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A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
b novel
BY
B. L. FARJEON,
AUTHOR OF
"THE SACRED NUGGET," "GREAT PORTER SQUARE,"
" TOILERS OF BABYLON," " THE PERIL OF RICHARD PARDON," &c.
THIRD EDITION.
LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.
1892.
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO. LTD., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.O.
AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
CONTENT G.
♦
chap. fage
X.—I lose my Parents and am introduced
to Aunt Parker .... 1
II. 1 make some New acquaintances . 8
HI.—Aunt Parker tells me the Story of
Don't Care, who went to the Dogs . 11
IY.—Ned: Brave and Tender, and true as
Steel 17
Y.—My Father's Will is read, and I learn
the Names of my Guardians . . 21
YI.—I make an Unfavourable Impression
upon one of my guardians . . 25
YII.—Aunt Parker's Opinion of Me . . 29
YIII.—Changes in the House ... 85
IX.—My Nurse tells me Strange News . 40
X.—I write a Letter to my Nurse and
don't know what to do ayith it . 42
XI.—An Adventure with Sandy Whiskers . 48
XII.—Further Experiences of Sandy Whiskers 51
XIII.—Good-bye to Dobbin .... 54
XIY.—An Exciting Morning ... 57
XY.—Farewell to Home . . . G2
XYI.—Aunt Parker takes me to the Church-
yard 67
vi
CONTENTS.
chap. page
XYII.—Restoration Hail . e • . 72
XVIII.—A Visit from Mr. Bathgate • 77
XIX.—The Hole in the Wall . . 81
XX.—Aunt Parker goes on a Journey 88
XXI.—A Night of Horror ... 94
XXII.—Alone with Mad Maxwell • 99
XXIII.—The Brute and Madman . .107
XXIV.—Aunt Parker returns Unexpectedly
and Suddenly. • . . 110
XXV.—Only a Kite 117
XXVI.—Alonzo, my Paithful Knight, does
me Good Service . . . 119
XXVII.—Nurse Elliot's Letter and the
News it contained . . . 122
XXVIII.—Nurse Elliot has a Bright Idea 126
XXIX.—Nurse Elliot has an Interview
with my Guardians . . 127
XXX.—Mr. Ned stands up in Defence of
his Father . . . . 132
XXXI.—Mr. Ned pays a Visit to my Nurse
and Rube in the Borough . . 136
XXXII.—My Nurse has an Interview with
Alonzo 143
XXXIII.—A Ring at the Bell . . 146
XXXIV.—Ned visits Restoration Hall . 149
XXXV.—The Prospect of a Happy Holiday . 158
XXXVI.—Fairy Time . . . 165
XXXVII.—Happy Days 170
CONTENTS.
vii
chap. pags
XXXVIII.—An Offer of Marriage and News
of Alonzo . . . . 177
XXXIX.—Alonzo Proposes to Me . . .184
XL.—A Retrospect . . . , 193
XLI.—My Last Holiday . . . .199
XLII.—News of Old Friends and an
Inyitation to Dinner . . 209
XLIII.—Ned and I 2.14
XLIY.—Mr. Bathgate's Dinner-Party . 224
XLY.—A Scene 228
XLYI.—Impending Evil . . . . 236
XLYII.—Mr. Bathgate renews his Proposals 243
XLVIII.—Light dies out of the World . 251
XLIX.—Farewell to Restoration Hall . 257
L.—In the Mountains . . . 262
LI.—Our New Home • . . .269
LII.—I make a Friend . . . 272
LIII.—Wolf undertakes a Difficult
Mission 280
LIY.—Raised from a Living Grave . 288
LY.—Good-Night. Dear Lina . . 295
LYI.—Ned's Confession . . . 302
LYII.—I visit Ned in his Poor Home . 307
LYIIL—Peace ... ,313
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
I lose my parents, and am introduced to aunt parker.
A description of those incidents of my child-life which
left their deepest impression upon me is necessary for a
proper understanding of certain portions of my story. In
their narration I shall use my best endeavours to steer clear
of exaggeration; romance I cannot avoid, for it entered
into my life. It will simplify matters if I state at once that
I am not an old woman. On my next birthday I shall be
twenty-five.
My mother died when I was ten years old; my father
followed her within a few months; and thus at an early age
I was doubly orphaned. The memory I have of these dear
ones is sweet and abiding. The course of my young life, up
to the period of their death, may be likened to a quiet lake
in whose bosom only pure and peaceful images are reflected;
of flowers, of stars, of tender caresses, of twilight songs, of
the constant thoughtfulness which is born of true affection.
My parents lived but for me, and had they had a fore-
shadowing of the trials in store for me, it would have
broken their hearts.
With love thus guarding my sleeping and waking hours,
the shock I endured when I realized that it was lost to me
for ever may be easily imagined. It was a long time before
I became fully conscious of my loss. The death of my
mother, in its effect upon me, was in a measure softened by
the opening of new channels in my father's tenderness
towards me. A gentle sadness crept upon our days, and
there was a pathos in our intercourse, of the true meaning
of which I was unaware. We spoke often of my mother;
i
2
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
but I could not be made to believe that she would not come
back. In vain did my father endeavour to instil into my
mind some idea of the change from mortal to immortal
life.
" My child," he said, as I stood by his chair in his study,
" I wish you to understand. We are sent into the world
only for a short time, to prepare us for the better life to
come—a life in which there is no death That is the life
mamma is living now. She is in heaven, and we shall join
her there."
"No," I replied, shaking my head, " mamma will come
back to us. I have dreamed it night after night. Why, papa,
the flowers and birds have told me so, and I know it will be
so ! You will see, papa—my dreams will come true."
Thus was my grief assuaged at a loss which I believed to
be temporary.
I did not see my mother when she lay dead in her coffin;
nor my father when he lay dead in his. My father spared
me the first sad sight: my nurse spared me the second.
Even had I seen them I should have believed they were
only sleeping. On both these occasions I knew, of course,
that something unusual was going on in the house, but I had
no consciousness of its dread significance.
" Everybody is trying to persuade me," I said to my
nurse, " that I shall never see my dear papa again."
" It is true," she said, with great tenderness. " Don't
fret, my dear; we must try to think that everything is for
the best."
"That is what I do think," I rejoined. "When the
summer is gone, and they say the flowers are dead, I know
they are not, and that they will come again next year."
" My dear," said my nurse, " you will not see your papa
again in this world. When the Almighty wills that it shall
be so, you will go to heaven to him."
"You are all wrong," I said; "papa has gone to bring
mamma back to me."
" My dear child," remonstrated my nurse, " you must
not talk so wildly ; indeed, indeed you must not!"
But I would not listen to her, and after a time she was
wisely silent on the subject, for she saw that she could not
reason me out of my belief.
We lived in Sevenoaks, in an old-fashioned house, of
which I was passionately fond. I was born there, and I
used to say that I would live there all my life, and would
INTRODUCED TO AUNT PARKER.
3
tiever, never go away. We had the loveliest garden of fruit
and flowers I have ever seen; it occupied six acres of
ground, and had been my father's special delight. A certain
air of cultivated wildness imparted to it a beauty which
could hardly be excelled. In my little black frock, which I
was forced to wear against my will, I wandered round and
about the paths and amid the orchards, talking to the
flowers and the birds, and begging them to bring my parents
quickly back to me. This communion with flowers and
birds had long been a habit with me, and had never been
checked. No wonder that I dreamed of them, as I had
told my father, and that even in my sleep 1 was encouraged
in my fancies. Many a lecture did I receive in after years
upon the folly of permitting children to indulge in such
kind of sentiment, but God forbid that I should ever check
it in those to whom it brings consolation. It did me no.
harm, I am sure. It kept my heart open to tender impres-
sions ; it brightened the dark days—for even at this length
of time I shudder to think how utterly lonely and miserable
my life must have been without some such hope, fallacious
as it was, to lighten it. As a child I was keenly sensitive;
to see others suffer made me suffer; I could not pass a
beggar in the streets without offering aims, and my dear
parents—Heaven bless them for it!—did anything but chide
me for the sympathizing impulse which urged me to give.
I am no philosopher, and do not wish to be, and in spite of
the piles upon piles of books that have been written upon
the wisdom and necessity of keeping in check the sympa-
thetic affections, I am satisfied that it was never intended to
bind our natural feelings with economical ligatures which
would not only cut into kind hearts like sharp steel, but
would rob life of many of it sweetest joys.
At the time of my father's death the only relative in the
house was an aunt by marriage, my father's sister-in-law, who
made her appearance quite unexpectedly on the day he died.
On the previous evening a great physician from London
had come to consult with our family doctor, whose name
was Everfresh; and when he took his departure he did not
leave hope behind him. I think it was with an idea that it
was his duty to impress this upon me that Dr. Everfresh had
called me into the room. Nurse Elliot was with us, and the
good doctor was speaking to me kindly and gravely when
the door was abruptly thrown open, and a lady entered un-
announced.
i*
4
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" An impudent slut of a girl," she cried, in a loud voice,
" told me I should find someone here, though at first she
actually wanted me to wait in the hall ! Had such a thing
occurred in my house to a lady visitor, the hussy would have
been instantly discharged; but in a properly regulated
establishment such an outrage could not have occurred. My
name is Parker." Her eyes travelled from Dr. Everfresh to
Nurse Elliot, from Nurse Elliot to me, and there they
rested. " Your name is Evelina, I suppose ? "
"Yes," I said.
" And you are the child's nurse," she said to Nurse Elliot,
" or are you the housekeeper ? "
" I am Miss Durham's nurse, ma'am."
"Ah," she said, snappishly, "give me a kiss, child. I am
your Aunt Parker." Then, turning to the doctor, " You are
the doctor, I presume." Dr. Everfresh bowed, " My late
husband was an M.D. How is my poor brother ? "
Dr. Everfresh drew her aside, and was whispering some-
thing in her ear when she cut his words short.
"What's the use of making a secret of it? My late
husband never did. If he's as bad as all that, of course
there can be no hope, and the best thing that can be done,
by children as well as grown-up people, is to be prepared
for the worst. Mawkish sentimentality is detestable. I
will go and see him."
And she went out of the room with the doctor. Nurse
Elliot and I gazed at each other apprehensively.
" Do you know her, nurse ? " I asked.
"No, Miss Lina."
" Did you ever see her before ? "
" Never."
"I didn't know," I said, " that I had an Aunt Parker."
"No more did I, my dear," said my nurse.
We were both very serious over it, and seemed to tacitly
agree that it would be best to remain silent.
In about ten minutes Aunt Parker returned.
" Order some tea to be made immediately for me," she
said to Nurse Elliot. "I will have it here. Eggs—and
mind they are fresh; toast and black tea—strong." I am
going to sit with my brother till all is over. What are you
staring at ? People must die, mustn't they ? If my brother
recovers consciousness he would sooner have me at his
bed-side than a hired nurse."
We scarcely spoke until she had finished the eggs and
INTRODUCE!) TO AUNT PARKER.
5
toast, had drank three cups of tea, and had left the room
again. Then Nurse Elliot and I came to an understanding
that we did not like Aunt Parker. I had no remembrance
of having seen her before, although she told me, after my
father's funeral, that she used to visit my parents when I
was too young to remember. Whether she spoke the truth
or not did not interest me ; she did not succeed in winning
my affection. The more she endeavoured to ingratiate her-
self with me, the deeper grew my dislike towards her.
" Why do you walk away," she asked, " whenever you see
me coming? You do see me coming, don't you? No false-
hoods, miss!"
" Sometimes I see you."
"You saw me coming just now, didn't you ?"
" Yes."
" And you avoided me on purpose. Pretty behaviour, I
must say ! Why did you try to hide yourself when you
caught sight of me ? "
" I wanted to be alone," I said.
" It isn't good for little girls to be alone • it makes them
sullen, and sulky, and rebellious. But that is not a truthful
explanation; and you will find it quite useless to attempt to
deceive me. If there is one thing in this world I abominate
more than another it is a liar. Tell me the reason instantly
why you try to avoid me."
I was silent; from my own prompting I could not muster
sufficient courage to reply.
" You don't like me, I suppose," she suggested.
" No," I said, with sudden boldness, " I don't like
you."
She gazed at me in gloomy astonishment.
" It is your duty to love me. Why don't you ? "
" I don't know why."
" You have been nicely brought up—quite a credit to the
family. I am your aunt: you haven't a relation in the world
but me. You know the meaning of that, I suppose, .with
all your sulks."
"Yes, I know the meaning of what you say," I replied,
"butjt isn't true."
" Child ! " she cried, with an angry flush on her face,
" how dare you address me like that ? Do you mean to
insinuate that I am not your aunt ? "
"No," I said, inwardly frightened at her vehemence;
" you must be my aunt, or you wouldn't be here. But you
6
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
are wrong when you say I haven't a relation in the world
but you."
"And pray, miss, what other relations have you got? "
"T have my papa and mamma," I said.
" You are mad," she exclaimed, in a malicious tone.
"Your papa and mamma are dead and buried. You'll
never see them any more."
I ran away from her, thinking in my heart that she was a
wicked, unfeeling woman.
She was very curious about my father's will, which was not
yet opened. I was present when she and the lawyer who
attended my father's funeral had a conversation about it.
He was endeavouring to explain something to me relating
to property, which I did not in the least understand, when
Aunt Parker interrupted him by saying that he might save
himself the trouble of explaining matters, as I was very dull
of comprehension.
" Indeed, indeed," remarked the lawyer, gazing placidly
on Aunt Parker. " I have never found her so; a bright
and intelligent little lady."
I was grateful to him for speaking of me in such terms.
Aunt Parker shrugged her shoulders and said, " Gentle-
men are not capable judges of children's minds—and of all
gentlemen, lawyers are the least capable."
"You are entitled, madam," said the lawyer, "to your
own opinion."
" I should say I was," retorted Aunt Parker; " I should
like to see the man who would assert the contrary."
The lawyer took out a tortoise-shell snuff-box, which he held
in his left hand, and tapped gently with the fingers of his right.
"And I, madam," he said, "though I am a lawyer, am
entitled to mine. Therefore I repeat, there being no legal
interests at stake in the assertion, a bright and intelligent
little lady."
He gave me an encouraging smile, and I returned it.
Aunt Parker tossed her head.
" It isn't worth talking about," she said.
" In that case, madam," said the lawyer, blandly, " we will
not talk about it."
" May I inquire," she asked, " if there is a will ? "
"Yes, madam," replied the lawyer, "you yiay inquire."
"Well, sir," she said, exasperated by his bearing towards
her, "I make the inquiry of you. I am the late Mr.
Durham's sister, and I have a right to ask."
INTRODUCED TO AUNT PARKER.
7
"To the best of my belief," he said, taking a pinch of
snuff, " there is a will."
" That means that there is one for certain," said Aunt
Parker. " Who should know better than you ? Why isn't
it opened ? "
" It will be opened, madam, in due time."
" When will that be ? When it suits you ? "
"To the best of my belief," he said, not at all ruffled,
"shortly. When this young lady's guardians return to
England. They may arrive to-day. It is in the expectation
of their arrival that I am here now."
" Oh," said Aunt Parker, " Miss Evelina has guardians."
"Yes," said the lawyer, "she has guardians."
" Am I not one ? "
"Really, my dear madam," he said, shaking the snuff
smooth in its box, "you must not ask me any more
questions."
"Why not? " she cried. "Am I not naturally interested
in the property ? "
He was too busy with his snuff-box to reply, and she
continued.
" It is a valuable property. My brother was not the kind
of man to make ducks and drakes of his money. He was
very rich, and I am his nearest relative, next to this little
miss. I hope he didn't forget that."
The lawyer appeared to be still too busy with his snuff-
box to attend to Aunt Parker, and his silence had the effect
of enraging her, but she preserved some outward semblance
of calmness.
"Are you deaf?" she asked, in a rasping tone.
"Yes, madam," he replied, putting his snuff-box in his
pocket, "I am deaf."
" That a lawyer—not to say a man," she exclaimed, scorn-
fully, "should so demean himself as to resort to subterfuge
—a polite word for falsehood, I would have you know "
" Then say falsehood," he blandly interposed.
" I will. That a man, bearing the semblance of a gentle-
man, should so conduct himself towards a lady as to be
guilty of the falsehood of saying he is deaf when he is
in perfect possession of his hearing is a proof of some-
thing worse than coarse breeding. I should be sorry to
lower myself by stating in precise Saxon my opinion of
him."
" Then I pray," said the lawyer, whose equanimity was
8
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE
not to be disturbed, " that you will not do violence to your
feelings by being precise and—Saxon. I have no objection,
however, to explain. When I say that I am deaf, I am
speaking the truth. No, no—do not shake your head. I
am deaf—professionally. Now, do you comprehend ? My
private and personal ears are open to you; my professional
ears are sealed. If you will have patience, madam, you
will know as much as I do of the disposition of the late
Mr. Durham's property."
I heard nothing more of what passed between them; I
took advantage of a favourable opportunity, and escaped
from the room.
CHAPTER II.
I make some new acquaintances.
Soon afterwards my aunt sought me in the garden. I did
not know she was near me till, looking up from some flowers
over which I was bending, I saw her quite close.
" When little children talk to themselves," she said, " they
are talking to the Devil."
" I was not talking to myself," I said, retreating from her.
She terrified me, her voice was so severe and threatening.
" How dare you contradict me ! " she exclaimed, follow-
ing me, and grasping my arm. " I will not allow every one
to insult me !"
"You hurt me—you hurt me !" I cried.
" I'll hurt you more before I have done with you," she
said, "if you don't alter your behaviour. Do you persist in
saying you were not talking when I came up ? "
" I did not say I was not talking. I was talking, but not
to myself."
" To whom then, miss ? "
" To the flowers," I said.
She gazed at me in silence before she spoke again. " Are
you mocking me ? Take care ! I am accustomed to be
treated with respect, by everybody but lawyers."
" I have told you the truth."
"Very well; you were speaking to the flowers. What
were you saying to them ? "
" I was begging them to bring my mamma and papa back
to me," I said, the tears gushing from my eyes.
I MAKE SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 9
" They heard you, of course," she said, with a sneer.
" Yes," I sobbed.
She shook me violently, and pulled me to a seat, upon
which she sat, holding me, standing before her. She put
her hand under my chin, and forced my face up to the level
of her own.
"Now just answer me," she said, "or I'll shake the
breath out of your body—I will, just as sure as you've got a
head on your shoulders. Do you take me for a fool that
you insist that the flowers hear what you say to them ? "
" They do hear me," I said.
She stared at me in amazement, but presently she gazed
at me more composedly, and tapping my forehead with her
forefinger, said, in a malicious tone.
" I've had experience in such cases. Have you been
ill ? "
" No, but I am ill now."
" That is a weak pretence. There is seldom an absence
of cunning in such cases as yours. Look—there is a bird,"
she pointed to one which had flown from a tree to the
ground. "Why don't you ask that to bring your mamma
and papa back ? "
I looked at the bird, and my lips moved with an unuttered
entreaty. Aunt Parker watched me intently.
"Sweet child," she said, "to do as you are bid! You
have asked the bird and see—it is actually flying away ! To
think that it should understand you, and that you should be
able to speak the language of birds as well as flowers ! It
would not be believed out of a story-book. You are fond
of story-books, sweet child ? "
" Yes."
" With lying fairy tales in them about impossible things.
Nice trash for sensible beings! 'Aladdin and the Wonder-
ful Lamp,' now, and ' Puss in Boots'—of course they are
real?"
She compelled me to reply, and I said, "Yes, they are
real."
" Who can doubt it ? " she continued. "And giants with
two heads, and fairy godmothers, and dirty little girls with
glass slippers. All real, every one of them, and intimate
acquaintances of your birds and flowers. I wonder whether
the bird that has just flown away will forget the message
you gave it. No, it hasn't, I declare, for there it is, coming
back, and your mamma and papa with it 1"
10
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
My heart beat violently as my eyes followed the direction
of her outstretched finger.
" Don't you see them ? " she asked, with a cruel laugh.
" No," I sobbed.
"You tell falsehoods," she said, "and deserve to be
whipped, and shall be unless you are careful. If i can see
them I am sure you can—such a clever little miss as you !
There, straight before you, are your mamma and papa as
plain as life, in their grave clothes, with their faces as white
as death, and their eyes tight shut "
She paused suddenly, with an exclamation of astonish-
ment and alarm. From the direction in which she was
pointing two figures were approaching us which, to my ex-
cited imagination, presented themselves in the likeness of
my dear parents. I held out my arms, and tottered
forward; but my strength had been overtaxed, and with a
gasp of terrified joy I sank to the ground.
I could not have remained long in an insensible condition,
for when I opened my eyes I was on the same spot, and my
head was resting on the knee of a gentleman who was
kneeling by me and soothing me with kind words.
" There, there ! " he said. " I knew you would soon be
well again. 'Tis weakness, my dear, and grief at your loss.
Sad, sad for one so young ! But time will heal it, and bring
back the roses to this little white face—yes, indeed, it will!
Now, are you strong enough to walk to the house? Yes?
That's right. Lean upon me, my dear. Why, we are
getting along bravely ! "
Fie was an elderly gentleman, whose age I should have
guessed to be sixty, but, as I afterwards learned, he was ten
years younger. His hair was white, and his eyes were
blue. That is all the impression I gained of him as I looked
up at his kind face. In that brief glance I caught sight of
another gentleman, who had dropped a step or two behind,
and was walking by Aunt Parker's side. Black hair, high
cheek-bones, and keen, piercing black eyes which seemed to
frown as they fell upon me. That is all the impression I
gained of him as he walked to the house. Instinctively I
pressed closer to the elderly gentleman, who patted my
shoulder softly. My aunt and her companion were con-
versing in low tones, and I did not hear what they said; but
I laboured under an uncomfortable impression that I was
the subject of their conversation. When we arrived at the
house we made a halt in the lobby, at the instigation appa-
I MAKE SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 11
rently of the gentleman with the black hair and black eyes.
Then I heard him speak.
" There may be something in what you have told me,"
he said to Aunt Parker, " but I can form no opinion at
present. I am in the habit of observing for myself, and
relying on my own judgment."
"It is not to be supposed, sir," said Aunt Parker, in a
subservient tone, "that you need, or would tolerate, any
other testimony in making up your mind."
He glanced at her approvingly, and then addressed me.
" Are you ill ? " he asked.
" I do not feel very well, sir," I replied.
" Does your head feel confused ? "
"A little, sir."
" In these circumstances," he said, turning from me,
" the child's senses not being perfectly clear, the reading of
the will had best be postponed till to-morrow."
" I have no objection," said the gentleman who had been
kind to me.
" I do not see what objection you could have," said the
black-haired gentleman. " It is a day wasted, but I see no
other course than to submit to the delay. I am not a man
to trifle with duty, or to allow it to be trifled with. Mean-
time, the child will be put to bed."
Aunt Parker nodded in satisfaction at this decision, and
immediately marched me off to bed, comporting herself
towards me as though I were a criminal who had been
found guilty of some very heinous offence.
CHAPTER III.
aunt parker tells me the story of don't care,
who went to the dogs.
I slept that night long beyond my usual time, and upon
opening my eyes in the morning saw Nurse Elliot in the
room, waiting to dress me.
" Nurse ! " I called to her.
"Yes, Miss Lina," she said, coming immediately to the
bed. " Dear heart alive, how glad I am to see you looking
so bright! I was almost afraid you would never wake."
" That I would never wake !" I murmured. " Does that
really, really happen, nurse ? "
12
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" What questions you ask, my dear ! " she said, in a kind
and troubled voice. " It would puzzle Mother Shipton
herself to answer them. But we have no time for talking
this morning ; there is a great deal to do."
" We must talk just a little; my eyes are hardly open,
nurse. Sit down a minute. Is it very late ? "
' I seldom failed in coercing my dear nurse to do as I
wished, and she sat down by the bed, and replied :
" It is past ten o'clock."
" I have been asleep a long time."
" Yes, Miss Lina. I wouldn't disturb you, after what
happened yesterday."
" I fainted, didn't I ? "
"Yes, dear."
" She frightened me so, nurse ! "
Who " she " was needed no explanation between me and
Nurse Elliot. We had come to a perfect understanding on
the point, and there was no occasion to mention Aunt
Parker's name.
"Speak softly, Miss Lina. She has been in the room
half-a-dozen times this morning, and wanted to wake you,
but I wouldn't let her."
" Th^nk you, nurse; that was very courageous of you.
I hope she will not remain here long."
" I hope so too, my dear. She was very angry because I
wouldn't have you disturbed, and said she would soon let
me know who was mistress in the house. She told me the
moment you opened your eyes to inform her that you were
awake. I must go to her at once."
"No, nurse," I said, holding her frock, "not yet. I
want to speak to you. Tell me, do you think my aunt is a
good woman ? "
" I trust she is," said my nurse, guardedly.
" But is she ? "
" It is not for me to say, Miss Lina. I am only a servant,
and she is a lady."
" I don't think she can be good." My nurse was silent.
" It is not so much what she says, nurse dear, but the way
she says it. She says the same thing that you do—that my
papa and mamma will not come back to me. That is what
you mean by going to sleep and never waking ? "
"Yes, dear."
" I don't know, I don't know !" I murmured, and I
buried my face in my pillow and sobbed. " Oh, my dear
I MAKE SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 13
papa, come back, and bring mamma with you, so that we
may be happy again !"
" Hush, dear Miss Lina, hush ! "
She drew my head upon her bosom, and did all she
could to comfort me, but it was many minutes before my
outburst of grief was spent.
" I saw two gentlemen yesterday, nurse, and one spoke so
kindly to me ! Who are they ? "
" I believe, my dear, that those gentlemen are to take
care of you and your money till you are a grown lady.
They have come down here on purpose. You will be under
their protection, and they are to have you educated."
" Who told them to do so ? "
" Your papa, my dear, in his will. It isn't opened yet,
but I think you will find it so."
"My papa could do nothing wrong," I said. " I don't
understand what it all means, but the gentlemen must be
good, or he wouldn't trust them. One of them, I am sure,
is good, and perhaps the other is, though I didn't like his
voice. You won't go away from me, nurse ? "
"No, dear Miss Lina; they will never part us, I hope."
" They shall not," I cried, " they shall not ! They shall
never, never take you away from me ! "
I was quite overcome at the idea, and was sobbing with
my arms round Nurse Elliot's neck when Aunt Parker
entered the room.
" What is all this ? " she asked. " Take your arms away
immediately."
She herself disengaged my arms, and then addressed
Nurse Elliot with an air and voice of stern authority.
"You have some motive in encouraging such scenes;
they must be put a stop to. You seem to have forgotten
that you are nothing but a servant in this establishment,
and that you are liable to be packed off at a moment's
notice. Did I not order you to come for me the moment
Miss Evelina opened her eyes? How dare you disobey
me ? "
" It was my fault," I said, drying my eyes. " Nurse
wanted to go for you, but I wouldn't let her."
"You wouldn't let her, indeed!" exclaimed my aunt.
"For a baby, you give yourself fine airs." Then to my
nurse, " Leave the room."
" I must dress my young lady first," remonstrated my
nurse.
14
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
"Leave the room, I tell you," repeated my aunt,
"unless you wish to be turned neck and crop out of the
house. Dress my young lady, indeed! My young lady
will learn to dress herself. When I was her age I had to
put on my things without a parcel of idle, useless creatures
hanging about me. Leave the room this moment! "
My nurse obeyed, and I rose from bed, and commenced
to wash and dress myself. It was the first time in my life
I had been called upon to do so, and what I did was ill-
done. I discovered that buttons, pins, and hooks were
veritable demons, and it was as much as I could do to pre-
vent myself from screaming aloud.
" Shall I help you, my dear ? " asked my aunt, who was
watching me maliciously.
" No," I replied, " I don't want your help."
" Whether you want it or not," she said, seizing hold of
me, " you will have it. Rebellious spirits must and shall
be tamed, and children must and shall be taught to be
obedient. My brother must have been blind, or worse, to
allow his household to be conducted in a manner so dis-
graceful."
She held me between her knees as in a vice, and com-
pleted my toilet, rubbing the soap into my eyes, brushing
my hair all wrong, and hooking my dress awry. When she
released me I felt thoroughly uncomfortable; but though I
quivered with indignation, I uttered no remonstrance of my
own prompting. I was truly afraid of Aunt Parker.
" I am delighted," she said, "to see that you are better
than you were yesterday. You are better, are you not ?
What a wicked bird that was to take us in as it did ! Isn't
it shocking to think that little creatures can play such
dreadful tricks ? Not only birds, but other little creatures
as well. Why don't you answer me ? Are you frightened ? "
" Yes," I said, " I am frightened."
"Ah," she said, wilfully misunderstanding me, "you are
something better, but not quite well. You haven't got over
the shock of yesterday. It isn't surprising. It gave me a
turn, and I am a woman, while you are a mere baby. You
are not attending to me. Do you wish me to love you or
hate you ? "
" I don't care which," I replied, recklessly.
" That is a pity," she said, frowning, " a very great pity,
because it reminds me of a child I once knew whose name
was Don't Care."
I MAKE SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 15
" Didn't she have some other name ? "
" How strange, now, that you should guess she was a
little girl ! Oh, yes, my pet, she had another name, but
people wouldn't call her anything else but Don't Care."
" What people ? " I asked.
" People I was acquainted with," she replied. " They
used to say, ' What a wicked girl Don't Care is—what a
shocking wicked girl! Whatever will become of her ?'
They were glad their children were not like her."
" Did they tell you so ? "
" Of course they did."
" Were they good people ? "
" The best in the world; and after a little while Don't
Care grew so very wicked that they wouldn't as much as
look at her."
" How old was she when you knew her ? "
" How old are you ? "
" I shall be eleven next month."
" She was eleven next month. Isn't it strange ? And
. now I look at your hair, her hair was exactly like yours.
And now I look at your eyes, her eyes were the same
colour. What do you say to that ? "
" Nothing."
" That is how Don't Care used to answer questions. I'll
tell you what happened to her. She lost her mother
first "
" Did her mother die ? "
"Yes, she died. Then she lost her father. He died.
That was all because Don't Care was stubborn and rebellious.
If she had been nicely behaved, and had conducted herself
properly, her papa and mamma would be alive now. It is
a most remarkable resemblance. Then she lost her nurse;
she didn't die, but she was turned out of the house. The
woman deserved it, for she was a saucy, useless creature,
and thought she could do as she liked ; but she found out
her mistake. And the only person left in the world who
could be a friend to Don't Care was a kind aunt, with whom
she had to live, and who had to bring her up till she was
old enough to look after herself. This kind lady, who was
greatly esteemed, and had moved in the best society, wished
to be very fond of Don't Care, but the naughty child would
not let her. Her temper was so vile that she was a perfect
misery to everybody about her. The consequence was that
Don't Care led a most miserable life."
16
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
I held my breath; I was fascinated by fear. My eyes
were fixed upon my aunt's face, and she nodded com-
placently two or three times.
"It happened," she said, "just as I am telling you. She
went to her aunt's house and lived there "
1" interrupted her. " Couldn't she have lived somewhere
the?"
" Where could she live, pray ?." demanded my aunt.
"At home, where she was born."
" Oh, that place was sold to strangers, and she had to go
to her aunt's house—she was compelled to ; it wasn't a bit
of good her trying to resist. Wicked as she was, she was
only a little child after all, and couldn't do as she liked.
They could have put her in prison, and chained her to a
log, and fed her on dry bread and water ; but they thought
they would try to make her good. But it was all of no use ;
she wouldn't mind a word that was said to her, and because
she didn't care whether her aunt loved or hated her, the
most frightful things occurred. She heard voices in the
dark, she saw dreadful sights in the middle of the night,
horrid things used to hide under her bed, she had frightful
dreams. Now, if she had loved the kind lady, and been
submissive to her, she would have been very, very, happy;
but as she was a stubborn, sulky, sullen child, who didn't
love people, and didn't want people to love her, she passed
a wretched, miserable existence; and what I say, and what
everybody said, is that it served her right."
" Why didn't she run away ? "
" Oh, she did ; but before she got far she was hunted by
wild animals and monsters with great red jaws and sharp
teeth; she was almost torn to pieces, and she was glad
enough when they found her and took her back to her
kind aunt."
"What became of her afterwards ? "
" She went to the dogs."
" Were they good dogs ? "
"No."
" Where do they live ? "
" You'll find out for yourself one of these fine days, if
you are not very careful."
" Is Don't Care alive now ? "
"No, she is dead—and a good riddance."
" I am glad she is dead," I said.
" So am I; so is everybody. Her story 1 as made you
NED: BRAVE AND TRUE AS STEEL.
17
cry, I declare. It is a dreadful, dreadful story, the worst
that ever was known. Go and have your breakfast, and
think of it. Perhaps, after all, you are not so stupid as you
look. It will be quite the best for you to be sensible and
obedient."
CHAPTER IV.
ned : brave, and tender, and true as steel.
Nurse Elliot usually gave me my breakfast, but 011 this
morning, when I went into the breakfast room, she was
absent. I was alone, and I quite understood that I was
expected to attend to myself. There was a cup of cold
milk on the table, and three slices of bread-and-butter. I
ate very little, and it was a relief to my feelings to leave the
breakfast-room and go to a retired part of the grounds,
where I could cry quietly to myself and think. But I had
not been in the open air five minutes before Nurse Elliot
came running, almost breathless, to my side.
" I can't stop, Miss Lina," she said, hurriedly, " or I shall
get into trouble; and that might mean trouble to you."
In a moment she was on her knees, and her hands were
busy about my dress. Everything that Aunt Parker had
done wrong she made right; she produced my comb and
brush from her pocket, and she did my hair over again, and
made me feel quite comfortable. It was done almost
without a word, and when she had completed her labour of
love she kissed me, and ran off. I felt very grateful. It
was a recompense for my aunt's unkindness.
I was allowed to remain undisturbed in the garden till
past noon, when I saw the white-haired gentleman who had
been kind to me walking towards me.
" Ah, you are there, my child," he said; " I have been
seeking you. Your aunt wished to come for you, but I
said I would save her the trouble."
" Thank you, sir."
He held out his hand, and I put mine in it, and we
turned in the direction of the house. But we had not
taken many steps before he stopped, and, bending down to
me, touched my eyes with his fingers.
" You have been crying. It is cruel that the world should
2
18
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
be so full of trouble, and that it should visit the young.
Grief comes too soon, too soon ! "
I do not know what impelled me to ask, " Are you in
trouble, sir " Possibly because his sad voice brought forth
my sympathy for one who had shown sympathy for me.
" My child," he said, striving to speak in a lighter tone,
" like other people, I have seen trouble."
" But in trouble now, sir? You seem so."
"Do I ? That is wrong of me. I should be cheerful, to
inspire you with cheerfulness. I should show you a better
example. You must not grieve too much, my dear; leave
sorrow to the old. When I was a lad, life was very
beautiful."
" Then you had some one to love you, sir; and now
perhaps you are like me. You are alone. I am so sorry! "
There occurred at this moment the most wonderful change
in him. His face shone with gladness, his voice became
joyous.
" Alone, child ! No, thank God, no ! I have my boy,
my beautiful boy Ned, God bless him ! My dear, dear Ned !
Who talks of trouble and of the world not being beautiful ?
I deserve to be caned. Upon my honour, my dear little girl,
I deserve to be caned ! "
And then he laughed, and it was the laugh of a young
man whose life was brightened by love. In the midst of my
own deep grief I could not resist the contagion of his
gladness.
" My papa used to speak in that way," I said.
" He was a good man, my child, a truly good man."
" Oh, sir," I said, and I kissed his hand in gratitude. It
was my first real gleam of sunshine since my papa's death.
" Did you know him, sir—did you know him ? "
"In years gone by," he answered, "your father and I
were the closest friends. We were at college together, and
we spent many happy months abroad. There was one trip
we had—a walking tour, my child, through Switzerland—
that was so bright and so full of pleasant, innocent adven-
ture, that it has often come upon me as something altogether
too good for this prosaic world of ours. There we were,
two lads, walking with our alpenstocks straight through
fairy-land, over the white ranges of snow and ice, blooming
with the loveliest flowers."
"Flowers, sir," I said, entranced by his description,
" blooming in the snow and ice ! "
NED: BRAVE AND TRUE AS STEEL.
19
"Without a doubt, my dear; and they are blooming now
as they bloomed then—which shows that the world is
always young. Gardens growing in the ice Such forget-
me-nots as we never see in England. Flowers with bells of
gold and sapphire, that your father said must have dropped
from heaven—which was not unlikely, they being so near.
There were no two days alike in that never-to-be-forgotten
tour, and I should like my dear Ned to have just such
another, with just such another comrade as your father was
to me. Friendships like ours are rare; we were more like
brothers than anything else."
" But I don't remember to have ever seen you, sir."
" I am not surprised at that, my dear. When I last
visited this house you were not six months old."
" Did you not see my papa after that ? "
" Oh, yes, my child. It is now—let me see—it was
vacation-time, and Ned was home for the holidays—yes, it
is six years ago since your father came to London to
consult me on a matter which is really the cause of my
being here to-day. A sad occasion, my dear. He asked
me to undertake a trust, which I consented' to accept, in
the sincere hope that I might never be called upon to fulfil
its obligations. You will probably hear something about
it presently. He remained in London a week, and we had
merry days together, talking of the past and the future. I
think he intended to remain longer, but his heart was too
closely bound to you and your mother to be absent from
you long. He was never tired of speaking of you. The
reason that we saw but little of each other in late years is1
that our roads of life ran in different directions; his was
smoother than mine, but we were friends through all.
That is the beauty of faithfulness, my child."
" If you loved my papa, sir," I said, "as I am sure you
must have done after the way you have spoken of him, you
will be my friend—you will love me."
" I love you already, my child, and I will be your friend.
Without a doubt your friend, as far as lies in my power."
I wondered within myself what it was that caused his
voice to drift into sad tones again as he uttered these last
few words.
" May I ask you, sir," I said, timidly, "is your beautiful
boy Ned your son ? "
Again his voice became joyous; again his manner was
that of a man to whom life was full of sunshine.
2)
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
"Yes, my child; yes, he is my son; and never had a
father a dearer, sweeter, more precious blessing! Brave,
and tender, and true as steel ! He was with us the whole
week your father was in London, and went with us every-
where—memorable days, my dear. I don't think I told you
that my Ned was your father's godson, and was named after
him. At this very moment my dear boy is wearing the gold
watch and chain your father gave him. My dear Ned !
What should not a father do for such a son? Sacrifice,
my child !—danger !—peril!—what should I not risk for
his sake, to make his life easy, and bright, and happy ?
Come, child, what would your father have done for you
had he lived ? "
" Everything, sir, everything," I cried, tears running
down my face.
"To promote your happiness would he have considered
himself? Answer me that, child."
"No, sir; he loved me and mamma better than every-
thing else in the world. He never thought of himself—
only of us, and of what he could do to give us happiness."
" A good man, a truly good man! More fortunate,
perhaps, in a worldly way than some others I could name,
but no man ever lived who hetter deserved good fortune.
He was not the only father capable of sacrificing himself
for those he loved. What is man's judgment in such a
cause ? " He raised his hat and looked up to heaven. " Be
Thou the Judge ! Thou seest the secrets of the heart, and
will be merciful. . Ned, my boy, dearer to me than life—
ah, child, when you see him you will understand !"
" I think I understand already, sir, without seeing him.
Is he as old as I am, sir ? "
"As old as you, child? Why, Ned is twenty!" My
spirits fell; this difference in our ages raised a gulf between
us. " Yes, Ned is twenty; the handsomest, brightest young
fellow that ever breathed sweet air. I will show him to
you." He opened a locket which hung on his watch-chain,
and I saw the portrait of a young man whose smiling, hand-
some face justified all the praises the fond father was
bestowing on him.
" He is very handsome," I said, gazing admiringly on
the picture.
"And as good and clever as he is handsome. This
portrait was taken three months before he went to
Germany."
MY FATHER'S WILL IS READ.
21
"Is he so faraway, sir? How lonely you must be with-
out him."
" Ah, indeed, child ! He has gone there to study and
to enjoy himself. Nothing does a young man so much good
as seeing the world. And it would never do for me to be so
selfish as to keep him tied to me for ever, though I can't tell
you how much I miss him." He opened the back of the
locket. " Here he is, my dear, taken when he was nine
years old. A curly-headed, bright-eyed young rascal, was he
not ? It is a curious thing, whenever he is absent from me
I think of him not as a man, but as a child, quite a little
fellow, lying in my arms, listening to the stories I used to
tell him, or clinging close to me as I carried him to his crib.
Rather too big for that now, much more than an armful,
my dear. To think of it—to think of it! It fills one with
wonder, and worship, and delight."
Then the loving father stooped and kissed me, and we
went into the house hand in hand.
CHAPTER V.
my father's will is read, and i learn the names of
my guardians.
He led me to the drawing-room, in which the lawyer, Aunt
Parker, and the gentleman with black hair and black eyes
were assembled. They looked at us as we entered, the
lawyer seriously, Aunt Parker suspiciously, the black-haired
gentleman impatiently.
"You have kept us waiting," said the gentleman. " Will
you never learn the value of time ? "
" I am very sorry," said Ned's father.
" What is the use of that ? " angrily demanded the black-
haired gentleman. " If you kill a man can you bring him
to life again by being sorry for what you have done ? '
Ned's father did not reply : he placed me on a chair
near to himself, but Aunt Parker clutched me from it, and
kept me close to her. The lawyer was seated at the table
with a blue bag before him.
For a few moments nothing was said. There was a
deathlike silence; no one moved. I think it was then that
I first began to realize that my parents were really dead,
and that 1 should never see them again. Truly the silence
22
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
pressed with a heavy weight upon my heart, and almost
stopped my breathing. We might have all been spirits
belonging to a ghostly world in which sound held no place.
The clock on the mantel, striking one, brqught us to life
again.
We acted as though we were pieces of machinery. The
lawyer, set in motion by the striking of the hour, slowly
opened his blue bag, and wc all turned our heads towards
him.
" We are quite ready, I believe," he said, addressing him-
self especially to the black-haired gentleman. .
" Quite ready," said the black-haired gentleman.
" Before we proceed to read the will," said the lawyer,
" it will be as well that every person interested in it should
be present. It is for that reason I wrote to you"—he was
now addressing himself to Ned's father—"requesting you
to bring your son with you."
"Ned is in Germany," the father answered, "pursuing
his studies."
"It is not absolutely necessary," said the lawyer/turning
over his papers, " but personal attendance is always to be
preferred. There is in the house, I believe, a woman
named Deborah Elliot."
"My nurse, sir," I said, quickly.
" What has she to do with it ? " demanded Aunt Parker.
" Let her be called," said the lawyer, not answering Aunt
Parker's question.
"I will go for her," I cried, but Aunt Parker held me
tight.
"Stay where you are," she said; "if the woman must
be present, I will go for her myself."
She left the room and soon returned, followed by my dear
nurse, who appeared to be very much surprised at being
summoned. She sat down at the extreme end of the room,
and then the lawyer, having arranged his papers, spoke
again.
" This is the last will and testament of the late Edward
Clarence Durham, Esq., gentleman, of the county of Kent.
The only lineal descendant of the deceased is Miss Evelina
Durham, and I direct that young lady's particular attention
to what I am about to read."
I glanced at Aunt Parker; she was trembling with eager
expectation, and I did not at that moment understand the
cause of her agitation. Neither did I understand the will.
MY FATHEK'S WILL IS BEAD.
23
It was, as those documents generally are, very wordy and
confusing, and in its legal phraseology quite unintelligible
to me. During the time the lawyer was reading, the room
was filled with a sound like the droning of bees, and when
he ceased I was in a state of perfect bewilderment. It was
a great relief to me, however, to find that the bees had
suddenly taken flight.
I was aroused to the actual realities of the scene by the
harsh voice of Aunt Parker.
" Is that all ? " she asked.
"That is all," replied the lawyer, cold and unimpas-
sioned.
" Do you mean to say that nothing is left to me ? "
" The will speaks tor itself, madam. Nothing is left to
you."
"There must be an error somewhere; even my name is
not mentioned, while menials have been remembered. Such
a proceeding was never heard of; no court of law would'
tolerate or sanction it, and it is not at all likely that I shall
quietly submit to it. In his right senses it is impossible
that my brother could have forgotten me."
The lawyer corrected her. " Not your brother, madam ;
your brother-in-law. Scarcely that, indeed, if you will not
be angry with me for reminding you. The late Mrs. Durham
and yourself were but half-sisters."
" It is the same thing."
" Not in law, madam ; in law it is a very different thing,
of which you may easily convince yourself by taking legal
opinion."
" Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you have made no
mistake in the reading of the will ? "
"There has been none, madam. Upon that point you
can soon satisfy yourself by a perusal of the document. It
is open to all."
" Then," exclaimed my aunt, now very white in the face,
" all I have to say is, that when it was drawn up my brother
must have been mad."
" There is no doubt," said the lawyer, " as to the
deceased being in his right mind on that and every
occasion; but it is not a point for argument at the present
time. My duties end with my congratulations to this
young lady on being heiress to a fortune so desirable." He
repeated the words with unction, " Heiress to a fortune so
desirable."
24
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
It is necessary that I should say something respecting
the particulars of my father's will.
It had been drawn up in my mother's life-time, and two-
thirds of his fortune—which, after the deduction of certain
legacies, was estimated to produce an annual income of
three thousand pounds—were left to my mother, to revert
to me at her death. One-third was to be set aside for me,
to accumulate till I was twenty-one years of age, when I
was to come into possession of it. In the event of my
mother dying before I was twenty-one, a guardian was
appointed, who was to take charge of my affairs, and
manage them in the manner he deemed most suitable for
my interests. To this guardian a legacy of one thousand
pounds was left, and my father had set down in his will
some exceedingly affectionate words respecting him. It is
in my power now to insert here the exact terms in which
my father spoke of the gentleman to whose care myself
and my fortune were to be confided.
" In intrusting my dear child's future," said my father,
"to the care of Mr. Richard Lorimer, I lay upon this
faithful friend no obligations or restrictions respecting his
course of action. He will act entirely as he thinks best in
the matter of her education, and also as regards the invest-
ment of her inheritance. Knowing the goodness of his
heart, the integrity of his character, and the purity of his
life, I leave my beloved daughter in his care with absolute
confidence that he will deal by her as he would by a child
of his own. She can have no truer counsellor through life
than Richard Lorimer, and should her mother unhappily be
taken from her, my mind is at peace in the knowledge that
she will have in this dear friend one who will be to her what
I should have been had my life been spared."
I remember that while the lawyer was reading those
words I knew instinctively that Richard Lorimer was the
name of the gentleman who had behaved so kindly to me,
and affectionate glances were exchanged between us. I
remember, also, that as he smiled at me a sudden cloud
came upon his face and chased the smile away.
In addition to the legacy of one thousand pounds to
Richard Lorimer, there were two others; one of five
thousand pounds to Edward Lorimer—the "Ned" with
whom I seemed to be already well acquainted—and one of
five hundred pounds to my dear nurse.
So much for the will. Shortly after my mother's death a
I MADE AN UNFAVOURABLE IMPRESSION.
25
codicil was added. In this codicil my mother's death was
referred to in touching terms, and the entire fortune was
left to me, the legacies to Mr. Richard Lorimer, and "Ned,"
and my nurse remaining intact. A second guardian was
appointed, in addition to Mr. Richard Lorimer. The name
of this guardian was Mr. Ephraim Bathgate, and I soon
learned that he was the black-haired gentleman, and a
partner of Mr. Richard Lorimer. To these two gentlemen
absolute power was given over me and my fortune. To
Mr. Bathgate a legacy of one thousand pounds was also
bequeathed, and it was mentioned, with reference to this
gentleman, that my father appointed him on the express
recommendation of Mr. Richard Lorimer, who desired to
have associated with him a gentleman in whom he had the
fullest confidence.
The lawyer replaced his papers in his blue bag, rose, and
shook hands with my guardians. He offered his hand to
Aunt Parker, but she refused it. He then shook hands
with me, and after a few private words with Mr. Bathgate
glided away.
CHAPTER VI.
I make an unfavourable impression upon one of my
guardians.
Then Mr. Bathgate came to me, and laid his hand upon
my shoulder.
" Do you understand ? " he asked.
I did not answer him. His hand was cold and heavy,
and his touch seemed to paralyze me. As he removed it I
started towards my nurse, who still sat in the chair at the
extreme end of the room. Nurse Elliot, in great agitation,
rose to receive me, but before I could reach her Aunt
Parker pulled me back, and said to Mr. Bathgate,
" Is the presence of that woman necessary ? "
"Not at all," he answered, "she can leave."
" You have your orders," said Aunt Parker. "Go."
My nurse did not dare to remonstrate, though she saw
my distress and pitied me. She slowly left the room, and
closed the door behind her, in obedience to a sharp order
to that effect from Aunt Parker.
Then Mr. Bathgate laid his hand on my shoulder again,
26
A YOUNG GIRL'S IJEB.
and repeated his question, " Do you understand ? " Still I
did not reply.
Aunt Parker shook me violently. " Do you hear the
gentleman ?" she cried.
"Yes," I said, trembling, "I hear him; but I want to
be alone."
"You want this and you want that!" exclaimed Aunt
Parker. " / know what you want, and what you shall have,
if you are not respectful and obedient."
" Exactly," said Mr. Bathgate; " children must be
respectful and obedient. We will not countenance sullen-
ness or obstinacy. Look me in the face."
I did so, and burst into tears.
" Bathgate," said Mr. Lorimer, interposing, and his
gentle, sympathetic voice fell like balm upon my heart, " let
me speak to the child. You are too abrupt with her. She
has had a grievous loss, and is by no means strong."
" We have all had grievous losses," said Mr. Bathgate,
harshly, "and have borne them. So must this^ rebellious
child. I spoke to her, and I will be answered—-intelligibly
answered, if she is not an idiot."
" Ah," said Aunt Parker, dwelling long on the little word.
What meaning Mr. Bathgate attached to the insignificant
word, in her peculiar utterance of it, I did not know, but I
saw him give Aunt Parker a strange look, and saw her shut
her lips tight, and nod slowly several times.
" It is of the highest importance," continued Mr. Bath-
gate, " that this young lady should understand her position
and ours. At her age she has everything to learn."
"And you will pardon me for adding, sir," said Aunt
Parker, "much to unlearn."
"No doubt. As to my being too abrupt, Lorimer," he
said to his partner, in a tone which struck me as being
rude and discourteous, "I should have thought that, by
this time, you would have learned whose method of doing
things is the moie commendable and the least open to
blame, yours or mine."
" Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Lorimer, humbly. " I
beg your pardon, Bathgate."
But Mr. Bathgate was not to be so easily mollified.
" I must have it plainly expressed. I will not tolerate
shambling explanations and apologies. I am thorough in
everything I undertake, whether it be a small matter or a
great one. There are foolish persons who, when things go
I MADE AN UNFAVOURABLE IMPRESSION. 27
wrong, leave it to chance to set them right. That is not my
way ; I make them come right, and I deem it of importance,
at this juncture, to hear from your own lips whether my
method of doing things or yours is the more straight-
forward."
"Yours," replied Mr. Lorimer, still more humbly;
" without a doubt, yours."
" If a boat gets into troubled waters," pursued Mr.
Bathgate, with a seeming angry enjoyment of his partner's
embarrassment, " there must be but one man at the helm ;
then there may be a chance of steering it into a safe
harbour. Who is that man, you or I ? "
"You—of course, you," said Mr. Lorimer, eagerly.
I listened in wonder to the harsh reproofs and the timid
excuses. Of the two gentlemen, Mr. Lorimer, by right of
years and presumably riper experience (for Mr. Bathgate
was at least ten years younger than his partner), should have
held the superior position, but, child as I was, it was clear
to me who was the master. Having made this evident to
all in the room, Mr. Bathgate directed his attention again
to me.
" Miss Evelina Durham," he said, " in the connection
which your father has thought fit to establish between us,
you and I are destined to have dealings with each other for
a'\ number of years to come. I propose that we start fair.
I' asked you whether you understood, and you did not
choose to reply. I bade you look me in the face, and your
response was tears. In the first place you displayed sullen-
ness or obstinacy—probably both. In the second place you
displayed petulance. These exhibitions of temper do not
afford a fair promise for the future. If there is one thing
I pride myself upon more than another, it is that I always
make myself clear in any matter in which I am a principal
party. I appeal to my partner, Mr. Lorimer, if that is not
a fact."
" An undoubted fact," said Mr. Lorimer, avoiding my
eye.
"Not," continued Mr. Bathgate, "that Mr. Lorimer's
testimony to my veracity is of any particular value. A man
who, like myself, prides himself upon being just in all his
dealings needs no justification from other lips than his own.
Should any be advanced on my behalf, I distinctly repu-
diate it."
I wondered whether there were any more superior excel-
28
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
lences upon which Mr. Bathgate prided himself; and also
wondered, if he did not want Mr. Lorimer's good word, why
he had taken the trouble to ask for it.
" When I inquired of you," pursued Mr. Bathgate,
" whether you understood, I referred to the position in
which you and I stand towards each other. Do you under-
stand it ? "
" I don't know, sir," I replied.
Here Aunt Parker joined in. "A favourite form of
expression of hers," she explained, in a tone of great
deference, " when it does not please her to answer truth
with truth. It is an easy method of evading ingenuous
replies. There is a quality of cunning which in some
natures is, I may say, instinctive."
She was my enemy—I was sure of that. Mr. Bathgate
was my enemy—I was sure of that also. Was it possible
that Mr. Lorimer was leagued with them, and was there not
one person in the room who would speak a good word in
my behalf? It seemed that there was not, for my timid,
appealing looks in Mr. Lorimer's direction elicited no
response. What did he mean, then, by telling me that he
loved me and would be my friend ? It distressed me in
a very peculiar manner to think that I had been deceived
in him.
"We shall find means," said Mr. Bathgate, "'to compel
her to answer truth with truth. Come, young lady, I am
going to put a plain question to you, and I will have a plain
answer. No prevarication; no 'I don't knows.' A plain
Yes or No. Do you like or dislike me ? Out with it."
"I dislike you," I said, boldly, "and I never want to
see you again."
The disagreeable smile with which he received this
thrust was reflected in the face of Aunt Parker.
" That is a misfortune," he said; " not for me—for you,
young lady."
"We happen, sir," said Aunt Parker, "to have both
fallen under Miss Durham's displeasure. To an identical
question put by me to her, she regaled me with an identical
answer, and when I asked her why she did not like or love
me—having some claim on her love, as being her only rela-
tive—her reply was that she did not know."
"Your statement," remarked Mr. Bathgate, "warrants
the conclusion that great pains will have to be taken with
her to avoid the misfortune of a repulsive child growing
AUNT PARKER S OPINION OF ME.
29
into a repulsive woman. We have Biblical authority on the
subject of the rearing of young children, its modern appli-
cation being indisputable—although, in the present in-
stance, I doubt its efficacy. There is every appearance of
her having had an exceedingly bad training."
"Independent of bad training, sir," suggested Aunt
Parker, " may there not be serious personal detects ? "
" Most certainly. You can enlighten us, Mrs. Parker.
Perhaps her mind is not quite right.'
" On that point, sir," said Aunt Parker, " I have my
doubts."
" Do me the favour to state the facts or the impressions
which lead you to have doubts."
"I obey your bidding, sir; and it is possible the child
herself may, if she be questioned, corroborate what I say.
If she does not, it will not materially affect the issue."
" Proceed, Mrs. Parker."
This dialogue, so dreadfully categorical and precise in its
expression, would have appalled me had it not been that by
nature I am endowed with a moral courage which asserts
itself under the pressure of distressing circumstances, espe-
cially when my truthfulness as to matters of fact is called
into question. Child as I was, I have a very distinct re-
collection of having followed what passed between Mr.
Ephraim Bathgate and Aunt Parker with surprising atten-
tion.
CHAPTER VII.
AUNT PARKER'S OPINION OF ME.
"You have used two words, sir," said Aunt Parker, "to
which, with your permission, I will take the liberty of
alluding. In doing so I am but imitating the example you
have set—and I am sure no person in the world could
desire a better—by starting fair. If I had any prejudices
I would cast them aside, and would rather lay myself open
to be misjudged than run the risk of doing injustice to your
ward."
" Temperately and judiciously expressed," said Mr. Bath-
gate, nodding graciously at her.
" I place a high value on your approval, sir," said Aunt
Parker, bending her head with an air of humility. " The
words I allude to are 'facts' and 'impressions.' I shall
30
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
not intrude my impressions upon your notice; I shall con-
fine myself strictly to facts. I do not wish to deny that I
have impressions—strong impressions—concerning her, but
I shall keep them to myself unless you, sir, at a more
fitting time than the present, request me to communicate
them to you; which I should prefer to do in confidence.
Facts, however, are sure things; there can be no mistake
about them."
Here an interruption occurred, caused by Mr. Lorimer,
upon whom, perhaps, my mournful face had produced an
impression in my favour.
"The conversation," he said, addressing his partner,
"has taken a turn which distresses me. It would be
agreeable to me if you continued it in my absence; this
lady would doubtless feel more at her ease if she made all
her disclosures to you at once, without reservation."
" Pardon me, sir," said Aunt Parker.
"Allow me, Mrs. Parker," interposed Mr. Bathgate; "it
devolves upon me to reply to Mr. Lorimer."
"What I have just said," said Mr. Lorimer, quickly,
" needs no reply, and will not, I trust, for the sake of our
young friend, be made the subject of discussion. I beg of
you to allow me to leave you. It would be a relief to me,
and if you would permit me, also, to take Miss Evelina
with me, I am sure it would be a relief to her"
Mr. Bathgate fixed his stern eyes upon me.
"What do you say to that ?" he asked. "Just now you
expressed a wish to be alone."
" I think, sir," I said, with a grateful glance at Mr.
Lorimer, "as Aunt Parker is going to speak about me, I
should like to stop and hear what she says."
" Do you hear that ?" exclaimed Mr. Bathgate to his
partner. "I will not undertake to decide whether the
child's wish proceeds from obstinacy or presumption, but I
will undertake to say that, unconsciously, she teaches you
your duty. We are her co-guardians, and must act in
concert. Mrs. Parker is about to make certain disclosures
which may affect the course we shall take respecting the
future of our ward. A home has to be provided for her;
she has to be trained; she has to be educated. Do you
not, therefore, recognize that it is important that you, as
well as I, should listen to those disclosures ? "
" I was consulting the child's feelings," said Mr. Lorimer,
in a deprecating tone,
AUNT PARKER'S OPINION OF ME.
31
,c Inferring that I have no regard for them. You can
best inform me whether in our connection I have had no re-
gard tor yours."
"Yes, Bathgate," said Mr. Lorimer, upon whom Mr.
Bathgate's arguments seemed to have a paralyzing effect.
" Far be it from me to make any complaints on that score.
Perhaps, after all, you are right."
" There is no ' perhaps,' " said Mr. Bathgate, sharply,
" and there is no ' after all.' Do me the favour to state
whether you consider me right or wrong."
" Right," replied Mr. Lorimer, feebly • (< of course, right.
Who can question it ? "
"You yourself questioned it, or you would not have
pressed the wish to retire from this very necessary investi-
gation. Have you not some idea that it is necessary ? "
" It must be, or you would not undertake it."
" Exactly—or I would not undertake it. Though I have
undertaken tasks which I would rather not have undertaken."
(This sentence, uttered impressively and solemnly, had an
odd effect upon me, and I found myself mentally repeating,
as though I was reading from the common Prayer Book, " I
have undertaken tasks which I would rather not have under-
taken," over and over again until I became quite lost in the
confession. But Mr. Bathgate's stern voice brought me
back to my senses.) " And I would have you remember
what the deceased has said in his will: ' Knowing the good-
ness of his heart, the integrity of his character, and the
purity of his life, I leave my beloved daughter in his care,
with absolute confidence that he will deal by her as he would
by a child of his own. She can have no truer counsellor
through life than Richard Lorimer.' When subsequently,
upon the death of his wife, he added a codicil in which
he named me as co-guardian and executor, did he or
did he not mean to include me in these expressions of
opinion ? "
"Undoubtedly," murmured Mr. Lorimer, bowing his
head, " he meant to include you."
"Was it not in his mind," pursued Mr. Bathgate, with the
brutal pertinacity of a mastiff worrying a weaker animal, "at
that time to bear testimony to the goodness of my heart, the
integrity of my character, and the purity of my life ? "
" There can be," said Mr. Lorimer, his head still bowed
down, " no doubt of it."
" Why, then, as we must work together, do you endeavour,
32
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
in the present as in the past, to throw upon me the entire
burden of setting wrong things right ? "
" Indeed, indeed, I do not desire to do so," protested
Mr. Lorimer, looking about him helplessly, with the appear-
ance of a man caught in a trap which might prove his
destruction. " You misunderstand me, Bathgate, indeed
you do."
" I am not aware of it; my habit is to put plain meanings
upon plain words. You bring difficulties upon yourself,
Lorimer, and you show ingratitude to me, whose aim is to
extricate you from them."
" Pray say no more," pleaded Mr. Lorimer; " I was wrong.
I will stay—of course I will stay."
" Of course you will stay. It is wise of you. Once more,
Mrs. Parker, I beg you to proceed."
" It is not an impression, sir," said Aunt Parker, " but an
indisputable fact, that Miss Evelina, from the moment I
entered this house, contracted a dislike to me, as she has to
you, and rudely informed me of it. Tell these gentlemen,
miss, whether you like me or not ? "
" I don't like you, Aunt Parker," I said, looking frankly
at her.
"To say that this dislike, which I hope to have an
opportunity to overcome "
She made a pause here, and Mr. Bathgate thoughtfully
repeated, " Which you hope to have an opportunity to
overcome. Well, we shall see, we shall see."
"To say, sir," resumed Aunt Parker, "that this dislike
proceeds from actual experience of me would be a falsehood.
Is it unreasonable to suppose that our little miss likes and
dislikes without reason; that she indulges in mischievous
whims, and thus exhibits a lamentable lack of discriminative
intelligence? To allow such a mind to develop itself ac-
cording to its hurtful bent, and to attain its normal strength
unchecked, would lead to the very worst results. The
reasonable deduction is that the intellect would be warped,
and that a time would arrive when the individual would have
to be placed under some kind of moral restraint, as much
for her own protection as for the protection of society."
"You speak," said Mr. Bathgate, "in the language of an
expert."
" I claim to be one, sir."
" May I inquire whether your husband was a professional
man ? "
AUNT PARKER'S OITNION OF ME.
" He was, sir. He was a doctor, and devoted much time
and great talents to the study of mental diseases. He wrote
a book upon the subject—which was published. Not being
physically strong enough to fulfil the duties of his profession
in a large town or city—where he could not have failed to
amass a fortune—he was compelled to turn his special
knowledge to account in a more circumscribed field. He
retired to a village, in a salubrious situation near the sea,
where for many years we had charge of ladies and gentlemen
whose mental condition was not what their friends desired
it should be. We have also had charge of children, and
have attended to them, sometimes with happy results, some-
times otherwise. When my husband died, my source of
income was cut off. It was not known that I was his right
hand during his life-time, and that I was, in fact, for years
the responsible head of the establishment."
" Thank you," said Mr. Bathgate. " Proceed with youi
statement with reference to our ward."
" Miss Evelina should have hailed my presence with
grateful feelings, considering that I was the only relative
who stood by her father's bedside while he was dying, and
that my mission was one of charity and good-will. The
person who presumed to control affairs was a nurse, a
designing creature who doubtless had her own ends to
serve."
" Nurse Elliot is a good woman," I cried. "I won't let
you say a word against her."
" Your guardians are the best judges, miss, of what I am
saying, and little girls, in the presence of their elders, should
only speak when they are spoken to. What I have men-
tioned, sir, is trivial and unimportant in comparison with
what is to come. I take it that every sane person has some
kind of idea of the nature of death. They know that a
dead body is a dead body, and that when it is put into the
grave "
Mr. Lorimer looked at me apprehensively. I was
trembling violently, and I think he was about to make a
remark, when a warning—nay, a threatening—glance from
Mr. Bathgate checked him. He turned his chair, so that I
could not see his face.
Aunt Parker resumed—
" And that when it is put into the grave, there is an end
of it in this world of trouble. Men and women recognize
this with more or less resignation. Most children also re-
3
34
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
cognize it. A proper religious training causes them to
believe that the lost one, be it brother or sister, mother or
father, is irretrievably gone from them, and that they will
never see him or her again in the flesh. There are ex-
ceptions, and, unfortunately for her, Miss Evelina is one.
I am told upon undoubted authority that she insisted that
her mother was not dead, and that she even disputed with
her father when he endeavoured to impress upon her the
solemn truth. She declared that her mother would come
back, alive and well, knowing all the time that my poor
sister was in her grave. This appears to me to denote a
state of mental aberration. If I am stating what is untrue,
Miss Evelina will perhaps correct me."
I could not utter a word. These cruel references to my
parents had filled me with grief and terror, and I was wan-
dering in a labyrinth of darkness.
" Her silence," said Aunt Parker, " verifies my statements.
In course of time her father died. Did this enlighten her ?
Was she ever heard to say—as other children say, who have
"lost those so near to them—that her parents were in heaven ?
No. As she had insisted that her mother still lived, so did she
insist that her father lived. Her favourite occupation, for
days and weeks, was to wander about the garden, searching
among the the trees and flowers—for what ? For seeds, or
ladybirds ? Not at all. Searching for her mother and
father in their actual living form—searching for those poor
creatures lying in their graves. I myself have surprised her
while she was thus engaged; I myself have heard her talking
to birds and flowers, requesting them to go and bring her
parents back to the house, When I remonstrated with her,
the manner in which she received my remonstrances shocked
my religious feelings. She actually told me that the birds
and the flowers heard and understood what she said to them.
These hallucinations, with others I will mention to you
privately, have led me to believe that her mind is unbalanced,
and that the utmost care will have to be exercised in her
mental as well as in her physical training."
Further conversation ensued between her and Mr. Bath-
gate, but it did not reach my senses, for the reason that I
was swaying to and fro on my chair, and that, in the midst
of a torrent of words which Aunt Parker was pouring forth,
I slipped to the ground. What next I remember is that I
felt a sensation of cold water on my head and face, and then
I heard Aunt Parker say :
CHANGES IN THE HOUSE.
85
" These faintings are common to her. She encourages
them when she finds she cannot have everything her own
way; it is quite as likely she shams them."
CHAPTER VIII.
changes in the house.
For a week after this, I saw no person but Aunt Parker. I
was not allowed to quit my bedroom, and, indeed, I could
not well have done so because my clothes had been taken
away. Aunt Parker attended to me, and brought me my
meals, and also locked the door when she left the room.
She had a bed made up on a sofa, and slept in the room
with me, with the key under her pillow; and to diminish
the chances of this key being removed in the night without
her knowledge, she tied a string to it, which she wore like a
bracelet round her wrist. I inquired for Nurse Elliot, and
was told not to ask questions. I said I wanted to dress
and go out in the air, and Aunt Parker said if children did
not know what was good for them, they must be taught to
know, and that a lesson like this might have a salutary effect
upon me.
"Though I am not at all sure," she added, "with such
a mind as yours. At all events, it may teach you not to be
so ready in crying wolf."
