TWO MARRIAGES A NOVEL BY MISS MULOCK AUTHOR OF ^ "John Halifax, Gentleman," "Mistress and Maid," etc. NEW YORK STREET & SMITH, Publishers 238 William Street TWO MARRIAGES. BY MISS MULOCK. *• Hearken, son: ' I'll tell thee of two fathers." JOHN BOWERBANK'8 WIFE. CHAPTER I. ''Well, I am glad it has come off at last, for never was there a wedding so talked about," said Mrs. Smiles. " It hasn't come off yet," replied Mrs. Knowle, shak- ing her head mysteriously. " And, for my part, even though we sit here, in the very church, with the clerk arranging the cushions, and poor John Bowerbank — he looks nervous, doesn't he? even though he's an elderly man and a widower — walking up and down the aisle be- fore our very eyes — I say, Mrs. Smiles, I shall never be- lieve, till I see the ring on her finger, that they are really married. How strange it seems! Poor Emily Kendal— John Bowerbank's wife!" " Why do you say ' poor Emily Kendal,' 'poor John Bowerbank,' when it is such a suitable match— except in years, perhaps; but a man's age is of no consequence. And then Miss Kendal looks so much older than she really is, and is such a grave, sedate sort of person — grown old-maidish already. I'm sure, wlien I looked at her at their farewell dinner-party last week in Queen Ann Street — I could hardly believe it was only two years since the ball there, when she came of age. Such a splendid affair! Do you remember it?" " Indeed I do!" said, abruptly, the other lady, who had not been paying much attention to Mrs. Smiles' conver- sation. Her broad, honest, regular-featured Lancashire 4 TWO MARRIAGES. face — she had been one of the fair "Lancashire witches'* till she developed into coarseness of color and size — was fixed earnestly upon the church door, where John Bower- luink had just entered, and where his wife to be was ex- pected every moment to enter. But Mrs. Knowle care- fully hid herself — the good woman, who was usually not at all given to surreptitious proceedings — behind the cur- tains of the pew, which Avas in that gloomy old church, so noted for fashionable weddings — St. George's, Han- over Square. By the number and style of the guests, this was evidently a fashionable wedding, too; and Mrs. Smiles — a bright, dapper, shallow little Londoner — evi- dently longing to see more of the fine dresses, proposed that they should change their places, and get a little nearer to the altar. " No, I don't want, her to see me. She mightn't like it," said Mrs. Knowle. " Why not? — when your husband is a partner in John Bowerl)ank's firm, and they have always been such friends? I'm sure I fully expected you would have been asked to the wedding." ''So I was, but I declined to go. I couldn't, some- how. I was certain it would be very bad for her, poor thing!" added Mrs. Knowle to herself. But her little mystery, whatever it was, escaped Mrs. Smiles' penetration, for just then that lady's whole at- tention was engrossed by the primary object of this sight, gazed at by all assembled in church with the fervid eager- ness of women over weddings — the bride. John Bowerbank's wife — or to be made such in fifteen minutes — was a little lady, fiagile and white, whom you could hardly distinguish clearly under her mass of snowy silk, her clouds of lace, and her tremulous wreath of orange-blossoms. " Siie is shaking a good deal, poor lamb!" said Mrs. Knowle, half in soliloquy. *' And liow tightly she holds her father's arm!" ** Mr. Kendal has been a good father, people say; though he won't stand tliwarting— he always will have his own way. Porha])s she's sorry to leave him, being the only (!hild." " Hum!" again soliloquized Mrs. Knowle. "HushI the service is beginning." TWO MARRIAGES. 5 It was soon begun, soon endecl, the solemn words which made Emily Kendal John Bowerbank's wife. She rose np from her knees, and he rose up too — that graro, gray-haired, commonphxce, and yet not ill-looking bride- groom, tiiirty years at least her senior. No longer nerv- ous now, he gave her his arm and led her away to the vestry, through the open door of which the two ladies observed him stop, formally and in a business-like way — he was a thorough man of business — to lift her veil and give her the first conjugal kiss. " Well, it's all over, but I never thought I should see this day," said Mrs. Knowle, her broad, honest breast re- lieving itself of much pent-up feeling with a great sigh. *'Poor dear girl! poor little Emily!" " Why will you call her ' poor'?" persisted Mrs. Smiles. '* I'm sure I should be delighted to see any one of my girls make so good a marriage; and to such a thoroughly re- spectable husband, •' John Bowerbank & Co., Merchants, Liverpool.' Why, their name is as good as the bank; as you ought to know, who have been in the firm so many years. And as for the gentleman himself, though I never saw him before to-day, he seems really quite the gentleman; and ], for one, would far rather give a daughter to an elderly man, even a widower, of good means and unim- peachable character, than to any harum-scarum young fellow, who would soon make ducks and drakes of her money, and Miss Kendal has a great deal of money, I understand." " Yes — more's the pity. Fifty thousand i^ounds." "Was it so much?" said Mrs. Smiles, in great awe. " Yes; for she said to me one day she wished she could chauge it into fifty thousand pence." " She must have been out of her senses." " Perhaps she was, poor dear, for the time. But now she has apparently got into tb.em again, and made a pru- dent marriage — an admirably prudent marriage. But, oh, my dear, when I married Edward Knowle, and he was a clerk and I was a milliner, and we had but two hundred a year between us, Ve Avere happy people — hap- pier than these! For wo loved one another, and we mar- ried for lore. And there was not a single ' cause or impediment' in the sight of God or man Avhy we should 6 TWO MARRIAGES. not marry. Wliicli — God forgive her — is more than I can say of John Bowerbank's wife." Mrs. Smiles looked no shocked, so frightened, that too candid Mrs, Knowle could almost Lave cut her tongue out for the foolish speech she had made. She knew that Mrs. Smiles was a terrible gossip; but she also knew that a dim sense of duty and pride, which exists in many great talkers, made her, however unscrupulous over a secret which she had ferreted out or guessed at, if