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 BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
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BEATKIOE 
 
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 JULIA ^VANAGH, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 '^♦NATHALIE," "ADELE," "QUEEN MAB,'» 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 THREE VOLUMES. J2T ONE. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 44:3 & 445 BROADWAY. 
 
 1865. 
 
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 K2.1 
 
 BEATEIOE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The night was very bleak. The wind blew keen and strong, 
 as, pushing open the garden gate, Mr. Richard Gordon stumbled 
 on through the darkness to the door of his cottage. When he 
 reached it he stood still and wiped his forehead, on which the 
 perspiration stood in thick drops, cold though the evening was, 
 and slowly though he had walked home from the City. He did 
 not knock at once, and twice, when he stretched his hand towards 
 the brass ring, he let it fall down again. At length he took 
 heart, and a feeble knock, scarcely like that of the master of the 
 house, startled Mrs. Gordon from her sleep on the sofa, in the 
 warm parlour. 
 
 " That cannot be Richard," she thought, sitting up and. list- 
 ening for her husband's voice ; but it was he, for she heard him 
 saying to the servant : 
 
 " Jane, where is the child? " 
 
 " Miss Beatrice is at the Martins', sir." , 
 
 " Oh ! very weU." 
 
 Mr. Gordon opened the parlour door and entered. The 
 cheerful light of the bright coal fire in the grate fell on his face. 
 It was deathly pale, and as Mr. Gordon was a pale, fair man, 
 who always looked delicate, he now looked very ill indeed. 
 
 " My dear Richard," cried his wife, much startled, " what 
 ails you?" 
 
 " I am not quite well. Where is the child?" 
 
 " My dear, she is at the Martins', opposite." 
 
 Mr. Gordon went to the window. He lifted up the blind and 
 looked out across the street, at a range of windows on the first 
 floor of a house facing his cottage. 
 
 The street was dark, save for the flitting glare of the gas- 
 
 JW872923 
 
4 BEATEICE. 
 
 lights, but the house of the Martins was gaily lit up, and childish 
 shadows, magnified into grotesque proportions, were moving 
 across the blinds. One Mr. Gordon watched for, and saw at 
 last. It was shorter than the rest, and it had heavy curls, which 
 it shook back with a quick, impatient toss of its little head. Mr. 
 Gordon looked at it for some time, then came back to the fire 
 and sat down at a little distance from his wife. She saw him 
 shiver, and she said a little crossly, 
 
 " Did you do as I told you, Mr. Gordon? Did you take the 
 omnibus?" 
 
 " No, my dear. I walked home." 
 
 " And took cold, I can see it. You will drive me distracted, 
 Mr. Gordon. X wish you would take my advice sometimes. 
 But you never will, Mr. Gordon." 
 
 Mr. Gordon made no reply, and his wife looked fretfully at 
 the fire. She too was fair, a pretty woman of thirty, with blue 
 eyes and a clear complexion, spite habitual ill-health, which sel- 
 dom let her leave the couch on which she was now lying, and 
 which had somewhat impaired a temper both gentle and loving. 
 But as she was fond of her husband after all, and could not bear to 
 think that he was ill or in pain, she soon said in a more amiable 
 tone — 
 
 " Take something warm, Richard." 
 
 Mr. Gordon seemed to waken out of a dream, and, looking 
 vacantly at his wife, he replied — 
 
 " No thank you. I shall go to bed." 
 
 " Why, it is only seven, Richard ! " 
 
 Again Mrs. Gordon spoke crossly, for she liked sitting up 
 late and getting up late too, and she wanted her husband to go 
 on with the novel he had begun reading aloud to her. 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure, it is only seven, but it is very cold." 
 
 He shivered again, and again Mrs. Gordon was going to ad- 
 vise something hot, when a double knock was heard at the street 
 door, and Mr. Gervoise was announced. 
 
 A tall and very handsome man, with flowing fair hair, gold 
 spectacles, and a manner both grand and dignified, was shown in. 
 Hfi bowed most courteously to Mrs. Gordon, then turned to her 
 husband. 
 
 " My dear Gordon, how are you?" he affectionately asked, 
 looking at him from behind his shining glasses. " A leetle pale, 
 I think." 
 
 " Mr. Gordon would not take the omnibus," began Mrs. 
 Gordon. 
 
BEATRICE. 5 
 
 " Ah ! I see — just so — ve — ^ry naughty." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise sat down and looked hard at the master of the 
 house. That gentleman seemed to wince under the gaze, and 
 leaning his cheek on his hand, he stared at the carpet. 
 
 " Any news ? " asked Mr. Gervoise, and as he spoke his 
 strong French accent became more perceptible. ^ 
 
 " I met Raby," replied Mr. Gordon with a start. 
 
 " Ah ! our good friend Raby. And what did he say about 
 me?" 
 
 Mr. Gordon did not seem to hear him, at least he did not 
 answer. When he raised his pale face it was to say, with a 
 shudder, 
 
 " How cold it must be in Kensal Green to-night ! " 
 
 A keen blast which blew round the cottage gave his words 
 more force. 
 
 " I wish, Mr.Jprordon, you would not be horrid ! " entreated 
 Mrs. Gordon, pettishly. 
 
 " I can see that our friend Gordon is not well," emphatically 
 said Mr. Gervoise. " Gordon, my good fellow, go to bed, 
 sleep soundly, you will get up a new man to-morrow morning." 
 
 Mr. Gordon rubbed his forehead thoughtfully, but, after a 
 while, rose and said he would follow the advice ; he felt cold, 
 and would go to bed, as Mr. Gervoise suggested. So he bade 
 them good night and retired. The door had scarcely closed 
 upon him when Mr. Gervoise's glasses beamed full upon Mrs. 
 Gordon. 
 
 " I hope our friend has had no unpleasant news? " he said. 
 
 "Oh! dear, no." 
 
 " He looks pale." 
 
 " Oh ! it is all coming along that endless Kensington Road, 
 and not taking the omnibus. I don't know, Mr. Gervoise, what 
 made Mr. Gordon take this place, where we are quite out of the 
 world, and I don't see a soul. I get quite low at times, I assure 
 you." 
 
 " I thought London air was bad for you." 
 
 " I am never better than in London. But Mr. Gordon would 
 bring me out here to this wilderness." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise was going to condole with Mrs. Gordon on 
 this unfortunate obstinacy of Mr. Gordon's, when a sharp knock 
 at the cottage door announced Miss Beatrice Gordon's return. 
 
 " Where is papa? " the tenants of the parlour heard her say- 
 ing, and equally audible was Jane's answer. 
 
 " He is gone to bed, miss." 
 
6 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Jane, you must not let her go up to Mr. Gordon, he is 
 tired," said Mrs. Gordon, raising her voice ; " come here, Bea- 
 trice." 
 
 The parlour door opened, and Beatrice Gordon, a small, 
 dark child, with heavy curls, which she was ever tossing back, 
 appeared on the threshold of the room. She drew back at once 
 on seeing Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Good evening, my dear," he said graciously. 
 
 Beatrice did not answer. 
 
 " Come in and shake hands with Mr. Gervoise," said Mrs. 
 Gordon ; " well then," she added, crossly, as the child did not 
 stir, " I wish you would shut the door, Beatrice, there is such a 
 draught." 
 
 The door, which was noiselessly closed, was Beatrice's an- 
 swer to her mother's request. 
 
 " She is so obstinate," sighed Mrs. Gordon ; ''just like her 
 father in temper." 
 
 " And like her mother in person," politely said Mr. Gervoise ; 
 " a pretty child." 
 
 " No, she is not like me, Mr. Gervoise, we do not know 
 whom the child is like ; she is dark, and we are fair. Mr. Gor- 
 don will have it that she is like some one in his family who was 
 called Beatrice some hundred years ago ; but why my child 
 should be called Beatrice, I never was able to understand. It is 
 just like taking this cottage, forty pounds a year, and only three 
 bedrooms." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise acknowledged the similarity of the evils, and, 
 in the same breath, somewhat irrelevantly observed, 
 
 " And so you do not think Mr. Gordon has had impleasant 
 news ? " 
 
 " Oh ! dear, no," replied Mrs. Gordon, looking surprised at 
 the suggestion ; "he only came from the City." 
 
 "Bless me!" said Mr. Gervoise, with a start, "now you 
 mention it, I have business in the City ! Eight o'clock ! Oh ! I 
 must be off, or I shall be late. Good evening, Mrs. Gordon ; 
 don't stir, and do not be uneasy about Gordon, a good night's 
 rest will set him up again." 
 
 In vain Mrs. Gordon tried to detain him, again Mr. Ger- 
 voise assured her that Gordon would be all right to-morrow ; and 
 with this assurance he was gone. 
 
 Scarcely had the garden gate closed upon him when the par- 
 lor door opened, and Beatrice made her appearance. She went 
 
BEATRICE. 7 
 
 up to her mother, and attempted to kiss her, but Mrs. Gordon 
 pushed her away, and said, crossly : 
 
 *' I am very angry with you, Beatrice, and you know why." 
 Beatrice did know why, so she did not question her mother, 
 but sat down on a hassock and looked at the fire with much 
 gravity. 
 
 " You must go to bed," said Mrs. Gordon, " it is quite late." 
 Beatrice generally objected to going to bed early, but know- 
 ing herself in the wrong this evening, she stole out of the parlour 
 mute as a mouse, and crept up-stairs, followed by Jane. "When 
 they had reached the first floor, and Jane was opening the door 
 of the child's bed-room, Beatrice, who had been watching her 
 opportunity, made a dart forward, and was in her father's 
 room in a moment. Fearful of waking her master, Jane did not 
 dare to speak, whilst Beatrice, climbing up on a chair, reached 
 the pillow on which his head lay, and softly kissed his pale face. 
 Mr. Gordon was so fast asleep that he heard and felt nothing, 
 and, withdrawing on tiptoe, Beatrice joined the servant, thor- 
 oughly reckless of her whispered scolding. In the same spirit of 
 magnanimous indifference she said her prayers, went to bed, and 
 fell fast asleep, dreaming, as she often did, of an old red brick 
 mansion, with four stone fountains, and noble trees, of which her 
 father had told her many times. 
 
 Whilst both father and child slept up-stairs, Mrs. Gordon lay 
 Swake on the couch below, deploring Mr. Gordon's obstinacy, 
 and the cottage and Beatrice's name, and her own hard lot. 
 Twelve struck, when she rang for Jane, who was drowsily sew- 
 ing by the kitchen fire, and requested to be helped up-stairs. 
 "We are bound to say that Mrs. Gordon was equal to going up 
 the staircase* alone, but neither the doctor nor her husband had 
 been able to convince her of this fact. When she reached her 
 room, Mrs. Gordon dismissed Jane, and she was vexed to find 
 that, her husband being fast asleep, she could not murmur in her 
 pretty, peevish way. Mr. Gordon was certainly following Mr. 
 Gervoise's advice in a remarkable manner ; he was sleeping so 
 soundly, that Mrs. Gordon was surprised and, on second thoughts, 
 glad. He had had bad nights of late ; this would do him good. 
 So she laid herself down very softly by his side, and was careful 
 not to stir. But there was a part of Mr. Gervoise's advice 
 which Mr. Gordon did not follow. He did not waken a new 
 man the next morning, for when the sun shone in at his window, 
 Mr. Gordon lay cold and dead near his sleeping wife. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Died of complaint of the heart." Thus ran the verdict of 
 the coroner's jury. Another verdict was recorded in a wiser and 
 a better world than this ; but the jury spoke according to their 
 knowledge, and if this was human and limited, the blame rests 
 not with them. 
 
 Mr. Gordon was buried in Kensal Green ; and there he 
 sleeps to this day. A plain slab, " sacred to his memory," and 
 erected by his " sorrowing widow," marks the spot, but neither 
 tells the brief story of his life, nor mentions the cause of his 
 death. Of one there was little to say ; of the other nothing 
 certain was ever known, though in time something was con- 
 jectured. 
 
 Richard Gordon, Esq., was a Scotchman, of gentle and 
 ancient blood. He inherited some thirty thousand pounds from 
 his father, married for love a pretty girl, who had fifty pounds a 
 year ; and having lost the best part of his capital in unsuccessful 
 ventures, he found himself reduced to an income which did not 
 reach three hundred pounds. In this emergency, Mr. Gordon 
 showed judgment ; instead of going headlong to ruin by keeping 
 up the establishment of a man who (^an spend his fifteen hundred 
 yearly, " he left the world," as his wife said, crossly, and retired 
 to a forty pound cottage in quiet Kensington. 
 
 The time was not yet gone when the London suburbs were 
 pleasant places in their way. They had then fair wide streets, 
 where carriage-wheels were heard at decent intervals ; broad 
 roads, along which goodly stage-coaches and steady omnibuses 
 bore their burdens to the City ; above all, they had quiet terraces, 
 squares, cottages, and villas adorned with gardens, in which 
 abode the world of retired tradesmen, decayed gentlewomen, shy 
 artists, city men with large families, and of all people whose 
 tastes and means forbade them the devouring Babylon. Then, 
 too, green fields, a few mansions and their grounds, hawthorn 
 hedges, and shady lanes gave these suburbs an attraction which 
 
BEATRICE. 9 
 
 -•* 
 
 they have now forsworn ; for then railways had not sent hissing 
 engines across the country, or spanned streets with bridges, and 
 cabs, and porters, and traffic had not learned to crowd around 
 noisy stations. Common-place were these suburbs, we grant, 
 but they were calm and peaceful. They have given that up 
 now ; they are but the edge of the great City — an edge of brick 
 and mortar, which once was green as any garland, and faded 
 away pleasantly into the soft hazy blue of the horizon. 
 
 But though Mrs. Gordon's cottage was a pleasant and cheer- 
 ful one, though it was convenient and cheap, the funeral was 
 scarcely over when Mrs. Gordon assured Mr. Gervoise she could 
 not stay in it. She had never liked it, and she hated it now. 
 '-' It was the coming along that horrid Kensington Road which 
 had killed her dear husband — she was sure it was." 
 
 This resolve Mrs. Gordon felt bound to mention to Mr. Ger- 
 voise, who was not merely one of the two trustees appointed by 
 the late Mr. Gordon's will, but also the guardian of his only 
 child. 
 
 " And Mr. Gervoise," she continued, plaintively, " I must 
 sell all this furniture. We bought it to come to this horrid little 
 cottage, which killed him, and I cannot bear the sight of it. And 
 when you can let me have a hundred pounds or so, you will 
 obHge me, Mr. Gervoise. The funeral and our mourning have 
 taken all the ready money in the house." 
 
 *' May I ask how much you ha^e in hand, ma'am?" 
 
 " Five pounds." 
 
 "And is not your income soon due?" 
 
 " It is a half-yearly thing, not payable till March. That is 
 why I want a hundred pounds to go on with." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise played with his watch-guard, and said : 
 
 " I shall speak to Mr. Raby, ma'am." 
 
 "But why are there trustees?" asked Mrs. Gordon, a little 
 crossly ; " you know, Mr. Gervoise, I mean no reflection upon 
 you, but I really think it strange my dear husband would not 
 confide that paltry ten thousand to me. I am sure I gave ^im 
 many proofs of my judgment, and as to marrying again " 
 
 A burst of tears checked the rest. 
 
 " I shall speak to Mr. Raby," again said Mr. Gervoise ; and 
 leaving the back parlour, in which this conversation had taken 
 place, he entered that in front, where Mr. Raby, the other 
 trustee, was waiting. The table was heaped with papers ; for 
 the two gentlemen had emptied Richard Gordon's desk, and had 
 had a long talk over its contents. Mr. Raby looked anxious and 
 1* 
 
10 BEATRICE. 
 
 fidgety, and the look was that which was most averse to his 
 countenance. 
 
 Mr. Raby, a childless widower in easy circumstances, was 
 also a middle-aged man with dull blue eyes, flabby cheeks, a 
 thick utterance, and a moderate share of intellect. He was bom 
 to pass easily and lazily through life, and especially to shun all 
 its troubles. He often wondered that he had ever married ; he 
 did not know, he said, how he came to do it. And still more 
 did he wonder how he had been so foolishly weak as to let 
 Richard Gordon get over him, and make a trustee of him. Ten 
 times at least had he expressed that wonder to Mr. Gervoise in 
 the course of the morning ; and if he did not greet him now with 
 another wondering exclamation to the same purport, it was that 
 he felt rather too anxious to know what Mr. Gervoise was going 
 to say. Mr. Gervoise sat down, and said nothing. 
 
 "Well?" asked Mr. Raby. 
 
 " W^'U, Mrs. Gordan has five pounds." 
 
 " Are ^here any debts ?" 
 
 " No — none." 
 
 Mr. Raby sighed with evident relief, and said it was a great 
 comfort. 
 
 "Well, but what are we trustees for?" indignantly asked 
 Mr. Gervoise; "where is the property? — where are the ten 
 thousand pounds?" 
 
 " Gordon was always a close fellow," said Mr. Raby ; " he 
 told me he had ten thousand pounds at his banker's, and, with 
 the most unaccountable weakness, although Doctor Jones warned 
 me it would be my death, I became a trustee ; however, the 
 property is gone, and with it our trust — for where there is no 
 property, there is neither trouble nor responsibility." 
 
 But if some people dislike trouble and responsibility, some 
 other people like them, and to this latter class Mr. Gervoise 
 evidently belonged. He leaned back in his chair, played with 
 his pen, and said at length : 
 
 " Are you sure the. balance is no more than sixty pounds?" 
 
 " Quite sure." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise took his pen, made up the amount once more, 
 and ascertained that sixty pounds, five shillings, and three pence 
 was the exact amount Richard Gordon had died worth. 
 
 " I am quite amazed !" said Mr. Gervoise ; " I understood 
 there was property, large property coming in." 
 
 " Oh ! that was all moonshine," repUed Mr. Raby. " Poor 
 Gordon was always dreaming about that property. Why, there 
 
BEATEICE. 11 
 
 are three lives between it and his daughter. No, there is no 
 fear of your being ever troubled with anything of the kind. I 
 am oufr of it, being only a trustee ; but you, as guardian, might 
 be apprehensive, of course." 
 
 This explanation did not satisfy Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " I am amazed," he said again ; " amazed and displeased. 
 I must say I think it was treacherous of poor Gordon to inveigle 
 me in this matter. I must say I think it very mysterious that 
 he should draw out the money the day after signing his will — 
 very mysterious. Perhaps the money is not gone, and will turn 
 up some day." . 
 
 This suggestion seemed to alarm Mr. Raby. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Gervoise," he said eagerly, " let us do any 
 thing for that poor lady and her child, but pray let us have done 
 with this horrid trust. I am quite willing to lay down a hun- 
 dred pounds to help to set her up, poor thing ! She might open 
 a little school." 
 
 "Well, I can suggest it to her," said Mr. Gervojse, after a 
 while. 
 
 " Ay ! do," still eagerly said Mr. Raby, who was most anxious 
 to get out of the house before Mrs. Gordon should know how 
 matters stood ; " and as I may have to go out of town soon, I 
 had better give you that check at once." 
 
 To this proposal Mr. Gervoise assented. Mr. Raby wrote 
 out and signed the check, handed it to Mr. Gervoise, and with a 
 sigh of relief stole out of the cottage, whilst his fellow-trustee 
 entered the back parlour, in which Mrs. Gordon sat waiting. 
 
 " My dear madam," formally said Mr. Gervoise, " I am 
 grieved to be the bearer of unpleasant tidings, but I dare say 
 you are partly prepared for them." 
 
 This speech bore but one meaning to Mrs. Gordon's mind. 
 She could not leave the cottage, she could not sell the furniture, 
 and she could not have the hundred pounds. She looked blank 
 and irritated, but did not speak. 
 
 " I suppose," continued Mr. Gervoise, " you can give us no 
 clue to the missing ten thousand pounds ? " 
 
 " What !" said Mrs. Gordon, faintly. 
 
 " We find none," calmly continued Mr. Gervoise ; " the day 
 after making his will, JMr. Gordon withdrew from his bankers 
 the large sum mentioned in it ; and how he disposed of that sum, 
 neither Mr. Raby nor I can ascertain." 
 
 " But the money must be found ! " cried Mrs. Gordon ; '' it 
 must ! " 
 
12 BEATEICE. 
 
 " Well, I trust it may, ma'am. However, it is a mysterious 
 affair. Mr. Kaby and I liave searched your husband's papers, 
 and we have found nothing but a memorandum, which agrees 
 with the banker's account, namely, that the balance in that gen- 
 tleman's hands is sixty pounds, five shillings, and three pence. 
 This, I am sorry to say, is the whole amount of the trust left to 
 us. Mr. Raby and I have agreed that it would be ridiculous to 
 invest such a trifle for the benefit of your daughter, and we will 
 accordingly keep it for any pressing necessity." 
 
 " But it is impossible — ^we cannot live upon that ; there must 
 be something else !" cried poor Mrs.. Gordon. 
 
 " There is nothing else, I am sorry to say ; but Mr. Raby 
 and I have put our heads together, and if opening a small school 
 or letting furnished lodgings and taking in a boarder will answer 
 you, we will do our best for the widow of our valued friend." 
 
 Mrs. Gordon remained mute. She could not realize that ter- 
 rible calamity, ruin. The sense of loss is one of the slowest to 
 come to us, so keen is our love of possession, so bitter do we find 
 it to have no more that which has once been ours. She had seen 
 the bank-notes on the day when her husband took this wreck of 
 his fortune to the banker's, and she could not believe that these 
 faithless servants had deserted her in the hour of need. 
 
 " But, Mr. Gervoise, it can't be ! " she said pitifully. 
 
 " I wish it could not be, indeed ; but, as I said, Mr. Raby 
 and I will assist you in any of the plans I have suggested. I 
 will not press you for an answer to-day. I can see your mind is 
 not equal to it, but I shall call again in a few days, and then I 
 trust 1 shall find you in a truly Christian and resigned frame of 
 mind." 
 
 With this edifying speech, Mr. Gervoise left his friend's 
 widow. The door had scarcely closed upon him, when Beatrice, 
 who had been sitting unheeded in a corner of the room, and 
 whose red eyes told of bitter childish tears, crept up to her 
 mother. 
 
 "Oh, my poor darling, what shall we do ! " cried Mrs. 
 Gordon, " what shall we do ! Your father has left us beggars ! 
 what shall we do ! " 
 
 " Don't cry," whispered Beatrice, looldng by no means 
 alarmed at the prospect of beggary thus held forth ; " I shall 
 work for you," 
 
^4 ''f^'^ff: 
 
 CHAPTEE in. 
 
 It was only after ransacking the cottage in search of the 
 missing money that Mrs. Gordon came to the bitter conclusion 
 that it was really gone, and that she was really left with fifty 
 pounds a-ycar — that is to say, just what would pay her rent and 
 taxes. And how was she to live ? That dear Richard had done 
 something dreadful with the money was plain, and so she told 
 Mr. Gervoise when he called. He came to know, and he said 
 so, what Mrs. Gordon had decided upon. Instead of answering 
 the question, Mrs. Gordon at once entered on the subject upper- 
 most in her thoughts. 
 
 " I am sure some designing villain must have got round 
 dear Richard," she said ; " some wretch who advised a safe in- 
 vestment. My poor husband was always credulous, and would 
 not confide in my better judgment." 
 
 "Very sad," replied Mr. Gervoise ; " but on which of my 
 suggestions are you prepared to act, Mrs. Gordon, for I know 
 you have too much judgment to lose time." 
 
 " I cannot afford it, and I have resolved to take in daily 
 pupils," replied Mrs. Gordon, to whom this resolve had come 
 within the last five minutes, as, sitting near the parlour-window, 
 she saw a little girl pass by on her way to school. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise expressed his approbation of the plan, and 
 again informing her that Mr. Raby and he had laid their heads 
 together, he handed her a twenty pound note, wished her every 
 success, begged of her to write at once if she discovered the 
 missing money, and left her, saying that he was going into the 
 country and would stay there some time. 
 
 Armed with twenty pounds sterling, Mrs. Gordon began her 
 battle with the world. She called the cottage Rosemary Cot- 
 tage, and sent round circulars, in which she expressed her will- 
 ingness to take in eight young ladies as daily pupils, and one as 
 a parlour boarder. A good-natured tradesman sent his two little 
 girls at the end of a fortnight ; three more came before six weeks 
 
14 BEATRICE. 
 
 were out, and there stopped Mrs. Gordon's good fortune. Scar- 
 latina appeared in Rosemary Cottage ; one child took it and died, 
 the others fled, and Mrs. Gordon's school was at an end. 
 
 She wrote to Mr. Gervoise, who coldly answered that, as the 
 school had proved a failure, she must try furnished lodgings ; 
 and he enclosed another twenty pounds, with a hint that Mrs. 
 Gordon had better make it go as far as she could. 
 
 For the first time since her husband's death, Mrs. Gordon 
 felt bitterness against him. Furnished lodgings ! A bill in her 
 parlour window ! She surely could not sink deeper ! But ne- 
 cessity is a hard master, and Mrs. Gordon submitted to its teach- 
 ing. The bill was put up, and it had not been hanging two days 
 when a fashionable man and a handsome woman secured Mrs. 
 Gordon's best bed-room and parlour for twenty-five shillings a 
 week. They stayed a month, then walked out one morning 
 vdthout notice, and several pounds in Mrs. Gordon's debt for 
 rent and breakfast, tea, and other necessaries supplied. How 
 they had removed their luggage undetected Mrs. Gordon never 
 knew ; but she strongly suspected that they had conveyed it out 
 overnight through the parlour window. 
 
 " But then one ought to have heard it coming down-stairs, 
 ma'am," said Jane. 
 
 " Oh ! if everthing were as it ought to be," replied Mrs. 
 Gordon, with some asperity, " I should not be letting furnished 
 lodgings." 
 
 Her next venture, an old bachelor, was more fortunate. Mr. 
 Mathews paid punctually, but, alas ! he gave a world of trouble. 
 He was the most exacting, groaning and grumbling of lodgers. 
 He scolded Jane and Mrs. Gordon herself. At length the same 
 house could no longer hold them both ; and they parted by mu- 
 tual consent, and to their mutual satisfaction. 
 
 "If I were to beg my bread, I should not regret Mr. 
 Mathews," said Mrs. Gordon, as the door closed on her depart- 
 ing lodger. 
 
 He went, and he was the last of his race that darkened the 
 threshold of Rosemary Cottage. Again Mrs. Gordon lived upon 
 hope, and again, when hope grew faint and weak, she wrote to 
 Mr. Gervoise. His answer was prompt and short. Mrs. Gor- 
 don had better give up the cottage, sell part of the furniture, take 
 a cheap second floor, and apprentice Beatrice to some useful and 
 genteel trade. This advice he strengthened by twenty-five 
 pounds. But Mrs. Gordon had conceived a sudden affection for 
 the cottage she had once hated. She felt very loth to part with 
 
BEATRICE. 15 
 
 the furniture she had been so anxious to sell — ^besides, to *pren- 
 tice Beatrice ! This was worse than having a bill up in the par- 
 lour window ! Mrs. Goi;.don resolved never to submit to such 
 degradation ; but as people must live, be they ever so genteel, 
 the poor lady, rendered energetic by necessity, tried teaching and 
 fancy work. With time she got one music lesson, and some 
 orders for crochet, and again she struggled on. 
 
 Jane had to be dismissed, as a matter of course, and now it 
 was that Beatrice redeemed her promise of working for her 
 mother. Beatrice became a first-rate housemaid, and no mean 
 cook. She bent all her energy and her intellect, and with both she 
 was amply provided, in mastering the elements of domestic lore. 
 Beatrice's bargains were ever a wonder to her mother ; how she 
 cheapened fish and vegetables, and got round the butcher, was 
 more than that poor lady could understand. But Beatrice 
 did it, and moreover Beatrice could keep a house clean, and 
 make a pudding, and — rare art ! — cook a mutton-chop, and boil 
 potatoes. But these useful accomplishments brought in no mon- 
 ey ; and as the music lesson went abroad, and the house that 
 gave the crochet-work withdrew its orders, Mrs. Gordon looked 
 out for a few little trinkets, and found her way to the pawn- 
 broker's. She once thought of writing to Mr. Gervoise, but she 
 remembered that he had advised her to 'prentice Beatrice, and 
 she did not do it. 
 
 Mr. Gordon had been dead a year or more. Winter was 
 nearly over, but the bleak wind still blew drearily round the cot- 
 tage at night, and reminded Mrs. Gordon of the fatal evening 
 when her husband went up to his room for the last time. Oh ! 
 how dreadful and weary had been that year ! How bitter and 
 dark looked the future ! Debts small but numerous seemed to 
 enclose the poor widow in a net of iron. She would willingly 
 have given up the cottage now ; but how could she, when she 
 owed half a year's rent? She would gladly have parted with 
 the furniture, but would not that have been alarming the land- 
 lord? Removing to a cheaper neighborhood was out of the 
 question, for similar reasons ; a host of small and uneasy trades- 
 men watched all Mrs. Gordon's movements, and she was too 
 proud and too honest for surreptitious fiight. 
 
 " I knew this cottage would be the death of me," she said 
 one afternoon to Beatrice. " I told your poor father so, but he 
 would not believe me. It was his death, and now it will be 
 mine." 
 
 Mrs. Gordon was lying on the sofa, and Beatrice, sitting on 
 
16 BEATEICB. 
 
 a hassock on the hearth, was watching a saucepanful of potatoes 
 boiling on the parlour fire. They were too poor to afford coals 
 in the kitchen, and, as visitors were unknown at Rosemary Cot- 
 tage, they stood in no fear of the world and its proprieties. 
 
 Beatrice had too often heard her mother speak of the cottage 
 as the cause of her decease, to be alarmed at the declaration, but 
 she knew why Mrs. Gordon was so low-spirited, and her smooth 
 brow took lines of premature care. 
 
 " If I could see any issue to this misery," resumed Mrs. 
 Gordon. "But there is none. Debts, horrid debts, people 
 watching and dunning you ! Oh ! dear, I wish we were both 
 dead, Beatrice I" » 
 
 Beatrice's little lips began to quiver, but her potatoes were 
 boiling fast, so she checked the coming tears, and watched for 
 the first crack in their brown skins. 
 
 " If even — " began Mrs. Gordon. A loud double knock at 
 the cottage door interrupted her. " Take up the potatoes," she 
 cried in terror ; " put them away, child." 
 
 " Where?" asked Beatrice, with the saucepan in her hand. 
 
 "Anywhere, child. Be quick ! " 
 
 Beatrice looked around her. The chintz sofa on which her 
 mother was lying had a deep valance to it. Beatrice hastily 
 thrust the saucepan behind this providential screen, and rubbing 
 her poor little soiled hands along her rusty black frock, she went 
 and opened the door. Mr. Gervoise stood on the threshold, 
 grand, courteous, benevolent, and smiling — ^his very glasses had 
 kindness in them. 
 
 " How do you do, my love? and how is dear mamma?" he 
 asked, patting Beatrice's brown head. " Not unwell, I hope? " 
 
 As Beatrice did not answer, Mr. Gervoise's anxiety was not 
 relieved until he entered the parlour, where he found Mrs. Gor- 
 don slowly rising from the sofa to receive him. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Gordon," he said, tenderly, " how naughty 
 you have been ! I have been most anxious about you. Why 
 did you not write ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gordon shook her head. She had not written because 
 she had nothing to say. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise sat down on the sofa near her, and bending 
 confidentially forwards, looked full in Mrs. Gordon's face. 
 
 " How have you been getting on ? " he asked, taking her 
 hand, and patting it affectionately. " Come, tell me all about it. 
 I can see you have been fretting." 
 
BEATEICE. lY 
 
 " I have had my trials," replied Mrs. Gordon, a little coldly, 
 " and I have borne with them." 
 
 " With that fortitude which I witnessed a year ago ! " sighed 
 Mr. Gervoise. "But we will not renew the painful subject. I 
 am so glad, my dear Mrs. Gordon, you have not given up the 
 cottage, though I believe I advised you to do so. But it would 
 have been a pity," and Mr. Gervoise looked around him with 
 benevolent admiration. 
 
 This concession to her superior judgment softened Mrs. Gor- 
 don considerably. Her heart was one that readily opened to the 
 least touch of kindness. With a sigh, she entered on the long 
 story of her troubles and trials, of which that cottage was the 
 first cause. 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure, just so ! " soothingly remarked Mr. Ger- 
 voise every now and then. " As you very justly say, it is a great 
 drawback to live so much out of the world. I suppose you see 
 very few people?" 
 
 " I gave up the world on coming here ; the Martins have left 
 the neighbourhood. I see no one but that child, who is an angel, 
 Mr. Gervoise ! " f 
 
 Poor little Beatrice ! she did not look much of an angel, in 
 her worn-out frock, and with her unkempt locks hanging about 
 her little soiled face, on which sat a sulky frown ; but her guardian 
 smiled kindly at her, whilst he said to her mother : 
 
 " It is most injurious to the human mind to live thus in soli- 
 tude ; but, of course, you see the papers?" 
 
 " Never. We gave up the Times when my husband died, 
 and I do not know if I have opened a newspaper since." 
 
 " Mrs. Gordon," cried Mr. Gervoise, struck with a sudden 
 brilliant thought, " why do not you advertise for a boarder? " 
 
 " You forget the risk, Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 " Oh ! but a substantial boarder is no risk." 
 
 " Mr. Mathews was not a boarder," sighed Mrs. Gordon ; 
 " but what I endured with that man " 
 
 *' Do not mention it," interrupted Mr. Gervoise ; " but I do 
 not mean anything like Mr. Mathews, of course not." 
 
 " I could not," said Mrs. Gordon. " I would beg my bread 
 first!" 
 
 " Out of the question. No, my meaning is this : will you 
 take a boarder from me — a widower and his son, a lad of four- 
 teen?" 
 
 " You do not mean — " said Mrs. Gordon, much fluttered. 
 
18 BEATEICE. 
 
 " Yes, I do, Mrs. Gordon. I am coming to board with you 
 — with my son Gilbert. No objections — ^it is agreed upon." 
 
 Mrs. Gordon faltered her acknowledgments, and Mr. Ger- 
 voise slipped a folded paper in her hand. 
 
 " I know you will be anxious to make us comfortable," he 
 whispered ; " we can settle afterwards." 
 
 Mrs. Gordon was overwhelmed with gratitude, but with the 
 true instinct of modest benevolence, Mr. Gervoise rose hastily 
 and took a precipitate leave. 
 
 " Don't mention it — don't mention it ! " he said hurriedly, as 
 she followed him to the door, and, with less ceremony than usual, 
 he cut short his leave-taking. 
 
 As soon as she came back to the parlour, Mrs. Gordon opened 
 the paper. She found that it contained a short list of instructions 
 and necessaries, and, what she could not help thinking more to 
 the purpose, a ten-pound note. 
 
 " If ever there was an angel upon earth !" said Mrs v Gordon, 
 raising her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 "I detest Mr. Gervoise!" interrupted Beatrice, clenching 
 her tiny hands, and her black eyes flashing. 
 
 " You detest your guardian ! Why, child, what has he ever 
 done to you?" asked Mrs. Gordon, even more surprised than in- 
 dignant. 
 
 Now, it was very true that Mr. Gervoise had never been 
 guilty of the least unkindness towards his ward. Beatrice could 
 not tax him with a wrong look or a wrong word, yet she hated, 
 and -had always hated, Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 "I ask why you dislike your guardian?" imperatively in- 
 quired Mrs. Gordon. 
 
 " Because he wears glasses," impetuously replied Beatrice, 
 unable to get hold of a better reason ; and bursting into tears, 
 she drew the saucepan from its hiding-place, recklessly dragging 
 it along the carpet. 
 
 *' How dare you, miss !" indignantly inquired Mrs. Gordon. 
 " Leave the room, and take down that saucepan to the kitchen, 
 directly." 
 
 Beatrice checked her tears and obeyed. The door closed 
 upon her, and Mrs. Gordon sighed as she looked at the carpet. 
 
 " Oh ! dear, what a worry children will be ! " she murmured, 
 sinking down on the sofa* 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The very next morning, so great and laudable was his desire 
 to benefit Mrs. Gordon by the presence of a substantial boarder in 
 her house, Mr. Gervoise made his appearance at Rosemary Cot- 
 tage. He came accompanied by a lad of fourteen, whom he was 
 very anxious to introduce at once to Beatrice ; but Beatrice was 
 down-stairs with a charwoman, whom Mrs. Gordon had called 
 in to give the cottage a Spring cleaning ; and as she was not a 
 very docile child, neither her mother's orders nor her entreaties 
 could make Beatrice leave that refuge. Again she said that she 
 detested Mr. Gervoise, and in this declaration she was kind 
 enough to include his son Gilbert. 
 
 Mrs. Gordon left her in great indignation, and went back to 
 Mr. Gervoise, to whom she made the best apology she could ; 
 *' but a more obstinate child does not exist," she said ; " she is 
 just like her poor father." 
 
 " If the mountain will not go to Mahomet, Mahomet must go 
 to the mountain," gaily replied Mr. Gervoise. " Gilbert, go 
 down to the kitchen and get acquainted with that obstinate young 
 damsel. This is my French son," he added, nodding to Mrs. 
 Gordon, who nodded in return. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise was a Frenchman, a native of that cool green 
 Normandy which faces England, which conquered it eight hun- 
 dred years ago, was long linked with it, and has some features 
 in common with it still. Soon after his first wife's death, Mr. 
 Gervoise left France and settled in Kent. He wanted, he said, 
 to become an Englishman. England and her domestic life had 
 always fascinated him. These was nothing like it in France. 
 Marriage was not understood in that benighted country. It was 
 a farce, a drama, a tragedy — never marriage ! 
 
 Mr. Gervoise had a son by his French wife, but he longed to 
 mingle his blood with that of England. He married a blooming 
 Miss Emilia Thorne, took the oath of allegiance, had another son 
 
20 BEATEICE. 
 
 by her, and became a widower a year before his friend Mr. 
 Gordon died. 
 
 This was how Mr. Gervoise had a French and an English 
 son. The latter was now in France, in order to acquire the 
 language of the country, and the former had been in England 
 some time for the same excellent purpose. 
 
 Beatrice was picking fruit for a pudding in the kitchen. Her 
 back was turned to the door, and as she was intent on her task, 
 she neither saw nor heard Gilbert Gervoise until he stood close 
 behind her. She thought at first it was Mrs. Greene, who had 
 gone up-stairs, but when he coughed gently, she turned round 
 quickly, and for a while remained mute. 
 
 txilbert Gervoise was fair, like his father, and like him, very 
 handsome. He had blue eyes, both bright and pensive, a clear 
 complexion, flowing fair hair, and a winning smile. Beatrice 
 was literally dazzled with his beauty, and she was fascinated too 
 by the genial goodness of his countenance. Her resolve to hate 
 Mr. Gervoise*s son melted away from her— she did not know 
 why. She struggled, however, against the gentle feeling, and 
 frowning, asked the intruder what he wanted. 
 
 " To help you," he promptly replied. 
 
 " Can you make a pudding?" she ironically inquired. 
 
 Gilbert shook his head, and said " No." 
 
 " Well, then, you are of no use." 
 
 " Oh ! I can do what you are doing." 
 
 He began picking the fruit with a dexterity which awakened 
 the two opposite feelings of jealousy and admiration in Beatrice's 
 heart ; but admiration won the day, and on its steps followed 
 liking sudden and true. It was despotic liking indeed, with " do 
 this," and ^' do that," but Gilbert seemed amused and proved 
 obedient. When the fruit was picked, he asked, 
 
 " Have you got a garden?" 
 
 " Yes ; come up, I will show it you." 
 
 The garden was a square patch, with more weeds than flowers 
 in it, and Gilbert said so. 
 
 " We can't afford flowers," replied Beatrice, gravely ; " we 
 are very poor, you know. Oh ! how I wish I could earn 
 money," she added vehemently ; " money for poor mamma, you 
 know." 
 
 Gilbert looked thoughtful, then said confidentially : 
 
 " I have a napoleon — ^that would not do, would it ? " 
 
 " Oh ! no ; besides, I would not take it ; but still I wish I 
 could earn money." 
 
BEATEICE. 21 
 
 '' Money ! " ejaculated Mr. Gervoise, who had stolen upon 
 them unseen, and had been listening ; " you must not be think- 
 ing so much about money." 
 
 Beatrice gave him a shy, displeased look, but did not reply. 
 Mr. Gervoise took a sovereign out of his pocket and showed it 
 to her. 
 
 " Do you suppose," he asked, " that this has any particular 
 value in itself? Not in the least, child. It has a conventional 
 value, and is used as a means of exchange ; in reality, my dear, 
 it is trash." 
 
 Having uttered this philosophical sentiment, Mr. Gervoise 
 put the sovereign back in his pocket, and walked into the back 
 parlour, where he had left Mrs. Gordon sitting. • 
 
 " My dear madam," he said, in his grand courteous way — 
 and Mr. Gervoise certainly had fine manners — " our dear chil- 
 dren are already devoted to one another. See how Gilbert has 
 passed his arm round Beatrice's waist, and how she looks up at 
 him, and how he looks down at her. It is quite affecting. I 
 confess to you that I indulge in very delightful anticipations." 
 
 Now though Mr. Gervoise was not a rich man, he was com- 
 fortable, and Gilbert would certainly be an excellent match for 
 Beatrice. Mrs. Gordon's teairs nearly flowed at the father's sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 " I see we understand one another," affectionately said Mr. 
 Gervoise ; " we will leave it to time, my dear lady — we will 
 leave it to time." 
 
 And so will we leave this story to time, or at least to that 
 portion of it which is comprised within one week. Rosemary 
 Cottage was another place now. Comfort, good living — Mr. 
 Gervoise paid liberally, and expected what he called a moderate 
 and nutritious table — two servants, really money, and new clothes 
 had wrought a great change in Mrs. Gordon's feelings and ap- 
 pearance. She looked happy, and certainly was lively. Beatrice, 
 too, was altered. She had given up her domestic avocations, 
 and was now a gaily-attired little lady, who romped about the 
 Kensington lanes with Gilbert — ah ! what a green world they 
 were then ! — or played at home with him in the back parlour, 
 while Mr. Gervoise and Mrs. Gordon, who had a great deal of 
 business in the way of accounts, sat talking it over in the front 
 room. 
 
 In that front room Mrs. Gordon was left alone one evening, 
 exactly a week after Mr. Gervoise had become her boarder. He 
 was delightful during dinner time, but no sooner was the meal 
 
22 BEATKICE. 
 
 over than he rose, evidently to go out. Mrs. Gordon looked 
 surprised. Mr. Gervoise explained, he had a friend in Bays- 
 water with whom he must spend part of the evening — a tiresome 
 business interview. The friend's wife had deserted him, and 
 taken three out of the five children. 
 
 " How dreadful ! " said Mrs. Gordon. 
 
 " Human nature," indulgently said Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " But how kind of you to go out on this inclement night," 
 said Mrs. Gordon. 
 
 It was a very severe night indeed, keen and bitter. 
 
 " My dear Madam, we must assist one another in this world. 
 Our life is but short, let us do as much good as Ave can." 
 
 " What a man ! " mentally ejaculated Mrs. Gordon, as the 
 door closed on her boarder. But her opinion of Mr. Gervoise's 
 benevolence naturally increased when the cook came in with the 
 tidings that she had seen him down in Kensington entering a City 
 omnibus. At first Mrs. Gordon was puzzled, for Kensington 
 and Bayswater are rather apart, and the city lies at a tolerabliB 
 distance from either ; * then she grew doubtful, though cook 
 was obstinate. Finally, she concluded that Mr. Gervoise had 
 met a messenger at the door, with tidings that induced him to 
 alter his direction, and so the good man had actually gone off to 
 the City in this trying weather. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise went no farther than Holborn. There he 
 alighted, and made his way to Great Ormond Street. *' Houses 
 have no great value here," thought Mr. Gervoise, examining 
 keenly this street, which, after being the resort of the polite and 
 the courtly, has now rather fallen down in the world. "And 
 this is the house, is it?" He stopped before one of the oldest 
 houses, and, looking at it closely, concluded that it was not one 
 of the best. A gas lamp showed him that it was somewhat out 
 of repair, also that it had a dreary uninhabited look. " No cur- 
 tains," thought Mr. Gervoise, glancing at the closed shutters, 
 and, instead of knocking, he gently touched the area bell. A 
 rough-looking man-servant came out of the kitchen into the area 
 with a light, looked up, nodded at Mr. Gervoise, then disap- 
 peared. In a few moments the door opened, and the same rough- 
 looking man admitted the visitor. 
 
 The hall of this house was not the narrow passage dignified 
 with the name of the modern London house. It was spacious, 
 circular, and lofty. Mr. Gervoise looked around him with an 
 inquiring and searching glance. 
 
 " So this is the town house," he said. 
 
BEATEICE. 23 
 
 The servant nodded. 
 
 " It smells mouldy, John." 
 
 " It is mouldy," said John. 
 
 "Where is Mrs. Scot?" 
 
 " Up-stairs with master." 
 
 "Can I go up?" 
 
 " Ah, yes, you can go up," was John's very unceremonious 
 reply. 
 
 And up a broad and gloomy staircase Mr. Gervoise went. 
 The house, which looked dreary without, was dull, dark, and 
 silent within. It was a very dismal house, to say the least of it. 
 A door on the first floor landing stood open ; Mr. Gervoise looked 
 in cautiously. A lamp was burning in a wide, cold-looking 
 room, with furniture two hundred years old and more, but which 
 had nothing save its antiquity to recommend it. A door facing 
 him stood ajar, and thence proceeded low murmuring sounds of 
 talking. Mr. Gervoise entered , crossed the uncarpeted floor with a 
 light footstep, and entered the second room without knocking. It 
 was as dreary-looking as the first, but it had a fire, and it was 
 tenanted ; a pale old man sat bending over the grate, and behind 
 his arm-chair stood a woman past fifty, and of stern and forbid- 
 ding aspect. She slowly turned round as Mr. Gervoise entered, 
 and fixed upon him a large and subtle black eye. 
 
 "Who's that?" inquired the old man, looking up sharply; 
 "is it John?" 
 
 " No, it is not John," mildly replied Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Gervoise, I am glad to see you. It is very kind 
 of you to come to me." * 
 
 " Do not mention it ;*thank you, Mrs. Scot," and Mr. Ger- 
 voise took the chair which Mrs. Scot handed him, after looking 
 at her master. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Scot, you can go. Will you have a glass of 
 wine, Mr. Gervoise ? " 
 
 " Thanks, I have but just dined." 
 
 The old man sighed ; Mrs. Scot closed the door, and a long 
 silence followed. 
 
 " Mr. Carnoosie " began Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Yes, it is Mr. Carnoosie now," said the old man ; " but 
 there has been a title in the family. I used to think of getting it 
 revived, but that is over now." 
 
 " Very sad ! " murmured Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Two such boys ! — two such fine boys ! " 
 
 " Very sad ! " said Mr. Gervoise again, and another long 
 sUence followed. 
 
24: BEATRICE. 
 
 " I suppose you know what I came to town for? " resumed 
 Mr. Carnoosie. 
 
 " On business, I presume." 
 
 '.' Just so — undertaker's business. I came to make my will." 
 
 " Loads of time for that," cheerfully said Mr. Gervoise, 
 " loads of time." 
 
 *' There is time, but no more than time." 
 
 " We shall never agree on that subject," said Mr. Gervoise, 
 still brisk and cheerful ; " never, my dear sir." 
 
 Mr. Carnoosie looked at him fixedly. This old man had a 
 pale and feeble face, but it was also a face in which mistrust was 
 written — the mistrust of the weak. 
 
 "Mr. Gervoise," he said a little peevishly, "I wish you 
 would not speak so — you don't believe a word of it." Af 
 
 Mr. Gervoise laughed heartily. 
 
 " Very good ! " he said ; " very good ! " 
 
 " Don't," said the old man with a start, " don't laugh, for 
 mercy's sake ! " 
 
 At once Mr. Gervoise was mute, and there followed another 
 long pause. 
 
 " What dreary rooms!" thought Mr. Gervoise, looking 
 round him ; " and a poor house, too — not one good picture in it. 
 I suppose that japanned cabinet is worth something, though ; ono 
 could get it cleaned and varnished." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Carnoosie, "I came to town to make my 
 will, and as you have agreed to be trustee " 
 
 " Excuse me if I interrupt you," said Mr. Gervoise, " but 
 you know on what terms I have agreed to be trustee. No legacy, 
 no remembrance — ^nothing, in short." « 
 
 " I have a diamond ring " 
 
 " If it were the Kooh-i-noor I would not accept of it." 
 
 '' Well, as you please. But, as I said, you have agreed to 
 be trustee, and as I am afraid there is a minor in this case " 
 
 " A minor ! " interrupted Mr. Gervoise, " Mr, Gordon is not 
 a minor." 
 
 " I can't make up my mind to leave it to him,'* said Mr. 
 Carnoosie, without looking at Mr. Gervoise ; " I never liked the 
 man, and he has turned papist." 
 
 " A vile calumny, my dear sir ! He is incapable, utterly in- 
 capable of abjuring the religion of his ancestors." 
 
 " Well, then, he is a Presbyterian, and a predestinarian." 
 
 *' He is a Scotch Episcopalian," sententiously said Mr. 
 Gervoise. 
 
BEATEIOE. 25 
 
 " He may be what lie likes," crossly replied Mr. Carnoosie, 
 " I never liked him, and he shall not have old Carnoosie." 
 
 " Then I suppose Mr. Mortimer " 
 
 " Mortimer ! the radical ! the penny-a-liner ! — ^no ! " 
 
 " Then the estate goes to charities. A noble deed — a noble 
 deed." 
 
 " Damn the charities ! " angrily said Mr. Carnoosie ; " do 
 you think I am going to have a set of beggars down at Carnoosie ? " 
 
 " Well, it would be a pity." 
 
 " I'll burn the house first." 
 
 '' No need to do that, eh? No need." 
 
 " No, sir, no need whilst a child of Poor Josephs is alive, as 
 I learned the other day, and that has brought me down." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked hard at the fire. 
 
 " The boy lives with his mother down in Plough Lane, Ken- 
 sington. You know Kensington ? " 
 
 " I have been there," quietly replied Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 "Well, what I want from you is this, Mr. Gervoise. I 
 want you to see the widow and the child, and to give me some 
 account of both — ^you understand ? " 
 
 " Quite well. But if you were to see them yourself, my dear 
 sir." 
 
 " I will not ! — I will not ! " interrupted Mr. Carnoosie, in a 
 wailing tone. " I will not see and have them speculating on the 
 old man's death. No," he added, in an altered voice, " you must 
 do that for me — please do it ; I ask for no more." 
 
 " My dear sir, I will do what you please. Plough Lane, 
 you said?" 
 
 " Yes ; here is a letter the widow wrote to my solicitor." 
 
 " He handed him a shabby-looking letter, which Mr. Gervoise 
 surveyed with every appearance of profound interest, then care- 
 fully put away in an elegant morocco pocket-book. 
 
 " I shall see about it to-morrow early," he said, " and bring 
 you my account to-morrow afternoon. Will that do ?" 
 
 " Yes, that will do, thank you. You are sure you will not 
 take a glass of wine?" 
 
 " Quite sure," replied Mr. Gervoise, rising and taking the 
 hint to go*. " Good night, Mr. Carnoosie. Take care of your- 
 self, my dear sir, and don't stay too long in this old house ; it 
 would shorten your days." 
 
 " It matters little, Mr. Gervoise — very little. After all, I 
 have outlived two such boys ! noble boys I " 
 2 
 
26 BEATRICE. 
 
 "Very sad!" said Mr. Gervoise, sympathetically; "good 
 night. Shall I send up Mrs. Scot?" ^ 
 
 " Ay, do, if you please. Good night." 
 
 Mr. Grervoise softly stole out of the room, and had not the 
 trouble of sending up Mrs. Scot. He found her sitting in the 
 outer room, not so near the door as to be charged with listening ; 
 but not so far away either as not to have heard part, if not the 
 whole, of the conversation between himself and her master. Mr. 
 Gervoise beckoned her mysteriously out on the landing. With 
 little alacrity, Mrs. Scot obeyed the signal, and followed him to 
 the head of the staircase. 
 
 "Mrs. Scot," whispered Mr. Gervoise, "who is that new 
 heir?" 
 
 " He's dead, sir ; it is the child." 
 
 " A minor — a ward in chancery, I suppose. Mrs. Scot, take 
 a friend's advice ; secure your position — secure your position, I 
 say." 
 
 " It's thirty pounds a-year, sir ; I know it already." 
 
 " Thirty pounds a-year for your long and faithful services ! 
 I must interfere, Mrs. Scott." 
 
 " Then you'll make it twenty, sir," very drily replied Mrs. 
 Scot. " That's Mr. Carnoosie's way." * 
 
 Mr. Gervoise raised his hands, and went down-stairs in mute 
 indignation, whilst Mrs. Scot went back to her master. 
 
 " Mrs. Scot," he said, feebly, " what did Mr. Gervoise say 
 to you?" 
 
 " He said you looked but poorly, sir. I told him it was the 
 fretting." 
 
 " You call it fretting. Oh ! it is not that, Mrs. Scot. It is 
 moaning and grieving one's very life away. It is sleeping, 
 waking, and living in sorrow." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; that is what I call fretting." 
 
 Mrs. Scot's voice, as she said this, was harsh and cold, and 
 very different indeed from Mr. Gervoise's soft and sympathetic 
 " very sad ! " 
 
 " But he has boys," thought Mr. Carnoosie ; " two boys, and 
 she has none ; a cold, heartless, childless woman ! " * 
 
 Such as she was, however, he could not do without her pres- 
 ence. There had been a time when that presence had been 
 pleasant to him, for another motive than hatred of solitude ; a 
 time when both were young, and the stern housekeeper was not 
 vrithout her share of beauty. In those days Mrs. Scot had had 
 ambitious dreams, doomed to cruel disappointment. Her master 
 
BEATRICE. 27 
 
 had proved faithless, and married a girl of his own rank and 
 station ; a handsome girl, who gave him two sons, and died in 
 her bloom. Still more deeply was Mrs. Scot's revenge to be 
 worked out. The two boys perished in one fatal accident, and 
 their father never recovered the blow. Decrepit before his time, 
 he wandered about his deserted mansion a living sorrow. Dis- 
 ease soon stepped in and seized him, and he had now come to 
 London to make his will, and dispose of that property which was 
 not to go down to children of his blood. Ay, truly Mrs. Scot 
 was avenged ; but the vengeance, not unwished for, perhaps, 
 though unsought, cost her dear. Thirty pounds a-year for youth 
 and beauty, a hope and half a lifetime ; * such was her present 
 value in the eyes of that master who once had followed her as 
 her shadow. If, as they sat thus together in the dreary room 
 of the London house, he thought her cold and heartless, what did 
 she think him ? 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Curiosity was one of Mrs. Gordon's venial sins. The next 
 morning she could not resist the temptation of telling Mr. Ger- 
 voise that cook had seen him down in Kensington. On principle, 
 Mr. Gervoise never told his business to any one. He accordingly- 
 put on a look of great surprise, and said that cook must have 
 been mistaken — ^he hoped so at least ; for, as he was not in Ken- 
 sington, he should really feel alarmed at having been seen there — , 
 it would look like second sight, and could only be the forerunner 
 of disaster or death. Mrs. Gordon shuddered, and begged he 
 would not mention it. 
 
 No more was said on the subject, and after breakfast Mr. 
 Gervoise went out. This time he did not say where he was 
 going, so that cook should have no tales to tell ; but as caution 
 is practical wisdom, Mr. Gervoise took a brisk walk near Hol- 
 land House, then slipped down a silent and lonely lane, and 
 finally entered Plough Lane, and found himself near a group of 
 small, mean dwellings. He singled out one which was rather 
 meaner than the rest. It had a most untidy garden in front, and 
 a dirty parlour window, in which hung a bill of " Mangling 
 Done," and near it another bill with " A Room to Let" upon it ; 
 and above this two first-floor windows adorned with ragged 
 curtains. At the door of this promising abode Mr. Gervoise 
 stopped and rang ; a voice within cried out, " Never mind, Mrs. 
 Smith, I'll attend to the door," and the words were scarcely 
 uttered, when a fresh-coloured and very pretty young woman 
 opened the door, and stood before Mr. Gervoise, with a baby in 
 her arms, and two rosy children peeping at the stranger from * 
 behind their mother's skirts. Mr. Gervoise gave the baby a 
 keen look, then he surveyed the mother from head to foot ; then 
 he said, in his grand way : 
 
 " Madam, I come to pay you some money which I owe your 
 husband." 
 
 " Perhaps you'll not mind walking up-stairs, sir," civilly said 
 
BEATEICK 29 
 
 the young woman ; and she showed him up a dark staircase into 
 one of the front rooms. 
 
 It was poorly furnished, and Mr. Gervoise's quick eye at 
 once caught sight of a working man's jacket hanging on a peg 
 behind the door ; but resolutely turning his back to it as well as 
 to the baby's cradle, he took out his purse, and said : 
 
 " The amount is thirty-two shillings. Will you be kind 
 enough to give me a receipt, madam ? " 
 
 " My husband had better do that when he comes in," replied 
 the young woman. 
 
 " When he comes in ! — do you mean to say, madam, that he 
 has returned from Australia?" 
 
 Every drop of blood seemed to forsake the young woman's 
 cheeks. 
 
 " He's dead, sir," she faltered at length. 
 
 " Dead ! How long has he been dead, pray?" 
 
 " Two years, sir." 
 
 " I heard from him six months ago," said Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 Stupor and despair appeared in the poor young thing's face. 
 
 " You don't mean to say you are married again ? " cried Mr. 
 Gervoise, suddenly struck with the fact. 
 
 "Don't ruin me, sir!" she entreated, "don't! indeed I 
 thought he was dead — indeed I did ! " 
 
 " My dear young creature," kindly said Mr. Gervoise, " I 
 have not the least wish to ruin you ; only, after giving myself a 
 world of trouble to find you out, I perceive I cannot pay this 
 thirty-two shillings to you." 
 
 So saying, Mr. Gervoise put his purse in his pocket. 
 
 " But what am I to do, sir?" asked the young woman, look- 
 ing thoroughly bewildered ; " what am I to do ?" 
 
 " It is awkward," replied Mr. Gervoise ; " the diggings are 
 awkward. They take and swallow men up, and either keep 
 them altogether, or turn them up at the wrong time. It is very 
 awkward, and I am sure Mr. Carnoosie, through whom I got 
 your direction, is too humane and too judicious to torment you 
 on this subject." 
 
 ^ "And what right has he to torment me?" cried the young 
 woman, flushing up. " I married a gentleman, and I paid dear 
 for it. I was deserted with a poor baby in arms, and if it were 
 not for my present husband, both my child and myself might 
 have starved. What did Mr. Carnoosie ever do for me that he 
 should torment me now ? " 
 
 " I am afraid he has the right," quietly said Mr. Gervoise ; 
 
30 BEATEICE. 
 
 " but I do not think he has the inclination. May I ask your 
 present husband's name?" 
 
 " Grant, sir. I am not ashamed of it. Thomas Grant, 
 carpenter, and a better husband never was. As fond of my 
 children as if they were his own." 
 
 " Very touching, very ; and, after all, matters may not be 
 so' bad, you know. The wrong one may die, and so on. Shall 
 I call again, if I get more positive news — for he may be dead 
 now, you know?" 
 
 The young woman looked scared, then mistrustful. 
 
 " I don't want to know anything, sir," she said ; "he left me 
 to shift for myself, and he's dead according to all accounts, and 
 I'll believe him dead till I know him living : and I am another 
 man's wife " 
 
 " Excuse me," interrupted Mr. Gervoise, " you are no man's 
 wife, unless your husband was dead at the time you married Mr. 
 Grant." 
 
 " And pray, sir, what is it all to you, and what do you come 
 here prying into my business for?" asked Mrs. Grant, who 
 seemed to have a warm temper. 
 
 " I came, Mrs. Grant, to pay you certain moneys which I 
 owe to your husband, and if you will kindly give me proof of his 
 death, I will do so this instant. I mean," continued Mr. Ger- 
 voise, taking out his purse again, " genuine proof, not hearsay 
 proof. A burial certificate for instance. Whether he died be- 
 fore or after your second marriage is nothing to me, Mrs. 
 Grant." 
 
 " I will have nothing to do with his debts," bitterly said the 
 young woman. " He married me, he forsook me. I have done 
 without his money whilst he was alive, and I will do without it 
 now that he is dead." 
 
 " If he is dead," suggested Mr. Gervoise, pocketing his purse 
 once more. 
 
 " He must be dead, and he is dead ! " angrily said the young 
 woman. 
 
 Her tone and her looks were both getting harsh and inhospi- 
 table. Mr. Gervoise took the hint, and thought it more prudent 
 to go. 
 
 " I have the honour to wish you a good morning, madam," 
 he said, in his grand way ; and opening the door, he walked 
 down-stairs unaccompanied, and opened the street door for 
 himself. As he closed it, he looked shrewdly at the bill in the 
 window. 
 
BEATEICE. 31 
 
 " A room to let," he tliought ; " there will soon be two rooms 
 to let, or I am greatly mistaken." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise walked down to the end of Plough Lane, hailed 
 an empty cab that was passing, and was driven to the old house 
 in Great Ormond Street. This time it was Mrs. Scot who ad- 
 mitted him. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Scot, and how are we to-day?" asked Mr. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 " Poorly, sir." 
 
 "And low?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, sir, we are always low." 
 
 Mrs. Scot spoke briefly. She was evidently not inclined for 
 conversation, and Mr. Gervoise prudently avoided pressing her. 
 Softly he went up the staircase, and very softly he entered Mr. 
 Camoosie's room. The old man sat bending over the fire, with 
 his hands on his knees, in the same attitude as on the preceding 
 evening ; but when he looked up, Mr. Gervoise could see that 
 Mr. Camoosie's mood was no longer the same. He looked irri- 
 table and sharp. 
 
 " Glad to see you, Mr. Gervoise," he said, but no token of 
 gladness appeared on his pale face. 
 
 " And I am glad to see you looking so well," replied Mr. 
 Gervoise, taking a chair, and drawing near him. 
 
 " Well ! I am looking well ! Well with the grief that is in 
 me!" 
 
 " Ah ! true — ^very sad ! " 
 
 " It is more than sad ; but your boys are alive and well, you 
 can't feel it." 
 
 " I have lost two wives," feelingly said Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " And I would have lost ten rather than one of these boys ; 
 and they are both gone, both of them, and what was to be theirs 
 must go to strangers." 
 
 " That is a melancholy reflection," remarked Mr. Gervoise ; 
 but he said no more. 
 
 " WeU," said Mr. Carnoosie, after awhile. 
 
 " Well, I have this morning seen the future mistress of Car- 
 noosie. A pretty little girl ! " 
 
 "And who told you? — ^how do you kn^«v she v^iU be the 
 mistress of Carnoosie ?" 
 
 " My dear sir, did you not say " 
 
 " No, sir, I did not. I will have no girls in Carnoosie. I 
 have told you so again and again, and it is about the boy I want 
 to hear." 
 
32 BEATEICE. 
 
 " I saw a sickly child ; but the little girl is like her mother, 
 and that mother is a very pretty young woman." 
 
 "But low," said Carnoosie, with a groan, "low. Poor 
 Joseph degraded himself by that match ; no man should ever 
 marry beneath him." 
 
 " Very true. However, the remembrance of that marriage 
 seems by no means pleasant to the young thing. By-the-bye, 
 the letter you gave me must have been written some time." 
 
 " Yes, two or three years, I think. It was forgotten at my 
 solicitor's." 
 
 " Just so. Now, don't be angry with the poor little thing — 
 promise you will not, Mr. Carnoosie." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Why, because she is married again — that is all." 
 
 " Married again ! — and to whom?" 
 
 " To an excellent young fellow, Thomas Grant, a carpenter. 
 There is a baby, too, and a fine baby." 
 
 Mr. Carnoosie raised two despairing hands. 
 
 "Poor Carnoosie!" he said, "is that your fate? But it 
 shall not be — it cannot be ! No, Joseph's child shall not bring 
 such a family as that to Carnoosie." 
 
 " Mr. Mortimer will certainly do better," quietly said Mr. 
 Gcrvoise. 
 
 " Mortimer ! — ^the Radical ! — ^the penny-a-liner, sir ! — never, 
 sir!" 
 
 The old man's pale face was flushed with anger. Mr. Ger- 
 voise, who was watching him curiously from behind his glasses, 
 remained silent. 
 
 " I never liked Gordon," resumed Mr. Carnoosie, " and yet 
 it must be Gordon. He is well off, a gentleman, no Radical. 
 Yes, it must be Gordon. You say he has boys, Mr. Gervoise?" 
 
 " Three, I understand." 
 
 " I hope he may keep them," said the old man, with a deep, 
 sad sigh. 
 
 " The worst is, that he is out of town," observed Mr. Ger- 
 voise. 
 
 "Who told you I wanted to see him?" irefully asked Mr. 
 Carnoosie. " Do you think I want my heir to be hanging about 
 me, fawning upon me, and wondering all the time how long the 
 old man will last?" 
 
 " My dear sir," expostulated Mr. Gervoise, " human nature 
 is not so perverse." 
 
 " I tell you, Mr. Gervoise, you are too simple, and I doubt 
 
BEATEIOE. 6d 
 
 if I have acted wisely in choosing you for a trustee. You do 
 not know the world, sir ; and above all, you do not know human 
 nature. Why, I remember now, that letter in your hand has not 
 been written more than a year, so that little widow was actually 
 married again when she wrote to me for money. I tell you, sir, 
 that Gordon, though in no need of Carnoosie, not being a poor 
 man, always coveted it, and must covet it still in his heart ; and 
 I tell you that I should hate to see him, and know that he is 
 longing for my death. I should hate, sir, to see him sitting in 
 that chair as you are sitting now, and looking at me as you look 
 at me, thinking all the time, ' Will the old wretch never die ? ' " 
 
 " I do not know much of Mr. Gordon," said Mr. Gervoise ; 
 " but I protest that I think him incapable " 
 
 " Don't ! " interrupted Mr. Carnoosie, with every token of 
 impatience, " don't, or you will make me do the last thing I want 
 to do — ^you will make me laugh ! " 
 
 " Not for the world !" promptly said Mr. (jrervoise ; " not for 
 the world ! " 
 
 And indeed it would have been too dreary to hear that sad 
 old man burst out into ghastly merriment at Mr. Gervoise's sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 " Ay ! it must be Gordon after all — that cold, sly Gordon, 
 whom I never Uked. But Carnoosie must go to the old blood. 
 My branch of the tree is blasted for ever — another, fresher and 
 newer, may yet bear fruit." 
 
 It was Mr. Carnoosie who spoke. Poor old man ! It was 
 indeed a living death to sit in the old London house and specu- 
 late on the heirship of Carnoosie. 
 
 "Are you going?" he asked, seeing Mr. Gervoise look at 
 his watch. 
 
 " Yes, I must leave you. I have an appointment in the City. 
 Is there anything I can do for you ? " 
 
 " No, thank you — I must think over all that." 
 