" Aunt. Parker," I implored, " do let me get up—do ! I
don't want to be kept in bed when I am well. My mamma
and papa wouldn't do it, and you shouldn't."
" Shouldn't I ? " she retorted. " You will find out before
many months are passed that you had better not set your-
self in opposition to me. As for your father and mother,
Miss Evelina, they are not here, and I am. If they were
here they might do as they liked with you. As I am here in
their place, 1 shall do what I like with you."
" In their place ? " I exclaimed. " Who dared to put you
there ? "
" Those who have authority over you—your guardians.
Speak becomingly of those gentlemen, and don't use the
word dare to me again."
" May I see them ? "
" That is hardly possible ; they have gone back to London,
very much shocked at your behaviour, and if they were in
3*
36
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
the house I do not think they would admit you into their
presence."
"Nobody seems to like me much," I murmured.
"Not much," she acquiesced dryly.
" Shall I see no one but you ? Shall I be kept in this
room for ever ? "
" Not for ever; It will depend on how you behave. Be
submissive. Do as you are bid; don't tell your friends—
your only friends, bear in mind—that you hate them. Don't
pretend to be ill, and don't faint away. I know when
people are shamming. I am giving you good advice."
"Aunt Parker," I said, earnestly, "will you believe me if
I tell you that I didn't pretend, and that I couldn't help
fainting ? "
"No," she replied, putting her lips together with a kind
of snap, " I should not believe you."
That same night, as she was preparing for bed, she stopped
in the middle of undressing herself, and sat at my bedside.
She was not a pleasant-looking woman in the daytime, when
she was fully dressed, but she was a most frightful figure when
she was undressed. I must do her the justice to say that
she took no pains to make herself attractive. She went to
bed in a dusty red flannel jacket, and wore a man's nightcap.
I used to wonder whether I should be like her when I grew
to be a woman.
"If anybody steals anything from you," she asked, "what
is he ? "
"A thief," I answered.
" Well," she said, "you are a thief."
My breath almost left me as she said this, with a jerk of
her head, as though she would have liked to throw it at me,
if she could have conveniently done without it.
" I haven't stolen anything from you, Aunt Parker," I said,
presently.
" You have," she snarled. "You have stolen money—a
great deal of money. What were you born for at all, I should
like to knew ? "
" I couldn't help it," I said, mournfully.
"You ought to have helped it. But for you I should
have had it all."
" All what ? "
" All the money your foolish father left."
"Ifyou call my father names," I sobbed," "I shall hate
you more and more."
CHANGES IN THE HOUSE.
87
" Do," she said, " and see what comes of it."
With that she thrust her arms through her red flannel
jacket, and put on her nightcap, and sat glaring at me for a
good many minutes. Then she suddenly put out the light,
and sat as quiet as a mouse. I could just see the outlines of
her form, which presently began to assume monstrous pro-
portions until it seemed to fill the room. If it was her in-
tention to terrify me she certainly succeeded. I closed my
eyes tight to shut out the sight, but even then I saw her
looming about me, her silent lips breathing that I was a
thief, and had robbed her. It was a long time before I
ventured to open my eyes ; to my great relief she was gone
from my side. She must have taken considerable pains to
have slipped noiselessly into her bed.
I afterwards discovered that she believed, if I had been
dead, that all the money left to me would have been hers,
according to law. I do not know whether she was right or
wrong, but it is unhappily true that she hated me most
bitterly for this fancied and unconscious wrong.
On the seventh day she brought me my clothes, and I
gladly put them on. She did not assist me.
"You will have to dress and undress yourself," she said.
" You shall not grow up into a useless piece of furniture if I
can help it. Make yourself as uncomfortable as you please ;
it will inconvenience no one but yourself. When I was a
child, I had practical notions driven into me ; so shall you.
You are only flesh and blood, like other people, though I
dare say you think yourself very superior."
I kept back my tears, and did not answer her. I was
fearful that she would keep me a prisoner, and I so longed
for liberty !
She allowed me to roam over the house, keeping a strict
watch upon my movements. It was terrifying to me to
discover that all the old servants had been sent away. I
looked anxiously for my dear nurse, but could not find her.
There was only one woman in the house besides Aunt
Parker, and her face was strange to me. I spoke to her,
and she gazed at me without replying.
"Do you hate me, too," I asked, mournfully, "that you
will not speak to me ? "
" I can't hear a word you say," she cried, querulously,
" I'm stone deaf."
I went out into the garden, and searched in vain for the
gardener. He had also been dismissed, and the pretty
38
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
fbwer-beds already showed signs of neglect. There was
something so desolate in the appearance of the place that a
feding of deep despair came over me; I believed myself
forsaken by all the world.
How happy it made me to see, in the distance, a house-
maid who had been with us two or three years, and whom
we had all liked! She was looking through the gate as I
turned to her, and, seeing me, she opened it and entered
the grounds. She was nicely dressed, with bright ribbons
about her, and I sprang forward eagerly to meet her.
" I've been looking for you, miss," she said, in a voice so
pleasant that it was really like music in my ears after my
experiences of Aunt Parker's harsh tones, " and I took the
liberty of opening the gate without ringing. I knew you
wouldn't mind, miss. Nurse Elliot asked me to find you
and give you this letter."
I seized it gladly, and, seeing Aunt Parker approaching, I
hid it so quickly and cunningly in the bosom of my frock,
stooping at the same time as though to pick up a flower,
that she was successfully deceived. Nevertheless, she
glanced at me suspiciously, and then turned her angry eyes
upon the housemaid.
" What do you do here ? " she demanded of the young
woman.
" That's my business," replied the servant, saucily; I was
shocked at her impertinent tone. " Ask no questions, and
you'll hear no lies."
"You forward minx," exclaimed Aunt Parker, "when I
discharged you did I not warn you not come near the
house ? "
" You warned the lot of us," said the servant, "when you
sent us away at an hour's notice; but I'm not in your ser-
vice, and never was, so you can warn and warn for all I care.
In your service ! I wouldn't engage myself to you for
untold gold."
" You saucy hussy! Wait till you send for a character."
" If you wait till then," retorted the woman, " you'll wait
till you're blue in the face. And look here, if you please,
ma'am—call me saucy hussy again and I'll pull the cap off
your head !"
The threat was no sooner uttered than Aunt Parker flew
at the woman, and, seizing her by the shoulders, propelled
her with amazing force and rapidity to the gate, and flung
her into the road.
CHANGES IN THE HOUSE.
39
" Present your face," called out Aunt Parker, " inside these
grounds again, and I'll have you put in jail."
It was all done in less than a minute, and Aunt Parker
was standing by my side, to all appearance perfectly com-
posed.
" That is my way," she said. " When people set them-
selves against me, and dare to be impertinent. What did
she want with you ? "
" She was giving me a message from my dear nurse," I
said. " But you came up so quickly that she had hardly
time to speak."
It was my first systematic deceit, and I should scarcely
have been surprised if some terrible punishment had fallen
upon me. But I knew if I mentioned anything about the
letter that it would have been torn from me.
" I do not permit any person," said Aunt Parker, with a
grim smile, " to disobey my orders. I should like to see
the woman who can stand up against me."
She was proud of her strength, and her assertion of it was
intended to convey a warning to me.
"Were all the servants," I asked, "sent away at an hour's
notice ? "
"Everyone of them," replied Aunt Parker. "An idle,
useless pack ! "
" My nurse was sent away, too ? "
" Certainly she was. I hadn't been in the house an hour
before I discovered what kind of a character she was, and I
was determined she should play no more of her cunning
tricks."
" What cunning tricks did she play ? "
" Didn't she work upon your father so that he left her
five hundred pounds in his will ? It is neither more nor less
than robbery. If I were in Mr. Bathgate's place I would
go to law with her, and dispute the legacy. She shouldn't
get it easily from me."
" I am sure papa intended it," I said ; " we were all very
fond of her."
" Of course you were. Fond of everybody who had no
claim upon your affections. It is perfectly monstrous."
" Didn't my nurse ask to see me before she went away ? "
" Not a bit of it. She was too glad to get her month's
wages, and turn her back upon the house. As well look for
a needle in a bottle of hay as expect gratitude from servants.
I remonstrated with Mr. Bathgate about the waste of
40
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
money. 'Let me deal with them,' I said, 'and I'll settle
with them in double-quick time, and only pay them up to
the day they leave.' He wouldn't take my advice; he
acknowledged its justice, but he said it was worth while
putting up with a slight loss in order that things should be
done quietly. A pretty penny the servants made out of it !
New black dresses when your mother died, and new black
dresses again when your father died. I'm sorry I didn't
have their boxes searched, and the clothes taken away from
them. They stole everything they could lay their hands on,
I'll be bound, and the mere mention of a policeman would
have made them go on their knees to me. You've been
out long enough, miss; get into the house, and go up to
your room at once."
I was delighted at the order, for I was burning to read
Nurse Elliot's letter. As I walked quietly away I observed
a smile upon Aunt Parker's face, which expressed a kind of
triumphant satisfaction at my obedience. I was beginning
to read signs; sleeping forces within me were awakened by
the difficulties which now surrounded me, by the troubles
which had fallen upon me. I can easily understand how,
under such trials as mine, persons may become cunning and
deceitful, and how the worst qualities of their nature maybe
brought into such prominence as to overshadow the best.
I walked slowly to my room; I would not quicken my
steps and run, as my eagerness urged me to do. Aunt
Parker would have suspected something. How grateful I
was that she did not follow me up-stairs !
The moment I was in my room I shut the door quietly
and crouched down beside it, to enable me to hear Aunt
Parker's foot-steps if she came slyly up again. In this
position I took Nurse Elliot's letter from the bosom of my
frock, and proceeded to read it.
CHAPTER IX.
my nurse tells me strange news.
" Dear, dearest Miss Evelina,—I hope this letter will
get into your hands, and that you will be able to read it all
alone to yourself, when nobody is by. It is only to give you
my humble love and duty, and to say that I am always your
servant if you want me, and if I am allowed to come. It
almost broke my heart to be sent away at a moment's notice
MY NURSE TELLS ME STRANGE NEWS. 41
without wishing you good-bye. I begged so hard of your
aunt to let me see you, if only for one little minute ; but she
wouldn't give me permission. She called me hard names,
too, and said I had robbed you and your honoured father.
When I asked her what I had stolen, she spoke of the
legacy of five hundred pounds your honoured father was so
good as to leave me. She is quite furious about it, and she
said some very dreadful things. I do hope I am mistaken
in her, but I am afraid she is a bad-hearted woman. Be
careful how you trust her, my dear young lady, and never,
never forget poor Nurse Elliot, who loves you with her whole
heart and soul, and who will be faithful to you all her life.
However will you get on without me—and how shall I get
on without you ? Oh, it was a cruel thing to send me away
—me, who would go through fire and water to serve you !
" I want to tell you about the legacy. I don't need it,
indeed 1 don't, and only that it showed my honoured master
believed me faithful and true, and that he knew I loved you
and would die for you, I should be sorry that he left it to me.
My dear young lady, I have saved a nice little sum of money,
and am really well off. I have been in service a long while,
and your dear mamma and papa were very liberal to me,
and my brother keeps a shop in London, and has wanted
me ever so long to come and live with him, so I shall go and
take care of him. But I shall not leave this neighbourhood
for three weeks to come to-morrow; I shall keep here in the
hope of seeing your sweet face once more before I go. If
you would only write to me without bringing trouble on
yourself, and tell me that you don't think me ungrateful for
going away from you—but how could I help it, being turned
out at a moment's notice ?—if you would only do that, dear
Miss Lina, I shall be very, very thankful. I shall write my
brother's address in London on a piece of paper, and put it
in this letter. I am always to be found there, and, my dear
young lady, if you will forgive me for mentioning it, but it
will make me the proudest woman in the world to be of ser-
vice to you, even if it is in years and years to come. I shall
not spend the five hundred pounds; it is yours, not mine,
and I shall put it carefully away .till you come for it one day.
" I am wondering if you know that the dear old place, the
house we were all so happy in, is going to be sold off. Yes,
my dear miss, the house, and the gardens, and every bit of
furniture there is. If you were a grown-up lady I am sure
you would not let them do it, but I fear that those who are
42
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
to look after you can do as they like. I have been told, but
don't know quite if it is true, that it is all to be sold this
month. It seems so cruel and sinful. And what is to
become of you ? Is your aunt going to take care of you ?
I hope not; oh, I hope not! I wake up in the night think-
ing of you, and wishing I was near you—but what is the
use of wishing? Don't forget to say your prayers every
night and morning. And now, my dear young mistress, I
must conclude. Do write to me, do, and believe me always
to be, with humble love and duty,
"Your faithful and obedient servant and nurse,
"Deborah Elliot."
CHAPTER X.
i write a letter to my nurse, and don't know what to
do with it. .
Nurse Elliot's letter did me good; there was some one
in the world who truly loved me, and would be glad to serve
me. I read it again and again, so that I might retain a re-
membrance of it, in case I found it necessary to destroy it.
I made a vow that Aunt Parker should not get possession
of it. She should kill me first. "Yes," I cried aloud,
" you shall kill me first—you shall kill me first !" just as if
Aunt Parker was standing bodily before me, ordering
me to give the letter up to her. By the side of my bed
hung a coloured engraving in a light frame; the title
of the picture was, "Amy Feeding the Pigeons." The
birds and their mistress were great friends of mine, and
could scarcely have been more real to me if they had been
living creatures. I took the picture from the wall, and with
much difficulty loosened the- small tacks that fastened the
thin piece of wood at the back ; between this sheet of wood
and the picture I slid my nurse's letter; then I put the tacks
in again, and replaced the picture on the wall. It was not
likely that Aunt Parker would look there for it. Through
all my trials I have succeeded in preserving this precious ray
of sunlight which shone upon me during these dark days of
my childhood. The paper enclosed in the letter, upon
which was written the name and address of Nurse Elliot's
brother in London, I tore into small pieces, and threw them
out of the window, bit by bit. There was a wind blowing,
I WRITE A LETTER TO MY NURSE.
43
and it carried them away. I had learned the address by
heart, and I was quite sure I should not forget it.
How treacherous and bad the letter proved Aunt Parker
to be ! She had told me that my nurse never asked to see
me when she left, and here was direct evidence of her false-
hood. But what troubled me most was the news Nurse
Elliot gave me of the house and everything in it about to be
sold off. The dear old house ! Why were they so anxious
to get rid of it ? I stamped my feet, and bit my lip so hard
that it hurt me, when I thought of all our pretty things being
taken away, the things my dear mamma and papa loved, and
which seemed now to appeal to me to save them. But what
could I do ? I was as helpless as they were. I prayed and
prayed that Nurse Elliot might be wrong.
But she was right. The very next day, and for some
days afterwards, strange men came, and went through all
the rooms, taking an inventory of the furniture and orna-
ments, and before they had finished their work, great bills,
printed in coloured letters, were pasted on the walls outside,
announcing the sale by auction of the desirable freehold
residence known as " The Oaklands," with all the valuable
furniture and books, and pictures, by order of the executors
of the late Edward Clarence Durham, Esq.
" What is it all being sold for ? " I asked Aunt Parker.
" Because Mr. Bathgate thinks it best," she replied.
"And Mr. Lorimer, too—does he think it best ? "
" Of course he does; he knows better than to set himself
in opposition to his partner's wishes."
" But isn't the house mine ? " I asked. " I don't want
it sold; I want to live in it all my life."
" If you live till you are a woman," said Aunt Parker,
"you may, perhaps, be able to do as you please. You
might even be able to buy it back. But just now, miss,
you haven't a word to say in the matter."
" Can Mr. Bathgate do as he likes with me till I am a
woman ? "
" Exactly as he likes."
" And with everything belonging to me ? "
"Yes. And with everything belonging to you."
" Will everything in the house be sold, Aunt Parker—
everything ? "
"Yes, everything—in the house and oat of the house."
" It is a shame 1" I cried. " It is a sin ! I won't have
it—I won't have it !"
44
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
"You will have to have it," said Aunt Parker, caimly,
enjoying my distress. " How are you going to prevent it ? "
This question, maliciously uttered, brought me to my
senses.
" If I can't live here," I said, " where am I going to
live ? "
"You are going," said Aunt Parker, slowly, "to live with
me."
I cannot describe how utterly wretched I was at this
dreadful confirmation of Nurse Elliot's fears. To live with
Aunt Parker ! For how many years I wondered, and how
would she treat me ? I felt already as if I were a prisoner
in an iron cage. Aunt Parker gazed at me quietly, and
presently said :
"You have been badly brought up, and we are going to
try whether we can improve you. I am by no means
hopeful, but I shall strive hard, I promise you, and if I
don't succeed it won't be my fault. Your father, who
behaved most disgracefully to me—ah, you may stamp and
flash your eyes; we wili cure all that—your father, who, I
repeat, behaved most disgracefully to me, did at least one
good and very proper thing. He left you in charge of Mr.
Bathgate, and made him your father."
" That is not true," I said, passionately.
" Oh, I am telling falsehoods, am I ? "
" You must be. Mr. Bathgate isn't my father, because
he can't be. I hate him from the very bottom of my
heart."
" I shall let him know your opinion of him," said Aunt
Parker, with a cold smile; "it will prevent him from
making mistakes with regard to you. You will find that
he has a father's authority over you, and you will repent
it if you set yourself against him. That is your affair,
however. I am speaking entirely for your good, though you
don't deserve it."
" I don't want you to speak to me for my good—I don't
want you to speak to me at all. I wish you would go away
altogether."
" I dare say you do. If you provoke me much further
I shall whip you. Mr. Bathgate— What! interrupting
again ? "
"Yes," I said, braving the threatened whipping; "you
do nothing but speak of Mr. Bathgate. Mr. Lorimer is
my guardian as well."
I "WRITE A LETTER TO MY NURSE.
45
" Oh," said Aunt Parker, with a scornful laugh, " Mr.
Lorimer is nothing; there is not the slightest occasion to
take him into account. Mr. Bathgate is the gentleman
who has the real control of you, and Mr. Lorimer must do
whatever Mr. Bathgate commands. Anything to say to
that ? "
" If you are going to tell Mr. Bathgate what I think of
him, I will tell Mr. Lorimer what you think of him."
"You have my free permission to do so. When you
see Mr. Lorimer, say whatever you please of me. Mr.
Bathgate has given you into my care, and I am going to
train and educate you. Just think this well over when you
are in bed to-night. Say to yourself, "I am going to live
with dear Aunt Parker—I am going to live with dear Aunt
Parker—I am going to live with dear Aunt Parker. I am
so glad—I am so glad—I am so glad !' And make up
your mind to love me very, very much. Keep saying it to
yourself over and over again, just as if it was a prayer,
and keep making up your mind to love me very much.
You have no idea what a good thing it will be for you.
And now, sweet child, as I see you are tired, I shall take
you up to your room and lock you in."
She kept her word; she took me to my room, and locked
me in. She had no idea that by so doing she was assisting
me to carry out a cherished design.
I had managed to obtain and secrete two sheets of
paper, a couple of envelopes, and a black-lead pencil. I
heard the key turned in the lock, and I listened to Aunt
Parker's footsteps as she went down-stairs. When I
thought all was safe I took out my treasures, and placing
a chair with its back close to the door, so that it should
not be suddenly opened without my knowledge, I knelt on
the ground, and, using the seat of the chair for a desk,
proceeded to write to Nurse Elliot.
"Dear Old Nursey," I wrote, "I got your letter, and
I am very, very glad that you wrote it. It was so good of
you, but you are always good. Where do you think it is
now? You would never, never guess. Why, behind the
picture of 'Amy Feeding the Pigeons.' I shall keep it
there as long as I can, and when I am afraid I canno
keep it there any longer I shall take it away and put it in
my shoe, for I am going to keep it all my life—yes, dear
nursey, all my life. If Aunt Parker ever found it I am
46
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
sure she would snatch it away, and she would take all my
clothes as well, and keep me in bed for a week, perhaps
for ever. Did you ever hear of a little girl being kept in
bed for ever? I never did, but Aunt Parker would not
mind doing the most dreadful things. I think she likes
to do them, because she looks as if she enjoyed it. She
would like to get hold of your letter and tear it up, but I
will keep it from her if she tries ever so hard. All the
pictures and all our sweet, dear things are going to be sold,
but I won't let them sell 'Amy Feeding the Pigeons.'
Perhaps I shall not be able to prevent them, but I shall
try very hard. If I was a strong man I would have a
fight over it—yes, I would. That is why I must put your
letter in my shoe. Only think, dear nursey, of all our
beautiful things being sold ! I hope people will not buy
them. Would they if I told them not to ? Aunt Parker
is going to take me away, I don't know where to. I am
going to live with her, and I think I shall die. Dear
nursey, do not come near her, or she will kill you, she
hates you so. I hate her more, and so I do Mr. Bathgate,
the gentleman with the black hair and black eyes. I don't
know which I hate most. I think both. They are just
like the ugly people and the cruel animals I used to beat
in my picture-books. I wish they were in a picture-book. I
would beat them, and tear them up into little bits. Do not
mind what she says about the money my dear papa left
you. She would say anything, and the worse it is the more
she would say it. She likes to. I wish my dear papa had
left you all the money. I know you would give me some
of it if I wanted it. I do not forget my prayers. I say
them every night when I go to bed, and every morning
when I wake up. Is it very dreadful, dear nursey, for me
not to say God bless Aunt Parker and God bless Mr.
Bathgate ? If they were good, God would punish me for
not saying it; but they are not good. Do you say every
night, God bless dear Lina ? Do if you don't. Oh, what
a dreadful, dreadful figure Aunt Parker is when she goes
to bed ! She looks like a witch. If I was a man or a boy
I would run thousands and thousands of miles away from
her. All the room on my sheet of paper is filled up, and
I can only squeeze in love and kisses from
"Your loving Lina."
I really had no room to write another word, and I have
I WHITE A LETTER TO MY NURSE.
47
a comical remembrance of the difficulty I experienced in
folding the paper so as to make it fit the envelope. I
must have tried at least a dozen times, and it was always
in some way or another too long or too wide. The letter
had so many creases in it that before the difficulty was sur-
mounted it looked like a complicated fan. Then I pro-
ceeded to address the envelope as follows ;
"Tor Nurse Elliot,
To be taken care of by
Reuben Corncutt,
Grocer and Butterman,
32, Artillery Street, Borough,
London, England
This comprehensive address filled up the entire surface
of the envelope. There was, indeed, not sufficient space
for " England," part of which had to be turned over on
the opposite side; and as there was room there for more
writing, I thought it a pity to waste it, so I added the
words, "Nobody else, please, is to read this letter but
Nurse Elliot, and Aunt Parker must not know anything
about it." Then I put the letter in my pocket, pinning it
to the lining to prevent its falling out, and began to con-
sider how to get it to my nurse. I really had not the
slightest idea what to do with it. The post-office sug-
gested itself, but it was a long way off, and I was not sure
whether they would take a letter from a little girl, and,
besides, I was disturbed by a fear that it was against the
law to post a letter which was written in secret. As I
was engaged in the consideration of this matter, which
was fast growing into a stupendous and almost insurmount-
able difficulty, Aunt Parker unlocked the door and entered
the room. I had removed the chair from the door and
was sitting by the* window, from which I could see the
strange men walking about the grounds and in and out of
the house. I do not know whether Aunt Parker inter-
preted the thoughtfulness in my face as a sign of resigna-
tion to her authority, but she seemed pleased at my quiet
attitude.
" You have been thinking over my words," she said,
"and I hope in a right spirit. To show you that it will
be quite the best thing for you to be submissive and
obedient, I will reward you for your good conduct, You
48
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
can walk about the house and in the grounds at the back—
not in the front, remember—for one hour."
" Thank you, Aunt Parker," I said, with a guilty feeling
that I deserved to be put in prison for behaving so deceit-
fully to her.
CHAPTER XI.
an adventure with sandy whiskers.
It was while I was enjoying my liberty that a most sur-
prising series of incidents occurred. I had halted in front
of some favourite apple-trees, the fruit on which was fast
ripening, and I mournfully recalled a happy day in the past
year when my dear parents and I were picking up the apples
which a servant was shaking from the branches. How
clearly the picture came before me ! I could almost hear
my mother's sweet laughter and my father's merry voice.
Prone as I was to yield myself up to such melancholy
broodings, I might have indulged in them until my hour's
leave had expired, had not a voice which appeared to come
from the top of one of the apple-trees recalled me to
reality. The words that reached my ears were simply :
" I say, miss !"
And were uttered in a jolly, hearty tone.
" Yes ! " I answered, believing that the salutation was ad-
dressed to me, there being no other miss present but myself.
Indeed, the only person within view was a workman who
was putting the ground in order at a distance of some
fifteen yards or so from the spot upon which I stood. At
the moment I caught sight of him he was looking up at the
topmost branches of the tree from which the voice had pro-
ceeded, and I supposed that he also had heard it. So far
as I could observe he took not the slightest notice of me,
and as he presently resumed his work, and all was silent
around me, I came to the conclusion that my senses had
deceived me—more particularly as I could see no person in
the tree. There were other trees, however, and in a few
moments the self-same words, " I say, miss !" came from
the top of one at the back of me. I turned quickly round
and looked up, but there was no sign of a human being in
the branches of that or of any of the trees by which I was
surrounded. I was puzzling my head over the occurrence
ADVENTUKE WITH SANDY WHISKEKS. 49
when the workman to whom I have referred walked slowly
past me, and commenced raking the earth in another part
of the grounds; and as he did so, my ears were assailed by
sounds of laughter which appeared to issue from half-a-
dozen trees at one and the same time. So contagious in
its natural gaiety was this laughter that, under happier
circumstances, and had it not been Ihat I was a little bit
frightened and much perplexed by the mysterious greetings,
I should certainly have been unable to resist the impulse
to join in it. I looked about me timorously, and in a
fairly clear voice asked aloud :
" Is anybody speaking to me, and what do you want ? "
My challenge provoked a response—or rather, I should
say, responses—so extraordinary that I should have ran
away if I could have found the strength to do so.
" Ha, ha, ha ! Ho, ho, ho ! Ha, ha, ha !" resounded
from a dozen different directions—from the clouds, at my
feet, at my back—and in a dozen different voices, gruff and
pleasant, and harsh and soft. And fortunately for me, for I
was almost fainting, the volley ended with the words,
uttered in the pleasantest tones :
" Don't be frightened, miss, it's only me, and I'm a friend,
if you'll excuse the liberty."
I plucked up sufficient courage to say :
" If you're a friend, tell me what you are, and where you
are, or I shall think you want to do me a mischief."
The answer I received appeared to come from an invisible
person who was standing quite close to me.
" Mischief ! Bless your little heart!—asking you again
to excuse the liberty—it ain't in me to do it. Where am I ?
Cast your eyes to the left of you, a dozen yards off. What
ami? You've only got to see me put down my rake, and
take up my spade, which I dig into the ground, and you've
only to look at the cut of me, to find that out for yourself,
miss."
I looked a dozen yards off to the left of me, and I saw
the workman put his rake aside with conspicuous motion,
and take up a spade, which he dug into the ground. By
" the cut of him," he was a common labourer, and, mys-
terious as it all was, I began to have some confidence in a
satisfactory explanation of the affair.
" Then, it's you," I said.
"Yes, it's me," replied the voice; the man never raised
his head. " Don't look my way, miss, nor turn your head
4
50
A TO UK a GIRL'S LIFE.
towards me, because, as my instructions go, there's a cross-
grained, illmatured lady—shall we say it's an aunt ?—who
would take the greatest possible pleasure in spoiling our
innocent game. My instructions are to put that particularly
unpleasant lady off the scent, and I think I'm equal to a
little job like that. Are you Miss Evelina Durham ? "
" Yes," I said.
" The truth is, miss, that I'm what they call a ventrilo-
quist."
" What's that ? " I asked.
"It's the voice," he said. "I can do what I like with
mine. Many's the game I've had with it, and many more's
the game I'm going to have. I can send it to the top of a
tree, and down at your feet, and up a chimney, and into a box
—and all the while you'd never know it was me that was
speaking. Listen, miss." Hitherto he had spoken in his
natural voice and from the place he was working at, but now
he gave me further proof of his powers by imitations of an
old woman coming towards me and speaking out of breath
as she advanced, by the barking of a dog at my heels, and
by the chirruping of birds in the trees.
" It's wonderful," I said.
" It's a gift," he remarked, resuming his natural voice,
which was kind and sympathetic. " Have the goodness to
look on the garden seat behind you."
I looked, and saw on the seat a small paper bag, which
he must have placed there as he passed me.
"For me?" I asked.
"For you," he replied.
I took it up and opened it, and found that it contained
ginger-nuts, of which I was very fond.
" My instructions, miss," said the man, working away
industriously as he spoke, "goes as far as to report whether
you eat 'em and enjoyed 'em. If you will be so good! "
It was an agreeable occupation to comply with the re-
quest, and I sat upon the garden-seat and ate the ginger-
nuts with great relish.
" I may report," said the man, " that you did enjoy 'em."
"Very much indeed," I said.
"Very much indeed," he repeated. "Thank you,
miss."
And shouldering his spade, he gave me a parting saluta-
tion in the shape of a most melodious imitation of the
warbling of birds, and so left me.
EXPERIENCES OP SANDY WHISKERS.
51
This experience was to me a delightful one, and I
thought of nothing else when I was alone. The friendli-
ness of the act was refreshing to my heart after the gloom
of the last few days. But how did this strange man know
that I was so fond of ginger-nuts, and supposing he had by
accident found it out, why should he spend, his money upon
me ? He had spoken of instructions he had received, and
of a report he had to make. Who had instructed him ?
Why, who could it have been but my dear nurse ? When
I arrived at this conclusion, I derived as much pleasure
from the adventure as I should have done had some great
stroke of good-fortune suddenly fallen upon me. Odd as
it may sound, that packet of ginger-nuts presented itself to
me in the form of a message of love. In after-life I often
reflected upon the value of small acts of kindness, and of
the sweet pleasure they convey to hearts yearning for affec-
tion ; and it is good to know that they are within the reach
of the poorest.
All this time I had forgetten the letter I had written to
my nurse, which was safely pinned to the pocket of my
frock. During the adventure with the man working in the
grounds I had never once seen his face so as to be able to
recognize it again: but I had caught a glimpse of sandy
whiskers. Unmistakably sandy, and very abundant. That
was some slight clue to a recognition of him, if it should
happen that we met again.
CHAPTER XII.
further experiences of sandy whiskers.
My great anxiety was to know whether Aunt Parker had
any suspicion that I had met with a friend in the shape of
a man with sandy whiskers, and during the latter part of
the day, and especially at night when she came to bed, I
kept my eyes and my ears open. I was very obedient and
docile to her, and she left me comparatively at peace.
From the puckering of her brows I judged that she had
weightier matters to attend to than to tormenting me.
The next morning I asked her submissively whether I
might go out into the grounds.
" I reward good children," she said, " and I punish bad
52
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
ones. You behaved well yesterday, and if you promise to
behave well to-day, you may go."
" I will try to behave well," I said.
" Are you glad you are going to live with me ? " she
asked.
Deceitful as I felt I was becoming, I could not answer
in the affirmative, and I was silent.
" Will you try to be glad ? " she asked.
"Yes," I replied, grateful for the opening, "I will try."
" Very good," she said. "You can go."
I did not make my way at once to the apple-trees. I
controlled myself sufficiently to dally for a few minutes in
another part of the grounds, and then I strolled slowly to
my favourite spot. Sandy Whiskers was not there, but in a
very short time I heard, " Ha, ha, ha! ho, ho, ho ! ha, ha,
ha !" from all the points of the compass at once, and no
music was ever sweeter in my ears. Then the birds began
to chirrup, and friendly dogs to bark. I ventured to look
over my shoulders, and although my new friend's back was
towards me I caught sight of his whiskers, which were so
bushy that they stuck out on either side of him.
" Good morning, miss," was the first intelligible saluta-
tion that greeted me from the apple-tree.
" Good morning," I responded.
" I am to ask," said the voice, " whether you are quite
well."
" Quite well, thank you."
"The fear being, you not being accustomed to this
sort of thing"—and here Sandy Whiskers indulged in a
perfectly surprising medley of sound, gruff and squeaky,
and loud and soft, now from the clouds, and now from the
earth—" that it might have made you nervous, and left a
bad effect behind."
" It didn't make me nervous at all. I thought it very
delightful and amusing."
" You're good enough to say so. When I told her that
you ate 'em and enjoyed 'em very much indeed, she was
as pleased as if I had brought her a purse full of gold.
She's anxious to know whether a certain person as shall be
nameless found out anything about it."
"No; the certain person didn't have the" slightest sus-
picion. Nobody knew anything of it but you and I."
"Nobody but you and me," said the voice, in mild cor-
rection of my grammar. " That's as it should be. I'm to
EXPERIENCES OF SANDY WHISKERS. 53
ask if there is anything I can do for you, and if there is,
to do it."
" I've written a letter, if you please," I said, " and I
should be very grateful if you would send it for me."
" Put it on the seat," he said, " and move away so that
we can't be seen close to each other, and I'll see what I
can do."
I obeyed him and he picked up the letter.
" Why," he cried, " it's for Mrs. Elliot."
"Yes," I replied. "How much shall I have to pay to
send it to London ? "
" Why send it to London," he inquired, " when she lives
with me ? She's my one-pair back."
By which I understood that she was his lodger, and I
was glad to hear the news.
" Will you give it to her soon ? " I asked.
" She shall have it in my dinner-hour," he replied, " and
I don't think I could give her anything that would be
half as welcome. Is there anything else I can do for
you ? "
" Nothing else, thank you. Don't forget to give her my
love."
" No, miss."
From that time Sandy Whiskers, who proved himself to
be the soul of good-nature, became the medium of a
regular communication between me and my nurse. I
made her acquainted with all Aunt Parker's proceedings
and with everything that took place in the house that came
to my knowledge, and Nurse Elliot gave me a great deal of
information concerning the approaching sale of the property.
Many were the plans we laid for a secret interview, but
not one of them ever passed the initial stage. Sandy
Whiskers was fertile in expedients, but the misfortune was
that they were not practicable in the difficulty in which we
found ourselves.
" You see, miss," said Sandy Whiskers, " it don't seem as
if I could turn my gift to account in this here matter,
which is as close to Nurse Elliot's heart as it is to your'n.
If I could lure her away on a five-mile tramp after a voice,
the thing might be done; but a certain person's too wide
awake."
On another occasion he said, " Nurse is afraid you'll be
taken off' suddenly in the middle of the night. She's worry-
ing~ dreadfully about it."
54
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" She's the best creature in the world," I sobbed.
"To which I say, Amen." He intoned the response, and
I thought it showed great feeling on his part.
" I'm bound to bring it about, miss," he said at another
time.
And brought about it was by Sandy Whiskers' ingenuity.
CHAPTER XIII
good-bye to dobbin.
The auction was announced to take place on Thursday, and
on the previous Monday the place was thrown open to
public inspection. A great number of persons visited the
house on that day, and also on Tuesday. The only room
not open to them was the room in which Aunt Parker and
I slept. Most of the furniture, however, had been taken
out of it; even the carpet had been removed, which made
it look very dreary. On Monday morning Aunt Parker
entered the bedroom, accompanied by a clerk with a large
book, in which he entered an account of the furniture,
sticking pieces of paper on them indicating the number of
the lots. He was standing on a chair, about to stick one of
these pieces of paper on the picture of "Amy Feeding the
Pigeons," when I stepped boldly up to him, and said, "You
mustn't touch that, please. It belongs to me." -
" Take no notice of her," said Aunt Parker, coldly. " Put
the number of the lot on the picture."
"You mustn't, you mustn't," I cried; "it's my own, my
very own ! I'll tell all the people that are coming into the
house, if you dare to sell my picture."
" Dare !" exclaimed Aunt Parker, frowning.
" Yes, dare !" I said, standing defiantly before her. " You
have no right to sell it. I won't let it be sold."
"You shall not have the opportunity of creating a scene,"
she said, " for I'll keep you locked up in this room, you
obstinate, ungrateful child."
" I've nothing to be grateful to you for," I retorted; and
I really wonder where I got the courage from; perhaps
because I saw that the clerk was inclined to sympathise with
me. " Everything in the house belongs to me, and I won't
allow you to sell my dear picture "
GOOD-BYE TO DOBBIN.
65
" You are using big words, miss," said Aunt Parker.
" Your guardians' directions are that everything in the place
shall be sold."
" If my guardians were here, sir," I said, appealing to the
cleric, "they would let me have this little picture. They
would, indeed, sir."
"It's only a print," murmured the clerk to my aunt, "it
won't fetch more than a shilling."
Whether it was that Aunt Parker had too much to look
after to continue the discussion, or that she thought the
clerk might represent the affair to her disadvantage, she
speedily made up her mind.
" Let the wilful child have her way," she said.
And so "Amy Feeding the Pigeons" was spared, and I
have it with me to this day.
But Aunt Parker punished me by keeping me locked in
the bedroom all Monday and Tuesday. In the evening,
however, when the crowds of people were gone and. the
gates were closed, I was allowed to roam about the house.
I spent those hours of liberty in wandering mournfully
through the rooms to gaze for the last time upon familiar
objects I should never see again. They were all numbered
in lots, and in parting from them I felt as if I were about to
lose my dearest friends. I daresay it was foolish of me, but
I spoke to many of the dumb objects, and even kissed some.
The presence of Aunt Parker did not prevent me from
doing this, and when I said in a low tone, " Good-bye, good-
bye," she remarked, " How very touching ! Just as though
you were talking to the birds and the flowers. It makes no
difference to you whether they are alive or dead." In a
corner of the nursery were all my toys, with hateful labels
on them. My beautiful doll's house and all my dolls;
boxes of furniture, and picture-blocks, and skipping-ropes;
my pretty tea-services and mechanical toys, my favourite
being the representation of a ball-room, with thre.e ex-
pressionless couples waltzing round and round to an air I
have never forgotten ; and before and above all, my treasure
of treasures, Dobbin, my dear old horse, with its side-saddle.
The thought of all these things being sold fairly overcame
me, and I threw my arms round dear old Dobbin's neck,
and kissed him again and again, while my tears bedewed his
neck. He was worn with age, and terribly battered; he
bore upon his body the marks of a hundred wounds; but
had they not been gained in faithful and honourable service,
56
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
and had he not been the most patient and uncomplaining of
servitors ? What tender reminiscences were bound up in
him ! Regularly every birthday, when I went in the morn-
ing to the nursery, there was old Dobbin gaily decked out
with ribbons in honour of his young mistress, and bearing
on his saddle a birthday gift. I never doubted but that it
was Dobbin's own spontaneous offering of affection, and I
used to thank him for his remembrance of me quite
gravely and seriously. These records may appear trivial to
some, but they make up the life of a child. Aunt Parker
discovered me weeping over him.
" Oh, Aunt Parker," I said, " must poor old Dobbin be
sold ? Must he—must he ? "
" Must poor old Dobbin be sold !" she echoed with
sneering emphasis. "Yes, he must. You shed so manj
tears over rubbishing bits of wood that you have nc
feeling left for human creatures. There, come away imme-
diately."
" I have a little money, Aunt Parker." (I really had ten
or eleven shillings in my money-box, which, strange to say,
she had not taken from me.) " If I give it to the men, will
they let me take my toys away with me?"
" Should you endeavour to bribe any of the workmen,"
was her reply, " and I find it out—which is next door to a
moral certainty—they would be transported for life, and
their families would starve. That would be a nice weight on
your conscience, if you've got one, throwing temptation in
poor men's way, and making felons of them."
" I wouldn't do anything wicked for the world," I said,
trembling at the picture she had raised; " but if I might
buy dear Dobbin "
"It isn't to be thought of," she interrupted. "I have
told you already that everything must be sold according to
law, and you won't be here to bid; and if you were here,
you wouldn't be allowed to. Dear Dobbin, indeed !"
I still stood with my arm round Dobbin's neck, and Aunt
Parker's stern voice was a sufficient assurance that I must
part indeed from my dumb friend. I bent down and kissed
him good-bye with grief as genuine as ever afflicted a human
heart.
" That is the result of vicious training," observed Aunt
Parker, "that is what is caused by parents playing with
their responsibilities. 1 would never allow children placed
under my care to fritter away their energies over useless
AN EXCITING MOENING.
57
toys ! I never believed in them ; they weaken the mind,
and yours is weak enough as it is. My business is to
strengthen it and make you fit for life, if it's possible to
accomplish a miracle. Have you finished your good-
byes ? "
"Yes," I said, mournfully.
" Then you don't come out of your room again until
we go away for good."
" When will that be ? "
"You'll know soon," said Aunt Parker, with malicious
emphasis. "Perhaps before you are many hours older,
miss."
CHAPTER XIV.
an exciting morning.
I knew the very next morning, which was Wednesday, the
day before the sale was to take place. Aunt Parker
brought me my breakfast, which she set on a tray on the
bed.
"You'd best make a good breakfast," she said. " Here's
a large plate of bread-and-butter; eat as much as you can,
and keep the rest. You'll want it during the day, for this
is the last regular meal you'll get in this house. I have no
time to prepare a fine dinner to-day. There's too much
to do as it is, and I don't believe any woman but myself
would be able to accomplish it. I've got to pack my
boxes—and yours too, I suppose."
"Am I to have boxes?" I asked. It was all so strange
that I had scarcely any understanding of it.
"Boxes? No. But one box you must have. What's
to become of your clothes else ? You are too helpless to
put them away tidily yourself. Any other girl of your age
would be able to do it, but you have been brought up as
an ornament, not as a practical creature."
"I will try, Aunt Parker, if you will let me."
"Well, we shall see. Be sure you never say I don't
give you notice of everything that is going to happen.
You are fond of saying good-bye to things. Say good-bye
to your bed ; you will never sleep in it again, never ! We
shall leave this place to-night for ever, and ever, and ever !
Now you know."
58
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
What a shock it was to me ! I was choked with agita-
tion, and could not utter a word. Aunt Parker stood over
me, and I tried to eat some breakfast to please her, but
I could not get a morsel down; the food stuck in my
throat.
"Obstinate again," she said. " You wont eat."
" I can't," I managed to say; " indeed, indeed I can't! "
"You will be glad to, by and by," she said, whipping
up the breakfast things. " I can't stop here all day waiting
on you."
She put the bread and butter she had cut for me on the
drawers, and left the room, as usual locking the door
behind her. In a few minutes she returned with a box,
which she dragged in herself, and quickly selected such of
my clothes as she intended me to take away with me. She
threw them in a heap on the floor, saying :
" If you pack them away nicely I shall be pleased; if
you don't I shall be angry. When you have done, you can
sit at the window, and bid good-bye to the trees and the
flowers. You are such friends with them that perhaps you
can persuade them to walk after you when we go away
to-night. You need not expect to see me till the afternoon,
and if you ring the bell and create a disturbance you'll get
a whipping."
So saying she left me to my sad reflections, trying the
door from the outside to make sure that it was securely
fastened. However, there was work before me to do,
which served as a healthy counteractive to melancholy, and
I busied myself with my box. The first thing I packed
away was "Amy Feeding the Pigeons," with Nurse Elliot's
letter concealed in the frame; this I placed at the very
bottom of the box, folding my clothes tightly over it. I
took great pains with the little task I had begged to be
allowed to perform, and when it was finished I went to
the window and sat there, looking out. There were more
persons than ever in the grounds, and most of them had
catalogues in their hands, which they were assiduously con-
suiting and marking with pencils. For full an hour I sat at
the window, until my attention became centred on a bird
which was flying this way and that within a few yards of the
window-sill, upon which I had scattered some crumbs.
Perceiving that it could not muster sufficient confidence to
come nearer, I retreated to the centre of the room, so that
it might not be frightened; and as I stood there waiting I
AN EXCITING MORNING.
59
heard a sweet piping which I supposed came from the tiny
creature. But if I was right in my surmise, the bird was
capable of the sweetest imaginable notes, and, what was a
still greater surprise, was capable of singing at my very
elbow all the while it was flying outside in the open air. I
had no suspicion of the truth till I heard a most melodious
concert, pitched in a low key, which filled the room with
sweet sound, and then who should present himself to my
mind's eye but Sandy Whiskers ? I went softly to the
door, and said, almost in a whisper :
" Is that you, Sandy Whiskers ? "
The reply I received, in the natural voice of Sandy
Whiskers, was given in three words.
" All right, miss."
My heart beat violently; had I been suddenly whisked
through the ceiling to a spot where Aunt Parker could not
get at me, I should hardly have been astonished.
" What do you want? " I asked. " What am I to do ?"
" My instructions are," said Sandy Whiskers, " to make
sure that you are quite alone."
" Yes," I replied, " quite alone."
" Is there any getting at you, miss ? "
" No; the door is locked."
" I thought as much. I met a certain person on the
landing below this, and I called out as if somebody was
speaking downstairs, 1 Mrs. Parker ! Where is Mrs Parker ?
She is wanted immediately in the wine-cellar !' Down she
flew, so I've made sure of her. My one-pair back is dis-
turbed by the idea that I might frighten you with my tricks.
Do I?"
"Not at all. It gives me great pleasure to hear you."
" I'll tell her so. That being satisfactory, look into the
garden, and you'll see Nurse Elliot."
I flew to the window and looked out. People were
passing continually to and fro, but there was not a familiar
face among them. It was not possible for me to miss my
dear nurse; I should have known her anywhere. I was
more than disappointed; I was heart-sick; and for a
moment or two I was unjust enough to Sandy Whiskers to
think that he had been bought over by Aunt Parker to
torment me.
" How cruel!" I thought. " How cruel! And perhaps
they have set that woman to watch me."
The woman I referred to had white hair, and a
60
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
large bonnet, and she walked with a limp, supporting
herself on a stout stick, which she used as a crutch.
There she was, limping a few steps this way and a
few that, and it seemed to me that she never took
her eyes from my window. Presently she moved into
a position which allowed the light to fall upon her face;
and there, all in a moment, despite the white hair and the
strange dress and the crutch stick, I recognized Nurse
Elliot. She had disguised herself, so that she could come
to the house without fear of detection by Aunt Parker.
I was really happy. There were two true friends near
me, Sandy Whiskers and my dear nurse. I felt convinced
that something good was about to happen, but had no idea
what. All that I could do was to wait for it.
In a little while—(when Nurse Elliot was satisfied that I
had recognized her, I was incautious enough to blow her a
kiss)—she limped towards the house, which she entered.
I trembled to think of the dreadful scene that would occur
if she came face to face with Aunt Parker and was recog-
nized. Having now no interest in the garden, I went to
the door and listened to the sound of a stick on the stairs.
It ceased on the landing, and three soft knocks were given
on the door. I put my face quite close.
" Dear Miss Lina," in a whisper.
" Dear Nurse Elliot! " I replied. " How good of you."
" WTe mustn't talk much," she said, "or we may be
discovered. Read this."
She pushed a piece of paper under the door, and I seized
it eagerly, and read :
"My dear Young Mistress,—I could not rest without
seeing your sweet face. How happy I was to get your
letter ! I pray for you every night and morning. I must
not stop too long in one place for fear of your aunt. If
you want to say anything to me write it down, and I will
come up presently when nobody is in the passage, and you
can push it under the door for me. I will knock three
times, and speak first, so that you may know I am there.
My landlord is doing all he can for me, keeping watch, and
ready to warn me. He is such a kind, civil man! God
bless you, my dear Miss Lina ! A million kisses from your
old nurse and dutiful servant,
"Fanny Elliot."
AN EXCITING MORNING.
61
I still had my black-lead pencil and a sheet of paper, and
I sat down without delay to answer the letter.
"Dear, dear Nurse Elliot,—How kind you are to
me ! But I must be quick. I am locked in here all alone.
Aunt Parker is going to take me away to-night, she says,
for good. I know it won't be—it will be for bad. She
says she is going to train me. I wish you could, instead of
her. Don't let her see you ; if she finds you out, there will
be a dreadful scene. I don't know where she is going to
take me; if I asked her she would not tell me, or she would
tell me wrong on purpose. I must truly be quick now, or
she might come in suddenly; sometimes she walks just like
a cat; you can't hear a bit, and she sends my heart into
my mouth. Good-bye, dear, dear nurse, and don't forget
poor
"j.ina."
" Thank you for the ginger-nuts. They were beautiful.
I shall never get any more. Sandy Whiskers—I mean your
landlord—does not frighten me at all. He is very kind,
and oh, how clever he is ! I never heard of such a thing,
never ! These are kisses. I wish I could give them to you
really.—Your fond
" Lina."
Just as I finished the letter I heard the three soft knocks
at the door, and Nurse Elliot's voice.
" It's me, my dear."
" Aunt Parker hasn't seen you, has she ? " I asked.
"No, my landlord is playing her tricks to keep her away.
Have you got a letter for me ? "
" Yes; here it is."
And I pushed it under the door, and ran back to my seat
by the window, for I heard other voices on the stairs. It
was quite an hour before anything else occurred; and then,
without anything being said, another letter from my nurse
was pushed under the door.
" Oh, my dear young lady, what can I do to help you ?
You must not think that I shall ever forget you. It could
not happen—no, though ever so many years passed.
Directly the sale is over I shall go to my brother's house in
London, and there I shall remain all my life till you want
62
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
me. My landlord says your Aunt Parker has got the law
on her side, and that it is no good worriting. But what do
you think he is going to try to do ? To get me really into
your room, so that perhaps I shall be able to touch you.
Do not scream out if you see me, because your aunt may
be quite close; and don't start if you hear me speak, for I
shall speak like an old woman. I do hope he will be able
to do it. Good-bye, my dear young lady and mistress. I
shall wait outside as long as I dare, hoping you will think
of something I can do for you. With my humble love and
duty, for ever and ever, your faithful nurse and servant,
"Fanny Elliot."
The idea of seeing Nurse Elliot in my room so excited
me that I could scarcely think of anything else, but I
suddenly remembered that she was waiting outside to hear
from me, and a happy idea flashed across me. I hastily
wrote:
" Dear Nurse,—Buy Dobbin and take care of him for
me. Do try and get in, do ; but if you don't I will write
and let you know where I am.
"Your own,
"Lina."
It was lucky I did not stop to write any more, for the
moment I pushed this little note under the door I heard
half-a-dozen persons coming upstairs for the purpose of
looking at the rooms on the floor on which I was held
prisoner. I resumed my seat by the window, but I did no®
see my nurse again all the morning, nor did any further
correspondence pass between us.
CHAPTER XV.
farewell to home.
In the afternoon the door was unexpectedly unlocked, and
Aunt Parker made her appearance, accompanied by Sandy
Whiskers. She was in a state of great ill-humour, and
there had evidently been a wrangle between them.
" I am very sorry, ma'am," he said, as they entered, " but
orders are orders, and I must do as I've been told to do.
FAREWELL TO HOME.
63
If I was in your service, what would you do if I disobeyed
you ? "
" Discharge you on the spot," she replied, glaring at him
in still greater anger at being compelled to give evidence
against herself.
■ "That's just what I should be," said Sandy Whiskers,
taking not the slightest noticb of me, "if I neglected my
orders, which are to go over these lots again by the
catalogue."
" Proceed, then," said Aunt Parker, loftily, perceiving the
wisdom of making the best of the situation, "and do not
waste time."
She stood before me as she spoke, and gave me a threat-
ening glance, in which was conveyed a command not to
move from the window, while Sandy Whiskers very leisurely
opened a catalogue, and looked round the room.
"As to wasting time, ma'am," he said, with provoking
deliberation, " that can never be brought against me. Lot
four, five, six. An iron bedstead. I know my duty too
well. Lot four, five, seven. A hair mattress, bolster, and
pillows. My master says to me 'Appleton,' says he—
Lot four, five eight. Coal-scuttle and shovel—'Appleton,'
says he, ' if I want to see a thing properly looked after, and
no mistakes made'—where's the fender and fire-irons ? I
don't see them down. They ain't down, ma'am. Must
make a star lot of them. The clerk was right—there is a
lot missed. A matter of seven shillings I should say. I'd
give that for them myself. I'll take the liberty of measuring
the carpet while I'm about it."
Down he plumped upon the floor, with a rule in his
hand, while Aunt Parker fumed. She fumed more furi-
ously at the entrance of several persons, who unceremoni-
ously pushed open the door, which Sandy Whiskers had
left conveniently ajar. They paid no attention to my aunt,
but proceeded to examine the furniture, lifting the chairs
and shaking them, opening the drawers, and punching the
pillows and mattresses. Among them was dear Nurse
Elliot, with a catalogue, and I could scarcely control my-
self. Then, while Sandy Whiskers still knelt upon the
carpet, a voice shouted up the stairs from below:
" Mrs. Parker ! Where's Mrs. Parker ? She is wanted
immediately in the drawing-room !"
" No," said Aunt Parker, ip a tone so loud and angry
that some of the persons in the room turned to gaze at her
64
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
in astonishment, " I will not go ! Three times this day have
I been called away to different parts of the house on a
fool's errand. If I could catch the fellow that's fooling me
I'd twist his neck for him ! "
But the voice continued to call:
" Mrs. Parker ! Has anybody seen Mrs. Parker ? She's
wanted this minute in the drawing-room."
Enraged and undecided, Aunt Parker stepped
quickly into the passage, and screamed down the stairs :
"Come up if you want me. Here I am."
" What's the use of being up there ? " called the voice.
" It's down here you ought to be."
" I'll be down immediately," cried Aunt Parker, returning
to the room. "Here, clear out, all of you. This is a
private apartment, and nobody has any business here till
to-morrow." And forthwith she commenced to bustle the
people out of the room.
But her attention had been drawn from me for a time
sufficiently long to allow Nurse Elliot to come quite close
to me, and, under the pretence of examining a table by the
window, to stoop and kiss me unobserved.
" Don't forget, dear child, that I am always at your ser-
vice," she whispered. "This is my last kiss for a long,
long time, I am afraid. Never mind, my darling mistress.
There will be a silver lining to the cloud some day. God
bless you, dear."
I returned her embrace, secretly, but did not dare to trust
my voice. She had time, too, to slip some ginger-nuts into
my pocket, and did not wait to be turned out of the room,
which presently contained only Aunt Parker and myself.
She gave me a long and searching look, but fortunately I
had not moved, and she could see nothing in me to arouse
her suspicions; so, without a word, she left me alone once
more, and, after securing the door, went to the lower part
of the house in compliance with the demand of her un-_
seen tormentor.
In the evening, just before sunset, she presented herself
again, with her bonnet and shawl on, and carrying my
mantle and hat.
" Put these on at once," she said, as she knelt to lock
my box. "Your box will be sent after us, with my own.
We are going away immediately."
I was almost choked with grief, and though I tried my
hardest I could not keep back my tears.
FAREWELL TO HOME.
65
" May I go through the rooms ? " I said, when I could
control my voice, "before I leave them for ever ?"
"No," she said, snapping me up sharply. "You
may not. We have had more than enough of such senti-
mental rubbish."
" Please, Aunt Parker, please !"
" No," she said: " I will not encourage such weak-
ness. I have never pampered to it before, and I will not
pamper to it now. Come, we must be going. There is a
train to catch."
But the thought of being forced against my will to leave
the dear old house in this way, as if we were parting bad
friends, imbued me with a spirit which I had never in my
young life exhibited. I tore off my hat and mantle, and,
throwing my arms round the bed-post, clung to it with all
my might. Aunt Parker advanced towards me with threat-
ening gestures.
" You defy me, do you ? " she cried. "You young ter-
magant, do you suppose for a moment that I shall submit
to be dictated to by babies ? I shall have to teach you who
is mistress. Pick up your hat and put it on without an-
other word."
" Aunt Parker," I said, setting my teeth close, and speak-
ing so clearly, and with such apparent calmness, that she
must have been much astonished, " if you try to force
me away without allowing me to say good-bye to my old
home, where my papa and mamma died, I will scream so
loud that I will bring the workmen up. I will tell them—■
I will, Aunt Parker, if you kill me for it!—how you have
kept me locked up day after day, and how you have not
given me anything to eat since the first thing this morning.
If I was a poor beggar girl you could not have behaved
more cruelly to me; and I shall tell the men that everything
in the house belongs to me. Perhaps I shall find a friend
among them. Don't come any nearer to me if you don't
want me to die. Perhaps you would like to kill me. I
know you hate me, and I shall be glad to die, as that little
girl did you told me of; but I won't go away from this
spot, and you sha'n't drag me away alive, till you promise
to let me do as I want."
However I got out this bold speech is a mystery to me ;
it frightened her, I saw, although she put on an outward
semblance of calmness. It was forgetfulness on her part,
I knew, to keep me without food all day ; she had been so
5
G6
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
busy that she had not thought of it; none the less, it would
have been a heavy accusation against her had it become
known. Then, I have since learned that the worst thing
that would happen to her was for me to die; it would have
deprived her of a source of income upon which she de-
pended. I was trembling so violently that she could have
taken me, without an effort, from the post to which I was
clinging, but she made no attempt to remove me.
" You have given utterance to the most abominable
falsehoods," she said, after a pause; her face was very
white, and she did not take her eyes off me, " but of course
you think nothing of that. I have had no dinner myself
to-day, and had you told me you wanted something to eat I
would have brought it to you. We will not argue the
matter, however. If I allow you to have your way, will you
come quietly afterwards ? "
"Yes," I replied, "I promise you I will. But I must go
into every room, and all round the garden."
" I have timed my movements," she said, "so that we
should catch a train which leaves in a quarter of an hour.
We shall miss that train, and there is no other till eight
o'clock in the morning. Your wickedness and obstinacy
will necessitate our sleeping at a hotel and going to a great
expense. I shall inform your guardians of your bad con-
duct, and they will understand why I give way to you. Put
on your hat and cloak, and let us get this ridiculous business
over."
" You will not deceive me, will you ?" I asked.
" No, you bad child," she said, "I will not deceive you.
I am not in the habit of deliberately lying."
I put on my hat and mantle, and went into every room
in the house, Aunt Parker walking behind me with stern
face and watchful eyes. What a melancholy wandering
was that! It seemed to me as if the house was dead and
was waiting to be buried. There was not a spot in it
which did not bring to my mind some dear memory. Here
was the piano at which I used to practise, with loving words
of encouragement in my ears, with loving fingers upon mine;
here my mother used to sing her sweet old songs. The
windows of the room faced the west, and it was at this time
of the day, when the sun was setting, that my mother best
loved to sit and sing to me. My arm would creep round
her waist, my head would sink upon her shoulder, and she
would incline her lips to mine. The remembrance of
AUNT TAKES ME TO THE CHURCHYARD. 67
those hours, when love was ready at my call, brought
desolation to my heart. I sank upon my knees, and
rested my closed eyes upon the piano. Oh, sweet and
beautiful! My mother's form came spiritually before
me, my mother's voice reached my ears. "Be strong
and patient, dear child, I am watching over thee 1" I
kissed the dumb case, and breathed farewell, and trod
scftly, reverentially, out of the room. Here was the
room in which my parents slept—here the bed in
which they died—here the bird-cages with our pet birds
in them—all to be sold to strangers. I went up to
my bullfinch, and it began to pipe, and stopped sud-
denly in the midst of its song. It almost broke my
heart. Then we went into the garden. The shadows
were deepening, and a slight breeze was stirring. The
leaves rustled mournfully, and echoed my sighs. The
sight of my own little garden, my very own, in which
I used to plant my favourite flowers, almost overcame
me, but I kept a firm hold upon the outward evidence
of my feelings 3 I suffered the more for the repres-
sion, but I was determined that Aunt Parker should not
have the pleasure of witnessing my grief. Night had
fallen by the time the melancholy tour came to an end,
and not a single word had escaped Aunt Parker's lips or
mine.
" Have you finished ? " she asked, as I lingered by the
gates.
" Yes," I replied.
Then she took my hand, and led me from my dear
home.
CHAPTER XVI.
aunt parker takes me to the churchyard.
Outside the gates a carriage was waiting for us, and I
observed that our boxes were on the roof. We were to
take them with us, instead of leaving them to be sent after
us. I was glad of this3 it kept my little box under my
own eye, and I should not be haunted by the fear that
Aunt Parker would secretly open it, and discover Nurse
Elliot's letter.
" Drive to the White Hart," she said to the coachman.
5*
68
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
There she engaged a bedroom, and ordered tea. It was
served in the coffee-room, of which, for the time, we were
the only occupants. Aunt Parker's mea1. consisted of
strong black tea, rolls, toast, and ham and eggs; she set
before me a cup of weak milk and water and three thick
lices of bread with very little butter on it.
"You shall never be able to say that I starve you," she
said, "though you would have no objection to put your
tongue to anything. As a protection against slander I shall
keep a record. Here is wholesome bread-and-butter; if
you want more you shall have it; and here is a cup of sweet
milk. Now we shall see whether there is any foundation
for the accusation you have dared to bring against me that
I keep you without food when you are hungry. If you are
hungry now, you will be able to eat."
I ate a little—nature compelled it—but two slices of the
bread-and-butter were left on the plate.
" Have you had enough tea ? " asked Aunt Parker.
"Yes."
"And you can't eat any more ? "
" No."
Whereupon she took out of a black bag, which she always
carried about with her, a large pocket-book, in which she
made an entry—recording, no doubt, the circumstance of
her providing me with so much food that I could not get
through with it.
By this time it was quite dark, and we had neither of us
taken off our things. It is a small thing to mention, but
the remembrance is so vivid that I cannot refrain from
doing so, that we ate our meal in the dark, we being, as I
have said, the only occupants of the coffee-room, and Aunt
Parker peremptorily ordering the waiter, when he brought
in the candles, to take them away immediately. What
followed on this night is almost indelibly impressed upon
my memory. Sitting so long in the dark, I grew accustomed
to it, and I saw, through the gloom, that Aunt Parker was
gazing at me with ominous intentness. Presently she
appeared to make up her mind upon some point which she
had been considering, and, ringing the bell, she took the
waiter aside, and held a whispered conference with him.
"Three miles, is it? " she said. "Then we must have a
pony trap. Let it be at the door as soon as possible."
In a few minutes the waiter returned, and, saying the
conveyance was ready, asked if she wanted a driver.
AUNT TAKES ME TO THE CHURCHYARD. 69
"No," she snapped, "I will drive myself. I suppose
somebody can point out the way to me."
Standing at the door, holding my hand tight in hers, the
way was pointed out to her, and she lifted me into the trap.
As she gathered the reins, I asked,
" Where are we going ? "
" To the churchyard," she replied.
Before the words were uttered we were off, driving
through the dark streets into the darker roadway where no
shops or houses were. But space seemed filled with
shadowy forms, ghostly shapes coming from the church-
yard to meet us and show us the way.
I suffered in silence, striving to nerve myself to bear not
only the terrors of the present, but of what was to come.
In looking back upon this and upon other episodes of my
child-life, I often wonder where I got the strength to prevent
them from completely upsetting my reason. Aunt Parker's
treatment seemed to be changing my nature, but it was not
really so. It must have been that she inspired me with a
spirit of endurance and pride, the outcome of which might
have left me as callous and cold-hearted as she was herself.
The drive to the churchyard appeared to me to occupy
many hours, but in reality we arrived at our goal in about
thirty minutes, Aunt Parker never seeming at a loss as to
the road.
" Here we are," she said; and she lifted me out of the
trap, the wheels of which she blocked with stones, and she
tied the horse to the railings.
Then she led me into the churchyard, threading her way
through the mounds and tombstones, and paused before a
grave.
"You shall not have the slightest cause," she said, "to
blame me for being unkind and inconsiderate. If you do, it
will be a creation of your rebellious mind. In this grave,
this"—and she seemed to spurn it with her foot—"your
father and your mother are buried, and as you are fond of
saying good bye to everything, I thought you would like to
say good-bye to them. You shall not have it in your power
to say, ' She took me away without ever showing me my
parents' grave!' You are so deficient in discriminative
intelligence that, in the exercise of the authority intrusted
to me, and in the pursuance of the duties imposed upon me,
I intend never to neglect an opportunity of improving your
education. So just attend to me now. When people are
70
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
buried they are put out of sight, and there is an end of
them. That is the case with your mother and father.
They are buried in the grave, a good many feet down, and
there is an end of them. You will never, never see them
again. If I ever hear you say you can see them, and if you
insist on speaking to inanimate objects and sending
messages to what does not exist, I shall take strict note of
it. I am instructed to do so, and I shall carry out my in-
structions to the letter. Would you like to be left alone for
a little while ? "
" Yes," I replied.
I could scarcely recognise my voice, it was so hard and
unfeeling.
" I shall go and sit on that tombstone," she said, pointing
to a great slab at some distance from my parents' grave,
" for exactly twenty minutes. Make the most of your time.
We will introduce system and method into your life, and
endeavour to make you understand that a human being is
not entirely an irresponsible creature. There is no better
spot than this for you to get rid, at once and for ever, of
all kinds of sentimental rubbish. We are going to live
sensible, practical lives—remember that. Now, if you are
asked at any future time whether at the very outset I did
not exhort you to be sensible and practical, and whether I
did not endeavour to impress upon you the value of system
and method in your conduct through life, I suppose you
will deny it. I must have an answer, if you please."
" I shall not deny what you have said," I replied.
" I intend," she continued, after a short pause, " to be
kind and good to you. Are you listening to what I say ? "
"Yes," I said, and repeated, mechanically, "you intend
to be kind and good to me."
"To teach you what is right and what is wrong. Repeat
that."
I obeyed her, in the same mechanical fashion. " To
teach me what is right and what is wrong."
" So that you may grow up into a worthy woman, whose
life shall not be rendered useless by absurd notions and
ridiculous fancies, such as kissing pianos and conversing
with flowers and birds, and chairs and tables."
She did not say this all at once, but a few words at a
time, and made me repeat every word slowly after her.
But it is not possible for me to distinctly explain how
completely her voice and manner were at variance with the
AUNT TAKES ME TO THE CHURCHYARD.
71
truthful interpretation of these sentiments. To smile in
my face while in hers cruel thoughts were clearly expressed ;
to caress me with one hand while she stabbed me with the
other; this is the fit explanation of her cunning and ruthless
aim.
"Never forget," she said, "and never deny what I have
said to you. It shall all be set down, every word of it;
and bear in mind that this conversation takes place over
the grave of your mother and father. If at any future
time you give it the lie, and endeavour to put a false con-
struction upon it, you will deserve that their spirits shall
rise against you. Now I will leave you."
She looked at her watch, and walked leisurely to the
tombstone, upon which she sat, with her face turned
towards me.
A weight was lifted from me now that she was no longer
by my side. I turned my back to her, and, kneeling by
the grave, thought of the dear ones lying there, and
appealed to them.
" Do not leave me alone with Aunt Parker," I whispered.
" Come with me, dear mamma and papa, and help me
against her! How sorry you must be to know that our
dear house and all the dear things in it are going to be sold
to-morrow ! Oh, dear mamma and papa, ask God to take
me to you."
A light quivered on the grave, broadened, grew steadier;
the moon was rising, and its beams shone upon the sacred
earth. Soft, sweet voices seemed to be about me, like the
low singing oi angels. The terror, the agony, the exhaus-
tion melted away, and a beautiful peace stole into my heart.
Thus comforted from above, I covered my face with my
hands, and bowed my head upon the grave.
