried 
 downstairs. She only looked into the dining-room, 
 then softly closed the door, turned away and burst 
 into tears. For Richard Blake was there in the 
 flesh, with his strong arms about his wife and 
 child ; the brown curls, now sadly streaked with 
 grey, mingling with the golden ones ; and there was 
 that strange, solemn sound, the sobbing of a strong 
 man to be heard in the room. They had no need 
 of her — and she thanked God that it was so. 
 Truest, most faithful, tenderest friend though she 
 had been and was to them all, they had no need o^ 
 Mary Osborne now. And she stole av ay weeping, 
 yet thanking God that it was so. It was a blessed 
 sight. Father, mother, and child, one in heart and 
 love, to be parted nevermore until death claims one 
 or other, and the river rolls between for a little 
 while — at the longest only for a little while — and 
 then the blessedness of that heavenly house whicii 
 is eternal as God Himself. 
 
 lU 
 
 m 
 
led from 
 nan that 
 -e he is ! " 
 I covered 
 IS deadly 
 d. Could 
 upon the 
 about his 
 s bronzed 
 1 for her! 
 -, hurried 
 lincj-room, 
 and burst 
 2re in the 
 wife and 
 aked with 
 d there was 
 of a strong 
 d no need 
 was so. 
 she 
 no need o^ 
 ly weeping, 
 IS a blessed 
 heart and 
 claims one 
 or a little 
 while — and 
 louse which 
 
 hough 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 BLESSED HOURS. 
 
 Life is only bright when it proceedeth 
 Towards a deeper, truer life above : 
 H Linian love is sweetest when it leadeth 
 To a more Divine and perfect love. 
 
 Adelaide Proctor. 
 
 \0 keep herself calm Mary bustled about 
 the house, saw that a fire was lighted 
 in the drawing-room, and when the 
 tea-tray was carried in she stole softly 
 to the dining-room door and sought 
 admittance. Harry opened it ; and 
 she stepped somewhat hesitatingly into 
 the roum. 
 
 " I thought I might come now, Cousin Richard," 
 she said in tones which her great joy made very 
 tremulous. 
 
 Then Richard Blake stepped from his wife's 
 side and took his cousin in his arms. 
 
 " May God bless you. Cousin Mary, for your 
 goodness to me and to my darling ! " he said, very 
 
 223 
 
 I ,< 
 
224 
 
 A Divided Hovse* 
 
 % 
 
 huskily. " I — I cannot say any more ; but I think 
 you know " 
 
 Mary nodded, smiling sunnily through her tears, 
 and then turned to kiss Frances. Oh the chancre 
 upon that lovely face ! the glow and radiance which 
 shone upon it ! The light in the beautiful eyes was 
 wonderful to see. Surely Frances Blake had 
 never been so beautiful as now. 
 
 " T don't want to ask any questions, Cousin 
 Richard ; you are here, that is enough," said Mary. 
 " But come away into the drawing-room, where tea 
 has been carried in and where the lamps have been 
 lighted, so that we may look at you, for the fire is 
 out here and the room is very cold." 
 
 "We don't need no fires now papa's come Aunt 
 Mary," quoth Harry philosophically ; and his 
 father took him in his arms again, and Frances 
 rose and came close to him, and her fingers touched 
 his arm. Those of us who have been long parted 
 from those dear to us know something of her 
 feelings. It requirevd touch to reassure her that 
 her husband was indeed with her once more. 
 
 It was a beautiful picture in the drawing-room a 
 little later — Richard and his wife sitting side by 
 side on an ottoman and Harry on his father's knee, 
 while Aunt Mary sat behind the tea-tray beaming 
 upon them with all the love of her happy heart. 
 
 " You are a little changed, Richard," she said, as 
 she handed him his cup ; and if her hand still 
 trembled a little it was only natural. " Do you find 
 any difference in us ? " 
 
 " I have grown old and grey, as my wife told me 
 not many minutes ago," smiled Richard Blake. 
 
 f 
 
 ■1 
 
Blessed Hours. 
 
 22 ? 
 
 "You are not changed, Mary; only you look 
 younger; but Frances is not the snmc." 
 
 " No, I have grown old too," whispered Frances. 
 *' See my hair, Richard, is greyer than yours." 
 
 " So we are quits, my darling," said Richard in 
 the lightness of his heart. " I did not mean that 
 you had changed in that way, but something very 
 different." He did not say then what she would 
 hear often by-and-by, that she was ten thousand 
 times fairer in his eyes than she had ever been 
 before. 
 
 "You wcMd go to Bingham Street, Richard?" 
 said Mary at length in quieter tones. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "The changes there well-nigh overwhelmed me, 
 Mary. Tell me of my mother," 
 
 Mary leaned her head on her hand for a little, 
 and then began to speak in low, full tones which 
 told of deep emotion. 
 
 "After you went away, Richard, Aunt Sara 
 began to droop. There seemed nothing seriously 
 wrong, only a lack of heart, a kind of listlessness, 
 which grieved and troubled me very much. Your 
 letters did her good, but after they ceased she 
 seemed to lose all interest in life." 
 
 Richard Blake winced and slightly shaded his 
 eyes with his hand. His wife's fingers stole about 
 the other hand as if to comfort him in his sorrow of 
 self-reproach. 
 
