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
'<j6 two marriages.
her life was a mere fragment, a melancholy incomplete-
ness, in which all aims and aspirations remained only
such, never developing into active perfection. Whether
the course was right or wrong, dignified or undignified,
it was quite true what she said, that she must give her
confidence to some one — must speak out, or she would
die.
"Well, speak then, my poor child. Be assured I will
never tell anybody; I never did, you know." (For just
at the moment she had forgotten Mrs. Smiles, her only
breach of confidence.)
"Yes, you were very good to me once, and — I haven't
forgotten it," sobbed Emily. "It was a terrible, terri-
ble time; I wonder I lived through it. But I think it
has sliorteued my life. I shall never be an old woman —
I feel that."
" Nonsense, my dear. What would Sir John say to
such talk, I wonder?"
Emily neither smiled nor sighed. " Sir John and I
are very good friends, he is exceedingly kind to me. Do
not suppose I have a shadow of complaint to make against
my husband."
It was noticeable that she always called him "my hus-
band, Mr. Bowerbank," and afterward " Sir John." As
plain "John," the fond, familiar Christian name of other
times, she never by any possible chance spoke either of
him or to him.
" My dear, if you had any complaint to make, I'm. not
the woman to listen to it. Wives shouldn't grumble
against their husbands. ' For better, for worse,' runs the
Church service. If Edward had his little tantrums —
which all men have, bless 'em! — why, I'd bear them aa
long as I could, or a bit longer; if he grew bad, I'd try to
mend him; if he couldn't be mended, but turned out
such a villain that I actually despised him — why, I'd run
away from him! Ay, though he was my husband, I'm
afraid I sliould run away from him. But I'd do it
quietly, my dear, quietly. And I'd never abuse him to
other folk. I'd just hold my tongue."
" And 1 will hold mine — have I not done it hitherto?'*
gasped rather than spoke poor Emily. " I have a peace-
ful home, far peacefuller than Queen Anne Street ever
was;" and she shuddered involuntarily. "I ought to be
TWO MARRIAGES. 'ii
thankful for it, and I liope I am. lie knows nothing —
Sir Joint, I mean — and he never need know; he would
not eaj'e. I owe him much kindness: I shall never
wrong him; that's quite impossible. But" — here her
feeble fingers clutched with the tightness of despair on
Mrs. Knowle's wrist, and she looked up at her implor-
ingly — "you must do one thing forme. Promise me
you will."
" I never make promises without telling Edward
Knowle."
"You may tell him, for it is he who must do it. He
can manage it, and he will; say, I entreat, he will."
" What is it, my love?" And, though she spoke sooth-
ingly, more than one anxious doubt crossed Mrs. Knowle's
mind. " Pray speak out."
"' You heard what my husband said. Now your hus-
band must manage, by any excuse he likes — even a lie, if
necessary — it will be a lawful lie — but he must manage it
— that some one — you know who — does not come back to
Liverpool."
" 1 understand. You are quite right."
"He must not come, I tell you," and Emily's voice,
grew shrill Avith something almost approaching fear.
"For I am a very weak woman; I know that I have
proved myself so more than once. I am safe, and I
want to remain safe. I don't love him, not now, not
after he has forsaken me; but oh! for God's sake keep
him far away-frorn me. Put the sea between us — hun-
dreds, thousands of miles. Let me be quite sure that I
shall never again see his face, or hear the sound of his
voice, or his footsteps — you remember I used to know his
step along the garden walk quite well. I must not see
him — never, nevermore!"
"No, my dear, if I can help it you never shall," said
Mrs. Knowle very firmly, as she held the shrinking,
sobbing creature in her arms, crying herself a little, and
feeling very angry at somebody or something, she was
not quite certain what. But she was certain of one
thing, that there had been some great mystery, some
heavy wrong-doing somewhere; and though she was not
exactly an inquisitive woman, she did like to get to the
bottom of things, and still more did she dislike taking
the resiionsibility of acting in the dark.
98 TWO MARRIAGES.
'* Will you tell me one thing, Lady Bowerbank?" asked
she, when they both had grown a little calmer; " I don't
ask out of idle curiosity, but just that I and my husband,
who were, and are still, his warm friends, may be placed
in a right position toward him. My dear. Just say, in
two words, why you did not marry John Steuhouse."
'^ Because he never asked me — that is, not the second
time, as he promised. He promised, you know, solemnly
— faithfully, that the day T came of age he would claim
me, and we should be married."
*' With or without your father's consent?"
" Yes. He said it would be right, and he would do it.
If he were alive, he told me, on my birthday, he should
write or come to me. Bat ne never wrote or never came.'*
" What a strange thing!" said Mrs. Knowle, much per-
plexed. " And yet I know— I am almost sure "
She stopped, for in caressing tlie poor hand she had felt
Lady Bowerbank's wedding-ring — the fatal ring. With
a sense of dread, lest one word might lay the foundation
of harm that now could never be undone, no more than
the marriage could be broken, she stopped, hesitated, and
finally kept her own counsel.
" Oh, what a day it was — my birthday," pursued Em-
ily, pouring out her long-pent-up grief. "Wo were giv-
ing a ball; I did not wish it, but papa insisted; however,
I cared little about it, I was so happy. For when I woke
in the morning I knew I should see him before night — I
thought ho would come rather than write, since he had
not seen me for two whole years. I waited in, hour after
hour, all that day; and I danced myself sick a,t night, lest
Eapa might notice lAvas unhappy. And then I lived on,
oping and hoping all next day, and all the day after —
every day for- a week. And for many weeks, post after
post I watched, and day after day I never crossed' the door-
sill for iin hour without coming in expecting to find his
letter or his card. But ho never wrote — he never came.
And then I heard he had gone to India, and — aiul that
was all."
Emily dropped her head, and the passing light and en-
ergy which had come into her features while speaking
vanished out of them; she sank back into the pale, pass»
ivc, quiet woman, John liovverbank's wife.
*' Do you blame him?" asked Mrs. Knowle, softly, with
TWO MARRIAGES. 29
her head turned iiway. ("For," she owned afterward to
her liusband, " I was friglitened out of my life lest the
poor girl sliould discover anything in my manner that
might set her asking questions.")
" No, I don't blame him. He had been so wronged,
80 insulted, no wonder his pride took up arms and he let
me go; I was but a poor creature to fight for. Or per-
haps he had found somebody else he liked better. Your
Liverpool girls are so pretty, yon know, and he always
admired pretty people," added Emily, with a feeble smile.
"• I never wus pretty myself, and perhaps he might be
afraid of people saying he married a plain girl for her
money."
** No," cried Mrs. Knowle, indignantly, "I'll never
believe that. He wasn't such a coward."
" Well, well, whatever it was docs not matter now.
Ho did not Avant me, did not care for me, and otlier peo-
ple (lid, and my father was urging me perpetually to
mari-y. I could not help myself, indeed 1 could not,"
added she, clasping her hands together in a hopeless res-
ignation. "I was worn out, literally worn out and torn
to pieces, and sol married Mr. Bowerbank."
Tliere was a long silence, through which the large
drawing-room clock kept ticking and ticking, with a re-
morseless diligence, unvarying and unwearying as time
itself; and through the open window, from across the
now darkening river^ came dim voices of sailors in ships
slowly dropping down the Mersey, outward bound.
At length Mrs. Knowle roused herself and said:
" My dear, I am very glad you have trusted me to-
night; you shall never repent it. I quite agree with
you that Mr. Stenhouse must not be asked to come back
to Liverpool; Edward will manage it so as to satisfy
Sir John. And after to-night, you and I will never nam*
him again."
"No, no. That is," and she hesitated — Emily's pite-
ous hesitation.
But her friend had none, "Decidedly not, Lady
Bowerbank. When a woman is once married, she has no
right even to think of any man but her own husband.
You know, Sir John is a very good, kind gentleman, and
very fond of you. And you have many a blessing, and,
m TVi'O MARRIAGES.
for all you can tell, it may please God to send you one
day a better blessing still."
Emily shook her head.
" I know what you mean, but I don't hope that. I
don't even wish it. I could not do my duty to a child.
Better live on as 1 am living — just pleasing Sir John a
little if I can, doing no harm to anybody, and by and
by my whole story will be over, and I myself, as some
Scotch song says:
" ' I myself in the auld kirkyard,
With the green grass growing over me.'
It's curious," she added, " but sometimes in this mass of
bricks and mortar, and these wastes of sea and sand, I
feel an actual pleasure in the words ' green grass growing
over me.' "
^'Yoii are talking nonsense, my dear," said Mrs.
Knowle, sharply, though her tears were running down in
showers; ''you'll live to be an old woman, as old, and as
stout, ajid as comfortable as me."
" Do you think so? Well, I hope I may be half as good
and as kind," answered, with a grateful look, poor Lady
Bowerbank.
And then the lamps came in, and with them Sir Johu
Bowerbank and Mr. Knowle, both in exceedingly cheer-
ful spirits, having apparently settled quite to their satis-
faction the knotty business-point, to arrange which they
had dined together. Their respective wives bestirred
themselves, as wives should, to M^elcome the advent of
lords and masters, and after a lively half hour the little
quartet broke up.
But when Mrs. Knowle, as her custom was, immedi-
ately poured out to Mr. Knowle everything that had
passed in his absence, "Edward," who was a man of few
words, looked exceedingly grave.
"There has been foul play somewhere; I'm sure of
that, wife."
" Why, what do you know?"
"John Stenhouse did ask her to marry him; he went
up to London on pur])ose, and was refused. He didn't
tell me much, but he let fall as much as that, or some-
thing like it."
"Ami you never told me?" said Mrs. Knowle, a little^
aggrieved.
TWO MARRIAGES. 31
"Yon were very ill, my clear: iind when you got better
he was gone to India, And somehow I wasn't thinking
so much of him as of yon. Remember, you were nigh
slipping away from me then, old woman."
8he gave him a kiss — the placid, tender kiss of forty
years' accumulated content, and complained no more.
" Men don't think so much of these things as we do.
Poor Emily! well for her she's got a good man for her
husband. But, for all tiiat, as you say, my love, I'm cer-
tain there has been foul play somewhere."
CHAPTER IV.
iJe mortuis nil w'si bonuni.
I would gladly put this as the motio to the present
chapter, and adopt the moral of it, which is a noble and
Christian moral, and cannot be too tenderly and sedu-
lously acted upon — in the main. But truth forbids si-
lence sometimes — that truth:
" The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is often interred with their bones;"
which is as true now as when Shakespeare wrote it. No
one, taking a wide and comprehensive view of life, can
fail to see what fatal harm is sometimes caused, passively,
by the passive dead; how often the living will injure
tlieraselves, and more than themselves, for the sake of
what they call ''respect to the memory of the departed;"
some one who, maybe, was once as foolish, obstinate,
selfish, cruel as any of us, and in death has perpetuated
the ill-doings of his life. From this feeling, corrupted
from a virtue into a mere superstition, many a wrong, too
late discovered, which ought, years and years before, to
have been dragged to the open day, and crushed and
trampled under the avenging lieel of righteous wrath and
noble scorn, is hushed up, suffered to be passed over un-
requited, because — alas! the wrong-doers are nowfaraway
in the silent land, where, at least, they can injure no
more.
IS^othing but good of the dead! If good cannot be
spoken, then keep silence.
Yes, ordinarily. God forbid that when lie lays His
eternal seal upon the quivering mouth of sinner as well
as saint, ours likewise should not respect His awful man-
32 TWO MARRIAGES.
date and be dumb. But there are cases in which silence
regarding the dead involves wrong to the living, and that
which might have been a solemn warning to many others
left behind falls short of its natural lesson — the lesson I
would fain have some worldly people lay to heart from this
story — the true story, alas! of John Bowerbank's wife.
Though it happened long ago, and though place, people,
and extraneous circumstances have been, I trust, effectu-
ally disguised, still the story itself is no invention, but a
fact told to me; and I tell it, after all the actors therein
are safely dead and gone, as a lesson to those whom it
may concern; especially those who are supposed to need
none, and yet fate often reads to them quietly the sharp-
est lesson of all — the parents of grown-up children.
Lady Bowerbank was sitting quite alone, and dressed
in deep mourning, in the dining-room of the house at
Queone Anne Street. She had been summoned to Lon-
don, for the first time since her marriage, by a very sad
event — the sudden death of her father. He was not an
old man exactly, and had been hitherto remarkably hale
and active, living his life — the life of a barrister about
town — with apparent enjoyment; making, and spending
as fast as he made, a very good income, absorbed chiefly
in selfish pleasures, but pleasures of a perfectly reputable
and unobjectionable kind. However, in the midst of
these Death found and called him. Some hidden heart-
disease suddenly developed itself, and he was struck down
while making a speech in court. His daughter and son-
in-law were telegraphed for, but even before the message
reached them he was no more. They carried him buck
from Westminster Hall to his own door — a corpse.
Of course, deep was the sympathy with his family; and
though since their marriage he had so withdrawn himself
from her that the slender filial relation which ever
existed, or was likely to exist, between a loving girl and
a man so essentially selfish, that except by force of the
claim of Nature he had no right whatever to be considered
a father, had become all but nominal; still, overpowered
by the suddenness of the stroke, his duughter mourned
for him — mourned, remembering not so much later
years as those early childish days when almost every man
takes a certain pleasure in paternity, especially being
father to a pretty little girl. She recalled how he used
TWO MARRIAOKS. 33
to set her on the table after dinner and make her dance
to him, or take her walks in the park with her best
clothes on — her muslin frocks, and blue ribbons, and her
golden hair flying about, so that, infant as she was, she
was fully aware everybody noticed her, and asked,
*' Whose charming little girl that was?"- Halcyon days
these, during which many an imperfect nature and
hard heart ride safely over the smooth waters of life,
to be shipwrecked afterward. It is not till the storm
comes that we find out the real building and timber of
the vessel.
After these days came others, in which, to the best
of Emily's recollection, her father had taken very little
notice of her; for nobody noticed lier now very much.
She had ceased to be pretty; her beauty was only the
round rosiness of infancy, and it slipped away, and there
had not yet come that beaming spiritual loveliness which
had so charmed the unartistic eye, but clear head and
sound heart of JolinStenhouse. So she had been, during
her teens, a good deal neglected, and, in fact, her young
life had only wakened up on that fatal Liverpool visit,
the consequences of which turned the careless father into
a remorseless judge, a cruel enemy.
But she forgave him that; she was ready to forgive
him anything, as she sat in his easy- chair, before hia
private desk, the papers of which Sir John, summoned
back home immediately after the funeral, had left hec to
examine alone; she was haunted by sad thoughts of her
father, her own |)0or father, who had so enjoyed the
good things of this life, his cozy dining-room, his after-
dinner repose, sleeping now, this first night, under-
ground, the eternal sleep of death. She would have
liked to think of him otherwise and otherwhere, but
somehow she could not; he had been a man so essen-
tially worldly that even after his death one's fancy un-
consciously associated him with this world. She knew
she ought to dwell upon him as safe and happy in heaven,
and yet her thoughts would fly back and back, like
gloomy birds of evil omen, and settle in that cheerless,
misty cemetery at Kensal Green, where. Sir Jolm Bower-
bank had said, some handsome memorial must imme-
diately be erected to distinguish it fi-oni tlie throng of
graves; and he left his wife behind in London for a day,
84 TWO MARRIAGES.
in order that slie might leisurely examine her father's
papers, and find out whether the deceased (it Avas mel-
ancholy to hear the clever barrister, the social diner-
out, already spoken of as merely '' the deceased ") had
any particular wish regarding his own monument; for
Emily's husband was very kindly, very considerate, and
in this last sad conjuncture she had been more drawn to
him than for many months before.
She had bidden him good-bye an hour ago, he starting
by the night- jnail for Liverpool, and had settled herself
alone in the large, desolate dining-room, making a sort
of encampment by the fire, that she might feel less
dreary. Then she began looking over, drawer by
drawer and paper after paper, the large desk which
had been the awe of her childhood aiid the perplexity
of her youth. She could hardly believe that it wa«
really herself then peering into with unhallowed eves,
and turning over with unforbidden hands, those secrets
of which we all have some, and which we think are safe
from everybody, till death comes and teaches differ-
ently.
What Mr. Kendal could have been thinking of when
he left all these matters, many of which he certainly
would not have liked even his daughter to be acquainted
with, to such a chance as now befell them, is impossible
to say. Probably the truth, unseen and disbelieved,
though it stares at us in churchyard and street, and
whispers to us in every book or newspaper, that *Mn tlie
midst of life we are in death,^' had been wholly unrecog-
nized by this man of the world, or else he might have
had a superstitious dread of setting his house in order,
and contemplating, in any way, his own dissolution.
Certain it was he left no will, and his most private j)aper8
were found in the utmost confusion, everything being
exactly as he had quitted his home on the morning of his
death, to return thither alive no more.
With a solemn tenderness befitting sucii an office, his
daughter turned over scrap after scrap, opened, and
looked at letter after letter, just reading as much as
eeenied necessary, and then burning it, or laying it aside
to be burnt. A good many papers she destroyed at once;
ahe did not like even her husband to see them — these rel-
TWO MARRIAGF.H. '69
ics of a purely selfish life — uot absolutely a wicked life,
but one self-absorbed and self-enjoying, nothing but self-
worship from the beginning to the end.
Lady Bowerbank was growing weary; the hall clock
had just struck eleven, resounding through the gloomy
old house with a thrill that almost made her start off her
chair; she was very feeble and nervous still, though her
health had beeu of late months a little improving. Sick
at heart, forlorn and lonely, she put aside heap after heap
of letters in unfamiliar handwritings, to be examined by
and by, when she suddenly came upon one that was — not
unfamiliar.
No wonder at its being there; her father and Mr. Sten-
house had had a sharp correspondence; probably this wag
one of the letters. None of them had ever been sliovva
to her; she had only found out accidentally that such
had been sent and received. Eagerly she took up this
one, then hesitated — Emily's perpetual hesitation — as to
whether it would be a breach of confidence or of duty to
read it; when, looking at the envelope, she saw it was
not addressed, as the rest of Mr. Stenhouse's letters hud
been, to Mr. Ktiowle's house in Liverpool, but. to Queea
Anne Street, London. And the post-mark bore a date
long subsequent to that unhappy time; a date which, as
Emily Bowerbank gazed on, cold shivers of fear raa
through her, for it was a week a/Yer her twenty-first birth-
day.
"He did write, then. I must read it. I must and
will," she said to herself; and for once that firm "I
will," the want of which had been the great lack of her
life, as it is one of the greatest and most fatal deficien-
cies in any human life or character, came to her aid, and
she carried out her purpose. Was it for good or for ill?
Alas! the teller of this simple tale, and maybe many a
reader, cannot possibly decide; except that, as a general
rule, to have met open-eyed the most blinding truth is
better, ay, and easier in the end, than to live under the
blighting shadow of a permanent lie.
The letter addressed to Mr. Kendal by John Stenhouse
ran thus:
"SiK, — Though we did not part amicably two yeara
ago. I beg now to appeal to you as to a gentleman and a
88 TWO MARRIAGES.
man of honor, and the father of the lady vrhom T then,
and ever since steadily determined to make my wife.
*' At your desire, I abstained from all communication
■with her until she became of age, which was a week ago.
On that day, and again for six days following, I called at
your house, to see her and you, and to beg permission to
renew our engagement, or ratlier to complete it; for it
has, as regards myself, never been broken; but I was not
admitted. I cannot learn anything about her. I have
written to- her; I have watched, as far as a gentleman
could presume to watch a lady, in the hope of seeing her,
and all in vain. I now take the straightforward course
of writing direct to you, sir. You may not like me, but
you can know notliing against me. Also, you are a fa-
ther. I entreat you for her sake (she did love me once)
not to stand in the way of our happiness. That she is
true to me I have not the slightest doubt. Tell me
where she is, and when I may see her.
" Yours faithfully, John Stenhouse.^'
Inclosed with this was a small note, scarcely more than
a scrap, apparently written in haste, and blotted as it
was folded:
** Sir, — I accept your explicit and complete explana-
tion, and wish yonr daughter every happiness tliat cir-
cumstances may afford her. Neither she nor you will
ever be again intruded upon by your obedient servant,
"John Stenhguse."
Emily Bowerbank read, and sat petrified. Tlie whole
world seemed fading away from her in a sort of dark,
gray mist. The roaring of waters was in her ears, and a
dull, knocking pain at her heart. Then all ceased, and
she passed into temporary unconsciousness.
Wlien she came to herself she was lying forward with
her liead on the desk, the letter still grasped in her hand.
She remembered at once what had happened, but she did
not faint again, noc even though she was one of those
feeble women whom a very slight thing causes to fall into
fainting-fits.
A slight thing, as probably the father who had done it
bclieveil it to bo, or argued himself into believing, and
yet it was the destruction of two lives 1
TIVO MARRIAGES. 37
Emily gathered up her feeble thoughts iind shattered
senses together, and tried to understand the fact thus
suddenly revealed to her.
So John Stenhouse had returned at the appointed time,
and once again asked her to marry him. He had loved
her steadily, faithfully, through these two blank years.
He had come up to London prepared to meet the sliarp
ordeal that was inevitably before him: the wounding of
his pride, the lacerating of his feelings, all the humbling
irritations that, under the best of circumstances, must be
borne by a poor, proud man who marries a rich man's
daughter. Yet he had come, willing and eager to marry
her, setting aside everything except his love for her, a
love steady as a rock, true as steel.
For an instant, as soon as this became clear to Emily's
half-bewildered brain, there flashed uj^on her a sudden
light, the first and most natural impulse of actual joy.
She clasped her hands together; and if ever the poor,
pale face looked like an aiigel's it looked so then.
" H.Q was truel He did not forsake me! Oh, thank
God!"
And then she remembered all that followed, and how
it had all ended in her being what she was now — John
Bowerbank's wife.
The dead man had told a lie, or perhaps not a direct
lie, but a misstatement, putting forward what he believed
and hoped as what really existed. He had evidently in-
formed John Stenhouse that his daughter no longer con-
sidered herself engaged to him, and was on the point of
marriage with John Bowerbank. Such fabrications are
often given as facts by even good people, who hope them
until they really believe them. The falsehoods of the
wicked can be met— the misstatements of the respectable
and worthy cannot.
•' And a lie that is half truth is ever the blackest of lies."
So Emily's lover must have believed it, as was scarcely
unnatural. But — the father.
When one man has a grudge against another, it may
be a small thing to deny him his house and suppress his
letters; and such may be, by some people, counted by
no means an unwarrantable proceeding on the part of
any father who wishes to prevent his daughter's making
88 J n'O MARRIAGES.
an imprudent marriage. A little nncancliJ, perhaps;
little like treating her as a child; but tlien many young
women are little better than children; and parents have
©r are supposed to have, all the wisdom, the justice, the
prudence on their side, and may take the law into their
own hands, and use any means which they think advisa-
ble for the ultimate good of their offspring. How can
tliey, tlie children, just entering on life, and with lit-
tle or no experience of its countless pitfalls, know
what is best for their own happiness? Blind obedience
is safest and best.
So would argue many excellent people, so, doubtless,
wonld have argued the dead lawyer, could he have
eome back from his newly-filled grave, or from the
place, wherever it was, that his soul had fled to, and
stood before his daughter in the dead of night, as she
sat with tliat fatal letter still clutched in her hands, star-
ing at vacancy.
She was usually a good deal given to weeping, too
much so, indeed, she was such a thorough woman in all
her weaknesses, poor litlle Emily! But now she did not
weep at all; neither did she rave, nor think any unholy,
wicked thoughts, nor curse her father's memory. He
was dead, and she must not allow herself to dwell
Tipon what he had done against her, or judge whether
his act were right or wrong. She only felt that it had
killed her.
Yes, he had killed her, this respectable and respected
father, had killed his own daughter, his natural flesh
and blood, as completely as if lie had slain her with his
hand. It might be worth counting, as perhaps the good
God may send His angels to count some time, when the
secrets of all lives shall be revealed, how many fathers,
perhaps some mothers, but women being less selfish than
men, these are rarer, with the very best intentions, have
done the same.
He had killed her, killed the spring of youth and life
within her, not merely by lawful open opposition, though
that would have been cruel enough, but by a mean, un-
derliand, cowardly blow, a side-tlirnst which there was
no parrying. By him, worldly man as he was, probably
the thing was not realized in its full enormity. How
could he, or such as he, understand the loss of love, the
TWO MARRIAGES. 39
one blessing which makes life sacred and beantiful? Or
peihH])s he tliought, like other worldly people, that
worldly blessings are all in all, and that he was actually
doing his daughter a kindness in keeping her in the
sphere she was born to; saving her from sacrificing her-
self to a man of no wealth and no position, decidedly her
inferior in the marriage barter, who, while she gave
him everything, had nothing on earth to offer her except
love, which was a commodity of no weight at all with
Mr. Kendal.
Be that as it may, he had killed her. Of course, there
is this to be said, why had she the weakness to let herself
be killed? Why did she take her lover's loss so passively,
and so unresistingly .allow herself to be married to an-
other? Why, in short, suffer herself to be made a mere
victim to circumstances when she should have risen above
them, as a strong, brave human being, whether woman or
man, ought to do; fight her own battle, and assert her
right to live out her own life in her own way, whether
she married John Stenhouse or not?
Mas, the question is answered by hundred of victims
— men and women, but especially women — to whose
weak helplessness might has become right, and cow-
ardice appeared like dutiful submission. Pass on, pale
ghosts, sad shadows of lives that might have been made
so happy and so fair; God will remember you, poor suf-
fering ones! But how as to those who have caused you
to suffer?
I think, if there ought to be a Gehenna upon earth —
for mortal justice must not presume to create Gehennas
afterward — it should be opened for the punishment of
tyrants — domestic tyrants.
Emily Bowerbank sat till daydawn without attempting
so much as to stir. Bewildering, delirious thoughts
swept through her poor brain — she who was not much
given to think, but only to feel. Whether she fully real-
ized her own position — all she was and all she had lost;
whether, in those long still hours, she went over and
over again, in maddened fancy, the contrast between
her calm, cold, respectable marriage with honest Jolia
Bowerbank (thank Heaven, she felt Jie was not to blame;
he never could have known anything) and marriage with
every pulse of her heart happy and at rest; every aspira-
40 TWO MARRIAGES.
tion of her soul satisfied; her nature developed, and her
mind strengthened; fitted for weal or woe, labor or
ease, peace or perplexity, as she would have been liad she
become the wife of John Stenhouse — all this was never
revealed.
She said nothing and did nothing; what was there to
do or say? Slie blamed no one, not even herself; it was
too late now. Everything was too late. She felt in a
vague, childish sort of way, like one of the " foolish
virgins," wliom she had always been so sorry for as a
child; her lamp, too, had gone out, and could never be
relighted. The door of light was shut, not to be opened
more.
Till day dawned, the dreary, drizzly London day, she
sat over her father's desk, not attempting, however, to
search further, or to arrange anything more. Tlien, with
a sudden fear of the servants coming in and finding her
there, she hurriedly swept all the letters into a drawer,
all but the letter, which she took away with her — it con-
cerned nobody but herself — and crept noiselessly away to
bed.
Next day, according to her husband's desire. Lady
Bowerbank started for Liverpool. It was well she did,
for immediately on her reaching home she had a some-
■what severe illness, a kind of low gastric fever, wliich
■was rather prevalent at the time. No one wondered at
it, and everybody sympathized with her. " Dear Lady
Bowerbank!" they said, in talking her over, ''she was
such a delicate, tender creature; and what a great shock
it must have been to her, the death of her poor dear
lather I"
CHAPTER V.
People do break their hearts sometimes. Not very
•ftcn, for a largo proportion have really no hearts to break;
and a few Avho have them have also that stern power of
endurance, which, if they only have strength to live
through the first shock, will enable them still to live on
• — live nobly, heroically, until they come to experience
the mysterious internal force of reparation which Heaven
has mercifully imparted to every sound body and health-
ily constituted mind; which turns evil into good, and
TWO MARRIAGES. 41
transmutes dull misery into that active battling witli sor-
row Avhich in time produces a deeper peace than even
happiness.
But liere and there are others, like poor Emily Bower-
ba)ik, gifted with strong persistency of loving, and al-
most no other strength, no other persistency in anything;
Bweet, gentle, sensitive souls; climbing plants, who, if
they find a prop to cling to, bloom bounteously all their
days; but, finding no prop, or being rudely torn from it,
slip silently to the earth, where they soon wither away,
and have no use nor beauty in their lives ever after. This
may not be noticeable outside; the result may be attrib-
uted to many accidental external causes, worldly misfort-
une, constitutional feebleness, and so on, but the real
cause is, their hearts are broken. Why it should be so,
why, above all. Providence should allow it, should permit
the gentle weak ones to succumb to the bad strong ones,
and the virtuous to be sacrificed to the vicious, the un-
selfish and much-enduring to those who have neither ten-
derness nor generosity, is a mystery that never will be un-
raveled. We can only leave it to Him, who, dying,
prayed to His Father, as Emily Bowerbank tried to pray
to the Father in heaven, whenever she thought of her
own father, ''Forgive them, they know not what they
do.''
Nevertheless, her heart was broken, and she knew it.
She recovered from her fever, and by degrees resumed
almost her former place in her husband's household,
though not in general society; she was quite incapable of
that, and, besides, during her tedious convalescence, Sir
John had got into a habit of going to his dinner-parties
alone. She was to all appearance, quite well; still she
never again took a firm hold on life, never was heard to
talk of the future, or to make any plans beyond the
month, or the week, and then gradually — so gradually
that no one perceived it — not even beyond the day.
She was not in a consumption, for the doctors found no
disease in the lungs; it was more what the country people
call "a, waste" — that is, a gradual sinking of all the
powers of the body, and sometimes even of the mind;
Bntil mental griefs cease to wound, and of bodily suffer-
ing, except weariness and feebleness, there is absolutely
none. Not a painful death to die, especially when sur-
42 TWO MARRIAGES.
rounded by all the luxuries tliat wealtli or kindly care
could bestow, everything, in short, except the one thing,
the one amulet of life, Avhich had been taken away from
her.
People do not recognize half clearly enough the truth
that God Avould not have created such a thing as mutual
love, ending in marriage, had he not meant it to be the
one thing needful, not absolutely to the salvation of a
human soul, though it is that, or the contrary, oftcner
than we suspect, but to its perfect development, and,
above all, to its happiness. Those who interfere with
what is called " a love affair^' are doing what they never
can undo; destroying what it is impossible to rebuild; tak-
ing away from two human beings that which no substi-
tute, be it family affection, wealth, worldly honor, or
success, can avail to restore. All are valueless when love
is not there.
The sod lay green over Mr. Kendal's bones; his life
was over; but he had blighted two other lives — lives which
might have blossomed into beauty, and carried their per-
fectness down into coming generations, w^i^n his poor
selfish existence was forgotten in the dust. He had done
it, and it ue%'^r could be undone.
What had become of John Stenhouse? was a question
that Mrs. Knowle often asked herself. Only to lierself,
however. Constantly as she visited Lady Bowerbank, and
more especially since the sad illness which followed the
sudden death of Mr. Kendal, his name had, since that
first night, never once been breathed between them. It
was impossible it could be, between any two honorable
women. Nevertheless, the elder matron thought of him
a deal more than she would have liked to own, and made
many inquiries about him through her husband, but they
all resulted in nothing beyond the fact that he was living
and working somewhere in India. Mr. Knowle had con-
trived to prevent all offers being made to him of return-
ing to England.
Still, occasionally he was heard of, to Mrs. Knowle'a
great satisfaction, though seeing that Emily made no in-
quiries, her information was carefully kept to herself.
But she took a romantic interest, most unworthy of such
a very practical and sensible old matron, in the young
man and his fortunes; for she never ceased to believe, and.
TWO MARRIAGES. 43
asserted repeatedly to her husband, that so true a lover
and so honest a man as John Stenhouse could never have
forsaken a woman in this mean way; and, though the real
truth of the matter might never be discovered, she was as
certain as she was of her existence tliat there had been
something wrong somewhere.
" And it may come right yet, wiio knows? I iiope
Fra not wicked— and it's ill waiting barefoot for dead
men's shoes, but Sir John is over sixty, and he will have
had a very fair enjoyment of life if he lives to eighty;
and poor Emily will not be much over forty-three even
then. Folks do sometimes take the wrong person — be-
come widows and widowers — and then meet their old
loves and get married, and end their days happily to-
gether after all."
Mr. Knowle shook his gray head.
"It won't be the case here, wife, so you need not think
it."
He gave no more explanation, for he was not a talka-
tive man, but his wife noticed that he often rode round
two miles out of his way to business in order to inquire
how Lady Bowerbank was that morning. And Mrs.
Knowle, from paying a formal visit once in three months,
got slowly into the habit of driving to Summer Lodge at
least twice a week, and spending the morning with
Emily. And by degrees she returned to the old tender
fashion, and called her not '^Lady Bowerbank," but
*' Emily."
One morning the two ladies were sitting together, one
working (for Mrs. Knowle's fingers were never empty of
work) and the other reading, or attempting to read, the
newspaper. Newspapers were terribly interesting now in
all houses, for it was just about the time of tlie Indian
revolt, and, as this generation will long remember, far
and near, there was scarcely a family who had not to
mourn their dead. Lady Bowerbank, without giving any
reasons for it (and indeed none were required, for the
sympathy was too universal) had taken a deep interest in
the tidings brought mail after mail, and horrible as they
often were, they were not forbidden her, for they seemed
to rouse her out of herself to feel for afflictions com-
pared to which her own were nothing. She also
began to exert herself and lier small strength in a way
44 TWO MARRIAGES.
that surprised botli her husband and the doctoro: gather-
ing and making contributions in aid of the sufferers, and
trying in a feeble way to organize schemes for their re-
lief, and find out cases of exceeding need, which, by
means of the large Indian connections of the house of
Bowerbank & Co., was not difficult to accomplish.
**■ I should like to do a little good before I go," she said
one day, when Mrs. Knowle was urging her not to over-
exert herself. '' I have done so little good in my life,
you know."
And so they let her do it; and she spent money, and
time, and thought, upon these melancholy charities, her
husband grudging nothing; he never did. He was a
very good man. Many a letter he Avrote, investigating
difficult cases, and many a time he drove out to lunch in
the middle of the day, he that used never to take even a
half-holiday from business, in order to tell his wife some
piece of news, or ask how she Avas, or bring her some lit-
tle delicacy from market or liothouse, if she chanced
to be especially fanciful or feeble that day; for she was
very fanciful, as sickly people often are; but she strove
against it in a pathetic way; and Mis. Knowle noticed
how invariobly slie tried to look grateful and pleased at
Sir John's little attentions, and to smile steadily as long
as he remained in the room.
"■ I have really got a piece of news for you to-day, my
dear," said he, sitting down beside her, " though it is
not lor you so much as for Mrs. Knowle, at least, half
for one and half for the other. You shall share tlie pleas-
ure between you. Guess."
The two ladies tried, in all politeness, but failed sig-
nally, both of them.
" Well, then, first. Lady Bowerbank, it concerns you.
That widow with three children, Mrs. Hamilton, you
know, whose husband was shot at Bareiily, and who
wrote ycni such a pretty letter of thanks, she is coming
homo by next mail,"
" With all her children, I hope! Poor thing!"
"You need not say 'poor thing,' for it is not only
with her children, she brings a husband, too."
" Then he was not shot, after all?"
'' Yes, he was," said Sir John. ''But you women are
ourious creatures. This is her second husband. She haa
TWO MARRIAGES. 45
married the gentleman who saved lier life and tli:it of
ber three children, and brought her hundreds of miles
across country and through indescribable perils. As
she has not a halfpenny, and he is pretty well oil, per-
haps, poor woman! she might have done worse. You
will think so, Mrs. Knowle, for you know the person, our
old clerk, John Stenhouse.'^
" Jolin Stenhouse! Married !"' exclaimed Mrs. Knowle;
as, with an agitation she could hardly conceal, she
glanced toward the sofa where Lady Bowerbank lay. But
the tidings, which had powerfully affected the good lady
herself, seemed to have passed quite harmlessly over
Emily. She scarcely turned or showed any sign of emo-
tion beyond a feeble fluttering of the fingers, which were
800U stilled and folded upon one another over her heart,
an involuntary attitude of hers, something like Chantrey's
figure of Resignation.
'* Why on earth should not the young man be mar-
ried?'^ said Sir John, smiling. " Jly dear lady, you look
as vexed as if you had wanted to have him for your second!
I must certainly tell Knowle of this. What do you say.
Lady Bowerbank?"
Lady Bowerbank said quietly, "I think people should
always marry wdioever they choose, and that nobody
should blame or criticise them for it. Nobody but them-
selves can know the whole circumstances."
'•'Quite right. You are a sensible woman, Emily,''
said the old man, looking tenderly at his young wife,
who yet seemed so much nearer the other world than he.
*'Well, I must go back now, for I am fuH of business.
You'll wait hereto dinner, Mrs. Knowle?"
Mrs. Knowle muttered some excuse concerning "Ed-
ward." She looked exceedingly nervous and uncom-
fortable still.
" Well, do as you like. Only stay as long as you can,
stay and grumble at your friend Stenhouse and his mar-
riage. By the bye, I think I shall write to meet them
at Southampton: it would only be civil, and I liked Sten-s
house. AVhat shall I give him? your good wishes?"
"If you please."
'* And mine," said Emily, half raising herself from the
sofa. "I knew him once, we met at Mrs. Knowle's. He
will remember me, Emily Kendal."
48 TWO MARRIAai':S.
" Very well, ray dear."
After Sir John "was gone Mrs. Knowle took her
friend's liand in hers and held it, but she did not at-
tempt to speak; she literally did not know wliat to say.
Lady Bowerbank's manner, so gentle, so composed, had
completely j)uzzled, nay, frightened her. She could not
believe it natural. But it was natural; there was no af-
fectation of strength about it, no high, heroic self-sup-
pression. Emily lay, pale indeed, but not paler than
usual, her eyes open, and fixed with a soft, steady gaze
on the white spring clouds that sailed in mountainous
masses across the dark blue sky; great heights and depths
of heaven, into which the soul, when it is loosely held to
earth, seems to pierce with an intense and yet calm de-
sire, that soothes all pain, and makes everything level
and at rest.
"I am glad of this, very glad," she said, after a long
pause, and without any explanation. " He ought to be
married, and he will be sure to make a good, kind hus-
band to whomever he chooses for his wife; and no doubt
he has chosen wisely and well."
"I ])ope he has," said Mrs. Knowle, rather tartly. She
was but human, ajid she did not like the destruction of
her liltle romance.
" I am sure of it. The man who could love one
woman so faithfully as lie once loved me "
Mrs. Knowle turned round eagerly.
Emily colored, even through the paleness of mortal
disease. "Yes, it was so. He was never untrue to me.
I can't tell you any particulars, and I never found it out
myself till a little while ago. But he did come back,
to the very day, and claimed me. Only — I was never
told."
''And whose doing was that?"
" My father's."
Mrs. Knowle almost started from her chair. " What
an atrocious "
"Hush! it is too late now. And, besides, it might
have come to the same thing in the end. Feel here!"
and she took Mrs. Knowle's hand and put it to her heart,
wliich was beating violently and irregularly. " He does
not know it — my good husband, I mean. Was he not
good to me this morning:* Nobody knows it, I think.
TWO MARRIAGES. 47
But I know it,"and she smiled. ''I am quite certain,
Siifely certain, that I am dying/'
" Don't say that. You must not, you ought not.'*
And Mrs. Knowle tried a little to reason her out of that
conviction, which seemed to be the source of all her
strength and the soothing of all her sorrows.
*'Ko, no. This world has been a little too hard for
me," Emily said; ** but in the other I may begin again,
and be strong. Do you think he has forgiven me?"
"Who, my poor child?"
''John Stenhouse. You see, I might have obeyed my
father, and not married him; but then I ought not to
have married at all. Nobody ought, loving another per-
son all the time. But I was so weak, and Xever
mind. It does not matter much now."
''John has married, you see," said Mrs. Knowle,
partly with a lurking sense of indignation at him, and
partly from a vague feeling that even now it was her duty
to impress that fact salutarily upon Sir John Bowerbank's
wife. Both the wrath and the caution passed harmlessly
over the gentle spirit, that was already loosing its cables
from earthly shores, and feeling soft, pure airs blowing
toward it from the Land unseen.
"Yes, he has married; I can quite understand how it
came about: just the sort of marriage he would be sure
to make — of pity, and tenderness, and duty. And it may
turn out a very happy one. He will love her very much
when — when I am quite gone away. I hope she is a good
woman."
" 1 hope so," said Mrs. Knowle, rather huskily.
"Would you mind trying to find out? I don't mean
that I am ever likely tohave any acquaintance with them,
.but I should like to know about him and her. And some-
thing about her three children too. He will have to work
hard to maintain so large a family."
"Very hard."
It was strange how the two women seemed to have
changed places. Emily talked, Mrs. Knowle was all but
silent.
"You are sure you dou^t mind making these inquir-
ies? Or I would ask my husband. Yes, perhaps, after
all, it will be better to ask my husband. lie might be-
48 TWO MARRIAGES.
friend them very much, and I am sure he wouhl like to
do it/'
" In the way he once wanted — by getting John 8ten-
house into the firm again? Do you mean tliat? and do
you wish it, Emily?"
''No, not wish it exactly. But " — and she opened her
eyes wide, clear, and pure, pure alike with the innocence
of sorrow and the peace of coming death, and fixed them
steadily on Mrs. Knowle's face, "I should not be afraid
of his coming to Liverpool; not now.'*
Mrs. Knowle fairly laid her head on the sofa pillow
and sobbed. Then she rose up, saying in a cheerful
voice:
''"Well, my dear, I have stayed talking quite long
enough for one day, so good-bye. I'll keep a look out
after the Stenhouses. Meantime lie down and get a sleep
if you can, and take care to be quite bright by the time
Sir John comes in to dinner."
" Oh, yes, I always try to do that. I like to please him.
He Is very good to me," said Emily Bowerbank.
CHAPTER VI.
Lady Bowerbank was, as she said, dying; that is, the
seeds of death were firmly sown in her constitution, but
they wore very slow of developing themselves. Perhaps
the exceeding peace in which, externally, her daily life
was passed, partly caused this; but chiefly it was because,
if she had seen an end to hapv»iuess, so she had to all its
bitterest elements, its turmoil, trial, restlessness, and
Eain. She was not strong enough to suffer, and now slio
ad ceased to suffer any more. She even seemed for
awhile to rally, and to take an interest in things about
her. The tender, farewell interest of one soon depart-
ing. She was especially sedulous in all duties to her
husband, at least, those which she was able to perform.
But she had long sunk into a thorough invalid wife, most
kindly watched and tended, though more by his orders
than by his personal care, while he went his own ways,
and fell back gradually into much of his old " bache-
lor " life, as it had been spent in the long iuterregnum
between his first marriage and his union with poor Emily
Kendal.
TWO MARRIAGES. 49
"Sir John is quite comfortable; he will not mis^? me
VGi-y much," Mrs. Knowle once heard her say, more
meditatively than complainingly. But that lady, who
had s.o keen a sense of wifely duty, even without love,
never took any notice of the remark.
And when, according to promise, she had leavnt all at-
tainable facts about the Stenhouses, how that they lived
in London, on Mr. Stenhouse's not too large salary in a
merchant's office, and he was reported to be a most kind
husband to the widow, and a careful father to the
three fatherless children — after this, the prudent matron
said as little as possible to Lady Bowerbank on the sub-
ject of her old lover.
Only once, when, after as long an interval as it was
possible for civility to admit of, I\Ir. Stenhouse answered
the congratulations he had received on his marriage in a
letter to Mrs. Knowle, containing the brief message,
"\n& own and his wife's compliments, and thanks to
Sir John and Lady Bowerbank," Emily's eyes filled with
tears.
" lie might have been a little kinder,'^ she said. " But
he docs not know, and he cannot forgive. He never will
forgive me, till I die."
And meantime the two, once lovers, lived on, and did
their duty to the husband and the wife unto whom Fate
had united them. Whether bitter thoughts ever came,
whether in the dead of night either woke up and re-
membered the past, their young, bright, innocent mutual
love, and the cruelty that snatched it from them, and
turned it into a curse; whether their hearts ever burned
within them against man, or, alas! against Providence,
because in this short, short mortal life they were not
made happy, they whose happiness would have injured
no one, and who needed nothing in the world' to make
them happy except a little love, these were mysteries which
must remain forever undisclosed.
But month by month there was disclosed the plain, sad
fact that Sir John Bowerbank's second marriage was not
likely to be of much longer duration than his first one,
whicii most people had altogether forgotten: and much
was the sympathy excited both for him and for the
sweet, fragile creature who was fading away, peacefully
and (^ontentedly, it was evident, but still fading, no one
50 TWO MARRIAGES.
quite knew how or why. All the Liverpool doctors, siuj
more than one London physician, were brought to his
wife by Sir John, in undemonstrative but evident anx-
iety; but they could not cure her, they could not even find
out what was the matter with lier. Hereditary weaknesss,
want of stamina, deficiency of vital force, they called her
disease, or no disease, by all these fine names; but no
human being guessed the root of it except Mrs. Knowle.
She, honest woman, as she sat knitting beside her
*' Edward,^' who was getting an old man now, stout, and
a little infirm with rheumatism, and sometimes a little
cross too with the weight of business, but still at heart
the same hearty, kindly ''goodman" as ever, would often
Bay with a sigh, **Ah, poor Emily! if those two had
only been left to fight the battle out together as we did,
my dear, how much better it would have been!"
At which Mr. Knowle, who never sentimentalized in
his life, just assented, smiled at his "old woman," and
perliaps a little weary of the subject, generally went to
sleep.
How the Stenhouses struggled on, for it must have
been a struggle at best, with their small income and the
three children, Mrs. Knowle could not easily learn. John
Steuhouse seemed determined to drop entirely out of the
range of his old Liverpool friends. To any letters — and
Mrs. Knowle wrote him several — he always returned po-
lite, but long-delayed and unsatisfactory answers, telling
her nothing that she wished to know, and inquiring of
nothing which, she hardly knew why, she would have
liked him to inquire about.
" And there is that poor thing dying, and he does not
even know it!" lamented she sometimes. To which her
husband only answered with the common-sense question:
" And what would be the good of it if he did know?"
Not on her side was Emily aware — and Mrs. Knowle
took care to keep it from her, lest it might disturb her
peaceful dying — that his struggle was the equally hard
Btmggle of living; grinding poverty; a delicate, nervous,
broken-spirited' wife; three hungry children to be fed,
from duty, without the natural fatherly love to sweeten
it; and above all, the daily blank in the life of a strong,
faithful, single-hoarced man, who, having once taken it
ii»to his head, or heart, to love one woman, never can
TWO MARRIAGES. r,l
lonrn to unlove hor to the otkI of his day?. Svicli men
there are, but tliey are very, very rare, and John Sten-
hoiise happened to be one of them.
kSo lie locked his secret up in his breast, and, whether
or not his marriage was a happy one, went on working
steadily and patiently for his wife and for tlie children,
not his own, whom Providence had sent to him. He
slipped away from all his old associates, till even Mr. and
Mrs. Knowle were half inclined to do as he apparently
Avished, and let him go.
But the one person who, with an almost faithful perti-
nacity, held to him, was Sir John Bowerbank. Whether
he, too, was the sort of person, wiio, once taking a liking,
great or small, never relinquishes it, or whether some
other secret inner sympatliy attracted him to young
Stenhouse, as being not unlike what he himself had been
as a young man, certain it was that the head of the firm
never lost sight of his former clerk; and when, on Mr.
Knowle suggesting the ad visibility of a junior partner,
the question arose who should be adopted into such a
valuable and responsible situation, the first person Sir
John proposed to whom the offer should be made was
Mr. Stenhouse.
Edward Knowle was greatly amazed — nay, perplexed.
He rubbed up his hair with a troubled aspect.
"Stop a bit; I think — I think I should like to speak to
my wife about this."
Sir John looked undisguised surprise. " As you please.
But it never occurred to me to consult my wife on busi-
ness matters."
" Indeed!" said the other, catching eagerly at the op-
portunity, '' I wish you would. I really think you had
better, in this matter."
'MVhy?''
''You see," awkwardly explained Mr. Knowle, "a
partner, which also implies a partner's wife, is a serious
thing to the women kind, bringing about much inti-
macy, and all that. I fancy, of course it is only a fancy
of mine, that the ladies would both like to be consulted
about it. Shall mv wife go and speak to Lady Bower-
bank?"
"If she chooses; but it is really great non.sense bring-
ing domestic affairs into a mere question of business. It
82 TWO MARRIAGES.
1
•will cause delay, while every post is a matter of coisse-
qiience. I cauiiot see the use of it at all. In fact, with
your conseuf — and his manner implied with or without
it, for Sir John Bowerbank was a very obstinate man in
his way, as was well known to his partner — " with your
consent, I shall write and make the offer to the young
man to-night."
He did so, and it was declined, declined immediately
and point-blank, Avithout any reasons being assigned for
the refusal.
Sir John was considerably annoyed. To the answer,
which had come, not by letter, but by telegram, so eager
apparently was the young man to renounce the proffered
kindness, he wrote again, suggesting easier terms — terms
80 favorable that no man in his senses seemed likely to
refuse them, and yet by return of post refused they were.
" Tlie man must be mad," said Sir John to his part-
ner.
" Perhaps," was the brief reply.
" Why, he has three children and a delicate wife, and
scarcely enough salary to keep them in bread and cheese;
for you know, at Lady Bowerbank's desire, 1 found out
all about them. She was interested in the wife, and
might write and advise her to persuade her husband out
of his folly. I must speak to Lady Bowerbank."
Meantime Lady Bowerbank had been spoken to. In
fear and trembling the matter had been broken to her by
good Mrs. Knowle; but there was no need for uneasi-
ness; Emily evinced not the slightest sign of agitation.