honestly trusted, by no means untrustworthy. With a sudden decision — for the position was critical enough — the good Liverpool lady turned to her London friend — who was not a bad woman in her way — and said earnestly: "I'm sorry I ever let a word drop, Mrs. Smiles, for it was a very painful business — though it is all over now. I'll tell it you, and depend upon your never telling it again, though it was nothing discreditable, my dear, 1 do assure you. Indeed, as regards character, not a word could ever be breathed against Emily Kendal, or her father eitlier. They bear a perfectly unblemished name. And perhaps what happened was nothing more than hap- pens to almost every girl in her teens — they fall in love and out of love a dozen times before they marry — but I never thought Emily was that sort of girl either." " Aud was she in love? or engaged? Do tell me. Who was it? Anybody I know?" said Mrs. Smiles, eagerly. Mrs. Knowle wished herself at the bottom of the sea before she had let her feelings carry her away into mak- ing such a cruel mistake, such a fatal admission; but still the only safe way to remedy it Avas to tell the whole truth, and then trust to her friend's sense of honor. After all, it was not a A'^ery terrible truth. As she had well said, the thing happens dozen of times to dozens of girls. " \'\\ tell you the whole story, Mrs. Smiles, if you will promise not to speak -of it. Not that it was anything bad; poor dears! they were so young, it was such a nat- ural thing for them to fall in love; but it caused us — my husband and me — a great deal of trouble at the time, for it ha]ipened in our house." "This love affair?" " Yes, a real love affair — not a bit like poor John Bowerbank's sober courtship, but au old-fashioned love affair; lieart-warm — so warm that Edward said it puthiip J TWO MARRIAGES. 7 in mind of our own young days. And the people were " " 1 can guess, for I was with you two days of the time of Emily KendaFs visit, and I think I can see as far into a millstone as most people. It was young Stenhouse?" Mrs. Knowle nodded, with a sad look in her kindly eyes. "Just so! Poor fellow, I have scarcely spoken his name — even to my husband — ever sinee he sailed to India, a year and a half ago. We were so sorry to lose him. He was a clerk in our firm, you know — entered the office as a boy of fifteen — and that was how he came so much to our liouse while she was visiting us. And he was a fine young fellow, quite the gentleman; and she was a lass iu her teens, and a bonny lass she was, too, then — so of course they fell in love with one another — and, mercy me! how could I help it? He behaved very honorably, poor fellow! came and told ~me at once, as soon as ever he had proposed to her — that is, if be overdid formally pro- pose. I rather think not, but that they found each otlier's feelings by the merest accident. For I remem- ber he said to me, in such a burst of passion as I never saw yet in mortal man, ' I've been an ass, and some folk might call me a knave — for she has fifty thousand pounds, and I haven't a halfpenny!' Poor lad! poor lad!" '• And what did you do?" ''What could I do — shut the stable-door when the steed was stolen? Why, my dear woman, I told you — the poor things loved one another." An argument which did not seem to weigh very much with Mrs. Smiles. She drew herself up with dignity. " A most unfortunate and ill-advised attachment. I, as a mother of a family of daughters, must certainly say " " What would you say?" " That I would consider it my duty to prevent it." ''How could I prevent it?" exclaimed Mrs. Knowle, pathetically, as if the troubles her warm heart had un- dergone at that time were bitter even in remembrance. "Here were two nice young people — one nineteen, the other five-and-twenty, meeting every day — liking one an- other's company, finding out continually how well they suited and how dearly they enjoyed being together. Iu truth, the very sight of them walking under the lilac- 8 T^VO MAARIA&ES. trees, or sitting outside the drawing-room window with a heap of books between them, talking, and reading, and laughing to themselves in their innocent, childish way, used to do my heart good. Many a time I thought, if God had been pleased to give Edward and me sucli a daughter, or if our little Edward, that's lying waiting for liis mother, in Hale churchyard — well, that's nonsense!" said the good woman, with a sudden pause and choking of the voice: " all I mean is, that in our childless house those young people were very pleasant company; and 1 tised often to think if either of them was my own, oh, "wouldn't I do a deal to make them both happy! But it wasn't to be — it wasn't to be. And now she has gone and married John Bowerbank. "Not," continued the lady, after a pause, " not tliat I have a word to say against John Bowerbank. He is Mr. Kendal's friend, and my husband's friend; the three are all about the same age, too. He is a very good man; but he isn't John Stenhouse. And, oh, me! when I call to mind how fond John Stenhouse Avas of Emily Kendal, and how fond poor Emily was of him — of all the misery they went througli together — of the nights I sat by her bedside till she sobbed herself to sleep — and of tlie days when young Stenliousewent to and fro between our house and the counting-house, with his face as white as death, and liis lips fiercely set, and a look of stony despair in his eyes. Oh! my dear, I think I must have been dream- ing when I saw the wedding this morning. How could Blie do it?" ** Did she do it— what did she do?" '* Well, not much, after all, I suppose," said Mrs. Knowle, Avith a sigh. "Edward and I vexed ourselves very much about it at the time; and yet such things occur every day, and people think nothing about them. We did, though. We couldn't see any reason on earth why Mr. Kendal should have blamed us so severely for 'allowing' such a thing to happen. Allowing? As if wo could possibly have prevented it! As if, believing firmly that a real good marriage with a good"Tnan is the best thing that can befall any young womftn, it would ever have occurred to us to try to prevent it! But Mr. Kendal thought differently. When John Stenhouse wrote to him for his consent, and my Edward inolosed TWO MARRIAGES. 