 "I would spare you, dear Richard, if I could," 
 continued Mary very gently ; " but oh ! Aunt Sara 
 did feel your silence, and concluded at once that 
 you were dead. I did my best to cheer her, 
 
 i»:,«^;«. 
 
226 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 m i 
 
 m> H5 
 
 111 
 
 Pi ill 
 
 
 and tried to make her hope with me that it was 
 only ciicumstances which prevented you from 
 writing regularly ; but it was no good. You 
 remember of yore how easily she was cast down, 
 and how prone to look always a^ the darkest side. 
 We tried everything for her. We came down here, 
 Frances and baby and I, hoping that the Merlin air 
 would infuse new Jife into her ; but though she 
 revived for a little she sank ajjain when we returned 
 to town. It was very early in the year when the 
 end came. It was a gentle and happy end," con- 
 tinued Mary after a brief pause. " I never saw any- 
 thing so beautiful as the way in which the mists of 
 doubt and unsatisfied longings were cleared away 
 from Aunt Sara's soul. It was just as if a briglit 
 light from heaven shone down and dispelled them all. 
 When it came very near the end, the idea of your 
 death seemed to pass away from her, and one of 
 the last sentences she spoke was a message for you. 
 ' Tell my boy when he comes home, ^lary, that 
 though I found his silence hard to understand and 
 hard to bear here, I will know all about it there ; 
 and that my last thoughts were all of love for him, 
 and his wife, and little son.* So she died, and we 
 buried her beside Uncle Christopher at Highgate 
 Cemetery. It was very lonely for a time (and now 
 there was a half-sob in the gen'-le voice), and the 
 loneliness grew upon me so that I could not bear 
 it. I was lost in the big house in Bingham Street, 
 so after long thought I let it and came down here, 
 where I keep a little school, Richard, which has 
 Leen a great pleasure to me, and which has been 
 quite a success — has it not, Frances ? But I have 
 
 % 
 
Blessed Hours. 
 
 
 all Aunt Sara's things about me, Richard, as you 
 must see. I have kept everything safe for you, 
 always hoping you would come back ; and here you 
 are at last." 
 
 There was a brief silence, and still Richard Blake 
 kept his face shaded with his hand. There was an 
 alloy in the happiness of his home-coming, but are 
 not our keenest joys ofttimcs touched with pain ? 
 Well that it should be, else we should find con- 
 tentment of soul on earth instead of in heaven, 
 where only true contentment dwells. 
 
 " 1 am not worthy to be forgiven for the wrong 
 I have done," he said in a low voice. " I do not 
 deserve any welcome home ; but " 
 
 He said no more, for his wife's hand was on his 
 lips. 
 
 " No more, Richard," she whispered. " We are 
 waiting to hear of your life across the sea. 
 Remember how little we know about it, and how 
 we must wonder over the mystery of your coming." 
 
 So Richard told his story, dwelling much upon 
 the kindness he had received from the Ingrams, 
 and frankly admitting the part John Ingram's wife 
 had played in the chain of circumstances which had 
 led to this blessed re-union. 
 
 " God bless her ! " fell low and gratefully from 
 the lips of Frances Blake. " Some day I shall be 
 able to thank her, but not yet." 
 
 " Some day very soon, my darling ; she is wait- 
 ing for your coming," said Richard. " Although 
 new friends can never match the old, they can be 
 very dear ; and we can never forget that but for 
 tliem I might never have come back." 
 
 
Ih 
 
 H. 
 
 228 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 The little Harry, who had been looking most 
 intently into his father's face while he was speakinir, 
 now grown tired of what had seemed to him a long 
 and solemn talk, slipped to the floor and requested 
 to be tossed up in the air, which changed the 
 current of conversation to a lighter groove. 
 
 " It is time you were in bed, Harry. Come, 
 auntie will take you upstairs," said Mary at length, 
 when the silver chimes proclaimed the hour of 
 seven. The child, trained to immediate and 
 unquestioning obedience, turned to kiss his mother 
 good* night. 
 
 " Papa, will you be there in the mornin' ? '* he 
 queried wistfully, when his father took him again 
 in his arms. 
 
 " Yes, my boy ; papa has come home to be 
 always beside mamma and Harry — never to go 
 away any more," whispered his father back. 
 
 " Dood-night ! " said Harry, in a voice of infinite 
 content. " Harry loves papa." 
 
 Then the sweet baby-lips kissed papa very 
 lovingly, and Aunt Mary took him away. She 
 knew — oh, very well — what a joy it would be for 
 husband and wife to be left alone a little while, so 
 she lingered long upstairs. When the drawing- 
 room door closed upon them Richard Blake turned 
 again and took his wife to his heart 
 
 "I cannot help it, my darling — my dear, my 
 precious wife," he said, hungrily. " Let me see 
 your face again. Let me read in those eyes that 
 I am forgiven." 
 
 Her arm stole about his neck. Her face, uplifted 
 to his, was lit by the rare and exquisite tenderness 
 
Blessed Hours. 
 
 229 
 
 of a perfect love. The face was changed indeed. 
 The delicate rounded loveliness was gone from the 
 fair cheek ; the mouth had a sad and pitiful droop, 
 which lOld that not many smiles had played about 
 it ; the eyes had that strange, deep, pathetic look 
 in them which only suffering brings. Though the 
 flush of its early beauty was gone there wa;, a 
 wider, deeper charm in the face of Richard Blake's 
 wife, born of the peace which only God's love can 
 implant in a human heart. 
 