 He held out his thin cold hand to Mr. Gervoise, who gave it 
 a tender pat and an affectionate shake, and left him. This time 
 Mrs. Scot was not sitting in the outer room. Mr. Gervoise 
 looked for her in the parlour, without success. There was no 
 one below, save John, and with him Mr. Gervoise had no wish 
 to speak. 
 
 " Mrs. Scot was keeping out of the way," thought Mr. Ger- 
 voise ; " that looks bad." 
 
 It may be that Mrs. Scot was keeping out of the way. At 
 all events she was up-stairs sewing in a very bare room on the 
 2* 
 
34 ' BEATEICE. 
 
 second floor, and on hearing the street door shut she looked out 
 of the window. It was Mr. Gervoise who was walking along 
 the pavement ; the coast was clear. Mrs. Scot closed the window, 
 folded up her work, and went down to her master. He wanted 
 her — ^he generally did want her when some one had just left 
 him. Mistrust and weakness struggled in Mr. Carnoosie's mind. 
 Weakness made him cling to strength wherever he found it, and 
 mistrust made him fear his own subserviency. He thus fre- 
 quently vacillated in his purposes, not so much because he could 
 not keep his mind fixed on one object, as because he was con- 
 scious of being unduly influenced by whomsoever came near him. 
 No sooner therefore was Mr. Gervoise gone and did Mrs. Scot 
 appear, than fearful of having allowed Mr. Gervoise too much 
 of his own way, Mr. Camoosie said to his housekeeper, 
 * " Mrs. Scot." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Do you know Plough Lane, Kensington?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " But you could find it out." 
 
 " I dare say I could." 
 
 " Well, then, I want you to go there at once, please, and see a 
 Mrs. Grant, a carpenter's wife — this is her direction. Take and 
 keep that letter, and read it if you like, Mrs. Scot, I have no 
 secrets from you. Besides, I want you to find out Mrs, Grant. 
 Do you know who she is?" 
 
 " No sir." 
 
 " She is Master Joseph's widow. You remember Master 
 Joseph?" 
 
 " No, sir, I never saw him." 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure. Well, she is his widow, as I said. Find 
 her out, Mrs. Scot, talk to her on some woman's pretence, and 
 tell me all about her, and her children, when you come back." 
 
 " Am I to go now, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Scot, do go now, if you please. I am sick and 
 weary of it all." 
 
 Without uttering a word of comment, Mrs. Scot left the 
 room, went up to her own apartment on the second floor, put on 
 a plain black bonnet and a plain black shawl, and at once left the 
 house on her errand. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mrs. Scot liked a walk, so she walked from Great Ormond 
 Street to Plough Laue. Once there, she had little difficulty in 
 finding out Mrs. Grant's abode, and still less in finding out Mi*s. 
 Grant herself. 
 
 Mrs. Grant was in the scullery washing, and on being called 
 by her landlady, she came out wiping on an old apron a pair of 
 strong white arms covered with soapsuds. She gave Mrs. Scot 
 an inquiring look, which Mrs. Scot answered by saying: — 
 
 " Is your husband at home, ma'am?" 
 
 " No, ma'am, he is out at work." 
 
 "Will he be in soon?" 
 
 " Not till evening, ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Scot looked disappointed, and supposed she must call 
 again. Mrs. Grant suggested that if her husband was wanted 
 for a job, he would call on the lady. But the lady did not ac- 
 cede to this proposal ; she was seldom within, she said, and still 
 she wanted to see Mr. Grant. Now, as she spoke Mrs. Scot 
 allowed her subtle black eyes to wander very searchingly over 
 Mrs. Grant's face and person, and to rest with marked attention 
 on the child, a boy, who had sat down on the last step of the 
 staircase to watch the strange lady. The inexplicable yet uner- 
 ring feminine instinct told Mrs. Grant that the woman who stood 
 before her had come with no friendly purpose. At once she con- 
 nected her visit with Mr. Gervoise's, and became alarmed and 
 mistrustful. Her changing colour and frightened looks betrayed 
 her. Mrs. Scot was conscious of the impression she produced, 
 and she promptly sought to know why her presence made Mrs. 
 Grant uneasy. 
 
 She shot a random arrow, and it went home. 
 
 " I believe Mr. Grant is your second husband, ma'am?" she 
 said. 
 
 " No, ma'am, he is not," shortly replied Mrs. Grant. 
 
 " Then I am afraid you cannot be the person I was looking 
 for," said Mrs. Scot. 
 
36 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Perhaps not, ma'am." 
 
 " I was looking for a widow whose husband died in Australia, 
 and, as I owed him a trifle " 
 
 " It's not me, ma'am," interrupted Mrs. Grant, on whom 
 this pretence, identical with that which Mr. Gervoise had framed, 
 produced a most unfavourable impression. 
 
 " But, perhaps, you could help me to find out that person," 
 plausibly said Mrs. Scot. 
 
 " No, ma'am, I know no one about here. Perhaps Mrs. 
 Smith can tell you," and Mrs. Grant, seeming to consider the 
 matter settled, walked back to the scullery and to the washing- 
 tub. Mrs. Scot could easily have taxed her with the letter in 
 her pocket, but she saw no necessity for doing so ; her mind was 
 made up, and so was her report, and without even taking the 
 trouble of questioning Mrs. Smith, who evidently could tell her 
 nothing, or Mrs. Grant would not have referred to her, she 
 opened the street-door and let herself out. 
 
 She had not walked ten steps from the house when she met 
 a handsome young man with a bag of tools coming towards her. 
 
 " That must be the husband," thought Mrs. Scot, and she 
 stopped short, resolved to question him. 
 
 " Are you Thomas Grant?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, I am," he briskly replied. 
 
 " All the doors at our house are out of repair — can you set 
 them right?" 
 
 " I daresay I can, ma'am," he said smiling at the* question. 
 
 Mrs. Scot tore a leaf out of her pocket-book, on which her 
 address was written, and gave it to him. 
 
 " Can you come to me next Thursday at eight o'clock?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " No, ma'am ; will not Friday do ? " 
 
 " "Well, perhaps it will. You have got children, have you 
 not?" 
 
 " Only a baby, ma'am." 
 
 " Whose, then, is the little boy I saw at your house?" 
 
 " My wife's by her first husband." 
 
 " He's a pretty little fellow," said Mrs. Scot, as if to explain 
 the question. 
 
 " He is, ma'am." 
 
 " And like you, too." 
 
 The young man laughed good-humouredly. 
 
 " Mind you don't forget Friday," said Mrs. Scot ; and giving 
 him a nod, she walked away. 
 
BEATEICE. 37 
 
 She had come by Bayswater, but she went away by Ken- 
 sington. "When she got to Campden Hill she stood still to think. 
 There were but few houses then along that pretty lane, and the 
 spot where Mrs. Scot stood was perfectly solitary. She was ab- 
 sorbed in thought, and did not feel a drizzling rain falling around 
 her, till she was aware of a large umbrella being extended over 
 her bonnet, whilst a courteous voice said, 
 
 " I beg you will accept of this, Mrs. Scot." 
 
 Mrs. Scot looked round. It was Mr. Gervoise who spoke, 
 and it was Mr. Gervoise's silk umbrella which now protected 
 her from the rain. They exchanged glances, searching, keen, 
 and mistrustful ; then Mr. Gervoise smiled and said, 
 
 " Shall we walk down the lane, Mrs. Scot?" 
 
 " I am robbing you of your umbrella, sir." 
 
 " Oh ! not at all. Besides, you would not have me forsake a 
 lady in distress, would you? " 
 
 Now, it so happened that, though Mrs. Scot would willingly 
 have dispensed with Mr. Gervoise's escort, yet, as she had a 
 new bonnet on, she could not, without being untrue to every 
 feminine instinct, decline it, so they walked down the quiet lane 
 side by side. 
 
 " I have a strong impression, madam," said Mr. Gervoise, 
 " that we were both bent on the same errand. I wished to have 
 another talk with poor Mrs. Grant, and I believe you have been 
 with her." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I have," replied Mrs. Scot. 
 / Concealment was useless, and might have been unadvisable. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Scot," confidentially said Mr. Gervoise, " what 
 do you think of that poor lady ? " 
 
 " I don't think much about her, sir." 
 
 « Oh ! ah ! indeed ! " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked as thoughtful as if Mrs. Scot had ut- 
 tered a profound reply, over which he felt bound to meditate. 
 Then he resumed ; 
 
 " Did you see her husband ? " 
 
 "Which, sir?" 
 
 " Which ! — ^the living one, to be sure." 
 
 " Are you sure the first is dead, sir ? " said Mrs. Scot, look- 
 ing hard at him. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked amazed. 
 
 "•Sure of it? Why, Mrs. Scot, Mrs. Grant has married 
 again ; surely that is proof." 
 
 " I don't think it is any proof." 
 
38 BEATKICE. 
 
 " Mrs. Scot? — ^I cannot have understood you rightly." 
 
 But Mrs. Scot assured him that he had. Mr. Gervoise was 
 a good man ; he could not believe in the depravity Mrs. Scot 
 suggested, so he took a charitable view of the subject, and hinted 
 that if Mrs. Grant really had any doubts concerning her first 
 husband's death, she had never really and legally married the 
 second. 
 
 " Let us think they were never married, Mrs. Scot ; I like 
 that better." 
 
 Mrs. Scot did not answer. She rarely gave her opinion, 
 even when asked for it, and of course never when it was not di- 
 rectly solicited. 
 
 " Well, I may be mistaken," said Mr. Gervoise, after a 
 pause ; " but still, Mrs. Scot, is it not awful to think of that 
 poor, uneducated Mrs. Grant, and her husband, a common work- 
 ing man, lording it in Carnoosie ? " 
 
 Still Mrs. Scot did not answer. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise sighed. 
 
 " Ah ! Mrs. Scot," he said, " I am afraid of you — I am." 
 
 " Afraid, sir ! — ^what for ? " 
 
 " You are so — ^how shall I say it? — so impenetrable." 
 
 Mrs. Scot smiled grimly. She appreciated the praise. 
 
 " And yet it would be so easy," suggested Mr. Gervoise ; 
 " we have the same objects in view — ^we mean all for the best. 
 I put it to you, Mrs. Scot, will these Grants do ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about the Gordon's sir." 
 
 " Then you shall know everything about them, Mrs. Scot. 
 Mr. Gordon is a delightful man, and he would appreciate and 
 value you highly." 
 
 " New people don't like old faces, sir." 
 
 " Mrs. Scot, shall I pledge my word?" 
 
 " If Mr. Gordon will give me a written promise." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Scot, suppose you were to drop it, and Mr. 
 Carnoosie to find it. No — ^no, you must trust to me, or " 
 
 Here Mr. Gervoise paused to take off his hat to a stylish- 
 looking lady, whose carriage was slowly driving up the lane, 
 and who returned his courteous bow with a gracious smile. It 
 was a trifle, but it decided a graver matter, and settled a debate 
 in Mrs. Scot's mind. Mr. Gervoise held the umbrella over her 
 bonnet with one hand, and with the other took off the hat from 
 his handsome head to bow to the lady, thus linking her, the 
 housekeeper of Carnoosie, with the tenant of the carriage. It 
 was a trifle, but it was of a keeping with his whole bearing. 
 
BEATRICE. 39 
 
 Mr. Gervoise had fine manners, grand manners, which suited 
 his stately person, and which he bestowed on all womankind. 
 To men he was by no means so liberal, and he was certainly 
 more courteous to Mrs. Scot than to her master. Now, hard 
 and withered as was Mrs. Scot's heart, the word woman was 
 not erased from it yet. She was not woman in gentleness, in 
 feeling, in kindliness, but she was woman in her sensitiveness to 
 the neglects and slights that are woman's lot, when her fading 
 beauty is not guarded by rank or by money. So she was grate- 
 ful in her way to almost the only man from whom she had re- 
 ceived a graceful act of courtesy for the last ten years. 
 
 " What was I saying?" said Mr. Gervoise, perceiving they 
 had reached the end of the lane. 
 
 "You were talking of Mr. Gordon, sir," replied Mrs. Scot, 
 turning back. 
 
 " Ay ! to be sure, of Mr. Gordon. Well, his wife is a mere 
 baby, and will require your guidance, Mrs. Scot. Indeed, this 
 is a point about which I need not argue. Camoosie cannot do 
 without you, you know." 
 
 Mrs. Scot seemed to meditate. Then suddenly raising her 
 subtle black eyes to Mr. Gervoise, she said briefly : 
 
 " I should like to see those Gordons." 
 
 " Very natural, but they are travelling." 
 
 Mrs. Scot walked on a few steps, then put a concise but com- 
 prehensive question. 
 
 "What are they like?" 
 
 " The Gordons ? — oh ! to be sure ! Well, Mr. Gordon is tall, 
 and fair, and pale ; a man of forty or so — very amiable. Mrs. 
 Gordon very amiable too ; a little dark woman — very languid. 
 The three boys are fine, high-spirited lads ; and that is really all 
 I know about them, Mrs. Scot." 
 
 Mrs. Scot seemed to think that was not much, but she 
 merely said : 
 
 " Mr. Carnoosie shall decide, sir." 
 
 " Just so, but you can help him to see his way. He thinks 
 highly of you, Mrs. Scot." 
 
 Mrs. Scot knew nothing about that, but she allowed Mr. 
 Gervoise to lead her up and down the lane, and talk to her in his 
 grand, courteous, persuasive way ; and matters were progressing 
 very much to Mr. Gervoise's satisfaction, when Gilbert and 
 Beatrice turned a corner of the lane, and came running hand-in- 
 hand towards them. Now, Mrs. Scot merely knew that Mr. 
 Gervoise had chambers in Gray's Inn ; of his Kensington abode 
 
4:0 BEATRICE. 
 
 she had no suspicion ; she thought the chambers sufficient to his 
 wants, and was far from imagining that he could feel lonely in 
 them, and require the society of Mrs. Gordon and Beatrice. 
 With some surprise she saw that these children knew him, and 
 with a look of mingled inquiry and mistrust, she gazed down in 
 Beatrice's little dark face. 
 
 " Good morning, little ones," airily said Mr. Gervoise. 
 " Take care of the child, Gilbert," and, waving his hand to them, 
 he walked on. 
 
 " I have seen that face before," said Mrs. Scot, looking after 
 Beatrice, who was looking after her. " I have seen it in Car- 
 noosie." 
 
 " No, my dear madam, you have not ; that child was bom in 
 Spain, and has not been three months in England." 
 
 " I did not say I had seen the child, I said I had seen her 
 face." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise raised his eyeSrows, and smiled ; but though 
 Mrs. Scot looked hard at him, she could detect nothing like em- 
 barrassment or confusion, or guilt of any kind, in his handsome 
 face. 
 
 So they resumed their conversation, and walked up and down 
 the lane, till, coming once more to the end, Mrs. Scot hailed an 
 omnibus, and parted from Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 She soon reached Great Ormond Street. At the street door 
 of her master's house she met his lawyer coming out, and she 
 guessed what his errand had been. Up-stairs she found Mr. 
 Carnoosie leaning back in his chair, and looking very pale and 
 exhausted. So he had been making his-will in her absence ; he 
 had sent her on a fool's errand after all. With more contempt 
 than displeasure Mrs. Scot watched that feeble face, and with a 
 scornful smile she thought how she was going to undo all Mr. 
 Carnoosie's secret work. But though she came forward, she let 
 him speak first. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Scot?" he said, inquiringly. 
 
 " Well, sir, I saw Mrs. Grant." 
 
 "And the boy?" 
 
 " I saw a boy." 
 
 " Which, Mrs. Scot. You know she is married again? " 
 
 " I don't know about that, sir ; according to her account she 
 never had but one husband, the living one." 
 
 " Why, surely — surely she was Joseph's wife ! " cried Mr. 
 Carnoosie. 
 
 " Well, sir, I do not say she was not ; but I saw a little boy, 
 
BEATEICE. 41 
 
 who is very like Mr. Grant — ^blue eyes, fair hair — ^his very 
 image." 
 
 Perplexity and dismay appeared on Mr. Carnoosie's counte- 
 nance, and he asked : 
 
 " Did you see that Mr. Grant, then?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I met him. He is to come next Friday and set- 
 tle the doors." 
 
 " And is the child his chHd, Mrs. Scot?" 
 
 " He says not, sir." 
 
 Mr. Carnoosie long remained silent. That Mr. Grant's 
 child might not be his dead cousin's, had never occurred to him 
 before. Now he felt grievous doubts on the subject. What if 
 Mrs. Scot's evident suspicion were founded on truth ! What if 
 he had been running the fearful risk of bestowing his ancestral 
 Carnoosie on Thomas Grant, the carpenter's child ! Oh ! what 
 a mockery on the plans of a lifetime ! Mrs. Scot watched him, 
 wondering how it would end. At length Mr. Carnoosie sighed 
 deeply, and raised his head, which had been sunk on his breast. 
 
 " Mrs. Scot," he said, handing her his keys, " open the 
 second drawer of that bureau, if you please, and take out a sheet 
 of foolscap tied with red tape." 
 
 Mrs. Scot obeyed slowly and methodically ; when Mr. Car- 
 noosie held the paper he had asked for, he quietly thrust it into 
 the fire, and said drearily, 
 
 " There, you have lost Carnoosie, my little one." 
 
 " Just so," thought Mrs. Scot ; " and if your mother had kept 
 a civil tongue in her head, it might have done her some good." 
 And not without satisfaction, Mrs. Scot remembered the pretty 
 face and the white arms glistening with soap-suds ; and as she 
 saw the paper burning, she felt that she had her revenge. But 
 Mr. Carnoosie looked and felt sorely troubled. He had, after 
 much hesitation and doubt, made his will, and the ink with which 
 it was written was scarcely dry, when he destroyed it. And now 
 he must leave his property to that Gordon after all, and it was 
 all to begin over again. Mrs. Scot watched him with a cool, 
 sarcastic glance, and again waited till he spoke. 
 
 " Mrs. Scot," he said at length. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " I think I shall send for Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 " Very well, sir." 
 
 " I think he is a good man, Mrs. Scot." He gave her an 
 appealing look, which said : " Let me have that comfort, Mrs. 
 Scot. Let me cling to that, if you please." 
 
4:2 BEATRICE. 
 
 Now Mrs. Scot no doubt thought Mr. Gervoise a good man, 
 but no doubt she also thought two good men better than one, for 
 her slow reply was : . 
 
 " He is, sir ; and so is Mr. Raby." 
 
 " Mr. Raby ! what Mr. Raby ? " 
 
 " The one that you were trustee for, sir." 
 
 Mr. Carnoosie did not answer, but looked deeply perplexed. 
 He knew Mrs. Scot's meaning, and the vista it opened was be- 
 wildering. What should he do? On what should he decide? 
 His head ached, he felt miserable and distressed. It was very 
 dreadful all this toil of thought. Ah ! if his boys, if those two 
 fine, noble boys of his had been living ! 
 
 "And how are we this afternoon?" asked a pleasant voice. 
 "How are we?" 
 
 Mrs. Scot started and looked round from her master's 
 chair. It was Mr. Gervoise, bland, handsome, and smiling. 
 Had he overheard any thing ? Nothing in his pleasant face be- 
 trayed that he had. Mrs. Scot softly withdrew, while Mr. Car- 
 noosie said, with some eagerness : 
 
 " I am glad to see you — I wanted you — sit down — ^give me 
 pen and ink, I am going to have done with it." 
 
 " Very right — very right ! " said Mr. Gervoise, looking hard 
 at a piece of half-burned foolscap in the fender. " Get rid of it 
 by all means." 
 
 " I have given up the boy in Plough Lane." 
 . " Excuse me," interrupted Mr. Gervoise, " I feel a strong 
 draught." 
 
 He rose and closed the door, and the draught being stiU too 
 strong, he drew and unfolded a tall japanned screen around Mr. 
 Carnoosie's chair and his own. 
 
 " Now," he said, briskly, " I think we are all right." 
 
 " I have given up the boy in Plough Lane," said Mr. Car- 
 noosie. " But I must see Gordon." 
 
 " He is on the Continent, I believe." 
 
 "With his boys?" 
 
 " With his boys." 
 
 "And suppose they are drowned or killed?" 
 
 " I would advise you to provide against the contingency." 
 
 " And suppose you die suddenly? " 
 
 " What am I to say, my dear sir ? " 
 
 " I do not want you to say any thing, Mr. Gervoise ; I only 
 mean to warn you that I mean to have a second trustee." 
 
BEATEIOE. 4:3 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked thoughtM ; perhaps the vision of a sud- 
 den death held forth to him was not pleasant ; he said at length, 
 
 " Very wise, my dear sir, very ; of course another trustee in 
 the event of my sudden decease is the very thing." 
 
 " No, that is not my meaning. We will have another trus- 
 tee during your lifetime, and so if one dies the other remains." 
 
 " Extremely judicious," calmly said Mr. Gervoise ; " but may 
 I ask with whom I am to act — I need not tell you it may make 
 a difference to me." 
 
 "You would not draw back, Gervoise, would you? — ^you 
 would not draw back?" 
 
 " My dear sir, I told you from the first — " 
 
 " Yes, but you will not draw back," implored Mr. Camoosie. 
 " It is only an old friend of mine, Mr. Raby ; you have heard 
 me speak of Mr. Raby ? " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked thoughtful. No, he could not say he 
 remembered. 
 
 " I was one of his trustees," continued Mr. Camoosie ; "for 
 he was an orphan ; and a world of trouble I had, so he cannot 
 say me nay." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise still looked very thoughtful. " I must think 
 over this, Mr. Camoosie," he said ; " it is a very serious matter. 
 Your heir may die before he comes into possession ; then there 
 will be minors of course, and a long and serious responsibility 
 to be shared with this Mr. Raby. I assure you I must think 
 over it." 
 
 Mr. Carnoosie looked irritable and distressed. 
 
 " It is enough to make one die," he said, peevishly, " to hear 
 so much about one's death beforehand. Coming into possession, 
 minors and trustees, I am sick of the whole of it, Mr. Gervoise, 
 and I don't know why I make a will at all. I do believe it was 
 you first put it into my head." 
 
 " Then, my dear sir, allow me, as a matter of delicacy, to 
 withdraw altogether. You can have Mr. Raby, and you can 
 easily find some other friend; in short," said Mr. Gervoise, 
 rising, " we shall both be better pleased. Not a word — 1 am 
 not offended ; not at all." 
 
 Mr. Carnoosie rose too, and, clinging to his chair for sup- 
 port, he said eagerly, " You won't desert me — ^you can't desert 
 me, Mr. Gervoise. I am not sure of Mr. Raby. I do not even 
 know where he is. Let that rest, Mr. Gervoise, let that rest." 
 
 " Let it rest," kindly said Mr. Gervoise ; " and now," he 
 added, dipping a pen in ink, and drawing a sheet of paper to- 
 
44: BEATEICE. 
 
 wards him, " shall I just put down a few of the items for you. 
 ' To Richard Gordon, or, if the said Richard Gordon should die 
 before coming into possession, to his issue,' is not that it?" 
 
 " Yes, I hate the man ; but he is of the old stock, after all. 
 Well, what are you in a brown study for?" 
 
 " I am thinking of the extraordinary shrewdness and perspi- 
 cuity you display, my dear sir, in thus disposing of the estate ; 
 but will you allow me to suggest something to you?" 
 
 Mr. Carnoosie nodded. 
 
 " You have provided for the event of Mr. Gordon's death — 
 would it not be wise and proper to allow his widow, if he should 
 leave one, a jointure?" 
 
 " I shall see about that." 
 
 "Allow me also to put a question concerning my share in 
 this matter. My trust is at an end if Mr. Gordon survives you ; 
 but suppose he does not, am I to be trustee for his children — and 
 suppose they die, am I to be trustee for their children — and sup- 
 they die — " 
 
 "Pll have no more of that," passionately interrupted Mr. 
 Carnoosie. " Do you want to make a churchyard of the room, 
 that you go on so ? " 
 
 " My dear sir, it is business — only business." 
 
 " Take that paper with you to a lawyer, and get it drawn up, 
 and bring it to me to sign, and let me hear no more of it," said 
 Mr. Carnoosie plaintively. " All I want is to have it over." 
 
 "So do I, for your sake." 
 
 " I wish it were all over," continued ]VIr. Carnoosie, " and, 
 Mr. Gervoise*, I should like to see Mr. Gordon after all. Do 
 you think we could manage it ? " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise hesitated. 
 
 " Why, yes, with time," he said at length. 
 
 "You are sure?" 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked at him and smiled. 
 
 Yes, he was quite sure. 
 
 " Well, then, leave me, please ; come round with the lawyer 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 He looked so feeble and exhausted that Mr. Gervoise would 
 have liked to come round with the lawyer this same evening, and 
 part of his fears he communicated to Mrs. Scot when he found 
 her in the outer room. She did not share his apprehensions, 
 though she promised to sit up with her master that night. Mr; 
 Gervoise also thought it more prudent to spend the night in his 
 chambers, and not return to Kensington. 
 
BEATRICE. 45 
 
 Early the next morning lie came round with a lawyer. Mr. 
 Camoosie though weak was collected, and equal to the task of 
 dictating his will. Mr. Gervoise scrupulously abstained from 
 interfering, and read the paper whilst the business went on. 
 When it was over, however, he consented to take charge of the 
 document. 
 
 " And long may it be before I surrender it," he said with a 
 benevolent smile ; " long may it be ! " 
 
 " You'll let me have a copy of it," feebly said Mr. Camoosie. 
 
 " By all means, my dear sir, by all means. Are you going 
 home soon?" 
 
 " To-day." 
 
 "I shall see you off," said Mr. Gervoise, patting his hand. 
 " I shall see you off." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The old house in Great Ormond Street was shut up, and for 
 some reason or other Mr. and Mrs. Grant had left Plough Lane ; 
 but Rosemary Cottage was gay and prosperous, and happy ; Mr. 
 Gervoise was grand and courteous, Mrs. Gordon was very lively, 
 and Gilbert and Beatrice were insepafrable. 
 
 There stood in the back parlour of Rosemary Cottage a vast 
 and deep arm-chair in which they delighted, fior the excellent 
 reason that it held them both. Gilbert got in first, then Beatrice 
 climbed up, and if the chair was not wide enough, why could she 
 not sit or trample upon Gilbert ? 
 
 Some love passages were enacted in that chair, and some 
 battles too. Indeed, the battles generally came first, and the 
 love passages followed. In both Beatrice was chief actor. She 
 was impetuous, but she was also fond ; and if, PaUas-like, she 
 had pulled the fair and fiowing locks of her young Achilles rather 
 too energetically, she was prompt to make amends with an em- 
 brace and a kiss, which was more than Minerva did. Mrs. 
 Gordon sometimes wondered that Mr. Gervoise kept his elder 
 son at home to romp and play with Beatrice, but that gentleman 
 replying that his great object was to make Gilbert learn English, 
 and that he could not do so more pleasantly and more easily than 
 by enjoying her daughter's society, Mrs. Gordon was satisfied, 
 and in her anxiety to please her boarder, forbore to send 
 Beatrice to school. Thus the arm-chair in the back parlour was 
 rarely empty, for the weather was wet, and out-door exercise 
 objectionable. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise remained a good deal at home, and he bestowed 
 a considerable share of his society on Mrs. Gordon in the front 
 parlour. She became accustomed to it, and when he happened 
 to leave her she missed him very much. She missed him ex- 
 ceedingly one dull and dreary afternoon. He had been gone 
 since the morning, and the day wore on, and stiU he was not 
 coming back. Such a day, too, as it was ! Sleet turning into 
 
BEATEICE. 4Y 
 
 snow ! What kept him out so long ! — ^business ; but what busi- 
 ness? Was he rich? she wondered. From that thought she 
 went to another, until she came back to the first : what kept him 
 out so long ? 
 
 In the meanwhile, Gilbert and Beatrice were deep in the arm- 
 chair and deep in conversation, half real and half dreamy, accord- 
 ing to the way of children. They had had a terrible game of 
 romping, and felt tired. At least Gilbert leaned back in the 
 chair, shut his eyes, let his arms hang loosely, stretched his legs, 
 and professed himself exhausted. 
 
 "Are you?" asked Beatrice with concern. 
 
 " Oh ! very — I am quite faint." 
 
 Through his half-shut eyes he-saw her bending over him ; she 
 too was in the chair, and when she was close to him he suddenly 
 seized her, and, with a shout of triumph, attempted to kiss her. 
 Now Beatrice had a very feminine instinct ; she would kiss 
 Gilbert, but would never let Gilbert kiss her if she could help it. 
 This was well known to Mr. Gervoise's son, and, albeit not more 
 aifectionate than boys are, he took infinite pleasure in rousing 
 Beatrice's indignation and shrill screams on that score. The 
 contest generally ended with the magnanimous declaration on 
 his part, " Now, Beatrice, do not be sUly, as if I wanted to kiss 
 you ! " And indeed satisfied with having had the pleasure of 
 teazing her, Gilbert generally released his enemy when he was 
 on the brink of victory. The present instance proved no excep- 
 tion to the rule. Gilbert seeing that tears of vexation stood in 
 Beatrice's dark eyes, suddenly let her go, and said good-humour- 
 edly, 
 
 " Oh, you ninny ! don't you know that I never do it? Why, 
 it is never I who kiss you, Beatrice — ^it is always you who kiss 
 me." 
 
 Beatrice checked her tears and laughed, nestled close to Gil- 
 bert with perfect confidence, and whispered in his ear, 
 
 " Tell me a story." 
 
 " I have not one left." 
 
 "Do, Gilbert ; there's a dear." 
 
 But Gilbert was obdurate. Then Beatrice asked him to 
 tell her about VervHle and its Chateau, which was also his birth- 
 place. This request Gilbert complied with to the best of his 
 power. 
 
 " I should like to see it," dreamily said Beatrice ; " but I am 
 afraid to cross the sea." 
 
 " You little goose, I shall put you on my back and carry you 
 over ! " 
 
48 BEATRICE. 
 
 This suggestion tickled them both amazingly ; for it proved 
 that Gilbert's legs must be very long, also that Beatrice must be 
 careful of her skirts, and many other entertaining fancies of the 
 kind, each of which provoked long bursts of laughter. 
 
 " Has it four fountains?" suddenly asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Four fountains ! no, why should it?" 
 
 Beatrice did not answer. A red-brick mansion rose before 
 her ; majestic trees and four fountains with waters bright and 
 sparkling as liquid diamonds, completed the picture. She seemed 
 rapt in her dream, and Gilbert looked at her with some wonder. 
 Young as he was, he often felt that Beatrice was not a child like 
 any other child. Her language, her fancies, and her looks were 
 often beyond her years. Just now, with her dark rapt eyes and 
 her red lips parted, she had an elfish aspect, which puzzled his 
 companion. 
 
 " Well," he said, pinching her, " what are you thinking 
 about?" 
 
 Beatrice turned slowly round and looked at him earnestly ; 
 then she laid her cheek to his, and whispered softly, 
 
 " I like you, Gilbert, but I don't like " 
 
 " Hold your tongue," interrupted Gilbert, turning crimson, 
 " how dare you say it ! " 
 
 For he knew to whom Beatrice's declaration of dislike refer- 
 red. His blue eyes and his kind face both wore a meaning of 
 such severity that Beatrice was abashed. 
 
 " Why will you say those things ? " asked Gilbert softening 
 down to a tone of mild remonstrance. 
 
 " He's in the next room," she whispered. 
 
 " My father — nonsense ! " 
 
 But Beatrice's hearing was keen, and she again declared that 
 Mr. Gervoise was in the next room. Gilbert would not believe 
 her ; an argument followed, and, to put aur end to it, Gilbert 
 rose and abruptly opened the door which separated the two par- 
 lours. Beatrice was right ; Mr. Gervoise was there and, what 
 was more, it was evident from his attitude that father and son 
 had been engaged pretty much in the same fashion, with the 
 difference which lies between fourteen and forty, and between 
 jest and earnest ; for Mrs. Gordon was leaning back on the sofa 
 with a blush on her cheek ; and Mr. Gervoise was kissing her 
 fair hand with a look of very tender devotion. 
 
 He quickly turned round on hearing the door open; and 
 seeing Gilbert, who stared amazed on the threshold of the room, 
 and behind him Beatrice, who stared with all the might of her 
 
BEATRICE. 4:9 
 
 black eyes, lie rose, and without relinqnisliing Mrs. Gordon's 
 hand, said sweetly, 
 
 " My love." 
 
 Beatrice came forward, and looked at them with a dim fore- 
 shadowing of the truth — ^not in its actual reality indeed, but in 
 its terror. 
 
 " Come, my dear Beatrice," said her guardian, beckoning 
 the child to approach ; " your affectionate mother has something 
 to tell you." 
 
 " I cannot, I cannot, Mr. Gervoise !" hysterically cried Mrs. 
 Gordon ; " do not ask me to do it ! " 
 
 " No, my love — I shall do it for you. Gilbert- — ^Beatrice," 
 said Mr. Gervoise, standing in the middle of the parlour, and 
 expanding both his hands as he looked at the astonished children, 
 " you have each got a new parent. In a few days Mrs. Gordon 
 will become Mrs. Gervoise." 
 
 Despair, rage, and grief filled Beatrice's poor little heart as 
 she heard him. She looked at him, then at her mother, who 
 was leaning back on the sofa, hiding her face in her hands ; then 
 at Gilbert, who stood mute and astonished. She vaguely felt his 
 love was the only love left to her now, and to him she flew, 
 throwing her arms around him, clinging to him, and sobbing 
 passionately. 
 
 " My dear," said Mr. Gervoise, " I think you had better 
 remove the child. Gilbert, take her into the next room." 
 
 Beatrice, still sobbing piteously, allowed Gilbert to lead her 
 to the back parlour. Mrs. Gordon followed them out. 
 
 "Beatrice, what ails you?" asked the poor lady, trying to 
 be severe, and speaking with involuntary, fondness. 
 
 Beatrice's sobs were only broken by a few passionate words — 
 
 " Poor — dear — ^poor papa !" 
 
 Mrs. Gordon, who was bending over her, drew back as if 
 she had been struck. Injudiciously, though most sincerely, had 
 she often told Beatrice that she would never marry again. Never 
 would she replace that dear lost angel. Not a month ago she 
 had told her so, and now she had promised to become another 
 man's wife ! Instead of reproving Beatrice, she began to cry ; 
 whilst the child, still hiding her head against Gilbert's breast, 
 sobbed passionately. 
 
 Poor little Beatrice ! this is your second great sorrow. The 
 
 first came on that evening, more than a year ago, when the 
 
 father, whom you kissed as he slept, left you for six feet of earth 
 
 in Kensal Green, and never wakened to smile on his child again. 
 
 3 
 
50 BEATEIOE. 
 
 The second great grief is on you now. The mother whom you 
 have loved with such fond, though childish affection, ha? put you 
 by for that hated Frenchman. You nursed her up in her little 
 selfishness, you were her little housemaid, Beatrice ; you slaved 
 like a woman, whilst she cried like a child on the sofa ; but it is 
 in the destiny of love that some must ever give and rarely get ; 
 that some receive much and return little, and thus early that** 
 destiny is yours. A few flattering words, the pressure of a hand, 
 three or four looks of those fine blue eyes, the subtle hope of 
 living in idleness, with nothing to do, with servants to wait upon 
 her, with fine clothes to wear — ^these were mightier in your 
 mother's frail heart than your childish devotion. And it is this 
 you feel, though you know it not, and are too ignorant to analyze 
 your feelings. It is this makes you cry out, " Poor papa ! dear 
 papa ! " Happy are the dead ! Their sins are forgotten or 
 atoned for. Their love and their virtues alone are remembered. 
 They stand safe and smiling on the shores of the other world, 
 beyond the reach of the heart's reproach or blame in this. 
 
 But though bitter was Beatrice's grief, she heard her mother 
 weeping. She could not resist that appeal for mercy ; she left 
 Grilbert, and turned round to Mrs. Gordon. She clasped her 
 little arms around her mother's neck, and kissed her eagerly. 
 Mrs. Gordon sighed, dried her tears, wiped away Beatrice's, 
 asked if she were good, kissed her again, and finding that she 
 was in a strong fever, gently coaxed her upstairs. 
 
 Beatrice made no resistance. Her mother undressed her, 
 put her in her little cot as if she were a baby once more, and sat 
 with her hand in hers. With the perverse and jealous instinct 
 of childhood, Beatrice long remained awake ; at length, con- 
 quered by fatigue and the violence of her own emotion, she fell 
 asleep. When she awoke it was night, a candle was burning 
 on the table, Mrs. Gordon was gone, and Gilbert was looking at 
 her from the door. Seeing her awake, he came in. Beatrice 
 opened and stretched out her arms to him, and as he came for- 
 ward and bent over her, she clasped him passionately, and 
 again began to weep and sob. He kissed her, unreproved this 
 time, and administered comfort after his own fashion. 
 
 " Why do you fret?" he asked. " We shall be like brother 
 and sister now, and I shall never go away — you were always 
 afraid that I should go away — why are you not glad, then ? " 
 
 Beatrice could not be glad. Nevertheless his words com- 
 forted her. She smiled through her tears, for she loved Gilbert 
 very much, and it was very pleasant to think of being always 
 
BEATRICE. 61 
 
 with him. He said many other kind things which soothed her 
 little vexed heart, and finally he sat down by her and told her a 
 story. Beatrice interrupted him to say : 
 
 '^ You will never go, will you?" 
 
 " Never, of course.'* 
 
 " But if I fall asleep you will go." 
 
 Gilbert smiled, and said he would not. 
 
 " Well, then, give me your hand." 
 
 Gilbert gave his hand to the capricious child, and went on 
 with his tale. Long before he reached the end, Beatrice's deep 
 and regular breathing betrayed that she had fallen asleep once 
 more. But, though Beatrice's little fingers held him but loosely, 
 Gilbert did not do as Mrs. Gordon had done. He stayed by her 
 patiently and faithfully, not merely because he was fond of 
 Beatrice, but because he would not have deceived her even in 
 her sleep. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When Mrs. Gordon came down from Beatrice, she found 
 Mr. Gervoise looking austere, to use the very mildest word. 
 
 " Behold, my love, the result of your injudicious indulgence ! " 
 he said, rather severely. 
 
 Mrs. Gordon gave Mr. Gervoise a surprised look. It seemed 
 odd to be already censured. 
 
 " Mrs. Gordon," said the happy lover, " allow me to ask why 
 the child is in such a way?" 
 
 Mrs. Gordon looked embarrassed. 
 
 " Why, you know," she replied, " Beatrice is an only child, 
 and perhaps it might have been better to wait and prepare her." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked amazed. 
 
 " Wait!— wha,t for?" he asked. 
 
 Mrs. Gordon stared at her future husband, who returned the 
 look with great tranquillity ; upon which the lady took out her 
 pocket-handkerchief and burst into tears. 
 
 " Mrs. Gordon, may I ask to know the meaning of this?" 
 
 Before Mrs. Gordon could answer the question, which Mr. 
 Gervoise put in a tone of all but conjugal authority, the parlour 
 door opened softly, and a lady, tall, pale, and faded, and attired 
 in a heavy black cloak, covered with snow, stood before the 
 astonished pair. 
 
 " I found the street door ajar," she said, hesitatingly, " and 
 so I came in, for it is snowing very fast." 
 
 She spoke in a thick and indistinct voice — ^by no means a 
 pleasing voice. Her appearance was common-place, her attire 
 shabby, poor, and rather untidy. Yet she was a lady, you saw 
 it at a glance. She was, as we said, tall, faded, and pale, and 
 if she had been pretty, it was a long time ago. Beauty was for 
 ever erased from that face, on which sorrow and many cares had 
 left their lines, but which even they could not redeem from the 
 reproach of common-place. 
 
 " It is such a night!" she said, shaking the snow off her 
 
BEATRICE. ^ 53 
 
 cloak on the carpet. " I really must have had a wish to come 
 and see you to venture out." 
 
 " I am sure I am very much obliged to you," stammered 
 Mrs. Gordon. 
 
 She had a vague remembrance of having seen this lady 
 before, but when or where she did not know. 
 
 '* Well, I think you ought to be," said the lady, taking a 
 chair, and sitting down by the blazing fire, to dry her damp 
 clothes. She spoke a little crossly ; perhaps she thought her 
 welcome cool. " Anna would scarcely let me stir, but I said it 
 would be too bad not to come, and so I came." 
 
 " Anna ! " thought Mrs. Gordon, trying to remember. 
 
 " Oh ! dear, what a weary world it is ! " sighed the stranger, 
 half shutting her eyes, and leaning back in her chair, " it has 
 half killed me to come here from Hampstead." 
 
 It was plain this lady thought a great deal of her trouble, 
 and wished to make much of it. But who was she ? Mrs. Gor- 
 don gave Mr. Gervoise an appealing look. 
 
 That gentleman had stood perfectly still and somewhat in the 
 backgrotmd since the stranger had entered the room, and neither 
 Mrs. Gordon nor the lady had minded him. But Beatrice's 
 mother was startled to see with how fixed and how full a glance 
 of his fine blue eyes Mr. Gervoise regarded this intruder. Sud- 
 denly the look changed, a smile passed across his features, and 
 Mrs. Gordon saw him advance toward the stranger with a bland 
 countenance and a courteous bearing. 
 
 " He knows her ! " she thought with rapid jealousy. 
 
 It was plain Mr. Gervoise did know the lady, and as plain 
 too that the lady knew him. She sat up straight in her chair, 
 staring at him with open mouth and eyes, evidently as much 
 amazed to meet him then and there, as Mrs. Gordon had been 
 to see her at all. 
 
 " I believe we have met before, madam," said Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 The stranger replied she believed so. 
 
 " In one of the Midland Counties, I believe?" 
 
 " Yes, it was in one of the Midland Counties.' 
 
 " My love, you must introduce me," said Mr. Gervoise, turn- 
 ing to Mrs. Gordon. " I have had the pleasure of meeting this 
 lady before, but you must introduce me, my love." 
 
 On hearing this endearing epithet the stranger looked be- 
 wildered. 
 
 " Am I to understand — ?" she said, looking from Mr. Ger- 
 voise to Mrs. Gordon, 
 
54 , BEATRICE. 
 
 " Just SO," he blandly replied. " I am now step-father as 
 well as guardian to our dear Beatrice Gordon." 
 
 Blank dismay appeared in the stranger's pale face. It was 
 plain that this marriage was a blow to her. 
 
 Unable to bear this any longer, Mrs. Gordon turned to Mr. 
 Gervoise, and said in her sharpest tones — 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, will you explain?" 
 
 " My dear, will you introduce me?" 
 
 " I think, Mr. Gervoise, you are much better acquainted 
 with this lady than I am." 
 
 " Surely, Louisa, you know me ! " cried the stranger ; 
 " surely you know Ellinor Jameson." 
 
 " No," stammered Mrs. Gordon, staring at her, and seeking 
 in vain for some trace of the blooming past in that faded face. 
 
 Miss Jameson, who had half risen, sighed and sat down 
 again in her chair — sad and subdued. 
 
 " I know I am altered," she said, " and my voice is gone 
 since I had that dreadful sore throat ; but Anna said she was 
 sure you would know me." 
 
 So this was Ellinor Jameson, the belle of the schooL There 
 had been some rivalry and no great liking between them, and 
 Mrs. Gordon could not imagine what brought her from Hamp- 
 stead to Kensington, on this inclement evening. 
 
 " How did you find me out?" she asked. 
 
 " Oh ! I had such a hunt for you ! 1 came from the 
 country." 
 
 Before Mrs. Gordon could put in a word, and she meant to 
 put in a good many, for the purpose of ascertaining why Miss 
 Jameson had been hunting for her, Mr. Gervoise interfered. 
 
 " Have you left Mrs. Herring's, Miss Jameson?" he asked. 
 
 " I have indeed, and it was on leaving " 
 
 " What an unpleasant life you must have had there ! Miss 
 Jameson," compassionately said Mr. Gervoise, sitting down by 
 the lady's side, and suddenly growing confidential. 
 
 Readers ! do you feel at a loss for conversation ? and do you 
 wish to make the other person take the full burden of the talk- 
 ing? Broach the subject of that person's troubles! This in- 
 fallible rule proved good with Miss Jameson, as well as with 
 most of us. 
 
 " A governess never has a very pleasant life," she said with 
 some bitterness, " but Mrs. Herring was too hard to please. She 
 had such a temper, that really I thought sometimes I must go 
 crazy ! If it were not for dear Anna I could not have borne it 
 BO long." 
 
BEATEICE. ^ 55 
 
 '^ A sister, I presume," said Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " My elder by ten years, and an invalid too. She was quite 
 a mother to me when I was a girl, and of course I now bear 
 with a good deal for her sake. However, some one told her 
 how matters stood, so she wrote to me to give up Mrs. Herring 
 at once. I did, and came up to town." 
 
 " But Mrs. Herring was liberal at least," said Mrs. Ger- 
 voise. 
 
 " I earned thirty pounds a year with her." 
 
 " Thirty pounds a year for a lady of your accomplishments ! " 
 cried Mr. Gervoise, indignant and amazed. " Why, Miss Jame- 
 son, I should hold you cheap at eighty pounds a year. All, my 
 love," he added, turning to Mrs. Gordon, " if we could secure 
 Miss Jameson for our darling Beatrice, what a blessing it would 
 be ! " 
 
 If Miss Jameson had not been so faded and so old-looking, 
 Mrs. Gordon's dawning jealousy would have run wild at such a 
 speech from her future husband. Even as it was, she thought 
 him crazy to talk in that way to a worn-out governess of whom 
 he knew nothing ; and securing her for Beatrice was more than 
 absurd — it was cruel to poor Ellinor, who might be so insane as 
 to believe him. Anxious to cut short all such absurdity, and 
 also to know why Miss Jameson, who had not come near her for 
 so many yeaVs, had now sought and foiind her out, Mrs. Gordon 
 said rather pointedly, " Ellinor, what is it you have to tell me? 
 For I am sure you have something to tell me." 
 
 " My dear ! " reprovingly said Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " I tell you, Mr. Gervoise, I knoAv Ellinor has something to 
 tell me — I see it in her face." 
 
 " Do you — let me see it too then." 
 
 And Mr. Gervoise, whose chair was already very close to 
 Miss Jameson's, drew it still closer, and looked hard in her face. 
 In her very eyes he looked, and as these were still fine eyes, 
 Mrs. Gordon's color rose. As to that, so did Miss Jameson's. 
 Her lids fell too ; she looked at the fire, and seemed thoroughly 
 confused. -• 
 
 " I had nothing particular to say," she said at length. 
 
 "Nothing?" incredulously echoed Mrs. Gordon. 
 
 Miss Jameson looked deeply perplexed. She glanced hesitat- 
 ingly at Mr. Gervoise ; he was telling ofii'some imaginary account 
 on his fingers. 
 
 " Did I say eighty pounds a year, Miss Jameson? " he asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Yes, I think you did." 
 
66 BEATEICE. 
 
 " I repeat it again, you are cheap at eighty pounds." 
 
 " I know I never got what I ought to have got," said Miss 
 Jameson. 
 
 " No, you have been shamefully imposed upon ; and indeed 
 allow me to request you neither to advertise nor to answer any 
 advertisement without consulting me." 
 
 Miss Jameson colored with pleasure and excitement, and 
 murmured her thanks. 
 
 " How long have you left the country, ma'am? " asked Mr. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 " A fortnight." 
 
 " And I believe it is about three months since we met there, 
 is it not?" 
 
 He looked at Miss Jameson, who seemed deeply perplexed. 
 
 " Yes, it must be three months," musingly continued Mr. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 " I — I suppose so," she replied in answer to his inquiring 
 look, but she seemed ill at ease. 
 
 " My dear, are we going to have some dinner?" asked Mr. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 Mrs. Gordon trembled with passion. He wanted her to 
 leave the room, and to remain alone with Miss Jameson, but 
 that should not be — no, that it should not. So she merely rang 
 the bell, and when the servant answered it, she gave her orders 
 to the cook at the parlour-door. Now, not a word was spoken 
 whilst her back was turned, but something passed nevertheless, 
 for when she came back she found Miss Jameson looking pale 
 and frightened, and Mr. Gervoise flushed and smiling, 
 
 " I suppose, ma'am," he said, " Mrs. Herring told you I had 
 important business down in the country. I have an English son, 
 you know, and he has lately come into some property in the 
 neighborhood." 
 
 Miss Jameson's lips parted to say something ; but she changed 
 her mind and was silent. 
 
 " I hope we shall soon have dinner, my love," said Mr. Ger- 
 voise, who looked very brisk and cheerful. '' Miss Jameson 
 looks perished with the cold." 
 
 " I think I had better go," said Miss Jameson, " Anna will 
 be anxious." 
 
 " Why should she? She knows you are here." 
 
 It was again Mr. Gervoise who spoke. 
 
 Mrs. Gordon sat cold as marble, and neither looked at nor 
 addressed her visitor. 
 
BEATEICE. 6T 
 
 Nevertheless, Miss Jameson seemed unable to make up her 
 mind to depart — every thing about her betokened confusion and 
 perplexity. She had come in calm and decided, but some spell 
 had fallen over her, and she was now the picture of mental un- 
 easiness. 
 
 " No, I think I had better go," she said again. 
 
 " Do you really? " replied Mr. Gervoise, rising ; " well then, 
 I shall see you to the omnibus. Kensington is a wild place, 
 ma'am." 
 
 Miss Jameson did not decline his escort, but, fastening again 
 her loosened cloak, she went up to Mrs. Gordon, and bade her a 
 hesitating good night. Mrs. Gordon drew herself up, cold, of- 
 fended, and jealous, and said, " Good night. Miss Jameson ; " 
 but she did not add " come again," and, what Miss Jameson 
 felt still more keenly, she never asked after " dear Anna," that 
 poor delicate elder sister, for whom Miss Jameson had been toil- 
 ing all these years. 
 
 A white covering of snow, as yet unsoiled by the feet of pas- 
 sengers, lay on the ground, as Mr. Gervoise and Miss Jameson 
 left the house. The way from Rosemary Cottage to the Ken- 
 sington Road was down a quiet lane with green hedges and 
 gardens on either side. It was quiet in the daytime, and on 
 this evening it was utterly solitary. Mr. Gervoise saw that he 
 could speak safely, and he did so. 
 
 " My dear madam," he began, " let me first assure you that 
 I have no wish to pry into any secret. Whatever may be your 
 •object in calling, I do not wish to know it. Whatever may have 
 passed long ago, it is no business of mine." 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Gervoise," rather earnestly said Miss Jame- 
 son, " you are mistaken, I had no secret to tell — it is anji-hing 
 but a secret." 
 
 " Still, I would rather know it," persisted Mr. Gervoise ; 
 *' and indeed I think it would be better to let Mrs. Gordon's — 
 Mrs. Gervoise's mind, I mean, remain quiet. I did admire 
 your discretion and reserve this evening ; I can see you are a 
 prudent person, Miss Jameson. Poor Mrs. Gervoise is in a 
 most delicate state of health — she must not be excited on any 
 account, either now or at a future time — you understand ? " 
 
 Miss Jameson said she did, and she added, 
 
 " Then you are married?" 
 • . " Privately," replied Mr. Gervoise ; " we are privately mar- 
 ried. With regard to yourself, my dear Miss Jameson, allow 
 me to consider you engaged for my dear Beatrice?" 
 3* 
 
58 BEATEICE. 
 
 " Are you in earnest, Mr. Gervoise?" 
 
 " Quite in earnest." 
 
 " But I cannot believe in it ! " cried poor Miss Jameson, 
 stopping short. *' Oh ! " I have been so unhappy with those 
 Herrings, and all for thirty pounds a year ! " 
 
 " I am sure of it ; and I repeat it, I am in earnest ; and there 
 is a difference between thirty pounds and eighty pounds a year." 
 
 " God bless you ! " gasped Miss Jameson, and she fairly 
 burst into tears. 
 
 She had fasted nearly the whole of that day — she was faint 
 and weary and broken in spirits, and the touch of prosperity was 
 too much for her. Alas ! that magic wand cannot always heal 
 the ills that have preceded its long-deferred advent. 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise will not consent," she said after awhile, re- 
 covering both her self-possession and her sad experience of life ; 
 '* I came in a friendly spirit, the bearer as I thought " 
 
 " Just so," interrupted Mr. Gervoise, who did not want to 
 hear Miss Jameson's errand, even in the solitude of the lane ; 
 "just so — but you must excuse Mrs. Gervoise, How often she 
 has mentioned you affectionately to me — it was quite touching ! " 
 
 " Her welcome was very cool," persisted Miss Jameson ; 
 " she did not know me — she never inquired after poor Anna — 
 she did not tell me to call again." 
 
 " My dear madam," confidentially said Mr. Gervoise, press- 
 ing Miss Jameson's arm against his own, " Mrs. Gervoise is a 
 blessing I do not hope to enjoy long. Her health is gone, her 
 mind is even affected. My dear Miss Jameson, I speak as if 
 you were an old friend. You may believe me — 1 have the high- 
 est medical authority for it— she has an internal complaint — and 
 I married her for the sake of her daughter." 
 
 Miss Jameson gave a little start ; Mr. Gervoise stopped short, 
 astonished at what he had said ; but though a cautious man, he 
 was subject to these unpleasant bursts of frankness. But it was 
 too late to recall the words ; besides an omnibus was passing at 
 the end of the lane, Mr. Gervoise hailed it, saw Miss Jameson 
 in, and watched the vehicle bearing her away. 
 
 " She will just do," he thought, as he turned back to Rose- 
 mary Cottage. 
 
fM 
 
 CHAPTER rX. 
 
 Mr. Geuvoise found Mrs. Gordon waiting for him in silent 
 dignity on the sofa. 
 
 " My dearest love," he said, sinking down in the chair Miss 
 Jameson had left vacant, " is not dinner late to-day?" 
 
 Now " my dearest love " surely stands high in the language 
 of lover tenderness. It is a superlative applied to a gentle name, 
 and giving it both strength and meaning ; but Mrs. Gordon heard 
 the tender inquiry with ill-concealed resentment. She knew that 
 Mr. Gervoise liked his meals to be punctual, and she felt that 
 " dearest love," was entirely subordinate to " is not dinner late 
 to-day ? " So feeling, too, she could return no gracious answer, 
 she was silent. 
 
 " My love," said Mr. Gervoise, sitting up in his chair, " I 
 am afraid you are not attending to me." 
 
 There was something in Mr. Gervoise's tone that irritated 
 Mrs. Gordon extremely. It implied authority. She looked up at 
 him and replied coldly. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Gervoise, I am attending to you. 
 Dinner is late, as you say. I had it delayed in consequence of 
 your going out with Miss Jameson." 
 
 " You did very well, my dear. A very superior person that 
 Miss Jameson. You will be happy to learn that I have engaged 
 her services for Beatrice. Beatrice wants a governess ; Miss 
 Jameson will do." 
 
 " Without consulting me ! " said Mrs. Gordon with sparkling 
 eyes. 
 
 *' My dearest love, am I not Beatrice's guardian?" 
 
 He spoke with irritating calmness. But he was Beatrice's 
 .guardian indeed, and Mrs. Gordon was wise enough not to pur- 
 sue the argument, to which dinner put an end for the time being. 
 Now, Mr. Gervoise was very particular about dinner. He liked 
 good cookery, and he was not so far anglicized as to admire 
 underdone meat and watery vegetables. 
 
60 BEATEICE. 
 
 " This is not fit to eat," he said, pushing his plate away ; " I 
 must alter that. There is a Monsieur Panel who is now disen- 
 gaged, a chef of the first water. I think I must secure his ser- 
 vices." 
 
 " A man-cook ! " said Mrs. Gordon. 
 
 " Yes, my love, why not? " 
 
 ^' A man-cook ! a governess of eighty pounds a year for 
 Beatrice ! Was Mr. G-ervoise rich then, richer than she had 
 thought ! " Mrs. Gordon was not mercenary, but the thought 
 softened her considerably. If Mr. Gervoise really was so very 
 rich, his affection for her, poor as he knew her to be, was assur- 
 edly generous and disinterested. She forgot Miss Jameson, and 
 only thought and felt that to be the wife of a rich and kind hus- 
 band was a very pleasant thing after all. 
 
 "I suppose Monsieur Panel is very clever?" she said. 
 
 "He is more than clever, he is admirable. A wonderful 
 mai^ — a genius, my dear ! " 
 
 "And you really mean to have him? " 
 
 " Yes, my love. I need not tell you that we are not going 
 to remain at Rosemary Cottage. I am going to take a house in 
 Piccadilly, facing the Green Park. I like Piccadilly, do you ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gordon's head felt in a whirl. 
 
 A house in Piccadilly, a man-cook, a governess ! Then she 
 supposed he meant to keep his carriage. But she did not say 
 so. She said nothing. She was afraid of committing herself 
 by some indiscreet remark, and she would not let Mr. Gervoise 
 suspect her secret satisfaction. But he saw it, nevertheless, for 
 there was very little that escaped his eye, and he half smiled to 
 behold her puerile attempt at concealment. As if he did not 
 know the meaning of the raised colour and the kindling look, 
 and the exulting smile ! 
 
 " My love," said Mr. Gervoise, when the servant had re- 
 moved the cloth, " I am anxious about Beatrice." 
 
 Mrs. Gordon looked uneasy, but said nothing. Mr.- Gervoise 
 pursued : 
 
 " She is a very susceptible child, and it is very plain our 
 marriage pains her. Why grieve her uselessly ? " 
 
 He seemed to expect an answer to this, but Mrs. Gordon 
 gave him none. ^ 
 
 " Why grieve her uselessly, poor little dear," resumed Mr. 
 Gervoise, "by compelling her to behold our wedding, for in- 
 stance? Why not marry quietly and privately one of these 
 days ? It would spare her, poor little love ! " 
 
BEATRICE. 61 
 
 Still Mrs. Gordon did not reply, but Mr. Gervoise could see 
 she was not very averse to this plan. She secretly dreaded 
 Beatrice's stormy tears and entreaties, Mr. Gervoise's sugges- 
 tion afforded a sort of escape. Beatrice riiust submit, once the 
 thing was done. 
 
 " Allow me to argue the matter with you," said Mr. Ger- 
 voise, sitting down by her on the sofa. Mr. Gervoise's line of 
 argument was made up of so many subtle threads that we must 
 not attempt to follow it out ; but what with a journey which 
 he must take the next day, and what with his fear of Beatrice's 
 having a second attack, and what with his amazement to learn 
 that Miss Jameson was not fifty-five, he argued to such purpose 
 ,that he and Mrs. Gordon went out early together the next morn- 
 %^^ing, and that when they came back to breakfast Mrs. Gordon 
 Jjwas no more, and Mrs. Gervoise filled the chair of that defunct 
 ^lady. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast, the happy bridegroom went off 
 ^in a cab, and Mrs. Gervoise rather remorsefully devoted her- 
 self to the unconscious Beatrice. The child was still feverish, 
 ^ and by her half-pettish, half-passionate entreaties, " Don't marry 
 him, mamma, don't," justified the prudence of the course Mr. 
 X^ Gervoise had adopted. 
 
 " Ah ! what a wedding-day ! " thought Mrs. Gervoise, who 
 (N-» felt very much worried. For she remembered another wedding- 
 day very different from this, a day of sunshine and love, when a 
 ' girl of eighteen and a man of twenty-five had thought themselves 
 V*^ blest among their kind. But it was hard, very hard, to think 
 of the first husband on the day when she had taken the second, 
 so Mrs. Gervoise made a desperate effort to forget, and won- 
 dered if Beatrice would get over it, and where Mr. Gervoise 
 was gone to ; but even this latter thought would take no hold on 
 her mind ; still she went back to the little church in Scotland, 
 where she was married, with friends around her, and she con- 
 trasted that bright cheerful ceremony with the morning's dull 
 secret work. " I ought to have known better," she thought rather 
 indignantly ; " why should I be afraid of my own child ! I 
 ought to have got married openly, and not kept it a secret. 
 
 But for all that she kept it a secret still, and though the day 
 passed and night came, she did not tell Beatrice, who got up to 
 dine, but, feeling tired, asked to go to bed again as soon as the 
 meal was over. She was fast asleep, and her mother was sitting 
 by her, thinking again that this was a very dreary wedding-day, 
 when she suddenly heard Mr. Gervoise's voice below. She lis- 
 
62 • BEATRICE. 
 
 tened ; yes, it was he, and he was asking Gilbert where she was. 
 Mrs. Gervoise went down rather flurried and rather surprised, 
 for he was to have been a week away, and found her husband in 
 the parlour, overflowing with smiles and good-humour. 
 
 " You are amazed," he said blandly ; " and so am I — ^but I 
 had not got beyond three stations before I was obliged to turn 
 back, and so, my love, I came straight to you. Do not trouble 
 about me. I had a capital dinner in town. And how is 
 Beatrice ? " 
 
 " Beatrice is much better." 
 
 " Sweet little dear. Have you told her ? " 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 " Just so — just so. I have just told Gilbert, he will break it 
 to her ; and now, my love, I have got something for you." 
 
 He went and sat down by her, and he looked so pleasant and 
 so fond that Mrs. Gervoise, we cannot deny it, expected a 
 diamond at the very least, to be laid on her lap by the happy 
 bridegroom. Mr. Gervoise may have read the meaning of her 
 flushed face ; at all events, he was smiling outright when he took 
 a copy of the Times out of his pocket and laid it before her. 
 Mrs. Gervoise could scarcely conceal her disappointment. 
 
 '' Well, what is that for?" she said a little crossly. 
 
 " Look at the marriages, my dear." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise took the supplement sheet and glanced im- 
 patiently over it ; but even as she looked she turned ghastly pale, 
 and, dropping the paper, gave her husband a scared look. 
 
 " My dear, what is the matter?" he cried with an alarmed 
 start. 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise did not answer, but she clenched her hands, 
 and bit her nether lip. 
 
 " But what is it? " he persisted. " You make me feel quite 
 anxious. My dear love, speak, I entreat you ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise turned to her husband and looked at him with 
 a cold, hard look ; and with a cold, hard, and very bitter voice, 
 she said, whilst her forefinger pointed to the paper on the floor, 
 " Look and see, Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked the picture of astonishment and dismay. 
 
 " My dear, will you explain ? " he began. 
 
 " Look and see," she interrupted harshly, and she drew as 
 far away from him as the length of the sofa allowed. 
 
 Seeing he could extract nothing further from her, Mr. Ger- 
 voise, stiU bewildered and amazed, at length picked up the paper 
 and glanced over it in his turn. To his annoyance, as he said 
 
BEATRICE. 63 
 
 afterwards, he saw neither his name nor Mrs. Gervoise's in the 
 marriage list of the second edition of the Times ; but on a line 
 with that important part of the supplement, he saw a lengthy ad- 
 vertisement, headed, " Kichard Gordon." Mr. Gervoise read 
 it, and so may we : — 
 
 " Richard Gordon, formerly of , in the county of 
 
 , son of James Gordon of , aforesaid, and of Charlotte 
 
 Mary, his wife. Information wanted with regard to the said 
 Richard Gordon. The said Richard Gordon, if now living, is 
 entitled, under the will of the late Mr. Carnoosie, to the manor- 
 house and estate of Carnoosie. If the said Richard Gordon will 
 communicate with the undersigned, he may immediately be put 
 in possession. If he died before the 6th of March, 18 — , leaving 
 issue then living, such issue take the aforesaid manor-house and 
 estate. Information as to the said Richard Gordon (and if dead, 
 as to the place and date of his death, and whether married and 
 left any child, or children) may be communicated to the under- 
 signed, and will be thankfully received. Dated this 21st day of 
 March, 18 — . 
 
 " C. William Corking, 
 
 Solicitor, of . 
 
 W. & B. Sheringhaji, 
 
 Solicitors of ." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed Mr. Gervoise, dropping the 
 paper, " is Mr. Carnoosie dead?" 
 
 " You knew him?" said his wife. 
 
 " Knew him ! I spent a week at Carnoosie with him three 
 months ago. Why, his children must be dead too ! and he had 
 two, poor man ! I am quite shocked ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise twitched her fingers nervously ; but she could 
 not trust herself with speaking. 
 
 " Our dear Beatrice is now a rich woman," said Mr. Ger- 
 voise, with a sigh for the dead and a gentle gleam of satisfaction 
 for the living. " Poor little darling ! " 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, how long have you known this? " asked his 
 wife. 
 
 " Something like five minutes, my dear." 
 
 He looked hard at her from behind his glasses, and his eye 
 said, '' Deny it, if you dare ! " She did not do so. Her eyes 
 sought the carpet. Thoughts of desperate and useless anger 
 might fill hef heart, but did not venture to rise to her lips. 
 
 " I repeat it, Beatrice is a rich woman," emphatically said 
 Mr. Gervoise. " Carnoosie is a noble place. The house is 
 
64 . BEATEICE. 
 
 commodious ; not a palace, you know, my dear, but a large^old 
 English house. The timber is splendid. The wines are first- 
 rate ; the pictures — I hope Mr. Carnoosie has not disposed of 
 them — are choice. It is a noble place ! " 
 
 She looked at him bitterly ; eagerly she read his face. What 
 exultation in that look ! What unctuous satisfaction in that 
 smile ! 
 
 " He married me for this," she thought desperately ; " for the 
 wines, for the house, for the timber, the pictures, and the cook ! 
 He married me for this ! " 
 
 Well, perhaps he did, Mrs. Gervoise. But what have you 
 married him for? For nothing to do, for servants, and fine ap- 
 parel, and comfort, and the rearing of your child. It was a bar- 
 gain ; a sorry one on your part, a capital one on his — the best 
 bargain he ever made. His first marriage, which brought him in 
 the Chateau of Verville for his life ; his second marriage, which 
 gave him a pleasant cottage near Carnoosie during his younger 
 son's minority, were nothing to this. 
 
 "My love," said Mr. Gervoise, seemingly quite unconscious 
 of the turn Mrs. Gervoise' s thoughts were taking, " where is the 
 child — where is our Beatrice ? " 
 
 " In bed," was his wife's short reply. 
 
 "Then we must call her up. Beatrice must come down and 
 learn the news." 
 
 " I think, Mr. Gervoise, the news will keep — ^they have kept 
 some time." 
 
 " My dear, what would Beatrice say later if she learned that I 
 had withheld this precious intelligence even one night? She 
 must come down ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise did not answer. Mr. Gervoise rang the bell, 
 and gave his directions to the maid who answered it. In a few 
 minutes the door opened again, and Beatrice, wrapped in a large 
 plaid shawl, beneath the fringe of which appeared the white edge 
 of her night-dress, scarcely covering her little bare feet, was 
 brought into the room. She lay half awake in the servant's 
 arms, but her dark eyes were bright as diamonds, and her cheeks 
 had a rosy flush. Her little nightcap had got on one side, and 
 her black curls peeped out from under it. The servant put her 
 down on a high chair, and there Beatrice remained solemnly sit- 
 ting, with her feet dangling down, and her dark eyes slowly 
 wakening to intelligence and thought. 
 
 " My love," began Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 "Where is Gilbert?" interrupted Beatrice. "I want Gil- 
 bert." 
 