9 it in tlie very civilest, friendliest letter, detailing all Mr. Stenliouse's circumstances and our high respect for him, and his being a fit liusband for any girl, except in not having money, which, as Miss Kendal had plenty, didn't signify — well, I say, when the old man came down upon us like a thunderbolt, and dismissed John from tho house, and insisted on carrying Emily away, only she took to her bed with a nervous fever and couldn't be moved, I own I was surprised. My dear, the poet says * Fathers have flinty hearts;' but it's my belief they have no jiearts at all. •' TIow that old fellow could have looked at that poor little girl of his — his daughter, wasted to a skeleton — lying on her bed with her pretty eyes (that were the image of hef mother's when Mr. Kendal married her) fixed on the ceiling witli such a hopeless look, and her pretty mouth, that never gave her father a sharp word back, but only whispered to me sometimes, ' Please don't let him be unkind to John' — how he could do it, and call himself a CMiristiau, and go to church every Sunday, / don't understand! You must recollect,^' continued Mrs. Knowle, ''that John Steuhouse was not a bad fel- low, neither low-born nor ill-educated — that not a living soul had ever breathed a syllable against his character. There was no earthly reason for refusing him except that he was a clerk in a merchant's office and she was a bar- rister's daughter; he had nothing, and she had fifty thou- sand pounds. Tliat was the bottom of it, I know — the cursed, cursed money, as my husband said. Mr. Kendal wanted her to make what he called a suitable marriage — that is, where everything was right and proper — money equal, position equal — all done according to rule — gentle- man coming a courting for a month or two — lady smil- ingly receiving polite attentions — then gentleman going first to ask papa's consent, and, tliat given, making a formal offer, and being accepted and married immedi- ately in grand style, with six bridemaids, and twenty carriages with white horses, just as we had to-day. Oh, how could she do it? But perhaps she couldn't help it. I saw from the first she was a weak, gentle creature. Why, she used to go into hysterics and fainting fits when I would have faced that old tyrant with a heart as hard as his own. Bless my life! I would have fought 10 TWO 3IARRIAGES. through a regiment of soldiers for the sake of my Ed- ward; but she — the frail, trembliug lamb — poor thing- poor thing!" And the large, loud Lancashire woman, with the worn-, anly heart, dropped a tear or two, which she smothered in her lace pocket-handkerchief, and turned out of the quiet street in Mayfair, where the two ladies were talk- ing and walking, into one that led toward Queen Anne Street. " For," said she, " I must get a peep at her when she goes away. I was very fond of poor Emil}' Kendal." '' But tell me the rest of her story," pleaded Mrs. Smiles. *' Indeed, I will never repeat it. And whom should I re- peat it to? for I scarcely know anybody in her circle, and she is now removing quite out of it. I suppose she will settle permanently in Liverpool?" " Yes; John Bowerbank has one of the handsomest houses in all Birkenhead. His long widowhood alone hin- dered his taking his place at the very top of our Liver- pool society. Now he will do it — for he is a social maa and likes show — quite a different person from poor John Stenhouse, who would have spent evening after evening by his own fireside with his books or his piano-playing — • he was the finest musician I ever knew, and built a cham- ber organ with his very own hands. I have it still, for he left it to me Avhen he went abroad. '^ " Why did he go abroad?" " I'll tell you — at least so far as I know, for he was very communicative up to a certain point, and then he ceased, and held his tongue entirely, and I couldn't ' pump ' him, you know. Besides, if I came within a mile of the sub- ^'ect, the look of his face frightened me. lie was terribly m love with Emily Kendal." ** It's a bad thing to be terribly in love, and not at all conducive to the comfort of society," observed Mrs. Smiles, sontentiously; but Mrs. Knowle was too full of her own roTncmbrances to reply. " Oil, what a day that was, when, after John Sten- house's letter, down came Mr. Kendal to Liverpool after liis daughter. Oh, the daily storms we lived in — morn- ing, noon, jiiul night — the interviews in our dining-room, and in the jioor little thing's bedroom, for she took to her bed the very first day. How we argued, and rea- TWO MARRIAGES. 11 soned, and comforted, and advised — I, and iny good man — for wo felt to those two young people just as if they were our own ciiildren; and we wondered, with an amazement tliat childless people often feel when they see how other people throw away their blessings, what could liave ])ossessed the old father to see his only child almost dying before him, and go on killing her — for her own good, he said; but, as everybody else said, just for his own pride and vexation at thwarted authority. Money, too — money was at the root of it all. If John Stenhouse had been in the position of John Bowerbank, Mr. Ken- dal would have gone down on his knees and worshiped him — I know he would. As it was, he just kicked him out of "doors." '' That was rather ungentlemanly." *' I don't mean literally; Mr. Kendal is never that. Besides he had his o>v^n credit to keep up; he had always borne the character of being the best of fathers — as per- haps he had been till this happened. We are all of us very perfect creatures so long as we are not tried. Gra- cious me, when I looked to-day at that stately, handsome old gentleman, avIio, when he was asked, ' Who giveth this woman to be married to this man, looked so smiling and benignant, and remember what I have seen him look like! It's a queer world — a very queer world, my dear." Mrs. Smiles agreed; she generally agreed in everything ■with everybody at the time. '' Well, the poor young fellow was dismissed. Of course there was no help for it; the girl being under age, the father had the law in his own hands. Nothing short of an elopement, which no honorable mau like John Stenhouse would ever have dreamed of, could have saved poor Emily. And then her money — ' her detestable money,' as her lover called it more than once. Every bit of honest pride in him was galled and stung to the quick. 