 " I am so blessed, Richard ; my heart is over- 
 charged," she faltered. " My husband, have you 
 really forgiven me for all the miserable past ? Am 
 I taken to your heart again never to ba cast 
 out ? " 
 
 ** Hush, hush ! That is not what I would hean 
 Only tell me my wife, what I can read in your eyes, 
 but what I am hungering to hear, that you do love 
 me a little, and that there is a new life opening up 
 before us which we will walk together, pleading 
 God till he takes us to Himself" 
 
 " Nothing I could ever say, Richard, ^lould 
 express a tithe of what I feel. Only I woul J tell 
 you here that as I always loved you I love you 
 now. It was pride that came between us. Ay, 
 that very day you went away it crushed back my 
 entreaty that you would take me with you ; and 
 1 spoke cold words to you even when my heart 
 was breaking for love of you, and you nevei* 
 guessed." 
 
 Richard Blake shook his head sadly. 
 
 "No; and 1 would not have believed it until 
 I saw your face to-day. O Frances! what joyi? 
 
 I«"¥ii4- 
 
 T! 
 
. 
 
 
 
 2^0 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 God permits His creatures here. Surely such are 
 a foretaste of heaven." 
 
 The golden head drooped upon his protecting 
 arm and the deep eyes had a far-away expression 
 in their depths. 
 
 " I want to tell you, dear, that it was craving for 
 your love which led me to that higher love, without 
 which I should have lost heart altogether during 
 these weary years," she said, dreamily. " J ust when 
 hope was at its lowest ebb, during these trying and 
 painful days before baby came, 1 found the Great 
 Comforter, and Mary led me to Him. O Richard, 
 what she has been to me 1 I cannot speak about it 
 calmly." 
 
 "Nor I," said Richard huskily. "If God's 
 angels do visit us here below — and it is not difficult 
 to believe it — she is one." 
 
 " How different this peace to which Mary pointed 
 me has made life to me. It has even made me love 
 you more, and it will help me to be a better wife 
 to you, and to make a home for you who have 
 been homeless so long. O my husband ! God has 
 been good." 
 
 " He has," answered Richard in tones of deep 
 emotion. " Please God, we will live together for 
 Him, and bring up our boy to live and labour for 
 Him too." 
 
 A long silence ensued. There was no need of 
 many words between those two now, for each 
 understood and was sufficient to the other. It is 
 such love which makes a heaven of earth to many 
 human hearts. Blessed be His name that it will 
 have its crowning bliss in that happier home of 
 
Blessed Hours, 
 
 J?-;! 
 
 iression 
 
 which tlie haijpicst on ecuth is but a feeble and 
 shadowy type ! 
 
 " You will cross the sea with me, my darlinpj, this 
 time? It will not be a solitary voyager, setting; 
 sail from English shores," said Richard, smiling 
 slightly. 
 
 The uplifted face, the clinging touch of the white 
 fingers about his neck, were answer sufficient with- 
 out the words which followed. 
 
 ** To tiie ends of the earth, if need be, with and 
 for you, my husband. I thank God that so much 
 happiness is within my reach!" 
 
 •' 1 shall be able to give my wife a home some- 
 thing like that to which she has been accustomed, 
 but " 
 
 Again his wife's hand was on his lips. 
 
 "Hush, hush! tell me nothing. 1 would show 
 you my implicit trust in you, Richard. Take me 
 away with you without telling me to what I am 
 going. I would have you know that the less you 
 have the greater will be my joy to share it with 
 you. Anything, anything to show you Jiow I regret 
 the past. So do not tell me any more, my darling, 
 if you please." 
 
 "Can I kiss papa again, ma?" queried a shrill 
 voice in the doorway, and a white-robed figure 
 came boldly into the room. " I got out of bed all 
 by myc^elf just to kiss papa." 
 
 "O you rogue," Aunt Mary called out laugh- 
 ingly from the stairs ; but nobody was angry with 
 the little elf, and he got a great deal of hugging 
 which possibly he did not deserve. 
 
 He went away quietly to bed at last, after being 
 
11^' 
 
 ]t 
 
 i -t 
 
 232 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 solemnly assured that papa would be there in the 
 morning to take him in search of animals with four 
 legs which could run very fast though they lived 
 under water all the time. 
 
 Then the three drew their chairs about the fire 
 and talked till far on in the morning. There was 
 much to be said, many plans to be discussed, and 
 the future was bright with promise for them all ; 
 for Mary gave her promise that henceforth her 
 home would be with them. There would be room 
 in heart and home for ever for Aunt Mary now. 
 
 But God had need of Aunt Mary in another way, 
 and she was destined yet to bless many other lives 
 in a wider, larger, and happier sphere. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 AUNT MARY'S SPHERE. 
 "Tis love which makes the world go round." — Old Song. 
 
 ICK, old fellow, give me your hand. 
 Oh, I say, it *s more than jolly to see 
 you again." 
 