BEATEICE. 65 
 
 "Mary, tell Gilbert to come directly," promptly said Mr. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 Gilbert, who was reading alone in the back parlour, came out 
 at Mary's bidding, and, with a half-smile, went and stood by 
 Beatrice's chair. 
 
 When the door had closed on the servant-girl, Mr. Gervoise 
 resumed : 
 
 " My love, I have news for you ! Mr. Camoosie is dead. 
 Mr. Carnoosie's children preceded him to the grave — so uncer- 
 tain is human life — and you are now the mistress of the manor- 
 house and estate of Camoosie." 
 
 We are sorry to record it, but to the moral and pathetic part 
 of this speech Beatrice paid little or no attention ; and, so strong 
 and sure a hold does mammon take, even on innocent, youthful 
 minds, her eyes actually sparkled on hearing that she owned the 
 old red house, with the four fountains, and the noble trees, which 
 had haunted her childish dreams. 
 
 " Yes," repeated Mr. Gervoise, with due emphasis, " you, 
 Beatrice Gordon, are the mistress of Camoosie." 
 
 The young queen, whose sovereignty was thus proclaimed, 
 clapped her hands with glee, and jumped down on the carpet. 
 The shawl fell from her, and she stood in her white robe, like 
 any little antique priestess. Her first impulse was a true royal 
 one. 
 
 " Gilbert," she cried impetuously, " what shall I give you?" 
 
 Gilbert laughed. 
 
 " Will you have a tree?" cried Beatrice. " I shall give you 
 the biggest ! " 
 
 " Very touching — very affecting ! " said Mr. Gervoise, 
 " But, bless me ! " he cried, with a start, " that child might take 
 cold. Gilbert, put that shawl around her, and run for her slip- 
 pers ! " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise spoke with unfeigned anxiety. What if that 
 precious child should take cold and cough ! What if the cough 
 should settle on her lungs, and consumption carry her off in her 
 bloom ! Gilbert at once put the shawl around Beatrice, and 
 went for Beatrice's slippers. Now Beatrice had another of the 
 royal instincts — she liked being waited upon. When Gilbert 
 Came back with a pair of warm felt shoes, she gravely held out 
 one foot to be shod, then the other, and Gilbert, kneeling on the 
 floor, as gravely put her shoes on, and tied the strings, demurely 
 looking in Beatrice's face all the time. 
 • " My dear Beatrice," affectionately said Mr. Gervoise, " I 
 
66 BEATEIOE. 
 
 called you up to hear the great tidings, and^now, for the sake of 
 your health, allow me to advise you to go back to bed." 
 
 It was lucky that the advice suited Beatrice, but it so hap- 
 pened that it did suit her, so she made no objection, until Mr. 
 Gervoise added : 
 
 " Mary shall carry you upstairs." 
 
 Upon which, stamping her little feet, Beatrice cried vehe- 
 mently : 
 
 " I will not let Mary carry me up ! Gilbert shall carry me 
 up!" 
 
 " Certainly," said Mr. Gervoise. " Gilbert, carry Miss 
 Gordon upstairs." 
 
 Nothing loth, Gilbert obeyed, and Beatrice went upstairs on 
 his back. 
 
 " My love," said Mr. Gervoise, squeezing his wife's hand, 
 *' I think we may safely predict what the future of these children 
 will be." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise did not answer. She was very pale, and she 
 felt bitterly unhappy. Beatrice's first thought on learning that 
 she was mistress of Carnoosie had not been for her mother, but 
 for Gilbert. She had wounded her child's heart, and uncon- 
 sciously her child's heart was turning from her. Oh I if she had 
 known what she knew now, she would have said "No" at the 
 very foot of the altar. 
 
 If ever morning's work was repented ere the day was done, 
 it was this. 
 
^n 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Mb. Carnoosie*s will surprised everyone, and most of all 
 the two persons who thought themselves best acquainted with 
 its contents. It was exactly like the duplicate in Mr. Gervoise's 
 possession, with the exception of three explanatory codicils, which 
 rather altered some of its main features. By the first of these 
 codicils Mr. Carnoosie appointed Mr. Kaby, who was travelling, 
 poor man, unconscious of his fate, to be Mr. Gervoise's fellow 
 trustee. By the second he revoked Mrs. Gordon's jointure, and 
 every legacy he had made in favour of his servants and depend- 
 ants ; and by the third he tied up the property, and provided for 
 the emergency of Mr. Gordon's decease, and even of the decease 
 of Mr. Gordon's childless issue, in a manner which Mr. Gervoise 
 did not scruple to call arbitrary and foolish. 
 
 The will was so worded, however, that Richard Gordon, and 
 failing him his children, came into the Carnoosie property without 
 opposition ; that Mr. Gervoise's trusteeship was disputed by no 
 one ; and that, as Beatrice's guardian, he resolved to take up his 
 residence in Carnoosie until that young lady became of age ; and 
 as she was now between eight and nine, Mr. Gervoise could be 
 said to have a pretty long lease of a very pleasant abode, and of 
 rather a pleasant life. ^ 
 
 The satisfaction with which the worthy gentleman viewed the 
 subject before him was not shared by Mrs. Scot, now a dependant 
 on his kindness ; and it was with secret wrath antl irritation that 
 this lady sat in her room in Carnoosie waiting for the arrival of 
 her young mistress. 
 
 It was a pleasant room, one of the most comfortable in Car- 
 noosie ; for comfort was the rule of her life, and this room looked 
 made for long hours of laborious repose. The bureau was ample ; 
 here could be kept the accounts of generations of Carnoosies. 
 The heavy window curtains let in the green light from the garden ; 
 it was the best thing no doubt for Mrs. Scot's eyes, fatigued with 
 casting up figures. The high leather chair, with its broad arms, 
 
68 BEATRICE. 
 
 was also the best comforter for a wearied back. The very foot- 
 stool — there was but one — ^looked inviting, as the carpet felt 
 pleasant to the feet ; but though this room had long been hers, 
 and though Mr. Gervoise had written that morning to inform 
 her that it was Miss Beatrice Gordon's pleasure that she should 
 keep her present situation, Mrs. Scot was gloomy and dissatisfied. 
 
 The very best of us find it hard to be cheated and deceived, 
 and Mrs. Scot was by no means one of the best. The late Mr. 
 Carnoosie and her own hopes had deluded her in the past, and 
 shamefully had Mr. Gervoise cheated her in the present. She 
 had not bargained to be his servant. Where was that Mr. Gor- 
 don about whom he had so pertinaciously plagued her master ? 
 It would have been something to be under one of the old stock, 
 and not at the beck of that wily Frenchman who had cunningly 
 married the poor widow. Cordially did Mrs. Scot dislike him 
 for his perfidy, and dislike and contempt mingled in her feel- 
 ings towards the unknown mistress of Carnoosie — a mistress 
 who had not reached her teens ; that was indeed something 
 to boast of ! Ah ! if Mr. Carnoosie could see it from his 
 grave, if he could behold that simple Mr. Gervoise coming 
 down to take possession, and that little chit of a girl lord- 
 ing it in that mansion which he had been so anxious to secure 
 to male blood, what a just judgment it would be upon him in the 
 other world for his falsehood to her in this ! But the other world 
 was one of those subjects about which Mrs. Scot had strong 
 doubts. There are more practical atheists than England deems 
 of in her bosom. They do not trouble themselves about pantheism, 
 and a first cause, and the great mystery that lies at the root of 
 creation ; but they callously deny belief to all the eye sees not, 
 and scorn with cold and bitter scorn the tender and lovely mys- 
 teries of faith. Thus the comfort of thinking Mr. Carnoosie 
 punished after his death was denied to Mrs. Scot, and she was 
 only sure of two things — ^her wrongs, and her hatred of the 
 wronger. 
 
 But, as we say, she sat in her room waiting. Daylight faded 
 from the sky, evening set in, Mrs. Scot's lamp was brought to 
 her, and with it her dinner — Mrs. Scot always dined alone — and 
 still there was no token of Mr. Gervoise's coming. At length, 
 just as her meal was over, carriage wheels were heard along 
 the avenue. Hastily Mrs. Scot went forth, and at the head of 
 the steps, surrounded by the servants of the establishment, she 
 received the travellers. Mr. Gervoise came first, bearing in his 
 arms a precious burden, no less than Beatrice Gordon, fast asleep 
 
BEATRICE. 69 
 
 with fatigue. Near him stood his wife, with a wearied air. 
 Miss Jameson, Gilbert, and two female servants brought up the 
 rear. 
 
 "Your mistress, my friends!" said Mr. Gervoise, in his 
 grand way, thus introducing the sleeping Beatrice to her retain- 
 ers. The retainers, who were of the homely kind, and not much 
 used to introduction of that sort, stared and looked foolish, and 
 were mute. 
 
 "Mrs. Scot, is Miss Gordon's room ready?" asked Mr. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 " It is, sir." 
 
 " Please to lead the way." 
 
 Mrs. Scot took them up-stairs to a room on the first floor. It 
 was a large, stately apartment ; but Mrs. Gervoise thought it 
 dismal, and her heart fell as she entered it. Having carefully 
 deposited the sleeping Beatrice on the very centre of the large, 
 square, four-posted bed, Mr. Gervoise forraally surrendered her 
 to the care of her maid, and to the superintendence of Miss 
 Jameson, and politely requesting his wife to accompany him, he 
 withdrew, merely hinting to Mrs. Scot that she would oblige him 
 by taking care of Gilbert. As they passed arm-in-arm through 
 suites of rooms, grand, but, as Mrs. Gervoise felt, formal and 
 dreary, preceded by a couple of servants bearing lights, Mr. 
 Gervoise's blue eyes lit with triumph, and his footstep had an 
 elastic tread which did not escape his wife's ear. She thought 
 him triumphant, and so he was ; but even she could not know or 
 imagine how that triumph had been reared. She by no means 
 shared his exultation, as they now passed through the rooms of 
 Carnoosie. Mrs. Gervoise was of the middle class, and she had 
 none of the tastes of grandeur. Large houses, wide rooms, a 
 country residence, half frightened, and decidedly wearied her. 
 She disliked Carnoosie from the first, and longed, with the long- 
 ing of one born within the sound of Bow bells, for London, and 
 its theatres, and parties, and pleasures. But as she looked at her 
 husband, she felt the dreary certainty that these were for ever 
 lost to her. Mr. Gervoise was of the middle class too, but he 
 had an ambitious turn. He liked mansions, and the solitary state 
 of a country life ; and he had lost his heart to Carnoosie from 
 the very first moment he had seen it — an old red mansion sur- 
 rounded by majestic trees. 
 
 " My love," he said to his wife, when the servants had shown 
 them to their own apartment, " do you not think that Carnoosie 
 is very fine?" 
 
70 BEATRICE. 
 
 " It is dreary," said Mrs. Gervoise, with a sigh. 
 
 " Dreary ! It is a noble place ! Such pictures ! you must 
 see them to-morrow. The trees, too, and the wines ! My love, 
 let me never hear you call it dreary." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise, who was not sure that she could call her soul 
 her own, did not venture to say a word. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise stretched himself in a vast arm-chair, rang the 
 bell, and asked for a bottle of the old Burgundy — Clos-Vougeot, 
 he took care to inform the servant who transmitted the order to 
 the butler. Presently a bottle of the precious vintage, fit for 
 emperors and kings, was brought up, with a couple of glasses, 
 and a plateful of biscuits. Mr. Gervoise poured himself out a 
 glass of wine, sipped it slowly, and thought : , 
 
 " I have got into Carnoosie ; well and good ! Let the child 
 but live — and she must live — I am sure of the place for twelve 
 good years at the least ; but, indeed, I may say for life ; for, of 
 course, she will marry Gilbert." 
 
 Some have been called wise in their generation — we know 
 when and how. Of these Mr. Gervoise was surely one. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The apple-trees were in full bloom. Every wide-stretching 
 bough was laden with rich thict clustering rosy blossoms. The 
 bright sun of spring, more bright than genial, a sun tempered by 
 cool breezes, filled the green orchard of Carnoosie — green below, 
 for earth had put on her covering of first fresh verdure ; white 
 and pink above, for the fruit-trees were more rich in blossom 
 than in foliage ; a dome of the blue sky inclosed all, and finished 
 the great picture, beautiful and fresh, but beyond the painter's 
 art. Who can paint air and delicious sounds of wakening life, 
 and breezes laden with sweetness, and waving grass, and the first 
 promises of spring, as she comes down to us, her lap full of early 
 flowers, and the hope of a long summer and a wealthy autumn 
 in her mien ! 
 
 Pleasant and wide was the orchard of Carnoosie. The trees 
 met in a long green arcade, ending in a gay vista of the flower- 
 garden, and of red Carnoosie, an old brick mansion, which look- 
 ed gorgeous and Venetian when the setting sun shed a crimson 
 glow athwart its many-windowed front. '^ 
 
 A cheerful dwelling was Carnoosie. There were stately 
 trees in the grounds around it, oaks, elms, and beeches, of mighty 
 size and majestic breadth, that met the adjoining forest, of which 
 they had once formed part, and to which they could still claim 
 kin, for no stain of degeneracy had reached them, but they had 
 been kept at a safe distance from the house. It stood on a rise 
 of ground, surrounded by a broad, cheerful terrace, with a balus- 
 trade and stone vases, and looking over four gay and sunny 
 parterres full of flowers. In the centre of each parterre played 
 a bright fountain, with its waters for ever glancing and dancing 
 in the sun. 
 
 These four un-English, Italian fountains were the great fea- 
 ture of Carnoosie, its distinctive line of separation from any 
 other manorial dwelling far or near. Some people did not like 
 
72 BEATRICE. 
 
 them, and thought that Carnoosie was a bare and desolate hous 
 after all, and perhaps it looked such when you stood close to it^ 
 on a bleak winter's day, with the keen wind blowing stormily 
 around it, or the dull white snow lying in a dreary pall on the 
 four parterres, and icicles clinging to the slender stem rising from 
 the centre of the stone basins ; but in spring time, and seen from 
 the orchard, with the sun shining upon it, the tall trees of the 
 forest forming a background to its bright red walls, and the gay 
 colors of the flowers blending in one harmonious tint, and the 
 white vases gleaming through the blue air, and the clear waters 
 of the fountains dancing up in the morning light, Carnoosie look- 
 ed as cheerful a dwelling as mortal eye ever saw. 
 
 So thought the little mistress of Carnoosie, as she sat at the 
 foot of an old apple-tree, and looked at the house through her 
 half-shut eyes. She had taken possession a week, and been left, 
 with Gilbert, to the care of Miss Jameson, whilst Mr. and Mrs. 
 Gervoise went to Scotland, there to transact some business which 
 the late Richard Gordon had left unfinished. 
 
 The Scotch Gordons were a branch of the Carnoosies, and 
 the Carnoosies had come in with Mary Stuart's son, and given 
 their barbarous Scotch name to the estate with which they had 
 been endowed by a gracious sovereign. There had been an 
 Italian lady in this family. She had entered it in the days when 
 Scottish Mary was young and gay, and had left a real Italian 
 story of jealousy and murder behind her. She died young, but 
 not childless, and long after her death, and when her story was 
 passing ' away, a dark-eyed baby, with a Roman nose, had ap- 
 peared, and grown up into a lovely Juno. From this lady, who 
 became a Mrs. Gordon, Beatrice was descended, and through 
 her she got her black eyes, her laughing face, her teeth of pearl, 
 and, with the beauty of her Italian ancestress, the English pos- 
 sessions of the Scotch Carnoosies ; to wit, the old red house, the 
 flower-garden, the grounds, and several broad and substantial 
 farms, 
 
 It is pleasant to possess, even at the early age of nine, and 
 Beatrice now said to Gilbert, 
 
 " I like Carnoosie — I wish you had a Carnoosie, Gilbert." 
 
 She looked admiringly at the red Venetian walls of her old 
 mansion. 
 
 Gilbert, who was lying on the grass, looked up at the blue 
 sky, so far in real distance, so seemingly near when surrounding 
 objects no longer told him of its remoteness. He had no Car- 
 noosie, as Beatrice called landed property. The old chdteau by 
 
BEATRICE. ^ ,73 
 
 the sea, with its conical turrets and its green court, might never 
 be his, but the broad dome above vi^as his w^herever he went. 
 This was his ancestral domain — wide, beautiful, and blue. 
 
 " I am tired of being here," said Beatrice, starting up ; 
 " take me on your back, Gilbert, and let us go in and look at 
 the rooms." 
 
 " Put your arms round my neck. There you are ! " 
 
 " Yes, and run now — faster, faster, Gilbert ! " 
 
 And Gilbert ran, and thus bore her to Carnoosie, and Beatrice 
 uttered shrill screams of delight all the way. 
 
 Liberty is sweet in childhood, and childhood rarely enjoys it. 
 Family, study, propriety, ever step in and say, " This thou shalt 
 not have," or, " Thou shalt do this." Later, this world's yoke 
 is on us, and we bend to circumstances, and, when fetters are 
 wanting, busily fashion them with our own hands, and wear them 
 with happy complacency. 
 
 This liberty Gilbert and Beatrice enjoyed in its fulness. Mr. 
 Eay, Gilbert's tutor, did not interfere, and Miss Jameson was 
 the most facile and yielding of her race. 
 
 " We must go and tell her to ask Mrs. Scot for the keys," 
 said Beatrice, as they entered the house and went up to Miss 
 Jameson's room. 
 
 Miss Jameson was still the faded lady we saw at Rosemary 
 Cottage, with a look of age and an air of youth. We will not 
 venture to call her an old maid. Some of the signs given by a 
 merciful world to the tribe she lacked ; she was not neat, dog- 
 matic, and uncharitable. Meek, negligent and untidy. Miss 
 Jameson looked like an amiable good-for-nothing lady of ample 
 means. She was fond of dress in a lazy way, and sailed about 
 Carnoosie in robes of light texture and ample trimmings ; or sat 
 in her room smoothing her hair, and reading to the sound of the 
 splashing fountains. Beatrice was indolent, and Miss Jameson 
 was rather more indolent than Beatrice. Besides, Mr. Gervoise 
 had said, 
 
 " Make the child happy — do not tease her about her lessons." 
 
 Miss Jameson, charmed at the prospect- of long days of peace, 
 had looked at Mr. Gervoise with admiring eyes, and praised his 
 suggestion. 
 
 " It opened her mind to new views on education," she said. 
 
 No doubt it did. Thus Beatrice took a few straggling les- 
 sons, and spent the best part of her time out with Gilbert, whilst 
 Miss Jameson read or took a nap. We are afraid she was nap- 
 ping when the children knocked at her door, for her " Come in " 
 4 
 
74 BEATRICE. 
 
 was drowsy and slow, but, with good-liumoured alacrity, she ac- 
 companied them to the housekeeper's room and preferred their 
 request. 
 
 This was market-day, and Mrs. Scot was always cross on 
 market-day. Besides, two table-cloths were missing, and Mr. 
 Gervoise would hold her answerable for the same ; so, when 
 Miss Jameson told her the children wished to see the rooms, 
 Mrs. Scot said rather sternly, 
 
 " Well, ma'am, what about it?" 
 
 " Well, Beatrice cannot see the rooms unless you let us have 
 the keys, Mrs. Scot. 
 
 Miss Jameson spoke with spirit, for she was a great stickler 
 for her dignity. 
 
 With suspicious suddenness the housekeeper called up a grim 
 smile, and shedding its light on Beatrice, she said, 
 
 " The keys, oh ! to be sure, miss, here they are in the basket. 
 I cannot go with you, but please to mind them." 
 
 " They are my keys," replied Beatrice, snatching up the little 
 basket ; and taking Gilbert's hand, she danced out of the room, 
 followed by Miss Jameson, who swelled and swayed her limp 
 flounces to the fullest extent. 
 
 And now the red light of the declining sun fills the stately 
 drawing-room of Carnoosie, and the children, tired with play, 
 stand in the centre of the apartment. Bright sunbeams steal 
 across the floor, up the faded silk hangings, and light up the 
 black marble mantelpiece, and creep in threads of gold in every 
 cranny. 
 
 The sunlight was warm and bright, but the room had a 
 dreary look. Beatrice forgot it was her room, and crept close 
 to Gilbert, half afraid. The lad was lifting up the white chair 
 covers to see the furniture. It was gold picked with white, and 
 on the backs and seats appeared ladies with the narrowest waists, 
 and gentlemen with the widest coats, walking side by side in 
 faded gardens, and looking at the children with straight bead- 
 like eyes. They were all alike, for the gentle cotemporary of 
 the Georges, who had undertaken this mighty task, had not add- 
 ed the efforts of imagination to her labour. For evermore the 
 same gentlemen and ladies walked in the same gardens, on the 
 backs and seats of all the chairs. 
 
 From this room they passed into the next — madam's closet. 
 They saw two chairs, a spindle-legged table, and a foot-length 
 picture of a dark and stately lady in a ruff and peaked cap, 
 which at once attracted Gilbert's attention. It was not a good 
 
BEATRICE. 76 
 
 painting, and had suffered much from time. Yet there was 
 something in it, that something which in a portrait tells us of the 
 living original in language we cannot mistake. In vain had 
 years deepened into black the sombre varnish, and effaced the 
 bloom of the young cheek, and turned into a dull grey the white- 
 ness of the plump flesh ; the woman from whom the portrait had 
 been painted still looked at you from the canvas, and, as Gilbert 
 felt, looked with Beatrice's eyes. Ay, these were the deep, dark, 
 soft and lustrous eyes of little Beatrice Gordon. This was her 
 Italian lip, too, and her antique profile, and her rich, dark, 
 laughing face, that made one happy to look at. 
 
 Whatever might have been the tragic fate of Beatrice's Italian 
 ancestress, this portrait of her, taken in the bloom of youth and 
 beauty, did not speak of a fatal ending. It overflowed with life 
 and gladness. Such a face might look at you from among the 
 vine leaves of a southern land, laughing and joyous as a Bac- 
 chante's. Yet the natural dignity of the southern races, that 
 dignity free from stiffness, and which is so sweet and winning, 
 appeared in the carriage of the figure, and again reminded Gilbert 
 of little Beatrice. She had that graceful and erect bearing, that 
 charming turn of the neck, that easy possession of her whole 
 being. Gilbert felt this more than he thought it, but he felt it 
 very keenly, and he was turning round to compare the lady with 
 Beatrice, when he caught the irreverent descendant of the dead 
 Italian making faces at her ancestress. 
 
 "How can you be so naughty, Beatrice ? That is your 
 grandmother, I am sure." 
 
 " I don't care," said Beatrice, tossing her curls, and going to 
 the window. 
 
 The waving line of the forest on the sky suggested a new 
 whim. Longingly she looked at it, and she so prayed and 
 coaxed, that Gilbert promised to go and get a fern for her rock- 
 work from that magic region ; but first they should return the 
 keys to Mrs. Scot. Beatrice suggested that she would keep 
 them in her room, but she yielded to Gilbert's reasoning, and 
 once more they sought that dignitary. At once Gilbert asked 
 who was the original of the portrait. 
 
 " The late Mr. Carnoosie always said it was the portrait of 
 an Itahan lady who married into the family in the days of Mary 
 Queen of Scots," replied Mrs. Scot. 
 
 " She is very like Beatrice," said Gilbert. 
 
 " Why, yes, Master Gilbert, she is ; but let us hope there 
 will be no likeness throughout." 
 
Y6 , BEATKICE. 
 
 " Why so ? " he quickly asked. 
 
 " Oh ! because that lady was not very happy, you know, and 
 one can see it in her face, about the mouth — an unlucky mouth, 
 I think." 
 
 And she looked hard at Beatrice, as if to find in her face the 
 sign of misfortune, which the portrait was not there to supply. 
 Beatrice frowned at her as she had frowned at the picture, and 
 uttered an impatient " Come on," which Gilbert obeyed with 
 nervous haste. He was too sensitive and imaginative not to be 
 impressed with Mrs. Scot's remarks, and too shy and proud not 
 to resent them secretly. What business had that stern house- 
 keeper to detect signs of future grief and trouble in the sunny 
 face of her little mistress ? 
 
 " And now you will get me the fern," said Beatrice. 
 
 " You must not come after me, Beatrice." 
 
 "Oh! no." 
 
 A broad but short avenue of trees led from the house to the 
 iron gate that divided Carnoosie from the forest. Through this 
 gate Gilbert went forth, whilst Beatrice looked after him with 
 longing eyes. Through the iron bars she could see the long sol- 
 itary road. The low rays of the sinking sun that lit it in its 
 whole length did not show one living creature along its yellow 
 breadth ; at both ends it closed in plains, bounded by a blue and 
 indistinct horizon. But before Beatrice rose the forest, the 
 wonderful, mysterious forest, through which Carnoosie had been 
 cut in the days gone by, and another part of which met its ex- 
 tensive grounds towards the north. This forest Gilbert was now 
 entering. He turned to look at Beatrice ; then, like any prince 
 or fairy knight, he vanished in its shadowy gloom. She saw him 
 for a while moving amongst the mighty trunks of the ancient 
 trees ; then they seemed to close upon him, and Gilbert was 
 gone. 
 
 The hour was beautiful and quiet. There was not a sound 
 in the air, save of the birds, who twittered and flew about as 
 they prepared for their evening rest. Some perched on a bough, 
 sang very sweetly to their mate and their young, and told once 
 more the wonderful story of love, old as creation, young as life. 
 It was very beautiful, but Gilbert did not come back. The sun 
 sank, a ball of fire and gold, behind the purple horizon, and still 
 he did not return. 
 
 " I wish he would," thought Beatrice, peering anxiously 
 through the iron bars to which she clung with her little hands ; 
 but still time passed, and her young knight was invisible. 
 
BEATRICE. 77 
 
 Beatrice was impetuous, she flew across the road, and, unseen 
 by the keeper at the gate, entered the forest. It was solemn at 
 that hour, dim and grey, with blue mists at the end of every 
 path. The majestic trees, and they were noble amongst their 
 race, spread their vast branches above her head ; but Beatrice 
 loved trees, and we do not fear what we love. She ran, calling 
 out, " Gilbert ! Gilbert ! " 
 
 A shout answered her. She followed his voice, and found 
 him sitting on a felled trunk of a decayed oak. 
 
 " I found you ! " cried Beatrice, " I found you ! " 
 
 " I have sprained my ankle, Beatrice ; I cannot walk ; go 
 and tell them to come for me." 
 
 She thought he was jesting, and when he convinced her that 
 he was not, Beatrice, though ready to cry, turned back obedi- 
 ently. She ran in her haste, and stumbled over roots of trees 
 and branches torn off by recent gales ; but the path, so short on 
 her coming, had lengthened strangely on her return. It was a 
 broad avenue with a patch of sky and a large star, but Beatrice 
 saw neither the gate nor the square front, nor the lighted win- 
 dows of Carnoosie. She stopped short, helpless and frightened, 
 and in her terror called out '' Gilbert ! " 'i Gilbert!" Luckily 
 he heard her. His voice led her back to him once more. With 
 a joyful cry she sprang into his arms, and clung to him, and hid 
 her face against his breast. 
 
 Gilbert was in great pain ; but he did not complain. He 
 held Beatrice fast, and comforted her, and she looked up shyly 
 at the stately trees, and wondered at their heavy nodding boughs. 
 An early morn had risen, and, hanging in the zenith, sent down 
 soft vague rays that silvered many an old trunk on its way. 
 
 " I like trees," said Beatrice suddenly. 
 
 " Why so?" asked Gilbert, struck with her tone. 
 
 But childhood rarely has the gift of putting its feelings into 
 words. Beatrice liked trees with a liking which years were to 
 ripen into a passion, but she could not then say why. She liked 
 their size, their majesty, their shade, vast and cool, and what 
 she had heard of their long life impressed her. Their duration 
 seemed to her a sort of eternity. As the traveller gazes on the 
 cedars of Lebanon, coeval with wise and mighty Solomon and 
 the building of the Temple, so did Beatrice look at the oaks 
 which had flourished a hundred years and more around Carnoo- 
 sie. Mrs. Scot had told her that the oldest amongst them were 
 planted long before Beatrice's great-great-grandfather was born ; 
 and she added the stern information, " and they will be fine oaks 
 
78 BEATRICE. 
 
 Still, Miss, long after you have been buried in the old church 
 with the Carnoosies." 
 
 Beatrice had heard her with awe, and henceforth reverence 
 was added to her love for the kings and princes of the forest. 
 We all have some secret communion with Nature, some fine 
 and subtle link by which we are bound to the great mother. To 
 some it lies in the wild roar of ocean, in long sweeps of brown 
 shore, edged niwith stormy foam, in rocky coast, and scenery 
 pregnant with the sights and sounds of tempest. To others the 
 clear lake, the stream flowing in its bed of sand, the leaping 
 waterfall, are as the heart's desire. To others, again, the forest, 
 solemn, mysterious, full of vague whispers and sweet sounds, 
 the world of wild birds and free creatures that find shelter be- 
 neath its green roof, the realm where noble trees expand, where 
 every rough trunk encloses a mighty life, which every spring 
 renews, and over which ages seem to have no power, to these, 
 we say, trees are the source of a mysterious joy akin to hap-, 
 piness. ,i 
 
 Thus felt Beatrice. She loved trees, she knew not why, but 
 she loved them. No Dryad ever loved them more, and it was 
 partly owing to that love that, on this evening, she felt little fear. 
 Her forest friends were around her. They were very big and 
 mighty, and she felt a very little child near them, but they were 
 friends. Beatrice knew it, and sitting thus, with her hand on 
 Gilbert's shoulder, and her arms clasped around his neck, she 
 felt vaguely happy, and, with the ignorant selfishness of her 
 years, made herself comfortable, whilst poor Gilbert was getting 
 dizzy and faint with the fatigue of his forced attitude and the 
 pain of his swollen foot. 
 
 At length relief came. The sound of a horse's hoofs echoed 
 in the avenue of the forest. Gilbert at once raised his voice and 
 shouted. A pause followed, then the horse was heard approach- 
 ing, and a man's loud and distinct tones asked : 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 Gilbert was going to name himself, but Beatrice forestalled 
 him. 
 
 " I am Beatrice Gordon," she said ; *' the mistress of Car- 
 noosie," she added, with her childish dignity. 
 
 " Eh? " said the stranger's voice, in a tone of sharp surprise, 
 which showed that neither Beatrice's name nor station was un- 
 known to him. 
 
 " I have sprained my ankle, and that is how we are here," 
 quietly observed Gilbert. 
 
BEATEICE. 79 
 
 " Sprained your ankle, have you? " replied the stranger, who 
 was no other than Doctor Rogerson, a young medical man who 
 had recently settled near Carnoosie. "Well, I am the very best 
 person for you then. Let us see ! " 
 
 Dr. Rogerson immediately alighted, and, fastening his horse 
 to a tree, approached the two children. There was light enough 
 for him to see them, and a few questions convinced him of the^ 
 need in which they stood of his assistance. 
 
 " I cannot take you to Carnoosie," he said, " I do not know 
 the forest well enough for that ; but I can take you to my cot- 
 tage, which is close by, attend to you there, and send word to 
 Carnoosie by my man-servant, who knows the road well 
 enough." 
 
 Gilbert thanked him in his quiet way ; and as it was said, 
 so was it done. Doctor Rogerson set the lad on his horse, in 
 the position calculated to give him least pain ; and leading the 
 animal, a meek one enough, by the bridle, he took little Beatrice 
 by the hand that was free, and, thus accompanied, made his way 
 out of the forest. The moon was no longer visible, but all the 
 brighter shone the light that burned in the young doctor's cot- 
 tage ; and, as their approach was heard, the low cottage door 
 flew open, a pale figure appeared on the threshold, whilst a gay 
 young voice asked, in cheerful tones : 
 
 "Edward, is that you?" 
 
 Edward replied that it was himself, and no other, and in a 
 few words explained what had happened. 
 
 " Dear me ! " exclaimed the young voice, with genuine kind- 
 ness in its tones, " how lucky you met them ! " 
 
 " Yes, my dear, it is lucky ; but James must go to Carnoosie 
 at once, and we want a light." 
 
 The young wife flew in, and came out with a candle in her 
 hand. Its light shone on her fresh fair face beaming with gen- 
 tle anxiety. At once she took charge of Beatrice, whilst Doctor 
 Rogerson carried Gilbert in. They passed through a pretty lit- 
 tle sitting-room, with its chintz furniture still in its bridal fresh- 
 ness — ^Doctor Rogerson's honeymoon was scarcely over — and in 
 the next, room, a plainer one, but also newly decorated, Gilbert 
 was put down. Doctor Rogerson carefully placed him in an 
 arm-chair, and at once attended to his swollen foot. 
 
 " You will have to stay quiet for a few weeks," said Doctor 
 Rogerson, shaking his head gravely ; " but I suppose you can 
 bear that?" 
 
 Gilbert replied that he could ; but, on hearing Doctor Roger- 
 
80 BEATEICE. 
 
 son's decree, Beatrice stamped her foot, and vehemently de- 
 clared : 
 
 " Grilbert must not stay quiet ! I will not let him ! He 
 must not ! " 
 
 She spoke with imperious wilfulness. Doctor Rogerson 
 smiled an amused smile, and turned round to pinch Beatrice's 
 cheek ; but he remembered that she was the mistress of Car- 
 noosie, and he did not take the liberty. Indeed, it occurred to 
 him that Mrs. Rogerson ought not to have left that young lady, 
 and, calling her in, he whispered as much. Save that she re- 
 sisted Mrs. Rogerson's attempt to take her from the room, Bea- 
 trice received that lady's attentions with evident pleasure, and 
 when tea was brought in, and the four sat down to it, nothing 
 could exceed the sociability of the little party. 
 
 But it was soon broken up. Scarcely was tea over, when 
 Miss Jameson came in the carriage to fetch the two children. 
 She looked pale and ill with the fright she had had at their dis- 
 appearance, and was more intent on reprimanding Beatrice than 
 on thanking Doctor Rogerson Mrs. Rogerson she scarcely 
 looked at. But Beatrice, little accustomed to reproof from that 
 quarter, only laughed carelessly , and Doctor Rogerson, who 
 gently shook his forefinger at her, laughed too, to Miss Jame- 
 son's great indignation ; moreover, he insisted on accompanying 
 his patient home, notwithstanding the governess's resistance. 
 Sprained ancles, he assured Miss Jameson, were serious affairs, 
 and, gently overruling her, he stepped into the carriage, and 
 drove off to Carnoosie, gracefully waving his hand to his young 
 wife, whose eyes sparkled with pleasure and pride. 
 
 " Quite an adventure," thought Mrs. Rogerson, reentering 
 the cottage in a state of agreeable excitement. " I must sit 
 down and write to Jane at once ! " 
 
 And so she did. The prettily-furnished chintz sitting-room 
 owned a dainty little bureau, which was devoted to Mrs. Roger- 
 son's use. She had been a zealous letter-writer before her mar- 
 riage, as most English young ladies are, and she was too newly 
 married, and had seen as yet too little of the cares of married 
 life, to have lost the gentle habit. So she sat down and wrote 
 to Jane, her favourite sister, and in her prolix, chatting way 
 told her the wonderful story. She headed it " The Babes in 
 the Wood," in italics. It began with a vivid description of the 
 forest, and ended with another description, rather a graphic one, 
 of Miss Jameson, whom she called " an old faded blonde, my 
 dear ! you know what I mean." 
 
 Ay ! Mrs. Rogerson, and so does Time ! Look at yourself 
 
BEATRICE. 81 
 
 now, in the new mirror above the mantel-shelf; your hair is 
 golden, and your cheek is rosy, and you have the reddest of red 
 young lips ; but let a few years pass, and that mirror will tell 
 another tale. Question it not, then ; or if you do, forget how, 
 in the pride and insolence of youth, you passed judgment on 
 poor faded Miss Jameson. 
 
 " Well," continues Mrs. Rogerson's nimble pen, " that old 
 piece of faded blonde steps into the carriage, and actually wants 
 to argue Doctor Rogerson against accompanying her ; but I need 
 not tell you that Doctor Rogerson, who is a rock in professional 
 matters, insisted on going ; and so he drove off in the old family 
 carriage with the Carnoosie arms on the panel." 
 
 As Mrs. Rogerson gave this little finishing touch to the pic- 
 ture, Doctor Rogerson returned, not in the carriage with the 
 Carnoosie arms, however, and entered the room with a cheerful — 
 
 " To whom are you writing, my dear?" 
 
 His wife replied, with a pretty smile, that she was writing 
 to Jane, and, bending over her chair, her huvsband read the un- 
 finished letter. It amused him greatly ; he patted his wife's 
 cheek, and, sitting down by her, began discussing the night's 
 adventure. 
 
 " Very fortunate for us," he remarked. " This cottage took 
 my fancy the moment I saw it. I felt convinced it was just the 
 place for a medical man, and you see, my dear, already a splen- 
 did connexion is opening before us. That lad's brother is our 
 landlord, you know — a minor, and his father married the heiress's 
 mother. Very wealthy people — ^just the thing for me — and with- 
 out seeking, too. No toadying, my love ; all reliance on my 
 own honourable exertions and professional skill." 
 
 " Just so," murmured his wife. 
 
 " I shall always keep up my pride and independence," con- 
 tinued Doctor Rogerson, whose face bore as yet but few tokens 
 of this world's trials ; " with your little fortune and my own few 
 hundreds before us, I hope I can do without currying any man's 
 favour, were he a peer of the realm." 
 
 " I am sure you would not do that to a prince," said his wife. 
 
 She leaned her head on her husband's shoulder, and looked 
 up in his face. He stooped and kissed her fondly. They had 
 loved years, and had been married but a few weeks. Everything 
 was new to them : wedded bliss, life and its trials. Their love 
 was a rock, their honour had not a speck. No pair of butterflies 
 ever went f<1!rth on a May morning with gilded wings less harmed 
 as yet by this world's dust or rain. 
 4* 
 
'■ rnH\ fTT.i, 
 
 , , J- ,,,,, , „ CHAPTEE Xn. , ,„,„„„ ,,,„, ., 
 
 A COUCH in the library was now Gilbert's fate. The library 
 was a large room on the ground floor, full of books, and dimly 
 lighted by three deep windows. Near one of these Gilbert's 
 couch was placed. Thence his eye could rest on the cheerful 
 and sunlit terrace, or wander over the flower garden, with a vista 
 of a green avenue and a white statue beyond. If studiously 
 inclined, Gilbert preferred another prospect — the room aflbrded 
 it — shelves of dark bound books stretched along the walls and 
 rose from the floor to the ceiling, patiently waiting for a friendly 
 hand. Here for several weeks Gilbert received Mr. Ray's 
 lessons, and the restless Beatrice sat by him reading and studying 
 too, to Miss Jameson's surprise. But no sooner was the patient 
 released than the pair returned to the old life, and, faithful to 
 the rule of love. Miss Jameson allowed Beatrice to wander about 
 Carnoosie with Gilbert. 
 
 Thus two months had passed away when we again find the 
 two in the orchard. The flush of dying day dyes with a deeper 
 glow the boughs laden with young fruit ; the grass below is 
 bright and golden, and the warm light lingers around the dark 
 Beatrice and the fair-haired Gilbert as they sit at the foot of the 
 old apple-tree. Suddenly Beatrice, supple and quick as a young 
 panther, makes a spring at Gilbert. A remonstrative " Beatrice ! " 
 does not check her, and most indecorous, unyoungladylike is 
 Beatrice's behaviour. Gilbert is satisfied with the mildest of 
 resistance, and will not be provoked into retaliation ; so that 
 little tyrant Beatrice has it all her own way, until a voice utters 
 a friendly " Well, children," which puts a sudden end to the 
 unequal contest. 
 
 Beatrice started to her feet, and pushed back the curls from 
 her flushed face ; then uttered a cry, and sprung into her mother's 
 arms with a joyful transport. 
 
 " My dear, be calm, do not agitate yourself," ansdously said 
 Mr. Gervoise ; " I think you had better put down the child," he 
 
BEATEICE. 83 
 
 added persuasively. At once, and with prompt obedience, Mrs. 
 Gervoise put away Beatrice, who knit her fine dark eyebrows, 
 and scowled most determinedly at her stepfather, guardian, and 
 trustee. 
 
 " Come and give me a kiss, my love?" he asked, with a 
 gracious smile. 
 
 " I won't !" was Beatrice's sharp and rude reply. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise shook his forefinger at her ; then, turning to 
 his son, he welcomed him affectionately. 
 
 " You are growing quite a man, my dear boy," he said, 
 surveying him with paternal pride ; " and you are studying hard, 
 Mr. Ray tells me. Remember, my dear Gilbert, ever remember 
 that you cannot gratify your father's heart more truly than by 
 improving yourself and becoming a useful and active member of 
 society." 
 
 Gilbert did not answer. He looked very earnestly at his 
 father, then from him to Mrs. Gervoise, whose wistful blue eyes 
 rested on Beatrice. 
 
 " The child has gi*own," she said to her husband. 
 
 " She has ; and she is improved. Perhaps, my dear, you 
 would like to take her by the hand. I think you may do that." 
 
 Beatrice, on hearing this gracious permission, gave her 
 guardian another frown, and, clinging to her mother's skirts, 
 attempted to lead her away ; but Mrs. Gervoise was already too 
 well disciplined to yield, and, indeed, no sooner did Mr. Gervoise 
 hint that she stood in need of rest, than she said with a little 
 nervous start : 
 
 " Go and play, Beatrice." 
 
 Beatrice attempted to resist ; but her once-yielding mother 
 was firm, and dismissed her. Gilbert took Beatrice's hand, and 
 led her away. They went no farther than one of the four foun- 
 tains. Beatrice looked at its falling waters, then flung her arms 
 around Gilbert's neck, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Hush !" he said ; "they can see us." 
 
 "I don't care," angrily replied Beatrice; " Carnoosie is 
 mine." 
 
 Gilbert did not argue with her, but he had his own thoughts. 
 She had never felt the yoke — she was still untamed and uncon- 
 quered ; he had groaned beneath it, and though silenced and 
 outwardly obedient, he was inwardly a rebel — ay, and a greater 
 one than Beatrice ! 
 
 Mr. Gervoise was watching them curiously from within. He 
 was short-sighted, and could not detect Beatrice's tears ; but 
 
84 "^ BEATEICE. 
 
 Beatrice's mother saw them, and sighed behind her husband's 
 chair. Mr. Gervoise turned round and gave her a surprised 
 look. 
 
 " My love," he said, with gentle reproof, " did I not tell you 
 you were tired ? I am sure you feel it." 
 
 " Ye — es," hesitatingly replied Mrs. Gervoise ; " but I should 
 like to see Beatrice again." 
 
 " My love, you can see her to-morrow. Many mothers have 
 not the happiness of seeing their children daily, and I have had 
 thoughts of having our Beatrice educated in France." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise gave her husband a frightened look. He con- 
 tinued : " My tenderness for you restrained me. I hope you ap- 
 preciate my motive ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise murmured that she did. 
 
 " And now, my love, will you go and rest, and send Mrs. 
 Scot to me, please ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise went, and Mr. Gervoise leaned back in his 
 chair, folded his hands, and half shut his eyes. He sat near one 
 of the windows, and the warm western light fell on his face, and 
 it was a handsome face, with fine classical lines. His flowing, 
 fair hair, his large blue eyes, his fine figure, added to his pre- 
 possessing appearance. Mr. Gervoise had also grand, courteous 
 manners, as we know ; yet, as a rule, he was rather feared than 
 loved. We have seen Mrs. Scot grim and sharp, but if we want 
 to see her subdued, let us watch her now as she enters the room. 
 With hesitating step, with restless look, Mrs. Scot walks toward 
 her master ; and Mr. Gervoise, who is watching her through his 
 half-shut eyes, and from behind his glasses, wakes up with a 
 start, and welcomes her courteously, and bids her take a chair, 
 for he has a good deal to say. 
 
 " Mrs. Scot," he suavely began, " Monsieur Panel, who ar- 
 rived yesterday, is henceforth to rule over the kitchen of Car- 
 noosie. The health of Mrs. Gervoise and of our dear little 
 daughter required his presence here, and I commend him to your 
 special care." 
 
 " Very well, sir," grimly replied Mrs. Scot. 
 
 " Please to touch the beU, Mrs. Scot, and to ask for Mon- 
 sieur Panel ; but do not go yet. We must have a little further 
 conversation." 
 
 Mrs. Scot obeyed, and a pale, gentlemanlike-looking man 
 with a moustache soon made his appearance. 
 
 " Monsieur Panel," said Mr. Gervoise, " I want a trifle hj 
 seven. A mere trifle, something strengthening, if you please. 
 What can I have ? " 
 
BEATKICE. 85 
 
 "A consomme, fish, fowlj " 
 
 " That will do. Monsieur Panel. I leave it to you. Noth- 
 ing debilitating, if you please. I look strong, and am delicate ; 
 whereas Mrs. Gervoise, who looks delicate, is very robust. She 
 never touches a morsel between her meals, whereas I must have 
 food frequently. I leave it all to you. Monsieur Panel. Ac- 
 cept my thanks beforehand." 
 
 Monsieur Panel laid his hand on his heart, bowed, and with- 
 drew. 
 
 " I feel quite exhausted," said Mr. Gervoise to Mrs. Scot, 
 " and I have thirteen letters to write to-night. My connection 
 is painfully extensive, but 1 must keep it up, for the dear child's 
 sake; and now, Mrs. Scot, how have matters been going on? 
 How did the servants behave ? " 
 
 " It's no use complaining, sir." 
 
 " How true ! No changes ? " 
 
 " It's no use changing them people, sir." 
 
 " Mrs. Scot, I admire your judgment ! Well, you know my 
 wishes. Let us have a liberal household. Spare no expense, 
 Mrs. Scot. Ah ! .by-the-bye, what do the servants say of me?" 
 
 " Nothing, sir ; I would not allow it." 
 
 " Ah ! just so. And the county. What does the county 
 say of me?" 
 
 " I never leave Camoosie, sir." 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure. Well, that is all, I believe. WiU you 
 kindly send John to me with the key of the gallery ? You need 
 not trouble to bring it yourself, Mrs. Scot." 
 
 Mrs. Scot rose and moved toward the door ; suddenly Mr. 
 Gervoise called her back. 
 
 " How do you think I look, Mrs. Scot?" he asked in a tone 
 of alarm. " A sudden faintness has just come over me. I fear 
 I must look ill. I feel ill." 
 
 " You don't look ill, sir ! " 
 
 "Don't I? And what about Miss Jameson, Mrs. Scot? I 
 thought she looked poorly. I hope I was mistaken ? " 
 
 Vicious animation appeared on Mrs. Scot's face. 
 
 " Miss Jameson oversleeps herself, sir ; nothing else ails her 
 that I know of." 
 
 " Dear me ! I must argue with her. Too much sleep brings 
 on a full habit." 
 
 " She is sleeping now," continued Mrs. Scot. " She is al- 
 ways sleeping." 
 
 " Dangerous and wrong. I shall positively go and find her 
 out. And does my daughter. Miss Gordon, sleep too ? " 
 
86 BEATRICE. 
 
 " No, sir, Miss Beatrice nms wild, rather." 
 
 " She is a delightful little romp, I know — I know. That will 
 do, Mrs. Scot, that will do." 
 
 Thus dismissed, Mrs. Scot left the room. To give whole- 
 some advice, and to give it speedily, was, Mr. Gervoise often 
 said, the true test of a benevolent heart. He lost no time in 
 putting this wise precept into practice, by seeking Miss Jameson 
 at once. He found her in the study, and found her sleeping. 
 She awoke with a confused start, but Mr. Gervoise smiled 
 blandly, and replied : 
 
 " There is nothing like sleep. Miss Jameson. You know 
 what Shakspeare says. Ah ! well, never mind, I have forgotten 
 it. Besides, I come tipon business." 
 
 He drew a chair near hers, and, looking confidential and 
 amiable, he resumed : 
 
 "What about the rule of love? Does Beatrice learn a 
 little?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, a little." 
 
 "I am satisfied. What does she want with superfluous 
 knowledge ? It would be cruel to urge her too much — positively 
 cruel ! And now to the rule of love let us add the scheme of 
 observation. You must know. Miss Jameson, that education is 
 my hobby. I have written a treatise upon it, which I must read 
 to you some day. What day shall it be, Miss Jameson ? " 
 
 " Aay day, I am sure, sir." 
 
 " No, but please mention a day." 
 
 " Will to-morrow do?" 
 
 " Why, no, not to-morrow, I have leases to look at ; but say 
 after to-morrow, at two o'clock. Well, then. Miss Jameson, we 
 must have observation ; you must observe Beatrice from morn- 
 ing till night, and from night till morning." 
 
 " And act on my observations," eagerly put in Miss Jameson. 
 " I understand." 
 
 " Ah! but you see it is my method you are applying; J 
 think you had better report to me, and then I shall be able to 
 guide you." 
 
 Miss Jameson turned red, and was silent. 
 
 " Miss Jameson," asked Mr. Gervoise, with suave austerity, 
 " may I request you to favour me with a reply." 
 
 " I am afraid, sir." 
 
 " You are afraid, madam ! What do you mean by that? " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise's courtesy had all vanished. He spoke in a 
 loud, sharp, high voice, angry and insolent ; a voice that told 
 
BEATRICE. 87 
 
 Miss Jameson of instant and disgraceful dismissal. The eighty 
 pounds a-year, the comforts of Carnoosie, and dear delicate 
 Anna, who depended upon her for support, rushed at once to 
 Miss Jameson's mind. She gave Mr. Gervoise a frightened 
 look, and said hurriedly : 
 
 " I mean, sir, that I am afraid the task is not an easy one 
 with Beatrice ; she is a quick child, and would detect — " Here 
 Miss Jameson paused, at a loss for the right word. 
 
 " Observation," blandly suggested Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Observation, as you say. She would detect observation at 
 once." 
 
 "Well, Miss Jameson, you must be careful — ^you must be 
 careful, ma'am ; but it must be done." 
 
 Miss Jameson sighed and looked piteous, but Mr. Gervoise 
 had too much principle to relent, or allow her to escape. 
 ,. He looked at her fixedly, and said again ; 
 - " It must be done. Miss Jameson." 
 
 " Very well, sir," she replied, submissively. •' As you 
 please. 
 
 " Just so ; and now. Miss Jameson, allow me a question. 
 You have been some weeks in the house. I can see in your 
 face that you are of a strongly observant turn ; your opportuni- 
 ties, too, have been numerous. What do the members of this 
 household say of me ? " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise bent to hear Miss Jameson's reply. She was 
 confounded and startled at the question. Several unpleasant re- 
 marks which she had overheard rushed to her mind, but she 
 could not repeat them, it would affront Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " I am not sensitive," he said blandly. " Speak without 
 fear, Miss Jameson. Besides, I am not too old to learn, and 
 improve myself." 
 
 Although she was a governess, and had been one for twenty 
 years. Miss Jameson was not a clear-headed person. She was 
 apt to confuse many things : she was clear about nothing, least 
 of all about her own motives. Though sluggish and dull, she 
 was so far the creature of impulse that reasoning had nothing to 
 do with her actions. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise's question did not suggest to her that to repeat 
 speeches not intended to be repeated is something very like trea- 
 son. Miss Jameson did not take that view of the subject. She 
 only felt vaguely that she must answer, that she must tell the 
 truth ; and behind these two motives for sincerity she did not see 
 or wish to see a third — her cold but very positive dislike to Mrs. 
 
88 BEATRICE. 
 
 Scot. She became quite lively, and said with an eagerness that 
 gave Mr. Gervoise the clue to her nature : 
 
 " Well, Mr. Gervoise, since you will know the truth, I must 
 tell it to you. Mrs. Scot's language has not been respectful." 
 
 " Tell me all, Miss Jameson ; I am not sensitive." 
 
 " Well, sir, she said you wheedled — I beg your pardon " 
 
 *' Go on. Miss Jameson." 
 
 " The late Mr. Camoosie." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise smiled. 
 
 "Aye, just as she said. Miss Jameson, that you beat 
 Beatrice." 
 
 " I beat Beatrice !" gasped Miss Jameson. 
 
 " I mean slapping. Do not agitate yourself, I do not believe 
 a word of it ; but to be frank, I cannot part with Mrs. Scot ; we 
 must bear with her." 
 
 " I never laid a finger on Miss Gordon ! " cried Miss Jame- 
 son, on the brink of tears. " I never even pushed or shook her 
 — ^never ! " 
 
 " Let us drop the subject — only a little observation in that 
 quarter would render me an invaluable service. Good evening, 
 Miss Jameson ; I think I hear John, and he is looking for me. 
 Good evening. You look quite lovely to-night. Miss Jameson." 
 
 With which polite speech Mr. Gervoise took his leave, anti 
 found John on the staircase. 
 
 " Thank you, John," he said, taking the key from him. " I 
 am glad to see you looking so well ; it is quite remarkable." 
 
 Perhaps it was, for John had rather a surly look. He had 
 been Mr. Garnoosie's favourite, and resented that gentleman's 
 death as a personal injury. 
 
 " I hope every thing has been smooth and pleasant," airily 
 continued Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 This was an exasperating question, for between John and 
 Mrs. Scot there was an old feud, which had broken out anew 
 within the last week. So John's reply to Mr. Gervoise's kind 
 inquiry was that Mrs. Scot had been as pleasant as vinegar. 
 
 " Dear me, I must put a stop to that," said Mr. Gervoise 
 gravely ; " you must tell me more. Come this way, John." 
 
 When Mrs. Scot gave Beatrice the keys of the Camoosie 
 rooms, she omitted one concerning which she had received strict 
 injunctions from Mr. Gervoise. This key was that of a gallery 
 containing a small but splendid collection of pictures which had 
 been made by the late Mr. Camoosie. Mr. Gervoise adored fine 
 
BEATRICE. 89 
 
 pictures, and this gallery where they reigned in costly solitude 
 was the great charm of Carnoosie in his eyes. 
 
 He now entered it, followed by John, and he could not con- 
 ceal his pleasure. Even in that fading twilight he saw them all, 
 his darlings and his treasures — ^Beatrice's by law, his by enjoy- 
 ment. There was his luscious Rubens, with the warm rich 
 blood flowing beneath the delicate skin, and mantling in the 
 clear cheek. This was his Murillo, simple, noble, and tender. 
 There was his Rembrandts, with the transparent darkness of his 
 vast rooms and winding staircases. There were his exquisite 
 Dutch masters, refined and homely, painting common things with 
 divine art. Oh ! for a Raffaelle, for a Vinci ! But these costly 
 masters had probably been beyond the reach of the late Mr. 
 Carnoosie of Carnoosie, and Mr. Gervoise sighed to remember 
 that he should never enjoy and possess them. And the dearer 
 they were, the better he liked them, for he had the true spirit of 
 covetousness — ^he liked fine pictures for their value as well as for 
 their beauty. He gave those before him a fond look, and turning ^ 
 to John, he bade him speak. 
 
 " I can look and listen, you know. So pray go on." 
 
 And John did go on, grumbling in his desultory fashion, 
 whilst Mr. Gervoise looked at the sixty pictures. Suddenly he 
 stopped, amazed and doubtful. 
 
 " John, this is monstrous ! " he said ; " I cannot believe that 
 Mrs. Scot hates her young mistress. Why should she, John?" 
 
 " Why, sir, Mrs. Scot has a curious way of puffing out her 
 cheeks and blowing when she is dusting and cleaning, and she 
 caught Miss Beatrice mimicking her behind her back, and so she 
 hates her." 
 
 " John, you are a keen observer. Of course you like your 
 young mistress ? " 
 
 " Not as if she were a real Carnoosie," replied John bluntly ; 
 " but I will do my duty by her." 
 
 " Just so. As to Mrs. Scot, I must give her a talking." 
 
 " She wants one, sir." 
 
 " I fear she does ; but what does she say about me, John?" 
 
 " Nothing that I know of, sir ; besides, I am no tell-tale." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise stepped back, and his glasses shone admir- 
 ingly on John. 
 
 " I like you for that," he said. " You are an outspoken, 
 manly Englishman. I like you, but I must give Mrs. Scot a 
 talking. Good evening, John." 
 
 John went, chuckling with grim satisfaction ; and Mr. Ger- 
 
90 BEATRICE. 
 
 voise remained alone, looking at the pictures, and sighing over 
 the missing Raffaelle until seven struck. Mr. Gervoise then 
 went forth to partake of that little strengthening repast which he 
 had ordered that he might prepare himself for the exertion of 
 writing those thirteen letters which were to keep up and improve 
 his extensive connection, for Beatrice's benefit. 
 
 ^7 rJ^il 
 
,3:C»^Ana; 
 
 
 1..,..-- .,,■... ;.:.-. ..... ..-,... 
 
 9d* fh . h hnn f^rj^ s*.(i'-ff xdaH 
 
 iVffi') tfOT *«'^h*r»?e>?f 4 n Kill ^oK 
 
 ■ CHAPTER XIII. ' ..; 
 
 Three days exactly after tlie return of Mr. Gervoise to Car- 
 noosie, Mr. Raby made his appearance there. He came by ap- 
 pointment ; surprise did not blend therefore with Mr. Gervoise's 
 pleasure. Of that pleasure we cannot doubt, Mr. Gervoise ex- 
 pressed it too loudly. 
 
 " How well you do look ! " he said, as he received Mr. Raby 
 at the head of the steps which led to the house ; " and how I have 
 been longing for you ! Only an hour ago I was saying to Gil- 
 bert, ' I am longing for Mr. Raby.' " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise turned to his son, who stood by him with 
 Beatrice ; but instead of confirming this affectionate speech, 
 Gilbert reddened and walked away. 
 
 " A shy lad," said Mr. Gervoise, smiling, and showing all 
 his teeth, " a shy lad. Let us go in here, if you please." 
 
 He showed his guest into tli«e library, and closing the door, 
 said anxiously : " What news?" 
 
 "I should have known better than let Mr. Carnoosie's will 
 bind me," groaned Mr. Raby. " Doctor Jones warned me, but 
 I would have my way. Served me right ! " 
 
 " My dear sir," affectionately said Mr. Gervoise, " why take 
 all this trouble ? If you are delicate 1 am strong ; leave every 
 thing to me, I can bear it." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise spoke in all sincerity. Mr. Raby hated the 
 trust, and Mr. Gervoise the co-trustee. Mr. Raby had under- 
 taken it out of regard to the dead, and Mr. Gervoise out of affec- 
 tion to the living. Both had yielded to necessity, and both had 
 given her a reluctant assent. 
 
 But though Mr. Raby hated his task, though he thought 
 Beatrice's affairs in safe hands, though he knew this fatal trust 
 would shorten his days, he would not sign a scrap of paper with- 
 out first looking over it ; he would grow dizzy over accounts, and 
 fall asleep over explanations. In short, though he had given no 
 
92 BEATRICE. 
 
 trouble as yet, there was no knowing when he would do so ; and 
 Mr. Gervoise, who was of a mistrustful nature, was on his guard. 
 "He is like a cat," thought Beatrice's guardian. "He is fast 
 asleep, his eyes are shut, he is nodding, you think yourself safe, 
 and lo and behold you, he springs, he is upon you ! " 
 
 This graphic image was ever before Mr. Gervoise*s mental 
 vision when Mr. Raby was by, and therefore was it with the 
 tenderest hesitation that he proffered his services. 
 
 " No, thank you," sighed Mr. Raby ; " besides, you can't 
 help me with this Mortimer. You are too much in it." 
 
 " I ! " 
 
 " Yes. He says he'll attack the will ; that Mr. Camoosie 
 would never have left his money to poor Gordon if he had known 
 he had turned Papist " 
 
 " Mr. Camoosie," interrupted Mr. Gervoise solemnly, " is in 
 another and a better world, and these questions, these differences, 
 do not trouble him now." 
 
 Mr. Raby looked puzzled. 
 > "Well," but he said at length, "what religion is Beatrice 
 of?" 
 
 " Mr. Raby, a child is of no religion." 
 
 " Well, but what religion are you of?" persisted Mr. Raby, 
 not much enlightened. 
 
 " I am of the religion of the good all the world over," modest- 
 ly replied Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 Mr. Raby felt rather more perplexed than before. The late 
 Richard Gordon had left the Scotch Episcopalian Church, for the 
 older Church which Scotland obeyed before the Reformation, a 
 year before his death. His wife had declined joining nim ; but 
 had raised no serious opposition to his taking away Beatrice. 
 Not trusting much either her judgment or her word, however, 
 Mr. Gordon had appointed Mr. Gervoise his child's guardian, 
 for the express purpose of securing her religious instruction. 
 Mr. Gervoise, we know, was a most anxious and tender guardian ; 
 but the child was so young that he thought it premature to take 
 so much trouble about her religion, so he let her eternal welfare 
 rest for a while, and cultivated her temporal interests with as- 
 siduous care. By a lucky chance Mr. Gordon died convinced 
 that Mr. Gervoise was a pious Catholic ; and Mr. Camoosie went 
 to the grave with the certainty that Mr. Gervoise was a strict 
 Protestant. Mr. Raby, however, as we see, found it rather more 
 difficult to get any precise information on that head ; and not 
 being one of these sharp, clear-headed men who will thrust a 
 
BEATRICE. 93 
 
 question npon you until it has been answered, he let the religious 
 question stand, and went back to the Mortimer business. Mr. 
 Mortimer, after accepting the will, had suddenly shown an incli- 
 nation to dispute it. He contended that it had been obtained by 
 undue influence, and that Mr. Gervoise had purposely kept the 
 late Mr. Carnoosie in ignorance of Mr. Gordon's death, and of 
 Beatrice's sex and religion. He had not yet taken law proceed- 
 ings, but he threatened to do so. 
 
 " He will do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Gervoise after 
 hearing Mr. Raby. " In the first place, because he has no 
 money ; in the second, because he would not be the gainer. Set 
 the will aside, and the property goes by law to another minor, 
 who on becoming of age may dispose of it ; whereas by the will 
 Mr. Mortimer has a chance, the next to Beatrice, I believe. 
 Mr. Raby, he will not do it." 
 
 " Yes, but he will worry me," said Mr. Raby. " Mr. Car- 
 noosie was my trustee, but he had not all this worry. I ought 
 to have declined — I know I ought." 
 
 The dinner-bell put an end to Mr. Raby's lament. 
 
 The gentlemen joined Mrs. Gervoise in the neighbouring 
 apartment, and the meal began. 
 
 "And how do you think our Beatrice is looking?" confi- 
 dentially asked Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 A delicious Julienne absorbed Mr. Raby's attention, for he 
 replied in a breath — 
 
 " Oh ! very well indeed. "What a capital cook you have 
 got!" 
 
 " Yes, Panel is not amiss. We want him for Beatrice — a 
 delicate child, Mr. Raby." 
 
 Mr. Raby paused, and seemed to ponder over Beatrice's case. 
 
 " I wonder if she is really delicate," he thought ; " perhaps, 
 then, she will die young, poor little thing, and I shall be rid of 
 the trust. But then there would be such a set of accounts with 
 that Mortimer. It is quite horrid to think of!" And in his 
 consternation at the vision of trouble following Beatrice's decease, 
 poor Mr. Raby pushed away his plate. 
 
 " Pray let me help you to this Salmis de Cannetons" said 
 Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " I can't," respondently replied Mr. Raby ; " my appetite is 
 all gone. Jones told me it would be so, but I would have my 
 own way — it serves me right ! " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise took no notice of Mr. Rabys exasperated and 
 melancholy mood. 
 
M: BEATEICE. 
 
 " You had better take some salmis," he kindly said ; '* I 
 assure you nothing helps one through the troubles of life like 
 substantial food. No dainties ; no, good, substantial, strength- 
 ening food." 
 
 The Salmis de Cannetons looked very tempting, and Mr. 
 Raby allowed himself to be persuaded, and on the whole ate 
 rather a good dinner. Toward the close of the meal, Beatrice's 
 trustee began to waken to a sense of observation, in his dull way, 
 and thought that he had never seen so depressed and melancholy- 
 looking a wife as Mrs. Gervoise, nor so affectionate a husband 
 as hers. He was so fond of his wife, and so careful of her repose, 
 mental and bodily, that he would scarcely let her talk, or stir, or 
 eat. When she opened her lips, he was always entreating her 
 to be calm, and when she asked to be helped to something on the 
 table, he was sure it would disagree with her. Mrs. Gervoise, 
 he informed Mr. Raby, when that lady had withdrawn, after 
 receiving the intimation that she need not expect them in the 
 drawing-room, a hint which made Mr. Raby groan, was very 
 painfully delicate and excitable. 
 
 " You have no idea how restless it makes me," continued 
 Mr. Gervoise ; " I cannot sleep at night when I begin thinking 
 of her." 
 
 " Just so. What capital wine this is ! " 
 
 " Yes, I ordered it for Beatrice. She too is delicate. I do 
 not know that we can keep her." 
 
 Mr. Raby put down his glass, and turned pale. Again the 
 vision of Beatrice's death and its attendant evils passed before 
 him. He felt excited and miserable, and summed up his feelings 
 in an emphatic ejaculation : 
 
 " That damned trust ! " 
 
 " No, no," soothingly said Mr. Gervoise, *' we shall get on 
 capitally. Take a little more wine." 
 
 " No*," gloomily replied Mr. Raby ; " wine gets up into my 
 head. I could read and sign nothing if I drank another glass." 
 
 In vain Mr. Gervoise pressed him. There was a stupid 
 obstinacy in Mr. Raby, against which argument ever failed. So 
 the business began, and matters went on pretty much as usual, 
 and Mr. Raby was despondent and miserable, and when they had 
 done for the evening, again said : 
 
 " It would worry him to death." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked extremely grave. 
 
 " To tell you the truth, you do not look well. You have lost 
 that cheerful and open aspect you had when you came." 
 
BEATRICE. 95 
 
 Mr. Raby groaned. 
 
 " My dear sir, let me relieve you. Let me read aloud, and 
 you can sign." 
 
 " No, you mean well, Mr.Gervoise, but people must not sign 
 their name that way." 
 
 " Well, perhaps not. Shall I cast up the accounts?" 
 
 " No, that would not be business-like. I must do it myself. 
 I would not mind Jones. I must pay for it." 
 
 " Well, take a little wine now, at least?" 
 
 " No, thank you. I must go at twelve, you know, and if we 
 have more business " 
 
 " Nonsense, take a glass." 
 
 " I had rather not. You mean well, but I should not be 
 happy in my mind to-night if I were not sure my head will be 
 quite clear to-morrow." 
 
 " Clear to-morrow," thought Mr. Gervoise ; "when is your 
 head clear, you obstinate donkey ? " 
 
 But though Mr. Raby did to a certain degree live in a mental 
 fog, he was, like the natives of foggy climates, accustomed to 
 that atmosphere, and he could see his way through it. He went 
 on a little more slowly than other people, but he did go on, and 
 that is as much as the best of us can do. 
 
 That he did go on, Mr. Gervoise found the next morning ; 
 for whether Mr. Raby had slept badly, or had taken something 
 that disagreed with him, he was in a most carping humour. He 
 found fault with the matchless Panel's cookery, and hinted pretty 
 broadly that, as it would only send Beatrice to an early grave, 
 Monsieur Panel need not be kept on Beatrice's account, or at 
 Beatrice's expense. 
 