" Time's up. Are you ready ? "
It was Aunt Parker who spoke.
" Yes, I am ready," I said calmly, and I rose and stood
by her side.
As we rode home I detected her furtively studying my
face for an explanation of my composure, but we exchanged
no further words that night. Early the next morning we
were travelling in the train to my new home.
72
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
CHAPTER XYII.
restoration hall.
A long, straggling, one-story building, additions to which
had been made from time to time, until it comprised twelve
rooms on the ground floor and ten on the floor above; im-
prisoned as it were within a wooden fortification eight feet
in height, which completely surrounded the house; with a
space of ground some twenty feet all round between the
house and the fortification. On the east side were a num-
ber of poles and lines, sufficient to dry the washing for a
large establishment; on the south side was a kitchen-garden ;
on the north and west sides the ground was bare. For
about two feet down from the top the wooden fortification
bristled with strong, sharp-pointed nails, which would have
torn to pieces the hands of any persons attempting to make
an unlawful entrance. From the upper windows, on three of
the sides, a view of a great stretch of sea was obtained, which
would have been inexpressively lonely and dreary but for
the lovely sunrises and sunsets, and for the shrimpers who
pursued their calling at this point of the German Ocean.
There was but one entrance to the house, through a sub-
stantial wooden gate, hung upon heavy hinges which groaned
dolorously every time the gate was opened and shut; it could
only be opened from within, and callers made their presence
known by means of a great bell which tolled dismally when
pulled, and woke up the echoes in the empty rooms.
Such were some of the conspicuous features of Aunt
Parker's home.
I have spoken of empty rooms. During the lifetime
of Aunt Parker's husband the house was fully inhabited,
and there were generally as many as thirty grown-up persons
living in it. Shortly after his death the patients began to
be removed until all were gone, and Aunt Parker, against
whose carrying on of her husband's occupation there was
some legal obstacle which she had striven unsuccessfully to
overcome, stripped nearly all the rooms of their furniture, and
RESTORATION HALL.
73
sent it off to be sold. Most of these rooms were left un-
locked, and this added to the cheerlessness of the place,
which bore a nearer resemblance to a dismantled prison than
to anything else I can think of. The only furnished rooms in
the house were Aunt Parker's bedroom, a bedroom for me,
another for the domestic, a half-witted young man between
twenty and twenty-five years of age, who cooked and washed
and gardened, and did the entire work of the establishment;
a sitting-room, a kitchen, and a small room in which Aunt
Paiker kept her books and made up her accounts. All the
other rooms were empty.
Access to my bedroom could only be obtained through
Aunt Parker's, which it adjoined, so that, when she turned
the key upon me I was virtually a prisoner. But my room
being situated in a corner of the house, and having windows
south and east, afforded me a view not only of the great stretch
of sea, but of the washing-ground and the kitchen-garden in
which the half-witted domestic performed a great deal of
his work. Thus, when I was confined in it, I was not
entirely shut out from intercourse with the outside world.
For a long time it was a silent intercourse, but it was never-
theless a source of great comfort to me. Aunt Parker
would doubtless have had it otherwise, and would not have
been loath to deprive me of this comfort, but it would have
given her trouble to alter the arrangements of the house,
and she was too fond of her bedroom to exchange it for
another. It also gave her the advantage of keeping me,
sometimes during the day and invariably at night, entirely
under her control, and I had had sufficient experience of
her to be aware that this was a counterbalance to any
pleasure I derived from the circumstance of my having so
comprehensive a view from the windows of my room.
On the day we arrived at this desolate abode she took
me all over it, and into every room with the exception of
three which were locked. If it was her intention to make
me dislike the place and to dishearten me, she succeeded.
"This is your home," she said, "where you are to be
brought up and educated. It is not so grand a house as
that in which you have been living, but it is healthier;
there are no pianos in it, no fine furniture, no feather-beds;
but if it is good enough for me, an educated lady, it is
good enough for you, an ignorant, ungrateful little miss.
Whatever you may think of it, however much you may despise
it, I advise you to make the best of it. I promise that
74
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
you shall not be contaminated by evil influences and vicious
companions. There is no lady's maid here to prevent you
from being able to wait upon yourself. I shall teach you
to be useful and serviceable, and by doing so I shall
deserve what I don't expect to get—your gratitude : for,
let me tell you, a person never knows what may happen.
There are ups and downs in life, as you will live to discover.
I have experienced a reverse of fortune; you may do the
same; then you will have reason to thank me for driving
the nonsense out of you. Now, so that you shall have no
occasion to go poking slyly about, trying to find out things
secretly, I may as well tell you that I keep only one servant, a
man, who is bound hand and foot to me. I warn you to
have nothing to do with him, never to make the slightest
advance to him, nor, under any circumstances, to hold any
conversation with him. These are my strict orders, and I
caution you not to disobey them. If you do not speak to
him he will not speak to you. He is happy only when
he is let alone, and you will rue it if you interfere with
him."
" If he never wants to speak to any one," I said, " he
must be a very disagreeable person."
"He is worse than disagreeable," said Aunt Parker, "he
is dangerous. I give you fair warning. Maxwell—that is
his name ; I tell it to you because, sooner or later, you
would be sure to find it out for yourself—is incurably mad.
He will be mad all his life. I have had an extensive
experience of mad people, and the quietest are the most
dangerous. Still waters run deep, you know. • Maxwell is
very quiet, and if you were not on your guard against him,
you would suppose he was a most inoffensive creature.
He is the very reverse. When you are alone—as you will
very often be, for I can't be for ever looking after you
■—and you see him approach you with slow steps, look-
ing this side and that as he comes nearer to you, run for
your life into the house, and shut yourself up in your
room. Otherwise, it is more than likely he will do you a
mischief. You will be safe in your bedroom and mine,
for he is never allowed there. It will be j^our duty to keep
those rooms clean; you will have to make the beds and
scrub the floor; I will soon teach you how to do it, and it
will be healthy exercise for you. Want of occupation is
the ruin of half the girls in the world."
I did not remonstrate with her for condemning me to
RESTORATION HALL.
75
menial work; I had not been accustomed to it, but I did
not sulk or fret because I was to perform it now, and I
inwardly resolved to do as well as I could. My dear
mother used to say, " When my little girl grows up I should
like her to know how to do this and that," and I used to
look forward to the time when I should commence to learn
things. Therefore, Aunt Parker's intimation that I should
have to keep two rooms in order did not seriously disturb
me, but I was intensely and morbidly interested in her
account of Maxwell, and I asked her why she kept so
dangerous a person in the house.
" There are more reasons than one for it," she answered.
" He costs me nothing but his food, and he doesn't eat
much. Then, there's no fear of his giving me warning
to leave, as saucy hussies of women would most likely do,
because I don't keep men for them to flirt with. Dangerous
as he is, he is safer—and cheaper. Do you not admire my
frankness ? I suppose you are aware that I am poor."
" No," I said, "I was not aware of it."
" I am, or I never would have undertaken the care of
you. It is infinitely more disagreeable^to me than it can
ever be to you. That I am in such a position is your
father's fault. Had he possessed the slightest sense of
justice, he would have made me independent for life. He
might easily have done so, and there would have been
plenty left. But he chose to overlook me. Therefore,
when Mr. Bathgate proposed that I should board and
lodge and educate you for a certain sum per annum, to be
paid quarterly in advance, I was compelled by my circum-
stances to consent. You might have fallen into worse
hands, let me tell you, though I never expect to receive
any thanks from you. Ingratitude and forgetfulness run
in your blood; they ran in your father's, and they run in
yours. I don't care for your flashing looks, miss. Don't
play off your tantrums upon me, or I may try the effect of
a strait-waistcoat on you."
" What is a strait-waistcoat ? " I asked, quite innocently.
Aunt Parker looked grimly at me, and said,
"A very useful and effective cure for rebellion."
" It was Mr. Bathgate, then," I said, pondering over the
account she had given me, " not Mr. Lorimer, who gave
me to you."
" You have already learned from me," she said, disdain-
fully, "that Mr. Bathgate is everything, and Mr. Lorimer
70
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
nothing, in the management of you. Mr. Bathgate is a
gentleman with a very strong mind; Mr. Lorimer is a gen-
tleman with a very weak mind. Anybody can see with
half an eye which is the controlling power in that firm.
The wonder is, how two such opposite men came to-
gether."
" If it had been left to Mr. Lorimer, I should not be
here with you," I remarked.
" Who told you that, miss ? " demanded Aunt Parker,
in her sharpest tone.
" No one. I only guessed it."
"Keep your guesses to yourself. If they reach Mr.
Bathgate's ears, I wouldn't be in your shoes for a trifle."
Thus commenced my new life. I was allowed to go into
the grounds only at stated hours, and sometimes for days
together I was kept in the house. Had I wished to go
into the village or down to the sea-shore, and had I been
daring enough to make the attempt, I should have met
with an insurmountable barrier, the great wooden gate
being always securely locked and fastened with bolts, the
highest of which were quite out of my reach. But the idea
did not enter my head. I was in too great fear of conse-
quences. And not always when I was at liberty and free of the
grounds did I leave the house. What Aunt Parker had
told me of Maxwell had inspired me, not only with a
morbid interest in him, but also with a terrible fear of him.
True, he never addressed me, nor, indeed, during the
first few months of my imprisonment—for I was really as
completely a prisoner as if I had been guilty of an offence
against the law—did I observe that he and Aunt Parker
ever exchanged a word; but twice or thrice during that period
it seemed to me as if he were walking designedly in my di-
rection, with a settled purpose in his mind, and the stealthi-
ness of his movements, and the cautious looks he cast on
either side of him (so faithfully described by Aunt
Parker) so alarmed me that I fled to the house in affright,
and locked myself in my room. He did not attempt to
follow me; and on looking out of the window I saw him
working in the ground as usual, without even raising his
eyes to me. He appeared to be well acquainted with gar-
dening, though he had only vegetables to attend to. The
greater portion of these vegetables were taken away to be
sold. With the exception of a few wild daisies, not a
flower was allowed to grow in the ground.
A VISIT FROM MR. BATHGATE.
17
Not only was I shut off from the outside world; I was
leading almost a dead life inside the house. With all
Aunt Paiker's boasts of the manner in which she intended
to rear and educate me, she left me very much to myself.
It was many weeks before I learned that the house was on
the outskirts of Pegwell Bay, in the Isle of Thanet—if it;
could be said of a village so sparsely inhabited as Pegwell
Bay that it had any outskirts. It was also many weeks
before I learned that the name of the house was Restora-
tion Hall. I learned both the names of the village and the
house from fragments of tradesmen's bills which, despite all
Aunt Parker's precautions, fell into my hands.
"■Why is the house called Restoration Hall ? " I asked
Aunt Parker.
" How did you find it out ?" she demanded suspi-
ciously.
" I picked up a butcher's bill with the name on it."
The explanation appeared to satisfy her.
" Restoration," she said, with her grimmest look, " to
one's right senses."
The proper understanding of this came to me in after-
days.
My ignorance of the necessary particulars had precluded
any attempt to communicate with Nurse Elliot; and when
it was in my power to give her my address, it was many
months before I could send her the letter I had prepared.
I had to be very careful in the writing of it, and, indeed, in
everything I did which I wished to keep from Aunt Parker's
knowledge, for she kept the strictest watch upon me; and
I discovered that she was in the habit of peeping through
the key-hole when I was in my own room at night, darken-
ing her own room first, so that her spying should not be
detected.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A visit from mr. bathgate.
It must have been six months before either of my guardians
paid a visit to Restoration Hall. Aunt Parker came to
me, and said:
" One of your guardians is in the sitting-room. Make
yourself presentable and come to him in a quarter of an
hour."
78
A YOUJSG- GIRL'S LIFE.
I was presentable enough, having some pride in my
appearance; but so as not to anger Aunt Parker, I washed
myself and arranged my hair, and guessing at the time she
had mentioned, went down stairs to the sitting-room. One
of my guardians ! Which one ? Dared I hope it was
Mr. Lorimer? But I said to myself as I walked to the
room, " Be strong, Lina. If it is Mr. Bathgate, do not let
him see your disappointment." I knocked at the door, and
Aunt Parker's voice bade me enter. There sat Mr.
Bathgate, with blacker eyes and blacker hair and sterner
than ever.
He did not ask me how I was, and did not offer to shake
hands with me; but, beckoning me to him, held me at
arm's-length, and inspected me much as he would have in-
spected some goods he thought of purchasing.
" She looks well, Mrs. Parker," he said.
" I will answer for her physical system, sir," said Aunt
Parker; " the bracing air we enjoy here is invaluable to
delicate constitutions."
" Is she delicate ? "
" Not more than ordinarily, sir; but the mind must, as
a matter of nature, affect the body."
" Quite true. I hope you give her some work to do."
"Yes, sir; I know the value of keeping the hands em-
ployed."
"She has grown a little, I think."
"Very little, sir; she will never be very tall or very
stout."
I stood by in silence, hearing myself discussed. The
dialogue at an end, Mr. Bathgate looked at me, and I at
him
" Have you a tongue ?" he asked, abruptly addressing
me.
Much flurried—his words were really almost like blows
—I replied, "Yes, sir."
" I wished for an evidence of it," he said, "and also for
some mark of respect to myself."
" Oh, sir!" interposed Aunt Parker, in a tone that ex-
pressed it was by far too much to expect from me. " These
are early days."
" You will teach her to pay respect. Come young lady,
say, ' I am glad to see you, sir.'"
"I am glad to see you, sir," I repeated.
And, strange as it may appear, I spoke the truth. The
A VISIT FEOM ME. BATHGATE.
79
monotony of my life was so oppressive that even his visit
was a grateful break in it.
"You are not sick, are you? " he asked
" No sir."
" Have you enough to eat ? "
"Yes, sir."
"Would you like to ask any questions."
One trembled on my tongue. I gave it utterance.
" Is Mr. Lorimer well, sir ? "
" As well," replied Mr. Bathgate, with a dark look, "as
he deserves to be."
" Has his son, Ned, come home from Germany, sir?"
The dark look grew darker. " Have you been speaking
to her, Mrs. Parker, of that young man ? "
" Not I, sir, she can bear me out."
" Mr. Lorimer, himself," I said, firmly and respectfully,
"spoke to me of Ned."
"Of Ned, indeed," said Mr. Bathgate, with scornful
emphasis. "You speak as if you and Mr. Lorimer's son
were old acquaintances."
" I have never seen him," I said, and did not dare to
add, "But I should like to." Nevertheless, I thought it.
" Ah," said Mr. Bathgate. " Any further questions ? "
" Did Mr. Lorimer send any message to me, sir ? "
"He did not. You can go."
I went up to my room without receiving the satisfaction
of knowing whether Mr. Lorimer's "beautiful boy," Ned,
had returned from his travels. From the window I saw
Mr. Bathgate and Aunt Parker walk about the grounds, in
close conversation ; and at the end of an hour, Aunt Parker
came and led me again into Mr. Bathgate's presence.
Standing with his hat on, he gazed at me and said :
" The situation of this house is everything that can be
desired for you. The air is bracing and salubrious. You
ought to be very happy here. Mrs. Parker is the best
teacher you could have. I am going away. Good-bye."
His voice was so repellent that all I said was, " Good-
bye, sir," in a mechanical tone.
" But," he said, "as sullen as ever, Mrs. Parker."
" ' Rome was not built in a day,' sir," said Aunt Parker,
cheerfully. " We shall do our best."
Her " best," except in the restriction she placed upon
my movements, was simply to let me alone. She never
gave me a lesson; and her aim appeared to be to trouble
80
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
herself as little as possible about me. There was not a
book nor a paper for me to read. Aunt Parker had some
books,which she kept under lock and key. Never by any
chance did she leave one about. As to what was going on
in the world, there might have been no world so far as I
was concerned. I used to love to hear my father tell my
mother the news; and he would continually amuse me by
reading aloud comical stories from the papers. The con-
trast between my life then and now was complete. Some-
times for days together I did not hear the sound of a voice.
This was the case when I had done something which Aunt
Parker construed into a fault. The beds, she said, were
not properly made—how was this possible, indeed, with my
slight form and small hands which would not span the
sheets ?—or there was a little dust on the furniture, or the
bit of drugget in her room was crooked. Then would Aunt
Parker say, after a severe lecture :
" As a punishment I shall not speak to you, and I forbid
you to speak to me, for a week from this date."
I never disobeyed her. We met in the morning and
parted at night in silence; we ate our meals in silence.
There are minds which would have given way under the
oppression of such a system, but through all, thank God, I
preserved my reason. I cannot deny that there were days
when I was in real danger of mental derangement, when,
being alone in my room, I found myself growing hysterical
and on the point of swooning ; but I struggled against these
symptoms, and struggled successfully. I think it was Aunt
Parker herself who gave me strength to bear. " If I cry,
she will smile at me. If I faint, it will give her pleasure."
This was my thought; and although it does not display me
in an amiable light, I am grateful for the safeguard which
such a spirit provided. Then, notwithstanding that not a
note of music was heard in the house, and that there were
no books or papers to read, I had my amusements. There
was the sea to watch, with its shadows of gray and wonder-
ful greens; the tide coming in and going out; the shrimpers,
with some of whose forms I became quite familiar; the
glorious sunsets, and all the mighty beauty of the heavens ;
the lighthouses in the distance; the ships that passed by ;
the birds that no one could prevent from flying over the
wooden walls; and sometimes a grand storm, which en-
thralled and exalted me. Then there was my needle. I
have no doubt that Aunt Parker believed she was inflicting
A NIGHT OF HORROR.
97
It was not possible for me to be mistaken; it was not
possible that his regular movements in front of the door
below were the result of accident; they were premeditated,
and the duty imposed upon him had been drilled into him by
my aunt. How cunning she was ! how cruel, how merci-
less and implacable ! Had I been a venomous creature
she could not treat me more inhumanly. And yet, as will
presently be seen, I did her an injustice in this instance.
I could not fasten the door of my own bedroom. There
were no bolts on it, and it was always locked from within
by Aunt Parker. I searched for the key, but could not
find it; my aunt must have taken it away with her. I tried
to move first my bed, and then a chest of drawers which stood
in my room against my door, but I was not strong enough.
However, while Mad Maxwell was walking in the grounds
I was comparatively safe. The horrible fear which stole
upon me was that he might enter the house, and come up
to my room. What should I do then ? Throw myself
from the window, and be dashed to pieces ?
Looking about for a means of escape in the event of
Mad Maxwell trying to force his way into the room, I
cast my eyes upward, and saw what had never before
attracted my attention, a bolt in the ceiling. The bolt
was in an extreme corner, and it fastened a trap-door
which opened up communication with the roof. Fortu-
nately my chest of drawers was in a corner immediately
below the door. By standing on a chair which I lifted on
the top of the drawers, I found that I could obtain a firm
hold of the bolt. It was difficult to move, being very
rusty, but despair gave me strength, and after incredible
labour I succeeded in drawing it out and in pushing the
trap-door upward. A quantity of heavy dust fell down and
almost blinded me. I thought little of this, however, and
as little of having made my fingers bleed in my struggle
with the rusty bolt. I was too grateful at discovering a
possible means of escape from Mad Maxwell.
The labour of opening the trap-door had been accom-
plished intermittently ; a dozen times at least I descended
from the chest of drawers to see if my keeper was still
outside. There was no change in his movements; he still
kept up his monotonous march to and fro. What surprised
me was that I did not observe him raise his eyes to my
window.
It grew dark. Aunt Parker had left me two candles. One
7
98
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
of these I lighted, and then I brushed the dust from my
clothes, and washed my hands and face. The cold water
refreshed me, and I experienced a sense of hunger; I had
eaten nothing since Aunt Parker's departure. Very little
sufficed to satisfy me; a slice of bread-and-butter and a
draught of milk gave me strength. All the while I ate I
continued to watch Mad Maxwell's movements. There
was no variation in them. I thought it likely that when it
grew dark he would leave his post; I was mistaken. Night
fell, and there he was still. Perhaps he was waiting for
midnight to force his way up. The idea was harrowing. I
opened Nicholas Nickleby, and tried to read, but the words
swam before my eyes. There was nothing I could do but
sit, and start up, and listen, and watch, and walk restlessly
about. I did not dare to undress and go to bed. I did
not dare to put out the light. If there had been a clock in
either of the rooms it would have been an inexpressible
comfort to me ; the night seemed interminable. " It must
soon be morning—it must soon be morning—it must, it
must, it must ! " That was my refrain, and it seemed as
if it would never be morning again, and as if the world and
my life were enwrapped in an eternal night. Tired out and
exhausted, I fell asleep, but my inward agitation was too
great to allow me to sleep long or undisturbed. To wake
up in terror, my heart almost frozen by the thought that
there was someone in the room—to be afraid to move or
breathe—to rise from the chair presently when my courage
returned and creep shrinkingly into Aunt Parker's bed-
room, and look fearsomely around—to go to the door and
try it softly, and draw a long, long breath when I found it
still fastened—to return to my own room where the dim,
flickering light of one thin candle was creating monstrous
shadows on the walls—to peep out of the window and see
Mad Maxwell continuing his monotonous watch—to wonder
whether I had been asleep for minutes or hours—to listen
to the dreary wash of the waves, than which no sound on
earth can bring a deeper despondency to the soul in such
circumstances as mine — to fall into a chair, completely
worn out, and doze—to wake up again palpitating with
fright: in this way passed the interminable night. At
length, at length, a faint grey light appeared in the sky,
grew broader, sweeter, more luminous. The dense blacks
graduated into dark purples, which swiftly now became
light, brought hope and strength, merged into glowing rose-
ALONE WITH MAD MAXWELL.
99
tints, heralding the blessed sun. The tears ran down my
face, and I sank upon my knees in gratitude, and said my
morning prayers. Rising from my knees, I listened, but
could hear no sound of footsteps in the ground. Mad
Maxwell's measured tread had ceased. Very cautiously I
raised the sash and leaned out of the window. Below,
stretched in front of the door, lay Mad Maxwell fast asleep.
He must have sunk, exhausted, at his post, and seemed to
have made no effort to enter the house. His face was
raised to the light, and there were signs of pain and suffer-
ing in it. I threw myself upon my bed, dressed as I was,
and, drawing the counterpane over me, slept long and
peacefully. When I awoke the first sound which saluted
me was the twittering of a friendly bird; it had flown
boldly into the room to pick up the crumbs.
CHAPTER XXII.
alone with mad maxwell.
It was a bright and beautiful day, and there were no signs
of Mad Maxwell when I had washed and prepared break-
fast. I did not light a fire, but I put some sugar in a cup
of milk, and dipped my bread in it. I did not dare to
unlock the door, for though my fears were lessened, they were
not removed. There was another night before me, perhaps
two ; and I had heard from Aunt Parker how cunning mad
people often were, to put those about them off their guard.
This might be the case with Mad Maxwell.
So as to be prepared for an emergency, I mounted the
chest of drawers and stood upon the chair to ascertain
whether it would be very difficult to get through the trap-
door. It certainly was not easy, but an hour's practice
enabled me to raise myself by a spring into a kind of loft.
It was low and dark up there, but there were places where
it would not be difficult to push up the tiles and make a
hole, through which I could mount upon the roof and call
for assistance. There would be a greater chance of my
being seen and heard and rescued there, than if I remained
in the room below.
There was a great deal of lumber in the loft, and under
other circumstances I might have been curious to examine
it, but my only care now was my safety, and all that I did,
7*
100
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
therefore, was to move into a convenient place a short pole
which would enable me to break upward through the tiles
of the roof, should there be need for me to do so. My
survey and all arrangements being completed, I descended
to my room, and sat near my window, from which position I
could see some portion of the public road outside the wooden
boundary of Restoration Hall. No person thence could see
me sitting, as I was doing, well within the room; it was
only when I sat quite close to the window that my face was
visible to people outside, and then only from certain points.
From the sea-shore, with a glass, a person who was curious
could obtain a better view.
The day was Thursday. The night had been so long
that it seemed an age since Aunt Parker had gone away.
Previous to the experience of the past night I should not
have thought it possible for me to wish for her presence
near me, and now I found myself looking forward eagerly
to the hour of her return. Cruel and hard as she was, I
had less to fear from her than from Mad Maxwell.
It was a desolate, lonely locality, and I had frequently
wondered how it was possible that people could live in it
from choice. Two years ago a book had fallen into my
hands, Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia, which I had
read with avidity. The horrors of Siberia had impressed
themselves upon me, and, since my entrance into Restora-
tion Hall, I had sometimes thought that the part of the
country in which it was situated was to England as Siberia
is to Russia, and that there must be many unfortunate
persons confined in it who were suffering great hardships
and miseries. On this bright day, during the afternoon, I
saw but one person in the road, a butcher boy, with a
basket on his arm. He was riding a gray horse, and although
he gazed with great pertinacity up at my window, I took
care that he should not see me. He rode past the house
three or four times, and more than once he waved a white
handkerchief in the air, evidently making signals to some
one. I jumped to the conclusion that he was in league
with Mad Maxwell, and that while the madman was keeping
watch over me inside the grounds, the butcher boy was one
of those who had been sent by Aunt Parker to watch me
from the public thoroughfare outside. There were joints of
meat in the basket which hung upon his arm, and as he
lingered about the house for considerably over an hour, the
idea suggested itself that some of his master's customers
ALONE WITH MAD MAXWELL.
101
were waiting for dinner, and I hoped they would beat him
for the delay. Eventually he disappeared, and I saw no
more of him on that day.
The evening shadows began to fall, and I looked out for
Mad Maxwell. There were no signs of him, and the torture
of his absence, strange as it may sound, was greater than
the torture of his presence. What was he doing ? Had he
devised some cunning plan to take me by surprise ? All
that it was in my power to do was to pray for the time to
pass quickly, which was of little avail, for the minutes were
like hours.
Of the two candles left by Aunt Parker there remained
but one, and so that it should not be all used up—in which
case the whole of to-morrow night would have to be passed
in darkness—I resolved at first to wait till the last moment
before I lighted it, and then to be very careful and saving
of it. I should have carried out this resolution had it not
been for the sudden fear that shot through me that Mad
Maxwell, who must surely be lying in wait in the grounds,
upon looking up at my window, would imagine that I was
asleep, and would take advantage of my unconscious state
to force his way in. I lit the candle instantly; the morrow
must take care of itself.
I dreaded the terrors of the night before me ; I invented
new ones, and magnified them, to harrow my soul. If
Mad Maxwell came and knocked at the door, should I
answer him and attempt to mollify him ? If he set fire to
the house, what should I do ? There would then be no
safety on the roof. I remembered a ladder in the grounds.
What if he were to place it against my bedroom window,
and attempt to force an entrance that way? Would Aunt
Parker ever come back, or had she, out of her hatred for
me, left me to be killed by Mad Maxwell, or to be slowly
starved to death ? Amid such a sea of fears as that which
surged around me, there is generally one feature which
becomes predominant, and in my case this feature was the
ladder. The idea grew stronger every moment, until it
became a conviction, that Mad Maxwell intended to use
the ladder as a means of getting at me. Fixed in front of
the window of Aunt Parker's bedroom were three iron bars
which would not allow of an entrance from without. There
was no such protection to the window in my room.
Clearly, then, I was safer in Aunt Parker's apartment than
in mine. I softly drew back the bolts upon her door, and
102
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
determined to remain in her room during the night. In
the event of my hearing Mad Maxwell make the attempt I
feared, I could quickly turn the key in Aunt Parker's door,
and make my escape down-stairs. I left the communicating
doors between the two rooms open, and left the candle
burning in my bedroom, and sat down by Aunt Parker's
bed and waited. I heard nothing, saw nothing. Not a
sound reached my ears ; there was no movement except the
shifting of the shadows on the walls. Terrible enough, but
I kept whispering to myself, " Don't be frightened, Lina,
don't be frightened; they are only shadows, and can't hurt
you." As on the previous night, I dozed off again and
again, and awoke in deep agitation, my heart beating
violently. But nothing occurred. At what hour it was I
do not know, but it was in the midst of this black night that
a deep sleep fell upon me. Nature compelled me to it; I
was completely exhausted.
It was not to be expected that my sleep would be dream-
less, nor that my fancies should be cheerful ones. My
dreams took the colour of my fears, and the figure of Mad
Maxwell ran through them in the most horribly fantastic
fashion. Now he was a being of monstrous proportions;
he wrenched the house from its foundations, and ran with it
into the sea. Down we plunged, the waves boiling and hissing,
around us, and he crying, "You thought to escape me ; but
I have you tight and safe. Come down, deeper, deeper,
deeper !" Now he was his own unnatural self, and we were
in a wood. After me he raced, and I flew from him among
the trees, till he caught me and threw me up into the
branches of an old oak which grew in my dear garden in
Oaklands. But I was no safer there than elsewhere.
He chased me through the air, and I found myself
suddenly imprisoned in a house on fire. It was the house I
really was in—Restoration Hall. I was alone, but Mad
Maxwell was outside fixing the ladder against the wall! Up
he crept, his wild eyes glaring at me; into the room he
sprang, and clasped me in his arms. Maddened and over-
wrought, I awoke, and thought I saw the madman actually
climbing over the window-sill. I rushed to the door, and
turning the key, flew down-stairs to the front door. It was
unlocked, and the next moment I was in the open air,
running this way and that, wringing my hands in delirious
agony, and screaming for help.
A pitch-black night. Not a star in the sky. I sank to
ALONE WITH MAD MAXWELL. 103
the ground, and burying my face in my hands burst into a
fit of violent weeping. My tears relieved my bursting
heart; gradually I became calmer, and I knew that I was
alone and safe. As I recall this reminiscence, I can see
myself, a pitiful little figure, without a friend in the world to
help me, crouching in the midst of the darkness and the
solitude of that dreadful night.
I gazed upon the house, and saw the dim light of the
candle burning in my room. Thank God! What I had
gone through was a dream. Lonely, friendless as I was, the
sense of comparative safety made me almost happy.
What should I now do? Return to my room? No, I
could not do that. I would keep in the grounds till it was
daylight. Then there would be only one more day and one
more night, and Aunt Parker would be back. I was about
to rise when I heard a moan. I pressed my hand to my
heart. What new and strange terror was now to visit me ?
I lay and listened. The moan was presently repeated—
and repeated yet again in the course of a few moments. It
was the sound of a human being in pain, and there was in
it a note of such exquisite suffering and helplessness that,
after my first sensation of fear was over, a feeling of pity
took possession of me. I had, from my earliest years, felt
not only deep sympathy for suffering, but an overpowering
desire to do something to relieve it. I could not bear to
see any living creature in pain, but never had an appeal
been made to my sympathies in such an extremity as this.
Again and again the moan came to my ears. I could not
resist it. It drew me forward instictively, and I rose and
took a few faltering steps in its direction, and then, in a
sudden revulsion of fright, I turned and fled to the house,
and, running up-stairs, locked myself in Aunt Parker's room,
and stood looking helplessly around. But though I could
no longer hear the sound of suffering, it came spiritually to
my senses, and smote me not only with compassion, but
with shame.
I thought of the face of Mad Maxwell as I had seen it in
the early morning's light, when he had fallen asleep upon
his watch. Its expression was tender and human, and had
left an impression of pity on my mind. Was it possible
that a man who, in his sleeping moments, could raise
emotions so gentle, was capable of such paroxysms of fury
as Aunt Parker had warned me against ? Were he as dan-
gerous as she said he was, surely I should have received
104
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
some confirmation of it during the months I had dwelt in
Restoration Hall. There had been no evidence of violent
madness presented to my senses. His manner was gentle;
the look in his eyes was such as I had seen in the eyes of a
wounded animal; I had never heard the sound of his voice.
Had Aunt Parker not spoken against him I should have
courted his society instead of avoiding him. If there had
been in his mind any desire to form acquaintanceship with
me—as on two or three occasions during the early weeks of
my sojourn in this desolate house there appeared to have
been — he had seen my purposed avoidance of him, and
had not forced his attentions upon me. Was this the con-
duct of a madman ? Then, had my experience of Aunt
Parker taught me to place faith in her statements ? Did I
believe her to be honest and truthful ? Had I not, on the
contrary, the best of reasons for my firm conviction that she
was a false and cruel woman ? If false and cruel to me, why
not false and cruel to Mad Maxwell, who was as much in
her power as I was myself ?
Perhaps not so logically, but in such a form as to cause
me to arrive at a more favourable and kindly opinion of Mad
Maxwell, did these considerations present themselves to me ;
and influenced by them I strove to gather courage to leave
the house, and ascertain whether I could be of any assist-
ance to him. It required a strong effort on my part to
bring myself to this resolution, and a still stronger effort to
carry it out. With trembling limbs I descended the stairs
and opened the front door. There was no change in the
night: I could not see a yard before me, but the darkness
was pierced, as it were, with moans of suffering, which came
more frequently now from the kitchen in which I had often
seen Mad Maxwell at work. I had never been in this
kitchen, and did not know whether Mad Maxwell slept
there. The door was closed when I reached it, and there
was no light visible from without. I lifted the latch, and
finding the door unlocked, entered the room. As I placed
foot in it a moan from the sufferer was arrested in its utter-
ance, and I was greeted by silence and darkness. I took
the precaution to leave the door open as a means of escape
in case of danger, and I waited for a few moments for some
guidance in speech from the man I had come to assist. No
word, however, was spoken to guide me, and, in perplexity
what to do, I groped with my hands upon a table which
stretched lenghtways before me, and found what I was in-
ALONE WITH MAD MAXWELL.
1(5
stinctively and unconsciously searching for — a box of
matches. I immediately struck one, and lit a candle which
fortunately lay near. Raising it above my head, I looked
around.
In a corner of the kitchen, crouched more like an animal
than a human being, against the wall, was Mad Maxwell.
His unshaven face, the wild and mournful eyes which met
my own, the gloom of the apartment, unnerved me for a
while; I put down the lighted candle, and was about to
creep away, when a pathetic sob from the man arrested my
steps.
I turned, and slowly approached him. There was blood
upon the ground, and I saw a great gash in a naked foot
which he was making an effort to nurse. It was so cruel a
wound as to render him incapable of supporting himself
upon the limb. He could do nothing himself to relieve his
suffering—that was clear—and, shocking as was his appear-
ance, I had not the heart to desert him. His wistful eyes
followed my movements, and I knew afterwards, though I
did not then, that he was in doubt whether I had come for
good or ill.
"You will not hurt me ? " I said timidly.
The wistful eyes had now a look of wonder in them, as
though there was to his ears an unaccustomed note of ten-
derness in the voice that addressed him.
" You will not hurt me ? " I repeated.
He made no reply in speech, but he shook his head
gently, and the soiled and hairy face seemed to have a
childlike expression in it which gave me confidence.
"You can speak, can't you ? " I asked, approaching closer
to him.
A wan smile of self-pity came to his lips, and low and
slow was the voice in which he made reply.
"Speak? Yes. A little."
" But you are a man," I said, growing bolder.
" A man ? " he echoed, in the same low, slow tone, which
was that of a being given to much silence, and, therefore,
uncertain of his words. "No. I am a brute. You know
it. She has told you."
Short as this speech was, it occupied a long time in its
utterance.
" Who has told me?" I inquired. " Aunt Parker? "
" Aunt ? "
" Yes, my aunt. Did she tell me, do you mean ? "
ICG
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" Yes."
"No, she did not tell me that."
" Something, then. What?"
I hesitated. Should I be quite open and frank with him ?
If I told him truly the character I had received of him,
and it proved to be really a faithful description, it might
infuriate him. And yet I did not hesitate long. I glanced
behind me to see that the road was clear for escape, and
did not lose sight of the circumstance that his wounded foot
would prevent him from pursuing me.
" She said you were mad."
" Yes," he said, with no change in his singular manner of
speaking, " I am mad."
He acknowledged it, and exhibited no sign of anger. He
acknowledged it in the tone of a child making confession of
a fault. How could I reconcile these opposing evidences ?
" But you will not hurt me," I said, " will you, if I try to
do you good ? I had a dream of you, a frightful dream,
and you were treating me inhumanly. I woke up so terri-
fied—I thought it was real, and that you had climbed up
the ladder into my room to kill me—that I ran out of the
house. Then, when I found that it was not real, and had
got over my fright, I heard you groan, and I thought you
must be in pain, and would like me to come and help you.
It was a long while before I could get courage enough to
come, but now I am here, you see, and your foot is so bad,
and you look so very, very ill, that if I was sure you would
not spring upon me when I am quite in your reach, I would
bathe your foot, and do what I can to make it well. You
won't hurt me, will you—and I may try ? "
At first when I spoke he was looking straight at me, but
as I went on his head sank upon his breast, and I could
not see his face; and now, when I had finished, he held
out his hands, palms upward, with a kind of entreaty in the
action which I could scarcely fail to understand. His face
was still hidden from me, and it seemed to be his wish to
keep it hidden. It was this hiding of the face that rendered
me uncertain what to do; it did not harmonize with the
mute appeal conveyed by the action of his hands, which he
still held wide apart. But my doubts were soon resolved.
He brought his hands slowly together, and clasped them
tightly ; and then he spoke.
" There is a rope under the table; tie my hands with it;
I shall then not be able to hurt you."
THE BRUTE AND MADMAN.
107
The difficulty he had in expressing himself coherently
was surprising in a grown man, and might have still more
discouraged me had it not been for the unmistakable sin-
cerityand despair in his voice. I had read somewhere that
a great actor, when he wished to depict a certain kind of
emotion, had the power of throwing tears in his voice. It
reminded me of Mad Maxwell, on this and other occasions ;
there were tears in his voice when he bade me look under
the table for a rope and bind him with it. I did look
under the table, and I saw the rope, but I made no use of
it. In an uncontrollable impulse of compassion I knelt by
his side and laid my hands upon his wounded foot
CHAPTER XXIII.
the brute and madman".
Kneeling, I could see his face, and I was surprised to
see it bedewed with tears. Another thing surprised me.
Hitherto I had thought of him as a middle-aged man, but
I now saw that he was many years younger than I had
supposed him to be. Begrimed as he was, and unshaven,
he did not appear more than twenty-five. His youth-
fulness, his tears, his gentleness, were in his favour, but
when, with my hands upon him, his frame shook with
emotion, the fears I had of him took instant flight.
Dangerous as he had been described to me, I felt that I was
safe with him.
His foot was sorely wounded, and after a while I gleaned
from him some particulars as to the nature of the accident
and how it occurred. These particulars were imparted to
me disjointedly, and, had not my senses been quickened by
sympathy, would have been incoherent; but by this time
I had learned to somewhat read between the lines with
respect to the strange being with whom I had so strangely
come into sympathetic association.
The accident had occurred in the afternoon, so that he
had lain a dozen hours in agony. He was asleep—being,
as I inferred, tired out with his night's watch—and was
suddenly awakened by a fear that some person had forced
his way into the house, with the intention of injuring me.
Starting wildly up he rushed from the kitchen, but had
scarcely crossed the threshold when his foot came in contact
10S
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
with the rusty blade of a scythe which had fallen across
the door. It cut deep into his flesh, and he sank to the
ground, and, finding he was unable to rise, dragged himself
into the kitchen to the spot upon which he was now lying.
He was incapable of doing anything towards the cure of
his wound, and his pain was so great as to force from him
the groans which I had heard.
It would not be possible for me to set down the singu-
larly disjointed conversation between us which led me to a
knowledge of these particulars; I had to coax and prompt,
and, as I have said, to read between the lines. The track
of blood from the threshold of the door confirmed his
statement, and I had no doubt that when daylight came I
should see the scythe outside.
While the conversation was going on I was attending to
his wound. I lit a fire, and made some water hot, with
which I bathed his foot. I tore my handkerchief, and
bound it as well as I could. Then I placed a basin of
water by his side, and some soap, and at my bidding he
washed his hands and face. He was as obedient as a little
child, and he followed my every movement with a kind of
wondering worship.
I may truly say that the services I was rendering him
were rendered out of kindness of heart. To some extent,
at least, I have no doubt that the terrible weight of loneli-
ness from which I had suffered made me grateful even for
the society of Mad Maxwell. The fact remains, however,
that the wish to disarm him of malice towards me was an
important underlying current in my actions on this night.
If I could win him to my side it would take a terror out of
my life.
I asked him whether he had had anything to eat since
his accident. He shook his head. I asked him then
where the food was kept. He pointed to a cupboard,
which I opened. The only food it contained was about a
quarter of a loaf of bread so hard and stale that I was
unable to break it.
"Is that all you have to eat? " I inquired.
His lips formed rather than spoke the answer, "Yes.w
Now that there was some relief to his long agony, and the
intense strain of his suffering was over, he was fast growing
faint with hunger. His lips were white, his eyes craved for
food. I told him that I had some in my room, and would
go and fetch it for him. He looked at me so wistfully as
THE BKUTE AND MADMAN.
109
I was about to leave him that I knew there was something
he wished to say to me.
" Is there anything else I can do for you," I asked,
" before I go ? I shall not be long."
" Will you come back ? " he murmured.
That was the cause of his wistful look—the fear that I
would desert him.
" Oh, yes," I said, with a smile which I tried to make
bright, " you may be sure I will come back."
" Will you let me touch your hand ? "
I gave him my hand without hesitation ; his own trembled
so that he could not clasp it, and the thought came to me
that if all Aunt Parker's patients during her husband's life-
time had been as gentle as Mad Maxwell they could not
have been very difficult to manage. His tears fell upon
my hand, and I left the kitchen, no longer feeling fear, but
pity, for the hapless and seemingly helpless creature.
How long this night had been ! Even yet there were no
signs of daylight. But darkness was robbed of its terrors
now that I had a human being in some measure dependent
upon me, now that human sympathy and association were
mine. I made my way to my room, in which the candle
was still burning, and took from the cupboard the cold
meat which Aunt Parker had given me, and which I had
not been able to touch, and also bread and the tin of Swiss
milk; and, feeling faint myself, I put tea and sugar in my
pocket. Thus furnished, I retraced my steps, and was
soon in the kitchen again.
The look of wonder and worship with which Mad
Maxwell had followed my movements deepened in inten-
sity when I made my appearance in pursuance of my
promise. He did not speak, but it was evident that his
mind was stirred by a new and novel experience. I made
some tea, and poured him out a cup. Another strange
experience. The taste was foreign to him, but he drank
with avidity, still with his eyes fixed upon me. I gave him
bread-and-butter and the plate of meat. Then I sat down
to my own cup of tea.
I have been particular in the description of the details
of this night for the reason that it is to me most interesting
to recall them, if only as an illustration of what may fall
to the lot of an ordinary life. Had any one predicted,
twelve months before, that I, a simple child, who had been
brought up in the calm shelter of a loving home, should
.110
A YOUNG GILL'S LIFE.
find myself sitting in a place like Restoration Hall on a
dark and desolate night, quietly, even gratefully, sharing a
madman's meal, I should have regarded it as the wildest of
delusions.
There was one thing I wished to be clear upon. Had
Mad Maxwell been set by Aunt Parker to watch over me,
and frustrate any attempt at escape ? I led up to it skil-
fully and delicately, and learned, to my surprise, that I had
done Aunt Parker an injustice. She had given him no
instructions concerning me, and it was solely as a protection
against a possible danger happening to me that he had
taken upon himself the task of patrolling in front of the
door. Witless as he was, he had recognized the help-
lessness of my position, and had constituted himself my
champion and protector. This mark of devotion touched
me deeoly; I had not earned it; I was not worthy of it.
I had never given him a kind word or look; on the con-
trary, I had flown from him in fear and aversion. This
man, whom I had hitherto regarded with horror, had taught
me a lesson of kindness which would have been a credit to
the tenderest heart.
CHAPTER XXIV.
aunt parker returns unexpectedlv and suddenly.
Relieved of the anxiety by which I had been oppressed,
the natural thing for me to do was to go to my own room
and undress and go to bed. But sleep stole upon me
unaware ; my head sank upon the table by which I was
sitting, and I enjoyed the first undisturbed hours of repose
which had been mine since Aunt Parker's departure. I
think that Mad Maxwell had fallen asleep before me, and
that my eyes were on his face, and my mind filled with
wonder that it was not forbidding and repulsive, when
Nature overpowered me and imperatively demanded
repose.
It was broad daylight when I awoke, and the sun was
streaming into the room ; but it was not the strong light
that aroused me. On the side of the table opposite to
that on which my head had been resting sat Aunt Parker.
Was I awake or dreaming? I rubbed my eyes, but did
not rub Aunt Parker away. I closed them and opened
AUNT PAHKER RETURNS UNEXPECTEDLY. Ill
them again, and there she sat as still as a statue, and with a
face as white.
I glanced at Mad Maxwell. He was also awake, and
was gazing first at Aunt Parker, then at me. When I looked
at him his lips moved as though he was speaking, but no
sound issued from them.
How long had Aunt Parker been home ? My senses, for a
few moments, were not quite clear as to whether she had
been away at all, but presently everything that had passed
came to my mind.
" Oh, aunt," I said, jumping up, " I did not think you
were coming home till to-morrow."
" Did you not ? " Her voice was cold, unfeeling, and
stern, and I, who had by this time grown familiar with her
moods, knew that she was keeping some strong passion in
control.
" No, aunt."
" I have returned sooner than you expected ? "
" Yes."
" Come to me—closer !"
I obeyed her, and she seized my two hands, and held
them in one of hers as in a vice. She was a powerful
woman, and had a grip of iron.
" You hurt me !" I cried.
Mad Maxwell, at my cry, made a sudden effort to rise,
and Aunt Parker, quick as lightning, struck him heavily
with a short thong whip which she held in her disengaged
hand, and which I had not till that moment observed. He
sank back, moaning; but if it had been his intention to
interpose in my behalf, he could scarcely heve succeeded;
his wounded foot would have prevented him.
" If you move till I come back," she said to him, " you
shall be whipped and put in chains."
She drew me out of the kitchen, her hand still grasping
my two wrists, and did not release me till we reached
my bedroom.
"Now," she said, standing before me with the whip in
her hand, " explain the whole of this affair to me, and let
me have the truth, or I will lash it out of you."
I considered a moment; I knew that I was dealing with
a furious and malignant woman, and although I cannot deny
that I was frightened, my resolution had not quite deserted
me. The consciousness that I had done no wrong gave me
confidence; the thought that I had no longer an enemy
112
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
in Mad Maxwell helped to strengthen me. Then I remem-
bered that I had sent a letter to my dear nurse, and that,
before thts time, she knew where to find me; this brought
a sense of safety with it. And, ridiculous as it may
appear, even the thought of the Mysterious Being, Alonzo,
stimulated my courage.
"You do not answer me, miss," said Aunt Parker, rais
ing the whip *, " what are you waiting for ? "
" I am waiting," I replied, endeavouring to control my
voice, " for you to whip me."
" You want it, do you ? "
"No, I don't want it, but I shall know what to do if you
treat me so."
" What will you do? Tell your guardians ? "
" I should do that the moment I could; and perhaps
I should be able to let them know, and other people as
well, sooner than you can possibly suspect."
"What!" she cried, glaring suspiciously round. "You
have been conspiring, have you ? "
" How could I do that," I said, more guardedly, "when
you have not allowed me to go outside the walls from the
moment I entered this house ? Whom should I conspire
with ? But it was not that I meant."
" What then ? "
" That you want me to tell you all that has occurred
while you have been away, and that I won't speak one word
about it if you whip me."
" You have courage enough to brave me to my face ? " she
exclaimed. "Take care—take care ! I have tamed strong
men and women, and brought them on their knees to me."
"Yes," I said, recklessly, "and killed them, perhaps, as
you may kill me. But, Aunt Parker," I added, acting upon
a second thought, " often a piece of newspaper comes blow-
ing over the wall."
" Well ? "
" You couldn't prevent me picking them up and reading
them, and sometimes I have read of persons who have
been found dead."
" Go on, miss ; I am taking account of you."
"And," I said, slowly, "of an inquest being held on
them."
She started; I must have touched her on a vulnerable
point.
"You are either much changed since I have had charge
AUNT PARKER RETURNS UNEXPECTEDLY. 113
of you," she said, " or you disguised your real bad nature
from your guardians and me. You have the boldness and
temerity of a grown woman."
" My nature is not changed," I retorted, " and I hope
I may never be bold and bad. But you have behaved so
cruelly to me that I am obliged to try and think of things
for myself."
" So you thought of being killed and having an inquest held
on you. Let me remind you, young lady, that I am
keeping a record of everything you say and do, and that
it may be brought against you at the proper time."
" I also," I said, defiantly—I saw that in some way I
had obtained an advantage over her, and I knew it would
be for my good now not to yield, but to be brave—" may be
writing things down about you which I am taking care of,
and which may be found if anything shocking happens to
me. If you whip me, people shall know; it will be best
to treat me kindly, indeed, indeed, it will! I have done
nothing wrong since you have been away, and I am willing
to tell you everything from the first to last. I never in-
tended to hide it from you, never !"
"Tell me, then."
" Not till you throw away that whip. While you stand
over me threatening me with it I hardly know what I am
saying."
She threw the whip behind her into her own room.
" It is perfectly clear to me," she said, composedly,
" that you are not accountable for what you say, and that
you are labouring under delusions. What I feared, and
what your guardian, Mr. Bathgate, feared, may, unhappily
for you, come to pass. That is in the future, however;
our business is with the present. Explain to me how it is
that, upon my return, I find you sleeping in the room occu-
pied by a madman against whom I have given you the
strongest warnings. I can do nothing more than warn
you and look after you; if you come to harm, it will lie at
your door, not at mine. As for killing you, young lady,
I don't mind making a humiliating confession to you which
will prove how monstrous such an idea must be. When I
came to your father's house, at the time he was lying on
his deathbed, it was for the purpose of asking him to render
me some assistance, which it is likely he would have done
had he been in his right senses. Do you know the worst
misfortune that can happen to a person ? It is to be poor.
8
114
A YOUNG GIEL'S LIFE.
Much better to he mad. Then you are taken care of.
When you are poor you have to take care of yourself.
That is what I had to do—and to take care of others
as well. I had fallen into misfortune—I had lost all my
money. What do you think of that ? "
" I am sorry for you," I said.
" You show your sorrow. Well, I came to your father to ask
him to help me. He was dying, and my reasonable expecta-
tion was that he would have put me down in his will for
something handsome. He did not. He chose to forget
me. He thought of others who were strangers to him, he
left them money, but to me not a penny. 1 had nothing to
live on when your guardians offered me the charge of you ;
I should have nothing to live on if you were dead. Now,
pray tell me in what way it would benefit me to kill you ?
No, miss ; it is to my advantage that you should be alive."
" Then," I said, " why won't you let me be happy ? "
"You are happy," she retorted ; "there is nothing but
your bad heart and wicked mind to make you anything
else."
" I have not a bad heart, Aunt Parker," I said. "I
have not a wicked mind ; and it is impossible I can be
happy in such a place as this."
"Your guardians selected it for you; they know what is
best for you. And now you will inform me how it was I
found you in the kitchen with Mad Maxwell."
I told her all; I described my fears, my terror, and
the horrible nights I had passed through. I related how I
had heard poor Maxwell's groans, and how I had gone to
his assistance, and what I had done for him. I omitted
nothing, disguised nothing; I was truthful and eloquent, and
had she been my friend she would surely have shown some
sympathy for me. But she listened apparently unmoved;
her eyes were stern, her lips were set; had she been made
of stone she could not have exhibited less feeling.
" Mad Maxwell," she said, "when you called him a man,
denied it. He -said he was a brute."
" Yes."
"And when you informed him that I had told you he
was mad, he confessed that I spoke the truth."
"Yes."
" That should be sufficient for you. As for your fears,
you are mistaken if you think you have imposed upon
me "
AUNT PARKER RETURNS UNEXPECTEDLY. 115
She paused suddenly here; for the first time she saw the
trap-door in the ceiling open. She laid her hand upon my
shoulder, and grasped it fiercely.
" Who did that ? " she cried, pointing upward.
I had inadvertently made no mention of my discovery
of the trap-door ; in the light of other events it was so un-
important that it had escaped me.
"I did. Aunt Parker, you are hurting me again. If
you don't take your hand away, I will not answer your
questions."
"Very well, then," she said, removing her hand, "we
will try moral force, which you will find less pleasant. Tell
me instantly why that trap-door is open."
I told her, and said it was quite by accident I had not
mentioned it before. She paid no heed to my excuses,
but asked me whether I had gone into the loft. I replied
that I had.
" There are some old boxes up there. Did you open
them ? "
" No."
" Did you try to open them ? "
" No."
" On your oath, miss ? "
" I did not touch them, aunt."
She mounted the chest of drawers, and, pulling down the
trap-door, forced the bolt into its socket. Then she dis-
mounted and left the room, making prisoner of me by
locking the door. In a few minutes she returned with
hammer, nails, padlock, and hasp. To fix the padlock
in the required position, so that I could not open the trap-
door again without tools, was not an easy task, but she ac-
complished it. Then, standing before me, hot and flushed,
she said :
" I have heard all you chose to say, and I know what
faith to place in it. Lies. Every word you have spoken.
Lies. You set yourself in opposition to me ; you defy me ;
you repay my kindness with treachery; you play Miss Meek
before my face and Miss Brass when my back is turned.
You try to discover secrets, do you ? You are the sort of
sneak that would open other people's letters and read
them ; that pretends to be asleep when you are wide awake.
I know your kind, and know how to deal with such. For one
month you do not stir out of this room—for one whole
month. During that time I will not open my mouth to
8*
116
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
you, nor will I lay a hand upon you. Oh, you shall have
no reason to complain of my unkindness ! What orders I
give you I will write down on paper, and the next time I
put any trust in you remind me of the manner in which
you have behaved these last three days. If I had to go
away again I will take care that you are properly guarded
and looked after. Once bit, twice shy, young lady."
She saw the books she had given me on the table, and
she advanced towards them. Divining her intention I
threw myself before her.
" They are mine," I said; " you shall not take them
away."
" Shall not !"
"Yes, aunt, you shall not. You can lock me up, as you
threaten; I can't help it, and nothing that I say will pre-
vent you. You can refuse to speak to me for a month, or
a year, if you please; I can't make you, and I only wish
you had never, never spoken to me at all. But you shall
not rob me, aunt."
" Rob you, Miss Impertinence ? "
"Yes, rob me. The books are mine, my very own.
You gave them to me, and you promised not to take
them away."
" I gave them to you on the understanding that you were
good and obedient during my absence."
"You gave them to me," I said, stoutly, "without any
understanding at all. If I had broken my promise—if I
had tried to run away—you would have some excuse for
taking the books from me. But now you have none.
And you made me another promise which perhaps you
have forgotten."
Something like a gleam of pleasure flashed into her eyes
She left the room quickly, and was absent for five or six
minutes. When she returned she brought with her a bird-
cage covered with a cloth.
"You are right, young lady. I promised you a cage
with a bird in it. Here it is."
I took it eagerly from her hands, and removed the cloth.
At the bottom of the cage lay a dead linnet.
ONLY A KITE
117
CHAPTER XXV.-
only a kite.
It was a most ciuel revenge. I cannot think of any act
more deliberately vindictive. Aunt Parker's last words to
me, before she left the room, were:
" I never forfeit my word. When I promised you a cage
with a bird in it, there was no stipulation that it should be
a live bird. You will find me very faithful in all my deal-
ings. A good example for you to copy. There is your
bird. Make the most of it."
It was a wicked, unnecessary murder. The poor little
thing was but just killed, and I felt as if I myself were
partly guilty. I shed many tears over it, and kissed the
tiny body which, living, would have given me so much joy.
She carried out her threat of keeping me prisoner for a
month, and she did not speak one word to me the whole of
that time. It was no punishment. She had filled me so
thoroughly with aversion of her that I was happy in her
absence, and her silence brought peace to my heart. There
are circumstances which happen, I hope, only to the few,
when one is forced to feed upon the inner life. In rare
cases this proves a blessing; forces are awakened and
brought to light of which beneficial use may be made all
through life, in youth and old age alike—forces which other-
wise must have remained hidden, wasting their sweetness,
as it were. To some extent this was the case with me; the
punishments inflicted upon me by Aunt Parker fortified
my soul and strengthened my moral nature.
My window was a source of joy. Summer was approach-
ing. Aunt Parker could not prevent that, nor could she
stop the singing of the birds. I drew gladness from the
gladness of nature. The sea, the clouds, the air—I taught
myself to be thankful for these. And my books, my mute
and priceless treasures, what exquisite pleasure I derived
from them! They were real—the characters lived, and
became my friends. I read and re-read, and never tired of
118
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
them. I fell in love—I worshipped. I travelled in fancy
over sea and land, through boundless prairies and gorgeous
forests; I sat in wigwams with the Indians; I knelt by the
side of the bed in which Eva lay dying, and saw angels
hovering over her. But best of all, though Uncle Tom and
Eva held and enthralled me—(I remember I used to think
what a frightful specimen of a slave-driver Aunt Parker would
have made)—most enchanting of all the story-books that
ever were written was Nicholas Nickleby. To this hour it
occupies the first place, and nothing can destroy my belief
that the magician who wrote it was acquainted with every
man and woman whose portraits he drew in its enchanted
pages. As I compared Aunt Parker to a slave-driver in
Uncle Tonis Cabin, so I found a likeness in Mr. Bathgate
to Ralph Nickleby, and something of a likeness in Mad
Maxwell to poor Smike.
I saw Mad Maxwell often from my window. Sometimes
he looked up timidly and wistfully, and then I would smile
upon him ; at other times he was most careful in avoiding
my eye, and by that sign I knew that Aunt Parker was
near.
I have spoken of a little bit of garden he tended in which
only vegetables were allowed to grow, and it was towards
the end of the month of my imprisonment that I noticed
something which brought a sense of sweetness to my heart.
Mad Maxwell was cultivating a few simple flowers, and I
knew that he was cultivating them for me. Heaven knows
where he had got the roots and seeds, but there they were,
and in course of time they became bright with colour. I
am running ahead a few weeks in speaking of this, but long
before the bloom appeared I was aware of the labour of
love in which he was engaged, and I tried to make him
understand by signs how much I appreciated it. Aunt
Parker, not suspecting that they were grown for me, did
not uproot them, as she would inevitably have done had
she had a glimmering of the truth ; and thus was she de-
feated by a silent conspiracy of affection between me and
Mad Maxwell.
Outside the grounds, as I sat by the window, the most
familiar figure was that of the butcher-boy who had attracted
my attention when Aunt Parker was away. He made his
appearance two or three times a week, always on horseback,
and always with a basket containing joints of meat hanging
on his arm. Having done him an injustice in believing
ALONZO DOES ME GOOD SEEVIOE. 119
him to be conspiring against me, I thought it due to him
now not to avoid him by retreating from the window when
he came in sight—though how he could know I had been
unjust to him and now wished to atone for it would certainly
not have been very clear to me had I taken the trouble to
discuss the matter with myself. I did not discuss it, how-
ever; I simply sat at the window, and wondered what on
earth he meant by looking up at me so pertinaciously and
waving a white handkerchief wildly in the air. On two
occasions he wore the handkerchief in his. cap, so arranging
it that as he gallopped quickly past the house it floated be-
hind him like a flag. I came to the conclusion that he was
a very undesirable boy for any butcher to employ, and
thought, if I had an establishment of my own and dealt
with his master, that it would be decidedly necessary to
request that another boy should be sent home with the
meat. There was a sameness about his movements which
rather palled upon me, and it was therefore an agree-
able diversion when I saw him one day make his appearance
without his horse and basket of meat. He was either
playing truant or was out for a holiday, for hanging upon
his arm-was a kite. A small mater to mention, but, as it
turned out, of great importance to me.
CHAPTER XXVI.
alonzo, my faithful knight, does me good service.
He was a big boy for a kite, for I should have judged him
to be not less than sixteen years of age. His height,
indeed, would have proclaimed him older; he was lank and
lean, but his face had no signs of beard or moustache on it,
and there was that kind of uncertainty about his legs which
is an attribute of youthfulness. To say that he carried
the kite as a lad would carry a toy would not be quite
correct; he wore it, rather, in the manner of a shield, throw-
ing it valiantly before his body, after the fashion of a knight
of the good old times (in pictures) equipped for mortal
combat. His notions, perhaps, lacked dignity and repose,
but he was conspicuously in earnest.
Upon his first coming into view his left side was towards
me, and his kite, being on his right arm, was partially hidden
from nw sight; but the moment he beheld me at the win-
120
A TOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
dow he wheeled round, and held his paper shield aloft.
Painted upon it in blood-red colour was a name ; the letters
were bold and distinct, and they spelt "Alonzo."
My astonishment was great, and I could scarcely believe
my eyes; but there was no room for doubt. This, then,
was my hero, my Mysterious Being, my Saint George who
had vowed fealty to me, and who had pledged his knightly
honour to serve me faithfully—this long, lank butcher-boy,
whose trousers were too short for his legs. The ridiculous
side of the discovery made such an impression upon me
that I burst out laughing. Seeing me laugh, his face
broadened also, but very soon grew sombre, as became one
of his self-invested dignity. He placed his hand upon his
heart—throwing his kite aside to afford me a full view of
his waistcoat—and bowed almost to the ground. This
made me laugh the more, and I was compelled by prudence
to retreat from the window, fearing that either my merri-
ment, which I could scarcely check, or his open movements
would draw Aunt Parker's attention upon us.
When I returned to the window, after an absence of a
few minutes, I observed that he had fixed a tail to the kite
and was preparing to fly it. His face expressed satisfaction
at my reappearance, and by signs, which I was glad to see
were cautiously made, he succeeded in conveying to my
understanding some kind of idea that the flying of his kite
was not exactly a pastime, but was done with serious in-
tention. This notion, slight at first, grew stronger in the
light of his manifest earnestness ; he spoke and pointed to
the kite. What he said could not, of course, from that
distance reach me, but his actions had a meaning in them
which I could scarcely misunderstand, and when, taking
something out of his pocket, which looked like a letter
(though the envelope was astonishingly large), he flaunted it
in the air, and proceeded deliberately to fasten it to the kite
by means of pins, I knew that he was about to endeavour to
communicate with me. I would have dissuaded him if I
could, there was such danger in the attempt; indeed, I did
shake my head at him very emphatically, but he would not
be denied. He simply smiled radiantly and confidently, and
proceeded with his task.
The wind was blowing in the direction of my window,
and at a favourable moment he let the kite fly. So skilfully
did he manage it that it was soon within reach of my hand,
and with a desperate disregard of consequences I stretched
ALONZO DOES ME GOOD SERVICE. 121
out of the window and seized it. In less time than it takes
me to write the words I detached the letter, scarcely taking
time to unpin it, so eager and excited had I grown. The
moment it was in my possession Alonzo expressed his
satisfaction by going through a solemn and stately form of
dance, which he probably intended to represent a minuet;
anything in the shape of a double shuffle or other popular
steps which an ordinary boy would have executed being
evidently beneath him.
My anxiety now was to ascertain whether our movements
had attracted Aunt Parker's attention. Had they done so
she would have lost no time in making us aware of it.
Fortune favoured us; Aunt Parker did not make her
appearance. It was an instance of Alonzo's thoughtfulness
that he did not immediately pull in his kite; he was
doubtless providing for the future, when he might have
occasion again to employ his novel aerial post-office. He
flew it along the road for some ten minutes or so, and finally
drew it in, and, using it once more as a shield, departed
triumphant.
I held the envelope in my hand, little dreaming of the
delight in store for me. It was a large letter, written upon
very thin paper, and had it not been for the strong wind
that was blowing it might have weighed down the kite.
The back and front of the envelope was completely covered
with writing, to the following effect:
"Fair One of the Fortress,—What malignant star
has torn thee from Alonzo ? For weeks I have languished
at the portal, calling upon thee. Only the wild birds and
the mournful echoes have answered me. Is it to be ever
thus ? Rack not this bosom with deeper anguish. Smile
again upon me, and let me hear thy loved voice. Then
will the gates of heaven open, and bliss once more be mine.
Remember, I am thine till the icy finger of death beckons
me. Bid me do or die. At thy bidding I will pluck the
stars from the firmament. But I will brook no rival.
Mark me well—in spite of his fine clothes, one of us must
fall. For me, Paradise or the Tomb. Meanwhile, if a
letter is to be posted, ever at his post will be found
" The Hapless and Faithful Alonzo."
To read this without smiling was impossible, and I
remember thinking that he must have gathered it cut of a
124
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
to the lock-up. And there's something else you've got to
think of. Miss Lina writes to you in secret—she says so
herself; she gets her letter posted in secret by that fellow
that signs himself Alonzo—a rum chap he must be, but
there must be a lot of good stuff in him, though it does
seem as if he has got a tile loose—and it's all done that
neatly and cleverly that Aunt Parker hasn't a shadow of
suspicion. If she finds out how she's been cheated she'll
be that mad that there's no saying what she might be driven
to do. As likely as not, whisk Miss Lina off to foreign
parts where you'd have as much chance of getting at her
as of getting to the moon. No, no, Deb,' said Rube, 'you
must give up that idea.'
" I gave it up without another word, and I was thankful
I had Brother Rube's cleverness to help me in thinking the
matter out. But couldn't we see each other without your
wicked Aunt Parker knowing anything about it ? If you
can see the shrimpers from your window, what is to hinder
you seeing your old nurse and servant, especially if she told
you how she was going to be dressed ? ' There's my dear
nurse,' you would say to yourself: ' she isn't altered a bit,
and never will alter; she would go through fire and water
to serve me.' 'There is my dear young mistress,' I would
say to myself, ' my poor, dear, suffering young mistress.
She can see me; she is looking at me now, and knows I
am true to her, and am only looking forward to the day
when I can really serve her.'
" It made me quite excited to think of it. I spoke of it
to Rube.
" ' It isn't half a bad idea,' he said, ' but nothing must
be done in a hurry. That Aunt Parker is about as clever
as they make 'em, and we must fight her with her own
weapons, cunning and slyness. I'll tell you what I'll do.
I'll go and have a chat with a fellow I know that's clerk in
a lawyer's office, and I'll take his opinion. I won't mention
names, but I'll put a case to him.'
"Well, dear, what does Rube do but bring his lawyer
friend home that very night. They come into the parlour,
and Rube says to me, with a wink:
" ' We're going to have a glass and a chat, Deb, if you
don't mind. This is my old friend Mw^Stimson.- • He
knows a thing or two. Perhaps you can give us a bit of
supper ?'
" There's no perhaps in it. I give them as fine a dish ot
NURSE ELLIOT'S LETTER.
125
tripe and onions as ever was placed before a hungry man.
And hungry Mr. Stimson must have been, for he ate three
parts of the stew. He was heartily welcome to it; he
looked half-starved.
"Well, I sit, and sew, and listen to their conversation,
and the way Rube leads Mr. Stimson to the point makes
me prouder than ever of him. Having got thoroughly into
the law, Rube says, ' We'll suppose a case,' and he puts one
to Mr. Stimson, but that one is not yours, dear. Then,
when that is disposed of by Mr. Stimson, Rube says, 'We'll
suppose another case,' and after Mr. Stimson has settled
that, Rube turns to me, and says, ' Did you ever hear such
a man, Deb ? He ought to be sitting on the woolsack,
oughtn't he?' I say, ' Yes, he ought,' because I know that
is what Rube wishes me to say—though what good it would
do Mr. Stimson to sit on a woolsack beats me hollow. I
am sure he would be more comfortable in a chair. Then,
at last, Rube says, ' We'll suppose another case;' and he
puts yours, and puts it very clearly, my dear. I'll cut a long
story short, dear, by telling you that Mr. Stimson's opinion
is dead against us. There is no possible chance of the law
doing anything for you. For all the protection it can give
you and the good it can do for you, you might as well be a
piece of wood. I am not sure, so far as the law is concerned,
whether it wouldn't be better if you were made of wood
instead of flesh and blood.