 Needless to say the words were 
 Harry Kendal's ; needless to add, 
 perhaps, that the voice which uttered 
 them was tremulous with emotion, 
 the eyes which looked into Richard 
 Blake's dim with tears. We know of yore that 
 warm heart. Regardless of his mother's sternly 
 expressed displeasure, careless of the seeming dis- 
 respect to her aristocratic guests. Dr. Harry had 
 set off for Merlin on the second morning after 
 Richard's visit to the Hall. He carried his father's 
 approval with him, however, and a word of kindly 
 greeting from him to Richard, which Harry did not 
 fail to deliver. The friends were at the garden 
 gate of Sunset House, just when Richard was on 
 his way with his little son to hunt for crabs among 
 
 233 
 
 ^ij 
 
234 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 the rocks. In spite of small Harry's delight at 
 seeing his much-loved uncle, he would not let go 
 his father's hand, nor leave his side, even when the 
 new-comer tempted him with a real genuine toss 
 in the air. Richard Blake's eyes were suspiciously 
 dim also as he returnca the grip of his old friend's 
 hand, and for a moment he did not speak. At 
 such times words are difficult to come, and they 
 are not always needed. Silence is golden when 
 we understand and feel its hidden meaning. 
 
 " I can hardly believe it is you, Dick, in the 
 flesh," said Harry joyously, and vith all the old 
 boN'ish heartiness. '* And how is Fan ? All riciht 
 now, eh? Well, young man, what do you think of 
 your new relative, eh ?" he added to his :: nail nephew, 
 for he saw that Richard had no words wherewith 
 to answer his jesting speech about Frances. 
 
 "Papa 's never goin' away no more, Uncle Harry," 
 said young Harry Blake with confidence. " 2da 
 an' me 's goin' 'way in a big ship with him." 
 
 "That'll suit you, eh? Well, Dick, wasn't the 
 existence of the son and heir rather a surprise to 
 you, and is not he a noble little chap?" 
 
 " Ay, I have more blessings than I deserve, 
 Harry," answered Richard Blake, and his fingers 
 tightened over the baby-hand clinging so confid- 
 ingly to his. 
 
 *' Well, shall v. 3 go in and see the ladies ? " asked 
 Harry in his gay and pleasant way. "And 
 remember I have all your adventures to hear, and 
 I am charged with a message from my father that 
 we are all to ret'H.i to the Hall as fast as we can ; 
 and Uncle Ellesmcre sent a special message to you 
 
 lie 
 
Aimt Mary's Sphere. 
 
 235 
 
 and Frances that if he was away before you came 
 (they leave to-morrow, I beheve) you were to come 
 to Ellesmere. He 's a good sort the Earl, Dick, and 
 he was always jolly fond of our Fan." 
 
 " Ay, they are all too good fo me, Harry," said 
 Richard Blake in low, earnest tones, for his heart 
 was stirred yet to its very depths. " You will be 
 glad to hear, my boy, that all the mists are cleared 
 away now, and that my wife loves me still. You 
 always knew / loved her^ Harry, although I have 
 given so little proof of it these last few years ! She 
 has forgiven me ; will you ? " 
 
 "Oh, I say, Dick, that'll do! There can't be 
 an}- of that kind of thing between you and me, you 
 know. I can't stand it," said Harry, and then they 
 began to move towards the house. The door was 
 open, so they walked into the drawing-room, and 
 there were more happy greetings, which were rather 
 irksome to Master Harry, whose soul was yearning 
 to watch the gambols of the crab in the shining 
 little pool among the rocks. " This has renewed 
 your youth, Fan," said Harry teasingly as he fondly 
 kissed his sister ; then he turned to greet the woman 
 whose sweet face was still the dearest on earth to 
 him. 
 
 " I think this was all we needed to-day, Mr. 
 Kendal ; we thought you would come," she said, 
 and her gentle eyes were brimming welcome. 
 *' Need I say how glad I am to see you ? " 
 
 When they had seated themselves, and the first 
 excitement was over, he had time to note the change 
 in Mary Osborne, for there was a change. It was 
 not even that she had aged in appearance since he 
 
 Q 
 
,236 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 f % 
 
 ■\i\ 
 
 saw her last, it was the expression of care, the 
 weariness which seemed to dwell in the sweet 
 pathetic eyes, telling of a lonely, toilsome life — that 
 expression seen only in the faces of the burden- 
 bearers of this life. Yet she did not look unhappy, 
 nor did she feel unhappy. She had many claims 
 upon her love in the young lives entrusted to her 
 care, her busy hands were ever full of labours for 
 others, and yet at times there did steal over her 
 an overw < 'ming sense of loneliness, for while she 
 cared for many few cared for her. We get tired of 
 constant giving, and the human heart, especially 
 the heart of a woman, hungers for love to meet its 
 own. It is that which makes many single lives so 
 beautifully pathetic, because of necessity they must 
 be lonely. We cannot entrust the secrets and the 
 yearnings of our innermost being to any save God 
 and one other. 
 
 Mary, looking at the face of Harry Blake, fancied 
 him changed also. He had grown manlier, more 
 dignified and noble-looking, as befitted his honour- 
 able profession. But the kind, merry smile was as 
 of yore ; the true, quick, yet earnest eye unchanged. 
 It dwelt so constantly, so yearningly on her face 
 that, growing embarrassed a liLlle at last, she rose 
 smilingly and bade them entertain each other while 
 she looked after her household duties. 
 
 It was like old times come back to these reunited 
 hearts ; but the new was sweeter and brighter than 
 the old, for the star of love shone above them 
 unmarred by even a passing cloud. It was easy 
 to persuade Doctor Harry to remain at Merlin till 
 the morrow ; and there was no happier dinner table 
 
 m 
 
Aunt Marys Sphere. 
 