'Tier father thinks — all the world will think — that I wanted her for her money,' he used to say; and some- times this feeling was so strong in hinl that I fancied he was half inclined to draw back and give her up. But I told him not to be such a coward, for it was cowardice; fear of the wicked tongues and not of the good ones. Nobody who saw sweet Emily Kendal and honest John 13 TWO MARRIAGES. Stenliouse would huve doubted that they were marrying for love — real love. But, my dear, I'm growing terribly long-winded, and it's nearly two o'clock; and they were to leave at half-past, the bridegroom and the bride. Oh dear me! and once we planned her traveling dress that she was to go away in with poor dear John!" Here Mrs. Knowle became unintelligible, and Mrs. Smiles fidgeted a little; for, despite her interest in the love-tale, she was beginning to war.t her lunch. " Well, the rest of the story lies in a nutshell, for I have never got to the bottom of the matter yet, and I never shall now. John and Emily parted in the old father's presence — he insisted upon that — and my pres- ence, too, for Emily begge4 I would stay. And at the last, oh! how she clung round the young man's neck, and promised him faithfully that she would marry him, and no one but him. And he promised her as solemnly — and John Stenhouse is a man who never breaks his word — that if he were alive on the day she came of age, he would claim her again, and marry her in spite of man or devil. He s^id that, those very words, for he seemed half mad- dened by the cruelty shown to her — the tender, delicate girl, made to be loved ami taken care of. And then he kissed her, oh! how he kissed her! It makes me cry to think of it even now." ''Poor fellow! But, for all that, it would have been a very imprudent marriage," said Mrs. Smiles, coldly. " Imprudent or not, it never came about, you see, though what happened I have never found out. Most certainly John Stenhouse formed no other attachment. lie worked hard in the office, and out of office hours led a most solitary life. He did not even ask about Emily Kendel; though sometimes when, intentionall}^ I used to mention her, he listened as if ho was drinking in every word. And I took care that during the two years he should hoar about her all I heard myself. This was not a great deal, for her father kept her separated from me as mncli as he could, which was human nature, I sup- pose. But I had news of her sometimes, and id ways told them to .John. Tiio only thing I did not tell liim was a rumor which reached mo (so ridiculous it seemed tiien, that my husband and 1 only laughed at it) of her intended marriage to John Bowerbank." TWO MARRIAGES. 18 '* I remember it was I who told yon, and how indig- ii«nt 3'ou looked. But you see I was riglit, after all/' said Mrs. Smiles, not without a little air of self-gatisfac- tion. ''Well, no matter now. John never named Emily's name, nor do I know if he ever heard the i eport or not; but certainly just about that time he went up to London. Whether it was to claim Emily, wliether he asked her again and she refused him, or whether Jie lieard the re- port about her and John Bowerbank, and never did come forward and ask her, goodness only knows! All I know is, that within two months of Emily's coming of age, without my ever seeing him — for I Avas laid down with that bad fever, you know, and Edward was too miserable about me to care much for anybody outside — John Sten- house had quitted Liverpool and sailed for India. And there he is now, for aught I know. He does not forget us, poor fellow; he writes to us at Christmas always, and this year he sent an Indian shawl to reach me on my birthday. But he never names Emily, and he never gave the slightest explanation about anything." *'■ Perhaps," suggested Mrs. Snrrles, "there was noth- ing to explain. The young lady had changed her mind, that was all. And no wonder, A marriage with the head of the firm instead of oTie of the junior clerks is so very much more suitable. But look! is not that the car- riage driving up? Mr. Bowerbank's, I presume. Oh, dear! if I could but see one of my daughters driving away in her own carriage!" Mrs. Knowle did not answer. She stood half hidden behind tlie groups of idle gazers which always gather to stare at a bride. There was a mingled expression in her frank, rosy face, half pity, half tenderness, yet flitting ever and anon across it a shadow of something else, a something not unlike contempt. Coarse-looking, uncul- tured woman as she was, she possessed that which makes at once woman's utmost softness and utmost strength, a loving heart and a clear conviction — though she was not clever enough to put it into thoughts, still less into words — of tl\e divineness of lo e, love which, when mut- ual, gives and exacts nothing less tlian the entire soul of man and woman, and enforces as an absolute duty the truth of which marriage is but the outward sign, seal. 14 TWO MARRIAGES. and ratification: "What God hath joined together let not man put asunder." "I wonder what made her marr}'^ him!" murmured the good matron of thirty years' standing. " My pa- tience! if I had given up Edward Knowle, what would he have thought of me? What will John Stenhouse think of her?" " Nothing at all, probably. He may be married by this time himself:" "I don't believe it, Fll never believe it. Men may be bad enough, but they're not so bad as women. They'll ■not often sell themselves, soul and body, out of mei*e cowardice, or break a solemn plighted promise from sheer fear." " But her father! She was bound to obey her father." "No, she wasn't," replied Mrs. Knowle, sternly and strongly. " My dear, you're not bound to obey any mau living, not even your own husband, who is a mighty deal closer to you than your father, when he tells you to do a wrong thing. If Edward Knowle said tome, 'Emma, I'm Imugry, I want you to chop yourself up into mince- meat for me' — well, perhaps I might do it, if he really wanted it, and it harmed no one but myself. But if he said, ' Emma, I'm hungry, and I want you to go and steal that leg of mutton,' I should say, 'No, sir. God's lawia a higher law than obedience to you. Steal your legs of mutton for yourself.' But stop — they've opened the hall door— she's coming." She came — the little, pale bride. Not even the excite-' ment of the bridal gayeties, the breakfast, the cham- pagne, and the speeches, could make her anything but pale. Siie leant on the arm of her father, who was an extremely handsome, gentlemanly, well-dressed, and low- voiced personage. He put her into the carriage with the utmost paternal care, with a kiss and a benedic- tion, both of which she received passively. Slie seemed altogether a passive, frail, gentle creature, such a oue as a brave, strong man would take and shelter in his arms, and love all the dearer for her very helpless- ness. And John Bovverbank, though elderly, almost old, did not look like a weak mau, or an untonder man. Far stronger, far tenderer — the two qualities usually TWO MARRIAGES. 