 " Indeed, I don't see why we should not sell the pictures," 
 he said, in his grumbling fashion ; " they are useless to Beatrice, 
 and the late Mr. Carnoosie was dreadfully extravagant, and the 
 ready money would pay off the mortgages." 
 
 Sell the pictures ! Mr. Gervoise's breath nearly forsook him 
 at the suggestion ; but he did not lose his presence of mind, and 
 promptly replied : 
 
 " I am so much obliged to you for taking that matter of the 
 pictures in hand. With your extensive connexion, you will 
 dispose of them easily. They are so valuable, that they are 
 immensely difficult to sell. I live in retirement, but you are 
 intimate with all the aristocracy, and even, I am told, with mem- 
 bers of royalty, and you must succeed. And we are so short of 
 money, and the mortgages and all that make it quite a bright 
 idea. When will you see about it ? " 
 
96 BEATRICE. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise rubbed his hands French fashion, and spoke 
 with a brisk cheerfulness that dismayed Mr. Raby. "With the 
 same amiable liveliness he continued : 
 
 " Then the task of selling old pictures is just the thing for 
 you. Your well-known integrity will prevent unpleasant doubts ; 
 for of course you wiU have to prove the authenticity of every 
 painting." 
 
 " I am no judge," hastily said Mr. Raby. 
 
 " You are a man of honour, sir, and when you say a Rubens 
 is a Rubens, you make a statement worth all the declarations of 
 all the critics — you pledge your word." 
 
 Mr. Raby felt sick and looked scared. 
 
 " I shall have nothing to do with it," he said, faintly ; *' the 
 trust wiU shorten my days, but the pictures would poison my life. 
 I did not undertake the pictures." 
 
 But Mr. Gervoise had conscientious doubts on this subject. 
 In his opinion Mr. Raby was bound to sell the pictures for 
 Beatrice's benefit, and he followed him about the house, and from 
 the house to the garden, still urging him to take the pictures in 
 hand. 
 
 " But I undertook nothing of the kind," said Mr. Raby, stop- 
 ping short in the shady path along which he was walking with 
 his tormentor ; "I did not even know there were pictures." 
 
 " Excuse me, my dear sir, excuse me," rejoined Mr. Ger- 
 voise, laying hold of his button hole ; " you undertook a general, 
 not a particular trust ; the pictures were included, Mr. Raby^ 
 they were included. Don't you see?" 
 
 Mr. Raby's reply to this inquiry was the very pertinent ques- 
 tion, whether Mr. Gervoise meant to worry him to death. 
 
 " Oh ! no, no — ^not on any account," kindly answered Mr. 
 Gervoise ; " and indeed since the subject is so distasteful, we will 
 drop it for the present, and renew it the next time you come." 
 
 Mr. Raby heard him in silence, and slowly treasuring up the 
 admission, he firmly resolved not to visit Carnoosie in a hurry. 
 They stood still in the path, for Mr. Raby was slow in his mo- 
 tions, as he was in all else ; and when once he stood still, it was 
 not easy to make him move. But Mr. Gervoise was the most 
 patient of men in these matters. If Mr. Raby liked standing, 
 why, he liked standing too ; just as, if Mr. Raby had preferred 
 sitting, sitting would have been the very thing for Mr. Gervoise. 
 So they stood, Mr. Gervoise enjoying the green shade around 
 them, and the view of red old Carnoosie in the distance, and the 
 glancing fountains and blue sky, with that pleasant sensuous 
 
BEATRICE. 
 
 97 
 
 enjoyment we all take in a fine morning and a beautiful spot. 
 But bitteraess filled Mr. Rab/s phlegmatic heart as he looked 
 around him, and remembered what a world of worry every object 
 be saw had entailed, and would entail upon him still. He hated 
 that red old Carnoosie, with all its windows and its chimney- 
 stacks taunting him in the distance ; he hated the fountains in- 
 solently dancing in the sun, and mocking him ; and when a little 
 childish scream was heard, and a little figure in a white frock, 
 with a dark curly head, darted across the path, Mr. Raby felt 
 that he hated Beatrice Gordon, the cause of all this woe. He 
 looked at her with a gloomy fixedness which must have betrayed 
 his feelings to Mr. Gervoise, if that gentleman had not been 
 absorbed in the pleasant task of catching and then kissing his 
 little step-daughter. 
 
 "Let me go!" she screamed; "let me go!" and as Mr. 
 Gervoise did not let her go, she disrespectfully, but most delib- 
 erately, slapped his face. Mr. Gervoise smiled, but Beatrice 
 uttered a piercing cry. " He has pinched me ! " she screamed, 
 in hot indignation, and no little pain-, "oh! you bad man, I 
 hope you will get ugly ! " 
 
 As struggles and kicks accompanied Beatrice's cries and vin- 
 dictive exclamation, Mr. Gervoise, still smiling and showing his 
 sound white teeth, thought proper to put her down. 
 
 " Pinched you ! " he said, amazed at the imputation ; " what 
 could make you think of such a thing, Beatrice ? " 
 
 If Beatrice had not been choking with indignation and grief, 
 she might have replied that a pair of fingers, strong and pitiless 
 as steel, nipping the tender fiesh covered by her little puffed 
 sleeve, had made her think of it ; as it was shef only sobbed as if 
 her heart would break. 
 
 Mr. Raby had looked on, an amazed and silent spectator of 
 this rapid scene ; but he now spoke with a warmth which Mr. 
 Gervoise has not expected from the sluggish gentleman. Mr. 
 Raby, looking sternly at him, asked point blank : 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, why did you pinch the child?" 
 
 " My dear sir, I did not pinch her." 
 
 " You did," sobbed Beatrice, who felt a protector in Mr. 
 Raby. 
 
 " Gilbert," blandly said Mr. Gervoise, appealing to his son, 
 who had stood by all the time, having come up with Beatrice, 
 " Gilbert, you saw all — did I pinch this little deceitful hypocrite ? " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise spoke in a tone between compassion for Beatrice's 
 wickedness, and virtuous indignation for himself. Now it unfor- 
 5 
 
98 BEATRICE. 
 
 tunalely happened that Gilbert had seen all, and could not an- 
 swer this question according to Mr. Gervoise's wishes, and re- 
 mained silent. 
 
 " Do not be afraid, lad, speak the truth," urged Mr. Gervoise, 
 fixing his full blue eyes on his son ; " nothing like the truth, my 
 boy." 
 
 Gilbert too had blue eyes, but eyes large, bright, clear, and 
 nobly honest. They met his father's without a trace of fear in 
 their look, and clearly and distinctly the lad said : 
 
 " You did pinch Beatrice." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise turned triumphantly toward Mr. Raby. 
 
 "There, sir, did you hear that? That, sir, is education." 
 And guessing that Mr. Raby might not understand his exact 
 meaning, Mr. Gervoise kindly added, " I have taught that lad, 
 sir, to love and practise truth beyond all else, and you hear him ; 
 he will say the truth ; I did pinch Beatrice, sir, I did, to bring 
 out this beautiful manifestation of my boy's veracity. What do 
 you think of that, sir ? " 
 
 He looked hard at Mr. Raby, who did not answer ; but who 
 in his dull slow way thought it all very odd, and relished it but 
 little. But Mr. Gervoise was too kind to press him for a reply, 
 so waving his hand at Gilbert and Beatrice, " Go and play, chil- 
 dren," he said, with the look of a stage-father blessing a young 
 couple, " go and play," and gently pushing Mr. Raby, he made 
 that gentleman walk on toward Carnoosie. 
 
 " I daresay you giiess my intentions," said Mr. Gervoise, 
 growing amiably confidential as, they walked on together ; "that 
 boy is the idol of my heart — ^he is generous, brave, and true. I 
 mean him, God willing, for our Beatrice." 
 
 Mr. Raby's mind was still too full of the treatment Beatrice 
 had received to heed this communication. All he said was : 
 
 " Please not to pinch Beatrice any more." 
 
 " Not even to bring out Gilbert's veracity? Certainly not." 
 
 The promise satisfied Mr. Raby. He pulled out his watch, 
 and sighed with relief to see how late it was. In vain Mr. Ger- 
 voise pressed him to stay, if only to see Gilbert and Beatrice to- 
 gether, a beautiful sight ; Mr. Raby would go, and Mr. Gervoise 
 saw him off". He saw him enter the Carnoosie carriage, and 
 putting up the footstep with his own hands, bade him an affec- 
 tionate farewell. But Mr. Raby had the slow, heavy, tenacious 
 John Bull nature ; with the smart, lively, volatile John Bull he 
 had nothing in common, and certain impressions were not easily 
 removed from his mind ; what these were in regard to Mr. Ger- 
 
BEATRICE. 99 
 
 volse may be surmised from the grumbling ejaculation Mr. Raby 
 uttered as the carriage drove away. 
 
 " A precious old rascal, I suspect." 
 
 Precious Mr. Gervoise certainly was. The two hemispheres 
 held nothing so valuable as his person, in his own opinion ; a 
 rascal some people thought him, we are sorry to say ; but one 
 point of Mr. Raby's proposition was certainly untenable : Mr. 
 Gervoise was not old. 
 
CHAPTER Xiy. 
 
 As Mr. Gervoise and Mr. Raby walked away, Miss Jameson 
 came up out of breath. Beatrice's cheeks were still covered with 
 tears, and Gilbert looked disturbed. Miss Jameson arrived at a 
 conclusion that did more credit to the readiness of her wit than 
 to the soundness of her judgment. 
 
 " You have been fighting," she said. 
 
 " Don't be stupid. Miss Jameson," was Beatrice's irreverent 
 reply ; and taking Gilbert's hand, she walked away with great 
 stateliness. 
 
 Poor Miss Jameson looked after them in sore perplexity. 
 The rule of love having become the rule of observation, Beatrice 
 had found that she must never be out of Miss Jameson's sight. 
 The natural result followed — ^the child hated the governess whom 
 she had not loved before. • 
 
 Poor Miss Jameson ! we say again, for she did not like the 
 rule of observation ; moreover, Mr. Gervoise had never allowed 
 her a glimpse of his manuscript essay, and had questioned her 
 so slightly concerning the peculiarities of Beatrice's behaviour, 
 that Miss Jameson concluded his great anxiety on that subject 
 was over — rich people are so capricious — and began to take a 
 little more liberty. Thus she forgot Beatrice, whilst she was in 
 the last chapter of her second volume. The tale was charming, 
 and reminded her so pleasantly of the one love chapter in the 
 story of her youth ! 
 
 Twenty years rolled away from Miss Jameson's life, as she 
 sat and read within the green shadow of Beatrice's trees. That 
 was just it ! That handsome man of thirty-five coming to the 
 father's house, and watching with calm but penetrating eyes the 
 blushing daughter ; sitting by her gently attentive, though silent, 
 brilliant and talkative with others, rather satirical too, with her 
 ever amiable and kind. What a delicious dream ! What fond 
 young hopes haunted the happy girl for a whole short and bliss- 
 
BEATRICE. 101 
 
 ful year ! Then came the ending. The handsome man of 
 thirty-five took a journey to London, and came back with a wife 
 of thirty-two, to whom he had been engaged ten years — English 
 fashion. Miss Jameson bore it very well. She had a low, 
 nervous fever, and recovered it in time ; lost a good deal of her 
 hair, which had been " glorious," to use one of the handsome 
 man of thirty-five's epithets ; and looking and feeling, too, ten 
 years older than before her illness, she went out as a governess, 
 was tossed from hand to hand, according to the caprice or to the 
 necessity of her employers ; and survived the chief actors in her 
 little drama, the handsome man of thirty-five included, to become 
 an inmate of Mr. Gervoise's family, and there practise the rule 
 of love and the rule of observation for the sum of eighty pounds 
 a year, with which she supported herself and her delicate sister. 
 
 Now, the handsome man and the blushing girl, and the 
 promises of the young love, were in the story she was reading. 
 They were there, but with the fulfilment the loss of which had 
 blighted Miss Jameson's life. The strong survive such blows, 
 the weak never. Some terrible want there is evermore, of health, 
 or love, or faith, or principle. It is not all who turn to God, 
 like the men and the women of old ; more turn to the world, and 
 worship it basely. Miss Jameson's health was perfect, and she 
 could, being of a dove-like nature, have loved again with facility, 
 had she found another mate ; but the foundations of her moral 
 world, which »had never been of adamant, had been irremediably 
 shaken. She had been deceived ; and too gentle to feel much 
 bitterness against the wronger, she was also too weak not to con- 
 clude that, since she had no right to complain, such things must 
 be ; and if they were inevitable, so were some other crooked 
 things ; the weak must bend to the strong, or become their prey ; 
 and thus, little by little, servility entered a nature meant for a 
 purer destiny, and bowed to ignoble aims a heart which might 
 never have been great, but would have been good, had it not been 
 profaned for a man's pastime. 
 
 And yet she did not like to watch Beatrice. She did not like 
 observation, but she could not help herself, she thought ; and 
 Beatrice's little insolence acting as a stimulant, she now took 
 heart once more, and hurried until she found the children. 
 
 They were enjoying one of their favourite haunts, and Miss 
 Jameson sat down far enough not to disturb their enjoyment. 
 
 Beautiful and quiet was the spot they had chosen. A little 
 river flowed in its deep and narrow bed, on to a mighty river of 
 which it was tributary. The shade of old and broad spreading 
 
102 BEATEICE. 
 
 trees hung over it. The swift waters glided on in green waves, 
 with here and there a broken patch of blue sky rippling with 
 their motion. Beatrice sat on the grassy bank idle and happy. 
 By her stood Gilbert, angling. The amusement suited his calm 
 and meditative temper ; and, alas ! his was the age when no 
 thoughts of mercy come between the heart and its promised 
 pleasure. It was delightful, though perfidious, to drop the line 
 in the cool waters, and it was exquisite to expect the little silvery 
 fish that was to come forth out of that deep and silent looking 
 stream. Beatrice felt it too, for she sat watching ^ith interest 
 and curiosity in her dark face, and in her black eyes. There 
 was a dreamy charm in the spot, and in the hour. The deep 
 shade of the trees seemed made to lull one to sleep, the flowing 
 waters of the stream to bear one along. Beatrice felt going 
 away very fast, and with her went Gilbert, standing motionless 
 by her side, and with both the rushes, grasses, and blue dragon- 
 flies that made a little world of wonder and beauty around them. 
 Very luxuriously happy felt Beatrice, till, suddenly growing tiived 
 of her happiness and wakening from her dream, she plaintively 
 called Gilbert to her side. And Gilbert did as Beatrice bade 
 him ; and Beatrice, plucking a long blade of grass, tickled his 
 nose, to her own great amusement, and his no small discomfiture ; 
 and this pretty pastime ended in the despostic little mistress of 
 Carnoosie saying abruptly : 
 
 " Gilbert, you will never leave Carnoosie?" 
 
 Gilbert was silent. 
 
 " You must not — ^you shan't ! " she cried. 
 
 " I do not want to go, Beatrice." 1 
 
 " Yes, but promise ! " 
 
 Before Gilbert could comply with the request, Mr. Gervoise, 
 stepping from behind a tree, appeared before them, followed by 
 Miss Jameson. 
 
 " Well, children," he said gaily, " what are you doing? — 
 making love ? — our Carnoosie is a nice place for it." 
 
 " Carnoosie is mine," said Beatrice. 
 
 " Just 80. Gilbert, come in with me. Stay, Beatrice, it is 
 Gilbert I want." 
 
 Gilbert rose slowly, and leaving his rod and fishing-tackle in 
 Beatrice's care, he followed his father. 
 
 " Don't be long," was Beatrice's last words ; and Gilbert, 
 looking back with a smile, replied : 
 
 " No longer than I can help, Beatrice." 
 
 These words probably roused some angry thoughts in Bea- 
 
BEATRICE. 103 
 
 trice's bosom, for scarcely waiting for Mr. Gervoise to be out 
 of hearing, slie looked at Miss Jameson with flashing eyes, and 
 said emphatically : 
 
 " I hate Mr. Gervoise ! " 
 
 Miss Jameson looked frightened and piteous. She had just 
 received a very severe talking from Mr. Gervoise for having left 
 the children without what he was pleased to call the salutary re- 
 straint of her presence ; and Beatrice's wrathful declaration, 
 which she dared not repeat to her master, terrified her as a new 
 calamity. 
 
 " Don't, my dear, don't talk so dreadfully," she did not ven- 
 ture to say wickedly. " Gilbert will soon come back." 
 
 " Yes, but I hate Mr. Gervoise," stoutly said Beatrice. 
 
 Miss Jameson sighed, but after all comforted herself with 
 the reflection that it was impossible Mr. Gervoise should learn 
 through a third person how very naughty Beatrice had been in 
 her presence. " If I could only get on with both of them," 
 thought Miss Gameson, " and keep my situation ; I shall never 
 get such another — never." 
 
 Poor Miss Jameson ! If you could only run with the hare, 
 and bark with the hound, how nice and pleasant it would be ! 
 
 Mr. Gervoise took his son into one of the rooms on the 
 ground-floor of the house, by far the pleasantest, and which he 
 called his study. The servants were puzzled to know what he 
 studied there, but Miss Jameson concluded he devoted it to the 
 elaboration of his great work on education. If Mr. Gervoise 
 was an author, however, he possessed the virtue of tidiness in a 
 degree rarely allotted to his tribe. No books, no stray papers, 
 no ink-stained tables, betrayed his calling. His study was a 
 neat, pleasant and cheerful room, to which he had removed a 
 few favourite pictures from the gallery, and which, without 
 being luxuriously furnished, possessed every attribute of comfort. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise sat down in a capacious arm-chair, and looking 
 benevolently at Gilbert, who stood before him, he said, in a ten- 
 der and feeling tone*: 
 
 " My dear Gilbert, I need not tell you that to secure your 
 permanent happiness is my most ardent wish ; to do so I must 
 begin in your youth. I need not remind you that you are a 
 Frenchman by birth, and that your future is in France, not in 
 England, where you would ever be considered a foreigner. I 
 have accordingly resolved to trust you once more to the care of 
 your maternal uncle, who is pining for you. Your clothes are 
 packed and ready, the carriage is waiting, and John shall ac- 
 
104: BEATEICE. 
 
 company you to Newhaven and see you on board a Dieppe 
 steamer. On landing, you will find your affectionate uncle ready 
 to receive you." 
 
 Perhaps Gilbert thought that his father took a strange way 
 of showing his affection — that it was not much like paternal love 
 to send him away to be reared by a brother-in-law for whom he 
 cared little ; but he neither remonstrated nor remarked, he only 
 asked, " Can I see Beatrice before I go, and bid her good-bye?" 
 
 " No, my dear boy. No, Beatrice is an excitable child, we 
 must spare her. You must go at once, my dear Gilbert." 
 
 Gilbert could scarcely hide his distress, but pride checked 
 any outward manifestation of his feelings. His lips quivered, 
 his features worked, but he betrayed no other sign of emotion. 
 
 " My poor little Beatrice ! " he sighed ; and his thoughts 
 flew back to the river by which he had left her sitting, and to 
 the " Don't be long" with which she had seen him go. 
 
 "Beatrice will fret a while," said Mr. Gervoise, "but not 
 long ; your brother Antony is coming, and will comfort her, I 
 have no doubt." 
 
 Some parents like to stimulate their children by jealousy ; 
 perhaps Mr. Gervoise belonged to this class, and mentioned his 
 younger son, to give the elder one a useful prick ; but Gilbert 
 was generous, and he simply and truly replied : 
 
 " I hope he will. I do not want Beatrice to be unhappy." 
 
 " Of cou]rse not. And now, my dear boy, I really think it is 
 time to go." 
 
 It was time, and nothing occurred to delay Gilbert's depar- 
 ture. Every thing was ready, and he had not even to bid his 
 stepmother good-bye. Mrs. Gervoise too was sensitive, and 
 could not have borne the emotion of parting from Gilbert. So 
 at least her husband kindly said. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise had concerted his scheme for the sudden and 
 private departure of Gilbert, with tolerable care against all un- 
 pleasant contingencies ; but there was one he was unable to 
 avoid. In vain had he left Beatrice in Miss Jameson's keeping, 
 and given that lady private instructions to detain her where she 
 was. Beatrice had a strong will, and Miss Jameson a weak one. 
 To her commands the governess forgot to add force ; she was 
 stout, too, and could not overtake her pupil ; once this young 
 lady had begun running in the direction of Carnoosie, and pre- 
 cisely as Gilbert was leaving the house, Beatrice saw him ; she 
 saw John, too, and the carriage, and uttering a piercing cry, she 
 sprang toward her friend. Before Mr. Gervoise could interfere, 
 Beatrice was sobbing in the arms of his son. 
 
BEATRICE. 105 
 
 " You must not go ! you shall not go ! " she cried. 
 
 " I must, Beatrice. My father wishes me to go." 
 
 She turned round and looked piteously at Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Don't let him go — don't ! " she prayed. 
 
 " He must go, my love." 
 
 " He shan't ! " she cried, stamping her foot 
 
 " Yes, yes, he shall. Carnoosie is yours, but Gilbert is 
 mine." 
 
 Beatrice felt the taunt, and so did Gilbert ; he kissed her, 
 then steadily entered the carriage, which, after driving Mr. Raby 
 to the station, had come back for him. Beatrice stood in mute 
 grief, looking after him with her large black eyes ; but when she 
 saw him enter the vehicle that was to bear him away, and saw 
 John climb up on the box, she clapped her hands in the wildness 
 of her grief, and again sprang forward. 
 
 " Drive on ! " cried Mr. Gervoise ; and before Beatrice 
 reached it, the carriage was rattling down the road, raising a 
 cloud of dust on its way. Beatrice ran on a few steps, and even 
 before Mr. Gervoise overtook her, she had felt the hopelessness 
 of her attempt, and in her despair she had flung herself on the 
 roadside ; and there she lay, sobbing bitterly, and obstinately 
 resisting all her guardian's coaxing entreaties to get up and go 
 in. Mr. Gervoise, perceiving how fruitless were his efforts, 
 suddenly changed his tone. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said, " if you do not return to the house 
 of your own accord, I shall make you." 
 
 Beatrice looked up. She read his face. It was resolute and 
 " wicked," as she said afterwards ; and Beatrice had sense and 
 pride enough to submit. She rose and walked to the house, her 
 heart swelling with even more sorrow at Gilbert's departure than 
 anger against his father. From one of the upper windows of 
 the old brick mansion, she saw the pale, sad face of Mrs. Ger- 
 voise looking down at her with a wistful gaze. The poor lady 
 had beheld Beatrice's passionate grief, and her heart had bled to 
 feel that she could no longer help her child. As Beatrice en- 
 tered the house, Mr. Gervoise said to her : 
 
 " Don't fret, my little love ; my second son, Antony, is com- 
 ing ; he is about your own age, and you and he will be great 
 friends — eh, Beatrice ? " 
 
 Beatrice turned up her little flushed and angry face, and 
 checking her tears to stare at Mr. Gervoise, she said : 
 
 " I hate Antony — I hate him ! " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise laughed. 
 5* 
 
106 BEATKICE. 
 
 " Ve — ^ry naugMy — ve — ry naughty ! " he said. 
 
 " And I hate you," added Beatrice, without raising her voice, 
 and speaking in an even, steady tone, most unchildlike. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked thoughtful, and knit his brows. He 
 did not want Beatrice Gordon, the mistress of Carnoosie, to hate 
 him. He would rather have been loved by that young lady ; 
 for he knew this much of love, that it is a very convenient means 
 of ruling the human heart ; but as misfortune would have it that 
 he could not inspire love, and even that he won hatred, Mr. 
 Gervoise had frequently found it expedient to create fear. 
 Beatrice, however, he found it very hard to conquer. 
 
 She was rich, and not a poor little nobody. People would 
 be sure to interfere — Mr. Raby or Mr. Mortimer — if he carried 
 matters with too high a hand. So she must be ruled, or Mr. 
 Gervoise would get into trouble. But how rule one whose 
 whole being had from the first risen up against him, armed by 
 the instinct of childhood ? There was the difficulty. Mr. Ger- 
 voise had hoped to make Gilbert useful ; but though Gilbert 
 held over Beatrice the power which should have belonged to his 
 father, he was too unmanagable himself to be available. This 
 changed Mr. Gervoise's views. Gilbert was mute but obstinate, 
 Beatrice outspoken and violent, and both were against him. 
 These two enemies must not grow up side by side, supporting 
 each other in their antagonism. Antony must take Gilbert's 
 place, and Beatrice and Gilbert grow up apart, divided by land 
 and sea, and foreign race and foreign speech. 
 
 Bitter and sore was Beatrice's heart the whole of that long 
 and unhappy day. Mr. Gervoise had given strict orders that 
 she should be left to herself. He did not allow his wife to leave 
 her room, and he forbade Miss Jameson to say a word to the 
 erring mistress of Carnoosie. His object was two-fold : he 
 wanted to punish Beatrice, and he also hoped to make the so- 
 ciety of Antony more acceptable to her by its contrast with her 
 previous isolation. But again Mr. Gervoise was doomed to dis- 
 appointment and defeat. Instead of resenting the solitude in 
 which she was left, Beatrice evidently liked it. She sat and 
 moped within the house the whole day long, heavy, listless, and 
 unhappy. She would touch no dinner — ^not through stubborn- 
 ness or pride, but because she was too full of her grief to feel 
 hunger. Toward evening the sound of carriage wheels roused 
 her. A wild and sudden hope made her think that Gilbert was 
 coming back ; she ran out of the house, and stood on the stone 
 steps, looking eagerly ; she saw the carriage, and John on the 
 box, and a lad within. 
 
BEATEICE. 107 
 
 " It is ! — it is ! " slie cried. 
 
 The boy looked roiind. It was Gilbert's brother Antony, 
 whom Mr. Gervoise was welcoming with paternal tenderness. 
 Beatrice walked back into the house, and went up to her room. 
 She had not been there long, when a tap at the door preceded 
 the entrance of Miss Jameson. She came in smiling, followed 
 by Beatrice's new companion. 
 
 The two brothers were alike ; but theirs was an unpleasant, 
 not a genial likeness. They had the same fair hair, the same 
 blue eyes and fresh complexion ; but Antony's features, though 
 far more delicate than Gilbert's, were by no means so open and 
 honest in meaning. There was something effeminate and cruel 
 in this boy's face, something which would have saddened a phys- 
 iognomist and distressed a true believer. Was Antony bom 
 with perverted instinct, was he a free moral agent, or one of 
 those unhappy beings of whom we never know how far they fol- 
 low their nature or suppress its nobler impulses ? Yet he was 
 handsome. There was beauty in his clear profile and short upper 
 lip, and curved chin,. and softness in his large blue eyes. He 
 was a fair young tiger, with well-proportioned limbs, and a deli- 
 cate skin finely stroked. And Antony had the softness too of 
 the feline race ; his father had tutored him below, briefly, but 
 most significantly, and the boy came prepared to win Beatrice's 
 heart. 
 
 "My dear, here is your young friend," gently said Miss 
 Jameson. 
 
 " How do you do, Beatrice?" said Antony, and he held out 
 a friendly hand. 
 
 " Go away ! " indignantly replied Beatrice ; "I want Gil- 
 bert." 
 
 The young tiger laughed, and showed teeth of pearl. 
 
 " Gilbert is in Normandy," he said ; " such an ugly old place 
 the Chateau is ! " 
 
 This speech roused all Beatrice's wrath. She burst into 
 angry sobs and tears, and was so violent and unamiable, that 
 Miss Jameson left the room, followed by Antony, who bestowed 
 a fearful grimace on Beatrice, by way of parting salutation. 
 
 " This must be put a stop to," said Mr. Gervoise, frowning 
 as he heard Miss Jameson's report ; " I have been lenient to folly 
 and weakness. Beatrice must go to bed. Miss Jameson." 
 
 Miss Jameson agreed with Mr. Gervoise that Beatrice must 
 go to bed, and she went back to Beatrice's room and saw the 
 sentence put into execution forthwith. Beatrice offered no re- 
 
108 BEATEICE. 
 
 sistance. She submitted with quiet apathy, and heard Miss 
 Jameson's lecture in scornful silence. 
 
 And now Beatrice is in her little white bed, alone, fretting. 
 A pleasant room is that which belongs to the mistress of Car- 
 noosie, large and loftj ; but Beatrice does not appreciate the 
 blessings of her lot, she only sees its dark aspect and its trials. 
 Drearily she watches through the windows that face her bed the 
 changes of the sky. The sun has set, the moon is rising. On 
 the oaken floor shine two checked squares of a light both soft and 
 pale. At another time Beatrice would like that blue sea on 
 which the fair vessel of the moon is softly floating ; she would 
 like the squares on the floor, and watch them curiously and with 
 inquisitive wonder, but now Beatrice only feels her grief. She 
 does not seek to analyze it, she is too childish still, but she feels 
 it all the more keenly that thought does not divert her from it. 
 
 " Gilbert ! dear Gilbert !" such is the cry of her poor little 
 aching heart. Suddenly, though very softly, the door of Beatrice's 
 room opened. Beatrice looked; was it Miss Jameson's that 
 white figure which stole softly across the moonlit floor? No, it 
 was not Miss Jameson's ; but Beatrice was not frightened, for 
 she knew her mother, Mr. Gervoise.'s wife, who had come to 
 comfort her child by stealth and in secret. She bent over and 
 kissed her, and feeling the tears on her little feverish cheeks, she 
 whispered fondly : 
 
 " Don't fret, my darling— -don't ! " 
 
 Beatrice's answer was to clasp her mother's neck and to sob 
 piteously. Mrs. Gervoise seemed much frightened, as well as 
 much moved. 
 
 " My dearest darling," she entreated fearfully, " try and be 
 quiet. You might be heard. Try and be quiet, for my sake." 
 
 " Beatrice felt her trembling, and understood her fear. It 
 gave her grief a sudden check. She looked at her mother's pale 
 face, which looked paler in the moonlight, and very earnestly 
 she said : 
 
 " Don't be afraid, mamma. I shall take care of you." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise clasped her hands. 
 
 " You cannot," she said, " you are but a little child. You 
 cannot, Beatrice ! " 
 
 " I will ! " resolutely replied Beatrice, " don't be afraid, I will 
 take care of you ; besides, Carnoosie is mine, you know." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise did not answer. She swiftly moved away, 
 and left the room by one door, whilst Miss Jameson entered it 
 by the other. 
 
BEATEICE. 109 
 
 " With whom were you talking?" sharply asked that lady. 
 
 Beatrice's reply was more concise than polite. 
 
 " Miss Jameson," she said, "it is no use worrying me— 
 good night." 
 
 Beatrice rolled herself in a ball in order to fall asleep, and 
 Miss Jameson withdrew, much puzzled. Her first resolve was 
 a wise one — she would try and please the mistress of Camoosie. 
 Her second determination was not very compatible with it — she 
 would watch Beatrice, without seeming to do so. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The Autumn sun is shining in tlie orchard of Carnoosie. 
 The apple trees are bending to the earth their fruit-laden boughs, 
 and Beatrice Gordon, now a stately young maiden, is gathering 
 the ripe peaches from the wall, and daintily putting them one by 
 one in the basket on her arm. Beatrice is altered ; the child has 
 passed into the girl, and the girl is both brilliant and pretty of 
 aspect. The brown face is now of a delicate olive hue, with a 
 bloom of twenty springs upon it. The dark eyes shine with a 
 deeper light from beneath the rim of the round straw hat, and 
 the fine Italian features have the seriousness ever ready to break 
 out into mirth of Beatrice's Italian kin. Her long dark curls, 
 which she has kept in spite of the prevailing fashion, give her 
 mobile face something more changeful still. Just now Beatrice 
 looks neither grave nor gay. She seems intent on her peaches — 
 she seems, but is not. She knows that Miss Jameson is observ- 
 ing at a distance, but she does not care. 
 
 These two have not got on very well together. The rule of 
 observation has not been more successful than the rule of love, 
 and it has had this drawback, that Beatrice detected it, and de- 
 spised her governess. Indeed, Miss Jameson's post was no sine- 
 cure, for Mr. Gervoise's manner having been such as to suggest 
 to Mrs. Gervoise that if she were to die this lady might succeed 
 her, she had shown a small, spiteful jealousy, which, united to 
 Beatrice's cool contempt, had made Miss Jameson's position 
 rather an unpleasant one. Then Beatrice would not learn ; with 
 the subtle perversity of childhood she had found out the weak 
 point of Miss Jameson's knowledge — ^botany. In astronomy 
 Miss Jameson was secure, she could call every star by its name, 
 and tell you its exact breadth and depth ; but the green covering 
 which nature throws over this brown earth of ours she trod on 
 in ignorant unconsciousness of its usea and mysteries. When 
 
BEATRICE. Ill 
 
 Beatrice discovered this, she threw up her books, said Mr. Ray, 
 Gilbert's tutor, knew botany, and that she would ask Mr. Raby 
 to get her Mr. Ray. Mr. Raby had no power to interfere, but 
 Mr. Gervoise both hated and feared him. Moreover, he asked 
 no better than please Beatrice by spending her money for her ; 
 so Miss Jameson kept her post for observation, no doubt, and 
 Beatrice's education was virtually committed to Mr. Ray. 
 
 Happy were the hours Beatrice spent with him, acquiring 
 knowledge both varied and deep. It was her halcyon time, and 
 the first bright spot in Mr. Ray's sad life. Untimely scruples 
 had forbidden him to take the living in the gift of his family, and 
 for which he had been reared ; and a mild irresolution, which 
 was both the charm and the fault of his nature, would not let 
 him leave the communion in which he was born. He remained 
 in it, doubting and hesitating ; living in a spiritual mist which 
 made other sorrows heavier to bear. His friends disowned him, 
 the girl whom he loved married another, one wiser in his gener- 
 ation, who gratefully received the living Mr. Ray had declined. 
 Very meekly he bore all this. He came to Carnoosie, settled 
 there, and lived by teaching, until the death of an elder brother 
 gave him a handsome competency, and the company of a favour- 
 ite sister. 
 
 To this shy, solitary man a pupil like Beatrice, bright, clever, 
 lively, and ambitious to learn, was a Godsend. An affection — 
 paternal in its innocence — lover-like in its tenderness — sprang in 
 his heart. He taught her all he knew, and especially did he 
 teach her literature, ancient and modern. 
 
 " Literature," he often said to her, " is the fairest product of 
 man's thought. Science and art are but one-sided conceptions, 
 noble in their way, but narrow. Literature is all in all to such 
 as know how to sound its depths." 
 
 Into these depths he did his best to lead Beatrice. Ah ! what 
 pleasant and flowery paths did Mr. Ray reveal to the eager girl 
 in the fair fields of classic love ! All the bees of Hymettus yielded 
 their sweetness at his call. From that cahn and noble world of 
 ancient song he led her gently into the less peaceful but more 
 subtle and penetrating regions of the early poets, Italian and 
 English. With these both Mr. Ray and Beatrice lingered long : 
 Petrarch, Dante, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton, a 
 goodly company. When these princes and lords of poetry were 
 exhausted, Mr. Ray taught Beatrice to appreciate the gentle 
 minor spirits who in every age shine with mild star-like radiance 
 near the great planets. And thus step by step he led her down 
 
112 BEATEICE. 
 
 to our own days, culling with careful hand all the blossoms, and 
 avoiding all the dangerous snares and pitfalls in the way. 
 
 Wonder not that these lessons, which were very sweet to Mr. 
 Ray, were heaven to Beatrice. Her life was but a sad one. 
 Mr. Gervoise's power was both cruel and complete, and it had 
 been exercised unsparingly. The haughty young mistress of 
 Carnoosie had not been ill-used, her health had been attended to, 
 she had had a governess, Mr. Ray, and expensive masters from 
 London, to make her accomplished as well as learned. She had 
 a maid, too, and rich dresses and jewels — on all of which Mr. 
 Gervoise had realized handsome profits, as was but fair ; but, for 
 all that, Beatrice had not been happy, and her very heart and 
 soul liad groaned beneath the yoke. 
 
 Beatrice was sociable, and she lived in the deepest solitude. 
 There was a Roman who wished for a glass house, but Mr. Ger- 
 voise only sighed to think how thin and transparent were brick 
 and mortar. No one ever came to Carnoosie, and its inmates 
 rarely left it. This unnatural seclusion influenced Beatrice's 
 whole character. It gave premature concentration to a mind 
 naturally vigorous, and severity to a temper which, though 
 impetuous, was also fond. Her life was a battle, in which, 
 though ever conquered, she never confessed herself defeated, and 
 what life was this for a handsome girl, a rich one, too, of twenty? 
 
 Wonder not, therefore, that Beatrice, reared near her sickly 
 mother, and the sport-loving Antony, surrounded by servants 
 who were also spies, bitterly conscious of her wrongs, though 
 proudly silent under them, found exquisite solace in Mr. Ray's 
 lessons and companionship. 
 
 There are many issues to Carnoosie, and if you leave j[t as 
 Beatrice did, by that lower orchard door, you enter a pleasant 
 little village, hamlet, rather, with a straggling street, and low 
 houses and blooming gardens in front of them, and children 
 rather more rosy than the flowers meeting you at every corner. 
 A church all ivy, a little grassy churchyard with many hillocks 
 and few stones, a shining pond where geese and ducks are cack- 
 ling, and a small green common, on which a meditative donkey 
 is grazing, complete the picture, lit by bright gleams of sunshine, 
 and set off by deep masses of shade and foliage in the back- 
 ground. 
 
 Many were the nods Beatrice gave, and many were the curt- 
 seys she received as she walked along with her basket on her 
 arm, and her round straw hat shading her handsome dark face. 
 Beatrice's allowance of pocket money was not large, but little of 
 
BEATEIOE. 113 
 
 it was there that did not go to the inmates of those cottages — 
 and they knew it well. They loved her, and they blessed her, 
 and this bond of love was the only bond between them. 
 
 Beatrice's estate lay at the other end of Carnoosie, and her 
 tenants were farmers, not cottagers. 
 
 This hamlet, a small possession, belonged to Antony Gervoise. 
 It had been detached from the estate in favour of a second son 
 of the Carnoosies a hundred years before, and from that second 
 son, through his mother, Antony was descended. This was his 
 tie of kindred with Beatrice, and the origin of Mr. Gervoise's 
 acquaintance with Mr. Carnoosie. But, for once, Beatrice did 
 not visit any of her humble friends. She went on until she had 
 left the last house behind her. A little farther she found a pretty 
 cottage surrounded by green fields. This was Mr. Ray's house, 
 the haven in which he had at length found rest. 
 
 There was wisdom and truth in the dreams of our ancestors. 
 We all have a bit of the peasant nature in us, and from the days 
 of the Latin poet downwards, we have envied the tillers of an- 
 cestral acres, and coveted our share of mother earth. Whatever 
 form the dream may take, pastoral or agricultural, it is there. 
 Damon and Phyllis were but the myths of that unfulfilled desire. 
 For evermore man has longed to sit down by babbling streams 
 and listen to birds that never sang in cages. Give him sheep to 
 watch idly in a landscape as unreally sweet as any Claude ever 
 painted ; give him ancient fields, or virgin prairies, or backwood 
 demesnes to make fruitful according to the century he lives in, 
 and in his dream at least he is content. Failing all these, give 
 him the reality of a cottage near a quiet village, a cottage stand- 
 ing alone with plenty of wide green around it ; a garden where 
 the gooseberry bush will thrive next the rose ; give him rabbits, 
 and a few hens, and new-laid eggs, and he rejoices in a country 
 life, and feels king of his little world. 
 
 For this is the great secret, after all. Who possesses land 
 in a city ? Your house may be your own, but you generally pay 
 ground rent. Then you have neighbours troublesome and im- 
 pertinent ; that isolated sovereignty which man dreams of when 
 he flies to the country, is not to be had in a town for love or 
 money. Kings and queens pine for it in vain. Is there not 
 always a jealous public to grudge them their garden walks, or a 
 loving public anxious to share them ? But what the city, with 
 all its delights, cannot give even to the great and few, the country 
 bestows freely on the humble and the many. A few fields sep- 
 arate you from mankind, and give you the sense of happy inde- 
 
114: BEATEICE. 
 
 pendence, for which, we long in youth, and toward which we 
 turn in age. 
 
 Such a cottage was Mr. Ray's. It had a large garden, an 
 outhouse, a few fields, a popular a,venue, a paddock, and a dairy. 
 Here, for the last six months, had resided Beatrice's teacher and 
 friend. Tardy prosperity had given these quiet enjoyments to 
 his sad life, over which they now shone with the pale glow of a 
 calm autumn evening. His other pupils he had given up, but he 
 had kept Beatrice ; she was not a pupil, but the apple of his eye. 
 Daily they spent in the old library of Carnoosie a happy hour, 
 which often lengthened into three. This day, however, Beatrice 
 came to him, for he was unwell, and could not go out. 
 
 Miss Ray was in the garden gathering flowers. She looked 
 up on hearing Beatrice open the gate, and her face brightened 
 into a smile, and greeted her with a simple warmth which was 
 the basis of her character. Guilelessness was written in Miss 
 Ray's face, though it was a face of fifty-five, and guileless Miss 
 Ray was to the heart's core. Faith in God and man was her 
 prevailing and gentle attribute. Do not tell Miss Ray of this 
 world's wickedness ; she believes in it, of course, for she reads 
 her Bible and the newspaper, but she has never seen it. She 
 knows that there have been fearful sinners, and that there are 
 murderers who move about with the face and aspect of other 
 men ; but ask Miss Ray for no more than that abstract knowl- 
 edge. Such as it is, it has often made her unhappy, and given 
 her sleepless nights. 
 
 " How is Mr. Ray?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Better, my dear ; and how is dear Mr. Gervoise ? he looked 
 poorly yesterday." 
 
 Beatrice winced to hear dear Mr. Gervoise's name ; habit 
 could not reconcile her to the strange blindness of both Mr. and 
 Miss Ray concerning Mr. Gervoise's real character. True, he 
 had done much to conciliate their good will, and secure their 
 esteem ; but still how could they read him so ill ? 
 
 She answered coldly ; 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise is well, thank you. And where is Mr. Ray? 
 I have brought him some peaches." 
 
 " How kind of Mr. Gervoise," said Miss Ray, with a bright 
 smile ; " he said yesterday he would send my dear brother some." 
 
 Beatrice was silent. Mr. Gervoise had probably heard her 
 questioning the gardener concerning the ripeness of the peaches, 
 and thus coolly attributed to himself the merit of a gift he grudged 
 in his heart, but dared not prevent. 
 
BEATRICE. 115 
 
 " My dear brother will be so glad to see you,*' continued 
 Miss Ray, preceding Beatrice along the path that led to the 
 house ; " he is so low." 
 
 " He has no cause, has he?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " The old cause, my dear," sighed Miss Ray. " He never 
 got over that disappointment about Miss Jones, and never will. 
 There are sorrows men never do get over, my dear." 
 
 Ah ! but they do, Miss Ray, and so do women ; but never 
 mind — such is your simple faith. Keep it fast, and hold it dear. 
 
 Beatrice's scepticism did not reach matters of which she 
 knew nothing, so she nodded sagaciously, and thought how lovely 
 Miss Jones must have been. She could not help saying as much. 
 
 " Oh dear, no ! " repUed Miss Ray ; " she was rather plain, 
 in my opinion." 
 
 " But very fascinating, I suppose?" 
 
 " Not to most people. She was quiet." 
 
 " Not brilliant and intellectual?" 
 
 " Oh ! not at all." 
 
 " Well, but, Miss Ray, what could charm him so ? " 
 
 " My dear — ^he loved her ; I really can tell you no more." 
 
 Love was not one of those abstract sciences in which Mr. 
 Ray instructed Beatrice, but she thought, as she followed Miss 
 Ray in the cottage, what a wonderful and perplexing thing this 
 love must be, which, without beauty, fascination, or intellect, 
 could give a life-long sorrow to Mr. Ray ! 
 
 Whatever Miss Ray might say, and Beatrice fancy, Mr. Ray 
 was not thinking of Miss Jones. The shadow of that sorrow 
 still hung over his life, but the sorrow itself was buried and 
 dead, to rise no more ; not even on the great judgment-day. 
 He sat near the parlour window reading ; and that quiet room, 
 prettily but simply furnished, the table covered with books, the 
 open window framing a grand shining landscape, and the medi- 
 tative figure of the student, with his grey hair falling in heavy 
 waves around his pale and emaciated face, struck Beatrice's 
 artist eye as a calm but exquisite picture. 
 
 " Mr. Ray," she cried, breathlessly, " I must sketch you 
 some day. You look beautiful so, and so does the room." 
 
 " Mr. Ray is beautiful ! " fondly said Miss Ray ; " and the 
 room is a pretty room," she added, simply. 
 
 Mr. Ray smiled, and holding out his hand, he drew Beatrice 
 toward him. 
 
 " What have you been doing, my dear?" he asked tenderly. 
 
 Beatrice did not answer ; her countenance grew clouded ; she 
 
116 BEATEIOE. 
 
 saw Miss Jameson coming in at the garden-gate, and she could 
 scarcely repress her vexation. But she had made it an early- 
 rule to complain of her lot to none, and if Mr. Ray was her 
 friend, he was not so in the confidential meaning of the word. 
 He knew nothing, and nothing did Beatrice tell him. We do 
 not mean to say, however, that he did not know that Miss Jame- 
 son was distasteful to her pupil, and that he was himself rather 
 obnoxious to that lady ; but into the causes of Beatrice's dislike 
 he had never searched, and Miss Jameson's he forgave. It was 
 professional and very natural jealousy, and if she now followed 
 so closely on Beatrice's steps, it was still that natural and par- 
 donable infirmity which brought her. His welcome was, there- 
 fore, kind and courteous, and Miss Jameson, casting a furtive 
 and frightened look at Beatrice, who stood austere and grave, 
 said, hurriedly : 
 
 " And how are you, Mr. Ray ? I was so sorry to hear that 
 you were unwell. Mr. Gervoise told me of it this morning. It 
 gave me quite a turn. I am so nervous since I lost my dear 
 sister." 
 
 And genuine tears stood in Miss Jameson's dim eyes, for the 
 delicate sister whom she had supported so long, at the cost even 
 of honour and truth, had been dead six months. 
 
 "And how is dear Mr. Gervoise?" tenderly asked Miss 
 Ray. " I was saying to Miss Gordon that he looked but poorly." 
 
 "He is poorly," said Miss Jameson. * His mind is too 
 much for him, and his heart too, Miss Ray." 
 
 " It is," cried Miss Ray ; " he shed tears when I told him 
 yesterday about these poor Wilkins." 
 
 " Ay, and he shed nothing else ! " thought Beatrice, indig- 
 nant, though silent. 
 
 "Mr. Gervoise is a most humane man," mildly said Mr. 
 Ray, " and a man of fine intellect," he added, gravely. 
 
 These were the things which Beatrice could scarcely bear. 
 But Mr. Gervoise had fascinated Miss Ray by seeming to enter 
 heart and soul into all her charitable plans ; and he had won Mr. 
 Ray over by listening with reverent attention to one of Mr. 
 Ray's hobbies, the beneficial effect of literature in education as 
 compared to science. Thanks to these facile means, Mr. Ger- 
 voise kept them both in his hand, and knew as exactly what 
 Beatrice felt, thought, and said, as either Mr. Ray and his sister. 
 They were quite as useful in their way as Mrs. Scot and Miss 
 Jameson. 
 
 " What I like in Mr. Gervoise," resumed Miss Ray, " is the 
 beautiful simplicity of his nature." 
 
BEATEICE. lit 
 
 " Beautiful, indeed," said Miss Jameson, and she turned up 
 her eyes at Mr. Gervoise's artlessness. 
 
 Beatrice could bear no more. 
 
 " Mr. Ray," she said, " can I go into the library and get 
 your Dante, I find there is a page missing in mine ? " 
 
 '' I shall get it for you," said Mr. Ray, rising. 
 
 He went into the next room ; Beatrice followed him in, and 
 shut the door, laughing. That was what she wanted, to be alone 
 with Mr. Ray. He took down Dante, and Beatrice had a dozen 
 questions to put, which Mr. Ray was willing to answer. They 
 sat down with the open volume, a fine quarto, and Mr. Ray's 
 grey beard and Beatrice's dark curls soon bent over the page. 
 Miss Jameson and Miss Ray were walking in the garden, talking 
 cheerfully together, and within sight and hearing, but Beatrice 
 did not care. The whole world might look and listen, so she 
 had her dear master to herself, and was not compelled to stand 
 and hear Mr. Gervoise's hated praises. And thus an hour pass- 
 ed, until at length Miss Jameson got tired and ashamed, and took 
 her leave. Beatrice saw her go, and looked after her with a 
 curling lip and a mocking eye. 
 
 " Beatrice," said Mr^. Ray's mild and reproving voice. 
 
 He was looking at her with gentle admonition. Beatrice's 
 lids fell. We are afraid that sincere repentance was far from 
 her heart, but she loved him too much to indulge in open rebel- 
 lion, and she sighed to think how he, too, was deceived. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Whilst Beatrice is reading Dante with Mr. Ray, Mr. Ger- 
 voise is enjoying Beatrice's pictures. The cool north light falls 
 steady and clear on the sixty paintings in the gallery at Carnoosie. 
 The mellow Cuyp, the golden Claude, the deep and dark Rem- 
 brandt, the Flemish ladies, clothed in satin, and playing on their 
 lutes to cavaliers in velvet and lace, their grey hats with red 
 feathers lying on a table, the Dutch housewives cleaning vege- 
 tables in their old Dutch windows, the soldiers playing at cards 
 and cheating in the tavern ; all are there, soft, distinct, and clear. 
 Enthroned in the centre is Murillo's virgin, a sweet and gracious 
 image. No longer human is that pure flesh. It has passed 
 through the grave and entered the world of immortal life. 
 Eternity is beaming from those radiant eyes, and never more 
 shall that happy smile know sorrow. The battle is over and 
 won, the divine mother has found her divine son, the thresholds 
 of Heaven are passed, and welcomed by saints and angels, she 
 sits above, as Gabriel found her, praying in the little house in 
 Nazareth, " full of grace." 
 
 " A dangerous neighbour that MurUlo," thinks Mr. Gervoise, 
 who has been looking, and he walks on. 
 
 On him, too, falls the clear north light — an unpleasant pic- 
 ture. Ay, MuriUo, the Murillo who paints Madonnas, is a 
 dangerous neighbour here. More dangerous than to the sensual 
 Rubens, or to the earthly Van Ostade. Time and life have 
 worked hard at the living picture before us, and disease has 
 helped them ; the comely face and the handsome features which 
 won Mr. Gervoise his three wives wiU never get him a fourth, 
 should Mrs. Gervoise die. 
 
 Behold him now, red, bloated, and pimply. He does well to 
 turn away from that pale and Heavenly lady throned in grace ; 
 it is a keen and cruel contrast, even though there is no eye to see 
 it, for Mr. Gervoise and the pictures are alone. 
 
 They are still his darlings ; still his eye wanders with delight 
 
BEATRICE. 119 
 
 on those relics of the genius and the hopes and feelings and 
 dreams of vanished ages, which man agrees to prize so highly. 
 A strange taste and a strange pleasure, if we think of it well. 
 We are surrounded by reality, and we heed it not ; images of the 
 most homely scenes can throw us into a fever of ecstasy, and the 
 scenes themselves leave us cold. A cabbage painted by a Dutch- 
 man is divine ; put it in a kitchen garden, with the morning dew 
 of Heaven itself still glistening upon it, and we shall set its 
 market value upon it no more. Is the memory of some things 
 better than those things themselves, or rather is man's conception 
 of the meanest objects creative and divine in its effect upon man ? 
 Mr. Gervoise's thoughts took no such searching turn ; but he 
 knew that his was no unmixed joy. These pictures were not his, 
 they were Beatrice's, and Beatrice would soon be twenty-one ; 
 and envy and regret mingled now, as ever, in his delight. 
 
 Moreover, Mr. Gervoise was alone, and though he was the 
 most unsociable of men, he hated solitude ; it may be that it in- 
 spired him with a sort of terror. Since he had settled in Car- 
 noosie he had studiously shunned the paying and the receiving 
 of all visits ; but his own society was irksome to him, his wife's, 
 a servant's, Beatrice's even, was preferable. Mrs. Scot's voice, 
 which he now heard outside, suggested the relief he wanted to 
 the burden of his own thoughts ; he hastily opened the door and 
 called out cheerfully — 
 
 " Mrs. Scot, this way if you please." 
 
 The causes which made Mr. Gervoise's society irksome to 
 himself, rendered it doubly so to those around him. The very 
 kitchen-maids dreaded the infliction. No condescension, no 
 amiability, could efface the terrible fact, Mr. Gervoise was a 
 bore ! But Mrs. Scot had not time to escape, so she obeyed the 
 summons, and heard Mr. Gervoise asking her where he should 
 hang up the new Ribeira he meant to purchase. 
 
 Mrs. Scot hated pictures. They had been the late Mr. Car- 
 noosie's hobby, and she hated them with a vindictive hatred. 
 Ribeira's Spanish name irritated her. Were not all the pictures 
 foreigners, every one of them ? she might have answered sharply ; 
 but it was a listener, not a speaker, Mr. Gervoise wanted, and 
 he complacently resumed — 
 
 " This is a splendid Ribeira, Mrs. Scot, the finest in Eng- 
 land. A Saint Sebastian ; it belonged to the Iron Duke, who 
 got it from Spanish monks and gave it to a lady, who sold it to 
 a picture-dealer. It is all but mine, and where shall I hang it 
 up, Mrs. Scot?" 
 
120 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise is a better judge than I am, sir," replied 
 Mrs. Scot, glancing toward the window, through which Mr. 
 Gervoise could see his wife walking on the terrace. 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise was a new listener, and her husband said 
 quickly — 
 
 " Quite right, Mrs. Scot. Mrs. Gervoise has a very correct 
 eye. Will you ask her to come up ? " 
 
 Mrs. Scot nodded in her stern way, and went down to the 
 terrace where Mrs. Gervoise was slowly walking in the sun. 
 Pale and wan was the poor lady now ; habitual ill-health had 
 seized her for its own since her second marriage. To lie on a 
 couch, with Beatrice sitting by her side, or to take a slow walk 
 around the house on the sunny terrace, was Mrs. Gervoise's fate 
 now. She turned round with a scared look on hearing Mrs. 
 Scot's step, and listened to her message with evident trepidation, 
 but she hastened to say : 
 
 " Oh, certainly ! — I am going ! Mr. Gervoise must not 
 wait. Will you help me up-stairs, Mrs. Scot, if you please ? " 
 
 Her tone in addressing the housekeeper was humble and 
 timid ; and Mrs. Scot, with very little relaxation of her stern 
 mien, condescended to give the lady her arm, and took her up 
 to the gallery without a word. 
 
 "Are you not coming in, too, Mrs. Scot?" entreatingly 
 asked Mrs. Gervoise, in the tone of one who dreaded a private 
 interview with Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " No, ma'am," was the short reply, " I must see to the 
 china." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise sighed, and entered the gallery. She did not 
 shut the door behind her ; and Mrs. Scot, whilst seeing to the 
 china, as she called it, could hear the conversation within. The 
 Carnoosie china was to Mrs. Scot what the Carnoosie pictures 
 were to her master. Amongst the elder Carnosies there had 
 been one who had honoured Asia and the Indian Ocean with fre- 
 quent visits. From these remote expeditions he had brought back 
 strange treasures — carved Heathen idols of yellow ivory, with 
 crossed legs and triple faces, and many hands. These abode in 
 a large japanned cabinet, on the outward shelves and cornices of 
 which extended a small but costly collection of ancient china. 
 This was Mrs. Scot's peculiar delight. She doted not merely on 
 the delicately-transparent cups and saucers, but especially on two 
 horrible and gigantic dragons, green and gold, which, being too 
 large to stand on the shelves of the cabinet, were placed on the 
 floor in front of it, like the grim keepers of some enchanted cas- 
 
BEATRICE. 121 
 
 tie. A sort of maternal affection had Mrs. Scot conceived for 
 this pair of monsters. Their broad, horny heads, their mon- 
 ster bodies, and scaly tales, were more to her than the Murillo 
 to Mr. Gervoise, who hated the Carnoosie china as she hated the 
 Carnoosie pictures, and had once told her he would give all that 
 rubbish for a Ribeira. Mr. Scot had treasured up the confession 
 with stern resentment, and bestowed a double amount of her dis- 
 like on the Ribeira tribe from that day forth. With tender care 
 she now dusted her grim darlings, neither hearing nor minding 
 the preliminary discourse which passed between Mr. Gervoise 
 and his wife. A word that caught her ear made her pause and 
 listen. Mr. Gervoise was saying : 
 
 " This Ribeira was my father's, as I told you. He purchased 
 it in Holland, then parted with it to the man who has it now, but 
 on the express condition that I should have the power of re- 
 purchasing it. I really think I ought to buy it back. Beatrice 
 would like it, I am sure." 
 
 " What is the subject? " asked Mrs. Gervoise's timid voice. 
 
 ''Mary Magdalen doing penance in the desert. A lovely 
 head ! — ^it would please Beatrice. Try, my love, and ascertain 
 if she would like it." 
 
 " Certainly," replied Mrs. Gervoise's faint voice again ; " I 
 should like to sit down, Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 " Better walk, my dear — ^better walk. You want strength , 
 take my arm. Let us walk up and down, and look at the pic- 
 tures, my love." 
 
 Mrs. Scot stared at her china monsters, and nodding grimly, 
 she thought : 
 
 " He would tell lies to himself in a wood. He thinks lies — 
 he dreams lies ! I never yet heard him tell the same story twice 
 the same way. Give him a pin's head worth of truth, and he 
 will spread it into an ell. He lives upon lies — they are meat, 
 and drink, and sleep to him ! " 
 
 We have all our own peculiar fault, which we yield to and 
 cherish with paternal tenderness, and peculiar vice which we hate 
 with cordial abhorrence. Mrs. Scot was vindictive ; she had 
 never forgiven Beatrice for making faces at her — on her death- 
 bed she would not forgive her. She hated inanimate objects with 
 the same vigour, and what she did not hate Mrs. Scot as a rule 
 despised. Love, its gentleness, its warmth, and innocent fer- 
 vour, were sealed mysteries to this woman's heart. Yet, with- 
 out a sort of integrity of her own, cruel and hard she Avas not. 
 She could tell an untruth coolly and wickedly — for her revengo 
 6 
 
122 BEATEICE. 
 
 did not scorn this mode of action ; but she hated a lie as a sort 
 of meanness. Especially hateful to her was the small purpose- 
 less untruth. 
 
 " If he even meant something by it," she soliloquised, with 
 indignant virtue ; " but, no — it is all for nothing, and no good. 
 A foreigner, every bit of him — a dirty, lazy, lying foreigner, come 
 to live upon us English ! That's what he is — Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 With which flattering comment Mrs. Scot gave the Chinese 
 monsters a last fond look and shut up the cabinet. 
 
 At the foot of the staircase Mrs. Scot met Antony Gervoise, 
 now a very pretty young man, with a slight but by no means an 
 eiFeminate figure. He nodded to her, and with his feline smile 
 he said — 
 
 " How's your cat, Mrs. Scot?" 
 
 Then without waiting for her reply, he walked away laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 Mrs. Scot looked after him with her darkest look. If she 
 hated Beatrice, she hated Antony ten times more, for only two 
 months ago had this blue eyed young man cruelly waylaid and 
 killed her large black cat, the only creature which Mrs. Scot 
 cared for. But she smiled as she watched him taking the path 
 that led to the orchard. She knew what he was seeking there, 
 and Mrs. Scot nodded triumphantly as she thought of the recep- 
 tion he was going to get. Antony himself had painful doubts on 
 the subject. " She'll scratch my eyes out," he thought, but then 
 he remembered that to the attractions of his blue eyes and rosy 
 cheeks a brown moustache was now added, and on this potent 
 spell he relied. " She can't resist that," he thought, " she can't, 
 you know." Nevertheless he paused when he saw her at a dis- 
 tance. Blunt though his perceptions were, he knew that Beatrice 
 and he stood at the two extremities of the moral world. But 
 why was it so? "It is all her perversity," he thought, " only 
 she's so pretty." So she was, and he stood and looked at her 
 admiringly. 
 
 Antony had been plucked at the university ; but on returning 
 to Carnoosie, shorn of some laurels, he had lost no time in gather- 
 ing others in a pleasanter field. 
 
 There was some fine shooting about Carnoosie — shooting 
 which was thrown away upon Beatrice. Mr. Gervoise commit- 
 ted his son to the care of the gamekeeper, and paternally took 
 no more trouble about him. He had given him the opportunities 
 of a first-rate education, and of a high connexion — ^he had given 
 
BEATKICE. 123 
 
 him the chance of a rich wife — ^he had given him the habit of 
 manly sports ; a kind father could do no more. 
 
 His second son took very kindly to this teaching ; that por- 
 tion especially which regarded Beatrice Gordon and the shooting 
 did he affect ; and when he got tired of the one he promptly 
 turned to the other. It happened to be Beatrice's turn now. 
 
 " She is thinking of something pleasant," he thought, watch- 
 ing her as she sat at the foot of a tree, " some new way of tor- 
 menting me, of course. Well, she does look tantalizingly 
 pretty, that is all." And unable to resist the fascination which 
 ever made him seek this charming tormentor, Antony suddenly 
 came forward and familiarly sat down by Beatrice's side. Her 
 nerves were well strung, she neither started nor showed any sur- 
 prise, but she slowly turned toward the young man, and her 
 dark eyes shone on him with austere displeasure. 
 
 " I told you once for all that I wished to be alone in the 
 orchard," said the mistress of Carnoosie. 
 
 " Shall I go?" asked Antony. 
 
 Submission always softened Beatrice, besides her original dis- 
 like of Antony had given way to a sort of contemptuous and 
 compassionate liking. She, too, studied him with sad wonder, 
 she read in him instincts of evil so deep and so dangerous that it 
 pleased her to consider him as a being of another race than that 
 of Adam — a cruel, perfidious, and graceful specimen of the genus 
 felis, who could no more help his perversity than the domestic 
 cat, or the tiger of the jungle can help theirs. 
 
 " And yet I could tame him," thought Beatrice sometimes. 
 And so she could ; she could tame, but not conquer ; subdue the 
 outward wickedness, but never reach the inner heart. 
 
 " You need not go," she now said graciously enough. " What 
 have you been doing whilst you were away — shooting ? " 
 
 Antony nodded. 
 
 " I suppose you cannot make up your mind to read the book 
 I lent you?" 
 
 " I read it through," promptly answered Antony. 
 
 Beatrice held up her finger. 
 
 " Ye<l are telling me an untruth," she said. 
 
 " Beatrice, on my word of honour " 
 
 " Do not," she interrupted, " you pain me." 
 
 And Antony saw with some surprise that her ey^s were 
 bright and dewy with tears. 
 
 " You pain me," she said again. " You are so unlike what 
 Gilbert's brother should be. Oh ! what a pity, my poor Antony, 
 
124 BEATRICE. 
 
 that you are what you are, what a mortal pity ! You are young, 
 you are handsome, you are well off, I believe, you could move 
 in good society, act a noble part in the world, and all these bless- 
 ings, so precious, so invaluable, are wasted ! You have neither 
 honour, nor truth, nor wisdom. Your ignorance makes you unfit 
 to be the companion of gentlemen, your tastes are lower than 
 your groom's, for he rises to his master, and you sink to your 
 servant. Antony, it is a mortal pity, and my heart aches for 
 
 you." 
 
 There were some unflattering things in this speech, and 
 Antony winced to hear them, but he was accustomed to bear a 
 good deal of this sort of frankness from Beatrice ; besides, she 
 had said, " You are handsome ! " and his mind was of the order 
 to revel in such words when uttered by Beatrice's lips. His 
 blue eyes overflowed with delight, his lips trembled with excite- 
 ment, and bending toward her with caressing grace, he said 
 softly : 
 
 " Beatrice, I know I am all wrong, but, Beatrice, my father 
 is to blaiqae ! He is the most selfish of men. Beatrice, he would 
 let me go to ruin rather than take the least trouble about me. 
 So I let him look at his pictures, and enjoy his French cook — 
 what does he care ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Beatrice, " you should not speak so." 
 
 " Beatrice, it is the truth, and you cannot deny it. Beatrice, 
 believe me, I could become very (Afferent from what I am if you 
 would take me in hand." 
 
 Beatrice's bright dark eyes laughed, but she did not answer. 
 Antony continued : 
 
 " Beatrice, I would do any thing to please you — ^try me ! " 
 
 " How so ? " asked Beatrice, still laughing. 
 
 Antony stooped, took her hand, and kissed it with some pas- 
 sion. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, " I love you dearly : beyond any thing 
 and any one else in this world ! " 
 
 There was nothing in the confession to surprise Beatrice. 
 She had known for a long time what Mr. Gervoise openly 
 wished for, and what his son secretly desired ; she had not taken 
 the trouble to check either father or son. She felt her own in 
 deed and thought, and feared nothing and no one. But though 
 Antony's confession could not astonish Beatrice, it startled her 
 slightly, for she was not prepared for it just then. She coloured 
 a little, but neither attempted to rise nor to withdraw her hand 
 
BEATEICE. 125 
 
 from Antony's. That pity which was her strong and ruling 
 feeling toward him, rose again with her. 
 
 " Poor Antony ! " she said softly ; " don't you know that 
 can never be — never ? " 
 
 " Why not, Beatrice ? " 
 
 " Because it is against nature that there should be any thing 
 save abhorrence between us." 
 
 " Beatrice ! " 
 
 " Yes, I know ; and please not to kiss my hand any more. I 
 know, Antony, you like me. So does the cat like the bird it is 
 ready to spring on and devour. That is your way, Antony ! I 
 have seen you whip your dog — that is your way." 
 
 > Tears rose to his eyes, tears of grief and shame. He dropped 
 her hand, and almost flung it from him. 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice," he said, " you are too cruel ! " 
 
 "Ami?" 
 
 " Yes. Have I not just told you that you could mould me 
 to your own will, Beatrice ? — indeed you could ! " and turning 
 round, he looked at her very tenderly, and, for once, sincerely. 
 
 Again Beatrice seemed much affected. Years of solitude 
 and thought, and some suffering, had given her a depth and 
 penetration beyond her age. She was young in her enjoyment 
 of life, and old in her sense of its mysteries and sadness. 
 Thought and reading and observation, keen, though limited, had 
 supplied, with her, the place of experience. She knew Antony 
 Gervoise thoroughly, better than he knew himself, and she knew 
 that, unless through a miracle, there was little or no hope for 
 him. That miracle she did not feel called upon to perform, but 
 it saddened her inexpressibly to think that it could perhaps have 
 been done, and that it never would be, and that Antony Gervoise 
 would and must go down to perdition, and never find a helping 
 hand on his way. 
 
 The young man was watching her closely. He saw her 
 emotion, and though he did not think it all favourable to his 
 suit, he felt a vague hope. 
 
 " Try me, Beatrice," he said, softly, " try me." 
 