 237 
 
 in all England than that in the dining-room at 
 Sunset House. 
 
 After Harry the younger was in bed, they stole 
 out for a peep at the sea by the light of the Christ- 
 mas moon and stars, which shone in a cloudless sky. 
 The night was one of rare beauty and peace. There 
 was no wintry chill in the pleasant air, and upon 
 the sandy shore the waves played with a murmuring 
 cadence gently as in the golden eventide of summer. 
 A wondrous light rippled upon the bosom of the 
 waters — that radiance whose sheen cannot be 
 pictured, for what brush or pen can reproduce 
 the glory of rroonlight on the sea? They grew 
 silent as they walked slowly by the edge of the 
 receding tide, and it seemed quite natural at last 
 that they should walk in pairs, Richard in front 
 with his wife upon his arm, her hands clasped 
 closely in his, the hearts of both too full of happiness 
 for speech— a word at a time, an upward or down- 
 ward glance, a closer pressure of the hand was 
 sufficient. The other two coming leisurely behind 
 talked much and on many topics. Mary seemed to 
 dread even a moment's silence. She was not her- 
 self to-night. Doubtless the events of the last two 
 days, exciting and heart-stirring as they had been, 
 had crowded in upon her, ruffling slightly her usual 
 serenity of repose. But was there not something 
 else — a flutter of the heart and pulse, a restlessness, 
 a vague something difficult to describe, which had 
 stolen upon her only to-day ? 
 
 " So Frances and the little chap are to desert us 
 all," said Harry, striving to speak lightly j "they 
 will be missed u; home." 
 
 
I 
 
 p 
 m 
 
 I: 
 1; 
 
 238 
 
 W Divided Ho7ise. 
 
 "Yes; but they would be more sorely missed 
 over the seas," said Mary, " and whose is the best 
 right ? " ■ 
 
 "Dick's, of course, dear old 'jIIow. I'm jolly 
 glad it 's all right for him at last ! Frances has 
 turned over a new leaf with a vengeance. She is a 
 daily wonder to me now. She was so different in 
 the old days. She is a beautiful character now ! 
 Isn't it Shakespeare, wise old fellow, who says, 
 * Sweet are the uses of adversity ' ? " 
 
 " Yes ; seeing them now, their perfect happiness 
 and trust in each other, Harry," said Mary, the old 
 name slipping out in her earnestness, " we cannot 
 regret even the sorrow which went before. Nothing 
 could have brought all this blessedness about but 
 this long separation." 
 
 " You are right. But I say, Mary, what are you 
 going to do after they 're away ? You '11 have 
 nobody, as it were," asked Doctor Harry suddenly. 
 
 " Richard and Frances have asked, nay pleaded 
 with me, out of their love for me, to make my home 
 with them," said Mary, with a half sob in her voice. 
 
 " My work here seems to be done now, and 
 I could not refuse, even had I wished." 
 
 " You don't mean to say you 're going to Africa ? " 
 
 Mary nodded. 
 
 " Where they go I go ; I have promised," she 
 answered simply. 
 
 Then followed an awkward silence, and Doctor 
 Kendal's handsome head was turned away. Perhaps 
 it was the shadow of the cliffs which lay so darkly 
 on his face, and quenched the light in his sunny 
 eyes. 
 
Aunt Mary's Sphere. 
 
 239 
 
 missed 
 lie best 
 
 m jolly 
 ces has 
 She is a 
 ;rent in 
 IX now! 
 10 says, 
 
 ippiness 
 the old 
 : cannot 
 Nothin^: 
 30Ut but 
 
 are you 
 '11 have 
 uddenly. 
 pleaded 
 Tiy home 
 ler voice, 
 ow, and 
 
 Africa?" 
 
 sed," she 
 
 Doctor 
 Perhaps 
 o darkly 
 is sunny 
 
 " How do you like your Edinburgh life ? " his 
 companion asked. 
 
 " Not at all," he answered, in a voice which 
 sounded harsh. " I love my work, of course, and 
 I have plenty of it ; but there it ends. I think I '11 
 emigrate, too, and teach the rudiments of medicine 
 to the natives of some unexplored region," 
 
 " You talk nonsense. I hear you spoken of as 
 one who will make his mark in his prof'^ssion. 
 Why can't " 
 
 " Oh, hang it, what 's the use of all that, you 
 know, when nobody cares?" cried Doctor Harry 
 with more force than elegance. " JN^ women folk 
 to take any interest in what a fellow 's doing. When 
 Fan''", away, goodness only knows what I '11 do — 
 lose interest in it myself probably." 
 
 " You will not do that, Harry ; you are made of 
 belter stuff," said Mary, and now her face was 
 turned away. It was a study at that moment, and 
 • — but we will not pry into the secrets of that gentle 
 heart. 
 
 " I say, Mary, what are you going to do in 
 Kimberley ? Don't you know you '11 just turn into 
 the old maid aunt, useful for everything." 
 
 " It is a great thing to be useful or necessary to 
 anybody," said Mary, with a little laugh. 
 