She merely said that she thought such a partnership
would be the best thing possible, both for the firm and
for Mr. Stenhouse, and that she h.oped it would come
about speedily. And then she lay looking into the sun-
set over the sea, with a strange, soft expression in her
eyes.
"You are sure, quite sure, my dear Emily, that you
have no objection?"
"No; whyshouldl?" And she added again still more
earnestly, " Oh no, not now."
" And by that," commented Mrs. Knowle, as she re-
peated the conversation to her husband, "I am certain
Jfimily feels that she is dying."
They talked the whole matter over for awhile,, con-
TWO MAHRlA<.r. . 53
i'ugally and confidentially, in tlieir own room, for they
Liid beeti asked to dine and sleep that night at Summer
Lodge, as indeed they very often were now, and then
went back to the drawing-room.
There, white indeed as a dying face, bnt eager with
all the strength of life, lay poor Emily, her hnsband .sit-
ting beside her sofa in his quiet, attentive, eldorly way,
and trying, as well as he could, to make little bits of
talk, concerning the news of the day in Liverpool, to
amuse her during the hour and a half that he and his
guests dined, and she rested alone, for she had now ceased
entirely to join the circle at meals.
*' Come here, Mrs. Kuowle, and say if you do not agree
with me — you women understand one another so well. I
have been telling my wife about that young man's exceed-
ing folly — your friend Stenhouse, I mean — in refusing to
enter our firm. It must be a mere crotchet — some offense
taken, or the like, for which we can't afford to lose such
a u.seful partner, or to let a fine young fellow cut his own
throat in that way. I want Lady Bowerbank to write to
his wife, and reason with her. She has a right; for Lady
Bowerbank has done all sorts of kind things to Mrs. Sten-
house."
''Kindness implies no right," said Emily, hastily, and
tremulously. " I don't know iier. I cannot write to her.
What could I say?"
" Just a little common sense — that such a chance as
this does not happen to a man twice in a lifetime, that
Stenliouse should take advantage of it. He is very poor.
I hear he can but Just put bread into the mouths of
those three children. If he were to join us he would
make his fortune."
**' Make his fortune," repeated Emily, wistfully. " Ahl
if that had been, once. But it is too late now."
" Too late, my dear! Nonsense! The young man can-
not be over thirty yet."
" Thirty-one and a half."
Sir John Bowerbank looked exceedingly surprised for
the moment. "I forgot; you said you knew him."
"Yes, I did know him, as Mrs. Knowle is aware. I
met him at her house. I was once going to be married
to him. He was very fond of me."
Quite quietly, without the slightest sign of emotion.
54 :^'li^O MARRIAGES.
Einil\- said these words, as if it had been a fact commu-
nicated concerning a third person; so utterly diTided from
the world and the passions of it seemed that fraii creature,
who already stood close on tiie portals of the world to
come.
" Shall I go away?" whispered Mrs. Knowle, and yet
she dreaded to do it, for there was something so un-
earthly in Emily^s expression just then.
" Oh, no, do not leave me. You can tell my husband
anything he wishes to know. Dear husband! you are not
angry with me? You know I was a poor weak thing al-
ways, and now all will soon be over. It is far the best —
S'dr the best."
" I do not understand," said, with a distressed air, Sir
John Bowerbank.
No, he did not; it was not in him to understand. And
•when, in a few words, for her breath was short and her
strength small, she told him all the story — not that she
had married him without loving him, for this he knew
from the first; but that she had loved another, from
whom she had been so creully separated; that from that
day her poor young life had witliered up at its very
roots; still, still the worthy man seemed as if he could
not understand. He was sixty years old, and the tale be-
lontred to youth and love; to a time which, if he had ever
known, had now entirely passed away even from his re-
membrance. He just looked perplexed, and a little
sorry, and patted, with a soothing gesture, the wasted
hands that were held out to him entreatingly,
''Do not excite yourself, pray do not, my dear! It is
so very bad for you. Just tell me what you wish, and I
■will try to do it."
" And you are not angry?"
"About this young man? No, no. Of course, it was
» great pity, but the thing happens every day. Don't
fret about it, Emily. You are very comfortable as you
are, at least I hope so."
''Yes," said Emily; and her tears ceased, and her
quivering features settled into composure. No, he could
not understand, this good, kindly-meaning, elderly man,
no more than the tens of thousands of respectable men
and women of this world ever do ujiderstand, the full
meaning of love. Love, happy or unhappy, mutual or
i ' H O MARRIA O /'Vs. -'.
uiiretnrned, perfect or uiifnlfilled, but still real, true,
heart-warm love, which is a gift direct from Love divine,
and which ever to know, or to have known, is a blessing
which fills a whole lifetime.
'' You perceive now. Sir John," said Lady Bovverbank,
laying over his her shrunken hand, where the wedding-
ring hung as loosely as the great hoop of diamonds that
guarded it, "you perceive why Mr. Stenhouse is so in-
sensible to all your kiudness. He thinks himself wronged,
and he was wronged — cruell3\ He was made to believe
one thing and I another, and so we were parted. Please
tell my husband how it was, Mrs. Knowle; I have no
strength for speaking much."
"Don't speak at all, for where is the good of it?" said
Sir John, who evidently disliked the discussion of the
matter. "Things can't be mended now, my dear! He
has got a wife and you a husband. So, even if I were to
die, it would be of no use. You could not marry him.**
" I was not thinking of marrying, but of dying.
Husband, I am certain I am dying; and it is hard to die
without his having forgiven me, for he was a good man,
and he was terribly wronged. Often — often I thought of
asking you, but I had not courage. Now I have. "Will
you do one thing for me?"
" What, my dear?"
" Let me see John Stenhouse again, for one haJf hour,
just one ten minutes, before i die!"
" Don't talk of dying; you will live many years yet, I
trust," said Sir John, earnestly.
Emily shook her head.
"Ah! you know better than that. And I would not
ask such a kindness unless I were dying. It is not
wrong; surely you do not think so'''" added she, implor-
ingly. "I only want to tell him the truth; that it was
not I who deceived him; I want to save him, he is a good
man, you know, from having his whole life irabittered
and his future injured by thinking of me as a wicked,
faithless woman, who first jilted him, and then let her
rich husband insult him by showing him kindness. The
truth would set all right, just three words of honest,
simple truth. Husband, may I see him? Mrs. Knowle,
speak for me, please."
66 TWO MARRIAGES.
"' I really tliink yonr wife is right. Sir Jolin," said
plain -speaking Mrs. Knowle.
" Very well. Settle it among yourselves, yon women-
kind!" answered Sir John, as he rose up. '' Only take
care that Lady Bowerbank does not overexert herself.'*
" Thank you,'' breathed rather than spoke the poor
girl; in her excessive fragileness, she seemed wasting
back into thin girlhood again. " And you will forgive
nie, because I cannot either harm you or grieve you
much; I shall be dead so very soon — quietly dead, you
know, as your first wife is, whom you never talked to
me about. I wish you had, now and then. Were you
very fond of her? And I dare say she was very found of
you?"
The old man suddenly sat down again, covering his
eyes with his hand.
"Don't mention her, please. Poor little Jane, rjiy
Janie. She loved me."
And as he sat beside the wife of his prosperous later
days, who, whether living or dying, only coldly esteemed
him, and was grateful to him, perhaps the old man's
thoughts went back, with a sudden leap of memory, to
the wife of his youth and his poverty, so fond, so simple,
80 tender, and so true. When he took his hand away
there were traces of tears on the withered cligeks, and he
rose liastily to depart.
" Well, my dear, we need speak no more on this mat-
ter. You can see Mr. Stenhouse whenever you like, and
if you can persuade him to enter our firm, so much the
better. Impress upon him that capital is of no moment;
a young, active, business-like man is the one thing
reeded, both by Mr. Knowle and myself. Isn't it so,
Mrs. Knowle? You'll write the letter, perhaps? And
you will take good care of my wife here and not let her
mope, eh?"
"I will. Sir John."
"Good-afternoon, then."
And he went away, leaving the women alone.
CHAPTER VII.
What Joliu Stenhouse said to his wife when he got
Mrs. Knowle's letter, a very brief, simple letter, dictated
m^O MARRIAGES. 57
by Lady Bowerbank at her bedside, and merely stating
that she wished to see her old friend again, as she did not
think she was long for this world, what he said or what
he felt, tliis history cannot tell. He was not a man
likely to have confided much of his own previous history
to his wife, nor, when Mrs. Knowle afterward saw tiie
lady, did that acute matron think her a person likely to
have evinced much interest concerning her husband's
early fortunes or lost love; a nice, pretty- faced, gentle
creature, languid, and a little uninteresting, besides being
a little lazy, as Indian ladies are apt to be. Doubtless
the marriage had grown, as so many marriages do grow,
out of mere circumstances, and after it the husband had
gone back very much to his own old life, the life of ac-
tion, or business, or, at best, of general kindly benevo-
lence, a life in which his wife took little part, or indeed,
was capable of taking it.
Wlien Jolm Stenhouse visited Liverpool, for, after
showing the letter to Mrs. Stenhouse, in whom it did not
excite tlie least curiosity, he started north at once, every
one of his old acquaintance, especially the Knowles, no-
ticed a visible change in him, a certain hardness, reti-
cence, and self-containedness, deeper than even the re-
serve of his bachelor days, as if the man had withdrawn
into himself, went his own ways, and carried out his
own life with a grave and sad independence. He spoke
of his home and of his wife with a careful tenderness,
but his eye did not moisten nor his face kindle when
naming either, and tliere was nothing of that total
change from frosty coldness to sunshiny warmth which
is often seen in the looks and manner of a man who mar-
ries ever so late in life, if he marries with all his heart
in the union. In this man's heart, good and true as it
was, and would always remain faithful till death, for
honor's and conscience' sake, to the woman he had taken
to himself, still, as any one who knew the difference
could plainly see, and as Edward and Emma Knowle saw
at a glance, the sacred marriage torch, ever burning yet
ever unconsumed, had never really been lighted, never
would be.
But Stenhouse had been always a silent and undemon-
strative man; and his experience abroad had made him
BQore so, and more sedulous than even in his youth over
58 TWO MARRIAGES.
the keeping up of all outward observances. Even when
he sat listening to Mrs. Knowle's account of Lady Bower-
bank's failing health and the hopelessness of her recovery,
and again to that other story, which it had been ar-
ranged she should tell him, and not Emily, of the cir-
cumstances of her marriage to Sir John, and the letter
found in Mr. KendaFs desk afterward, he exhibited out-
wardly nothing more than a sad gravity; in fact, ha
hardly spoke six consecutive words.
'' So like a man!" cried Mrs. Knowle, half bitterly,
when she was retailing the conversation to her husband.
''I think it was like a man," said honest Edward
Knowle; and his wife, woman as slie was, quick, impul-
sive, and hard to believe in what she did not clearly see,
recognized dimly what her husband meant. She re-
spected, and in years to come learned daily to respect
more, the manly endurance which, beholding the abso-
lute and inevitable, accepts it, and, whatever tlie mau
suffers, makes no sign.
" Thank you," Mr. Stenhouse had said, holding out
his hand to Mrs. Knowle, '* thank you for all your kind-
ness; to me myself — and— to her! Is she able to see me?
If so, had we not better go at once?"
Mrs. Knowle ordered the carriage, and they drove
across country, the miles upon miles of flat country
which mark the Liverpool shore, a long level of roads,
fields, and hedges — hedges, fields, and roads — sometimes
green, perhaps, and not ugly, but tame and uninterest-
ing as a loveless life, as the life which had been meted
out to these two human creatures, who, left to their
own holy instincts, would have met and mingled to-
gether, and flowed on harmoniously as one perfect exist-
ence. Now?
Mr. Stenhouse and Mrs. Knowle conversed very lit-
tle during their drive, and then not concerning any-
thing of tlie past. Onlyonce, with unnecessary caution,
Mrs. Knowle screwed up her courage to its utmost pitch
and said:
" Perhaps it would be better if you did not speak to
Emily about her father." John Stenhouse's face turned
purple-red, and his eyes flamed.
"No, I will remember he is dead — dead." And
within a minute or two he said — the bitterest thing li«
TWO MARRIAGES. 59
ever was known to say, " Mrs. Knowle, my father died a
montli before 1 was born, and my mother seven years aft-
erward. Perhaps it's trne what a oynical friend of mine
used to dechire, 'that when he chose a wife, he wonld
talie care she was a miserable orphan.'"
But they were reaching the door, wliere scarcely any
Tisitors now entered except good Mrs. Knowle. Soon
they passed through the splendid, empty house, where
the mistress had been missing so long that her absence
was scarcely noticed. The large, handsome drawing-
room was just as bright, even though the sofa in the cor-
ner where Emily used to lie was vacated, and had been
for some days. She now occupied a small room, much
quieter and further removed, which had been hastily fit-
ted up for her comfort. In a few days more she. would
vanish even from that into her own chamber and bed,
never to be carried thence till carried away in that nar-
row couch of eternal rest where we all shall be laid some
day. And that day was not very far off now to the weary
soul and worn-out body of Emily Bowerbank. As she
said many a time, life had been too hard for her; she was
glad to go to sleep.
When the strong, hearty, healthy man, still young in
years, and with all his life before him, passed out of the
bright, cheerful drawing-room, full of all sights and
sounds, rich furniture, the scent of exotics, and tlie shrill
note of cage-birds singing — to that small, inner chamber
where the light was subdued, and there was a faint, op-
pressive perfume to make up for the lack of fresh air;
while a sedate old woman, the nurse of Emily's childish
days, sat sewing at tiie window, but turning every min-
ute at the slightest cough or movement of tlie almost
motionless figure on the sofa, John Stenhouse drew back
involuntarily. He had not realized till now all that he
had lost — all that he was losing. Though he had been
told it over and over again, he never really recognized
that the woman he had once loved so passionately — the
pretty, bright girl, with her rosy cheeks, her laughing
eyes, and her heart full of the fondest, most innocent love,
was dying.
He was married now; another woman owned his duty,
and possessed a great deal of the tenderness tl\at no hon-
orable man can fail to give to a creature so utterly de-
60 TWO MARRIAGES.
EeuJeut ou him as a wife is — but Emily Kendal had been
is first lore. All the memories of it, and of her, rushed
upon him with an agony irrepressible. He grasped Mrs.
Knowlo by the arm as she was going into tlie sick-room.
" Wait a minute — stay I — say I'll come presently."^
And he rushed away, right down the staircase, 'and
through the first open door (for it was high summer, and
the air was full of sunshine and of roses) into the gar-
den.
It was half an hour before he returned, which gave time
for them to meet, as alone was possible these two could
meet, as old friends, calm, tender, self-possessed, friends
over whom hung the sacred shadow of the eternal part-
ing, at least the parting which we call eternal in this
world, though it often makes closer and nearer, for the
rest of life, those who otherwise would have been for-
ever divided.
Perhaps Emily felt this; for, as she raised herself a
little from her sofa, and lield out her hand to Mr. Steu-
house, there was not a trace of agitation or confusion in
her manner.
"I am very glad to see you. It was so kind of you to
come. Did vou leave your wife quite well? and all the
children?"
Commonplace, simple words they were, the simplest,
most natural, that could possibly be chosen, and yet they
were the best and safest. They took off the tnige of that
sharp agony wliich was thrilling through every fiher of
the strong man's heart. They brought him back to the
commonplace daily world, to his daily duties, and his
ordinary ways. The wholesome, saving present came
between him and the delirious past. And though it was
Emily's old smile, her very tone of voice, and a trick of
manner she had, how well he recalled it. of half extend-
ing her liand, drawing back, and then putting it forward
again, with the uncertainty that was the weak point in
her character, still he had no desire to snatch her to his
arms, and hold her there, in her old familiar place, like
any mortal woman. He felt inclined rather to stand
apart and gaze at her, as she lay, consecrated from
earthly emotion in her almost superhuman peace, or else
to fall on his knees and worship her, as Dante worshiped
his Beatrice when he met her in the fields of Paradise.
TWO MARRIAGES. til
And Ire found himself powerless to say any other words
than one or two, as brio! and inexpressive as her own.
" M3' wife and the children are well. It was very good
of you to send for me, after I had been so rude, so un-
grateful almost, to your husband."
Emily bent her head, acquiescing; and then, as if with
a great effort:
"I had something to say to you, something I tliought
you would listen to, from me, now. I entreat you to ac-
cept this partnership. It will be a good thing for you,
and an equally good thing for Sir John and Mr. Knowle.
You would like Sir John very much if you knew him
■well. He knew nothing about you and me till lately.
And he has been such a good, good husband to me.''
''Thank God for that! If — if he had been anything
else than good to you "
And then, shocked by the sound of his own harsh voice
jarring on the stillness of the room, and still more so by
perceiving the sudden tremor that came over Lady Bow-
erbank, he stopped, recognizing the sanctity of sickness,
of near advancing death.
"Yes," be added, almost in a whisper, "I feel very
grateful to Sir John Bowerbank; I am not ashamed of
his knowing — indeed, I have been askiug Mrs. Knowle
to tell him — how very poor we are, and are likely to re-
main; and that if he really still wishes me to accept his
offer, I will do my utmost to prove deserving of it."
**t\'ill you? oh, will you?" clasping her hands in her
old, pretty, childish way at anything she was very glad of.
John Stenhouse turned away.
" It is not easy, but I will do it because you wish it,
for your sake."
''"^No; do it for your own," said Emily, solemnly, with
all the old childish manner gone. " Do it, that you may
take a wise man's advantage of this chance of getting
on in the world, and liv.ng fully the life that is before
.you. Think, a life of twenty, thirty years, with work to
do, and money to use, and influence to make the most
of, for the good of yourself and all that belong to you.
That is what I want. I want you to lead your own no-
ble, active, useful life — just as I once planned it — though
it was not to be beside me, and though I shall not even
Bee it; for I am going away, John — you know that?"
62 TWO 3TARRIAGES.
He could not deny it; he did not even attempt to do
so; he just moved his lips, but they would not form a
sound.
" Yes, going away — in a few days, or a few weeks more,
to where I know I shall be quite happy — happier than I
ever could be here. I only wished before I went to let
you know the truth. She," glancing to Mrs. Knowle,
*'she has told )'ou all?"
" Yes," he muttered, but attempted not, nor did Em-
ily offer, any further explanation. Oue a husband, the
other a wife, with the shadow of the dead father between
them — it was impossible. The past was over and done.
But the present was peace — all peace.
''And now good-b3'e, and God bless you," said Emily,
faintly. '' Give my love to your wife. Does she know
anything about me?"
" No; I never told her."
" Ah! well, let that be as you choose. And one thing
— I know I have forgotten one thing that I had to say to
you — Mrs. Knowle, what is it! Oh, my head! Please,
Mrs. Knowle, will you lielp me?" with the querulous
tone and wandering eye which told at once how fast her
sand of life was running. '* Yes; I remember now; it
was to give you this," taking a valuable diamond brooch,
from under her pillow, "and to ask you, if ever you liave
a little daughter of your own, to give it to her from me.
And perhaps, if your wife did not object, you wouldn't
mind calling her Emily?"
Nobody answered or stirred, not even Mrs. Knowle,
who stood at the window in nurse's vacated place; nor
John Stenhouse, who sat opposite the sofa where Lady
Bowerbank lay — sat, with his hands clasped tightly oti
his knees, looking at her, as if he wished to carry away
the last picture of her, vivid as life and youth, perma-
nent as love and death.
At length he moved, and, takiii'g the brooch from her
hand, kissed both, and so bade her farewell.
" If YOU come soon to settle in Liverpool, perhaps I
may see you ouce more," said she, gently, and with a
sort of compassion in her voice, for she saw tliat he was
absolutely dumb with sorrow. But both knew that this
was only a fiction to hide the last good-bye; and when the
TWO MARRIAGES. 63
door closed behind them, both felt that they never woukl
see one another af^ain.
They never did, though Lady Bowerbank lived for sev-
eral weeks longer, and even after the time when theSteu-
houses came to settle in Liverpool. She heard all about
them from Mrs. Knowle, who, in her customary activ-e—
way, was exceedingly helpful to the rather helpless In-
dian lady; and she seemed to take a faint, flickering in-
terest — the hist interest of her fading life — in the house
they fixed on, the manner they furnished it, and their
general household ways. Nay, she sent many little gifts
to them — harmless, domestic gifts, such as not even the
proudest man could reject, and which, without making
any external show of giving, greatly added to the com-
fort of Mr. Steuhouse's home. But she never asked to
Bee him again. She seemed to feel that the last meeting
had been a peaceful closing of everything tiiat bound her
to life, and everything that made death painful; appar-
ently she did not wish to revive either, but lay 2:)erfectly
at rest, waiting patiently for the supreme call.
It came at last, quite suddenly, as often happens in
consumption, when both the watchers and the patient
are lulled into a hope that it is still far distant. She had
no one with her, and no time to say farewell to anybody;
only the nurse, running to her and bending over her, fan-
cied there came through the choking of the expiring
breath the words, "John, dear John."
Consequently the woman fetched Sir John, and told
him, and Mrs. Knowle, and everybody, that Lady Bow-
erbank's last words had been her husband's name. No-
body contradicted the fact.
It may be thought a proof of the hardness of John Sten-
honse's heart to state that except the one day of Lady
Bowerbauk's funeral, when, out of respect to her mem-
ory, the" house of Bowerbank & Co. was closed, and the
clerks had liberty to enjoy themselves as they pleased —
and she would have been glad of it, dear, kindly heart —
except on this occasion the junior partner of the firm was
never an hour absent from his desk. He came early — he
went late — he filled the place of both his senior partners
— Mr. Knowle, who was laid up with an attack of rheu-
matism, and Sir John, from whom, of course, little could
64 TWO MARRIAGES.
be expected just now. lu every way he did his duty liko
a man; and not one of those excellent gentlemen ou
'Change, with whom he daily transacted business, giving
'promise that the new blood which had come into the firm
would make the house of Bowerbank & Co. higher than
ever among Liverpool merchants— not one of them ever
suspected that within the week a light had gone out of
this young man's life which nothing in the world could
ever relume.
Nevertheless, John Stenliouse's life has neither been
useless nor sad. Moderately prosperous, and widely hon-
ored by all who know him, externally he may be consid-
sidered a happy and successful man. And his home,
if a little dull sometimes, is always quiet and comfort-
able. In course of time it was brightened by a little
daughter, his very own little daughter, and he called her
Emily. In compliment, and very right, too, everybody
said, to the head of the firm and his deceased wife, poor
Lady Bowerbank.
Emily's instinct, true woman's instinct, was correct.
Sir John and Mr. Stenhouse became fast friends. Such
strange likings often occur under circumstances which,
in meaner natures, produce only jealousy and aversion.
But these three, the two men left liviilg and the sweet
woman happily dead, were all good people, none of
whom had intentionally wronged the other, but had all
been sinned against by the one selfish, hard heart, which
was now a mere liandful of dust. Still, by the merciful
ordinance of Providence, evil itself is limited in its
power against good, es])ecially when after it comes the
solemn, iiealing hand of inevitable fate, which the fool-
ish and bad resist, but by which the wise and good are
calmed aud soothed.
When Emily was dead, the two honest men who had
loved and mourned her, one witli the wild, angry passion
of loss, the other with a half-remorseful tenderness, were
unconsciously drawn to one another in a way neither
coukl have explained or desired to explain, but both felt
it was so. I'hey sought one another's company shyly
and doubtfully at first; afterward with a yearning sort of
curiosity; finally out of warm regard. The great differ-
ence of ago between them, which might have been that
of father and son, and the fact that the one had never
TWO MARRIAGES. 65
had a father nor the other a son, also combined to pre-
vent all feeling of rivalry, and to form a bond of mutual
attraction and mutual usefulness. And she who was
gone, though her name was never once named between
them till Mr. Sten house asked Sir John's permission to
give it to his baby daughter, constituted a tie stronger
than anything external.
Mr. Knowle was a little surprised, and so was Mrs.
Kuowle, to see the great cordiality and even intimacy
which in the course of a year sprung up between the sen-
ior and junior partners. But the Knovvles were both such
kindly people that, though they did not understand it —
indeed, would have expected things to be altogetlier dif-
ferent, they were exceedingly glad it was so — exceedingly
temier, too, in a half sad sort of way, over the baby Emily,
whom good Mrs. Knowle took to with a warmth surpass-
ing even her universal and ardent affection for all babies.
And so the three households of the firm of John Bower-
bank & Co. still subsist; two rich and childless, one much
poorer, but not without many blessings. There is, at all
events, wherewithal to put food into the little mouths,
and clothes on the little bodies, and instruction into the
little minds; and John Stenhouse is a good father, who,
in a literal sense, ''makes no step-bairns," but is equally
just and tender with his own and his wife's daughters.
As a parent of young children he has been also faultless;
Avhat he may be when the little maidens grow up and
take to marrying. Heaven knows! But the sliarp experi-
ence of his own life may be all the better for theirs.
People do say that one of them is not likely to be poor
all her life, but will be chosen by Sir John Bowerbank as
his heiress, at least so far as regards the late Lady Bower-
bank's fortiine; his own. Sir John openly declares, he
means to divide among charitable institutions. Poor lit-
tle Emily! now running about under the shady alleys of
Birkenhead Park in her cotton frock, and with occasional
holes in her shoes, she knows not what may be her des-
tiny! Nor does her father, good man, who watches her
and guards her, and is both father and mother to her, for
Mrs. Stenliouse, though sweet as ever, has sunk into con-
firmed laziness and elegant invalidism. Her girls are
good children, but the apple of the father's eye is his own
little daughter; and no doubt even now he thinks with u
66 Tiro MABRIAGES.
cevtiiiu vague dread of the young man who may be com-
ing some day to snatch her from him.
Still, under all circumstances, even the alarming catas-
trophe of Emily's marriage, I think John Stenhouse will
prove himself a just, an unselfish, and a loving father.
And if, human nature being weak at best, he is ever
tempted to be otherwise, he will think, as he does think,
in many a wakeful midnight, with his wife fast asleep
beside him, of that quiet grave, within sound of the
waves on Waterloo shore, where lies buried the love of
his youth, the one woman who would have made him
really happy and been happy herself, who, instead of
dying thus, might have lived to be the light of his home
and the mother of his children — poor Emily Kendal.
PARSON GARLAXD'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER I.
The Reverend William Garland was, in the primitive
sense of the word {vide Chaucer and others), and as it is
still used in remote English parishes, of which his own
formed one of the remotest and smallest, emphatically a
** parson." Whether legally he could be termed rector,
vicar, perpetual curate, or incumbent, I do not know; in
his own place he was rarely called anything but " the
parson," just as the only other educated person within
tlie boundary of the parish was called "the squire."
They divided the land between them, and the people's
hearts, though in both cases the division was notably un-
equal. But with this said squire, Richard Crux, of Crux-
ham Hall, the present story has little to do, more than
to mention his name, and the fact of his residence within
the parish Tat the shooting season, for two months in
every twelve), in order to show what a lonely parish it
must have been, and what a shut-up, solitary existence
tliis was for any man of education and refinement to lead.
Yet the Reverend William Garland had led it for more
tlian twenty years, and now, though over seventy, he still
continued to discharge, single-handed, without even a
■week's absence, the duties of pastor to that small and
simple flock.
TWO MARRIAGES. il
A very simple flock they were in truth, niaiiy of thein
never htiviiig been in their lives further thuu the nearest
niiirket-town, ten miles off. They subsisted chiefly by
farm labor and fishing; for, being only half a mile from
tlie coast (the southern coast of England), they now and
thou roused themselves sufficiently to secure a little of
the deep-sea riches that lay close at hand, and drive a
mild and innocent piscatory trade, chiefly in lobsters.
But, on the whole, the aspect of the place and its few
inhabitants was as if they and it had grown up out of the
earth somehow, and remained there as stationary as cab-
bages, with no need to toil for their existence, and no
power or will to change it; at least this was the impres-
sion it would probably have made upon a stranger, who,
in crossing the miles upon miles of waving downs, ending
in those sheer precipices of chalk rock which form the
often-sung ** white cliffs of Albion," came upon the tiny
village of Imraeridge.
It was almost a compliment to call it a village, for it
consisted of a mere handful of cottages, one being ele-
vated into the dignity of the post-office and general
shop, a single house, and the parsonage. The church,
as old as the Norman Conquest, Avas very small, and its
churchyard contained so few graves that every one of
them was a separate chronicle; and by going over them
you might guess, fairly enough, at the village history for
centuries. All its family records of joy and sorrow, birth,
marriage, and death, lay covered over in peace by the
green turf here.
Here, too, lay the secret of what struck every acci-
dental worshiper in the church, and every stray visitant
to the village and parsonage, as such a remarkable thing
— that a man like the Reverend William Garland should
ever have been found at Immeridge, or, being so located,
could possibly have remained there, as he had done, for
twenty long years.
Just between the parsonage garden-gate and the chau-
cel-windo*v was a head -stone, notable only for its plain-
ness and for the brevity of the inscription u2)on it. There
was only a name, " Mary Garland," and three dates of
the three epochs which record all lives, *' born," " mar-
ried," ''died." Between the first and seccmd was an in-
terval of forty years; between the second and third one
68 TWO MARRIAGES.
year only. Underneath, the letters being so equally old
and moss-covered that the oddity did not at first strike a
passei"-by, was a second inscription, ''Also of the Rever-
end William Garland, her husband, who died , a^ed
years;" blanks being left for the figures, to be filled
up — when? by some hand unknown.
In that grave, whicii the present generation at Im-
meridge almost forgot existed, and which only an oc-
casional old man or woman gave a sigh to, in watching
the parson's gown sweep past it, Sunday after Sunday,
on his way from his own gate to the vestry door — in that
grave lay the mystery, snch as it was, of Mr. Garland's
life from manhood to old age.
lie had fallen in love with her — the "her" who to
other people was now a poor handful of dust, but which
to him was still a living real woman and wife — fallen in
love, not very early, for he Avas a shy man and a hard
student, but soon after he got his fellowship. They were
quite alone in the world — orphans, with no near kin, he
being the last of an old county family, having gone up to
Cambridge as a sizar, and thence worked his way to con-
siderable honor; and she, of no family at all, having
worked her way also, and earned her bread hardly as a
resident governess. It was an attachment which, as
neither had anything to marry upon except love, might
fairly be cliaracterized as ''imprudent;" but there was no
one to tell them so, and the mere love made them happy.
So, as they were both young enough to wait, and as some
one of the livings in the gift of .college was certain to fall
to Mr. Garland's lot in time, they did wait, silently and
patiently, for fifteen years.
No doubt it was a sad alternative. Of a truth, this
sitting watching for dead men's shoes is one of the hard-
est trials to human endurance and human goodness; but
somehow thoy bore it, these two, and were not actually
unhappy — that is, they wore less unhappy than if they
had parted, on the prudential motives wliich, had they
not luckily been two lonely creatures, would have been
worried into them by affectionate friends and relatives.
As it was, they were at least allowed ^o blight their lives
in their own way.
At length the living of Immeridge fell, in customary
rotation, to the eldest fellow, and though it was a very
TWO MARRIAGES. 69
poor one, and the next one due was considerably richer,
stiil William Garland decided not to let it pass him by.
He, and Mary Keith too, were willing to risk any poverty
that was not actual want sooner ^hau longer separation.
So they married; and as blessings, like sorrows, rarely
come alone, a few days after her wedding, she was left a
legacy which doubled their income, and made the brave
facing of narrow means a needless courage, to be smiled
over, contentedly and half proudly, in the years to come
— the bright, easy, sunshiny years which never came.
For within thirteen months Mrs. Garland was taken
out of her husband's arms, and laid to sleep until the
resurrection morning, under that green grass, between
the church chancel and t!ie parsonage gate. She died —
more than peacefully — tliankfully, telling him she had
been ^*so very happy;' and slie left him a bit of herself
— not the little daughter he had longed for, but a baby
son, who for days was scarcely taken notice of, and whom
nobody expected to live. The boy did live nevertheless;
and the first interest his father showed in him, or in any
earthly thing, was in christening him, as near to hi3
motlier's name as po.ssible, Marius Keith Garland; and
from that hour William Garland roused himself, almost
by a miracle, from a stunning stroke of his sorrow; and
grave college fellow as he had been only a few months
before — and even his brief married life was only begin-
Vi»g to shake him out of his loug-habitunl, old-bachelor
ways — he made himself at once both father and mother
to the puny infant — his only cliild.
For at fifty, a man who has had the blessing — ay, even
if a fatal blessing, of loving one woman all his life — who
has married, and lived happy with her only fo,- a year, is
a little less likely than most men. to marry again. Mr.
Garland never did so. Whether through a certain want
of energy, which, perhaps, had been the weak point in
his character, and influenced his fortunes in sadder ways
thau I'.e himself suspected, or whether the wound, which
scarcely showed outside, had in truth withered up the
springs of life and manly ambition forever, certain it was
that he never tried to better himself by leaving the little
village whicii had witnessed his crowning joy and utmost
anguish, which was his son's birthplace and liis wife's
grave. He settled down in this out-of-the-world uoo-k«
70 TWO MARRIAGES.
discharged fuitlifully and fully all his duties there, but
sought no others. He refused all attractions from with-
out, though these Avere not wanting to a man of his culti-
vated tastes, for he was a first-rate mathematician, and,
for the two often go together, a scientific musician like-
wise. He never revisited his old college haunts, and
after a few years seemed to have not a thought or interest
beyond the boundary of his parish and its duties, such as
they were.
Not that he was in any way soured; a man of his sweet
nature could not be, especially by a sorrow which had
come direct from Providence, and had no wrong or
bitterness in it. But it had fallen upon him too late in
life for him to recover from it; and though his heart was
not crushed or broken, for with a woman's gentleness he
also seemed to possess a woman's miraculous strength in
affiiction, still his masculine ambition was killed within
him. He could not rise and go back into the world, and
make himself a new path in it; he preferred to take his
child to his bosom, and hide himself in the quiet home
whicli for one little year sJte had made so happy; narrow-
ing his wishes down to his duties, and hers, which he
hail also to fulfill, and so spending, as it were, in the
shad«w of her perpetual invisible presence, the remainder
of his uneventful days.
A life which some may think small, limited, unworthy
of a man, and a man of education and intellect. Possi-
bly; I neither defend it nor apologize for it; I merely
record it as it was, and had been for twenty years; for
now young Keith Garland (since his school-days he had
propped the " Marius" as being odd and heathenish, and
because the boys turned it into "Polly") was actually
grown up from tiie forlorn, puling baby into a fine young
man, whom his father, justly considering the difference
of half a century between parent and child, was too wise
to educate entirely himself, but had sent- first to a public
school and then to college, the same quiet old college^ at
Cambridge where Mr. Garland had spent so large a portion
of his life.
Of course that cost a good deal— quite on« half of his
income; but he did not grudge it. He never grudged
anything to his boy, nor restricted him in aught but what
wae wrong. And though Marius did wrong things some-
TWO MARRIAGES. 71
times, tlie parson's only son was not a ba(] boy — not more
selfish than only children are jirone to be; very unlike
his father, and still more unlike his mother, having
neither the delicate refinement of mind and body of the
former, nor the noble moral nature, generous, frank, and
brave, which had made Mary Keith beloved till her dying
day by a man far cleverer and handsomer than herself;
still, young Garland was a fine fellow, full of animal life
and activity, with a sufficient quantum of brains and
affections to serve as ballast for both— a good ship, well
built and sound, capable of many a voyage, if only ib
should please Heaven to put a steady captain on board,
and a quick-eyed steersman at the helm.
But why further describe the lad? He was like most
lads of his age — neither better nor worse than his neigh-
bors — fairly well liked both in the little world of Imme-
ridge and the larger one of his college. And to hia
father — well, to the solitary parson this one untried vessel
was his argosy of price, on which all his life's stores,
youth's memories, manhood's pride, and old age's hope,
were solemnly embarked, as men sometimes (and women,
alas! only too often) do embark their whole treasures in
a single ship, and sit and watch it from the shore, sailing,
sailing faraway — whither God knows! — the only certainty,
often the only reliance, in such an awful watch being the
firm faith that He does know.
Mr. Garland had just sent his son back to college after
the first long vacation spent at home, partly in reading
— or what Keith called such, and partly in wandering up
and down country in the lovely September days, with his
gun on his shoulder, though it was seldom that he brought
home a bird. Indeed the youth had, his father thought,
an unlimited faculty for doing nothing; and after many
weeks of that valuable employment, it was a certain satis-
faction, in spite of the pang of parting in the fatherly
heart, which circumstances had made likewise almost
motherly in its tenderness and its anxiety, to feel that the
lad was safe back at his work again; for Keith always
worked hard, and conscientiously too; so far as the con-
science of twenty years goes, when he was really within
the walls of his college.
In the still October sunshine, which streamed in one
unbroken flood oveV the smooth downs, and dazzled
73 TWO MARRIAGES.
whitely where they broke abruptly into high chalk cliffs,
walked the parson, gazing idly on these long familiar
green slopes, and on the glittering sea with its specks of
ships, each seeming stationary, yet in reality gliding,
gliding away, every minute further and further, like
human lives, into the under world. Mr. Garland had
bidden his son good-bye only an hour or two before, and
his mind absently followed the lad from these known
places to others equally well known, which belonged to
his earlier world, lingering dreamily over those same old
college walls which had been his own home for so many
years. He had never revisited them, never wished to re-
visit them; but his fancy hung over the thought of them,
those gray cloisters and courts, those green leafy avenues,
with the fondness that most University men have for their
Alma Mater, the place mixed up with all their youthful
hopes, and dreams, and friendships, to which they cling
tenderly to the last day of iheir lives.
Mr. Garland liked to picture his boy there, with all his
future before him, a future full of high hopes, college
honors, Avorldly successes, and, by and by, domestic
joys; for the good man was eager, as we all are, to plan
for our successors a brighter destiny than our own,
fraught with all our blessings and none of our woes;
profiting by our experiences and omitting our mistakes;
carrying out victoriously all that we desired, yet failed
to do; and enjoying fully every bliss that to us Heaven's
inscrutable wisdom denied. There must have been a
curious simplicity as well as youthfulness of feeling, still
latent in the old man of seventy, for, as he walked
along, he amused himself with planning his son's future
almost as a woman would have done; for his secluded
life had kept in him that freshn'ess and unworldliness
which women generally retain much longer than men,
and which often makes a woman who was elderly in her
teens, in old age as young in heart as a maiden of
twenty. It was almost childlike; nay, he smiled at it
himself, the way the good clergyman speculated about
his boy, as he slowly meandered on, his soft white hair
floating over his coat- collar, and his hands clasped be-
hind him, over his lengthy, and, it must be owned,
rather shabby coat-tails,
Manns — the father jilone still called him Mariiis — was
TWO MARRIAGES. 73
to take holy ordei's, that is, if he had no strong objeC'
tions thereto; but he should never be forced into any-
thing. He might win his degree and as much of college
honors as he could, but he was not to struggle for a fel-
lowship; there was no need, since he would inherit his
mother's little fortune; and a fellowship hindered mar-
riage, which the twenty- years solitary widower still be-
lieved to be the purest aim and higiiest blessing of any
man's existence.
" Yes, Mariu^ must marry," said he to himself, with
a half sigh. "And his lot shall not be like mine. He
shall marry early, as soon as ever he is in full orders, and
can get a good curacy, perhaps even a living; I can still
bring some influence to bear."
And with a pleased look he called to mind a very
friendly letter from his bishop lately received, and an-
other from a mathematical dean in a neighboring diocese,
urging the publication of a book on some abstruse topic
wliereon Mr. Garland had wasted gallons of "midnight
oil," and quires of valuable paper, during the last two
solitary winters at Immeridge Parsonage.
" Perhaps I could make it into a book after all, and so
get my name loiown a little, which might be useful to
my son."
Not to himself; that phase of ambition never crossed
the parson's imagination. Nor had he ever been able to
make use of anybody for himself. But his son? Many
a scheme of most childlike Machiavelianism did he con-
coct, as he climbed slowly up, and as slowly descended,
these eminences of green turf, round which the cliff-
swallows and an occasional sea-gull were merrily circling.
These schemes were solely for his boy's benefit — acquaint-
ances to make, influential people to be cultivated, and so
on, and so on, even to the last and most vital question of
all — where in the Avide world was Keith to find for him-
self a wife?
At Cambridge, certainly not; for, at the date of this
history, Avider even than now was the gulf between dons
and undergraduates, rendering the entrance of the latter
into anything like family life very difficult, nearly im-
possible. And at Immeridge Keith's lot was worse. Not
a household in the parish contained any youthful women-
kind above the rank of laborers' daughters, except Crux-
74 TWO MARRIAGES.
ham Hall, by the bye; but the Misses Crux were quite
elderly, and, save at church, the young man had never
beheld them, otherwise the father might have built a
charming little romance, since, knowing he came of as
good blood as the Cruxes, it never occurred to him that a
niarruige between the hall and the parsonage would be in
the least a mesalliance. If, indeed, he had a weak point,
this true, honest. Christian man, it was that, having
been, as the phrase is, "a. gentleman born," and having
lived all his life among gentlemen, he was a little sensi-
tive on the point of gentlemanhood, that is, he liked his
intimate associates to be of good birth, good breeding,
and possessed of those nameless refinements which, to be
perfect, must be known by the absence of any demonstra-
tion thereof, even as the best of pure water is its being aa
colorless and tasteless as it is clear.
" Yes," meditated the good man, " Miss Crux is not
bad — pretty, and quite a gentlewoman; she would have
done had she been ten years younger. But now, where
in the wide world is Marius to look out for a wife?"
And then he laughed at his own folly in so seriously
arguing the matter, when the boy was only a boy, not
one-and-twenty yet.
''The idea of marrying can never have entered his
head. What an old idiot I am to let it enter into
mine!"
But, in spite of himself, he could not quite dismiss the
Alnaschar-like vision, born, perhaps, out of the unwonted
gravity and tenderness, more manly than boy-like, with
which Keith had bidden him good-bye that morning; the
vision of hia only son bringing to the parsonage a wife,
who, of course, would be the parson's daughter.
" My daughter! yes, she would be that. Only te
think! I should actually have a daughter."
And with a sudden gleam of remembrance there
flashed back upon the old man's fancy that old dream,
dreamed before Keith was born or thought of, that vis-
ion of beauty which to most men takes a shape feminine,
the father's delight, the little daughter.
" What if, by and by, this dream should be realized?
Not exactly as he had first desired it, the little girl all hia
own, growing up from babyhood to womanhood as hia
ideal daughter, but as his daughter-in-law, next best, who
TWO MARRIAGES. 75
might be a very perfect woman, too, pretty, of course,
though he did not absiJutely exact it; her mother, that
is, her mother-in-law, had not been pretty, yet was not
Mary Garland the essence of all grace and all ladyliood?
Of course, Keith's wife would be a lady, well educated,
possibly clever; Mr. Garland disliked stupid women.
But still he would give up the brilliancy if she had good
common sense and household wisdom — the true, delicate,
feminine wisdom which alone makes harmony in a house-
hold, and welds together its jarring qualities into a smooth
Burface of family peace. A sweet temper, above all, she
must have, this paragon of danghters-in-law; a nature
calm and even, placid and bright, like that whicii for
thirteen little months had spread such a sunshine through
the parsonage rooms, that to this day the sunshine had
never quite gone out of them. The woman that was to
come, the parson's " daughter," would bring it half back
again, and shine upon the evening of his days like the
dim but lovely reflection of days departed.
The tears came into Mr. Garland's eyes as he thought
of all Keith's wife would be to him, and all he would try
to be to her, till he loved her already as if she had been a
real existence — as she was, of course, somewhere in the
■world. He Tvondered where, and what she was like, and
what happy chance would bring her and his boy to-
gether?
"■ 'Truly I am a very foolish, fond old man,'" said be
to himself, quoting " Lear," and then, after his dreamy,
meditative fashion, wandering away from the subject in
hand to speculate on the play in general, and especially
on the character of Lear, whom he always thought had
been considerably ovorpitied and overrated.
"I should like to write a criticism on him, the weak,
ambitious, vain, exacting old fellow; what better daugh-
ters could he expect to have? He who could so exile
Cordelia and curse Regan scarcely deserved a better fate.
I fancy our children are very much to us as we are to
them. I hope never to feel the ' serpent's tooth;' but oh,
I hope still more that I shall never play old Lear to my
boy Marius. She was a sensible woman, that poor Cor-
delia:
" ' Sure I shall never uiarry like my sisters,
To love my father all.'
76 TWO MARRIAGES.
And when Keith marries, I must make "p my mind to
some sacrifices: I cannot expect him to ' love liis father
all!' Ileigh-ho! Can that be actually Valley Farm
gate?''
He found he had walked six or seven miles across
country to the nearest farmhouse out of his own parish,
where twice or thrice a year he was in tlie habit of call-
ing. It belonged to a worthy old couple, Mr. »nd Mrs.
Love, who had inhabited it for half a century, and made
it into the pretty place that it certainly Avas. Keith had
always been fond of going there, and was a sort of spoiled
pot to the childless pair, and his father was grateful to
anybody who was kind to Keith. So, as the sun was now
sloping westward, he thought he would just climb the
one little hill above— somehow this year Mr. Garland had
felt the hills higher, and the valleys deeper than they
used to be — and invite himself to tea and a rest in Mrs.
Love's parlor. He always liked a chat with the old lady,
and Marius had not mentioned having seen her lately;
possibly because the college man had not found that sim-
ple old couple so interesting as formerly, and had been
less often to the farm, which neglect the father deter-
mined to make up with a little extra civility.
"Is Mr3. Love at home?" he asked of a girl who stood
feeding poultry by the stablc--door, a servant evidently,
though for a niiiiure the parson had doubted it, being
struck by the grace of her attitude and tiie prettiness of
her face. Bat her arms were red and dirty, and so was
her gown; and the moment she opened her mouth it was
quite clear she was only a farA-servant,
" The missus bean't at home, please, sir," answered she,
dropping a courtesy, and blushing red as peony; ''but the
measter be about somevvheres; would 'ee like to see 'un,
Mr. Garland?"
" You know me, it seems, my girl," said the parson,
stopping to give a second look into the face which really
would have been pretty had it only been clean. " Do you
belong to Immeridge?"
'' No, sir; I do come from C ," naming a town se?-
eral miles oil.
" And you live as servant here?"
" Yes, sir."
" Well, yoii have a kind, good mistress, I know that.
TWO MARRIAGES. 77
And 3'Ou look like a good girl, who would bo dutiful
and attentive to old folk. I hope von will long letnuin
here and be a comfort to them. Tell your mastci- 1
am taking a rest in the parlor; he must not hurry him-
eelf."
So the good parson sauntered in at the always open
door, a little pleased, iu spite of its dirt, by the pretty
face; he so seldom saw a new face at all, and tins one
attracted him for the moment, just like a new roadside
flower. He soon forgot it, however, for, being weary, he
had scarcely sat down iu Mr. Love's easy arm-chair before
he fell sound asleep.
"When he awoke it was to see the servant-girl standing
beside him, examining him curiously. Her master had
not come in, for which absence she made some confused
explanation in an accent so broad — so much broader than
even Jfr. Garland was used to, that he gave up the at-
tempt to understand it, especially as he was very hungry,
and there lay ready prepared beside him a capital tea,
Avhioh Avas evidently meant for his benefit.
" You are a sensible lass, and a kindly," said he, as he
fell to with earnest appetite, noticing also that she had
"cleansed herself up" to wait upon him, and was really
very comely.
But his glance was only momentary; though, as he ate
his meal, he spoke to her from time to time with that
gentle but slightly reserved manner which, people said
sometimes, was the only fault the parson had in his par-
ish; he Avas a little two dignified and distant with his
inferiors. Not that he meant any unkindness, but
simply that he did not quite understand them.
Having finished his tea, he left all courteous messages
for the master and mistress, and thanked the girl for
her civilities.
" And what is your ntnne?" askedlie, absently, as he
drew on his gloves.
'' Charlotte."
" Good-bye, then, Charlotte, and thank you. My com-
pliments to your master and mistress, and say I shall call
again some day before long."
He put a shilling into her hand and went his way.
78 TWO MARRIAGES.
CHAPTER II.
Mr. Garland was sitting in his study, where, to save
fires, and trouble to his one old servant — almost as old as
himself — he very often sat all day — these long, quiet
winter days, which he usually spent quite alone, or,
rather, with one invisible companionship, perhaps nearer
to him in winter than in the summer season, for she^—
his wife Mary — had died in early spring, and his last
memories of her were connected with the winter after-
noons and evenings, when she used to lie on that sofa,
pale but peaceful, with the fire-glow shining on her light
hair; for, even though useless, she liked to stay beside
him; and he fancied he could write his sermons better
when slie was there. So she often lay for hours almost
silent — Mrs. Garland was never a great talker — watching
him as he wrote, and thinking. He often wondered iu
after years what she could have been thinking about,
and whether she had any dim prevision of his lonely
years to come, which made her look so strangely sweet
and grave.
It was all over now, long, long ago, but the memory
of it and of her was vivid yet. Even to this day, on a
Saturday afternoon, the parson will lift up his eyes from
his sermon, half expecting to see her lying there, look-
ing at him with those eyes of love which had warmed
his inmost heart his whole life through — a love which
death only would quench in closing them forever.
Mr. Garland sighed, but it was a sigh of remembrance
rather than of sorrow. Time had long since taken the
Bting out of his grief; besides, he was not quite forlorn —
no man ever can be who has once been thoroughly happy.
He pushed his sermon aside for a time, and took up and
reread his son Keith's Christmas letter, on this, the first
Christmas that they had ever been apart.
Keith had written to say he was working very hard —
80 hard that he thought it advisable to remain at college
during the brief vacation. And in this letter he made,
for the first time, a hesitating request for a little more
money. Altogether, though affectionate enough, evea
|>athetioally so, in its regrets for his unavoidable absence.