 " Never in that way," she replied, with her firm, bright 
 smile, " never, Mr. Antony Gervoise. I have already said it to 
 you — we are not of the same kind, and we cannot mate. If I 
 do marry, the man I choose must be beyond me, in my concep- 
 tion, at least, in all that is good, noble, and true. This you 
 cannot be. I have infinite pity for you, Antony, pity deeper 
 than I can say, but that is all." 
 
126 BEATRICE. 
 
 " You like me, Beatrice !" 
 . " No. And if I do, do not rely upon it. That liking is 
 nothing, and will lead to nothing." 
 
 Antony bit his lip, and frowned slightly. 
 
 " I tell you that you like me," he persisted. 
 
 But Beatrice would not be angered. 
 ' " Yes," she said, " I do. You are young, and you might be 
 good. You are Gilbert's brother, too, and, sad to say, very like 
 him. You are better-looking than he is, but you have something 
 of him — ^there are moments when your voice and your look re- 
 call his — and therefore I like you, Antony, for he was my great 
 friend, my good and true friend years ago ! " 
 
 " Ah ! but you never saw him since," said Antony, with evi- 
 dent satisfaction. 
 
 " Never ; and what is more, I do not think I shall ever see 
 him again. Do not be too glad, Antony. I like to think of your 
 brother, but, as you perceive, I can live without him." 
 
 She smiled defiantly in his face, and, rising from beneath the 
 apple tree, walked away. Antony sat looking after her, but he 
 did not venture to follow her. He feared as much as he loved 
 her, and, but for that fear, might never have cared for her. He 
 liked her because she had bright dark eyes and a pretty face, and 
 a graceful figure, and because she was the mistress of Carnoosie, 
 for which he felt a most tender affection ; but besides that liking 
 there had grown up another, very different from it ; a deep and 
 servile love for the hand that alternately caressed and chastised 
 him. He did not merely long to possess Beatrice, he longed to 
 be Beatrice's, to feel one with that noble and bright creature, and 
 lose in her the sense of his own meanness — for, being young, he 
 had yet this much good in him, that he knew his own unworthi- 
 ness. This negative virtue, however, did not go so far as to 
 check Mr. Antony Gervoise in his suit ; Beatrice Gordon did not 
 w^ant him, but he wanted her, and have her he would. He saw 
 her again as he entered the house. She stood with her mother 
 on the sunlit terrace, looking at the stately trees which grew 
 around Carnoosie, and nodded their green heads to the soft west- 
 ern wind. She leaned with folded arms on the stone balustrade ; 
 the sun shone on her bare head and her graceful neck. Her 
 slight and supple figure had a careless grace, and the very sole 
 of her little upturned shoe, as she tapped the gravel with het foot, 
 had fascination in it for Antony. 
 
 The act of speaking to her had given his passion new force. 
 At once he went up to the gallery, and addressing his father, who 
 
BEATEICE. 127 
 
 was looking at a Cuyp with half-shut eyes, he said doggedly and 
 insolently : 
 
 " If I do not marry Beatrice within three months, I shall 
 leave Carnoosie for good." 
 
 " My goodness t" cried Mr. Gervoise, much startled, " what 
 has happened ? I did not even know you were come back." 
 
 " This has happened that she will not have me, and that she 
 wants Gilbert, whom she is always throwing up in my face." 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear boy ; they have not met since they were 
 children. There is nothing in it." 
 
 Antony replied that there was plenty in it, and again vowed 
 that, if he did not get Beatrice, he would leave Carnoosie for 
 good. Now this was a most unpleasant threat. Antony was of 
 age, but his pecuniary matters were in Mr. Gervoise's hands. 
 The thought of settling was disagreeable in the extreme to that 
 gentleman. He had indeed kindly lent his son some large sums, 
 on good security, of course, but suppose Antony should make an 
 outcry on that matter, and the world should side with Antony. 
 It would not do at all. 
 
 " My dear boy," he said affectionately, " I will do every thing, 
 any thing for you, but on one condition : you must follow up the 
 plan you have just suggested, you must leave Carnoosie for a 
 time. I must act in your absence. Let our dear Beatrice hate 
 me, if needs she will, but she must not hate you. Go and have 
 some nice shooting — say in Scotland ; I will let you have the 
 money, and when you return, you will find Miss Gordon more 
 amiable and compliant than she was this morning." 
 
 The words " shooting in Scotland" acted like a spell. Antony 
 calmed down at once, and professed himself ready to go that 
 minute. 
 
 " Go to-day — this afternoon," said his father ; "it will l5ok 
 well. Beatrice will like it. Besides, I can act at once." 
 
 "You are not going to hurt her, are you?" asked Antony 
 with some uneasiness. 
 
 " Hurt her ! " exclaimed Mr. Gervoise, looking shocked, and 
 making his pimpled face and small ferret eyes look as benevolent 
 as he could ; " why, Antony, don't you know me?" 
 
 " Ay, that I do," thought Antony ; but, taking Mr. Gervoise's 
 kindness and forbearance to Beatrice for granted, he suggested 
 that they should settle forthwith the pecuniary preliminaries of 
 his trip to Scotland. To this proposal Mr. Gervoise acceded, 
 and hard and keen was the bargain which this thoughtful father 
 drove with the son whom he loved, however, as the bad can love, 
 
128 BEATRICE. 
 
 at an infinite distance from himself, his interest and convenience. 
 At length the matter was settled ; JNIr. Gervoise, having received 
 proper security, in case his son should perish in a railway colli- 
 sion, or die in some other fashion, for he was not his heir, and 
 should guard against so unpleasant a contingency, dismissed him 
 with liberal assurances of paternal affection. 
 
 That same day Antony Gervoise left, and that same day, too, 
 Mr. Gervoise began the attack which was to end in Beatrice's 
 defeat. To Beatrice herself he did not speak ; he was satisfied 
 with opening his mind to Mrs. Gervoise. For many years that 
 poor lady had not walked beyond the precincts of the terrace. 
 There she sat in fine weather, and there Beatrice sat with her as 
 much as she could. But youth needs motion ; and though she 
 was rarely long away, Beatrice generally left her mother in the 
 morning to go to the orchard, and in the afternoon to walk down 
 an avenue of trees, large, stately, and solemn, which was one of 
 the beauties of Carnoosie. Down this avenue Beatrice is walk- 
 ing now. She has just parted from Antony, who has bidden her 
 a sad and subdued farewell, and she pities and half likes him in 
 her heart. 
 
 " I wish he would be good," she thought, " I wish he would 
 be good and true. His father is a serpent — a remorseless snake ; 
 he is base as well as cruel — a being made to sting and crawl. 
 But there is something better in that poor Antony — not much, 
 but still something. Besides, he likes me in his way, and, hard 
 as I am with him, he ever comes back to me. I wish he either 
 liked me less, or that I could like him more ! " 
 
 As she thus soliloquised, Beatrice stopped short ; and, looking 
 at her trees, forgot Antony. They were so beautiful, so majestic, 
 and they were her own, and possession was sweet to the mistress 
 of Carnoosie. Her eyes sparkled with delight ; these were her 
 only unmixed joys. In all else she found trouble and care ; but 
 when she stood alone — ^the sky above her head, the green grass 
 beneath her feet, her solemn, wide-spreading beeches and gnarled 
 oaks around her, she breathed freely and felt happy. What the 
 prairie is to the Red Indian, and the mountain to the mountain- 
 eer, trees were to Beatrice Gordon. Here she tasted that bless- 
 ing which is the salt of all others, and without which they are 
 poor and tame — liberty. The sense of no unkind eye resting on 
 her, of no spy's perfidious ear lying in wait for every breath 
 which fell from her lips, was sweetness to the captive girl. She 
 was free according to the world's estimate ; she was rich, too, 
 and she owned a fkir home — but Beatrice knew that she was a 
 
BEATEICE. • 129 
 
 prisoner. She had grown up in that thraldom ; but the habit 
 which enabled her to endure it, could not lessen her secret hate 
 of it, nor yet make her enjoy less every moment snatched from 
 her gaolers. Sweet, therefore, was it for her to wander thus, 
 toward the fall of day, in that grey avenue, so still and lonely. 
 To a gayer and a happier girl its gloom and solitude would have 
 seemed oppressive ; to Beatrice they yielded relief all the more 
 prized that it was very brief. 
 
 " I must go back to my poor darling," she thought, after a 
 while ; and, turning her back on her friends, as she often called 
 them in those soliloquies which were a portion of her solitary 
 life, she walked at a brisk pace toward the house. She found 
 Mrs. Gervoise lying on a couch in her room, and that room was 
 now near Beatrice's. For the last year especially, Mr. Gervoise 
 had shown himself bent on conciliating Beatrice, and so far from 
 seeking to part her from her mother, he had done much to throw 
 them together. Beatrice, w^ho could not perhaps be just to him, 
 had concluded that he thus hoped to strengthen his hold upon her, 
 and had hated him none the less that she availed herself fully of 
 the privileges he so graciously allowed her. 
 
 But, as we said, she found Mrs. Gervoise in her room, lying 
 as usual on a couch, and looking worn and exhausted. 
 
 "Does any thing ail you, darling?" she asked; "have you 
 been worried?" 
 
 " No, my dear — certainly not. I was only wishing for you." 
 
 " Well, here I am." And Beatrice sat down at her mother's 
 feet, and looked earnestly at her flushed face. 
 
 " Beatrice." 
 
 " Yes, darling." 
 
 " I wish we could travel — I do long for a change." 
 . Beatrice did not answer. 
 
 " I wish you were of age." 
 
 " That would make no difference." 
 
 " But if you were married, Beatrice." 
 
 " I shall never marry, darling." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " It would never do — ^never. Let us talk of something else." 
 
 " No, Beatrice, I must talk of that. Why do you not 
 marry?" 
 
 Beatrice laughed, and asked : — " Who wants me ? " 
 
 "Oh! Beatrice, who would not want you rather? Why, 
 you know well enough poor Antony is longing for you ! " 
 
 "Is he?" 
 
 6* 
 
130 BEATEICE. 
 
 " Of course he is, poor fellow ! Beatrice, I think that young 
 man is much improved." 
 
 Beatrice did not reply. She leaned her cheek upon her hand, 
 and looked steadily at the flowers on the carpet, whilst her 
 mother continued : 
 
 " And I think, Beatrice, I really do, that if you would have 
 him, we should all be much happier. Think it over, my dear. 
 He is a very nice and good-looking young man, and you would 
 make him amiable and gentle, and you would live together in 
 Carnoosie, and I know Mr. Gervoise would let us travel, and I 
 long for change. Do think it over, Beatrice ! " 
 
 And Beatrice, whose face was still resting on her hand, and 
 whose eyes were still downcast, was thinking it over. It was 
 the keenest pain she had felt since that sad day when Gilbert 
 had been torn from her ; it was a pain far keener still. For 
 then, if Mr. Gervoise robbed her of her friend, he could not taint 
 the friendship, and now he had frightened and bribed her own 
 mother to act against her. Beatrice could not bear it ; that the 
 being for whose sake she bore all in silence, and without com- 
 plaint, for whom she was ready to submit to every trial, should, 
 at his threats or entreaties, attempt to persuade her to her last- 
 ing misery, was a pang too cruel and too keen ! Therefore did 
 she keep her face leaning on her hand, and her eyes downcast. 
 
 " My dear," exclaimed Mrs. Gervoise, uneasily, and, lean- 
 ing upon one elbow, she tried to look in her daughter's face. 
 
 Beatrice turned toward her, and if her mien was sorrowful 
 and grave, it was also firm and clear, and the warm light from 
 the west that came in through the open window shone on it and 
 lit it well. 
 
 " Darling ! " she said, gently, " we have a very hard life be- 
 fore us, a very hard life ; but there is only one thing for us to 
 do — let us be true to one another, let us be true. Let no one, 
 darling, step in between you and me, and suggest this, or advise 
 that, it would not be for your good or for mine. There is but 
 one being now between us, let us not put two, or we will repent 
 it for ever ! " 
 
 " My dear," faltered Mrs. Gervoise, " I meant well." 
 
 " I know you did, darling ; but it would be perdition and 
 ruin. I know Antony Gervoise I know him well, and pity him 
 deeply ; but we must live and die apart ; between that young 
 man and Beatrice Gordon there never can be the least bond of 
 friendship or of love. I told him so this morning. I believe 
 
BEATEICE. 131 
 
 that is why he has left. I should be happy to think that we 
 shall never meet again, but I suppose I must not hope for it." 
 
 She spoke steadily and distinctly, so distinctly that one might 
 have thought she was anxious every word she uttered might be 
 heard to the furthest extremity of the room, and that no one 
 within hearing should doubt her meaning. But to all appear- 
 ance, no one, save Mrs. Gervoise, who was shedding a few slow 
 and penitent tears, was there to hear Beatrice. The large silent 
 room held no witnesses, and no listeners ; the open window was 
 too far from the couch, and was too high for any one standing 
 on the terrace below to hear what passed within. And yet I 
 dare say Beatrice knew what she was saying when she answered 
 Mrs. Gervoise's plaintive question : 
 
 " What shall I say to Mr. Gervoise, Beatrice?" 
 
 " He will not question you, darling." 
 
 And Beatrice was right enough. Mr. Gervoise never asked 
 his wife how she had fared in her endeavours. He had tried an 
 ambassador, and failed : he now resolved to act in his own per- 
 son, but, before doing so, he wisely gave the enemy a week's 
 seeming truce, during which he hoped she would forget the at- 
 tempt she had resented so keenly. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. r 
 
 The week was out when Beatrice and her step-father met in 
 the flower-garden. At once they exchanged a declaration of 
 war. Beatrice was bareheaded, and Mr. Gervoise objected to 
 it. Beatrice tossed her rebellious black curls, and replied that 
 she liked to feel the wind blowing about her. It was Mr. Ger- 
 voise's wont, when he wanted to provoke Beatrice into disobedi- 
 ence, to begin very wide of the mark ; accordingly, wishing her 
 to marry Antony, he again said that he objected to her walking 
 about bareheaded, and he forbade it. 
 
 Beatrice's answer was not much to the purpose. 
 
 " Mr. Eaby is coming," she said. " I wrote to tell him that 
 you wanted me to marry Antony, and he is coming." 
 
 " You confess writing to my friend Mr. Raby for the purpose 
 of breeding mischief between us ! " 
 
 " I ! " cried Beatrice, all innocence. " I only told him you 
 wanted me to marry Antony ; you surely would not object." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise excelled more in deeds than in words ; Bea- 
 trice, on the contrary, had a ready tongue, and did not object to 
 using it. Besides, if Mr. Raby was really coming, he could not 
 draw in his horns with too much speed, so he mUdly asked when 
 that gentleman would arrive. 
 
 " I only know that he is sure to come," answered Beatrice, 
 walking away. 
 
 There was, unfortunately, no doubt about that. 
 
 " I must turn the matter over," thought Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 And so he did, and to some purpose, as Beatrice found. 
 
 Mr. Raby arrived late one evening. He had aged since we 
 saw him last, and got very stout too, but he was little changed 
 otherwise. Mr. Gervoise who received him, congratulated him 
 on his florid health, and Mr. Raby crossly answered that looks 
 signified nothing. Still Mr. Gervoise overflowed with kindness 
 and good- will ; would he see Beatrice ? — no, it might excite him, 
 and he, Mr. Gervoise, could see Mr. Raby was excitable. In- 
 
BEATRICE. 133 
 
 deed it was a pity he had come down to Camoosie at this time 
 of the year. 
 
 " I shall go down to the kitchen," crossly said Mr. Raby, 
 looking at the black hearth of the cold study. " I see you have 
 got no fires yet, and Jones tells me to avoid the cold." 
 
 " Come along," mysteriously said Mr. Gervoise, " come up- 
 stairs with me, and I will show you a room and a fire." 
 
 Mr. Raby hesitated, then complied. He followed Mr. Ger- 
 voise up-stairs, and was shown by his host into a suite of rooms 
 with fires blazing in every chimney, and wax-lights burning on 
 every table. The inner room, which was also the pleasantest 
 and most comfortable, presented Mr. Raby with a delightful 
 prospect — a well-laid table on which a dainty meal was waiting. 
 It ivas a delightful prospect, yet Mr. Raby turned away and sighed, 
 
 " Jones says I must have no suppers," he said faintly, " noth- 
 ing but gruel." 
 
 " Then you must obey Jones by all means. Mrs. Scot, 
 please to send up some thin, very thin, gruel for Mr. Raby." 
 
 Mrs. Scot came forth from the dark corner of the room, 
 where she had been standing, and silently departed on her errand. 
 
 " It would be a mortal sin to let these good things be 
 wasted," said Mr. Gervoise, " so I shall just sit down and take 
 a slight repast." 
 
 And Mr. Gervoise sat down and took, not a slight, but an 
 abundant meal. He was usually a spare though dainty eater, 
 but Mr. Gervoise was greedy this evening, for Panel had sur- 
 passed himself. 
 
 In the meanwhile Mr. Raby sat down by the fire, and took 
 his thin gruel and looked irritated and sulky. 
 
 " I do not think Jones would forbid this partridge," suddenly 
 said Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 "Don't you? " faintly replied Mr. Raby. 
 
 " I do not think he would." 
 
 Mr. Raby hesitated, Mr. Gervoise settled the matter by put- 
 ting the coveted morsel on his plate. For the last two months 
 Mr. Raby had been dieted by the inexorable Doctor Jones. He 
 had fasted like any anchorite, and led but a hard life of it. 
 Temptation now assailed him, and such temptation as Mr. Raby 
 did not know how to withstand. The warm room, the blazing 
 fire, the easy chair in which he sat — it had been taken out of 
 Mr. Gervoise's own room — the dainty and fragrant viands before 
 him ; all these coming after a cold journey were too much for 
 Mr. Raby's fortitude. His eyes glistened, he seized his knife 
 
134: BEATRICE. 
 
 and fork with a trembling hand, for there was a consciousness 
 of danger and sin in Mr. Raby's inner heart, and he ate. 
 
 " Jones would never forgive me," he said when he at length 
 pushed his plate away. 
 
 " He need not know it," suggested Mr. Gervoise blandly, 
 " and I am so glad you came. Just fancy ! Antony fell in love 
 with Beatrice, and proposed to her, sir ! I soon packed him off. 
 He is cooling himself on the Scotch moors now." 
 
 Mr. Raby looked deeply perplexed, and after a while asked 
 what Mr. Gervoise's objection to the match might be. 
 
 " My dear sir, surely I need not tell you ! Now don't look 
 so — so very much amazed. No mysteries between us, Mr. Raby. 
 All above board." 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, you agitate me. What is it?" 
 
 " Mr. Raby, you do not mean to say you do not know that 
 poor dear Beatrice is — how shall.I call it ? — eccentric ? " 
 
 "Mad!" 
 
 " Eccentric," mildly corrected Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 Mr. Raby remained silent, stunned with the magnitude of 
 the blow. If Beatrice was mad, as he plainly termed it, why, 
 then his fatal trust was a more fearful snare than ever. What 
 would Jones say to it? If Beatrice was mad, she must be locked 
 up, and, more horrible still, she woTild never be of age — never ! 
 Mad people lived long, he had always heard so — it was too 
 much. 
 
 "Mr. Gervoise," he said reproachfully, "you should not 
 have told me so after supper, it might have been the death of 
 me. It was enough to make the gout fly to my stomach." 
 
 " My dear sir, how was I to know you were not aware of it? 
 Beatrice was always so. Besides, I gave you many hints." 
 
 " Is she dangerous ? " 
 
 " Rarely," kindly replied Mr. Gervoise ; " indeed hers is 
 insanity," the word seemed to slip out, " under its subtlest and 
 mildest form. But I was very imprudent in allowing her and 
 Antony to be so much together. It is hard for her, poor girl ! " 
 
 Mr. Raby faintly asked if Mr. Gervoise thought him safe in 
 his room. 
 
 " Safe ! .Beatrice would not hurt a fly." 
 
 " Yes, but mad people — " 
 
 " My dear sir, you must not call Miss Beatrice Gordon, the 
 mistress of Carnoosie, mad ! You must not say a word to a 
 soul on the subject, not even to Doctor Jones. Come, give 
 me your word — mind I speak in strict confidence." 
 
BEATRICE. 135 
 
 Mr. Gervoise was so alarmed, and he so teased and worried 
 Mr. Eaby, that the proniise was given by that gentleman ; but 
 he kept in petto the resolve of writing to Jones the next morning 
 a letter, of which the purport should be : " Suppose an individual 
 afflicted with the gout should be in the same house with an 
 insane person, what might the consequences be to the aforesaid 
 individual?" 
 
 " It is such a comfort to have you here," sighed Mr. Ger- 
 voise, rising ; "I shall sleep all the better for it to-night." 
 
 " Shall we have to get her locked up?" asked Mr. Raby, 
 gloomily. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked horrified. Lock up the mistress of Car- 
 noosie ! Heaven forbid. No ; if they could indeed get her 
 safely married. Mr. Raby brightened. 
 
 " Wouldn't your son ? " he interrupted. 
 
 " Yes, sir, he would ; but you do not suppose I would entail 
 the curse of eccentricity on my grandchildren." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise's indignant tone silenced Mr. Raby. Beatrice's 
 step-father resumed : 
 
 " We must find her a husband, but, first of all, we must 
 enlighten her. Beatrice has a vague consciousness of her infirm- 
 ity ; but if this consciousness became certainty, if she could 
 know her real mental condition, who knows but it 'might save 
 her?" 
 
 "Well, then, why don't you tell her?" crossly asked Mr. 
 Raby. 
 
 " She would not believe me ; but if you, with your fine 
 tact— " 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, don't try that — don't." 
 
 "You decline?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " I dare not." 
 
 " And want to put it upon me — thanks ! " 
 
 " My dear sir, Beatrice would not hurt a fly. But being 
 eccentric, she is susceptible, and being susceptible — " 
 
 " I tell you, sir, that I will not have the poor girl going off 
 into hysterics in my presence. Jones would never forgive me." 
 
 " Oh ! if you plead your health, I am dumb ; moreover, my 
 conscience is at rest." 
 
 And thus, pretty sure that Mr. Raby would not repeat a 
 word of their conversation to Beatrice, Mr. Gervoise bade him a 
 good evening. 
 
 Mr. Raby spent a sleepless night. Perhaps his supper was 
 
136 BEATEICE. 
 
 too much for him, and Beatrice's insanity, and his position as 
 her trustee, were enough to keep him awake, and make Doctor 
 Jones's hair stand on end. If she would but marry Antony ! 
 A mad girl, though rich, could scarcely hope for a better match. 
 Thus thought Mr. Raby, until, after tossing about for several 
 hours, it occurred to him that he might take the word of some 
 one else besides Mr. Gervoise, concerning Beatrice's eccentricity. 
 
 Chance — was it chance ? — ^brought Mrs. Scot to his rooms the 
 next morning, and suggested the very person to whom he should 
 apply. He did so with much caution, merely asking if Miss 
 Gordon was up. 
 
 " I shall see, sir. Miss Gordon's hours vary." 
 
 " Do they? But her health is good, I hope." 
 
 <' Why, yes, sir, considering." 
 
 This word " considering," tempted Mr. Raby ; he went and 
 shut the door, then came back, and said nervously : 
 
 " Mrs. Scot, you have been years in the family, and I am 
 Miss Gordon's trustee ; strange rumours have reached me — 
 allow me to ask you, Mrs. Scot, how far they are founded upon 
 fact?" ^ 
 
 "What rumours, sir?" asked Mrs. Scot, bluntly. 
 
 " Mrs. Scot, what did you mean by the word ' considering?' 
 Why should it be ' considering ? ' " 
 
 " I did not say ' considering,' sir," sharply said Mrs. Scot ; 
 " I know my place too well, I hope, to say ' considering.' " 
 
 "You did, Mrs. Scot!" exclaimed Mr. Raby, excitedly — 
 " you did, and you owe me the truth — I am Miss Gordon's trus- 
 tee, and I have got the gout, and excitement may be fatal to 
 me." 
 
 "Then you had better not stay in Carnoosie," said Mrs. 
 Scot. 
 
 "Why so, Mrs. Scot? just tell me why?" 
 
 " The air is exciting, sir ; at least, I always heard it was." 
 
 " Mrs. Scot, I appeal to your conscience — I lay it on your 
 conscience — what is the matter with Miss Gordon ? " 
 
 " Nothing that I know of, sir," doggedly replied Mrs. Scot. 
 
 "Is it the air of Carnoosie that disagrees with her? — is it 
 too exciting for her ? " 
 
 Mrs. Scot looked sullen, and did not reply. 
 
 "Is she excitable?" implored Mr. Raby; "you can surely 
 teU me that, Mrs. Scot." 
 
 " Well, sir, I think she is." 
 
 " And eccentric ? " 
 
BEATRICE. 
 
 13t 
 
 Mrs. Scot looked hard at him. 
 
 " That will do, sir," she said, sternly ; " if you were ten 
 times Miss Gordon's trustee, I'll answer no more such ques- 
 tions. I know what my place would be worth, if Mr. Gervoise 
 thought that I told tales on his step-daughter, and I don't mind 
 telling you, sir, that he shall know every word as has passed 
 between us this morning." 
 
 "As you please, Mrs. Scot," very indignantly rejoined Mr. 
 Raby, who had forgotten that such, whether she told him so or 
 not, would very probably be Mrs. Scot's most natural proceed- 
 ing ; "as you please, ma'am ; and he angrily passed by her and 
 went down-stairs. In the hall he met Beatrice. He could not 
 repress a little start on seeing her, and, with her quick percep- 
 tion, Beatrice felt it was not a start of pleasure. 
 
 " How are you, Mr. Raby ? " she asked, holding out her 
 hand. 
 
 " Very well, my dear," he replied, trying not to look nervous, 
 " and how are you?" 
 
 " I am quite well," replied Beatrice brightly. 
 
 Mr. Raby longed to ask if her head ached, or if this windy 
 morning did not make her feel excitable, but he restrained him- 
 self, and, unconscious of his strange manner, stood looking at 
 her without making way for her to pass, or attempting himself 
 to go on. 
 
 Beatrice eyed him keenly. 
 
 " Will you look at the garden, Mr. Raby? " she asked cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 Mr. Raby did not dare to decline the offer, and out they 
 went. They were no sooner out of hearing than Beatrice said 
 quickly : 
 
 " Mr. Raby, are you offended with me? — did I do wrong to 
 write ? Are you angry ? " 
 
 In great trepidation Mr. Raby hastened to reply : 
 
 "My dear, I am not at all offended, I was delighted to 
 receive_your letter, and I am delighted to see you ! " 
 
 " I should not have thought so," drily replied Beatrice. 
 " At all events, Mr. Raby, I feel and know that Mr. Gervoise 
 has been saying something about me to you." 
 
 " Not a word," hastily interrupted Mr. Raby. 
 
 Beatrice looked incredulous and disappointed. 
 
 " Whatever it may be," she persisted, " believe nothing of 
 me which your own experience does not confirm." 
 
 She spoke with a sad earnestness which struck Mr. Raby, 
 
138 BEATRICE. 
 
 His mind felt in strange confusion ; suppose she was not mad 
 after all. Oh ! how he would like Jones to be here ! Beatrice 
 saw the advantage she had gained, and she pursued : 
 
 " I was wanted to marry Antony Gervoise. Do you know 
 him, Mr. Raby?" 
 
 " He was not here when I came last." 
 
 " It is a pity," said Beatrice with a bitter laugh ; "he is a 
 tame tiger, you know. He will lick your hand and be ready to 
 devour you ; one must not be angry with him, it is his way." 
 
 Mr. Raby loved plain language ; he was born commonplace 
 and matter-of-fact, and Beatrice's little girlish flight of speech, 
 " a tame tiger," gave him strange thoughts. With a cunning 
 which vas not in his nature, and which intense love of self- 
 preservation alone could draw out, he laid a trap for Beatrice. 
 
 " 'Is that young man really a tame tiger ?" he asked. 
 
 " He is indeed, and a beautiful tiger too ; a real Bengal na- 
 tive of the jungle, cruel and cowardly. You should see his 
 smile, it is frightful, and so sweet. Mr. Gervoise has a print 
 like it. A Joanna of Naples by Vinci ; a fair lovely girl with 
 delicate lips, but so perfidious. She was a Bluebeard, you know, 
 and killed all her husbands. She too was a tigress." 
 
 Beatrice spoke with some animation, her eyes sparkled, her 
 lips were parted — she looked excited. Mr. Raby watched her, 
 and a vague though firm conviction that Beatrice was on the 
 brink if she had not passed the fearful bounds of insanity, entered 
 his mind, and sank there, never to be removed again. 
 
 " Don't you think you had better marry him?" he said, after 
 a brief pause. 
 
 " Marry Antony ! " exclaimed Beatrice. 
 
 " Why, yes, my dear, I confess to you it would be a great 
 relief to me if you were safely married." 
 
 And Mr. Raby sighed to think what a relief it would be. 
 
 " But I cannot marry Antony," indignantly cried Beatrice ; 
 " no girl who knows him can, it would be rushing on ruin." 
 
 " Could you not marry his brother?" suggested Mr. Raby, 
 suddenly remembering that Mr. Gervoise had once mentioned 
 something of the kind. 
 
 " We have not met since we were children," replied Beatrice, 
 becoming crimson. 
 
 " My dear," persisted Mr. Raby, " take the advice of a 
 friend, marry as soon as you can." 
 
 Beatrice remained mute. She had nothing to say. Mr. 
 Raby was won over to the enemy ; how and why mattered little, 
 
 I 
 
BEATEICE. 130 
 
 it was so. She looked at him with the same sad earnestness 
 she had betrayed once before, and again it moved to a passing 
 doubt. But Mr. Raby was never prompt to act or to conclude. 
 
 " I must get Jones to see her," he thought, and in the mean- 
 while he kept the vague belief of Beatrice's insanity, referring 
 certainly to a doubtful future. Beatrice walked silently by his 
 side till, turning a path, they met Mr. Gervoise, brisk, lively, 
 and cheerfiiiywith a smile on his lips, and triumph in his eye. 
 Beatrice answered-the lootire gave her with one that said : 
 
 " Yes, you prevail now, but my turn shall come yet." 
 
 This was more easily said than done, as Beatrice found. 
 Mr. Raby's presence happened to be required by Mr. Gervoise, 
 who thought the moment a favourable one for accounts, and Mr. 
 Raby stayed in Carnoosie and lived high. " In for a penny, in 
 for a pound," he recklessly thought. But though day after day 
 Beatrice watched for an opportunity of speaking to her trustee, it 
 never came. To her surprise she saw that Mr. Gervoise abetted 
 her efforts, but that he and Mr. Raby were at issue on this point. 
 AU her attempts, though seconded by her step-father, were baffled. 
 If this gentleman left them together, Mr. Raby called him back, 
 or followed him out ; if she met Mr. Raby in the garden, he 
 retreated precipitately ; if she went into the house after him, he 
 took refuge in his rooms, and at the end of ten days he said one 
 evening that he would leave the next morning. Again Mr. 
 Gervoise looked at Beatrice, who smiled scornfully. 
 
 But Beatrice's resolve was taken. She would see Mr. Raby 
 and speak to him whether he liked it or not. She would know 
 why this lukewarm protector had become almost an enemy. She 
 knew that he sat up and read after retiring for the night, and 
 Beatrice's mind was made up — she would follow him to his last 
 stronghold. 
 
 " Good night, my dear," he said, turning toward her as he 
 left Mrs. Gervoise's sitting-room ; " and good-bye, too, for I shall 
 be off with dawn." 
 
 " Good night, Mr. Raby," quietly replied Beatrice, " I shall 
 see you before you go." 
 
 With some uneasiness Mr. Raby begged that she would not 
 take the trouble on his account. Beatrice smiled without an- 
 swering, and he left the room. 
 
 Beatrice waited awhile before she left, too. She went to her 
 room first, then slipped down-stairs again and stole out on the 
 terrace. A light Avas burning in the window of Mr. Raby's 
 sitting-room — now was her time. Softly and noiselessly she 
 
140 BEATBICE. 
 
 entered the house again. To reach Mr. Raby's rooms she had 
 to pass through a long line of chambers on the first floor. She 
 did so in the dark, and at length found herself at his door. There 
 she paused and listened. Not a sound betrayed his presence 
 within, yet a ray of light stole out on the dark landing — he was 
 there still. She knocked and got no reply, but she heard a piece 
 of wood tumbling down into the fender. She knocked again, 
 still Beatrice received no intimation to enter. She took heart, 
 opened the door, and went in boldly, saying, 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Raby, but I must speak to you before you 
 go." 
 
 Mr. Raby neither looked up nor answered. He sat near a 
 small table leaning forward, and Beatrice fancied that he was 
 writing. She fancied, but was not sure ; two wax lights burnt 
 on the table, but the room was a large one, and she stood at the 
 further extremity. Whether he had heard her or not, it was too 
 late to retreat, Beatrice walked steadily toward him, and when « 
 
 she stood near his chair she said entreatingly : | 
 
 "Do not be offended with me, Mr. Raby, I cannot help 
 myself, I must speak to you — do not be offended." 
 
 Mr. Raby did not stir. He still leaned forward, a sheet of 
 paper lay before him, a pen was in his hand. The light of the 
 two wax candles shone on his face — it was purple, his mouth 
 was half-open, his nether lip hung a little, his blue eyes were 
 fixed in a glassy stare. Beatrice looked at him, and turned cold 
 with dumb horror. It was not Mr. Raby whom she saw, and 
 she knew it. She knew that grim destroyer whom all recognize 
 from man to his dog with intuitive knowledge and secret hate ; 
 but she stood powerless to move, to speak, almost to breathe, so 
 awful was the shock of surprise, when a hand was laid on her 
 shoulder. She turned round with a faint cry and saw Mr. Ger- 
 voise, who had followed her unperceived. 
 
 " I am afraid dear Mr. Raby is dead," composedly said her 
 step-father, walking up to his co-trustee. 
 
 He went to his chair and shook him. 
 
 " Apoplexy, I suppose," said Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Monsieur Panel knows how to bleed," cried Beatrice. 
 
 She sprang to the bell and rang it violently. The call was 
 answered. Monsieur Panel was summoned and used his lancet, 
 whilst Doctor Rogerson was sent for. For the blood was al- 
 ready frozen in Mr. Raby's veins, and when Dr. Rogerson came 
 in all haste, he declared life to have been extinct some time. 
 
BEATRICE. 141 
 
 " And it is all over ! " said Beatrice, looking at the dead man, 
 who, an hour ago, had stood living and warm before her. 
 
 " All over, I am sorry to say," replied Doctor Rogerson. 
 
 "Apoplexy, I suppose?" suggested Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Just so." 
 
 " Poor dear IVIr. Raby ! I fear. Monsieur Panel, your good 
 cheer did for him. I really fear it." 
 
 Beatrice gave her step-father a keen searching look, which 
 he bore with perfect composure. 
 
 And this was the end of Mr. Raby. 
 
 A few days later Mr. Gervoise followed him to the grave. 
 "When he came in from the funeral, he said to his wife, with 
 whom Beatrice was sitting : 
 
 " I am so sorry for poor Mr. Raby, but he ought to have 
 known better ; Doctor Jones had warned him against high 
 living, and poor dear Mr. Raby would live high. It was not 
 the gout, though, that carried him off, but apoplexy. Poor Mr. 
 Raby ! we shall miss him." 
 
 " God help me !" thought Beatrice ; " it is for me that this 
 man died ! " 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 There is a well-known saying concerning Rome and the 
 many paths that lead to it. Even so is the aim of a strong will ; 
 every road can bear you to that goal. Mr. Gervoise, who hated 
 direct action, now resolved to attack the citadel of Beatrice's 
 rebellion from the quarter whence she least expected such attack. 
 She loved Mr. Ray, and Mr. Ray belidved in Mr. Gervoise. 
 Now then was the time to make use of this valuable though 
 unconscious ally. Mr. Ray had recovered his usual health, and 
 was once more a daily visitor at Carnoosie. On the morning 
 that followed the day of Mr. Raby's funeral, Mr. Gervoise, who 
 was laudably anxious to render Mr. Ray useful without delay, 
 asked- that gentleman to join him in the study. 
 
 Mr. Ray had come early in order to read longer with Bea- 
 trice, and being a methodical man, he was annoyed at Mr. Ger- 
 voise's request. He asked if it would not do after his lesson. 
 Very gravely Mr. Gervoise assured him it would not ; and Mr. 
 Ray yielded, and, being a good man, smiled internally at his 
 own discomposure. 
 
 "And how is dear Miss Ray?" began Mr. Gervoise, confi- 
 dentially. 
 
 " My sister is very well, I am much obliged to you." 
 
 " I am so glad. Miss Ray and I are great cronies. Mr. 
 Ray, I would advise you to take care of her." 
 
 Now it was one of Mr. Ray's peculiarities to consider Miss 
 Ray as quite a girl ; he took this harmless joke amiss. What 
 business had Mr. Gervoise, a married man, to talk so of Miss 
 Ray ? It was scarcely delicate. He looked stiff. 
 
 " I have a great admiration for Miss Ray — especially for her 
 character," persisted Mr. Gervoise ; " it is a beautiful character, 
 Mr. Ray." 
 
 "It is, sir," warmly said Mr. -Ray, "a lovely character, I 
 may say ; there is something quite angelic about Miss Ray." 
 
 " There is," sententiously said Mr. Gervoise ; " but if I make 
 
BEATKICE. 143 
 
 her the topic of discourse, Mr. Ray, it is that I have a purpose 
 iu letting you know my high appreciation of Miss Ray. Sir — I 
 want her." 
 
 Mr. Ray looked inquiring. 
 
 " I want her, sir, for my poor Beatrice — a good, warm-hearted 
 girl, but sadly in need of some wholesome feminine teaching. 
 Mrs. Gervoise is too delicate, Mr. Ray, and you and I are men 
 unable to compete with a high-spirited girl. We want Miss Ray." 
 
 Mr. Ray remained silent, and looked thoughtful. He could 
 not imagine what Miss Ray was wanted for. 
 
 " I am sorry to say that Beatrice is a little bit of a flirt," 
 continued Mr. Gervoise ; " my son Antony has to my great 
 displeasure been paying her some attention lately ; I had other 
 views for him, but boys will be boys, and Beatrice encouraged 
 him. In short, matters came to a crisis. He proposed, without 
 my knowledge, and was accepted — still without my knowl- 
 edge. How I discovered the truth matters little ; my first 
 act was to send Antony out of the house. I even thought 
 every thing could be put a stop to at once ; but, Mr. Ray, it 
 could not. It cannot, Mr. Ray — Beatrice's name is at stake. 
 Miss Jameson, Mrs. Scot, the servants, have seen what has 
 been going on. I was blind, but they were clear-sighted ; there 
 is but one remedy now — they must marry. Mr. Raby, my late 
 co-trustee, and I were agreed on this point — the sooner Beatrice 
 becomes my son's wife the better it will be. The young lady, 
 however, has changed her mind, or says she has ; and after going 
 as far with Antony as she could well go, she will not have him. 
 Now, Mr. Ray, I will be frank with you. I would rather they 
 did not marry ; but in duty, in honour, can I do less than make 
 this thoughtless girl marry the man with whom she has gone so 
 very far ? It is for this that I want dear Miss Ray. She alone 
 can show Beatrice the matter in its true light." 
 
 This speech, which Mr. Gervoise had weighed well, had many 
 good points. It was almost all true ; Beatrice had flirted with 
 Antqny, or at least she had said and done with him what Miss 
 Jameson, Mrs. Scot, and the servants had called flirtation. 
 Moreover, Mr. Ray had seen it with perplexity and pain, and 
 was ready to believe Mr. Gervoise in this matter. His assist- 
 ance, therefore, modestly asked under Miss Ray's name, was 
 almost secure on this head. But unfortunately Mr. Gervoise 
 went too far ; a hair's-breadth did it — a want of delicacy in his 
 words, in his tones, and looks, and hints, shocked and angered 
 the gentle Mr. Ray. Beatrice, his darling Beatrice, the soul of 
 
14:4: BEATRICE. 
 
 maidenly innocence and womanly honour, accused of going too 
 far with Antony — ^with any man ! It was too much ; his eyes 
 lit, his lips quivered. 
 
 "Mr. Gervoise," he said, "have you weighed your words 
 well?" 
 
 " Quite well," deliberately replied Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Well, then, sir," indignantly said Mr. Ray, rising and sit- 
 ting down again, " you are mistaken." 
 
 " I am not mistaken in you, sir," replied Mr. Gervoise, 
 rising, and looking down at Mr. Ray from the heights of indig- 
 nant virtue. " I know you, I have watched you and that de- 
 luded girl. I need say no more. Please to leave this house, 
 sir." 
 
 It was with the grandest courtesy that Mr. Gervoise inflicted 
 this insult on Beatrice's teacher, and waved his hand toward the 
 door. The blood flew to Mr. Ray's pale face, and settled there 
 in an indignant flush. He rose and left the room without deign- 
 ing to answer one word. He was calm, though sad, when he 
 reached the cottage. 
 
 " How is dear Mr. Gervoise ? " asked Miss Ray ; " he looked 
 so ill at the funeral yesterday." 
 
 " We have been deceived in Mr. Gervoise, my dear," sighed 
 Mr. Ray. " I am sorry for Beatrice." 
 
 And leaving Miss Ray with an uplifted watering-pot in her 
 hand, so great was her amazement, Mr. Ray entered his study, 
 and tried to calm his mind and pray. 
 
 Beatrice sat in the library, vainly waiting for Mr. Ray. 
 What ailed him that he did not come ? Was he ill again ? She 
 looked at the heavy clock in its carved oaken case. Mr. Ray 
 was an hour behind his time. 
 
 " He will not come to-day," thought Beatrice, with a sigh. 
 
 Even as she came to this conclusion, the door of the library 
 opened, and Mr. Gervoise appeared. Beatrice's face darkened. 
 Mr. Gervoise never entered the library ; that apartment was 
 Beatrice's by tacit consent. What brought his hateful presence 
 to the spot which, since Gilbert was gone, had never known any 
 visitor save her pale and gentle master ? She rose abruptly, as 
 if to leave the room. 
 
 " Pray be seated," gracefully said Mr. Gervoise. " I want 
 the favour of your society for just five minutes, no more. I 
 have a matter of importance to mention." 
 
 Beatrice half smiled. She could guess what was coming, 
 but she declared herself ready to bestow on Mr. Gervoise the 
 
BEATEICE. 145 
 
 favour he so respectfully solicited. The window was open. Mr. 
 Gervoise closed it carefully, opened the door to see that no one 
 was listening outside, then, returning to Beatrice, he began with 
 a confidential whisper : 
 
 *' I heard from Antony this morning. Beatrice, he is a noble 
 boy." 
 
 He looked amiably at her, but, alas ! his bloated face and 
 weak eyes now belied all amiable meaning. 
 
 " He wrote about you, Beatrice, most tenderly. Beatrice, I 
 do not wish to be severe, but why trifle with him ? Why en- 
 courage, then banish him ? Take care, he loves you fondly, but 
 do not be imprudent." 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, that will not do," haughtily said Beatrice. 
 
 " No, my dear, it will not." 
 
 Beatrice rose to leave the room. Mr. Gervoise rose too, and 
 stood between her and the door. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said, " this is unbecoming ; it is indeco- 
 rous. You will compel me to take strong measures." 
 
 "I wonder what you will do?" asked Beatrice, her black 
 eyes laughing with more mischief than anger. 
 
 " All that a parent and guardian should do, madam. I will 
 lock you up if need be." 
 
 " Lock me up ! " said Beatrice, seemingly amazed. " Lock 
 me up, to make me marry Antony?" 
 
 " No, madam. No, Miss Gordon, not for that, but because 
 you have low inclinations," added Mr. Gervoise, very grandly, 
 and waving his hands, as if to dispel the gross vapour of Beatrice's 
 perversity from before his immaculate countenance. " Low in- 
 clinations, I say, which a guardian is bound to resist, even by 
 the use of lock and key. I regret to add that I can prove it." 
 
 A blush of shame and indignation rose to Beatrice's open 
 brow and clear cheek, a disdainful smile curled her finely-carved 
 lips, and she left the room without a word. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise did not attempt to detain her. They met in 
 the course of the day, and he did not renew the subject ; but 
 when Beatrice went to her mother's room after dinner, Mr. Ger- 
 voise followed her up, and said, with much dignity : 
 
 " Miss Gordon, may I hope you are ready to express some 
 regret for your disrespectful language ? " 
 
 Beatrice, who sat embroidering near the table, was mute. 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise half sat up on her couch, and entreatingly 
 said : " My dear ! " 
 
 Thus adjured, Beatrice spoke. 
 7 
 
146 BEATEICE. 
 
 " I will never marry Antony," slie said, deliberately. 
 
 " Madam, you know that I do not wish you to marry An- 
 tony ; but since you compel me to touch on this subject, let me 
 tell you that you shall not have the dangerous liberty of going to 
 your ruin. I will confine you to your room, if need be." 
 
 Beatrice laughed a low silvery laugh, full of disdain. Her 
 cheek was resting on her hand, her eyes were bent on the floor. 
 She laughed again, and looked up in his face. 
 
 " Strange that you should know me so little," she said. 
 " "Why, these eleven years of strife have always ended in your 
 defeat, and you think to conquer me now, Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 " Beatrice ! — Beatrice !" entreated her mother. 
 
 "I shall not say another word," said Beatrice, softly ; " and 
 lest I should be tempted I shall bid you good night at once, dar- 
 ling." 
 
 She softly kissed her cheek and left the room. Mr. Gervoise 
 glared after her, and then he glared at his wife, but he did not 
 speak. It was one of this man's peculiarities that his wrath 
 found no external outlet. He could not stamp or rave or swear. 
 His was not the open and violent passion of a more generous 
 nature. Within him boiled and seethed the venom which with 
 others evaporates in speech. It remained in his heart, it mingled 
 with his very blood — a fearful poison to himself as well as a dan- 
 ger to his enemy. The disease which preyed on his vitals and 
 showed itself in his blotched face, had found its source in that 
 mental idiosyncrasy. The outward man figured the inward man 
 in more respects than one. If he had dared, Mr. Gervoise 
 would have struck his helpless and innocent wife, and thus taken 
 fit revenge for Beatrice's insolence. But he was not weak in his 
 badness, and on principle he had ever shunned violence. His 
 great guide and moral code was the law. So far as it would let 
 him go, he went, without remorse or shame — never a step be- 
 yond it. No temptation could make him swerve from this line — 
 no seeming impunity could lead him into possible peril. Blows 
 leave marks, or, when inflicted on the weak, cause cries and 
 screams ; and servants, though bribed, may not be faithful to 
 their corrupter. Never, therefore, had Mr. Gervoise laid a fin- 
 ger on his much-sufiering wife. He had other and safer means 
 of torment at his command. 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise," he said, after Beatrice had left the room, 
 " matters have come to a sad issue between your daughter and 
 me. I advise you to interfere for her sake, if not for mine. I will 
 do my duty to her, come what may, and that duty is to conquer 
 
BEATRICE. 147 
 
 her rebellious spirit and diseased inclinations. After going as 
 far with my son Antony as she could well go, your daughter has 
 committed herself with a person whom I shall not name ; but 
 whom, with my consent, she shall never see again — never, JSIrs. 
 Gervoise. I have given her fair warning of the course I mean 
 to pursue — ^fair warning. Since I cannot by mild arguments 
 prevail with her, compulsion, such compulsion as a guardian and 
 a father has a right to use, shall be my method. Miss Gordon 
 shall not leave her room until she becomes amenable to reason." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise's pale lips parted to reply, but her husband 
 waved his hand and said briefly — 
 
 " Not now, Mrs. Gervoise, not now." 
 
 And without giving her time to speak, he left the room. 
 
 She rose trembling and ready to weep, for the least emotion 
 tried her too much. She went at once to Beatrice's room, and 
 she found Beatrice writing a letter. 
 
 " My dear," she entreated, " Beatrice, what are you doing?" 
 
 " I am writing to Mr. Ray, darling." 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice, my dear, do not. Mr. Gervoise is dread- 
 fully angry. I know he is mistaken, but do not write to Mr. 
 Bay ; he means to lock you up, Beatrice." 
 
 " So he has told me," answered Beatrice composedly. 
 
 " Beatrice, do yield for once." 
 
 Beatrice gave her mother a tender, compassionate look. 
 
 " Darling, how can you speak so?" she asked. "To yield 
 would be to sink into our double ruin, yours as well as mine. I 
 cannot yield. Besides, do you suppose it is Mr. Ray he desires 
 me to give up ? Why, he does not care about Mr. Ray, the 
 mildest, the most inoffensive of human beings. He wants me to 
 marry Antony, that is why he locks me up, darling, for that, and 
 nothing else." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise wrung her hands and moaned piteously. 
 
 '' But if he does lock you up, Beatrice, what is to become of 
 us?" 
 
 Beatrice smiled and looked at the little French clock on her 
 mantel-piece. The gilt Cupid seated on the round ball-like dial 
 was now pointing to ten. 
 
 " I am not locked up yet," said Beatrice, " and before this 
 hour to-morrow I shall not only be free, but Mr. Gervoise him- 
 self will entreat me to leave my room, and resume my liberty. 
 Trust to me, darling, and go and sleep. There is a kiss for you, 
 good night." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise submitted — she was accustomed to yield to 
 
148 BEATRICE. 
 
 Beatrice, to trust in and believe her. Besides, what could she 
 do ? She was the most gentle, but also the weakest and most 
 helpless of beings, and but for her daughter would long ago have 
 sunk into abject slavery. It was Beatrice who was strong and 
 resolute for both. But there were times when the task was too 
 arduous, when the unnatural strain on this young girl's mind and 
 energies conquered her, and she sank prostrate beneath the heavy 
 burden. 
 
 When the door closed on her mother, Beatrice felt very weak 
 and very worn. She laid her head on the edge of the bed, and 
 clasping her hands above it, longed with wild and passionate 
 longing for rest, even though that rest should be that of the 
 grave. She could not help it. She knew Mr. Gervoise, she 
 knew what was coming, and she shrank with horror and loath- 
 ing from a struggle so remorseless. Tears, of which she was 
 not conscious, flowed down her cheeks, and she only felt them 
 when the door opened, and looking up she saw Mr. Gervoise, 
 and indignantly checked and shook them away. Scarcely had 
 he entered the room, when he saw on the table the letter Bea- 
 trice was writing, and which her mother had interrupted. With 
 a dart forward Mr. Gervoise seized the prey, and having read 
 the first words, " My dear Mr. Ray," he crushed the paper in- 
 dignantly in his hands, and looked with severe displeasure at 
 Beatrice. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said, " once for all, I forbid you to have 
 any intercourse with that person— once for all." 
 
 Beatrice rose, looked at him disdainfully, and did not answer. 
 Mr. Gervoise continued : 
 
 " I shall call on Mr. Ray this very evening, and express to 
 him my sense of his conduct." 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise," said Beatrice, with some emotion, " Mr. 
 Ray is in ill-health ; be careful of w^hat.you do. Doctor Roger- 
 son has acknowledged to me that any strong emotion might be 
 fatal to him." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked disdainful. 
 
 " That is not the question. Miss Gordon," he said ; " the 
 question is, whether you will be submissive or not? " 
 
 " Je comprends I " replied Beatrice, in French, and using 
 words which were often in Mr. Gervoise's mouth. " Mr. Ray 
 has, as you justly say, nothing to do with this ; the question is, 
 will I marry Antony or not ? My submission failing, I am to 
 be locked up. My reply is this : lock me up at your peril, lock 
 me up if you dare ! " 
 
BEATEICE. 149 
 
 Beatrice spoke in a clear, distinct, and even voice, neither 
 loud nor passionate. Her dark eyes flashed with gentle light, 
 and shone on Mr. Gervoise with radiant defiance. A smile, 
 sweet in its disdain, curled her delicate lips. She had never in 
 her whole life looked half so handsome as she did then, and Mr. 
 Gervoise, who saw himself in the glass above her toilette table, 
 hated her cordially for her beauty. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said, " I warn you to attempt escape at 
 your peril. The windows are high, you might find it dangerous, 
 and the law would justify me." 
 
 Beatrice shook her head and laughed. 
 
 " Escape ! " she said ; " and escape through the window, 
 and that in my own house, too ! You do not know me, Mr. 
 Gervoise. No, trust me, a free heart has other ways of securing 
 liberty. And now please to leave me. This room is mine, and 
 though you may lock the door, I do not suppose you mean to re- 
 main in it. The house is large, and I can spare you another 
 and a better one." 
 
 "Madam," said Mr. Gervoise, T\dth his grandest courtesy, 
 " I shall keep a record of that speech." 
 
 '' Do," replied Beatrice, sitting down at her toilette table, and 
 shaking back her curls from her flushed face. 
 
 In the mirror before her she saw Mr. Gervoise smile, then 
 turn to the door, open it softly, and steal out through the narrow 
 opening. 
 
 " A serpent, a real serpent ! " thought Beatrice, and she 
 laughed scornfully to herself as the key turned in the lock. 
 
 Beatrice was a prisoner in her own house, and within a few 
 months of her majority. Her courage had risen with the con- 
 test of words between her and Mr. Gervoise ; but now that she 
 was alone, she could not help thinking rather sadly : 
 
 " I wonder if the girls who have been reared with infinite 
 love and tenderness, around whom every thing has smiled from 
 their birth, I wonder if they knew their happiness ? I dare say 
 not. I dare say they think more of not having a new dress, of 
 not going to this ball, of not having that man for a partner, than 
 I do of sitting here alone in this great house, which is mine, 
 locked up in my room, at the mercy of a man who is fattening 
 on my substance. Poor silly things ! no wonder they go through 
 life like butterflies, never having had aught save its sunshine and 
 its flowers. No wonder they don't know how to grow old, and 
 remain children till they die ! " * 
 
160 BEATRICE. 
 
 And Beatrice sighed, and leaning her cheek on her hand, 
 felt old in sorrow and in care — very old indeed. But she wag 
 young in years after all. Five minutes had not passed before 
 Beatrice, rising, shook her bright head, and smiled defiantly at 
 Mr. Gervoise. Five minutes later her head lay on her pillow, 
 and Beatrice was fast and sound asleep. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 At eight the next morning Beatrice's door was unlocked, 
 and Mrs. Scot entered the room, bearing a traj, on which was 
 Beatrice's breakfast. 
 
 Beatrice had overslept herself. Mrs. Scot's entrance awoke 
 her. She opened her eyes, leaned up on one elbow, and looked 
 dreamily at the stern housekeeper, who was silently and busily 
 laying the breakfast-things on a small square table. 
 
 " You need not, Mrs. Scot," composedly said Miss Gordon. 
 " I shall not breakfast in my room. Take those things down- 
 stairs, and tell Mr. Gervoise that I shall either breakfast below 
 or not at all." 
 
 Mrs. Scot took no notice of this speech, and went on setting 
 the table. Beatrice smiled, and curling round in her bed, pre- 
 pared for another sleep. Mrs. Scot left the room, turned the 
 key in the lock, and walked down-stairs. 
 
 " Naw comes the battle between hunger and Beatrice Gor- 
 don," thought the mistress of Carnoosie. " I wonder what it is 
 to be really hungry? I shall know it before the sun sets. Cha- 
 teaubriand, whom I was reading the other day, knew it too. In 
 the very city to which he returned ambassador in state, he fasted 
 three days, looking in with famished eyes at the shops where 
 food lay visible, and unattainable. Mr. Gervoise will never keep 
 me locked up three days, but he will leave food within my reach, 
 the tempting serpent ! I shall know what the torments of Tan- 
 talus were ; bearable enough, I dare say." 
 
 Beatrice was too proud to shrink from her self-injflicted trial. 
 She rose, dressed leisurely, and with care, and sat down and 
 read. Mrs. Scot found her thus engaged when she came up 
 with her luncheon. This time Beatrice did not deign to address 
 her, but never raised her eyes from her book. Thus passed the 
 day. Beatrice's luncheon shared the fate of Beatrice's break- 
 fast, and when dinner-time came round, and INIrs. Scot appeared 
 again, she found the second meal untouched and untasted like 
 
162 BEATRICE. 
 
 the first. She tried to catch a look of Beatrice's face, and to 
 read there how she bore this long fast ; but Miss Gordon stood 
 by the open window, looking out at her trees, on which the 
 western light shone full and golden, and her back remained 
 turned to Mrs. Scot. 
 
 The account which the housekeeper gave of what was pass- 
 ing in Beatrice's room, was probably not quite satisfactory to her 
 master, for she had not been gone five minutes, before the door 
 she had locked was opened again, and Mr. Gervoise himself ap- 
 peared. This time Beatrice looked round. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said, with virtuous indignation, " what 
 is the meaning of this?" 
 
 Beatrice smiled haughtily and defiantly in his face. 
 
 " I told you so," she said ; " I told you that a free heart has 
 other means of escape than either doors or windows. I am no 
 tame bird, Mr. Gervoise, to be kept in a cage, and be fed there. 
 Try if you can starve me into submission, and conquer me thus, 
 if you can or dare ! " 
 
 " Miss Gordon," said Mr. Gervoise, in a cold, distinct voice, 
 "you shall not leave this room until you have acknowledged 
 yourself conquered." 
 
 Without waiting for her answer, he left the room, and again 
 locked the door. The sun set, twilight, then night came. No 
 light was brought to Beatrice. " Solitary confinement in all its 
 pleasantness," she thought ; " well, it must be borne, I suppose." 
 She began to feel very faint and exhausted. She threw herself, 
 dressed as she was, on her bed, but sleep would not come to her. 
 She was lightheaded, giddy, and weak. She tried to forget the 
 food which lay within reach on her table, but she could not. It 
 haunted her. She thought of it with a restless and eager long- 
 ing, that grew in intensity as time sped. It seemed days since a 
 morsel had passed her lips. All the tales of famished prisoners, 
 or starving mariners, which Beatrice had ever read, came back 
 to her now. The crew of the Medusa^ Ugolino in his prison, 
 were her companions in this sickening vigil. There were mo- 
 ments when her courage failed her, when she thought of yield- 
 ing ; but then pride stung her fiercely, and the memory of Mr. 
 Gervoise's mocking eye g^ve her power to bear and suffer. It 
 was near midnight, and Beatrice was sinking into feverish slum- 
 bers, when a light which flashed across her eyes awoke her. She 
 looked up and saw her mother's tearful face bending over her. 
 
 " Beatrice, my treasure, my darling," she said, " if you love 
 me, take something ; eat, drink — ^take something." 
 
BEATRICE. 163 
 
 " I have drunk," replied Beatrice ; "do not trouble about 
 me, darling, it will be nothing, and I shall soon be free." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise wrung her hands. 
 
 " Beatrice, he says he will not yield, and you know him. 
 Beatrice, if you do not wish to break my heart, give in and eat. 
 Oh ! Beatrice, it drives me distracted to think you have eaten 
 nothing this whole day." 
 
 She could scarcely speak for tears and sobs. Beatrice sat 
 up in her bed, and drawing her mother toward her, she said 
 gently and soothingly : 
 
 " Darling, listen to me, and mind every word I say. He 
 has let you come, not through pity for you, but out of hate to 
 me, that I may either yield, or feel a keener pang in resisting ; 
 but, as I said, listen to me, and once for all understand me." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise checked her weeping. Her daughter con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " Darling, if I were to do as you wish me, and touched a 
 morsel of that food, I should be a slave for ever, and we should 
 both be undone. It is my liberty I am fighting for, and your 
 weal, my poor oppressed darling. Next year I am of age, and, 
 to all seeming, Mr. Gervoise's power over me ends ; but if he 
 did not know of anothefand keener hold upon me than that of 
 the law, do you think he would venture so far ? Darling, he 
 would not. But there it is. Whilst he has you, he has me. 
 Whilst he will let me stay with you, I will never leave you — 
 never ; for I have vowed to protect and defend you, and so help 
 me Heaven I will ! Now the question is this : Am I, because I 
 stay with you, to give myself up bound hand and foot to his 
 good will ? He is trying hard for it — very hard ; but vainly, let 
 us hope. If I show him that even now, when he has some sort 
 of right and power over me, he cannot subdue me, he will not 
 attempt it again, when both right and power are over. It is the 
 liberty of my whole life that I am fighting for to-day. Wonder 
 not if I fight to the last, and refuse to yield." 
 
 " But, Beatrice, he says he will leave Carnoosie when you 
 are of age." 
 
 Beatrice laughed. 
 
 " He leave Carnoosie and its pictures, and its gardens, and 
 its wines, and its style and consequence ! No, darling, do not 
 believe that. He will not. He is not rich, and he adores wealth. 
 He has grown accustomed to its enjoyments too, and he cannot 
 and will not relinquish them for the mediocrity of his own for- 
 tunes. He will never leave Carnoosie whilst you live — never, 
 
154 BEATRICE. 
 
 for he knows that I will not marry and forsake you. He knows 
 it, and trades on that tenderness ; let him, only let him also 
 know that I am and will be free in all else." 
 
 *' But, Beatrice, this will kill you." 
 
 Beatrice laughed again. 
 
 " Why, I have not fasted more than twenty-four hours yet," 
 she said : " and the poor and the needy fast half their lifetime. 
 Oh ! darling, this is nothing. Believe me, it is nothing ; and 
 now leave me, darling, leave me and go and sleep." 
 
 " Beatrice, I cannot. My eyes cannot close whilst I know 
 that you have tasted nothing this day. Beatrice, yield for this 
 once, for my sake." 
 
 Beatrice sighed and kissed her. 
 
 " It is for your sake that I do not yield," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise wrung her hands and wept. 
 
 Beatrice sighed. 
 
 " Oh ! my darling," she said ; " this is worse than the fast- 
 ing. I do and bear so much that your life may at least be calm ; 
 and yet I cannot prevent this grief. Darling, leave me, pray 
 leave me, I can bear no more. Try me no further. Nothing — 
 nothing," she added, her light girlish voice rising as she spoke, 
 " shall make me touch the food it pleases Mr. Gervoise to send 
 me up. I am the mistress of this house, and I will eat at my 
 own table." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise wrung her hands again. 
 
 " Come, I will tell you something," coaxingly said Beatrice ; 
 " if he does not release me by to-morrow morning, I will bid 
 some of the servants open the door and let me out, and they will 
 do it. But I had rather not — ^I had rather not — I know him, 
 and I know too how he can twist and turn. It is safer to con- 
 quer him silently, and not tread upon him with too hard a foot ; 
 for, serpent-like, he turns and stings." 
 
 "Beatrice, you frighten me," said her mother shuddering, 
 and speaking in a faint whisper. 
 
 " Then leave me and trust me," whispered Beatrice in her 
 turn. " Trftst me, I say ; have I not always prevailed all these 
 years ? Trust me, I say ; he knew that his real power was soon 
 to escape him, and so he made this desperate attempt to create 
 terror, and to build a new tyranny on another basis ; but he shall 
 be defeated, and so good night. She kissed her mother again, 
 and gently pushed her away ; and Mrs. Gervoise left the room, 
 and Beatrice heard the key turn in the lock. 
 
 She sank back on her bed. She was too faint and tired to 
 
BEATRICE. 155 
 
 undress. She lay there looking at the sky and at the full moon, 
 which shone in upon her and shed its two squares of light on the 
 floor, as on that evening of her childhood eleven years before, 
 when she had promised her poor weak mother to protect and 
 defend her against the oppressor ; " and I have kept that vow," 
 thought Beatrice, " through every trial, and insolence, and hard- 
 ship. I have kept it, and I will keep it till I die, my poor 
 darling. Never, so help me Heaven, never shall you suffer 
 through fault of mine." 
 
 Thought would go no further ; Beatrice was sinking into a 
 torpor of exhaustion and weariness. Her eyes closed, sleep, not 
 the light happy sleep and sound of full health, overtook her. 
 When she awoke the next morning the sun shone in her room, 
 and her mother stood by her side with a troubled and yet happy 
 face. 
 
 " What is it, darling?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise is gone on a journey," replied her mother. 
 
 " And I am free," said Beatrice, smiling ; " I told you so." 
 
 She sat up, pale and weak, but triumphant ; and little know- 
 ing how dear the cost of victory had been. 
 
 " Breakfast in bed, my dear," said her mother. 
 
 " No, I am not ill," replied Beatrice ; " besides, 1 told Mr. 
 Gervoise I would not eat unless at my own table, and I will 
 not." 
 
 She rose, and attempted to dress, but her strength failed her. 
 She looked at her mother, and tried to laugh. 
 
 ''I did not know I was so weak," she said; "I suppose I 
 must take something in my room after all." 
 
 " I have ordered some chicken broth for you, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Gervoise, 
 
 " As you like, darling." 
 
 Her voice was faint and low, and she sank back exhausted. 
 Even more than the fasting did Beatrice feel the fierce battle of 
 the last thirty-six hours. It had ended in her victory, but, 
 though she made light of them, her mental sufferings had been 
 acute and deep. They had left a torpor behind them, on which 
 fever followed. Beatrice could scarcely eat the whole of that 
 day, and toward evening she was so far unwell that Doctor 
 Rogerson had to be called in. 
 
 The gay young doctor, who had settled near Camoosie with 
 a rosy bride, was now a pale, thin, nervous man, with bleached 
 hair, and a careworn face. If you had been told that Doctor 
 Rogerson was a clergyman, whom distracting conscientious 
 
156 BEATKICE. 
 
 scruples had compelled to forsake a living of a thousand a year, 
 you would have believed it easily ; you might also have credited 
 the assurance that he was an unfortunate bankrupt ; or again, if 
 you had seen him in the dock on an accusation of forgery, you 
 would not have thought it strange. Not that Doctor Rogerson 
 looked a pious, unfortunate, or dishonest man ; but there was 
 that in his appearance which might suggest much that was 
 doubtful. You did not feel, on looking at Doctor Rogerson, 
 that he had a fixed, straight, or happy position in life ; and 
 nothing, therefore, could be further from your thoughts than to 
 identity hina with that cheerful, busy, active person who calls 
 himself the parish doctor. This gentleman had seldom or never 
 attended Beatrice, who enjoyed perfect health. He was much 
 surprised at the prostrate state in which he found her, and ques- 
 tioned Mrs. Gervoise concerning what could have caused it. 
 Mrs. Gervoise stammered a confused explanation, and Doctor 
 Rogerson, though none the wiser, nodded sagaciously, and pre- 
 scribed some inoffensive remedies. Beatrice, who lay on a couch 
 with closed eyes, listened to his subdued voice, as one in a 
 dream. 
 
 " Are you sure," he was saying to Mrs. Gervoise, " are you 
 sure, ma'am, that it is nothing mental? " 
 
 " Indeed, Doctor Rogerson, I — I really can't say. I hope 
 not." 
 
 " Oh ! I thought perhaps that this sad matter of Mr. Ray — " 
 
 He ceased abruptly. Beatrice opened her eyes. They stood 
 at the furthest end of her room, near a small table on which 
 burned a light. It shone on their two faces. Beatrice saw Doc- 
 tor Rogerson's look of surprise, which seemed to say, " What ! 
 does she not know ? " and Mrs. Gervoise's startled countenance 
 and upraised forefinger enjoining silence. 
 
 " What about Mr. Ray ? " cried Beatrice, sitting up. " How 
 is he ? Is he well ? What has happened ? What about liiin, 
 Doctor Rogerson ? " 
 
 They did not answer. 
 