 " Is it ? Well, you are very necessary to me, 
 only you won't see it. I say, Mary, I must speak 
 again. Just let me lay it before you. Here ara 
 I alone in Edinburgh, a miserable neglected bachelor 
 with nobody to take an interest m. You are alone 
 in the world, and though Dick and Fan want you, 
 and well they may, they don't really want you as 
 
240 
 
 A Divided Honse. 
 
 % 
 
 I do. I 'm growing to be a rich man, Mary, and 
 I love you a thousand times better now than I did 
 then, because I am a man now and I was only a boy 
 then. Take pity on me, Mary. Let me take care 
 of you. Let me try to make you happy. You have 
 been caring for people all your life, and you look as 
 if you wanted looking alter now. My darling 
 (I often call you so in my own mind, though I have 
 no right), let me do it. I will try very hard to 
 make you happy." 
 
 Again there was a silence, and involuntarily both 
 stood still. Mary's face was turned away still 
 towards the sea. Its expression had changed 
 again, but it was unreadable now. 
 
 "If I have hurt or pained you, my darling, forgive 
 me. I was always a blundering creature, saying 
 the wrong thing in the wrong place," said Harry, 
 with humble earnestness. Then the slender figure 
 moved nearer to him, nearer still until the brown 
 head dropped upon his arm. It was characteristic 
 of the woman, who had allowed her actions rather 
 than her lips to speak all her life. He knew the 
 meaning of that mute caress, knew that she had 
 given herself to him, though it seemed a <:hing 
 almost impossible to believe. " Mary, is it possible, 
 my darling, are you mine ? " 
 
 She moved nearer still to him till he took her to 
 his heart. No more loneliness nor heartache, no 
 more emptiness of life or purpose: only the blessed- 
 ness, and beauty, and glory of a pure, noble, 
 unselfish love. 
 

 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 IT IS WELL ! 
 
 HE Earl and Countess changed their 
 plans, and remained at Kendal Hall 
 to welcome the happy party fior« 
 Merlin-on-Sea. But they were the 
 only strangers, for Mrs. Kendal, not 
 wishing to have any prying eyes upon 
 such a family gathering, did not press 
 her other guests to prolong their stay 
 on Christmas week. At her husband's request she 
 wrote to Mary Osborne and asked her to accompany 
 Frances and her husband to Sutton, but when she 
 did so she had no idea that she was addressing her 
 son's promised wife. On the last day of the old 
 year the party from Merlin arrived at the Kentish 
 village. Harry made one of them, for he had put 
 up at the Merlin Hotel, and insisted on remaining 
 until they could all return together. A carriage 
 met them at the station, and as they drove rapidly 
 along the bare, shelterless roads, a silence fell upon 
 them only broken by little Harry's chatter and 
 exclamations of delight at the near prospect of 
 
 241 
 
242 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 seeing grandpa and all the horses and cows and 
 poultry which were his soul's delight. His father 
 was quick to note how seldom the child mentioned 
 his grandmother's name, his loving prattle was all 
 of the dear, kind, indulgent Squire, who only showed 
 the depth of his love for his little grandson when 
 his wife was not there to see. There is no keener 
 sifter of human nature, no more correct judge of 
 character than the heart of a little child. Richard 
 ])lake, though quiet, was perfectly at his ease as 
 they neared the gates of Kendal Hall. If the 
 meeting just at hand was anything of an ordeal he 
 was made fearless to face it by the look of perfect 
 trust on the sweet face by his side. Had this love 
 and trust been his before, as truly and indisputably 
 it was his now, what trouble might have been spared 
 them both? But, after all, is not tiie clearer air of 
 the heights more soul-satisfying after the shadows 
 in the vale? Oftentimes in th;s life of ours happi- 
 ness has to be washed pure by tears. 
 
 The Squire, restlessly watching from the library 
 window, saw the carriage sweep round the bend in 
 the avenue, and cune out to the door to welcome 
 them. In his heart of hearts there had dwelt con- 
 linuallv a feeling of remorse for those bitter words 
 he had spolcen to his daughter's husband before he 
 left England. He had tried to atone for it by his 
 tenderness to his daughter, by heaj)ing kindnes.ses 
 upon tiie little lad, and there were documents safe 
 in the hands of his London lawyers, and of which 
 his wife knew nothing, whicii, in the event of his 
 <leath, left mother and cluki amply provided for. 
 Tlicre were leais in iua e_^ co vviicn the carriage 
 
// is IVeiU 
 
 243 
 
 stopped and he saw his daughter's face. Richard 
 sprang out, assisted his wife, and then turned to the 
 Squire. The eyes of the two men looked straight 
 into each other, and their hands met. 
 
 " Richard, I 'm glad to see you safe and sound ; 
 you are welcome home," said the old man huskily. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," was all that Richard replied; 
 but it was enough. The emotion of the greeting 
 was somewhat dispelled by little Harry springing 
 unceremoniously into the Squire's arms and delug- 
 ing him with hugs and kisses and innumerable 
 questions concerning the live stock at the farm. 
 With the little one in his arms the Squire turned to 
 utter a word of kindly welcome to the slight grace- 
 ful figure standing rather timidly by Harry's 
 side. 
 
 " God bless you, my dear, for all your goodness 
 to the boy and his mother," he said, and kissed her 
 as if she had been a daughter of his own. Then 
 they entered the house, and Mary was somewhat 
 startled by the magnificence of her friend's paternal 
 home, and she no longer marvelled that Frances 
 had not found it easy to fit herself to her homelier 
 position as Richard's wife. 
 