It was not so satisfactory an epistle as Keith was wont to
TWO MARRIAGES. 79
"Write, and liad written, weekly frotn school and college
ever since his first se});iration from home. Still, he was
worlcinji; hard, as he always had worked, both at school
and collego,. A certain light-mindedness of youth had
sometimes worried his elderly father a little, but the par-
son's heart had never 3'et had cause to ache on account of
his boy.
'' I think," he said to himself, as he once more drew
toward him the manuscrii^t sheets of his sermon — a
Christmas sermon on the prodigal son — only half finished,
and, alas! never to be finished — " I think, after all, his
niotlier would have been rather proud of him."
And as Mr. Garland sat leaning his head on his hand
—both the hand and the profile, though brown with ex-
posure to weather, being almost woman-like in their
delicacy of outline — his mild eye Avandered to the empty
8ofa, so little used all these years that it was still cov-
ered with the washed-out, faded chintz Avhich Mrs. Gar-
land had made new for it wlien they were first married.
His fancy slipped back to those early days, and all the
blank days which followed — not mournfully, for the life
between, also of God's appointing, had been safely lived
through, and the reunion could not be so very far off
now.
" Still I should like first to leave my boy happy — as
happy as I was myself. Poor lad! what a dull Christ-
mas he must be having, except for work; it is good to
feel that he works so hard. But I should not like him
to settle into a dull, dry, college life — a mere book-
worm, and not a man at all. No, no. Just a few years
of good steady work — as a young fellow ought to work
■ — and then a living — a home — and a wife. My dear
lad!"
The parson settled himself once more to his writing;
but he had scarcely done so, and was pausing a moment,
pen in hand, with the end of the incomplete sentence
running in his head, when there came a knock to his
Btudy door. •
" Come in," said Mr. Garland, a little surprised; for
it was a rule that only matters of vital moment were al-
lowed to disturb him on Saturdays. *' Anybody ill in the
village, Jane?"
"No, sir; net that I know of," replied— not his serv-
80 TWO MARRIAGES.
ant, but a visitor very rarely seen at Immeridge — Mrs.
Love, of Valley Farm. The old lady stood hesitating ia
the doorway, her cloak powdered and her boots clogged
with snow.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir; hope you^ll excuse it," said
she, dropping a nervous courtesy,
" Certainly, my good friend," said the parson, placing
her comfortably by the study fireside with that chival-
ric gentleness of demeanor which he always showed to all
women. " But how could you think of coming all the
way from Valley Farm in this inclement weather?"
'•' I never tliought about the weather," returned Mrs.
Love, and the fixed smile which she had persistently kept
up slowly faded; " I had a — a sort of message to you, sir,
and I thought — my good man thought — I had best come
over and deliver it myself."
'• How very kind of you," answered the parson, cor-
dially; " and how — we'll tell Jane to get you some tea at
once."
'^I'he old woman stopped him with his hand on the
bell.
"Oh, no! — please, sir — oh, don't; I couldn't swallow
any tea — I — I — ■ — "
•She burst into tears.
Mr. Garland sat down beside her and took her hand,
as he was wont to do with any of his parishioners in af-
fliction. Some people said of him that in ordinary life
he held too much aloof from them; that with his excess-
ively refined tastes, feelings, and sympathies, the gulf
between himself and the humble, rough, illiterate folk
around him was such that, though ho iiad dwelt so long
among them, nothing but a great sorrow could altogether
bridge it over. But when sorrow did really come to any
one of them, no man could be more tender, more gentle,
more truly sympathetic than the parson.
"I am sure there is something on your mind, my
friend. You siiall tell me what it is presently."
"I don't know how to say it, sir. It's about — about
— oh, I wish you knew without my telling Your
aon "
The father turned pale.
" Nothing wrong with my son? I heard from him a
week ago. lias he written to you lately?"
TWO MARRIAGES. 81
" No; I dare say he didu't like to write. Intrutli, Mr.
Garland, your son hasn't been behaving quite well to my
good man and me."
For that was the form in which she and Mr. Love had
decided she should open tlic subject, and so break it
gradually — the cruel secret which as yet she only knew,
but which she dreaded every hour some chance waft of
gossip might bring to Keith's father's ears.
Mr. Garland's color returned — nay; he turned hotly
red.
" My son not behaving well fo yon! There must be
some mistake, Mrs. Love; he is not in the habit But
if you will tell me what his offense is, perhaps I can ex-
plain it."
Mrs. Love shook her head.
" It isn't that, sir; we would have borne a deal with-
out taking any offense, we Avere so fond of him. Oh,
me! I'm as grieved as if it had been a son of my own who
had gone astray."
" Gone astray!" repeated Mr. Garland, sharply; " stop!
you forget it is my son you are referring to."
" It's him, sure enough; though if all the world had
told me, I wouldn't have believed it of liim any more
than you would, sir. But the girl herself confessed, and
whatever she is now, she wasn't a bad girl once; and she
never told me a lie, never deceived me in the smallest
way before. And she has been my servant for a year,
and I've known her ever since she was a baby, poor little
thing!"
''Mrs. Love," said the parson, recovering himself a
little from his bewilderment, and speaking with distant
dignity, ''may I ask you to explain yourself a little
clearer? What can I or my sou possibly have to do with
your difficulties as regards your domestic servants?"
"No, sir," drying her tears, and speaking rather
warmly; ''but when a young gentleman c(5ndescends to
keep company with a domestic servant; when he makes
believe to visit the master and mistress, and under pre-
tense of that meets the 2:irl at all hours and in all sorts
of places; and after he's gone the other servants joke
her; and at last — nevermind how, sir — it's all found out,
and she doesn't deny it, but brazens it to my face, and
82 TWO MARRIAGES.
gays he's her sweetheart, and that she knows he will
marry her at once, and ol), sir! oli, Mr. Garland!"
For the old man had sat down sick and faint likoju—
•woman._
"Never mind me, Mrs. Love; go on with your story.
Who is the girl?"
**Lotty — that is, Charlotte Dean; Thomas Dean the
plowman's daughter."
"And — the young man? You do not mean, you can-
not possibly mean to imply that the young man is my
son ?''
"All, but he is, though, not a doubt about it," said
Mrs. Love, shaking her head. " And I thought, sir, my
good man and me both thought, that it would be better
to come and tell you at once, before you heard it other-
ways."
"It? What is it? But I beg your pardon. I guess
the whole story. Oh, my unfortunate boy!"
]\Ir, Garland put his hand to his face — his honest face,
which burnt crimson, though he was an old man. To
many men — alas! many fathers — the news of such an
error, such a Ci'ime, would have been nothing, causing
only a smile or a jeer, or, perhaps, a flasli of passing ir-
ritation at the extreme folly of tlie thing; but, it was
quite different — it always had been quite different with
William Garland, Mary Keith's lover and husband.
The groan that went from him went to Mrs. Love's
heart. " And I thought to myself," she owned, after-
ward, " perhaps those folks are best off who never have
any children."
She was terribly sorry for him, yet knew not in what
form to administer consolation to a gentleman so far
above herself in education and manners, and who, she
could not help seeing, took the fact which she had
communicated — one of a class of facts only too com-
mon here, as alas! in many other rural dwtricts — so
much more to heart than even she had expected he
would.
"Don't give way, sir," she said, at last; "don't, or I
shall wish that I had never told you."
" It was right to tell me. Let me hear the whole
story, at least, what you suppose it to be."
Mr. Garland sat upright, clasped his hands u])on his
TWO MARRIAGES. 83
knee, and prepared to listen, as l)e had listened many a
time to many a simihu* story of misery and sin, but it
had never come ii.ome to him till now. Still he sat, with
his .fi^rave, fixed eyes, and sad, shut mouth, and tried to
force himself to listen to it, calmly, fairly, and justly, as
if it had been any other story of his parish, or about any
other ordinary sinner — not his own son.
Mrs. Love repeated, with many emendations and ex-
tensions, the tale she had previously told. She said the —
love affair shall it be called? but the word belongs to a
ditierent sort of courtship, and a higher form of love — had
been carried on so clandestinely, that, though it must
have lasted three months at least, she had not a suspicion
of it. The discovery had happened through the merest
chance, and after it the girl had disappeared.
'•Disappeared?" repeated Mr. Garland, eagerly.
'' Yes, sir, that^s my trouble, tiiat's my fear, which t
came to tell you before all the neighborhood gets talking
of it. She slipped away in the middle of the night, tak-
ing nothing with her but the clothes she stood in, saying
not a word to anybody, leaving no scrap of writing, for
that matter, I don't believe she can write beyond signing
her name. What she has gone and done noboby knows;
wliether she has made away with herself, or run off to
her sweetheart at Cambridge "
Mr. Garland trembled, he hardly knew at which of
these two alternatives, for one would be an escape out of
the other.
''God forgive me!'' he cried, starting up, and thrust-
ing the idea from him, the horrible idea that would
come, how by her death the girl would be got rid of.
His first horror at his son's misdoing having passed over,
he was painfully conscious of a desire to hush up and
hide the sin at any cost. To save Keith, only Keith,
was the not unnatural parental instinct; all parents may
comprehend and pardon it.
But by and by the good man woke up to something be-
yond the mere instinct of parenthood — that impulse for
the presrvation of offspring which comes Jiext to self-
preservation — in mothers, God bless them! often first.
He became conscious of that large duty — abstract, im-
personal, involving simple right and wrong — which, if
e'p" ":o fondest parents lose sight of, their ten<lerne6<4
84 TWO MARRIAGES. '
degenerates into mere selfishness, and their devotion to
tlieir own children becomes an actual moral offense in the
sight cf Him who holds the supreme balance of justice as
the Great Father of all men.
" This girl, whom you say my son has led away,
though I will not and cannot believe it, Mrs. Love, ex-
cept on stronger evidence than seems to have convinced
you, what sort of girl is she?"
••'You have seen her yourself, Mr. Garland. She told
me she got your tea for you the last time you were at
Valley Farm, a rosy, black-liaired lass, pretty enough,
but slatternly, which was not wonderful, considering the
folk she came from. Her father drank himself to death,
and tlieu her step-mother turned her out of doois. I
took her for charity, and lest, being so pretty, she should
come to any harm. Oh, dear me! if Fd only icept my
eyes open! Bat who would have thought it of Master
Keith r
'MVe'll not think it," said the clergyman, in a low
tone, but hard and unnatural. "1 refuse to think the
worst of my own son, as I would of any other man's, until
I am certain of it. Just describe the young woman to
me till I recollect her."
He did so in time — the dirty-aproned, red-handed,
rough -haired farm-servant, whose handsome face he had
remarked; who had waited upon him with such especial
civility — why, he knew now — and to whom, in departing,
he had given — ^and she had ta'ken with the ordinary serv-
ant-girl's humble '" Thank you, sir" — a shilling.
And this, this was his son's ideal woman, the object of
the boy's first love! Lawful or unlawful, remained to be
proved — still his first love.
To a man who had never had but one love in all his
life, and she Mary Keith — Mary Garland — no wonder
such a discovery came with an almost stunning sense of
repulsion.
''Did she say" — the parson's lips faltered over the
question, and he did not own, even to himself, wliy he
askeJ it, or what he di'sired its answer to be — " did she
say ])ositivcly that she knew my son would marry her?"
*' She certainly did. But you know they always say
that, these poor creatures, and perhaps they really think
it, or the men tell them so. Men are a wicked lot, Mr.
TWO MARRIAGES. 85
Garland — wickeder, at first, than we women. But; then,
when we once get bad, we go down, down, lowi;r and
lower, till we stop at nothing but the bottomless pit.
Oh, me! if that should be the end of poor Lotty!"
'•'You did like her, then?" said Mr. Garland, turning
round, sharply, ''Speak out, just as you would to any-
body else, not me.^'
" Yes, I liked her in a sort of way. She was very ig-
norant, but she was not so rough as some o' them; and
she had an affectionate heart. She was an honest girl,
spite of her bad bringing up, when I took her. I'm sure
of that. And such a child! only sixteen. He shouldn't
have brought her to shame!"
"Shame!" said Mr. Garland, almost fiercely; "don't
say that. Say nothing you cannot prove. Eemember
you are speaking of my son, my only son, his mother's
son. Mrs. Love," with a look of agony that, momentary
as it was, wheuever the good woman afterward recalled
it, brought tears into her eyes, " Mrs. Love, you remem-
ber his mother?"
" Yes, sir, I do, and that's what makes me and my good
man so sorry,"
" There is no need to be sorry till you are quite sure of
this. Some explanation may be found. I will go at once
to my son. He said he should spend the whole of the
Christmas hard at work at Cambridge,"
And he remembered Keith's last letter, all his letters
for weeks and months back, which, if this story were true,
must have been one long concealment. Kot deception
exactly, the father was too just to accuse him of that, but
concealment. He that for twenty years had been open
as daylight, frank as childhood, to the tender parent,
who, by his unlimited trust and unlimited love, had never
given liim cause to be anything different.
The blow fell hard. Many parents only get what they
earn. By harshness, want of confidence, and tot:d want;
of sympathy, they themselves, with their own blind
hands, open the gulf which divides them from their
children. But in this case there had been nothing of
the kind. Never a cloud had come between father and
Bon until this cloud, the heaviest, short of death, which
could possibly have arisen. And how was it to be re-
moved ? For, whether the case was one of mere dia-
86 'n\0 MAIiRIAGES.
graceful folly or <»f actual sin, of the thing itself tlicre
eould be little doubt. His boy, his honest, gentlemanly,
honorable boy, had made love to a common farm-servant;
a girl who could necessarily have only the lowest allure-
ments of womanhood, the j^ersonal beauty that pleases,
and the ignorance that amuses. .She might have suited
the taste of some foolish, coarse fellow, m whom all the
elements of manhood and gentlemanhood were wanting;
but Keith ^
Mr. Garhmd knew avcII — none better — that a man's
■whole character and destiny are often decided by the
sort of woman with wliom he first falls in love. This
poor bov! If he liad ''fallen in love" with Charlotte
Dean, it must have been with the meanest half of his
nature, in the most degrading form of the passion. Xay,
it could not properly be called love at all, but that other
ugly word which the Bible uses, though we have grown
too refined to do so; not, God forgive lis! to practice it,
to extenuate it, to slur it over or gloss it under with every
sort of mild poetical periphrasis, or else to philosophize
upon it as a kind of sad necessity, when, instead, we
ought to face it as what it is; call it by its right name;
pull it down from its high places; tear the sham, senti-
mental covering off it, and then trample it under foot as
that vile thing of which, however the heathen world may
have regarded it, Christ's Eevelation speaks undoubtedly
aiul unshrinkingly thus:
" But the abominable, and murderers, and whore-
mongers, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake
which burnetii with fire and brimstone, which is the
second death.''
And whatever the further allegory may imply, one
thing is certain, that the first death comes to such sinners
even in this world.
"My poor, poor boy! And he only twenty yet! My
miserable boy!"
It may throw some light upon this, man's character —
the man whom Mary Garland had loved so long, and
been so hap[)y with, and to whom, in dying, she had
trusted her child, with the one prayer that he might
grow up like his father — it lets light, I say, upon the
character of Mr. (Jariand, that the first outcrv of his
parental grief was that of David for Absalom, "My son,
TWO MARRIAGES. 87
m>' son!" Onl}' that — only for his son. Tie <lid not
til ink of himself at all; there was no sense of personal
wrong, no dread of personal disgrace at the scandal
which snch a story must inevitably bring on the clergy-
man whose only child was guilty of such misdoing, and
at the weakening thereby of his influence in the parish.
A proud, or vain, or self-conscious man woiild at once
have thought of these things; but, though Mr. Garland
did afterward think of them — it would not have beea
human nature that he should not — he thought of them
only secondarily. His strongest grief was altogether
on his son^s account; first, for the sin; next, for the
misery,
" I must start for Cambridge at once, Mrs. Love.
Whatever has happened — whether the girl has gone to
him, or whether that other dreadful thing you feared
has happened, which God forbid! my boy will be all the
better and safer for having his father beside him."
"He will, sir, indeed!" said Mrs. Love, earnestly,
**Poor, dear lad! he has got something like a father.
And now, Mr. Garland, I must go home, or my good
man will be thinking I am lost in the snow."
" My kind old friend, how I have been forgetting
you!"
Mrs. Love told afterward, with a tender garrulity, how-
Mr. Garland had insisted on her having tea in the study
before she left; how he poured it out for her himself,
and waited upon her with an ancient courtesy, not
overlooking her smallest needs; ''though I could see all
the time," she added, " that the dear gentleman hardly
knew what he was doing." At last she departed, and
the parson was left alone, face to face with his heavy
care.
Nothing so heavy had befallen him since his wife's
death. Then, it seemed as if Fate, weary of persecuting
him, had spent her last shaft and let him rest. Not a
single anxiety, not even a week^s sickness to himself or
his boy, had since darkened the parsonage doors till now.
But this grief, it was so strange and sudden, so utterly
unforeseen, that, at first, when he had closed the gate
upon Mrs. Love and returned to his study, which
looked exactly as it looked an hour before, he could
88 TWO MARRIAGES.
hardly persuade himself that all was not a nightmare
dream.
He sat for a little with his head upon his hands, try-
ing to realize it, and gradually all came clear. He i)er-
ceived that, whether or not true in its Avorst and black-
est form — in a measure the tale must be true — at least
sufficiently so to lay upon Keith's future life, and upon
all after relations between father and son, a cloud, a
doubt — the first deception on one side, the first distrust
on the other; like the fatal
" Little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute."
"It is the beginning of sorrows," said the old man to
himself; and he clasped his hands, half in submission,
half in despair, and looked into the embers of the for-
gotten fire with a hard, dry-eyed anguish, pitiful to see.
The young suffer and have still hope, for themselves and
for others; but the old, who have nothing to look forward
to, and in wliom the sharp experience of life had dead-
ened the excitement of the struggle with pain, as well as
the expectation of its happy ending, the grief of the old
has always a sort of passiveness, sadder than any sorrows
of earlier years.
"What should I do?" sighed the parson to himself;
"for something must be done, and I have nobody to
help me. No one could have helped me — excejit one."
But she slept where this afiliction and every other
eould touch her not, and her husband was thankful
for it.
"I wish I slept beside you, my poor Mary!"
For the first time for many years the widower uttered
her name, spoke it out quite loud, until he himself
started at the sound. But, uttering it, he felt as if his
Bolitude were made no longer empty, as if in the dreary
blank of the room she came and put her airy arms
about his neck, in the long familiar way, sharing his
burden as she had so often shared it, and in some mys-
terious fashion giving him the comfort that love only
can give, a wife's love, in life, and, for all we know, after-
wai'd.
Mr. Garland roused himself, drew his chair to the
study table, put by his sermon, and began to make hia
plans for the impending journey. This was rather a
TWO MARRIAGES, 89
serious matter, for he never traveled, and knew nothing
aljoiit railways, the nearest of which did not approach
Inimoridgu by ten or a dozen miles. Keitli, who was a
practical young fellow, always settled liis comings and
goings without troubling his father. In Mr. Garland's
litter ignorance, it was necessary to take counsel of Jane
before forming any plans whatever. And now there
came upon him the nervous apprehension as to how
much Jane knew, how much anybody knew, whether,
whon he ascended the pulpit to-morrow, everybody would
not know it?
A shiver of fear ran through him, actual fear; that
moral cowardice which men have so much more than
women, especially men of the parson's excessively del-
icate and refined nature. That dread of public opinion,
that shrinking from public reproach, to escape which
some will bear any amount of inward torture, attacked
him in his weakest, tenderest point. His bravery gave
way; lie thought, if he could only start at once, that
very Saturday night or Sunday morning, and so escape
all!
Escape what? The sin? Supposing it existed, AlasI
sin no man can ever escaiie from. The shame? That,
too, if inevitable, would have to be endured. Ay, in its
sharpest form; for while, rightly and justly, no son is
held responsible for, nor in any honest judgment can be
dishonored by, t?ie wickedness of his parents, there is also
a certain measure of justice in the world's opinion that a
parent is not quite blameless for the misdeeds of his son.
Exceptions there are, solemn and sad; but in most in-
stances tlie comment of society at large is not made alto-
gether unfairly, as in the case of Eli (bitterly did this
poor father — father and priest also — recur to the words),
*' His sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them
not."
No, there was no escape. The thing must be met and
faced. Whether it turned out great or small, a mere an-
noyance or a life-long disgrace, there was no use in mn-
ning away from it. Besides, if he left home, he would
have had to shut up the church. Was the house of God
to be closed because the minister was a coward, and dared
not meet his people? She would not have advised such
90 TWO MARRIAGES.
an act, she who had always before her eyes the fear of
God, and that only; never the fear of man.
"Iso, I will not do it!" said the parson to himself.
''Besides, for my boy's sake, I ought to keep an honest
front till I have proved there is cause to be ashamed."
So he bestirred himself, rang for Jane, and told her,
to her exceeding surprise, that she must pack up his port-
manteau, and iind some conveyance to take him across
country, for that he was going to see Master Keith on
Monday morning.
" Bless 'ee, sir, I'm so glad! And when shall you be
back again?"
When indeed — or how!
He hoped, he said, with a sad hypocrisy of cheeriness,
to return by next Sunday, unless" his son particularly
wished to detain him longer.
" You may be sure o' that, sir. Master Keith often
said there wasn't anything would make him so happy as
a visit from his father."
''Did he say that?" with an eager clutch at the merest
sti'aws of comfort out of tliat great treasure of love which
seemed drifting hopelessly away from him. And ho
thought reproach full3% the self-reproach to which tender
hearts like his are so prone, that perhaps he, too, had
erred; that if he had not shut himself up so closely in his
study, thereby leaving Keith too much alone— if he had
tried more to win his boy's confidence and sympathy — had
been to him, not less of a father, but more of a friend,
this might not have happened.
" I will try and act differently now," he said, vainly
repeating and forming many a resolution for the future,
when only the present cloud should liave passed by.
It felt lighter next morning, whicli was a bright, clear,
frosty Sunday, and Mr. Garland had been all his life
painfully sensitive to atmospheric influence. And when,
as he entered the churcli, all things appeared the same aa
usual, no one pointed the finger or looked hard at him
either in his coming or going, he began to hope that the
story had not readied Immeridge; that perhaps, as Mrs.
Love was not a gossiping woman, and had acted so wisely
and kindly liitherto, all might be hushed up, and in time
quite forgotten.
He put it as far from his mind as he could,- and tried
TWO MARRIAGES, 91
to serve hie Maker and to instru(3t his people throughout
that strange Sunday; but whon night closed thi;' whole
mutter came back upon him with relentless pain. In his
complete uncertainty, he kept picturing to hiinsolf, over
and over again, the two bitter alternatives — of tht.' girl,
Charlotte Dean, visiting Keith Garland to his disgrace —
perhaps shaming him openly before his college: or else,
as Mrs. Love suggested, the victim might have punished
the seducer in a still more terrible way — a way which
Keith could never forget all his life long. And with
horrible vividness Mr. Garland's fancy recalled a scene
he once beheld in his youth, of a drowned girl dragged
■with boat-hooks from the bottom of a pond. He seemed
to see it all over again, only the ghastly, swollen face
was the face of the giil Dean, with the rosy cheeks and
the curly black hair — pretty enough — but with the pret-
tiness of mere physical beauty. How could Keith have
ever cared for it?
Still, there the fact Avas, undeniable; and a worse trag-
edy might follow — her death, or the scarcely less blight-
ing misery of her living.
'' Nevertheless, I will not judge until I know the whole
truth, Keith will surely tell it to me when I see him to-
morrow/*
And with a desperate clinging to.that to-morrow, which
must at least end his suspense, and bring a solution to
some of his difficulties, Mr. Garland packed up his port-
manteau — very helplessly — but he did not like to ask
Jane to do it, as it was Sunday, and lie never gave her
any extra work on Sundays.
Besides, he kept out of the old woman's sight as mucii
as possible, for she would ask questions about Master
Keith, and send him messages, and talk about the great
delight he would have in seeing his father, till the poor
father felt as if driven wild.
When Jane was gone to bed, and the house all empty
and still, the parson went to his little store of money,
and took out thence as much as was required for his
Journey, then, with a second thought, he went back and
took it all; "for," he said to himself, " who knows?"
Also he piU away his books and papers, locked his
writing-table — for the first time theSC many years— and
made other little arrangements concerning h:? affairs,
93 TWO MARRIAGES.
which seemed to him advisable considering his years, and
the painful nature of his journey, ''for/' he again re-
peated, **wlio knows?"
Finally, he laid his head on his solitary pillow, and
thought, witli a kind of sad curiosity, how strange it
would feel the next night to be sleeping, for the first
time for twenty years and more, under his old college
roof, far away from tliat little mound over which he could
hear the elm-trees sougliing outside, and without remem-
bering Avhicli he seldom closed his eyes at night or opened
them in the morning.
''May God help me to do right, however hard it be!'*
wos his last prayer before he slept. " Oh, God, my
Father iu heaven, teach me to be a good father to my
Mary's son."
CHAPTER III.
It w:is about four o'clock on a winter afternoon wheu
Mr. Garland stood at the gate of his old college, for the
first time since he had left it twenty years ago, to take
possession of the living of Immeridge, and to be married
to Mary Keith. How well he remembered that October
morning, soft and sweet as May, when his long-delayed
happiness, come at last, had colored his life with all the
hues of spring, though he was nearly fifty years old.
Now, all things outside looked, as they were with hirn-
self, at the day's end and the year's. The only bit of
color in the murky winter sky was the rift of sunset be-
hind the pinnacles of his familiar chapel, the most beau-
tiful chapel, he often used to think, that mortal hands
have over built. Its airy architecture^ came out against
the fading light as perfectly as ever, and the old man
stood and looked at it for a minute or two with exceeding
tenderness. The twenty years between, the happiness
and the woe, slipped away for tlie time being; nay, he
wont back far longer, and was again a youug man at col-
lege, with the world all before him, or a busy student,
an early made don, thinking his college the queen of all
colleges, tind his university the very center of the wyrld.
Ho could have believed he had only quitted it yester-
day, the place Vr'as so little chauged. Its smooth square
law:: vras green as ever; and across the white mist wliich
TWO MARRIAGES. yb
was slowly rising up over it, as in so many winter aft(3r-
iioous of old, there shone the same cheerful glimmer from
■ the buttery door, and from the tall windows where the
few men who remained " up" at Christmas were dining
in hall, Keith among them of course.
The parson thought he would wait till hall was over, and
then go unobserved to his son's rooms. A sudden meet-
ing might vex or confuse the lad, or any chance compan-
ion wiio was with him might notice something unusual in
this unexpected parent-visit. Better that father and son
should meet alone, and quietly, when Mr. Garland, too,
might be better able to command himself; for, now that
the moment was come, he felt an involuntary nervousness
creeping over him as to how his son would comport him-
self; an uneasiness whether he might find, not the boy
Keith at all, but a strange man — all the hardness and
wickedness of exhibiting youthful manhood.
Poor Keith! Gradually, during the long meditative
day, all the father's anger toward him had melted away.
And now, weary with his long journey, feeling within
himself, as if it had fallen upon him with a sad sudden-
ness, the inevitable weakness of age, conscious also of a
certain forlornncss in thus coming back, a stranger, to
the familiar places, the parson's heart yearned over his
boy, iiis only child, the tenderest, nay, the only tender
tie lie had left in the world. When, in the darkening
twilight, he watched two or three black figures issuing
out, and moving round the gravel-walk of the quadrangle,
eye and ear became involuntarily intent, in case he might
detect the light footstep and lively laugh that he knew so
well. Nevertheless, he shrank still more under the shadow
of the gateway, whence, himself unobserved, he could
watch each young man that passed.
No, none of them was Keith, who must have gone
straight to his rooms. Not being quite certain where
these were, and growing every moment more weary in
body and in mind, he went back to the gate-keeper,
smiling at himself for his own silly surprise that this was
not the quaint, white-bearded old fellow that used to Be
called " Moses," who, of coui-se, was dead and buried
years ago.
" Can you show me Mr. Garland's room?"
**Up that staircase, next to the buttery, first door on
94 TWO MARRIAOES,
left liand," was the answer, given rather carelessly — more
carelessly than fellows were used to be addressed in the
parson's time. He felt this a little, and then recollected
that he was no longer at home in his own college; that
he revisited it merely as a stranger, who could only he
judged by his exterior, which was probably, out of date,
and shabby, even for a country parson. So he said, with
a little dignity of manner:
'' Thank you. I know the rooms now quite well; I was
a fellow here myself for fifteen years.''
'* Oh, indeed, sir;" the porter's tone changed, and he
respectfully touched his hat. " But I'm afraid, sir,
you'll not find Mr. Garland. His rooms are locked up;
though I think his bedmaker has the key, as he said ne
might come back before term."
" Come back! Has he gone away?"
" Yes, sir; he left two days ago."
The poor father leaned against the gateway to keep
himself from falling. All strength seemed to have
slipped out of hira. Then he said, feebly trying to keep
up a coloring of indifference:
'* Two days ago. did you say? That was Saturday."
*•' Yes, sir, Saturday, a sudden journey; for he told
me the day before he meant to stay up and read all
Christmas. But young men don't always know tlieir
own minds, and there's something a little more than
meets the' eye, eh, sir?" added the jolly porter, with a
twinkle in his own.
But Mr. Garland noticed it not. He asked, first
eagerly, then with assumed carelessness:
"And where — perhaps he mentioned where he was
going?"
" Not he. He wanted it kept dark, I fancy, for he
told me not to send on his letters unless he was not
back in a week or two, and then to forward them to liia
governor,"
''To— what did you say?"
" His father. But, bless my soul," as a sudden ide^
dawned in the good fellow's mind, not unfamiliar with
young men's difficulties, " maybe you're his father,
sir."
" Y'is," said the old man, briefly. And then he asked
permission to sit down for u minute in the porter's
TWO MARRIAGES. 95
room. " I have had ji long journey here, and my son
and I have " — he paused for Ji second in search of some
fragment of truth which woukl save liim from betray-
ing himself or Keith — ''have someliow missed one an-
other."
"So I perceive; very annoying to you, sir. Will you
come nearer to the fire? "You're very cold, I see."
The rest and warmtli came only just in time. As Mr.
Garland sat down, he felt a sickness like death stealing
over him, during which his only care was to preserve
some sort of decent appearance externally, so as to save
Keith's credit, and hide everything as long as it could
possibly be hid.
The civil gate-keeper left him, and then he cowered
over the fire, trying to steady his shaking limbs and rally
his feeble strength, and think of what was to be done
next.
The present conjuncture was one he had never foreseen.
That Keith should actually have left college — gone away
no one knew where — leaving no clew except what slender
information might be got at by inquiries humiliating to
the father and likely to bring disgrace upon the son — it
was very hard to bear! A sudden flight it must have
been; and at least Keith's intention of reading all Christ-
mas had not been a deception. But wliy had he ordered
his letters to be forwarded to Immeridge? Either he had
nothing to conceal, or he wished to blind his father's eyes
with the daily expectation of his coming, and so prevent
pursuit or inquiry. Or, a third possibility, perhaps he
was now reckless of both. Perhaps he had taken the
girl, Charlotte Dean, away with him; and, as she so con-
fidently asserted he would, had married her.
Married her — a common servant! Old as he was, Mr.
Garland's blood — his honest, honorable, gentle blood — of
which secretly he was not a little proud, seemed to boil in
his veins at the thought. Hot indignation, bitter shame,
outraged affection, filled him by turns against the son who
could so disgrace himself and his lineage. He started to
his feet with the energy of youth, uncertain where to go
or what to do, except that he felt he must go and do some-
thing. But it was in vain. The moment he tried to
stand his head swam round, and he dropped back into his
chair.
96 TWO MARRIAGES.
There he sat a long time, half stupid, it seemecl, hear-
ing through a sort of doze the college porter talking and
** chaffing '' witli some young fellows outside. Within,
he watched the blazing, crackling, cheerful-looking fire,
and feJt himself a poor, forlorn, feeble old man, who had
not strength to do anything, even if there was anything
to be (lone.
There was nothing. Either by accident or design,
Koilh Had left behind him not a single clew to his where-
abouts. So long as a hope remained that the young man
had not compromised, nay, niined himself for life, his
credit ought to be saved, and that could only be done by
the most cautious silence.
Never throughout all his simple, virtuous days had Mr.
Garland acted the hypocrite before, but now he did it.
He called the porter, entered into conversation with him
about college matters, and got from him by various in-
quiries as much information concerning Keith as could
safely be obtained. Tliis was little enougli; the young
man had apparently been living steadily and creditably,
and reading hard all term. No outward vicious signs
had betrayed him to the small college world; so far his
credit was secure.
The father took care still to maintain it. With a pa-
thetic diplomacy, he managed to convey to the porter the
idea that his disappointment was very trifling, and his
son's absence of no particular moment. He took counsel
of t!)e man as to what inn he should put up at for a night
or two, just to revisit his old Cambridge haunts and old
friends.
" AVhy not turn into your son's rooms at once, sir? It's
very often done at vacation time, and you, of course,
could get permission directly. Shall I see about it? and
we'll have the rooms open and everything comfortable
for you in an hour or two."
Mr. Garland thought a minute and then consented, for
it was the simplest plan, and he felt so weary, helpless,
and forlorn. If he had only somewhere to lay his liead
for the night, he might wake in the morning strength-
ened, and able to judge and to act. Just now he was
capable of neither. He had so long lived out of the
world that everything, even the ordinary noises of the
street, confused and troubled him. He longed to be at
TWO MARRIAGES. 97
Imaieridge again, laying his head down on his own peace-
ful pillow, within only a stone's throw of that still peace-
fuller pillow where it would one day lie. Tiie craving
that we all have at times, and stronger as we grow older,
to
" Lie down like a timid child,
And sleep away the life of care
Which we have borne and still must bear,"
came over him heavily. He turned out into the foggy
night, and, while Keith's rooms were being got ready for
him, walked round and round the familiar paths, past
the chapel, and the high ivy -covered wall, and along by
the willows at the water-side to the bridge over the Cam.
There ho paused, and mechanically stood leaning in the
old spot where he used to lean for hours in his early-
morning or late-at-night " constitutional " nearly half a
century ago.
Was it actually half a century? Yet there was no j)er-
ceptible change. Up and down the river the lights of
the different colleges flickered in their old places, and the
stars overhead — Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Orien's Bolt,
and the silvery duplex wave of the Milky Way — shone
just as in those days when he used to dabble in as-
tronomy. The only change was in himself. And yet>
somehow, his life had been so single, so true, such a
faithful life, in short, faithful to God and man, that he
did not feel greatly altered even now, except perhaps that,
as on this winter night, the human lights were growing
dimmer, and the heavenly ones lai'ger and clearer, as he
neared his journey's end.
Under this starry stillness the parson's mind became
calmer and his thoughts less bewildered as to the posi-
tion in which he was, and the next step it was ad visible
to take.
Evidently to attempt to track Keith was useless. A
cleverer, more worldly man would have found the pur-
suit difficult; to Mr. Garland it seemed impossible.
Nothing short of applying to the police, and hunting
down his own son by means of a detective officer, could
have availed anything — perhaps not even that. Keitk
might be already married,* though that was improbable.
The parson — for a parson and a married man— knew
surprisingly little of the marriage laws; still he was aware*
•8 TWO MARRIAGES.
that both surrogates and registrars refuse a license, audi
clergymen decline to officiate when, as in this case, both
parties are under age, and the marriage is without the
consent of parents. Mr. Garland tried to recall all the
small practical legal facts concerning his own simple,
happy, holy marriage to the long-plighted, pure woman
of his choice, and the contrast between it and such a
marriage as this he feared smote the father's heart with
an inexpressible pang. It could not be! Ilis son — hia
own son — and hers could not so degrade himself. And
as for that other possibility — seduction without marriage
• — it was a crime of which he tried to believe Keith ut-
terly incapable.
Well, he could do nothing; he could only sit still and
wait. Before term began Keith must reappear at col-
lege, unless he was quite reckless as to his own future.
If he were, if he had done anything bad enough to bring
tipon him public disgrace — better his father should be
here to stand by him. Who else should do it? Even if
the lad had sinned, he was still only a lad; and whose
duty was it but his father's to throw over him the shield
of calm parental wisdom, equal-handed justice, and pa-
tient love?
Mr. Garland had been fatherless, or, rather, worse
than fatherless, himself; he had known what it was to
Btaiid alone and unprotected against the world. As he
paced the solitary bridge, which -in the days of his youth
he had paced so often, with lighter, younger feet, but a
heart heavy with its own burden of now -forgotten cares,
he recalled some words which then had often seemed to
him worse than meaningless, a cruel mockery, " Like a
father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieththem that
fear Him." But time had taught him its merciful les-
son, he understood them now. As he looked up to the
gteadfust stars, which seemed singing in their courses
through the changeless lieavcn, and remembered how he
too had been led, as it were, by an invisible hand, through
his long course of seventy years, and how his boy had it
all yet to run, there came into him a feeling of compas-
bIou so intense, so divine, that he seemed to comprehend,
ill a sense clearer than he had ever yet preached it, the
all-perfect Fatherhood of God.
With such thoughts — most thankful for them and for
TWO MARRIAGES. 99
the peace they brought — Mr. GarhiLul wont back and in-
stalled himself in liis son's rooms, which, of course, he
had never yet seen, though he had often heard Keith's
description of them. But he found them smaller and
poorer than he expected. No extra luxuries, such as
young men at college can so easily waste their substance
in, brightened the shabby furniture^ which seemed co-
eval with the parson's own college days. No indications
of light or coarse tastes decked the walls; no portraits of
ballet-girls or prize-fighters; not even a university boat-
race. All was quite plain and humble; the lad .had evi-
dently been, so far., an honest lad, true to himself md to
his father, spending scarcely one unnecessary penny out
of the allowance, which he knew, for his father had told
him, was not too easily spared.
"Poor fellow! poor fellow!" sighed the parson, as he
settled himself in his son's arm-chair, gathered up the
books, and very shabby second-hand books they were,
that 1)6 found strewn about just as Keith had left them,
then made his own tea out of the broken-lidded tea-pot,
pulled off his boots, and put his tired feet into Keith's
well-worn slippers. As he did it, thus taking possession
of the rooms, and enjoying their owner's unconscious
hospitality, some faint sense of comfort stole into him, a
hope that things were not so very dark after all, or, at
darkest, might brighten soon.
He refreshed himself with his favorite meal, and then,
lulled by the warmth and silence of the solitary fire,
gradually the weakness of age crept over him. He fell
fast asleep, and dreamt he was a young man once more,
working hard for his first examination. And then,
somehow or other, he was married, and sitting in his
study at Immeridge, with his wife Mary sitting beside
him on the rocking-chair whi-cli she had bought but never
used, rocking her infant in her arms. She looked so
young, so sweet! and the baby was such a pretty baby —
just what Keith used to be — and there was such a
heavenly light shining round the two, that though she
did not speak to him, nor he to her, and though, while
dreaming, he had some dim consciousness that it was
only a dream, that she was not alive at all. still Mr Gar-
land felt quite happy. And even when he woke he wa«
happy still.
IW TWO MARRIAGES.
He spent fourteen days, one creeping after the other
before he was aware, at Cambridge, living in his son's
rooms, waiting for Keith's return. At first he was ter-
ribly restless; could not bear to stir across the threshold;
started at every footstep on the stair without; and kept
his "oak sported " continually, lest anybody should in-
trude upon him. Gradually this state of mind ceased.
His nature was essentially of the passive kind; besides,
he was old, and age takes everything quietly. After the
first shock, he seemed almost to have reconciled himself
to whatever might happen. His present pain he kept en-
tirely to himself, merely writing to Immeridge that he
meant to remain at Cambridge till term, and stating the
same to the few acquaintances whom he made here — old
fellows who, hearing of him from the porter, called upon
him, and invited him almost daily to dine in hall. No-
body asked him any unpleasant questions, or any ques-
tions at all. Indeed, he felt keenly what people living
long in country solitude are apt to forget, how soon a man
may slip entirely out of the petty vvorld where he thought
himself such an important item, and how little the said
world will trouble itself about him when it has ceased to
get anythi-ug out of him.
So, after a brief fit of moralizing, Mr. Garland fell
back, in a strange ghostly fashion, into his old college
ways, spending his mornings in University library, and
usually dining in hall at the old familiar table with some
fellow or other. But he rarely went into combination-
room; he usually returned to his solitary fire, and settled
himself there, sometimes reading, sometimes sleeping,
or sitting half asleep, half awake, scarcely able to distin-
guish the present from the past. He made no outward
show of grief, never spoke to anybody of his affairs; or of
the suspense he was enduring; he endured all quite pass-
ively and unresistingly, as was the habit of his life; but
if Keitii had seen his father's face he would have found
it tea ycjars older since Christmas Day.
Theiiist day of vacatioii came, and then Mr. Garland
could neither eat nor sleep; never stirred outside the
door, but sat counting every beat of the clock, and trem-
bling at every stej) upon tlie stair. When he had almost
givtm up hope, when it was quite late in the evening,
Keith a])peared.
TWO MARRIAGES. 101
Rome one mngt have told the young m.in that liis
fatlier was there, for ho came in without showing any
surprise. Agitated lie was to the last degree, but lie did
not start or shrink back. Over him, too, had come ft
change; he was not a boy any more.
He opened the door and walked steadily into the room.
His father rose and met him as steadily; for at sight of
him the old man's nervousness vanished, and anger, or
rather tlie righteous paternal displeasure, which yet liad
no personal vindictivencss, began to revive. He felt
that the critical moment had come; that becween father
and son there could be no more disguise, no delay, no
momentary hypocrisy of friendliness; all must come out
at once. Possibly Keith felt this too, for he approached
no nearer, and made no attempt to take his father's uu-
offered hand. Still, he was the first to speak — some mut-
tered words about "this unexpected visit,"
"I know it is unexpected and undesired. I found you
absent, and took the liberty of remaining in your rooms
till you came back."
"The liberty— oh, father!"
"Stop," said Mr. Garland, checking his son's advance
toward him, " You must answer me a few questions
first. Where have you been?"
"To Ely,"
" No further?"
" No. I had not money enough for traveling."
" Then you have been at Ely all. this time?"
Keith assented,
" And — answer me the truth, the honest truth, my son,
for yon never told nte a lie yet," and the fatlier's tone
was almost entreating — "were you alone?"
"I was not,"
The parson recoiled, and his next words were hard and
sharp,
"'J'ell mc — don't be a coward, for that is worst of all
— tell me at once, Are yon married?"
The youth hung his head, blushing crimson; but he
said without hesitation, "Yes, father."
The father never spoke, nor even looked at him again.
He jmssed him by, walking uprightly, steadily, and
sternly to the door. Then he took his coat, hat, and
stick.
102 TWO MARRIAGES.
"Fatlier, where are you going?"
"Do uot follow me- — yon have no right," was the
hoarse answer.
"No right!"
"No." And Mr. Garland turned and looked his son
full in the face, his own gleaming with passion, the
natural passion of an honest man and an outraged
parent. " No, not the smallest right. I have no son
now."
So saying, and not trusting himself to say another
word, tlie old man went out into the cold dark night,
closing the door behind liim.
CHAP'J^ER IV.
An hour later, having succeeded in calming down the
burst of passion which had shaken all the little strength
of his helpless seventy years, Mr. Garland determined
to go back to his son's rooms. He would not suffer hini-
eelf to be carried away by blind anger; he would at least
find out the true state of things, the whole truth, before
he condemned Keith, before he even attempted to judge
him; for justice, that quality rare enough in all men, and,
alas! often rarest in men that are fathers, even though
in them it is most needed and most divine — strict, im-
partial justice had been all his life Parson Garland's idol.
His first indignation having subsided, though he deeply
despised his son — ay, despised hi?n; for the delicate, high-
minded gentleman felt his very soul revolt from such a
marriage, and such a wife as Keith had chosen; still the
youth was his son, his very flesh and blood. Nothing
could break that tie. And though it had not existed,
though they had been only guardian and ward — oh, that
they had! — at the hands of this just man any other man's
8on would have found equal justice.
Nor, angry as lie was, did his anger blind Mr. Garland
to the common-sense fact that when a young man makes
a foolish or disgraceful marriage, whoever else he may
injure by it, the person whom he most injures is himself.
"When he thought of this, through the father's storm
of wratli gleamed rifts of the tenderest, the most agon-
ized compassion. Only twenty yet, and his fate sealed
for life, as every man's must be who has bound himself
TWO MARRIAGES. 108
to a woman of whom he knows little, while what he does
know makes tlie future appear as hopeless as the future
of all hastily-conceived, passion-prompted, unequal mar-
riaires always must be, and deserve to be. Unhappy
Keith!
Yet, however madly lie had acted as regarded himself,
however deceitfully — no, not deceitfully, but uncan-
didly — he had behaved toward his father, still he should
have justice. Where in the wide world might he hope to
find it if not at the hands of his own father?
Mr. Garland turned back from his weary walk up and
down Trinity Avenue and the lonely courts of Clare
Hall, anywhere that he thought he was least likely to
meet people, and just before ten o'clock struck, came
into his own college. He entered his son's room without
having formed any definite plan of action. He did not
even trust himself to speciilate on what the next honr
might bring, or whether it would not find him, as in his
passion he had said, but was a little sorry for it now,
without a son, without one tie in the wide world to bind
his thoughts from that future world where now seemed
his only rest.
Gaining Keith's door, he opened it, but gently, so
gently that the young man did not hear or was too
absorbed to notice him. He was sitting over the fire,
his hands propping his head, and his elbows on hia
knees, in an attitude of dull despair. When he turned
his face round its haggardness struck to the father's
heart.
''Well, Keith?"
'* Well, sir. Will you take a chair?"
But the lad did not stir from his own, and his manner
was indifferent, almost sullen, as if he no longer cared
what became of him.
" I have come back to you," said his father, sitting
down opposite to him, though a long way off, ''just to
speak a few words, such as no one can speak to you
except your father; to ask you how all this happened,
how you could be so misguided, so insane? Do you not
know, my poor boy," in spite of his will there was a pit-
0U8 tenderness in Mr. Garland's voice, " that by this act
you have ruined your prospects for life?"
"Very likely I have."
104 TWO MARRIAGES.
"Fo)-, am I right? this girl you have married in the
girl Mrs. Love told me about, her servant, Charlotte
Dean."
" Yes, it is Charlotte Dean, now Charlotte Garland.
You can't mend it or alter it, sir; she is my wife, Char-
lotte Garland.''
The poor fellow seemed to brazen the truth out in its
hardest form, that he might hide himself behind it as a
sort of shield, a defense against his own conscience and
against his father.
That miserable father! only he felt his son to be more
miserable even than himself. To one who knew, in all
its depth of sanctity, what a real marriage is, the perfec-
tion of that pure love, happiness before wedlock, and
unutterable joy afterward — the thought of all his son
had lost and thrown away, with a frantic folly that the
lad might yet give half a lifetime to recall, came upon
him with such an agony of pity that, instead of reproach-
ing Keith, he could have stood and wept over him, even
as one weeps for the dead. But weeping was of no avail;
the deed was done. Keith had distinctly said, though in
a tone oh ! how different from a young man's first proud
utterance of the words — "my wife."
"Tell me," said the father, "don't be afraid, but tell
me just as you would tell any other man — any friend of
your own age, how this came about! When were you
married?"
" Yesterday."
"•Not until yesterday?"
"No; we had to wait for the fourteen days' residence
and the license, which, after all, I was forced to get with
a lie — the first lie I ever told in my life."
" What was that?"
" I made oath I was over age, or, she being only six-
teen, they would not have granted it. Do you want to
know any more? I'll tell you anything or everything.
Nothing can alter it now!"
The young man spoke recklessly; but, in listening, a
gleam of hope darted through the parent's mind — in-
voluntarily, or he would never have given expression to
it.
" Stop a minute; would not a false oath make the mar
riage illegal?"
TWO MARRIAGES. 105
" Father/' cried Keith, fiercely, "don't speak of that.
Don't put such things into my liead, or make me a worse
iBcamp than I am ah-eady. No, it is not illegal; I took
•care of that, unless you go to law and try to prove it so.
Do if you dare!"
" I have no intention of the kind," said Mr. Garland,
gently, nay, humbly, for his conscience smote him a lit-
tle. " You have chosen your own lot, and must abide
by it."
"So I mean to do."
Frantic as the lad was, seemingly driven half mad
with remorse, or dread at what he had done, or grief at
having displeased his father, there was a certain spirit
and courage in him which the father could not but notice
and respect.
"Tell me, Keith, wliat made you bring yourself to this
pass ?"
" I could not help it. She followed me here; it was
the greatest chance, the greatest mercy that nobody saw
her. She begged, entreated, nay, she almost compelled
me to marry her."
Mr. Garland paused, considered; a hot blush, like a
maiden's, mounted into his withered cheek as he regarded
his son, his motherless boy, whom he used to carry about
as an innocent baby in his arms.
"There is one thing which Mrs. Love hinted at, but
jvhich I refused to believe. I will not believe it upon
any word but your own. Keith, was there any cause,
i'nst cause, why this girl should 'compel 'you to marry
ler?"
"Yes." The young man hung his head, and could
not look at his old father.
He drew back — this good father, this righteous, hon-
orable man, who had held all women sacred, first for
liis mother's sake, and then for that of the one woman
he adored; above all, for God's sake, whom the pure in
heart alone shall ever see. He turned with an unmis-
takable repugnance even from his own son, and the son
saw it.
"Don't mistake, father; don't think of her worse than
she really is, because what she is I made her. It was my
fault, God forgive me!"
"In that case," returned the parson, slowly and delib-
106 TWO MARRIAGES.
erately, ^'she, and no other woman in all this world,
ouglit to be the wife of Keith Garland."
He said no more; never till his dying day did he say any
more, making of his son no further inquiries, and putting
the matter altogether beyond argument or discussion.