 " He is ill ! " said Beatrice. " I know he is ill ! " 
 
 Doctor Rogerson coughed, and was going to speak, but Bea- 
 trice checked him. She knew all. His look had told her the 
 sad truth. Mr. Ray was dead ! 
 
 " He, too !" she cried, clasping her hands in strange passion, 
 " he too ! First Mr. Raby, then Mr. Ray." 
 
 " My dear," cried her mother, frightened. 
 
 " Yes," said Beatrice, standing up and looking at them both. 
 
BEATEICE. 
 
 157 
 
 " I do not care who hears me. These two men have died, one 
 because he could protect, and the other because he loved me." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson looked alarmed and shocked, for Beatrice 
 only said what the whole of the little world around Carnoosie 
 was saying. These two ominous deaths were laid by opinion to 
 Mr. Gervoise's door, and he had fled before the verdict of that 
 mighty power, and was hiding no one now knew where. 
 
 " Mr. Ray di^d of complaint of the heart," stammered Dr. 
 Rogerson in some confusion. 
 
 "Yes, but who went and found him? Who inflicted the 
 shock that killed him ? " passionately asked Beatrice. 
 
 Dr. Rogerson was silent, and gladly obeying the sign Mrs. 
 Gervoise made, he left the room. 
 
 " How was it ? How did it happen ? " said Beatrice. " Tell 
 me all — I must know all — I must ! " 
 
 " Later, my dear, later." 
 
 And later, after weeks of fever, during which she was haunt- 
 ed by Mr. Raby, as she had seen him sitting dead with the pen 
 in his hand and the letter before him — ^never to be finished in 
 this world ; by Mr. Ray as she imagined him pale and calm in 
 his last sleep ; later, we say, Beatrice learnt the little that was 
 ever known. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise had called on Mr. Ray. Their conversation 
 was loud and angry, for Mr. Gervoise threatened to make Mr. 
 Ray leave Carnoosie ; and Mr. Ray, roused out of his mildness, 
 defied his power. He looked very pale when his visitor left. 
 When his sister entered his room the next morning, he was un- 
 conscious and dying. On his piUow lay an open volume full of 
 heavenly lore, the wisest, the best, the most sublime that ever 
 spoke to man ; but never again was Mr. Ray to peruse its pages. 
 He died without having recovered consciousness, and at once a 
 cry of" indignation was raised against Mr. Gervoise. Mr. Ray's 
 death, sad in itself, was not without some sad results. He died 
 intestate, and his sister, who was but a half-sister, did not get hia 
 little property. This went to the heir-at-law, and though it was 
 but just, opinion thought it hard, and pitied the poor sister. 
 With all this, too, Mr. Gervoise was probably acquainted, for he 
 stayed away through the winter, which Beatrice spent with her 
 mother in peace indeed, but also in deep and sincere sorroAv. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise had fallen into a doze, and Beatrice's book 
 had dropped upon her lap. She sat back in her chair, looking 
 at the fire, building wonderful visions in those embers of molten 
 ore. The keen blast, laden with snow, which swept around old 
 Carnoosie, did Beatrice good. She was sheltered from its 
 severity, and the knowledge that it was there, an element of 
 strife and pain, braced her nerves for endurance. She rose soft- 
 ly, and went to the window. She drew back the heavy curtains, 
 and lifted a corner of the blind. The snow had ceased, and 
 though no moon shone, there was light in the starless sky. Be- 
 fore her lay the white terrace, and beyond it, again, the frozen 
 fountains and the buried flower-garden. Beneath how deep a 
 pall lay the seeds of life and beauty ! 
 
 " As they are, so is my life," thought Beatrice ; " excitement 
 enough of one kind it has, heaven knows, but dangerous and 
 bitter. I am like a mariner ever sailing by a rocky shore, ever 
 struggling against shoals and perilous waves, and never reaching 
 green land. No true, no real happy life is mine. Verily I am 
 buried in the snow, and it is well for me to lie and sleep there, 
 unless when I must waken for the battle ! " 
 
 There was bitterness and despair in the thought. Beatrice had 
 much of the heroic element in her — little or none of that which 
 makes the saintly martyr. She was well able to strive, scarce- 
 ly to endure. Her nature was warm, genial, tender, and loving, 
 though both impatient and imperious, and her daily life exacted 
 that she should be firm and gentle, strong as a rock, and as im- 
 passive. She longed for happiness with a most human longing, 
 and she knew that woman's happiness and woman's destiny were 
 closed upon her. No lover must ever woo Beatrice, no husband 
 must ever take her to his heart, no children must ever nestle on 
 her bosom. Whilst either Mr. Gervoise or his wife lived, 
 Beatrice must not marry ; for Beatrice would not forsake her 
 mother, and she would ask no man to tolerate the yoke she her- 
 
BEATKIOE. 169 
 
 self could scarcely bear. This Beatrice knew, and though she 
 often bade" happiness a stoical defiance, often, too, she could not 
 help pining for it in her secret heart. Oh ! to be free, and to 
 share the common lot ! To be a girl, gay, thoughtless, and 
 merry ; to read novels, and dream that they came true ; to dance 
 at country balls with charming young men, and think them demi- 
 gods ; to be twenty in thought and feeling, as she was in years ! 
 Yes, we are sorry to say it, Beatrice, who was a good classical 
 scholar, whom Mr. Eay had taken so far in the fair world of 
 knowledge, pined for the comparative ignorance and happiness 
 of other girls, for she felt that they could live, and she knew that 
 she did not. And thus, in the bitterness of her heart, she felt 
 that hers was but a wintry lot, many a fathom deep in snow, but 
 with no wakening, no glorious sun and balmy spring in prospect. 
 
 "I cannot bear it," rebelliously thought Beatrice, turning 
 away from the window, and flinging herself on her chair ; and 
 an inexorable voice replied, in accents stern and strong ; 
 
 " You must ! — ^you must ! " 
 
 The sound of carriage wheels driving up the avenue seemed 
 the bitter echo of that voice. Mrs. Gervoise awoke, and gave 
 her daughter a scared look. 
 
 "Who is that?" sharply asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise wrote that he would come this evening," 
 faltered Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 Beatrice rose, kissed her mother, and gently whispering, 
 " Good night, darling ! " she left the room. 
 
 She knew that she must see him again, but she felt she could 
 not now face the murderer of Mr. Ray. Not in her present 
 mood could she look on the pitiless man who had helped to cut 
 short that gentle and blameless life, whose cruel hand had de- 
 stroyed that little nest of love, and thrown the bereaved sister once 
 more adrift on the world. Avoiding the main staircase, Beatrice 
 passed through the dark, cold rooms, where there was no chance 
 of meeting him. She knew them well — the same reason that 
 now made her enter them had rendered her familiar with them 
 from her childhood ; ever had she shunned the presence that was 
 to her as the fabled upas tree — the poisonous shadow thrown on 
 her young life, and increasing in intensity as that life went on. 
 Eagerly, and with a sense of relief, Beatrice passed, as we said, 
 through the cold dark rooms of her own Carnoosie. The servants 
 had forgotten to draw down the blinds, or to close the shutters, 
 and, as she went, Beatrice caught glimpses of the white world 
 without, of the dull sky, and the dark masses of trees, and she 
 
160 BEATEICE. 
 
 felt glad to know that she was alone. At length she reached 
 Madam's closet, as it was still called ; she opened a door, went 
 down a steep and narrow staircase, and found herself in the 
 library. 
 
 She had left it an hour before, and the wood fire (coals were 
 never burned in Carnoosie) was still blazing cheerfully on the 
 hearth. Her chair was still standing near the table, and the 
 dancing light which shot from the burning logs showed her the 
 still open book she had been reading. Wax lights were at hand ; 
 Beatrice did not light them. She did not want to read, she 
 wanted to think, and to feel bitter and sad as she remembered 
 Mr. Ray. So she sat down, and, thinking of the man up-stairs, 
 she nursed up her resentment for the sake of him who slept in 
 the little churchyard of Carnoosie. But it was decreed that 
 Beatrice's thoughts should ever revert to herself on this evening. 
 From Mr. Ray they went to Mr. Ray's house, now shut up, 
 silent, and lone ; then by a rapid transition from that deserted 
 dwelling to a German Mdrchen the two had been reading, an old 
 childish story, founded on the basis of the eternal tradition: a 
 princess fast asleep and wakening in a new world when the 
 hundred years were out. " Ah ! if I could be so," thought 
 Beatrice, " if I could fall asleep here in this old library, with my 
 poor darling up-stairs, and waken free from the fetters which bind 
 me, with no Mr. Gervoises — nothing of the present save its youth. 
 I dare say I should find some other master in Carnoosie, some 
 venerable old gentleman, with blooming daughters and stalwart 
 sons and a troop of grandchildren, people of the new world, who 
 would run away from me affrighted, then dispute my claim, and 
 call Beatrice Gordon an impostor. Ah ! I do not know how to 
 foUow out the fairy tale — I am too matter-of-fact. That is not 
 it. There should be a prince to waken the princess and bear 
 her away from past troubles, enchanted castle and all, to the 
 new life. 
 
 "And far across the hills they went, , 
 In that new world which is the old." 
 
 The door which opened softly, disturbed Beatrice's reverie. 
 She started up from her chair, and asked in a quick, indignant 
 voice : " Who is there?" 
 
 " C'est moi," replied a man's voice in French. Mr. Gervoise 
 often used French, and Beatrice hated the language for his sake, 
 but it was not Mr. Gervoise who had spoken. Standing near 
 the door, she saw a man's form, but it was taller and slighter 
 than her stepfather's. Her heart beat, her brain felt wild. 
 
BEATEICE. 161 
 
 " Gilbert, Gilbert ! " she cried, after vainly trying to see him, 
 " is it you?" 
 
 A quiet laugh, and the word " Guess," were the only answer 
 she got. Beatrice quickly knelt on the hearth, and, thrusting 
 the tongs into the fire, caused a bright sharp blaze to shoot up — 
 it filled the room, and showed her the well-remembered features 
 of Gilbert Gervoise, scarcely altered . by years, though a fair 
 moustache now shaded his upper lip. 
 
 " You are Gilbert ! " she cried triumphantly. " I know 
 your voice — ^you are he ! " "^ 
 
 She rose, got a light, and, standing with her back to it, she 
 looked at him with eager joy. 
 
 Gilbert Gervoise seemed touched at the warmth of her wel- 
 come. He drew near and held out his hand ; and when he held 
 Beatrice's in his clasp, he gently made her turn to the light. 
 " It is my turn to look at you now," he said, smiling. 
 
 His looks said that he found a change ; but Beatrice scarcely 
 heeded him. Her joy, though silent, verged on rapture. Her 
 face burned with delight, her eyes shone like diamonds, her 
 trembling lips smiled. Gilbert beheld her with tender admira- 
 tion. He had never forgotten Beatrice's little childish face ; it 
 had shone upon him in the past, and it was very pleasant and 
 very sweet to behold it again in all the girlish grace and bloom 
 of the present. 
 
 " Speak — speak ! " she cried impatiently, " I want to hear 
 you." 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise is waiting for us," quietly said Gilbert ; 
 " she sent me for you." 
 
 " Is not his father up-stairs?" quickly thought Beatrice, and 
 she as quickly asked — 
 
 " Is my mother alone?" 
 
 " I found and left her so." 
 
 " Did you come alone, Gilbert?" 
 
 " Yes — I expected to find my father here — but he cannot 
 come now — ^the last train was that by which I travelled." 
 
 Beatrice's brow cleared ; she sighed with relief, her eyes shone 
 again. One happy evening at least was won from time ! 
 
 " Come up — come up," she said, in her quick way, and she 
 preceded him up-stairs. Gilbert offered her his arm, but Beatrice 
 would not take it. She preferred running up the broad staircase 
 before him. Gilbert saw it with regret ; he would have liked to 
 feel her leaning upon him ; better still would he have liked to 
 
162 BEATRICE. 
 
 take her in his arms and kiss her rosy face ; " but I suppose she 
 is too old for that now," he thought. 
 
 " Oh ! darling, it is Gilbert," cried Beatrice, running into 
 her mother's room. 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; were you not surprised?" 
 
 "Surprised — delighted!" corrected Beatrice ; "have you 
 forgotten, darling, that Gilbert and I were great friends?" 
 
 She looked inquiringly and almost jealously from her mother 
 to Gilbert. They seemed strangely cold and calm. But though 
 Gilbert smiled at her ardour, there was something in his look 
 which soothed Beatrice. She vaguely felt its meaning ; it ex- 
 pressed affection and admiration, but tempered by respectful 
 reserve. 
 
 " You are hungry — what will you have to eat? You must 
 eat," said Beatrice, rapidly, both stating the fact and anticipating 
 the refusal. 
 
 " I shall do all you vnsh. I believe that used to be the way 
 formerly. Miss Gordon." 
 
 Beatrice's bright face grew clouded. 
 
 " Ah ! you call me Miss Gordon," she said ; " you do not 
 like me. Formerly you said ' thou' to me in French." 
 
 " Then I was very presumptuous," replied Gilbert, with a 
 grave smile, which told Beatrice he meant to sin thus no more. 
 
 " Ah ! but I shall not be happy if you do not call me Bea- 
 trice ! " she almost entreated. 
 
 Gilbert bowed, but showed no wish to comply. Beatrice felt 
 that he was altered, after all. His manner was exquisitely 
 refined and courteous, but it was somewhat cold. He had for- 
 gotten English, and spoke it correctly but slowly, and with evi- 
 dent difficulty. A certain formality was the result. Moreover, 
 Gilbert, who was barely twenty-five, was thirty in manner. If 
 his features were little altered, their meaning was not that which 
 Beatrice remembered them to have once worn. His snaggle had 
 lost some geniality ; his look was more penetrating than tender. 
 Beatrice felt vaguely that, though he might yield to her, he was 
 meant by Nature to be her ruler, not through superiority of 
 intellect, or even by strength of will, but because his patient 
 judgment must prevail where her more impulsive temper must 
 fail. 
 
 Truly the Gilbert who stood before her was very different 
 from the Gilbert whom her girlish imagination had framed out 
 of the recollections of childhood. The imaginary man was an 
 ideal hero ; Greek serenity sat on his brow ; suavity and un- 
 
BEATKICE. 163 
 
 blemished virtue were liis attributes. The real man looked calm, 
 firm, and kind ; but life and the world and natural penetration 
 had done their work. Beatrice felt confident that he was honour- 
 able and good, but girl as she was, she read the signs of life's 
 battle in his face. Gilbert had sufiered and striven, and been 
 tempted ; and though victory was written in his whole aspect, 
 the cost of victory appeared there too. His had been no joyous, 
 happy youth, and hence, perhaps, premature austerity clouded 
 his early manhood. 
 
 " But I will not be afraid of Gilbert," rebelliously thought 
 Beatrice ; "he used to do as I wished when I was a child, and 
 he shall do what I wish still." 
 
 At once she tried her power by close and direct questioning. 
 
 " What have you been doing all these years?" 
 
 " Working hard. I am now Docteur Gilbert Gervoise." 
 
 "Where do you practise?" 
 
 " In VerviUe." 
 
 " You must not stay in Verville. You must come to Car- 
 noosie, and settle here. We will buy out Dr. Rogerson." 
 
 She spoke with pretty, coaxing despotism ; and Gilbert 
 smiled, and said, " To be sure." 
 
 " Which means, of course, not," rejoined Beatrice, quickly ; 
 " confess it does." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it does," replied Gilbert, still smiling. 
 
 He was evidently amused, and evidently, too, he would not 
 treat her proposal seriously. Beatrice reddened, and looked 
 vexed, but was luckily diverted from her displeasure. To gratify 
 Miss Gordon — for it was not his wont to exert himself so late — 
 the accomplished M. Panel sent up a light but perfect little sup- 
 per, of which the traveller alone partook, and on which tea 
 followed. 
 
 " You must eat here," imperatively said Beatrice, "we wiU 
 not let you go down to the dining-room ; it is cold and formal. 
 Besides, I want you up here." 
 
 Gilbert yielded, nothing loth. 
 
 " How pleasant it is to find you so kind !" he said, frankly. 
 
 " Did you not expect it?" she asked. 
 
 " I could not tell — I did not know. I expected to find you 
 altered, and so you are. I left a child — I find a woman ; but 
 the change might have been greater still." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " You might have been distant and polite." 
 
i04 BEATEICE. 
 
 Beatrice smiled brightly, and was going to reply, when her 
 mother said : 
 
 " My dear, if you go on talking so, Gilbert will not be able 
 to eat a morsel. Play us something." 
 
 " I believe it is the only way to keep me silent," honestly 
 said Beatrice. 
 
 So she went to her piaio, opened it, and sat down and played. 
 But if she could not talk, she could look, and the temptation 
 proved irresistible. She sat with her back to Gilbert, but, whilst 
 her nimble fingers ran over the keys, she every now and then 
 turned her head round and showed him her bright young face 
 beaming with the gladness which his arrival had Ht there. 
 
 A genial and charming creature Gilbert certainly thought 
 her, and every thing in his manner said so, when, the meal and 
 the music being both over, she came back and made the tea. 
 
 " How exquisitely you play. Miss Gordon," he said, as, tea 
 being Qnded, they sat side by side facing the fire. Mrs. Gervoise's 
 couch stood a little way from the scorching heat. 
 ' " Beatrice," she said, holding up her finger, " little Beatrice." 
 
 " No," he firmly replied, " you are not, you never will be, 
 little Beatrice again." 
 
 " I wish I were," she said a little vehemently. 
 
 " Do not," he answered in a half-whisper, for he saw that 
 Mrs. Gervoise had fallen asleep ; "do not." 
 
 He was bending toward her, and Beatrice could not mistake 
 either his look or his smile. Both meant, " Do not, for the girl 
 is ten times more charming than ever was the child." 
 
 A blush of gentle triumph stole over Beatrice's face, and 
 Gilbert, looking at her, smiled again, and felt luxuriously happy. 
 
 Beatrice was exquisitely pretty ; the sound of her music still 
 rang in his ears. She was the fond and true Beatrice of old 
 days, and another Beatrice, too, warm, impetuous, and yet grace- 
 ful and refined. Her motions and attitudes charmed his eye, 
 her face attracted it irresistibly. To sit thus and look at her in 
 that large old room, with its lofty ceiling and stately furniture, 
 was as a delightful dream in a life both monotonous and austere. 
 For once his feelings found vent in words, and he could not help 
 saying : 
 
 " This is happiness I had not hoped for." 
 
 Beatrice looked up quickly. 
 
 " No," continued Gilbert, with evident emotion, "I did not 
 think I should ever see you again, Beatrice." 
 
 " Ah ! Beatrice at last !" she cried triumphantly. 
 
BEATRICE. 165 
 
 He reddened a little and laughed. 
 
 "And why did you not hope for it, Doctor Gervoise?" she 
 asked; "am I not the mistress of Carnoosie? And were you 
 not sure of your welcome ? " 
 
 Gilbert forbore to answer this question, and resumed : 
 
 " The mistress of Carnoosie ! Yes, I remember, you were 
 very tenacious of that title." 
 
 " And I am still. I am not altered, Gilbert, whatever you 
 may think." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, you are altered," persisted Gilbert, who seemed 
 to have acquired a talent for teasing ; " you will never be little 
 Beatrice again. I almost dreaded seeing you, for I felt I should 
 lose her then — and I have lost her," he added with a provoking 
 smile. 
 
 Beatrice felt irritated and perplexed. It was plain that, 
 whilst she rejoiced in the present Gilbert, though he admired 
 that present, would only like her in the past. 
 
 "Dear, good little Beatrice," he continued, "how often I 
 dreamed of her, and felt her little arms clinging to me ! How 
 often I heard her imperious ' don't be long.' As years passed, 
 I dreamed less of course, but still, there was a little Beatrice in 
 my thoughts, a little brown and wilful mistress of Carnoosie, 
 who was very prompt with ' you shall,' and ' I will,' and who 
 loved me very dearly." 
 
 Beatrice looked at the fire and smiled, but her heart ached. 
 She was quick and sensitive, and understood Gilbert very well. 
 She was a delightful remembrance of his boyhood, but she was 
 no more — and she must be nothing in his present life, that had 
 hopes and fears and aims and desires, with which Beatrice Gor- 
 don and Carnoosie had nought to do. As she came to this sad 
 conclusion, Gilbert perplexed her again by saying : 
 
 " Now, I have a strong fancy that you never dreamed of me, 
 Miss Gordon, and that poor Gilbert was quickly forgotten. Do 
 not tell me so, however. I would rather know nothing on that 
 head. Perhaps you do not know," he added in a graver tone, 
 " that, after our parting, I was ill three weeks in Verville." 
 
 " Bl ! you were iU ! " cried Beatrice. 
 
 " Very ill indeed, for fever set in. And you ! " he added, 
 looking at her keenly. 
 
 Beatrice blushed and looked contrite. 
 
 " I could not eat the day you left," she began. 
 
 " But your appetite returned the next morning. Just what 
 I should expect from little Beatrice." 
 
166 BEATKIOE. 
 
 Tears of vexation rose to Beatrice's eyes. 
 
 " I do not understand you, Gilbert/' she said, a little vehe- 
 mently ; " I am so happy to see you again, and you seem to 
 think only of what I was years ago." 
 
 " Have I displeased you ? " asked Gilbert, gently and gravely. 
 
 " You have," was her indignant reply. 
 
 " Well, then, forgive me. I regret it." 
 
 There was a persuasive tenderness in his voice which went 
 to Beatrice's heart. She did not say she forgave him, but the 
 cloud passed at once from her face. Gilbert looked at her with 
 a thoughtful smile. If he perplexed her, she perplexed him too. 
 He was pleased and happy to see Beatrice again, but the pas- 
 sionate friendship of his boyhood was dead, and he could not 
 believe that it was still a reality for the handsome young mis- 
 tress of Carnoosie. He forgot, or he did not know, that she had 
 led a sad, secluded life, a life made to cherish old memories with 
 ardent regret and obstinate tenacity. His grief had been the 
 deeper, but hers had been the more enduring feeling of the two. 
 This Gilbert could not see. It was not possible, in his creed, 
 that Beatrice should have loved him all these years. The warmth 
 of her welcome, the vehement directness of her reproaches, were 
 only the signs of an impulsive, girlish nature. But yet there was 
 sweetness and pleasure in the curiosity this strange girl made 
 him feel. Beatrice was unlike any other young lady, French or 
 English. The tyrant propriety, reserve, shyness, seemed un- 
 known to her. She was ever taking him by surprise, throwing 
 him off his guard, and making him say things he was aston- 
 ished the next moment at having said. He felt that sitting 
 thus by her side, and exchanging the quick shafts of speech with 
 her, he was no longer the Gilbert Gervoise, reserved and calm, 
 known in Paris and in Yerville. He felt bewitched — another 
 man moving in another world. 
 
 " We must be friends," said Beatrice, after a long pause. 
 "I shall not scold you any more, Gilbert, but we must be 
 friends." 
 
 " Granted," he replied, with mock gravity. 
 
 But Beatrice would see and resent nothing. 
 
 " What have you been doing since we parted? " ' " ' 
 
 " Studying medicine in Paris." 
 
 " Why medicine ? " 
 
 "Because I am not rich enough to do my own pleasure. 
 The law I hate, for art I have no genius — science, which I like, 
 is not a livelihood. I took medicine as nearest to the pursuits 
 I would have chosen had I been free." 
 
BEATKICE. 167 
 
 " I am sure you would be great in science," cried Beatrice ; 
 " it is a shame to leave it by. . Come and live with us, Gilbert ; 
 there is a laboratory in Carnoosie, as you know. Mr. Ray said 
 it was a fine one — it shall be yours. Come — you must ! " 
 
 " What a child she is ! " thought Gilbert, looking down at 
 her eager face, and reading her ardent eyes with a calm, search- 
 ing glance. " There is a proposal for you from a girl of tweMy 
 to a man twenty-five ! I suppose she has no conception tnat the 
 society of rich and handsome girls is rather a dangerous luxury 
 to a poor fellow. I am not sure that she would care, either. I 
 rather think Miss Beatrice Gordon was made to have slaves," 
 
 "Well, is it to be?" impatiently asked Beatrice. 
 
 " No, I am Docteur Gervoise, and Docteur Gervoise I must 
 remain. It would never do to bury myself in the delights of 
 your castle of indolence. Work, and hard work too, awaits 
 me." 
 
 " I know what it is ! " indignantly said Beatrice, rising as 
 she spoke ; " you will have nothing to do with me — that is it ! " 
 
 Yes, it was it, and Gilbert coloured at her plain speaking, 
 but he had no time to reply. Mrs. Gervoise awoke with a start, 
 and sitting up, asked hurriedly what was the matter ? 
 
 Beatrice tried to laugh. 
 
 " I am already scolding Gilbert," she said. " Luckily he is, 
 as he always was, patient and calm." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise gave them a bewildered glance. Beatrice 
 was red as a rose, and Gilbert looked by no means calm. He 
 seemed surprised, too, and was looking at Beatrice as if he 
 meant to read her through. The honest and the penetrating, 
 who have not learned to veil those looks, are not sufficiently on 
 their guard against them. They do not know what a tale they 
 tell, and how much they betray that is often unknown to the 
 owner. 
 
 " My goodness ! I hope he is not going to fall in love with 
 Beatrice ! " thought Mrs. Gervoise, frightened at the mere pros- 
 pect — for what would not be Mr. Gervoise's anger if his favour- 
 ite younger son were supplanted by the unloved elder one ! 
 
 " My dear," she said, hurriedly, and as if she thus hoped to 
 forestall the calamity she feared, " Gilbert must be tired after 
 his journey, and you are keeping him up." 
 
 " I am not fatigued," said Gilbert, who had a frame of iron ; 
 " but you are in need of rest, and I shall bid you good night." 
 
 "Are you afraid of ghosts?" asked Beatrice, a little ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
168 BEATEIOE. 
 
 " I have never had the opportunity of testing my fortitude in 
 that respect," gravely replied Gilbert. 
 
 " Then I shall give you that opportunity to-night," saucily 
 said Beatrice. " I have ordered the haunted room to be got 
 ready for you." 
 
 ^" And what is the ghost like? " asked Gilbert, without seem- 
 ing to look at her, though Mrs. Gervoise could see he was 
 watching her keenly. 
 
 " Do you remember the portrait of the Italian lady in Mad- 
 am's closet ? " asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Quite well," and he remembered not merely that portrait, 
 but the day on which they had looked at it, and how they were 
 lost in the forest, where Beatrice nestled in his arms ; that little 
 Beatrice so like and unlike the proud young beauty before him. 
 
 " Well, she is the ghost." 
 
 " And as like you in death, I hope, as you are like her in 
 life," said Gilbert, looking full at Beatrice. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise will kill me," thought Mrs. Gervoise, dis- 
 tracted. 
 
 " If tradition speaks truly," demurely replied Beatrice, " she 
 comes in the shape of a large black raven, and will croak and 
 flap her wings at your window." 
 
 " Let her," said Gilbert laughing. " I will open my window 
 to no such ugly spirits." 
 
 "My dear," reproachfully said Mrs.^ Gervoise, "you keep 
 Gilbert standing." 
 
 Gilbert took the hint, and bidding the ladies a good night, 
 left them. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Beatrice remained standing on the hearth. She looked 
 excited and happy. Never had her mother seen her so. " After 
 all," thought Mrs. Gervoise, " how could Gilbert help admiring 
 her ? Beatrice is no perfect beauty, to be sure ; but she is so 
 bright, so pretty, and unlike most girls. I could see he was 
 surprised as much as charmed ; but, my goodness, she must not 
 get fond of him ! " And knowing that contempt is the sure 
 destroyer of love, Mrs. Gervoise artfully began her attack. 
 
 " How countrified poor Gilbert is," she said. 
 
 " Do you think so, darling. I thought he had such fine 
 manners." 
 
 " Well, but he looks countrified, my dear." 
 
 Beatrice seemed puzzled. 
 
 " He is very handsome ; " she said, " much handsomer than 
 his brother. Antony is too pretty. Gilbert is manly." 
 
 " My dear, do not let your father hear you say so," faltered 
 Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 " Oh ! no, of course not. Do you know what has brought 
 Gilbert, darling?" 
 
 " He told me he had an appointment with his father." 
 
 " It was not to see me he came," thought Beatrice, " and I 
 would gladly have travelled a hundred miles to look at his face." 
 
 She was silent, and Mr. Gervoise wondered what she should 
 say next. Beatrice, tired with standing, had thrown herself in 
 the arm-chair Gilbert had just left ; her dark head rested against 
 the crimson velvet ; her flushed face looked languid ; her whole 
 aspect was unusually troubled, for there was ever serenity in 
 Beatrice's ardour. 
 
 " She is in love with him," thought Mrs. Gervoise, sitting 
 up with a start that roused Beatrice at once. 
 
 "What ails you, darling?" she asked. 
 
 " Let us go to bed, my dear." 
 
 They parted, and Beatrice went to her own room. She 
 8 
 
170 BEATEIOE. 
 
 thought of Gilbert, but more calmly than her mother fancied, and 
 more searchingly, too. She wondered what the real man was 
 like, and if there were so great a difference between the old and 
 the new Gilbert as there seemed to be. She could not bear to 
 think that there was — that the Gilbert who now slept under her 
 roof gave her the cold regard of a stranger, instead of the fond 
 affection of a friend. 
 
 " He must like me as he used to like me," indignantly thought 
 Beatrice, as her head sank on her pillow. Then she went back 
 to their meeting in the library a few hours ago, and as her h'ds 
 closed and the heaviness of sleep fell upon her, the verse of the 
 poet — 
 
 " And far across the hills they went,'* 
 
 again came to her, and she dreamed that she was with Gilbert in 
 Verville. 
 
 It snowed fast when Beatrice awoke the next morning. 
 "Perhaps the trains cannot run, and Mr. Gervoise will not 
 come," she charitably thought ; " at all events I must make the 
 most and the best of the morning." She hastened to dress and 
 go down-stairs. She knew that her mother, who was a late 
 riser, was not up yet, and she had heard Gilbert's voice. " He 
 is in the library," thought Beatrice with rapid intuition, and to 
 the library she went. 
 
 Gilbert was not in the library, but in the room next it, the 
 laboratory of which Beatrice had spoken, and which was indeed 
 a fine one. He was examining it with a keen and curious eye, 
 when a rustling of silk behind made him turn round. He saw 
 Beatrice standing on the threshold of the room, the half-open 
 door in her hand, looking at him gravely. " What a handsome 
 creature she is ! " thought Gilbert, struck with the fine classical 
 lines of Beatrice's young face ; " and how charmingly she 
 dresses ! " 
 
 We will not analyse Beatrice's toilette, lest critical readers 
 should find fault with it, and with Docteur Gervoise's taste. 
 We will only say this, it was a morning robe richly trimmed, 
 bright in colour, and simple in shape, and it suited Beatrice to 
 perfection. She looked as brilliant as any exotic bird, and, spite 
 the snowy morning, Gilbert felt in the tropics as he looked at 
 her. 
 
 " Good morning," said Beatrice seriously. 
 
 " Good morning," he replied, as gravely. 
 
 *' How did you sleep ? " 
 
BEATEICE. 171 
 
 " Admirably ! " ' 
 
 " Did the ghost come?" 
 
 " I saw no ghost." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it." 
 
 Docteur Gervoise smiled, silently. 
 
 " Are you going to stay here? " asked Beatrice. 
 
 " I meant to do so." 
 
 " No, you must not — come ! " And still standing on the 
 threshold, she beckoned to him. 
 
 "But where shall I go?" 
 
 " Never mind — come, I say." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Because I want you, to be sure." 
 
 She seemed amazed at his resistance. 
 
 " Come," she said again, and Gilbert went of course. It 
 was very like the Beatrice of old days to order him about so, and 
 it was very like being a boy again to find himself doing Beatrice's 
 bidding. 
 
 Beatrice took him up-stairs to her mother's sitting-room. 
 There were too many spies in Carnoosie for her to stay below 
 with Gilbert. Mrs. Gervoise was not up yet, and the room was 
 just as Beatrice wanted it — solitary ; but no one save Mrs. Ger- 
 voise herself, who slept in the next apartment, would know that 
 she was there alone with Gilbert. And, little suspecting that 
 Mrs. Gervoise saw this privacy with disapprobation, Beatrice 
 congratulated herself on this admirable plan. She lost no time 
 in letting Gilbert know what she had brought him up for. 
 
 " Sit down," she said, pointing to a chair, and taking another 
 herself. 
 
 " I am going to hear Her Majesty's pleasure," thought Gil- 
 bert, but he did not expect what was coming. 
 
 " Now, Gilbert," said Beatrice, " I questioned you last night, 
 and you gave me very brief and unsatisfactory replies. I am 
 not going to let you off so. Please to be more explicit this 
 morning. "What have you been doing since we parted ? " 
 
 Men and women lead such different lives, that the most 
 blameless of either sex would scarcely care to answer such a 
 question when put by a member of the other. " There is cool- 
 ness for you ! " thought Gilbert, completely taken by surprise ; 
 " a most audacious young lady, I must say ! " 
 
 " Well, you don't answer ! " cried' Beatrice, putting on a 
 frown ; " I ask you again what you have been doing?" 
 
 " And I retort the question." 
 
172 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Oh ! I am a bird in a cage," replied Beatrice, with some 
 bitterness ; " you would not have me keep count of my seed and 
 groundsel." 
 
 " Of course not, but wild birds take such wide flights that 
 they are apt to forget how far they have been, you see." 
 ^^Beatrice's face fell. 
 
 "I see," she said, "that you will tell me i^iothing, Gil- 
 bert ; and yet," she added, with a sigh, " I should have liked to 
 know what sort of feelings and hopes and desires there have been 
 in your life — ^but you will not give me your confidence." 
 
 Gilbert could not say that he would. What was there in 
 common between them ? How could he tell Beatrice, for in- 
 stance, that the great object of his medical studies had been to 
 detect the presence of infusoria in the human frame? How 
 could he speak of the humiliation of the flesh to a girl of twenty, 
 fresh as a flower, and looking as if the taint of disease or the 
 breath of decay could never come near her ? 
 
 " Had you friends ? " persisted Beatrice. 
 
 " I had one." 
 
 "Is he dead?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, then, why do you say ' I had?' " 
 
 " Because he is not my friend now." 
 
 "How was it? — ^how did it happen?" she asked, drawing 
 her chair nearer to his, to hear the story. 
 
 But this story Gilbert did not care to tell Beatrice either, so 
 he replied, carelessly : 
 
 " Oh ! it was a foolish quarrel enough." 
 
 " You are very tiresome ! " indignantly said Beatrice ; " you 
 will tell me nothing, and I do so long to know what there has 
 been in your life? Were there no Beatrices?" she jealously 
 asked. « 
 
 This time Gilbert could answer truly and frankly. 
 
 "No, indeed — ^no Beatrices. Beatrices are unique, and 
 travellers have never found but one at a time." 
 
 He spoke so kindly, that Beatrice's heart softened at once. 
 She had found the key at last, and now she was going to open 
 the door and enter. But as she came to this pleasant conclusion, 
 a door which was not that of Gilbert's heart opened, and Miss 
 Jameson entered the room. She looked half frightened at 
 Beatrice's indignant glance, which greatly amused Gilbert, and 
 hastily said : 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise has sent for me, my dear, and asked me to 
 wait for her here." 
 
BEATEICE. 173 
 
 This was true enough. Mrs. Gervoise had hit on this expe- 
 dient for preventing the tete-a-tete which her presence was not 
 there to guard. 
 
 Having said her say, Miss Jameson sat down and took out 
 her knitting. Gilbert watched Beatrice. She tapped her foot, 
 and looked at the ceiling, and seemed charmed into sudden silence. 
 
 "She is meditating something, plotting against her poor 
 mouse of a governess," thought Gilbert, much entertained ; " I 
 wonder what it will be ? " 
 
 Gilbert, who already felt that Beatrice was capable of many 
 strange things, was by no means prepared for what followed. 
 
 " Miss Jameson ! " she cried, starting to her feet. 
 
 Miss Jameson's knitting dropped on her lap, and she gave 
 Beatrice a scared look. 
 
 " Do be so kind as to sit down to the piano and play," eagerly 
 continued Beatrice ; " Gilbert and I are going to dance." 
 
 " What ! " cried Gilbert. 
 
 " You do not mean to say that you, a Frenchman, cannot 
 dance ? " indignantly exclaimed Beatrice. 
 
 " Well, but suppose I do not know?" 
 
 " Then I shall teach you. Now, Gilbert, you must, out of 
 charity. I know how to dance, and never have been to a ball in 
 my life. Come, be quick ! We cannot have a quadrille, but we 
 can waltz. One of your best waltzes. Miss Jameson, please — 
 the Duke of Reichstadt's, you know." 
 
 Beatrice spoke saucily and cruelly, though she knew it not ; 
 Miss Jameson, who was no accomplished musician, knew but 
 that one waltz. Poor thing ! how often, borne away by the 
 handsome man of thirty-five, had she felt in heaven as this waltz 
 was played by her sister on the old cracked piano in her father's 
 parlour ! But what recks youth present of youth passed ? So 
 whilst Miss Jameson obediently sat to the piano, and sighed her 
 et ego in Arcadia^ as her fingers ran over the keys, Beatrice 
 called Gilbert with a " Gilbert, quick, quick ! " 
 
 " Well, but if I commit mistakes?" he objected, with feigned 
 reluctance. 
 
 " I shall set you right. Oh ! do not loiter ! " 
 
 Far more leisurely than Beatrice liked, Gilbert obeyed. As 
 methodically as if they were both in a ball-room, he approached 
 the impatient girl, and with a " now mind you tell me," he took 
 hold of her and began. 
 
 "Keep time," she said; "not so; why, Gilbert, can't you 
 count one, two, three ? yes, that is better. Oh ! what a cheat you 
 
/ 
 
 174 BEATRICE. 
 
 are ! " she cried, as, suddenly dropping his pretended awkward- 
 ness, Gilbert began waltzing with her in perfect time around the 
 room. ." Why, you waltz beautifully ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Gilbert, gravely ; " I passed for that too." 
 
 "Oh! this is delightful!" exclaimed Beatrice, wild with 
 pleasure ; " faster. Miss Jameson — faster ! " 
 
 And Miss Jameson played faster, and still they moved in the 
 magic dance, and both felt as if it ought to have no ending. 
 Beatrice had never felt a pleasure so perfect. She had learned 
 dancing, and never practised it ; she had dreamed of it at night, 
 and pined for it on wakening in the morning, and now she had 
 that joy at last. Gilbert was her partner, and the blazing fire 
 on the hearth, and the falling snow that passed by the windows, 
 gave her joy a zest more keen. But even as she thought, " Oh ! 
 there is nothing like this," Gilbert suddenly stopped, and they 
 both stood still in the middle of the room. 
 
 " Well, what is it?" cried Beatrice. 
 
 " You must not waltz. Miss Gordon," he said, gravely ; " it 
 excites you too much." 
 
 And so saying, he sat down, folded his hands, and, what was 
 worse in Beatrice's eyes, he stretched and crossed his legs, evi- 
 dently resolved not to use them any more for Beatrice's pleasure. 
 
 " But I feel quite well, I assure you," she said, earnestly. 
 " Do come, Gilbert ! " 
 
 " Not on any account," he replied, with the most resolute 
 courtesy. " I can see you are quite feverish." 
 
 " Feverish ! — I am not feverish. I assure you I am not," 
 and she held out her slender wrist. 
 
 Gilbert smiled, but did not unfold his hands to feel Beatrice's 
 pulse. r 
 
 " The feverishness I mean is of a subtler kind," he replied. 
 " Your face is my criterion — see how flushed you are ! " 
 
 Beatrice looked at herself in the glass. Her colour was a 
 little heightened by the waltzing, but that was all. She turned 
 back to Gilbert, and gave him a puzzled look. The greatest 
 suavity and courtesy marked his manner, which, though often 
 cold, was never severe ; but, for all that, Beatrice felt there was 
 something in Gilbert which said " No " to her, as plainly as if 
 that inexorable little word had been spoken by Gilbert's lips. 
 
 And Beatrice was not deceived. Gilbert was saying " no " 
 to her with all his might. He was saying " no " to her youth 
 and beauty, to her dangerous familiarity, and still more danger- 
 ous friendship. No door was ever so firmly locked against an 
 
BEATEICE. 175 
 
 intruder than Gilbert's heart was now barred against the hand- 
 some mistress of Carnoosie. Early in life had Gilbert learned 
 that bitter lesson. He could deny himself dangerous pleasures, 
 as well as guilty passions. The first warmth of their meeting 
 over, he had felt that there was danger in Beatrice. As she 
 stood before him, graceful, richly attired, pretty, and, above all, 
 familiar and fond, though disappointed, Gilbert looked at her 
 firmly, and thought : " That girl is a diamond, a costly gem, un- 
 fit for a poor man. Why, I could live for n month on the price 
 of her morning dress ! Just fancy that dainty Bird of Paradise 
 in the cage I have in Verville ; or just fancy me, the country 
 doctor, living in Carnoosie on a woman's bounty ! " 
 
 His colour rose, his lip curled at the thought. 
 
 " Why, it is you who look feverish ! " said Beatrice, watch- 
 ing him closely. 
 
 Gilbert reddened still more, for he was young and impressi- 
 ble, though self-denying ; he was modest, too, with all his pride, 
 and had not lost the faculty of blushing. 
 
 " I am too delicate for waltzing," he said, trying to speak 
 gaily. " You don't know what weak nerves we have, nous autres 
 medecins I " 
 
 " There does not seem to be any thing like weakness about 
 you, Gilbert," observed Beatrice, sitting down at some distance 
 from him, and looking at the fire as she spoke. " You are steel 
 — clear, cool, and unbending.'^ 
 
 " But steel does bend," argued Gilbert. 
 
 " Yes, enough to make one feel its strength." 
 
 And still she looked at the fire. 
 
 " Now, I know there are tears in those bright eyes of hers ! " 
 thought Gilbert, for else Beatrice would look me in the face. 
 My poor little Beatrice, I have hurt you ! Oh ! why are you 
 not my little Beatrice still ? How soon a kiss would restore 
 peace between us, or rather how I would have waltzed with you 
 to your heart's content ! It is a pity, and a mortal pity too, that 
 you are grown up, and such a pretty girl ! " 
 
 " You may shut up the piano. Miss Jameson," said Beatrice, 
 in rather a subdued voice. " Many thanks for your trouble." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise, whom the sounds of the music and the waltz- 
 ing had both startled and alarmed, now entered the room, and 
 found matters exactly as she wished them to be. Gilbert and 
 Beatrice sat rather apart, in evident coolness. 
 
CHAPTER XXn. 
 
 And thus several days had passed, and still detained by the 
 weather and business, Mr. Gervoise did not come. Mrs. Ger- 
 voise's uneasiness had calmed down. Gilbert's manner was 
 meant to dispel her alarm. It was plain to her that he greatly 
 admired Beatrice, but it was very plain, too, that he had no wish 
 to indulge himself in that admiration. He was free and familiar 
 with her, but only after a certain fashion. His self-possession 
 never forsook him. His look, his smile, his words, all spoke of 
 inexorable control over his feelings and his heart. His famili- 
 arity was that of old acquaintance ; it had little friendliness in 
 it ; Beatrice's was ever ready to break out into sisterly fondness, 
 Gilbert's never. A subtle reserve tempered his whole manner ; 
 it was impossible to tax him with coldness, but it would have 
 been very hard indeed to have discovered tenderness in his bear- 
 ing toward Beatrice. This something, which Mrs. Gervoise 
 saw with a mother's shrewdness, Beatrice felt keenly. Gilbert's 
 presence in Carnoosie was both a happiness and a torment to 
 her. She had welcomed him with all the ardour of her old 
 friendship, and almost immediately she had felt that she was not 
 to him what he was to her. In vain she had tried to win back 
 this lost treasure of her childhood, every day only seemed to 
 place Gilbert at a further distance from her. He was courteous, 
 pleasant, and even familiar ; but, alas ! he was no longer her 
 friend, and, alas ! again, he did not wish to be so. It was very 
 hard and mortifying, but it was a fact, that Gilbert did not wish 
 for her friendship. If Beatrice had been more vain than she 
 was, and if she had had some experience of life, she might have 
 guessed that Gilbert was prudent, and not cold. But of herself, 
 and how she might act on a young man's heart, Beatrice knew 
 little. Flattering voices had not early taught her that her share 
 of woman's charms was abundant ; she knew that she was good- 
 looking, beyond this vague knoAvledge she did not go. More- 
 over, she did not look on Gilbert as a stranger, and how could 
 
BEATRICE. ITT 
 
 he think of her otherwise than as of little Beatrice ? No, that 
 was not it ; it was, sad and bitter reflection, that Gilbert no 
 longer loved her ! Then Beatrice wondered if she could not win 
 back some fragment of that regard which she once had possessed 
 entirely. And being more fond than proud, and more eager to 
 accomplish her desires than cautious to hide her purpose, she at 
 once showed Gilbert what she was about. 
 
 " My little Beatrice ! " he thought, much perplexed, " you 
 are very kind, but I must put a stop to that too. No, I cannot 
 afford it. I wonder if fault-finding will make you like poor 
 Gilbert less?" 
 
 He half sighed, for the task was not a pleasant one. Bea- 
 trice had faults, to be sure, but Gilbert would just as soon have 
 let them rest. He did not do so, however, and one evening that 
 they happened to be alone in Mrs. Gervoise's sitting-room, he 
 began his task with some sweeping censures on Beatrice's gen- 
 eral behaviour to Miss Jameson. 
 
 " I hope I have not displeased you," he hypocritically added, 
 seeing her redden with pain. 
 
 " No, Gilbert," she answered, trying to remain calm and 
 brave ; "I like you to tell me of my faults, I know I have 
 plenty." 
 
 " Well, you have your share," he frankly replied. 
 
 He spoke in jest, but the words went to Beatrice's heart. 
 
 " More than my share," she said recklessly ; " but you see, 
 Gilbert, I have not exactly been reared like other girls. I have 
 lived in this old Carnoosie, out of the world and its ways, and I 
 have grown up pretty much as weeds grow — after my own 
 fashion. My poor mother has been wrapped in ill health and 
 could not mind me, and I am afraid, Gilbert, I was not of a tem- 
 per to mind any one. Mr. Ray did me good, and I felt it, but he 
 lived in strange doubts, and he is dead ; and so I grew up as I 
 tell you, Beatrice Gordon, and somewhat of a heathen, I fear." 
 
 Gilbert became suddenly grave, andJooked at her keenly. 
 Without design on his part, but in the progress of discourse, he 
 had once or -twice touched on religion in speaking to Beatrice. 
 And every time he had done so, she had either remained sadly 
 silent, or turned her gay speech to some other matter. Gilbert 
 knew under what conditions Beatrice had been left to his father's 
 guardianship, but perhaps he knew, too, how Mr. Gervoise was 
 likely to fulfil this trust. 
 
 " A heathen ! " he said at length ; " you do not mean it, 
 Beatrice." 
 
 8* 
 
178 
 
 BEATEIOE. 
 
 Beatrice was silent. 
 
 Gilbert looked as he felt — ^pained. He had a strong feeling 
 of religion, as he had of duty, of honour and principle, and he 
 could not bear to hear Beatrice talk so. He looked at her again 
 and half sighed. 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice, Beatrice ! " 
 
 " I cannot help it," she said recklessly, and a little defiantly, 
 too. " I tell you I have lived out of the world, and its laws and 
 its proprieties. Once, many years ago, mamma took a drive in 
 the country. Miss Jameson was with us. She and I got down 
 and wandered away to a little church. I do not know why or 
 how there was a service in it, but there was. The door was 
 open, and we stood near it and looked in at the congregation. It 
 was a very pretty sight, and the voices singing sounded very 
 sweet ; but Miss Jameson burst into tears, and walked away, 
 and since I came to Carnoosie, Gilbert, that is all I knew of 
 religion. I remember when we were both in Kensington, at 
 Eosemary Cottage, we used to go together on a Sunday morning 
 to the little chapel in Holland Street. I had been there with my 
 father, too. I remember, Gilbert, the voices singing, and the 
 priest's face, and the pew in which we sat, and there is as a 
 dream of a sermon we once heard, a fine one we thought it then, 
 as we spoke and walked home through the lanes ; but I have 
 outlived all that, you see, and learned other lessons in Car- 
 noosie." 
 
 Gilbert looked at her, and his purpose of reproof melted away 
 from him. His heart ached for her. Poor, ill-taught, ill-reared 
 Beatrice ! How could he, the son of her wronger, reprove her 
 for the faults she had acquired under such teaching ? All he 
 said was — 
 
 " My poor little Beatrice ! " 
 
 " Yes, you do well to pity me," she said, turning away, *' for 
 I sometimes feel cast out of love and faith. I cannot bear to 
 hear church bells, Gilbert ; and when I see parents and their 
 children walking happily on to worship, I feel a rebel's bitterness 
 in my heart." 
 
 This time Gilbert smiled. How different he and Beatrice 
 were ! How she exaggerated, in her imaginative girlish way, 
 the accidents of her unhappy education ! How she made herself 
 out a lost angel, standing forlorn at the gate of Paradise ! But 
 Beatrice saw the smile, and took it amiss. 
 
 " You are laughing at me," she said, a little indignantly. 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " piously said, Gilbert. 
 
BEATRICE. 179 
 
 *' Gilbert, you do not care about me." 
 
 " Yes, I do," lie replied with his cabu smile. 
 
 *'Ah! but how?" 
 
 "How? — as one cares about every thing that is delight- 
 ful," of course. Let me see* I like you as I like a bird on a 
 tree in spring, roses in a garden in summer, or a peach on the 
 wall in autumn, or as I like all these, if you please." 
 
 Beatrice turned her head away. He would not treat her 
 seriously. She was a child in his eyes. With keen pain she 
 felt that she amused him — that was her hold on Gilbert. Her 
 society was pleasant to him in that way, but Gilbert could do 
 without amusement, and once he had turned his back on Car- 
 noosie, Beatrice would be forgotten. " I cannot make him like 
 me, do what I will," thought Beatrice. 
 
 He saw that he had displeased her, and he was sorry. 
 
 "Again?" he said, reproachfully. 
 
 " Yes, again, and for ever again, whilst you talk so." 
 
 "And yet birds, roses, and peaches are pleasant in their 
 way." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you," replied Beatrice, " I treat you 
 as a friend, and you treat me like a bird, a rose, or, more flat- 
 tering still, a peach. I am much obliged to you, Gilbert." 
 
 She looked grave and displeased. 
 
 " What a child she is !" thought Gilbert. He clung rather 
 tenaciously to the belief that Beatrice was childish — ^perhaps be- 
 cause he would have been glad to find in her the little Beatrice 
 of old days. Often did he long to pass his hand through her 
 heavy dark curls, as he had so often passed it when they were 
 children both, rousing her wrath and braving her defiance. He 
 would have liked to have her nestle up to him and caress him 
 with innocent security. " What a pity she has grown up ! " he 
 thought, looking at her now ; " I should like my little Beatrice 
 back again. If ever I have a daughter, Beatrice shall be her 
 name." 
 
 And on the spur of the moment, he told her so. 
 
 Beatrice reddened and tapped her foot. 
 
 " You will make me jealous of that Beatrice," she said 
 warmly. " I wish she were dead." 
 
 " And so she is," sighed Gilbert, with mock sorrow ; " dead 
 and buried. Daisies and green grass are growing on her grave 
 somewhere, and behold her slayer ! " 
 
 He looked in the glass. Beatrice looked too. She saw him, 
 and he saw her. It was a strange moment for both. They ex- 
 
180 BEATRICE. 
 
 changed looks in the bright and clear surface. Thev began in 
 jest, and ended in earnest. Beatrice got frightened first. The 
 mirror seemed to grow deep as a world, a world in which each 
 sought but the other. She quickly turned and looked at Gilbert. 
 She feared him less than his image. Of the two he was the 
 more troubled. He was pale, and would scarcely look at Bea- 
 trice. She had already recovered, and said quickly, " What is 
 it! What ails you?" 
 
 " Nothing. I felt giddy." He walked to the window, and 
 thought, " That little Beatrice is a witch. I do believe I was as 
 near making a fool of myself then as ever man was. It was well 
 she turned round and broke the spell. I must settle that once 
 for all." 
 
 So he went back to the fire, and, sitting down by Beatrice, 
 he looked at his watch, and said : 
 
 " My father will not come to-night." 
 
 "No," replied Beatrice, and she thought, "What a bless- 
 ing!" 
 
 "Beatrice, you have not asked on what business I came to 
 Carnoosie." 
 
 "Then it was business brought you — ^not poor Beatrice," 
 she said, rather sadly. 
 
 " It was business," he persisted ; " and business which the 
 mistress of Carnoosie has a right to know. I came here to ask 
 my father's consent to my marriage." 
 
 Beatrice looked bewildered. 
 
 " You are going to get married ! " she cried. 
 
 " I hope so," he composedly replied. " I hope you do not 
 object to it, Miss Gordon." 
 
 He seemed amused at the thought, for he was thinking of the 
 little wilful mistress of Carnoosie of old times — of that jealous 
 Beatrice who wanted him all for herself. Beatrice understood 
 him but too well, and his tone stung her. She raised her hand- 
 some head, and, looking him steadily in the face, she asked — 
 
 " Why should I object to it, Doctor Gervoise?" 
 
 " Why Doctor Gervoise? — Avhy not Gilbert? " 
 
 " After all, why should he not marry, poor fellow?" thought 
 Beatrice, calming down, and, with a cheerful though not very 
 cordial smile, she asked softly : 
 
 "Who is she, Gilbert?" 
 
 " A young lady whose mother I attended." 
 
 "In Verville, of course. What is her name?" 
 
 " Lucie Joanne." 
 
BEATEICE. 181 
 
 " Is she young? — but of course she is." 
 
 " About twenty, I believe." 
 
 " What is she like, Gilbert?" 
 
 She raised her inquiring eyes to his, and Gilbert smiled as 
 he looked at her, and replied : 
 
 " Very unlike you." 
 
 " Of course she is very pretty,*' said Beatrice, affecting to con- 
 sider his remark as implying the fact. 
 
 " Indeed, she is not— beauty is too costly for poor Doctor 
 Gervoise ; but she is not plain either," he added, smiling. " She 
 is well, as we say in French, and amiable, and good. Are you 
 satisfied ? " 
 
 "I am, if you are," quietly said Beatrice ; " and of course 
 you are — ^you would not have selected her if you did not love and 
 admire her, nor would she have accepted you." 
 
 " But she has not accepted me," interrupted Gilbert ; '' for I 
 could not ask her without first having my father's consent." 
 
 "Then she does not know you want her?" exclaimed 
 Beatrice. 
 
 ^ "I have spoken to her mother, and perhaps her mother has 
 spoken to her," replied Gilbert gravely. 
 
 " And you have not spoken to her ? " 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " Then perhaps she will not have you after all." 
 
 " Perhaps, as you say, she will not — yet I think she will. 
 She has always been gentle and kind with me — ^but then it is her 
 nature to be so." 
 
 Gilbert looked thoughtful ; but he looked neither hopeful nor 
 despondent. Beatrice's dark eyes searched his face in vain for 
 the tokens of a true lover's hopes and fears ; he detected her, and 
 smiled at her with a grave smile which was peculiar to him. 
 
 "You are quite right," he said, answering her thought, 
 " this is no grande passion ; yet, for all that, I wish to be Lucie 
 Joanne's husband, and I do believe she wishes to be Docteur 
 Gervoise's wife.- She is amiable, very gentle and intelligent; 
 she has a small income, and though I am not mercenary, I can- 
 not marry a poor girl." 
 
 " Why so ? " interrupted Beatrice quickly. 
 
 Gilbert hesitated. 
 
 " Why so?" she said, again ; " tell me, Gilbert." 
 
 " I will tell you, Beatrice ; and when I have told you, I have 
 really told you my great secret. I do not mean to devote my- 
 self exclusively to my profession. It is a noble one, and I like 
 
182 f BEATEICE. 
 
 it, but I must have sometliing else — science. I wish to follow 
 modern discovery, and, if God give me the power, to help it, 
 even though humbly. I cannot marry a poor girl, and be bur- 
 dened with all the cares of a family. To do so would be to bid 
 the only joy, the only ambition of my life, adieu. I have fitted up 
 a little laboratory in my house in VerviUe ; and there, Beatrice, 
 I have abeady spent such happy hours ! You know nothing of 
 science — what a pity ! I am sure you would like it ? If I were 
 to stay in Carnoosie, I would show you how to begin." 
 
 Beatrice heard him with surprise. Gilbert's blue eyes sparkled ; 
 he looked eager and ardent. Truly he had, as he said, revealed 
 his great secret. 
 
 " And Mademoiselle Joanne ? " 
 
 " Well," replied Gilbert, calming down, " I am sure of her 
 mother, and almost sure of her. I do not see why my father 
 should object to so suitable a match, and therefore I consider the 
 matter settled. I confess to you, Beatrice, that being a domestic 
 man, I long to have a wife and a home, and hope to be very happy 
 with both. I think, too, I may say that if Mademoiselle Joanne 
 is not happy with me, it shall be no fault of mine. I feel very 
 much inclined to make her a happy woman, and where there is 
 a will there is a way, you know." 
 
 " I wish I were as sure of many things as I am of her hap- 
 piness," cried Beatrice, ardently ; " and yet I am selfish — I am 
 sorry you are getting married, Gilbert, for you are lost to us." 
 
 Tears stood in her eyes, and she could scarcely speak. She 
 resumed more calmly : 
 
 " On seeing you, I felt as if a long lost brother had returned, 
 and now I have scarcely seen you when I learn that you are 
 lost again; for marriage, and very justly, I suppose, breaks all 
 the old ties. You must belong to your wife, and she to you. If 
 I could go and live near you, I would make her my friend, and 
 then have a sister as well as a brother. I do so want a friend 
 sometimes — ^but it cannot be. Dear Mr. Ray, so good, so gen- 
 tle, so kind, is dead ; and you appear but to depart, and I must 
 return to the old life." 
 
 " Beatrice ! — Beatrice ! " he exclaimed, much moved, for her 
 tears were flowing. 
 
 " I cannot help it," she said ; " you have had a hundred 
 things in your life, I have had but two or three ; and when one 
 goes, as this is going now, my heart will ache." 
 
 Gilbert was touched with Beatrice's frankness. 
 
 " Beatrice — my good little Beatrice," he said, taking her two 
 
BEATRICE. 183 
 
 hands in his, " friendsliip — ^true friendship^ — does not go so, and 
 yours is the only friendship in my life." 
 
 " And Mademoiselle Joanne ! " 
 
 " In the first place that is not friendship," he replied, with a 
 half smile ; "in the second, Mademoiselle Joanne is too correct 
 a young lady to care about me until she becomes Madame Ger- 
 voise, if such is her fate." 
 
 " Then it is no love match? " 
 
 " My dear little Beatrice, I cannot help it. I have not been 
 able to fall in love, so I take a girl whom I like and esteem, and 
 I hope to be happy with her. I know this is dreadful heresy ; 
 but I repeat it, I cannot help it." 
 
 Beatrice said, " Of course not." To say the truth, she was 
 not over-anxious that Gilbert should be desperately in love with 
 Mademoiselle Joanne. It was quite bad enough that he should 
 marry her. Her first emotion was over, and she looked a little 
 flushed still, but neither disturbed nor unhappy. 
 
 " This is how men and women cheat their own hearts, and 
 the hearts of their neighbours too," thought Gilbert, looking at 
 Beatrice ; " I do not know if Beatrice thought of friendship a 
 while ago, but surely I did not. Fancy and beauty play us 
 strange tricks now and then ; but for Lucie Joanne, I suppose I 
 should be desperately in love by this, op think myself so. Mighty 
 passions are born thus, and, nursed by weak wills and frail hearts, 
 they become unconquerable. Thank Heaven, Beatrice, I am free 
 from blame with you." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " said Beatrice, with a start and a frightened 
 look. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Gilbert, surprised. 
 
 " I am nervous since Mr. Ray died," replied Beatrice, re- 
 covering her self-possession, " but I am almost sure I have just 
 heard Mr. Gervoise's voice in my mother's room." 
 
 Gilbert listened, and heard it too. They both waited silently, 
 thinking Mr. Gervoise would appear, but he did not. When the 
 door opened, it was Mrs. Gervoise's pale and startled face that 
 looked in at them. 
 
 "• Good night, Gilbert — good night, Beatrice," she said, 
 faintly ; " Mr. Gervoise cannot see you to-night — he is quite ex- 
 hausted." 
 
 Thus dismissed, Gilbert rose, and bidding his step-mother 
 good night, withdrew. Beatrice stood irresolute for a while, 
 then she yielded. 
 
 " Good night, my poor darling," she said softly, and she 
 
184 BEATEICE. 
 
 sailed out of Mrs. Grervoise's sitting-room with the look of an in- 
 dignant queen. 
 
 "They are gone," said Mrs. Gervoise, in alow voice. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise came out of her room, and, taking possession 
 of Beatrice's favourite chair, stretched his legs and warmed his 
 feet at the fire. 
 
 " Have they long been alone? " he asked. 
 
 "Only a few minutes," faltered Mrs. Gervoise; "Miss 
 Jameson's head ached, and she could not come and sit with 
 them." 
 
 "But they have often been alone during the past week?" 
 
 " Not very often." 
 
 " Are they distant and cool, or familiar together ? " 
 
 " They were great friends once, you know," said the poor 
 lady, " and so they are familiar, but " 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise, I must entreat you to answer me plainly. 
 You know my meaning well enough. Has any of the nonsense 
 which often goes on between young people been going on between 
 them?" 
 
 " No, no," replied Mrs. Gervoise, with suspicious eagerness. 
 " You need not fear any thing of the kind, Mr. Gervoise, I would 
 not hav€i allowed it." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked scornfully at his wife. 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise, you are a fool," he said. 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Gervoise, I did my best." 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise, you are an incorrigible fool. Do you sup- 
 pose that I would have had my son here a week with Beatrice if 
 I did not mean something by it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise stared at her husband. 
 
 " You intend " she began. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Gervoise, I do intend, and you, like an idiot as 
 you are, instead of seconding my plans, have been thwarting 
 them. Your daughter has refused to marry my younger son — 
 well and good. If she does not marry the elder one, she shall 
 never marry at all. Bear that in mind." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise was too much amazed to utter one word. 
 
 " Where is Beatrice now? " asked Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " In her room, I suppose." . 
 
 " Send for her — or rather — no, go and see if she is there." ^ 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise went, and came back with the tidings that 
 Beatrice was not in her room. 
 
 " Shall I tell you where she is, Mrs. Gervoise?" asked her 
 husband with a triumphant smile ; " she is in the library, with 
 
BEATKICE. 186 
 
 my son Gilbert. I shall go and look at them," he added, 
 rising. 
 
 And though Mr. Gervoise was so far exhausted that he was 
 unequal to the company of his son and step-daughter, his interest 
 in their welfare was so great that he actually rose and left the 
 warm sitting-room to go out on the cool terrace. Light shone 
 in all the library windows, and Mr. Gervoise, drawing near one, 
 peeped in and saw them. 
 
 Ay, they were there together, but by accident, and not by 
 design, as he thought. Gilbert had gone down to the library to 
 read and end his evening, and the same purpose had drawn Bea- 
 trice there. Neither had the wisdom or the fortitude to depart 
 on finding the other. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise watched them with a keen and scrutinizing 
 eye, and if his eyes were no longer pleasant to look at, they were 
 excellent for use, and served him well. He could not hear, but 
 for that he did not care. Seeing is as good as listening in some 
 cases. He saw this. 
 
 Unconsciously Gilbert and Beatrice made a fair picture as 
 they sat thus side by side, an open volume between them, her 
 dark eyes raised to his, his calm blue glance bent on her face, 
 rosy with a delicate flush, and smiling and happy. There was 
 no mistaking the meaning of their looks. Hers beamed with 
 gentle ardour, his with admiring tenderness, but the tempting 
 serpent who looked at them little knew how innocent and holy 
 was the feeling that bound them, though perhaps not without its 
 perils and its shoals. ^Earthly in all his feelings, he was earthly 
 in his thoughts of others. 
 
 " Ha, ha, my lady, I have you now ! " he thought as he 
 turned away laughing at the success of his plans. 
 
 He was in high good-humour when he went back to Mrs. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Gervoise," he said to her, " I hope you have 
 understood me rightly. Your daughter is to marry my son Gil- 
 bert, and you are not to talk or to interfere. Let them be to- 
 gether, and say nothing. You understand ? " 
 
 " Quite well. But does Gilbert " 
 
 " Gilbert knows nothing, but I have been watching them, 
 and he is over head and ears in love as it is." 
 
 " I am afraid, Mr. Gervoise, you are- mistaken," said Mrs. 
 Gervoise, with more boldness than she usually displayed. 
 '* I should be too happy to have Beatrice married to Gilbert, 
 but " 
 
186^ BEATEICE. 
 
 " I tell you he must marry her, and she must marry him," 
 interrupted Mr. Gervoise, with a cold, hard voice. " Gilbert is 
 an idiot if he does not take a fine girl like Beatrice, with Carnoo- 
 sie for her portion." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise would have been an idiot, indeed, if she had 
 not understood her husband's meaning. Her health and her life 
 were uncertain. With her ended his claim on Carnoosie. It 
 was expedient to secure the prize habit had rendered doubly 
 dear, into Mr. Gervoise's family. Antony had failed, Gilbert 
 must succeed. Let him only marry Beatrice, and Mr. Gervoise 
 could defy her to oust him from his splendid nest. He knew his 
 elder son, and what chords to strike in order to win him over. 
 Gilbert was the slave of duty, and would rather leave Carnoosie 
 than turn out his father. Appeal to his sense of honour, and, 
 unbending as he was, Gilbert became your slave. He must 
 marry Beatrice, for he was safer than Antony, though harder to 
 win. 
 
 " I know Gilbert admires Beatrice," began Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 " Precisely," interrupted Mr. Gervoise, " he admires her, as 
 you say, and your daughter, Mrs. Gervoise, is just the girl to 
 make a man marry her whether he likes it or not." 
 
 This complimentary remark to Beatrice closed the conver- 
 sation. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise was so far recovered the next morning as to 
 be able to see bis son Gilbert. This interview was long and 
 satisfactory, no doubt, for when Gilbert came out of his father's 
 study his brow was open and his look was smiling. Beatrice 
 met him in the hall, and had no trouble in reading his face. 
 
 "It is all right," he said, gaily, " and I can be off next 
 week." 
 
 Beatrice's heart fell ; this was Saturday, next week meant 
 Monday, of course. 
 
 " I am glad it is all right," she said. 
 
 " And so am I — I confess, Beatrice, I felt anxious. What 
 a fine morning ! You were going to take a walk ; shall I ac- 
 company you ? " 
 
 Beatrice was, indeed, attired for a walk. She was wi*apped 
 in velvet and furs, and she wore a crimson hood of most becom- 
 ing fashion. 
 