15 go together — tliaii the bride's handsome and elegant fatlier. "Poor thing!" muttered Mrs. Knowle to herself. " Well, in one sense, ifs an escape, lie's an honest man, John Bowerbank. Perhaps she may be happy — at least, less unhappy than she looks now. God bless her!'* And with that cordial blessing, unheard, and a few kindly tears, unseen by her for whom they were shed, for in tiuth the bride did not seem much to hear and see anytlying, the carriage drove away. Thus terminated the principal scene, and thus vanished the principal act- ors in that grand show wedding, which had been quite Batisfactory and successful in all its elements, with the exception of one trifling omission, not unfrequently oc- curring in similar ceremonies — Love. CHAPTER II. Before telling the simple sad story — it does not pre- tend to be anything but a sad story — of John Bower- bank's wife, I should like to say a word for John Bower- bank. The most obvious description of him, and almost uni- versal criticism upon him, was the common phrase, "He was a thorough man of business;" a character which, out of business circles, it is a little the fashion to decry, or, at least, to mention with a condescending apology. Hard to say why, since any acute reasoner may perceive tliat it takes some of the very finest qualities of real manhood to make a "thorough man of business." A man exact, persevering, shrewd, enterprising, with a strong percep- tion of his own rights, and an equally fair judgment; and honest admission of the rights of his neighbor; who, from conscience, common sense, and prudence, takes core ever to do to others as he would be done by; who has firmness enough to strike the clear balance between justice and generosity; who is honest before he is benevo- lent, and righteous before he is compassionate; who will defraud no man, nor, if he can help it, suffer any man to defraud him; wlio is careful in order to be liberal, and accurate that he may compel accuracy in those about him; who, though annoyed by the waste or misappropri- ation of a pound, would not grudge thousands, spent in 16 nVO MARRIAGES. a liiwful, wise, and creditable way — a man of whom his enemies may say, sarcastically, that he is a "near" man, a " sharp" man, a man who ''can push his way in the world;" yet half the world's work — and good work, too — is done by him, and the like of him — done far more successfully, far more nobly, than by your great geni- uses, who aim at everything and effect little or nothing — your grand incompletenesses, who only sadden one by the hopelessness of their failures. Better than to be a poet, whose ignoble life lags haltingly behind his noble poetry; a statesman, who tries to mend the world, and forgets that the first tiling to be mended is himself; or a philanthropist, who loves all mankind, but neglects his own family — better far than all these, in tiie long run, is the thorough man of business, the secret of whose career is the one simple maxim, " Anything worth doing at all is worth doing well." Whatever else people might say of John Bowerbank — and they had said much, both bad and good, during his life of nearly sixty years — they always said of him this — that he had never shuffled out of an undertaking nor broken a promise; never begged, borrowed, nor stolen — cheating is stealing — one shilling from any man; and though his aims might not be lofty, and his daily life far removed from the heroic, still he was a good, honest man, and (as I repeat, with exceeding respect for the epithet) a thorough man of business. But there was nothing the least interesting about him. His figure was short and stumpy, and his gray hair bris- tled funnily round his smooth, bald head. He could not, by any force of imagination, be turned into a romantio personage. That his life had had its romance was not improbable; few lives are without. It might have been — who knows? — connected with a certain grave {which Mrs. Knowle once found, wiien visiting her own little grave in Hale churchyard, and ever after looked Kindlier on the man for the sake of it) which bore the inscriptioa "Jane, wife of Mr. John Bowerbank" (he was not es- quire then), "who died iu childbirth, was here interred with her infant son " nearly forty years ago. But so (completely forgotten had been this episode in his life, that most ])eople thought John Bowerbank aa old bachelor; and when he grew in years and honors, so rn^O MARRIAGES. 17 much 80 that it was rumored he had declitied being made Sir John Boworbauk solely because knighthood was a small thing, and baronetcy to a man without heirs, a blank sort of dignity, nobody suspected he would marry; nor, when he did marry, was he suspected of marrying in any but a business-like way — to secure a pleasant mistress for his splendid house, a cheerful companion for his declining years. And, let the truth be owned, he did marry only for this. Pie was not* one bit in love. The solitary passion of his life had blazed up and burnt itself out, or rather been extinguished by the hand of fate, and it was too late to light up any other. He did not marry Emily Kendal for love, nor — which, perhaps, was the secret of iier finally consenting to marry him — had he made any foolish pretense of doing so. lie respected her character, he liked her well, in a tender, fatherly sort of way, but "Jane, wife of Mr. John Bow- erbank," now sleeping in her peticeful grave, need not have iiad the slightest jealousy over — nay, would hardly have recognized the middle-aged gentleman who was the *' happy bridegroom" that sunshiny morning in St. George's, Hanover Square. Perhaps this was a good thing for Emily. In her hus- band's uuexacting and undemonstrative regard, more pa- ternal than lover-like, she found the rest which was the only thing for which she craved; and in h>s steady, se- date, persistent character, which aimed at nothing higher than it accomplished, and sought from her no more than she was able to give, she found a little of the comfort which she once thought was hopeless to her in this world. She, who had begun life with a girl's dreams of perfec- tion, and proved them all fal.