He accepted it as it stood, a life-long grief, an inevitable
ill, but one to be faced in its naked truth as a simple
question of right and wrong.
To any one of Mr. Garland's clear judgment, unbiased
by worldly sopiiistries, the decision could not for a mo-
ment hang doubtful. Not even had it rested with him
to allow or forbid the marriage, which, had he met hia
son before tliat fatal yesterday, might have been possi-
ble. But now the matter was taken quite out of his
hands; he Avas saved, at least, from the terrible positiou
of being the arbiter of his son's future. Keith was al-
ready married; and, even Avere his wife ten times more
objectionable than she was, there could be no question as
to the duty owed to her, if merely as Keith's wife, and
Mr. Garland's daughter.
His daughter! Oh, the bitterness of that word to the
parson's heart! Oh, the hopes and longings, and remem-
brances that were swept away at once as by a flood. Hia
son was married; had brought him his long-expected
daughter; and that daugliter was Charlotte Dean!
Well, the dream was all over; it was not to be. Mr.
Garland felt his old passiveness creeping over him, stupe-
fying him both to present pain and to the future that
was coming. He only hoped he should not live very
long. With a sort of dull pleasure, he felt how com-
pletely, within the last two weeks, his strength had
slipped away; how he had lost entirely that green old age
which had so many enjoyments, and had looked forward
to many more.
He sat silent, could have sat on thus for hours, wlieu
he was roused by his sou's bitter cry.
"Oh, father! can't you speak to me? can't you help
me? Tell mo what in the wide world I am to do!"
"My poor, poor boy!"
Mr. Garland came forward and touched Keith's clinched
hand, gently patting it after the caressing habit of his
childhood. Then the young man altogether broke down,
and sobbed, first j».t his old father's knees, and then upoa
TWO MARRIAGES. H)7
his neck, like tlie prodigal son in the parable, which par-
able the parson henceforward could not read in church
witlioiit many quavering and broken tones, and he never
preached upon it afterward.
Far into the night did they sit together, father and
son, regarding steadfastly tlieir mutual misfortune — for
that it was a misfortune, Keith, if he did not actually
acknowledge, never denied — and trying to see if there
was any way out of it.
The young man did not notice then, being too much
self-absorbed, but he remembered afterward, when that
honored white head was hidden from him in tlie dust,
how that, in all their conversation, his father seemed to
take for granted that it was a mutual misfortune, to be
shared and striven with together; that he never once
hinted at breaking the parental bond, or cutting adrift
the son whom God had given him, not for his own pleas-
ure, but as a solemn charge which not the most foolish or
even wicked act, on the son's part, could ever entirely
disannul. "For,'' as the parson was once heard to say,
long afterward, when some intrusive friend suggested how
much better he had been to Keith than Keith to him,
** we did not ask life of our fathers; we gave life to our
children."
So now, from duty as well as love, he assumed the
fatlier's most painful office, and, old as he was, tried to
enter into that brief frenzy of youth which had ended in
such a disastrous fatality, for such even the bridegroom evi-
dently now felt it to be. Keith scarcely spoke of his wife
at all; but of the difficulties and dangers of his own position,
and the blighting of his prospects, he talked freely and
■very bitterly. Especially he dreaded lest by any miser-
able chance the college authorities should find out his
marriage.
*' But it must be found out. You could not possibly
intend to keep it concealed?"
"Well, to tell the truth, I had not thought much
about the matter," answered Keith, somewhat confused
by his father's air of grave surprise — nay, displeasure.
" Siie only entreated me to marry her — she did not ex-
pect any more. And I thought if I could but keep all
quiet till I had got through my necessary terms — taken
my degree, and been ordained "
108 TWO MARRIAGES.
"Stop!" cried Mr. Garland, and his voice shook with
the violent effort he mudo to control himself; '" you have
forgotten one result, the inevitable result of the step yoa
have taken or rather of the evil you have done, for the
last act was the only possible redemption of the first.
You knew what was my heart's desire ever since you
were born — that you should enter the church — to succeed
in all I failed in — to do all I had not strength to do.
Now this can never be."
Keith looked up, startled.
'' No, I say never! No son of mine shall ever offer to
the Holiest a blemished offering. Never will I seo
brought to the service of my God a life corrupted at its
very source, and which will take years of repentance and
atonement to make it a fit example toother lives, as that
of a minister of the Gospel ought to be. No, my sou, I
forgive you; 1 will help you to begin anew in whatever
way seems host, but one thing I exact as an incvitaUe
necessity— you can never be a clergyman!"
Keith was terribly overcome. He had not thought
much about his destined profession; he had accepted it
simply as his destiny, the one most natural and best pleas-
ing to his father; but, now that the father himself for-
bade it, and for such a cause — now that it was shut out
from him with all its pleasant associations and expecta-
tions, he felt the disappointment and humiliation very
sore.
'•'Then, sir," said he, at last, "siiice I am never to
enter the Church, perhaps you would wish me to leave
college?"
*' Most certainly; and as soon as you can.'*
That, too, was a great blow, and one evidently unex-
pected. Keith writhed under it. He dropped his head
between his hands in a hoi)eless despair.
"Oh, what will become of mo?"
Still, ho did not attempt to argue. He knew he was
wholly dependent on his fatlier, for the income which
wonid be his one day could not come to him till hisfather
died; that, in plain truth, here he was, cast upon his own
resources, burdcnied with a wife, and — God forgive the
young man, and the sin which turned blessings into curses!
— he was tha))ktul it was now only a wife. But his cir-
cumstauoes wore desperate enough, especially if he had
TWO MARRIAGES. 10«
fco quit college, wliicli lie felt must bo, for lielcnew by cx-
Eerience that in some things his gentle old father could
e hard as adamant and remorseless as fate.
But Mr. Garland was too just a man to assert his mere
■will without giving his reasons for the same, especially
to a grown-up son, whose relations with a father ought
to be reverent indeed, yet perfectly independent and
free.
"In the first place, Keith *' — after this day he never
called him Marius — " yon could not possibly keep your
marriage secret; and if you could, you ought not. To
live for months and years under false colors, acting a
daily lie, and continually under the dread of its discov-
ery, is a position that would ruin any young man. He
ought not to expose himself to the temptation, and if
he did one would almost despise him for doing so. No,
my son; look things straight in the face; it is best. Br
not be what is almost worse than a knave, a coward.''^
"I am not a coward, father," cried Keith, starting up
and i^aeing vehe"mently the room, the shabby, but cheery
little room, with all its books strewn about it, its hetero-
geneous oddities and delicate untidiness, yet such a
room as a man remembers all his life with the tender-
ness belonging to his hard-working, hopeful, happy col
lege days. " I am not a coward, and I am ready to meet
all the consequences of my folly, my confounded folly;"
and he stamped with his foot like an angry child, and
something like childish tears came into his eyes as he
looked round the room. ''It's bad enough to leave col-
lege, to put aside my future, for I was reading hard — in-
deed I was, father — to have all brought to light, and be
set down by the men here as a fool, the merest fool, fot
marrying her."
" Better be a fool than a villain," said the father,
sternly.
** You are light," returned the son, humbly. '* I will
not be afraid again. And now, sir," continued he, after
a littlfi, " just tell me what I am to do. Til put myself
entirely in your hands, myself and her too, poor little
thing! Poor little thing!" repeated he again, " ghe is
but sixteen, and she is so fond of me!"
" AVliere is she staying now?" asked Mr. Garland, not
harshly, but turning away his face, for he would fain
110 TWO MARRIAGES.
hide the expression of intense repugnance that he kne^
must be visible there.
"At Ely still. She could not be moved. She haa
been very ill. She was only just able to be taken td
church yesterday to be married, but then it made her so
happy."
"And you left her to-day?"
" Yes. She insisted that I should go; she knew it
Would injure me if I was missing at the beginning of
^^rm; she doesn't think of herself much— you used to say
Women seldom do — my mother never did."
"Silence!" cried Mr. Garland, in the harshest tone his
son had ever heard from him. " Do not dare even to
name your mother."
Keith was silent.
"I pity you; I will not forsake you," the parson went
on, his hands shaking as he spoke, and his whole face
aflame. " I will help you to redeem yourself, if possible.
But never dare for one instant to compare your marriage
to my marriage, your wife to mine. What can you know,
you miserable boy, of such a love as ours? How could
you, and the hundreds of foolish lads like you, understand
*what a man's love is, one pure love for one pure woman,
founded on thorough knowledge and long-tested fidelity;
tried by many temptations, clung to through years of
delay and hopelessness, and then perfected openly, hon-
orably, in sight of God and man, by the closest unioa
with which mortal life can be blessed. Keith Garland,
you may live many years, live not unworthily or unhap-
pily, but you will never know, never comprehend a mar-
riage such as mine."
Keith answered nothing. Imperfect as his nature was,
half-developed, and perhaps inferior, or he never could
have been allured by Charlotte Dean, still, if he did noi
understand his father, he was awed Ijy him.
" AVell," he said at last, "as I have made my bed, so
I must lie upon it. It is useless to blame me more — I
blame myself only too much. Do not talk to me, but
show me how to act. If you insist on my quitting col-
lege you take the bread out of my mouth, so tell me how
I am to earn it elsewhere — for myself ami my wife; for
I can't leave her to starve, }ind I can't lot her go back
into service again, as she proposed yesterday. Now she
TWO MARRIAQES. Ill
is my wire."' a<l<i(3cl he, bitterly, ''tluit would hardly be
creditable.'"
" Certainly not."
** If I were alone," Keith went on, " I could manage
■well enough. Any young man * without incumbrances,*
as the phrase runs, with strength in his limbs and a little
money m his pocket, can always earn his living and
make his way in the world."
"How? AYhat would you do?"
''' One thing, certainly, Avhich I have often longed to
do, only I fancied it would vex you to part with me; but
you'll not care for that now. I would emigrate."
"Emigrate!" cried Mr. Garland, much startled; and
then he folded his hands and asked calmly, "Where?"
"To Canada or Kew Zealand. I would borrow two
hundred pounds or so, start off by thenext ship, and try
my luck. I'd like it too," added the young fellow, with
his eyes brightening. " Oh, if I had only the world be-
fore me once, with never a clog behind!"
The word — the cruel word — came out involuntarily,
and perhaps he was ashamed of having uttered it, for he
blushed deeply, and began to apologize.
"You see, of course, when a fellow is married he isn't
quite so free as he was before. And then she is so very
fond of me."
" There are times," answered the father, gravely,
** times in a man's life when he would be thankful that
any woman was fond of him, when he would give his
■whole substance for love and cannot ^ii\ it; he has thrown
it away. When shall you go back to see her — I mean
Mrs. Keith Garland?"
Keith started, and then recollected himself, blushing
violently.
"I had forgotten. Of course, that is her name, and
she ought to be called by it."
" Unquestionably."
"Father," and Keith regarded him with a puzzled yet
contrite look, as if recalled to his own unfulfilled duties
by the far bitterer parental duties of which Mr. Garland
never shirked one. " Oh, father, you are verv good to
me."
The^i, as a sort of escape from the agitating emotions
of the hour, the young man turned his attention to prac-
^l9 T]VO MARRIAGES.
tica! things — made up tlie fire, got out bread and cheese,
and beer, and a solitary bottle of wine, administering to
his father's wants in many little tender ways, as had been
his habit ever since he was a tiny fellow — a precocious,
petted, only child — but still Keith's was one of those
kindly natures which can bear spoiling; if rather feather-
headed, he was decidedly warm-hearted, and if light-
minded abroad, was Aa^ry good at home.
Their supper ended, the two seated themgelves over
the fire, and calmly discussed what was best to be done,
avoiding alike all recriminations, angers, and despairs.
The son was only too eager to see the sunny half of life,
and the father knew eiiongh of its storms not to wish to
imbitter it to himself or his boy by one unnecessary
pang.
The plan of emigrating to Canada, which country, with
a sad shrinking, Mr. Garland substituted for the more
distant New Zealand, was carefully gone into by him, and
he found, from Keith's full acquaintance with all its
chances, difficulties, and advantages, that the lad's bias
thereto had been vei'j strong — strong enough to make his
future more hopeful than had first appeared. To none
of his son's schemes did the i^arson make objection, not
even to his plan of raising money for himself. His fa-
ther's assistance the lad never asked, nor did Mr. Gar-
land oHer it. He thought it best not. It gladdened
him, amid all his pain, to see Keith so thoroughly and
honorably independent. Perhaps the frantic plunge he
had made, blindfold, into all the anxieties and responsi-
bilitios of manhood, might shake him out of his boyish
thoughtlessness — act upon him with the stimulus of a
cold bath, and brace his energies for the real business of
life.
The father earnestly hoped so. Young as Keith
looked, with his round, rosy, beardless clieeks, and his
curly hair, tlioi-e was a firmness and earnestness in the
lad's expression which Mr. Garland had not perceived
before, and which comforted him ainid all his heavy care;
for he knew, of his own kiu)w]edge, how life is never
hopeles.-!, ami how the good (jlod can make all things,
even tiials such as this, to work together for good, if
we work also with Ilim, iind in His own righteous way.
►So, before going to rest, all was settled so far as was
TWO MARRIAGE'S. 118
*rtO!i possible, for there was no time to bo lost. The best
way lo avoid scandal was to escape it.
Keith mentioned hesitatingly that he knew of a ship
that was to sail in a fortnight, and, short as the time was,
Mr. Garland decided that lie had better go.
"We can end all college matters easily enough," added
he, *' and all the easier that you will have your father
here at hand."
"I know that," said Keith, contritely and gratefully.
Then, after a pause, " But about her?"
"Do you mean your wife?"
" Yes," and it was pitiful to see the cloud of repug-
nance and annoyance that came over the young husband's
face; " I cannot take her with mo; you must sec that,
father. It would be quite impracticable."
" I never had the slightest intention of suggesting it."
"Then wliat can be done with her? She lias no home
— absolutely not a relative living — thank goodness for the
same! And she is so young, so pretty! You don't know
how pretty she is, father!"
The father half smiled, and then told how he hud seca
her at Valley Farm. With a certain feeling not unlike
compassion, he recalled the fresh young face and rather
attractive manner of the creature, now cast aside as a
burden and incumbrance, more than half despised.
" Valley Farm — that is an idea," cried Keith, eagerly.
"Perhaps Mrs. Love would take her back — not as a serv-
ant, but as a boarder — that is, if you do not object to her
being so near you. She would not intrude; she will be
very humble, poor thingi And at least it would give her
a decent, respectable home. Do you consent, father?"
"No!" Mr. Garland replied, not immediately, but
after a long pause, during which Keith waited patiently,
with an aspect of dreary humiliation. "My son's wife
can have but one home, eitlier his or mine. Go to Can-
ada, as you desire, for l.vo years, and either send for
her there, or earn enough to return and settle in Eng-
land. In the meantime I Avill take your Avife back with
me to the parsonage."
" Oh father! oh my good, good father!"
For the second time the young man fell on his knees,
on Is is very knees, before the parent, who had given hinx
sonuthing better than mere life, the love and patience
311 iWO MARRIAGES.
"wliicli lielps one to live it; who had been to him at once
just and merciful; like the Father in Heaven, as all
parents should try to be to all their children.
Mr. Garland did not speak, only leaned over his son
and patted liis head, while two tears, the rare, pathetic
tears of old age, stole down his cheeks. But Keith wept
like a little child.
CHAPTER V.
.EusTOJsr Squake terminus in the dim dawn of a win-
ter morning — nay, before the dawn; for the gas-lamps
were still burning here and there along the platform,
where a little knot of people, porters, and passengers,
and passengers' friends, were assisting at the departure
of an early train for Liverpool. It happened to be one
of those oftenest chosen by emigrants, of which the
greatest number necessarily leave either from this station
or "Waterloo. You can easily detect these sad, outward-
"bound folk from ordinary j^assengers, even were it not for
their heterogeneous heaps of luggage — not common lug-
gage, but masses of property, which plainly speak of
leaving home " for good." Ah! is it, can it ever be for
good? Huge packages of amorphous character, canvas
bags, heavy sea-chests, and smaller boxes marked
** Wanted on the voyage," show plainly that few of them
are ever likely to return to England. And opposite the
lino of second and third-class carriages, sometimes first-
class, but seldomer; first-class is more accustomed to
keep its feelings under control, hang groups, mostly of
■women, some crying, loudly or quietly, as their natures
may be; some silent, with bleared and swollen faces, that
eeem to have Avept all tears dry, and settled into sheer
exhaustion. They, and" the men, too, have a look of
having been up all night, a long night of forced compos-
ure or parting anguish, terrible as death. But the men
carry it off far the best, either with a miserable, hard
etolidity, that has something savage in it, or else with
a false jocularity; it is chielly the women who break
down.
'* You see, father, there are otlicr folk bidding good-
bye to old England as well as I," said one young passen-
ger — a second-class passenger be was, although quite a
TWO MARRIAGES. 1 IS
gentleman to look at — "otlier folk wlio look as if they
had not slept much last night, as I own I didn't.''
"Nor I," said Mr. Oarland.
The parson was walking slowly u]) and down, leaning
on his son's arm. All was over and done; Keith had
quitted college, and, through the father's protecting care,
quitted it without any outward exposure. They had been
three days in London making final arrangements. Now
the very last day, the last hour, of parting had arrived.
Even the ticket was taken, and the rugs and other im-
pedimenta packed into the carriage; nothing was left to
do or say. No need for aught but the few last words,
which in such circumstances never will come, or come as
the merest commonplaces.
" We have found our lodgings very comfortable, as I
hope your hotel has been," observed Keith, ** and it was
very kind of you to get them for us. The landlady said
she knew you long ago."
" Not me, but your mother, who once befriended the
woman. She always did contrive to help everybody —
your mother, I mean."
''I know that," said Keith, softly.
''Is your wife well to-day? Did you leave her toler-
ably composed?"
"Yes, she is a good girl — a very good girl. She
would not trouble me more than she could help. She
sat up all night helping me to pack, and would have
come with me to the train, but I told her you might not
like it."
Mr. Garland was silent.
"But she will be ready at the lodgings any hour you
please to name, or she will meet you at the railway station,
whichever you prefer. Shall vou start forlmmeridge to-
day?"
" Possibly; lam not quite certain. Hark! was not that
the bell for departure?"
'* No, the five-minutes' bell."
The old man clung to his son's arm, leaning heavier
and heavier, though he still firmly planted each foot ou
the ground, and walked with head erect and tearless
eyes. Looking at him, Keith felt, for the moment, that
he would have given all his hopes in life, every prospect
of worldly advantage, every indulgence in that frantic.
116 TWO MARRIAGES.
youthful passion misnamed love, to have stayed behind,
and cheered and solaced the few remaining years of his
dear old father.
He was sorry he had said so much about his wife; and
the few words more he had meant to say, begging that
■when they did meet, for Mr. Garland had not seen her
yet, he would be kind to her, and put up with her many
sliortcomings, faded entirely out of the young fellow's
mind. It was one of those sad cases in which a man can-
not, as the Scripture ordains — and as, under certain ex-
ceptional circumstances, a man is hound to do— " leave
father and mother, and cleave unto his wife." Here
there was in truth no wife to cleave to, no vestige of the
real mari-iage of heart and soul, which alone constitutes
"one flesh;'' husband and wife, sufficient each to each.
Poor Keith — if ho ever looked into the future! But he
did not — he dared not.
All he felt was, with a pent-up grief choking him at
the throat, and a bitter remorse gnawing like a wild beast
at his heart, that in a minute or two more he should have
parted from his father, his good father, who had done
everything in the world for liim, who had been both
father and mother to him ever sintie he was born. That,
for all lie could tell, he might never again behold those
venerable white hairs, that dear familiar face, withered
indeed, but pleasant and fresh to look on as that of a
young girl; pleasanter and dearer far, as now seemed to
Keith, than that pretty red and white face which had
80 taken his foolish fancy, and for which he had sacri-
ficed and suffered, ay, and caused others to suffer, so
much.
"Oh, father!" he cried, in exceeding bitterness of soul,
"I wish I were 7iot going away from you! Tell me, at
this late minute, shall J stay?"
And at that final moment the father paused. Paused
to consider, not his own feelings (they could have given
an easy solution of the difficulty), but his son's good.
He ran over rapully all the arguments which, during
many a solitary walk, and many a weaty, wakeful night,
he had carefully weighed; all tlie exigencies of the future,
the bitter, perhaps fatal future, which Keith had brought
upon himself. The same reasons which held good then
did so now. No momentary outburst of emotion could
TWO MARRIAGES'. 117
set them aside. The plain cominou sense of the matter
w;i3, tliat the youth and his girl wife, so madly, so un-
suitably allied, were better parted. That the safest chance
to ni!i.ke a man of the one, and a woman fit, or at least
less unfit, to be his wife, of the other, was to part them
for a time. Of their separation little harm could come.
Keith was fast bound, and would keep constant to his
wife.^if only from conscience and self-respect; nay, he
was perhaps safer far away from her, where he could only
remember her prettincssand her love, than if perpetually
jarred upon and irritated by those fatal deficiencies which
he already felt, and his father could see that he felt, only
too keenly.
No, Keith must go. It was better for him that he
went.
Of himself, and his own life to come — that short,
short vista, out of which all the brightness now seemed
faded — the parson did not think much. He remembered
only his own seventy years and his son's twenty, with
perhaps half a century more yet to run. No, not »
chance must be left untried of redeeming the past and
softening tlie future. Keith must go.
"My boy," he said, "I am glad you sa d that; I shall
not forget it. But I do not wish you to stay. When a
man has put his hand to the plow, let him not look
back. Go to Canada, and do your best there, like a
brave young fellow as you are — as I would wish my son
to be. Go! and I will try to keep alive and hearty till
you return."
"Of course you will I" answered Keith — fiercely almost
— and when he spoke the departure bell was heard really
ringing.
Father and son turned face to face, and then grasped
Jiands, in the tight, silent grip with which men express,
or conceal their feelings.
A minute more, and where the busy train had been
was an empty space — a few porters hurrying away to
other work, or sharply calling ''This way out "to the
knot of women left weei^ing on the platform, and one old
man who stood, not weeping, but leaning heavily on hia
stick, and gazing, in a sort of abstraction, upon the long
black serpent, with its white-coiling breath, that went
pufting and snorting away, first slow, then faster, faster.
IIB TWO MARRIAGES.
till it disappeared in the dim distaMce, carrying witli it the
delight of his eyes for twenty years.
Yes, Keith was gone, quite gone now. The old man
had lost his only child.
There must have been something in the parson's as-
pect which told his sad story, for one of the porters,
roughly beginning to order him from the platform — as
they did the poor sobbing women — stopped, and said
civilly:
"This is your way, sir. Shall I get you a cab?"
'•Thank you."
" But, on trying to walk, Mr. Garland felt so feeble
that involuntarily he put out his' hand for support.
"Sit you down here, sir, and Fll find you a cab in two
minutes."
It might have been two or ten, he could not say, for he
felt so utterly bewildered and weary, when he was roused
by a light touch on his arm, and saw a young woman
standing at the end of the bench, a young woman
scarcely even a " young person,*' as the intermediate is,
and not a "young lady" by any means.
"If you please, Mr. Garland, I be here, sir.'*
Tlie strong west-country accent, the humble manner,
like a servant's, and the dress, a mere servant's dress also,
■were sufficient, even if she' had not called him by his
name, to inform the parson who she was, his "daughter,**
Charlotte Garland. —
Exhausted as he was, all the blood seemed to rush to
his heart, rousing him out of his stupor, and bringing
him back at once to the bitter reality of things. He
turned to examine sharply, he tried hard that it should
not be unjustly, this girl, who had proved such a fatality
to him and his.
She was like — and yet unlike — what he had remem-
bered of her. Her face he could not see — she had a
thick veil on; but her ungloved hands, not coarse now —
sickness had wasted and whitened them — were shaking
violently. Nevcrtheles.s, the voice in which she ad-
dressed him was composed, and not unsweet, even to the
parson's most sensitive ear.
He rose and gave her his seat. " I believe, I cannot
be mistaken, you are Mrs. Keith Garland?''
"yes, sir.''
TWO marriagp:s. 119
" Are you here alone?"
''Quite alone."
She said it half inaudibly, but very quietly, without
any of the torrents of tear.s, the noisy, demonstrative
grief of the women around, wiiich was what Mr. Garland
had somehow expected. And when she lifted up her
veil he saw, not the pretty^ rosy girl who had worked
so much woe, but a thin, sickly-looking creature, who
was evidently doing her utmost to use a woman's self-
control. There was a fixed repression in the small and
close-set mouth; a mute, restrained, unappealing sor-
row in the heavy eyes, which touched him in sjiite of
himself.
She waited for him to speak again, but finding he did
not, she said, still in the same humble tone:
'' Beg pardon, sir, for coming up to 'ee, but I tliought
you might miss of I, and that would gie ^m a deal moi-e
trouble.'*
x\s she spoke ]\[r. Garland winced terribly. He could
not help it. He, so sensitive to small refinements,
how should he endure constant association with this
girl, however harmless and even affectionate she might
be?
" I thought you were safe at your lodgings," said he,
abruptly. "What did you come here for?"
A foolish, nay, a cruel question, as he saw next min-
ute, but the girl did not resent it; and though her feat-
ures twitched and quivered, she did not cry.
" I couldn't help coming, just to see the last of him;
he's my husband, sir. But he didn't see I; I took care o*
that."
" Where were you, then?"
"Just behind that lamp. I saw you aifd him a-walk-
ing together, up and down, such a long time — oh! such
a long time! And then yoit bid him good-bye, and he
got into the carriage." She faltered — broke down a
little.
"Poor girl!" said Mr. Garland, taking her hand,
which he had not yet done; and as he did it he Avas con-
scious of a momentary warmth of heart toward this for-
lorn creature, scarcely more than a child, thus strangely
left to his cliarge, and to whom the law, if nothing else,
had given the external title of his " daughter."
120 TV/0 3IARRIAOES.
Charlotte did not respond in any equal or filial way.
Her limp, pallid hand just touched his and dropped away
again. She Avas evidently terribly afraid of him.
The civil porter came up with the information that a
cab was waiting.
^*We must go now," said Mr. Garland. "Come!"
He paused, considering wliat to call her — what he ought
to call her — this young woman, who, however he felt to-
ward her, was his son^s wife, and must be treated as
such. Then, with an effort, he said, " Come, Charlotte,."
She obeyed with the humble, deferential air which
was to him so painful, and yet, perhaps, the contrary
would have been worse. He tried to think so — tried to
hope the best. As she sat beside him in the cab, he
made several attempts at ordinary conversation, showing
her the London streets they passed, and so on; but she
Beemed quite stupid, either with grief or shyness, and
only replied in monosyllables; so he took refuge in cov-
ertly observing the pretty face. Beyond question it was
very pretty, with almost a Greek profile, only less inane
than those correct outlines usually are, dark eyes, and a
quantity of rich blue-black hair. But there was the
servant's bonnet, gown, and shawl, tawdry, with violent
contrasts of color; the servant's gloveless hands; and,
above all, the unmistakable servant's air — half awk-
ward, half shy, in the presence of an acknowledged su-
perior.
He could make no more out of her than this until the
two were sitting face to face — he pointed to a chair, or
ehe would have remained standing — in the little lodging-
house parlor. With both of them, the first passion of
parting had subsided; the wrench was over; and let
their hearts bl^ed inwardly how they might, outwardly
they had to go back to the duties of the common work-a-
day world.
The first thing that startled them into this was the
landlady's bringing up breakfast; it was scarcely nine
o'clock, and yet it seemed already the middle of the
day.
" We'll wait a bit," said Charlotte, hesitating; perhaps
she remembered the day when she gave the parson his
tea at Valley Farm. Perhaps he remembered it too; but
tjaose things must not be remembered.
II
T^^O MARRIAGES. 121
"No, we'll not wait, if you please. Will you give me
some breakfast?"
He ])ointed to her seat, assuming his own opposite; and
BO they, sat down together, as father and daughter-in-law,
and took the initiative step in their new life.
Their meal ended — and it gave to both a certain sense
of ease and comfort, as if the first and worst diiSculty had
been got over satisfactorily — the parson spoke to her,
trying to do it gently and kindly, in the manner he used
toward his parish school-children.
" We must now consider our plans, my dear. Yon
know, of course, that you are coming back with me to
Immeridgc?"
"Yes; he told me so."
"And are you satisfied Avith the arrangement?"
"Eh, sir?"
" Do speak out," said Mr. Garland, a little sharply.
** I should be sorry to take you home with me if you did
not approve of it. I do not wish to treat you as a child,
or as — as an inferior person."
Charlotte Garland opened her great eyes — childish
eyes they were, almost; there was no badness in them,
and a certain appealing simplicity — a "Don't hurt mel'*
sort of look. Evidently she did not half understand
what was being said to her. But she looked up into the
kind face of Keith's father, and understood it better
than his words.
" Yes, sir, I'd like to go with you, and thank you,
kindly," said she.
" Very well; suppose we go home to-day?"
And then he remembered what a changed home he was
returning to — changed in what it had lost, and far worse,
for he had grown used to Keith's absence, in the addi-
tional burden it had gained — a burden which, to an old
man of his solitary and settled ways, would be obnoxious
every hour of the day. And yet it was but duty, as this
Christian man read his duty, therefore it must be done.
Nevertheless, the more he pondered over it the more
perplexing it grew, not merely in its larger aspect, but in
the minutise of things. He had written to his house-
keeper, saying merely " that Mr. Keith was married, and
"Was going to Canada, leaving his wife at the parsonage
till his return." This intelligence, in all its naked bref
183 TUO 3rARRIAGES.
ity, would, he knew, soon speed all round the parish,
perhaps even to Valley Farm, where the truth would be
at once guessed. How it would finally come out at Imme-
ridge, or whether the whole story was not already public,
Mr. Garland could not tell, and took no means of learu-
inc
He was a thoroughly honest man, this Parson Garland.
His candid soul, clear as daylight itself, had no fear of
^coming to the light. Those poor shams — so common that
they cease to be thought mean, and are called by pretty
names — such as " keeping up appearances," ''wearing a
good face before the world, ^' or even that last and saddest
sham of all, euphuistically translated as '' laver son linge
sale ehez lui:" all these forms of elegant hypocrisy were
to him unknown and impossible. He never did, con-
sciously, what he was ashamed of doing, and therefore
never dreaded the world's knowing that he did it. If he
himself thought it right to take home to Immeridge Par-
sonage his son's wife, what business had the world to
meddle with the matter?
He did not feel it necessary to advertise to all his
neighbors who and what Mrs. Keith Garland had been —
to bruit publicly his own private griefs and his son's
errors. But his silence was not deceit— he never tried to
deceive anybody; he was resolved, whatever happened, he
never would. That morbid dread of public opinion,
which shrinks not so much from the thing itself, Avhether
misfortune, disgrace, or evca crime, as from society's
knowing it, was not the form in which temptation carao
to Mr. Garland. It might have done once, for he was
naturally very sensitive to love and hatred, praise and
blame; but time and his long solitary life had taught him
better wisdom. To him — accustomed to live alone — face
to face with the All-seeing Eye — the stare, whether
kindly or malign, of mere fellow-creatures seemed com-
paratively a very little thing.
Still he was conscious of many perplexities that would
arise from bringing Charlotte home as his daughter-in-
law. The first one — a trivial and y*et annoying thing —
dawned upon him as she sat opposite to him, huddled
up in the arm-chair which he had made her take, for
she looked very pale and wan, though she made no com-
plaint.
TM'O MARRIAGES. 12a
It was years — twenty years since the parson had no-
ticed women's dress; but he liad an artistic eye. and
remembering wluit used to please him once in the only
woman he ever admired, and yet slic was noc pretty, he
saw at once that something M'as amiss in the undoubt-
edly pretty Charlotte Garland. lie could not exactly
tell what it was, except that the flimsy cotton gown and
gaudy-patterned shawl were very different from the unity
©f harmonious color, the decorous simplicity of shape, to
■which he had been accustomed, aiul by which an ordinary
or even a i:)lain woman can make herself lovesome, not to
say lovely, if she chooses.
Also there was that unmistakable something, or lack of
something, which couvinced him that when she came
under the sharp eyes of Jane, the old servant, who had
been servant to his wife, would discoverat once that Mrs.
Keith Garland was '* not a lady."
This, alas! was in degree inevitable; still, some ex-
ten\al amendment might be made, only he did not like
to hurt Charlotte's feelings by doing it.
'^Excuse me," he said, at last, "but have you any
otlier gown than this? It is scarcely warm enough for
traveling.^'
'' S6 he said/' she always referred to Keith as "he;"
*• and that it wasn't fit for me to wear now; and he left
me some of his money to buy clothes, and told me he
would send me more by and by. I w^isn't to be a bur-
den upon you, sir."
"Poor fellow!" said the father, softly.
" I was always handy at my fingers, though I had no
book-learning, please, sir," pursued Charlotte, timidly.
" If I might go out and buy some stuff, I could make a
Sunday gown for myself when I get home — I mean — I
beg your pardon if I've said anything wrong," added slie,
in great confusion.
"No, my dear. Immeridge is your home."
" Thank'ee, sir," with a return to the humble, servant-
girl manner so terribly annoying to Mr, Garland. He
struggled to conquer himself, however, and suggested
that they should take the landlady into council, and be-
fore leaving London should spend Keith's money, per-
haps a little more — but he did not hint this — in supply-
ing a suitable wardrobe for Keith's wife.
124 TWO MARRIAGES.
Charlotte caught at the idea, and whetlier for lovo's
sake or vanity's sake, the not wonderful vanity of six-
teen, she took, during three whole days, a world of labor
and no little enjoyment over her new clothes. She also
accommodated herself to them so well, that when she
was dressed in them, a fellow-traveler who resigned his
place to her in the railway carriage, spoke of her as " that
young lady."
Fortunately, she talked little during the journey; in-
deed, the parson had been relieved to find, that during
their three days' association together, that familiarity
with him did not make her grow more voluble, but
rather more silent; also, that Avhen he talked to her,
which he forced himself to do as much as possible, slie
sometimes seemed to notice the difference in their speech,
and try blunderingly, but eagerly, to correct her own.
Seeing this, he once or twice corrected her himself in
some glaring error of grammar or pronunciation, which
reproof she took meekly enough, and did not make the
mistake again.
Still the ci-devant Charlotte Dean could by no possi-
bility be exalted into a heroine of romance. She was
just a common servant-^irl, or seemed so, to the parson,
who, in criticising her, had to contend not only Avith the
personal pain, but with all the prejudices of his class,
and the sensitiveness of a nature peculiarly alive to all
that was graceful and delicate, or the contrary. Ilia
only hope was, that in these three days he saw nothing
wrong about Charlotte, nothing actually coarse, or
wicked, or unwomanly; and then she was so very young.
She must have been a mere child — too childish to have
learned anything very bad — when she came under the
strict guardianship of JMrs. Love, of whom, however,
she seldom spoke, or in any way reverted to her former
life.
Nor did Mr. Garland. He covered it over, and left it
with the Judge of all.
Nevertheless, as, with this young woman sitting by hia
side, ho traveled through the fair southern counties,
along the very same route which he had once taken (it
seemed sometimes only a day, arul sometimes a life-time
ago) with another, and oh! what a different woman,
whom he was also bringing vliomo to the same home, it
TWO MARRIAGES. 126
might well be forgiven the ohl man if, through iill his
eompasKion, he felt a sensation of indescribable, hopeless
puin.
But, happily, ere they reachci] tlicir j()ini\ey'.s end,
Charlotte's small strength broke d'jwn. He liad not
looked at her for a good while, and tiien he saw that she
had quietly leaned her head in the corner of the fly, and
fainted. And when the carriage stopped at thePaison-
age gate, and he tried to help her out, she, equally
quietly, dropped down on the damp doorsteps, and had to
be carried off at once up-stairs, and put to bed by Jane
like a baby.
It was a strange, sad coming home of Keith's wife, but
it was the best thing that could have happened. And,
after an hour of great uneasiness, spent in wandering up
and down the house, and lingering outside the long-
vacant "guest-chamber," where the sick girl lay, Mr.
Garland was astonished to find how entirely he had for-
gotten everything except anxiety and compassion for her.
" Well?" said he, eagerly, to Jane, as she came out of
the room.
Jane cast down her eyes, determined not to meet her
master's.
*■* She's better, sir, she only tired like, she'll bo all right
to-morrow."
" I am glad to hear it. She has had a long journey;
and it was hard parting with her liusband, of course."
" Of course," echoed Jane, and made no further re-
mark or inquiry.
Mr. Garland'was going into his study, but, struck by
the tone, and more by the after silence, he turned back.
He felt how much depended upon Jane, who had had sole
control of the house for twenty j^ears, and who, though
sharp at times, was not a bad woman in her way.
" You'll be very good to her," said he, half appeal-
ingly.
Jane was still silent.
Then Mr. Garland perceived his mistake. He said,
looking full at her, and assuming the parson's " high "
tone, which, gentle as he v/as, all the parish were a little
afraid of:
"'My daughter-ill-law is only sixteen, too youngtotake
the management of my house. Besides, she has yet to
126 TWO MARRIAGES,
fiuioli lier education. Tliereforc, Jano, you will keep
your place as housekeeper, aud all will go on h% usual —
for the present. But I trust to you to see tliat she has every
comfort, aud that all proper attention and respect is in-
variably paid to Mrs. Keith Garland."
Jane lifted her eyes at last, inquisitively and sharply,
and fixed them on her master. In them he saw, and
hardly knew whether he was glad or sorry to see, that she
was fully aware of everything.
Mr. Garland had expected this, at least he thought ho
hadj and that he iiad prepared himself for it, as being a
result inevitable in a country parish, where everybody
knows everybody's business; for, let Mrs. Love be as
kindly silent as she might, she could not chain the
tongues either of the farm-servants or the neighbors.
Of course Jane knew — everybody knew — the whole story
by this time. But when he met this cruel fact blank
and plain; when his old servant looked him in the face,
not with disrespect certainly, but with a sort of half-
pitying, half-angry amazement, without one word of
sympathy or regret for Keith's departure, or of curiosity
over Keith's young wife, the parson felt it hard.
Tie said nothiisg; what was there to say? He had
borne much sorrow, but the first shame of his life was
come upon him now.
*' Be the young w^oman to stop here, sir?"
** My son's wife will certainly stop here," replied Mr.
Garland, with a dignity that silenced Jane. And then
feeling that, cruel as the explanation was, it was his duty,
both as a man and a clergyman, to explain himself suth-
ciently, even to his own servant, so that neither she nor
any one would mistake him, or suppose that he glossed
over wickedness, paltered between right and wrong, he
said, " Jane, you must never again speak in that tone of
Mr. Keith's wife. It was a marriage without my knowl-
edge or consent, but it was the right and best thmg under
the circumstances. They are both very sorry, and God
may have forgiven them. I have, Jane," he added al-
most entreatingly, for he felt how critical the positioa
was; "don't judge her; only bo kind to her."
Jane looked as if she doubted the evidence of eyes and
ears — looked at her master until big tears gathered and
TWO MARRIAGES. Vil
fell. She wiped them off with her apron, and said, in a
husky voice:
" Well, I never seed such a man as you — never! Yes.,
I'll do it, sir. I'll be kind to her, but it's only for your
sake, mind tiiat, master. May the good Lord reward you,
Mr. Garlatid!"
And Jane went hastily away, more overcome than she
had ever been since the day when she stood with Keith,
a new-born baby, in her arms, weeping her heart out be-
side her dear mistress' coffin.
Mr. Garland went slowly up-stairs, not into his study,
but his own bedroom. He was very weary, and yet com-
posed. The worst was over; there was nobody else to be
spoken to, or to speak to him on the subject. And Keith
was gone. He had suffered as much as he could suffer,
and felt strangely at rest.
If any eyes had watched him — but there were none to
watch, at least none visible to mortal ken — they might
have seen the old man shut his door, seat himself in his
arm-chair by the window, and, undrawing the curtain,
gaze out upon the church and churcliyard, where, cradled
in moonlight, the white gravestones slept. He sat a long
time, and then went quietly to bed, his last conscious
thought being, with a sense of repugnance, tinged with
invohiutary tenderness, that now, for the first time for so
many years, there slept under the Parsonage roof another
Mrs. Garland.
CHAPTER VI.
In spite of Jane's confident assertion that her patient
would be all right to-morrow, it was several weeks before
the expectant village, or, indeed, anybody except Jane
and her master, saw Mrs. Keith Garland.
Though only a servant, poor CJiarlotte had a heart in
her bosom; her power of self-control was very great for
one so young; but, after the need for calmness was over,
she " fretted above a bit," as Jane expressed it, for her
husband. Instead of rising from her bed, and parading
before all Immeridge her honors and glories as Parson
Garland's daughter, the poor thing turned her f;ice to
the wall; did nothing but weep all day long, and fell
188 TWO MARRIAGES.
into a sort of low fever, or " waste," wliicli, had it been
done out of policy, was tlie wisest thing she could h;i\e
done at that crisis. For old Jane's kindly nature waa
touched by the mere act of tending her; she forgot all
that Master Keith's wife was or had been, and thought
of her only as a poor, sick child, who depended upon her,
Jane, for everything; so that between these two women,
who otherwise might have become naturally antago-
nistic, the one obtruding and the other resenting their
painfully false position, there grew up a true and not un-
natural bond, which contributed very much to the peace
of the parsonage household.
The parson, too, in the daily half-hour visit which he
compelled himself to pay to his daughter-in-law's room,
talking to her about trivial things, or perhaps, as was hia
habit in sick-rooms, reading to her a few verses out of tho
Bible, became familiarized to the pale face that he found
lying on the pillow, or propped upright in the easy-chair
by the fire. Its prettiness pleased his eye; its silent
smile as he entered moved his iieart; he felt glad this
poor young creature had not been left a castaway upon
the cruel world.
By degrees his duty-visits ceased to be a trouble and a
task: he found himself looking forward to it with some
slight intei-est, wondering what he should talk to her
about that day, and what she would say in return. Not
that she ever said much; she seemed to have an instinct
that it was safer to be silent, or perhaps, in the long con-
fidential hours which she and Jane necessarily spent to-
gether, she got to know more of her father-in-law than
he suspected, or than she ever would have done liad they
been thrown together very much at first; so, eitlier from
prudence or timidity, she rarely did more than smile her
welcome, and pay to the old man the tender flattery of a
mute listener. Still, she supplied him with an interest,
an object of thought and care; he carcely knew how it
was, but tiie Parsonage felt less empty; and oven the
small domestic fact of having to send up to an invalid
her ))oi'tion from his daily meals made them seem a little
less selfislily solitary.
For his life outside, it went on just in its ordinary
rouiul. Ilis parishioners were none of them of tiiat rank
who could take upon themselves tho liberty of intimacyj
TWO MARRIAGES. 129
nobody questioned liim even about his son, and not
a soul in the smallest way adverted to his son's wife.
Sometimes he was glad of this, and then again ho invol-
untarily resented it, and it inclined him the more com-
passionately to the poor, pale giil, who lay so quiet in
the little room up-stairs, harming nobody, and of scarcely
more importance to anybody than if she already lay
"under the mools."
Thus things went on, and seemed as if they might go
on forever, until the quiet of the Parsonage was stirred
by an event — a momentous event always — the first letter
from over the sea.
Keith wrote to his father at some length, very explic-
itly and satisfactorily; but to his wife was only a small
note, inclosed in the other. Mr. Garland sent it up-
stairs at once, and followed it himself half an hour after,
with his own letter in his hand; for, amid all his pleas-
ure in the long loving letter, which had a tone of thought-
fulness and manliness quite new, the old man was
touched with slight compunction that Keith's confi-
dences were all to his father. The thing was inevitable,
and yet it was not as things should be. As he walked
up-stairs to his daughter-in-law's room, Mr. Garland
could not help sighing.
Charlotte turned toward him with her customary smile,
but this time it was not quite natural; she had evidently
been in tears.
''Is not this good news?" said the old man, cheerily,
and gave her his letter. Hers was lying open on her lap;
it seemed to consist of only a half dozen lines, w'ritten in
large coj^per-plate hand, as you would write to a child.
The parson felt almost sorry when he looked at his own
long letter. " You see, Charlotte, all the business facts
come to me; but would you care to read them? Perhaps
you do not feel strong enough."
" Oh, yes; but — I can't. Please, sir, I haven't learnt
to read written hand."
Mr. Garland might have felt, for the hundredth time,
that bitter sense of incongruity in this wife with whom
unfortunate Keith had burdened himself for life, had it
not been for Charlotte's burning blush, which showed her
own painful consciousness of the same.
130 TWO MARRIAGES.
** Never mind," ho said, kindly, " 1 will read it to yon.
But your own letter?"
"I couldn't read it, and I thong^Iit you might not like
my asking Jane to. Oh, sir, is he quite well? Has noth-
ing happened to him? Is he glad lie went?" added she,
eagerly, while her lips quivered, and, despite all her ef-
forts to prevent it, the tears came streaming down.
" My dear," said the parson, deeply touched, " keep
quiet, or we shall have you as ill as ever again. Keep
qnict, and you shall hear every word he says — you have
a right; he is your husband."
^'Yes, yes!" And for a moment the poor girl's eyes
brightened with love; the rare unbought trrasure which
Heaven can light up in a beggar's heart or in a queen's,
but which once kindled, noihingearthly will ever quench
— and Mr. Garland saw it.
He silently extended his hand and held hers while he
read aloud Keith's letter. When he had done so, and
talked it over a little, explaining anything that he
thought she was not likely to understand, he asked, hesi-
tatingly, if he should read the other one.
*' Mine! Oh, yes— if you would be so kind." She had
Bat folding and fingering it, and now she gave it uji with
a sad, lingering look. Poor Charlotte!
" You must not mind my seeing it, even if it is a love-
letter," said the parson, half apologetically. But there
was no need; all the world might have read every line of
Keith's first letter to his young wife:
"Dear Charlotte, — You will be glad to hear I am
Bafe landed at Halifax, and shall shortly be on my way
to the backwoods of Canada. My father will tell you
where they are, and all about theui, if you care to hear.
I shall have to woi'k hard, chiefly at farming woi'k, which
you know all about, though I hear farming is rallier dif-
ferent there from what it is in Old England. Still I can
learn, and you will learn too when I can fetfh you or
send for you. I hope you will bo a good girl till then,
and take care of your health, so as to get thoroughly
strong, for lu'alth is very much wanted out here. I hope
to have mine, perhaps better than in England; for other
things it is, of course, a very great change.
"I write this large, hoping you may contrive to read
2'TT'O MARRIAGES. 131
it. Perhaps by and by you might manage to leani to
write. Be as cheerful as you can, and be always dutiful
and obedient to my dear father.
"Your affectionate liusbaiul,
"M. K. Garland."
Nothing more than this — and there scarcely could hare
been less; yet Charlotte seemed satisfied with the letter,
and asked Mr. Garland to read it over a^ain to her.
" Then I shall learn it by heart/' said she, simply, and
the old man felt it hard to meet the touching patience
of her eyes. Sinful as she was, she had been sinned
against likewise. The wrong, for whicli no man can ever
fully atone, had been done, and done by his son, to this
poor servant-girl.
He stayed wit1i her much beyond his customary half
hour, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting silent, pon-
dering not the questions of sin and forgiTcness; he left
that to Heaven alone, but wondering whether, contrary
to all his theories and liabits, he Avas being taught how,
in Heaven's sight, nothing is '^common or unclean,"
whetlier, by rare chance. Nature might not have put
sense and intelligence under that broad, low forehead;
sensitiveness and refinement in the always sweet-tempered,
flexible mouth — whether, in short, though she was not
born one, it might not be possible in time to make some-
thing like " a lady" out of Charlotte Garland.
At last he said, " Charlotte, when yon are stronger,
you and I must have a word or two of serious talk. No,
don't look frightened. It is not to scold you; the only
fault I mean to find is that you will not get well fast
enough."
"Would you like me to get well, sir? I have some-
times thought — well, it has been put into my mind that
—that "
" Speak out, always speak out."
"That you would rather — I know it would be better —
oh, sir. you know, you can't help knowing that it would
be a deal easier for him if I died."
This outburst, and, alas! it was Tiot altogether without
foundation, quite overwhelmed Mr. Garland. Its very
truth made it more difficult to ansvv'er. Nor had he ex-
pected it, though he had before noticed, with some sur-
132 TWO MARRIAGES.
prise, that iu this coarse, imletterecl girl lurked the true
principle of feminine devotedness, the faculty of seeing
all things as they affected " him," and not herself at all.
"My dear," said he, gently, " you must not talk thus.
Everything that is past is past; we must make the best
of it. Instead of dying, suppose you were to come down-
stairs and make tea for me to-night?"
Charlotte looked amazed. '' Do you really want me?
"Would you really like me to come?"
For once in his life the parson told an untruth — or half
a truth, disguising tiie rest — and answered, briefly, "Yes,
my dear." But he forgave himself wlien he saw how
Charlotte's whole countenance brightened up.
'* Then I'll do it at once, this very night, sir. I can.
I felt quite strong enough to come down-stairs, only there
was nothing to come down for."
''How so?"
Charlotte hung her head. ''Jane said I was not to
help her in the kitchen, and there is no other work I am
fit to do. Besides, I should only have been in your way,
I know that."
Mr. Garland avoided answering ihe last half of her
sentence. ** You seem to have a grand notion of work,
Charlotte," said he.
'' I was brought up to it, it comes natural to the likes
o' wc;" and then, recognizing lier provincialisms, out of
which she had struggled very much of late, at least,
Avhenevcr she talked with her father-in-law, the girl sud-
denly blushed — Charlotte's vivid, scarlet blush.
''By * us' you mean the people you were among before
my son married you," said the parson, determind to shirk
nothing, though he spoke botli kindly and familiarly.