" I was that angry after Mr. Stimson went away that I
said a good many unreasonable things.
"'Which won't mend matters,' said Rube, after I had
run myself down ; ' we'll do something or other in spite of
the law, though I don't say I'll be a party to anything that
will put me in its clutches. Miss Lina would be the
last person in the world to expect it. The best thing we
can do, Deb, is to go to bed and sleep on it.'
" I came up to my room, where I am now; I felt, my
dear child, I could not go to bed without writing to you.
And to think of my writing such a long, long letter ! It's a
good job I can write small, or I should use up ever so many
sheets of paper.
" I intended to tell you such a lot about Rube and me—
how we live and what we do. Of course you know that Rube
is a single man, so that we have the house all to ourselves.
When I came to Rube there were some lodgers upstairs, but
Rube got rid of them, and there is a room we call your
123
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
"Lorimer and Bathgate may be hop merchants, my dear,
but there were no signs of hops in the little room I found
myself in when I knocked at a door with Lorimer and
Bathgate painted on it, and was told to come in. All that
I saw was cobwebs and two men, one old and one young,
writing at a desk. The young one looked up when I
opened the door, and when I asked if Messrs. Lorimer and
Bathgate was in, he said :
"'Yes, both of them, but engaged. What do you
want ? '
" ' I want to see them,' I said, a little bit frightened ; for
he spoke short and quick, as if he was in a great hurry.
" ' Can't disturb them,' said the young clerk; ' you'd
better write a letter.'
" He took no more notice of me, so I stood and stared
at the cobwebs, and wished I had a broom.
" My dear, I must have stood there half an hour and more,
and those rude fellows never so much as offered me a chair.
I was that tired and worn out that my legs were ready to
drop off, when a door at the end of the room was suddenly
opened, and a young gentleman came in and went to a light
overcoat that was hanging on a peg, and felt in the pockets
for something. As he was doing this, his eyes fell upon
me, and there was something so kind and bright in his face
that I was bold enough to take a step forward.
" ' Can I do anything for you ?' he asked.
" The clerk who had spoken to me said,
" ' She is waiting to see the principals.'
" And before he could say anything more, I said,
quickly,
"' I've been standing here for nearly an hour, sir, and
I'm fit to drop.'
" ' You might have given the lady a chair,' said the young
gentleman to the clerk. ' Is your business very particular ?
Here, come in.'
"And before I knew where I was or how it had come
about, there I was in the room, and Mr. Bathgate and Mr.
Lorimer sitting in two chairs.
" ' This lady wants to see you,' said the young gentleman,
' and has been waiting an hour.'
" The idea of his calling me a lady!
" I knew your guardians at once, my dear child, but
they did not know me. Mr. Bathgate looked as stern.as
ever, and Mr. Lorimer as kind.
NURSE ELLIOT WITH MY GUARDIANS.
129
"'I must beg,'said Mr. Bathgate to the young gentle-
man, ' that you will not interfere with the regular conduct
of our business. We were not established yesterday.'
"' I should think not, indeed !' interrupted the young
gentleman, in a gay tone. (My dear, as he stood in that
gloomy room, which I could not help feeling was made
darker and gloomier by Mr. Bathgate's stern face, I can
compare him to nothing else than a sunbeam. His bright
eyes, his cheery voice, his smart clothes, and the flower in
his button-hole, seemed to light up the whole place.) ' Estab-
lished yesterday ! Why the firm of Lorimer & Lorimer was
known and respected all England over a century ago and
more. Doing business in this very office, too, where my
grandfather sat, and my great-grandfather before him, at
that very desk. It's wonderful to think of. There they
are, the Lorimers who established the business, and any
number of others who followed them, all turned to dust in
their graves3 while we, who shouldn't be talking here
together, but for them—that's worth thinking of, mind you
—are alive and well and hearty, full of schemes, full of
hope, with all sails set, and a fair wind blowing.'
" 'Tush, tush, tush !" said Mr. Bathgate, frowning harder
than ever. 'We are not here to talk like a parcel of
schoolboys 3 we are here to talk business. Throw frivolity
aside."
" ' Not entirely, my dear sir,' again interrupted the young
gentleman, whose high spirits carried him on against his
will; ' a little frivolity is good and wholesome3 a digestive,
my dear sir. Why, I have heard my dear old dad here
tell stories of his father and grandfather, bristling all over
with fun. They were fond of a joke, as all good fellows
are, and didn't think it at all necessary for the proper
conduct of their business that they should walk through life
as if they were going to a funeral every day.'
" ' I must positively remind ycu,' said Mr. Bathgate, with
no change in his manner, ' that we are here to discuss a
matter of some importance.'
"' There is no occasion to remind me,' said the young
gentleman. ' I am quite ready to discuss it, though, as far
as I am concerned, it can be settled with very few words.
It rests with my dad.'
" His voice, my dear, when he spoke of his father, was
full of affection 3 and, of course, I knew, without being told,
.that he was Mr. Lorimer's son, who was abroad when your
Q
132
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
me that this good woman hasn't spoken a word that any
other would not have spoken in her place.'
"eAt all events,' said Mr. Bathgate, 'it is not her place
to interfere with our trust, or to question our mode of
executing it. If I expressed myself warmly, I am sorry for
it. We will soon dispose of this affair. Now,' and he set
his black eyes full on my face, 'what is it you want to
know ?'
" ' I took the liberty of coming, sir,' I said, ' to inquire if
my dear young mistress was well.'
" ' She is quite well,' said Mr. Bathgate.
"'1 hope she is happy, sir.'
" ' She is quite happy.'
"' I suppose it is too much to ask whether I might see
her for a few minutes ?'
" 'A good deal too much.'
"'Or that you would give me her address, so that I
might write to her ?'
"'She does not require any letters from you. She is
happy and contented. She does not wish to see you or
communicate with you. If she did she would let me know
You were in the service of her parents, and you were well
paid. Have I answered you fully ?'
"'Yes, sir,' I said, with a heavy heart
" ' Any further question to ask ? '
"'No, sir.'
"' Then, as we have important business to transact, we
will wish you good-day.'
"' Good-day, sir,' I said; and as I had no other excuse
for remaining, I went out of the office."
CHAPTER XXX.
mr. ned stands up in defence of his father.
" My dear, if my heart had been heavy during the last tew
minutes, when Mr. Bathgate was talking to me, it was a
good deal heavier as I walked slowly down the stairs of
Rickett's Buildings. I was tormented with the idea that
I had done mischief, and that I had better have kept away.
What had I gained by going? What had I leained?
That you were happy, according to Mr. Bathgate's show-
ing, when I knew from your letter that you were wretched
ME. NED DEFENDING HIS FATHER. 133
and miserable. Mr. Bathgate knew that, too, and I could
have beaten myself at the thought that I had made him
more than ever your enemy. You may imagine how bad I
felt
" But after I had worked myself up into a regular fever,
there came all at once a little bit of sunshine when I
thought of Mr. Ned. You never in all your life saw such a
difference between two men as there is between him and
Mr. Bathgate. One is day, the other is night. One is
like wine, the other like poison. As for Mr. Lorimer, I
didn't know what to think. He doesn't seem to have a
mind of his own.
" The thought of handsome, bright, cheery Mr. Ned was
my little bit of sunshine; but a bigger bit of sunshine
came joyfully and unexpectedly before I got to the end of
the street. It was really, my dear child, as if the full beauti-
ful sun had broken out in the very middle of a dark and
heavy night.
" Yes, my dear. Mr. Ned came and put his hand lightly
on my shoulder, and said :
" ' Ah, I was afraid I should miss you. How slow you
have walked. I ran out of the office as soon as. ever I could ;
I wanted to speak to you. What is the matter with you ?
You are crying.'
" It is a fact, my dear; the tears were running down my
face. What strangers must have thought of me goodness
only knows.
" 'This will never do,' said Mr. Ned. 'Turn in here a
minute. Now, what will you have? A glass of sherry?
A glass of port ? No? What then? A glass of water!
Nonsense ; It will only run out of your eyes. Make it
lemonade ; your tears will be all the sweeter.'
" Who could help laughing at that ? I couldn't. Besides,
I was crying as much from joy as from grief, Mr. Ned's
voice was so kind and sympathetic.
" He had taken me into a pastry-cook's shop, and had
led me to a compartment where we were quite alone.
Not a soul could see us.
" There was a little marble table and a couple of chairs.
He pushed me down into one, and said in his quick, kind
way
"'No, we won't have lemonade. Something more
substantial. Turtle soup. What do you say to turtle
soup ?'
136
A YOUNG GILL'S LIFE
out first rather than it should speak one word to cause
you or your honoured father a moment's uneasi-
ness !'
" He looked at me long and earnestly, and I saw that
he was trying to make up his mind whether I was a base or
an honest woman.
444 Can you not see,' he said, 4 if your young lady is
unhappy and wretched, as you say she is, that something
lies at my father's door which is a reproach against him ?
In plain words, you bring an accusation against him of
having failed in his duty.'
" ' Heaven forbid, sir !' I cried. 4 But do you forget
that Mr. Bathgate is her guardian, also ?'
"'No, I do not forget it,' he said, 4though I am not
thinking of him at all in the matter.'
" ' But you ?nust think of him, sir,' I said, 44 for he is the
cause of all the mischief. I don't pretend to be very wise,
but it seems to me, for some reason of his own, that Mr.
Bathgate has taken entirely upon himself the control of
my dear young mistress, and that your honoured father has
given it over to him without the least idea that she is un-
happy and miserable because of what Mr. Bathgate has
done. My young mistress was deeply grateful to your
honoured father for the kindness he showed her ; he spoke
to her most beautifully, sir, and said a great deal about you
to her which proved how good he was, how sweet-tempered
and tender-hearted. But Mr. Bathgate wouldn't let him be
kind ; I was a witness of it, and I am speaking honest
truth, and there is a wicked woman at the bottom of it,
and how my dear, sweet mistress stands up against it is a
mystery to me !'
441 couldn't go on, my dear, for the tears were running
down my face, and I was almost choked.
44 ' There, there !' he said, in a gentle tone. 4 You could
have meant no harm—I am sure you could have meant no
harm. If any wrong is being done, we must endeavour to
set it right. Though Mr. Bathgate is a pill—I must say
that. And then, there's this worrying hop business.' He
scratched his head whimsically, and I was thankful to see
that he was no longer angry with me. 4 What with mildew,
and insects, and too much rain and too little sun, or too
much sun and too little rain, it is playing the very deuce.
But you don't understand it, and I don't pretend to. A
wicked woman, you say. Who is she ?'
MB, NED VISITS MY NUBSE.
137
" * Mrs. Parker, sir, my young lady's aunt, but many de-
grees removed. It's a long story, sir, and if I dared to take
the liberty I would ask you to come round to my brother
Rube's, and hear what I've got to say.'
"'Yes, of course,' he said; 'having heard so much I
must hear more. Will this evening do ? I will pop round
about nine, if that time will suit. What is the address ?'
" So I gave him Rube's address, and he comforted me
by shaking hands with me before we parted.
" When I got home I told Rube everything, and he
said:
" ' There's only one thing to be done, Deb. You must
make a clean breast of it. Tell him everything. He'll
think none the worse of you for throwing dust in Mr.
Bathgate's eyes this morning. He's coming at nine,
is he ! We'll give him a tripe supper, Deb. I'll back
you for a dish of tripe against any woman in England.' "
CHAPTER XXXI.
MR. NED PAYS A VISIT TO MY NURSE AND RUBE IN THE
BOROUGH.
" You may imagine, my dear young lady, what a flutter I
was in the whole livelong day. You may be sure I made
the room very smart, and Rube laughed at my going out to
buy a new table-cover.
" ' A body would think a prince was coming to see us,'
said Rube.
"' A prince is coming,' I said, ' my young lady's
prince.'
" Long before nine o'clock I began to look for Mr. Ned,
and said I was sure that there was something the matter
with the clock, it went so slow. There was really no
occasion for me to worry; a few minutes after nine a cab
drove up to the door, and out jumped Mr. Ned.
" ' Thought I wasn't coming, I dare say, Mrs. Elliot,' he
said, as he came in.
"'Yes, sir, that she did,' said Rube. ' It's a wonder
there's anything left of her, she's been fretting so.'
" I could have boxed Rube's ears, I could, for making so
■ free and easy, and being so familiar all at once, but Mr. Ned
didn't seem to mind it. On the contrary, when I said, 'This is
140
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
gentleman that his son has come home. Mr. Ned
won't see his father put upon, and, perhaps, Mr. Bath-
gate has met his match. I hope so with all my heart."
* * * * * *
"What a long, long letter I wrote to you last night, my
dear ! It astonishes me to look at it, and I never thought
it was in me to write in such a way. But then I had so
much to tell.
" I am writing to you now again at night. It won't be
anything like so much and so long as I wrote last night,
but there will be something in it which I think will
please you more than all the rest put together.
" I waited anxiously all day for Ned, but he did not put
in an appearance till evening.
" ' I thought it would be more convenient,' he said,
' your brother being a business man.'
"'It doesn't matter about Rube, sir,' I said; 'his
heart is almost as much in this matter as mine is.'
"'Indeed,' said Mr. Ned; 'he must be made of the
right sort of stuff. Is it only for your sake that he takes so
much interest in Miss Durham ? '
" ' Only for my sake, sir; he has never so much as set
eyes on Miss Lina's pretty face.'
" Then, to prove to him how good Rube is, I showed
him the room we had ready for you if it should ever chance
that you had the opportunity of coming to us for a little
while. He was very pleased with it, and with some fresh
flowers I had put in a little glass on the table, and said it
looked as if we were both very much in earnest. Then we
went down-stairs, and he asked me a lot of questions about
you, some of them curious ones which I need not put down
here. I answered him as well as I could, and, fancying
that Mr. Bathgate had been trying to set him against you,
I tried to get at the truth.
" ' I have not seen Mr. Bathgate to-day,'he said, 'which
is no great loss, perhaps. We don't quite take to each other.
1 h i question is, who is to blame ?'
*' 'Not you, I am sure, sir,' I said.
" ' Ah,' he said, ' I am by no means so sure. Who am I
that I should set myself up against a judgment which must
be superior to mine ? People who have lived so much
longer than I have must know better than I. Doesn't it
strike you in that way ? '
MB. NED VISITS MY NURSE.
141
« ' It seems so, sir,' I said, feeling that I was somehow
speaking against myself.
" 'As to my being called,' he said, 'arrogant and pre-
sumptuous, I could put up with it. But when it comes to
a question of the heart—when that is touched, and what you
most deeply honour and reverence is affected by it—then,
Mrs. Elliot, then it is a very different matter indeed. Do
you understand me ?'
" ' No, sir,' I said frankly, 'not at all.'
" For a moment he looked at me, astonished, and then
he rumpled his hair and smiled; but there was as much
sadness as gaiety in the smile.
" ' Of course you don't,' he said. ' How could you,
when I am speaking in enigmas ? But I will be honest
and outspoken with you. This is a kind of triangular
duel. The principals are Mr. Bathgate, my dear dad,
and myself. We are at loggerheads. "All right," says
Mr. Bathgate, " here are the pistols; I'll shoot at you,
and you shoot at your father." That is what it amounts to.
Well, I am not going to do that, you know.'
" ' It isn't likely, sir,' I said, with a sinking heart. I was
beginning to despair.
" 'But,' said Mr. Ned, 'there may be a way of prevent-
ing injustice without doing harm to anybody. Now, that
is what we have to consider. I have spoken to my dear
old dad. He is much interested, and he leaves it all to
me ; but at the same time I am to be careful to do nothing
to anger Mr. Bathgate. We are playing with two-edged
knives; and the worst of it is, Mrs. Elliot, that in the face
of everything I have said, I am most completely in the
dark.'
" He was really very much perplexed and distressed, and
I could not help feeling for him, he was so anxious to do
what was right. But he seemed to be pulled a dozen differ
ent ways at once.
" ' I have written to my dear young mistress, sir,' I said,
and have told her all that has occurred.'
" ' Quite right,' he said, ' but how are you going to get
your letter to her ?'
"Would you believe, my dear child, that I had never
thought of that? Mr. Ned's question was like cold water
poured down my back. He saw the trouble in my face,
and helped me out of it.
"' As things stand,' he said, ' there is only one way.
112
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
Who is that extraordinary being who addressed you as the
Fair Lady of the Borough, and signed himself Alonzo ? '
" ' I haven't the slightest idea, sir,' I said.
" ' Give me his letter,' said Mr. Ned ; and when I gave it
to him he read aloud from it: ' " Command me ever. To
her service I am pledged." That is, to Miss Durham's
service. " Her form and cause conjoined." That is, Miss
Durham's form and cause. There is no mistake about it:
Alonzo is in love with Miss Durham.'
" ' How can you say so, sir?" I cried, indignantly.
" ' It is as plain as a pike-staff,' said Mr. Ned, 'and it is
a good job for us that he is. What does he say next ?
"You may wish to communicate with the Princess of the
Enchanted Well. It is difficult, but it may be done, and
shall be, at thy behest." Now, that is certainly sincere of
Alonzo, and he tells us how to set to work about it. " If
such be your wish, inquire for him"—that is, Mrs. Elliot,
inquire for Alonzo—" at Stubbs', the butcher, High Street,
Ramsgate." What do you say to going to Ramsgate with
me to-morrow ?'
" ' What for, sir ?'
"'To pay a visit to Stubbs, the butcher, and make the
acquaintance of Alonzo. That is the first step towards
coming into communication with Miss Durham. Alonzo,
to speak in his own language, holds the keys of the castle,
and at his bidding locks, bolts and bars shall fly asunder,
so far as a letter goes. So get yours ready, and we will see
whether, in concert with the gallant Alonzo, a means may
be devised of conveying it to Miss Durham.'
" His gay voice made me happy. He carries you on,
my dear; you can't help feeling as he does. Rube says he
is magnetic, whatever that may mean. I thought it as well
to speak to Rube about what Mr. Ned proposed, and he
said he couldn't do better. Then Mr. Ned said I had
better make preparations to stop a night or two in the
country, if I wasn't frightened, he added, that he was
going to run away with me. We all laughed at this idea,
but Rube made me turn quite red by saying that there
were more unlikely things, and that I was the most despe-
rate man-hunter he had ever come across. I clapped my
hand on his mouth to stop his nonsense, for he was actually
warning Mr. Ned to be very careful of me. He is a most
dreadful tease.
" So, my dear young lady, it was all settled before Mr.
MY NURSE'S INTERVIEW WITH ALONZO. H3
Ned went away. He is to find out what time the trains go,
and he is to come for me at about two o'clock to-morrow.
I shall be ready hours before; there is no fear of my keep-
ing him waiting.
" To-morrow, my dear young lady, I shall be near you.
I shall count the minutes. God bless and guard you ! "
CHAPTER XXXII.
my nurse has an interview with alonzo.
"My dear Child,—I am writing these last lines in
Ramsgate, and I am hoping you will receive them some
time to-morrow. How, and in what way, is a mystery, but
Alonzo—the mere writing of the name makes me laugh so
that I can hardly get on—pledges his knightly honour (that
is how he puts it) that you shall get them, or he will perish
in the attempt. But it must be left to him; he will not
intrust his scheme to recreant hands (Alonzo's own words,
again), nor will he divulge it to a hated rival. Me would
he trust, had I come to him alone, but he is strangely dis-
turbed because Mr. Ned is with me. But I am running
ahead of news.
"We arrived at Ramsgate—Mr. Ned and me—at five
o'clock this afternoon, and we are stopping at the Man of
Kent Hotel. We came down from London in a very fast
train, and Mr. Ned was politeness itself. Rube bought me
a. beautiful cloak with a hood to it, and said :
" ' If you want to walk in front of Restoration Hall or
anywhere, so that there may be a chance of your young
lady seeing you from her window, all you've got to do,
Deb, is to put on this cloak, which will cover you fiom top
to toe, and pull the hood over your head. Then, if that
Aunt Parker sees you, she will never be able to recognise
you.'
" Was it not thoughtful of him ? And it is really a most
lovely cloak.
" Mr. Ned called a carriage, and we drove to the Man of
Kent. There we had tea, though I was that impatient
that I did not want to eat or drink, but Mr. Ned insisted
on it. Then we inquired our way to Stubbs, the butcher,
in High Street; it is quite a small shop, and the only
144
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
person in it was a tall lad, almost a young man, with very
long legs. 'Is it possible,' whispered Mr. Ned, 'that that
can be Alonzo ?' I could hardly believe it, the young man
looked so meek and inoffensive. We walked past the shop
on the opposite side of the way three or four times, and
then, acting upon Mr. Ned's instructions, I crossed the
road, and as I passed the shop, quite close, I said, in a
voice loud enough for the young man to hear:
" ' Alonzo !'
" The young man started and looked at me, and seeing
that, I called the name again.
" ' Hush !' he said, and he came out, and stood by my
side. 'Who speaks?'
"' Are you Alonzo, sir ?' I asked.
" He looked about him, and said, in the strangest
whisper :
" ' Speak low, or we may be observed. Stubbs is in.'
" By which I understood that Stubbs was his master, and
that it would not do for him to overhear us.
" I had the letter he wrote to me—the one commencing
with ' Fair Lady of the Borough'—in my hand, and I held
it out to him. He took it, looked at it hastily, and said :
" ' 'Tis well. Whence came you ? '
"' I left London this afternoon,' I said, ' and I want to
speak to you very particularly.'
" ' Is it about the Princess of the Enchanted Well ?
Speak, and ease my bursting heart.'
" I thought I should have dropped, he spoke so em-
phatically. However, I kept myself up, and said:
" ' It is. You sent me a letter from her.'
"' And you wish to confer with me,' he said. ' Be it so.
The place of meeting. Where ? And at what hour ?'
" I told him I was stopping at the Man of Kent, and
would like to speak to him as soon as possible.
"' All things are possible,' he said, ' to bold brain and
trusty heart. But I have hireling work to perform. My
fate is hard, but I will do or die. At eight I will be with
you. Till then, adieu. Remember me.'
" With that he ran back into the shop, in which a stout
butcher had just made his appearance from a room behind.
"I went over to Mr. Ned, and told him what had passed.
He was greatly amused, and agreed with me that we could
do nothing till eight o'clock.
" Upon my honour,' he said, his eyes fairly sparkling with
MY NURSE'S INTERVIEW WITH ALONZO.
145
fun, 'it is a most diverting experience. Imagine a long,
lean butcher-boy calling himself Alonzo !'
" It was really difficult to imagine, especially when one
thought of the way the young man spoke and wrote. I
never was so astonished in my life.
" At eight o'clock Alonzo came to the Man of Kent. I
was looking out for him, for I had not given him my name,
and he might have missed me. I called him into a sitting-
room which Mr. Ned had engaged, and there the three of
us remained for over an hour. I am too tired, my dear
child, and it would take too long to put down all that
passed. The butcher-boy is really Alonzo, and Mr. Ned
wormed out of him all that he knew about you. I don't
think he would have succeeded in this, or that Alonzo would
have had anything whatever to say to him, if Mr. Ned
hadn't won him over by calling for a bottle of champagne.
He has an idea that Mr. Ned is a rival, and it was only
Mr. Ned's wonderful good-humour and cleverness that
made him the least bit agreeable and amiable. But when
Mr. Ned poured out three glasses of champagne, and asked
him for a toast, he melted.
" ' To Her,' he said, 'the peerless one.'
"By all means,' said Mr. Ned; 'to Her, the peerless
one.'
" I don't think Alonzo had ever tasted champagne before ;
I am sure I never had.
" Now, my dear child, this is what we have arranged.
Alonzo has undertaken to get my letter to you; I am to
deliver it in the morning to him. We are to go to Pegwell
Bay, but we must keep out of sight. When Alonzo comes
and tells us that you have got the letter, we shall wait a
little while to give you time to read it. Then we shall go
on to the sands, and stroll about in the hope that you may
see us. I shall wear the cloak Rube gave me—it is a
grey one, my dear young lady, with a purple lining, and
Mr. Ned will smoke a cigar. This is all I can say. I don't
know what we shall do next, but Mr. Ned has an idea
of keeping here for another day or two. If we do we
shall walk on the sands in the morning. Will it be a com-
fort to yen to see us, though we shall be at such a distance
from you ? Alonzo is going to point out your window to
us. There is no harm in the young man, but I don't think
he can be in his right mind. Mr. Ned says his head is
turned with reading penny dreadfuls. But we have reason
TO
146
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
to be grateful to him. With my devoted love and duty, I
am, my dear young mistress,
" Ever your faithful servant,
" Deborah Elliot."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
a ring at the bell.
Had I read the last part of this long letter first I should
have done what I did the moment I came to the end—
rushed to the window to look for the figures of my dear
nurse and young Mr. Lorimer. My gratitude was great
indeed—to her, to young Mr. Lorimer, and last, but not
least, to Alonzo. In her description of him Nurse Elliot
must have drawn him exactly as he was, the very sort of
young man, after my discovery of his being a butcher-boy,
that I should have imagined him to be. I have spoken of
" young Mr. Lorimer." Writing the name down, it looks
strange, and is so distinctly at variance with my thoughts
of him from first to last that I shall not refer to him again
in those terms. He was to me simply Ned, and as Ned I
shall henceforward speak of him. Indeed, as will be
presently seen, it was a bargain between us that he should
always be Ned with me, and that I was not to bother myself
about the Mr.
Yes, there they were on the sands. I had been accus-
tomed for so many months to look forward great distances,
following the figures of the shrimpers till they became mere
specks, and the forms of boats and ships till they were
really and truly invisible, that I had unconsciously trained
my sight and made my eyes very strong. I knew my dear
friends in a moment. Nurse Elliot in her grey cloak with
its purple lining, and Ned smoking a cigar. I can never
forget the thrills of joy that ran through me as I stood at
the window gazing at the grey cloak and the smoke of Ned's
cigar. Now and then Nurse Elliot, knowing that I was at
the window, fussed at her cloak that I might have a good
view of the colour of the lining, to convince me that it was
she and no other woman who was walking by the side of
Mr. Ned; and now and then Mr. Ned, standing full face
before me, knocked the ashes off his cigar, and puffed it
nto a blaze, to convince me it was he and no other man
A RING AT THE BELL.
147
who was smoking such a cigar as never was smoked by
mortal man before or since that happy afternoon.
In one respect they had the advantage of me. Ned had
brought a pair of opera-glasses with him, and it added to
my delight to see him adjust them, and level them straight
at my window. I stood upright in the clear light, and I
am not at all ashamed to say that I kissed my hand to him,
and that when he kissed his hand to me in return the tears
ran down my face. Then he gave the glasses to Nurse
Elliot, and it seemed as if she could never look her fill. I
kissed my hand to her a hundred times, and she had to
lower the glasses repeatedly to wipe the tears from her eyes.
They remained on the sands till it was dusk, and then, with
some motions to me which I did not understand, but which
I felt meant nothing but what was good and kind, they
slowly went away, continually looking round at me until
they were out of sight.
So tuat happy, silent interview was at an end. In the
spiritual comfort it conveyed to me, nothing in all my life's
experiences has ever given me so much joy. I whispered
to myself, "You have friends, Lina; you have friends.
They are thinking of you and talking of you, and perhaps
you will see them again to-morrow."
But the gladness and the joy of this wonderful day were
not yet at an end.
It was a dark night. I had secreted the sweet letter my
dear nurse had written to me; Aunt Parker had brought me
my tea, and put it on the table without a word, without
even looking at me. I did not care for that; it would not
matter now if she did not speak to me for a year. So, tea
being eaten, I sat by my window watching the night, and
listening to the tide that was flowing in. All at once on the
sands I saw a light: a man was lighting his cigar. I could
but dimly distinguish the outlines of his figure, but the
lighted match and the clear, bright glow of the cigar I could
not fail to see; and there was another figure by his side.
Who could they be but Ned and Nurse Elliot? My cup
of joy was almost overflowing as I sent my imagination on
its travels towards them, and heard them saying, " She is
looking our way; she knows that we have come to give hei
pleasure." I sent kisses to them, and earnest words from
my grateful heart. There was a candle alight in my room.
The night, though dark, was calm, and there was no wind
blowing. I had opened my window at the first glimpse 1
148
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
had caught of them, and now I placed the light, and myself
near it, in such a position that, by the aid of Ned's opera-
glasses, they could get a clearer sight of me than I could
of them. Since that time I have read of a wonderful dis-
covery in telegraphy by light, used by soldiers in distant
countries; I knew nothing of it then, but I think Ned and
I are entitled to praise for having discovered how to com-
municate with each other on this darkest of nights by means
of a cigar—which I am positive was a fine one; Ned would
never smoke any but the best—and a tallow candle, I don't
know how many yards apart. He puffed his cigar re-
peatedly into a blaze, and I put the candle close to my face,
and we both understood what was meant. It came into my
mind, as the light of his cigar was suddenly revealed, like
the sudden revelation of a star in a black sky, that sailors at
sea in a position of difficulty must have felt as I felt when
the welcome light of a friendly ship announced that help
was near. I should have remained at the window for a
much longer time than I did had not Aunt Parker's step
warned me. I softly closed the sash, and Aunt Parker did
the rest by coming into my room and blowing out the
candle. I undressed and went to bed in the dark. I did
not mind; I had the most beautiful dreams, in spite of Aunt
Parker.
On the following day nothing of importance occurred till
twelve o'clock. In secret I had improvised a kind of flag,
which I intended to wave as a salutation if it should happen
that Ned and Nurse Elliot walked again on the sands. I
was looking out for them, cautiously, for Aunt Parker was
in the grounds, and occasionally cast her eyes towards
my window, when there came to my ears the sound of a
ringing of the gate-bell. I gave a great start. Everything
in the establishment was conducted upon such a systematic
plan that the ringing of the bell—which, during my residence
there, had never been heard at this hour—seemed to presage
something important. Aunt Parker, too, looked up and
around, with the air of a person who was surprised by an
unusual summons. She did not go to the gate, and pre-
sently the bell was rung again, by a firm hand. Upon this
second summons Aunt Parker went forward and opened the
gate, and to my astonishment and delight, who should
make his appearance but Ned !
He was alone. He looked as fresh and bright as.a spring
flower. Indeed, he wore one in his button-hole, and I
NED VISITS RESTORATION HALL. 149
thought his face was the pleasantest face in all the world as,
with a smile and a courteous bow, he slightly raised his hat,
and accosted my Aunt Parker.
What had he come for ? His visit must have some refer-
ence to me. " It must, it must, it must," I said to myself,
and it must be something good or he would not look so
happy. I was burning with curiosity, and yet, for fear of
doing something that ought not to be done, I was fearful of
showing my face. Aunt Parker and he stood for a few
moments talking inside the gate. When she opened it he
had stepped in, and she seemed to be demurring to some-
thing, and he to be insisting upon it. She was fretful and
nervous; he was perfectly easy and calm. Presently he
took some papers from his pocket, and laughingly held them
out to her; she examined them, and returned them to him.
Then, from another pocket, he took a handsome pocket-
book, and opening it produced a letter, which he also
handed to her. She read it, pressed her thin lips firmly
together, and seemed to invite him in, but with an air so
ungracious that, had his errand not been of importance, it
is likely he would have declined the invitation. He did not,
however; he took no notice of her ungracious manner, but,
closing the gate behind him, walked by Aunt Parker towards
the house. In her view this closing of the gate by him
was open to suspicion, for she stepped back to convince
herself that it was fast. But what did it all mean ?
CHAPTER XXXIV.
ned VISITS RESTORATION HALL.
It meant that in the course of a quarter of an hour, during
which I was in such a state of anxiety that it was a wonder
I did not work myself into a fever, Aunt Parker entered my
room, and said, in a harsh voice,
" Come down-stairs."
I followed her in silence, and found myself in the
presence of Ned. On my way to the sitting-room I had
schooled myself.
" I must not exhibit joy," I thought. " Aunt Parker's
lynx eyes will never leave my face; she will be on the
watch for signs. All the happiness of my life may depend
on how I behave. Be careful, Lina, be very careful."
150
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
So, when I entered the room, I looked at Mr. Ned, and
without exhibiting recognition, waited for him to speak. It
was hard to be so calm and seemingly composed, for my
heart was beating furiously.
"How do you do, Miss Durham?" said Ned, and he
held out his hand.
I gave him mine, and he pressed it cordially. I saw that
Aunt Parker would have prevented this shaking of hands
if she could, but she appeared to be somewhat helpless in
the presence of the young gentleman, who, while treating
her as a lady, showed her that he knew what was due to
himself, and meant to enforce it.
" I am very well," J said.
"I told you so," exclaimed Aunt Parker, sharply; "there
was no need to ask her."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Parker," said Ned, politely. "I
think my asking Miss Durham how she is, and shaking
hands with her, is not at all out of place. I claim to be
one of her oldest friends. Yes, Miss Durham, your good
father was my godfather, and he and my old dad were such
friends as are seldom met with. My name is Edward
Lorimer, and I am the son of your guardian."
" Of one of her guardians," interposed Aunt Parker.
"Of one of your guardians," said Ned, accepting the
correction gracefully. " Perhaps you can see a likeness."
"Yes," I was bold enough to say; his easy manner was
giving me confidence, "You are very like Mr. Lorimer.
He told me what good friends he and my dear lost father
were." I almost added, " and he promised to be
mine ;" but I felt just then that the words were better
unspoken.
" I hope to be like him in every respect," said Ned.
" Mrs. Parker positively said she could not see any resem-
blance in my face to my dear dad. Does it loom upon you
now, my dear madam ? "
" I am not good at likenesses," said Aunt Parker.
" Nay, nay," he persisted, and I could not make up my
mind at the moment whether he was coaxing or bantering
her. " I am either like my dear dad or not like him.
Surely a lady of your discrimination, in whom Miss Durham's
guardians place such confidence, is capable of deciding so
small a point. It is so easy."
"There is a resemblance," said Aunt Parker, compelled
to it by her doubts as to how far Ned's authority and
NED VISITS RESTORATION HALL.
151
influence would affect her position with respect to her care
of me.
"Thank you, my dear madam," said Ned. "You would
hardly believe, Miss Durham, the difficulty I have had in
bringing your Aunt Parker to admit it. She had a
suspicion that I was attempting to impose upon her."
" Is it worth while mentioning it, sir ?" asked Aunt
Parker, interposing.
" Quite worth while," said Ned; and then, appearing ti
consider, added, " But I don't know that it is of so much
importance one way or another; therefore, it may as well
be mentioned as not." (This mode of carrying his point
was in my opinion so admirable that I found myself
inwardly applauding it; but, indeed, I was disposed to
applaud every word and act of one who was like a good
angel to me.) "Yes," he went on, "when I presented
myself at the gate and announced myself as Mr. Edward
Lorimer, your worthy aunt refused to believe me, and I
had to produce documents to establish my identity. Not
that I blame her entirely; she is quite right to be cautious,
there are so many impostors about."
" The duty imposed upon me," said Aunt Parker, her
eyes travelling from his face to mine, "is an onerous one,
and my desire is to faithfully perform it."
" I am convinced it is," said Ned, " and my desire is to
be on friendly terms with a lady to whom duties are in-
trusted which closely affect my dear dad. Of course it rests
with her."
Aunt Parker took alarm at this. " I trust you don't
think, sir," she said, but he interrupted her with,
"No, no, I prefer not to think at all of the matter, and
there are some things that are best left unsaid. Still, the
fact remains that you did doubt me, and that I had to
establish my identity. We will pass it over. What do you
say, Mrs. Parker ? Friends ? "
"Yes, sir, friends." But she could not banish distrust
from her voice.
"It is in every sense," said Ned, "the best plan. Then
we can get along comfortably. For I hope, Miss Durham,
this will not be the last time I shall see you, and now that
Mrs. Parker and I have signed a bond, in a manner of
speaking, I feel that she hopes so too." (But I knew Aunt
Parker better than that. If by tapping the floor with her
foot she could have had Ned swallowed up and done with,
153
A YOUNG GIUL'S LIFE.
I don't think she would have hesitated to do so.) "You
see, Miss Durham, I am acting as my father's deputy, and
I have shown Mrs. Parker a letter from him, which warrants
my visit here to-day, and gives it not only kindly but legal
sanction. And expressed in that letter is a request to your
aunt to allow me a few minutes' private chat with you, if
you have no objection."
Aunt Parker glared at me, but the prospect held out by
this glad and surprising news was too sweet for me to mar
it by any words of mine, or to allow it to be marred by
Aunt Parker's black looks.
" I shall be glad to," I said.
" I shall not be in the way, I suppose," said Aunt
Parker.
" My dear madam," said Ned, with a pleasant smile, " I
would not dream of inflicting upon you such nonsense as
Miss Durham and I are likely to indulge in. With your
permission, if you do not care to leave us here alone, Miss
Durham and I will stroll about outside for a quarter of an
hour or so."
"Not outside the gates, sir," she said. "It must be in
the grounds. My orders from Mr. Bathgate are very
stringent."
A cloud passed over Ned's face.
" I meant in the grounds. And be kind enough not to
forget that my father holds equal authority with Mr.
Bathgate. I should be sorry if any difficulty arises on this
point, and although I am not usually emphatic, and prefer
as a rule to take things easy, I cannot avoid pressing upon
you that if any difficulty does arise it is quite probable I
may consider it of your raising."
The veiled threat he conveyed was not lost upon Aunt
Parker.
" If you would prefer speaking to Miss Durham in this
room, sir," she said, " it is not for me to gainsay you."
"We will talk outside," said Ned, a little impatiently.
" Dealing with a lady of your discrimination, we shall be as
free from observation there as within four walls. Come,
Miss Durham, let us walk in the grounds. I shall have the
pleasure of seeing you again, Mrs. Parker."
Without any opposition from Aunt Parker, we went out
of the house. He did not speak immediately ; more than
once he raised his hand to his head, and showed that he
had been agitated by his interview with Aunt Parker. But
NED VISITS RESTOBATION HALL.
153
presently he made a sound with his lips as though he were
blowing something unpleasant away, and said,
" Miss Durham, I have not been quite honest. I led
your aunt to believe that I would as soon speak to you in
her presence as not. It isn't true; I very much prefer to
speak to you alone; and if I am not mistaken you are of
my mind. Correct me if I am wrong."
" You are right," I said. " Eut you have been so good
to me that I would not dispute whatever you thought proper
to do."
" I good to you !" he exclaimed, in amazement. " Why,
what on earth have I done that should make you say that ?
And there, you are crying, I declare. You mustn't cry, my
dear, or you will make me feel very bad."
The tears, indeed, were running down my face. Now
that Aunt Parker's stern eyes were no longer on me, I could
not control my agitation.
" I must cry a little, please," I sobbed. " Don't try to
stop me. You have made me so happy, oh, so happy !"
His eyes, that ordinarily had so pleasant a look in them,
were now very grave as he turned them upon me ; but he
did not speak, and did not try to stop my tears, until I
had mastered myself. Then it was I who broke the
silence.
" You can make me even happier than you have done
already."
" How ? " he asked.
" By not calling me Miss Durham. Call me Lina, as my
dear nurse and all who love me do."
"A bargain," he cried, "on one condition."
" What is it ? "
"That you call me Ned, as my dear dad and all who love
me do. You mustn't expect to have it all your own way. Is
it agreed, Lina ? "
"Yes, Ned."
I felt very awkward over it at first. If he had been a boy
it would have been easy enough; but such a tall, bright,
handsome gentleman as he was ! Really it was a little diffi-
cult, and I stumbled a good deal at first. But I may as
well confess that I soon got over it."
"Your dear father spoke to me of you as Ned," I said.
" Of course he did; and gave me a shocking bad character,
didn't he ? "
" I don't think—Ned," I said, and we both laughed
154
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
happily over my awkwardness, " that any father ever loved a
son as he loves you."
" Dear old dad ! I hope I shall prove worthy of it. Now,
I must warn you, if you and I are not to quarrel "
" Oh !" I exclaimed, " we will never quarrel, never,
never !"
"That you must not blame him," he continued, "for any-
thing that seems hard and unkind. He is not responsible
for it. His heart is the tenderest that beats in the whole
wide world this very day. It is not possible he could be
cruel; it is not possible he could do wrong. I love and
honour him so that I should deserve to be put to death if I
ever harboured a thought of him that was not sweet and
beautiful. When you know him, as I know him, as I hope
you will one day, you will see how right I am. He hasn't
been unkind to you—you mustn't say that, Lina."
"No, Ned," I said, pitying his distress, for through the
loving tones in which he spoke of his father I could detect a
vein of doubt and uneasiness; "but when he first came to
Oaklands, where my poor father died, you know "
"Yes, Lina."
" He spoke so kindly to me that my heart overflowed with
gratitude at the thought that he might perhaps grow to love
me. Not as he loves you—that is not possible; but that he
might find that I was not a bad girl "
"I am sure you are not—I am sure you are not. Now
don't cry, there's a dear. You are good and lovable, and all
that your worthy nurse has painted you. Go on, Lina, go
on; it must not stop here. You hoped that he would see
you were a good girl. Great Heavens ! How could any-
body think you anything else ? "
" That he might find I was not bad, and that he would
love me, if not for myself, perhaps for the sake of my own
dear father, and the friendship there was between them—I
thought he might grow to love me for that! Oh, Ned, I
feel as if my heart was breaking ! "
He waited till I was calmer, and turned my back to the
house, so that if Aunt Parker was watching us, she should
not see my tears.
" Well, Lina, and then "
" Yes, Ned, and then—I don't know how it occurred, or
why—then Mr. Bathgate stepped in, and all the hopes that
made my sorrow lighter to bear faded away. He disliked
me from the first, and he and Aunt Parker seemed to work
NED VISITS RESTORATION HALL.
155
together to prove that I was wicked, and not worthy of love
and kindness. May I dare to say, Ned, that your dear
father, who held me in his arms and kissed me, as he might
really have done if I had been his daughter, instead of the
child of his dead friend, may I dare to say that he seemed
afraid of Mr. Bathgate ? Have you heard anything against
me, Ned?"
'•Nothing. Everything I have heard would make me
love you; only, Lina, you must not come between my dad
and me."
" I won't, indeed, indeed I won't! I couldn't be so
wicked. If you don't like me, I shall pray to die, as I
have prayed sometimes since I have been in this dreadful
place."
He looked round to see that we were not observed, and
then he stooped and kissed me.
" That is my answer, Lina. Are you satisfied ? "
"Yes, Ned."
" Who lives here, Lina, besides you ? "
"Only Aunt Parker and a poor man called Maxwell
Aunt Parker says he is mad."
" Is he ? "
" He is not in his right mind, but he is quite harmless,
and I know he would not hurt a hair of my head. I have
a great pity for him, Ned."
"Then I am convinced he is worthy of it. Do you see
no one but them ? "
"No one, Ned, not a soul—that is, no one in the house.
I see the shrimpers, and people in boats ; and," I said, with
a laugh and a blush, " I have seen Alonzo."
However deeply plunged I was in sorrow I believe the
thought of Alonzo would always bring a smile to my lips.
Ned laughed too.
"And whom have you spoken to besides your Aunt
Parker and Mad Maxwell ? "
" Only to Alonzo, with this wall between us."
Then I told him all about Alonzo, and showed him the
hole he had bored in the wooden wall with his gimlet; and
I related to him all that occurred when Aunt Parker went
away for two days, and left me alone in the house with
Maxwell. He was deeply interested, and I was eloquent
because he sympathised with me.
" Poor Lina ! " he said. " Poor little Lina !"
"When you go away from here," I said, scarcely able
156
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
to speak because of his kindness, "you won't think that
I have been telling you anything but the truth, will you ? "
"No, Lina, indeed I will not."
" I have been so unhappy," I said, with all my earnest-
ness, "and I have been told so often by Aunt Parker that
what I say is not to be relied on, that I want to make sure
you will not grow to believe I am wicked or false. My dear
mamma and papa are dead, but I hope to meet them one
day in heaven. They hear what I am saying to you now,
and they know whether I am speaking the truth. Would I
dare to say this if I was false ? Would I dare to put my
tongue to a single word that wasn't true?"
" No, no," he muttered, and he turned his face from me.
" Say no more, Lina."
"But I must, Ned, I must. Perhaps Aunt Parker will
seek you out, and tell you quite another tale. Don't listen
to her, don't! Perhaps Mr. Bathgate, if you speak to him
about me, will say hard and unkind things of me. Oh,
don't believe him, Ned, don't! My father was a good man,
as good to me as your father is to you. And you would
have loved my mother; everybody did who knew her. I
was their only child. Could I be wicked and heartless;
could I, Ned, with such parents as I had ? "
It did not hurt me to see tears in his eyes, and a light so
precious and exquisite broke upon me when he said, " Lina,
I love you, and am your friend for ever. Nothing shall ever
turn me against you. Poor Lina! Poor Lina !" that I was
almost blinded with joy.
" And now, Lina," he said, when we were more composed,
" all this while we are forgetting your faithful nurse. If you
have anybody to thank for my being here, and for any
good that may spring from it, it is Mrs. Elliot. I dare say
she has told you how fond she is of her brother Rube; he is
a right-down good fellow; but it is my honest belief she
would leave him and everybody else for her dear young lady,
as she calls you. Now, that is a pleasant thing to know,
isn't it ? She sends you her love and her faithful duty. She
and I will put our heads together when I go to her from
you, and we will see what can be done. I don't promise
anything positive; but perhaps we shall be able to do some-
thing. Next to be taken away entirely from Aunt Parker,
what is it you would like ? "
" I think," I said, "it would make me quite happy if I
could see Nurse Elliot sometimes. It would help me on so !
NED VISITS RESTORATION IIALL.
157
I shouldn't mind then—indeed I shouldn't I have got
more courage than you would suppose by looking at me.
When she went away I would say, ' In a few weeks, or a
few months even, I shall see her again,' and that would
almost content me. I might see you, too, for a minute 01
two, if you could spare the time—and your good father.
Give him my love, will you, and ask him to think well of
me ? If there is anything I can do to make him love me,
I will do it, indeed I will, if I only know what it is. Will
you try, Ned; will you try?"
"Yes, Lina, I will try."
And then—I could see it was not without an effort—he
asked me whether I had seen him and Nurse Elliot on the
sands, and nodded and smiled when I told him how
longingly I had watched him lighting his cigar. ("I think,"
he said, in the middle of another earnest speech, "that I
smoked more than was good for me." " Oh," I cried, " but
you mustn't do that again, or I should never forgive myself.")
Everything was as I had imagined it to be.
"And I sent out kisses to you," I said.
" Dear little Lina ! " was his comment on this. " Poor
little Lina ! It is worth a thousand pounds to me that I
came here to-day."
We did not talk together much longer; we both felt that
we had overstayed the time that he asked for. We
went into the house, and he bade me good-bye, but did not
kiss me in the presence of Aunt Parker. He shook
hands with Aunt Parker and with me, and then he went
away, leaving behind him such comfort as seldom ever comes
to human heart.
Aunt Parker said nothing; she did not even refer to
him. And three weeks afterwards—I know the exact time,
for I counted the days—a most wonderful thing occurred.
There came in the afternoon another ring at the gate-bell,
and who should make his appearance but Mr. Lorimer,
Ned's father. He did not ask to see me immediately. He
was closeted with Aunt Parker for over an hour, and I do
not know what passed between them. What I do know is,
that Aunt Parker, with a sour face, told me that one of
my guardians had come for me, and that I was to have a
month's holiday in London.
"You are to say 'how do you do' to Mr. Lorimer," she
said, " and then he will go away, and return for you in two
or three hours. It will take that time to get you ready."
1:8
A YOUNG GIEL'S LIFE.
So I went down-stairs with a heart beating with joy and
gratitude, and said, " How do you do ? " to Mr. Lorimer in
a kind of dream; and he kissed me and spoke so gently
to me that I felt he was as good and kind as Ned had
declared him to be ; and then he went away, and said I
was sure to be ready when he came back in the evening for
me.
CHAPTER XXXV.
the prospect of a happy holiday.
Before the happy moment arrived, Aunt Parker improved
the opportunity and had a serious conversation with me. She
had been going about moodily making preparations for my
departure, and I suppose it was because her credit was con-
cerned that she was at some pains to see that my clothes
were in good condition, and that what I took away with me
should be suitable and in proper repair. I assisted her, too
eagerly and readily perhaps, but I could not restrain my joy
at the prospect of the holiday. She did not chide me, how-
ever; within limits she was a prudent woman; it was in her
nature to tyrannize over the weak, but she feared the
strong, and just now Mr. Lorimer, of whom she had spoken
in such slighting terms was in the latter position. It was
partly the remembrance of what she had said concerning
him that disturbed her.
She commenced very graciously, and it was with sur-
prise I heard her say,
" I hope you will enjoy your trip, Lina."
Lina! Was it a sign of inward perturbation or of real
softening of heart that she should call me by that name ?
I did not stop to consider to which cause it might be
ascribed; my mind was too full of glad thought.
" Thank you, aunt," I said, " I am sure to enjoy it."
"You are pleased at the prospect of going away ? "
"Yes," I said, frankly; " I am very pleased, indeed."
She gave me a gentle reminder. "You are coming
back."
" I know."
There was no despondency in my acquiescence. I should
return to Restoration Hall—yes, but I should bring back
happy memories with me.
THE^PKOSPECT OF A HAPPY HOLIDAY.
159
" Perhaps," she said, and she looked warily at me, " we
have both been at fault a little."
" Perhaps, aunt."
" Words are sometimes spoken in haste which one is
sorry for afterwards. You are not a tittle-tattler, I hope."
"No," I said.
" Then you will not carry away with you anything that
has been spoken hi haste. What I mean is—for it is best
to be quite plain—you will not repeat to Mr. Lorimer any
conversations we have had about him; nor to Mr. Bath-
gate, either," she added, " because I want to curry favour
as little as I want to make mischief."
"No," I said. "I will not repeat anything."
"I have your promise for that."
"Yes, aunt, you have my promise."
" I shall depend upon it, and perhaps when you return
we shall get along better together. In life, things often jar
at first that afterwards become quite smooth."
"Yes, aunt," I replied, scarcely knowing what I said.
Peace being thus concluded, she went to some trouble to
make herself agreeable. But I liked her no better for that;
I knew that the peace was a treacherous one, and if she
thought she had succeeded in making me forget the miseries
I had endured and the cruel things she had said, she was
mistaken; but I had no intention to break the promise I
had given.
The air was never so sweet, the skies were never so
bright, the birds returning to their nests had never sung so
blithely, as when Mr. Lorimer made his appearance to
carry me away. Aunt Parker was graciousness itself to
him; had it been Mr. Bathgate himself she could not have
been more polite and subservient, although to that gentle-
man she might have found it unnecessary to say :
"You will take great care of her, sir, will you not? I
shall be quite lonely when she is gone."
" I will take every care of her," said Mr. Lorimer.
" Where can I write to her, sir ? " asked Aunt Parker,
anxiously.
" You can send your letters to me," replied Mr. Lorimer,
"at our London office. You know our address."
" Oh, yes, sir."
" Of course," said Mr. Lorimer ; " I was forgetting for a
moment that you send us regular monthly reports."
This was news to me, and I don't think it was agreeable
160
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
to Aunt Parker that I should learn it; however, she kissed
me and bade me good-bye, and stood at the gate watching
us off; and presently I found myself in an open fly,
driving towards Ramsgate, where Mr. Lorimer told me we
were to pass the night.
"Ned recommended the Man of Kent," he said.
I should have recommended it, too, and when Mr.
Lorimer told me we were to occupy the rooms Ned and
Nurse Elliot had occupied three weeks before, I regarded
even this as a mark of affection.
We had not gone a mile on the road when Mr. Lorimer,
looking back, made the remark that a man was running
after the carriage; I looked back, and saw who it was—
Mad Maxwell. I called to the coachman to stop, forgetting
my guardian for a moment.
"Is he a friend of yours, Lina?" asked Mr. Lorimer,
bidding the coachman pull up.
"Yes," I said, smitten with reproach; for in my joy at
leaving Restoration Hall I had not given poor Maxwell a
thought. "It is Mad Maxwell. Did not Ned tell you
about him ? "
" Yes, my dear," said Mr. Lorimer, somewhat doubtfully ;
" but a madman, Lina—a madman ! "
" There is no harm in him, sir ; he is as gentle as a child.
And look, sir, he is quite exhausted."
We had driven very fast, and as Maxwell tottered up
to us he panted for breath, and staggered as though about
to fall; but he held himself up, and clung for support to
the carriage.
When he was able to speak he said, in his strange falter-
ing voice, and with his eyes filled with tears :
"You are going—you are going."
" Only for a little while, Maxwell," I said; " I am coming
back soon. My dear guardian here is taking me for a
holiday. I will bring you some flowrers when I return."
" You will bring me the light when you return. We
cannot see the sea; the lanes shut it out, out it is there."
" Yes, Maxwell, it is there."
" If you don't come back I shall walk into the sea."
I was dreadfully startled; the idea of a responsibility so
awful as that of a human life appalled me, and I did not
doubt that Mad Maxwell would keep his word.
"I shall be sure to come back," I said, in a lew tone.
" Good-bye."
THE PEOSPECT OF A HAPPY HOLIDAY. 101
I held out my hand, and he took it and bent his head
over it. So we left him standing in the road, gazing after
us. till the direction we were taking hid us from his
sight.
Mr. Lorimer and I did not talk much on the way, but
our tongues were loosened when we were comfortably in-
stalled in the best private room in the Man of Kent.
" Now, there are things to talk about," he said, when I
came from my bedroom—he had requested a chambermaid
to take me there, and told me that he had engaged her to
wait upon me expressly, and to see that I had everything I
wanted ; " the first thing is dinner."
"Oh, but I have had my dinner," I said, "hours ago."
" Hours ago," he repeated. " That is an imperative
reason for dinner. You are young, and must have a tre-
mendous appetite. I had when I was a young man; Ned
has ; and of course you have. The important question is,
wine ; and, if wine, what wine ? "
"Lemonade wine, sir," I said, "if you please." Which
made him laugh.
" Perhaps," he said, " a certain mutual understanding I
have been thinking over is more important than the wine
question. It is this, my dear. We are going to have a
happy holiday, lasting a whole month, and we are not going
to do anything to cast a cloud upon it. You see, my dear
child, there are plenty of annoyances and worries, without
adding to them. Looking upon them in the light of a sum,
subtraction is better than addition or multiplication. Now
my idea is to subtract. We won't speak of things."
" What things, sir ? "
" Such things as have occurred, since Mr. Bathgate and
I went down to Oaklands. It might—I don't say it would
—but it might," and he rubbed his forehead and rumpled
his hair just in the way Ned was in the habit of doing,
" introduce complications. That wouldn't do. All that is
complicated and disagreeable must be avoided. All that
is pleasant must be sought after. What do you think of
my idea ? "
" I think it a very good one, sir."
" Then we will decide to adopt it, eh ? "
"Yes, sir, if you please."
"Of course, Ned has told me a great deal. We have
had long talks about you, and if there are difficulties we
must rub through them. It is altogether so much more
ii
102
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
pleasant. Time soon passes, soon passes, and almost
before you can look round you will be a full-grown young
lady. You are very nearly one already, and so like your
dear, good father that it is a positive happiness to me to
have you with me. Why, my dear, it was but yesterday he
and I were lads together, and now ! Well, well ! "
I understood him exactly in the way he wished, and we
made no reference to Aunt Parker, Restoration Hall, or
Mr. Bathgate, these representing some of the difficulties
we had to rub through. Our conversation had been
carried on at intervals, it being interrupted by the prepara-
tions for dinner, and by frequent consultations between Mr.
Lorimer and a solemn waiter; and it was clear that Mr.
Lorimer was responsible for the ordering of the meal, there
were so many sweet dishes on the table. I need not say
that this was just to my taste, and I saw that Mr. Lorimer
was gratified with my appreciation of his catering. I have
an idea that we commenced with pastry in the shape of
puddings, pies, and tarts, went on with pastry in the shape
of pies, tarts, and puddings, and finished up with pastry in
the shape of tarts, puddings, and pies—with occasional
skirmishes upon jellies of various colours and flavours, and
jams of various descriptions. I did full justice to all the
sweet things, and it was a mercy, now I think of it, how I
escaped being ill. When, at length, dinner was cleared
away, my guardian said,
" I have asked a very particular friend of yours to give us
a call, and, if I don't mistake, that is the gentleman now
knocking at the door."
As my thoughts were running upon my dear nurse, I
imagined, until Mr. Lorimer uttered the word "gentleman,"
that it was she whom he meant, and I was wondering who
the very particular friend could be when the door was
opened, and Alonzo was admitted.
It has been my lot in life, as happens to most people,
especially to those of nervous temperaments, to have many
ideals shattered, and I date these special experiences from
the first occasion upon which Alonzo and I stood within
hand-shaking distance of each other, without the interven-
tion of wooden walls. He had not a word to say for
himself; he stood and twiddled his cap, and hardly dared
to look at me; when I held out my hand to him and
thanked him for all he had done, he just touched my fingers
with his own, and ducked his head, as any common booby
THE PROSPECT OF A HAPPY HOLIDAY. 163
of a boy would have done, and turned as red as a turkey-
cock. This was a great disappointment to me, for when
he appeared I instantly prepared myself for .something
exceedingly fine and flourishing. I should not have been
astonished had he burst into poetry. Where were all his
fine speeches ? I thought; and then the mortifying reflec-
tion forced itself upon me that perhaps Alonzo was more
disappointed with me than I was with him, and that when
he discovered that, instead of the princess of a magic well,
with, necessarily, a stately and majestic presence, I was
simply an insignificant little girl, he had immediately taken
me from the height upon which he had placed me. My
mortification was dispelled half an hour after he had taken
his departure by the receipt of a letter written in red ink,
of course representing blood (which, as he was a butcher
boy, lost something of the .self-sacrificing signification it
might otherwise have borne), in which he stated his readiness
to shed the last drop of his blood for me, and declared that
the refulgence of my presence and my dazzling beauty had
so staggered him that to his dying day, etc. That was all
very well, and quite in keeping with his character, but it
did not do away with the fact that when Mr. Lorimer, after
much persuasion, prevailed upon him to sit down, he sat
on the very edge of the chair, as though he was a tight-
rope dancer; that he almost choked himself in the drink-
ing of a glass of wine; that he tried to get out a toast and
shamefully failed; that he accepted half a sovereign from
my guardian (which was a dreadful take-down for a gallant
knight like Alonzo); and that, when he finally retired, he
tripped over the carpet, and fell sprawling in the passage.
Mr. Lorimer was also disappointed in a laughable way,
expecting some very heroic utterances, which he was pre-
pared to enjoy, but the letter, which was delivered shortly
afterwards, and my praise of Alonzo for the unselfish
services he had rendered me, restored the young man to
his good opinion.
" You must be very tired with the day's exertions," said
my guardian, "so, instead of strolling out, we will sit and
chat a bit before going to bed."
I desired nothing better, and we had an hour's delicious
intercourse. Our conversation did not flow regularly;
there were many silences in it; and my happiness sprang
both from spoken words and sympathetic silence. I re-
proached myself for ever having misjudged Mr. Lorimer,
n*
161
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
for ever having harboured an unkind thought of him. He
was exactly as he had been on the day he came to Oaklands,
and when he afterwards took me from our dear old garden
to be present at the reading of the will. I was careful not
to introduce any subject which might jar upon this happy
hour. It was in accordance with his wish, and the least I
could do was to respect it. For this reason I did not speak
of my dear nurse; I left it to him, but he did not mention
her name. I did not doubt that I should see her in
London; if it was not in Mr. Lorimer's mind to afford me
this happiness, it was, I was sure, in Ned's. It was of him
Mr. Lorimer chiefly spoke; he never wearied of dilating
upon Ned's goodness as a son, his brightness, his cleverness.
There was no son in the world like Ned; there never
would be one ; who should know better than he, the loving
father, whose heart was made into a very garden of love
and sunshine and sweetness at the simple mention of the
name of Ned? He listened in delight to my praises of
Ned, and held my hand in his, and patted it softly, and
encouraged me, by prompting words, to go. on with my
eulogies.
" But if he heard all we are saying of him," I remarked,
" it would make him vain."
The father would not have that; nothing could make
Ned vain, nothing could change him from what he was.
" And what he is, my dear," said Mr. Lorimer, " and
how he brightens a place the moment he comes into it, you
and I know as well, better perhaps, than most people.
Though it needs to be only five minutes with Ned to love
him."
I nodded, and said I had every reason to love him.
"He has come home for good," continues Mr. Lorimer;
" his travels are" over, and lie talks of taking my place in
the office. But I am strong yet, and I am not going to let
Ned slave his days and nights away. Youth is the time
for enjoyment, and Ned is fond of pleasure."
We spoke of my dear lost father, too, and Mr. Lorimer
recalled many reminiscences of him.
"It is a pity we went into parted ways," he said, "but
things happen over which we have no control."
He kissed me when he went to bed, and said we should
take the train to London at eleven o'clock in the morning.
The chamber-maid came to my room to assist me, and
went away very contentedly when I told her that I could
FAIRY TIME.
165
wait upon myself. I wanted to be alone, to think and pray,
and to be grateful for the happiness in store for me. Not
since my dear parents' death had I passed a night so sweet
and peaceful.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
FAIRY TIME.
At nine o'clock in the morning the chambermaid knocked
at my door. I sprang out of bed and accepted her assist-
ance. She was one of the talkative sort, and after
entertaining me with a narration of various matters in which
I took not the slightest interest, and of which my only
remembrance is that she introduced me to a great number
of her relations, she informed me that Mr. Lorimer was up
and waiting for me. I hurried with my dressing, and the
young woman showed me into the sitting-room, and my
guardian, who was reading a paper, came and took me by
the hand, and kissed me. His kiss brought to my mind
the affectionate greeting I was in the habit of receiving in
my dear old home, and it almost seemed to me as if my
experiences with Aunt Parker must have been a dream.
Although it was only yesterday that I left her, an im-
measurable distance of time and space appeared already to
divide us.
" Have you had a good night?" inquired Mr. Lorimer.
"Yes, sir."
" You look as if you had. There are roses in your cheeks
—really roses. Then you are happy ? "
"Very, sir."
" I am truly pleased. That shows I have not bored
you. rl here comes by the first post this morning a letter
from Ned "—he had it in his hand—" and he sends his love
to you, and tells me particularly to have everything nice for
you. So without consulting you I have ordered breakfast.
If you don't like it we can easily order something else. Oh,
and there is another message for you. Your Nurse Elliot
sends her love and duty. And here, just in time, is break-
fast. Not a minute too soon, for I am terribly peckish. I
don't eat breakfast as a rule—business worries, my dear,
business worries, with whichyoumW never be troubled—but
the fresh air, and the taste of the sea, have done me good, as
166
A YOUNG GIKL'S LIFE.
Ned said they would, and I have quite an appetite. Now,
sit down. No, that is your chair at the head of the table.
At breakfast and tea ladies always preside. I will take tea,
my dear, with sugar and milk. Thank you. Help yourself
to whatever you like best. And if there is anything else
you would prefer you have only to mention it. I don't take
any of those dishes ; they are for you."
The dishes he referred to were apple-pies, fried slices of
plum-pudding, sweet cakes, confectionery, stewed plums, and
the like, which was his idea of the kind of a breakfast a
young lady of my age would be best pleased with. It would
have been a shock to him if I had passed them by and
eaten plain bread-and-butter, so I made a hearty breakfast
off the pastry, and he expressed his delight. We went for a
ride through the town, and he insisted upon stopping at a
number of shops where knick-knacks were sold, and buying
me a purse, a book of views, two silk sashes, and a great
many yards of ribbon. He stopped all my expostulations by
saying,
" It will please, Ned ; I have to give him an account of
my doings, my dear."
" May I give some of them away? " I asked.
"Certainly, my dear,'5 he replied; " they are yours to do
exactly as you like with. And talking of giving away, I have
an excellent idea. You shall buy a pipe, a splendid meer-
schaum pipe, to give to Ned. He is a great smoker, and
his favourite pipe fell to the ground yesterday, and got
broken. He will be delighted."
The whole of my worldly wealth, in actual cash, consisted
of not more than ten shillings.
" How much will it cost, sir ? " I asked.
" What does it matter ? " was the reply of this reckless-
spending gentleman. " A sovereign, or two, or three ; the
main thing is that it must be a pipe that Ned will be
proud of."
" I have only ten shillings," I said, in a faltering voice.
" Eh, eh, what!" exclaimed Mr. Lorimer. " Only ten
shillings ! Why, of course I have made a mistake as usual.
You didn't think I intended you to buy the pipe, did you?
How ridiculous of me ! I mean J will buy a pipe, and you
shall give it to Ned. • That's clearer, isn't it ? "
"Yes, sir," I said, animated myself by an excellent idea,
" but if you please, and wouldn't very much mind, I
should like to really buy the pipe with my own money."
FAIRY TIME.
167
" But, my dear, only ten shillings ! "
" Don't gentlemen smoke other pipes than meerschaum ?
I have seen some of them smoking pipes that looked like
wood."
"To be sure—brier-roots."
" Are they as expensive, sir ? "
" No, they are cheap. I dare say you would get a very
good brier-root for a few shillings."
"Then let me buy a brier-root, sir," I begged, "and pick
it out myself for Ned. Perhaps it will please him as much
as a pipe that cost sovereigns."
" Perhaps it will, perhaps it will," said Mr. Lorimer, gaily.
"I am not at all sure that your idea is not better than my
idea, and that Ned will not enjoy your brier-root ever so
much more than my meerschaum. Then, I can always buy
him a meerschaum if I particularly want to. Stop at the
best pipe shop in the place, coachman."
The selection of that brier-root pipe was a most important
affair, and I applied all the powers of my mind to it. The
bargain was transacted solely by me and the shopkeeper.
Mr. Lorimer, when I appealed to him with, " What do you
think of this one, sir? " replying, " No, my dear, you must
choose it yourself. It will increase the value of the pipe in
Ned's eyes." I was very much flurried, and after altering
my mind a dozen times at least, selected what looked to be
an excellent article—indeed the shopkeeper assured me that
it was, and said that I was to blame him if the gentleman
was not satisfied with it (though I did not see that blaming
the shopkeeper would improve the pipe). But I suppose, as
an experienced dealer, he knew perfectly well what he was
about. I paid seven shillings for it, and was as careful and
proud of it as if it had been a brand new ball-dress.
At eleven o'clock we were at the railway station, and a
few moments afterwards were whirling away to London.