 " Beatrice," said Gilbert, as he took her arm, and led her 
 out into the clear frosty morning, " you were born for wealth 
 and fine apparel. It were a mortal sin you should ever grow 
 poor ! " 
 
 Beatrice did not answer. They were going down the steps 
 of the terrace into the garden. She looked at the four fountains, 
 with their icicles sparkling in the sun ; at the tall bare trees, 
 spreading their broad, leafless branches on the blue sky, and she 
 thought : 
 
 " Oh ! Gilbert, how little you know me, and how you wrong 
 me ! You might as well say these fountains should ever play, 
 and these trees be for ever green, as say that Beatrice was only 
 meant for wealth.." 
 
 Unconscious of his offence, Gilbert pursued : 
 
 " Now, Lucie Joanne was meant by nature for mediocrity. 
 She is delicate and refined, and a lady ; but no one will ever take 
 
188 BEATRICE. 
 
 her for a Princess in disguise. And you are one, Beatrice, every 
 inch of you ! " 
 
 Comparisons are said to be odious. In vain did Gilbert's 
 looks express the admiration he felt, in vain did he acknowledge 
 Beatrice's superiority. His words hurt her to the quick, for 
 affection is subtle, and will extract sweetness or poison from 
 any thing. Feeling that he was inclined to go on with his re- 
 marks, Beatrice endeavoured to give his thoughts another turn 
 by saying : 
 
 " Gilbert, I want to see Mademoiselle Joanne." 
 
 " Well, come to my wedding." 
 
 " That would be seeing Madame Gervoise. I want to see 
 Mademoiselle Joanne." 
 
 Gilbert looked a little perplexed. 
 
 " I want to see her here," continued Beatrice ; " and since 
 your father agrees to your marriage, why should not Mademoi- 
 selle Joanne and her mother pay us a visit ? " 
 
 Gilbert remained silent, and looked embarrassed. 
 
 " I have never had a friend," resumed Beatrice. " I never 
 had a companion, and I have always longed for one. I can find 
 no friend I shall value more than the girl who is to become your 
 wife ; but for that I must see her, and Mr. Gervoise will not let 
 us stir from Camoosie. Let her come to me, and let me know 
 and love her ; it will be pleasant to think of you both after that 
 acquaintance. You will be like brother and sister to me, and 
 your children, if God gives you any, will be like nephews and 
 nieces. I shall feel that I have kindred, and I do not feel it now." 
 
 Still Gilbert was silent. Beatrice gave him a wondering 
 look. At length he said : 
 
 " Do not misunderstand me, Beatrice. What you ask for is 
 impossible. My father, too, wanted to have Lucie and her mo- 
 ther here, and I have declined. I did not tell him why — I will 
 tell you." , 
 
 He paused a little. Beatrice's inquiring look bade him 
 pursue. 
 
 " I have given you a wrong impression of Mademoiselle 
 Joanne," said Gilbert, " if you have concluded her to be a perfect 
 person. She is by no means faultless. Little as I know of her, 
 I know that jealousy, quiet, silent jealousy, is her peculiar fail- 
 ing. It has not frightened me, for I felt I would spare her all 
 cause for temptation or grief. She need never be jealous of me, 
 I thought, for she shall never have a rival. But that rival, 
 Beatrice, she would see in you, were she to come here. She 
 
BE^TKICE. 189 
 
 could not mistake the nature of our friendship, but of that friend- 
 ship itself she would certainly be jealous, and perhaps not with- 
 out cause," added Gilbert, frankly. 
 
 "Jealous of me!" said Beatrice, becoming as crimson as 
 her hood. 
 
 " Ay, indeed, jealous of you. Remember, Beatrice, I have 
 never said one word to her, and that my opportunities of securing 
 her good graces have been few. I believe she is willing to marry 
 me — I believe, but am not sure. She is shy, and proud, and, as 
 I told you, jealous in a silent way. If she sees me with you, 
 familiar, free, and showing to you, and perhaps, too, feeling more 
 affection than to her, how will she like it? You see, Beatrice, 
 you are an old friend, and she is a new one as yet." 
 
 " But you mean to marry her, Gilbert?" 
 
 " I do, Beatrice, and I mean to be very fond of her, too, 
 when she is my wife. I know you are shocked, and think me 
 cold as ice. I cannot help it. Love must come after marriage 
 in this case." 
 
 But though Beatrice did think Gilbert cold, it was not of his 
 coldness to Mademoiselle Joanne that she thought. She thought 
 that all her dreams of kindred and friendliness to himself and his 
 future wife were over. A woman of Mademoiselle Joanne's 
 temper would be jealous after marriage as well as before. She 
 would no more allow her husband a friend, than she would her 
 lover, and it was plain Gilbert meant to give her no cause for 
 uneasiness. He might not be violently in love, but he knew what 
 he was about. Pie wanted to marry her, and he would put by 
 Beatrice any day rather than lose his mistress's good graces. 
 Poor Beatrice ! she could not even be his wife's friend, or the 
 godmother of his children. She was to be set aside, even before 
 his marriage. She was nothing to him, or next to nothing. Her 
 heart bled, but her pride was roused by so many repulses, and 
 she scorned to let Gilbert see how keenly he had pained her. 
 She called up a smile, and said gaily — 
 
 " You do not do me justice, Gilbert, or rather you are jealous 
 of me. You are not very sure of Mademoiselle Joanne's heart, 
 and you are afraid I should take more than my share of it. How- 
 ever, let it be as you wish. I dare say I shall know her sooner 
 or later, and then you will see how groundless were your fears." 
 
 Her tone was easy, her look was free, but Gilbert was only 
 half deceived. There was just a little twitching in her upper lip, 
 which betrayed some secret feeling she would not show. It did 
 not seem to Gilbert that she had any cause to be offended, though 
 
190 BEATEIOE. 
 
 he was honest enough to confess she might have some cause to 
 be hurt. But let that be as it would, he could not help it. He 
 had spoken the truth, and the truth was Gilbert's idol. In her 
 severe aspect he found perfect beauties no other image possessed 
 to his seeming. An austere grace, a simple charm, she wore in 
 his eyes, and both he thought matchless. Nothing earthly, no 
 temptation, would have made him swerve from his allegiance to 
 that heroic mistress, and small indeed was Beatrice's chance 
 when truth was at stake. Still he was sorry to have pained her ; 
 but how much he had done so he could not divine, for Beatrice 
 was bent on concealment, and she resumed in an easy tone — 
 
 "At what o'clock do you mean to leave next Monday, 
 Gilbert?" 
 
 " Early, so please Heaven." 
 
 " You will have a quiet passage. This clear frost is excel- 
 lent weather." 
 
 " Beatrice, what are you doing?" ' 
 
 Beatrice had untied the strings of her hood, and had thrown 
 it back from her flushed face, leaving her head bare. Authori- 
 tatively, " medically," as Beatrice felt, Gilbert replaced the hood 
 and tied the strings under her chin. Beatrice let him do it, with 
 ironical composure. She cared very little about Gilbert just 
 then. He had hurt her pride, and Beatrice's pride was rarely 
 touched in vain. But Gilbert was either unconscious of his 
 offence, or he would not acknowledge it by his manner. This 
 remained calm and free — cool Beatrice called it in her thoughts. 
 She felt both irritated and offended, and briefly expressed her 
 pleasure of returning to the house. Mr. Gervoise saw them 
 from his window as they passed through the flower-garden, and 
 Beatrice's face told him matters were not going on according to 
 his wishes. But it took much to discourage this acute gentleman ; 
 he only smiled and thought, " Wait awhile, my lady, he will 
 behave better presently." 
 
 Wise was the salvo Gilbert had laid on his departure. Mr. 
 Gervoise was taken alarmingly ill in the night, between Sunday 
 and Monday, and of course Gilbert could not leave his father. 
 Doctor Rogerson, who had been called in in haste, declared there 
 was danger. This Gilbert could not help doubting, and Beatrice 
 scarcely concealed her scepticism. Gilbert, however, looked so 
 grave on the least hint she dropped, that she gave up the subject 
 of her stepfather's illness, for one more congenial. 
 
 " Can you not write to Madame Joanne?" she asked as they 
 met in the library. 
 
BEATEICE. 191 
 
 " No, she is a great formalist ; it will not do. I am afraid, 
 indeed, she will be offended at my staying so long away, for she 
 knows my errand here." 
 
 "How flattering to me!" thought Beatrice. "How long 
 has he been here ? — ^ten days or so." 
 
 " My father's delay and mine, now caused by his illness, will 
 not be in my favour," continued Gilbert, looking so anxious that 
 Beatrice forgot her displeasure in his concern. 
 
 "And if Mr. Gervoise had refused his consent?" she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " Then the match would have been at an end. Madame 
 Joanne would never let her daughter enter a family in which she 
 was not welcome." 
 
 "It is lucky your affections are not engaged," pointedly said 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Gilbert smiled. 
 
 " I am afraid my little Beatrice is not very wise in these 
 matters," he said, half gently, half ironically. " She has read 
 some novels, and looks at life through the spectacles of these wise 
 instructors of youth. To preference, regard, and esteem, and 
 calm affection, she substitutes the Romeo and Juliet feeling, 
 which laughs at obstacles, and conquers both Capulet and Mon- 
 tague. Is it not so?" 
 
 " I have read very few novels," indignantly replied Beatrice ; 
 "but I prefer strong and deep affection to the weak and the 
 cold." 
 
 " And so do I," replied Gilbert, gravely ; " only it does not 
 come at one's bidding. Besides, Beatrice, do not wrong me. 
 Believe me, when a man of honour marries the girl whom he 
 prefers, and finds himself linked to her by bonds so sacred and 
 so tender as those of marriage, he must love her deeply, truly, 
 fondly ; he would not be worthy of the name of man if he did 
 not." 
 
 "I did not mean to offend you," said Beatrice, reddening. 
 
 " Nor have you done so — it takes something to offend me, 
 Beatrice." 
 
 Beatrice said nothing, but she thought it took something to 
 move him in any fashion. That Gilbert could be moved, how- 
 ever, she had the opportunity of testing before long. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise rallied considerably during the day, and he was 
 so far recovered as to be able to leave his room and come down 
 to breakfast the next morning. These sudden changes were con- 
 stitutional with Mr. Gervoise, and Beatrice was accustomed to 
 
192 BEATRICE. 
 
 them ; but she could see that Gilbert's looks were grave and per- 
 plexed. " Poor Gilbert," she thought, " he does not know him 
 
 yet." 
 
 " I am very much better, my dear boy, thank you," affection- 
 ately said Mr. Gervoise in reply to his son's inquiries. " My 
 dear,'' he added, turning to his ^ife, " you told Beatrice, did you 
 not?" 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise looked bewildered and alarmed. 
 
 " I don't know — I don't remember," she faltered. 
 
 " I see, my dear, you have forgotten to mention it," said Mr. 
 Gervoise, with a sort of mild severity which characterized his 
 manner in public ; " and yet I was so particular in telling you to 
 mention it." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise drank her tea and looked nervous, but did not 
 venture to answer. 
 
 " The matter is this," pursued Mr. Gervoise, turning to 
 Beatrice : "I have let Antony's cottage to a Mr. Stone, a great 
 angler, and with the cottage I have, of course, included the right 
 of angling in the river of Carnoosie." 
 
 Beatrice coloured violently. She was jealous of her rights 
 and her privacy, and Mr. Gervoise had done well to tell her this 
 in the presence of Gilbert. This kept her mute, and made her 
 submit in silence. Mr. Gervoise wanted no more. He had 
 made a capital bargain, let. the cottage at double its value, and 
 secured for his son's tenant a moneyed man, with a pretty 
 daughter. It was all very well to make Gilbert marry Beatrice, 
 but poor Antony, too, must get a wife. He was rather too well 
 known in the county to have much chance with the surrounding 
 heiresses, but he might be more successful with a stranger. 
 This, indeed, was but a chance ; but Mr. Gervoise never neg- 
 lected chances, however slender or remote. Pleased with 
 Beatrice's silent submission, he once more addressed his dis- 
 course to Gilbert. 
 
 " I suppose you think of going soon ? " 
 
 " Now that you are recovered, I think I had better do so." 
 
 " Very true. But why not spend your honejTQOon here ? 
 Why not bring your bride to Beatrice? — ^Beatrice would like to 
 know her." 
 
 Gilbert smiled gravely. 
 
 " You forget that I must settle down in Verville. The friend 
 who is replacing me cannot stay much longer." 
 
 " Well, then," graciously said Mr. Gervoise, " we must go 
 and see you. Mrs. Gervoise, Beatrice, and I, must come down 
 
BEATEICE. 193 
 
 upon you, Gilbert. "We must see your little wife, my boy. A 
 very sweet young creature, according to all accounts. I quite 
 long to know her." 
 
 " Is lie plotting, that he is so sweet," thought Beatrice, mis- 
 trustfully. 
 
 And still Mr. Gervoise went on, full of plans of the pleasant- 
 est and most fatherly nature. He even indulged himself in some 
 grandpapa visions, and was jocular on the subject, until, struck 
 with a sudden thought, he said carelessly : 
 
 " By the way, what wedding is going to take place in Verville ? 
 I saw you received a hillet def aire part this morning." 
 
 " No — I got none," said Gilbert. 
 
 " Dear me ! did the stupid servant take it up to your room?" 
 
 Mr. Gervoise rang the bell, and inquired at once. Yes, the 
 letter had been taken to Gilbert's room, and left there, and now 
 it was brought down and handed to the young man, one of those 
 large square French letters which tell of wedding days and nup- 
 tial benedictions. 
 
 Gilbert looked at it in evident perplexity. Who could be 
 getting married in Verville ? He opened and read it, then turned 
 pale as death. \ 
 
 " My dear boy," anxiously cried Mr. Gervoise, " what is it? " 
 
 Gilbert did not answer at once. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Joanne is to be married on the fifteenth," he 
 replied at length, and, rising, he left the room. 
 
 " My poor boy ! " exclaimed Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 Beatrice rose and said, with flashing eyes : 
 
 " This is your doing, Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 " Miss Gordon," virtuously cried Mr. Gervoise, " beware 
 lest you breed discord between my son and me ! " 
 
 " Oh ! you are safe," scornfully replied Beatrice, " and you 
 know it." 
 
 She, too, left the room, heedless of her mother's alarmed and 
 entreating looks. 
 
 " Poor Gilbert," she thought, as she stood in the hall, " whilst 
 he was here waiting, his father was breaking off the match. 
 Poor Gilbert ! he sees, he suspects nothing. He does not see 
 that his father fell ill to keep him here, and that he got well when 
 the letter came. The post is not in yet — that letter came yes- 
 terday, I know it as if I had seen the postmark upon it. Poor 
 Gilbert ! how ill he looked ! Ah ! he was fond of her, after all ! " 
 
 She went to the library, hoping to find him there. She was 
 not disappointed in her expectation. Gilbert sat by the table, 
 9 
 
194 BEATEICE. 
 
 looking at the fatal letter lying wide open before him. With 
 hesitating step and slow, Beatrice approached him, and standing 
 at the back of his chair, looked over his shoulder. The letter 
 was a printed one, a mere formal circular, emanating from 
 Madame Joanne and her brother, and informing the recipient, 
 the honour of whose presence they requested, that her daughter 
 Mademoiselle Lucie Joanne was to be married, on the fifteenth 
 instant, to M. Theodore Landais, notary in Yerville. 
 
 " Gilbert, who is he'? " asked Beatrice. 
 . "A new-comer — I scarcely know him. I had not the least 
 suspicion that he thought of her." 
 
 He spoke in an even and firm voice ; his face was calm though 
 pale ; his look was steady. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Gilbert," she said. 
 
 Tears stood in her eyes, for she was pained to the heart at 
 her powerlessness. 
 
 " Good little Beatrice ! " he said, softly, " good little Beatrice ! " 
 and taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. " Yes," he con- 
 tinued, " you are good and true, and when you love, you love 
 well, Beatrice ! " 
 
 " I am glad you appreciate me at last," said Beatrice, a little 
 drily. 
 
 " I know you are sore with me," resumed Gilbert, " and I 
 know I have wronged you. I have treated you too much like a 
 child ; but I will make up for lost time, Beatrice ; and who knows, 
 perhaps it is you will remain behindhand now ! " 
 
 " To be sure ! " said Beatrice, leaving his side and walking 
 to the fire-place. "I must ever be in the wrong, must I not? 
 First a child, then a laggard ! " 
 
 " Do not be hard upon me, Beatrice," said Gilbert, with a 
 sigh ; " I am very sore at all this, Beatrice." 
 
 At once Beatrice came back to him. 
 
 " I know you were fonder of her than you thought," she 
 quickly remarked. 
 
 " Well, perhaps I was. But, indeed, if ever girl deserved 
 affection, she did. If ever girl was calculated to make home 
 happy, she was. You should have seen her with her sick 
 mother, gentle, patient, cheerful, as if she had been a sister of 
 mercy all her life ; ruling the household with calm and invisible 
 power. Beatrice, it was impossible to see her and not think, 
 ' Happy the man i;dio gets this girl — blessed the children who 
 have such a mother ! ' She was made for home and its joys. 
 She was intelligent, too, though not brilliant ; amiable, though 
 
BEATEICE. 195 
 
 not very lively ; and I think she liked me, or at least saw with 
 pleasure that I liked her. It is hard, Beatrice, to think that I 
 could have had this girl, who was the very wife for me, and that 
 I lose her, apparently without reason. Why would not her 
 mother wait as she had promised ? Why was she in such a 
 hurry to give her to another ? " 
 
 • " Who knows ! " cheerfully said Beatrice ; "all is not over 
 yet, Gilbert." 
 
 " Beatrice, I will make no attempt to change her fate and 
 mine. I would not, if I could, urge this young girl to disobey/ 
 her mother. I would not try and win her so far as to pledge 
 herself to me, and waste, in waiting for a doubtful future, the 
 years of her youth. No— since I cannot have her, let her not 
 even know that I ever sought her. Let her marry that man, and 
 be happy with him, and let us both keep as whole hearts as we 
 can, and not make our fate worse by flying in the face of cir- 
 cumstances." 
 
 Gilbert spoke somewhat sadly, but firm will was in his voice 
 and look. 
 
 " He never loved her," indignantly thought Beatrice. 
 
 Gilbert, who read her face, was pained for once at its 
 meaning. 
 
 " Do not be unjust, Beatrice," he said, with some reproach ; 
 " do not accuse me of coldness in your thoughts, because I call 
 in judgment and will to conquer unavailing regret." 
 
 " Gilbert, I do not accuse you ; but you cannot say you were 
 much attached to her." 
 
 " No, Beatrice ; and if you care for me, never wish me to 
 be much attached to any woman ! " 
 
 " Why so? " asked Beatrice. 
 
 But Gilbert did not reply. He had said more than he in- 
 tended, and the matter was not one he could well discuss with 
 Beatrice. We all know ourselves to some degree ; we all, after 
 some fashion, follow the precept of the ancient sage. Gilbert knew 
 himself thus far, that he could more easily wholly deny his pas- 
 sions than indulge them partially. He had never felt as if he 
 could taste the joys of life, then put them by for nobler aims. 
 His desires were eager, vehement, and not easily sated. He 
 would have the entire delight or none. Pleasure wearied and 
 provoked him, for it was but the counterfeit of life's great prize, 
 happiness. He had passed easily enough through small temp- 
 tations, for the excellent reason that they did not tempt him, but 
 he was not sure that he could pass unscathed through greater 
 
196 BEATRICE. 
 
 perils. A beautiful woman worthy of her beauty, a position of 
 intellectual eminence and power, had early seemed to him as 
 shoals and quicksands to the weary mariner. The woman he 
 could passionately love was beyond his reach. Lovely women 
 are rare, and those whom Gilbert had seen from afar he could 
 not aspire to without presumption. The position he felt that he 
 could worthily fill was also very remote, but here he could *at 
 least wish and strive in secret, without hearing the reproving 
 voice of conscience. To love and to love ardently would have 
 been ruin. Gilbert knew it, and therefore had he sought the 
 hand of Lucie Joanne. That calm union would have given him 
 the negative happiness which was best for him. That he could 
 feel true affection for her he knew, that he should ever love her 
 passionately he did not fear. This was the meaning of his reply 
 to Beatrice, the meaning which he did not however care to ex- 
 plain. ^ 
 
 It may be that a feminine instinct gave her the right clue to 
 his silence, for though she stood looking at him thoughtfully, 
 Beatrice did not repeat or press the question. 
 
 "Gilbert, you will stay with us, will you not?" she said, 
 after a while ; " you cannot go to Verville, can you? " 
 
 Gilbert did not answer at once. 
 
 " If you will let me stay here for a little while," he replied 
 at length, " I shall be glad to do so." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I will let you," replied Beatrice with sparkling 
 eyes. She was very sorry for Gilbert's trouble, but she was 
 very glad that he was remaining. In short, it is an ill wind that 
 blows nobody good. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The world is full of love stories. The city, the plain, the 
 crowded street, the meanest hovel as well as the palace, have or 
 have had their love tale once on a time. It may have been sad 
 or gay, an idyll or an elegy — it matters little, wherever you may 
 go, wherever you may be, there love stories have been before 
 you or are still, for they are spirits, and all the night and all the 
 day long they haunt the whole of this broad earth. 
 
 A real love-story, such a love-story as it had not known for 
 many a day, now visited old Carnoosie. Mr. Gervoise, who 
 never read novels, perused the opening pages of this with infinite 
 pleasure. His satisfaction indeed rather lessened as the tale pro- 
 ceeded, for he could not help seeing that one of these two per- 
 sons who always make up a love-tale went on much faster than 
 the other ; but then he remembered that heroines rarely fall in 
 love in the first page of the book, and with the considerate kind- 
 ness of his character he requested Mrs. Gervoise to dispense 
 more and more with the society of her daughter, so that the fit- 
 ting opportunity might never fail Beatrice. Guessing likewise 
 that his presence might interfere with the course of Gilbert's 
 true love, Mr. Gervoise wore the ring of Gyges, for he saw 
 every thing, and, unless at meal times, remained invisible. 
 
 Beatrice, though usually on her guard against this astute 
 gentleman, now quite forgot to take note of conduct so unusual. 
 Gilbert engaged all her attention. His serenity was incompre- 
 hensible to her ; the laboratory and its crucibles took much of 
 his time, and seemed to have charmed his grief away. The fif- 
 teenth came round. This was Mademoiselle Joanne's wedding 
 day, and Gilbert looked actually cheerful. Had he forgotten it ? 
 Beatrice charitably sounded him, and ascertained that he had 
 not. He even, in reply to her hint, confessed that he was better 
 pleased to have that day over. 
 
 " I am wanted in Verville," he said, " and I cannot stay for 
 ever in your pretty castle of indolence — can I, Beatrice ? " 
 
198 BEATRICE. 
 
 So that was all he thought of: to go, to be able to return to 
 Verville ! And he looked quite gay and airy too ! — ^he did ; and 
 the worst was, that Gilbert was only looking as he feit. 
 
 A great change was coming over him, a subtle fever was 
 stealing into his veins, and its first effects were a delightful ex- 
 hilaration, a happy raising of his whole being. 
 
 Never had Gilbert felt so young, so careless, and so free. 
 Blindness, both sudden and strange, fell upon him. The danger 
 which he had felt so vividly on first seeing Beatrice had vanished 
 from his view. If any friend had come to him and said : " Be- 
 ware ! this is your hour of peril. That girl whom you see daily, 
 and with whom you are so easy and so free, is the mistress whom 
 you are destined to adore ! " Gilbert would have laughed at that 
 friend with derisive security. Daily habit rendered him indiffer- 
 ent, as he thought? to Beatrice's beauty. It no longer dazzled 
 and surprised him, but it charmed him in a hundred subtle ways, 
 though he knew it not. Her young bright eyes so often shone 
 upon him that he forgot how sweet and how genial was their 
 light. We take no note of sunny days in summer time, and this 
 was the summer of Gilbert's young manhood. And there was 
 nothing and no one to waken him. Beatrice's early familiarity 
 was all gone. Gilbert's coldness had checked it effectually. He 
 had taught her not to make her friendship too cheap, and she had 
 taken the lesson. She was kind and cheerful, and easy, but she 
 was no longer dangerously free. He had as much of her society 
 as he pleased, but Beatrice did not seek him. They met con- 
 stantly in the library, in her mother's room, in the garden and 
 the grounds, for sudden and southern spring was the spring of 
 that year. Once or twice Gilbert spoke of going, but almost on 
 her first entreaties he yielded and stayed. His facility softened 
 some asperity which still lingered in her mind against him ; she 
 became more genial and more friendly, and some of the old 
 warmth returned to her manner. Gilbert knew well enough that 
 he had lost ground in Beatrice's favour, and what he had lost he 
 did his best to regain. With all his rigid honesty and pitiless 
 truth, he still possessed some of a true Celt's innate art to please. 
 Beatrice had her share of vanity, and without seeking to foster 
 the feeling, Gilbert availed himself of it to win back her lost 
 graces. He admired her, and he felt under no necessity of con- 
 cealing that admiration. He implied more than he told it, but 
 Beatrice was not dull, and she understood well enough the lan- 
 guage of his looks and half-spoken praises. For the first time 
 a man, handsome, young, accomplished, and whose admiration 
 
BEATEICE. " 190 
 
 she valued, showed her that her share of beauty was not mean, 
 and that her other gifts were many. Gilbert looked at her with 
 evident pleasure, and, subtlest flattery of all, listened to her with 
 mingled delight and attention ; and, to do him justice, he was sin- 
 cere in this. Beatrice charmed his ear as well as she charmed his 
 eye. He liked her pretty petulant speech, her highflown imagina- 
 tions, her absurd little paradoxes, her romantic strain. But what 
 did he not like about her? Her very imperfections, and he 
 neither forgot nor turned from them, charmed him more than all 
 Lucie's virtues. Alas ! blame him not ! he was losing his senses 
 very fast, and very fast he was going down the steep path which 
 leads from liberty to bondage, and which it is so hard to climb 
 back again. 
 
 His blindness was complete. If a doubtful consciousness of 
 danger now and then flashed across his mind, it vanished as it had 
 come, with lightning quickness, and left him in deeper security. 
 Happy, indeed, was this time for Mr. Gervoise's son. The fairest 
 skies, the brightest sun, shone upon it, and liberty full and sweet 
 crowned its blessings. He might be all the day long with Bea- 
 trice, and no one meddled or minded. Beatrice was happy in his 
 society, and Gilbert lived in a dream, and never thought of the 
 wakening. His youth had been solitary and severe, and pleasure 
 now came to meet him, a smile on her lips, and roses on her 
 brow, and Gilbert vowed he had never beheld a goddess so fair. 
 How ardently, how feverishly did he greet her ! With what 
 transports did his eager heart welcome that sweet and long-for- 
 bidden guest, who, leading the dark-eyed Beatrice by the hand, 
 met him hourly in the green orchard, in the lovely grounds or in 
 the stately forest of Carnoosie. The excess of that enjoyment 
 forbade him to seek and analyze the source from which it sprang. 
 Gilbert had had many hours of questioning thought ; he was 
 weary of the profitless task. He would live now, and feel blest, 
 and not know why. This was no problem to solve, no vexing 
 question to analyze ; it was life, the full, deep, sweet draught 
 which never ceases to bless or to torment the restless human 
 heart. 
 
 And thus time passed imtil the wakening came. It happened 
 thus. Mr. Gervoise had been very cheerful at dinner. He had 
 been rather more than cheerful, he had been paternal. The meal 
 was a luxurious one, such as he liked, and he had said grace 
 with an unctuous gravity, with an eye to his favourite soup all the 
 time, so Beatrice thought. Her heart burned to hear him go 
 through this sacred form. It was the young girl's unhappy lot 
 
200 ^ BEATRICE. 
 
 to see every tiling good, toly, and venerable desecrated by that 
 man. The repast was slow, tedious, and dull. Mr. Gervoise 
 never could eat fast himself, nor, if he could help it, would he 
 allow others to do so. At length it was over, and Beatrice, ris- 
 ing, helped her mother out of the room, leaving, as usual, Mr. 
 Gervoise to sip Beatrice's wines. When Mrs. Gervoise reached 
 her sitting room, she said, with a sigh : 
 
 " I shall sleep this evening ; go out on the terrace, my dear, 
 I see Gilbert there." 
 
 Beatrice believed her ; she was far from suspecting that Mrs. 
 Gervoise was -obeying orders, and depriving herself of her daugh- 
 ter's company to further Mr. Gervoise's plans. Poor Beatrice ! 
 you may sacrifice yourself for ever — ^you will never have but a 
 half accomplice in that poor weak lady ! 
 
 So Beatrice, nothing loth, went out to Gilbert on the terrace. 
 She came softly behind him, walking on tip-toe ; and suddenly 
 slipping her arm within his, she looked up triumphantly into his 
 face. 
 
 " As if I had not heard you ! " he said, smiling. 
 
 " You did not," pettishly replied Beatrice, and she attempted 
 to take her arm away, but he held it fast. 
 
 "I did, Beatrice, but it is just like you. You were always 
 so — you always wanted to surprise and frighten, and to rule me 
 too, and you only did the last." 
 
 " I wish I could rule you now." 
 
 " You can if you like, Beatrice." 
 
 Beatrice's eyes sparkled with delight. 
 
 ^' Then you will stay with us in Carnoosie. Don't shake 
 your head. You will — you will practise here in the village." 
 
 Gilbert did not answer, but his resolve was melting fast away 
 from him. Why should he not stay and make himself a home 
 near Beatrice ! She watched him keenly, and read her triumph 
 in his face. That seemed to say, " Ay Beatrice, you have pre- 
 vailed — I must stay near you. I cannot do without you now," 
 and it may be that such was its meaning. 
 
 Leaning over the stone balustrade, Beatrice looked down at 
 the fountains and the flowers, and beyond them at the trees and 
 the groves of Carnoosie, and she thought, " I must have been 
 mad when I called life a burden and a misery — there is nothing 
 like it. It is a very elixir of sweetness and delight. Gilbert has 
 not been here more than a few weeks, and I feel almost too 
 happy. What will it be when he settles here entirely ! As soon 
 as I am of age, I shall buy out Doctor Kogerson ; but Gilbert 
 
BEATRICE. 201 
 
 must have another cottage than his — a prettier and a neater one ; 
 a home where Darling and I shall go and see him, and spend 
 half a day looking at his flowers, and settling his house for him 
 —dear Gilbert ! " 
 
 " What are you smihng at so ? " here asked Gilbert, who was 
 watching her face. 
 
 " I am settling your house for you. It is Mr. Ray's — the 
 best in the village. Only," she added, a frown knitting her 
 smooth brow, " where shall we put the sofa?" 
 
 "Ay," laughingly said Gilbert, "where shall we put it?" 
 He laid a stress on the word " we," but before he had ceased 
 speaking his heart had thrilled within him, and before him had 
 flashed a very sweet vision. He was the young doctor who was 
 going to settle in Carnoosie, and Beatrice was the doctor's young 
 wife arguing with him where the sofa should be. How Gilbert 
 leaped across courtship and honeymoon, and found Beatrice 
 calmly but securely his, he never knew ; but it was so. It was 
 not merely love — it was far more, it was love and marriage. It 
 was union beyond all doubt, and it was Beatrice — his to hold 
 fast for ever — nothing less perfect, it seemed to Gilbert later, 
 could have satisfied him even then. 
 
 " Well, what is it?" asked Beatrice, looking with wonder at 
 his flushed face. 
 
 Gilbert could not answer at once. The vision was still 
 before him, intoxicating and sweet. At length he shook it off, 
 and said : 
 
 " The sofa shall be where you please." 
 
 He smiled, but, even as he spoke, a keen pang shot through 
 his hearty for he remembered that she was Beatwce Gordon, the 
 mistress of Carnoosie, the unapproachable star that might shine 
 above him, but which he must never hope to reach. 
 
 " That is right," said Beatrice, and she gave him a radiant 
 smile. 
 
 Gilbert looked at her, and seeing her so bright and so cordial, 
 he felt that for the present at least he had no need of hope. He 
 could stay near her, hear her, and see her — was not that enough ? 
 " Life has not spoiled me," he thought, " that I should be exact- 
 ing, and ask for all her prizes. Why not take what she gives 
 me now, and leave the rest to time?" 
 
 "It is going on beautifully," thought Mr. Gervoise, who 
 never lost an opportunity of pimping, and was now watching 
 them from behind a window curtain ; " but Gilbert is too slow." 
 
 The passion his son could feel, reverent, though deep, the 
 9* 
 
202 BEATEICE. 
 
 innocence of Beatrice's affection, were mysteries Mr. Gervoise 
 could not fathom. He saw, however, that they were happy ; 
 and, though he had worked hard to bring that happiness about, 
 he grudged it to them in his heart, for he knew them — they were 
 happy through him, but they liked him none the better for it. 
 
 But Mr. Gervoise never allowed his feelings to interfere with 
 his plans ; and now, thinking it time to waken Gilbert from his 
 slowness, he stepped out on the terrace and interrupted the tete- 
 d-tete. He had only to appear for Beatrice to enter the house. 
 She did so with a haughty little toss of her head, and a sweep of 
 her sUk dress, which seemed to afford Mr. Gervoise much amuse- 
 ment. If you want to open a lover's heart, praise his mistress, 
 so Mr. Gervoise murmured : 
 
 "A lovely girl!" 
 
 Gilbert did not reply, but his eyes lit. 
 
 "Young Mr. Thorne wanted her," continued Mr. Gervoise ; 
 " he fell desperately, wildly in love with her, but I was open 
 with him. ' Mr. Thorne,' I said, ' I can give you no hope. 
 Your honour is unimpeachable, but your morals are loose ; you 
 gamble and you swear, sir — you swear. You cannot have my 
 Beatrice.' I call her mine, because she is my wife's, and what 
 is my wife's is mine. That is how I treated Mr. Thorne." ^ 
 
 Mr. Gervoise liked romancing ; he also liked to torment, anc^ 
 he now saw with satisfaction that Gilbert, who did not know 
 that Mr. Thome was fifty, and had a wife and three daughters, 
 looked disturbed. 
 
 " Ah ! no one knows what I have done for that girl," re- 
 sumed Mr. Gervoise, with a sigh ; " saving her up, keeping her 
 in solitude all fhese years, secluding her from the world and its 
 temptations ; and indeed, Gilbert," he added, with a sudden 
 change of tone and manner, " I cannot allow this any longer. 
 Have you spoken to her? Is it all settled?" 
 
 ''What!" cried Gilbert, taken by surprise, as his father 
 meant that he should be. 
 
 " Not so loud, my dear boy, not so loud. You know my 
 meaning. You do not suppose I am blind, that I do not see you 
 are desperately in love with that girl ? " 
 
 Gilbert was mute, for he could deny nothing. In vain he 
 tried to recover his self-command and overcome this temptation. 
 Mr. Gervoise was willing that he should marry Beatrice, and 
 why should he not ? Once he had thought nothing should induce 
 him to marry a rich woman ; now he felt that were Beatrice as 
 rich as Croesus he would have her if she would but have him. 
 
BEATRICE. 203 
 
 At that very moment he saw her at her mother's window, the 
 light of the lamp which she held shone full upon her face and 
 her bare head. She was smiling, and looked a radiant image on 
 the dark background of the room. Another moment and the 
 lovely vision had vanished, but it had left Gilbert's heart in a 
 fever. Ah ! it would be something, indeed, to win a prize so 
 splendid ! 
 
 " Well ! " said Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Well," replied Gilbert, " Miss Gordon would not have 
 me." 
 
 " Have you tried ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Well, then, try — try now. Go in to her. Tell her she 
 has a lovely neck and fine eyes, say something of the sort, and 
 see how she takes it ; or rather — no, tell her you are leaving to- 
 morrow. It is good for such haughty girls as Beatrice to suffer 
 a little. Try her, I say, and then you will see whether she is 
 fond of you or not." 
 
 Gilbert's blood felt like fire in his veins as he listened to the 
 tempter. If Beatrice did really love him, after all ! If he could 
 really have her ! ^ 
 
 " Gilbert," austerely said his father, " this is no matter over 
 which I can let you linger. I repeat it, watch that girl and then 
 speak, or leave Carnoosie." 
 
 He walked away, and Gilbert entered the house and went up 
 to Mrs. Gervoise's room. " I will have her," he thought with 
 every step he ascended ; "I will have you, Beatrice." 
 
 A blush of pleasure rose to her cheeks as he entered the 
 room. "Oh! if it were true!" thought Gilbert; "if it were 
 true ! " He looked ardently at Beatrice, but her eyes met his — 
 careless, kind and free. He did not tell her that she had a lovely 
 neck or fine ^yes, not with such praise did Gilbert prove Bea- 
 trice ; but he watched her, he listened to her, and he doubted. 
 She sat near one of the two lamps working. The room was 
 warm, and her cheeks had a glow both brilliant and delicate. 
 Gilbert's eye rested on her bending face with an eagerness of 
 which he was not conscious. He could not think of what might 
 be without mingled passion and fever. His life had known no 
 great joys, no exquisite pleasures. He carried within him, 
 unsated still, that secret thirst for happiness which we all bear 
 in our hearts, which we can conquer, indeed, but which it is so 
 sweet to quench, were it but once. In his present mood Gilbert 
 thought that to have and love Beatrice and be loved by her was 
 
204: BEATEIOE. 
 
 the crowning happiness of life. He forgot death, disease, and 
 the frailty of the human heart. Life was an eternal present, 
 glorious, healthful, and fond ; and had it been otherwise, had 
 wisdom and fear and sad apprehensions been with Gilbert then, 
 his would surely have been no true love. His heart melted 
 within him as he pictured her his wife, not in Carnoosie, but in 
 the old chateau of Verville, where he had been reared, filling 
 those gloomy rooms with the sunshine of her presence. But 
 even as the vision was at its sweetest, Beatrice looked up and 
 composedly threaded her needle, and there came a thought sting- 
 ing him to the quick. Did Beatrice love him ? The doubt was 
 pregnant with such keen pain, with such subtle distress, that 
 with a nervous thrill Gilbert suddenly rose from his chair and, 
 not knowing what to do, went to the open piano, and began to 
 play. Beatrice put down her work, and listened, and then said 
 with ironical gravity — 
 
 " Who taught you music, Gilbert? " 
 
 " So you do not like my playing ! " he said, coming back to 
 her. 
 
 Beatrice was too quick not to see that he was annoyed. 
 
 " That was not a good specimen," she replied. 
 
 Gilbert raised his eyes to hers with involuntary reproach, 
 and said — 
 
 " What is there about you I do not like ? " 
 
 There is a slavish instinct in love which it requires all wo- 
 man's pride and all man's manliness to resist. Just then Gilbert 
 felt a slave to the very heart. Willingly, but mentally, of course, 
 would he have laid himself at Beatrice's feet, and acknowledge 
 his bondage, and her sovereignty. He was violently, desper- 
 ately in love, and he had not known it two hours, and she 
 whom he loved was there before him, calm and smiling, un- 
 conscious of his torment, and to all seeming heart free. Gil- 
 bert longed to ask her for that boon of love which was never 
 yet granted to mere prayer, and which is oftener conquered from 
 than bestowed by woman's heart. But he was master enough 
 of himself to know that this was no hour for passionate declara- 
 tions and fond entreaty ; that needless submission might surprise 
 and startle, but would surely not win a proud girl like Beatrice. 
 So answering her puzzled look, he said with a tender and yet 
 manly frankness, which was his wisest course, as it was his best 
 chance — 
 
 " Beatrice, do understand once for all that I want to please 
 you." 
 
BEATRICE. 206 
 
 " Even with your music," said Beatrice gaily ; but she was 
 moved, and Gilbert saw it. 
 
 The knowledge confirmed him in his resolve, he would seek to 
 win her love, but he would not speak until it was won ; if he 
 failed he would leave her in silence, her friend, but not her re- 
 jected lover. 
 
 " There is nothing to divide us but the difference of money," 
 he thought, looking at her again ; " and who that sees Beatrice 
 will think for a moment a man could marry her for that ? If she 
 were a beggar-girl, she would be bright, genial, and charming 
 still. Oh ! Beatrice, Beatrice, I trust you will not be too hard 
 to win ! " 
 
 He looked at her eagerly. He longed to pierce the mystery 
 of that smiling face, and get to the hidden heart. But Beatrice, 
 who had seemed so easy a book to read until he loved, was now 
 inscrutable as any Egyptian mystery. Yet he felt in no hurry. 
 The heart is so. It likes pursuit almost better than achievement. 
 
 Beatrice was too inexperienced to understand Gilbert's al- 
 tered manner, or to guess the secret of his submission. She only 
 ^ saw that he did his best to please her, and she tried her power 
 by pretty acts of despotism. Gilbert, once so great a rebel, now 
 proved a most loyal subject. Poor Beatrice, she little knew 
 ^ what pledges she was giving to the silent lover every time she 
 ■- tormented the friend on that long, lonely evening, while Mrs. 
 Gervoise lay dozing on the sofa, and Mr. Gervoise considerately 
 remained in his study. 
 
 He made up for his abstinence by questioning his wife when 
 he was once more alone with her. 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise," he said cheerfully, " how is this matter go- 
 ing on ? " 
 
 " I — I don't know," faltered Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise frowned. 
 
 " Did nothing new take place this evening?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise, you were asleep." 
 
 " No, indeed, Mr. Gervoise, but I believe they thought I was." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise's eyes sparkled. 
 
 " Very clever — quite right. Well ! " 
 
 He looked interrogative, and Mrs. Gervoise blank. 
 
 " Nothing ! " said Mr. Gervoise, much displeased. " Gilbert 
 did not praise, or admire her, or sit by her, or squeeze her hand ! " 
 
 "No," replied Mrs. Gervoise, reddening with displeasure, 
 " Gilbert is incapable of it." 
 
206 BEATEICE. 
 
 " Gilbert is a fool, ma'am," tartly answered Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 He said no more, but as Gilbert was evidently too delicate, 
 or too conscientious, or too proud to help himself in a hiirry to 
 this great Beatrice Gordon and Carnoosie prize, his father con- 
 siderately resolved to assist him. He would not go to Beatrice, 
 Mr. Gervoise would make Beatrice go to him. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 When Beatrice entered her mother's room, the next morning, 
 she found Mrs. Gervoise in tears. 
 
 " Darling, what is the matter ! " she cried. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise is going," replied Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 The light that rose to Beatrice's eyes showed very little sym- 
 pathy with this portion of her mother's grief. 
 
 " Well, darling," she said, '^ cannot you bear his absence?" 
 
 "Oh I but those Stones are coming to Antony's cottage, and 
 they will call, and I must see them." 
 
 She spoke piteously. She had been kept so long in utter 
 solitude, that the thought of seeing a stranger now frightened 
 her. Moreover, Mr. Gervoise had added to this information 
 another, that sounded like a threat. 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise," he had said, " I had better find them en- 
 gaged when I come back." 
 
 This of course Mrs. Gervoise could not tell Beatrice. 
 
 " Never mind, darling," cheerfully said her daughter, " you 
 surely know Mr. Gervoise better than to believe a word he says." 
 
 " Miss Gordon, you amaze me ! " 
 
 The words were uttered by Mr. Gervoise, who entered the 
 room unheard. 
 
 " You amaze me ! " he resumed. " Am I to understand you 
 doubt Mr. Stone's coming ? Perhaps you doubt his existence ? " 
 
 Beatrice smiled, but did no ti reply. 
 
 " Mr. Stone does exist," resumed Mr. Gervoise, " and he is 
 coming ; and what is more, I expect him to be courteously re- 
 ceived by you." 
 
 " Oh ! I shall not see him." 
 
 *' Miss Gordon ! " 
 
 " No, I will be uncourteous to none in my own house ; and 
 therefore I will not see Mr. Stone. You see, Mr. Gervoise, you 
 have kept me out of all society for the last eleven years. I have 
 grown up a sort of civilized Pariah, and now I will not see com- 
 
208 BEATRICE. 
 
 4 
 
 pany at your bidding. When I am of age there will be a chance 
 of course, and this house shall not remain inhospitably closed. 
 Until then 1 keep myself free." 
 
 In speaking thus, Beatrice spoke the truth, but not the whole 
 truth. She was sure that in drawing Mr. Stone to the house, 
 Mr. Gervoise must have a bad or a sinister motive, and she would 
 not abet him by consenting to see this stranger. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," said Mr. Gervoise, in that austere tone 
 which he assumed to reprimand the young rebel, "I have some- 
 thing else to say to you before I leave Carnoosie. I have been 
 watching you, and I bid you beware. I will not allow you to 
 trifle with my elder son's affections, as you have trifled with 
 Antony's." 
 
 Beatrice looked petrified. 
 
 " Gilbert is mad," composedly resumed Mr. Gervoise. " I 
 blame him, but I also pity him, and I beg that you will give up 
 your indecorous pastime. If it were not that I wish him to re- 
 main with Mrs. Gervoise whilst I am away, he should leave us 
 at once. As it is, I trust. Miss Gordon, that you will speedily 
 bring him to his senses, and not lead him further into folly. , I 
 wish to speak to Mrs. Gervoise ; I shall trouble you to leave me 
 alone with my wife, Miss Gordon." 
 
 When Mr. Gervoise wished to exasperate Beatrice, he called 
 her mother his wife. Her dark eyes lit, her cheeks flushed, her 
 lip trembled, as turning toward the door, she said : 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, I do not believe you." 
 
 Nor did she at first. Had Mr. Gervoise said that black was 
 black, Beatrice would have vowed that black was white. Gil- 
 bert mad, and about her ! No ; it was impossible ; and yet if 
 it were true ? If it were true, how would you feel, Beatrice ? 
 She did not ask herself the question — perhaps she would not, 
 perhaps she dared not. The proud, the calm Gilbert mad about 
 her ! Her whole mind felt in a strange tumult at the thought. 
 
 They met at breakfast. She watched him, and Mr. Gervoise 
 watched her ; but whereas the calmness of Gilbert's manner per- 
 plexed her, Mr. Gervoise was at no loss to read the meaning of 
 her keen, attentive looks. " If he will not speak, she will make 
 him," he shrewdly concluded. " Caught, my lady — caught ! " 
 
 It so happened that a chemical experiment, and not love, was 
 Gilbert's prevailing thought that morning. As soon as break- 
 fast was over, he rose and went to the laboratory. Beatrice 
 usually joined him there, and she would not give up the habit 
 this morning, and afford Mr. Gervoise that triumph. So she 
 
BEATEICE. 209 
 
 went and looked on silently. Gilbert was absorbed in his task, 
 and did not speak to her once. " Mr. Gervoise has been invent- 
 ing, as usual," thought Beatrice. " I wonder he does not get 
 tired of trying that with me. And yet if it were true," said the 
 secret voice again. "It is not," indignantly answered Beatrice 
 — " it is not true." 
 
 Even as she came to this conclusion, the door of the library 
 abruptly opened, and Mrs. Gervoise looked in with a startled 
 look. 
 
 " Gilbert — quick ! — come ! " she cried. " Mr. Gervoise is 
 in a fit ! " 
 
 Gilbert threw down the vase he held, passed by Beatrice 
 without a word, and rushed into the dining-room. His father 
 was leaning back in his chair, with his face of a dangerous pur- 
 ple hue. Beatrice, who had followed him hastily, saw that Mr. 
 Gervoise's left hand grasped an open letter. " I suppose he has 
 lost some of his precious money ! " she thought, with great scorn, 
 whilst Gilbert hastily opened his father's necktie. 
 
 " Bleed me," said Mr. Gervoise, hoarsely. 
 
 " No," decisively replied his son ; "do not be alarmed — it is 
 nothing." 
 
 Even as he spoke, Mr. Gervoise's complexion gradually re- 
 sumed its natural hue. Gilbert was right enough, the emotion 
 which had given Mr. Gervoise so great a shock was not destined 
 to produce any fatal result. His composure slowly returned, he 
 sat up in his chair, methodically folded the letter, put it up in 
 his pocket, and gave Beatrice, who stood looking on coldly, a 
 wary look, whilst he said : 
 
 " I believe you are right, my dear boy ; there is nothing the 
 matter with me. But I felt terribly ill for a while. I really 
 thought my enemy apoplexy had got hold of me. You will not 
 go to-day, however, will you ? " 
 
 " Gilbert is staying at Carnoosie," put in Beatrice, " why 
 should he go away to-day ? " 
 
 " Ah ! why, indeed ! " slowly replied Mr. Gervoise ; but his 
 manner was absent and strange. 
 
 " He must have lost a great deal of money," thought Bea- 
 trice. 
 
 " I think I shall go to bed and keep quiet," said Mr. Ger- 
 voise. " Perhaps, too, I had better send for Doctor Rogerson ; 
 he knows my constitution, you know." 
 
 Gilbert made a sign of assent, and assisted his father up- 
 stairs. 
 
210 BEATKICE. 
 
 Beatrice remained alone with her mother, and at once ques- 
 tioned her. 
 
 "What is all this about, darling?" she asked. "How did 
 that fit come on ? " 
 
 " When he read the letter," replied Mrs. Gervoise, still look- 
 ing bewildered and frightened ; "I thought he was dying." 
 
 " Do you know what was in the letter? " 
 
 " No ; he did not tell me." 
 
 " Do you think these Stones were in it ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Beatrice, I do not know." 
 
 Beatrice remained standing absorbed in thought, until Gril- 
 bert came down with a message from his father, summoning 
 Mrs. Gervoise up-stairs. She meekly obeyed, and at once Bea- 
 trice questioned Gilbert. 
 
 " There is nothing really the matter with Mr. Gervoise, is 
 there?" she asked. 
 
 " No ; but he has received a great shock — the death of an 
 old friend." 
 
 * " Poor Gilbert, how he believes it all," thought Beatrice ; 
 " I wonder what he would think if he knew what his father told 
 me an hour ago." 
 
 But though Beatrice resumed that process of observation, in 
 which she certainly took strong interest, she discovered nothing 
 that day or the next. Mr. Gervoise required his son and his 
 wife to be almost constantly with him, and Beatrice was left to 
 her solitary meditations. Mr. Gervoise's grief for the death of 
 his friend proved greater than she had expected. It made him 
 lose flesh and colour, and, more wonderful still, it took away his 
 appetite. When he left his room on the third day, he went 
 about the house with a long face and most dismal looks. " Some- 
 thing has happened," thought Beatrice, " and the Stones are in it, 
 I am sure." She uttered their name in his hearing, just to try how 
 he would take it. Mr. Gervoise's countenance remained un- 
 moved, but Beatrcie detected a furtive look, which he cast tow- 
 ard her — a look that defied detection. - 
 
 " There is no fathoming that man," thought Beatrice ; and 
 she almost thought, too, that Gilbert was as unfathomable as his 
 father. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise perplexed her still more the next morning. 
 He was bright, cheerful, and all eagerness to go on his deferred 
 journey. Beatrice ascertained that he had received a letter by 
 the first post, and she conjectured that it held either very good 
 or very bad news. Either Mr. Gervoise had got his money 
 
BEATRICE. ^ 211 
 
 back, if his was a money loss, or he was bracing himself up for 
 an impending battle. 
 
 " Grod help those against whom he is going to fight," she 
 thought as she saw him enter the carriage briskly and heard it 
 drive away. 
 
 And now that Mr. Gervoise was gone, and his concerns, 
 such as they were, no longer occupied Beatrice's mind, her 
 thoughts went back to Gilbert. Do what she would, Mr. Ger- 
 voise's assertions had been gradually gaining ground. Gilbert 
 was altered, and his change must have some foundation. 
 
 " I will watch him now, and I will see and know," thought 
 Beatrice ; " I will not be haunted by that doubt. But, first of 
 all, I must think." 
 
 Thought is not always calm. With Beatrice it now required 
 active motion. She walked fast down the terrace, past the 
 house, past the flower-garden, till she reached the grounds and 
 her favourite avenue. 
 
 Nature and spring had clothed with exquisite green both 
 earth and trees, sunlight and shadow vied on the grass, the soft 
 westerly wind came in Beatrice's face and blew back the hair 
 from her flushed cheeks, but did not cool their fever. Her blood 
 was warm and young, and it took little to rouse it. The unnat- 
 ural seclusion in which her youth was spent could not silence a 
 heart both free and ardent. Antony's passion had alternately 
 amused and provoked her. It was puerile and slavish, it neither 
 ennobled the giver nor honoured the receiver ; but not so could 
 feel the woman whom Gilbert loved. She might not return his 
 feelings, but she could not think little either of the love or of the 
 lover. 
 
 " No, it cannot be," thought Beatrice, stopping short in the 
 avenue, " Gilbert is too cold, too calm, too much his own mas- 
 ter ever to love a woman. His father would like him to have 
 Carnoosie, but will find no accomplice in a proud and noble na- 
 ture like Gilbert's." 
 
 Even as Beatrice came to this conclusion, Gilbert stepped 
 from beneath the shadow of the trees and stood before her. 
 Beatrice gave him a startled yet searching look, but there was 
 nothing of a lover's eager joy in his face on beholding her. 
 " It cannot be," she thought ; " and yet if it were." 
 Gilbert made a cool commonplace remark about the beauty 
 of the morning, that roused her to her secret purpose. 
 
 We all have some of the despot and the tyrant in us, we all 
 like to feel how far extends our power to torment or to bless. 
 
212 BEATEICE. 
 
 Beatrice was an autocrat of nature. Years of bitter servitude 
 had not conquered her yet, and never would. Gilbert had tried 
 her keenly and sorely ; it would be strange if her turn had come 
 now. The temptation was too sudden and too exquisite to be 
 resisted. 
 
 There is a secret power of deceiving which is innate in a 
 girl's heart ; experience is not needed to strengthen, nor habit to 
 guide it. It comes at her bidding and flows perfect from her 
 lips, armed cap-a-pie like Minerva from the brain of Jove. That 
 power Beatrice at once possessed and wielded. VeiHng the mis- 
 chievous light in her eyes with drooping lids, and controlling the 
 smile which played around her rosy lips, she said with demure 
 gravity: 
 
 " Gilbert, I have something to say to you. I mean some- 
 thing about which I wish to consult you." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " Yes, come this way." 
 
 She confidentially passed her arm within his and led him 
 down the avenue. 
 
 " What is it? " asked Gilbert. 
 
 Beatrice blushed under his keen look, but he might read the 
 blush differently. 
 
 At length she gathered courage, and her very hesitation gave 
 her words more force. 
 
 " Gilbert, answer me frankly. Promise you will." 
 
 " Well, suppose I do." 
 
 " Well then, Gilbert, would you advise me to marry your 
 brother Antony ? " 
 
 She suddenly raised her eyes to his face ; but she did not 
 need its language. The arm on which hers rested had shivered 
 as if it had received an electric shock, and, pale as death, Gilbert 
 heard her and did not reply. Had she liked him less she would 
 have been safe from self-betrayal, but she could not bear the 
 sight of his despair, and all presence of mind forsook her. 
 
 " Gilbert," she cried, shocked and frightened, " do not mind 
 me — I do not mean it — I am jesting — I would die rather than 
 marry Antony." 
 
 The red blood rushed back to Gilbert's pale face. So she 
 was jestiog, and that was the meaning of Beatrice's jest. He 
 bit his lip and was silent. He did not withdraw his arm from 
 Beatrice's, but he looked down at her with such sad and severe 
 reproach, that her lids fell, and she turned her head away. 
 
 " Beatrice, why did you do this ? " he asked. 
 
BEATRICE. 213 
 
 " I — I don't know," she faltered. 
 
 "Yes, you do, Beatrice. Well, are you satisfied? Wliat 
 have you gained ? " 
 
 Beatrice hung her head, and felt both penitent and ashamed. 
 
 " And now that you know what you have wished to know, 
 Beatrice, but what I was scarcely willing to tell you — what is 
 your answer ? " 
 
 Beatrice was mute. Gilbert resumed very calmly, 
 
 " When a woman compels a man to betray himself, she also 
 compels herself to give him a plain yea or nay. That is but 
 fair ; is it not, Beatrice ? " 
 
 Still he looked at her, and still Beatrice kept her face averted 
 from a look too justly reproachful to be very pleasant to bear. 
 
 " Gilbert," she said at length, " it is very kind of you to care 
 about me, but " she paused. 
 
 " But you cannot care about me in that way," he suggested. 
 
 Beatrice's silence meant assent. 
 , " Well, then, Beatrice, with what object did you put me to 
 this trial?" 
 
 " Gilbert, do not be too severe." 
 
 " I will tell you what your object was," pursued Gilbert, in 
 a tone of deep sorrow : " pastime for yourself, a keen pang for 
 me, and to see how I would bear it. You broke your watch 
 when you were a child to see how it was made inside ; and feel- 
 ing inquisitive, I suppose, about Gilbert's machinery, you scared 
 him out of his presence of mind and self-control, and now you 
 laugh at him for his pains." 
 
 Beatrice's tears flowed. 
 
 " Gilbert, forgive me ! " she entreated. 
 
 "A hundred times," he said, sadly smiling; "but I go to- 
 day, Beatrice." 
 
 He took his arm from hers as he spoke. Beatrice clung to 
 him weeping, penitent and frightened. 
 
 " Do not go," she entreated ; " do not go, Gilbert." 
 
 But in vain she looked up at him ; Gilbert smiled down at 
 her ; with gentle hand he wiped the tears from her face, and bade 
 her not fret ; but his smile was that of a man deeply hurt and 
 deeply injured, and most inexorably did he refuse to stay. 
 
 " Oh ! you do not care about me," impatiently said Beatrice, 
 " or you would stay and try, Gilbert." 
 
 Stay and try ! He the poor man stay and try to win the 
 rich girl's favour ! But love , which has humbled many a haughty 
 heart, now conquered Gilbert Gervoise's pride. 
 
214 BEATRICE. 
 
 "Do you wish me to stay and try, Beatrice?" he asked in 
 an altered tone. 
 
 " Yes," she said, a little faintly, for the implied promise 
 frightened her. 
 
 » Then I wiU." 
 
 His brow cleared, his look was hopeful and open. In a. 
 moment Gilbert was another man. Half-shyly, half-triumph- 
 antly, Beatrice watched the change. Three words from her had 
 done this. And this was the same Gilbert, who not a month 
 back had humbled and repelled her. He was at her mercy now, 
 the slave of a look, the servant of a smile. Proud as he was, 
 she could hold his heart in her hand, and humble or exalt it at 
 her pleasure. Sweet and truly royal privilege of youth and 
 beauty. 
 
 "Thank you Gilbert," she said gently ; " it is kind of you to 
 forgive me." 
 
 " She already wants to slip out of her promise," thought Gil- 
 bert. " Oh ! Beatrice, you are a true woman ! " 
 
 And he half sighed at his bondage. But Beatrice's spirits rose 
 quickly, and she frisked by his side, lively as a young kid. Gil- 
 bert looked at her doubtfully. 
 
 " She does not love, she never will love me," he thought. 
 " I am mad to stay here near her." 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 " Stay and try" she had said. What lover but would have 
 obeyed her bidding? Gilbert did stay, but hard indeed was the 
 trial to which Beatrice put him. She probed him to the quick, 
 not to give him pain, but through a restless and wayward cu- 
 riosity that tormented him, and did not make her happy. Gil- 
 bert thought that he could see what passed in her mind — she was 
 doing her best to like him, and she could not succeed. To this 
 kind and fruitless endeavour he attributed the hundred little 
 caprices which now gave variety to their daily life. As she was 
 now, Beatrice had never been before. She could not stay five 
 minutes at peace with Gilbert. She either found fault with him, 
 or did her best to make him find fault with her ; and yet when 
 sad and wearied he left her, she either called him despotically 
 back, or silently resented his departure. The premature discov- 
 ery she had made recoiled upon her as a punishment. She had 
 broken that charm of silence which had given her happy uncon- 
 sciousness, and Gilbert calm security. She could not forget that 
 Gilbert was no longer a friend, but a lover, and Gilbert could 
 not forget that she had rudely unveiled his secret, and made a 
 jest of his pain. His had been no love confession poured forth 
 with the heart's fervor and eloquence at the feet of an adored 
 mistress. And indeed that language of love which Beatrice 
 perhaps would have liked to hear, could not be spoken by him. 
 The knowledge of her indifference froze it on his lips. At length, 
 after one of their half-quarrels, for they never quarrelled outright, 
 Gilbert felt that his patience was exhausted, and at dinner he 
 said to Mrs. Gervoise : 
 
 '' I am going to London .this evening. Can I do any thing 
 for you there?" 
 
 " No — no, thank you," faltered Mrs. Gervoise. much dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 Beatrice had told her nothing. She never told her mother 
 what she did not wish her step-father to know ; but Mrs. Ger- 
 
216 BEATRICE. 
 
 voise was terrified to think of her husband's anger if he found 
 Gilbert gone on his return. 
 
 " Gilbert, stay with us until your father comes back," she 
 entreated. 
 
 " I am truly sorry to refuse you, but I must go to-night." 
 
 Beatrice said nothing, but she turned pale, and pushing her 
 plate away, leaned back in her chair and looked at Gilbert, who 
 studiously avoided looking at her. When dinner was over Gil- 
 bert rose, and Beatrice rose too. He saw well enough that she 
 wanted to speak to him, and though he had little wish for what 
 was coming, he neither would nor could avoid it. Mrs. Gervoise, 
 who guessed what Beatrice intended, and asked no better than 
 to give her an opportunity, stayed within, whilst they went out 
 on the terrace. 
 
 The evening was very calm and very beautiful. Fire and 
 gold shone on the red front and the glittering windows of old 
 Carnoosie, and there was a glow on earth and trees and sky that 
 would at another time have filled Beatrice's heart with rapture. 
 Now she had but one thought — she was going to lose Gilbert, 
 and, she felt, to lose him for ever. 
 
 " Gilbert, you must not go," she said. 
 
 " Yes, Beatrice, I must." 
 
 The terrace was broad, and walking up and down, as they 
 did now, near the balustrade, they could speak and not be heard 
 within. 
 
 " No, Gilbert, you must not," again said Beatrice. " I 
 cannot spare you — I should be too unhappy. Mine has not been 
 a happy youth. The last few weeks that brought you here have 
 changed it in one respect. I have lived — ^before I longed to live. 
 Gilbert, if I cannot like you exactly as you wish, I am not to 
 blame, but I love you very dearly. Do not go, dear Gilbert, let 
 there at least be friendship between us." 
 
 But the word friendship roused Gilbert from all self-control. 
 
 " Do not talk of friendship between us," he said, " unless you 
 can make up a friendship of all the love there is on my side, and 
 all the coldness there is on yours ! " 
 
 " Gilbert," said Beatrice, desperately, ••' I will do much — 
 more than you ask — I will marry you, if you wish it, and trust 
 to time for the rest ! " 
 
 Gilbert looked hard at her, then sighed deeply. 
 
 " No, Beatrice," he replied, at length, " it is good and kind 
 of you to make such an offer, but I would not have a queen on 
 those terms ; besides, you little imagine the torment such a union 
 
BEATRICE. 217 
 
 would be to both of us. You would be a rebel every hour of 
 your life, and I should hate as death to feel myself your master. 
 Believe me, Beatrice, I speak not in anger, but in much sorrow ; 
 there is but one wisdom for us, and that is to part. You give 
 me friendship, and I want love. How can we but jar when either 
 is ever desiring what the other cannot bestow. Beatrice, even 
 though I should pain you, I must tell you the truth — I do not 
 feel one atom of friendship for you. From the first moment I 
 saw you I felt that you were dangerous. Remember how I 
 received your affection ! I could not help it, Beatrice. It was 
 self-defence — ^harsh, but needful. I do not know how far friend- 
 ship is advisable or wise between a man of my age and a girl of 
 yours, but I know that between us it is impossible." 
 
 Gilbert spoke with a suppressed passion which silenced Bea- 
 trice. These were arguments she could not refute ; but her pain 
 on hearing him was so keen that she turned her head away, so 
 that he might not see her tears. He saw them, however ; his 
 very heart was stirred, and his resolve melted away. 
 
 " Beatrice, what shall I do?" he asked, irresolutely. 
 
 " Stay !" she quickly said. 
 
 Gilbert sighed ; it was the old story, but this time it was 
 " stay," and not " stay and try." 
 
 Beatrice probably thought that she had vexed or wearied 
 Gilbert by her capricefe,for her manner to him altered completely 
 after this evening. It became gentle, and almost submissive ; 
 the fear of giving offence ruled her every word and look. Gil- 
 bert saw it, and felt exasperated. A hundred times he ridiculed 
 his folly in yielding to Beatrice's tears what his ^mer will had 
 refused to her entreaties. What was he doing in Carnoosie, 
 ne£|,r a girl who only wanted from him a feeling he could never 
 give her, and who was unable to give him the passionate fond- 
 ness he vainly longed for. Her submissive gentleness was irri- 
 tating ; her caprices would have been more endurable by far, for 
 they would have left hope, which this destroyed. Love is rarely 
 just. It is a passion, and, like all passions, it leads the very 
 soul and heart of man away from truth. Gilbert could not be 
 fair to Beatrice ; he felt it, he controlled his temper, and sup- 
 pressed all outward mark of irritation, but his inward heart he 
 could not rule. 
 
 At length Beatrice guessed, or seemed to guess, what was 
 passing within him ; a marked change came over her, and her 
 manner became so cold and shy that her mother remonstrated, 
 but vainly. 
 
 10 
 
218 BEATRICE. 
 
 Several days had passed thus. Gilbert was in the library 
 reading, and Beatrice was in her room, when her mother entered 
 it with a frightened look. 
 
 "Darling, what is the matter?" cried Beatrice, rising in 
 alarm. 
 
 " My dear, has Gilbert said any thing to you?" 
 
 " Any thing about what?" said Beatrice, reddening. 
 
 " Any thing about his going? " 
 
 " No," said Beatrice, faintly, and the blood rushing back to 
 her heart. 
 
 " But he is going," said Mrs. Gervoise, aU her terror of her 
 husband's displeasure fuU upon her. " I was passing by his 
 room awhile ago, and I saw him packing, though he did not see 
 me." 
 
 " Packing ! " cried Beatrice ; " do you think so ? " 
 
 "I am sure of it." 
 
 " Well, darling, we cannot help it." 
 
 " He must not go^ Beatrice. Indeed, he must not go so. 
 His father will think I have affronted him. Beatrice, you must 
 keep him." 
 
 " I cannot ; he will not stay for my asking." 
 
 " Beatrice, you must try." 
 
 " Darling, I cannot." 
 
 Her face was crimson once more, and Mrs. Gervoise guessed, 
 but would not seem to guess the truth. 
 
 " For my sake, Beatrice," she pleaded, " for my sake." 
 
 "Darling, I dare not," said Beatrice, a little vehemently; 
 " I deserve all Gilbert's anger and reproaches — I dare not." 
 
 " Have you affronted him, then? " 
 
 " I have not affronted him, but — ^but — I said something this 
 morning, and — and that is why he is going." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise did not ask Beatrice what she had said ; it was 
 not an affront assuredly, but it was a bitter speech for Gilbert to 
 hear. Had the old spirit of mischievous curiosity again wak- 
 ened in Beatrice, that, unsolicited, unprovoked, she had said to 
 Gilbert, " I am so sorry you did not marry Mademoiselle Joanne ? " 
 But this time Gilbert was on his guard. Nothing in him be- 
 trayed his pain, if pain he felt ; but he was going, and Beatrice 
 knew why, and, knowing it, did not dare to detain him, and, by 
 making the attempt, draw down on herself merited reproaches. 
 