*'No doubt as Mrs. Love's servant you worked hard
enough, but there is no reason why an emigrant's wife,
and " — he paused — "a clergyman's daughter, should not
work, too, though in rather a different way; and that is
what I wanted to speak to you about. Sliall I?"
"Yes, please, sir,"
"Would you not like to learn something? Learn to
write, that you may answer Keith's letters; to read
books, that you may be a companion to him when he
eomes home. The Bible speaks, I read it to you only
TII'O MARRIAGES. 133
yesterdny, of the wife being -'a lielp-meet' for the lius-
baud."
"What does that meau?'^ asked Charlotte, humbly.
The parson thought a minute, and then, trying to put
his thoughts into as simple language as possible, retrans-
lating himself as if it were for a child, he explained to
her his own beliefs about marriage, his faith, and also his
experience; how, although tlie man was the head of tho
woman, the woman ought to be the heart and right hand
of the man — able to help him in his difficulties, to sym-
pathize with him in all his aims, to comfort him in all
his troubles. That outward differences or incongruities
might exist, or might be got over in time; but that this
inner union must be, else the marriage was a total fail-
ure from beginning to end. And whetlier from the ex-
cessively simple way in which he put it — all divinest
truths are the most simple and most clear — or from a
tender earnestness of manner which supplied what his
words failed in, he saw that, somehow or other, Charlotte
understood him. When he ended she looked up wist-
fully in his face.
" I know it is all true, sir. I knew I wasn't a fit wife
for him; but do you tliink I might grow to be?*'
That doctrine of growth is one of the saving truths
of life. When we reject it, when we judge people harshy
by what they were once, or hopelessly in looking forward to
what they may be, we often make terrible mistakes.
We are far harder upon one another than God ever is
upon us. We forget that in His divine plan, so far as
we can see it, all existence seems to be an eternal
progress, an ever-advancing development, unless, aa
sometimes happens, the tide runs backward, and then
the only« future is infinite retrogression. Looking at our
life, or lives, to come, after what seems to be the system
of this one, we can imagine a just and merciful Being
making possible to His creatures not only eternal life, but
eternal death, never eternal punishment.
But this is too solemn a sermon to come from such a
very simple text as Charlotte Garland.
If any one had seen her three months — well, say six,
for they slippped away so fast that nobody counted them
— from the day when she was brought home to Imme-
134 TWO MARRIAGES.
ridge, she would scarcely liave been recognized. It is
true, she Avas at the most impressionable season of a
woman's life, when new habits are formed and old ones
effaced with a rapidity incredible to those who have not
seen such things. Besides— and tlie more her father-in-
law perceived this, the more patient he grew with her —
she was, in addition to his own, under the teaching of the
great master, Love.
Witliout a doubt Charlotte was deeply attached to her
husband. Perhaps something naturally refined in her
htid made her fancy a gentleman rather than a plowboy,
ar.d sorrow developed this fancy into the real love, which
nothing can imitate and nothing destroy. Cold as Keith
was, and neglectful, for, after the first letter, he rarely
wrote again, but contented himself with sending messages
to his wife throngli his father, iinquestionably the poor
wife loved him. Love guided the pen in her clumsy
fingers over dozens of. blurred copy-books; Love wakened
her with the lark, to pore over old spelling-books and
Heading -made-easy's, relics of the last Mrs. Garland's
governess-days, for hours before any one in the Parson-
age was stirring. Love, and perhaps affection also, as
for two hours daily slie "said her lessons'" in the study
like a child, softened her rough, provincial tones, and
made her try to speak good English, and to move about,
not in her old floundering way, but with the subdued
quiet which she knew the parson liked. And he knew
that she knew he liked it, and why ho did so; for once,
when the kitchen-door was loft open, he overheard her
saying, in a deprecatory way, ^' Please, Jane, I wish you
would always tell me when I do these sort of things.
I must be so unlike anything he has ever been used to.
And, oh! couldn't you tell me something moreabout poor
Mrs. Garland?*'
Nevertheless, human nature is human nature, and
many a time the old leaven of servanthood would reap-
pear. Tt was evidently a sore restraint to her to sit still
m the parlor instead of being busy with Jane in the
kitchen. At her l(>ssons, though, she learned easily and
fast, as quick brains, left fallow till quite past childhood,
very often do learn, which was a great mercy to the
parson, still she was often stnj)id through sheer avve and
timidity, ;ind her manner, when frightened, assumed
rrr'o marriages. izr*
that painful suhserTiency which annoyed Mr. Garland
more than anything.
Their life together was not easy; hut thingf; weri^
dreadful tliau the pood man expected them to be; and
sometimes he thought, when he had time tn think about-
it at all, that he was scarcely so unha(>py as his son's
miserable marriage ought to liave matie him. It had
pleased God to take away his life's hope; to end all his
dreams for his boy's future; to put endurance for happi-
ness, and a burden for a delight; and 3et — and yet — he
was conscious of many pleasures left. He could stdl
©fijoy tlie spring sunshine, and watch the clilT swallows
return to their old nests from over luiknovrn seas, an<l
the primroses people in multitudes the little dell below
Immeridge village, with scarcely less interest than he
had done, season after setison, when the seasons' change
formed the only epochs in his monotonous days-
Then, too, during their Sunday walks, begun through
a painful sense of duty to the solitary girl, and also to
lessen the weariness of their sitting looking at one an-
other in the Parsonage parlor throughout the whole
blank Sabbath evening, he gradually took pleasure in
fibowing her all these country things, and talking about
them, and in watching their effect in the pretty face,
Trhich, thoudi healthy enough now, never again offended
his taste with the coarse Blowsabella beauty of Valley
Farm. That mysterious impress which the mind makes
upon the body, altering, refining, and sometimes alto-
gether transforming, began to be very perceptible in
Charlotte. Her features deepened in expression, her
slender figure acquired that grace of motion which is as
important as grace of form, and her gentle, even temper
lent to her voice, even though it did speak bad English,
a certain musical tone (timbre, as the French call it, and
no other word is quite equivalent), which made gram-
matical errors pardonable. Xot that she was in any way
like Moore's low-born heroine, of whom he wrote so
enthusiastically:
" Has the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth ?
Ilath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth V"
Thomas Dean's child was neither a pearl nor a violet,
136 TWO MARRIAGES.
but merely a very pretty young woman, whom Nature had
accidentally gifted with qualities, physical and mental,
which would have made her noticeable in any rank of life,
and whicii, bein^' cultivated, bid fair to lift her out of her
own. One occasionally sees such persons — ladies' maids,
who have more uf "the lady" in them than their mis-
tresses; and graceful gentlewomen, who, meeting in so-
ciety, one hears with astonishment were once barefooted
mill-girls, whom some honest, romantic master educated
and married. And though such cases are but remark-
able exceptions to a most wise and righteous law, and the
truth yet remains that the most insane act a young man
can commit is nn unequal marriage, still there is another
truth behind it — that in this, as in every phase of human
experience, exceptional cases will arise sometimes upon
which we dare not sit in judgment, if only because they
are Gjcceptional.
Nobody sat in judgment upoh this case — at least not
openly, probably because there was nobody to do it. Ex-
cept Valley Farm, where, with a certain instinctive hesi-
tation, Mrs. Keitii Garland did not attempt to go, nor did
her father-in-law desire it at present, tliere was not a
house in the parish likely to criticise the parson or the
parson's daughter so loudly as to reach their ears, for Im-
meridge had the true English respect for its betters. And
the Hall — which might have been found adiflBculty, and,
indeed, Mr. Garland looked forward with a vague dread
to the squire's return — was shut up this year since, in-
stead of returning, Mr. Crux died, and the family prop-
erty devolved to a cousin — a barrister in London.
So, after the first hard stares in church, some finger-
pointings as she left it, and, when she casually walked
abroad in the village, visible hesitations between a broad
laugh in the face of " Lotty Dean," or a decent courtesy
to Parson Garland's daughter — after all these things,
which Charlotte herself did not seem to perceive, and
the pai'son shut his eyes to, while Jane, that faithful
servant, fulfilled a servant's true duty of holding her
tongue entirely on her master's affairs, gossip ceased to
trouble itself about Mrs. Keith Garland. Time went on,
and it was already a year since that dreary day vvhen
Mrs. Love had come into Mr. Garland's study, and, as
he thought, destroyed his peace forever with her terrible
TWO MARRIAGES. 137
tule. Only a little year, and all things had smootlied
down, as they do so wonderfully, when we cease to fight
against Providence, but simply do our best, and let Prov-
idence figlit for us.
CHAPTER VIL
It was early spring — Easter week, indeed — and Mr.
Garland sat writing his Easter sermon, with his study
window open, inhaling the odor of bursting sweet-brier
leaves and of double Russian violets; there was a bed of
tliese just underneath, sprung from a single root which
Mrs. Garland had planted, and in this sheltered nook,
under the mild southern climate, they had flourished so
as to overspread the Avhole border. The parson could
generally pick one or two every week all winter through:
he put them in a wiae-glass on the desk, when, however
faded they looked, Jane never ventured to touch them;
nobody did. Even in spring, when the violets became
plentiful, nobody quite liked to gather them from this
bed; so they bloomed and withered in peace, pouring
their scent in at the study window like a fragrant cloud
of invisible love.
The old man often stopped in his writing to drink it
in, delighting himself in it, as he did in all delightsome
things. Perhaps if heaven had made him very rich, or
very prosperous, or very happy, in this world's happi-
ness, he might have been something of a Sybarite, and
therefore it was better that things were as they were —
at least he often thought so. Still he felt, and thanked
God for it, that even to old age he had kept the keen
sense of enjoyment, especially in Nature's luxuries.
Thus spring was just as delicious to him now as the
spring-days of his youth, perhaps affecting him with a
higher and more chastened delight; for then it had
brought visions of things never to be, and now it stirred
up in him no earthly longings at all, but a peaceful look-
ing forward to what the return of spring mysteriously fore-
shadows — " the resurrection of the body, and the life
everlasting."
He was alone, for, Charlotte's daily lessons being over,
she had gone as usual into the garden, where she was very
fond of working, and where her labors had of late almost
m TWO MARRIAGES.
superseded his own. It was good for her, since it gave
her plenty of active, open-air occupation — occupation with
her hands; for Charlotte had one great deficiency in the
making of a lady, or, at least, a fine lady — she hated being
idle. And it was very difl&bult to find her enough to do.
She could not study all daylong, andtbougli she now read
fluently enough to enjoy books, still she liked best story-
books, -novels, and such like, which did not abound in the
parson's library.
Tliongh she did some house-duties, she was not the
house-mistress, Mr. Garland thinking it wisest, during
the two years she would be with him, not-io put her
above his faithful Jane. Nor had he as yet given her
any parish work, neither Sunday-school teaching, she
being only a learner herself, nor district-visiting, where
her former equals might, naturally, resent her coming
among them in a different character. His conscience
soon told him that, for the present, the very difticult po-
sition of Keith's wife was made least difficult by her being
kept in a state of comparative isolation, shut up within
the parsonage domains like Eve within the garden of
Eden. Often when he watched her moving about, as
now, and saw what a pretty creature she daily grew, he
felt thankful that he had had the power and the will so
to shelter her, and glad that her secluded life left no
chance for any tempting devil of the world to do harm
to Keith's girl-wife, so mournfully neglected. Alas! the
parson felt it, was so; that more and more was poor Char-
lotte felt to be a burden by the young husband whose
love had been the mere selfishness of passionate youth, not
true love at all.
Keith's letters can>e, very long, dutiful, and loving, to
his father, but sending only a line or two, or a message,
to his wife; and though he had plunged bravely and
heartily into his new life, and was prospering well, never
reverting to his return home or to Charlotte's joining
him in Canada. The parson's heart grew sad and sore,
nay, a little angry. lie did not love his daughter-in-
law; love with liim was a plant of very slow growth; but
he liked her willi the tender liking tliat a good man
cannot but feel toward a creature wholly dependent on
him, and who never consciously offends him in word or
deed. There was no romantic affection shown on either
TWO MARRIAGES. 139
siilo, bnt she was a" good girl, and lie had the strongest
sense of pity for her and responsibility toward her. He
did not now feel his work done and wisii to liie. He
prayed rather to be kept sound in body and vigorous ia
mind for a few years longer, that he might work on, or
live to see the dark future unfold itself.
lie said nothing to his son of either his angers or mis-
givings; he knew that compelled love is more fatal than
hate; but he wearied himself with plans to keep Charlotte
from fretting. She did look sad and grave sometimes
when Keith's letters came; and, above all, lie tried to
keep her fully employed.
" I wonder," he thought, "how young women in gen-
"eral employ their time — those three Misses Crux, for
instance;" for the new squire and his family had ap-
peared at church the Sunday previous, and the parson
had called at the Hall, as in duty bound, on the Monday
morning.
He compared Charlotte, as she moved about the lilac
bushes in her gray merino gown and straw hat, with
these stylish London damsels, in good looks, and in a cer-
tain simplicity of costume, which, after considerable
struggles, she had attained to, he fancied Keith's wife
had rather the advantage. But he sighed when he thought
of the nameless graces of ladyhood, to his delicate per-
ceptions so indispensable; the quiet dignity of speech and
mien, the repose of perfect self-possession, the noble
simplicity which, however perfect it may appear to oth-
ers, always sees for itself an ideal beyond anything it
now is, or ever can attain to. Alas! all these things
would, he feared, be hopelessly wanting in Mrs. Keith
Garland.
But this Monday morning, while his perplexed mind
was turning over all the ways and means for her improve-
ment, he was summoned to tlie parlor, where was the
overwhelming apparition of the very ladies he had been
uneasily meditating upon as forming such a contrast to
his daughter-in-law.
Their personality did not improve upon nearer view,
for l\[r. Garland was a gentleman of the old school, com-
pletely unused to the lively, not to say fast style 'of
modern young ladies. The three Misses Crux, with
their voluminous draperies, their masculine jackets, and
140 TWO MARRIAGES.
tiny liats, upon which a whole bird with glass eyes sat
and stared at beholders, were no nearer his ideal woman
than Charlotte was. Very incongruous they looked in
the old-fashioned room, its decorations unaltered for
twenty years, where they poked about, admired the old
china, the fading embroidery, the valuable antique en-
gravings, seeming determined, with their mother, a mild
and unimpressive person, to make themselves as much at
home as if they had been Mr. Garland's neighbors all
their lives.
''"What a charming house!"
" The very picture of a country parsonage!"
" And you live alone here, Mr. Garland? A charm-
ing old bachelor life. Oh, no! I remember now you are
not a bachelor But what a sweet, quiet life it must be!"
"It is very quiet,'' said he, answering all the three
girls at once, for they all spoke at once, and wondering
what he should say to them next; but they soon saved
him that trouble.
" We shall find the Hall quiet, too, after Loudon, for
papa means to live here all the year round."
" Oh, indeed," rejolied the parson, with a slight shiver
of apprehension, he liardly knew of what or why.
" And we hope, Mr. Garland, that the Parsonage and
the Hall will prove the best of neighbors, for all otlier
neighbors are so far off. You must dine with us —
mustn't he, mamma? — at least once a week, if only out of
charity."
"You are very kind;" for under the rough demon-
strati veness, ho could perceive a certain frank kindlinesss
for which he was not ungrateful.
"Come, then, what day will you give us? Next Sun-
day?"
"I have never in my life dined out on Sunday. Not
that I coDdemn others for doing so, but still it is not my
liking nor my habit," said the parson, gently.
"I beg pardon, I forgot; Sunday is so usual a visiting
day with us in London; but perhaps in the country it is
different. What week-day, then? Fix your own day,
and we will send the carriage for you at seven,"
Mr. Garland's liesitating reply was stopped by an ex-
clamation from the youngest and manliest Miss Crux, who
had pliw^ed herself at the window, with her hands in her
TWO MARRIAGES. 141
jacket pockets, and her mouth looking as if it would ex-
cessively like to whistle.
" Bless me, if there isn't the prettiest girl I ever set
eyes on! Your daughter, Mr. Garland?"
"No, my daughter-in-law."
"Is she married— that young thing actually married?
And where's her husband?"
" My son is m Canada; he will return shortly, and
meantime has left his wife with me. She is, as you say,
very young, only just past seventeen. May I offer you
some cake and wine. Miss — Miss "
"Beatrice is my name — otherwise Bea — sometimes de-
generating into B," said the young lady, archly, though
the parson's manner would have "shut up," to use her
own phraseology, any less forward damsel. " But tell me
more about your daughter; for, though lam ugly myi^elf,
I do like pretty girls. It's lucky you keep her close here,
or every young fellow that saw her would be falling in
love with her. I'm half in love with her myself — I vow
I am," added this feminine "young fellow," on whom the
old man looked with undisguised amazement, as ehe stood
tossing her short, curly hair, and rubbing her hands,
evidently enjoying his bewilderment.
" Bea, for shame! You are so ridiculous," observed,
at' last, the silent mother! " My dear sir, I hope you
will let us have the pleasure of being introduced to Mrs.
Garland?"
" Mrs. Keith Garland," corrected the parson, slightly
wincing, and then stopped, puzzled what to reply to this
request.
Here was a conjuncture which ho had never foreseen,
never even thought about. To receive Charlotte under
his own roof, tobear with her, to like her if he could;
at any rate, to put up with her, and to be kind to her,
that he had undertaken, and accomplished; but to intro-
duce her into society as his son's wife, either forcing her
upon his friends with all her antecedents openly acknowl-
edged, or bringing her in surreptitiously, with her pre-
vious history concealed, as, for Keith's sake, ho felt
bound to conceal it if possible, this was a position which
had never before suggested itself to his simple iniud. A
most Clitic: ! sidsition, too, full either way of great diffi-
142 TWO MARRIAGES.
culties, and yet lie must decide instantly, and his decis-
ion might alJect the poor girl's whole fntnre life.
He trembled; he felt jiimself visibly tremble before all
these inquisitive women, who might know — how much
or how little he could not possibly divine; but no! their
manner showed that they knew nothing. Ought he to
tell them?
While he asked himself this question, his difficulty was
summarily solved.
Charlotte, who had been at the other end of the garden,
gathering flowers to replenish the beau-pot in the grate,
came in, ignorant of visitors, and suddenly opened tlie
parlor door. Bareheaded, her hat hanging down behind,
her hands full of daffodils and flowering currant blossoms,
yellow and red, her cheeks and lips rosy with health, her
eyes smiling over the one delight of her simple life — her
successful horticulture —
" She stood — a sight to make an old man young."
Seeing the room full of ladies, she drew back in the ex-
tremest confusion.
There was no alternative now. '' Come in, my dear,"
said the parson, rising. " Mrs. Crux, this is my daugli-
tei--in-law — Mrs. Keith Garland. *'
Involuntarily Charlotte began her courcesj-, but stopped
and turned it into a bend, as Jane had tutored her — a
gesture not exactly awkward, but so painfully shy and un-
comfortable that Mr. Garland, out of pure pity, bade her
*'take her flowers away, and come back again presently.'*
So, without her having once opened her lips, the door
closed again upon that charming vision.
"Really, Mr. Garland,'' said the 3'onngest Miss Crux,
**your daughter-in-law is the very prettiest person I ever
saw — a regular country belle. I say, girls, it's lucky for us
that she's oif the course."
" Eh?" said the puzzled parson.
" Lucky, I mean, that her name's scratched off the
books of tlie matrimonial race — that she's already Mrs.
Keith Garland."
The parson made no answer; indeed, he was sore per-
plexed. Like many another man, large of heart, and yet
verv sensitive, lie could meet nobly and grapple bravely
with a grand moral difficulty, but the potty puzzles of
TWO MARRIAGES. 148
daily and social life were quite too much for him. He
needed a woman to save him from them or help him
through them — such a woman as the wife he had lost, or
the imaginary daughter who never came. For this
daughter, well seeing he could do notliing, he attempted
nothing, but waited in trepidation for her reappearance,
determined to let things tal<o their course, and act on
the spur of the moment as best lie could. However,
Ciiarlotte never reappeared.
The Crux party, after prolonging their visit to the
utmost limit that politeness allowed, let fall some sug-
gestions about hoping to see her again; but no effort
being made by the host to gratify their curiosity, they
departed, merely leaving "kind compliments to young
Mrs. Garland.^' However, the same evening, before the
parson and his daughter had met or spoken together,
there strode up the Parsonage garden a tall footman in
livery, bearing an elegant rhissive — nay, two mipsivea
from the Hall, addressed respectively to "Rev. Mr.'' and
"]\[rs. Keith Garland.",
Charlotte took them herself to the study. She was in
the habit of waiting upon him there with letters or mes-
sages, and presented both to Mr. Garland.
"0})en yours, my dear," said he, and watched her
while she read, which she did slowly and carefully, first
looking surprisi'd and then exceedingly delighted, for it
■was an invitation to dinner at Cruxham Hall.
"Is the man waiting? Tell him we will send an an-
swer presently, or to-morrow morning, and then give me
my tea, if you please, Charlotte," for he wanted to for-
tify himself and gain time before he decided.
Charlotte went away without speaking — she rarely did
speak first to her father-in-law on any subject — and sat
silent all the while he drank his tea, and read, or pre-
tended to read, his three days' old Times.
Poor man! he was making up his mind, and it was to
him a very troublesome business. He wished, as ever, to
see the right, honestly and plainly, and then do it. By
the sudden gleam of pleasure in Charlotte's eyes he per-
ceived — what had not struck him before — that this lonely
life, shut up in a country parsonage with only an old man
for company, and lessons for recreation, debarr(^<l from
the amusements of the class she sprung from, and not
144 TWO MAKRIAGES.
joining, nor capable of joining, in those of that to wnich
she now bolonged, was not the best sort of life for a young
girl of sev^enteen — active, energetic, lively, pretty; and
looking at her ino7*e and more, he j^erceived how excess-
ively pretty she wa.s.
Kor, as she presided at the tea-table, did Mr. Garland
notice anything in her, eitlier as to appearance or behav-
ior, so very different from ordinary young ladies of her
age. lu truth, though the old man would never have
thought of this, it was impossible for any one, with com-
mon instincts or observation, to sit at the board and
share the daily society of such a thorough gentleman as
Parson Garland without acquiring in degree the outward
manners of a lady. He noticed, as he had never done
before, tlie groat ciiange in her; nor was his hesitation
caused by the fear that as a companion she would be any
personal annoyance to him, or would commit solecisms
of good-breeding at the Hall dining-table any more than
in the parsonage parlor.
Still, the question remained — the vital question. Had
he any right to inflict upon the Cruxes, who were proba-
bly acting in tlie dark, or upon other neiglibors who
might not be in the dark, association with one from
whom they were sure to shrink, although they might en-
dure her awhile out of respect to his cloth and to him?
She was his daughter-in-law; but still she was once a
common scrvant-gii'l, and — alas! alas! if that had been
all!
"Charlotte," said he, after Avatching her from behind
his newspaper, trying to criticise her with the equable eye
of a stranger, the result of which criticism was an amaze-
ment, mingled with solemn thankfulness, that so little
of her antecedent history was written in her face: a face
— was it looking into his face that it had grown so? —
gentle, modest, simple, and sweet. ''Charlotte, my
dear, what do you think about this invitation to Crux-
ham?"
"Me, sir?"
"1 think we ought to dccdine it."
''Very well, sir. You know host."
8he spoke meekly, but a shadow of disappointment
crept over the pretty face. It was natural. She was
only seventeen.
TWO MARRIAGES. 145
"1 really do not see how we can po. You have no
proper dress/' And then, ashamed of the flimsy exeuse,
the good man added; "Besides, to speak tiuih, Ciiar-
lotte, as 1 always do, and I speak it not to hurt you. be-
cause you have too much good sense not to see the thing
as plain as I do — you have never been used to that kind
of society, and I doubt whether you would enjoy it, or
feel at home in it."
''Perhaps not," with a little sigh, which prevented
Mr. Garland from putting more harshly the other side
of the matter, that the Hall society might not welcome
her.
"But what do you wish yourself? Tell me plainly."
" I hardly know. Yes, I do," continued Charlotte,
plucking up courage. " I hope it isn't wrong, but I
should rather like to go. I have sometimes thought how
nice it w'ould be to meet people like the people in the
books I read — real ladies and gentlemen, who are so
good, and so beautiful, and so kind. I dearly like to
read about them. How delicious it must be to live al-
"wa)'s among them!"
" Poor little girl," said the parson to himself. Simple
as he was, he was not quite so simple as she.
"But, Charlotte, grand people are not always 'real
ladies and gentlemen;' and they sometimes do very un-
kind things. They might be unkind to you. I am
afraid they would be. Would you feel hurt by that?"
"I don't know. But, if I could still admire them,
would it much matter what they thought of me?"
The parson beard, and marveled at, poor Charlotte's
instinctive leaping aC the truth, the foundation of all
hero-worship, all human devotedness, ay, even of relig-
ious faith — " I love, T admire, I adore," without refer-
ence to self at all. Equally he felt surprised at wluxt a
year had effected in this girl — this mind once blank al-
most as white paper, simply by keeping it white, remov-
ing from it all Ijad influences, and letting the unconscious
influence of daily companionship with nature, and books
that were pure and true as nature, do the rest.
While, roused out of her ordinary silence, she thus
spoke, there was such longing in Charlotte's eyes, such
an ea-^fer stretching out into "fresh fields and pastures
new;" not the girlish craving for excitement, but the
J46 TWO MARRIAGES.
aspiration of a mind that was slowly opening, like the
petals of* a rose, to the mysteries of life, about which she
"was stiil as ignorant as a baby. Ay, in spite of all that
hiid been, he was certain she was ignoriint — and innocent
too, in a very great degree. Such things, though rare,
are possible.
Another idea occurred to him. What if his Quixotic
education of his son's wife, shutting her out from all
chance of harm, and filling her witli ideal views of life,
had lasted long enough, and it would be wiser to let her
come into contact with human beings more real and tan-
gible than the heroes and heroines of her story-books?
And she had been so good ever since she came to Imme-
ridge, so patient under Keith's neglect, so obedient to
Keith's father, it was hard to deprive her of a little
pleasure, the first for which she had ever seemed to
crave.
" But, my dear, if we did go, what dress have you?"
*' I could manage that, "' interrupted she, eagerly. '* In
every book I read, the young girls always go to tlieir first
party in white muslin, and I could make myself a white
muslin dress in two days. And I have still a whole
pound and more of the money he last sent me — that would
buy it, and ribbons too. Oh, it would be so delicious!"
The parson smiled. His judgment slumbered, he had
not the heart to say her no. So he took that first step
wliicii always costs so much — took it unwillingly, but
witiiout much calculation of consequeuees, saying to hira-
Bclf that it was " only once in a way," and that no harm
could come.
I^iie same evening, two responsive notes, one written to
dictation, and in Charlotte's very best hand, which now
was at least as goi.d as that of most school-girls, were
Bent up to the Ilall by Jane's small assistant in the
kitchen, who also posted a written order to the nearest
market town for white muslin and pink ribbon. Then
the parson put the matter from his mind. The die was
cast.
When, on the appointed day and hour, he handed his
datighter from the Parsonage door into the Hall carriage,
it must be owned that he was not ashamed of her. Her
fr<sh and sim])le dress was very neatly made, up to the
throat and down to tiie wrists, for Charlotte did not seem
TWO MARRIAGES. 147
to know that while women of the lower class like tlicir
best gowns to be an extra covering, women of higher
rank do just the contrary. She went, like Tennyson's
Liuly Clare, perhajjs copied from that original, for Mr.
Garland had often seen her reading the book,
" With a single rose in her hair,"
gathered from the rose-tree which, by greatest care, slie
had made to bloom in the parlor, as if in a hothouse.
And though she had no gloves on, baving apparently no
idea that they were ever worn indoors, her hands hud
grown white and siiapely, not unlike a lady's band, even
thougii quite unadorned, except by the one plain gold
ring. She fingered it nervously. Poor Charlatte! was
she thinking of her husband?
Mr. Garland did not ask. In truth, he dared not rea-
son about that or anything else. He only told her "sho
looked very nice,'' at which she blushed into brighter
beauty, and relapsed into silence. His mind misgave
him, as it had done more than once that day; but it was
too late to draw back.
Besides, why sliould he? He was doing nothing wrong.
If Charlotte were good enough for the Parsonage, she cer-
tainly was for the Hall. At worst, in taking her there,
he was only going counter to social prejudices; but he in-
fringed no moral law or sense of right. The Cruxes
probably knew everything about her by this time, or, if
they did not, would soon learn, and then it would be at
their own option to continue the acquaintance.
Thus he argued with himself, and palliated one of the
few weak things, and the only uncandid thing he bad
ever done in his life, determined that, if done at all, it
should be done without shrinking. Yet even while doing
it a sharp pain came across him; a sense of the inevitable
price that all sin must pay — to be paid, alas I not only by
the sinner, but by those belonging to him. Oh, if Keith,
had ever thought of that!
When, mustering his courage, Mr. Garland walked
into the splendid drawing-room with Charlotte on his
arm, he could not help feeling a certain relief at finding
only strangers there — the Crux family and some guests
staying at the Hall.
" We asked several of your neighbors — I suppose every-
148 TWO MARRIAGES.
body is one's neiglibor here, within ten miles— asked
them specially to meet you and your daughter, '' said Mrs.
Crux, apologetically, " but, unfortunately, they were all
engaged."
*' Well, it's their loss," added Miss Beatrice, as she took
hold of Charlotte with both hands, stared hard and ad-
miringly into her blushing face, then gave her a resonant
kiss, remarking, " I beg your pardon, my dear, but I
really couldn't help it."
Mrs. Keith Garland was then introduced to old Mr.
Crux, a stout and bhiud gentleman; to young Mr. Crux,
a thin, small, fashionable youth, drawling in voice and
lazy in manner; and to various otlier people, the family
or the visitors. They all talked so much and so fast that
she could easily hold her tongue. She retreated behind
her usual shelter of sweet, smiling looks, and almost
total silence, even when she was paid the compliment of
being taken down to dinner by the host himself, probably
under some misty notion that she was still a bride.
The Cruxes had brought their easy London manners
to their country dinner-table, in the dazzle of which it
would have been easy for a more awkward person than
Keith's wife to have passed muster, and been only com-
mented upon as ''very quiet." Quiet she was, her voice
being rarely heard save in monosyllables; but her sweet
looks spoke for her, and her excessive modesty and gen-
tleness disarmed criticism, even if criticism had been
attempted by these gay, metropolitan pleasure-seekers,
who were accustomed to take people as they saw them,
without inquii-ing much into their antecedents. Char-
lotte was treated with great civility by both ladies and
gentlemen; and it never seemed to occur to either that
she was other tlum she seemed — an unobtrusive, pretty,
silent girl, very shy, and very oddly dressed; but then
•that was not surprising, considering that, as she hei'self
said in answer to Miss Bea's question, she had spent
all her life in tliese parts. Probably she was the daugh-
ter of some other country parson, who might not have~
been nearly as " nice " as the old parson of Imtneridge.
Nevei-theless, for lack of other entertainment, the
youngest Miss Crux seemed determined to patronize the
country damsel in the most alarming manner. She kept
her under her wing all the evening, treating her much as
TWO MARRIAGES. 149
an admiring young man treats a charming young ludy;
that is, in these modern days, when young men deport
themselves not as humble knights and devoted swains,
bnt as if they thought they did the young lady groat
honor by falling in love with her. She planned rides,
walks, picnics on the seashore, and other amusements,
with the bewildered Charlotte, finally parting from her
with erery demonstration of the most ardent friendship.
Of all this the j^arson noticed very little. Ilavingseen
his daughter-in-law fairly afloat, treated kindly, and
looking happy, he devoted himself with his usual courtesy
to spend the evening as pleasantly as might be, tliongh
wishing in his heart that he was safe beside his own study
fire. He had lost the habit of society, as jieople do when
they grow old in long seclusion.
And as they drove home, still in the Hall carriage, for
undoubtedly these Cruxes were very good-natured, fie was
so thoroughly wearied that instead of talking to his
daughter he fell fast asleep. All he did was on bidding
her good-night to hope slie had enjoyed herself, and her
looks answered the question at once.
"So," thought the old man, still very sleepy, "the
evening is safe over, and no harm has come of it. I have
been civil to my neighbors, I have pleased poor Charlotte,
and there is an end of it all."
CHAPTER VIII.
The good parson was mistaken in his reckoning. That
dinner of Cruxham Hall turned out to be not an end, but
a beginning; which, like the beginning of strife, was
"as the letting out of water." For henceforward the
Crux family, headed by Miss Beatrice, who governed
them all, bore down in a torrent upon the peaceful parsou-
age, and swept away Charlotte with them in a flood of
friendship.
This state of things came about so imperceptibly that
Mr. Garland had no chance of taking any preventive meas-
ures against it, even had he been so inclined. Before a
week was over it was too late. That easy and almost in-
evitable intimacy, which comes about in the country when
people live close enough to be meeting daily, and cannot
150 TWO MARRIAGES.
choose but meet, was fairly established between tlie Hall
and the Parsonage.
Charlotte seemed to like it — passively, if pot actively.
She submitted to be led about by the ardent Miss Beatrice
as sweetly and silently as any pet lamb. For now, as al-
ways, her silence was her safeguard. And, to tell the
truth, the fashionable Misses Crux M-ere not gentle-
women enough to tell that she was none. They patron-
ized her — and she was the meekest possible person to
patronize — they fell into n furore about her, and showed
her off to their guests as '' "tlie parson's pretty daughter,''
they laughed at her gaucheries and mispronunciations,
wliich they set down merely to ** country ways.-" In
short, being used in their wide London experiences to
catch strange creatures and amuse themselves with them
while the novelty lasted, they caught Charlotte, and
tried to tame her, and j^lay with her, and make enter-
tainment out of her, very much as if she had been a squir-
rel, a bird, a guinea-pig, or any other temporary pet,
which could serve to while away a dull hour, especially in
the winter.
They were forever sending for or fetching her to the
Hall; taking her drives, walks, picnics on the shore, and
sketching parties inland, all of which enjoyments they
made her believe would be incomplete without the pretty
face of the parson's daughter. Also because, except her-
self, they had no other companions, the old families of
tlie neighborhood seeming rather to ignore, or at least
taking time to investigate, the new Cruxes of Cruxham
Hall.
So two or three weeks rolled by; and this vehement
friendship, though carried on under Mr. Garland's very
eyes, was scarcely noticed by him, or noticed only be-
cause lie saw Charlotte looked especially briglit and happy
wlienever she told him — as, if questioned, she invariably
did — that she had been with the young people of the
Hall.
** You seem to like those Cruxes," said he, one after-
noon, wlieu he left her, waiting in the garden, with her
bonnet on, for an appointed walk with Miss Beatrice.
"Yes," she answered, in her usual gentle and un-
d<mionstrative way. (Certainly Charlotte was not a pas-
sionate person, which was, perhaps, all the better for
TWO MARRIAGES. 151
Keith, or would bo one day. ''Yes, I like them; thoy
are very kind to me."
So the paraon thought he wouhl let matters drift on.
It might have been wrong, or at least foolish, but it was
a weakness belonging to his character not to take deci-
sive steps unless absolutely driven to them.
■ Besides, this soft spring weather made him feel feeble,
and conscious of his feebleness — gave him a solemn sense
of how his years were narrowing down to months and
weeks, which could not be very many, and might be veiy
few. As he looked at the green leaves budding, all his
longing was that, by the time they fell, Keit'.i, taking
advantage of the- long holidays of a Canadian winter,
might come over, as was his duty, to see his wife, and,
finding her so changed, might fall in love over again with
a new Charlotte, m which case their perniiinent rcsi-
denee in America, Avhich, as his father saw with pain,
Keith now drearily planned as the only future open to a
yoang man whose wife was no better than a farm-serv-
ant, might never come about. They mi^ht settle in
England, perhaps even near Immeridge, Keith finding
work of some sort to help them, or help to keep them,
till by and by he succeeded to his mother's little income,
a safe certainty which could' not, in the course of nature,
be very distant now.
But as the old man thought of these things, calmly
planning for and providing against the time when he
too should be numbered among the innumerable multi-
tude
" Who have passed through the body and gone,"
leaving their place free for a new generation, he felt no
regret, rather a deep content, the purest content of all,
the divine unselfishness of parenthood. If he could only
see his child — nay, his children — for those whom mar-
riage had joined together he did not dare even in thought
put asunder — see them safe and happy together, how
cheerfully would he say Nunc dimittis and go home!
Thankful, above all, for one thing, that neither Keith
nor Cliarlotte would ever have to remember of their fa-
ther one word, one act of harshness or unkindness.
He strolled leisurely back to the Parsonage and went
into his study, tired indeed, but so peaceful that he waa
152 TWO MARRIAGES.
half annoyed when Jane came abruptly in to tell him
there was a visitor in the parlor,
" One of the Cruxes, I suppose?"
'^ Young Mr. Crux; and lie's been a-sitting tliere with
Mrs. Keith for the last half hour," Jane said this with
an air which implied that she wfis not entirely pleased at
the circumstance.
N^either was Jane's master. Unworldly and unsuspi-
cious as the parson was, he had a certain amount of com-
mon sense. He had reconciled himself to the Crux ava-
lanche, seeing it was of a purely feminine character, the
jnale members of the family spending most of their time
in London. But he saw at once that it would never do
for a young man like Mr. Charles Crux to be hanging
about the Parsonage and holding tete-a-tetes with Keitli's
wife. Weary as he was, he went immediately into the
parlor.
Nobody was there. The visitor had disappeared, and
he heard his daughter-in-law's steps overhead in her own
room. There must have been some mistake, he thought;
go he waited till he could ask Charlotte about it.
When she came down to tea he observed her sharply.
She was pale — a little paler than ordinary, he thought —
but she was her usual gentle, composed self; and when
he questioned her she answered without the slightest
hesitation or confusedness of manner.
''Yes, sir, I had a visitor — Mr. Charles Crux."
''What did he come for?"
"He said, to bring an apology for his sister."
" She did not come, then?"
"Ko."
" And how long did the young man stay?"
"Half an hour."
It was cruel to suspect her; besides, from the depth of
his soul, Mr. Garland hated suspicion. Very often it is
the dormant evil in our own hearts which we are most
ready to attribute to others. To continue his catechism
would be, he felt, almost an insult, so he passed the mat-
ter over, merely saying:
"Another time, my dear, send word by Jane that I
am not at home. Gentlemen's visits should always be
paid to the gentleman of the family."
Charlotte was silent.
TWO MARRIAGES. 158
Their tea-hour wt-iit by peacefully as usual, she sitting
half hidden behind the urn, and Mr. Garland occupied
with his book, when Jane came in with two letters, one
for each of them.
" From the Hall, of course! They make a great fuss
over you, Charlotte," said the par.sou, smiling. But
when he opened his own note, the smile vanished.
Mrs. Crux, who was used to write him the most cordial
and long-winded of notes on every conceivable parish
matter, '^presented her compliments, and requested the
honor of halT an hour's private conversation with the
Eeverend William Garland."
The parson dropped the letter on his lap. A tremor
ran through him; Mrs. Crux must have discovered all.
Jane was waiting, with her sharp eyes fixed first on one
and then on the other; but Charlotte sat immovable,
witli her .letter lying unopened beside her.
''Say to Mrs. Crux — no, stop! — I will write my mes-
sage."
And he wrote slowly, that it might look like his stead-
iest handwriting, though still it had the pathetic feeble-
ness of his seventy years:
" The Eeverend William Garland will not fail to wait
upon Mrs. Crux immediately."
And then he turned his attention to his daughter-in-
law.
She still sat in her place at the tea-table; but her
color had quite faded out, and she was trembling per-
ceptibly.
''Have you read your letter,' Charlotte?"
" No, sir."
"Will you do so, then?"
For he felt it must be penetrated at once — faced at
once — this something which had surely happened; doubt-
less that which he ought to have foreseen would sooner
or later inevitably happen — the discovery of all particu-
lars concerning his son's unfortunate marriage.
"It is my fault — oh, that I had been wiser!" thought
he, with a pang of bitter humiliation, even dread.
But the next minute he felt himself blush, not for th«
shame, but the cowardice. What could the Cruxes ac-
cuse him of? He had done what he thought was right;
154 TWO MARRIAGJ^'S.
in a most sore emergency he had acted as he believed a
parent should act before God and man, in taking nndei
the shelter of his roof his son's wife, Avho had led there
for more than a year and a half a life as blameless and
harmless as that of a child.
He watched her reading her letter. It was not a pleas-
ant letter, evidently, for her cheeks were burning and
her eyes glowed with a flash, an actual flame, which he
had never seen lighted in them before.
" Wlio writes to you, my deari'"
**Miss Beatrice."
" What does she say? May I read?**
Charlotte passed the letter across without a word.
The parson, accustomed to ladies* letters — precise,
elegant, feminine, formal — of half a century ago, was al-
together puzzled by this one, with its scrawling mascu-
line hand and its eccentric phraseology:
" Dear Little Fellow, — I can't come to you to-day;
the maternal parent forbids. Not that I mind Jier, but
she'd tell the governor, and there'd be a row. Indeed,
there has been a precious row at home. Some country
people called, and talked a heap of nonsense about you.
But you were really married — ^weren't yon, my dear?
Anyhow — never mind — you're a jolly little soul, and I'm
a fellow that thinks for myself on this and all subjects.
So i told the maternal parent, and said I meant to stick
by you. And Charley backed me up, which wasn't much
good, as he's rather a loose fish, is Charley. Don't you
stand any of his nonsense, by the bye.
" I ciin't get out to-day, but I'll meet you to-morrow,
by hook or by crook. Hang it! this grand blow-up ia
rather fun than otherwise — nearly as good as liaving an
elopement for myself. Never you care, there's a dear
little soul, ril stand by you.
'' Yours ever, B. Ckux."
Mr. Garland read the letter — twice over, indeed, before
he could properly take it in— then laid it on the table
beside liim, and pressed his hand over his eyes, trying to
realize the position iu which he stood, what he had done,
and what he ought to do. Above all, what he should say,
and how he should say it — to Charlotte.
Pleasant and kindly as their intercourse had grown,
TWO MARRIAGES. 155
there had never been between tlie parson and his dauf^hter-
in-law the least approach toward intiniac}'. She was far
too much afraid of him still; and on his side he shrank
with a repugnance, even A'et unconquored, from the oc-
casional coarseness, through more of habit than of innate
Dalure, which he could not fail to see in her, and which,
in his ultra-refinement, he perhaps saw plainer than most
people. Except in the necessary civilities of domestic
life, and the dail}^ lessons, they rarely talked much, for
he did not exactly know wliat to say; and her replies,
though sensible and to the point, were always as brief as
possible.
But now he felt that the ice must be broken; that, some-
how or other, confidence must be established between
them before they met and breasted mutually the impend-
ing storm.
For, in whatever shape it might come, he never
thought of leaving her to breast it alone — this poor, de-
fenseless girl, left with the mere name of a husband to
protect her — the mere memory of his love, and that a
selfish love, to keep her heart faithful and warm. How-
ever Keith might act, it never once occurred to Keith's
father to cast her off; not even to preserve, untarnished,
his own good name, though well he knew that it was m
peril. He could easily imagine all that might be said
about him, and of his conduct — for there is hardly any
conduct which will not bear two interpretations, and no
story that cannot be told in two different, often totally
different ways. Besides, his own conscience told him
that in one point he had been weak to a fault. He had
no right, without telling Mrs. Crux the whole story, to
allow his daughter-in-law to visit at Cruxham Hall.
Still, Avhatever she was, or had been, she was now his
daughter-in-law, his son's lawful wife, sheltered by the
sanctity and irrevocableness of marriage ties — ay, even
such a marriage as this had been. As he looked at her,
so young, so helpless, and with an air of innocence diffi-
cult to believe in and yet not impossible, for the facts of
daily life sometimes show it possible for a girl, even with
Cliarlotte's antecedent history, to have instincts of vir-
tue strong enough afterward to retrieve herself, and be-
come an honest wife — as he looked, every chivalrous feel-
ing in the old man's nature rose up to defend her. He
156 TWO MARRIAGES.
felt thankful that there was even an old man left to
stand between the poor girl and harm.
He opened the conversation at once.
'^ Thank you, my dear, for permitting me to read
your letter. It is not a pretty letter for a young lady to
write. Do you understand to what Miss Beatrice re-
fers?"
*a think I do. J7e told me."
'^He? Who?"
" That— that villam /"
The fierce emphasis of her words, accompanied by such
a glare in the soft eyes, such a clinch of the hand, told
Mr. Garland all, perhaps more than the truth. He rose
in much agitation.
'^ Do you mean Mr. Charles Crux? for it cannot be
anybody else. Has he dared Tell me what he has
been saying to you."
Still she was silent. The hot blood flooded her face;
she seemed bursting with indignation, grief, and even a
sort of terror; but she did not reply,
" Charlotte, you must tell me. Remember, I am your
father."
Then Charlotte broke down. She hid her face in her
hands, and her whole frame shook with the wildness of
her weeping.
Mr. Garland stood by, attempting to do nothing, in
truth, because he did not know what to do. At last he
laid his hand on her shoulder, and she looked up,
" Let me hear everything. I ought to hear it, Char-
lotte. '*
''I didn't mean to tell you, for it would only vex you,
sir; besides, I knew I could take care of myself. But he
is a villain! You must never let him inside these doors
again. And I will never go to the Hall — never! And
when you go out you will take me with you; oh, please
do, sir! for he has met me once or twice, and said silly
things to me, thougii he never insulted me till to-day."
*'Did he insult you?" asked the parson between his
teeth.
Charlotte hesitated. She had spoken rapidly and ve-
hemently, but now she hesitated.
" What did ho say? Speak out. Don't be afraid."
*' I am not afraid, sir. He told me just what his sis-
TWO MARRIAGES. 167
ter hints at in this letter: that after thinking I was a
yonng lady born, they found out I was only a servant
— and — and other things; that his motlier was very
angry, and his sisters would never be allowed to see mt
again."
"1 expected it. Any more?"
''Then he spoke — as I thought nobody would dare to
gpeak to a married woman. He said my husband didn't
care for me, and would never come back to me, and I had
better go away with him — him f"
"And what did you answer?"
CJiarlotte sprung from her seat. If the parson had
still doubts concerning her, he could have none now.
" Answer? What was I likely to answer but one thing
— that I hated him! Besides, I was married. If I had
not hated him, still I was married."
''And then," said Mr. Garland, astonished, almost
awed at the passion she showed.
" He laughed at me, such a horrid laugh, and I sprung
to the door; he tried to hold it, but I pushed him away
— I could have killed him almost — and I ran away up to
my room, locked myself in, and — I don't remember any-
thing more, sir."
"My poor girl!"
The parson held out his hand — his steadfast, blameless
right hand, which had never failed a friend nor injured
an enemy — held it out to the forlorn creature, who, her
momentary excitement gone, had sunk down shame-
strioken beside him. And, as soon as she had courage to
lift her eyes, Charlotte saw him looking at her, with the
only look that has power to draw sinners up out of hell
and into heaven — tlie true father's look, full of infinite
pity, infinite forgiveness.
"Oh, I'll be good, I'll bc^good!" she cried, in the ac-
cent and the very words of a child. " Only take care
of me, please, sir! Xobody ever did take care of me,
or teach me. I didn't even know how wicked I had
been — not then, but I do now. It's no wonder peoJ>le
should treat me tlius; and yet they shouldn't — they
shouldn't — for thev were taught better, and I never
was!"
/ "Ay, that's true!" said Mr. Garland. And thinking
of the young man, the cowardly libertine who had stolen
158 TWO MARRIAGES.
into the Parsonage that day — of the young girl, no older
than Charlotte, who had written such a flippant, worse
than flippant letter — his heart burned with anger, and
the poor sinner who still knelt weeping at his feet showed
like a saint beside them.
Still he made no attempt to justify her, either to his
own mind or to herself. No pity, however deep, led him
to palliate her sin, or to allow that it might be softened
by extenuating circumstances till it came to be no sin
at all.
It was sin. Its very consequences proved it to be.
Who could doubt this, looking at that pretty creature,
who might have been almost like Wordsworth's ''Lucy,"
" The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a cottage door — "
who had already a marriage-ring on her finger, and was
awaiting a settled married home, with all outward cir-
cumstances combining to make her happy? Yet there
she crouched, hiding her face like tlie unhappiest, guilt-
iest woman living. "Conviction of sin" (to use that
phrase so awfully true, but which canting religionists
often twist into a hypocritical lie) had come upon her —
whether gradually or suddenly, who could tell,? — and the
secret shame, the hidden pollution, was worse to bear
than any outward contumely.
Nor could he help her — this good man, this minister
of God, who knew what God's Word says. He knew,
too, what the hard world Avould say, and that it has rea-
son in its hardness; for without the strict law of purity
to bind society together, families and communities would
all fall to pieces, drifting into wild anarchy and hopeless
confusion.
"Charlotte," ho said, very kindly, but firmly, "try
and calm yo'irself if you can. It is a very serious posi-
tion of affairs. We must look at all things quietly."
" Yes, sir."
She rose and resumed licr seat. As he, and Jane, too,
htid long since found out, Mrs. Keith Garland was no
weak girl, to hiy all her burdens upon other people. She
CDuld boar them herself, silently, too, if neeJ be; and in
this instance, i)crh!i])s, the very sliar})ue.ss of her anguish
made iier strong. Her sobbing ceased, and she sat in pa-
tient expectation.
TWO MARRIAGES. 150
"Here is Mrs. Crux's letter to me," said Mr, Garland.
"There can bo no doubt slie had hearfl wliat I sujiposed
she knew already, but which, had I been wiser, I should
have told her myself before I took you wilh mo to the
E:ill."
"Did it disgrace yon. taking me? If I had known it,
I would never have wished to go/'
" 1 believe tliat. It was my fault. I ought to have
seen things clearer, and met them, as we must endeavor
to meet them now. Can yon, Charlotte?"
She looked at him inquiringly.