-e; who, in her weakness — weaker than most women's — had leaned on one stay after another, and found them all pierce her like broken reeds, experienced in her calm, cold marriage with this kind, good, practical man, a certain peace, which, after all tlie tempests of her youth, was not without its soothing charm. Also, to one of her weak, hesitating nature, the n)ere sense of her fate being irrevocably settled — of leaning on somel)ody, and having somebody on wliom she was bound to lean — of passing out of the flowery fields and dark preci})ices of her troubled life into the smooth, hard, iron tramway of duty, conveyed a feeling of relief. 18 TWO MARRIAGES, For the first three months of her marriage everybody Baid how well Mrs. John Bowerbank wus looking — better than anybody ever expected to see Emily Kendal look in this world, for most people had set her down as the doomed inheritor of her mother's disease — consumption, decline, atrophy — whatever name be given to the outward tokens of an inward grief, which kills the spring of youth, and makes life a weariness, and the grave the only rest. It cannot be said that marriage caused any great change in John Bowerbank — he was too old for that. But he lost some of his crotchety, old bachelor ways; moved with a certain air of contentment and pride about his hand- some house, and was carefully mindful of his delicate and sweet-looking young wife, whom he took to state dinner-parties, and introduced among the blooming, florid, and a little too conspicuously dressed Liverpool ladies, where she looked not unlike a lily of the valley in the midst of a bed of tulips and ranunculuses. So they lived their life, these two. Not a domestic life by any means; Mr. Bowerbank had never been used to that, nor Mrs. Bowerbank neither. She had dreamed of it once — of the honor and happiness of being a poor man's wife; of mending his shirts and stockings; of look- ing after his dinners and making the best of everything; counting no economies mean that were to lighten the toil of the bread-winner; no labors hard that were to add to his comfort, toward whom love made even the humblest service the most natural thing in the world. But this was not Emily's lot. She was a rich woman, married to a rich man; nothing was expected of her but elegant idleness. Once this might Jiave been to her weari- ness intolerable; but she had long been passive and lan- guid, glad to do nothing, and to bo just whatever she fancied, since nobody ever insisted upon her being any- thing — a life that some would have called happy, and es- pecially in its outside aspect, have envied exceedingly. " She's an old man's darling," said one of the young Liverpool ladies, commenting on Mrs. Bowerbank to her neighbor and occasional, though not very intimate visitor, Mrs. Knowle. "It's better, anyhow, than being * a young man's slave.'" " I'm not sure of that," half-grimly, half-comically replied the other. "I hope, my dear, you'll be i)retty TWO MARRIAGKS. 19 much of a slave to your husband (as I am this day to Ed- ward Knowk'), or you'd best not inarry at all." But 8uch love-servitude was not Emily's lot. She never trotted after John Bowcrbank with his big boots of a morning, or brushed his coat, or found him his gloves; she never ran to open the door of evenings, or settled his cushions for his after-dinner sleep. They had servants to do all that, so why should she? \n truth, it never oc- cui'red to her to do it. She dressed herself carefully and sat at the head of her husband's table; she drove in his carriage about the coun- try, solitary, peaceful, meditative drives; or she paid a few courtesy calls after the entertainments to which, ar- rayed in the most perfect of costumes, he seemed pleased to take her. He never was cross with her; never asked her if she was happy; tried doubtless in his own way to make her so, for he was a kindly-natured man; but he was not observant, nor sensitive, nor over sympathetic. Besides, he was old. and all his youth, if he ever had any, had been buried long ago in Hale churchyard. Mrs. Knowle told — not at the time, but afterward — how, one Christmas Day, which was one of the rare holi- days at the Exchange — and Mr. Bowerbank was a man who never took a holiday illegally — she saw him crossing the long, frosted grass of this said churchyard alone, though he had not been married many months, to stand by that grave, of Avhich the mossy headstone still re- mained, but the mound had long grown level with the turf. If his eyes could liave peered below, he would have found nothing of wife or child but a little handful of bones. Another wife now sat at his splendid, not humble, hearth; possibly another child might Yes, this was what they said of him, the ill-natured portion of his friends; how, since the offer of the baro- netcy, a certain dawning pride of race, the truly English wMsh to found a family, had come into the head of grave John Bowerbank; that accordingly he had, in his grave and practical way, conceived the idea, however late in life, of marrying, and had accordingly looked round on all his eligible young lady acquaintances, until, in his practical eye, he found one who, for iier own sweet se- dateness, he thought would be a suitable mate for an elderly man; and accordingly, without much inquiry aa so TWO MARRIAGES. to her feelings, and having, indeed, arranged the whole matter in the most business-like fashion with his old ac- quaintance her father, he married Emily Kendal. But when, after a year — the baronetcy being again of- fered and accepted — there appeared no heir to these honors, undoubtedly Sir Julin Avas A^ery mucli disap- pointed. Of course, he did not show it; he was too good a man for that; but the placid mien became colder and colder; and though they were not unhappy — it takes a certain amount of hope even to create disappointment — still day by day the husband and wife went more their own ways; saw less