In thinking over the days of which this was the prelude,
they come to my mind as "fairy time." It was, indeed, fairy
time. Mr. Lorimer's kindness; the release from Restoration
Hall; the absence of Aunt Parker—" banished to the lonely
Grange," or something like it, as Alonzo would undoubtedly
have said; the dinner and breakfast at the Man of Kent;
the purchase of the presents which Mr. Lorimer gave me,
and of the present I was to give to Ned; and now the train
whirling to London past fairy villages and fairy fields and
fairy water. It was my first visit to the wonderful city. But
168
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
it was not that which excited me; it was the thought of
meeting my dear nurse. Should I see her to-day ? She
had sent me her love in Ned's letter to his father; then he
must have seen her since Mr. Lorimer left London. My
guardian broke upon my thoughts.
" Comfortable, Lina? "
"Very, thank you, sir."
"We are fortunate in having a most lovely day."
" We are fortunate in everything, sir. At least, I am."
" This is an express train, Lina "
" Yes, sir."
"We get to Victoria in exactly one hour and three
quarters."
" We seem to be flying along, sir."
" Lina, when we get to London "
" Yes, sir."
" Have you given it a thought where you would like to
stop ? "
" Yes, sir," I said, my heart beating quick.
" Well, don't tell me, but wish with all your might."
I did wish, but I knew, of course, that it was all settled
beforehand. We should go to Mr. Lorimer's house; Ned
would be there—that would be very pleasant—and all at
once I was reminded that I did not know whether Mr. Lori-
mer was married. Was he a magician that he divined my
thought, and answered it ?
"I am a widower, Lina. Ned, poor fellow, lost his
mother at an earlier age than you lost yours."
" That was very sad, sir."
" Very, very sad ! Poor Ned ! "
Then, thought I, Mr. Lorimer has a maiden sister who
takes care of his house, and I hoped she would be nice ; but
it was strange that Mr. Lorimer had not spoken of her. I
pictured her, a bright, slender lady, with gentle manners
and voice, with kind gray eyes and a pleasant smile. Nothing
less agreeable than that, for this was fairy time, and I was
convinced that there would be perfect harmony in all the
experiences I was to undergo; I did not even mind the
dark tunnels we passed through. Mr. Lorimer always pre-
pared me for them.
" We are coming to a long tunnel, Lina." " This will be a
short tunnel." " This is a little longer than the last, but not
so long as the first." " You are a brave girl not to be frightened
of darkness."
FAIRY TIME.
1C9
He pointed out many objects and places of interest on
the way, Rochester Cathedral, which was lovely, Chatham,
which was in a dreadful state, peeps at old churches, hop
gardens, paper mills, the Crystal Palace, which interested
me exceedingly, and interested me more when he said,
" Perhaps Ned will take you there one day; indeed, I am
sure he will if you ask him."
Had the journey been dull he would have enlivened it,
but there was not a dull moment from Ramsgate to Victoria
Station. We were soon out of the train, and in a hansom—
another new delight to me—with my little box and my
guardian's portmanteau at top—driving through London
streets.
"Now, Lina, have you wished with all your might where
you would like to stop ? "
"Yes, sir."
" Well, we are going there, but I must not say anything
more explicit, because I am pledged to silence."
I shut my eyes for a moment or two, to realize in the
dark the gratification of my wish, for it was almost too
good to be true that it would be realized in the light.
And yet, was not this fairy time ? How crowded the
streets were ! I remembered Nurse Elliot's description of
the City.
" Is this the City, sir ? "
" Dear me, no, my child; the City is ever so much more
crowded."
I received this information with wonder ; it did not seem
to me to be possible. Of course, London being new ground
to me, I did not know the direction we were taking. East,
west, north, or south, it all meant the same to me. AYe
drove over a bridge, and Mr. Lorimer pointed out the river
Thames; the sun was shining on it, and I thought it very
beautiful.
" Now, my dear," said Mr. Lorimer, with the pkasantest
of smiles and in the kindest of voices, "almost the last thing
Ned said to me before I left him yesterday morning w as
that he had thought of a little plan, which I dare say you will
fall in with."
"Anything, sir," I said, "that Ned suggested must be
right."
" Well said, well said; I am exactly of your opinion.
Ned's plan is almost like a game. He said that when we got
over the bridge—we are very nearly at the end of it, you
170
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
see—I was to ask you to shut your eyes, and to make you
promise not to open them till I bade you."
" Yes, sir, I will do so with pleasure. There ! I can't
see anything. Are we quite over the bridge, sir ? "
" Yes, my dear ; I shall not keep you long. Think of the
ery pleasantest things you can bring to mind. Do you
now, my dear, crowded as London is, with the people
lmost tumbling over each other in their anxiety to push
along, that it is as likely a place for fairy things to happen as
in a forest haunted by good spirits. Ned put that idea into
my head, and as he had been travelling for years through all
kinds of romantic spots he ought to be an authority. But
if I go on talking I shall be disturbing your thoughts. You
will not have much time for thinking—perhaps about two
minutes. And when I say ' Now, Lina !' Ned's little plan
will be carried through precisely as he wished it to be."
So my guardian kept silence, and I, with a smile on my
lips and happiness in my heart, leaned forward full of ex-
pectation of something pleasant about to happen.
" Now, Lina ! "
I opened my eyes ; the cab had stopped in front of Rube's
shop, and my dear nurse was holding out her eager arms to
receive me.
CHAPTER XXXVII,
happy days.
This was the climax of my happiness. It seemed to me as
if earth could afford no sweeter joy ; and when, through my
dear nurse's embraces and broken words, I learned that her
brother's house was to be my home during my holiday, my
happiness was complete. Rube was there in the background,
waiting to be introduced; he justified every good opinion I
had formed of him, and we immediately became friends.
Mr. Lorimer did not stay long ; he divined that I wished to
be alone with my nurse, and he soon took his departure.
'' It is more than likely," he said, " that you will see Ned
this evening. Am I to say anything to him ? "
" Tell him, sir," was my reply, " that I can. never be suffi-
ciently grateful to him for his kindness. I shall never, never
forset it."
HAPPY DAYS.
171
His face beamed; no surer way to his heart could be
found than to praise his Ned.
" Am I to say anything about his plan ? "
" There never was a plan like it, sir ; tell him that; and
that it could only have sprung from the kindest heart. He
is quite right about fairy things happening."
" Of course he is quite right; I have never yet found him
wrong."
"Give him my love, sir."
" I will, my dear; it will please him to know that you
have good remembrances of him. And now, my dear, I must
go."
" I shall see you again, sir."
" Of course, my dear, of course."
" But soon, sir."
" Certainly, my dear, as you wish it."
With that, he kissed me, and rode away, after shaking
hands with Rube.
" The Lorimers are gentlemen, Miss Durham," said
Rube.
It sounded so formal to be called so that I said perhaps
he would not mind calling me Lina; but I could not prevail
upon him, and we made a compromise that I should be Miss
Lina to him. This preliminary being settled, my dear nurse
took possession of me. She showed me the room they had
prepared and kept for me. The flowers she had arranged
there in anticipation of my arrival smiled a welcome; the
evidences of affectionate thoughtfulness I beheld around
made it like a coming home to a place with which I was
already lovingly familiar. Opening out from this room—
which Nurse Elliot said was my sitting-room when I did not
wish to be bothered with her and Rube (as if that could ever
happen), was the prettiest bed-room imaginable. Here a
sweet surprise awaited me. At the sale which took place
at Oaklands Nurse Elliot had bought a couple of pictures of
which she knew I was very fond, and also some of my toys
—among them my favourite old horse, Dobbin. I was
growing old for toys now; the experiences I h:.d gone
through since the death of my parents had made almost a
woman of me; but Dobbin was still dear to me, and I am
not ashamed to say that in the expression of my feelings I
committed some extravagances. I may well be excused for
them, I had been for so long a time deprived of love.
"You told Mr. Lorimer," said Nurse Elliot, "that you
172
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
could not be sufficiently grateful to Mr. Ned for his kind-
ness. Indeed, my dear, you cannot be. It was he who
arranged everything. But for him I should not have the
happiness of having you with me."
He came in the evening and I need not say how he was
welcomed. No prince was ever more honoured than he was
in Rube's house.
"I could not persuade dad to come with me," said Ned.
" He said he was certain you would prefer me alone; which
I am not vain enough to quite believe. This is your first
visit to London, Lina; how do you like it ? "
" It is the most delightful place in the world," I said.
"Why, Miss Lina," cried Nurse Elliot, "you have seen
nothing of it yet."
But 1 maintained my opinion, and was not to be per-
suaded out of it.
"We will try," said Ned, "to give you good reasons for
thinking so before your visit is ended. Let me see, now.
Are you fond of theatres ? "
"I have never been to one, Ned."
"All the better; you will enjoy them the more. We
will pick out the funniest pieces."
" What are pieces ? " I asked.
" Plays," replied Ned.
" Oh, but I think I should like serious plays, too."
" Then we will throw in a serious play or two, by way of
balance. My dear dad enjoys a play more than any one I
know; he will be disappointed if he does not come with
us."
"I am sure I shall be," I said.
" That's right. We will go to two a week."
Nurse Elliot opened her eyes at this, and I saw that even
Rube was astonished at the idea of such dissipation.
" The fact is," continued Ned, " I enjoy a theatre as much
as dad. I propose that we don't go as swells."
Without at all understanding what he meant, I said that I
hoped we should not go as swells.
"Then we'll decide for the pit, and we will begin to-
morrow night with the Adelphi. They always commence
with a laughable piece, and there is plenty of fun in the
principal dish. Is that agreeable ? "
"Yes, Ned," I replied, drifting into a state of bewilder-
ment at the pospect he was opening out.
" Nurse will come with us, of course," said Ned.
HAPPY DAYS.
173
She was overjoyed at the offer, and I afterwards knew
that it was for her sake, and because Ned felt that I should
be more comfortable if she was with me, that he had pro-
posed going to the pit. His thoughtfulness was fully
appreciated at the time both by her and Rube. Ned called
her "Nurse" quite naturally, and from that night, in my
presence, never addressed her by any other title.
We passed a merry night, Ned being the life and soul of
our little party. Before he went away I presented him with
the pipe I had bought for him, and he was so pleased that
he delayed his departure for another half hour, in order that
he might take the first smoke out of it in our company.
We all agreed that there never was a young gentleman to
compare with him, and he left happy hearts behind him, and,
I hope, took away a happy heart with him.
"I feel as if I had known him all my life," I said, when
he was gone.
Nurse Elliot did not leave me till she saw me comfortably
in bed; the dear old days were renewed, and I slept peace-
fully and contentedly in my new and strange bed. When I
awoke in the morning I did not hear the singing of birds,
but I was greeted by something even pleasanter than those
sweet sounds. Nurse Elliot was in the room, moving noise-
lessly about. She had taken all my clothes out of my box,
and was looking them over. I accepted her services grate-
fully, and when we went down to breakfast, Rube, with a
laughing face, handed his sister a letter.
" From an old friend of yours, Miss Lina," he said.
It was from Sandy Whiskers, and my nurse read it to
herself, laughing a little too, and parrying Rube's jokes as
well as she could.
" He hopes to be kindly remembered," said my nurse to
me.
" Why, how on earth," cried Rube, " did he know that
Miss Lina was here ? "
" How should he know," retorted Nurse Elliot, " if I had
not written to tell him ? "
"Miss Lina," said Rube, with pretended seriousness, "if
this goes on much longer, I shall have to ask the gentleman
his intentions."
"Don't be nonsensical," exclaimed Nurse Elliot; "you
ought to be ashamed of yourself, putting such ideas into
Miss Lina's head."
Perhaps I ought to explain that, although I have con-
174
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
stantly spoken of Nurse Elliot as "my dear old nurse," she
was really not more than thirty-five years of age, and there
were few pleasanter-looking faces than hers. She had
married young, and had lost her husband a few months
after marriage; this will account for her name being dif-
ferent from her brother's.
" Give him my kind remembrances when you write,
Nurse," I said, referring to Sandy Whiskers, "and tell him
I often-think of his wonderful voice."
We had arranged to meet Ned at the door of the
Adelphi Theatre at a time in the evening early enough to
get good seats in the front rows of the pit. I looked for-
ward with solemn delight to the treat in store for me. It
was, indeed, an experience never to be forgotten. Mr.
Lorimer and his son were waiting for us, and the exertions
of Ned and Nurse Elliot prevented me from being more
than slightly inconvenienced by the crush. All the miseries
of the past faded away. I had thought the previous day
the happiest and most wonderful in my life, but this
transcended it. After the theatre Ned took us to a quiet
restaurant, where we had supper, and then we returned to
the Borough in a cab, and found Rube sitting up quite
contentedly smoking his pipe.
Thus the happy holiday commenced and continued without
a cloud. Ned came three or four times a week to see me,
and, if he did not take me to some entertainment, remained
with us, chatting with one and the other. Occasionally MfT
Lorimer accompanied him, and the hours were no less
agreeable. The tender affection that existed between
father and son touched me deeply, and if a sad feeling
intruded itself at the reflection of what I had lost by the
death of my parents I did not allow it to mar my happiness.
I understood now the meaning of death, and accepted it
with tender resignation. What singularly affected me in
my observance of the affectionate bond between Mr.
Lorimer and Ned was the kind of wistful dependence upon
his son which was never absent from their intercourse. It
ivas as though he were endeavouring to gather strength from
Ned's younger and stronger manhood. I cannot be quite
certain whether it was derived from later knowledge or was
[earned during that period, but I was haunted by an im-
pression that there was in the father's mind a secret which
Ned did not share^ and of which Mr. Lorimer had a dread.
There was no suspicion in Ned's mind that there was any-
HAPPY DAYS.
175
thing wrong, or that his father was secretly suffering. Ned
Was invariably in good spirits, and he so brightened up the
room when he entered it that we used to call him Sunshine.
There was never any flagging of conversation when he was
present; he had invariably some merry topic to dilate upon,
and we followed him readily enough, bestowing upon him
all the honours—which, indeed, were rightly his due. His
resources for making the time pass pleasantly were inex-
haustible. Now it was a flower exhibition, now the Crystal
Palace, now a jaunt into the country, now a dinner at a
foreign restaurant, and of course the theatres. Thus the
days flew by, until three weeks were spent.
During the whole of this time no allusion whatever had
been made to Mr. Bathgate or Aunt Parker. Without any
further conversation than that which took place between me
and Mr. Lorimer, there appeared to be a private and bind-
ing understanding that the name of either my guardian or
my aunt should not be mentioned. I settled within myself
that Mr. Loiimer was the person who was responsible for
this silent agreement, and that implicit adherence to it was
necessary in order to save him in some way from annoyance.
The cause I had for deep gratitude towards Mr. Lorimer
and Ned would have been sufficient to make me respect
this unexpressed bond, but apart from that I so grew to love
these dear friends that I would have sacrificed much to
avoid giving them pain. I make mention of these matters
as properly belonging to the " fairy time " I was enjoying,
but I did not allow them to trouble me. Indeed, my days
were so full of delight that all anxiety was, as it were,
sweetly poisoned and laid to rest. Then, I had sufficient
reason to look forward even to the future with delightful
anticipation. We three were together, Mr. Lorimer, Ned,
and I, when Mr. Lorimer asked me whether I was really
happy. I answered that I was completely so.
" You are to leave us this day week," he said.
" Yes, sir," I said, and for a moment—only for a moment
—a chill fell upon my heart.
" I think I can give you a piece of good news to take back
with you," he said.
"I shall take the most beautiful thoughts of your kindness
back with me, sir," I said, with tears in my eyes. " My life
has become very bright. After I lost my dear parents I
thought I had not a friend in the world, and now I have so
many, so many !"
176
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
"But," said Mr. Lorimer, taking my hand and patting it
softly, which he was in the habit of doing when I was in a
tender mood, " you might begin to think again that you
were friendless if you were to pass too long a time in soli-
tude, so I have arranged that you shall come to London at
least once every year for four weeks."
My heart gave a bound. This was indeed joyful news,
and I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it.
" And then," continued Mr. Lorimer, " I dare say, during
the interval, that Ned will find time to run down to see
you for an hour or so. Things might be a great deal worse
than they are, after all."
Not only might they be a great deal worse, I thought,
but next to my being taken entirely out of Aunt Parker's
charge—which I understood from Mr. Lorimer's words
was not to be thought of—they could not very well be
better. When I was again in Restoration Hall, living my
silent life, there would be Ned's visit to look forward
to. And every year would bring me nearer to the time
when I should be free, when I should be able to say to
Aunt Parker, "You have no longer any control over me.
Farewell."
" There is still something more," said Mr. Lorimer, and
I awoke from my musings ; " a piano is now on its way to
the country, and you will find it in your room upon your
return. No, no, my child !" I had thrown my arms
around his neck. " It is not my doing. It is Ned's. The
fact is, my dear, I am growing old "
"Now dad!" said Ned, in a tone of affectionate
warning.
"But it is true, Ned," persisted Mr. Lorimer. "I am
growing old. I forget things, or, rather, I don't remember
things. Then, my dear, Ned says"—he was addressing
me now—" this must be done, that must be done. And
when Ned makes up his mind it is of no use resisting him.
That explains the piano, and perhaps one or two other
trifles which would certainly have escaped me."
I murmured my thanks in words which my agitation
would have rendered incoherent had not my manner made
them clear. I held out my hand to Ned, and he took it
smilingly.
" If I happen to be wrong in anything," said Mr. Lorimer,
" as I very often am (the misfortune being that, if left to
myself, I seldom find it out till it is too late), you may
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.
177
depend upon Ned to set it right. In saying this, my dear.
I am thinking of the past."
I knew that this was meant as an excuse and an. atone-
ment for the change in his behaviour towards me when he
and Mr. Bathgate visited Oaklands, and in that spirit I
accepted it, and I did not distress him by telling him how
I had suffered on that occasion. When Nurse Elliot, late
in the night, heard the good news I had to impart to her,
she expressed great joy, and said that Mr. Lorimer was
quite right in giving Ned all the credit for the brighter
future that was opening out to me. Upon this point we
were perfectly agreed, and I am sure Ned would have
blushed had he heard the praises we showered upon him.
It would have been a decided contradiction to the proverb
that listeners never hear any good of themselves.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
an offer of marriage and news of alonzo.
" My dear," said Nurse Elliot to me on the following morn
ing, " who do you think is coming to London ? "
I pretended to consider, and said I hadn't an idea.
"A friend, of course."
"Yes, my dear," she replied, "a friend."
We were sitting at breakfast, and I observed that Rube
looked grave.
" Nobody that you don't like, I hope," I said to him.
" Don't speak to him, my dear," said Nurse Elliot, turn-
ing red in the face. " He has got the most ridiculous ideas
in his head, and there's no driving them out."
"Just look at her face, Miss Lina," said Rube, "and tell
me whether my idea is ridiculous. You see, when a man
—meaning me—has got used to a woman like Deb, he
doesn't relish the idea of having her snapped away from him."
" Did you ever hear such nonsense ? " cried Nurse Elliot,
"But, Nurse," I said, "are you going to be snapped
away from Rube ? "
"Come, now," said Rube, "that is plainly put. I give
you fair warning that, if anything happens, I'll fall in love
with some young woman I don't care a pin for " (which I
thought was an absurd declaration on Rube's part), "and
12
178
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
make a fool of myself. I'm not a marrying man, Miss
Lina, but I shall be bound to become one if Deb doesn't
reform."
The word "reform," which he blurted out on the spur of
the moment, struck him as something comical the moment
he uttered it, and I was pleased to see that his face broad-
ened with merriment ] though he became grave again
directly afterwards.
" Upon my word," said Nurse Elliot, "if I wasn't the
best tempered woman in the world, you'd put me out of all
patience."
" Oh, oh!" cried Rube, satirically, and I began to
wonder what had come over him. " This is the first time
I ever heard T b blow her own trumpet. The best-tem-
pered woman in the world ! That's good, Deb. Let us
have some more of it."
"A body doesn't know what she's saying," exclaimed
Nurse Elliot, "with such a man as you. If I don't tell
you all about it, Miss Lina, there's no saying what you
mightn't think. That a sensible man like Rube should
make a mountain out of a mole-hill is hardly to be be-
lieved."
" I ask your pardon," said Rube, with sarcastic polite-
ness, " Miss Lina will easily believe the sensible man when
she hears that the mole-hill is that confounded Sandy
Whiskers, or whatever his name may be."
A light dawned upon me, and I could scarcely refrain
from laughing; what prevented me was that both Rube and
Nurse Elliot appeared somewhat serious.
"You know well enough what his name is," retorted
Nurse Elliot. " This is what it amounts to, Miss Lina.
Sandy Whiskers is coming to London "
"To pay you a visit," interposed Rube.
" Well, what harm is there in that ? To pay me a visit.
Now, what Rube has got into his head is that Sandy
Whiskers is—upon my word I can hardly get it out, it is
so ridiculous—in love with me. There ! And that he is
coming to London to ask me to marry him. But he may
save himself the trouble, if he has any idea of that sort,
for I have no more intention of marrying than Rube has
himself."
" In the name of all that's reasonable," cried Rube, "why
didn't you tell me that before ? "
" Because you were so clever and so sarcastic that I
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.
179
determined to punish you for it. If it happened that I
changed my mind, Rube, you would only have yourself to
blame for it, you are so jealous, not only of Sandy Whiskers,
but of every man who speaks to me. Yes, Miss Lina, this
brother of mine is the greatast tyrant I ever met with."
She gave him an affectionate look, nevertheless.
" But you are not going to change your mind," said Rube
anxiously.
"No, I am not, and now don't tease any more."
"All right. I was only joking all through, but you do
take things so seriously "
He gave her a sounding kiss, and went, singing, into his
shop. And this was the only difference I ever knew to occur
between Rube and his sister.
" To tell you the truth, Miss Lina," she said to me when
we were alone, " Rube is not far out, but I wouldn't confess
it to him, for fear he might be uncivil to Sandy Whiskers.
They are both good fellows, and if I can get them to like
each other, I shall be pleased. I have tried all I could in
my letters to prevent Sandy Whiskers from coming to
London, but it was no use. Come he will, and I got a
letter from him this morning saying he is going to pay
me a visit this afternoon. I wish you would remain with
me, Miss Lina, and then he will not be able to say anything
very particular."
"But if he asks me to go away," I urged, "because he
wishes to speak to you privately, what can I do ? It will
look so rude if I refuse."
" It can't be helped," she said, with a sigh of resignation.
" If he asks you to go away, I suppose you must go. I am
not going to marry him, that's flat—no, not if he goes down
on his bended knees."
I had a shrewd suspicion that Nurse Elliot had something
more than a passing tenderness for Sandy Whiskers, and,
selfish as it was, I could not help taking sides with Rube,
and wishing that she would refuse him. Good fellow as
Sandy Whiskers was, it seemed as if marrying him, or indeed
marrying anyone, would remove her farther from me than
if she had remained with her brother in the Borough. Of
course I did not hint this to her, but I waited in sonr.i
anxiety for the issue of the affair.
Sandy Whiskers made his appearance in Rube's shop at
three o'clock in the afternoon. He was dressed quite
smartly, and he had a flower in his button-hole; he also
12*
180
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
carried in his hand a very handsome bouquet. What
passed between Rube and him did not reach our ears ;
Nurse Elliot and I were sitting together, and she had just
time to say, nervously, "There he is. Upon my word he
has made himself look smart. Now, if Rube isn't civil, I
will never forgive him for it. Don't go away, dear Miss
Lin"i, unless you are forced to," when Rube opened the
door which led from the shop to our apartment, and said,
in a tone of greatest politeness:
"A gentleman from the country, Deb, to see you."
Sandy Whiskers was slightly disconcerted at seeing me,
as he evidently expected to find Nurse Elliot alone, but
1 e so m recovered himself, and behaved so exceedingly
well that I had more reason than ever to think well of him.
Pleasant and jolly as he had made himself at Oak-
lands, it was as nothing compared with what he made
himself now. He had journeyed from Sevenoaks to
London especially to see Nurse Elliot — he was quite
frank about it—and he was returning to the country
early in the morning. He told us all about his journey,
and when Nurse Elliot asked him how business was he
replied :
" It might be better and it might be worse; but I'm
recommended to go into quite another line."
He did not say what the other line was, but he referred
to it with the air of a man before whom was spread an
illimitable perspective of worldly prosperity. Nurse Elliot
did not suspect that her inquiry how business was would
lead swiftly to the momentous issue, or she might not
have made it. She had spoken somewhat vaguely to fill
up a break in the conversation, and was visibly ill at ease
when Sandy Whiskers, addressing me without the least
embarrassment, begged of me to afford him a few minutes'
private conversation with Mrs. Elliot, as he had something
most particular and confidential to impart to her. He
opened the dcor for me, and, disregarding the imploring
glances Nurse Elliot cast at me, I rose and joined Rube in
the shop.
"Now, Miss Lina," he whispered to me, "who was right
and who was wrong ? "
" But she is not going to marry him," I said. "She told
me so positively."
" Miss Lina," said Rube, impressively, "you may not be
aware hew hard it is for a woman of Deb's age to say no
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.
181
to a man. But she's her own mistress, and must do as she
likes."
He was clearly a little distrustful of her promises, but I
was not; and though I was secretly glad, I could not help
feeling as though Rube and I were in a conspiracy agai 1 t
her.
However, the matter was soon settled by Nurse Elliot
coming to the door, and calling out, half laughing and half
crying:
"What are you keeping out there for, so long, Miss
Lina ? And Rube, won't you come in a minute ? "
In we went, and I shook hands with Sandy Whiskers as
though I had not seen hirn before ; and Rube being intro-
duced, shook hands with him too; and then Sandy
Whiskers, with an ease and composure which astonished
both of us, said :
" I am not one to work behind backs, and therefore it
is only right for me to say, Mr. Corncutt, you being Mrs.
Elliot's brother—that I have just offered your sister my
hand."
He looked at his hand, and we all looked at it too, as
if it were something which Sandy Whiskers had brought
specially with him for the purpose and could leave behind
him when he was engaged on an errand in which it was
not closely interested. Nurse Elliot was still struggling
between laughing and crying.
" I hadn't much else to offer her, business being nothing
to boast of; but things may better themselves, and it was
with that prospect I made the offer."
He paused, and we did not speak, having nothing appro-
priate to say, and then, quite suddenly, Sandy Whiskers
concluded what he clearly regarded as a very long story
with the words :
" She has refused to accept it."
It was in the nature of things that a man in such circum-
stances should speak despondently, but there was not a
trace of despondency in Sandy Whiskers' voice. On the
contrary, it was cheerful and confident. He put away his
hand as though it had done what he had expected of it,
and, addressing Rube, asked :
"As her brother, now, what should you say of her
refusal ? "
"All I can say," replied Rube, "is that she is her own
mistress."
182
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
" Exactly. Therefore I have informed her—you having
no objection—that I shall offer her my hand again this day
twelve months."
" Lord !" exclaimed Nurse Elliot; " a thousand things
may happen between now and then."
"Whatever happens," said Sandy Whiskers, "won't
make an atom of difference to me so far as this offer goes.
If it isn't accepted then "—referring to his hand, which he
had put into his trousers' pocket—" I shall offer it again
in another twelve months. If refused then, in another
twelve months; if refused then, in another; and I hope,
in the end, it will be a satisfaction to all parties concerned.
As a stranger to Mr. Corncutt I thought it due to him to
make this statement, and to inform him at the same time
that my intentions are strictly honourable."
" Upon my word," said Nurse Elliot, "you two men are
as ridiculous as any two men can possibly be. There isn't
a pin to choose between you."
Sandy Whiskers, however, had made himself the master
of the situation.
" Having opened my heart and my mind," he continued,
"and as I have to take an early train in the morning, it
would be an agreeable pleasure to me to accept an invita-
tion to pass this evening in the present company."
Rube, completely won over by Sandy Whiskers' frank-
ness, and suffering also, I have no doubt, from inward
reproach, instantly gave him the invitation, and showed
the best disposition to make himself agreeable. An awk-
ward position was never more successfully converted into a
pleasant one, and as this was entirely owing to the mag-
nanimous behaviour of Sandy Whiskers, he became the
hero of the night. For our entertainment he treated us
to a display of his ventriloquial powers, and Rube declared
it was better than a theatre, and that he had never enjoyed
himself more. As for me, I laughed till my sides ached,
for since our last meeting Sandy Whiskers had added to
his repertoire sundry comic passages which were irresistible.
He privately informed me that he was making a study of
these for special purposes, "having views," he added,
"which may or may not one day loom." He did not
further explain himself. Moreover, he also privately in-
fomied me that he was quite in earnest in what he had
said respecting Nurse Elliot. "I can wait for her," he
observed, "if she can wait for me." I inferred from this
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.
183
that he had some reason for hope. The bouquet of
flowers he had brought from the country was placed in the
centre of the table, and Nurse Elliot, in his honour, pre-
pared Rube's favourite dish of tripe and onions for supper.
It was altogether a jolly night, and I was sorry that Ned
did not pop in to enjoy it with us. When Sandy Whiskers
wished Nurse Elliot good-night he shook hands with her
manfully, and openly said that he would write to her in a
few days, " in a friendly way," he explained to Rube, who
could not but be satisfied at the deference paid to him as
my nurse's nearest relative. I think Nurse Elliot was
touched by his manliness, for in my bedroom she was
quieter than usual.
"You do like him a little, nurse," I said.
" I like him a great deal, my dear," she replied, " but
I am not going to marry him."
" Never, nurse ? "
"Never is a long day, my dear," she said, composedly.
Well, that was her experience in the matrimonial market
line during my happy visit; but if anybody had told me
that a proposal would be made to me before my return to
Aunt Parker, I should have received the information with
incredulity.
" For the last three days," said Rube, "there has been a
young fellow flattening his nose against the shop-windows in
a manner most surprising ; I have been on the look-out for
him in case he should burst them in. Whenever he has
observed me watching him he has come boldly into the shop
and bought half-a-dozen boxes of wooden matches for three
halfpence. Yesterday he bought two dozen, and to-day he
has been in six times and laid out ninepence, all in
wooden matches. It looks as if he wanted to make a bon-
fire of himself."
That same evening, which was the last evening but two
of my holiday, Ned asked me if I had seen or heard from
any one in particular.
"No," I replied. "Why do you ask? "
" Because I could have sworn I saw Alonzo in the street,"
said Ned. " I looked round at him, but he seemed to pur-
posely avoid me."
I stared at him in amazement, and Nurse Elliot burst
out laughing.
"Perhaps it's the chap I've been speaking of," said Rube,
and then he related to Ned what he had related to us, of
184
A YOUNG GIRL'S LILE.
the young fellow flattening his nose against the windows,
and buying so many matches.
The mystery was solved later on. Rube, leaving the
shop to come into the sitting-room, and returning to it a
couple of minutes afterwards, discovered a letter on the
counter, addressed, "To the Peerless One."
" Who claims it ? " he asked, with a broad grin, holding
the letter aloft.
"Lina, of course," said Ned, merrily. "This is getting
exciting. Mr. Corncutt, I shall call you Cupid's mes-
senger."
" How foolish of you, Ned !"
But I took the letter and recognized the writing. It was
Alonzo's.
iCHAPTER XXXIX.
alonzo proposes to me.
" Sweet Lady " (the letter commenced),—" Be not angry
or disdainful. I would follow thee the wide world over.
In thy absence the roses of Kent are less radiant than of
yore. It is so with me when parted from thee. You can
illumine the dark present with a smile. The future is mine,
and no rival can rob me of it. To-day I am the sport of
fate; to-morrow it shall be my slave. Give me but one
word of hope, and I will live on it through all eternity. A
few minutes' converse with thee, and the birds will burst
into song, and all will be well. I am waiting round the
corner by the ham and beef shop. It is tantalizing, but I
was born to suffer. Is it too much to ask you to meet me
there alone ? There are griefs I would hide from all eyes
but thine.
" The ever faithful and depressed,
" Alonzo."
There was something so dreadfully earnest about the
letter that it troubled me. Hitherto I had thought
of Alonzo lightly, and Ned had spoken of him as a
foolish young man whose head had been turned by
reading romantic stories, but it made me serious now to
think that I was in a measure guilty in having listened to
his nonsense.
ALONZO PROPOSES TO ME.
185
" Anything very fiery in the letter ? " asked Ned.
" I don't know what to make of it," I replied. " If I
let you read it you must not laugh."
" I won't so much as smile," he said, as he took the
letter, " if I can help it."
He neither smiled nor laughed ; on the contrary, he
looked grave, and read the letter twice over.
" By the ham-and-beef shop round the corner," he said,
" and he speaks of it as tantalizing."
" Would there be any harm in my going to see him,
Ned?"
" Perhaps I had better go, Lina."
" But you won't make fun of him, Ned ? "
" No. If my suspicions are correct, he is rather to be
pitied than made fun of."
When Ned was gone I gave Nurse Elliot and Rube the
letter to read, and asked, hesitatingly :
" Do you think he has come to London because I'm
here ? "
" More likely been turned away," remarked Rube, " for
not attending to his business."
Ned was absent much longer than we expected him to be,
and upon his return I asked him what had kept him so
long.
"The fact is," said Ned, " our friend is in a bad way."
" About me ? " I inquired, anxiously.
" A little. About something else a great deal more. I
had to wring it out of him. It is remarkable that a young
fellow who can write such fluent rubbish should have so
little to say for himself when he has to trust to his
tongue."
Then he told us all. Rube was right in his conjecture
that Alonzo had been discharged by his master for not at-
tending to his duties.
" He has a soul above butchers' meat, though butchers'
meat was really what he stood in need of. He hasn't had
a mouthful of anything to eat the whole of the day, and he
was gazing at the ham and beef very hungrily."
"Oh, Ned!"
" It cost him nearly every penny he possessed to get to
London," continued Ned, " and instead of acting sensibly,
and keeping what he had left for food, he spent a part of it
in matches over Mr. Corncutt's counter. Now, there is very
little nourishment in lucifer matches "
186
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
"But what did you do, Ned?" I cried, interrupting
him.
" What would you have done, Lina ? "
" Given him someihing to eat."
" That is exactly what I did. Would you believe that I
had to use more than ordinary persuasion to get him into a
coffee shop, where he could not resist the temptations of a
large chop, potatoes, bread, and a cup of tea? There is
some capital stuff in Alonzo, in spite of his folly. He
wanted badly to see you to-night—said his soul was throb-
bing in sympathy with the stars, and a lot of other things
in the same fashion—but I got him to wait till the morn-
ing. 'You had better go home, and get to bed,' I said.
There was a queer expression in his face when I gave him
this advice, and I forced the confession from him that he
had no lodging to go to. So I got him one, and promised
to see what I could do for him to-morrow. Destitute as
he is, he scoffs at the idea of going behind a counter; he
will be no 'hired lackey,' to quote his own words, and as
he declares he has a soul above trade, there may be a diffi-
culty in obtaining a situation for him. There is no room
for him in our office. However, we will do the best we can
for him, and as you have great influence over him, Lina,
you might persuade him to be more reasonable and less
heroic when you see him in the morning. He will call at
eleven o'clock."
At that hour Alonzo presented himself, and I received
him alone, both for his sake and my own, for I feared
he would say something foolish and absurd. My fear
proved true.
He commenced by giving me a piece of paper which
he requested me to deliver to Ned. It was an I O U for
double the money Ned had laid out for him on the previous
night.
" I am sure Mr. Lorimer does not want it," I said.
" What he did was done out of kindness."
" I will be under no obligation to a rival," said Alonzo,
who, on this occasion, appeared to have found his tongue.
" The I O U is payable on demand, and I have added
interest."
Then he proceeded to inform me that he had that very
morning obtained an "appointment;" he would not con-
descend to speak of it as a situation. What the appoint-
ment was he did not clearly explain, but I understood i*
ALONZO PROPOSES TO ME.
137
was in an office in the neighbourhood of Fleet Street, where
a penny story paper was published. I thought it was very
clever of him to find employment so soon, and said that
Ned would be pleased to hear of it."
" Whether pleased or not," said Alonzo, with a comical
air of haughtiness, " matters not. There can be no
sympathy between us ; it is war to the knife."
This alarmed me, and I said if he had any idea of
violence in his mind that I would never speak another word
to him.
" Be it so," said Alonzo, seemingly disappointed; " at
your behest I spare him."
" But why do you dislike him so ? " I asked, anxiously.
The question, innocently asked, brought the st^rm upon
me. He loved me to distraction, he said. I was his
peerless one, his pearl of pearls, his queen. There never
was a love like his ; there never would be. When he
ceased to love, which would be never, while stars and moon
and sea did this thing and that, while buds burst forth in
spring and summer birds were singing (there was a great
deal more like this\ then would his heart cease to beat and
his pulse to throb. I tried to stop him, but he would not
be stopped; he had a great deal to say, and he said it and
appeared to enjoy it. Whether he had learned his speech
by heart I do not know, but it came out with hardly a
stammer; and when he finished he was on one knee,
holding my hand, which he had seized.
I was almost frightened, but I thought that there was
no harm in Alonzo, and I begged him to get up, because it
would look so ridiculous if anybody popped in and caught
him. His reply was that he would not rise till I gave him
hope; that it was his irrevocable resolve to win me and
wear me ; that he would wait for years, for ages, for me,
and deem it bliss to struggle on with my bright star shining
above him. I cannot think of a quarter of the ridiculous
things he said, and it was quite a relief to me when Nurse
Elliot, perhaps with some suspicion of what was going on,
suddenly opened the door and entered the room.
Alonzo sprang to his feet, very much discomposed, and
looking very foolish.
"He has got a situation, Nurse," I said.
"I am very glad to hear it," said Nurse Elliot, smiling
kindly on him. " He will always be welcome here, because
he has been so kind to you, my dear."
133
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
"Bid me," said Alonzo, grandiloquently, "fly to the end
of the earth to serve her, and it shall be done. I will pluck
the moon from from the skies, and lay it at her feet."
"What would be the use of that?" cried Nurse Elliot.
" She wouldn't know what to do with it. Come, come,
young man, all this is baby-talk, and it is time you got over
it. It isn't a bit of good going mooning and starring
about; you've got to look after your bread-and butter, and
that will keep you pretty busy. Miss Evelina is going
back to her aunt in a day or two, and if you want any news
of her we shall be glad to give it, Rube and me—only you
must be a bit sensible, you must indeed. Have you got a
mother ? "
"No." said Alonzo, gloomily. My nurse's exordium had
a dispiriting effect upon him. " I am an orphan. But
what matters ? I yet will conquer fate."
" But you won't be able to conquer buttons," said Nurse
Elliot, with a pleasant shake of her head, " so the best
thing you can do is to come here and let me put them on
for you."
" Yes," I said, " Nurse will look after you," and I added
artfully, " and you will have some one to talk to."
" So let it be," said Alonzo, unbending, " the compact is
made."
"Very well, then," said Nurse Elliot, shaking hands with
him. " I must go and get my bonnet on ; my young lady
is going out with me, so say good-bye as quick as you can."
She gave him another pleasant nod, and left the room.
The moment she was gone I saw signs in Alonzo that
betokened he was about to bend his knee again and resume
his rhapsodies, and I said quickly,
"No, don't—for my sake, don't. Be sensible, as Nurse
Elliot advises. She is the best-hearted creature in the
world."
"She maybe that," observed Alonzo, "but she has no
soul. I obey; but do not bid me despair.'
"No," I said, ignorant of his meaning, "I should be
sorry if you did."
He was radiant at this, and, much to my discomposure,
he seized my hand again, and exclaimed,
"'Tiswell; I am content. I yet shall win a name in
story. And now, farewell."
" Good-bye," I said, "and mind you try to get on."
I could not prevent him from kissing my hand, and I
ALONZO PROPOSES TO ME.
189
was both glad and sorry when he left me. Peeping through
the window, I saw Rube detain him and enter into an
argument with him. Rube was insisting upon something,
and he was refusing, but Rube would not be denied. H e
thrust some money he held in his hand into Alonzo's
pocket, and then pushed him out of the shop. Rube
subsequently informed me that it was what Alonzo had
spent with him over the counter in matches, and I have
no doubt it came very acceptable.
The hour of my departure swiftly arrived. I could not
but grieve; but I was successful in concealing the depth of
my sorrow from those who had been so good to me.
Regret was natural, and it was expressed on both sides.
" You must always remember," said Rube, " that we are
ready at any time to do everything in our power to serve
you, and that we shall only be too happy to do it. We
haven't a very grand home, but, such as it is, you are
heartily welcome to the best we can give."
Mr. Lorimer came to say good-bye. Ned and Nurse
Elliot were to take me to the railway station, and Ned told
me he intended to accompany me to Restoration Hall.
"You can write to me once a month," said Mr. Lorimer,
'at the office. It is arranged, and your Aunt Parker has
received instructions to that effect. But be careful what
you write, for my partner will most likely ask to see your
letters."
I understood the hint he conveyed, and I said I would
be very careful.
" Time passes quickly, my dear," he continued. " See
how swiftly your holiday has flown. A whole month,
Lina, and it seems but yesterday that it commenced. So
other months will fly. You must be cheerful and happy,
and sometimes think of us."
" I shall never cease to think of you, sir," I said.
"There maybe changes," he said, thoughtfully; "it is
in the nature of things. We will strive to make the best of
them, eh ? "
"Yes, sir."
" Next year will be here before we know where we are,
and then we shall have the pleasure of seeing each othei
again."
lie kissed me affectionately, and resigned me to the
care of Ned and my nurse.
On the way to the railway station Nurse Elliot was very
190
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
quiet and Ned very talkative. He introduced all sorts of
merry topics, but although he won an occasional smile from
me, he could not make me merry. This did not discourage
him, and he rattled on gaily. Upon our arrival at the
station, some twenty minutes before the train was to start,
Ned, rallying Nurse Eiliot upon her melancholy face, said,
" There is no particular reason for sadness in Lina's
going away for a little while. A holiday loses half it;
brightness if we are glum and solemn when it is over.
What do you say, Lina ? "
" You are quite right, Ned," I said; "it is ungrateful."
"Well, something l!:e it," he remarked. "Of course
we are all sorry to part, but just think how much better
things are now than they were a few weeks ago. Nearly
everything Nurse wished has come to pass."
"I am sure I scarcely dared to hope it, Ned."
"That is the way to look at it. Said Nurse to me, ( It
would make me the happiest woman in the world if I
could only see my dear young lady for a few minutes.'
That was when we were down in Pegwell Bay. Said Nurse
to me afterwards, when I told her that I was going to
scheme out a holiday for you, and that I intended you
should come to London and stop with her for a week or
two, ' There isn't anything in the world I should desire
before that. But it is almost too good to come true.'
Well, it has come true, for a longer time and in a better
way than ever she could have hoped for, and here she is
with a face as long as my arm, and instead of. helping to
send you away jolly and cheerful, helping to send you
away melancholy and low-spirited. Now, Nurse, what do
you say to all this ? "
" That I ought to be ashamed of myself, sir," she replied,
her face brightening, as it could scarcely help doing with
such sunshine to cheer her, "and that you are the best
friend and adviser a body could have."
After that there was nothing but cheerfulness, and sad
thought was sent to the right-about. We said, indeed, to
each other that my going back to Restoration Hall was not
at all a misfortune.
"For you see," remarked Ned, "it makes the holidays
to come all the more precious. It doubles the pleasure."
Until we arrived at the station I had not observed a
brand-new trunk, with my name on it, which had been put
on the top of the cab without my noticing it.
ALONZO PROPOSES TO ME.
"That must be a mistake," I said. "It cannot be
mine."
"Yes, it is," said Ned, "and here is the key."
The key was in a new purse, which Ned placed in my
hands. There was money in the purse, and I could not
find words to express my thanks. Nurse Elliot smiled ; she
was in the secret.
"Mr. Ned has done it all," she said.
" Some day you shall pay me," he said.
What with cakes and fruit in a basket, at the bottom of
which lay a bottle of fresh milk ; what with books and illus-
trated papers which Ned was continually bringing from the
bookstalls; what with flowers which Nurse Elliot gave me,
and a dozen other things which I could very well have done
without, no wonder that it was as much as I could do to
prevent my heart overflowing through my eyes; but I bore
in mind Ned's loving lecture, and I did not cry. No, not
even when my nurse gave me her last kisses, and I could
no longer see her running excitedly along the platform
waving her handkerchief—even then I did not cry. But I
was silent for a while, and Ned did not even disturb my
thoughts. They led to paths where true affection made
everything bright, and where all around were evidences of
sincere love and friendship. So, when some few miles
were passed, and I looked up at Ned and smiled, with clear
eyes and a cheerful face, he said,
" Bravo ! That shows that my little plan has been a
perfect success."
Aunt Parker received us at the gate of Restoration Hall,
and in her outward demeanour was very gracious to us.
Ned had brought a man with him to carry my two trunks
to my room, but Aunt Parker said she had already been in-
truded upon by strangers carrying in a piano, and she would
prefer doing such work herself. She invited Ned into the
house, and while she was questioning him and me about
my visit to London, my trunks were conveyed to my bed-
room by Mad Maxwell, of whom I had caught a glimpse as
I passed through the grounds. Aunt Parker's affability
was thus accounted for : she did not wish that Ned should
come into communication with Mad Maxwell. When Ned
was gone, and 1 went up to my room, I found a flower on
one of my trunks; it had been placed there by Mad Max-
well, who in this fashion welcomed me to a home in which
I had spent the most wretched days of life. The piano was
192
A YOUNG GIEL'S LIFE.
there, and I laid my hand upon it as I should have done
upon the hand of a friend. I may mention here that the
moment the gate of Restoration Hall closed on Ned, Aunt
Parker's gracious manner vanished—a proof that she had
been acting a part. Freed from his presence she gave me
no greeting, she asked me no questions. I did not allow
this to trouble me; I had schooled myself into indifference
to her coldness; I would live my life apart from her;
sweetest treasures of memory were mine, and upon the days
to come should be laid no burden of sorrow or sadness.
As I touched the keys of the piano those lessons which I had
learned sank into my soul. The music was like the voice of a
dear friend, and would be always with me. I smiled to my
self as I knelt before the new trunk and opened it with the
key from my purse. What was there? Music of all descrip-
tions, from simple exercises upwards. Rich food for the
future: I could practise, I could teach myself, I could make
myself a musician. Other books were also in the trunk,
educational books, from which I could learn French and
German, and some books of a lighter description. Pens
and ink and pencils were there, writing-paper and envelopes,
postage stamps even, and a number of copy-books. I
recognized the thoughtfulness which had thus furnished me
with healthful and pleasant resources for days which other-
wise should have been colourless and wearisome, and I
murmured, " God bless you, Ned! Dear Ned!" Now,
indeed, I was independent of Aunt Parker. My body was
imprisoned, but my mind was free, and I inwardly resolved
to show myself worthy of these marks of regard by making
proper use of them. Next year, please God, I would as-
tonish Ned with the extent of my accomplishments.
Among the books was a Bible, and in the evening, before I
retired to rest, I read in it, with feelings of exaltation so
rare, so strange, so sweet and beautiful, that my soul was
lifted up to the spirits of my dear parents whose death had
threatened to fill my life with despair. " Dear father," I
prayed, " dear mother, watch over these friends who have
been so good to me, and shield them from harm!"
A EETEOSPECT.
CHAPTER XL.
a retrospect.
I indulge now in a retrospect of the years that intervened
until I arrived at woman's estate, and, by the terms of my
father's will, could consider myself mistress of myself and
my fortune. The resolution I had formed of devoting the
days spent in Restoration Hall to study was zealously
carried out; I mastered sufficient of French and German
to make myself understood, although from the solitude in
which my lessons were learned, my accent was and is very
imperfect. I had to grope in the dark most of the time,
for conversation between m-e and Aunt Parker was rare, and
had it been regularly indulged in she could not have assisted
me, having herself no knowledge of any language but her
own, in which she was tolerably proficient. It was not until
Ned and I came together again that I could form any
correct idea of my progress, and I then began to make dis-
coveries that I had much to unlearn. This did not dis-
courage me: study was - pleasant to me, and I made it
pleasanter by drilling myself into, the belief that I was
studying as much for Ned's sake as for my own. Music
became more than a study and a pastime to me; it grew
into a passion, and I bless the means which drew us to-
gether. I progressed much more rapidly with this art than
with my other studies, and having the ambition to become
in some sense an artist, I practised assiduously, and was
unconsciously wise in not rushing into melody and so
deluding myself into a belief that I was proficient and had
learned enough. The sweet reward came in due time,
when I could sit before the piano and lift my soul with the
inspirations of the great masters, whose work in its human-
ising and ennobling influences is, beyond that of all the
toilers of the world, nearest to perfection. At such times
I was truly happy, and it was an added happiness to discover'
T3
m
A YOUNG GIEL'S LIFE,
that I was the means of conveying balm to poor, wretched
Maxwell, whose life, within the limits of my experience,
would have been utterly and despairingly devoid of light
and sweetness had not fate drawn me to the abode in which
he dragged out his miserable hours. Simple melodies
charmed and pleased him best, and he would stand beneath
my window listening to them with the tears running down
his face. It will be regarded as strange that Aunt Parkei
should have allowed him such indulgence, and that she did
not drive him away. But for me she would have done so.
Two or three evenings after I had discovered that I was
ministering to another soul as well as my own, I saw her
ordering him to his kitchen. He obeyed her, meekly
enough in effect, and shrank from her, as he was in the
habit of doing when she accosted him. But I, who, hearing
Aunt Parker's harsh voice, had gone to the window and
witnessed the scene, fancied I saw a dangerous look in Mad
Maxwell's eyes. It was there for a moment only, and it
died away as swiftly as it had come, but I was impressed by
it. For myself, I was in no wise alarmed ; I would have
trusted myself unhesitatingly with Mad Maxwell in any
dangerous mood which might happen to sway him. I had
a most thorough belief in my influence over him, and I
was not mistaken as to the extent of my power. But the
relations between him and Aunt Parker were entirely dif-
ferent from those which existed between him and me,
which were established by kindness and humanity; hers
were established by harshness and brutality. On one side,
love; on the other, hate. That rapid flash in Mad Max-
well's eyes seemed to me a forewarning of possible violence
in the event of his being driven too mercilessly. I thought
of it a great deal during the night, and I determined to
speak to Aunt Parker on the subject, and beg her to allow
Mad Maxwell to derive pleasure from my music. What
had occurred since that happy night on which I had seen
Nurse Elliot and Ned walking on the sands had greatly
strengthened me, and (although it is scarcely pertinent to
the present theme) I can never forget that, but tor Alonzo,
my life might not have been turned into the happy currents
which brought me so much joy. Solemn and most strange
are the issues of life in its commingling of tragedy and
comedy, Mad Maxwell the representative of one, Alonzo of
the other. Not only was I strengthened, I found courage.
As it appeared to me, there had been a sort of contest
A RETROSPECT.
195
between Aunt Parker and myself, in which I had proved
victorious; for, assuredly, had not outside forces, friendly
to me, been brought to bear upon the circumstances in
which I was placed, I should not have been allowed to leave
Restoration Hall for a single day. Aunt Parker could not
fail to understand that I had persons of influence and power
on my side, and that it would be prudent on her part to
make concessions, of which otherwise she would not have
dreamed. I had reflected upon these matters, and had
come to the conclusion that boldness would serve me better
than timidity. Therefore it was that I opened up the sub-
ject of allowing Mad Maxwell to listen to my playing when
his day's work was done. She gazed wrathfully at me while
I spoke, but did not interrupt me.
"Have you finished?" she said.
"Yes, aunt," I replied.
" Has any one put you up to this ? "
"No one."
" There have been no more kites flying over the wall and
into your window ? "
Even this intimation that she had discovered the means
adopted by Alonzo to communicate with me did not disturb
me.
"No, aunt."
"You see that I know what you thought I was ignorant
of?"
"Yes," I said, showing both in voice and manner that
I had an intention of standing my ground.
" Unfortunately I did not make the discovery in time.'
" It was fortunate for me."
"That has to be seen."
A thought struck me. " Was it through you that the
young man was discharged ? "
"Yes, it was through me."
" I am sorry for it," I said, " for it proves that I was the
cause of his being turned away."
" It may not be the only friend upon whom you bring
misfortune. What is your idea of interfering between me
and Maxwell ? "
" Simply because I saw he enjoyed the music; and because
he has so little pleasure that I thought it unkind to deprive
him of it."
" I am the best judge of that. He is my property, and I
shall do what I like with him."
13*
196
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" Your property ! " I exclaimed; it surprised me to hear a
human being spoken of in that fashion.
She saw that she had made a slip, and she hastened to
correct it. " My servant, I mean, and I know what is good
for him."
" Music cannot be bad for him; it is bad for no one."
" I detest it, but am compelled to bear it. I am com-
pelled to bear many things—your insolence, for instance."
" I have no intention of being insolent, aunt. There is no
harm in my wishing to give Maxwell a little pleasure."
" If I refuse you—if I say that it is presumptuous on your
part to interfere between me and mine, and that your inter-
cession may bring punishment upon him, for which he will
have to thank you—what then ? "
"1 should be deeply grieved," I said, " and I beg you not
to be too hard with him—for your own sake."
" For my own sake, miss ! " she cried. " Are you mad ? "
"No. I only wish to tell you, what you have told me
a great many times, that Maxwell may turn upon you
when you least expect it. I saw an expression in his eyes
when you drove him away last night that I never saw before.
' It was as though, for a moment, some dreadful passion had
been let loose."
She laughed loudly, and said, " I can tame him, as I have
tamed others—as perhaps I may tame "
" Stop," I said, interrupting her, for I knew she meant
to say, " as perhaps I may tame you." " It will be better
for you not to threaten me. I might repeat it, and it
might injure you. I don't want to do that; I have made
up my mind to submit to things as they are till I am my own
mistress, and not to speak a word against you if you don't
give me good cause. I was frightened of you once; I am
not so now. I don't say it to offend you, for what consola-
tion could it be to you to know that I trembled at your
voice and your footstep, as I used to do? We are not
friends; we can never be friends; but we can live quietly
together, and I will not do anything against Mr. Bathgate's
wishes "
" Say against your guardians' wishes."
" No ; against Mr. Bathgate's wishes, for that is the most
truthful. If Mr. Lorimer were alone my guardian I should
ask him to take me away from you, and he would do so.
But Mr. Bathgate would never consent, and I submit."
" You are forced to submit."
A .RETROSPECT,
197
" I know I am."
" So there is no merit or virtue in your saucy words.
When you are your own mistress, if you ever are so, you
will leave me of your own accord ? "
"Yes, aunt, the moment I can do so without consulting
my guardians, I shall leave you."
"You are frank enough," she said, with a dark frown on
her face, " but the future will take care of itself. It is a
curtain you cannot lift. So, you won't speak a word against
me without good cause. That is very comforting, and I
ought to be humbly thankful to you for it, and also for your
warning about Maxwell."
" You will not drive him away again, aunt, will you ? You
will let him stay and listen, if it gives him pleasure ? "
"You have threatened me with consequences. If I do
not choose to consent to your demand "
"It is not a demand; it is an entreaty."
" That is your cunning. If I do not choose to consent,
will you—the next time you go to London—misrepresent
my conduct, and invent things against me ? "
" I shall invent nothing, aunt."
" But you will tell, in your own way—call it by what name
you like—and so place me in a false light."
I was silent; my expostulations seemed to have the effect
of hardening her.
" But," she presently resumed—during the brief pause
that had ensued she had been intently watching my face—
" if I yield to your wish, you will say nothing ? "
" I can promise that; I will say nothing."
" Very well. There is no need for any further conversa-
tion."
That evening Maxwell stood beneath my window, and I
knew that Aunt Parker had yielded—whether with a good or
a bad grace, mattered not. I was grateful. I played my
best, and from that evening it grew to be a custom, on
certain days in the week, for me to play to this one auditor,
and to rejoice in the belief that I was shedding balm upon
a bruised heart.
Ned came to see me in the winter, and my aunt was as
gracious as she had previously been to him. He brought
me presents and loving messages, and I looked forward
eagerly to the spring-time, when I was again to enjoy my
holiday with Nurse. It was no less happy than the last. I
saw Alonzo; he had grown, and appeared proud of a weak
198
A YOUNG GIRI/S LIFE.
moustache, which he was industriously cultivating. He was
as mysterious as ever; spoke of great deeds to be performed,
burst into poetry, declared his unchangeable love, and his
unconquerable determination to win and wear the peerless
maid, and whispered to me that the time would come when
I should see him in print. I did not in the least know what
he meant by this confidential communication, but I said I
hoped it would do him good, upon which he imparted to me,
in strictest confidence, the intelligence that he would im-
mortalize me, and that I should live in story. He certainly
was very much improved, and he made a great many quota-
tions from the poets. I must not omit to mention that he
was letting his hair grow. I heard of Sandy Whiskers, but
I did not see him. He was still in the country, and my dear
nurse informed me still had "views." He always mentioned
me in his letters, Nurse said, which proved that they were
corresponding.
" And you are never going to marry him, Nurse ? " I asked
once, when I was in a teasing mood.
"Don't talk nonsense, my dear young lady," she replied.
"You are almost as bad as Rube, who will not leave the poor
man alone. The idea of my marrying ! But I shouldn't be
surprised if he comes to London one of these fine days, and
remains a long time."
Rube had bought a piano, and their delight was great
when they heard me play. No less pleased were Ned and
Mr. Lorimer, and they freely expressed their gratification.
" It is all your doing, Ned," I said.
Mr. Bathgate's name was not mentioned, and I saw
nothing of him.
Thus the years sped on, with no change except that I had
grown to womanhood.
MY LAST HOLIDAY.
199
CHAPTER XLI.
my last holiday.
In three months I should be twenty-one years of age; in
three months I should come into my fortune and be my
own mistress. Fraught with trial and trouble as the past
had been, the time seemed to have flown now that I was so
near to liberty. I waited patiently for it; I had been taught
useful lessons during my intercourse with Aunt Parker and
my residence in Restoration Hall. What I might have
grown into but for the friendship and love which existed
between me and those dear ones who had taken up my
cause and made it their own, it is hard to say. My temper
might have hardened, I might have grown sullen and re-
bellious and unthankful, I might have been sceptical of
goodness; hate and mistrust might have been the chief
ministrants in my thoughts of my fellow-creatures. I am
grateful to say that the contrary was the case ; I was ready
even to forgive Aunt Parker for her behaviour to me. Not
that she ever softened towards me. Throughout the whole
of this time she had remained cold and implacable.
Of Mr. Bathgate I saw very little. He came not oftener
than once in every year to Restoration Hall, upon which
occasions I was always called down to see him. I made no
advances towards him, and he made none towards me. I
never sought to win his friendship, and he did not seek to
win mine. He asked me questions, and I answered them.
The questions usually were whether I was happy—whether
I had enough to eat—whether I was not thankful for the
care that had been taken of me ? The last question I
evaded, and he would turn it off by asking whether I had
anything to complain of? To this I would answer, No,
and that I wished to complain of nothing. Latterly he
seemed to regard me more thoughtfully than he had been
in the habit of doing; he fixed his eyes strangely upon me,
200
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
weighing me, as it were, in his mind, in relation to some-
thing he was considering which was likely to affect my
welfare. I did not return his gaze, but I knew that it was
on me; and when I was twenty years of age he brought me
a present of a work-box. It was the first present he had
made me, and I did not dare to offend him by refusing it;
but when I carried it up to my room I put it out of sight.
I felt that he had some other motive than that which springs
from a spirit of kindness in making me this offering, but I
did not trouble myself by considering what it might be. In
London I never saw him; my holidays were always spent
with Nurse Elliot, and in her society and Rube's, and in
the society of Ned and his father, they were invariably happy
ones.
Some kind of reserve had crept into my intimacy with
Ned. At first he used to kiss me, but as I grew to
womanhood he desisted. I was sorry for it, and I spoke
of it to Nurse Elliot.
"My dear," said she, "Mr. Ned knows what is right.
When you were a child, it was natural and proper, but
now you are a woman, and—no, no, my dear, it would
never do."
" Why should it never do? " I asked. " Ned and I are
almost brother and sister."
" Yes, my dear," was her comment on this, "almost, but
not quite. That makes all the difference."
Subsequently, in my musings, I myself perceived the
correctness of this view, and it is probable, if Ned had
offered the kiss, that I should have drawn back. Not
because I loved him less, or thought less of him, but that,
as Nurse Elliot said, I was a woman, and it would not do.
I observed him too, often regarding me thoughtfully, but
his gaze produced a far different impression upon me than
that of Mr. Bathgate. I did not always shrink from it
and avoid it, though I must confess that I sometimes did
so. More frequently, however, I turned my eyes to meet
his, and would smile or blush, or nod my head, and he,
following my example, would smile, or blush, or nod his
head. The smile and the nod were like an affectionate
question put and answered, but the blush, more often than
not, made me feel annoyed with myself without exactly
knowing why. There was nothing but love between me
and Ned—then what cause was there for blushes?
It is not from vanity that I say I was pretty; I am
MY LAST HOLIDAY.
201
simply stating a fact which Nurse Elliot never wearied of
impressing upon me. Nay, she would have it that I was
more than pretty, that I was even beautiful. If I believed
her, I had the most beautiful eyes, the most beautiful
complexion, the most beautiful figure. Well, I used to
laugh at her and say:
"Nonsense, Nurse; you will make me quite vain."
" But it is true, my dear," she would insist; and in my
heart of hearts I was only too glad to treasure up the
flattery, and wonder what Ned thought. For, so far as
regards my looks, I had to guess his opinion; he never
expressed it. There are other matters to mention con-
cerning other friends, but I will speak of them presently.
It was the occasion of the last time I left Restoration
Hall to enjoy my holiday in London. I was, as I have said,
within three months of my coming of age. At the end of
the month I should return to Restoration Hall, and then
I should leave it for good. Happy release ! And yet I
should take regret with me. I should leave a friend behind
me even in that gloomy dwelling, a true friend, of whom
it is not too much to say that he would lay down his life
to serve me. I refer to Mad Maxwell. Aunt Parker had
never again openly interfered between me and him ; what
she did to keep him from me she did so secretly that I
could find no good reason to complain of it. He had
grown to depend upon me, to look eagerly for me, to be
only happy when he was near me, or when he could take
away the memory of a kind smile and a few kind words.
I knew this well, and I was grateful to think that it was in
my power to shed light upon a creature so helpless and
hapless. But when the time drew near for me to quit
Restoration Hall for ever, the thought of Mad Maxwell
saddened me, and I reflected with genuine sorrow upon the
shock it would be to him to realize that he would never see
me again. I would have given much to be relieved of this
burden, to be able to feel that what was to bring joy into
rr.y life would not bring woe upon the life of another. But
how was I to help it ?
Mr. Lorimer had come to escort me to London. Here
was another change. It used to be Ned who came ; then
Ned and his father came; then Mr. Lorimer, unaccompanied
by Ned.
"It. is quite proper, my dear," said Nurse Elliot; "it
would never do."
202
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
I sighed to think there should be so many things that
would " never do " now that I was a woman.
"It is my opinion, Nurse," I said, "that the world is a
great, deal too particular."
I did not mean it a bit; I should have felt very awkward
if Ned alone had come to escort me to London, but then
one does not tell everything to her nurse, though she is the
dearest creature in the world. It would " never do " now
that one was a woman.
" Not at all, my dear," said Nurse Elliot; "we must be
particular, or where should we be ? "
We were both lost in the contemplation of the wide
prospect her question opened out; that is the reason, I
suppose, when I presently looked up she should smile and
nod her head at me, and that I should smile happily and
shyly. There was a great deal of mystery going on in those
days.
But I am running away from Ned, and I am sure I don't
want to. His father came to Restoration Hall to take me
to London ; but Ned was always at the London station to
meet us, and it was only when I saw his bright face that I
felt my holiday had really commenced.
"Bravo!" Ned would say when he handed me out of
the carriage. (I did not think it at all strange that he should
say "Bravo," though it certainly would not bear critical
analysis.) " Here we are, once more."
Now I am quite aware that this was not very original, but
it was original enough for me, and I really considered it
clever and exactly appropriate to the occasion. And
perhaps all this time my hand would remain in Ned's, and I
had not the slightest wish to remove it. It would have been
the height of unkindness to behave abruptly with so true a
friend. Then Ned would start off to the luggage-van to get
my boxes (there was more than one now, because my dresses
were longer, and because I was of more importance, or
thought myself so, than once upon a time), and if the
railway porters ever had a profitable and paying job they
had it with Ned, who scattered his shillings about in the
most reckless fashion. Not only railway porters, but cab-
men, when I was part of their fare and Ned another part,
had the best of all good reasons—from a cabman's and a
railway porter's point of view—to bless him in those days.
As more than one said, with a satisfied smile, as the silver
chinked in their hands, " I know a gentleman when I see
Ml LAST HOLIDAY.
203
him, sir." They would have been dull fellows, indeed, had
it been otherwise, when they were doing a job for Ned.
I ieel that I am wandering sadly in my description, but I
cannot heip it; the words must come out as they please; it
is more my heart than my hand that is guiding my pen.
Well, when we were in the cab, driving to the Borough,
there were many inquiries to be made on both sides.
" How is business ? " was a stock question of mine.
I must explain that Ned was a junior partner in the firm
of Lorimer and Bathgate.
"Pretty well, pretty well," said Ned, looking at his
father, and rubbing his hair about his forehead.
And, " Pretty well, pretty well," his father would repeat,
looking at Ned, and rubbing his hair about his forehead.
It was delightful to see the likeness between these two.
Sometimes it occurred to me that business was not so pretty
well as they represented it, but as they never made any
trouble of it in my presence, why should I ? Quite privately
to myself I took a great interest in hops, and when I heard
that there was blight in the bine or something of that sort,
which made it bad for growers and pickers, I used to
be very sorry, because it might be bad for Mr. Lorimer and
Ned; and, on the other hand, when it was a good year for
growers and pickers I used to rejoice, because it could not
help being a good year for my dear friends. They never
talked business before me.
To return to the last occasion Mr. Lorimer came to fetch
me from Restoration Hall.
As usual, he came in the afternoon, and gave me a couple
of hours to get ready in. Aunt Parker assisted me in my
preparations; they were simple, because I had nearly every-
thing arranged days before. As she stood over me, the
thought occurred to me what would she do when I was gone
altogether. Would she take another girl to train as she had
trained me ? How I pitied the poor creature for the fate
in store for her! It was not likely she would be so fortunate
as I had been in meeting with friends like my dear nurse
and Rube, and Mr. Lorimer and Ned. I thought, "If I
could help her I would. If I could take her away once a
year and give her just such a holiday as I have enjoyed, it
would be almost as great a pleasure to me as to her. Poor
girl!" For in my mind that appeared to be Aunt Parker's
business—to take little girls and make them unhappy. Aunt
Parker's voice interrupted my musings.
204
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" Are you not going to take your work-box with you ? "
I had my work-box with me, one that Nurse Elliot had
given me.
" I don't mean that rubbishy thing. I mean the work-box
that Mr. Bathgate gave you."
" Oh, no, aunt; I shall not have any occasion for it."
" That may be, but it will please your guardian."
" I never see Mr. Bathgate when I am in London."
" But you may see him this time."
Something unusual in her voice struck me.
" Why should I see him this time ? "
" I don't know why, but you may."
" Do you know that I shall ? " I asked.
" How should I know ? I am only speaking for your own
good. He has been very kind to you."
"Has he?"
I had no doubt in my mind as to his kindness to me, but
Aunt Parker expected me to say something, and I had
nothing better to say.