 " Your mother is in the drawing-room, my dear," 
 said the Squire. " Frances, we had better just go 
 in. There's only your Uncle and Aunt Ellesmere 
 besides ourselves, so we needn't stand on cere- 
 mony." 
 
 They entered the room and the stately figure of 
 Mrs. Kendal came slowly to meet them. Her eyes 
 travelled over her son-in-law's face and figure 
 before she offered him her hand. As she did so, her 
 
i: 
 
 
 
 Hi' 
 
 ^ 
 
 2^4 
 
 A Divided Mouse. 
 
 face visibly softened, and it was no icy fin!:^er tips 
 wliich touched bis this time, but a warm and kindly 
 clasp, which told that she was genuinely glad to see 
 him. 
 
 "Welcome back to England, Richnrd," she said, 
 heartily, and, moved by a sudden impulse, Richard 
 stooped from his tall height and touched with his 
 lips the brow of Frances' mother. Then he turned 
 to receive the true welcome of the kind-hearted pair 
 who had withdrawn over to the window recess, not 
 caring' to intrude till the first greetings were over. 
 In her new kindliness Mrs. Kendal had a warm 
 and pleasant welcome too for Mary Osborne, and 
 she looked at her approvingly, thinking her not 
 only an exceedingly graceful and lady-like, but a 
 very pretty woman. 
 
 The dinner that evening was a very pleasant 
 meal, because the spirit of loving-kindness presided 
 at the board. The old Earl would nod, in a very 
 satisfied manner, every time his eyes rested on the 
 face of his favourite niece, and that was very often 
 indeed. It was all right with her now. She wore 
 grey, an exquisite combination of silk and lace, 
 and a great bunch of Christmas roses resting 
 among the glossy leaves at her throat. She wore 
 no ornament ; no article of jewellery but her 
 wedding-ring. 
 
 Richard, in his faultless evening attire, looked 
 every inch a gentleman, and they were a handsome 
 well-matched pair. Mary, too, looked rarely well. 
 Her dress Wc. a mourning silk, with delicate lace 
 at throat and wrists ; her ornaments a necklace of 
 jet, set with pearls. Harry found it difficult to 
 
 lii 
 
// is Well! 
 
 245 
 
 conceal his fond «idmiration for her, and yet he did 
 not wish to draw any attention to her until his 
 parents were made aware that she was his future 
 wife. After the ladies went upstairs the Squire 
 broached the subject nearest his heart. 
 
 " Of course you are not going abroad again, 
 Richard. You 've come back to the old country for 
 good," he said, peering rather anxiously over his 
 wine glass into his son-in-law's face. 
 
 Richard smiled, but slightly shook his head. 
 " I only got leave of absence from my partner for 
 four months, sir. I hope and expect to be back to 
 business in April at the latest." 
 
 The Squire looked annoyed. 
 
 " Tut, tut ! But you can write saying you prefer 
 to settle here ; or you could even go out and settle 
 with your partner, leaving your wife here," he said 
 quickly. Richard again shook his head very 
 decidedly. 
 
 " I shall never leave my wife behind again, 
 Squire Kendal, he said very gravely. 
 
 " But I say, look here, Richard, — you can't, you 
 know, take Frances away to a place where there 's 
 no society — hardly a white woman. It wouldn't 
 be right." 
 
 " Mrs. Ingram, the wife of my partner, is a gentle- 
 woman, sir, the very friend I would choose for my 
 wife. And there are others in Kimberley as suit- 
 able. There is no lack of society for those who 
 care for it," replied Richard, quietly. 
 
 " What kind of business are you engaged in ? " 
 inquired the Earl with interest. Richard smiled. 
 
 " It would be difficult to specify, Lord EUesmere, 
 
2.\6 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 i 
 
 we trade in so many different things. General 
 merchants would pcrhaj)s be the most applicable 
 term. Ikisiness in Africa and business in England 
 are very different things." 
 
 " Does the thing pay ? " asked the Squire. 
 
 " Yes, my partner's income last year was three 
 thousand ])nunds — mine about half of that. But I 
 am on a different footing this year, and we share 
 exactly alike. 1 believe I am safe in saying the 
 entire profits of the business are not under five 
 thousand." 
 
 "That's something like the thing, Dick!" said 
 Doctor Harry, cracking his walnuts with real enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 " Fortunes can be quickly amassed in Kimbcrley 
 surely," said the Squire a trifle drily. 
 
 " Sometimes. For one who hits the mark, fifty 
 miss, and more do not get beyond making a decent 
 livelihood. My partner has been a singularly for- 
 tunate man, and when my experience was coupled 
 with his, we made a good thing of it, that is all, sir," 
 said Richard. 
 
 " Then you are bent on not staying in England," 
 repeated the Squire. 
 
 " Yes, even if it were doing a fair and just thing 
 to my partner who befriended me in my need, 
 I have no inclination to remain at present. My 
 intention is to settle in Kimbcrley for a few years, 
 that is if my wife's health and my own does not fail, 
 until I have made a handsome competence. Then 
 I shall return to the old country and perhaps 
 embark in English commerce again, or perhaps 
 begin the life of a country gentleman." 
 