and less of one another, as is quite easy in the daily life of wealthy jjcople, who have, or think they have, so many duiies owed to tlieir position and to societ3^ And tliough Emily still smiled — her soft, languid, wistful smile — and nobody ever said an un- kind word to her, and she, dear soul! had never said an unkind word to anybody in her life, still her cheek grew paler and paler, her eyes larger and larger, with a sort of far-away look, as if gazing forward into a not distant heaven for something on earth never found, something lost or incomplete, something without which, though a man should give the whole substance of his house for, it would be utterly in vain. M irriage must be heaven or hell. Not at first, perhaps, for time softens and mends all things; but after time has had its fair license, and failed; and then comes the dead blank, the hopeless endurance, even if sharper pangs do not intervene; the feeling that the last chance in life has been taken, the last die thrown, and lost. Piobably John Bowerbank did not feel thus— his feel- ings were never remarkably Keen; and ho had his busi- ness, his days occupied on 'Change, and his evenings devoted, s(!veral times a week, to the long, splendid, intensely dull, and entirely respectable Liverpool dinner- parties. But his wife, left all day at home, with no duties to fill up the idle, aimless, weary houis, with no children of her own, and too listless and inactive to a(lo})t the substitute of other childless matrons — Mrs. Knowle, for instance — and take everybody else's chil- dren who needed it under her motherly wing — to such as poor Emily, a nuirriage like hers most resembles being slowly frozen alive in tiio lake of gilded torment, T^VO MARRIAGES. 31 which forms tlio horror of one of the circles of Dante's Hell. But nobody noticed it, nobody knew it. Iler father, engaged in the same diniug-out existence in London that her husband, in a lesser and more harmless degree, en- joyed in Liverpool, never visited her, seldom wrote to her. When he did, his letters breathed the most enviable self-satisfaction that he had done the very best for her; that she was perfectly happy; and it was he, her affec- tionate father, who had secured, after his own pattern, which, of course, was infallible, her conjugual felicity. And all the world, his world especially, went on as usual, and the people who had most discussed the mar- riage, p7'0 and con, till the heat of wordy war stretched over a wide area between its two points of Liverpool and London; even , these subsided, as all people so soon sub- side after every marriage, into leaving the tv/o concerned to bear their own cross or enjoy their own content. For, after all. it is their own business, and nobody else's, which it was from the very first, if their affectioTiate friends could only have believed so. CHAPTER IIL The two partners and their wives sat at what was in-- tentionally made a small family dinner of four only, for the discussion of some accidental business of importance which concerned the firm of John Bowerbank & Co. This, however, was deferred until the ladies should retire, though the two Liverpool merchants could not quite for- bear, even through game and sweets, to let their conver- sation flow into its accustomed channel — ships and ship- ping, cargoes and consignments, cotton '' looking up," and indigo "pretty firm;"' that mysterious phraseology which sounds so odd outside the. commercial circle. Such and such fragments of their lords' talk fell upou the two ladies' ears. Mrs. Knowle pricked up hers, for she was a shrewd body, and from her very marriage-day had flung herself heart and soul into her Edward's busi- ness, until now she was almost capable of going on 'Change herself. But Lady Bowerbank listened idly, or listened not at all, with an equally weary and abstracted air. She went through with more than fine-lady indifference the 22 7'TrO MARRIAGES. needful duties of licr post us liostess. And continually, in the pauses of conversation, and often during tlie very midst of it, her eyes wandered from the table where she sat to the expanse of rippling, sunshiny sea or river, for it was bounded by long, low walls and hillocks of sand — away, away to the dim, sunset-colored west. They were dining, not in their magniticent dining-room Jit Birkenhead, but in one of those sea-side houses which line the Waterloo shore, whither for ciiange — the utmost change his stay-at-home nature ever dreamed of — Sir John had come for the summer, chiefly on account of somebody or other of his acquaintance having dwelt a little strongly on the extremely pale cheeks of Lady Bowerbank; for he was a kind husband; he never grudged her any pleasure or any good that was plainly suggested to him, though he was not acute at divining her need of it. Lady Bowerbank had made no objection to the plan; all places were much alike to her; yet she rather liked this place, where the salt breeze was not too strong. It amused her to wander about, and watch the rabbits play- ing among the sand-hills, or to pick up baskets full of the exquisite tiny shells, for which this shore is famous. Kot that she was conchologically inclined, or knew any- thing in the world about them, save that they were very pretty. Also, that long ago, in the days which seemed to belong to another life than this, somebody had once brought her a handful of them, which she had kept in her work-box — indeed, kept still for that matter. It was no harm; she had a way of keeping things, even trifles, go long, that from mere force of habit she kept them on still, often for years and years. The great peculiarity of her character was, that, though weak to resist, she was exceedingly persistent to retain. .Such anomalies are not rare, but they are the most difficult to deal with, and the saddest in all one's experience of life. Slie nuide no effoi't to entertain Mrs. Knowle — indeed, tliat good lady always entertained herself — but sat idly looking out of th« open window, watching the silent ships creep up and down along the Mersey, or the long, mys- terious trail made by the smoke of some, yet unseen, steamer, tlie faint " pulf puft" of whose engines was TWO MARHIAOKS. 