" Yes, he has—very kind. It has been in his power all
through to prevent you going away at all."
" I think," I said slowly, " if it had been entirely in his
power, he would have prevented me. It is Mr. Lorimer I
have to thank."
"You are wrong; it is Mr. Bathgate you have to
thank. There is no reason for your likes and dislikes.
You have not improved, I am sorry to say, since you were
a child."
I did not answer her; my liberty was fast approaching.
She had Mr. Bathgate's work-box in her hand, and to avoid
discussion I took it and put it into the trunk I was
packing.
" When a thing is done willingly," she observed, " it is
well done. When it is done unwillingly and with a bad
grace, it might as well not be done at all. You are glad you
are going away now ? "
" Yes, aunt."
" And you will be more glad when you go away alto-
gether."
" Yes; but I would rather not say anything about it."
" Still," she persisted, " there is such a thing as grati-
tude."
" I am not ungrateful."
" To me ? "
MY LAST HOLIDAY.
206
I was silent; she should not force an untruth, even by
implication, from me.
" If you had the slightest idea," she said, " what it has
been in my power to do to you, you would confess that you
ought to be grateful to me. But the soil is bad."
" Aunt, I do not wish to quarrel with you."
" Who is quarrelling ? Who wishes to quarrel ? That is
your cunning way of putting your best friends in a false light.
I may bring you to your knees even now. It will depend
upon you whether I do so or not."
A sudden chill fell upon my heart. There was a hidden
threat in her words and tone.
" It may depend upon yourself. I don't say it will, but
it may. I have wasted the best years of my life with you.
I shall be reimbursed for the sacrifice if you have a grain of
sense in you. You shall not cheat me a second time; you
shall not rob me of my reward. Let what I now say sink
into your mind, or you may repent it to the last hour of
your life."
I had no comprehension whatever of her meaning, nor
any clue to guide me to it. She did not speak wildly, but
with cold malevolence, and it was only when I was some
miles away from Restoration Hall, Mr. Lorimer's love
guarding me as it were, that my fears of an impending evil
were dispelled.
Ned, of course, met us at the station; he was graver than
usual, I thought, but brightened up the moment I spoke of
it.
"And how is business, Ned ? " I asked.
" Pretty well, pretty well," he replied ; and then both he
and his father rubbed their hair over their foreheads.
I am sure he did not know that his voice had a despon-
dent note in it, or he would have been careful to avoid it.
"Nurse," I said that night, "do you think that Ned is
troubled about anything in particular ? "
" Do you, my dear ? " she asked in return.
Now, that is not fair, Nurse, answering my question by
asking another."
" But why do you suppose that he is in trouble ? I
declare, my dear, I never saw such beautiful hair as you
have got in all my life."
She was brushing my hair in my bedroom before I went
to bed; it was the greatest pleasure I could give her to let
her perform these offices for me, and I certainly did not
2(0
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
dislike it. "Now, why do you suppose Mr. Ned is in
trouble ? "
"There was something in his voice, Nurse."
" Well, but what were you speaking about ?"
"About business, I think."
" Oh," she said, in a tone that I fancied had a shade of
disappointment in it, " gentlemen engaged in business have
a deal to worry them."
" Well," I said, " I have an idea, and I shall speak to Ned
to-morrow morning. He said he would drop in about one
o'clock."
About one the next day Ned did drop in, and Nurse
Elliot left 11s alone, saying that she had something to attend
to downstairs. She had done that very often when Ned
called ; if it was not something downstairs that called her
away, it was something upstairs, or something to do for
Rube, or some shopping that must be attended to at
once.
"Ned," I said, "I hope you won't mind what I am
going to say ? "
" I promise that beforehand," he replied.
" Do you know, Ned, that I am a woman now ? "
"Why, of course, I know, Lina. How could it escape
me ? "
" And that I am not so foolish as I was once ? "
"You were never foolish in my knowledge of you."
"Well, perhaps not foolish, Ned. What I mean is that I
am more far-seeing."
The eyes that met mine now were troubled.
" Go on, Lina."
" And it has got into my head—you put it there yourself
—that you have some cause for secret anxiety. You have
given me a great deal of happiness."
"Tush, tush, Lina; let us talk of something else."
"Not for a minute or two, please. You could give me
even greater happiness by no longer treating me as a
child."
" But I don't do that, Lina."
" You do, Ned, perhaps without intending it; for I am
sure I am not wrong when I say that you would not do any-
thing to grieve me."
" If I have done so, I have been unconscious of it, and I
must ask you to forgive me."
" I will forgive you on one condition."
MY LAST HOLIDAY.
207
"Tell it me, Lina."
" That you treat me not only as a woman but as a
friend," I said, earnestly. "Ned, if you would only
do that, you might find out that I am really a very sensible
person."
He could not help laughing at the manner in which I
said this, but he became grave again immediately, and
anxiously attentive.
" You have a trouble on your mind, Ned. Let me share
it with you. If in all the years we have known each other
I have not learned to know from your voice when you are
not quite happy, I should indeed be undeserving of your
love." He looked up quickly at this, and as quickly dropped
his eyes again. "Why, Ned, I might even be able to help
you. Remember the fable of the lion and the mouse. Now
confess. Is it business that is troubling you ? "
" Well," he said, and he appeared to be both
anxious and relieved, "suppose it is business. What
then, Lina? "
" What then, Ned !" I cried. " Why, then I can
help you—or, rather, I shall be able to do so in a little
while."
" In what way ? "
" In what way ? Do you forget that I am an heiress,
and that when I am twenty-one, which I shall be in a very
few months—what an old woman I am growing, Ned !—I
come into my fortune. It is a great deal of money, I be-
lieve—I haven't the slightest idea how much—and lately,
when I have thought of it, I have been really puzzled what
I was to do with it. Now, it is all settled for me, and I
need not bother my head any more. If you are troubled
about business, money will set it all right—my money,
Ned, which is yours and your good father's. I won't hear
a word against it, not a word. Discussions make me ill,
once I have made up my mind, and if you have any
regard for me at all, now is the time to show it."
" Dear Lina," he said, taking my hand, " it is impossible."
"It is not, Ned. It is quite possible, and altogether
right."
" At any rate, as there are still three or four months be-
fore you are twenty-one we will not speak any more about
it just now. Because, you see, Lina, it will only be wasting
time, which is not to be thought of for a moment when
there are much more important subjects to occupy us."
208
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
"Whatare they, Ned ?"
" Well, for one, there's a wonderful piece at the Lyceum,
and I have got seats for to-night. My dear old dad, you,
and I will go in style. Your very best frock, mind ; and I
shall bring you some flowers."
" But you will consider what I have proposed, Ned?"
"Yes, I will consider it—that is, I won't forget it; now
I must run away. At a quarter to eight two gentlemen in
white ties and swallow-tails will call for the best-hearted
young lady they have ever known. Good-morning, Lina."
We were in the habit now of going chiefly to the best
parts of the theatre, and Nurse Elliot used to dress up very
smart when she accompanied us. I have a suspicion that
she would have felt more comfortable in the pit, but she
never hinted as much, and would sit bolt upright, very stiff
and uncompromising on those occasions, as befitted her
dignity. On this particular evening there were no signs of
trouble in Ned's face and manner. He was bright and
cheerful and happy, and, locking at his handsome face, I
decided within myself that " business" had come right
again somehow. I think I was not entirely glad, because
it deprived me of the opportunity of showing my gratitude.
" But I will find some other way," I thought; and I began
to be puzzled again as to what I should do with all my
money when I came into possession of it. The responsi-
bility really appeared to me to be overwhelming. If I had
had the slightest idea that my fortune was to plunge me
into troubles so deep that all the misery I had already en-
dured was happiness in comparison, I should have prayed
for it to have been thrown into the sea. The shadow of
these troubles was hovering over me when Ned and I were
in the theatre, but I did not see it, mercifully. There
were still a few happy days in store for me, and I enjoyed
them thoroughly.
SEWS OF OLD FlUE.NDS.
2u9
CHAPTER XLII.
news of old friends and an invitation to dinner.
I must net forget the other good friends—one especially,
Alonzo. As Sandy Whiskers is the soonest disposed of, I
will speak of him first.
He had turned his ventriloquial powers to account. A
shrewd speculator who was always on the look out for
talent had heard him years ago, and saw that he could use
Sandy Whiskers to his own profit. So this shrewd specu-
lator, with a capital eye to. the main chance, made a pro-
position which Sandy Whiskers accepted. The proposition
was that he should give Sandy Whiskers an engagement for
seven years, at a salary of £$ a week, Sandy Whiskers to
appear nightly, during that period, before the public in any
town or city in Great Britain and Ireland. This offer of
£,1 a week, all travelling expenses being paid by the specu-
lator, and guaranteed for so long a period, appeared a foi-
tune to Sandy Whiskers, whose earnings had never
exceeded half that amount, and he signed papers, and
became, as he expressed it, a slave. For, as it happened,
he achieved an immense success, and grew almost immedi-
ately into popularity. The consequence was that the specu-
lator made a great sum of money out of him, so great that
Sandy Whiskers, awaking to the fact of his value in the
market, was not a little nettled at his own folly. However,
there was nothing for it but to serve his time, and posse ss
his soul in patience. He still remained single, and faithiul
to Nurse Elliot; but although he renewed his proposal of
marriage every year, either in person or by letter, he could
not expect to be accepted after having made such a ninny
of himself. He explained this to me privately, and informed
me at the same time that he would never abandon hope,
and that when he was a free man he and Nurse Elliot would
still be young enough to throw in their lots together. Of
course, I retailed this to my nurse, who laughed and said
14
210
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
that by the end of that time Sandy Whiskers would have
got a little sense into his head, and that he would be earn-
ing so much money for himself that he would be looking
higher in the matrimonial market than such a plain body
as herself.
" There will be any number of young ladies setting their
caps at him," she said, " for he is really wonderfully
clever."
Afterwards, when I saw and heard him on the stage, I
confessed as much, and I was surprised at the applause he
received. But, as I have said, Sandy Whiskers was con-
stancy itself, and she could not but be gratified at his per-
severance.
When I was nearly twenty-one years of age Sandy Whis-
kers had only two more years to serve, and he had already
received offers of engagements so tempting that even Rube
was won over, and said that if Sandy Whiskers remained in
the same mind, " it would be the height of selfishness on
his part, and the height of folly on Deb's, not to say Yes."
Nurse Elliot, during this last holiday of mine, said to me,
confidentially, that "Sandy Whiskers was such a good
fellow that if I would give my consent she might be induced
to think seriously of it."
" For in two years, my dear," she said, "you will have
been a long time your own mistress, and there is no telling
what might have happened before then."
" What do you think will happen before then ? " I asked.
"Why, my dear young lady," she replied, "you will be
a happy married woman yourself; and then I sha'n't so
much mind, because you will have some one to take care of
you."
" Some one, Nurse ? "
" Yes, my dear, and I can guess his name the first time.
Shall I ? "
But I would not listen to her, and I turned it off by
saying that I might be thousands and thousands of miles
away, and that I had better give my consent at once to
her marriage with Sandy Whiskers.
" But the idea of asking for it !" I exclaimed.
" My dear," she said, seriously, " I would never marry
without it."
And I was convinced she meant it.
The other good friend of whom I must speak is Alonzo,
who was also, as he proudly declared, on the high-road to
NEWS OF OLD FEIENDS.
211
fame. His coming to London had been a fortunate cir-
cumstance for him, and when he obtained the situation in
the office in which a story paper was printed and published
it seemed as if he had really stepped into the groove for
which " destiny had marked him out." I had a suspicion
that he was first employed as an errand boy there, but I
kept this to myself; it certainly was no discredit to him,
and he himself declared that he was not ashamed of com-
mencing on " the lowest rung of the ladder which leads to
glory." Before he was twenty years of age he saw himself
in print. It was a poem ; he sent it to me ; it was signed
" Alonzo," and the first verse ran thus :
" A poet in his chamber sat with melancholy brow.
His book was spread before him, he took no heed I trow,
For though his eye was constant fixed, his thoughts were far away,
Tracing through dim futurity the brght and coming day,
The day when through his genius grand his name should mighty be,
When titled lords and jewelled dames to him should bend the knee."
I thought it extraordinarily clever, and wondered whether
I was one of the jewelled dames who to him should bend
the knee. It really produced a profound impression upon
me to think that Alonzo was a poet. But he did not con-
fine himself to poetry. He presently launched out into
stories—short stories at first, in the vein he had made me
familiar with in his communications to me ; afterwards he
essayed longer stories, and at the present time he was
writing a novel with which he intended to set the world on
fire. It did not matter that he dealt in impossible char-
acters and scenes—his pen had found a market at half-a-
crown a column. I thought it a great deal of writing for
very small pay, but he declared the money was dross.
" I write for fame," he said. " The time shall come
when they will pay me half-a-crown a word, and then, fair
lady, then "
He looked at me languishingly, and I had to break in
upon him suddenly, as I had often to do when he was on
the verge of a declaration.
I am not at all sure whether he was as completely faith-
ful to me as Sandy Whiskers was to Nurse Elliot, for he
talked a great deal of " bright eyes and lovely visions."
Once, when we were in Westminster Abbey, he said :
" I shall lie here," pointing to a particular stone, as
though fame had already marked it out for him.
His, as a rule, were blood-curdling stories; he revelled
14*
212
A YOUNG GIUI/S LIFE.
in murders; and fashionable life, in print, had an extra*
ordinary fascination for him. There was a certain sameness
about his heroines, and I had a suspicion that he invariably
had me in his mind's eye when he described them. He
informed me that in the novel he was writing her name
was Evelina, and that he intended to immortalize me. I
said that I would rather not be immortalized, and that it
would make me feel awkward, but he would not be de-
terred.
Nurse Elliot thought a great deal of his talent, and read
. every word he wrote. In my absence he entertained her
sometimes by reading his manuscript to her, and although
she laughed when she told me, I could see that she felt
greatly flattered. Even Rube looked up to him now with
respect, and frequently invited him to a tripe supper, an
invitation which Alonzo's heroics did not prevent him from
accepting. He read me the first act of a drama, in which
he killed so many of his characters that I suggested he
ought to be more sparing of them. He replied, tapping
his forehead, that " it mattered not; he had plenty more
there." I said, of course, he was the best judge, but I
had never seen a play commence like that. He said he
was satisfied with my opinion ; it was exactly what he aimed
at; he would produce a play different from every other
play, one that would astonish the world; he was no slavish
imitator. Would I come and see it, he asked, when it was
produced ? I said I certainly would, if I was in London.
Upon which he said he would lay his laurels at my feet,
and would have gone on with a declaration if I had not
stopped him again. Despite his extravagant and magnilo-
quent mode of expressing himself, it was impossible for me
not to like him. He made a volume of his stories and
poems, which he pasted on satin paper, with red lines round
each page; it was expensively bound, and he wrote in it,
"To Miss Evelina Durham the pearl of the world, and a
kindred soul. With profound devotion. From the author,
Alonzo." He begged my acceptance of it, and I put it
carefully away. I would not let Ned see the inscription,
for I was afraid he would laugh at it.
My holiday was passing happily away. There were no more
melancholy looks from Ned, nor any indication that business
was troubling him. Did this content me ? Not entirely. I
could not rid myself of an uncomfortable feeling that
things were not well with him and his father, and I resolved
NEWS OF OLD FRIENDS.
213
when I had bidden adieu to Aunt Parker, to use my best
persuasion to win their confidence. No misfortune must
fall upcn these dear friends which it might be in my power
to avert. In saying this I intend to refer solely to my
money. Business troubles meant money troubles. It
would be in my power, then, to set things right for them,
and I said to myself again and again that this must be
done.
We were sitting together one evening when the last post
was delivered. It brought a letter for me. The circum-
stance was not unusual, for Alonzo had written to me
through the post, and Ned and Mr. Lorimer also. But
the writing on the envelope was strange to me. I opened
the letter and read it. My face grew clouded ; a sensation
of fear crept over me.
" Who is it from?" asked Nurse Elliot.
" From Mr. Bathgate," I replied.
Ned and his father looked at each other. Ned's eyes
expressed surprise and uneasiness ; Mr. Lorimer's eyes ex-
pressed apprehension.
" What does he want ? " asked Nurse Elliot.
"It is an invitation to dinner," I said, "at Mr. Bathgate's
house."
Mr. Lorimer started up.
" Father!" said Ned, in a low tone of warning, and Mr.
Lorimer resumed his seat.
" Is Mr. Bathgate a married man, sir ? " I asked of Mr.
Lorimer.
It is strange that the thought of his being married or
not had never before occurred to me, but Mr. Bathgate had
kept himself so much apart from me that no idea of his
private life had ever presented itself.
" He is not married," said Mr. Lorimer.
"In that case, my dear," said Nurse Elliot, "it would be
scarcely proper for you to go alone to his house. If he
has anything to say to you, why did he not ask you to call
at his office ? "
Ned nodded in approval; Mr. Lorimer said nothing,
and yet from his age and his position with respect to me,
he was the one friend who should have volunteered to
advise me.
"What shall you do, my dear?" asked Nurse Elliot,
anxiously.
My mind was already made up.
214
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
"I shall accept the invitation," ■ I said, "on the under-
standing that Mr. Lorimer accompanies me."
"And Ned," said Mr. Lorimer.
"Yes—and Ned. You don't mind, Ned?"
" Not at all," said Ned.
"I would not go," I said, "but Mr. Bathgate is my
guardian, and it will be best for me not to offend him."
CHAPTER XLIII.
ned and i.
I sat down in a corner of the room, and prepared to com-
pose my reply to Mr. Bathgate's invitation. I found it, how-
ever, impossible to write such a letter as would not be likely
to offend Mr. Bathgate. I commenced a dozen, and was
nervous and ashamed at wasting so much paper. At length
I gave it up in despair.
" I cannot write," I said, and then I asked Mr. Lorimer
whether he would tell me what to say.
"My dear," he replied, "it had better come from your
self. "
" But if it won't come ? " I asked. " Would you mind
speaking to Mr. Bathgate, explaining it all ? "
Mr. Lorimer was about to refuse, when Ned stopped him,
being desirous to assist me out of the difficulty.
"That will be the best way," said Ned. "We can
explain "
" We ? " asked Mr. Lorimer, in a tone of relief.
" Of course, we," said Ned. " You and I will do it together.
We can explain the difficulty you felt yourself to be in, and
that you thought it would be more agreeable if my dear dad
were to represent you. Don't bother yourself any more
about it, Lina. I will see to its being done, and will risk the
interpretation Mr. Bathgate is sure to put upon our asking
him to invite us to dinner. For that is what it amounts to.
It is really asking for an invitation. Mr. Bathgate may not
like it. He is not overburdened with generosity."
"Ned !" cried Mr. Lorimer, warningly.
"Yes, yes, father, I know," said Ned, a little impatiently,
" but we are all friends here, and I cannot help saying that
it was a misfortune for the firm of the Lorimers when Mr.
Bathgate became a partner in it. There, father! I don't
intend to say anything more."
NED AND L
215
The next evening I received another letter from Mr. Bath-
gate, to the effect that he was gratified to perceive that I had
a proper regard for the proprieties of life, and he hoped to
receive further proof of my good sense; that a letter from
me would have been as acceptable as a message, but that he
would not quarrel with me because I had made his partner
and my co-guardian my mouthpiece; that it had been his
intention to invite Mr. Lorimer and his son, and that he was
pleased to recognize in my request the evidence of a grateful
spirit for the consideration I had received at my guardians'
hands in my bringing-up. He took especial pains to em-
phasize this, and to impress upon me that there had been
absolute unanimity between himself and Mr. Lorimer on
this point. "You may show Mr. Lorimer this letter," said
Mr. Bathgate, " and he will corroborate me— though I hope
corroboration is unnecessary." The letter contained an in-
timation that I would not be the only lady present, and that
it was his desire to make me happy in every respect.
An uncomfortable feeling took possession of me as I read
the letter; there was a false ring in it. Mr. Bathgate knew
that I disliked him ; why, therefore, should he take pains to
make himself agreeable to me; to pay me compliments, in-
deed ? From the first we had been at war with each other;
through him I had been oppressed, and forced to live with
a woman utterly devoid of tenderness, who had treated me
as an enemy, and whose systematic cruelty was never to be
forgotten or forgiven. Had it not been for dear friends my
life would have been so cheerless and lonely that my reason
might have been upset. I shuddered to think of it. And
now, quite suddenly, one of my two enemies evinced s
feeling towards me which it was impossible could be any
thing but false. " It was his desire to make me happy ir
every respect." Did he expect to do this by entertaining
me for an hour or two in his house, or was there some mean-
ing in the letter and the invitation which had yet to be re-
vealed ? It was this fear, which I could not dismiss from
my mind, that made me feel uncomfortable.
Of course I had a conversation with Nurse Elliot and
Rube on the subject.
"You see, my dear," said my nurse, "you will soon be
free of him, and, as he knows you are a woman now, and
will soon be your own mistress, he thinks it best to be on
good terms with you."
" Is that really your opinion ? " I asked.
216
A YOUKG GIRL'S LIFE.
" What other can I form ? " she replied. " I never want
to set eyes again on the gentleman, but he must be clever,
or he could not be the head of such a firm as Lorimer and
Bathgate; and if we have good reason for supposing that
this change in him comes from his head, and not from his
heart, it is quite as well to accept it for what it is worth, and
make the best of it."
"You are soon coming into your money," said Rube;
" perhaps he has an idea of asking you to lend him some of
it."
Nurse Elliot received the suggestion as a likely explana-
tion of Mr. Bathgate's changed demeanour, but advised me
to be very careful of what I did.
" Be sure, my dear," she said, "that you do not sign any
papers."
" I shall do nothing without consulting Mr. Lorimer and
Ned," I said. " I want them to look after my money for
me; I shall never be able to do it for myself. But the mo-
ment I mention a word about money Ned turns it off, and
won't listen to me."
" It will be all right when the proper time comes," said
Rube, looking at me somewhat significantly, I thought.
" Perhaps he feels a little delicate about it."
" But why should he do that ? " I asked, anxiously.
Rube laughed, and was about to make some remark, when
Nurse Elliot clapped her hand on his mouth, and bade
him take himself off. Which he did with a comically con-
trite air which puzzled me exceedingly.
In the evening Mr. Lorimer and Ned came. I did not
expect Mr. Lorimer, but he was anxious to learn if anything
had transpired with respect to the invitation. I showed him
the letter I had received, and he seemed to think it suffi-
ciently satisfactory. I did not give the letter to Ned. Un-
derstanding that Mr. Lorimer would only stop a few minutes,
and that Ned intended to remain with me, I made up my
mind to wait till we were alone, and then ask his opinion.
" The dinner is on Friday," said Mr. Lorimer, " and to-
day is Tuesday. Why, my dear, you will hardly have time
to get your dress ready ? "
" It is ready now," I said. " I shall dress very plainly."
He smiled as he said that I was very different from most
young ladies.
" Do you wish me to dress fine, sir ? " I asked.
"I wish you to look your best, my dear," he replied.
NED AND I.
217
"It should be always so with young people, without, of
course, running into too great an extravagance as regards
fashion."
" Then I will make myself lovely, sir, for your sake," I
said.
"And Ned's," he added.
"Yes," I said gaily, "and Ned's; that is, if he cares in
the least about it."
I said this to punish him for his silence. In former
days he used to rattle on; sometimes there was really no
stopping him, his tongue went at such a rate; and now there
were occasions when he really seemed not to have a word
to say for himself.
"Ned cares a great deal, I assure you, my dear," said
Mr. Lorimer.
I made a curtesy to Ned, and said I was truly sorry for
the calamity that had fallen upon him.
" What calamity ? " he asked, surprised.
" Oh," I said saucily, " I am glad I was mistaken. I
thought you were dumb."
Soon afterwards Mr. Lorimer took his departure, and
Nurse Elliot found something particular to do in another
part of the house. So Ned and I were alone.
"Ned," I said, "let us be serious."
" With all my heart, Lina," he said.
Now, as he spoke these words almost unconsciously—for
surely a less emphatic assurance would have served equally
well—there was a tenderness in his tone (also, perhaps,
unconsciously introduced) which stirred my heart, and I
reproached myself for having somewhat unmercifully
twitted him.
" I hope you don't think," I said, " that I intended to
be hard on you."
" My dear Lina," he said, " I am sure you could not be
anything but kind. Don't give me reason to suppose that
I make you unhappy."
" Unhappy, Ned ! But for you I should not know what
happiness was. There must never be any misunderstand-
ing between us ; if I speak lightly sometimes, as I did just
now, you must always forgive me beforehand." I held out
my hand.
" There is nothing to forgive," he said. " It is a happi-
ness to me to see you light-hearted. I should be a misera-
ble sort of fellow indeed to take exception to it."
218
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" Ned," I said, "you have no confidence in me."
And I made a slight motion to release my hand,
though it was not my wish that it should be released. But
women are such contradictory creatures! Ned let it go
at once, with a little sigh, which served as a compensation
to me.
"You are mistaken," he said. "If you are really in
earnest, there is no one in the world in whom I have greater
confidence, in whom I place greater faith."
"Really, Ned?"
" Really, Lina."
" I am glad to know it."
" But, surely, you have known it all along."
"Yes, I have known it all along; but you are changed
a little."
If I had known beforehand what I was about to say, I
do not think I should have been able to stop myself from
saying it.
"Not towards you, Lina," he said; "you must not say
that. I will make a confession. When I first came down
to Pegleg I had no idea that I was about to make an
acquaintance which would grow into a friendship so dear
to me. Year by year it has grown dearer and dearer, and
to lose it would be the deepest sorrow of my life. Per-
haps, under other circumstances, I might have dared to—
But, no, I have no right to say even that much. Believe
one thing, implicitly, Lina. You have no truer friend than
shiftless Ned."
"Ned," I cried—my heart was throbbing with a hope
upon whose sweetness a mysterious shadow seemed to be
falling ; but was it not in my power to remove that shadow
by speaking plainly? For what could it arise from but
money troubles ? And here was I coming into a fortune
which would set all wrong things right. Yes, I would be
firm with this dear friend, and insist upon having my way;
and then, perhaps— But I dared not go further in my
thoughts. Sufficient that in this brief mental review the
shadow was already dispelled, and only hope remained.
" Ned," I cried, " I know I have no truer friend than you,
and I have the same feeling towards you. Show your
friendship by having confidence in me. You have business
troubles to contend with, have you not ? "
"Yes, and I do not wish you to worry yourself about
them."
NED AND I.
219
41 But I must worry myself about them, unless you do
exactly what I want. Any other troubles, Ned ? "
He was silent; he did not answer me.
" Perhaps," I continued, " it is not right of me, a young,
inexperienced girl, to expect you to tell me everything ; but,
of all your troubles, the money one must be the worst.
And it is so easy to get out of. Remember, I have only
you and your father to depend upon. Soon I shall be free,
and I see great anxiety before me unless I have a friend to
stand by me who understands all about money. I shall
get into the most dreadful difficulties. It would be better
for me to be without a penny than to have a heap of money
I don't know how to manage or what to do with, and with
friends who will not help me the way I want—which is the
only proper way."
"There is Nurse," suggested Ned.
" Can you be so ridiculous as to imagine she would be of
the least bit of use to me ? "
" There is her brother."
" Rube is as good a man as I have ever known; but
think a moment. Who should stand closer to me, Rube,
or you and your father ? Your father and mine were the
closest friends. Is not that a claim ? My father placed
me in your father's care in words I could repeat now, they
were so beautiful and true. Is not that a claim ? Perhaps
you wish me to go to Mr. Bathgate, and ask him to under-
take what you have no right to refuse ? "
"No," he cried, quickly, "anything but that. It would
be better for you to throw your money into the sea."
"That is my own idea. Now, Ned, what is it you have
to say ? "
" You have really bewildered me," he said, passing his
hand through his hair, and rumpling it. " Tell me what
you wish me to do."
" To promise that you will undertake the charge of my
money. That you will counsel me what to do with it.
That you will use it to help you and your dear father out
of your trouble. Yes, every penny of it is yours, if it will
only restore you to your dear old ways again, when your
face was always bright and your voice always cheerful. Ned,
don't you understand me ? "
If I had been given to understand that I was making
love to him and that there was a suspicion of indelicacy in
the pressure I was putting upon him, I should have repelled
220
A YOUNG GIRLS LIFE.
the accusation with indignation. But it is no less a fact
that my heart was overbrimming with love for him, and
that it was only during those moments that the full force of
my feelings for him made itself felt. Knowing Ned as I
did, I should have had no fear of misconstruction at his
hands. He was too noble, too generous, to believe me
capable of an indelicate act.
He seized the hands which I in my earnestness stretched
out to him, and draw me close to him ; but he released me
as quickly, with a motion of his head which seemed to
convey a reproach to himself for acting rashly.
" You are putting a heavy responsibility upon me," he
said.
" Do you shrink from it, Ned?" 1 asked. During this
interview light had come to me, and not only light, but
strength. " You have done so much for me, would you not
do a little more ? "
"I think, Lina," he said, steadying his voice by an effort,
" that there is no difficult task you could ask me to do, and
which did not touch certain sacred confidences say between
my father and myself, which I would not be willing to
cheerfully undertake. The time may never come when I
may unbosom myself freely to you, but if it does, what
must now appear enigmatical to you will be made clear."
" I will wait for that time; but in what you say there is
nothing to prevent you from helping me as I wish you to
help me."
He looked at me admiringly, and I met his gaze earnestly,
and modestly, I hope.
" You have great courage, Lina. I should scarcely have
given you credit for so much."
"I have had much to bear, Ned; more than you can
quite realize unless I disclosed it to you."
" Poor Lina ! Dear Lina ! "
" It has imbued me with a strange strength. I some-
times wonder that I am as I am after the lonely years I have
spent with Aunt Parker. I have you to thank that I am
cheerfui and happy, and that my life is not a woeful
burden."
"Lina!" he cried, "I have done nothing."
" You did everything. But for you I should have been
immured all these years in Restoration Hall, which was
once a madhouse—did you know that ? But for you Nurse
Elliot would have been powerless. When she went out of
NED AND I
22i
your father's office on a day you remember, all hope of being
able to help me had fled ; but you followed her, like a good
angel—my good angel, Ned, indeed, indeed !—and took up
my cause, and spared no trouble to bring sunshine to my
heart. Your good father, whom I love and honour, could
do nothing without you, and you strengthened him to save
me from a woman whose presence was a horror to me. Do
you want to lower me in my own esteem by trying to make
me believe that I owe nothing to you, when you have done
that for me which I believe and hope no other man has
ever had the opportunity to do for a hapless, lonely child ?
If you will not be just to yourself because of your generous
nature, be just to me, and do not seek to deprive me of
that which is very sweet to me. Ned, through all t:me,
whatever happens, I can be stedfast and faithful and true.
Else all the love that has been bestowed upon me would be
dust and ashes !"
How it came about I do not know. My words came
impulsively from the depth of my heart; they broke down
the barrier he had set up between us, and in a moment I
was in his arms, and his face was lowered to mine. No
spoken pledge was asked or given, but I was satisfied that
he loved me as I loved him. I understood that he could
not speak openly to me until the time arrived when his lips
would be unsealed. I dimly understood that that time
might never be, but I was satisfied and content. He was
mine, and I was his. We were to live in that assurance,
and in the hope that one day we should be united. Mean-
while the bond between us was to be a secret one, only to
be divulged at his pleasure. There was no sacrifice I was
not ready to make for Ned's dear sake. I placed implicit
faith in him, and I vowed that nothing should ever shake
it or make me doubt him. Presently he released me, and
we stood a little apart; outwardly the same as we had ever
been, but inwardly bound to each other by a sacred tie. A
new light, precious as sunrise, tender as sweetest twilight,
had entered into our lives.
Would that light ever be dimmed ? Ah, me 1
"You accept the trust, Ned? "
"Yes, Lina."
Then I sat down and took a piece of work in my hand
upon which I was engaged, and made a pretence with
stitches.
"Ned," I said, when I felt that I could in some measure
222
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
control my voice, " on Friday evening, when we are at Mr.
Bathgate's, do not leave me too much alone."
" Alone with him you mean ? "
" Yes."
"1 will not, but I think there is little fear of that; he is
to have other company, he says."
"Yes, and I am glad; but I shall not care for them.
You and your dear father will come for me."
" Yes, Lina."
"And will bring me home ? "
"Yes."
" And I am really," I said, looking up with a cheerful
smile—how handsome he was, how handsome and manly
and strong! how proud I was of him! what happiness lay
in the future for me !—" and I am really to make myself
very lovely for you ? "
He nodded, humouring me. It could not be fancy
that I saw in his eyes the reflection of my own sweet
nopes.
He stopped no later than usual, and there was no
outward difference in our spoken "Good-night, Ned;"
"Good-night, Lina." Nurse Elliot, when she entered the
room, cast many a shrewd glance at his face and mine, and
appeared to be puzzled. When we were alone she said,
"Well, Lina?"
" Well, Nurse ? "
" Is that all, my dear ? "
"Yes, Nurse, that is all."
" If I dared to say something, my dear—"
" Why not ? "
" I would ask if Mr. Ned has spoken."
" Oh, yes, he has said a great deal."
" But anything very particular, my dear? "
I kissed her tenderly, and said, "Nurse, dear, I can tell
you nothing, and nothing must be said. You must promise
me that."
" I won't open my lips without your permission."
" I think I am right in saying that all you want is to see
me happy ? "
" That is all, my dear."
"Well, Nurse, I am happy."
"And yet Mr. Ned has said nothing particular?"
" Nothing."
"My dear," she said, "I don't know what to make cf
NED AND I.
223
it, for if ever a man was in love Mr. Ned is—and with
you."
" Indeed, Nurse !"
"Yes, indeed."
" Well, all that we can do is to wait and hope. In the
meantime, so long as I am happy, we ought to be satisfied."
" I suppose so, my dear," she said, doubtfully.
" You have given me your promise not to speak—to Ned,
or Rube, or any one."
" I wouldn't break it for untold gold."
"And now, Nurse, Ned has told me that he wants me
to look very lovely on Friday night, so we must think about
my dress."
" He did tell you that ? "
"Yes, and Mr. Lorimer as well. Now we will not talk
any more nonsense; what we have to do is so very, very
serious."
But during the week her eyes constantly wandered to
my face in perplexity. She ought not to have worried, for
it was a happy time with me. My friends always knew
that my heart was at peace when I went about singing.
This pleasant pastime was a great pleasure to Rube, but
once I saw him regarding me with a lugubrious air.
" What is making you melancholy, Rube," I asked.
"I am thinking, Miss Lina," he replied, " that presently,
when you have come into your fortune and are a grand
lady, we shall not see so much of you."
" That is an unkind thought. You will see a great deal
of me, and I shall never be a grand lady. Perhaps I shall
ask you to let me come and live with you when I leave
Aunt Parker."
" Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Miss Lina,
but it's hardly to be expected. I know more of the world
than you do."
" Where else could I live, Rube ? You are acquainted
with all the friends I have."
" But changes come, Miss Lina, natural changes. When
you marry "
" Oh, hush ! You are putting thoughts in my head."
Nurse Elliot was very busy that week, and when I was
dressed she declared—but I must not set down here what
she declared. We had forgotten one thing—flowers. But
Ned brought some, which more than contented her.
" Does she look lovely enough ? " she asked.
224
A YOURG GIRL'S LIFE.
Ned nodded and smiled. No one but I saw the mean-
ing in his smile,-and my heart beat with joy.
" My dear," said Mr. Lorimer, " you almost make me
feel young again."
And yet there was an anxious expression on his face.
For myself, I had no forebodings; and so we set out for
Mr. Bathgate's house on a night which was to be for ever
memorable to me.
CHAPTER XLIV.
mr. Bathgate's dinner-party.
The house was in St. John's Wood, and we had far to
drive. It was the first real dinner-party to which I had
been invited, and, although I should have preferred to stay
at home, I could not but be impressed with the importance
of the occasion. I thought of the time to come when Ned
and I, our engagement being known, would accompany
each other to more pleasant gatherings than that to which
we were going on this night. Many were the day-dreams
in which I indulged; all the gloom, all the misery of the
past had vanished; life spread its fairest pages before me.
There was a carriage-drive to the house, and we were set
down at the door. It was dark, but I could see that the
house was not large; neither was I impressed by the interior
when we entered. The furniture was solid and unattrac-
tive; the pictures on the walls were of a sombre character,
and there were few ornaments about.
" Not such a house as Ned and I will have," I thought.
My idea of a happy home was Oaklands, in which I had
lived with my parents, and during the last two or three days
I had wondered whether it were possible to purchase it back,
and make that dear place our home.
Mr. Bathgate received us ; shook hands solemnly with
Mr. Lonmer and Ned ; shook hands effusively with me, and
irtroduced me to two ladies, who were the only guests
besides ourselves. They were middle-aged, and far from
pretty; and one of them, taking possession of me, began to
talk religion and duty at me, as if that were the purpose for
which she had been invited. The gentlemen stood apart, talk-
trg in an undertone ; they did not seem at their ease. The
names of the ladies were Mrs. Price and Mrs. Borwick.
Mrs. Borwick was the lady who began instantly to minister
ME. BATHGATE'S DINNER-PARTY".
225
to my spiritual needs. I said very little, which was evidently
to her liking. I was surprised, after the lapse of a few
minutes, to hear Mrs. Price address me with the words,
" Do you not think Mr. Bathgate a very fine man ? "
Embarrassed, I answered, "Yes;" and was further em-
barrassed by her saying,
" He will be gratified to hear that you have said so."
Which would make it appear as though it were a gratuitous
statement on my part. My private opinion was that he was
far from a fine man; he was big, it is true, and solemn, and
pompous, but in my eyes he had nothingjwhatever to recom-
mend him.
" He is better than a fine man,"said Mrs. Borwick. "He
is a good man. It is a privilege to know him."
Had they been engaged to sound his praises ? It was a
suspicion that occurred to me, for I could not believe that
such sentiments could be sincere.
Mr. Bathgate came towards me.
" We have seen little of each other," he said.
" Yes, sir," I said.
He was scanning me critically.
"We must see more," he said. "But, indeed, we shall,
we shall. A great deal more, a very great deal. Your dress
is pretty, but it might be plainer. I don't complain, how-
ever. I am not a hard man, as you will find. I think all
that has been done has been done for the best. You think
so, too, of course."
To have ventured an opinion to the contrary would have
been to risk a quarrel, and this I was most anxious to avoid.
Still I would not commit myself to a falsehood, and I said
nervously,
" Mr. Bathgate, this is the first dinner-party to which I
have been invited. I hope you won't mind if I am a little
awkward."
" Not at all, not at all," he said, and I judged by his tone
that my attempt at evasion had succeeded; " I will take
care of you. Rely upon me; always rely upon me. There
are rocks and shoals. I will guide you through them."
His tone was patronizing—I did not mind that, but it was
also tender, and it frightened me. I looked towards Ned,
almost for protection from a hidden danger; he smiled in
response, and my courage returned to me. With such a
friend within hail, what had I to fear ? A pale-faced woman
servant came to the door.
15
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" Dinner ? " asked Mr. Bathgate, putting it in the form of
a question.
The woman replied, timidly, " Yes, sir," and Mr. Bathgate
offered me his arm.
Ned took in Mrs. Borwick—how I pitied him—and Mr.
Lorimer offered his arm to Mrs. Price.
In solemn silence we marched to the dining-room. The
furniture there was as gloomy as that I had already seen;
the light was funereal : the table was set out in a stiff and
formal style. With all my heart I wished the night were
over.
I sat on Mr. Bathgate's right hand; on his left sat Mrs.
Price; next to me sat Mrs. Borwick; at the ccher end of
the table sat Mr. Lorimer, with Ned on his right. Thus my
two dear friends were placed as far from me as was possible.
The table could have accommodated a dozen guests, and,
there being only six diners, the chairs were at a cold distance
from each other. The only lively person among us—or,
rather, the only person who strove to make himself lively—
was Mr. Bathgate. I could see that Mr. Lorimer and Ned
were being rapidly chilled to fieezing-point, and, afraid that
Ned's mood might take a turn which would bring trouble on
us, I endeavoured to meet Mr. Bathgate's sallies with cor-
responding cheerfulness. But it was ill acting, and it did
not help me to perceive that Ned was conscious of it.
What shall I say of the dinner ? It is not difficult to
describe. An icy grace; lukewarm soup; ditto fish; an
uneatable entrke ; underdone mutton; some sort of game,
very much burnt; sweets and pastry; and a dessert of dried
fruit. I drank no wine, and I was concerned to observe
that Ned drank a great deal. Not that he approved of it—
that was quite as easy to see, but that he felt it necessary to
do something to smother his indignation. Not a word passed
between me and him during the dinner ; I endeavoured to give
him a bright look now and then, but I miserably failed; and
my attempts and their failure did not help matters; he saw
clearly through them. Mrs. Price and Mrs. Borwick were
like death's heads at the feast. I doubt whether any dinner-
party in the world could have brought more discomfort to at
least three of the party. But this made no impression upon
Mr. Bathgate, whose cue it was to be lively. He entertained
me with jest and anecdote; he pressed me to eat, and did
his best to persuade me to drink wine, but I steadfastly
refused, saying I never drank wine, and was afraid of it,
MR. BATHGATE'S DINNER-PARTY.
227
d still I continued to smile in a forced way, being most
nestly desirous to ward off an impending storm. At
gth the weary, miserable entertainment came to an end.
s. Borwick looked significantly at Mr. Bathgate; Mr.
thgate briskly nodded; Mrs. Borwick rose, and said to
Miss Durham !"
[ rose immediately and moved after her, towards the door.
•. Bathgate was hastening to the door to hold it open while
: ladies passed out, but Ned anticipated him. We ex-
mged one look—Ned and I—and I made a motion of
r head by which I intended to convey an entreaty that he
)uld not be long absent from me. I did not know whether
understood me, but as he held the handle of the door I
.naged that my hand should touch his. He brightened
instantly, and smiled. Then Mrs. Borwick, Mrs. Price,
d I marched into the drawing-room.
We sat dcwn stiffly, and in a few minutes the pale-faced
■vant brought in coffee and tea. I took a cup of tea, and
ink it thankfully; it refreshed me. Mrs. Borwick was
making all the time, Mrs. Price interjecting a word or two
:asionally. I said not a word.
Their theme was Mr. Bathgate. What a good man he
s; what a sensible man; what a right-minded man ! How
ange that he had not married! But perhaps he had never
:t a woman good enough for him. His views, now, not only
this life, but of the life beyond—how true and lofty they
re ! A bishop had spoken in praise of them—what more
aid a woman desire ? I do not pretend to set down here
the sentiments they indulged in with reference to this
in, who had been the terror of my life. They were in the
dst of their rhapsodies when the door opened, and Mr.
thgate presented himself. The moment he appeared Mrs.
irwick rose, and said,
" Mrs. Price I " exactly in the tone she had used when she
d said, " Miss Durham ! " at the end of the dinner.
Mrs. Price rose so quickly that I might have been ex-
sed for the supposition that a spring upon which she had
en sitting had been suddenly let loose. They bowed
mally to me, and left the room. Mr. Bathgate and I were
ine.
228
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
CHAPTER XLV.
A scene.
Had it not been for the extraordinary and unaccountable
change in Mr. Bathgate's behaviour towards me, the dis-
appearance of the ladies the moment he entered the room,
and their previous praises of him, might not have aroused
the suspicion that these proceedings formed part of a plan
which had been carefully mapped out. The absence of Mr.
Lorimer and Ned strengthened the suspicion, and I listened
in silence to the long speech with which Mr. Bathgate was
favouring me. He paused several times to give me an
opportunity to speak, but I said not a word. I was bored
and uneasy, but not at all frightened ; I had been placed in
more difficult positions, and had come safely out of them.
Besides, Mr. Bathgate was not saying anything very alarm-
ing; he was simply entertaining me with a long, dreary
account of all he had done for me since the day he had
" the pride and the pleasure " to receive me as his ward.
He had acted entirely in my interests. When I arrived at
womanhood there were duties before me to be fulfilled, and
with these in view the plan which had been pursued with
respect to my education and rearing had been the wisest
that could possibly have been adopted. I was not an ordi-
nary child; there was great ffear that I might be afflicted
with a mental disease; I indulged in the strangest fancies.
All these circumstances had to be considered, and they had
been. There was only one object in view—my physical and
spiritual welfare. In other hands than his he dreaded to
say what would have happened to me; but the danger had
been aveited. My mind was clear, and would become
clearer and stronger in the course of a few years;
I no longer suffered from hysteria; I no longer laboured
under delusions—that is, he hoped not. Of course,
the discipline which had been imposed upon me was
at first irksome. But at the tender age at which I was
placed in his charge, it was not possible I could be a judge
A SCENE.
229
of what was best for me. I might not have admitted it
then, for I had been too much indulged; but I could not
help admitting it now, when, as he playfully believed, my
intellect had been freed from threatening symptoms of a
dread disease. All this, and a great deal more, Mr. Bath-
gate said; and he lost no opportunity of impressing upon
me that if I was not sensible and grateful for the course
that had been pursued, it would be the saddest proof that
could be offered to him that his sanguine expectations were
not, as he believed they were, fulfilled.
Up to this point he simply wearied me ; but I showed no
signs of weariness. In silence I listened to the long, self-
laudatory account of his stewardship, and neither by word
nor motion expressed dissent from his views. I knew that
it would be dangerous to enter into any kind of argument
with him, and that the slightest disapproval on my part
would have brought difficulties and unpleasantness upon
me. All that I desired, with reference to this guardian who
had done his best to fill my days'with misery, was to be
free from him; and this happy release was approaching.
Meanwhile, if it gratified him to think that he was imposing
upon me, I was content not to undeceive him. What did
it matter to me ? In a very little while he and I would
know each other no more.
"Your silence," he said, after he had finished, "I accept
as an expression of acquiescence and approval. It is
deeply gratifying to me. I looked for no less from you.
I thank you. And now "
I looked up in sudden alarm; there was in his tone a
disagreeable touch of tenderness, infinitely more distasteful
than his sternest tones could have been.
" And now," he continued, " the question arises, what has
been my motive in pursuing towards you a course which
few guardians would have troubled themselves with ? Why
have I been so extraordinarily careful in the cultivation and
strengthening of your moral powers ? Why, from a distance,
have I watched you, and said to myself, ' She will be all
you wish her to be ; she will become what you wish her to
become; she will be fitted for the duties which lie before
her ?' Can you guess ? "
I was compelled now to speak; he seemed to demand
it.
" No, sir," I replied.
" And yet," he said,, to one less guileless than yourself
280
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
—for I am proud to believe that in guilelessness and sim-
plicity there is an affinity between your nature and mine—
to one less guileless than my dear ward, it would not be so
difficult to guess why I have conducted myself more like a
father than a guardian towards you, though I am not so old
as you might suppose me to be. A matter of twenty years
between us. What is that ? A breath, a passing breath—
no more. And it is proper that the man should be at least
that much older than the woman. Nature intended it. Is
it not so—eh ? "
Again he compelled me to speak, and I said,
" I do not understand you, sir."
For a moment his face darkened; but he forced into it
immediately an expression which he intended to be agree-
able, and observed,
" You carry me back, my dear ward, to the days when
we first met. You remember saying then that you did
not understand me. That came out of your wayward'
ness, and I was constrained to speak firmly to you—
for your sake, my dear ward, and for the sake of youi
future, which I had even then so much at heart. And
now—well, well, I will not quarrel with you for saying that
you do not understand me now. It doubtless springs from
natural modesty. Your pardon"—he had observed that
my eyes were wandering to the door ; I was beginning to
be alarmed at the absence of Ned and Mr. Lorimer—"is
there anything you want ? "
" I was thinking, sir," I said, " that it was strange Mr.
Lorimer does not come."
"Not at all, not at all," said Mr. Bathgate, "I left him
and his son in the billiard-room. There is a very good
billiard-table in the house; you may find some amusement
in it; I shall have no objection. They are playing, and I
have made a wager that the young gentleman wins a game
I have set them. But we must not diverge. I was saying,
I believe, that your modesty prevents you from confessing
that you understand my meaning. It is so clear, and must
lead to a result so happy, so very happy. Indeed, should
there be difficulties in the way of the accomplishment of
that happy result—though I cannot imagine them, no, not
for a moment—I can foresee very great trouble. For,
naturally it would compel the conviction that the improve-
ment I had fondly looked forward to in one so dear to me
had, unhappily, not taken place. I cannot express to you
A SCENE.
231
how much I should grieve at this; misfortune to you means
misfortune to me; our fates are bound up in each other.
It must have been preordained. I see how anxious you
are, and I will no longer keep you in suspense. Evelina,
dear Evelina, I love you ! You will have for your husband
no frivolous man unable to protect you, unable to guide
you safely through the shoals of life, but one who knows the
world, and will save you from snares. And now, my dear
ward, now that all is settled, you need never again distress
yourself with fears of the future."
He had taken my hand, and my feelings had so over-
whelmed me that I had not immediately withdrawn it.
Indeed, I scarcely knew that he held it until he raised it
to his hated lips and was drawing me closer to him. Then
I snatched my hand from him, and flew towards the door ;
but he was before me. With a swift, gliding motion he slid
forward, and laying his hand firmly on my arm, gazed sternly
into my face.
"You are agitated," he said—and his voice now had no
tenderness in it; I was thankful for that. " Let me lead
you to a chair. No? Nonsense, nonsense. I know what
is good for you. I will not be harsh with you; I will even
forgive you. Believe me, our union is a necessity."
" It is not," I cried; " it never shall be !"
" Poor child ! " he murmured; " the improvement I
hoped for has not taken place. But there is time, there is
time. Take comfort, Evelina; I never allow myself to be
defeated, and I have set not only my heart, but all the
powers of my mind on a happy future for you—and it shall
be, yes, it shall be. I will not allow even yourself to mar
it."
" Mr. Bathgate," I said, controlling my voice, but unable
to control the trembling of my limbs, " why did those ladies
leave the room when you entered ? "
" Really, my dear Evelina," he replied, " you should not
ask me enigmas."
" It is no.enigma," I said, indignantly; " they left because
you had instructed them to leave, in order that you might
insult me."
"Insult you, Evelina ! Surely not, surely not."
"Yes, to insult me," I repeated.
" See what wrong views you take of things! The evil
lies in your mind; but we will correct that. Yes, indeed,
we will correct that. Rely upon me, my dear ward."
232
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" I will never rely upon you," I said boldly. " You
cannot deceive me. What purpose you have in making
this strange declaration to me "
" What purpose ? " he interrupted. " What purpose, my
dear Evelina ? Why, a happy marriage, to be sure. What
else, my child ? "
"You insult me. It was not my intention ever to re-
proach you. My prayer was that we should never meet
again. And I had resolved to forget the past which you
have made so unhappy for me, and in forgetting that, to
forget you-"
" You can never do that, my dear ward."
"No, I know now that I can never forget you; but it
would be better to be forgotten than to be remembered as
I shall remember you."
" Unwise, unwise !" he said, as though communing with
himself.
" You cannot mistake my feelings towards you "
" A fancied dislike," he said. " A mere whim. Under
happier conditions you would speak otherwise. But, my
dear Evelina, we will change dislike into love. If your
ears have been poisoned against me, I must punish the
slanderers. I have the power."
My heart sank; I knew to whom he alluded.
" My ears have not been poisoned against you. Your
conduct towards me, from the first unhappy day I saw you
until this evening, has been the sole witness against you.
You would have had me come here alone, to-night,
but "
Again he interrupted me.
" But you had friends who advised you against it, and
who vilified and maligned me."
" My own heart was my adviser, and I followed its
counsels. And now I must request you to call Mr.
Lorimer. I came here under his protection, and I will
ask him to take me away at once. I will not remain
another minute."
" I warn you," he said. " What you do or say with
respect to what has passed between us shall be done with
full consciousness on your part. Before, however, I give
you the warning, it is necessary that I should correct a
statement you have made. You came to my house under
the protection of two gentlemen—one not being deemed a
- ufficient safeguard."
A SCENE.
233
" Mr. Lorimer is my guardian," I said.
" Permit me. One of your guardians."
" And I considered myself under his care."
" Do not evade the point. When you deal with me, sub-
terfuge is useless. Mr. Lorimer stands for propriety, and
the young gentleman for "
Although he left the sentence unfinished, he could not
have put in plainer words the meaning he intended to
convey. I could not keep the blush from my cheeks as I
said:
" Mr. Lorimer and his son are seldom apart."
" You would not like them, nevertheless," said Mr.
Bathgate, with a light, scornful laugh, which had, too, a
malignant ring in it, " to be always together in your
company."
" Do you wish further to insult me ?" I asked, in-
dignantly.
" It is you who have insulted me; and, remember, I
never forgive an insult; remember, also, that whatever I set
my hand to I never turn back from. I warn you, Evelina.
If your respect, esteem, or love—choose your own word, my
dear young lady—for this young and this old gentlemen be
sincere, have a care what you do or say with respect to me.
Do I warn you for my own sake ? No. Those who oppose
me I crush in this way."
He held his open hand, palms upwards, with all the fingers
spread out, and slowly closed it. There was a relentless
purpose in the action which made me tremble.
" Neglect my warning, and a day will come when, hearing
not of misfortune, but of disgrace—deep, indelible disgrace
—into which they have been plunged because of your folly,
you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you, and
you alone, have been the cause of their downfall. I do
not accept the answer you have given to my proposal;
I shall renew it under more fortunate auspices. I hear
the voices of those whom you mistakenly consider your
friends."
He went to the door, and opened it to admit Mr. Lorimer
and Ned.
" Did you win the game ? " he asked of Ned.
" Yes," replied Ned, looking round the room for the ladies
whom he had supposed were with me.
" Then I have also won; but I generally do."
*' Yes," said Ned absently as regarded Mr. Bathgate, hi>
234
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
attention being given to me. " You generally do, I believe.
Where are the ladies ? "
" They have left," replied Mr. Bathgate ; " one of them
not feeling well. Miss Durham and I have been having
quite an animated conversation."
"You look flushed," said Ned to me. " Has anything
annoyed you ? "
" Why, what should annoy her ? " exclaimed Mr. Bathgate,
before I could reply; " it is the natural excitement of her
first dinner-party."
"I prefer," said Ned, with cool d'sdain, "that Miss
Durham should answer for herself." And he asked again,
" Have you been annoyed ? You are trembling like a leaf.
If I had suspected that you were alone I should have come
sooner."
"Alone, my dear sir,"said Mr. Bathgate. " No, not alone.
I have been here with our dear ward. That is satisfactory to
you, Mr. Lorimer?"
He put this question to his co-guardian, who looked help-
lessly from me to Mr. Bathgate, and then, almost appealingly,
at Ned.
" You need say nothing, father," said Ned ; "I will speak
for you, if there is occasion."
" Touching and affecting," said Mr. Bathgate, with a
slight sneer; " but it may be that your father would wish to
speak for himself. He and I, in former years, have managed
fairly well together, and I must remind you that this affair is
none of yours."
"This affair!" cried Ned, provoked by Mr. Bathgate's
contemptuous tone. " What affair ? Then something has
occurred to cause Miss Durham's agitation. You speak as
though there were some understanding between you and my
father. Answer me, father."
" I know of nothing, Ned," said Mr. Lorimer.
" Forgive me for the question," said Ned, in a tone of
self-reproach, " Mr. Bathgate, I must not forget that we
are your guests in your house."
" Pray do not forget it," said Mr. Bathgate; " it will be
wise. Neither must I forget that I am your host. We will
not continue a profitless discussion. Miss Durham, restore
harmony to our little party. I have learned with pleasure
that you have made yourself a really skilful musician; favour
me with a specimen of your talents."
He advanced towards me with the intention of leading
A SCENE.
235
me to the piano; but Ned stepped before him ; he saw that
I shrank from Mr. Bathgate.
" Do you wish to play ? " he asked, in a low tone.
" I am afraid I cannot," I replied, in a tone as low as
that in which he had addressed me.
'•'Nonsense!" said Mr. Bathgate, attentively watchful
of us—he had heard the question and the answer
—" if you will pardon me for using the word. There is
no cause for timidity; have confidence in your powers.
It is well that you should accustom yourself to society, and
you will surely not be unamiable. Allow me."
Oppressed by fears of some hidden evil to those I
loved, I allowed Mr. Bathgate to lead me to the piano.
Ned stood by my side, and I touched the keys; but I
could not play. Tears which I could not repress fell from
my eyes.
"You are not in a fit state to play," said Ned, tenderly,
bending down to me. " Is there anything I can do for
you ? "
"Take me home," I whispered.
" Mr. Bathgate," said Ned, " Miss Durham is not well
enough to oblige you. It is time for us to leave, father."
"Yes, Ned," said Mr. Lorimer, "of course, if Lina is
unwell, Mr. Bathgate will excuse us."
Mr. Bathgate came close to me.
" Is it your desire ? " he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
" You are really unwell ? "
" Yes."
" And that is your only reason ? "
I thought of his threats and his warning.
"Yes."
His questions had been put in a tone loud enough for
Mr. Lorimer and Ned to hear.
" In that case," said Mr. Bathgate, " it would be unkind
in me to gainsay you. But we shall meet again."
I hoped not, devoutly; but I was too apprehensive to
give audible expression to the hope, and in a few minutes
we drove away from the house I firmly resolved never to
enter again. In our leave-taking Mr. Bathgate did not lose
his self-possession, and his last whispered words to me
were :
" Be wise. If you bring misfortune upon your head
and theirs, do not blame me."
238
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
We had a silent drive home. Ned asked no questions,
and I did not volunteer any explanation. But some-
thing happened. Mr. Lorimer and I occupied the front
seats; Ned sat opposite to me. How it came about I do
not know; our hands touched, and mine lay folded in
Ned's. I did not withdraw it; the contact comforted me,
brought hope to me. Without the exchange of words
I knew that I was loved, and Ned knew that I loved him.
When we arrived at Rube's house, in the Borough, Ned
and I stood apart for a few moments, as we wished each
other good-night.
"In less than three months, Ned," I said, "I shall be
free."
" God bless you, Lina," he said. " We will hope for a
bright future for you."
Had any thought oppressed us of what was to come, our
parting would have been a wretched one indeed.
CHAPTER XLVI.
impending evil.
I was once more in Restoration Hall, for the last time I
hoped. The few weeks that were to intervene before I
came of age would soon pass, and then it would be in my
power to help those dear friends who had been so good to
me. A private conversation had taken place between me
and Rube before my departure for London. It was of my
seeking, and was understood to be confidential. I had in-
quired of him what generally occurred between partners
to make them dislike each other. There were many causes
for unpleasantness, he said. Sometimes they disagreed as
to the method of conducting a business; each wanted to
be master; and each thought he knew best how things
ought to be managed. When that was the case, unless one
or the other gave way, the business was almost sure to go
wrong. Another reason was perhaps that trade was so bad,
and they saw ruin staring them in the face. Then they
would most likely lay the blame on each other in what had
been done. He mentioned other causes, and hinted that
there was one remedy for them all—money. "When
things come to the bad pass," said Rube—he knew that I
was referring to Bathgate and Lorimer—" that they have
come to if I am any judge, with Lorimer and Bathgate,
IMPENDING EVIL.
237
the only way is for one partner to buy the other two out.
That means Mr. Bathgate buying out Mr. Lorimer and
Ned. Or for the two partners to buy the other one out.
That means Mr. Lorimer and Ned buying out Mr. Bath-
gate. Now, I don't believe, and nothing shall make me
believe till I see it, that Mr. Bathgate could find the money
to buy out those we like best in that firm. Well, then it
must be the other way, if the money can be got at."
" It can be got at," I said, " in three months."
" Your money, of course," said Rube.
"Yes, Rube, my money," I replied.
"Then you may look on the matter as settled, and
although Mr. Bathgate will drive a hard bargain, the thing
is as good as done. Don't you trouble your head over it.
Mr. Bathgate is the sort of man that would sell his soul to
a certain party for so much cash down."
This conversation did me a world of good; my money
was Ned's, and it should bring happiness to him and his
father, and through them to me. Ned and I did not part
without some confidential words. It may appear strange
that I should consider myself engaged without any direct
declaration in speech having been made by Ned; but I
was satisfied that we understood each other. I thought,
too, that I understood his delicacy in the matter. It arose
because his father's firm was in difficulties and I was rich,
or soon would be. It would look as if he was courting me
for my money. But I had settled how that was to be
disposed of, and was determined that I would have my
way in the teeth of every difficulty that Ned would intro-
duce. So, although I blushed a great deal, I was not at all
ashamed of my behaviour when T put a ittle velvet case
into Ned's hand. It was my portrait, which, in conspiracy
with Nurse Elliot, I had had taken especially for him. He
opened the case, looked at the picture, smiled, then
seemed troubled, then brightened up, and thanked me
tenderly and gravely.
" Do you think it like me ? " I asked.
"It is very like you. I am glad you smiled a little
when you had it taken."
"'I did not want to give you a serious face, Ned; I
wanted you to feel just a little happi r when you looked
at it—if ever you do look at it."
" I shall look at it very often, Lina."
" And you are pleased I had it taken for you ? H
233
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" Very pleased."
And yet it was strange to hear him say this in a grave
voice.
"It will help to prevent you forgeting me, Ned."
" I shall never forget you, Lina."
How sweet it was to hear those words, which were
spoken tenderly.
" Don't you think I deserve something—something in
return ? " I asked. " I am going back to Restoration
Hall, and I shall not see your face for three whole months.
Don't think me bold, Ned."
"No, my dear."
I did not care that he did bite his lips the moment " my
dear" escaped them. It all sprang from that money
trouble which I was to set right. That night he gave me
his dear portrait. I simply said, "Thank you, Ned,"
though my heart was beating very quickly.
Then I had Mr. Lorimer's portrait, and Rube's, and
my dear nurse's as well. She gave me one of Sandy
Whiskers; and Alonzo, seeing them—that is, he did not
see Ned's; I did not dare to show him that—presented
me with his own, which was the largest of all, and which
represented him as a rising author should be represented,
with a rolling eye, long hair, bare throat, and turn-down
collar.
So I returned to Restoration Hall very rich, not only in
possession, but in hopes and memories. What mattered
it that Aunt Parker received me with her gloomiest air ?
What mattered it that for two whole weeks she did not open
her lips to me ? Her behaviour did not trouble me; I had
talismans with me, one which never left me, the portrait of
Ned, which would have been an effectual charm against a
dozen Aunt Parkers. But it did trouble me to perceive that
Mad Maxwell was changed. Hitherto when I returned he
invariably displayed gladness, but on this occasion he made
no demonstration. Indeed, he purposely avoided me. It
was not fancy on my part, for I made advances towards
him to which he did not respond. Three or four times,
when, seeing him in the grounds, and Aunt Parker not
being near, I walked up to him, did he stare at me, and
turn deliberately from me. I succeeded, after many en-
deavours, in breaking down the barrier of silence which he
had set up, but it left me dissatisfied with myself and full of
pity for him.
IMPENDING- EVIL.
239
" Maxwell," I said, " why do you avoid me when I want
to speak to you ? "
"Why ?" he echoed.
"Yes, why ?"
"Tell me," he said, "are you going away again
soon ? "
" Yes," I replied, with a sinking heart, for I now divined
what was distressing him.
" And when you go away, do you intend to come
back ? "
" No," I said, in a low tone, sorry for the pain I was in-
dieting upon him.
" Never ? "
"Never! Oh, Maxwell, why do you look at me with
those dreadful eyes ? "
" Dreadful eyes," he muttered. " Yes, she has not lied
to me this time. She has not lied to me—she has not lied
to me. It is true—it is true." He muttered these words
to himself, and, until some time afterwards, I thought they
referred to me, as not having spoken falsely to him. I was
hurt, and frightened too, for the fear was creeping upon
me that what Aunt Parker had warned me against years
ago was likely to occur, and that Mad Maxwell's disease
was taking a dangerous turn.
" Never coming back," he continued, presently, " never
never, never ! Never means ever—not days, nor months,
nor years—it means lifetimes. You hate this place, do you
not ? "
" I have not been happy here, Maxwell," I said gently.
"Have you?"
Had I considered a moment I should not have asked
the question, but it slipped from me unaware.
"Yes," was his answer, with his eyes fixed on me,
"very happy. It has been a new life. And now"—
he threw his arms up, and cried, " I am going to be de-
stroyed—destroyed !"
I understood him; he had been happy through me, and
it was by my action that his happiness would be destroyed.
As he repeated the word he walked away from me, but
quickly returned.
" You hate everybody here, do you not ? "
" No, Maxwell, not everybody. Not you."
" You do not hate me !" he said, softly.
"No, Maxwell, I pity you; I wish I could help you."
240
A YOUNG GIRLS LIFE.
" It would not hurt you that I should be happy."
" Surely not; oh, surely not, Maxwell."
"It shall be, then," he muttered; "it shall be."
Again he fixed his eyes upon me—and now so strangely
and with a look of such painful eagerness in them that I
was compelled to avert my own. When I raised them he was
gone.
When we next met he did not speak to me; he avoided
me, as he had done on previous occasions.
Before this time I had been expecting a letter from Ned,
but none came; nor, to my knowledge, was a letter of any
kind delivered at the Hall. I was so anxious about it that
I was bold enough to speak to Aunt Parker on the subject.
" Has any letter come for me, aunt ? "
" From whom ? "
" That is my affair, aunt. I simply wish to know if a
letter has arrived."
" What should I do with a letter, miss, do you think, if
one was left here, addressed to you ? "
" Give it to me, of course."
" You have answered yourself. It will be to your advan-
tage to be less insulting."
" I have no desire to insult you."
"Your question was an insult."
And she turned from me with a laugh and a sneer.
I had more to bear than this, and had it not been for
the hopes that brightened my days, they would have been
dolorous indeed.
Had a letter arrived, and was Aunt Parker cruel enough
to keep it from me ? It was likely enough ! At what act
of cruelty and deceit would she pause if she could inflict
pain upon me ! But, I argued with myself, even if Ned has
written, and Aunt Parker has received the letter, it will be
be best for me to suffer patiently. It will not be for long ;
all will be cleared up soon. Soon, very soon, for a month
had passed. I counted the days, nay, I counted the hours,
and my rest at night was broken. From this cause it was
that late one night I heard the murmur of voices in conver-
sation below. This was so unusual that I wondered at the
time. The conversation was carried on in so low a tone
that I could not distinguish the voices. Of course one
must be Aunt Parker's, but whose the other ? Not
Mad Maxwell's, for he was never allowed inside the house.
Whose voice, then, could it be ?
IMPENDING EVIL,
241
I slept very little, the incident made such an impression
upon me. I arose in the morning earlier than usual, but
there weie no signs of any stranger. It was not until
twelve o'clock that a solution of the mystery presented it-
self. At that hour Aunt Parker came to my room,
and said that Mr. Bathgate was below, and wished to
see me.
"Tell him," I said, "that I will come down pre-
sently."
"Presently !" cried Aunt Parker. " You will come down
at once!"
" I will come presently," I said, firmly. " Mr.
Bathgate will wait for me. You are no longer dealing with
a child, aunt, you are dealing with a woman. Was it Mr.