" I mean — can you bear me to speak to you plainly, as
a father may speak — about things that hitherto I have
left between you and that Father who knows you much
better than I ever can."
Charlotte bent her head. "Thank you. Please
speak." Yet Mr. Garland lie.-^itated. It seemed so like
trampling on a poor half-fledged or broken-winged bird.
" 1 answered Mrs. Crux that I would go ami sec her
to-niglit, and so I shall. She has some right to be angry.
She wag kept in ignorance of facts she ou<rht to have
known b^^fore I took you to her liouse. You must be
aware, my poor Charloite, that many mothers would not
like their daughters to associate with you — that is, until
they knew you as Avell as I do; then, I hope, I am sure
thev would feel differently."
Charlotte looked up with a sudden gleam in her sad
face, but the parson did not see it. He went on, speak-
ing, as it seemed, more to himself than to her.
"Ocr past, in one sense, is wholly irrevocable.
Whether it be sin or only sorrow, we cannot blot it out;
it must remain as it is forever. But we can cover it over,
conquer it, atone for it. And the present, upon which
depends the future, lies wholly in our own hands. My
poor girl, don't despair. If I can forgive you, be sure
God will, and then it matters little whether the world
fori^ives you or not."
Thus talked he, arguing less with her than with hia
own mind the strait in Avhich he found himself — tiiis up-
right, pure-hearted old man — against whom not a breath
of reproach had been raised till now.
" What does it matter?" he repeated, as he thought of
all that would be said to him and of liim — many false-
160 tlVO MARRIAGES.
hoods, no donbt, but still grounded ou the hitter trutU
that could not be denied, which he never should attempt
to deny. *'God is my Judge, not man. I will not be
afraid. What harm can my neighbors do me?"
''Harm to you?" said Charlotte, anxiously. ''Will <
people blame you? What for? Because you were good
tome?"
"I am afraid they will, my dear! But, as I said, it
does not matter. Give me my hat and stick; it is time I
should be going to the Hall."
" Stop a minute, please; just tell me. What do you
think will happen through their finding out this?"
"Nothing very terrible," replied the parson, with a'
faint smile; " only you and I are likely to be left alone
together. Nobody will come to the parsonage, and no-
body will ask us anywhere. We shall be ' sent to Cov-
entry,^ in short."
" And wliy? Because of me?"
Tlie parson was silent.
"Tell me, oh, please do!" and Charlotte's voice was
hoarse and trembling; " when my husband comes home,
shall I be a disgrace also to him? Will his friends take
no notice of him because of me?"
Mr. Garland was sorely troubled. It was such a cruel
truth to tell, and yet it was the truth, and she might
have to learn it some day, perhaps from far unkinder
lips tlian his own. Would it not be better ^ make her
understand it now — the inevitable punishment that all
sin brings — which, in degree, they both must bear all
their life long, she and Keith, but especially she? Would
it not be safer to make her recognize it, and be bravo
under it?
"Charlotte, I will not tell you what is untrue. It
would have been far better for my son, and I myself
should have been far happier, if he had married a girl in
his own station — married with my consent, openly,
honorably, as an honest man and gentleman ougiit to
marry. But we cannot alter what is past. I accepted
his wife simply because she was his wife. Since then I
have learned — yes," holding out liis hand — "I have
learned to — to like her; she is a very good and dear girl
to me. And if the world should look down upon Keith
on account of his wife, never mind! Let his wife love
TWO MARRIAGES. 161
him all the more — nobly, faithfully, patiently; lot her
prove herself such a good wife to him that the world will
be ashamed of its harsh judgment. And whetlier it is or
not, there is only one Judge she need tremble before, and
He is a Father likewise."
Charlotte leaned forward eagerly, but scarcely seemed
to comprehend his words.
"Yes, that is all good and all right, but it will never
be. I shall not have strength to do it. I had much bet-
ter do the other tiling that I was thinking of.''
''What other thing?'' ^
" To run away and hide myself — die if I could — be-
cause if I died he would be free to marry again. He
would soon forget me — everybody would forget me — and
I should cease to do anybody any harm! Oh! I wish — I
wish I could die!" cried she, breaking, for the first time,
into a cry of actual despair.
" Charlotte!" She started, recalled to herself by the
etern reproof of his tone. " To die, or even wish to die,
before the Father calls us, is unchristian cowardice. And
it is our own fault always if we do our fellow-creatures
harm. It will be your own fault if, from this time, you
are anything but a blessing both to me and to your hus-
band. We will talk no more now. I am going up to the
Hall. Sit quiet here till I come, back."
She obeyed without resistance, waiting upon him si-
lently, in her usual humble and mindful way, to which
he had grown so accustomed that he scarcely noticed how
much she did for him. But now, while she was mechan-
ically brushing his coat and smoothing out his gloves, iti
suddenly came into Mr. Garland's mind — what if she
should carry out her intention and do something des-
perate — as from ^ormer experience, and from the expres-
sion of the dull, heavy, stony eyes, and the little resolute
mouth, he knew she was quite capable of doing. '
" Charlotte," he said, looking back ere he closed the
door, " mind, I shall want you when I come back. Ke-
member, whether anybody else wants you or not, I do."
Charlotte turned away and burst into tears.
162 TWO MARRIAGES.
CHAPTER IX.
Mr. Ga eland walked slowly from his own gate up to
the Hall, which was not more than half a mile from the
Parsonage. It was a clear, starry night — light enough
for him easily to find his way; so he hid his lantern un-
der a bush and went on without it, to give himself more
freedom for meditation. As he did so, he thought how
often we purblind mortal creatures set up our petty Ian*
terns, carry them so carefully and hug them so close that
they make us believe all the rest of the world, within a
yard of onr own feet, lies in blackest darkness, and ob-
scure for us altogether the broad light of God's heaven,
which, whether in daylight or darkness, seen or unseen,
arches immovable above us all.
The night sky, in its clear darkness, so thickly sown
with stars, comforted the parson more tlian words can
toll; for it showed him the large Infinite in contradis-
tinction to his little finite woes, and reminded him of
that other life in the prospect of which he daily walked,
and which made all per^ilcxing things in this life grow
level, simple, and plain.
Before reaching the Hall — for, though it was bo short a
distarice, he had proceeded slowly and with unusual fee-
bleness — Mr. Garland made up his mind, that is, his
conscience, as to how he ought to act. For the exact
words he should say to Mrs. Crux, not knowing what she
would say to him, nor what tone she meant to take
toward him, he left them undecided, believing with a
child-like simplicity of faith that now, as in the apostles*
time, when a man has the right and the truth in his
heart, there is, under every emergency, a Divine spirit
not far from him, which tells him what to say.
The light from tlie drawing-room windows shone in a
broad stream a long way across the park, but it did not
look so cheerful as usual in the eyes of the old man, who
was entering, for the first time in his life, this house — •
nay, any house — wliere he had the slightest doubt of his
welcome, a welcome combined of tlie reverence due to
liis cloth, the respect won by his personal character, and
the warm regard which oven strangers soon c;ime to feel
for one so gentle, unobtrusive, large-minded, and sincere.
TWO MARRIAGES. 103
Ho had been so long accustomed to this universal respect,
that the possibility of the contrary affected him witli a
new and very painful feeling. He had need to look up
more than once to that quiet heaven wliich soothed nil
mortal troubles, and dwarfed all mortal cares, before he
could nerve his hand to pull the resonant door-bell at
Cruxham Hall.
''Dinner is over, I conclude?" he said to the footman
on entering. ''Is your mistress in the drawing-room?
Can I see her?*'
And he was mechanically walking forward when the
man opened the door of the study, a small room close at
hand, wliere everybody was shown, that is, everybody
who came on business, and was not considered fit to be
admitted into the family circle.
"Mrs. Crux said, sir, that when you came you was to
be asked in here."
"Very well; tell her I am waiting."
It was a trivial thing, but it vexed Mr. Garland more
than he liked to own. It was the feather wliich showed
which way the wind blew — a bitter, biting wind it might
prove to be, and he was an old man. Why could he not
have gone down to his grave in peace.
Many fathers bring discredit on their sons, that is, ex-
ternally, though in righteous judgment no child ought
ever to be contemned for the misdeeds of a parent; but
the reverse scarcely holds. It is a much sadder thing for
a father to suffer for the ill-doings of a son, especially as
he himself is seldom held quite guiltless of the same.
For the second time Mr. Garland asked himself bitterly,
as he knew the Morld at large would ask (and in many
cases justifiably too), whether he had not himself been
somewhat to blame in this dark shadow which had
fallen upon his old age?
He sat down wearily in the great arm-chair whence for
so many ypars the old Squire Crux had administered jus-
tice, and Mr. Garland, wlio was also a county magistrate,
had sometimes been called upon to assist him in difficult
poaching or affiliation cases— the usual rural offenses,
and almost the only ones that ever occurred at Imme-
ridge. He remembered the very last one, and how he
hnd judged it — not harshly, thank God I How little he
then' thought that in a few months the same kind of sia
164 TWO MARRIAGES.
might have been laid by his neighbors at, or at least near
to, his own stainless door.
After keeping him waiting many minutes — this, too,
was something new, and he noted it with sensitive pain — >
Mrs. Crux appeared.
She Avas in her dinner-dress, the richness of which gave
her a kind of adventitious dignity, as it often did; the
fat, weak, good-natured woman was one of tliose who
take great courage from their clothes. As she closed the
door behind her, and stood in the center of the floor, all
in a rustle of silk, she tried hard to look stately, distant,
and commanding, but signally failed. The parson in his
shabby coat, for he had forgotten to change it, was de-
cidedly the more self-possessed of the two. He rose,
bowed, but did not offer to shake hands, nor did she.
Nevertheless it was he who had to open the matter.
" You sent for me, madam, that we might have a little
conversation on a subject which you did not name, but
wh ch I can easily guess, from a letter written by your
daughter to my daughter-in-law.*'
"Beatrice has written! Oh, dear me, what shall I do
with her?" cried the mother, nervously; but Mr. Garland
took no notice of the exclamation.
" It is about my daughter-in-law, is it not, that you
wish to speak to me?"
'* It is — it is! Oh, Mr. Garland, how could you do it
— you, a clergyman of the Church of England, and a
gentleman of such credit in the county? I declare, I
was so shocked, so scandalized, I could hardly believe my
ears when Lady Jones told me."
''What did she tell? Will you repeat the story ex-
actly, and I will tell you if it is true, or how much of it
is true."
But neither accuracy nor directness Avere special quali
ties of Mrs. Crux, especially when, as now, she was obvi-
ously puzzled and distressed.
''Such a pretty girl — such a sweet, modest-looking
girl! I could not have believed it possible. And you to
have her residing with you, and even to bring her here
to associate with my daughters! Mr. Garland, I am
astonished at you. You ought to be asliamed of your-
self."
" Madam," he answered, with a touching, sad humil-
TWO MARRIAGES. 165
ity, " I am ashamed of myself, but it is not for the rea-
gon you suppose. It is because I had not the courage
to state to you all the sad circumstances of my son's mar-
riage, and then leave it to yourself to judge how far the
acquaintance you so wished was either suitable or
desirable. Not that I had any doubt of my daughter-in-
law, or of youc daughters taking any harm from associa-
tion with her, b\\t that, in her sad position, all acquaint-
anceships or friendships ought to be begun with open eyes
on both sides. Mrs. Crux, I was to blame. I beg your
pardon."
The lady was disarmed; she could not but be at such
gentle dignity. She looked sorry, and answered half
apologetically:
" Well, on that principle, Mr, Garland, it's little
enough you know about us, though at least our position
in society is unquestionable. But it is quite different with
Mrs. Keith Garland, who, I hear, was a common servant-
girl at some farm near here where your son used to visit,
and where, like all those sort of persons, she made a bait
of her pretty face, and cunningly entrapped the poor boy
to marry her."
" Stop a minute," said Mr, Garland. " She did not en-
trap him. The error was my son's as much as hers. He
felt bound in honor to marry her."
" Why? Goodness gracious, Mr. Garland, you don't
mean to tell me " She stooped aghast.
The old man blushed painfully, agonizingly, all over
his face. He saw at once that in his roused sense of
justice he had betrayed more than even Mrs. Crux had
heard — the worst, the saddest thing of all, compared to
which Charlotte's being a servant-girl had seemed to him
a light evil, so light that he had naturally concluded
Mrs. Crux knew the whole story, and that the violent,
almost insulting measures she had taken were on this ac-
count. For the moment he paused, repenting, but it
was too late now. Besides, had he not come determined
to explain, and to face the whole truth; why should he
dread it now?
" Mrs. Crux, I do not in tne least wish to deceive you:
as a motlier of daughters you have a right to every ex-
plaiKition, and I came here to give it. I should have
done so long ago, only I thought Immeridge jossip must
166 TWO MARRIAGES.
already have told yon wliat is so jiainfiil for me to tell to
a stranger. Still, I ought not to feel pained, for my
daughter-in-law's daily life speaks for itself as to what
slie is now; so simple and humble, so good and true, that
I have almost forgotten she was ever "
The sentence died on the parson's lips, for the cruel
truth had never been put into words before. Still, he
must utter it.
'^ She was, I grieve to say, not only a poor illiterate
servant-girl, but my son seduced her before he married
her."
"What!" cried the lady, starting back in undisguised
horror. " And you were so misguided, so insane as to let
him marry her?"
" Madam," said the parson, as lie, too, drew back a step,
** I am not accountable for tiie marriage, since I was un-
aware of it till it was over. But the one thing which
inclined me to forgive my sou was that he did marry
her."
Mrs. Crux regarded him with the blankest astonish-
ment. ** I never heard of such a thing. That is — of
course, such things happen every day; we mothers of sons
know that they must happen. It's a sad, sad matter, but
we can't help it; we can only shut our eyes to it, and hope
the poor lads will learn better by and by. But to view
the case in this way — to act as you have done — I protest,
Mr. Garland, it appears to me actual madness. What
would the world say of you?"
" I haye never once asked myself that question."
And then, as they stood together — the old man and the
elderly woman — for Mrs. Crux was over sixty, though
she dressed like a girl in her teens — they mutually inves-
tigated one another, with as much success as if they were
gazing out of two different worlds. As in truth they
were — the world of shams, and the world of realities.
"I am very tired; will you excuse my sitting down?'*
said the parson, gently; she had never yet asked him to
be seated. " But I shall not detain you long; and after
to-night the Parsonage will intrude upon the Hall no
more. It never would have done so, save for the persist-
ent attentions of your family, which I wish I had pre-
vented earlier, for more reasons than this."
Mr. Garhmd suddenly paused, for again he had been
TWO MARRIAGES. 167
led on to say too mucli. After mature tleliboratioii, Jie
had resolved — out of his dislike to any dispeace, and be-
cause no good could come from the revelation — to be si-
lent respectinar Mr. Charles Crux and his insolence. But
the poor mother, made sadly wise, was also quickly sus-
picious; for she said, uneasily:
" Please explain; I insist on your explaining any other
reason."
" I would rather not, for it is one of those things which
are best not even named. And it can never occur again;
for, by my daughter-in-law's expres3 wish, I shall keep
my door closed henceforward to every member of your
family."
" Mr. Garland, surely — I saw Charley was a little
smitten — but surely he has not been such a fool as
to "
" I do not know what you call a fool," replied Mr.
Garland, indignantly, ''but I should give your son a
much harder name."
*•' Oh, you mistake," said the mother, a little fright-
ened. " Young men are always taken by a pretty face.
Charley likes flirting, especially with married women.
He means no harm, and everybody does it."
'" Which makes it no harm, I suppose," said the par-
son, bitterly. "But I, and happily my daughter-in-law,
think otherwise. Since you have mentioned the subject,
which, it appears, you were not quite ignorant of, will
you say to Mr. Charles Crux that if he ever dares to cross
my threshold again — though I am an old man, I liave a
strong right hand yet, and — there might be a horsewhip
in it! I beg your pardon, madam," added he, suddenly
stopping, and reining in the passion which shook him,
old as he was. " In truth, I forbear to speak, because I
am more sorry for you, as being mother to your son, than
I am for myself, as the father of mine."
'*■ Why, what difference is there between them? Or
between your conduct and mine?"
" All the difference between plastering over a foul
ulcer, and opening it boldly to the light; ugly, indeed,
and a grievous wound, but a wound that, by God's mercy,
may be cleansed and liealed. All the difference betweea
the sinner who hides and hugs his sin, thinking nothing
of it, if only it can escape punishment, and the sinner
168 TWO MARRIAGES.
who repents and forsakes his sin, and so becomes clean
again, and fit to enter the kingdom of heaven — always so
near at hand to all of us. Where, please God, I hope
yet to see my poor boy, and that poor girl, Charlotte, too
— ay, madam, even in this world/'
Mr. Garland spoke as he had never meant to speak;
but the words were forced into him and from him.
They fell on deaf ears, a heart too narrow to understand
them.
Nevertheless, the lady moved uneasily, and regarded
Mr. Garland with a puzzled air. " You talk in a very
odd way; but I suppose, you being a clergyman, it is
all right — only please do not confound Mr. Keith Gar-
land with Mr. Charles Crux. What your son may be I
cannot tell, but my son is quite correct in conduct al-
ways. He goes to church with his family — you might
have seen him every Sunday. He visits where his sisters
visit — and I can assure you we are exceedingly particu-
lar in our society. Beatrice is the only one who takes
up with doubtful people; she laughed at this dreadful
business — I mean at Mrs. Keith Garland having been a
servant. And even if she were told everything, very
likely she would not care for that either; young people
are getting such very queer notions nowadays. Oh, you
don't know what a mother's anxieties are, Mr. Garland,"
cried the poor woman, appealingly, and glancing at tifie
door, as if she expected every minute to have their inteu*
view burst in upon.
" Pray give yourself no anxiety on our account, '' said
Mr. Garland, rising. " I have said all you wished to
hear, and all that I had to say; now let me assure you
that this visit of mine will be the last communication be-
tween the Hall and the Parsonage."
Mrs. Crux looked infinitely relieved. " It is best, a
great deal the best, thank you, Mr. Garland. And yet"
— her good-nature overcoming her, or else being touched
in spite of Jierself by the picture of the solitary, feeble
old man going out into the dark to meet the obloquy
which Mrs. Crux felt certain must inevitably rest on
everybody who was " dropped " by Cruxham Hall — "I
don't wish to do an unkind thing. Perhaps since nobody
knows, you might still come here — coming by yourself,
of course."
TWO MARRIAGES. 1«9
"Thank you; but it is quite impossible. You felt it
necessary to protect and to upliold tlie dignity of your
daughters; excuse me if I feel the same regarding mine.
All acquaintance must henceforth cease between our two
households.^'
"But as to Beatrice/' said Mrs. Crux, who, like most
Weak women, when she saw a thing absolutely done,
nsually began to wish it undone, " what am I to say to
Beatrice? She has taken such a fancy to young Mrs.
Garland."
"Let her find another 2>rofagee, and she will soon for-
get my Charlotte. '*
''My Charlotte!" The word slipped out unawares —
ho was startled at it himself — but he did not retract it.
And all the way home ho tiiouglit of her tenderly, as
good men do think, even of those who have caused them
Woe, when they themselves have had the strengtli not to
requite pang for pang, and evil for evil. It is a true say-
ing, that those against whom our hearts harden most are
not tliose who have wronged us, but those whom we have
wronged.
Steadily and bravely, though without an atom of love
in his heart, Mr. Garland had done his duty to his daugh-
ter-in-law; steadily and bravely he had fought for her
How, the poor girl, simply because she was a poor, de-
fenseless girl. Now, when she was wholly thrown upon
his pity and care, when not a door but his own was likely
to be open to her; when even her husband neglected her,
Bnd shrank from coming back to England because it was
coming back to her; the old man, who had in him that
knightly nature which instinctively takes the weaker
side — the good old man felt almost an affection for Char-
lotte,
When he saw by the glimmer from his study window
that she was still waiting there, and heard the front door
©pen almost before he had fastened the clinking latch of
the garden-gate, a sensation approaching pleasure came
over Inm.
"Well, my dear, I have returned safe, you see," said
he, cheerily. " It is all well over. We shall see no more
of the Cruxes. You and I must be content with one an-
other's company. I can. Can you?" i
Charlotte looked up and smiled — a smile the bright-
170 TWO MARRIAGES.
ness of which was soon accounted for, as well as the iw"
difference with which she omitted all questions concern-
ing the interview that had just before seemed so mo-
mentous to them both.
** Look here, sir/' said she, drawing a letter from her
apron pocket. *' This came directly after you had gone.
What can it mean? For, do you see, it is not by the
ordinary Canadian mail; the postmark is London, and
there is an English stamp upon it.'*
*'Poor little soul, how well she loves him!" thought
Mr. Garland, as Charlotte came hovering about his chair
with a trembling eagerness of manner, and a brightness
of expectation in her look. " You thought, my dear,
that Keith might be in England, but it is not so. He
dates as usual, you see; this is merely sent by private
hand, and posted in London."
**Yes, I understand." And Charlotte sat down pa-
tiently, the light in her eyes quite gone. Patiently, too,
without a word of interruption or comment, she listened
while, as was customary, her father-in-law read aloud her
husband's letter.
It was chiefly to say — what Keith had hinted by the
last mail, that he should find it impossible to come home
this next winter — when his two years of absence would
expire. Equally impracticable — as he explained with
greater length than perspicuity of argument — was it for
him to send for his wife to Canada. Not that he was too
poor to liave her — indeed, he inclosed a very handsome
sum of money to defray her maintenance and her own
personal wants; but his very prosperity seemed to make
a barrier between them.
''We enjoy some little civilization, even out here," he
wrote; " tlie few people I have as neighbors are tolerably
well educated. And besides, in the lonely life of a Can-
adian farm, a man wants not only a wife, but a compnn-
ion. 1 think, father, it would not be a twelvemonth
wasted, either for her sake or mine, if for a year at least
you would send Charlotte to some good boarding-school,
or hire a governess to live in the village — you might not
like a stratigo lady living at the Parsonage. I must say,
I should like my wife to get a little education. It would
be very valuable out here; and if I ever should retura
TTT^O MARRIAGES. 171
and settle in England But we will leave that an
open question for time to decide."
Thus sutnmaril)^, with a briefness that sliowed how in-
different he was to it, Keith dismissed the subject, and
went on to other things.
The father's heart was verj' sad — more than sad — angry.
And yet Keith^s conduct was hardly unnatural; the more
80 as, with a feeling that it was best to leave time's work-
ings to work themselves out without any interference on
his part, Mr. Garland had carefully abstained from
writing much about Charlotte. lie wished now he had
done a little differently; he determined by the next mail
to speak his mind out plainly and clearly; but, in the
meantime, there Keith's will was, given with a hard de-
termination which seemed to have grown upon him of
late, and his young wife must obey.
She never seemed to have any thought of disobeying.
Slie sat passively, with her eyes cast down, and a dull,
hopeless shadow creeping over the face that ten minutes
before had almost startled the old man with its exceeding
brightness. She listened to the letter's end, the part
about herself being -ft very small portion of it; the rest
being filled up with statements of Keith's affairs, which
seemed very flourishing — and long essays on American
politics, into which he seemed to have thrown himself
with tlie ardor of one who has set aside, conscientiously
perhaps, a young man's temptations to pleasure and
amusement, and plunged desperately into the pursuits of
middle age. In short, he seemed, even at this early age,
to have substituted ambition for love, and exchanged his
heart for his brains. Throughout all tlie reading of his
son's letter, Mr. Garland saw, and felt when he did not
see, the poor little face of his son's wife, so quiet, so un-
complaining, tliat how much she. thought he could not
tell — he was half afraid to conjecture. But she spoke not
a single word.
" My dear," he said at last, "-should you like to have
a governess?"
" Oh, yes. Anything you please — anything he
pleases."
" Charlotte," the parson spoke almost apologetically,
" your husband does not quite know, but I sliall explain
to him next mail, how well you anil I havo gor on to-
172 TWO MARRIAGES.
gether, in studies and everything; how greatly you are im-
proving — as a girl of your age has infinite capacities for
doing. Above all, what a good, dear girl you invariably
are to nie."
*' Am I?" She looked up with those great, dark eyes
of hers, and in them he saw, as he had never seen it re-
vealed before, the real womanly soul; quick to feel, yet
strong to endure; long-suffering to almost the last limit
of patience, yet having its pride too — its own righteous,
feminine pride, which on occasion could assert itself —
not aggressively, but with a certain dignified reticence,
more pathetic than the loudest complaints.
Though she was not his ideal of womanhood, and was
wholly unlike the wife he had adored, the daughter he
had imagined — quite a different type of character, in-
deed, still the parson was forced to acknowledge that it
was not an unbeautiful character. As it developed itself,
he did more than merely like — he began, in degrees, act-
ually to respect Charlotte.
He attempted neither to question her nor to draw out
her feelings, so closely, so bravely restrained; but, simply
giving lier the letter to read over again at her leisure,
asked her to light his candle for him, and he would go to
bed; he felt very weary to-night.
*'So the boy will not be back for another year at
least,'' thought he, sighing; " and my years are growing
so few."
Though lie did not put the thought into words, Char-
lotte heard the sigh, and saw the expression of the sad
old face.
" It is as I expected, you see," said she, in a low voice.
** He will not come home because of me. Oh, sir " — and
humbly, very humbly and tenderly she laid her hand
npon Mr. Garland's — '^jilease forgive me. lam so sorry
— -for f/ow."
''Never mind — never mind, my daughter."
And the desolate old man did what he had never in his
life done to any woman, except one; he took her in his
arms and kissed her.
TWO MARRIAGES, 17f
CHAPTER X.
Much is said and written upon the monrnfnlness oi
broken friendships — a subject almost too sad to write
about, for such are like the hewing down of a tree — a
sharp ax and a rash hand will destroy in an hour a wliole
life's growth, and what no second lifetime can ever make
grow again. And thinking thus of all shattered things,
how easy it is to destroy and how difficult to retrieve,
there is a certain sadness in contemplating even a broken
acquaintanceship.
It was not likely that a sensitive man like Mr. Garland
could see with indifference the Crux family sitting be-
neath him in the Hall pew Sunday after Sunday, listen-
ing with civil attention to his sermons, buc regarding
him as no longer their friend, only their clergyman; and
the service over, sweeping silently out of the narrow
church, where everybody knew everybody and noticed
everybody, to their carriage, omitting entirely the cus-
tomary greeting at the church door or the churchyard
gate. It was painful, too, to meet them in his walks,
which he never took alone, now, and for him and Char-
lotte to have to pass without recognition, or tacitly to
alter tlieir path so as to escape meeting at all. At last
these chance rencontres began to be looked forward to
with such a sense of dread and discomfort that all the
pleasure of the parson's walks was taken away. He grad-
ually seceded from the places he best liked — the shore,
the cliff, and the downs, restricting his rambles daily, till
after, a few weeks he rarely stirred beyond the boundary
of his own garden.
His daughter-in-law, too, seemed to have no wish to
go further. Since the day on which these two moment-
ous events had happened — the interview with Mrs.
Crux, and Keith's unexpected letter — a great change
had come over poor Charlotte. Not in any tangible
sliape; she complained of nothing; she went about her
daily avocations as usual, and betrayed neither by word
nor act anything that was passing in her mind; but the
whole expression of her countenance altered. It grew
sad, wistful, w^an, and pale; there Avas a dreary hope-
lessness, at times even a sort of despair in it; the re-
174 TWO MARRIAGES.
morse of the roused conscience; the agony of the bhmk,
lost future; the cruel awakening to a knowledge of hap-
piness that might have been. At least so Mr. Garland
read her looks — nor marveled; for he knew that all this
must have come; he could hardly have wished it not to
come.
Every man's sin will find him out, and he must pay
its penalty in a certain amount of inevitable suffering,
from which the utmost pity cannot, and should not, save
him. Doubtless the Cruxes were very hard when they
drew their own not spotless robes round them, and
would not so much as look at poor Charlotte; but their
stained gairaents did not make Charlotte clean. And
when, as they passed her by, the parson saw her face
flush up, then settle into its customary sad patience, how-
ever much he grieved for her, still he dared not speak.
He could say with his Divine Master, " Go, and sin no
more." He could even believe, from the bottom of hia
thankful heart, " Thy sins are forgiven thee;" but he
could not say that the sin was no sin, or that the ulti-
mate result would be the same as if it had never happened.
He could not look at that poor little face — so young still;
she was only nineteen even now — with all its lines sharp-
ened by mental }>ain; with its sweet smile darkened, and
its sad eyes drooping; no longer able to face the world
with the bright, clear gaze of conscious innocence — he
could not see all this without acknowledging the just,
righteous, inevitable law of God, which can n^ver be
broken with impunity.
And what of the other sinner — still closer to the old
man's heart — who ought " to have borne equally with
Charlotte the burden that 1 hey had laid upon themselves?
How Keith felt, or how much he suffered, neither his
wife nor his father had any means of knowing. Tiie one
letter in which the parson had told about the Cruxes,
and spoken his mind on many painful things; which hjid
cost him much, for it is hard to write such sad, reproach-
ful letters across the seas, in the long ignorance of how
they may reach, and whether hapi^ier letters may ever
follow them — this letter Keith never received. It went
down to the bottom of the Atlantic with a wrecked mail-
steamer.
**I must write it over again," said Mr. Garland wheu
TWO MARRIAGES. 175
he found out thip. But he delayed and delayed, and
meantime Keith went further west on a tra})ping expe-
dition, and for several weeks it was useless to write, as
no letters would find him. And then came one — the
restlessness, bitterness, and hopelessness of wiiich grieved
his father to the heart.
In it he only referred to his wife so far as to take for
granted that his commands had been obeyed; that she
was now at school, or busy with her education under a
governess. But it was not so. At first j\Ir. Garland had
tried to fulfill his son's wishes; but no lady could be
found willing to bury herself at Immeridge except at a
salary higher than even Keith's liberal remittances made
possible. Besides — and Mr. Garland, when he showed
her the letters, felt how bitter they must be to Charlotte
— more than one governess made painfully pertinacious
and rather suspicious inquiries as to the " curious circum-
stance "' of an adult pupil being a married lady, living
apait from her husband. It was one of the sharp in-
evitables of the position, but not the less hard to bear.
Then Mr. Garland suggested a bonrding-school; but
here, for the first time in her life, Charlotte evinced a
decided will of her own, and offered steady, though not
riolent resistance. The reason she gave for this was
brief and simple, but quite unanswerable.
"I am a married woman now; I could not possibly be-
come a school-girl, or go among school-girls.''
It was only too true — true in a deeper sense than she
put forAvard; and her father- in-huv acknowledged this.
The poor thing could never be a girl any more; the door
of girlhood was shut behind her; and for the happy
pride, the contented dignity which comes to any one, be
she ever so young, when slie finds herself a married
woman, taken quite out of herself and made to live
for another, perhaps for many others, in the sweet self-
abnegation of matronhood — alas! this blessedness had
not come, and, in one sense, never could come, to poor
Charlotte.
Not since the day when she first came to him had Mr.
Garland pitied her so intensely, or mourned over her
with such a hopeless regret as he did now. And yet he
could not do anything to make her happier or brighter,
or take out of her heart the sting that he saw was there.
176 TWO MARRIAGES.
piercing daily deeper and deeper tlie more as her nature
developed. He knew it must be so. She, like himseli, like
every mortal soul, must be taught to accept and endure
the inevitable.
So the days passed on — the long, bright, weary summer
days — -the heat of which made the parson feel how feeble
and old he was growing; too feeble to struggle against the
hard present, or to fight his way out of it into a better
future; a future not for himself — he had long ceased to
think of himself — but for these, his children.
" My working days are done, I think," said he, sadly,
one day when he and Charlotte had been busy together
in the garden. For he now kept her about him as much
as he could, from pure compassion, and to prevent her
from falling into these long reveries in which he had
sometimes found her, when the dull expression of her
eyes, and the heavy, listless droop of her once active
hands, made his heart bleed. " Come here, my dear; do
help me. I never had so much tremble in training this
creeper. I cannot lift up my right arm at all."
He spoke almost in a querulous tone, for he felt ill and
unlike himself. Charlotte came quickly. The only
brightness that ever dawned in her sad face was when she
Was doing something for Mr. Garland.
'' Don't work at all — FU do it," she said. " Pray, sir,
give me the hammer and nails, and be idle awhile. Let
me fetch you your garden-chair."
This was a rough but comfortably-constructed piece of
workmanship, the joint invention of Charlotte and the
Immeridge carpenter, in the days when her simple daily
occupations had been enough to fill her life, before the
bitterness that came with the awakening soul had en-
tered into it. Some of her old cheerfulness returned as
she brought the chair and settled the old man tenderly
in his favorite seat.
" There, now, I am sure you will be comfortable.
What is wrong with your arm, sir? May I rub it? Jan«
lets mo rub her rheumatic shoulder sometimes."
''But this is not pain, it is numbness. I felt it whea
I woke this morning."
" Perhaps you had been lying upon it, and your arm
had gone to sleep, as children call it."
TWO MARRIAGES. 177
" Perhaps. And yet, if so, it ought to have been quite
well by now." ^
"It will be well presently," was the soothing answer,
as Charlotte, now iairly roused out of herself, knelt down
beside Mr. Garliud, and began chaffing the delicately
Bhaped right hand; he had once been conceited about the
beauty of his hand, or his wife had been for him. It
was still delicate, still un withered; but the fingers seemed
dropping together in a helpless way, and when Cliarlotte
laid it on the arm-chair, it remained there passive and
motionless.
The old man shook his head. " It is of no use rub-
bing, my dear. I cannot feel your fingers."
Cliarlotte redoubled her energies. "Oh, but you must
feel them, you will feel them. My rubbing always does
Jane good, she says. You are sure to be better by and
by."
"But suppose," Mr. Garland replied, after a long
pause, and in a low tone, which had a certain concealed
dread beneath its quietness, *' suppose, Charlotte, that
this should not be rheumatism. There is another com-
plaint which old people have sometimes."
"What is that?"
"It is in our family, too," said Mr. Garland, musing,
**I know my grandfather died of paralysis."
Charlotte looked up.
" What is that? At least I half know, but not quite.
Please tell me."
" It is no pain — don't look so frightened, my poor girl
— no pain at all. And it does not kill people — not sud-
denly. But sometimes it makes them helpless — totally
helpless for years before they die. my God, my God!"
- — and the old man lost all his courage and groaned
aloud — "save me from that! Take me — take me at once!
but, oh, save me from being a trouble and a burden to any-
body."
"A trouble? a burden? Oh, Mr. Garland!" And
Charlotte seized the poor numb right hand, pressed it to
her bosom like a baby, kissed it, fondled it, sobbed over
it, and expended on it such a passion of emotion, that the
Earson^s thoughts were turned from his own uneasy appre-
ensious into watching her, and wondering at the wealth
of love that lay buried in that poor heart.
178 TWO MARRIAGES.
** Do not, my child, do not cry so bitterly. I should
not have said this. I had no idea you cared for me so
much."
"I have nobody else to care for, nobody that cares for
my caring, in the wide world."
He could not contradict lier; he knew she spoke the
truth. But he said, what was also the truth, and every
day when he saw the depths of sweetness, and patience,
and womanly wisdom that sorrow was drawing out of her,
and expressing visibly in her face, he himself believed it
more and more. "No one but me to care for? It may
not be always so, Charlotte. God's mercy is as infinite as
our need. AVait and hope."
Whether it was that this sudden and unwonted emo-
tion stirred up the old man's vital forces into strength
enough to shake ofE the impending ill, or whether this
had been only a slight forewarning, he certainly grew
better un<ler his daughter's care; and for some days was
even brighter than ordinary. But it was only a tempor-
ary wave of the gradually ebbing tide, which left the
sands barer than before.
Very soon there fell upon Mr. Garland's green old age
that most trying phase of life's decline, often only a
phase, and not necessarily implying life's close, in which
the body begins to fail faster than the siill youtiiful and
active mind, producing an irritable restlessness most
painful both to the sufferer and to the stauders-by.
'JMie more he needed cai-e, the less he seemed to like
being taken care of. He felt it hard to resign one by
one Ills independent ways, and sink into, not an elderly,
but a really old man; becoming, as he said, like Saint
Peter, who, when he was young, ''girded himself," but
when old was to have '* another to gird hitn, and lead
him in the way lie would not." If at this crisis he had
been left only to Jane, and had not had about him a
younger woman, gentle, sweet tempered, and gifted
naturally with that infinite jiatienco which is, or ought
to be, at once the duty and delight of all youth to show
to all old age, things would have gone rather hard with
Parson Garland.
Perhaps he was aware of this, perhaps not; for the
narrowing powers of fading life dim the perceptions of
even the best of people; but he was conscious of feeling
TWO MARRIAGES. 119
great comfort in Charlotte. A change, sndden and
bright, had come upon her over sim e tlie day that he hud
told her of his IV-ar of paral\'sis. She lost her listless,
solitary ways, and began to devote herself daily and
hourly to him, and him alone. Not that she troubled
him with unnecessary watching or too patient anxiety,
but she was always at hand when wanted; she never
thwarted him; she bore with all his little crotchets, even
when, as he acknowledged to himself, they were very
unreasonable. And sometimes, in the long, sleepless
night tliat succeeded many a restless day, the old man
used to lie thinking, with a wondering gratefulness both
to her and toward Heaven, of the sweet temper that was
never raffled, the young face that tried so hard to bo al-
wa3's pleasant and sunshiny when in his sight, the at-
tentive hands that were ever ready to do enough, and
never too much, for the innumerable wants of his selfish,
or he thought it selfish, old age.
" God is very good to me, more than I deserve,'' he oft-
times said, in his heart; " and if 1 wait, surely in Hisowa
time lie will be good to these my children."
But, although the tie between him and his daughter-
in-law grew closer every day, Mr. Garland, with the
shrinking delicacy which was a part of his nature, never
attempted to lift the veil which Charlotte still persist-
ently drew over the relations between herself and her
husband, and her own feelings toward him. The old
man would have been ashamed to pry into what she evi-
dently desired to conceal. All his life he had borne his
own burdens, troubling no one; he could understand
and respect another's doing the same. Charlotte's total
reticence and silent endurance touched him deeper than
the most pathetic complaints or most unreserved confi-
dence.
So they lived together, these strangely-assorted com-
panions, who yet in their deepest hearts were so curi-
ously assimilated as to become better company to each
other every day. Contentedly they spent the life of al-
most total solitude which circumstances had forced upon
them, for the Crux influence had leavened the neighbor-
hood, which, indeed, without much malice aforethought
on their part, it was sure to do; and tliose few county
families who were in the habit of driving over to Immer-
180 TWO MARRIAGES.
idge at intervals, just to acknowledge the existence of,
and pay a passing respect to, the Eeverend William Gar-
land, gradually ceased their visits to the Parsonage. He
had not wanted them when they came, but he noticed
their absence, and was sure that Charlotte noticed it too,
for she often looked at him in a strange, wistful way, as
if slie wished to say something to him, and could not.
Heaven had punished her, as Heaven does sometimes,
not directly, but vicariously. In a heart so full of love
as hers (often did the parson recall Keith's almost com-
plaining words, " She is so very fond of me "), that
others should suffer through her fault was of all retribu-
tions the sharpest, and likely to work out the most last-
ing result on her character.
It did so presently in a manner unforeseen. Seeing
Mr. Garland had no one left him but himself, Charlotte
sliook off her depression, and learned to be cheerful for
his sake. She tried to make herself everything that
pleased him, and his being the sole influence that ever
approached her, it was almost omnipotent of its kind.
When two people of opposite dispositions are thus thrown
constantly together, they either end by absolute dislike
and disunion, or they grow into the most touching like-
ness in unlikeness, which often harmonizes better than
absolute similarity.
Ere many months the parson's daughter-in-law had be-
come to his failing age almost more than a daughter of hia
own; for, as he said sometimes, his own daughter would
certainly have gone away and left him, to marry some
strange youth, while his son's wife was safely bound to him
forever. And he to her was not only as dear as a natural
born father, but was also — what, alas! all fathers in the
flesh are not — her ideal of everything that a man should
be. She became to him a perfect slave, as women like to
be, though in that happiest bondage where affection is
the only forger of the chains. But the title he himself
gave her was his "right hand!"
Ere long this became only too true a name.
One day, as he was writing his sermon, Charlotte sit-
ting sewing at the study window, for he was so constantly
needing her help in little things that he liked tt) have her
within call, the pen dropped from Mr. Garland's fingers.
The same numbness which he had once complained of
TWO MARRIAGES. 181
came on again; his right hand fell lielplessly by his side,
and he never used it more.
This was not discovered immediately; as before, the
affection was at first considered temporary, and all reme-
dies were tried. Simple household remedies only; for
Mr. Garland did not feel ill; he suffered no pain; and it
was only on Charlotte's earnest entreaty that he allowed
medical help to be sent for.
But when this was done, and the doctor looked grave,
and said, on being questioned, that it was really "a
stroke " — as the country people call it — and that the
natural use would in all human probability never return
to that poor, nerveless right hand, tlie blow fell lighter
than might have been expected. Most likely because
the parson himself bore it so well. Now that his secret
dread for months, and he owned now how heavy it had
been, had come upon him, the reality seemed less dread-
ful than the fear. He met his misfortune with a won-
derful calmness and fortitude. His irritability ceased;
he faced courageously the local bodily infirmity; thank-
ing God that it was only local, and did not affect either
his faculties or his speech. He made his arrangements
for future helplessness with a touching patience, remind-
ing Charlotte, who hovered about him in pale silence,
and Jane, who broke into loud outbursts of lamentation
at every word, how the doctor had said that he might
yet live to be ninety, and die of some other disease after
all.
''And if not," added he, " if the burden that I myself
feel heaviest is to be the especial burden that God will
have me bear (you will often find it so in life, Charlotte),
still, I will take it up and bear it. I have received good
from His hands all my days, and He will help me in
what seems like evil.**
" You speak like a saint almost," said Charlotte,
softly.
" She was a saint who taught me."
" Some day, if you should ever think I deserve to hear,
will you tell me about her?"
It was said so humbly, with such a world of reverence
and tenderness in the imploring eyes, that the parson
was startled. Never before had he even mentioned to his
daughttr-in-law this one woman whom he had so adored;
182 TWO MARRIAGES.
a woman and wife like lierself, yet who always seemed a
being of another creation from poor Charlotte. But
now, in the strange clianges that time had made, through
the mysterious influence by which his memory of the
wife Jie had lost had guided his conduct toward the
daugliter he had so miexpectedly and regretfully found,
Mr. Garland recognized, amid all differences, the com-
mon womanhood of these two, Mary and Charlotte Gar-
land. Ay, though one had lived and died white as snow,
and the other was smirched with sin; though one was all
that was charming in ladyliood, and the other Well,
things had gone hard with poor Charlotte. Still, still,
there was in both of them the root and center of all lova-
bleness in woman, the strong self-abnegation, the divine
humility of love.
''Charlotte,'' said the parson — and he tried to see her
with the eyes with which his Mary would have regarded
this girl, her son's wife, eyes searching as a mother's
should be, yet withal unfailingly tender, pitiful, gener-
ous, aud just; " Charlotte, would you really like to hear
about your husband's mother, the noblest woman that
ever breathed?"
"Should I?" Charlotte's face answered the question.
So, forgetting everything else, forgetting even that this
was the first sad night when he was made fully conscious
of his infirmity, and of the fact that it would last during
tlui remainder of his life, Mr. Garland sat down by his
study fire, and began talking with his daughter-in-law
quietly and cheerfully, and with an open confidence that
ho had never shown her before. And she listened with
all her heart in her eyes, and yet with a touch of sad-
ness, like one who was hearing of a far-off j^aradise, of
which, for her, the door was forever closed — about the
days of his youth, studious and solitary; his long but
never weary courtship-years; of his one happy twelve-
month of married life, and his dear dead wife, Mary Gar-
land .
CHAPTER XI.
By the next Sunday all Inimeridge had learned the
heavy allliction — as many would have said, till his placid
lace forbade them to call it so — which had befallen the
TWO MARRIAGES. 183
parson. There was scarcely one of liis flock present wlio
did not follow liim with compassionate eyes as he walked
slowly np the pulpit stairs, his rigiit arm hidden under
the seelve of his gown, and began to turn over the leaves
of the prayer-book with his left hand. And when, giv-
ing out the hymn, in his nervousness and slight awkward-
ness, he dropped the book, and it narrowly escaped the
clerk's head, and was solemnly picked up and liandcd
back to him by the beadle, not even a mischievous child
smiled; the congregation were all far more inclined to
weep.
After service was over many hung about the church-
yard, as if they wished to see or speak to the parson. But
Mr. Garland remained in the vestry for a considerable
time, no one being admitted but his daughter-in-law.
Then, taking her arm and walking feebly, he was seen to
cross tlie church-yard the accustomed way and re-enter bis
garden gate.
If any of his neighbors had ever said a word against
him, they were all silent now — silent and sorry. They
gathered in knots round the church door and the lane
leading to it, everybody talking with sympathy and respect
of "poor Mr. Garland.''
Next morning, to the extreme amazement of the little
household, once more the tall footman from the Hall
appeared at the Parsonage with a message; kind in-
quiries after Mr. Garland's health, and begging his ac-
ceptance of a basket of hot-house grapes and a brace of
partridges.
" What shall we do, Charlotte?" said the parson, who
looked pleased; it was not in human nature that he should
not be somewhat pleased. '' It is unneighborly and un-
christian to refuse their peace-oifering, and yet I cannot
bear to take it. I never wish to have anything more to
do with the peojde at the Hall."
" No," replied Charlotte, Avith the sad gravity which
always came over her when the Cruxes Avere named — of
her own accord she never named them at all.
" What would you like done, my dear? You shall de-
cide."
She thought a minute, and then said, "Send a friendly
message back, but do not accept tlieir present. Say the
grapes would be welcome to old Molly Carr, or to some
184 TWO MARRIAGES.
other sick person down the village, whom Mrs. Crux used
so often to send things to/'
"Yes, that will do. You have a wise little head,
child," said the parson, affectionately.
He went himself and delivered the message to the
servant, making it as kindly and courteous as possible;
then he and his daughter-in-law sat together for a good
wliile in silence, he reading and she working, aswastheir
habit after breakfast.
" And now, my dear, let us put aside all unpleasant
things, and make ourselves busy — usefully busy, this
sunshiny morning. I like the sunshine. Oh, thank God
that he has left me the sight of my eyes!" said the par-
son, sighing, " But come, we'll have no sadness and no
complaining; for I might be much worse off. Charlotte,
you will have to be really my right hand now. How does
your writing progress? it is long since you showed me
your copy-book. What if I were to begin and dictate to
you my next Sunday's sermon?"
" Only try me, and you will see how I will do it," an-
swered Charlotte, brightly.
"Very well. But first there are all my letters to
write. Look how many lie in the box marked * unan-
swered.^ "
Tliere was an accumulation of four or five, which he
turned over uneasily. "Ah! I neglected them, and now
it is too late.'*
" Could not I "
" No, you couldn't, child," with some slight irritability.
*' Tiiey are business letters; a woman's writing would
look odd, especially Oil, if I had but my son beside
mc! If Keith would only come home." He once more
sighed bitterly, then saw Charlotte's face, and stopped.
" My dear, you must not mind me if I say sharp or fool-
ish things sometimes. I do not mean it. You will bear
with an old man, I know."
"Oh, Mr. Garland!"
She came to his side and began caressing, in her own
tender way, the powerless hand, which, by an ingenious
-arrangement of his coat-sleeve, she had tied up so tliatits
helplessness might inconvenience him as little as possi-
ble. A slight caress, not much; he was not used to af-
TWO MARRIAGES. 186
fectionate dcrnonstrations; but tliese toucherl him. He
put his other hand on her head.
" You are very good to me, Charlotte. I tliink you
must be fond of me — a little.'*
She laughed — the loving little laugh which supplies all
•words — and then placed herself beside him, with pen and
paper all arranged.
" I am quite ready now, sir. But," with a slight hesi-
tation, " there is one letter which, perhaps, to make quite
sure, had best be written first. Do you remember to-
morrow is the Canadian mail?"
"Ah! true, true! Poor Keith! He will never again
see his old father's handwriting."
It was a small thing, but one of those small things
•which, causing us fully to realize any loss, cut very deep
sometimes. The parson leaned back in his chair, and
the rare tears of old age stole through his shut eyelids.
" Never mind — never mind!"' said he, at last, drawing
his fingers across his eyes. " It must be so some time
or other. We go on taking care of our children, and
fancying no one can do it but ourselves, till God removes
them from us, or us from them, as if just to show us that
He is sufficient to take care of them. And in this mat-
ter — why, Keith will hardly miss my letters. You can
80 easily put down all I want to say, Charlotte, my dear.
So begin at once."
''What shall I write?"
" Let us see. 'My dear Keth.' But that will puzzle
him. Put at the top 'Dictated.' No, stop! My dear,
■why should not you yourself write to your husband?"
" He has never asked me."
That was true, though the omission had grown so fa-
miliar that the parson had of late not even remarked it.
Since the first few illiterate scrawls, which, with almosi
an exaggerated dread of their effect on a young man edu-
cated and scholarly, Mr. Garland had forwarded, Keith
had never asked his wife to write to him, nor, carefully
regular as was his messages to her, had he taken the
slightest notice of her continued silence. In truth, in
this and in all other things, except mere surface matters,
he had sheathed himself up in such an armor of reserve,
that of the real Keith Garland, the man who now was,
they knew absolutely nothing; though they felt— most
186 TWO MARRIAGES.
ccrtiiiuly his father did — that he was a person very dif-
ferent from the boy that went out to Canada two years
and a half ago.
'^ Supposing he has not asked you to write; still, why
should you not do it?"
"I cnnnot tell; only I think it would be better not/*
And Charlotte's firm-set mouth showed that she did not
wish to say any more. Nor did her father-in-law attempt
to urge her. It was witli him both principle and prac-
tice that no third hand — not even a parent's — can safely
touch, under almost any circumstances, the bond betweea
husband and Avife.