'i-i heard for miles off across the quiet river — far away, even round the curve of the Hoylake shore. So sat she — gentle Emily Bowerbank — in her lilac-pale silk, her rich jewelry, aud beautiful lace liauging over her thin, white hands; a pretty sight, even though she was so pale; and a great contrast to large, rosy Mrs. Knowle, resplendent in claret-colored satin, and with a brooch on her bosom almost as big as her own heart. Neither conversed, but paid the customary tribute of si- lence to their respective lords, till both were startled by a sentence, which, indeed, made Mrs. Knowle color up as if she had been a young girl in her teens, and then sit mute with her eyes fixed on her plate. ''By the bye, Knowle," said Sir John, leaning back, and folding his hands with the contented aspect of a man who, always temperate, yet keenly enjoys the after- .dinner hour of wine and dessert, " I have always forgot- ten to ask you, what has become of that young man, Stenhouse, wiio left us — was it two or four years ago? — very much against my wish, you remember. You got him, I think, into a house at Bombay?" " Yes, Sir John," rei)lied Mr. Knowle, a little abruptly. "Pass the wine, Emma, my dear." "Is he there still? and how is he getting on?" " Well enough, I believe. He sometimes writes to us, though not often. Sir John, this claret is really capi- tal." "So I think. But," added he, with the persistency of an unsensitive man, who will not be driven from his point, " to return to Stenhouse. I wish, when you write, you would tell him Mr. Jones is leaving us. In plain truth, there is not a man I would like as senior clerk so much as Stenhouse — John, wasn't bis name — John Stenhouse?" "Yes. Capital fellow he was," muttered Mr. Knowle. " Accurate as clockwork, and conscientious and per- sistent as " "I'll trouble you for the nut-crackers, Edward," said his helpmate, with a warning frown. "Indeed," continued Sir John, with a way he had of sticking to his point through all interruptions, " I fully agree with you, Knowle. And what I was about to say was this, that if you still keep up acquaintance with the 24 ^ TWO MARRIAGES. young man, could you not suggest to him to return liotne and le-enter our house? We would make it wortli liis while." *' I don't fancy he'd come, Sir John. He — he dislikes Eugland. But Til think tiie matter over, and speak to you about it to-morrow." ''Very well." And Sir Jolm helped himself to an- other glass of claret, and began talking of something else. Then, and not till then, the ladies rose; the guest look- ing liot and red, the hostess pale as death. Emily stood aside to let Mrs. Knowle pass through the door, which was politely held open by Sir John, with a whispered ** Seiul us in coffee soon, my dear;" but when that good lady reached the drawing-room, she found herself alone, and for half an hour after there was no sign of Lady Bowerbank. Mrs. Knowle grew exceedingly uncomfortable, not to say alarmed. Never since the marriage had she and Emily renewed their former intimacy, or been on other than the formal terms of visiting acquaintances and part- ners' wives. Emily did not seem to wish it, though she was scrupulously kind and even affectionate. But then she neither encouraged nor cultivated anybody. Life was to her an altogether passive thing. And Mrs. Knowle had had the good sense, and good feeling, never to en- croach on this reserve, never, since circumstances were so changed, to make the slightest allusion to their former intimacy, nor to intrude upon the present their painful relations of the p;i,st. Thus, little by little, seeing that the silence she desired was unbroken. Lady Bowerbank had gone back from her first shrinking, nervous coldness into comparative cordiality. Still it was never warm enough to warrant Mrs. Knowle in doing what now -was her natural impulse, to seek Emily all over the house, bid her open her iieart, and then soothe and comfort her if she could. So she sat, very anxiously, alone in the draw- ing-room, not liking even to make inquiry of a servant until the mistress reappeared. A sad sight Emily was. If pale before, she was now ghastly; her eyes red, with black circles round them, as if sh(! liad been crying. And as she sat down, and took her coffee from the butler, trying to make some slight TWO MARRIAGES. 25 obsei'vation to her visitor, her hands shook so much that eho cotikl liardly hold the cup. When the servants were gone tliere ensued a dead pause, at last broken only by Mrs. Knowle's perplexed remark about its being a very fine evening for walking, 'MVould you like to walk on the shore? say if you would,'' cried. Emily, eagerly. " I'm not strong enough myself, but my maid would accompany you; and the gen- tlemen will not be out of the dining-room for hours." *' I don't want to go out and leave you alone, my dear," said Mrs. Knowle, her very heart melting within her as she looked at the trembling hands, the pallid face, where two bright spots of carmine had now risen, one on either cheek, making the large eyes larger and more " faraway " than ever. She remembered, with a sudden spasm of memory, that pretty, round, merry, girlish face of Emily Kendal, when it first came into her house, and made a brightness in the dark rooms, and flitted like a sunbeam along the garden walks, especially on the Saturday and Sunday when John Stenhouse left his hard counting- house life and his dreary lodgings, and came to bask in paradise there. " My dear, I'll not leave you alone," said Mrs. Knowle. " It isn't good for you." That soft, motherly tone, the spell of womanly tender- ness, which no woman, married or single, happy or un- happy, is ever proof against, or ever ought to be, un- loosed the iron chain which bound the heart of poor Lady Bowerbank. She fell sobbing on Mrs. Knowle's shoulder. "I must speak to you, only let me speak to you! I shall die if I do not speak to somebody." That was true. Judge her not harshly, you brave, strong women, who can bear so much. Of course, her duty was silence, total silence, to shut her secret up in her heart, and never breathe to living soul what she had not dared to breathe to her own husband. But this duty, like a few more duties in her short, sad life, Emily had not strength to fulfill. She saw them all, clearly de- fined enough; perhaps, if she had had anybody beside her to help her to do them, they might, weak as her nature was, somehow or other have been done. But her only strength, her love, had been taken from her, and now '