Bathgate's voice I heard speaking to you last night ? "
She was evidently disconcerted, but her tone was not the
less wrathful as she exclaimed, " Spying ! "
"No," I said, "not spying. I was awake and heard
voices. You had better go to Mr. Bathgate; he will be im-
patient."
She left the room. Upon her informing me that Mr.
Bathgate was in the house, I had felt the necessity of soli-
tude for a few minutes, in order that I might fortify my-
self for the interview. I knew instinctively that he had
come to renew his suit, and my earnest desire was to say
nothing to provoke him. I had no protectors by my side
as I had in London; I had to depend upon myself and my
own strength.
I did fortify myself; I took out Ned's portrait and
kissed it; I gazed at the portraits of my other dear friends.
They were with me in spirit. Mr. Bathgate might threaten,
but he should not break me to his will.
I was about to go down when Aunt Parker re-entered the
room.
" I am ready," I said.
" That is well," she said, " and I am pleased to see that
your fit of dangerous excitement is over. It is not
good for you — I tell you so, and I am an experi-
enced woman. When such a fit comes upon you again,
do not let it master you."
" I have no notion of your meaning," I said; " I was
quite calm; as calm as I am now."
"Yes," she said, with a peculiar smile; "they all say
that. I never argue in such cases. Listen, Lina. We
16
242
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
have been together for many years, and no person knows
you as I do. I have evidence in my possession."
" Evidence of what ? "
"Never mind, never mind. Don't excite yourself. I
shall say nothing to work up your feelings."
I gazed steadily at her, in the vain endeavour to arrive
at some understanding of her meaning. She continued :
" On many occasions I have given you sensible advice,
which you have never followed, though it has been given
for your good. Some years-ago there might have been an
excuse for you, now there is none. Then you were a
child ; now you are a woman, and are quite conscious of
the fact. Oh, by the way, here is a flower Mr. Bathgate
has brought you."
I had not observed it before she presented it to me; she
had concealed it, I think. My first impulse was to refuse
it, or throw it aside, but prudence whispered to me. I
took it from her hand, and laid it on the table.
" Put it in your breast," she said.
" No," I said, " I shall not."
"But it will please Mr. Bathgate."
" I have no wish to please him in that way."
"You are imprudent, and may repent it."
"Why should I repent it ? "
" Events will speak for themselves. You reject the
advice I give you. Shall I give you another piece of
advice ? "
"As you please. I am indifferent to what you say, Aunt
Parker."
" I regret it, for it betrays an absence of valuable moral
qualities. However, I will give it whether you follow it or
not. Mr. Bathgate is here to make an important declaration
to you. Perhaps you guess what it is."
" Perhaps."
" Do not thwart him. He is a strong man ; you are a
weak woman. He is very powerful. That is all."
" It seems to me to be enough." An idea occurred to
me. " If I do not, as you say, thwart Mr. Bathgate, will
you profit by it ? "
For a moment she hesitated. " It is not unlikely."
" And if I say what will not please him ? "
" I may profit, also," was her reply, with the same peculiar
smile I had already noticed.
I said no more, but went downstairs to Mr. Bathgate.
MR. BATHGATE RENEWS HIS PROPOSALS. 243
CHAPTER XLVII.
mr. bathgate renews his proposals.
He rose as I entered, and offered me a chair. I observed
that he had made some change in his dress ; it was smarter
than usual, and became him worse than the sombre garments
in which he was habitually arrayed. The clothes were new,
and he wore a flower in his coat.
I could not avoid shaking hands with him, and I
answered his inquiries concerning my health as briefly as
possible. He harped upon the subject.
"You are really well? " he asked.
" Quite well," I replied.
" I have been exceedingly anxious about you," he said.
" There is no cause for anxiety."
" Have you not had fancies, delusions ? "
" No."
" There was great danger when you were a child that
your mental condition would become a confirmed and
permanent disease. We have done our best—we have
done our best."
To say that I was easy in my mind at the tone he used
would not be true, but I gave no expression to my
uneasiness. With outward calmness I awaited what it was
evidently his settled purpose to impart to me.
"Yes," he resumed, "we have done our best. It
remains to be seen whether our well-meant endeavours
have been successful. Did your Aunt Parker give you a
flower I sent you ? "
"Yes."
" Why are you not wearing it ? "
" I did not care to."
" A bad sign—a very bad sign. I had hoped otherwise.
Go upstairs, and put it in your dress."
" I prefer not to do so."
" But to please me."
u I will not."
16*
244
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" I regret it. So may you. It proves that you are still
sullen and rebellious. However, we shall see. My purpose
in coming here "
"Before you disclose it," I interrupted, "will you
inform me whether you have travelled from London this
morning ? "
He hesitated a moment before he replied.
" No; I left London yesterday."
" Then you were here last night ? "
"Yes, I was here last night; but I would not disturb
you."
"You and Aunt Parker had a long conversation about
me?"
" What if we had ? "
" Only that Aunt Parker is my enemy, and that you have
not proved yourself my friend."
"I perceive," he said regarding me steadily, "that you
do still labour under delusions."
" What I have said is no delusion; I have had proof of
the truth of my statement during many years."
"We will not discuss the point. Your aunt andT were
conversing about you; we have your welfare at heart, and
are desirous that you should do what is best for your future
happiness. It is entirely in your own hands."
"I am glad to hear that. I shall know how to act."
" Are you aware that you are speaking in a defiant tone ? "
"I do not intend to do so. I am speaking firmly,
because I am no longer a child, and because my eyes are
opened to many things which I have no wish to refer to."
"I do not understand you. Perhaps you have other
questions to ask."
" Thank you. Does Mr. Lorimer know you are paying
me this visit ? "
He frowned. " Mr. Lorimer is not my keeper, and I
have no confidence in him."
"Then he does not know? You did not tell him you
were corning ? "
"I informed neither him nor his son," said Mr. Bathgate,
significantly. " It is a pity to separate them."
I felt that I blushed at this reference to Ned.
"To state my conviction," continued Mr. Bathgate,
" that neither of these gentlemen is a fit counsellor to a
young lady placed in your position would be wasting breath,
I fear.';
MR. BATHGATE RENEWS HIS PROPOSALS. 245
"I honour and esteem them," I said.
" Why not say you love them ? "
" I could say so with perfect truth."
" You are bold and indelicate, but that shall not restrain
me. I trust that I shall ultimately prevail in bringing you
to reason. When you did me the honour to visit me in
London, I laid a proposal before you."
" Which I rejected."
" You were excited and unstrung. I did not accept your
answer, and I do not accept it now. All difficulties will
be removed by your consenting to be my wife. You will
then have nothing to distress you. Your future will be
safe and happy; I can promise you that; and remember
the warning I gave you concerning the gentlemen we have
just spoken of. In your impatience I perceive you are
about to interrupt me. You wish to say "
" That Mr. Lorimer and his son will be able to take care
of themselves."
" That remains to be seen. I make no boast; I know
my power, and I know that it is you, and you alone, who
will bring misfortune upon them, or avert it."
" I will avert it," I said, thinking of the plans I would
carry out when I was a free woman.
" I am delighted to receive that assurance from you,"
said Mr. Bathgate. " Then all is settled between us."
He endeavoured to seize my hand, and I shrank from
him.
" Is it manly," I cried, " or in accordance with your
duties as my guardian, that you should persecute me in
this manner ? You see that I dislike you, and you persist
in forcing yourself upon me. Were I not alone and unpro-
tected in this house', you would not dare to act so."
I had moved towards the door, but he anticipated my
intention to leave the room, and stood in my way.
" You are not only unjust to me, you are cruel to your-
self. You are compelling me to adopt a course which will
be deeply painful to both of us. Take heed in time. You
can scarcely have heard the words I have spoken to you,
or you would recognize their importance."
"I have heard all you said. You told me that all diffi-
culties would be removed if I consented to become your
wife. Rather than that I would die."
" Indeed !" he said, with a sinister smile.
" What difficulties are there that you can remove ? In
246
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
a few weeks I shall be of age, and my own mistress.
Then, thank God, I shall be free, and shall have friends
near who will protect me if you continue to persecute me.
I have them to thank for all the happiness I have enjoyed
since I lost my dear parents. Had I been left to your
mercy I might have been driven mad in the solitude of
this lonely house. Mr. Bathgate, you had better let me
leave the room, or I might say that I should be sorry for."
"You have said that you shall be sorry for. So you
accuse me of having driven you mad "
"You are twisting my words," I cried, indignantly,
" out of their meaning. I spoke of what might have
been."
"I speak of what is. It is sad, very sad; but you shall
yet have a chance. See here is an envelope, addressed to
me, to my private house in London. It is already stamped.
Write but two words, ' I consent,' and sign your name
to them, and give the letter to your aunt to post, and I
will come to you at once and forget all that has- passed.
We can be married quietly here, and your troubles will be
at an end. If I do not receive the letter within two weeks
from this day I shall know that you have come to a
decision which you will deeply deplore, but not more deeply
than I."
I refused to take the envelope, and it fell to the
ground. He smiled, and stood aside to let me pass. I
ran quickly upstairs and locked myself in my room. I was
in great agitation, and it was many minutes before I became
calm. Then I reviewed what Mr. Bathgate had said to
me.
I could not disguise from myself that I was threatened
by some mysterious danger at his hands. He had always
been my enemy; more than ever was he my enemy now.
And Aunt Parker was his instrument, his willing instrument,
only too ready to do all that lay in her power to bring fresh
trouble upon me. But what could these two enemies do
more than they had already done to make me wretched ?
They had charge over me but for a very little while longer.
I strengthened myself to bear the oppression of the weeks of
imprisonment I had yet to endure. I imagined all kinds
of evil, and I resolved that it should not break me down
The darkness of the present would make the future
sweeter. I revelled in the anticipation of the happy days
to come, and drew strength and consolation by dwelling
ME. BATHGATE RENEWS HIS PROPOSALS. 247
upon them. Gradually my fears became lessened, and
my feelings grew less distressful. I even thought lightly
of what had passed between me and Mr. Bathgate.
Believing I was weaker than I had proved myself to
be, he had endeavoured to frighten me. He had not
succeeded, and seeing now that it would be useless to
renew his suit, he would relinquish it, and persecute me
no longer. In my composed mood these were the thoughts
which rose to comfort me.
I went to the window with the intention of opening it.
To my surprise it was fast; I used all my strength, but
could not succeed in moving it. I stood on a chair to
ascertain the nature of the obstruction, but could not dis-
cover it; and I came to the conclusion—which was the
right one—that while I was downstairs the window had
been fastened from the outside. By whom? By Aunt
Parker, of course. And by whose orders ? By Mr. Bath-
gate's. Then my refusal of his suit had been anticipated,
and this was one of the punishments which had been de-
vised for me. Well, I could bear it, and I would, without
openly murmuring against it. They could fasten the window
but they could not shut out the light. I would pass my
time in reading. I looked about for my books ; I had left
some on the table I was sure; they had been removed.
There were others in a box at the foot of my bed. The
box was in its place but it was locked. Sometimes I kept
my keys in my pockets, sometimes they were left on the
dressing-table; I must have left them there on this occasion,
for they were not about me. Search as I would, however,
I could not find them, and I did not doubt they had also
been removed by Aunt Parker. " Where will their malice
stop ?" I thought, and I resolved that even this cruelty
should not provoke me into open rebellion. I felt that it
would please them, and in some measure serve whatever
wicked purpose was in their minds, if I showed any violence.
Deprived of fresh air, deprived of the delights of reading,
I had my piano to amuse me. Did I dare to play now,
while Mr. Bathgate was doubtless still in the house ? No,
I would not anger him; but I could pass my fingers silently
over the keys, and thus derive a spiritual comfort. But I
could not open the piano; it had been securely fastened
in my absence. I sat down, and began to think,
schooling myself to calmness, for this last blow had much
agitated me.
248
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
These punishments were part of a settled plan, which
had been deliberated and decided upon the previous night
Dy Mr. Bathgate and Aunt Parker. But what did they hope
to gain by it? To frighten me into consenting to Mr. Bath-
gate's abhorrent proposals ? That should never be—never,
never! I would bear everything, and wait, as patiently as
I could, for the happy day of my release. But it distressed
me terribly to discover that my work-box was also gone. I
could not even employ my fingers with needle and thread.
There was nothing before me but stillness, silence, and
solitude. It had been a consolation to me to think that I
had one friend in the house in the person of Mad Maxwell,
but I was deprived now of even that comfort. Some
wicked influence had been brought to bear upon him to
deprive me of his friendship.
I must have sat for an hour brooding over my position,
and the silence and solitude had grown so oppressive that
I determined to venture out into the grounds, even at the
risk of meeting Mr. Bathgate. I had not heard a sound in
the house : but for myself it might have been tenanted by
the dead for any signs of life that came to me. I rose and
unlocked my door and found it would not yield. It had been
bolted from without, and I realized that it was intended
really to make a prisoner of me. To what end? I could
find no answer to my question.
I took out Ned's dear portrait, which I carried always
about me. The other portraits of my friends were in the
box which Aunt Parker had locked. It was an inexpress-
ible relief to me to gaze at Ned's bright face; it seemed to
speak to me; it seemed to say, "Be brave for a little
while, Lina. All will soon be well." Why, yes, what had I
to fear ? A few weeks' solitude and imprisonment. After
the trials I had gone through, it would be strange indeed,
if I could not bear with resignation this last oppression.
"Yes, Ned," I cried. Dear Ned, all will soon be well,
and we shall be together again."
Not till that moment did I know how truly I loved him.
He was my hope, my anchor, my shield. I pictured his
indignation when I told him of what was now occurring to
me. I acted the scene. I spoke to him, and heard him
speak to me. I persuaded him to take no steps to punish
my oppressors. "God will punish them," I said aloud;
"we will leave them to him. They have no longer any
power over me; is it not a happiness that you and I are
ME. BATHGATE RENEWS HIS PROPOSALS. 219
together, and can^never more be parted ?" I kissed his
dear face again and again. He was my own, my very own.
Neither Aunt Parker nor Mr. Bathgate could rob me of his
love.
I needed some such strong comfort, Heaven knows, as
the day stole on. No one came near me; no food was
given me; and at night I went to bed, hungry and almost
despairing. If they attempted to starve me, what should I
do ? I could break the windows, and fill the air with screams
for help. Some person, happening to pass the house, might
hear me and take pity on me. I was strong enough, I
thought, to break the window-sash, and I might make a rope
of the sheets, and let myself down. Exhausted with anxious
thought and weakness I fell asleep, and when I woke in the
morning I knew that Aunt Parker must have stealthily
entered my room in the night. There was food on the
table, sufficient for the day, and by the side of the food the
envelope addressed to Mr. Bathgate in London, which I
had thrust from me when he had offered it to me. I was
glad of the food, and I ate it thankfully, and laughed at
myself for my fears of starvation. " Whatever else they do,"
I thought, "they dare not do that." So two days passed,
and I still remained a prisoner, hearing no sound, seeing no
human face. But I preserved my reason. It was the
thought of Ned that saved me; his love was my support.
Ah, if he only knew the trials to which I was being subjected,
he would have flown to save me! But it was strange, too,
that he made no sign, for it could not but be that he was as
uneasy at my silence as I was at his. But all would be soon
explained between us. Why, two days had passed already !
How watchful Aunt Parker must have been, how she must
have listened outside my door for the sounds of my brea-
thing which convinced her I was asleep, before she softly
unbolted it on the second night, as she had done on the first,
and entered the room to place food on the table for the
following day! On the third day, at about noon, she pre-
sented herself.
" You have not written to Mr. Bathgate," she said, taking
up the envelope, and putting it down again on the table.
" I do not intend to write to him," I said.
" I shall not try to persuade you. He has sent you these
flowers."
I flung them to the ground, saying, "You may tell him."
" I shall do so."
250
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" Do you intend to keep me a prisoner in this room ? "
"At present. Till I bring you to reason."
" Meaning till I consent to Mr. Bathgate's proposals?"
" Yes."
" You will never do that."
" As you please. I shall give you no further advice."
" I am glad to hear it. Have you thought, Aunt Parker,
that you can be punished for what you are doing to me ? "
" I will risk it. Mr. Bathgate will protect me ; I am acting
under his instructions."
" I will not allow myself to be kept so close a prisoner,
aunt."
" How will you prevent it ? "
" I will break down the windows ; I will scream for help
by day and by night. Some person, perhaps, will hear me,
and then you will be compelled to set me free. You have
given me a great many warnings; I will give you one. If
you continue to shut me up in my room without air, as you
have done these last two days, I will have no mercy upon
you, and my friends shall have no mercy upon you when
the time of my freedom comes. I will see if you cannot be
punished for it."
" When the time of your freedom comes," she said, re-
peating my words. " You have but to say the word."
" I shall never say it."
" And your friends, too. Why don't they come to help
you now ? "
" They would if they knew what I am suffering."
" I doubt it."
"This very day," I said, "if you continue to keep me a
prisoner, I will break in the windows."
She gazed at me, debating within herself what she should
do.
" If I give you your freedom for three hours a day, will
you promise to be tractable ? "
" So far as not doing anything violent, I will promise. I
shall be able to bear your cruelty then, for the few weeks I
am yet to remain with you."
"Is it prudent for you to express yourself in such lan-
guage?"
" In my opinion, quite prudent."
"Very well, we will make a compromise—at least for the
fortnight which Mr. Bathgate has granted you to reply to
his proposal. You shall be at liberty for three hours
LIGHT DIES OUT OF THE WORLD.
861
a day, upon the understanding you will not make a dis-
turbance."
" I only want the fresh air. I will make no disturbance."
" Nor attempt to escape ? "
" I will not attempt it."
" Swear it by all you hold most dear."
It was driving me hard but I did not hesitate.
" I swear it by all I hold most dear."
She threw the door open, and said,
" You are free."
But she did not leave me alone. She hovered about me
and dogged my steps. I did not heed her ; I was too grateful
for the fresh air and for the release.
Every day she brought me flowers, which she said were
sent by Mr. Bathgate, and every day I flung them away
with scorn. It was an open battle, she and Mr. Bathgate
on one side, I on the other. I thought myself strong enough
for them. I was mistaken ; I was living in a fool's paradise.
" Another day gone," I said, and again. " Another day," and
"Another day." Father Time was my friend; they could
not cheat him.
So the days passed until the last day of the fortnight
arrived. It was a day I was never to forget—the com-
mencement of a misfortune the bitterest of all by which I
had been visited.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
light dies out of the world.
Aunt Parker came to my room, and left the door open,
as usual, for me to go out.
" Stay a moment," she said, and she took Mr. Bathgate's
envelope from the table; " have you written your answer to
Mr. Bathgate?"
" I have no answer to write to him," I replied.
"You distinctly refuse to accept his proposal?"
" Distinctly."
" You may change your mind yet."
" Never—not if death were the alternative."
" There are worse things than death. By the by, a letter
has arrived for you this morning."
" From Mr. Bathgate ? I will not receive it."
" The letter is not from Mr. Bathgate."
2b2
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
"From Ned? " I cried, and I held out my hand eagerly.
The name escaped from me unawares, and although I
would have checked its utterance had I had full control
over myself, I saw no reason to repent my indiscretion.
She gave me the letter; it was in my dear Ned's writing.
My joy was so great that I was almost blind for a few
moments. I heard my door closed, and, looking up, saw
that Aunt Parker had left the room. It was what I desired,
but I should not have given her credit for so much
delicacy.
The dear envelope lay in my hand—the message of love
I had waited for so long.
I prolonged the pleasure, and imagined the loving words
I was about to read. No fears assailed me; no premoni-
tion of evil oppressed me. All was bright and beautiful.
Doubt of Ned had never entered my head. I had the
fullest faith and confidence in him. It was for some good
reason he had remained silent; he was acting in both our
interests, which were identical. For Ned to me was the
world and all the hope of the world. He was wise, strong,
clear-headed, a man who knew how to grapple with our
common enemy.
I kissed the envelope and opened it.
The first words gave me a shock.
" Dear Miss Durham."
My hand, with the letter in it, fell on my lap. " Dear
Miss Durham !" Why Miss Durham ? Why not " My
dear Lina ? " Was he doubtful of me ? Had I not made
it clear to him that I loved him with all the strength of
my soul ? Or, stay. Was it not that because he feared
that the letter would not reach me—that Aunt Parker
would open it, and keep it from me—was not this the
reason that he commenced so coldly ? Why, of course.
It was but another proof of his forethought. Our secret
was our own, our very own, and was too sacred to be
exposed to Aunt Parker's malicious eyes. " You are
quite right, Ned," I thought, "though I would rather,
after all, that you had said ' My dear Lina,' as / should
have said 'My dear Ned,' had I been writing to you."
Then I resumed the perusal of the letter.
Word for word, this is what Ned wrote:
" Dear Miss Durham,—I have a difficult and painful
duty to perform, and I must not shrink from it. That I
LIGHT DIES OUT OF THE WOULD, 253
cannot disclose the motive which compels me to address
you in this manner, and to say what it is imperative I should
say, makes this duty more painful in its performance than I
can express. Whatever judgment you may form of me
it must be my lot to bear, and all that I can do is to throw
myself upon your mercy and to submit. I must not—I
dare not—speak of the past. I must look upon it as a
dream, the bright hopes of which are withered and
destroyed for ever. I must commence a new life, and I
beg of you to forget me. We shall never meet again.
That you have been led to a good opinion of me is my
misfortune. I was and am not deserving of it. Life
contains many bitter delusions; regard this as one, and
forgive me. God bless and guard you. Farewell.
" Truly yours,
" Edward Lorimer."
I did not read this strange and cruel letter without many
interruptions. I paused repeatedly, and looked around
the lonely room, dazed and bewildered, and when I came
to the end the desolation of my life was complete, and
had my trembling lips been able to utter a prayer I should
have prayed for death.
No tears fell from my eyes; despair had dried up that
source of consolation.
When I tried to read the letter again, I could not
discern the writing. All that I could see was my thought,
as though it were set down in words of fire, " My life is
wrecked; there is no light in the world; I am alone—
alone!"
Friendship—what was it ? A scorching fire, kindled to
burn the trust and hope of life. And love ? A snare set
for young hearts throbbing with faith, with visions of a
heaven—a pit covered with false flowers which, when the
hand was stretched forth to grasp and kiss them, faded for
ever from the sight. Only blackness remained—the black-
ness of a ruined life.
I must have sat in dumb despair for an hour—for
longer, perhaps—staring vacantly before me. I was not
indignant—I was prostrate.
And then the sorrow of the past rose before me, and
became heavier in its remembrance than it had ever been
in reality. All that I have suffered was light in comparison
with this crushing blow. What had I done, what was my
251
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
fault, that the man in whom I bel'eved as I believed
in God should treat me so ? Had I been too forward,
had I been guilty of indelicacy in showing Ned how
deep was my love for him, and was it for this reason
that at this supreme moment of my young life he had
thrown me off? If so, I was humiliated indeed.
But no, I rejected this interpretation of the cruel letter.
It could not, could not be. I must seek some other ex-
planation.
But what explanation could bring light into my desola-
tion ? Should I not rather summon pride to my aid ?
Alas, that was impossible. I loved Ned with all my heart
and soul, loved him with tenfold strength now that he had
cast me from him.
Unconsciously the blank bewilderment into which I had
been plunged had gradually passed away, and my thoughts
and feelings had become in some measure intelligible.
I nerved myself, and read the letter again; every word
was like a stab, and set me quivering. Ned spoke of a
difficult and painful duty—begged for forgiveness—and
bade God bless and guard me. He seemed to have
written in sorrow. Could I believe this ? Would it not
be more reasonable to believe that he adopted this tone
to make lighter his dismissal of me ?
There was not one word of love—not one.
Suddenly dawned upon me a wild hope. The letter might
be a forgery. He had written other letters to me. They
were in my box. which Aunt Parker had unwarrantably
locked. I flew from my room, and found Aunt Parker below.
" My key ! " I gasped. " My key ! "
"What key?" she coldly asked. "Be calm, be calm."
" The key of my box !" I cried. " How dare you lock
it ! How dare you—how dare you ! "
She grasped my wrists; she had muscles of steel, and I
was weak and trembling. I could not wrest myself free;
she laughed at my efforts—and what a vindictive, trium-
phant laugh it was !—and forced me to the ground.
"Ask me humbly," she said.
" I implore you to give me the key of my box," I said.
" That is better," she said. " I will give it to you when
you beg my pardon."
" I beg your pardon."
" Take the key."
She threw it to the end of the room, and released me.
LIGHT DIES OUT OF THE WOULD.
255
Hours afterwards I saw how she had bruised me, but my
agitation at the time was so great that I did not feel the
pain.
I picked up the key, and flew back to my room. I
knelt upon the floor and opened my box, and flung away
the books, beneath which I had placed the dear letters I
had prized as my most precious possessions. They were
blurred in my sight; I was not in a fit state to verify or
destroy my wild hope.
I rose, and, filling the basin with cold water, held my
face in it; then, scarcely drying myself, I began the task
of comparing the writing. Letter by letter, word by word,
I went through the task. It destroyed my hope. The
writing was in Ned's own hand. It was when this convic-
tion had fixed itself upon me beyond all possibility of
doubt that I heard a sound of laughter in the air. Terri-
fied, I glanced around; no person but I was present. It
was I who had laughed in my despair, and I had failed to
recognize my own voice.
The sound brought Aunt Parker into the room. She
gazed at me with curious scrutiny, and, aware that she was
animated by some secret malevolent feeling, I became
immediately calm.
" The letter you have received," she said presently, in a
tone of disappointment, " has had a bad effect upon you.
Who wrote it ? " .
"You know," I replied.
" I asked you who wrote it. Reply immediately. Re-
member what occurred down-stairs. I will submit to no
further insolence."
"You know who wrote it. The letter is from Mr.
Lorimer."
" From the father or the son ? "
"From the son."
" From your lover, then ? "
I did not reply.
" You have spent your holidays in London to good
effect. Everything is known; nothing has been hidden
from me. Are you not ashamed to have thrust yourself
upon any man, as you have thrust yourself upon Mr.
Edward Lorimer? The lessons I have endeavoured to
inculcate have been lost. You have as little modesty as
shame left in you."
" Aunt Parker," I implored, " I wish to be alone."
250
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
" It is not the first time I have heard that wish expressed
by you. I remember it when you were a child, and I pay
no heed to it now any more than I did in those days. The
letter you have received must contain some startling news
You are properly served, as all shameless women ought to
be. Let me see the letter ? "
"No," I said, holding it firmly to me.
"Would it be difficult, do you think, for me to take it
from you? Fool! will you never learn to be sensible?
But that is beyond hoping. I do not need to read the
letter to know what it contains—that is, if it speaks the
truth. It informs you, of course, that Edward Lorimer is
about to be married."
" What ? " I cried, piteously.
" About to be married," she continued; " this very week
indeed. A pretty spectacle you must present even to your
own diseased senses when you think of your endeavours
to trap a man who all the time was engaged to a lady whom
he could not only love but respect! A nice opinion he
must have of you ! Speak truthfully for once, and say that
the letter conveys the intelligence to you."
" It does not," I said, with a sinking heart.
Was it true—was it true? Tortured as I was, I was
ready to believe anything. But was such perfidy possible ?
That Ned, who had been to me the embodiment of chivalry
and honour, could be guilty of it, was to utterly destroy my
faith in man and woman. And yet so plausible was Aunt
Parker's explanation that I could not find a word to say in
refutation.
"Had you confided in me," said Aunt Parker, "you
would not have fallen into this pit. But you chose to select
other persons for your confidants and friends, and you have
done all in your power to alienate my affections from you.
They are all false, every one in whom you have trusted.
You have not a friend in the world but me and Mr. Bath-
gate." Her mention of this hated name was like striking
an open, bleeding wound. "You have still an hour left to
reply to the gentleman who has done you too much honour
in offering you his hand. Here is the letter to him. Will
you write to him now ? "
I snatched the envelope from her hand, and tore it into
pieces.
" Blame no one but yourself for what occurs," she said,
and, with a lingering glance at me, left me to myself.
FAKEWELL TO RESTORATION HALL.
257
CHAPTER XLIX.
farewell to restoration hall.
I recall the subsequent events of this night as one endea-
vours to recall the memories of confused hours in which
facts and fancies are so commingled as to set at defiance
all attempts to separate and arrange them in intelligible
order and sequence. A terrible night it was, indeed, and
pregnant with a change in my affairs which my wildest
fancies could scarcely have compassed.
The afternoon passed slowly ; evening came ; night fell.
I sat in dull, dumb despair and silence as the shadows
gathered around me. Not more gloomy were they than the
shadows which rested on my heart.
Not a sound in the house disturbed or aroused me. I
was alone with mv misery and my shame.
I did not rebel against my fate; it would have been
healthier for me had I done so. Neither did I accept it,
and endeavour to meet it in a spirit of indignation or resig-
nation. That, also, would have been healthier and better
for me. All that I was conscious of was that something
had happened which had destroyed every hope of my life.
But the mind cannot for long remain utterly blank.
When the numbness of a crushing grief is passing off, to
make way for a mental change, it must have something to
feed upon. So, when the shadows of night enwrapped me,
and I lay dressed on my bed, I travelled into the past, and
became a child again.
It was a merciful relief. Nature is both cruel and bene-
ficent. Its hand is hard to bruise, and.it is often pitiless;
but the balm it sheds when it brings forgetfulness of present
woes to the overcharged soul is inexpressibly comforting
and sweet.
I was in my dear old home ; my dear mother and father
were alive; nothing was changed ; I was enjoying an eternal
childhood. All the happy scenes of the past while my
parents were lining came before me, and I passed through
17
258
A Young GIRL'S LIFE.
them—roaming in field and garden, gathering fruit, listen-
ing to music and fairy tale, through all of which the sweet-
est demonstrations of love ran like threads of shining gold.
One scene remained long with me. My mother was sitting
at the piano, I at her feet on a stool, my head resting
against her knee. She was singing and playing, and one
hand occasionally stole down to my face and caressed it.
It was twilight, holy, peaceful, and calm. There were no
deeper shadows to shut out the tender light which lay upon
the garden. I saw the trees and flowers through the
window. So the singing and playing continued until the
door opened and my father entered. His presence pro-
duced no disturbance; it belonged to the peace and holiness
of the scene. I was in his lap, and my head was on his
breast. His left arm sheltered and enfolded me; his right
was round my mother's waist. "Our little girl is sleeping,"
he whispered to her; but I was not. I seemed to myself
to be in a delicious trance, hearing and seeing everything
that passed around me. And this blissful state seemed to
be eternal. But a change occurred, and my dreams took a
troubled turn.
I was in a wood, and savage animals were pursuing me.
I called aloud for help, and it came in the person of Aunt
Parker.
Surely it was not part of my dream that Aunt Parker was
bending over me, with a candle in her hand, by the light
of which she was studying my face ? Surely it was not
fancy that I felt her hand lift mine and then let it fall, and
heard her say, " Dressed ! That is fortunate ! " Surely it
was not fancy that, as I stirred uneasily, perhaps with the
weak intention of ascertaining whether I was under the
influence of a dream, the candle was suddenly extinguished,
and I was once more in darkness, and presently wandering
again in the labyrinths of a wood ?
Mother, father, lost to me, friendless and solitary in the
lonely wood. Trees changed into tombstones, the moon
came out and shone upon the graves, and I knelt by one
in which my parents lay buried. Outside the churchyard
was a horse and cart; at a little distance from me stood a
woman with her back to me. I knew it was Aunt Parker,
who had brought me to the spot with none but a cruel pur-
pose in her mind.
What sound was that ? The sound of a vehicle driving
away ? No—the sound of a vehicle driving to the church-
FAREWELL TO RESTORATION IIALL. 233
yard, which faded into a likeness of the grounds surround-
ing Restoration Hall. The gates, then, must have been
opened to admit it. Such a thing had never occurred in
my experiences of the dreadful prison-house. For what
purpose was the vehicle brought here ? Perhaps it was a
hearse, and some person was dead. Who ? Most likely
myself. It is better so—indeed, it is to be wished.
What have I to live for ? But how has it come about ?
What brings Dobbin into my fancies ? It is most ridi-
culous to see that dear old wooden pet of my childhood
dragging a hearse with a coffin on it in which I am lying
dead. Round and round the grounds the wooden horse
ambles, with an air of complacent enjoyment which does
not speak well for its sense of gratitude. I was always
kind to Dobbin, and he might exhibit some regret at my
early death. But no one is sorry. Not even I. Not Aunt
Parker, of course—
And here she is by my bedside again. Then I am not
dead. But have I been ill ? Strange, mysterious influ-
ences surround me. Aunt Parker lays her hands upon me
as I strive weakly to rise, and pushes me back. It is easy ;
I have no strength.
"Lie still," she says, "lie still."
"I want to get up."
" You are not strong enough. Lie still."
" Have I been unwell ? "
" Very."
" For how long ? "
" Many days."
I do not believe her. When did she ever speak the
truth ? When did she not try to deceive me ? Nothing
but deceit, and wickedness and cruelty, through all the
weary years that have passed; for I know now that I am
no longer a child, but a woman, suffering from a grievous
wound. But am I really awake, or is the form of Aunt
Parker hovering over me part of my dreams ? What has
she in her hand ? A handkerchief.
" What are you doing, Aunt Parker ? " I cry. " There is
a strange smell in the room. Open the window. Let me
get up."
" Hush ! Lie still, I tell you. I am bathing your fore-
head."
My senses are slowly and surely leaving me as she presses
the har dkerchief over my face.
17*
26J
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIPE.
Lie still; lie still."
" What are you doing ? " I moan. " Oh, what are you
doing ? "
Everything is fading from my sight. Aunt Parker's
form dwindles and swells, then recedes into illimitable
distance till she is lost to me. As is everything else.
The room and everything in it lose all traces of dis-
tinctness, become faint in outline and farther and far-
ther away, until they are extinguished in a white oblivion.
For how long a time does this complete oblivion have
power over me ? I cannot say. But whether for hours, or
days, or weeks, matters not to me. Nothing matters. I
am too weak to resist. Were fire to enfold me I should
sink into the flames and yield unresistingly. Not only
physical but mental power is prostrate. I know that im-
portant things are happening to me which may affect my
present and future life, but I do not struggle against them,
simply because the forces within me are exhausted. I re-
ceive all that occurs with a passive conviction that it is or-
dained and imperative, and that it would be madness to
make the slightest movement against it. Thus, when I
know that I am lifted from the bed, and am lying in a
strong man's arms, I accept the situation without a murmur.
The knowledge that it is Mad Maxwell who has done this,
and that he is acting by Aunt Parker's orders, comes to me
by hidden ways, for my eyes are closed, and I have no
desire to open them.
" Wrap this cloak about her," says Aunt Parker.
Mad Maxwell sinks on one knee, and supports me in
this recumbent position while Aunt Parker enfolds me in a
large cloak, which she fastens at the neck. She pushes the
tangled hair from my forehead, and puts a bonnet on my
head. Though all surrounding objects are shut from my
sight I know that Mad Maxwell's eyes are fixed mournfully
and eagerly upon my face.
" She does not move," he says.
" She is in a beautiful sleep," says Aunt Parker.
" Are you sure she is not dead ? "
" She will live for many years yet."
" If she does not I will kill you, and afterwards kill my-
self."
" Dare to address me like that again," says Aunt Parker,
sternly, " and I will give you the whip and the chain. Obey
me, and all will be well."
FAREWELL TO RESTORATION HALL.
2C1
" For her as well as for me ? "
" For you and her and all of us."
They speak in whispers, and were I not positive that they
are by my side I should suppose that their voices came from
a long distance off.
" Be careful how you come downstairs," says Aunt
Parker.
They are carrying me out of the room. Not only out of
the room, but out of the house. I feel the cool air upon
my face. I am lifted into a carriage, the windows of which
are closed, and presently we are driving away. Mad Max-
well still supports me in his arms, and Aunt Parker is watch-
ing me. The brisk motion and the taste of sweet air which
comes to me, as one of the windows is occasionally let down
to allow Aunt Parker to give instructions to the driver,
serve to dissipate the enervating languor which has hitherto
held me powerless. I open my eyes, and slightly raising
myself, say :
" Where are you taking me ? "
" We are taking you," replies Aunt Parker, " Maxwell and
I, to where you will be happy. Eh, Maxwell ? "
"Yes," says Mad Maxwell, "to where you will be
happy."
" But where to ? "
" Hush ! Do not excite yourself, or something dreadful
will happen. Maxwell knows it well."
"Yes," says Maxwell, "you must be quiet—very quiet."
Aunt Parker has been pouring some liquid from a flask
into a tin cup, as the conversation proceeds, and she now
says, holding the cup to my lips, " Drink this, it will soothe
you."
I am very thirsty, and am glad to drink; but the taste is
so strange and unpleasant that Aunt Parker has to use force
to pour it down my throat. In a moment or two I am in a
profound sleep.
262
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
CHAPTER L.
IN THE MOUNTAINS.'
When I awake I find myself in a small cabin, the appear-
ance of which is straflge and novel to me, as indeed is
everything by which I am surrounded. There is a great
noise of tramping feet, and hoarse voices above me. I
have never been on the sea, and it is only through what I
have read and heard that I know I am in a ship. I hear the
regular, powerful movement of machinery. It is a steamer
in which we are travelling, then. But whither ?
Aunt Parker is in the cabin.
" Where are we going ? " I ask, in a weak tone.
"To the Continent," she replies.
" Why ? "
"It is by medical advice. Your mind has been so upset
that a few weeks' travelling has been prescribed for you.
New scenes will do you good."
My mind has been so upset! That is true. The re-
inembrance of Ned's letter rushes upon me, but I am unable
to fix whether I received it yesterday or long ago. I seek
for enlightenment on this point by a side wind.
"Aunt Parker," I say, "is it really by medical advice that
we are travelling ? "
" It is as I have told you."
" The last time I remember being in Restoration HalJ
you told me something about Mr. Edward Lorimer."
" Yes."
" Was that true ? "
" Quite true."
" Is he married yet ? "
" Yes, some time since."
In that case, I must have been a long time ill
" Has any person inquired for me ? "
" No person."
" Have any letters arrived for me ? "
" No letters."
" Am I of age yet ? "
IN THE MOUNTAINS.
265
"No."
" But I shall be soon."
" Yes."
"Then if I do not care to travel I can return to
England."
" Yes, if the doctor says you are well and strong enough."
" It is useless my objecting now ? "
" Quite useless."
There is a pause. I cannot dispute that I am weak and
ill, and I am considering whether it is wise to break into
open rebellion against being taken away from my native
land without being allowed to have a voice in the matter,
when Aunt Parker breaks in upon my thoughts.
"Return to England!" she exclaims. "One would
imagine you would prefer to live among foreigners; you
would have a fair chance then of not being deceived. As
you do not choose to regard me or Mr. Bathgate as a friend,
you have the prospect of a pleasant life before you in
England ! You may meet with Mr. Edward Lorimer and
his wife; you would find that agreeable. There are two
persons you certainly will not meet there, and they are Mrs.
Elliot and her brother, the grocer."
" Why shall I not meet them there ? "
" Because they have left the country. Mrs. Elliot's
brother went bankrupt, I believe, and was ruined, so the
pair have gone to Australia to commence afresh. Of course,
you don't believe me, but that is of no account. You would
not have believed me had I informed you that Mr. Edward
Lorimer intended to throw you off—because that is what it
amounts to, doesn't it ? Now, let us come to an under-
standing. I am taking you away, under orders, for your
good. You will see a number of strange people, and you
may have an idea of falsely declaring to them that you are
being forced from England against your will. As most of
them will be foreigners, it will not matter much. But I
tell you plainly that if you attempt anything of the sort it
will be worse for you. I have means to bring you to sub-
mission, and I will use them. Judge from the past whether
it is likely I shall succeed or not. Scream, and I will gag
you. Resist, and I will employ force. Be patient, and
you will have comparative freedom. Submit, and no harm
will be done to you. I give you ten minutes to decide. If
you do not answer me I shall know how to act. If you
decide prudently, and as I would counsel you to decide,
2C4
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
you will escape evils of which you have no conception, and,
as I have told you before to-day, you will have no one to
blame but yourself."
She does not leave the cabin, and I strive to bring my
mind into a fitting state to consider what she had said. It
is difficult, and I only partially succeed. With returning
consciousness and awakening reason the pain of Ned's
conduct is no less poignant than when I first received his
cruel letter. I can no longer count upon him or his father
as a friend; and if the news of my nurse and Rube, which
Aunt Parker has imparted to me, is true, I have lost them
also. I am not calm enough to reason this out, nor have I
time, for there steals upon me a fear so sickening that I
must resolve it at once, and, according to the result, shall
decide to submit or resist.
" I am waiting for you to speak," says Aunt Parker.
" You must satisfy me on one point," I say. " Does Mr.
Bathgate know that you are taking me away ? "
" Both your guardians know."
" Has Mr. Bathgate any intention of following us ? "•
" Put it more clearly."
" Does he intend to renew his hateful proposals ? "
"That is plain. Now, pay attention to what I tell you.
If you are reasonable, and put me to no trouble, if you do not
render the duty imposed upon me difficult of accomplish-
ment, I make you the sacred promise that while you are
out of England you shall not set eyes upon Mr. Bathgate.
On the other hand, if you resist, and compel me to use
harsh measures—which I shall not fail to do if necessary—
I shall in all probability send for Mr. Bathgate to take you
in hand himself. Have you decided ? "
"Yes. I will submit, so long as I do not see Mr. Bath-
gate's hateful face, so long as J do not hear his hateful
voice."
" The bargain is made, then, on that understanding," says
Aunt Parker, and I can see that her mind is relieved.
*My mind is also relieved from a heavy fear; it will be worth
while to submit to some degree of suffering in order that I
may be free from a man I loathe.
An hour afterwards we touch the French shore, and land
at Dieppe. Maxwell joins us; he looks ill, but soon
brightens up. I do not reproach him even by a look;
better that I should win him again to my side in case I
need a friend. At present he is Aunt Parker's ally. She
IN THE MOUNTAINS.
2C5
does not leave me for a single moment; her eyes are never
off me. The novelty of the scene has an unconscious
healing effect upon me; under happier auspices it would
have been delightful, and even now it is not without charm.
No one takes notice of us; we are left entirely free. The
skies are brighter, the atmosphere clearer than in England,
and I almost reproach, myself for taking note, in the midst
of my misery, of these agreeable changes. After partaking
of a plate of soup at a restaurant we hurry to meet a train
which is about to depart. Aunt Parker does not inform
me where we are going, nor do I ask her. We travel all
day and all night; then we take carriages and mules at
various stages to suit the requirements of the roads we have
to traverse. Everything is done in haste, and it appears to
be Aunt Parker's anxious desire to arrive at some fixed
point in our wanderings as swiftly as possible. We are now
in Switzerland—I know that by the dress of the people
we meet—and I have my first view of the snow moun-
tains. We ascend higher and higher, travelling now
always on mules, Aunt Parker and I riding, and Maxwell
walking.
" We shall reach the sky soon," he once says. " Is not
this fine ? "
It is a mystery to me how Aunt Parker manages to get
on with the guides; she cannot speak their language, and
it is only after infinite trouble that she succeeds in arriving
at an understanding with them. She has forbidden me to
address them, and I obey her; and it strikes me as singular
that they should look strangely upon me. This occurs
always after some private conference between them and
Aunt Parker, in which she has been successful in imparting
to them some information with respect to me. More than
once I see two of the guides speaking together at a little
distance from me ; they look at me in turns, and one touches
his forehead significantly. At length, on the fourth day,
we arrive at a little village high up in the mountains.
During the last few hours we have traversed many dangerous
passes, and the exaltation of spirits produced by our perilous
position—for there were times when the slightest slip would
have precipitated mules and riders over precipices into
depths of thousands of feet beneath us—does me no harm.
It lifts me out of the selfish misery into which I had
fall en ; it rouses my thoughts to higher than human themes.
" God is above and around me," is my thought. " He will
266
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
yet bring solace to my wounded soul." I can understand
how women enter convents, and voluntarily shut the door
upon the affairs of life. But these comforting moments
are intermittent; I cannot banish my sorrow ; my heart is
bleeding still.
It is evening when we arrive at this village, and Aunt
Parker descends from her mule and looks around. It
seems to me that she is familiar with the place. She speaks
privately to Mad Maxwell, who places himself close to me
in the attitude and with the air of a guard who is set to
keep watch upon me. She makes the guides understand
her wish that they shall remain till she returns, and then
she leaves us.
Not until this moment have I noticed how singularly
mournful is the spot at which we have halted. That which
I have called a village is an assemblage of wretched huts—
about a dozen in all—built upon the slopes of the ranges,
at a distance of forty or fifty yards from each other. At
the door of one stands a peasant woman with a child in her
arms, and it is to this woman that Aunt Parker is making
her way. Aunt Parker addresses her; the woman shakes
her head; Aunt Parker gesticulates, and still the woman
expresses by signs that she does not understand her.
" We are not going to stop here, are we ? " The question
is mine, and I am speaking to Mad Maxwell.
"Yes," he replies, "for ever."
For ever ! My heart sinks ; a new fear steals upon me.
Has Maxwell, without intending it, disclosed Aunt Parker's
purpose in bringing me to this desolate spot ? Has she
brought me here to immure me, to hide me from the world,
to kill me, perhaps ? I am in utter ignorance of the part
of the country we are in, or whether we are on French,
Swiss or German ground. Swiss most likely, but I cannot
positively say. As to finding my way back, without a guide,
to any important town or city, that would be impossible.
These men were too poor to work for nothing, and I have
discovered that my purse is gone.
" We shall be happy here," says Mad Maxwell. "No
one can find us; we have given them all the slip. Are
you not glad ? "
Glad ! With a dread possibility before me I begin to
long for life and liberty. I address the guides in French,
then in German, to the best of my poor abilities, but I am
less successful than Aunt Parker has been. She has always
IN THE MOUNTAINS.
267
one key to help their comprehension—money. And I have
not a single coin.
Meanwhile Aunt Parker has not been idle. The woman
with the child in her arms has fetched an old man, and, so
far as I can judge from a distance, Aunt Parker comes to
some understanding with him. Then she returns to the
guides, and pays and dismisses them. I watch them des-
cend the pass by which we have reached this spot, and
Aunt Parker watches them also. It is not till they are out
of sight that she says :
" We shall remain here."
" For- how long ? " I ask.
" That will depend upon yourself."
" In what way ? "
" I will explain to-morrow."
" Will the explanation bear upon Mr. Bathgate ? "
" Probably."
" Will, or will it not, have reference to the proposals he
has made to me ? "
"You are speaking loudly and excitedly. Be warned."
" What is the name of this place ? "
" I shall not tell you."
The woman with whom she has made some bargain ap-
proaches us ; she is accompanied by the old man. Aunt
Parker motions to her, and she seizes my arm roughly. I
cry from pain, and I see Mad Maxwell's lip quiver.
" It is your own fault," says Aunt Parker. "You are
breaking your bargain."
" I entered into no bargain," I say indignantly, " which
meant that I was to be brought to this desolate village, and
buried in it."
" There are worse places than Restoration Hall, it seems.
You once thought differently."
"Yes, I once thought differently, but I could not possibly
guess how far your wicked heart would carry you."
" You may rave here as much as you like, my dear. No
one understands you, and but one interpretation will be
put upon your loUd tones and excited actions." She
motions to the woman to release my arm, and she speaks
aside to Mad Maxwell, who, accompanied by the woman
and the old man, goes off to a hut some hundred yards
distant. Presently I see him carrying wood into the hut,
and I judge that he is preparing it for us, and that we are
to lodge there.
263
A IUUNGr GIRL'S LIFE.
" It is not the first time I have been in this village," says
Aunt Parker. " It may be instructive if I briefly relate
my previous experience of it. During the whole course of
our acquaintanceship, which neither of us can say has been
too agreeable, it has been my endeavour to make you
understand the meaning of the words I have spoken to you,
If I have failed I cannot be blamed for it, and if I fail
now the fault will not be mine. Listen to my experience
of this cheerless village, the population of which is less than
a hundred, and every one so miserably poor that a piece of
silver will buy them body and soul. It is now nearly
eighteen years ago since my husband, having fallen into
misfortune—that is to say, for I really wish to make myself
very clear to you, being without a penny in the world—
was offered a task, which he undertook for a certain sum of
money. The task was this. There was a young lady who
laboured under delusions; she imagined that her best
friends were her enemies; she fixed her affections upon
strangers instead of upon her own kith and kin; she set herself
in opposition to them; she refused to marry a man who
had every qualification to make her happy. In a word, she
was mad. My husband, as you know, was a mad doctor,
and, under instructions which were very specific, he under-
took the task of curing her of her delusions and bringing
her to reason. For this purpose my husband and I —it
would not have been proper that a young lady of fortune
should travel without one of her own sex to attend to her
—came to this village in company with the lady and her
guardian. It was the guardian who made us acquainted
with it, and he left us to carry out our beneficent duty.
Many persons would call it painful; I call it beneficent. It
is not at all strange that those unfortunate mortals who are
bereft of their senses should invariably deem themselves
sane. Nature probably intended this added delusion as a
compensation for their peculiar affliction. My husband
and I did everthing in our power to restore this young lady
to the world, but all our efforts were thrown away. We
could not persuade her to see things in the right light; she
reproached us for persecuting her, when our only desire
was that she should lead a happy life ; her melancholia be-
came more pronounced; and in the end she died."
" You killed her ! " I cry.
"Were you to dare to utter those words in our own
country I would have you criminally prosecuted and thrown
OUR NEW HOWE.
2C9
into prison. My husband's reputation stood too high to be
affected by such an accusation, which no one had the
temerity to bring against him. To stale the case in exact
terms, the young lady committed suicide. Disappointed in
her attempt to escape from our loving care, she threw her-
self into a stream and was found dead. The cause of her
death was judicially ascertained and set forth, and our sad
task was concluded. She was buried here, and I have no
doubt, if you are curious on the point, that I could find her
grave. We left a good impression behind us when we de-
parted. We had been liberal to the poor people here "
I interrupt her. " To the people who are so miserably
poor that a piece of silver will buy them body and soul."
" We were certainly not ungenerous to them ; the old
man remembers it, and perhaps looks forward to further
reward."
"And you have brought me here to meet with a similar
fate to that which befel the unfortunate lady who was in
trusted to your merciless hands."
" I have brought you here because the air is curative —
remarkably curative. Were it better known the doctors
would establish a sanatorium in the village, which would
be the making of it. I trust I shall be successful in your
case."
" There is nothing the matter with me, and you know it
well."
" My dear," says Aunt Parker, in a tone of malice so
emphatic that I do not think the worst form of malevolence
could have been more forcibly expressed, " there is no room
to doubt what is the matter with you. I have known it for
years. You are mad !"
CHAPTER LI.
OUR NEW HOME.
The shock of a statement so malicious and false, and con-
veying so many possible terrors, would have prostrated
many a stronger person than I. It was intended to terrify
me into submission, but I resolved that it should not be so,
and that I would meet death rather than yield to pressure so
malicious and cruel. There was no question that it was to
be a battle between me and Aunt Parker, and had I been
clever enough to reason out the matter philosophically, I
270
A IWIfG UlLZL'S LIFE.
might have thanked her for rousing me from the depths of
despondency into which I had been plunged, and for sup-
plying me with a healthy irritant.
" I have often wondered," I said, gazing calmly upon
her, "whether there are many women in the world like you.
Now that you are thoroughly unmasked I am happy in the
belief that there are very few. Understand me. If you
think to break my spirit, you will find you are mistaken.
You say I am mad, and you know that your statement is
a deliberate falsehood, coined to serve a base and wicked
end. You shall be disappointed. Your utmost efforts
shall not shake my reason. I am armed against you "
She started, and cast an alarmed look at my hands, in
which she probably expected to see a weapon.
" No," I said, with a scornful smile, " not in that way am
I armed. My shield is there ! "
I pointed above, and her gaze followed mine uneasily. It
was a satisfaction to me to perceive that my unexpectedly
calm mood surprised and disconcerted her.
"I do not know," I continued, "if you ever pray. I do
not know if you believe in an Eternal Power. If you do
not I pity you for the future that is before you. If you do,
think to-night what mercy you deserve for the oppression
with which you visited an unoffending child when it was
her misfortune to lose her parents, and to be given into
your merciless charge. What you hoped for then has not
come to pass. I have retained my reason through all the
refinements of cruelty which you have devised to deprive
me of it. Shall I tell you how I have been able to do
this, and why it is that at this moment I am strong in-
stead of weak, and can speak to you so calmly? It is
because God is on my side. He gives me strength; He
gives me courage; and He will continue to strengthen me.
I place myself in His just and merciful hands, and He will
take pity on me and protect me against you. Aunt Parker, do
you think you are more powerful than the Supreme Power,
in whom I place my trust ? Hark ! I hear an answer."
The low muttering of thunder came from the distant
mountains ; a storm was approaching. Aunt Parker's face
grew pale, and I remembered that she was frightened at
thunder. I fell upon my knees and raised my hands and
eyes to heaven.
"Great Lord of all," I prayed, "guard and protect an
innocent, helpless woman from evil! "
OUR NEW HOME.
271
I uttered these words aloud, but I prayed for a little
while in silence, while Aunt Parker stood white and mute
at my side. Then I rose and said :
" I am ready to follow you."
She led the way to the hut, which was truly a most
miserable dwelling. But it was just these discomforts that
I needed at this crisis in my life. They furnished me with
work for hand and brain ; I could lessen the discomforts ;
I could, to some extent, supply what was lacking. The
thunder continued, and intermittently and gradually grew
louder. It nerved and exalted me. Mad Maxwell and the
man and woman with whom Aunt Parker had made some
sort of bargain by which, as I afterwards learned, we were
to be the sole occupants of the hut, were present when we
entered. Mad Maxwell turned his face to me, and I smiled
gently upon him. The smile which came upon his wan
face as I greeted him so pleasantly was like a ray of sun-
shine.
" Yes," I thought, "there will be gleams of light even in
this mournful village if I do not give way to despair."
I observed a slight expression of surprise on the faces of
the two villagers as they saw my smile, and its response
from Mad Maxwell. He was on his knees before the
wretched fireplace trying to kindle a fire.
"Let me help you, Maxwell," I said, and I knelt by
his side and assisted him. In a few moments a fire was
blazing. That was the only light we had. Brown bread
and goat's milk was on the table; a tin saucepan was on
the hearth.
" Shall I boil the milk, aunt ? " I asked.
She stared at me and did not answer. The approaching
storm, the sounds of which were threateningly near, had
unnerved her.
" Do you like your milk boiled, Maxwell ? " I asked.
"Yes, if you wish," he replied, in a quick, eager, happy
tone.
So I boiled the milk, and poured it back into the basin,
and when it was cool offered it to Aunt Parker. There
was nothing else to drink out of. She accepted it from my
hands, and also a piece of bread which I broke for her.
I drank a little of the milk myself, and gave what remained
to Mad Maxwell. While we were eating and drinking the
villagers left the hut. The furniture in the apartment
consisted of a table and a bench, both fixed in the earth.
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" Sit down, Maxwell," I said, cheerfully, " we must make
ourselves as happy as possible here."
" Yes, yes," he murmured, "we shall be happy. She did
not deceive me."
I knew whom he meant by "she," and guessed by what
arts and representations he had been induced to con-
spire against me. He had been told that all was to be
done for my good, and that I should be grateful for
the share he took in the wicked plot which was to shut
me out from the world.
" If we remain here long, Maxwell," I said, " we must
contrive to get a few plates and knives."
He nodded. I judged from his manner that he was
perfectly happy.
Our rude meal finished, I examined the dwelling. It
consisted of but two apartments—the one we had eaten in,
and an adjoining room beyond, which was to be the bed-
room Aunt Parker and I were to occupy. Maxwell was to
sleep in the front room on the bare ground. Aunt Parker
and I had straw beds to rest upon.
The storm now burst upon us. The lightning darted its
forked tongues into the hut; the thunder pealed grandly.
Aunt Parker sat trembling on the bench, covering her face
with her hands. In the course of an hour the storm passed
away, and then she followed me into our wretched sleeping
room. I was pleased to see that there was an entrance
door to the back as well as to the front of the hut. Before
I said my prayers—and on this night they were longer and
more earnest than usual—I told Aunt Parker that it would
be useless for her ever to speak again to me of Mr. Bath-
gate's proposals ; that if the penalty of my refusing to marry
him was really a life imprisonment in this place, I would
willingly choose it and submit to all the miseries it entailed,
and all that I could hope and pray for was that in a little
while her heart would be softened, and that she would help
me to escape. She made no comment on my remarks,
and we retired to rest. I woke many times during the
night, and shed tears as I thought of the happy dreams in
which I had but a short time since fondly indulged, and
which were now blotted out for ever.
I MAKE A FRIEND.
273
CHAPTER LIL
i make a friend.
Before the end of the first week of my sojourn in that
wild and almost inaccessible spot it was clear to me that
the spirit I had shown had entirely disconcerted whatever
plans Aunt Parker had formed in conveying me there so
treacherously. She had been confident that I should be so
terrified by the prospect of a lengthened residence in the
wretched place that I would consent to any terms to be
released from it. The attitude I had assumed was so
unexpected that she was at a loss how to proceed. She
herself had not calculated upon being compelled to live
there with me, and the prospect was as distasteful to her
as it was mournful to me. My mind, however, was entirely,
I may say irrevocably, pledged to the course I was taking,
and I was as certain then as I am now that the terrors of
death itself would not have caused me to waver.
We passed a dumb life, similar to many experiences I
had gone through in Restoration Hall. She made no
efforts to restrict my movements; I was entirely free ; had
it been otherwise, indeed, I should have resisted. The
community of which I now formed a part was the poorest
of the poor. Beyond the wants of the day the villagers
had no aspiration ; they lived their dull, aimless life, as
their forefathers had lived before them, slept much, ate
little, and died—of less use to earth and humanity than the
simplest flower that grew by the wayside. They had no
ideas of grace and beauty, and scarcely any of God, except
that He was a power to smite and destroy. They were
coarse and brutal, and even in the children, who were
indescribably uncouth, there was lacking any trace of the
grace of childhood. This knowledge of their state came
to me by degrees, and I used to wonder for what purpose
they were allowed to live. A few more words will complete
their history. Living there for so many generations they
would naturally have increased in numbers had it not been
274
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
that from time to time the strong and lusty made their
escape into civilized centres or into less wretched villages.
Not one of them ever returned, or desired again to revisit
the spot in which he was born.
The idea of escape presented itself to me continually,
but to carry it out was impossible without the aid of strong
and capable friends. The roads we had traversed to reach
these heights were in many places so dangerous that the
attempt to retrace them alone would have resulted in
certain destruction. Frightful precipices hemmed me in ;
a dungeon's strongest walls could not more effectually have
imprisoned me. If I had possessed money I might have
purchased help, but, as I have already said, I had not the
smallest coin. Love would have served me could I have
summoned it to my aid, but I dared not think of love now.
I thrust from me all thoughts that would tend to weaken
me morally or physically. It was my duty to live, it was
my lot to endure. Perhaps time had some solace in store
for me. Heaven only knew. Happiness could never be
my portion ; all the more necessary, then, was it that I
should use my best endeavours to be resigned to the
inevitable. I did not allow a day to pass without prayer
and self-communion, into which I strove to infuse cheerful-
ness; and so, as the months passed and the seasons
changed, I became self-reliant to a degree which under no
other circumstances could I have attained.
Long before this time Aunt Parker had changed her
plans with respect to her own mode of life. One day I
missed her, and, inquiring of Mad Maxwell, was informed
by him that she had taken her departure.
" For long ? " I asked.
He could not tell me.
" Did she leave no message for me ? "
" No."
" Did she give you any instructions which bear reference
to me ? "
"I am to take care of you."
"To watch me, so that I shall not escape?"
He nodded gaily, and said, yes, but that, of course I had
no wish to escape.
"Do you really think that, Maxwell?"
" Yes ; if you were not happy here you would go about
with a mournful face. There is one thing I wish you would
do."
I MAKE A FRIEND,
275
"What is that?"
" You sing no songs now."
"You wish me to sing?"
"Yes."
" I will try by and by, Maxwell."
Not long afterwards I found myself singing unconsciously
and it made me glad.
In describing my life in this village, it is my wish to
follow, as faithfully as I can, the mental changes which took
place within me. For instance. Before the date of Aunt
Parker's first departure I had made some lame effort to
escape. I rose in the morning before the sun appeared,
and commenced to descend the mountains, marking the
way carefully, in order that I might be enabled to return in
case I was compelled to give up the attempt. I took a
small portion of food with me, and with the rising of the
sun had made some progress. But when, about three hours
after I started, I came to a pass—the only one in view—
not more than seven or eight feet wide, cut out of the
almost perpendicular rocks, I stopped and trembled. A
panic took possession of me. One side of this pass was
completely unprotected; precipices thousands of feet in
depth warned me that my minutes on earth were numbered
if I did not quickly turn and fly. I was growing dizzy
already, and had I not been very careful of my movements
I should have been destroyed. In the afternoon I arrived
at the village in which I was imprisoned. Aunt Parker
looked at me and smiled. She knew that I had attempted
to escape, and how impossible it was for me to succeed.
Later in the year, when she departed without a word to me,
the idea of escape, which was almost dead within me, again
presented itself. Aunt Parker could get away; then it was
possible for me. Possible? Yes, if I had the means.
Aunt Parker had money to pay her guides. What had I
to pay them with? Nothing, absolutely nothing; and yet
the hope of obtaining aid did not, from that day, entirely
desert me.
A word or two about those who had brought happiness
to me in the past. Ned I never expected to meet again.
He had bidden me a farewell which I regarded as eternal.
Our roads of life could not have been more widely apart
had they been situated at the extreme poles of the earth.
He was married, and was lost to me for ever. Was he,
then, indifferent to me—was my love for him extinguished ?
18*
276
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
No; I held him still in my heart, but it was as a mother
holds in her heart the memory of a beloved child whom
death has torn from her, except that the fond mother is
consoled by the hope of a blissful meeting with her dear
one beyond the grave. No such hope was mine. Rather
should I describe my feelings with respect to Ned as the
feelings of one who had dreamed a dream so full of
happiness that the remembrance of it is ineffaceable. It
was a bitter sweet, but I kept it with me. As regards my
dear nurse and Rube, however, time modified the views I
had been induced to form. Gradually the impression stole
upon me, until it became a conviction that Aunt Parker
had been guilty of falsehood when she informed me that
they had gone to Australia. My dear nurse would never
have left the country without bidding me farewell. They,
then, remained to me, and were and would be true to me.
I still had friends in the world; I was not, as I had in my
despair supposed myself to be, utterly friendless and
forsaken.
Here was an incentive to cherish the hope of escape at
some time or other. Not immediately, that was im-
possible; but in a year or two, perhaps, when by some
means I might have succeeded in winning willing and
capable allies.
This thought was gathering strength in my mind when
Aunt Parker returned to the village. She had been absent
four months. We gazed at each other in silence for a few
moments.
" Well, my dear," she then said, "have you nothing to say
to me—no welcome to give me ? "
" No," I replied.
" I was wondering," she said, speaking very slowly,
" whether I should find you alive."
" It would not have grieved you had I died in your
absence."
" Hush, hush, my dear; it is really very naughty of you
to speak so. After the experience we have had of each
other you surprise me. And you have no questions to ask,
of anybody ? "
" None."
" I shall not mention namea, but if you wish me to tell
you anything I am quite willing to do so."
"You will tell me nothing that is good. I am sure, and
nothing that is true."
I MAKE A FRIEND.
277
" Still defiant, eh? Still rebellious; still mad ! "
" You cannot provoke me, aunt. Your malice has reached
its full extent. It no longer affects me. I am beyond
your power."
It was not said as a boast; the words escaped me
involuntarily, and it was because I had trained myself
to look for consolation above that I raised my eyes to
heaven.
" Yes," said Aunt Parker, as though speaking to herself,
" madness frequently takes that turn. I shall be writing to
England to-morrow, you know to whom. If you wish me
to say anything for you, I will say it."
" I have nothing to say that I shall impart to you."
" Very well. Have you decided for how long a time this
state of things is to continue ? "
" It is not for me to decide."
" Indeed you are mistaken. You have but to commission
me to say one little word."
" I shall never commission you to say it."
The next day she disappeared again, and did not present
herself for several months.
With no other variations than those I am now about to
relate, three years passed over my head, and I was still a
prisoner. During the latter portion of those three years
the wish to be united again to my dear nurse and Rube
grew stronger and stronger, and I was pursuing a certain
course of conduct which might help me to that happy end.
Once more in England, I thought, and living with Nurse
Elliot, I should desire nothing more. Far beyond those
bounds were once my hopes; but now the idea of that
narrow life brought with it as much happiness as I dared
look forward to. And even this realization was sufficiently
dim, Heaven knows.
I set myself emphatically to win not only the friendship,
but the devotion of Mad Maxwell; not the devotion which
contemplated my lot from his point of view, but from mine.
I set myself also the task of winning some kind of friendly
regard from the uncouth beings by whom I was surrounded.
I learned sufficient of their patois to understand them and
to make myself understood. I sought for opportunities to
be of assistance to them, and to render simple kindnesses,
unasked. It was a healthy employment, and it was of more
service to me in its influence upon any spirits than it could
possibly be to them. They had been led to the belief that
278
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
I was mad, and they believed so still; but they did not
look upon me as dangerous, and they grew to tolerate me,
and allowed me to mix with them. I had to approach them
by delicate steps; a false move would have put back for
years the hope in which I indulged ; and therefore it was
that much time was spent before I considered myself on a
sufficiently confidential and friendly footing with them to
extend the sphere of my services.
There was in this small community a man whose face
appeared to be the reflex of a nature irreclaimably coarse
and brutal. He bore, indeed, this reputation, and by virtue
of great strength was the tyrant of the people among whom
he lived. His heavy blows were dealt out alike, on the
most trivial provocation, to men, women, and children, and
every one stood in terror of him. Impressed by his ferocity
I had been careful in keeping out ot his way, but the oppor-
tunity of rendering him a service presented itseir, and I
availed myself of it—I must confess with tear and
trembling.
I had wandered some distance from my hut, when a cry
of pain smote the air. I hurried in its direction, and
found this man lying wounded on the earth. He had been
felling a tree, and a great limb had fallen upon him and
inflicted a terrible gash upon his face, and broken his leg in
two places, so that he could not rise. He had a tin can
by his side, and he had drained it of every drop of water,
and when I knelt by him he cried for more. There was a
waterfall near, and I filled the can, and placed it to his lips,
first wiping the blood from about his mouth. Then, putting
the water within his reach, I told him that I was not strong
enough to help him to the village, but that I would go at
once for assistance. This I soon obtained, and in a little
while the wounded man was in his hut. In the evening I
went to see how he was getting on, and I found that things
were as bad as they well could be, not only with him, but with
his wife. Within the last few hours a baby had been born,
and there was no person to attend to the wounded man
and to the mother and her child. I immediately took
upon myself the direction of affairs, and enlisted Mad
Maxwell as my lieutenant, who was only too glad to obey
and assist me.
I need not dwell upon the details of the hard days and
weeks that followed. I had my hands full, and with my
help the man was nursed to health. The mother became
I MAKE A FRIEND.