" Well/' said he, sighing, ''do as you think best,
Charlotte. And now let me write my letter — that is,
dictate it. Put at the top that it is dictated, and then
he will understand. ''
So they sat together a long two hours; for Mr. Garland
was restless and awkward, unaccustomed to any pen but
his own, and nervously anxious over the wording of tlie
letter. His patient secretary tore up more than one
sheet to please him, and began again; he seemed so fear-
ful of saying too much or too little.
" You see, my dear, I wish to be careful. If we alarm
Keith too much about me, he may come home at once,
and 1 would not have him do that against his will, or
to the injury of his future prospects. Yet if we left
him quite iu ignorance, and anything did happen to
me "
Charlotte looked up alarmed. ''But the doctor
said "
" He said what was quite true, that I may live ten
years and never have another attack. But if one did
come, there was no need to tell me this, for I knew it,
things might prove very serious."
"What would happen? Hoav would the stroke affect
you? Do not be afraid to tell me all you know."
Ciiarlotte spoke with composure, fixing her eyes stead-
ily on the old man's face as she did so, though she had
turned very pale.
"I will tell you, my dear, for you are not a coward,
and it is right you should know; it is right I should have
somebody about me who does know. If I were to have
another 'stroke,' as people call it, I might lose )ny
TWO MARRIAGES. 187
speeeh, the use of my limbs, my mind even. Oh, Char-
loite," as with a touching appeal he took hold of her
hand, " it is great weakness in me, great want of faith
and trust; but sometimes I feel frightened at the future,
and I wish my dear boy would come home,"
" What hinders his coming home? Is it — is it me?"
The old man was sorely perplexed. It was one of those
questions so hard i>lainly to answer, so impossible wholly
to deny. He met it as alone this good man could meet
anything, by the plain truth.
''Yes, my child," he said, keeping her hand, and
speaking tenderly, for he felt so exceedingly sorry for
her, " it mav be, in some degree, on account of you.
This is the penalty that people must pay who make hasty
or ill-assorted marriages, or, indeed, do anything that is
wrong: they must go through a certain terra of proba-
tion, and bear a certain amount of suffering. You have
suffered, my poor Charlotte?"
" Oh, 1 have— 1 have!"
''And, I doubt not, so has Keith. He may dread com-
ing home, and finding you only what he left you, which
was very different from himself, and equally different
from what yon now are. Still, not knowing this, he may
shrink — most men do — after the first impulse of passion
is over, from spending his whole life with a woman who
was not his deliberate choice."
" Yes, I understand."
'* Ah! my dear, I did not mean to hurt you. It was as
hard for you as it was for him. We may learn from our
mistakes, and make the best of them, and they may come
right in time; but we must suffer for them. Marriage is
an awful thing, and its very irrevocableness, the 'till
death us do part,^ which to some is the dearest comfort,
to others becomes the most galling boudage."
The parson had gone on speaking, more m his moraliz-
ing, absent way than with any special reference to her,
but his ^vords struck home.
Ciiarlotte drew her hands softly away from him, and
folded them together with a determination desperate in
its very gentleness.
" Mr. Garland, will you tell me one thing? Can mar-
ried people be parted, legally, except by death?"
"It ouglit not to be, my dear, but Ibelit've it is done
188 TWO MARRIAGES.
gometimes. I have heard of a court in London where
people can get separated from one auotlier so as even to
be free to marry again. But we old-fashioned people do
not like such divorces. We will not speak about them,
Charlotte. We were speaking about you and your hus-
band. He may dislike the thought of coming home now;
but if he once came, I hope, I feel sure, things would be
quite different. Still, let us neither compel him nor urge
him — it is best not. Forgive me if, just for my own sel-
fish sake, I can't help wishing my boy would come
home."
"He will come li'ome. Do not be uneasy; he is sure
to come home."
And then, recurring to the letter, Charlotte kept the
old man's wandering attention fixed upon it till it was
finished. Afterward she said, to her father-in-law's great
but carefully concealed surprise:
*' And now, if you could spare me for an hour, I should
like to go and write myself to my husband."
" That is well — that is excellent," cried' Mr. Garland,
much delighted. " Do write to him, as long a letter as
ever you can. He will be very glad of it."
" Will he?"
" Only, Charlotte, pleas£, tell him no more about me
than we have said already. You will promise that! You
comprehend my reasons?"
" Yes," said Charlotte, as she rose, slowly and dream-
ily, and gathered up the ink and paper.
" But why go away? Why not write here? I would
not interrupt you; and my good little scholar writes so
well now that I have not the slightest intention of look-
ing over or correcting her letters — never again, I assure
you."
" Oh, no!" and Charlotte smiled, not one of her old
childish smiles, but the exceedingly sad one which had
come in their stead. '* But, indeed, I had rather be
alone. I am very stupid, I know, sir. You forget, it is
not easy for me to write a letter, and it ought to be a
gretty letter, ought it not? when it is written to my hus-
and?"
" Certainly, certainly. Off with you, and do your very
best. Ah! my dear, you'll be such a clever girl by the
time your husband comes home!"
TWO MARRIAGES. 189
Charlotte smiled again, but this time the smile was not
merely sad, it was broken-hearted.
After she was gone, Mr. Garland sat in anxious medi-
tation — at least, as anxious as his failing age, upon which
all cares now began to fall slightly deadened, allowed him
to feel. Much he regretted that with the weak putting
off of a painful thing, which was the peculiarity of his
character, he had so long delayed rewriting that missing
epistle about the Cruxes and Charlotte. How could it
be done now? Never, at first he feared; for it was im-
possible Keith's wife could write it, and no other hand
could he use to indite so private a letter.
"If I could but do it myself. I have heard of people
who learned to write with their left hand," thought the
parson; and, taking up a pen, he began to try — a pro-
ceeding which needs trying in order to discover how very
difficult it is. Discomfited entirely by pen and ink, he
attempted a lead-pencil, and with much effort, and many
an ache of the feeble old hand and wrist, succeeded, after
an hour's hard practice, in legibly signing his name.
Then, quite worn out, he stretched himself in his arm-
chair and wished for Charlotte.
" What a long time she has been away, far more tha»
an hour!^' And then he smiled, with an amused won-
der, to think how much he missed her.
."If I find her so necessary, surely her husband will,
when he has learned all her usefulness, all her goodness.
Oh, yes, it will be all right by and by, when Keith comes
home."
And so it was with a cheerful countenance that he met
his daughter, showed her how he bad been amusing him-
gelf in her absence, and exacted her approbation of his
left-handed performances.
"I am so clever I shall be able to write with my own
hand next mail, I think. But we will not tell Keith
now. We will just give him a surprise."
And the idea of this, and the relief to his mind that
it brought, pleased Mr. Garland so much, that he went
on talking quite gayly all the time Charlotte was in-
closing, addressing, and scaling her letter, which she
made no attempt to offer for his perusal. Nor did he
desire it.
He never noticed, also, that all the time slie scarcely
ISO TWO MARRIAGES.
spoke; and that, after she had given Jane the letter to
post — Canadian letters were not trusted to anybody but
themselves or Jane — she came and knelt beside him os-
tensibly to warm her hands at the fire. She was shaking
like a jierson in an ague.
"How very cold you are! How could you stay up so
long in that chilly room, you foolish girl! you never think
of vourself at all."
'"'Oh no. It isn't worth while."
Mr. Garland regarded her uneasily as she crouched on
the rug, her face to the fire-light, which seemed to cheer
her no more than the moon upon a snow-field. But he
thought of his letter, which he would certainly be ablo
to write by next mail — ay, he would, if he accomplished
it at the rate of a line a day, and became comforted con-
cerning Charlotte.
After the mail had gone, the parson's mind was so re-
lieved that his bodily health began to recruit itself a lit-
tle. His helpless hand was at least no worse, 'and ho
began to get accustomed to the loss of it, and to do with-
out it, awkwardly and drearily at first, but soon very un-
complainingly. The trouble it gave to him to do the
most ordinary things, and the time they took in doing,
occupied the hours, and prevented his feeling so bitterly
the lack of his daily writing. He dictated to Charlotte
whatever was absolutely necessary, and he set himself to
work with the diligence of a school-boy, io learn to write
with his left hand. In short, Providence was temper-
ing the wind to him, poor old man! in many ways, so ;is
to make him slip easily and painlessly into th;it woi-ld
where he would awake and be young again; or be — •
whatsoever God would have him to be, in the unknown
country, where he had but two desires, to find Him and
his wife Mary.
Still he had much enjoyment of his present existence.
It hai)pened to be an exceptionally lovely spring, and he
and his danghter-in-law spent hours daily in wandering
about the cliffs and downs, looking at the sunshiny sea
which was settling itself down in peace after its winter
storms, or else penetrating inland, and hunting for wild-
flowers in those woody nooks which makes this part of
the country, so near the coast, a perfect treasure -house
for all who love nature. And he tried, butvainly, to put
TVl^O MARRIAGES. 191
into Charlotte that simple but intense delight which he
himself took in all natural things, thereby giving her an
education, both of mind and heart, which is worth much
book-learning, especially to a woman.
Tiiese walks were made pleasanter by the lifting off of
the Crux incubus. With the extraordinary infatuation
of the "fashionable" world, this gay metropolitan fam-
ily Jiad discovered that living anywhere out of London in
gpring-time was absohitely unendurable. So they mi-
grated back to their old haunts, leaving the Hall, for the
time being, deserted, and the roads about Immeridge
safe and free. They had never again called at tlie Par-
goiiage, hut they had ,?ent at least twice a week to inquire
for Mr. Garland; and once, in passing him and Charlotte,
they driving in their handsomest barouche down a hilly
road where to stop and speak was, conveniently, impossi-
ble, Mrs. Crux had bowed, whether to one or both re-
mained questionable, but it was a most undoubted and
condescending bow.
" Our friends certainly mean to take us up again, by
elow degrees," said the parson, a little amused. lie had
returned the salutation distantly, but courteously, as a
parson should, whose duty, more even than most men,
is to live in charity with all; but he did not wish to have
his motives or intentions mistaken. "1 have no desire,"
he continued, " to have any intimacy with the Cruxes.
You will find, Charlotte, throughout life, which is not
long enough for any needless pain, that * niarry in haste
and repent at leisure' is as true of friendship as it is of
love. We should be quite sure our friends suit us before
■we join hands, otherwise they either cumber us or drop
from us, like ill-fitting clothes, or they cling to us and
destroy us, like the poisoned shirt of Dejanira; did you
ever hear of Dejanira?"
And then he told her the story, as he did many an-
other story out of his endless learning, partly to amuse
himself, and partly from the feeling that every sort of
knowledge might one day be valuable to her.
- "But to return to the Cruxes," continued he; "I do
Bot regret their civilities, though more than civility is
neither possible nor desirable. Still, if they are polite,
■we will be polito too, if only on Keith's account. It is
•m TWO MARRIAGES'.
bad for a man not to be on good terms with his neigh-
bors."
And then the parson began to talk — as he ne^wi- could
help talking more and more every day — of the cliancea
pro and con of Keith's return, and what would happea
when he did return; whether he would go out again to
Canada, or whether, since he had been so successful, and
shown such remarkable capabilities for success in farm-
ing, he would not turn his attention to it in England,
and perhaps settle near Immeridge, to the infinite com- i
fort of his father's declining days.
''And if he has a real pleasant home, if his wif^
makes it as pleasant as she has made mine, vh]
then "
He turned and saw Charlotte's facej it was deathly
white.
"Please don't," she gasped. "Oh, please don't, Mr.
Garland."
He said no more, for he saw she could not bear it; but
he thought with deep thankfulness how devotedly Keith's
poor little wife must love him still.
And the love might be not unnecded. For several
times, when in his weary want of something to do, ho
had amused himself by rereading, in regular succession,
his son's letters, Mr. Garland was struck by an unde-
fined and yet clearly perceptible change in them. There
seemed a harshness, a hardness growing over Keith,
mingled with a reckless indifference, a complete avoid-
ance of all reference to the future, which, the more ho
pondered it over, the more it alarmed his father. But
theie was nothing to be done — nothing but to write
that letter, which he penned, painfully, a few lines every
day, telling his son the whole history of himself and
Charlotte; how lie had grown week by week, and month
by month, to pity her, to like her, to esteem her, to lovo
her.
Yes, he did really love her. He had long suspected
this, now he felt sure of it. Into the lonely, self-con-
tained, but infinitely tender heart, where no woman,
save one, had ever dwelt, crept this new relationship,
full of all tlui delicacy and chivalry which such a niaa
was sure to have toward any woman, by whatever tie
connected with him, uniting at once the grave proteo*
TWO MARRIAGES. 193
tiou of fatherhood with the clinging dependence that his
now feeble age made natural to him. Ay, in this strange
and mysteriously bitter way, the last way he had ever
contemplated or expected, the parson had found his
''daughter " — found her simply by doing a father's duty,
in tlio inevitable circumstances under which he had beea
called upon to act.
He felt great peace as he sat in his garden-chair with
Charlotte busy near him, or sitting sewing at his side.
She was one of those women who, without any obnox-
iously demonstrative industry, are never seen idle. Day
by day he admired her more and more, and was convinced
that Keith would do the same, until the true, tender love,
ay, and reverence, which every husband should bear to
his wife, would surely come. He felt so certain that all
would be right soon, very soon, perhaps even during his
lifetime. He spent hours in planning out and dreaming
over the future; and so absorbed was he in these fancies
and speculations, that he forgot to take much present no-
tice of Charlotte.
When Jane suggested, as she did once, that Mrs. Keith
Garland was looking excessively thin and worn, he still
scarcely heeded it, or set it down to the hot weather, or
to a natural suspense concerning her husband's return;
but, as she never opened the subject of her own accord,
he did not like to question her; and she, being always so
very unobtrusive and uncommunicative regarding herself
and her feelings, doing all her duties, and especially those
which concerned Mr. Garland, with the most affectionate
and sedulous care, he did not discover, as perhaps only
a woman would, that this poor woman, so young still,
went about like a person stunned— ^who does everything
in a sort of dream, waiting with terror for the moment of
awakening.
Only once or twice, when unable to resist talking of his
hopes, and longing for some confirmation of them from
another's heart than his own, Mr. Garland asked her seri-
ously wliat she thought of the probabilities of Keith's re-
turn, Charlotte answered decidedly:
"Oh, yes, he will come — be quite sure your sou will
come home."
And, in the delight of this expectation, the old mao
194 TWO MARRIAGES.
forgot to notice that she said, as she always did now,
"your sou," never *^my husband.'"
CHAPTER XII.
The following mail brought Keith's never-failing let-
ter, written, of course, in ignorance of the sad tidings
now speeding to him across the seas. Nor would they
probably reach him in time to be answered by the return
mail, for he spoke of an intended business journey down
South, which would occupy the few days between the re-
ceiving and answering of letters; so he prepared his fa-
ther for having none at all this time.
"' The first time he Avill ever have missed writing," said
the parson, trying to sliake off a certain- dreary feeling
"wliich Keith's letter left behind — the letter, written with
that unconsciousness of all that was happening at home,
and read, unknowing what might, have happened to the
•writer since, two things wliich throw such an indefinite
but unsurmountable sadness over even the cheeriest and
pleasantest "foreign correspondence."
This was not an especially cheerful letter as to its tone,
though its contents were good news. Keith explained to
his father, who tried to explain to Charlotte — and the old
man and the girl were about equally obtuse in compre-
hending it — some business transaction by which he hoped
to realize a considerable sum. " Perhaps I may turn out
a rich man yet," wrote he, with a slight tone of triumph.
" 1 have certainly done very well so far; in a worldly point
©f view, that forced march to Canada was the best thing
that ever happened to me. Beside*, I like the climate;
I have no dislike to the country; in truth, nothing should
induce me to leave it. I would not care ever to see Old
England again, if coming over (he did not say * coming
home ') were not my only means of getting a sight of my
dear old father."
Always liis father, never his wife. Charlotte listened,
a little paler, a little stiller than before, if that were pos-
Biblo, but she neitlier questioned nor complained of any-
tliing. Once only, as she was lianging over lier father-in-
law's chair, arranging liis cushions for liis afternoon nap,
he talking the while of Keith, for, indeed, the subject
TWO MARRIAGES. 19S
never failed him, she said, gently, when he asked wiint
she thought about the matter:
" Oh, yes, your son will come home. Mnko yourself
quite easy; he is sure to come home, not immtdiatek,
perhaps, but by and by."
The old man looked up with a toneiiing eagerness.
*'Do you really think so, Charlotte? Before winter?"
'• Yes, before winter," said Charlotte, as she turned
away.
The following mail brought no letter, for whicli, liow-
ever, they were prepared. Nevertheless, the blank
seemed to make the parson rather restless for some hours,
till he consoled himself by reflecting that the journey
down South, wliile it hindered Keith receiving liis letters,
saved him temporarily from the pain of the news they
brought, and lessened by a few days his suspense till the
next mail came in. And tliat next mail would bring him
the all-important letter, so long delayed, but which the
father had duly finished, left-handed, accomplishing it
line by line, with a tender persistency, in spite of all
sorts of remonstrances from Charlotte, who would not
see why he should be so earnest about it,
"Suppose it should never reach him?" said she, when,
in compliance with Mr. Garland's desire, she inclosed
and forwarded it, declining to write herself this time.
''Suppose," and she watched her father-in-law stealthily
but eagerly, "suppose he should even now be on his way
home?"
"Oh, no, that is quite impossible." replied the parson,
sighing. How impossible he did not like to say; for,
judging his son by himself, by most men. he felt that
nothing except the strongest sense of duty could conquer
the repugnance a man would feel to coming home under
Keith's circumstances — to a wife whom he neither re-
spected nor loved, but only pitied. But that momentous
letter would set everything right. He had written it
with the utmost tact and tenderness of which he was
capable, placing everything before his son in the plainest
light, and yet doing it delicately, as should be done by
the father of a grown-up son, who has no longer any
right to interfere in that son's affairs further than to sug-
gest and advise. Yes, tliis letter would surely make all
right. So he had sent it off in spite of Charlotte, and
196 TWO MARRIAGES.
with an arrmsed lesistence to her arguments, and his
heart followed it with praj^ers.
Thus, after the first few hours, he ceased to be disap-
pointbd at the absence of Keith's letter, and after wait-
ing another half day, and hearing accidentally that other
American letters had come all safe— the housekeeper at
Cruxliam Hall had alro a son in Canada — tlie parson and
his daughter settled their minds calmly to wait on until
the next mail.
It was a bright summer morning, and Mr. Garland sat
enjoying it in his garden — alone, too, a thing which
rarely happened. But, fancying he saw a certain rest-
lessness and trouble in Charlotte's look, he had made oc-
cupation for her by sending her avvay on a long expedi-
tion, to visit a sick person at the other end of the parish.
For, since his increasing feebleness, this duty also, so
natural under most circumstances to a parson's daugh-
ter, visiting the sick, had gradually slipped into Char-
lotte's hands. He hardly knew how it had come about,
whether it was her suggestion or his own that she should
undertake it, but she had undertaken it, and she fulfilled
it well. Nor had there come any of the difficulties
which he had once anticipated; for the whole parish was
so anxious about him, and so touched with tenderness
concerning him, that they would have received gladly
and gratefully anybody who came from the parson.
The ice once broken by mutual sympathy, Charlotte,
the new Charlotte, who was so strangely different from.
Lotty Dean, slowly made her way into the folks' hearts,
especially by the exceeding kindness which she showed
toward old peo])le and children. Soon, though she said
nothing about it herself, others said, and it reached the
parson's ears with a strange thrill, half pleasure, half
f)ain, that Immeridge parish had never been so well
ooked after since the days of the first Mrs. Garland.
Mr. Garland watched his sou's wife as she walked
across the garden with her basket in hand, stepping
lightly, in her brown Holland morning-dress and jacket,
and simple straw hat, under which lier abundant hair
no longer curled; the parson, with his classic taste, had
made her twist it smoothly up, in Greek gr.ice and
matroidy decorousness, round the well-shaped head.
She was a pretty sight; to one who loved physical beauty,
TWO MARRIAGES. 197
a perpetual daily pleasure; but he hardly knew whether
It made him most sad or most glad to see — and he had
seen it especially this morning — in her face that without
which all faces and all characters are imperfect, the
beauty of suffering.
The old man's gaze followed her with great tender-
ness, and when she was out of sight he inv(jluntarily
took out his watch, to reckon how many hours she was
likely to be away from him. If any one had told hiui
this two years and a half ago — if he could have believed
that this brief time would have made so great a change,
not only in his feelings toward her, but in herself! And
yet, at her impressionable time of life, it was not impos-
sible; least of all, considering the many strong influences
at work within her and around her, not the least of which,
though he was the last person to suspect it, was Mr. Gar-
laud's own.
Still lie acknowledged to himself that, whatever she
had been, she was a sweet, good woman now; that he
dearly loved her, and had rational grounds for loving her^
all of which her husband might find out soon.
*'And it is a melancholy fact," thought the parson,
smiling to himself; "but if that boy comes back and
falls in love with his wife over again, and wants to
carry her away with him, as, of course, he must, I won-
dei- what in the wide world I shall do without Char-
lotte!"
But he left that, as he had long since learned to leave
all diflticulties that concerned his own lot, and tried to
leave those that concerned others, in wiser hands than
his own, and occupied himself, as old age will when its
decline is sweet and calm, unselfish and pure, in the
trivial pleasures about him — trivial, and yet not so, for
they all came to him like messages from the Giver of
every good thing— the sunshine and soft airs, the scent
of the flowers, the humming of bees and flutterings of
white butterflies, and, above all, the songs of innumera-
ble birds, so tame that they came hopping and picking
up food almost at the parson's feet. He loved them all,
he enjoyed them all, as he felt he should do to the very
last. Ill spite of sorrow he had had a happy life, and
he trusted in God to give him a happy and a peaceful
J98 TWO MARRIAGES,
death; blessed it was sure to be, since it took hini home
to Mary.
And so, iu this sleepy warmth of sunshine, and lulled
by the buzz of insects and the incessant warble of birds,
the old man's senses became confused, his head droj)ped
upon his bosom, and he fell into a sound slumber. In
his sleep he had a curious dream, which he did not fully
recall till some hours after his waking; but when he
did, it made upon him the impression of being less a
dream than a vision, so clear and distinct was it, so like
a reality.
He thought he was sitting exactly where he did sit, and
in his own garden-chair, thinking much the same
thoughts, and conscious of much the same things around
him as really was the case that morning, when, suddenly,
and as naturally and as little to his surprise as if he had
Been her but yesterday, his wife, I\[ary, crossed the lawn
toward him. He noticed her very dress, whfch was
white, one of her favorite spotted muslin gowns, such as
were still laid up in lavender in tlie old chest of drawers;
and her own garden basket was in her hand, full of flow-
ers. She came and stood right in front of him, gazing
at liim steadily with those pure, limpid, candid eyes of
hers — eyes which looked as young as ever, though he
had grown quite old. But he never considered that, nor
anything else, except the mere delight of seeing her.
He forgot even Keith, for she looked exactly as she
used to do before Keith was born or thought of — before
her days of weakness and weariness came upon her — until
she said, in a soft, tender voice, *' William, where is my
Bon
9"
After that the dream fell into confusion. He had a
troubled sense of seeking everywhere for Keith, and not
being able to find him; of seeing him by glimpses at dif-
ferent ages and in various well-remcmbcred forms, till at
last there came a great fellow, with heavy footsteps and
a bearded face, whom liis father could scarcely recognize;
but Mary did at once, and welcomed smiling. And then
again her husband saw her standing still on the Parson-
age lawn, but not alone — surrounded by a little troop of
children, in whose faces he beheld, mysteriously repro-
duced, both her face and his own. '*0h, yes," she said,
ae if in answer to his dumb questionings, for he struggled
rwO MARRIAGKS. 199
vainly to speak, '*' yes, all these arc mine. 1 iiuver saw
them, never had them in my arms, but I did not die
childless — and all these are my children!" When Mr.
Garland stretched out liis arms to clasp her and them, the
dream melted away, and it was no longer tluit bright pict-
ure of Mary and the little ones, but his son Keith stand-
ing gloomy and alone, and looking as sad as he had done
that hazy winter morning at Euston Square terminus,
when the father's heart bad felt well-nigh broken, and.
it seemed as if the hopes of both their lives were forever
gone.
"Keith! Keith!" he cried, trying to burst through the
dumbness of the dream, and speak to his son. With the
effort he woke, and recognized where he was — alone in
the sunshiny garden. He called Jane, who in Ciiarlotto'a
rare absences never kept far out of reach, but she was
some time in coming to him.
"Jane," said the parson, rubbing his eyes, "I must
have been asleep very long. Is she come back yet — my
daughter, I mean J"
" No, sir; but— but "
Jane's voice was abrupt and husky, and she kept
glancing at the open front door.
" Won't you come in, sir? I've got a piece of good
news for you. You'll take it quietly, though, I knows
you will, for it's a bit of very good news." Neverthe-
less Jane sobbed a little.
The parson turned round slowly, calmly, with the pre-
ternatural instinct of what has happened, or is about to
happen, which sick people sometimes shosv.
"Jane," he said, looking her full in the face, " I kwo-vr
what it is. My son is come home!"
Keith and his father sat together under the veranda.
The first half-hour of their meeting hud passed safely
over, and they had settled down side by side, talking of
ordinary things with a quietness and self-restraint which
both purposely maintained as much as possible. But
there was no fear. People seldom die of joy; as seldom,
thank God! of sorrow.
Already Mr. Garland was listening, cheerfully and
naturally, as though his son had been at home a long
time, to Keith's account — given briefly and succinctly—
SOO 21V0 MARRIAGES.
of how, on receiving liis letters, he found he had still two
diiys' time to catch the return mail and come home; how
Bome accidental delays had prevented his starting for Im-
meridge till the night before; how he had left his luggage
at the nearest station, and walked ten miles across the
country to the Parsonage gate, where, looking in, he saw
his father asleep, and would not disturb hira till he waked
of his own accord.
He did not tell, nor did Jane, till long a^fter, how Keith
had appeared before her in her kitchen, looking 'Mike a
ghost from the grave,^^ and *' took on terrible bad," till,
finding things less dreadful than he had at first supposed,
he suffered himself to be comforted, and soothed, and
fed by the good old woman, who three-and-twenty years
ago had dressed him in his first clothes, and loved him
ever since, with a patience that he had often tried, but
never came to the end of; for Keith, faulty as he was,
had the art of making people fond of him. Perhaps be-
cause of another simple art — he could also love most
deeply and faithfully, as was plain to be seen in every feat-
ure of the brown, rough face, whenever he looked at his
old father.
Yes, they were very happy, no doubt of that. Was it
a punishment — poor girl! it was her last — that in the first
moments of their reunion both father and son entirely
forgot Charlotte? It was not till the church clock struck
twelve, and she was to be home to dinner at one, that
the parson, with a sting of compunction, remembered
his son's wife, after whom his son had never once in-
quired.
" My boy,*' said he, ''some one besides myself will be
Tery glad you are come homo."
" You mean my wife," replied Keith, with a sudden
hardening both of countenance and manner.
' "You do not ask after her, so I conclude Jane has al-
ready told you all about her."
" Jane said she was well."
" And nothing more?"
** Nothing more. Was there anything to be told?"
The question was put with a sudden suspiciousness, but,
alas! not with the quick anxiety of love. And on receiv-
ing his father's negative, Keith relapsed into his former
gravity of behavior, intimating a determination to bear
TWO MARRIAGES. 301
his lot like a man, however hard it miglit be, but at the
I same time resolved to say, and to be said to, as little about
it as possible.
Tliis, and several other slight but significant indications
of character which had cropped out even in the first half
liour, convinced Mr. Garland of the great change that
circumstances had brought about even in so young a man.
He felt, too, what parents are often fatally slow to see,
that without any lessening, perhaps even with deepening
affection, there had, in the natural course of things, grown
up between them, father and son as they were, the reserve
inevitable between man and man, however closely allied;
so much so, that, in his own shrinking delicacy, the par-
son found it difficult to open the subject nearest to his
heart.
" Keith," said he, at last, "I do not want to meddle
in your affairs: you are of an age to judge and act for
yourself now. Still, your father can never cease think-
ing about you. And before she comes in, which she will
presently, for she is always very punctual, may I speak
to you a few words about your wife?"
"Certainly, father.''
Yet the few words would not come. It was, after all,
the son — the less sensitive and most demonstrative nature
©f the two — who first broke the painful silence.
" Father," said Keith, turning his head away, and tak-
ing up the old man's stick to make little holes in the
gravel-walk while he spoke, " I had best make a clean
breast of it to you, and at once. I know now that my
marriage was a terrible mistake — a mistake, the conse-
quence of — no, the just punishment of Oh, father,
father! heavily I sinned, and heavily have I been pun-
ished I"
While speaking he turned white, even through his
tanned cheeks. Whatever the punishment was to which
he referred, or whatever special form his remorse had
taken, unquestionably both had been sharp and sore.
The parson did not attempt inquiries or consolationg,
still less reproofs. He only laid his hand on his son's
shoulder, saying, " My poor boy!"
"Yes," Keith repeated, "I have been punished. Not
in outward things; I have had plenty of external pros-
202 TWO MARRIAGES.
perity. I have often tli ought of two lines of poetry I
ased to say at scliool, about
' ' ' Satan now is wiser than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.'
That was the way he tried it with me, eh, father? And
he very nearly had me, but not quite."
'' You have been successful, then, as regards money.
You ought to be thankful for that," said the father,
gravely.
'^Oh, of course, very thankful. Never was there such
a run of good fortune. It got to be quite a proverb,
*As lucky as Garland.' Why, I have made enough to
start afresh in England, to set up a pleasant little home
of my own, to which I might bring some sweet, charming
English girl — 'English lad i//^ with a sarcastic accent on the
word; "^ a fit companion for me, a fit daughter for you;
such a woman, in short, as my mother was. Oh, father!"
and Keith dropped his head with something very like a
groan, " it is a fatal thing for a man if, when he chooses
a wife, he cannot, or dare not, measure her by what he
remembers of his mother."
The parson was silent. He knew his son spoke the
truth, none the less true because Heaven had mercifully
made things lighter to him than he deserved. And
though henceforward his burden would be lifted off,
still, what it had been the father could imagine, though
even he might thoroughly know. Still, as he looked on
his boy's face, he saw written on it many a line that was
not there before, and was certain that these years, the
most critical years of a young man's life, had not passed
without leaving their mark, that bitter, searing brand
upon him, possibly forever.
Neither then nor afterward did Keith make to his
father any special revelations of the manner in which he
had been "punished," whether by conscience-stings
alone, and that vague, dark dread of the future which he
was sure to feel, or by meeting, as many an honest-mean-
ing and yet most miserable man has met, and been maa
enough to fly from, conscious that her very goodness
and sweetness are to him as poisonous as the hot breath
from the open pit of hell, some ideal woman who is,
alas! not the woman he has married. Such things do
happen, and if this or anything like it had happened to
TWO MAJiRIAOES. 208
Keith Garland, even though the temptation was con-
c^uered, and tlie struggle past, his torment must have
been sharp enough to teach him lessons sucii as his old
father had not learnt, nor ever needed to learn, in all his
seventy years.
Still, something of this Mr. Garland dimly divined,
»nd regarded his son with the sort of awe which parents
feel when they see that their dealings are not the only
dealings with their children; that for each successive gen-
eration, and each individual of it, Providence has a sep-
arate education of its owu. There was a kind of respect
as well as tenderness in the old man's voice as he took
his boy's hand, saying gently:
" Yes, Keith, you speak truly; I cannot deny it. It
would havo been far happier for us all if your wife had
been more like your mother."
Tlicre was a long, long silence — a silence due in one
man to the memory of what was lost, in the other to the
thought of what might have been. It was scarcely un-
natural; in one sense it was even right; for it is not our
merit, but God's mercy, which creates peace out of i)ain,
and oftentimes changes resignation into actual happi-
ness, till we count among our best blessings the things
■which once were our sharpest woes.
" My sou," said the parson at length, '* we will now
set the past forever behind us, and look forward to your
future. Therein I see many reasons not to grieve, but
to rejoice."
" Rejoice! over a man who comes home to a wife that
writes him such a letter as this?" and Keith took out of
his pocket-book the small note which Mr. Garland had
seen Charlotte inclose with his own dictated letter, two
mails back.
" What does she say? I did not read it."
'' Of course not. She had doubtless her own reasons
for keeping it back from you. Now, father, do not
look alarmed. I shall not act rashly; I am not going to
take her at her word; indeed, I could not do it if I
wished. No, 111 not be hard to her. I took my burden
on myself, and I'll bear it like a man; but, just read this
letter."
And he again applied himself, in angry agitation, to
destroying the garden-walk, while his father read, slowly
304 rrr^O MARRIAGES.
and with difficulty, for it was ill-written, and stuTtlei
him painfully at first, the poor little scrap which Char-
lotte had penned to her husband.
"Dear Husband" (and then "husband" was crossed
out and " Dear sir " put instead), — " If I may make bold
to say it, you onght to come home to your father. He
is breaking his heart for you, and nothing will ever com-
fort him but the sight of you. Please come at once.
"I take this opportunity of saying what I ought to
have said a good while ago, that ours having been such
an unsuitable and unfortunate marriage, I will not be
a trouble and a burden to you any more, but as soou
as you come to the Parsonage I will leave it. Also since
—as your father tells me — there is a place in London
where people unhappily married can get rid of one an-
other, so as to be free to marry again; if you wish to get
rid of me, so as to be able to marry somebody else more
suitable for you, do it; I shall not object. I would never
have let you marry me hud I seen things as I do now, or
had I ever known your father. I remain your obedient
wife,
"Charlotte Garland.'*
"Poor little soul!" said Mr. Garland, tenderly, as he
finished the letter.
"Then you did not know anything about this?"
"Certainly not. She hid it all from me — the only
thing she ever has hid, I think, since she came to live
with me. How she must have suffered before she could
have written such a letter — poor, patient, loving little
BOUl!''
" Loving?"
" Yes. Don't you sec, but how could you? that this
is just the sort of thing she would do? She loves you se
well that she will not oven let yon see her love, lest it
should seem to be an additional claim on you."
" lint she wants to get free from me."
The parson smiled, "She wants to set 7/ou free,
which is quite a different thing. She thinks of nobody
but you, or perhaps of me a little sometimes. She is
the most unselfish woman I ever knew — except one.
And to think that she had hidden this secret in her heart
all these weeks and kept telling mo you were 8uretocom.e
TWO MARRIAGES. 996
home, when she expected to lose you as soon as ever you
earne — lose you that I might gain you! My poor little
daughter!"
Keith looked amazed.
" Yes, she is my daughter; she has become such to me,
and such she will always remain. Keith/' added the
old man, solemnly, " however you may act toward your
wife, I know how I shall act toward my daughter.''
" What do you mean, father?"
" I mean that though I took her into ray house out of
pure duty, she has grown to be the greatest blessing in it,
and she shall never leave it unless she leaves it for yours.
Will you hear how things came about?"
Then Mr. Garland began and told his son from begiu-
Biug to end, what he had written in the letters which
Keith never received — the history of himself and Char-
lotte. Just tlie bare history; not dwelling, as indeed he
was not likely to dwell, for in his great humility he
scarcely saw it himself, on the one fact, the root of all,
that it had been the simple doing of a parent's duty
under sharpest pain which brought about the whole.
Still, whether he saw it or not, his son saw it clear and
plain; and recognized, with an emotion that almost over-
whelmed him then, but which afterward taught him a
lesson which lie in his turn acted out to his children, that
not only had his sin been covered and healed, but the
best gift of his existence had been brought to him by his
father's hand.
The parson's story was hardly concluded, and the si-
lence with which his son listened to it throughout had
not been broken by a single word, when they heard from
behind the syringa bushes the click of the garden-gate.
Keith s^irung up, violently agitated. So was Mr. Gar-
laud; for it seemed as if the happiness or misery, for
life, of these his children, trembled in the balance, and
hung on the chance of the next few minutes. He could
not speak a word — he ouly prayed.
** Father, is that my wife?"
''Yes."
Both father and son held their breaths while uncou-
Bcious Charlotte walked up the garden-path to the elm-
tree under which the parson usually sat, and missing him
there, came slowly on toward the house. Her step was
206 TWO MARRIAGES.
weary — she had walked a good many miles, and her down-
cast face was very pale and sad; still, in spite of this,
nothing fairer, nothing sweeter, nothing more truly wom-
anly could a young man's eyes find to rest on than Char-
lotte Garland.
Either the creepers of the veranda hid the two figures
more completely than they were aware, or else Charlotte
was so absorbed in thought as to take little notice of
outward things, for she came quite close to them before
she perceived her father and her husband.
When she did, her recognition was instantaneous. But
even then — like herself, poor girl! — she had self-control
enough to make no " scene," to startle nobody and
trouble nobody. She neither fainted nor screamed, but
stood there, deadly pale, and steadying herself by the
pillars of the veranda — still, she stood quiet, gazing at
them, attempting neither to move nor gpeak.
" Charlotte,'* Mr. Garland said, touching her dress to
draw her nearer to him, at which her eyes turned to hia
happy face, the old man who had found his son again,
and she feebly smiled. ''You see, my dear, you were
right after all. He has come home.'*
" Lotty/* said Keith, speaking in a low, almost in a
humble tone, as he rose from his seat and came over
to her side, '* Lotty, dear, haven't you a word for your
husband?"
8he looked up — looked in his face — first, as if she
could hardly believe that it was himself; then, with a
piteous inquiry, as thouglj trying to read in his counte-
nance her sentence of life or death.
'' Lotty, forgive me; I am your husband.'*
He opened his arms wide and took her into them, and
she sobbed her heart out upon his breast.
K(!ith fell in love with his wife all over again, as his
father had foreseen, and in the true, and rational, and
righteous way; not suddenly, which was, indeed, hardly
to be expected, but with the steady, progressive affection
which is built up day by day in the heart of a man who
continually finds in tlie woman to whom he has bound
hinisoll' for life something fresh to love, something more
worthy of his loving. For love never stands still; it must
TWO MARRIAGES. 201
inevitably be either growing or decaying — especially the
love of marriage.
As to Charlotte's love for her husband, it scarcely needs
to be spoken of. It was of that kind which, put into the
heart of almost any woman, is a blessing and a safeguard
to herself all her lifetitne, and, abiding in the heart of a
good woman, constitutes the strength, the hope, often the
very salvation of two lives.
Of her sin — of both their sin — what shall we say? what
dare we say? except that He may have forgiven it, as He
did to one who " loved much."
Enough of these. And of the old man— the good fa-
ther, whose days were nearly done?
Mr. Garland lingered on, in a serene old age, for fully
ten years more. He lived to see about him, as he had
Been in his dream, wonderful new faces, wherein he caught
strange glimpses of. other faces, old and dear; likenesses
Buch as grandfathers and grnndmothers delight to trace,
in wiiich the vanished generation seems revived again.
One of Keith's children — the first — was, as not seldom
happens, both in features and character, so exact a re-
Erodnction of her father's mother, that even as a little
aby the parson would hold her on his lap for hours, al-
most believing he was young again, and that she was his
own 'kittle daughter" who never came. But the grand-
child did come, and she grew to be the very darling of
the parson's heart. Of course, she was called Mary.
When at last, after the brief two days' illness — which
Was the only suffering sent to take him home — Mr. Gar-
land lay, conscious and content, m full possession of all
his faculties, and knowing his time was come — lay with
his white head resting on his long solitary pillow, those
Bbont him thought that his last word, like his last smile,
was meant for this little granddaughter.
But Charlotte, matron and mother, who had yet found
leisure from her many duties to be the parson's daughter
Btill, and who stood silently behind him, fulfilling to the
end all those tender offices which, during his latter years,
had smoothed down every care, and kept every trouble away
from him — Charlotte knew better.
" Stand aside, Mary," she whispered softly to her little
girl; " he is thinking of dear grandmamma."
That evening the blind was drawn down at Mr. Gar-
308 TWO MARRIAGES.
laud's bedroom window. No one sat near the;'e now; no
one looked out in the twilight upon the church and
churchyard, keeping watch as it were — as he had kept
watch for more than thirty years.
By the next Sunday there was a new face in the pulpit
of Immeridge Churcli, and a new voice — which, though
it was a stranger's, often faltered with emotion — preached
the funeral sermon; eulogizing, as funeral sermons do,
that long, yet outwardly uneventful life, the real beautj
of which was known only to God.
After the service the congregation went in little groups
to look at the date newly filled up on the white headstone,
and to talk in whispers of "the parson" — and of his
dear wife, whom only one or two people now living in
the parish ever remembered to have seen. But though
every one loved him and missed him, no one grieved — no
one could grieve, not even his own children; for the long
separation was ended, and Mary Garland's husband slept
by her side.
[the end.]
A.
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Clever Celestial, The. By Nicholas Carter 75 Magnet
Cliff Climbers, The. By Capt. Mayne Reid 147 Medal
Clinton; or, Boy Life in the Country. By Walter Aimwell 89 Medal
Clique of Gold, The. By Emile Gaboriau 29 Magnet
Colonel by Brevet, The. By the author of Dr. Jack 47 Eagle
Colonel Quaritch, V. C. By H. Rider Haggard 114 Arrow
Cometh Up As a Flower. By Rhoda Broughton 164 Arrow
Comin' Thro' the Rye. By Helen B. Mathers 209 Arrow
Commodore Junk. By George Manville Fenn 37 Medal
Concerning Isabel Carnaby. By Ellen Thornycroft Fowler. ..105 Arrow
Condemned Door, The. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 208 Magnet
Consequences. By Edgerton Castle 147 Arrow
Convict Colonel, The. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 33 Magnet
Coquette's Conquest, A. By Bertha M. Clay 89 Bertha Clay
Coralie's Son. By Albert Delpit 35 Arrow
Cornet of Horse, The. By G. A. Henty 164 Medal
Cotton King, The. By Sutton Vane 74 Eagle
Couldn't Say No. By the author of Helen's Babies 164 Eagle
Council of Ten, The. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 24 Columbia
Count of Monte Cristo — Part 11., The. By Alexandre Dumas . . 96 Arrow
Countess De Charny, The. By Alexandre Dumas 248 Arrow
Count's Millions, The. By Emile Gaboriau 216 Magnet
Country Gentleman, A. By Mrs. Oliphant 203 Arrow
Country Lanes and City Pavements. By Maurice M. Minton. . .145 Eagle
County Fair, The. By Neil Burgess 60 Eagle
Courting of Dinah Shadd, The. By Rudyard Kipling 97 Arrow
Couit-Martialed. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N 6 Columbia
Cousin Maude. By Mary J. Holmes 252 Arrow
Crescent Brotherhood, The. By Nicholas Carter 83 Magnet
Cruel as the Grave. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 39 Eden
Cruise of the Cachalot, The. By Frank T. Bullen, Fir.st Mate. 76 Arrow
Cruise of the Restless. By James Otis 99 Medal
Cruise of the Snow Bird, The. By Gordon Stables 31 Medal
Curse of Clifton, The. By Mrs. E. D. B. N. Southworth 6 Eden
r>
Dalt,in Boys. The. By W. B. Lawson 37 Columbia
Dame Durden. By "Rita" 242 Arrow
Dangerous Catspaw, A. By David Christie Murray 20 Arrow
Daiifrerous Quest. A. By Ernest De L. Plerson 192 Magnet
Danvers Jewels, The. By Mary Cholmondeley 159 Arrow
Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 211 Arrow
Darkest Russia. By H. Grattan Donnelly 94 Eagle
D-vrk Marriage Morn, A. Bv Bertha M. Clay V Beitha Clay
Dash to the Pole. A. By Herbert D. Ward 109 Medal
Daughter of Maryland. A. By G. Waldo Browne 206 Eagle
Daughter of the Regiment, The. By Mary A. Denison. . . . 116 Eagle
Dead Heart, A. By Bertha M. Clay 82 Bertha Clay
Dead Man's Grip, A. By Nicholas Carter 85 Magnet
Dead Man's Rock. By "Q" 72 Arrow
Dead Men's Shoes. By Miss M. E. Braddon 210 Arrow
Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins 1 86 Arrow
Deal in Diamonds, A. By Nicholas Carter 22« Majpnet
Dean Dunham. By Frank H. Conversp 50 Medal
Deathbed Marriage, A. By Charlotte M. Stnnley 89 Eden
Debt of Vengeance, A. By Mr.^. K. Burke Collins 286 Ean;!e
Deerslayer, The. By J. F. Cooper 148 Medal
3
Deposit Vault Puzzle, A. By Nicholas Carter 21 Magnet
Deserted Wife, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 11 Eden
Desperate Chance, A. By Nicholas Carter 188 Magnet
Detective Reyuolda' Hardest Case. By Gabriel Macias 140 Magnet
Detective's Clew, The. By 0. L. Adams 66 Magnet
Detective's Dilemma, The. By Emile Gaborlau 24 Magnet
Detective's Pretty Neighbor, The, and Other Stories. By
Nicholas Carter 89 Magnet
Detective's Triumph, The. By Bmile Qaboriau 25 Magnet
Detective Tales of Edgar Allen Poe, The 115 Magnet
Devil's Island. A novel founded on the celebrated Dreyfus
Case. By A. D. Hall 125 Eagle
Diamond Button, The. By Barclay North 100 Magnet
Diamond Mine Case, The. By Nicholas Carter 71 Magnet
Diana's Discipline ; or. Sunshine and Roses. By Bertha M-
Clay 6 Bertha Clay
Dick Cheveley, the Stowaway. By Wm. H. G. Kingston. ... 135 Medal
Diiik's Sweetheart. By "The Duchess" 208 Arrow
Dick's Wanderings. By Julian Sturgis 280 Arrow
Dingo Boys, The. By George Manville Fenn 74 Medal
Discarded Daughter, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth .... 9 Eden
Dita. By Lady Margaret Majendle 232 Arrow
Doctor Cupid. By Rhoda Broughton 259 Arrow
Doctor Jack's Widow. By St. George Rathbome 284 Eagle
Doc-tor's Secret, The. By Scott Campbell 170 Magnet
Doctor's Wife, Tlie. By Miss M. E. Braddon 54 Eden
Doctor Villages. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 166 Magnet
Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester 258 Arrow
Don Cjesar De Bazan. By Victor Hugo 239 Eagle
Don Kirk, the Boy Cattle King. By Gilbert Patten 10 Medal
Don Kirk's Mine. By Gilbert Patten 12 Medal
Donovan. By Edna Lyall 50 Arrow
Doom of Deville, The. By Mrs. E. D. B. N. Southworth 31 Eden
Dora Deane. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes 155 Arrow
Dora Thome. By Bertha M. Clay 2 Bertha Clay
Dora Tenny. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 64 Eagle
Doris. By "The Duchess" 87 Eden
Dorothy Arnold's Escape. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 188 Eagle
Dorothy's Jewels. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 144 Eagle
l).oubl«-Handed Game, A. By Nicholas Carter 350 Magnet
Double Shuffle Club, The. By Nicholas Carter 68 Magnet
Dream Faces. By Bertha M. Clay 102 Bertha Clay
Dream of Love, A. By Bertha M. Clay T?,S Clay
Dr. Jack. By St. George Rathbone 15 Eagle
Dr. Jack's Wife. By the author of Dr. Jack 18 Eagle
Duchess Annette. By Alexandre Dumas, Fils 220 Arrow
Duchess, The. By "The Duchess" 34 Arrow
Dugdale Millions, The. By Barclay North 131 Magnet
Dnke's Secret, The. By Bertha M. Clay 47 Bertha Clay
Dumaresq's Temptation. By Bertha M. Clay 122 Bertha Clay
Dumb Witness, The, and Other Stories. By Nicholas Carter. 220 Magnet
Earl's Atonement, The. By Bertha M. Clay 80 Bertha Clay
Earl's Error. By Bertha M. Clay 61 Bertha Clay
Raf-t Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood 150 Arrow
Edmond Dantes — Vol. I. Count of Monte Crlsto. Alexandre
Dumas 92 Arrow
EdTle's Legacy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 12 Ba^
lilgyptian Princess, An. By George Ebers 74 Arrow
Elaine. By Charles Garvico 22 Eagle
English Orphans. By Mary J. Holmes 57 Arrew
Englishwoman's Love Letters, An 167 Arrow
Ensign Merrill. By Ijleistenant Lionel Lounsberry 17 Medal
Brie Dane. By Matthew Wliite, Jr 47 Medal
Erie Train Boy, The. By Horatio Alger, Jr 61 Medal
Estelle's Millionaire Lover. By Julia Edwards 27 Eagle
Budora ; or, The False Princess. By Mrs. E. D. E. N.