It is nw/f 
 
 ^■\7 
 
 He spoke quietly, but witli the perfect conl'uleiicc 
 of a man who knew what he w.is talkinj^ about. 
 The Squire heaved a resi^med s'vj^h. 
 
 " Wliat dues Frances say to all this?" 
 
 A sunny smile shone through the gravity of 
 Richard's face. 
 
 "Ask her," he said. "We both discovered when 
 it was too late that it is best for a husband and 
 wife to be together whatever betide. Wc shall not 
 likely make the same mistake again." 
 
 " Right, quite right," said the Earl's deep bass 
 voice heartily. "You are a manly fellow! I like 
 you, Bl.ike. I have always liked you, and I told 
 your dear wife that just the other day, when it was 
 the darkest hour with her. Your hand — you must 
 come with your wife and that fine little lad of 
 yours to Ellcsmere and spend a week before you 
 
 go." 
 
 The Squire had no more to say. Perhaps he 
 remembered only too well how he had stood aloof 
 from his son-in-law when the crash came ; how he 
 had almost closed his door against him. And he 
 could not but admire the manliness which Richard 
 displayed now. He had been weak and erring 
 once, but that time was passed. Henceforth, honour 
 would be his watchword, love his beacon light, and 
 he was independent of all the world. Another 
 interesting and momentous conversation took place 
 that night at Kendal Hall in the drawing-room 
 when all the guests had retired to rest and Doctor 
 Harry was alone with his father and mother. He 
 asked them to remain, for he could not bear that 
 Mary Osborne should continue in his faLlicr's 
 
I I 
 
 
 248 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 house under false pretences. In a brief and 
 manly fashion he told his love. It was his mother's 
 anger he feared, but for once he was agreeably- 
 disappointed. Perhaps she had long since suspected 
 it, and made up her mind to the inevitable, or 
 perhaps the atmosphere of love and peace about 
 her that night had awakened all the kindest 
 impulses of her heart. 
 
 " She is a sweet, pretty girl, Harry, and I am 
 quite pleased," she said ; and if there was a tinge 
 of condescension in her graciousness, he could not 
 resent it in his gratitude that she conceded so 
 much. 
 
 Mary was awakened next morning by some one 
 drawing up the blinds, and presently she was 
 amazed to see standing by her bed the figure of 
 her hostess. 
 
 " Have I disturbed you, my dear ?" she said very 
 pleasantly. "But it is time you were up. I just 
 came in because I wished a quiet word with you 
 before you came downstairs. Harry has told us ; 
 and the Squire and I are very pleased to welcome 
 you as our daughter. I wish you a Happy New 
 Year!" So saying, she stooped and kissed the 
 sweet face on the pil'.ow, and Mary put her arms 
 about her neck and laid her cheek to hers, but 
 could speak no word. The last cloud had vanished 
 from her heart, and it was a happy new year indeed. 
 Fain would I linger longer in that happy home, 
 but my task is almost done. Only one thing more, 
 and I must leave these friends who have grown 
 doubly dear to me since I began the record of their 
 lives. Richard and Frances, eager to see Harry 
 
 H II . 
 
// is Well! 
 
 249 
 
 cf and 
 lother's 
 reeably 
 spectcd 
 ible, or 
 I about 
 kindest 
 
 d I am 
 a tinge 
 fuld not 
 ;ded so 
 
 )me one 
 she was 
 igure of 
 
 aid very 
 I just 
 /ith you 
 old us ; 
 ,velcome 
 y New 
 sed the 
 ler arms 
 ^ers, but 
 vanished 
 indeed, 
 home, 
 \<y more, 
 grown 
 of their 
 Harry 
 
 and Mary husband and wife before they set sail 
 for that far shore, were urgent for an early marriage. 
 There was no reason why their desire should not 
 be fulfilled. 
 
 So one morning in the latter days of February, 
 when the earth was awakening to the touch of 
 spring, there was a quiet wedding in Sutton Church, 
 which created a great deal of interest in the small 
 and rather gossipy town. The busybodies concluded 
 that the bride looked lovely though she was nobody, 
 also that they did not know which was the hand- 
 somest pair, for it seemed to Richard and his wife 
 that this was almost a second wedding-day to 
 them. 
 
 They travelled north to receive the bride and 
 bridegroom in their own home, and there abode a 
 little while, rejoicing in the happiness which 
 equalled their own. The promised week was spent 
 at Ellesmere, and then during the last days of their 
 English sojourn the Squire and his wife claimed 
 them. 
 
 In the last week of March the same ship which 
 had carried Richard across the seas and brought 
 him back again numbered their names upon its 
 list of passengers. Little Harry was highly 
 delighted at the prospect of sailing away in the 
 big ship with papa and mamma, but he cried lustily 
 when the little boat with grandpapa and grand- 
 mamma and Uncle Harry and Aunt Mary was 
 rowed away back to the shore. His were not the 
 only tears. And though the husband and wife 
 were sufficient now each to the other, there was 
 room in their hearts for other lovjs. We can 
 
I 
 
 b 
 
 250 
 
 A Divided House. 
 
 always love more ; often we love too little. We 
 will not follow them to their new home. We can 
 imagine their voyage, picture the welcomes accorded 
 by true friends on the other side. We can even 
 picture their future life. It was well with them, 
 for God was with them. 
 
J. We 
 ^e can 
 corded 
 n even 
 them, 
 
 I "M