279
strong again, and the baby thrived. I was grateful for this
human work, and was satisfied with myself when it was
successfully accomplished. Neither the man nor the
woman was liberal in thanks, but I did not look for any
conspicuous exhibition of gratitude, and I felt that my
services were in some measure appreciated when I found
that the mother allowed me to nurse her baby, and that the
man's eyes softened when he looked at me. The boy baby
was not pretty, but the helplessness of infancy was an irre-
sistible appeal to my heart, which was now yearning for
love. Yes, when I felt the little hands upon my face a
yearning tide swept upon my soul, and life once more became
pulsed with love.
" Oh, nurse, dear nurse !" I murmured. " If I could
but be with you again ! If I could but sit at your side,
sheltered by your love !"
It had never wavered, it had never grown weak ; I was
sure of that. As I nursed the baby, with these thoughts
stirring within me, it was as though faith were fully
awakened within me—faith in goodness, friendship, love.
" My heart shall never be darkened again," I murmured.
It happened that the baby, who had thriven the first few
months, became suddenly weak; it sickened and died.
The child drew his last breath in my arms, and my tears
flowed freely. The mother mourned, but her sorrow was
not demonstrative. She allowed me to perform the last
sad offices, and I stood by the parents side at the grave.
Then the man and the womau went to their work, and I
felt as if I had lost a friend. The next night the man pre-
sented himself at the door of my hut. He gave me a white
flower.
" It is the Edelweiss," he said. " They say it will bring
you luck. Take it."
I took it from his hands, and thanked him. He went
away without another word, but he had convinced me that
he was human, and that there was human good in him. I
gazed at the white flower.
" They say it will bring luck," I murmured. " Perhaps
—who knows ?—through this man, and the memory of his
dead child."
At this period I had commenced the fourth year of my
imprisonment. A wild hope stole upon me.
280
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
CHAPTER LIII.
wolf undertakes a difficult mission.
The man's name was Wolf. Simply Wolf—nothing more.
He was called so by all. I knew where he was working, and
at noon I went to him.
"Ah," he said, looking round, "welcome."
He lived by the felling of wood, which he dragged or
carried to some great distance, and sold. Since the death
of his child I had succeeded in breaking through the ice of
this man's ruggedness. Brutal and fierce he was, but I had
removed the veil from more than one window in his nature
which, but for me, might never have received light. To
my surprise I had discovered that he was more than
ordinarily intelligent, and that he could be as intense
in good ways as in bad. He had expressed to me, as much
in act as in words, that he was ready to render me a service.
The man was grateful, but whether his gratitude would
lead him to perform what I wished him to perform—in
pursuance of the wild hope which now had taken com-
plete possession of me—was what I had set myself to
discover.
"Welcome," he said, and paused in his work.
"Wolf," I said, "your work is hard."
" That is so."
I must say here that I can only reproduce the sense of
what passed between me and this man. It would retard
the relation of what followed if I did not adopt an intelligible
form of description of our conversation.
"And poorly paid."
" That is so."
" When you are old, what will you do ? "
" Die."
" Starve ? "
"Perhaps."
" It is not good. "
" It is not—but what can I do ?*
" You have no money ? "
WOLF UNDERTAKES A DIFFICULT MISSION. 281
" None. "
" You would like some ? "
"Yes. Are you going to give me some? You have
done much. See you. I knew nothing of you when you
came here—" He broke suddenly off, and asked abruptly,
" Why did you come ? "
"I was brought here against my will."
" Forced here ? "
"Yes."
" Who forced you ? "
" The woman who comes and goes."
He raised his axe threateningly.
"Shall I kill her?"
I laid my hand on his arm; I took the axe from his
hands.
" No, you must not harm her; you must not touch her."
" But she has harmed you, and you have been good to
me and my young."
" I say again, Wolf, you must not harm her."
"-If she has done wrong to you—and she has, because
you say it—she must be punished. I owe it to you that she
shall be punished."
" She shall be, but not in your way. Not from you, but
from me, must come her punishment."
"That sounds well; but you are not strong; you want a
man to help you."
" That is why I come to you, Wolf ; I want a man to
help me."
" You want me ? " ■
" Yes."
" I will do it."
" Promise me first that if you meet the woman you will
not harm her."
" I promise you."
But I hardly knew whether I dared trust him.
"You must promise me by the memory of your dead
child."
" So let it be, asjyou are so obstinate. I promise you
by the memory of my dead child. Hark, you, what Wolf
says, is done. What Wolf promises, is done. Ask of all
who know me."
" I am content, Wolf. It shall be for your good, and for
your wife's good, if all things turn out well. What I want
you to do for me is very difficult."
282
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
He laughed. " Not too difficult for me. I say, I will
do it, and it is done."
" Ah ! but it is not with your strong arms I want you to
work ; it is with your head and brain."
" I will try. No, I will not try; I will do."
"I have no gold to give you, Wolf, but you shall have
gold if you succeed."
" If I had gold," he said, looking anxiously and eagerly
at me, " I would take my wife into the valley yonder, and
we would lead an easier life. Not that I care for to-day,
but for to-morrow."
" You shall have your wish if you perform the task. You
do not know where I come from."
" No."
" I come from England, where my friends are. If I say
to you, go to England for me "
He stared at me, and said, slowly, distilling the words as
it were—
"Goto England for you." Then, shrugging his shoul-
ders, "Well, tell me more."
" I have no money to assist you on the way, but you
might work on the road."
" I could do that; a crust will be enough."
"You will have to cross the sea. If you can get
me a black pencil, I will put it all down on paper for
you."
" I cannot read."
"No but you can show the paper I give you, and people
will direct you, and show you what to do. Except," I said,
and here I despaired, for the supreme difficulty he would
have to contend with appeared fatal to the plan, " except,
Wolf, that it would cost money to cross the sea, and we have
none."
" Could I not walk? Must the sea be crossed? "
" It must. It divides the countries."
A bright light was in his eyes; he was not only interested,
he was excited.
"There is a secret," he said. "You shall hear it—•
you, and only you." He put his hand inside his shirt, and
drew forth a small packet. " My grandfather died, and
gave to my father a gold cross. He had it from his
father. My father dies, and gives me the gold cross. It
is here."
He opened the packet and gave me a trinket of gold. I
WOLF UNDERTAKES A DIFFICULT MISSION. 283
was no judge of its value, but it seemed that it might enable
Wolf to pay his passage to England. As it lay in my hands
the sun touched it with light.
"Wolf, when you get to a large town you need not sell it.
You can borrow money on it, and when I pay you for what
you have done, you can get it back."
" That is well. I will do all you wish."
" To-night I will come to your hut. Will you obtain a
black pencil for me ? "
" Yes, I will go at once. We will talk more to night."
During the hours that intervened I settled the whole plan.
Wolf could make his way on foot to Marseilles, where he
would find a vessel to take him to England. Once there I
thought there was little fear ot his being able to work his
way to London, and then the rest would lay in my dear
nurse's hands. I was full of hope and fear. I was aware I
was setting this rough peasant a task attended with enormous
difficulties, and all I could do was to pray that he would
surmount them. He had great strength of character which
would serve him in good stead, and the hope of reward would
spur him on.
That night I had a long interview with him ; he brought
a pencil and paper, and in the clearest possible way I wrote
everything down, and made him understand. We were to-
gether lor hours, and when I returned to my own wretched
hut it was with a bright hope that he was sufficiently familiar
with all the details of his difficult mission. He was to set
forth on the following morning, and was to come first to me
to receive a letter which I intended to write to my dear nurse.
I sat up till late in the night composing this letter, and in it I
briefly related my history of the last three years, and implored
her to make some attempt to release me. I made no re-
ference to Ned, but I described myself as being most truly
unhappy, and said that it this appeal failed I should feel as
if I was deserted by all but God.
At ten o'clock in the morning Wolf appeared, ready for
the journey. His wife accompanied him.
"Look you," he said, "it shall be done if man can do it.
My wife is of my mind. We owe you more than our lives,
and if I lose mine it will not repay the debt, but I shall win
the reward. You have given me a man's work to do, some-
thing better than chopping wood. Attend to my words,
wife. You are to protect her while I am away; no one is to
touch a hair of her head—no one. If she is not safe when I
284
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
come back you will have to account to me, and you know
what that means. Now, farewell."
He nodded and was gone.
From that day his wife did not leave me. She made up a
bed in my room, and lived in my hut, and waited upon me
as a servant. When I remonstrated with her—for I was
accuctom^d to wait upon myself, and was equal to it—she
said,
"It is Wolfs orders, and I dare not disobey him. You
must know that what Wolf says is fixed ; what Wolf under-
takes is fixed as long as life remains. You will be restored
to your friends, and we shall live in the valleys. Life will
not be so horrible then."
I confided my secret to no one, nor did Wolfs wife speak
of it.
" Where is Wolf ?" asked some of the villagers.
" He will tell you when he returns," replied his wife.
If ever I had need to school myself to patience it was
at this period of my life. Hours were like days, days like
weeks; and two, three, four weeks passed, and no signs of
Wolf. I think I should have given way under the strain of
suspense had I not been sustained by Wolfs wife.
" All is well with him," she said, " and what he says he
will do will be done."
But if he should faint on the way ? That was my fear.
If the task I had intrusted to him should lead to his
death ! Something of this I hinted to her to soften the
blow when it should fall.
"Have no fear," was her response, with a confident
smile. " If Wolf dies I shall know it."
" How ? " I asked, much startled.
" He will appear to me," she said. " He has sworn it."
Two months passed by, and I had almost given up hope.
Another week, and another, and another passed by, and
hope died within me. At the end of this time Wolfs
wife came to me, and said :
" There are mules and guides in the valleys ; they are at
too great a distance for me to distinguish them."
The hope that was dead revived. If, after all, it should
be Wolf and a friend from England ; I waited in an agony
of suspense, but my heart fell again when, after the lapse of
a couple of hours, I recognized the form of Aunt Parker.
I retreated to my hut, and sat on the earth and wept, and
in the midst of my sorrow Aunt Parker entered. There
WOLF UNDERTAKES A DIFFICULT MISSION. 2:5
was an expression on her face I had never seen before.
It was an expression of venom and disappointment. Her
thin lips were set tight; there was a cold, wicked look in
her eyes. I could not rise to face her. The spirit which had
upheld me, and had strengthened me to bear the hard lot
of which she had been the principal minis trant, seemed to
have deserted me. I lay upon the ground with a breaking
heart. My misery afforded her pleasure, but even that
did not rouse me. I was utterly crushed. The long battle
had come to an end, and she stood looking down upon me
with malignant satisfaction.
" I hardly expected this," she said. " I came for
another purpose. What is the meaning of this par-
oxysm ? "
She repeated the question in another form, and I did not
answer her.
Stooping, she laid hands upon me, and was violently
lifting me to my feet, when I found gentler hands about
me, and Aunt Parker was roughly thrust aside. It was
Wolfs wife who had come to my protection.
" Say but that she has hurt you," said the woman, " and
I will strangle her."
" Is this a new friend ? " asked Aunt Parker, not under-
standing a word the woman said.
"Tell me," continued Wolf's wife, "what she has done,
and what she is about to do. Wolf has laid his commands
upon me, and I must obey him. If she is your enemy,
and is oppressing you, I will right you."
" Do nothing," I said to her, in the patois with which we
were both familiar; I was so agitated that my voice did not
rise above a whisper; " but remain by my side while she is
here."
Aunt Parker looked quietly on while I endeavoured to
calm the paroxysm of grief which had mastered me. At
length I succeeded, and was enabled to confront her with
comparative calmness.
" Aunt Parker," I said, " I warn you. This woman who has
no knowledge of English, and therefore does not know
what I am saying, is here to protect me from you and
other enemies. You are in danger if you are not careful.
These poor villagers with whom you have unlawfully asso-
ciated me are ignorant and passionate, and act by impulse.
If you have come here to say anything to me say it and go,
for your own sake. Be advised by me if you value your life."
288
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
She laughed—a cruel, contemptuous laugh.
"You are a mad fool," she said. "Your threats are
thrown away upon me. But I shall not be long with you. I
came, as I said, for a purpose, which will occupy me but a
few minutes. So you have friends. I suspected as much.
Well, you need them, and I wish you joy of them. Have
you heard from England ? "
" How should I hear from England ? " I cried. " What
means of communication have I with my native land ?
Your plans were artfully and skilfully laid. Do you
intend to threaten me with any new oppression ? I do
not think you can inflict upon me any greater cruelties than
those for which you are already accountable.'
" You have not heard from England? "
" No."
"Neither have I," she said. "For the last four months
I have not received a letter, and money is owing and due
to me. What is the meaning of it ? "
" I cannot tell you. I suppose the money you refer to
is in payment of your office as my jailer."
" Say that it is. What then ? "
" Simply that you have no right or claim to it, and I hope
you will lose it."
" You hope so, do you ? "
"With all my heart. You willingly undertook an abhor-
rent office, and if you are not paid for it you are righteously
served."
I felt the colour return to my face; indignation was
rousing me to life.
" If the power is ever mine to punish you for your un-
lawful acts, I will use it; and not only you, but your
wicked partner. Neither of you shall escape. As you have
had no mercy on me I will have no mercy upon you. It
has happened before and may happen again that such deeds
as those of which you and your partner are guilty have
been unexpectedly brought to light, and that justice has
fallen upon the evil-doers."
" Brave words," she exclaimed; but I saw that I had
shaken her. " But I can justify myself. I know the law
better than you do. Mad people must have keepers, and
you have had yours."
" If ever it be my happy fate," I said, mournfully, " to
find myself among my countrymen, it will be seen whether
I am mad or not. You cannot deceive me; you never
WOLF UNDERTAKES A DIFFICULT MISSION. 287
have deceived me. You compassed my death, and you
were to be paid for it; and I gather from your words now,
that if your end was accomplished you are in doubt whether
the sum agreed upon would be handed over to you by your
partner."
" My partner ! " she cried. " He is cheating me as you
have cheated me. He is robbing me as you have robbed me.
As for your threats, which I despise, you have first to
escape from this spot. You will find it difficult. I am
here to bid you farewell. In all human probability you and
I will never meet again."
" Thank God," I said.
" Had you been humble and submissive," she continued,
" I had it in my mind to propose a plan to you by which
you might have regained your rights. What you have said
to me proves that I cannot trust you. Long ago, had
you been wise, you might have had me on your side instead
of against you."
"You hated me from the first," I said. "There never
was a time, in my remembrance of you, when I could have
won you as my friend."
" That belief is part of your folly. You will live to repent
it What is that woman listening to ? "
A sudden movement on the part of Wolfs wife had
inspired this question. The woman's head was suddenly
bent forward; an eager light flashed into her eyes. With
a cry of joy she flew from the hut.
I was about to follow her when Aunt Parker grasped my
wrist and held me fast. Heaven knows what was in her
mind, for her face was convulsed with rage. I struggled and
cried loudly for help. My cries were answered.
" I am here, Lina, I am here !"
And upon this, another voice.
" Lina ! my child ! my dear child ! *
Ah, gracious God ! The voices I heard were those of Ned
and my dear nurse !
I tore myself from Aunt Parker's grasp, and tottering to
the door, fell insensible into the arms of my dear, dear
nurse.
288
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
CHAPTER LIV.
raised from a living grave.
It was night when I recovered my senses. I was lying
on my rough bed, and there was a dim light in the room.
A woman was sitting by my side.
For a few moments I did not dare to look at her. A con-
fused memory of what had taken place was in ny mind, but
I could not separate fact from fancy. At length I found
courage to turn my eyes upon the woman's face. It was
really and truly Nurse Elliot who was tending me.
Her eyes rested upon me, and a look of joy flashed into
them when she saw that I was awake and conscious.
" Lina !" she cried.
"Oh, Nurse—dear, dear Nurse!"
It was all I could say for a little while, and she put her
face close to mine, and kissed me and wept over me.
" It is not a dream, dear Nurse !"
"No, dear child, it is happily, happily real."
"Tell me all, Nurse."
"To-morrow, dear. You are not strong enough to hear
it to-night."
" I am strong enough, indeed, indeed I am ! Tell me
now. I cannot bear the suspense."
" It is the most wonderful thing, my poor, suffering child;
the most wonderful, beautiful thing ! I hardly know where-
to commence."
" Commence at the very beginning, Nurse dear. It will
do me good. Ah, it has done me good already to hear your
sweet voice ! We are safe here, are we not ? "
"Yes, dear, we are quite safe. Wolf is keeping guard
over us."
"Only Wolf, Nurse?" I asked. For my thoughts were
travelling to Ned, and I wanted to be sure that it was his
voice I had heard as well as hers.
" There is another keeping watch over you also, my dear."
— " Mr. Edward Lorimer ? "
RAISED FROM A LIVING GRAVE.
289
" Yes, my dear, Mr. Edward and Wolf are together outside.
He is outside. Shall I call him in ? "
"No, Nurse dear; I am not strong enough yet for that.
Remain with me—do not leave me ! Do not let anybody
else come to me to-night."
" It shall be as you wish, dear."
" Now commence, Nurse. From the very beginning, from
the time that I left your happy house—" I could not finish
the sentence. " Shall I see it again, Nurse ? "
"Yes, my dear child, and soon, I hope. Never, never to
leave it, unless of your own free will."
"You are true to me, Nurse ; oh, Nurse, you are true to
me!"
" True to you, my child ! I never was anything else. I
love you more now than I ever loved you; and there was a
time when I should not have thought that possible."
"You love me," I said, in a choking voice, "more than
you ever loved me ! My heart is almost breaking with joy !
They told me you had left England, and that I should never
see you again."
" They told you false, my dear."
"And Rube is in England; he did not go away ?"
" No, dear child, he is there in the old shop."
" Dear Rube ! And he is still my friend ? "
"You never had a truer."
"Yes," I said pressing her hand to my lips, "there is one
friend dearer, truer than all others."
" My dear we will not speak of that. Are you sure you
are strong enough to hear the story ? "
"Yes, Nurse, commence at once."
" My dear," she said, after a slight pause, "when I found
after I did not hear from you, and that you did not send
me one line in reply to all the letters I wrote you
" I never received any, Nurse. They must have been kept
from me wickedly— wickedly kept from me."
" Yes, dear, I understand it now. But it was a great
trouble to me. Rube had a suspicion of what was being
done with my letters, and he tried to comfort me by saying
that you would soon be a free woman. But when your
birthday came round— the day on which you were twenty-
one—and we had no news of you, I could not restrain my
impatience, and I went to Restoration Hall to get some news
of you. The house was closed, and no person could tell me
anything, so I had to go back to London unsatisfied, and
19
290
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
wait, and wait. My dear, in what I am going to tell you I
have made a binding promise "
"To whom, Nurse dear?"
"To Mr. Edward. I must say as little of him as possible.
He knew that this conversation would take place between
us, and he bound me down not to say a single word respect-
ing him more than is absolutely necessary. He has much
to impart to you himself, and you must hear it from no one
else."
" Go on."
"Well, my dear, when I found that I could get no news
of you I was in despair. I went to Mr. Edward, and he
could tell me nothing, except that he was informed you had
left England of your own free will."
" It was false."
"Yes, I know, I know; but I was really powerless. I went
to Mr. Bathgate. It was a long time before I was successful
in seeing him, and then, after listening to what I had to say,
he said you were your own mistress, and that you were doing
as you liked; that you had decided to travel to the Conti-
nent, and might remain away for years; that your movements
were not my concern, and that, if I intruded myself upon him
again he would charge me at the police court with Heaven
knows what."
" And Mr. Lorimer, the old gentleman ? "
" I have not seen him from that day to this. If you knew
how hard it is to me to keep my promise to Mr. Edward you
would pity me, Lina; but it must be done, and I must get
along as well as I can. You see, my dear, I had no authority
over you, and it could easily be made to appear that I was
interfering where I had no right to interfere. Rube and I
talked it over again and again, and he consulted his lawyer
friend, who advised him to let the matter alone, or he would
get himself into serious trouble. But, in spite of that advice,
if Rube could have seen his way to do anything he would
have done it, and risked the consequences. Well, my dear,
months passed, and we had no suspicion of the truth, nor
any means to guide us to it. It was hard for me to believe
that you had forgotten us "
" I never did that, Nurse dear, never for one moment."
" Indeed I never did believe it, but my heart was very sad
when I thought of you. So one year passed, and we had no
news of you; another year passed, and you seemed to be
dead to us; and still another year passed, and it did seem to
EAI3ED FROM A LIVING GRAVE. £01
ma as if we should never see each other again. We saw no-
thing, during the last two years, of Mr. Edward—I may say
that without breaking my promise to him—and then, on a
wonderful, wonderful day, Rube came from the shop into
our little sitting-room "
"The dear, dear room!" I murmured. "I can see it
now."
" He was very excited, and when he told me not to be
excited, without telling me anything else, he made me, of
course, a good deal worse than he was himself. ' What is
it about ?' I cried to him ; ' what is it about ? " And
when he said it was about you I thought I should have
fainted. My dear, Rube presently brought Wolf into the
room, and he gave me a letter from you. I was so blinded
with my tears that I could hardly read it, but I did succeed
at last, and then I learned the wicked, wicked way in which
you had been treated; I questioned Wolf, and got out of
him as much as I could "
"But Wolf cannot speak English, Nurse !" I exclaimed.
" How could you understand what he said ? "
" My dear, he had been a very long time getting to us,
and he had learned a little English, and that is how it was.
He is an extraordinary man, Lina."
" He is a noble friend," I said. " But for him I should
never have had the happiness of hearing your sweet voice
again."
" I think you are right, my dear child, but we must thank
God as well for helping him, and you, and all of us."
" I do, dear Nurse. If it had not been that I placed
my faith in the all-gracious Lord, had it not been that
prayer sustained me, I should have gone mad or should
have died before this happy night!"
" Dear Lina ! My poor, suffering child! Well, my
dear, when I understood what had occurred, I turned to
Rube, and asked what had best be done. Excited as we
had been before, we were a thousand times more excited
now. 'You must go to her, Deb,' said Rube, 'wiihouta
moment's delay. But you can't go alone. There's no
telling what might happen with such a wicked wretch as
that woman'—you know whom he meant by that—'to
fight against. You must have a man with you, and if the
worst comes to the worst, and we cannot get a proper man,
I will put some one in charge of the shop and go with you
myself.' "
19*
292
A YOU.NG GIRL'S LIFE.
" How good of him," I said, " how good of him !"
" He is the same fine-hearted man that you knew him
to be. My dear, the first thing he does is to make Wolf
understand that he is to remain with us in the Borough
till our plans are arranged, and then he puts the shop in
my care and goes out. Where to, my dear ? To Lorimer
and Bathgate's office—that was bearding the lion in his
den, wasn't it ? He didn't intend to have much to say to
Mr. Bathgate; it was Mr. Edward he wanted to get
hold of, and he thought naturally he could get hold
of him that way. You must know, my dear, that neither
of us had been to that office for two years and more, and
you may imagine how surprised Rube was to find the place
shut up. There was no Lorimer and Bathgate, at least
not in Mincing Lane, and nowhere else for that matter.
But that did not discourage Rube; nothing does dis-
courage him when he takes a thing in hand. ' I am bound
to see it through, Deb'—that is what he says—' I am
bound to see it through ;' and he does see it through better
tban any man I ever heard of. He makes inquiries, and
he is out the whole livelong day. ' And I would have
kept out the whole livelong night,' he said to me when he
got back, 1 rather than be beaten.' He didn't want to find
out where Mr. Bathgate was—we had had more than
enough of him; he wanted to find out where Mr. Lorimer
and his son were. Well, my dear, I don't know how he
managed it, but manage it he did, and he came home with
an address where, he was told, he would be able to see
them. At first he thought of going himself, but, on
second thoughts, he decided it would be best for me to go,
and to take Wolf with me. This, we agreed, would be the
right thing to do ; so, early the next morning—really, my
dear, at a little after eight o'clock—Wolf and I were in a
cab driving to the address Rube had obtained. Good
fortune was on our side, Lina, for as the cab drove up to
the door of the little house in which Mr. Edward and his
father are living, who should I see come out of it but Mr.
Edward himself. It is on the tip of my tongue to tell you
something about Mr. Edward here which made me very
very sorry, but that would be breaking my promise to him,
and I mustn't do it. Mr. Ned receives me as kindly as
ever, speaks as gently as ever, is as good hearted a gentle-
man as ever; but not quite so bright as he used to be—
There ! I am cn the point of saying what I have no
RAISED FROM A LIVING GRAVE.
293
business to say. Yes, my dear, Mr. Edward meets me
most kindly, but does not ask me into his house. He
walks from it with me by his side, and Wolf following us,
and, as we walk, I tell him the whole story as far as I know
it. He was terribly agitated; interrupted me a hundred
times; calls Wolf, and questions him; and then says,
trembling all over, and as white as a ghost, that I must
get back to the Borough at once, and that he will meet me
at the shop in less than an hour. He keeps his word, as
he always does and will, and when he joins us he has a
travelling-bag with him. I knew by that sign that he was
coming with us, and that your Aunt Parker would at last
meet her match ; for there was an expression on his face I
had never seen there before. It is no breach of confidence
to tell you that there have been a great change in his cir-
cumstances, but that has not altered him a bit. He asked
me to go through the whole affair again, and then he had a
long private talk with Wolf. Never in my life have I seen
a man in such a state as Mr. Edward was when Rube and
I went into the parlour after his conversation with Wolf
was over. He was trembling like a leaf, but after a while
he pulled himself together, and said that we must start off
that very night for this wretched, miserable place. And
we do, and I have nothing to tell you of what passed
during the journey that I have a right to tell. We are
here together, my dear child, never, never to part again.
Oh, how thankful I am—how thankful—how grateful! "
I did not for a long time break the silence. It was in
my mind to ask my dear nurse whether Ned was happy in
his marriage, but the words stuck in my throat. There
was something, however, I wanted to hear of another person
—of Aunt Parker.
"Where is she, Nurse," I asked.
"Who, my dear?"
" Aunt Parker."
" She is gone, my dear child. I shouldn't wonder if we
never saw her again. With all my heart I hope we shall
not."
" I hope so, too, Nurse. But what happened when you
came to the door, and I fell into your arms ? I only heard
your voice and Ned's"—his name in this form slipped
from me unaware—" and my joy was so great that it over-
came me. What happened then ? "
"Your aunt," said Nurse Elliot, " seemed frightened at
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
first, but she presently grew furious and began to storm. She
called us all sorts of names—she was really in such a rage
that she seemed almost out of her mind—and said she
would soon show us who was master. She rushed out of
the hut, and returned whh some of the villagers, who
would have treated us badly, I believe, if it hadn't been
for Wolf. He soon brought them to their senses, and
they turned then against your aunt as they would have
turned against us if it hadn't been for Wolf. They would
have hurt her, and Wolf wouldn't have stopped them, but
Mr. Edward did. He persuaded them to let her go in
peace. ' You shall smart for this,' she said to Mr. Edward.
' Be thankful,' was his reply to her, ' if you escape the law.
You have not only done a wicked thing; you have done
what may endanger your liberty.' ' Do your worst,' she
snarled; ' I defy you.' As for me, my dear, she would
have bitten me if she could have had her way; but it
would have been bad for her if she had attacked me; I am
as strong a woman as she is. However, there is nothing
more to be frightened at, or to be feared from her; she
can do no further harm. Heaven knows she has done
enough ! And now, my dear child, I have told you as
much as I ought to. You must get *o sleep, so that you
may be well enough to travel to-morrow. Mr. Edward has
hired guides and mules to take you away, and in three or
four days I hope we shall be in dear old England. Good-
night, dear child."
"Good-night, dear, dear Nurse !"
It was long before sleep came to me, there was so much
to occupy my mind. Indeed, I was almost afraid to en-
courage sleep, for fear I might wake up and find that all
the wonderful events cf the day had been a dream. Nurse
Elliot pretended to sleep, so that I might not exhaust myself
by talking to her. I held her hand fast, and by degrees
assured myself that my happy release was real.
I thought much of Ned; I could not help it. What
Nurse Elliot had said of him seemed to indicate that he had
had trouble and had met with misfortune since he and I
stood face to face. Ah, how long ago did it seem ! But it
made my heart beat with a joy that was not without pain, to
reflect upon the eager swiftness with which he had flown to
my rescue. He was no longer my lover, but he was still my
friend. How strange it was that Nurse Elliot had said
nothing of his wife! But a little reflection convinced
GOOD-NIGHT, DEAR LIN A.
295
me that she did not speak of her because she did not wish
to add to my sorrow. I heard the murmur of voices outside
the hut; I distinguished Ned's voice, low as were the tones
in which he was conversing with Wolf. Late in the night I
fell asleep, and did not wake till late the following morning.
CHAPTER LV.
good-night, dear lina.
"I would not disturb you, dear," said Nurse Elliot.
"You were sleeping so peacefully. You look better, Lina."
" I ought to look better," I replied; " I have been res-
tored to life. It almost seems to me as if I have been
raised from the grave."
Breakfast was ready on the rude table. Nurse Elliot
assisted me to dress, and it was another proof of her
thoughtful kindness that she had brought some new clothes
for me; I needed them sadly, and was grateful for them.
Breakfast was soon over, and we went into the open.
The guides with their mules were ready; Wolf and his wife
were to accompany us, and Wolf told me that the gentleman
had rewarded him well, and that he was satisfied.
" See," said Wolf, " he has given me money, and this
gold watch and chain and ring as well. I am content."
The purse in which the money was deposited was Ned's;
there was nothing very strange in the circumstance of the
presentation of the purse, but the watch and chain and ring
puzzled me. Perhaps, I thought, Wolf was eager for his
reward, and Ned, coming away in haste, did not come suffi-
ciently provided with funds; so he satisfied the man by
adding these trinkets. It would be my business to replace
them when he arrived in England.
Ned, who was some little distance from the hut, did not
come to me as I expected he would when I made my ap-
pearance.
"Will he not vyeak to me, Nurse?" I asked. "He
seems purposely to avoid me."
" Shall I tell him to come, my dear ? "
" Yes, please."
He came, and I held out my hand to him. As he took
it I saw the tears well in his eyes. The tears rose also in
mine as I observed the great change that had taken place in
298
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
him. It was not that he was less handsome, but the bright-
ness of manner which had earned for him the name of
Sunshine in the dear old days had departed. He looked
older and graver, and he met my advances with marked
constraint. Was he, then, oppressed by the consciousness
that he had behaved ungenerously to me in having led me
to believe that he loved me ? It might be so. In that case
it devolved upon me to mitigate any sorrow he might feel;
it was I who must outwardly play the brave part, and show
him that I bore no resentment. It was for me to conceal
what I felt at the sight of the man to whom my whole heart
was given. Yes, I loved him still, but he must not see it,
for his sake and mine. I had suffered much; I must suffer
still; but it needed all the moral strength of my nature to
suffer in silence now that I was in the presence of the man
who had wounded me so deeply.
" I do not know how to thank you," I said to him.
His eyes wandered from my face; his lips quivered.
" You have nothing to thank me for," he said. " By the
sacrifice of my life I could not atone for the wrong I have
done you."
He was conscious of it, and acknowledged it. Had he
then suffered as I had suffered, and should I rejoice in his
woe? No; my heart went out to him, and I felt nothing
but pity for him. He had had no sleep, and his face was
haggard.
" I kept you from your rest last night, I am afraid," I
said.
" You were in my care," he replied. " I do not betray
every trust."
This all absorbing remorse, evident in his humble attitude
and in every self-accusing word he uttered, stirred me
strangely. Once I had hoped to share his sorrows as well
as his joys. His joys and mine were now for ever apart;
but it would be a consolation to me, and might be to him,
if I could make him feel that he had wronged me less deeply
than he supposed.
" Ned," I said, and he flushed at the utterance of the dear,
familiar name. " It is in my heart to say, now that we have
met through your goodness, that during the lonely years I
have passed in this place a better kind of wisdom has come
to me than it would ever have been my privilege to enjoy
had my life been untroubled. Let what is painful and foolish
in the past be forgotten. Let us commence afresh a firm
GOOD-NIGHT, DEAR LINA.
297
and faithful friendship. Believe me, I will not be false to
it, and I will strive to make myself worthy of it."
"For God's sake," he cried, "say no more. I am not
worthy of your friendship."
He would have turned from me; but I had taken his
hand, and I would not allow him to leave me thus. While
we were conversing my nurse had beckoned Wolf and the
guides away, so that Ned and I were out of hearing. It was
a delicate and thoughtful act, but when was that dear woman
unmindful and unthoughtful of me ?
" I said this morning, to my dearest friend," I continued,
and I looked towards Nurse Elliot, " that I felt as if I had
been raised from the grave. It is you who have done this
for me. Will you deprive me of the happiness of showing
my gratitude to you? You must not, indeed you must
not!"
" I will add no wrong," he said, " to that I have already
committed. Your pity and sweet patience are like coals of
lire to my heart. I will hide nothing from you. Long ago
I resolved, if it should ever be at once my happiness and
my misery to meet the lady I have so foully wronged, that I
would make full confession to her. When we arrive safely
in England, and you are in the care of loving friends, this
shall be done, and you shall judge me."
" Let it be so," I said. " Till then, at least, we can be
true friends;" and I mentally added, "And always after-
wards, while life remains."
" It is impossible," he said. " I will not allow you to
juggle with justice. You do not know "
" That you are married," I said; and the pity I
had for him sweetened my voice. " Yes, Ned, I have
known it for years."
" That I am married !" he exclaimed, in a tone of
^amazement. " Who told you that ? "
" My aunt," I replied. " When your letter arrived
—it pained me sorely, Ned; but time and prayer have
softened the blow — she informed me of your marriage
" My marriage ! " he cried; and now he looked me full
in the face. " She spoke falsely. I am not married. I
paid court to no lady but you. Base and worthless I am,
but not so base and worthless as that act would have made
me, Lina!"
So dazed was I with joy to discover that he had been
293
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
true to me that I had almost fallen to the ground, and he
had uttered my name as he threw his arm around me to
support me. I recovered quickly, and he instantly released
me, saying, humbly:
" Forgive me."
I did not reply ; I wanted to think. What he had said
pointed to some strange mystery quite foreign to the wrong I
supposed he had done me. Within the last minute the
world had grown brighter, and a golden thread was shining
in my life which I had thought was so forlorn and desolate.
It was impossible for me to fathom the meaning of such an
expression as " By the sacrifice of my life I could not
atone for the wrong I have done you." I swiftly resolved
not to pursue the matter any further at present. When we
arrived in England all would be cleared ; meanwhile there
was nothing to disturb the happiness which had so suddenly
befallen me. Liberty was mine and Ned was true ! What
more could I desire? I beckoned to Nurse Elliot, and she
came to me.
" My dear," she said, with a bright smile, "you are look-
ing like your old self already. Has anything hap-
pened ? "
"Yes, Nurse," I replied, "something so sweet and beau-
tiful has happened that I can see happiness for me in the
future. Say nothing to Ned; he has a confession to make,
and I must bide his time. But remember this, Nurse,
whatever he has to say to me when we get to England, no-
thing can ever step between me and him."
" My child ! My dear child ! "
" It comes out of my heart of hearts to tell you this,
Nurse. I can have no secrets that you should not
share."
" You love him still, Lina ? " she whispered.
"Yes, Nurse, I love him still; I have loved him always,
but I thought we were separated for ever. It is not so ;
Ned is true to me—Ned is true to me ! But it is our secret,
dear Nurse—yours and mine; and no one must know until
the sorrow is lifted from his heart."
All this time I had forgotten Mad Maxwell, and now I
inquired after him.
" Your aunt took him with her," said Nurse Elliot," when
she went away last night. Was he in league with her
against you ? "
"He is more sinned against than sinning, Nurse. I
GOOD-NIGHT. DEAR LINA,
299
hope and trust that I may see him again, and that it will be
in my power to be good to him."
In a little while we started homewards. Homewards!
Homewards ! Never till now had I realized the beauty of
the little word " home." It was the cradle of love and joy ;
and I whispered to myself again and again :
"Home, home! And Ned is true to me, and Ned is
true !"
As we journeyed to the valleys he would have kept apart
from me, but I invented a thousand pretexts to draw him
to my side. If I could lift the sorrow from his heart it
should be done ; to this I was firmly resolved. He loved
me. I saw this clearly in his inward struggles against the
arts I used ; but in this battle of love he should not conquer
and bring misery upon himself and me. I was not ashamed
that he should see my heart. Had it not been already
bared to him in the past ? I owed him reparation for the
ready ear I had given to Aunt Parker's false report of him ;
it was I who had wronged him, not he who had wronged
me. How fair and beautiful was everything around me !
The sweet air, the lovely flowers, the rippling waterfalls, the
bright sky, all pulsed with love, and I was truly happy. So
we made our way to the port from which we took ship to
dear old England.
"When we arrive at Dover," I said to Ned, "you have
it in your mind to leave me."
"Yes," he said, "I shall leave you then. You are no
longer in danger, and my poor task is accomplished."
" It is not accomplished, Ned," I said, boldly, " and will
not be unless you accompany me to the very door of Rube's
shop. I insist upon it."
" I will obey you," he said, in a low tone.
"Ned, you have not spoken of your dear father."
"No, I have not spoken of him."
" He is well, I hope."
" He is much broken."
"I am sorry to hear that—truly, truly sorry. You live
together, do you not ? "
"Yes."
" You will give him my dear love, Ned, will you not ? and
ask him if he cannot come to see me soon; whether I
may not come to see him ? But, indeed, I shall not wait
for permission."
" I beg of you not to come; the shock will be too great.
300
A YOUNG- GIRL'S LIFE.
Wait till you have heard what I have to say; then you will
never wish to see him or me again."
"You are wrong, Ned—entirely wrong. Of course, I
have no idea what Is in your mind while you speak so
strangely; bat you have promised to make everything clear
to me."
" I will 1 eep my promise."
" When ? It must be soon—within three days of our
arrival home."
"Yes, within that time."
" I must be content till then," I said, gaily. I would not
take notice of his mournful tones. " Ned is it true that you
are not so rich as you were ? "
" I am a poor man," he replied.
" I am sorry. Do you no longer carry on the busi-
ness ? "
"The Lorimers have lost their place. The firm is
dissolved."
"Riches are not needed for happiness, Ned. If it
were so, how the poor are to be pitied! But it is not
)>
so.
"No man can be happy," said Ned, sternly; and the
fancy came upon me that he was like a man who was about
to plunge a dagger into his own heart, "when he is haunted
by the shadow of a crime."
" Ned ! " I cried.
" For God's sake," he said, "say no more ! Wait till you
receive my confession. Deal with me justly then. I do not,
I dare not, ask for mercy."
His anguish was so evident and sincere that I would not
question him further; but I took pains to make him under-
stand that he could not drive me from him.
We had fine weather all the way, and the sun was shin-
ing brightly when we landed on English ground. We had
but a few minutes to wait to catch the train, and in the
evening we found ourselves in London. Rube was at the
station to meet us. I learned afterwards that Ned had
sent him telegrams from place to place to acquaint him with
our progress, and he had actually engaged a carriage to take
us to the Borough.
I cannot describe Rube's delight. His face fairly beamed,
and I do not know what extravagances he would not have
committed had not my dear nurse sobered him by a few
sensible words. But she was as delighted as he, though
GOOD-NIGHT, DEAR LIN A,
301
she was not demonstrative, and she whispered to me over
and over again :
" Did you ever see such a man, my dear — did you
ever see such a man ? "
In fulfilment of his promise Ned got into the carriage
with us, and we were soon standing in the dear old shop.
My eyes were filled with happy tears, and I heard Rube
say to Ned:
"Won't you come inside, sir?"
"No, thank you," was Ned's reply; "I am anxious
about my father. I must hurry home."
Rube and Nurse Elliot suddenly disappeared, and Ned
and I were alone.
"When shall I see you again?" I asked. "To-
night ? "
" No," said Ned, " you will not see me till I have shown
you what I am. I will be no party to a shameful deceit.
You shall see me in my true colours, and then it will be
for you to act. If I dared, I would give you one word of
advice."
" Give it to me, Ned."
" Do not rely upon yourself; do not trust yourself.
When you have read what I shall put into your hands, con-
suit some experienced person who will advise you how to
act."
I made no effort to understand him, and I would not
thwart his humour.
" Whatever it is," I said, " I shall know how to act."
And then, after a little pause, I added, " I have made one
mistake, and I rely upon your generosity to correct it.
You will assist me, will you not ? "
" If I can."
" I asked you to make everything clear to me within
three days, but your words are so full of mystery that I do
not think I can bear the suspense."
" What do you wish ? "
" You intend to write to me ? "
"Yes."
" Let me have your letter to-morrow morning. Do not
put me to the pain of waiting longer."
" It shall be as you desire."
"Thank you, Ned. And I shall see you to morrow—not
in the morning, for I see that it will not be agreeable to
you; but in the evening."
302
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" I shall not come to you unless you send for me."
" You will come if I send for you ? "
"I am bound to do so," he said. "There is nothing
more to be said. Good-night."
" There is something more. Do you wish to make me
very unhappy ? "
" To see you happy would be a happiness to me, who
never hope to be so."
" How easy it is, then, for both of us ! During the whole
time you have been with me you have only once called me
Lina, and then, I think it came from your lips unaware.
Say now to me, * Good-night, dear Lina.' "
He covered his face with his hands, and turned from me.
Oh, Ned! dear Ned! In that convulsed movement you
betrayed yourself. I saw your heart, and it made mine
rejoice.
"Say it, Ned, I beg, I implore you ! Say it as you used
to do in the dear old times. I do not, I will not, share
your forebodings. All will be bright and happy for us—
believe me, Ned; believe me ! Do not sadden this happy
hour for me. Think of what I have suffered and say, ' Good-
night, dear Lina !' "
I took his hands from his face, and saw that it was
bathed in tears.
" Ned, dear Ned ! Say it from you heart."
" From the depths of my heart," he said, in a broken
voice, " I say, ' Good-night, dear Lina !' "
CHAPTER LVI.
ned's confession.
I retired to rest I gratified Rube's curiosity by
narrating the occurrences of the last three years. To
Nurse Elliot, on our way home, I had told much, but not
all, and it needed no exaggeration on my part to draw forth
the fullest measure of their sympathy. They interrupted
me as little as possible, but they could not entirely control
their impatience and indignation. Rube said it was one of
those cases which ought to be brought before the public;
but when I asked him whether he did not think I had had
trouble enough, he replied that he supposed, for my sake,
that " the guilty wretches" must be allowed to escape
NED'S C0NEESS10N.
803
their just punishment; otherwise, he declared, he was ready
to spend his last penny to expose them.
" All that I want now, Rube," I said, " is peace."
" And happiness," added Rube.
" Happiness is mine," was my rejoinder. " I do not think
there is, at the present moment, a happier woman in Eng-
land than I am."
He looked at me thoughtfully, then turned his face from
me.
"You do not know all. The clouds are not yet
cleared."
"There are no clouds but bright ones now in my life," I
said. " What there is yet for me to know I shall know to-
morrow, but it cannot make any change in my feelings,
whatever it may be."
" Miss Lina," said Rube, gravely, and would not be de-
terred by Nurse Elliot's warning glances, "as a friend I
would counsel you to be prepared."
"For what ?"
" For what you will hear to-morrow from Mr. Edward
Lorimer. If I had any positive information I would give
it to you beforehand, but what is in my mind springs from
my fears, and it would be wrong of me to distress you."
" Because, Rube, after all, you may be mistaken."
" I am not mistaken, Miss Lina."
" Well," I said, cheerfully, " I have waited so long that
I can wait patiently for a few brief hours to pass. I do not
share your fears. And if you are really right in your fore-
bodings it will not matter now that I have escaped for ever
from Aunt Parker and Mr. Bathgate."
"At all events, Miss Lina, you understand that we stand
by you through thick and thin."
" Yes, I understand that, Rube, and I am very grateful
to you."
" As to gratitude, Miss Lina, that is all nonsense, if you
will excuse me for saying so. What we have done is not
worth thinking about. If you are as cheerful this time
to-morrow night as you are now I don't ask for anything
more."
" You will find me so, Rube," I said, with a bright look.
" And now that you have teased Lina to your heart's
content," said Nurse Elliot, sharply, "you won't mind if
she wishes you good-night. After what she has gone
through, bed is the best place for her."
3C4
A YOUEG GIRL'S LIFE.
Of course I thought a great deal, when I was alone in
my bedroom, of what Rube had said, but it did not make
me despondent. Ned loved me. What misfortune could
counterbalance that great joy ?
At noon on the following day a messenger arrived, with
a letter for me, It was in Ned's writing, and I locked
myself in my room, and sat down to read it with a light
heart.
I will not give it here word for word ; I will not do Ned
that injustice, although in the eyes of some persons it would
be no disparagement to him; but there are many who
would misjudge him, and I will not help them to such a
conclusion. As briefly as I can I will set down what Ned
disclosed to me, and to make matters as clear as I intend
to make them it will be necessary for me to travel a great
many years back in the history of my guardian, my dear
Ned's father.
Before I was born, Mr. Bathgate was a clerk in the office
of Lorimer and Lorimer, hop merchants, Mincing Lane.
The entire responsibilities of the firm rested on Mr. Lori-
mer's shoulders. Despite hard times, the business flourished
fairly, and had it not been for an act of great generosity on
his part the misfortune into which he had fallen would have
been averted.
A friend, a man in whom he had thorough confidence,
and whom he had many times assisted, was in a sore strait
—a strait in which his good name and fame were imperilled.
It was incumbent upon him that he should suddenly raise
a large sum of money to save him and his family from utter
ruin. He had no friend but Mr. Lorimer to appeal to, and
his appeal was met in a generous and noble spirit. Mr.
Lorimer became surety for him for a sum of ten thousand
pounds, and, for a time, the man was saved.
But when the day arrived upon which the bills were to be
met the man was unable to fulfil his obligations. Once more
he had to appeal to Mr. Lorimer, who, failing the payment
of the bills by his friend, would have had to provide the
money himself, or be involved in his ruin and disgrace. The
bills were renewed, and when they again became due were
again renewed. This entailed great sacrifices on Mr.
Lorimer's part, but he bore them hopefully, never doubting
that eventually matters would straighten themselves. This
did not prove to be the case, and at a critical period, when
unexpected complications were creeping into the business of
NED'S CONFESSION.
Lorimer and Lorimer, Mr. Lorimer was called upon to meet
the obligations for which he had made himself responsible.
To repudiate them meant bankruptcy, and by great exertions
Mr. Lorimer succeeded in paying the money and saving the
credit of his firm. From that time the firm of Lorimer and
Lorimer commenced the downward descent which ended in
its final crash. Mr. Lorimer clung to hope ; his friend had
made solemn promises that he would on some future day re-
pay him, and he looked forward to it and depended upon it.
During these years Ned was growing, and the expenses of
his education were pressing heavily upon his loving father.
Mr. Lorimer kept his troubles to himself, and his name in
the City was respected. Ned was sent to college, and after-
wards went abroad. My eyes overflowed as I perused this
portion of Ned's confession. He believed his father to be
wealthy, but he did not seek to excuse himself on that
account. He was reckless and extravagant—not to the
extent to which he would fain make me believe, but sufficient
to add to his father's embarrassments. Before he went
abroad he left a pile of unpaid bills behind him, and his
creditors pressed his father for payment. Mr. Lorimer had
not the money to meet them, and dishonour stared him in
the face. There was but one alternative. He was custodian
of a sum of money more than sufficient to clear the debts ;
he knew he would not be called upon for years to refund
this sum, and by a careful calculation of the resources of his
business he saw his way to replace it in time. He persuaded
himself that not only his own honour and reputation, but
Ned's future and all the hopeful prospects of his career were
at stake, and in an unhappy moment he applied this money,
which did not belong to him, to clearing off the debts which
Ned had incurred. He thought that the secret was his, and
his alone. He was mistaken. Lynx eyes were on him, and
it was not long before he found himself completely in the
power and at the mercy of his cunning clerk, Mr. Bathgate.
The clerk threatened his master, and worked upon his
fears. It happened that Ned had always despised this crafty
man and looked down upon him. The means of revenge
were now in the clerk's hands, and he used his opportunity
to his own advantage. Personally he had nothing to gain
by exposing his employer, but immediate and certain profit
was to be obtained by forcing himself into partnership with
him. He achieved his purpose, and the firm of Lorimer and
Lorimer was changed into that of Lorimer and Bathgate.
20
306
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
Mr. Bathgate had obtained possession of papers the publica-
tion of which would have ruined his once employer. He
would not part with them,, and held them as a terror over
Mr. Lorimer's head, and so reduced him to subjection that
the elder partner became a mere cipher in the firm. These
two alone knew the secret of Mr. Lorimer's act of misap-
propriation. The world was in ignorance of it; Ned was
in ignorance of it. Mr. Lorimer feared one as much as the
other.
" I will expose you as a cheat and a thief," ;said Mr.
Bathgate. "You are in my power completely. Thwart
me, and I will bring shame and ruin upon you and your
son."
He became his new partner's slave and tool, and it was
by this means that Mr. Bathgate was named as my co-
guardian in my father's will.
Easy to guess the rest. To me, when I had got thus far
in Ned's confession, all was as clear as the noonday sun.
Mr. Bathgate obtained possession of my money and property,
and having used part of it for his own private purposes, con-
ceived the idea of making me his wife, so that he might be
the master of me and of what remained. He had given me
into the care of Aunt Parker in order that he might keep
his hold upon me, and, as I had always thought, it was he
and he alone wno had brought .all the misery upon me.
Then came a time when Mr. Bathgate, enraged at my refusal
of him, discovered that Ned loved me, and that, through
this love, he himself was threatened with destruction.
Although the suspicion of a wrong which involved the loss
of my patrimony was gradually looming upon Ned, he did
not know the extent of the power which Mr. Bathgate held
over his beloved father. Mr. Bathgate still retained the
criminating papers of his partner's misappropriation, and it
was during the period of what I believed to be my last few
weeks' residence at .P.estoration Hall that he launched his
last bolt. He offered Ned an alternative. If my lover gave
me up, his dear father's good name would be saved from
shame. He accepted the sacrifice, and wrote the letter which
1 received from him, and which almost broke my heart. But
he did not realize the whole; he did not know that my
fortune was included in the sacrifice, and that Mr. Bathgate
was contemplating flight with the spoil. It happened,
however, and I was a beggar.
At this point I laid down the confession, and paced the
I VISIT NEB IN HIS POOR HOME.
307
room. Was I crushed by this unexpected blow ? Did I
blame Ned or his father ? No. My heart was filled with
nothing but pity for them. Instead of being an heiress, I
was a penniless girl. Well, I could work. Life was mine,
youth was mine, the prospect of a happy future was mine.
The dark shadows of Mr. Bathgate and Aunt Parker had
faded from my life. I would have cheerfully relinquished a
hundred fortunes to be freed from them.
I sat dDwn again to conclude the perusal of Ned's con
fession. I give part of it in his own words :
"I only am to blame, and upon me must fall the punish-
ment. Had it not been for my criminal folly my father
would not have been led into error. What he did was done
for love—for love of which I was not worthy. To that
reckless time of my youth, when I had no thought of any-
thing beyond my own selfish pleasures, is to be ascribed, not
only my dear father's misfortunes, but yours. It is I who
have brought upon you all the wretchedness of your life, and
I can never make atonement for it. I do not ask you to
spare me, but I implore you, if possible, to spare my father.
I can find no words in excuse of myself, and if I could find
them I would not use them. For all the wrong done I hold
myself accountable, and I shall submit without appeal to the
consequences of my crime.
"Edward Lorimer."
CHAPTER LVII.
I visit ned in his poor home.
I went down-stairs with a light heart. Rube and Nurse
Elliot looked anxiously at me.
" Rube," I said, " what was the fear in your mind last
night when you bade me prepare for the worst ? You may
tell me now."
" I would rather it came from you, Miss Lina," he replied.
" I think it would be altogether fairer and better. Has Mr.
Edward told you everything ? "
"Yes, everything? "
" Well, Miss Lina ? "
"Well, Rube?"
" You appear so happy that you give me hopes that I am
mistaken. If I am, no one will be better pleased than I."
20*
303
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
I turned to Nurse Elliot,
"Nurse, when you first came to us at Oaklands—dear
old Oaklands—I was quite an important person, was I
not ? "
" Not more so to me than you are now, my dear."
" But I was an heiress then, Nurse."
" My dear, my dear ! " she cried, in a reproachful tone.
"I will not misjudge you, Nurse. I should be the most
ungrateful of beings if I wronged you by a thought. And
therefore, Nurse dear "
"Yes, Lina, and therefore?"
" I think, although I am now a poor woman, without a
penny in the world, that you will still love me a little."
" A little, my dear child, a little ? " she cried, holding out
her arms to me. " With my whole heart, Lina, with my
whole heart!"
I pressed her faithful form to me, and kissed her.
" And you, Rube ? "
" Miss Lina," he said, most seriously and earnestly, " I
hope you will not misjudge me. I am not so worldly a man
that I have not room in my heart for something better than
money, and I should take shame to myself if I thought
you believed I was devoted to you because you happened
to have so many thousand pounds, which, after all, if you
do not earn it yourself, is only accident."
" But a very fortunate accident, Rube."
" I don't deny it, Miss Lina. Will you excuse me if I
make a declaration ? "
"After all your goodness to me, I will excuse you
anything."
" I must pass that by, if you please. There has been no
goodness unless it came from you; and so far as the
declaration I have it in my mind to make is concerned,
there will be no goodness unless it comes from you."
" Go on, Rube."
" Miss Lina," said Rube, and there was that in his tone
which made me honour him as much as any man could ever
be honoured, " you said just now to my dear sister Deb
that you are without a penny in the world. Upon my word
and honour, as a man, that makes not the slightest differ-
ence to me. If I could put you out of the question—
which of course I can't do, because it would be altogether
so unreasonable—I should almost be inclined to say, so
much the better. Miss Lina, this house, this home, is yours.
1 VISIT NED IN HIS POOR IIOMR. CO'.i
With a full heart. As it always has been—as it always will
be. It is an honour and a pleasure to see you here; it
will be an honour and a pleasure to keep you here. You
are the mistress of it, and if you will only believe me, as
a true man, and if you will only say, ' Mr. Rube, I accept
you as my true and honest friend,' you will make me com-
pletely happy. If I wrote a book I could not say more.
There are occasions, Miss Lina, when a man can't exactly
express what is in him, but I hope I have made myself
understood."
I gave him my hand ; I did more. I put my lips to his
honest face, and kissed him.
" Rube, I accept you as my true and honest friend."
It was most unaccountable that Nurse Elliot should
burst out crying. It was most unaccountable that I should
burst out crying also. It was most unaccountable that
Rube should gasp as if he were about to burst out crying
too. But he turned from us, and there was silence for a
little while in that common room in the Borough.
"And now, Rube," I said, with the tears still in my eytT.}
"I want to make one thing very clear to you—and to you
too, dear Nurse. Ned is not to blame for what has
happened. And Ned's father is not to blame. Remember
that."
" I will," said Rube; and "I will," said Nurse Elliot.
"If I have been wronged," I continued, "there are but
two persons at whose door the fault can be laid—Mr.
Bathgate and Aunt Parker. Thank God, I have done
with them for ever. They can never more oppress me.
We will leave them to their punishment. They will not
trouble me; I will not trouble them. And I truly hope
and believe that there is greater happiness for me in the
future than could ever have fallen to my lot had I been
rich in fortune. But what am I saying ? I am rich—no
happy woman ever was richer. Nurse, I want you to come
out with me at once. I am going to see Mr. Lorimer."
What made Rube rub his hands, I wonder ? And what
made him cry after me, as Nurse and I walked out of the
shop, " Good-luck ! "
The house they lived in was small, and in a common
neighbourhood. I knocked at the door, and Ned opened it.
" You have come," he said.
"Yes," I said, " I have come. Did you not expect me ?
Nurse!"
810
A ■ YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
In pursuance of the plan we had arranged as we made
our way to the house, Nurse Elliot quickly left Ned and me
standing on the threshold.
" Will you not ask me in ?" I said.
He inclined his head, and held the door wide open. I
passed into the passage, and he closed the street door. I
noticed, as he walked through the narrow passage, and
preceded me to the room in which he intended to receive
me, that he carefully avoided touching me. I made no
remark and presently we were standing in a little room,
modestly furnished.
Is this your home ? " I asked.
" Yes," he replied. " Will you be seated ? "
I took the chair he offered me. How should I
commence ? My task was not so easy as I thought it was.
" I have read your letter," I said. " Is your father at
home ? "
"Yes," he replied.
" Can I see him ? "
"I should prefer not, but if you insist, it must be so.
My desire is to spare him pain."
" It would be painful for him to see me ? "
" Could it be otherwise ? "
"I will not say—just now. But I must see him before
I leave."
" If it is your wish—yes."
" It is really true that you are poor ? "
"Quite true. So far as money goes, I cannot make
reparation."
" How do you live ? "
" I have a situation."
" At some office ? "
"Yes."
" Why are you not there ? "
" I was waiting for a summons from you."
" Did you expect me here ? "
" I did not know what to expect."
"When you came to rescue me from my living grave
you had to leave your situation ? "
" I obtained leave of absence. If they had not given it
to me I should have taken it."
" And risked losing your situation ? "
"I had no choice."
" There was no necessity for you to ccine so far for me."
I VISIT NED IN HIS POOR HOME.
311
" There was an imperative necessity. It was the least I
could do."
" It was much to do; it meant life or death to me."
. There was a fire in the room, and I moved my chair
towards it.
" Are you cold ? " asked Ned.
" I feel chilly," I replied. " But I will soon make the
fire brighter. I must learn now to wait upon myself."
I took Ned's letter from my pocket, and tearing it slowly
into pieces put it into the fire.
" What are you burning ?" asked Ned, with some
suspicion of the truth.
"Your letter—the only writing of yours I hope ever to
part with willingly. It is my earnest wish to destroy all
sorrowful records of the past, and, if possible, to forget
them."
" You are acting unwisely."
"I am convinced, feeling as I feel, that I am acting
wisely, and for my own happiness. My thoughts of you
and your dear father shall not include any circumstance
that is not bright and sweet—and that letter, which now is
ashes, shall not blot the happy memories upon which I have
so often and so fondly lingered. There is nothing in my
past life that has brought so much pleasure to me as my
association with you and your father. I forbid you to
deprive me of these sweet memories. But, indeed, indeed,
it is not in your power. If, coming here to-day with a fixed
purpose in my mind, you force me to leave your house with
my dearest hope unfulfilled, I shall still have the happiness
of thinking of the past, and of thintcing of you ever with
tenderness and love."
He gazed at me in doubt; his pale face grew paler; his
lips trembled; his eyes glistened with tears.
"You have done me no wrong," I continued, "or, if you
persist in so believing, you have done me none that you
cannot repair. I know you better than you know yourself.
In the life of labour that is before you I am a poor prize for
you to win. This is a solemn moment for you and for me.
I cast aside all false modesty, knowing what there is at
stake, and I lay it upon you to answer me truthfully, and
without the evasion which proceeds from a false notion
of right and wrong. Promise to answer me truthfully
the questions—they will be few and simple—I shall put to
you."
312
A YOUNG GIRL S LIFE.
" I will answer you truthfully."
I paused a moment, and moved a step nearer to him.
"You loved me once, did you not ?"
" I loved you truly."
"And only me? Did your heart never wander fron
me ? "
" Never."
"And now? Do you love me now?"
" God pity and forgive me," he said, and he turned s<
that I should not see his face, "all unworthy as I am, I lovi
you now!"
" And I," I said, in as steady a voice as I could command
" love you with my entire heart !"
" No, no ! " he cried. "I will not listen to you—I dan
not!"
" You must. Say that in your mistaken judgment—
which I do not for a moment share—you believe that yoi
owe me reparation, and that you have the opportunity o
making it. Unless your professions are false you dare no
refuse. We are both poor, and are all the hearer to eacl
other because of that. Ned, dear Ned, with all my hear
and soul I honour you for the sacrifice you would make—
with all my heart and soul I love you for it! As from th<
depths of your heart last night you said, 4 Good-night, dea
Lina,' turn now to me, and say, ' Dear Lina, I will love yoi
ever, as I have ever loved you, faithfully and truly !' Is i
so much that I ask of you that you will refuse and send mi
from you, desolate and broken-hearted ? Ned !"
He could not withstand my appeal, but instead of clasp
ing me to his heart, he sank at my feet, and raised hi
trembling hands. I knelt by his side, and laid his hea(
upon my breast, and knew that the sunshine of his lov<
would brighten all my future days.
In a little while, when we were both calmer, he brough
his father to me. Mr. Lorimer's hair was snow white, an<
furrows of sorrow were in his face. For a long time hi
could hardly be made to believe that Ned and I had cas
our lots together, but I made him understand at last, an<
a sacred joy animated me as I recognized the duty and th<
labour of love which devolved upon me of lightening thi
years which yet remained to him on earth.
PEACE,
313
CHAPTER LVIII.
PEACE.
No more than twelve months have passed since that day of
happiness which crowned my life. I am a happy wife—
poor, but with good worldly prospects before me. Ned,
relieved from the weight which oppressed him, has worked
so well and earnestly that he has won the full confidence
of the firm which employs him. He is rising fast and
surely. Our little modest home, which is within half a
mile of Rube's shop in the Borough, bears evidence already
of the better times in store for him and me. The praises
he showers upon me as the most extraordinary and the
cleverest housewife in the world may not be quite deserved,
but they are very sweet to me. And, indeed, I do my
best, and having already mastered many difficult household
duties and become proficient in them, am still progressing.
I think in all these matters I should have been always a
great dunce had it not been for my dear Nurse. Not a day
passes that I do not see her, that she is not at my house, or
that I am not at hers ; and I am sure if I had come into
my fortune and were the mistress of a mansion instead of
an eight-roomed house, that we should never have enjoyed
such merry times as we have enjoyed, and shall, I hope, go
on enjoying. Rube declares that never were such supper-
parties as we have at least once in every week in my own
snug little sitting-ioom, or in the dear, cosy room behind
his shop. I quite believe him—and so does Ned, and so
does Mr. Lorimer, and so does Nurse Elliot, and so does
Sandy Whiskers, and so does Alonzo. We are all of one
mind upon that and many other points.
There is one point, however, upon which my dear Nurse
and I have a slight difference of opinion. She is shortly to
be married to Sandy Whiskers—the faithfullest of faithful
men !—and I tell her that when she has a separate home
of her own we shall not see so much of each other. She
will hardly listen to me when I approach the theme
314
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
"My dear child," she says—I think if she grows to a
hundred years, and I am alive then, that she will never call
me anything else but her dear child, and I would not have
it altered, for the endearment is inexpressibly sweet to me
—" my dear child," she says, " I shall see more of you
instead of less. We are looking out for a house quite
close to you, and I have given my foolish man fair warn-
ing that 1 will never be parted from you."
" But he will have to go into the country, sometimes,
Nurse," I say, " to fulfil his engagements."
" Then he will have to go alone," is her rejoinder. " Oh,
he knows my conditions, and has promised to abide by
them ; and if it keeps him altogether in London, where he
can do very well, and earn more money than ever we can
spend, why so much the better for all of us !"
Sandy Whiskers is a free man, and is working on his
own account. He is quite famous at certain music-halls,
and being " a draw," as he terms it, is in receipt of a large
salary. He is not changed in the least—good-humoured
and good hearted as ever—and pays me an immense amount
of respect. He and Rube are the best of friends, and
mention of Rube, the dear, good fellow, brings out what
Nurse Elliot says of him in connection with the coming
change in her affairs.
" And there's Rube," she says; " do you think for a
moment I would consent to go away from him, or be absent
from him for any length of time ? It's not to be thought
of for a moment, my dear child. I would break with
Sandy Whiskers at the church door if I had the slightest
reason for believing that he did not intend to let me have
my way after we are married. I have a good mind to have
it put down in black and white."
And nothing would surprise me less than to see a formal
document drawn up, with Sandy Whiskers' signature to it,
securing to Nurse Elliot the freedom she insists she will have
when she enters the bonds of matrimony.
Alonzo is immense. I can find no other word to describe
him. He is immense. The advance he has made—" strides"
he calls it—is most astonishing. He is really popular, and
if he could write twenty novels a year—I think he does
manage, on an average, four or five every twelve months—I
believe he could find a market for them. He writes still for
the cheaper papers,and his inventive faculties are wonderfully
fertile. Love—very hot; murders—very mysterious j suicides
PEACE.
315
—Very romantic; these are his stock themes, and he manages
them in a fashion;which must be entertaining to a large class
of readers. He has made, however, one failure—on the
stage. He managed to get a drama " accepted" at a Trans-
pontine theatre, in which the themes he deals in are very
popular, but he went too far even with that audience. There
was too much love in it, and so many murders and such a
number of suicides that they laughed the piece off the stage.
That did not prevent Alonzo from appearing on it—very
magificently got up, with flowers in his coat, and his hair ela-
borately curled—and remaining there, bowing and scraping,
in spite of the laughter with which he was received. Not
daunted by his failure, he is writing a much stronger drama,
with more love and murders and suicides in it than his first,
which he says no manager will be mad enough to refuse.
He says that the people require to be educated up to certain
styles of writing, and that he intends to educate them up to
his. I wish him every success, I am sure, but I am afraid
that he will never shine as a dramatic author. He is doing
well enough, however, and I have a suspicion that he is con-
templating matrimony, from the love verses which he occa-
sionally reads to me in confidence, dedicated to " Minnie,
dear Minnie, the Pearl of the Sea," or to " Minnie, sweet
Minnie, the Queen of my Soul."
Of Mr. Bathgate we have never heard. His shadow
moves in other lands, and he will never again darken my life.
I saw Aunt Parker once. It was about two months ago.
Mr. Lorimer, Ned, Nurse Elliot, and I were walking home
one night from the theatre, where we had enjoyed a pleasant
entertainment—of course from the pit seats. I heard quick
steps behind me; Ned, looking back, hurried me on, and I
was striving to keep up with him- as I laughed and begged
him to walk a little slower. The steps followed quicker
and faster behind, and a hand was laid upon my arm.
Ned shook the hand off, and we all turned and saw Aunt
Parker. She presented a most miserable appearance.
Her clothes were very poor, but her face was as spiteful
as ever.
" My dear Lina ! she whined. " My dear, dear Lina ! "
What do you want ? " asked Ned, sternly.
" I want her to pay me," said Aunt Parker. " I am poor
and she owes me money for the care I took of her."
"She owes you nothing," said Ned, keeping me away
from her, " that you would like her to repay."
319
A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE.
" Why do you step between me and my niece? " demanded
Aunt Parker.
"I am her husband," said Ned, "and her protector.
Miserable wretch "
" Ned! " I cried; but he still held me back.
"I give you strong warning," continued Ned, "and only
one. If you have any design of further prosecution in your
mind, desist from it—for, as sure as I live, if you force
yourself upon her I will have you punished. Go—and
never let us see your face again."
She looked at him and me, and slowly slunk away. I
have not seen her since, and hope never to do so again. '
How happy I am in my new life ! How happy I am with
so many good friends about me, and with a husband who
loves me ! I am truly grateful for the joy and peace which
reign in my little home.
THE END.
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