Southworth 25 Eden
4
Evelyn's Folly. By Bertha M. Clay IS Berlbi Clay
Every Inch a Queen. By Bertha M. Clay 155 Clay
Evidence by Telephone. By Nicholas Carter 23 Magnet
Evil Heart, An. By Bertha M. Clay i62 Clay
Facing Death. By G. A. Ileuty 85 Medal
Fair But Faithless. By Bertha M. Clay 69 Bertha Clay
Fair-Haired Alda, The. By Florence Marryat CT Eden
Fair Maid of Marblehead, A. By Kate Taunatt Woods .... 159 Eagle
Fair Mystery, A. By Bertha M. Clay 77 Bertha Clay
Fair Play. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 27 Eden
Faith and Unfaith. By "The Dufhe^^d" 226 Arrow
Faithful Shirley. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon Ill Eagie
Family Doom, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 17 Eden
Fa.shionable Marriage, A. By Mr.s. Alex. Frazer 253 Eagle
Fatal Dower, A. By Bertha M. Clay 83 Bertha Clay
Fatal Lilies, The. By Bertha M. Clay 103 Bertha Clay
Fatal Wooing, A. By Laura Jean Libby 138 Eagle
Fate of Austin Craige, The. hy Scott Campbell 180 Magnet
Firm of Girtllestone, The. By A. Conan Doyle 69 Arrow
Fir^t Violin, The. By .lessie Fothergill 100 Ari-ow
For a Dream's Sake. By Bertha M. Clay 125 Bertha Clay
For- Another's Sin ; or, A. Struggle for Love. By Bertha
M. Clay 11 Bertha Clay
For a Woman's Honor. By Bertha M. Clay 51 Bertha Clay
Forest Exiles, The. By Capt. Mayne Reid, 127 Medal
F<-r Life and Love. By Bertha M. Clay 99 Bertha Clay
For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette Carey: 237 Arrow
F V Love and Honor. By Eifle Adelaide Rowlands 227 Eagle
For Love of Her. By Bertha M. Ciay 135 Clay
Fo: Name and Fame. By G. A. Henty 128 Medal
Forsaken Brtde, The. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 282 Hagle
For the Sake of the Family. By May Crommelin 229 Eagle
Fortune Seeker, The. By .virs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 16 Eden
Forty-Five Guardsmen, The. By Alexandre Dumas 276 Arrow
Foul Play. By Charles Keade 193 Arrow
Found on the Beach. By Nicholas Carter 65 Magnet
Framework of Fate, A. By Nicholas Carter 159 Magnet
Frank "Merriv/ell's Book of Physical Development. By Burt
L. Standish 6 Diamond Hand Book
Frank Merriwell's Chums. By Burt L. Standish 167 Medal
Frank Merriwell's Foes. By Burt L. Standish 178 Medal
Frank Merriwell's School-Days. By Burt L. Standish 150 Medal
Friendship. By "Ouida" 268 Arrow
Frionds Though Divided. By G. A. Henty 145 Medal
Frivolo\is Ouoid. By Anthony Hope 64 Arrow
Pr n Canal Boy to President. By Horatio Alger, Jr 130 Medal
Fro;n Farm Boy to Senator. By Horatio Alger, Jr 52 Medal
From Out the Gloom. By Bertha M. Clay 107 Bertha Clay
From Powder Monkey to Admiral. By W. H. G. Kingston .. 126 Medal
Frem Tent to White House. (Boyhood and Life of President
MoKinley.) By Edward S. Ellis 11 Medal
From Thief to Detective. By Fergus Hume 241 Magnet
Frezen Pirate, The. By W. Clark Russell 120 Arrow
Gair.bleiis' Syndicate, The. By Nicholas Carter 18 Magnet
Gambler's Wife, The. By Bertha M. Clay 126 Bertha Clay
Gane of Craft, A. By Nicholas Carter 126 Magnet
Garden Co«rt Mystery, The. By Burford Delannoy 112 Magnet
Gauntlet of Fire, A. By Ensign Clarke Fit'>h, V. S. N...10 Columbia
Gay Dashleigh'9 Academy Days. By Arthur Sewall 38 Medal
Gfentl'eman txom Gaecony, A. By Bickneil Dudley 89 Eagle
Geatfreys Victory. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 199 Eagle
Ga-iselda. By EJertha M. Clay 58 Bertha Olay
Ouelda. By Bertha M. Clay 86 Bertha Clay
Guiding Star, A. By Bertha M. Clay 76 Bertha Clay
5
Guide to EtiQuettc. By L. W. Sheldon 4 Diamond Hand Book
©uy Kenmore's Wife. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 198 Eagle
Gypsy's Daughter, The. By Bertha M. Clay 11 Eagle
HT
Had She Foreseen. By Dora Delmar 270 Eeglo
Half a Truth. By a Popular Author 114 Eagle
Handkerchief Clew, The. By Harry Rockwood 178 Magnet
Handsome Sinner, A. By Dora Delmar 252 Eagle
Hands Up. By J. H. Bethune 183 Magnet
Hand Without a Wedding Ring, The. By Bertha M. Clay 144 Clay
Han of Iceland. By Victor Hugo 19 Arrow
Happy-Go-Lucky Jack. By Prank H. Converse 116 Medal
Hardy Norseman, A. By Edna Lyall 66 Arrow
Harrison Keith, Detective, The Adventures of. By Nicholas
Carter 93 Magnet
Harry Williams, the New York Detective. By F. Lusk
Broughton 160 Magnet
Harvest of Thorns, A. By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman 191 Eagle
Haunted Homestead, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. . .15 Eden
Haunted Life, A. By Bertha M. Clay 14 Bertha Clay
Hawaii. By A. D. Hall 4 Historical
Heart of Gold, A. By Bertha M. Clay 137 Clay
Heart of Jane Warner, The. By Florence Marryat 91 Bdea
Heart of Virginia, The. By J. Perkins Tracy 37 Eagle
Hearts. By David Christie Murray 270 Arrow
Heart's Bitterness, A. By Bertha M. Clay. 70 Bertha Clay
Heart's Idol, A. By Bertha M. Clay 60 Bertha Clay
Heart Talks With the Lovelorn. By Grace Shirley
12 Diamond Hand Book
Hector Servadac. By Jules Verne 39 Arrow
Hv Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. By Julia Edwards 3 Eagle
Heiress of Egremont. By Mrs. Harriet Lewis 213 Eagle
Heiress of Glen Oower, The. By May Agnes Fleming 151 Eagle
Her Ransom. By Charles Garvlce 50 E)flgle
Her Rescue from the Turks. By the author of Dr. Jack . . . 142 Eagle
Her Second Love. By Bertha M. Clay 48 Bertha Clay
Her Son's Wife. By Hazel Wood 153 Eagle
Hidden Clew, A. By Ernest De Laucey Pierson 219 Miignet
Hirldcn Hand, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 52 Edea
Hidaon Perils. By Mary Cecil Hay 204 Arrow
Hiddf-n Sin. The. By Bertha M. Clay 124 Bertha Clay
Hioden Terror, A. By Bertha M. Clay 105 Bertha Clay
Hilda's Lover ; or, The False Vow ; or, Lady Hutton's Ward.
By Bertha M. Clay 8 Bertha Clay
Hilary's Folly; or, Her Marriage Vow 42 Bertha Clay
His Brother's Widow. By Mary Grace Halpine 228 Eagle
His Double Self. By Scott Campbell 243 Eagle
His Fatal Success. By Malcolm Bell 31 Columbia
His Fatal Vow. By Leon de Tinseau 28 Arrow
His Great Revenge, Vol. I. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 54 Magnet
His Great Revenge, Vol. II. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 55 Magnet
His Great Temptation. By Bertha M. Clay 161 Clay
His Mother's Sin. By Adeline Sergeant 234 Eagle
His NoWe Wife. By George Manvitle Fenn 217 Eaale
His Perfect Trust. By Bertha M. Clay 66 Bertha Clay
His Way and Her Will. By Frances Aymar Mathews 160 B*ele
His Wedded Wife. By Bertha M. Clay 112 Bertha Ciay
His Wife's Judgment. By Bertha M. Clay 16 B&rfha Clay
Hoiden's Conquest, A. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 244 Bagl«
Holding the Fort. By Ensign Clarke Pitch, U. S. N 11 ColomPia
Homestead on the Hillside, The. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes .. 60 Arrow
I
Ideal Love, An. By Bertha M. Clay 119 Bajjle
If Love Be Love. By Bertha M. Clay 88 Bertfta Cfay
I Have Lived and Loved. By Mrs. Forrester '.130 Arrow
In All ShadeH. By Grant Allen 22 Arrow
Jn Barracks and Wigwam. By Wm. Murray Oraydon 36 M«da]
6
In Cupld'g Net. By Bertha M. Clay 90 Bertha Clay
In Letters of Fire. By Nicholas Carter 211 Magnet
India, the Pearl of Pearl River. By Mrs. E. D. E. N.
Southworth 1 Ede^n
Inez. By Augusta J. Evan.s 82 Arrow
lu Love's Crucible. By Bertha M. Clay 67 Bertha Clay
In Luck at Last. By Walter Besant 197 Arrow
In Peril of His Life. By Emile Gaboriau 13ti Magnet
In Shallow Waters. By Bertha M. Clay 100 Bertha Clay
In Sight of St. Paul's. By Sutton Vane 129 Eagle
In Southern Seas. By Frank H. Converse 43 Medal
Inspector's Puzzle, The. By Charles Matthew 84 Magnet
In Strange Company. By Guy Boothby 137 Arrow
J
Jack. By Alphonse Daudet 59 Arrow
Joan. By Rhoda Broughton 92 Eden
Joan Wentworth. By Katherine S. MacQuoid 85 Eden
Joe Nichols; or. Difficulties Overcome. By Alfred Oldfellow. . 54 Medal
John Halifax, Gentleman. By Miss Mulock 119 Arrow
John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. By W. Clarke Russell 154 Arrow
John Marchmont's Legacy. By Miss M. B. Braddou 60 Eden
John Needham's Double. By Joseph Hatton 41 Magnet
Joseph Balsamo. By Alexandre Dumas 244 Arrow
Joshua Haggard's Daughter. By Miss M. E. Braddon 57 Eden
Jud and Joe, Printers and Publishers. By Gilbert Patten 33 Medal
Judith Shakespeare. By William Black 243 Arrow
Just As I Am. By Miss M. E. Braddon 51 Eden
Lady of Darracourt, The. By Charles Garvice 287 Eagle
Lady of the Isle, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth .... 34 Eden
Lady of the Lilacs, The. Brne.st De L. Pierson 202 Magnet
Lady Ona's Sin. By Bertha M. Clay 151 Clay
Lady Valworth's Diamonds. By "The Duchess" 94 Eden
Lady Velvet. By Nicnolas Carter 150 Magnet
Lena Rivers. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes 56 Arrow
Leola Dale's Fortune. By Charles Garvice 223 Eagle
Leslie's Loyalty. By Charles Garvice 17 Eaglo
Les Miserables — Part I. By Victor Hugo 234 Arrow
Les Mis§rables — Part II. By Victor Hugo 235 Arrow
Les Miserables — Part III. By Victor Hugo 236 Arrow
Lieutenant Carey's Luck. By Lieutenant Lionel Lounsberry . . . 4 Medal
Life at Sea. By Gordon Stables 173 Medal
Life for a Love, A. By Mrs. L. T. Meade 218 Eagle
Life's Atonement, A. By David Christie Murray 217 Arrow
Life's Secret, A. By Mrs. Henry Wood 205 Arrow
Light That Failed, The. By Rudyard Kipling 1 Arrow
Lilian, My Lilian. By Mr.=;. Alex. McVeigh Millar 106 Eagle
Lilv of Mordaunt, The. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 222 Eagle
Linked to Crime. By Barclay North 172 Magnet
Links in the Chain, The. By Scott Campbell 167 Magnet
Lion of the Law, The. By Scott Campbell 158 Magnet
Little By Little. By Oliver Optic 160 Medal
Little Golden's Daughter. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.. ..207 Eagle
Little Coquette Bonnie. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 43 Eagle
Little Cuban Rebel, The. By Edna Wlnfield 68 Bfigle
Little Lady Charles. By Bffie Adelaide Rowlands 139 Eagle
Little Lightning, the Shadow Detective. By Police Captain
James 70 Magnet
Little Marplot, The. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 255 Eagle
Little Minister, The. By J. M. Barrie 96 Eagle
Little Miss Millions. By St. George Rathborne 254 Eagle
Lorrie ; or. Hollow Gold. By Charles Garvice 85 Eagle
Los HuecoB Mystery, The. By Eugene T. Sawyer 51 Magnet
Lost, a Pearle. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.... 219 Eagle
Lost Bride, The. By Clara Augusta 216 Eagle
Lost For Love. By Bertha M. Clay 164 Clay
Lost Heiress, The. By Mrs, B. D. E. N. Southworth 8 Kdea
7
Lost Heir of Linlithgow, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. South-
worth 35 Eden
Lost Lady of Haddon, The. By Bertha M. Oiay 159 Clay
Lost Wife, A. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 215 Arrow
Louise De La Valliere. By Alexandre Dumas 201 Arrow
Love and Life. By Charlotte M. Youge 149 Arrow
Love for a Day. By Bertha M. Clay &3 Bertha Clay
Love in a Mask. By Bertha M. Clay 139 Clay
Love Letters of a Worldly Woman. By Mrs. W. K. Clifferd. .188 Arrow
Love of Lady Aurclia, The. By Bertha M. Clay 160 Clay
Lover and Husband. By Bertha M. Clay 4.6 Bertha Clay
Love's Cruel Whim. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 275 Eagle
Love's Dilemma. By Charles Garvice 280 Eagle
Macaria. By Augusta J. Evans 80 Arrow
Mademoiselle, Miss. By Henry Harland 165 Arrow
Mad Love, A. By Bertha M. Clay 41 Bertha Clay
Madolin's Lover. By Bertha M. Clay 43 Bertha Clay
Magdalen's Vow. By May Agnes Fleming 146 Eagle
Maiden Widow. By Mrs. B. D. E. N. Southworth 18 Eden
Maid's Misery, A. By Bertha M. Clay 15G Clay
Major Matterson of Kentucky. By the author of Dr. Jack.. 58 Eagle
Maltese Gi-oss, The. By Eugene T. Sawyer 61 Magnet
Man Against Man. By Nicholas Carter 258 Magnet
Man in the Iron Masli, The. By Alexandre Dumas 202 Arrow
Man of Mark, A. By Anthony Hope 98 Arrow
Man of Mystery, The. By Nicholas Carter 189 Magnet
Man of the Name of John, A. By Florence King 162 Eagle
Man Outside, The. By Scott Campbell 181 Magnet
Man She Loved, The. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 149 Eagle
Man Who Made Diamonds, The. By Warne Miller 257 Magnet
Man Who Stole Millions, The, and Other Stories 129 Magnet
Man Who Vanished, The. By Nicholas Carter 114 Magnet
Man With a Thumb, The. By Barclay North 113 Magnet
Maori and Settler. By George A. Henty 100 Medal
Marble Faun, The. By Nathaniel Hawthorne 78 Arrow
Margery Daw. By Bertha M. Clay 94 Bertha Clay
Marguerite de Valois. By Alexandre Dumas 274 Arrow
Marjorie. By Katharine S. MacQuoid 202 Eagle
Mar.iorie Deane. By Bertha M. Clay 71 Bertha Clay
Marjorie's Pate. By Bertha M. Clay 39 Bertha Clay
Mark Seaworth's Voyage on the Indian Ocean. By William
H. G. Kingston 71 Medal
Marquis, The. By Charles Garvice 73 Eagle
Marriage at Sea, A. By W. Clark Russell 11 Arrow
Married in Haste. By Miss M. E. Braddon 168 Arrow
Married In Mask. By Mansfield T. Walworth 289 Eagle
Martyred Love. A. By Charles Garvice 257 Eagle
Marvel. By "The Duchess" 184 Arrow
Masiked Bridal, The. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 168 Eagle
Masked Detective, The. By Judson R. Taylor 82 Magaet
Master of Ballantrae. By Robert Louis Stevenson 5 Arrow
Master of the Mine, The. By Robert Buchanan 118 Arrow
Master Passion, The. By Florence Marryat 116 Arrow
Matapan A/fair, The. By Fortune Uu Bolsgobey .. .38 Magnet
Matffer of Thousands, A. By the author of "Old Spicer". . . .261 Magnet
Mavourneen. Prom the Celebrated Play 76 Eagle
Max. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 133 Eagle
Moyor of Casterbrldge, The. By Thomas Hardy 108 Arrow
Mcadowbrook. By Mrs. Mary .T. Holmes 79 Arrow
Memoirs 'f>f a Physician. By Alexandre Dumas •245 Arrow
Merle's Crusade. By Rose Nouchette Carey Ipt Arrow
Merry Men. The. By Robert Lonis Stevenson 206 Arrow
Mlsshig Bride, The. By Mre. E. D. E. N. Southworth 6 Eden
MtHB Kato. By "Rita" 121 Arrow
Miss Mi)ne and T. By the author of "A Yellow Aster" 44 Arrow
MlsH Pauline of New York. By the author of Dr. Jack 23 Eagle
Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock.., .199 Arrow
8
Modern Cinderella, A. By Bertba M. Clay 92 Bertha Clay
Modern Circe, A. By "The Duchess" 196 Arrow
Modern Marriage, A. By Clara Lanza 246 Eagle
Modern Tc'leinachus, A. By Charlotte M. Yonge 95 EJen
Mohawks. By Miss M. B. Braddon 46 Eden
Molly Bawn. By "The Duchess" 144 Arrow
Moi\i?iei>r Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack 40 Eagle
Mcnite CfiHto and Wife. By Alexandre Dumas 267 Arrow
Moonwtnne, The. By Wilkie Collins 213 Arrow
More Bitter Than Death. By Bortha M. Clay 99 Bertha Clay
Mosses Prona an Old Manse. By Nathaniel Hawthorne .... 282 Arrow
Mother-in-lvaw. By Mrs. E. D. B. N. Southworth 10 Eden
Mother's Mistake, A. By Adah M. Howard 230 Eagle
Moths. By "Ouida" 224 Arrow
Mountain Cave, The. By George H. Coomer 60 Medal
Mountaineer Detective, The. By C. W. Cobb 40 Magnet
Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. Braddon 48 Eden
Move in the Dark, A. By Nicholas Carter 236 Magnet
Mr. Lake of Chicago. By Harry Du Bois Milman 19 Eagle
Mrs. Feriton. By W. E. Norris 185 Arrow
Mrs. Geoffrey. By "The Duchess" 68 Eden
Mrs. Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack 33 Eagle
Mrs. Donald Dyke, Detective. By Harry Rockwood 165 Magnet
Muertalma ; or. The Poisoned Pin. By Marmaduke Dey ... 58 Magnet
Murray Hill Mystery, The. By Nicholas Carter 191 Magnet
Mute Confessor, A. By Will N. Harben 152 Eagle
My Lady Green Sleeves. By Helen B. Mathers 146 Arrow
Mystery of a Diamond, The. By Frank H. Converse 49 Medal
Mystery of a Hansom Cab, The. By Fergus Hume 47 Magnet
Mystery of a Madstone, The. By K. F. Hill 67 Magnet
Mystery of Orcival, The. By Emile Gaboriau 122 Magnet
Mystery of Raven Rocks, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N.
Southworth 42 Eden
Mystery of the Fast Mail, A. By Byron Ad^^it 149 Magnet
Mystery Still, A. By Fortune Du Bolsgobey 212 Magnet
Mystery, The. By Mrs. Henry Wood 223 Arrow
My Young Alcides. By Charlotte M. Yonge 80 Eden
Nabob of Singapore, The. By the author of Dr. Jack 38 Eaglo
Nameless Dell. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 155 Eagle
Nameless Sin, A. By Bertha M. Clay 40 Bertha Clay
Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton '. 65 Eden
Nara's Love Test. By Mary Cecil Hay 62 Eden
National Dream Book. By Mme. Claire Rougemont. 7 Diamond Hand Book
Nature's Young Noblemen. By Brooks McCormick 56 Medal
Ned Newton. By Horatio Alger, Jr 118 Medal
Nell Gw3rnn. By W. Harrison Ainsworth 239 Arrow
Nerine's SBcond Choice. By Adelaide Stirling 131 Eagle
New atid Amusing History of Sandford and Merton, The.
By P. C. Burnand 70 Medal
New Arabian Nights, The. By Robert Louie Stevenson. ... 75 Arrow
New Margdalen, The. By Wilkie Collins 1^1 Arrow
New York Boy, A. By Horatio Alger, Jr 93 Medal
Nick Carter and the Green Goods Men 87" Magnet
Nick Carter Down East. By the author of Nicholas Carter.. 141 Magnet
Nick Carter's C]ever Protege. By Nicholas Carter 108 Magnet
Nick Carter's Clearer Ruse : or. Setting a Thief to Catch a
Thief. By Niehola.^ Carter 153 Magnet
Nick Garter's Death Warrant. By Nicholas Carter 24B Magnet
Nick Carter's Gii>"l Detective. By Nicholas Carter 1-32 Magnet
Nick Carter's JtetainQT : or. The Clever Plan of an Up-to-tJate
Crook. By Nicholas Carter 147 Magnet
Nick Carter's Star Pupils. By Nicholas Carter 162 Magnet
Nina's Peril. By Mrs. Alftx. McVeigh Miller 279 Eagle
Nine of Hearts, The. By B. L. Farjeon 251 Magnet
Noble Lord, A. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 36 Eden
Nobody's Daughter. By Clara Augusta 1 27 Eagle
None But the ^rf-t. By Robert Lee Tyler 49 Eagf*
9
!Nora. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 233 Bagl6
Northern Lights. By A. D. Hall 123 Eagle
North Walk Mystery, The. By Will N. Harben 88 Magnet
Not Wisely, But Too Well. By Rhoda Broughton 219 Arrow
No. 13 Rue Marlot. By Rene de Pont Jest 96 Magnet
Now or Never. By Oliver Optic 5 Medal
O
Ocean Waifs. By Captain Mayne Reid 141 Medal
Off With the Old Love. By Mrs. M. V. Victor 46 Eagle
Old Detective's Pupil, The. By Nicholas Carter 10 Magnet
Old Hagar's Secret. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes 156 Arrow
Old Homestead, The. By Denman Thompson 53 Eagle
Old Man of the Mountains, The. By Geo. H. Coomer 114 Medal
Old Man's Darling and Jacquelina, An. By Mrs. Alex. Mc-
Veigh Miller 192 Eagle
Old Mortality. By Young Baxter 103 Magnet
Old Myddelton's Money. By Mary Cecil Hay 77 Eden
Old Quartz, the Nevada Detective. By Eugene T. Sawyer.. 118 Magnet
Old Specie, the Treasury Detective. By Marline Manly.... 45 Magnet
Old Stonewall, Detective. By Judson R. Taylor 249 Magnet
Olga's Crime. By Prank Barrett 214 Eagle
Olivia. By Charles Garvice •^ 2€8 Eagle
Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester . 222 Arrow
One Against Many. By Bertha M. Clay.. . .• 10 Bertha Clay
One False Step. By Bertha M. Clay 59 Bertha Clay
One Man's Evil. By Effle Adelaide Rowlands 179 Eagle
One Thing Needful. By Miss M. E. Braddon 183 Arrow
One Woman's Sin. By Bertha M. Clay 142 Clay
On Her Wedding Morn, and Her Only Sin. By Bertha M.
Clay 36 Bertha Clay
Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. Braddon 43 Eden
Only a Girl's Love. By Charles Garvice 215 Eagle
Only a Woman. By Miss M. B. Braddon 228 Arrow
On the Firing Line. By Douglas Wells 7 Columbia
On the Rack. By Barclay North 90 Magnet
Ora.Tge and Green. By G. A. Henty 134 Medal
Oscar, the Boy Who Had His Own Way. By Walter Aimwell . . 94 Medal
Other People's Money. By Emile Gaboriau 221 Magnet
Out on the Pampas. By Geo. A. Henty 90 Medal
Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thomas Hardy 192 Arrow
Partners, The. By Alphonse Daudet 67 Arrow
Pascarel. By "Ouida" 198 Arrow
Passenger From Scotland Yard, The. By H. F. Wood 107 Magnet
Passion Flower, A. By Bertha M. Clay 18 Bertha Clay
Past Master of Crime, A. By Donald J. McKenzJe 104 Magnet
Pathfinder, The. By J. F. Cooper 156 Medal
Paths of Love, The. By Bertha M. Clay 118 Bertha Clay
Paul, the Peddler. By Horatio Alger. Jr 154 Medal
Peeress and Player. By Florence Marryat 96 Eden
Perilous Secret, A. By Charles Reade 171 Arrow
Perils of the Jungle. By Edward S. Ellis 77 Medal
Peter Simple. By Captain Marryat 30 Medal
Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. Kingston 169 Medal
Peter Trawl. By W. H. G. King.ston 121 Medal
Phantom Future, The. By Henry Seton Merriman 78 Arrow
Phantom 'Rickshaw, The. By Rudyard Kipling 12 Arrow
Phil Scott, Detective. By Judson R. Taylor 163 Magnet
Phil the Fiddler. By Horatio Alger, Jr 159 Medal
Phyllis. By "The Duchess" 123 Arrow
Physical Health Culture. By Professor Fourmen. .5 Diamond Hand Book
Piano Box Mystery, The. By Nicholas Carter 17 Magnet
Piccadilly Puzzle, The. By Fergus Hume 133 Magnet
Picture of Dorian Gray. By Oscar Wilde 166 Arrow
Pioneers, The. By J. F. Cooper 162 Medal
Pirate Island. By Harry Colllngwood 69 Medal
Plain Tales From the Hills. By Rudyard KlpUng 63 Arrow^
10
f
Plant Hunters, The. By Captain Mayne Reid 125 Medftl
Played to a Finish. By Nicholas Carter 224 Magnet
Playing a Bold Game. By Nicholas Carter 12 Masni!t
Plot for JVlillioua, A. By Scott Campbell lol .ua^iiet
Poker King, The. By Marline Manly 80 Magnet
Pouifret My.stery, The. By A. D. Vinton 125 Magnet
Poor and Proud. By Oliver Optic 46 Medal
Portia. By "The Duchess" 79 Eden
Portland Place Mystery, The. By Ernest De L. Pi«rson .... 206 Magnet
Post Office Detective, The. By George W. Goode 52 Magnet
Prairie Detective, The. By Leander P. Richardson 37 Magnet
Prettiest of All. By Julia Edwards 124 Eagle
Pretty Geraldine. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 34 Eagle
Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M.. Croker 135 Arrow
Pretty Miss Smith. By Florence Warden 140 Arrow
Price He Paid, The. By E. Werner 51 Eagle
Price of a Bride, The. By Bertha M. Clay 138 Clay
Price of a Secret, The. By Nicholas Carter 203 Magnet
Prince Charlie's Daughter. By Bertha M. Clay 24 Bertha Clay
Prince of Darkness, The. By Florence Warden 188 Arrow
Prince of Rogues, A. By Nicholas Carter 222 Magnet
Prince of the House of David, The. By Rev. Prof. J. H.
Ingraham 43 Arrow
Prince Otto and the Silverado Squatters. By Robert Louis
Stevenson 133 Arrow
Princess of Crime, A. By Nicholas Carter 174 Magnet
Princess of Thule, A. By William Black 216 Arrow
Prisoner of Morro, A. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N. . . .4 Columbia
Prisoners and Captives. By Henry Seton Merriman 85 Arrow
Proud Dishonor, A. By Genie Holzmeyer 104 Eagle
Proved Unworthy. By Mrs. Emily Lovett Cameron 110 Arrow
Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 255 Arrow
Put to the Test. By Miss M. E. Braddon 45 Eden
Puzzle of Five Pistols, and Other Stories, The. By Nicholas
Carter 97 Magnet
Q
Queen Amongst Women, and An Unnatural Bondage. By
Bertha M. Clay 115 Bertha Clay
Queen Bess. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 1 Eagle
Queen of Hearts. The. By Wilkie Collins Ill Arrow
Queen of Knaves, The, and Other Stories. By Nicholas
Carter 196 Ma?net
Queen of the County, The. By Bertha M. Claj.. 116 Bertha Clay
Queen of Treachery, A. By T. W. Hanshew 93 Eagle
Queen's Necklace, The. By Alexandre Dumas 246 Arrow
Queer Race, A. By W^illiam Westall.- 25 Columbia
Quo Vadis. By Henryk Sienkiewicz ' . . 183 Eagle
xe
Race for Ten Thousand, A. By Nicholas Carter 230 Marnet
Railway Detective, The. By Harry Roekwood 145 Magnet
Rajah's Fortress, The. By William Murray Graydon 59 Medal
Ran Away to Sea. By Captain Mayne Reid 129 Medal
Randy, The Pilot. By Lieut. Lionel Lounsberry 157 Medal
Red as a Rose Is She. By Rhoda Broughton 136 Arrow
Red Camellia, The. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 64 Magnet
Redeemed by Love ; or. Love's Conflict ; or. Love Works
Wonders. By Bertha M. Clay 31 Bertha Clay
Red Lottery Ticket, The. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 31 Macnot
Red Signal, The. By Nicholas Carter 232 Magnet
Red Spider. By S. Baring Gould 132 Arrow
Repented at Leisure. By Bertha M. Clay 97 Bertha Clay
Reporter Detective, The. By Donald J. McKenzIe 119 Magnet
Reporter Detective's Triumph, The. By Scott Campbell . . . 164 Magnet
Results of a Duel, The. Fortune Du Boisgobey 247 Magnet
Retribution. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth . . 1 Eden
Reuben Green's Adventures at Yale. By Jame Otis.' 161 Medal
Revenue Detectives, The. By Police Captain James 42 Magnet
11
Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 279 Arrow
Rival Battalions, The. By Brooks McCormick 79 Medal
Rival Heiresses, The. By Bertha M. Clay 130 Bertha Clay
Road of the Rough, The. By Maurice M. Minton 165 Eagle
Roanoke of Roanoke Hall. By Malcolm Bell 32 Columbia
Robert Ord's Atonement. By Rosa N. Carey 66 Eden
Robiu. By Louisa Parr 266 Arrow
Rogue, The. By W. B. Norris 9 Arrow
Roll of Honor, The. By Annie Thomas 226 Eagle
Romance of a Black Veil, The. By Bertha M. Clay.. ..30 Bertha Clay
Romance of a Poor Young Man, The. By Octave Peuillet. . . .46 Arrow
Romance of a Young Girl, The ; or. The Heiress of Hilldrop.
By Bertha M. Clay •. 34 Bertha Clay
Romance of Two Worlds, A. By Marie Corelli 18 Arrow
Romantlo Girl, A. By E. E. Green 271 Eagle
Rory O'More. By Samuel Lover 174 Arrow
Rosamond. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 57 Eagle
Rosamond Leyton. By Mary J. Holmes 253 Arrow
Rose in Thorns, A. By Bertha M. Clay 28 Bertha Clay
Rossmoyne. By "The Duchess" 160 Arrow
Royal Lifeguard, The. By Alexandre Dumas 249 Arrow
Roy and Viola. By Mrs. Forrester 263 Arrow
Rube Burrows' League. By Marline Manly 36 Columbia
Ruby's Reward. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 2 Eagle
Run to Earth. By Nicholas Carter 242 Magnet
Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. Braddon 59 Eden
Ruy Bias. By Victor Hugo 37 Arrow
jailor's Sweetheart, A. By St. George Rathborne 196 Eagle
Sam's Sweetheart. By Helen B. Mathers 127 Arrow
Sapho. By Alphonse Daudet 16 Arrow
Saved by the Enemy. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.. .8 Columbia
Saved by the Sword. By St. George Rathborne «r. 240 Kaglo
Saved From the Soa. By Richard Dulfy 118 Eagle
Scarabsous. (The Story of an African Beetle.) By Marquise
Clara Lanza and James Clarence Harvey 30 Columbia
Scarlet Letter, The. By Nathaniel Hawthorne 109 Arrow
Scent of the Roses, The. By the author of Half a Truth... 128 Eagle
Scrap of Black Lace, A. By Nicholas Carter 177 Magnet
Sealed Lips. By Soott Campbell 195 Magnet
Sealed Orders; or, The Triple Mystery. By Nicholas Carter. 95 Magnet
Seal of Silence, The. By Nicholas Carter 215 Magnet
Secret Chart. The. By Lieut. James K. Orton 165 Medal
Secret of a Diamond. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson 184 Magnet
Secret of the Marionettes, The. By Ernest De Lancey
Pierson 175 Magnet
Secret of the Missing Checks, The. By Harry Rockwood 238 Magnet
Secret Service Detail. A. By Douglas Wells 5 Columbia
Selr-Raised; Sequel to Ishmael. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. South-
worth 3 Eden
Senator's Bride, The. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 Eagle
Senator's Favorite, The. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh MiMer 5 Eagle
Set in Diamond.<^. By Bertha M. Clay 33 Bertia Clay
Seven Days' Mystery, A. By Frederick R. Burton 142 Magnet
Severed Hand, The. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 127 Magnet
Shadowed by a Detective. By Virginia Champlin 106 Magnet
Shadow Of a Crime, The. Hall Caine 84 Arrow
Shadow of a Sin. The. By Bertha M. Clay 27 Bertha Clay
She. By H. Rider Haggard 27 Columbia
Sfhelk's White Slave, The. By Raymond Raife 3S 0<iluni1)Ja
Sheldon's Letter Writer. By L. W. Sheldon 1 Diamond Hand Book
She Loved but Left Him. By Julia Edwards 209 Eagla
6bc Loved Him. By Cliarlcs Garvice 117 Eagle
Shenandoah, By J, Perkins Tracy 87 Eagle
Sherlock Holmc;< D'^twtive Stories, The. By A. Conan Doyle.. 72 Magnet
8hi!s All the World to Mc. By Hall Caino 2 Arrow
Ships That Paw In the Night. By Beatrice Harradea 139 Arrow
Shirley's Lovew' 0<!i<ii^. By Grace Shirley.. . , .2 DIamonU Hand Book
12
Shore and Ocean, iiy vVm. H. G. Kingston 139 Medal
Sibyl's Influence. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 2bS Kagle
Signa's Sweetheart. By Bertha M. Clay 93 Be'-tha Clay
Sign of the Crossed Knives, The. By Nicholas Carter.. ,. ..79 Magnet
Sign of the Four, Thn. By A. Couau Do.\ ie 17 Arrow
Silent Passenger, The. By Nicholas Cartt^r 171 Ma^Tuet
Silver Ship, The. By Leon Lev, is 18 Medal
Sinful Secret, A. By Bertha M. Cloy 14.'! Clay
Siu1m!S Crime, A. iJy GeralUine Fleming 1!:'4 ICagle
Sin of a Lifetime, The. By Ucrtha M. Clay 22 Bertha Clay
Sins of the Father, The. By Bovtha M. Clay 184 Clay
Siren's Heart, A. By Eflae Adelaide Rowlands 261 Eagle
Siren's Love, A. By Robert Lee Tyler 31 Kagle
Sir Jasper's Tenant. By Miss M. E. Braddon 47 Eden
SiLiter's Sacrifice, A. By Geraldine Fleming 224 Eagle
Slave of Circumstances, A. By Ernest De Lancey Plerson..l78 Eagle
Slow and Sure. By Horatio Alger, Jr 163 M'^dal
iimuggler's Cave. By Annie A^hmore 08 Medal
Society Detective, The. By Oscar Maitland 34 Masnet
Society's Verdict. By Bertha M. Clay 128 Bertha Clay
So Fair, So False. By Charles Garvice 272 Eagle
SoldiiT Lover, A. By Edward S. Brooks 156 Eugle
Soldier Monk, The. By Ensign Clarke Pitch, U. S. N 17 Columbia
Soldiers Three. By Rudyard Kipling 65 Arrow
Soldier's Pledge, A. By En.sign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N 12 Columbia
So Near and Yet So Far. By Bertha M. Clay 90 Bertha Clay
So Nearly Lost. By Charles Garvice , 276 Eagle
Son of Mars, A. By the Author of Dr. Jack 108 Eagle
Span ef Li£e, The. By Sutton Vane 103 Eagle
Spectre Gold. By Headon Hill 92 Medal
Spider's Web, The. By the Author of Dr. Jack 71 Eagle
Splendid Egotist, A. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth 163 Eagle
Splendid Spur, The. By "Q" (A. T. Quiller Couch) 151 Arrow
Sport of Fate, The. By the Author of "Old Spieer" 255 Magnet
Squire John. By the Author of Dr. Jack 134 Eagle
*- Snuire's Darling, The. By Bertha M. Clay 56 Bertha Clay
Stairs of Sand. By Ernest De L. Pierson 198 Magnet
St. Cuthbert's Tower. By Florence Warden 169 Arrow
Steel Casket, The. and Other Stories. By Nicholas Carter .. 201 Magnet
Steel Necklace, The. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 27 Ma.i-.net
Stella Stirling. By Julia Edwards 62 Eagle
Steiia, the Star. By Wenona Oilman 158 Eagle
Stevedore Mystery, The. By Barclay North 146 Magnet
Stolen Heart, A. By Bertlia. M. Clay 154 Clay
Stolen Identity, A. By Nicholas Carter 9 Magnet
' St. George for England. By George A. Henty 124 Medal
Stolen Pay Train, The, and Other Stories. By Nicholas
Carter 101 Magnet
Stolen Race Horse, The, and Other Stories. By Nicholas
Carter Ill Ma§;n6t
Story of an African Farm. By Olive Schreiner 91 .Arrow
Story of an Error, The. By Bertha M. Clay 120 Bertha Clay
Strangers and Pilgrims. By M. E. Braddon 76 Eden
Strange Secret, A. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 29 Columbia
Stranglers of Paris ; or. The Grip of Iron, The. (From the
Celebrated Play) 28 Arrow
Strike for Millions, A. By Eugene T. Sawyer 188 .Mngnet
Strive and Succeed. By Horatio Alger, Jr 175 Medal
Striving for Fortune. By Horatio Alger, Jr 138 Modal
Strong and Steady. By Horatio Alger, Jr 170 Medal
Struggle for a Ring, A. By Bertha M. Clay 26 Bertha ("lay
Struggle fer the Right, A. By Bertha M. Clay 117 Bertha Clay
Study in Scarlet, A. By A. Conan Doyle 3 Arrow
Sunlight and Gloom. By Geraldine Fleming 184 Eagle
Sun:<et Pass. By General Charles King 150 Eagle
Sunshine of His Life^ The. By Bertha M. Clay 158 Clay
Supernaturiil Clew, A. By Scott Campbell 185 Magnet
Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie Edwards 281 Arrow
■Suspense. By Henry Seton Merriman 88 Arrow
13
Sweet Cymbeline. By Bertha M. Clay 62 Bertha Clay
Sweet Violet. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 9i Eagle
Swordsman of Warsaw, The. By Judson R. Taylor 20 ColurabJ i
Syndicate of Rascals, A. By Nicholas Carter 228 Magu;t
T
Taken at the Flood. By Miss M. E. Bra€<1on 49 Eden
Tell-Tale Photographs, The. By Nicholas Carier 234 Magn^it
Tempest and Sunshine. By Mary J. Holmes 53 -Arrow
Texar's Revenge. By Jules Verne 108 Medal
That Beautiful Wretch. By William Black 143 Arrow
That Dakota Girl. By Stella Oilman 171 Eagle
That Dowdy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 44 Eagle
That Girl of Johnson's. By Jean Kate Ludlum 140 Eagle
That Other Woman. By Annie Thomas 237 Eagle
That Treasure. By Frank H. Converse 65 Meflal
Thelma. By Marie Corelli 55 Arrow
Theodora. By Victorian Sardou 29 Eagle
Theodore Roosevelt, the American. By Will M. Clemens.. 15 Historical
Thorn in Her Heart, A. By Bertha M. Clay 25 Bertha Clay
Thorns and Orange Blo.ssoms. By Bertha M. Clay 74 Bertha Clay
Three Beauties, The ; or, Shannondale. By Mrs. E. D. E. N.
Southworth 29 Eden
Three Musketeers, The. By Alexandre Dumas 77 Arrow
Three Sisters, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 13 Edeu
Thrice Lost, Thrice Won. By May Agnes Fleming 168 Eagle
Thrice Wedded. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 55 Eagle
Through the Fray. By G. A. Henty 25 Medal
Thrown on the World. By Bertha M. Clay 110 Bertha Clay
Tuy Name is Woman. By F. R. Howe 256 Eagle
Tiger Prince, The. By William Dalton 85 Medal
Tiger's Head Mystery, The. By Eugene T. Sawyer 194 Magnet
Tina. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 77 Eagle
Titled Counterfeiter, A. By Nicholas Carter 3 Magnet.
Toilers of the Sea, The. By Victor Hugo 30 Arrow
Tom Brown's School Days. By Thomas Hughes 67 Medal
Tom and Jerry, The Double Detectives. By Judson R.
Taylor 98 Magnet
Tom Brace. By Horatio Alger, Jr 122 Medal
Tom Tracy. By Arthur Lee Putnam 51 Medal
To.~=! of a Coin, The. By Nicholas Carter 248 Magnet
Tour of a Private Car, The. By Matthew White, Jr 64 Medal
Tracked Across the Atlantic. By Nicholas Carter 4 Magnet
Tracked by Pate. By Fergus Hume 225 Magnet
Tragedy in the Rue de la Paix, The. By Adolphe Belot . . ..32 Arrow
Tragedy of A.scott Mills, The. By Scott Campbell 176 Magnet
Tragedy of Lime Hall, The. By Bertha M. Clay 150 Clay
Tr.-isedy of Love and Hate, A. By Bertha M. Clay 153 Clay
Trail of the Barrow, The. By James Mooney 124 Magnet
Treasure Island. By Robert IjOUis Stevenson 24 Arrow
^ rials of an Actiess ; or, General Xltility, The. By Wenona
Gilman 169 Eagle
Tried for Her Life. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 40 Eden
Triple Crime, A. By Nicholas Carter 209 Magnet
Ti'ie Aristocrat, A. By .\irs. Georgie Sheldon 177 Eagle
True Detective Tales. By Maurice Moser 235 Magnet
True Magdalen, A : or, One False Step. By Bertha M.
Clay 50 Bertha Clay
True to Herself. Mrs. J. H. Walworth 240 Eagle
True to the Old Flag. By G. A. Honty 29 Medal
Trusted Rogue, A. By Nicholas Carter 244 Magnet
Trj'- Again. By Oliver Optic 9 Medal
Try and Trust. By Horatio Alger, Jr 166 Modal
Twelve Tin Boxes, The. By Nicholas Carter 120 Magnet
Twelve Wise Men, The ; or, Patsy's Long Chase. By Nicholas .
Carter 144 Magnet ^
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. By Jules Verne.. 112 Medal
Twenty Year.s After. By Alexandre Dumas 99 Arrow
Twin Detectives, The. By K. F. HUl 74 Magoet
14
Twixt Love and Hate. By Bertha M. Clay 68 Bertha Clay
Twlxt Smile and Tear. By Bertha M. Clay 104 Bertha Clay
Two Fair Women; or, Which Loved Him Best? By Bertha
M. Clay la Bertha Clay
Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 7 Eagle
Two Kisses. By Bertha M. Clay. 103 Bertha Clay
Two Plus Two. By Nicholas Carter 73 Magnet
Two Sides of the Shield, The. By Charlotte M. Yonge 200 Arrow
Two Sisters, The. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 24 Edea
Typewriter Girl, The. By Grant Allen 101 Arrow
U
Uncle Nat. By A. Oldfellow 146 Medal
Uncle Tom's Cabin. By Harriet Beecher Stowe 153 Arrow
Under a Shadow. By Bertha M. Clay 91 Bertha Clay
Under-Currents. By "The Duchess" 176 Arrow
Under Egyptian Skies. By the author of Dr. Jack 147 Eagle
Under Fire. By T. P. James 75 Eagle
Vjnder His Thumb. By Donald J. McKenzie 28 Magnet
Under Slieve Ban. By R. E. Francillon 231 Arrow
Under the Deodars and Story of the Gadsbys. By Rudyard
Kipling 70 Arrow
Under the Lilies and Roses. By Florence Marryat 78 Eden
Under Two Flags. By "Ouida" 175 Arrow
Unknown. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 41 Eden
Unprovoked Mutiny, An. By James Otis 96 Medal
Unseen Bridegroom, The. By May Agnes Fleming 136 Eagle
Up the Ladder. By Lieutenant Murray 13 Medal
U. S. Army Setting-Up Exercises. By Professor Donovan.
11 Diamond Hand Book
\ ; sabond's Honor, A. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson 193 Eagle
Vagrant Wife, A. By Florence Warden 181 Arrow
Van Alstine Case, The. By Nicholas Carter 77 Magnet
Van ; In Search of an Unknown Race. By Prank H.
Converse 107 Medal
Van, the Government Detective. By Judson R. Taylor.... 92 Magnet
Vendetta. By Marie Corelli 36 Arrow
Verdant Green, Mr., The Adventures of. By Cuthbert
Bade, B. A 34 Medal
Vestibule Limited Mystery, The. By Marline Manly 57 Magaet
Vial of Death, The. By Nicholas Carter 256 Magnet
Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 126 Arrow
Vicomte de Bragelonne, The. By Alexandre Dumas 102 Arrow
Victim of Circumstances ; or, Nick Carter to the Rescue.
By Nicholas Carter 156 Magnet
Victim of Villainy, A. By P. L. Broughton 245 Magnet
Victor and Vanquished. By Mary Cecil Hay 240 Arrow
Victor's Triumph. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 38 Eden
Violet Lisle. By Bertha M. Clay 57 Bertha Clay
Virgie's Inheritance. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 88 Eagle
Virginia Heiress, The. By May Agnes Fleming 9 Eagle
Visits of Elizabeth. By Elinor Glyn 179 Arrow
Visa. By Mrs. Forrester 269 Arrow
Vivia ; or, The Secret of Power. By Mrs. B. D. B. N. South-
worth 7 Eden
A vier, of Vivier, Longmans & Co., Bankers. By Barclay
North 94 Magnet
Xoyage to the Gold Coast, A. By Frank H. Converse 55 Medal
"W
Wall Street Haul. A. By Nicholas Carter 6 Magnet
Wall Street Wonder, The. By Donald J. McKenzie 187 Magnet
Wanted by Two Clients. By Nicholas Carter 81 Magnet
War Reporter, The. By Warren Edwards 97 Eagle
War Tiger; A Tale of the Conquest of China, The. By
William Dalton "^6 Medal
Wasted Love, A. By Charles Garvice 24 Eagle
Walertown Mystery, The. By Harry Rockwood 180 Magnet
15
\\ ay of the World, 'XTie. By David Christie Murray i;54 Arrow
Way to Success ; or, Tom Randall. The. ^By Alfred Old-
fellow 72 Modal
Weaker Tiiau a Woman, iiy Bertha M. CU'.y ;!7 rUTtiia Clay
Weaviirci and Weft. Uy .Mias il. U. liraddoii i.i~> Arrow
Weaving the Web. By NiL-holarf Carter li 10 Magnet
Wedded and Parted. By Burtha M. Clay 64 Bertha Clay
Wedded for aa Hour. By Eiiiir.a Garrison Jones Si Eagle
Wedded Ilanu.s. By Bertha I'.l. Clay 100 Bertha Clay
Wedded V/idow, A. By T. W. ilaushew 137 Eaglo
Wee Wifie. By Rosa Nouchotto Carey 1S7 Arrow
Welfleet Mystery, The. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 2G6 Eagle
What Love Will Do. By Geraldine Flauiiug 249 Ka!:;lQ
What's Bred in the bone. By Grant Allen 257 Arrow
Wheeling for Fortune. By Jamea Otis 20 Medal
When London Sleep.s. From the Celebrated Play. By
Charles Darrell 105 Eagle
When LoA'e Is True. By Mabel Collins 251 Eagle
White Company, The. By A. Conan Doyle 81 Arrow
White Elephant, The. By William Dalton 177 Medal
White King of Africa, The. By William Murray Graydon.. ..16 Medal
White Bquadron. The. By T. C. Harbaugh 120 Eagle
White Witch, The. By Bertha M. Clay 121 Bertha Clay
Whose Was the Crime? By Gertrude Warden 132 Eagle
Whose Wife Is She? By Annie Li.=;le 110 Eagle
Who \Vas the Heir? By Geraldine Fleming 203 Eagle
Who Wins? By May Agnes Fleming 157 Eagle
Widowed Bride, A. By Lucy iiandall Comfort 86 Eagle
\v'idow Lerouge, The. By Bmile Gabouriau 15 Magnet
Widow's Son. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 21 Eden
Wife in Name Only. By Bertha M. Clay 21 Bertha Clay
Wife's Peril, A. By Bertha M. Clay 149 Clay
Wife's Victory. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 12 Eden
Wild Mai-garet. By Geraldine Fleming 174 Eagle
Wild Oats. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon....- 210 Bagle
Wiiiul Maid, A. By Bertha M. Ciay 20 Bei-tha Clay
Woodlauders, The. By Thomas Hardy 230 Arrow
Wooed and Married. By Rosa N, Carey 73 Eden
V/ooing O't, The. By Mr.^. Alexander 262 Arrow
Workingman Detective, The. By Donald J. McKenzie. . . . 110 Magnet
World Between Them, The. By Bertha M. Clay 23 Bertha Clay
Woimwood. By Marie Corelli 47 Arrow
Worth Winning. By .Mrs. Emily Lovett Cameron 52 Arrow
Wounded Heart, A. By Chas. Gar vice 242 Eagle
Wreck of the South Pole, The. By Charles Curtz HahD...22 Columbia
Written in Fire. By Florence Marryat 75 Eden
Yale Man, A. By Robert Leo Tyler 45 Eagle
Yanicee Champion, The. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 78 Eaclo
Yankee Lieutenant, The. By Douglas Wells 1 Columbia
Young Acrobat, The. fjy Horatio Algor, Jr 42 Medal
Young Actor, The. By Gayle Wmterton 105 Medal
Young Buglers, The. By O. A. Henty 140 Medal
YoiuiK Colonists, The. A Story of Life and War in Africa.
By G. A. Henty 14 Medal
Young Editor, The. By Matthew White, Jr 82 Medal
Young Explorer, The. By Gordon Stables 142 Medal
Younger Brothers. The. By Henry Dale 35 Columbia
Young Midshipman, The. By G. A. Henty 172 Medal
Young Mistley. I?y Henry Seton Merriman 05 Arrow
Young VaRabund, A. By Z. R. Bennett 66 Medal
Youn.i? Voyagers, The. By Capt. Mayne Reld 155 Medal
Young Yagers. The. By Capt. Mayne Reid 133 Medal
Zingara Fortune Teller. By a Gyp.^.y Queen 8 Diamond Hand Book
• \ \.-.f' e-*
THE LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
Santa Barbara
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE
STAMPED BELOW.
Series 9482
UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACIUTY
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