 " No, I dare not," she said again ; " besides, he may not be 
 going, darling." 
 
 " Come with me." 
 
BEATRICE. 219 
 
 Mechanically Beatrice followed her mother to Gilbert's door. 
 Mrs. Gervoise pushed it open, and showed her Gilbert's trunk 
 strapped and ready. 
 
 " I cannot help it," said Beatrice, turning away ; " if he will 
 go, he must." 
 
 But Mrs. Gervoise detected yielding in Beatrice's voice, and 
 urged her to try. 
 
 " Gilbert is in the library," she said ; "go down and ask him 
 to stay — you need do no more." 
 
 Beatrice's colour came and went, but she could not resist her 
 mother's entreating eyes. She left her, and slowly went down- 
 stairs. On reaching the door of the library, she paused with her 
 hand on the lock. Beatrice was not timid, but for once fear 
 made her tremble — fear of Gilbert's calm anger, all the more to 
 be dreaded that it was richly deserved. At length she opened 
 the door, and entered the room. 
 
 Gilbert looked up from the book he was reading, and rose 
 courteously on seeing the mistress of the house ; but Beatrice 
 sank on a chair near the table, and motioned him to resume his 
 seat. 
 
 " Gilbert," she said, a little faintly, " are you really going 
 away ? " 
 
 At once Gilbert's face became rigid and cold. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, composedly, " I am." 
 
 " Gilbert, I know I do not deserve it, but oh ! do stay this 
 once more." 
 
 " No, Beatrice, spare me and spare yourself some useless 
 pain. Do not ask me to stay, for nothing will make me do so." 
 
 Beatrice started to her feet ; pride, shame, and other feehngs 
 struggled in her heart. Her cheeks were in a flame, and tears 
 filled her eyes, and trembled on her dark lashes. 
 
 " Go, then," she said, desperately, and turning to the door, 
 " go, Gilbert, and be blind to the last." 
 
 In a moment Gilbert was by her side. 
 
 " You want me to stay ! " he cried, his eyes flashing with 
 triumph and joy. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, bravely, " and to stay for ever, too, Gil- 
 bert." 
 
 And she passed her arms around his neck, and laid her cheek 
 to his with the act of the little Beatrice of old days. 
 
 Gilbert gently pushed her away, and looked deep into her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Beatrice, what meant this morning's speech ? " 
 
220 BEATRICE. 
 
 Beatrice hung her head, and looked very penitent. 
 
 " I could not help it, Gilbert. I wanted to know if you still 
 thought of Mademoiselle Joanne — ^that was all," she added, giving 
 him a half-doubtful, half- timid glance. 
 
 That was all ! Gilbert gave her a look of tender though 
 sad reproach. His fate lay before him — a beautiful, rich, and 
 wayward girl, who was fond of him, but alas ! who had many 
 faults. He took her two hands, and raised t];iem to his lips with 
 secure tenderness in his looks. Such as she was, he accepted 
 her — such as she was, he loved her. 
 
CHAPTEE XXVn. 
 
 If Mr. Gervoise could have known how his darling plan was 
 being carried ont by the wilful girl who bore his yoke, even 
 whilst she struggled against it, he would no doubt have felt a de- 
 gree of satisfaction which his step-daughter, soon to become his 
 daughter-in-law, would wilKngly have spared him. Every thing 
 had come to pass as he had planned it ; Gilbert being put in con- 
 tact with Beatrice had as naturally fallen in love with her, as a 
 match takes fire on being applied to the candle. Beatrice, though 
 more slow, had also acknowledged her step-father's influence. 
 Mr. Gervoise's views of human nature were perhaps derived 
 from the secret machinery which sets the popular drama of 
 Punch in motion. He held the majority of human beings as 
 mere puppets, and himself as the wise showman. Pull this 
 string, and Punch comes up ; pull that, and Judy goes down. 
 Mr. Gervoise had pulled the strings of curiosity and vanity in 
 Beatrice ; and he had trusted to her own liking for Gilbert ; and 
 to Gilbert's good looks, true love, and opportunities for the rest, 
 " You see," thought Mr. Gervoise, " Gilbert is the first young 
 man to her liking that has come in her way — so she will have 
 him — and she shall have him ! " 
 
 Beatrice was not unconscious that, in consenting to become 
 Gilbert's wife, she was abetting Mr. Gervoise's scheme, and now 
 felt sure that he it was, and for that purpose, who had broken 
 off Gilbert's marriage with Mademoiselle Joanne ; but for once 
 step-father and step-daughter agreed ; for once Beatrice could not 
 quarrel with the plotter's scheme ; and when she remembered 
 that he had brought Gilbert to Carnoosie and thrown this great, 
 this exquisite happiness in her way, her heart so far melted 
 within her that she almost forgave Mr. Gervoise his other wrong- 
 doings. 
 
 She was very happy. If Gilbert had felt any doubts con- 
 cerning the nature of Beatrice's affection for himself, they van- 
 ished very quickly, for she was not the girl to hide what passed 
 
222 BEATRICE. 
 
 within her heart from a lover's gaze. Frank, impetuous, im- 
 passioned, she surrendered herself to the new feeling ; not indeed 
 with unwomanly vehemence, but with a depth and a fervour 
 which, whatever they might prophesy of trouble and sorrow for 
 the future, were at least exquisitely sweet for the present. In 
 that present both these lovers were now absorbed. Mrs. Ger- 
 voise felt with a sigh that she had no need to bid Beatrice leave 
 her now. Her daughter took it as a matter of course that her 
 mother did not want her, and Gilbert took it as a matter of 
 course that he was to have Beatrice's society all the day long. 
 
 He had it as usual one bright afternoon. They sat in Mrs. 
 Gervoise's room, but she was not with them. Beatrice was sewing. 
 Gilbert's arm rested on the back of her chair, and he was silently 
 watching the rapid and steady motion of her nimble little fingers. 
 A calm and luxurious happiness filled his heart. Learned men 
 have quarrelled about the precise spot in which Eden once stood. 
 They need not. The garden of Paradise is wherever two young 
 hearts love in honour and truth. The world sees it nOt, for the 
 angel's flaming sword dazzles its weak eyes ; but they who rove 
 at will in its enchanted bowers know it well, and if the world 
 laughs at them, they pity it and love on. 
 
 The last few days had been very sweet to these two. "When 
 Gilbert remembered Mademoiselle Joanne he shuddered to think 
 he might possibly have married her ; and when Beatrice thought 
 of what her life had been before this great happiness, she won- 
 dered that she had existed at all. What will you do, Beatrice — 
 how will you live, if it should ever leave you as it came ! 
 
 " Beatrice," suddenly said Gilbert. 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 *' When will you marry me ? " 
 
 It was the first time he spoke of marriage. Love up to the 
 present had been his only theme, and Heaven knows what won- 
 derful variety they had both found in the subject ; but seeing 
 Beatrice sewing had put domestic life into Gilbert's head ; be- 
 sides, long engagements are foolish things, and true love was 
 ever in a hurry. 
 
 " Let me see," thoughtfully said Beatrice ; "*[ shall soon be 
 of age — when I am twenty-five or so, Gilbert." 
 
 " Thank you ! " 
 
 " Oh ! but I am quite in earnest," she composedly replied ; 
 " I know you are of a faithless disposition, and I want to give 
 you time to change your mind." 
 
 " You are too kind, Miss Gordon." 
 
BEATEICE. 223 
 
 " See how unwelcome poor truth is. You are quite nettled." 
 
 " I nettled ! you have been trying to vex me for the last 
 forty-eight hours. I leave it to you to say if you have succeeded 
 once." 
 
 " No," she frankly answered, " you have the most irritating 
 coolness ; but I have more than one arrow in my quiver, Gilbert, 
 so do not provoke me." 
 
 She turned her mischievous face toward him, but the blood 
 rushed to Gilbert's heart. He, too, could jest and trifle ; but 
 whilst Beatrice could spend a whole day in the pastime, he could 
 not bear it for more than a few minutes. Quickly came other 
 feelings, feelings which he hid from Beatrice, partly through 
 pride, partly because he felt that she could never share them. 
 Calm as he looked, he was by far the more impassioned of the 
 two. He could sit by her side silent and happy, but it was easier 
 to be silent than speaking, not to say what he did not wish his 
 lips to tell. 
 
 On seeing the change in his face, Beatrice threw down her 
 work and said quickly — 
 
 "Do not mind me, Gilbert, I mean no harm, and I will do 
 any thing you wish — marry you to-morrow, it you like it." 
 
 "Will you, Beatrice?" 
 
 " How dare you doubt my word ! " 
 
 But doubts Gilbert probably had, for he took her two hands 
 in his and looked into her face. Beatrice reddened in his gaze 
 like a rosy flower in the glow of the setting sun. He smiled at 
 her beauty, and, stooping, bent toward her ; but in a moment 
 Beatrice's hands were free, and she stood before him, blushing, 
 ashamed, and angry. 
 
 " Gilbert ! — Miss Gordon ! " said an austere voice. 
 
 Gilbert started as if he had been shot, and turned round. His 
 father stood on the threshold of the room, looking gravely at the 
 pair. 
 
 " I am surprised," said Mr. Gervoise, sitting down. 
 
 Indeed, he looked not merely surprised, but annoyed. Gil- 
 bert passed his arm within Beatrice's, and said with manly frank- 
 ness — 
 
 " I had your approbation before you left, and now Beatrice 
 and I are pledged." 
 
 " Oh ! you are, are you ! " ironically replied Mr. Gervoise ; 
 " well, be pledgee^," he added impatiently. 
 
 " He looked worn and irritable, and careless too. Every thing 
 about him said, " What is it all to me ? " It was as if the fulfil- 
 
224 BEATEICE. 
 
 ment of the scheme that he had worked for so keenly afforded 
 him no pleasure, now that it was at hand. Gilbert was amazed 
 and doubtful, and even Beatrice was perplexed, 
 
 " Then we have your consent? " gravely said Grilbert. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked at them both. They stood before him, 
 young, handsome, devoted and true, a loving pair, fit to walk 
 hand in hand along the happy paths of life ; but perhaps he saw 
 dark shadows clouding a future that looked so fair, for he smiled 
 with something like disdain. 
 
 " Have your way," he replied, opening his hands, " have 
 your way." And he rose and left the room. 
 
 " He is plotting against us," thought Beatrice. Even Gilbert 
 felt alarmed, and locked at her with mingled uneasiness and 
 passion. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, " we must get married at once." 
 
 " What do you fear? " asked Beatrice, turning pale. 
 
 " Every thing — we must get married at once. Do not say no, 
 Beatrice — do not." 
 
 " As you please," she replied faintly. 
 
 Gilbert's' arm was still linked in hers ; he withdrew it, and 
 moved to the door. 
 
 " Where are you going?" she asked. 
 
 " To speak to my father once more." 
 
 He left the room, and Beatrice sank down on a chair, breath- 
 less with emotion. The sense of a great crisis, of a great calam- 
 ity, was full upon her. Gilbert was scarcely less disturbed. 
 At once he went in search of his father, and he found him in 
 his study, taking a glass of wine and a biscuit. In plain and 
 straightforward language the young man once more asked Mr. 
 Gervoise for his consent. 
 
 "My consent ! " blandly replied Mr. Gervoise, whose manner 
 was quite altered, " to be sure, my dear boy, to be sure." And 
 he nibbled at his biscuit. 
 
 " I should like to get 'married soon," said Gilbert ; " in a few 
 days." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise drained his glass, and said : 
 
 "Just so." 
 
 " Do you see any objections to it?" asked Gilbert uneasily. 
 
 "Of course you marry Beatrice for love?" was his father's 
 equivocal reply. 
 
 Gilbert reddened. 
 
 " I do," he answered briefly. 
 
 " Well, then, my dear boy, get married speedily. It will 
 
BEATEICE. 225 
 
 settle Beatrice, who is a restless girl, and it will do you good too, 
 to get the toy you are longing for. What is a pretty girl but a 
 a toy, after all ? " 
 
 " I love Beatrice as a wife, not as a mistress," rather indig- 
 nantly replied Gilbert. 
 
 " Just so," placably rejoined Mr. Gervoise. " With regard 
 to the ceremony," he added after a pause, " I wish it to take 
 place in London. I think that when it is over you can go and 
 spend your honeymoon in Verville or abroad, or indeed any- 
 where you please." 
 
 Gilbert breathed relieved. He had feared some subtle and 
 specious objection ; but it was impossible for love and marriage 
 to be made more easy than his father made them. A certain 
 coldness, a certain indifference in his manner did indeed strike 
 Gilbert as singular, but he dismissed the subject from his mind, 
 and said with some eagerness — 
 
 " I had better go and consult Beatrice." 
 
 " Ah, do," replied his father, pouring out another glass of 
 wine, and stretching his hand toward the plate that held the 
 biscuits. 
 
 Gilbert went, and after some searching he found Beatrice in 
 the orchard. She turned round on hearing his step, and her 
 face was as troubled as his was secure and hopeful. He passed 
 his arm within hers and said with sparkling eyes — 
 
 "Beatrice, where shall we spend our honeymoon?" 
 
 Beatrice trembled. 
 
 " So soon ! " was her faint answer. 
 
 " Beatrice, can we secure our happiness too soon? " 
 
 Her whole heart spoke in her reply. 
 
 " Gilbert," she said, clinging to him, " if I could be in your 
 keeping this moment, I would, for then I should feel sure in- 
 deed against all harm ! " 
 
 " My darling, what harm can come near you?" 
 
 " I don't know," she replied, a little vaguely ; " but every 
 thing shall be as you wish, and when and where you wish." 
 
 It was plain that some thought of sorrow, some presentiment 
 of evil, even more than the wish of pleasing her lover, were in 
 Beatrice's ready consent. Gilbert felt disturbed, but if warning 
 voices spoke within him, he would not heed them ; the joy of 
 soon having Beatrice silenced them effectually. 
 
 " Let it be then as soon as it can be," he said ; *' and we wiU 
 go to my house in Yerville for a few weeks." 
 
 " And come back here ? " said Beatrice. 
 10* 
 
226 BEATRICE. 
 
 " I suppose you would not give up Carnoosie?" 
 
 Beatrice east a fond and proud look around her. 
 
 " Carnoosie is my kingdom," she replied ; " and what queen 
 would give up her kingdom ? " 
 
 Gilbert was silent. 
 
 " Gilbert," she said uneasily, " you know my meaning. You 
 shall be master even more than I am mistress. Do not be angry 
 with me." 
 
 " Angry because you are rich and I am poor. That would 
 be strange indeed ! " 
 
 She looked up at him, but there was not the shadow of jeal- 
 ousy or of displeasure on Gilbert's open face. He took Beatrice, 
 young, pretty, and rich, not as his due, but as one of those glori- 
 ous prizes which life gives to few, and which those few would be 
 mad to refuse." 
 
 " Then it is all settled," he said in a firm voice ; "I shall go 
 to-morrow to Verville, and prepare my house, then come back 
 to you. We are to be married in London." 
 
 " Why in London, Gilbert?" 
 
 " It is my father's wish." 
 
 The habit of rebellion prompted Beatrice to say "No," but 
 prudence kept her silent. To say " no " was not to marry Gil- 
 bert, for Mr. Gervoise would not yield. For once she must not 
 merely submit, but submit with a good grace. And Gilbert was 
 not more impatient to have her, than Beatrice was now impatient 
 to be his ; for to be his was not merely to win the great happi- 
 ness of her life, it was also to be secure and free for ever. It 
 was escaping from bondage to liberty. 
 
 " To-day is Monday," said Gilbert ; " I leave to-morrow, and 
 come back on Thursday. Do you not think we can be married 
 next Saturday ?. I wish it were over." 
 
 " So do I," replied Beatrice in a low tone. 
 
 Something ailed them, something beyond the hopes or joys 
 which fill the hearts of happy lovers. They could not part that 
 day. From noon till evening it saw them wandering side by side, 
 one ever seeking the other, if chance divided them for a few mo- 
 ments. As soon as dinner was over they went out together on 
 the terrace. They leaned on the balustrade, and looked at the 
 flower-garden, and were silent for awhile. Beatrice spoke first. 
 
 " Never mind about the house, Gilbert. Do not go, Gilbert, 
 if you care for me." 
 
 Gilbert looked down at her and smiled. Her looks, her 
 tones said, " Stay with me," and they said it with a force which 
 
BEATRICE. 227 
 
 went to Gilbert's very heart. His trembling hand sought hers, 
 and pressed it fervently. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, " I wish I were less happy." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Because happiness is not mortal, and we are." 
 
 " So we are not parted, what matter?" 
 
 " Nothing shall part us, Beatrice — ^nothing." 
 
 " Gilbert, my dear boy," called Mr. Gervoise's voice, speak- 
 ing from the window of his study. 
 
 " I wish that raven had not croaked," thought Beatrice with 
 a shiver. 
 
 Gilbert whispered that he would soon return, and left her. 
 He thought that Mr. Gervoise would be satisfied with a few 
 words from the window, but his father informed him that he had 
 too much to say for that ; so Gilbert, giving a look of regret to 
 Beatrice, entered the house, and made his way to the study. Mr. 
 Gervoise was sitting in a deep chair, his legs were crossed, his 
 hands folded, and his eyes shut. The room was grey and shad- 
 owy, and Gilbert asked if he should not ring for lights ; but Mr. 
 Gervoise declined. 
 
 " I like this English twilight exceedingly. Sit down, Gil- 
 bert, and shut the window, if you please. There is no necessity 
 the servants should hear us." 
 
 Gilbert obeyed, took a chair, and prepared to listen. 
 
 " Allow me, my dear boy, to congratulate you, first of aU, 
 on your coming happiness. You have played your cards well ; 
 the game is yours, and let me tell you that a pretty girl like 
 Beatrice, with some thousands a-year for her portion, is no mean 
 stakes." 
 
 Gilbert did not much like this speech, but construing it in 
 the most favourable sense, he thanked his father, and accepted 
 his congratulations. 
 
 " You have expressed yourself so handsomely about settle- 
 ments and so forth," resumed Mr. Gervoise, " that I have little 
 doubt but we shall agree when we come down to particulars. 
 Still it is better to have a thorough understanding before we pro- 
 ceed further." 
 
 " Certainly," said Gilbert. " I wish every thing to be settled 
 on Miss Gordon." 
 
 " Yery gentlemanlike and proper," murmured Mr. Gervoise ; 
 " Gilbert you gladden your father's heart." 
 
 " Then pray consider that matter settled," said Gilbert, half 
 rising. 
 
228 BEATEIOE. 
 
 "A few words more," observed Mr. Grervoise, signing hian 
 to remain — " only a few words. Beatrice is too good a daughter 
 to wish her mother to leave Carnoosie. I should like Mrs. Ger- 
 voise's right to have Carnoosie as her permanent residence re- 
 cognized in the settlements ; and, of course," carelessly added 
 Mr. Gervoise, " that right will be extended to me, should I have 
 the misfortune to survive my dear wife." 
 
 " Miss Gordon — " began Gilbert. 
 
 " I will have nothing to do with Miss Gordon on this sub- 
 ject," interrupted Mr. Gervoise ; " in the first place, she is not 
 of age — ^in the second, it would not be pleasant to me. It is 
 with you, Gilbert, her husband, and the real and legal master of 
 Carnoosie, that I deal." 
 
 Gilbert's calm and noble forehead grew crimson. 
 
 " I marry Beatrice," he said, " and not Carnoosie ; it is 
 impossible I should alienate in any manner that which is not 
 mine." 
 
 " Beatrice loves you dearly," replied Mr. Gervoise, " and 
 will assuredly acquiesce in whatever you do. Moreover, my 
 dear boy, consider how awkward and unjust it would be if Mrs. 
 Gervoise and I should, as it were, be turned out of this house, 
 which has been ours so many years. It is not to be thought of. 
 I cannot admit that such should be my reward, after all the care 
 and tenderness that I have lavished on Beatrice's youth." 
 
 Gilbert did not love his father, but he did not see him with 
 Beatrice's eyes, and he hastily and warmly assured him that to 
 turn either him or Mrs. Gervoise out of the house was out of the 
 question. 
 
 " Very nice and proper," said Mr. Gervoise ; " but I must 
 have a right to remain, or I will not ; moreover, this is not all. 
 I believe I have mentioned to you under what circumstances I 
 was made Beatrice's trustee. Mr. Carnoosie took a great liberty 
 with Mr. Raby and me ; we knew nothing about it until we found 
 ourselves in it. That trust," solemnly said Mr. Gervoise, 
 '' killed Mr. Raby, and it is killing me." 
 
 " I hope not," said Gilbert. 
 
 " Do not smile, my dear boy — do not. This is no jesting 
 matter — ^that trust is killing me." 
 
 Gilbert expressed his satisfaction to think that this dangerous 
 trust would be over in a few months. » 
 
 "Yes, it is a comfort," replied his father; "but are you 
 aware how many thousands I am out of pocket by that trust- 
 how much of what should have been yours and Antony's has 
 
BEATRICE. 229 
 
 been spent on Miss Gordon's business ? My dear boy, the aniount 
 is simply fabulous." 
 
 *' I am concerned to hear it," gravely answered Gilbert. 
 
 " My sense of duty, my conscience, I may say, prompts me 
 to settle this matter with you before you marry Beatrice. I wish 
 the money I spent to be refunded to me ; I do not wish for the 
 lowest interest, not for one-half per cent., so please not to men- 
 tion it." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise spoke almost shortly, and as if his son had 
 been pressing him to accept more than his due out of Beatrice's 
 fortune. Yet to do him justice, Gilbert had done no such thing ; 
 he had remained silent, and very grave. 
 
 " My dear boy, this is what I want to say — ^this, and no 
 more : give me your I O U for the amount due to me, and let 
 my right to remain in Carnoosie be recognized by an agreement 
 between us, and I am content." , 
 
 Gilbert reddened with indignation and shame. His father 
 offered no accounts, and asked him for an I O U — what did that 
 mean? He did not dare to answer him on that head, but he 
 could not help saying : # 
 
 " Allow me to doubt whether such an agreement as you wish 
 for would be legal?" 
 
 " Yes, it would ; besides, even if it were not, how is Beatrice 
 to help it once you are her husband ? " 
 
 This time Gilbert's indignation was not merely felt, but 
 spoken. 
 
 " I will never marry her on these terms," he said — " never ! 
 I will never sign away her property and my honour ; for it is as 
 master, not as guest, you want to stay. Carnoosie is hers, and 
 hers it shall remain ! " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise's shut eyes opened. 
 
 "Gilbert, are you mad?" he asked. "I have heard you 
 patiently, but even my patience will go no further. Beatrice is 
 not a girl whom any man, even my son, shall marry off-hand. 
 If any thing, my terms are too moderate — I ask for the money I 
 have spent, no more. I might ask to have Carnoosie entirely, 
 and I am s^isfied to share it with your wife and you, always 
 reserving, of course, that authority to which I have been accus- 
 tomed, and which it would be absurd in me to give up. The 
 rest of the property," added Mr. Gervoise, with a reluctant sigh, 
 " I shall surrender to you when Beatrice is of age." 
 
 " I can only say what I have said : make these terms with 
 Beatrice." 
 
230 BEATRICE. 
 
 " With Beatrice, you fool ! and if you marry Beatrice, are 
 you not Beatrice's master?" 
 
 " Ay, her master in love and in law," said Gilbert, his lips 
 quivering as he spoke — " her master, but not her despoiler." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise sat up in his chair. 
 
 " My dear Gilbert," he said, plaintively, " need I tell you, a 
 medical man, that my life is most uncertain ? I have but a few 
 years to live ; do not darken and embitter these years." 
 
 But even this appeal did not soften Gilbert. He had risen, 
 and he now stood before his father, cold and rigid as marble, and 
 as unyielding. 
 
 " You are an ungrateful boy," said Mr. Gervoise, rising too ; 
 " I brought you here to give you Beatrice, and I succeeded. 
 This true daughter of Eve took a fancy to you, but without me 
 she would never have seen you. I brought you here, and gave 
 you a young, pretty, and rich wife, and this is my reward." 
 
 " But I did not come here for that," indignantly said Gil- 
 bert ; " when I came here I was pledged to Mademoiselle Jo- 
 anne." 
 
 "You were, and who settled that matter for you? Why, 
 you would be her husband now — and a poor, paltry village doc- 
 tor, but for me." 
 
 The truth flashed across Gilbert's mind, and he turned ashy 
 pale. It was his father who had secretly broken off his match 
 with Lucie Joanne, and Beatrice was bought by treachery and 
 dishonour. 
 
 " Good God ! what have you done ! " he cried, " what have 
 you done ! " 
 
 " Given you that glorious Beatrice Gordon, instead of that 
 poor, pale-eyed Lucie, you idiot ! And now, will you come to 
 your senses and acknowledge what you owe me ? " 
 
 " I owe you a lasting sorrow," cried Gilbert in the bitterness 
 of his he^rt, " for Lucie has been sacrificed to your ambition. 
 If she was not the prize Beatrice is, at least no ignominious 
 terms were attached to her possession. If I did not love her as 
 I love this one, at least I could have had her in peace and 
 honour." 
 
 "Nonsense," coolly said Mr. Gervoise, "you are no more 
 disgraced for giving me Carnoosie and your I O U, than I am 
 disgraced for giving you Beatrice. Indeed, if you are as much 
 in love as you say, she surely is the greater prize of the two. 
 But we will say no more on this subject this evening. You will 
 
BEATEICE. ' 231 
 
 sleep or dream over it, and make up your mind — ^you know my 
 terms." 
 
 " And Beatrice," said Gilbert, " what has Beatrice done that 
 she should suiFer ? Why should she be tortured and tormented, 
 poor child, because she has the misfortune of being rich ? " 
 
 " Well, do not torture and torment her," composedly said 
 Mr. Gervoise ; " she will have plenty of money coming in soon 
 after she becomes of age. You have made her passionately fond 
 of you ; you will not be so cruel as to forsake her, I hope. Put 
 the case to her if you like — she is there waiting on the terrace — 
 and see if she would not give up half her income and ten Car- 
 noosies rather than give up her lover." 
 
 Gilbert gave his father a look of cutting reproach, but Mr. 
 Gervoise received it very composedly ; the unhappy young man 
 felt that his doom was sealed, and with despair in his heart he 
 left the room. 
 
 He found Beatrice as he had left her. 
 
 " Gilbert," she said, looking up, " you know you are not to 
 go to-morrow." 
 
 If ever man longed to bear away from this weary world the 
 woman he loved, and hide with her far from every eye, it was 
 Gilbert then. His lip trembled with passionate emotion ; he 
 took Beatrice's hand, and pressed it. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, " must we never part?" 
 
 " Never," was her deliberate reply. He looked down at her. 
 Oh ! what infinite love he read in those dark eyes raised to his ! 
 He took her arm, and led her away far from his father's prying 
 gaze. He did not pause until they reached the orchard. 
 
 " And now, Beatrice," he said, " let us talk calmly." 
 
 Calmly, Gilbert, when your heart's pulses are so rapid, and 
 your whole being is in a fever ! 
 
 As they walked along, Gilbert had thought — 
 
 " In a few months Beatrice will be of age. Can we not 
 wait and marry then ? No one, not even her guardian, can sell 
 her, and make a barter of her ! What though my father should 
 refuse me his consent? I am not bound to regard that. He 
 urged me into this passion, and brought me here to this temp- 
 tation. On him lies the sin of my disobedience — not on me. In 
 honour and in love I must marry Beatrice." 
 
 Happy necessity ! Never had he loved her more, never had 
 he more fondly longed for her. This inevitable delay seemed to 
 render all the more sweet, future possession ; and that seemed as 
 certain as any thing human may be. Death, indeed, might 
 
232 BEATRICE. 
 
 part them, but how could he think of death with Beatrice warm 
 and living by his side, and love in all the fervour of twenty-five 
 in his heart ? 
 
 "Beatrice," he now said, " if any thing were to delay our 
 marriage, would you wait for me ? " 
 
 " Grilbert, what is going to delay it?" 
 
 /' See how you run off with that idea instead of answering." 
 
 " What answer is needed? Do you not know I would wait 
 a lifetime for you ? " 
 
 " Beatrice, do not spoil me," said Gilbert, stopping short ; 
 " you were like an April day at first, and now you are like a 
 summer morning, sweet and balmy, but I may need harsher 
 treatment." 
 
 " You must take me as you get me," saucily said Beatrice, 
 " and you must accustom your constitution to this variety of 
 climates. It would not be summer now if you were not going 
 to-morrow, for I see you will go, and your value rises as I dread 
 that going. Gilbert, I will be open with you — I require you in 
 more senses than one. It is not merely love that bids me cling 
 to you, you vain man, I long to throw upon you the burden of my 
 sins and cares, and to feel that you stand between me and all 
 harm." 
 
 Gilbert could not know how deep was Beatrice's meaning ; 
 her sins and her cares seemed to him equally light and childish, 
 but his heart throbbed with exquisite bliss as he heard her. It 
 was not a mere girl's fancy that give him this fond young Bea- 
 trice ; it was a deep trust, a sweet necessity, a true womanly feel- 
 ing, a proud and humble recognition of his protecting manhood 
 and his clear honour. And could he then help his father to sell 
 her, or even tell her on what ignominious terms she was to be 
 purchased ? 
 
 " I suppose I must let you go to-morrow," resumed Beatrice * 
 '' but, Gilbert, this must be our last parting." 
 
 " Yes, my darling, our last indeed ! " 
 
 And again hiding the sad present from his view, a sweet 
 future came before Mr. Gervoise's son. 
 
 " Gilbert, why did you bring me here?" 
 
 " Do you not like this place ? " 
 
 " Not like it ! What spot is there about Carnoosie I do not 
 love ? My poor darling often wants to go away — I never do. 
 All I ask is to stay here for ever with you and her ! " 
 
 " I suppose you would not leave her ? " said Gilbert, his voice 
 rather tremulous. 
 
BEATEICE. 
 
 " Leave lier ! " veTiemeiitly cried Beatrice ; " never, Gilbert, 
 never — not even for you ! " 
 
 Gilbert stood still. Beatrice would not leave her mother — 
 Mr. Gervoise would not part from his wife. The conviction that 
 Beatrice would never be his rushed to him with pitiless force. 
 His fata morgana^ his vision of palaces and gardens, and fair 
 islands of delight, floating over blue Sicilian seas, had been torn 
 asunder by the hand he most loved. In a moment, with a few 
 words, with a breath, she had dispelled the glorious vision. The 
 sunshine passed once more from his life, and he stood by Beatrice 
 Gordon in the orchard of Carnoosie, with a chill and grey Eng- 
 lish evening closing around them. 
 
 The blow was too severe for speech. It left Gilbert stunned, 
 amazed, and mute. He had completely forgotten Mrs. Gervoise's 
 existence, and built the fair edifice of his hopes on moving sand. 
 
 " Gilbert, you alarm me ! " said Beatrice ; " you did not want 
 me to leave my mother, did you ? " 
 
 " No ; but why not leave her ? " 
 
 " Do not ask, Gilbert." 
 
 Her reply said enough. It was as he had guessed. Beatrice 
 stood between her mother and implacable tyranny, and she was 
 the veriest slave in the house that called her mistress. Gilbert 
 felt sick and weary. He was in one of those moods when the 
 mere burden of life is too much for the vexed spirit. A battle 
 lay before him, sharp and most bitter, and though Gilbert knew 
 he must prevail, he also knew at what dreary cost the victory 
 must be won. 
 
 Unconscious of his trouble, Beatrice, who could never be 
 downcast for any length of time, became merry, and rather in- 
 clined to tease. 
 
 " She must suspect nothing," thought Gilbert, so he answered 
 her in the same mood. 
 
 Oh ! Beatrice ! Beatrice ! you little knew how deep and 
 blest and wretched was the love that walked by your side that 
 evening, whilst you laughed and talked, and sang snatches of 
 song, and were gay as any young lark soaring from a field of wheat 
 on a summer morn. 
 
CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 Dinner was nearly over, when Gilbert, looking at his watch, 
 said: 
 
 "Shall I have time to get the eight o'clock train ? " 
 
 Most composedly Mr. Gervoise replied : 
 
 " Certainly, you need only cross the forest and you will be in 
 time." 
 
 Gilbert looked as calm as his father, but love is the great 
 sorcerer and diviner. The whole of that day Beatrice had felt 
 tormented and perplexed, and now a voice said to her : 
 
 " It is all over. His father has been at work, and Gilbert is 
 lost to you." 
 
 She felt desperate. The happiness of life, which she had 
 been seizing with so eager a hold, was slipping from her, and 
 slipping, as she felt, without hope of recall. Let Gilbert go, and 
 all was gone. 
 
 "He shall not go !" thought Beatrice. 
 
 She hoped to speak to him after dinner, but Gilbert gave her 
 no chance. Before the meal was quite over, he rose, and apolo- 
 gizing on account of the hurry he was in, he left the dining- 
 room. 
 
 When he came down again Beatrice was on the terrace, but, 
 without stopping to speak to her, he said, as he passed by her : 
 
 "I must go and bid Mrs. Gervoise good-bye." 
 
 Beatrice did not answer. She let him go in alone, and when 
 the brief adieu was over and Gilbert came out again, she was 
 gone. Mr. Gervoise, who sat smoking outside, said that Beatrice 
 had re-entered the house. Gilbert felt glad to think the keen 
 pang of parting was spared to them both. He looked at his 
 watch. 
 
 " I must go," he said, " or I shall be late." 
 
 " I think so, too. Au revoir, my dear boy." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise no doubt thought it best to submit to his de- 
 feat with a good grace. His paternal regard was mild at all 
 
BEATRICE. 235 
 
 times, it was very cool on this evening. He saw his son depart 
 with a cold and unmoved countenance, and, though he bestirred 
 himself so far as to walk with him to the gate, he did no go be- 
 yond it. Gilbert had declined the carriage, and walked through 
 the forest on to the station. Beatrice knew this, and she had 
 gone beforehand to meet him. She felt resolved to know the 
 truth, however sad and bitter it might be. 
 
 She took a shorter route than that with which he was fami- 
 liar, and knowing the path along which he would come, she sat 
 down on a grassy knoll and waited for him. A beautiful sight is 
 that of evening in a forest, when the red sunset flings its gold and 
 crimson rays along the paths and across the aged trunks, and 
 lights up the velvet moss or gives a more tender hue to the young 
 green of the nether branches ; and never had the forest seemed 
 more beautiful to Beatrice than it did on this evening. She was 
 waiting for Gilbert, and she would not remember that she was 
 waiting to part from him. The present joy banished the future 
 grief, though a few minutes alone would divide them. A little 
 more and he would come, and she could think of nothing else. 
 
 The spot, the hour, and his coming, all united to make her 
 heart melt within her. A ring of trees surrounded her. At 
 the end of oneJong avenue she saw Carnoosie glowing in the sun- 
 set, at the end of another shone the blue country far, very far 
 away. Scattered in the grass grew violets wild and sweet, starry 
 wood anemones, delicious lilies of the valley. Almost over- 
 powering rose their fragrance on the air, but not for Beatrice. 
 She loved the forest with the love of possession, for the spot 
 where she sat was hers, and she knew every one of those stately 
 trees as well as she knew the apple-trees in the orchard or the 
 rose-bushes in the garden. 
 
 At length a step sounded in the quiet forest. Beatrice rose 
 with a beating heart ; a few seconds more, and Gilbert appeared 
 before her. 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice, that is kind ! " he cried, coming toward her 
 with sparkling eyes. 
 
 It would have been better not to have seen her again, and he 
 knew it ; but it was so sweet to see her, that he forgot it might 
 not be wise. Beatrice looked at him very sadly. 
 
 " Gilbert," she cried passionately, " do you think me so cold 
 or so blind as not to see that something terrible has happened, 
 something that will divide us, unless we are wise and stand fast 
 by one another ? Gilbert, stand by me, and I will standby you." 
 
 Gilbert gave her a look of the deepest sorrow, but did not 
 answer. 
 
236 BEATRICE. 
 
 " What is it ! — tell me at least," implored Beatrice, " what 
 has happened ? " 
 
 Oh ! hard and cruel question ! 
 
 " My father's consent is granted on terms I cannot comply 
 with," he said at length. 
 
 " What terms? " eagerly asked Beatrice. 
 
 Gilbert was silent. 
 " Gilbert, is it any thing I can do ? Can money, can any con- 
 cession on my part satisfy him ? " 
 
 " Beatrice / cannot submit to my father's terms." 
 
 Beatrice's arms dropped loosely by her sides. 
 
 " And so," she said vaguely, " I was to be your wife on 
 Saturday, and it is all over — it is all over ! " 
 
 Gilbert could not look at her. His own heart was torn and 
 tortured ; but could he plunder Beatrice, or, deepest of all humi- 
 liations, could he, the poor man, let her, the rich girl, buy him — 
 and buy him from his own father ? 
 
 " Gilbert," said Beatrice rallying, "I shall soon be of age." 
 
 " Will you leave your mother? " asked Gilbert. 
 
 " No, never ! " impetuously cried Beatrice ; " and you know 
 why ! " 
 
 He did know why. Beatrice stood between that poor, pale, 
 helpless lady and her tyrant, and to leave her was to surrender 
 her, bound hand and foot, to her master. 
 
 " I know what Mr. Gervoise wanted," said Beatrice ; " I 
 know it, Gilbert — ^he wanted Carnoosie. Oh ! Gilbert, I will give 
 him every thing if he will but let me have my mother and you." 
 
 Gilbert took her hand and pressed it ardently. 
 
 " Beatrice," he asked, with a quivering lip, " would you have 
 a disgraced husband ? " 
 
 " No," passionately replied Beatrice, " I would die first ! " 
 
 " Well, then, we must part," and he dropped her hand. 
 
 " And so it is all over ! " she said, after awhile ; " it is all 
 over ! " 
 
 She looked sick and faint ; for though she had anticipated 
 trouble, delay, and sorrow, she had not thought of any thing so 
 bitter as this. 
 
 " God help me ! " said Gilbert, with deep and manly sorrow. 
 " God help me, Beatrice ! God help us both ! " 
 
 "Why did you make me love you?" asked Beatrice, piti- 
 fully. " I did not, at first. Why did you make me love you, 
 Gilbert? I only wanted friendship — ^you wanted love! Love 
 
BEATEICE. 231^ 
 
 came, I gave it you, and though you regret it, I cannot take it 
 back. Oh ! Gilbert, why did you make me love you ? " 
 
 She stood before him, pale, helpless, and piteous, her pride 
 all gone in her sorrow. It was not in mortal man to resist the 
 appeal. Gilbert took her in his arms, and pressing her to his 
 heart, he said, in a deep, resolute voice : 
 
 "Beatrice, I will conquer fate, and you shall be my wife 
 
 With the faith of a child Beatrice forgot all her grief and all 
 her fears. Her head leaned against his shoulder with the trust 
 of the old friendship, and her heart beat with the tenderness of 
 the new love. Be happy, Beatrice, be happy whilst you feel thus 
 wrapped in his love as well as embrace ! Take in every ghmpse 
 of that old forest now turned into bronze and gold by the glorious 
 splendour of the dying day ; let the rich green of the aged trees, 
 the streaks of light along the deep waving grass, the last soft song 
 of the bird on the bough above your head — all combine into one 
 divine whole and be blended for ever with the memory of your 
 love ! Life gives these moments but to youth, and even to youth 
 she grants but few such. Some live and die without wetting their 
 lips at that sweet cup. Be happy, then, now is your time ; you 
 are privileged. Whatever your future fate may be, you have 
 won a noble heart, and felt a noble love ! 
 
 " Beatrice, I am very weak," said Gilbert, softly, smoothing 
 back the black curls from her flashed cheeks. 
 
 " You already repent," she said, reproachfully. 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice ! Beatrice I " he sighed, " I repent nothing, 
 but I see no issue. It is a torment not to have you,' and I see 
 no way of getting you ! " 
 
 " It is not by going that you will get me, certainly. Why not 
 stay and settle here, and practise and wait. We are so young, 
 life is so long, and there is such a world of time before us. Stay, 
 Gilbert, and we shall marry when the time comes — not a day 
 sooner." 
 
 " Beatrice, do not tempt me." 
 
 " Yes, I will," she replied, raising her dark eyes to his with 
 a laughing and half-mocking glance. " I like to tempt you, 
 Gilbert." 
 
 Her words broke the spell which the picture she had drawn 
 was already weaving around Gilbert's heart. 
 
 " No, Beatrice," he said, very sadly, but very firmly too. " I 
 am mortal, and could not resist such temptation.. We must part, 
 and, Beatrice, you must be free. You are a child in experience 
 
238 BEATRICE. 
 
 of life, and you shall not be pledged to me. Do not misunder- 
 stand me. If I cannot marry you, I will marry no other woman. 
 I have had but one Beatrice in the past, I will have no other 
 Beatrice in the future ; but you shall be free, Beatrice." 
 
 Beatrice took two steps backwards, and gave him a flashing 
 glance. 
 
 " You do not love me ! " she cried, impetuously ; " you never 
 did. If I am free, so are you. If I am not bound to you, I will 
 not let you be bound to me." 
 
 Gilbert stretched out his arm and drew her back toward 
 him. 
 
 " Beatrice ! Beatrice ! my darling ! " he said, " how can you 
 mistake me ? I love you infinitely more than I can say, but it is 
 not always the destiny of love to be happy. Have you forgotten 
 how we were parted eleven years ago ? It was a lovely day — it 
 began with sunshine and fair promises, and it ended in bitterness 
 and sorrow. Beatrice, our love is good and true, but there flows a 
 wide, deep, and sullen river between us. Pity me that I see no 
 ford, nothing but the deep, dark waters." 
 
 Beatrice forgave him at once. She knew what torrent it was 
 that divided them with sullen and pitiless waves, and she said, a 
 little desperately : 
 
 " Well, we need not marry ! " 
 
 " Perhaps we never shall," he replied, very sadly, " But 
 you are right, Beatrice, we must love on. We cannot go back 
 now, and we must not. We must love and suffer, though it 
 would be wiser not to love ; but wisdom is no more our object 
 than is happiness. We can hope, however, and God may have 
 mercy on us." 
 
 A sharp pang crossed Beatrice's heart. 
 
 "Ah! you are religious," she said, bitterly. "You can 
 pray ! " 
 
 And cannot you, Beatrice ? " 
 
 " No ; I suffer, and I cannot bear to suffer. I want to be 
 happy, and I see happiness going from me, farther and farther, 
 like a shore on which I shall never land again. Gilbert, I can- 
 not bear it ! I know I must, but then I am a rebel ! " 
 
 She spoke passionately and defiantly. • Gilbert looked at her 
 with mingled love and sorrow. He knew Beatrice better than 
 she knew herself. He knew her faults, and they were very 
 ^ great faults — the sad fruit of a rebellious youth ; but he also 
 knew how deeply she loved him, and how strong could be his 
 influence over her. If he stayed and married her, he could lead 
 
BEATEICE. 
 
 back this rebellious heart to God, through the sweet paths of 
 love and happiness. Ah ! what a task — and ah ! what a prose- 
 lyte, and what a temptation ! But if it dazzled Gilbert, it could 
 not overcome him. 
 
 " Beatrice ! Beatrice ! " he began. 
 
 "Yes," she interrupted, " I shock you. I know it — ^but I 
 cannot help it. You might make me different, but you are 
 going, and as I am I must remain.'* 
 
 Gilbert sat down on a rising bank, and made her sit by him. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, " we must part ; but let there not be 
 the greatest of all divisions between us. Let us fear, and hope, 
 and pray, and love, with one spirit. Let not one of us say, 
 ' Thy will be done,' and the other, ' Let not thy will be done.' 
 "We part, but let us meet in one common bond of hope, and 
 faith, and trust in God, and of sacrifice, if need be. We cannot 
 help loving, and would we help it if we could ? but we can love 
 nobly, generously. Surely God will pity us in the end, and 
 make that easy which now seems so hard ! " 
 
 Beatrice would not utter the thought that rose within her. 
 But it seemed to her that she had never been pitied, that she had 
 never found mercy, that her youth had been arid and bitter, and 
 that, as her youth had been, her life must be. 
 
 *' Pray for me, Gilbert," she said sadly — " pray that I may 
 become all you wish me to be — all I should be." 
 
 Gilbert did not answer — he could not ; he was in love, 
 fondly, passionately in love ; he had but to stretch out his hand 
 and take the girl he loved, and he could not — he must not. She 
 was there, so near, and so far ; and whilst his heart was full of 
 the grief of their parting — whilst he thought with disgust and 
 sickening of the old life to which he was returning — of the empty 
 home which was to have seen his love's full and perfect bliss, he 
 had to talk to her of resignation, and duty, and sacrifice — words 
 abhorrent to passion. If Beatrice thought her lot hard, he 
 thought his harder still. She at least was spared doubt and 
 struggle, and fearful temptation, and to the last he must brave 
 them — ^to the last he must drain the dregs of that bitter thought : 
 " I could have her if I wished, and I must not — and I may live 
 and die and not have her !" 
 
 He rose abruptly from her side, for dangerous weakness was 
 stealing into his blood, and invading his whole being. 
 
 " You will write to me? " said Beatrice. She knew he was 
 going, but she was generous, and did not attempt to detain him. 
 Gilbert said he would write — then there was a pause. 
 
24:0 BEATEIOE. 
 
 " I must go now, Beatrice." 
 
 " I know it, but do not tell me so." 
 
 She took his arm, and they walked down one of the forest 
 avenues. Joy and sorrow filled her heart. It was delightful to 
 walk along that path with him ; it was bitter to think that it led 
 to the road, and to their parting. Beatrice turned weak, and 
 said entreatingly : 
 
 " Don't go, Gilbert." 
 
 " Beatrice, you know I must. 
 
 " Yes, I know it. "Well, then, go quickly ; I cannot bear 
 this." 
 
 But when Gilbert stooped to give her a last embrace, Bea- 
 trice said : 
 
 " No ; stay a little longer. I cannot let you go yet ! " 
 
 Thus they lingered, until Gilbert knew that he had lost the 
 train ; but it was not of this he thought. Blue mists were rising 
 in the long shadowy aisles of the forest ; he feared for Beatrice 
 — for the demon fever lurked in those lovely vapours floating 
 softly through the foliage of the solemn-looking trees. 
 
 "We are near Carnoosie," said Gilbert; "I will take you 
 back within sight of it, and then leave you." 
 
 Beatrice made no demur, but when the edge of the forest 
 was reached, when Gilbert stopped short, and looked the words 
 of parting he did not utter, Beatrice said : 
 
 " Yes, I know we must part. Oh ! Gilbert, it were almost 
 better not to have seen you again ; but no — do not mind what I 
 say — there is nothing, no life, no joy, like having seen you once 
 more ! " 
 
 He bent his face to hers. For awhile they stood clasped, 
 unhappy, and yet supremely blest ; then Gilbert untwined his 
 arms from around Beatrice, her hands fell loosely by her sides — 
 he walked away, not daring to look back— and he left her there, 
 standing alone and forsaken on the skirt of the grey and silent 
 forest. 
 
 As Beatrice entered the grounds and walked in the long grey 
 shadows of twilight, she saw the tall trees that spread their arms 
 above the path, and at the end of it the dark square mass and 
 lighted windows of her old Carnoosie, and every thing around 
 her seemed vague and unreal. Love is the great poem of youth, 
 even as youth is the poem of life. With some it is a glorious 
 epic, full of disasters and noble enterprises ; with others, a tender 
 idyll ; with others again, a long lyric of lament ; with Beatrice, 
 it was a dream, if not as yet in tragic incident, at least in brev- 
 
BEATEICE. 24:1 
 
 ity. A few weeks had seen its birth and burial. A few hours 
 had brought on its catastrophe. She woke that morning a be- 
 trothed wife, and by sunset the crown of love was lost beyond all 
 hope, for hope cannot spring from a mother's grave. " Whilst 
 my darling lives, I am bound," she thought, with a full heart. 
 " Let it be, iny darling, let it^be ! " 
 
 As she passed by Mr. Gervoise, still smoking on the terrace, 
 he took out his cigar to say : 
 
 " You are out late, Beatrice." 
 
 " Yes, I had business in the forest. Shall I tell you what it 
 was, Mr. Gervoise?" she added defiantly: "I went to bid Gil- 
 bert good-bye." 
 
 "In the forest?" 
 
 "Yes; there are so many echoes in Carnoosie, so many 
 doors that will not shut, so many walls that let the sound escape, 
 that I preferred the forest." 
 
 "And when is Gilbert coming badk ?" composedly asked 
 Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Never, Mr. Gervoise — and you know why." 
 
 He did know why. He was himself the great obstacle to 
 the fulfilment of his own desire. The snare of love which he 
 had set for them they had torn asunder, and they were ready to 
 torment and vex their own hearts rather than submit to him. 
 Cordially did Mr. Gervoise hate Beatrice just then, and he hated 
 Gilbert little less. The rebel before him he could sting, and he 
 did so. 
 
 " Very true," he replied. " I know why. Gilbert will not 
 marry you. One brother you would not have, and the other will 
 not have you." 
 
 It humbled Beatrice that she felt this taunt ; but if she felt 
 it, she scorned to show it. She turned to the house. Mr. Ger- 
 voise stopped and said in an altered tone : 
 
 " You do not know how to manage, Beatrice. Let him come 
 back, and let us have Antony, and you will see if Gilbert will 
 not submit." 
 
 Beatrice shook him off as if he had been an insect, and look- 
 ing the disgust she felt, she walked on. Mr. Gervoise looked 
 after her, and listening to her quick imperious little feet pattering 
 on the gravel, he muttered to himself: " I will humble you yet, 
 my lady." 
 
 Alas ! she was sore and humbled enough, as she sat with her 
 mother looking out at the terrace, which was white again in the 
 moonlight. The fountains splashed pleasantly in the silence of 
 11 
 
242 BEATRICE. 
 
 the night, and now and then the nightingale gave forth her song. 
 Mrs. Gervoise remembered her youth, her first happy marriage, 
 and thought of" Beatrice's coming happiness with a sigh over her 
 own wasted life. And Beatrice thought of Gilbert with keen and 
 deep sorrow, but hers was the sadness of youth : the future was 
 still before her — ^the future that held in her hand happiness with 
 a golden glow, or noble, sorrows almost better than happiness. 
 
 But the night which often tells us back the story of the day, 
 does not always tell it in the language of our hopes and wishes. 
 Beatrice had many dreams that night — dreams eventful and 
 strange. She saw endless forests, with endless avenues, up and 
 down which she went, ever seeking and never finding Gilbert. 
 She saw wide plains, along which she followed him, footsore and 
 weary, and still in vain ; seas blue and stormy, across which she 
 sailed, following a ship with white and bird-like wings outspread 
 on the far horizon, and which she never reached. When she 
 returned to her own Carnoosie, it was the same, and not the same. 
 The rooms were large, old, and dreary. She wandered over 
 them uneasily, seeking Gilbert. She did not see him, but she 
 heard his footsteps in the old chambers, and the sound of the 
 closing and opening doors, until she had gone over them all, and 
 found herself in the silent and lonely garden. When Beatrice 
 looked back toward the house she had left, she perceived that it 
 had lost its solid proportions. It was no longer a brick and tim- 
 ber mass, standing square and dark against the evening sky. It 
 was a broad, immense web, through which she saw the pale 
 moon shining, and in the centre of which she recognized Mr. 
 Gervoise as a gigantic spider, stretching out his long thin arms 
 and legs to seize his victims. Horror and disgust made Beatrice 
 waken. She started up in her bed, and saw the moon shining on 
 the floor, and heard the fountain splashing in its basin. Once more 
 she remembered that evening in her childhood when her mother 
 came to kiss and comfort her, and Beatrice promised to shield and 
 defend that weak and yielding parent. Ah, Carnoosie was a web 
 she could not break. She might flutter in its meshes ; they held 
 her fast — ay, Gilbert was right enough. They were divided : a 
 stream deep as a sea flowed between them, and they stood sad 
 and apart on either shore. 
 
\ 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 On a bright summer morning Beatrice received her mother's 
 tearful congratulations : she was twenty-one that day. The day 
 went past almost unnoticed in Camoosie ; no joyous peals of bells, 
 no village rejoicings, ushered in the majority of the wealthy girl. 
 A peasant maiden was never made twenty-one by time with less 
 ceremony than Beatrice Gordon. Her coming freedom brought 
 her no joy ; whilst her mother lived, she was still Mr. Gervoise's 
 slave ; moreover she knew that a contest was imminent between 
 them, and though she would not fear it, it gave her a touch of 
 gravity. 
 
 They met at breakfast. Nothing could exceed the dignified 
 suavity of Mr. Gervoise's manner. When the meal was over, 
 he formally requested her to step into his study, and settle a few 
 accounts. 
 
 " Thank you," quietly replied Beatrice, " I am not accus- 
 tomed to these matters, it is useless for me to begin now." 
 
 " Excuse me, it is quite necessary." 
 
 " But I would rather not," she persisted, playing with her spoon. 
 
 " Miss Gordon, your trust in me is but natural," remarked 
 Mr. Gervoise, in his grand way, " but it is not business. I must 
 request you to look over these accounts with me." 
 
 " No, I really cannot," said Beatrice again ; " I should hate 
 the trouble too much." 
 
 But still Mr. Gervoise insisted. She might hate the trouble, 
 but for his sake she must submit to it. 
 
 '' Have your way, then, Mr. Gervoise," said Beatrice, rising 
 as she spoke ; " my solicitor will be here this afternoon, you can 
 settle accounts with him." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked petrified. He had not expected so de- 
 cisive a proceeding. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he stammered, " may I know your mean- 
 ing?" 
 
 " I have no meaning save that I hate accounts, and being 
 
244 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 rich enough to indulge myself with a solicitor, I wrote to Lon- 
 don for one. Mr. Lamb will come this afternoon, and he will 
 understand your explanations much better than I could, I am 
 sure." 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Gervoise did not care to be so well understood, 
 for he looked deeply incensed, and showed his resentment. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said, " I was prepared for your ingrati- 
 tude, not for your insolence — ^to this I will not submit. I can- 
 not settle in one afternoon the accounts of years." 
 
 " Oh ! but he will stay a week if you like it," interrupted 
 Beatrice. " He shall not leave Carnoosie until every thing is ar- 
 ranged to your satisfaction." 
 
 This did not mend matters, but Mr. Gervoise had his revenge 
 at hand. 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise," he said, rising and addressing his wife 
 without giving Beatrice a look, "you will please to get your 
 trunks ready, we leave Carnoosie as soon as I have settled ac- 
 counts with Miss Gordon's lawyer." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise gave Beatrice a piteous look, but Beatrice's 
 eyes were fastened on the blue distance visible through the open 
 window, and her countenance remained unmoved. Mr. Gervoise 
 guessed that, whilst he was present his wife was powerless, so 
 he majestically left the room. At once Mrs. Gervoise burst into 
 hysterical tears. 
 
 " Darling I " exclaimed Beatrice in a tone of reproachful 
 surprise. 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice, he will do it ! " 
 
 " Never, until I turn him out," replied Beatrice, with a calm 
 scorn ; " and need I tell you that he is safe whilst he has you. 
 Let him live in Carnoosie, and drink my wines, and pay Monsieur 
 Panel the salary of a professor in a university out of my pocket, 
 what do I care so I have you, my darling ! " 
 
 She knelt at her mother's feet while she spoke, and, fondly 
 clasping Mrs. Gervoise's waist with her hands, she looked up 
 tenderly in her face — " I tell you he has no thought of going," 
 she said again, " none. It is a threat — ^but I know him too well 
 to be deceived. Why, darling, what is the point at issue between 
 us but this same Carnoosie, which he is always afraid of losing? 
 For that he wanted me to marry Antony, for that he brqke off 
 my marriage with Gilbert. He does not know me, or rather he 
 is afraid of surviving you and of being left poor, naked, and 
 mean, as he would be still if he had never married you, my dar- 
 ling." 
 
BEATRICE. 246 
 
 Her eyes flashed with indignation and scorn as she spoke, 
 but Mrs. Gervoise almost pushed her away, and looked more 
 frightened than touched. 
 
 " Hush ! " she said nervously, " hush ! " 
 
 Beatrice rose with a sigh. " Oh ! darling," she thought, 
 *' you do not love me as I love you. I am alone — for ever alone 
 now ! " 
 
 In the course of the afternoon Mr. Lamb arrived. He was 
 a sharp, shrewd-looking man, and, as she received him in the 
 library, Beatrice thought he resembled the fox infinitely more 
 than the meek animal whose name he bore. Mr. Lamb gave his 
 young client a quiet look, and asked for her instructions. Bea- 
 trice gave them briefly, clearly, and openly. 
 
 " My late friend, Mr. Ray," she said, " assured me that I 
 should find a safe adviser in you. I will not disguise the plain 
 truth from you, Mr. Lamb, I need such an adviser. I have been 
 a rich minor many years ; one of my two trustees has been dead 
 several months, and the other is my guardian and stepfather." 
 
 " Was no other trustee provided on the death of the first?" 
 asked Mr. Lamb. 
 
 " None ; and I confess I wish to draw your attention espe- 
 cially to the transactions of the last six months or so. I must 
 also request you, when you have done with Mr. Gervoise, to lay 
 before me as clear and exact an account of my property as you 
 can, also to advise me concerning what retrenchment may be 
 necessary. I am also sure that I am deep in debt, and I object 
 to remaining so." 
 
 " A shrewd young lady," thought Mr. Lamb, little suspecting 
 that Beatrice had for the last week weighed every word she now 
 uttered. 
 
 " I have but one remark to add," continued Beatrice ; " Mr. 
 Gervoise was not aware of your coming ; he will not be hur- 
 ried — ^be so kind as not to hurry him, and yet to stay until the 
 last matter is made clear. I am not used to business," she re- 
 marked with a smile, ' ' and the least obscurity would throw me out." 
 
 Mr. Lamb smiled too, for of course he knew her meaning, 
 but he merely expressed himself both willing and ready to com- 
 ply with her wishes. 
 
 " Oh ! it is late to-day," replied Beatrice, " pray rest from 
 your journey. To-morrow will do for us, if it wiU do for you." 
 
 It so happened that Mr. Lamb had time to spare just then, so 
 it was agreed that the business which brought him should not 
 begin until the next day. In the meanwhile, Mr. Lamb, instead 
 
24:6 BEATRICE. 
 
 of resting, thought he would like to take a walk. Beatrice ac- 
 companied him to the edge of the grounds, and Mr. Gervoise, 
 who was sitting in his study surrounded by papers, had the satis- 
 faction of seeing Mr. Lamb start on what was evidently a recon- 
 noitering expedition. 
 
 They met at dinner. Mr. Gervoise was formal and dignified ; 
 Mr. Lamb was easy, and now and then jovial. He had a very 
 keen face, but with it too he had a bright brown eye, with a 
 watery gleam in it, which, with the tip of Mr. Lamb's nose, 
 greatly relieved Mr. Gervoise's anxiety. He was on his guard 
 whilst the ladies remained, but when they had left the dining- 
 room, he began to fill Mr. Lamb's glass with suspicious cor- 
 diality. Mr. Lamb's heart was one accessible to good cheer ; it 
 was not his luck to sit down every day to such fare as M. Panel 
 sent up. He seldom tasted such wines as those Beatrice's cellar 
 afforded, for once therefore he indulged himself ; he gulped down 
 platefuls of exquisite fricassees^ he tossed down glasses of match- 
 less Burgundy or unrivalled Bordeaux — for Mr. Gervoise had 
 given private orders, and treated him to princely vintages — with 
 a facility which charmed and pained Mr. Gervoise. It was de- 
 lightful to see this cunning lawyer so easily hooked, but it was 
 awful to watch the costly wines going down at so rapid a rate* 
 Every glass Mr. Lamb took filled Mr. Gervoise with sorrow, 
 and but for the wise proverb, " Throw a sprat to catch a salmon," 
 he could never have gone through the bitter ordeal. When Mr. 
 Lamb's eyes grew so moist, however, that Mr. Gervoise thought 
 his purpose attained, and the deepening ruby of the attorney's 
 nose strengthened the belief, Beatrice's guardian kindly suggested 
 that they should adjourn to the study, with a couple of glasses 
 and a bottle to keep them company, and there have a preliminary 
 talk about business. To this proposal Mr. Lamb gave a jovial 
 and ready assent, adding the pleasant remark, that he felt equal 
 to any thing just then. Mr. Gervoise thought he looked equal 
 to the chivalrous achievements of wrenching off knockers, ring- 
 ing door-bells, pushing about policemen, and other gentle freaks, 
 with which he had probably been conversant some twenty years 
 before, but not apprehending personal danger, he took up one of 
 the silver pAndlesticks on the table, and with the kindest considera- 
 tion for Mr. Lamb's evidently unsteady steps, he assisted him 
 into the study, gently pushing him into a deep chair near the 
 table, and very carefully closing the door. 
 
 " And now," said Mr. Gervoise, sitting down on the other 
 side of the table, " I think we shall make ourselves comfortable.'* 
 
BEATRICE. 247 
 
 " Oh ! dear yes," replied Mr. Lamb ; and with amiable 
 alacrity he poured himself out a glass of wine, and drank it off 
 at once. 
 
 " He is a drunkard," thought Mr. Gervoise, who sipped and 
 tasted, and never swallowed down in this wholesale fashion ; " a 
 low English drunkard ; I shall give him gin to-morrow." 
 
 We will not vouch for Mr. Lamb's sobriety, his watery eyes 
 and that red tip to his nose warn us to be careful, but we will say 
 this : inebriety varies with the individuals who indulge in it. 
 Some orators are most eloquent when they are tipsy. Some 
 great poets are never greater than when they have been drink- 
 ing, and some men of business are never keener than at the time 
 when other men are unable to stand. To these Mr. Lamb be- 
 longed, as Mr. Gervoise found to his sorrow. No sooner did 
 they enter on business, no sooner did Mr. Gervoise imprudently 
 open a few accounts, than this woL? in sheep's clothing showed 
 himself in his true light. He became keen, cool, bitter, and 
 withal somewhat fierce. He hunted Mr. Gervoise about — we 
 speak figuratively, of course — with as little remorse as if the pur- 
 suit of such human game were the pleasantest thing in life. No 
 flimsy explanations, no hollow excuses, would satisfy him. He 
 would have the why and the wherefore, and this was often the 
 most awkward thing for Mr. Gervoise. In short, the poor gen- 
 tleman was fairly driven into a corner, and he asked for mercy, 
 or at least for a respite. 
 
 " I think it will do for this evening," he said faintly ; " shall 
 we join the ladies, Mr. Lamb ? " 
 
 " Let us finish the bottle first," replied Mr. Lamb, with a 
 knowing wink. 
 
 He poured himself out a glass. It was Chambertin, the Im- 
 perial wine, the wine of Marengo and Austerlitz, the wine of a 
 hundred epic victories ; and he, the low pettifogger, drank it, in- 
 solently winking at Mr. Gervoise all the time. 
 
 " Make much of it," grimly thought Mr. Gervoise ; " you shall 
 get none to-morrow." 
 
 Mr. Lamb, who probably suspected this, did make much of 
 it, and he made love to the bottle until it had no more favours 
 and graces to bestow ; then like a faithless lover he put down his 
 empty glass and expressed his perfect readiness to join the ladies. 
 But the ladies had got tired with waiting, and had retired for the 
 night ; so Mr. Gervoise had the delightful task of keeping Mr. 
 Lamb company for the rest of the evening. 
 
248 " BEATEICE. 
 
 Mr. Lamb remained five days in Camoosie, days of mortifi- 
 cation and penance for Mr. Gervoise ; and when the weary task 
 was over, Beatrice's stepfather had lost some of the best feathers 
 in his wing. Mr. Lamb sober proved as great a torment as Mr. 
 Lamb tipsy, and seemed bent on Mr. Gervoise's undoing. But 
 oh the fifth day the lawyer's business in Carnoosie was at an end, 
 and he took leave of Beatrice in the library, where she had re- 
 ceived him on the day of his arrival. 
 
 " Mr. Lamb," she began, giving him a shrewd look, " I want 
 to know every thing, please." 
 
 " Every thing would take a very long time to tell, Miss Gor- 
 don, and an epitome will answer your purpose." 
 
 ^' How much do. I owe ! " asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Three thousand five hundred and six pounds odd, exclusive 
 of the mortgage's, of course. Wine is in for a heavy item. You 
 have consumed a large quantity of expensive French wines dur- 
 ing your minority, Miss Gordon." 
 
 " I shall brew my own beer and drink it henceforth," replied 
 Beatrice smiling. 
 
 " You have also purchased some articles of virtu, and paid 
 dear for them," continued Mr. Lamb ; " but you can see it all 
 set forth in this sheet of foolscap. It is above six thousand 
 pounds, but I detected some errors which had escaped Mr. Ger- 
 voise, and we cut it down. And now a piece of advice, Miss 
 Gordon," added Mr. Lamb, looking hard at her, " be careful 
 how you purchase, and from whom ; be sure that you deal with 
 the real dealer, and not with some unknown person selling under 
 a fictitious name." 
 
 " Yes, I shall be careful," replied Beatrice, a little bitterly ; 
 " is there any money owing to me, Mr. Lamb?" she asked after 
 a while. 
 
 " Part of your income is due in September." 
 
 " Mr. Lamb, we must go over this together ; I must know 
 what I am worth, and how I am to save and spend." 
 
 The Camoosie estate was not a very complicated one. It con- 
 sisted of large farms, each bringing in a net income ; but Mr. 
 Carnoosie had left mortgages, not one of which had been paid off, 
 and Beatrice's property, instead of increasing in value, had les- 
 sened considerably, for some of the leases had been renewed by 
 her trustees on such low terms that she was struck with the fact. 
 She looked at Mr. Lamb and asked him to explain it. 
 
 " There is no cure for it now," was his reply ; " your trus- 
 tees did this a feAv months ago, and you must submit." 
 
BEATEICE. 249 
 
 "But why was it done? What interest could my trustees, 
 could any trustees, have in letting these farms so cheap ? " 
 
 Mr. Lamb was silent. 
 
 " I put a general question, you can give a general reply," 
 said Beatrice. 
 
 " Prime ministers have been influenced, ambassadors too," 
 answered Mr. Lamb ; " in short, human nature is very weak." 
 
 " And there is no remedy? " 
 
 " None, save to exercise great discretion ; not to sign a scrap 
 of paper, for instance, vnthout consulting a respectable solicitor." 
 
 Beatrice was silent for a while. When she spoke next, she 
 said — 
 
 " Do you not think my style of living above my income? " 
 
 " Monsieur Panel is an expensive servant." . 
 
 *' He shall go. Miss Jameson too must leave me. I will be 
 frank with you, Mr. Lamb ; I have neither regard nor liking for 
 that lady ; I shall make some provision for her, but it need not 
 be munificent. I shall leave you to settle that matter. I am now 
 bent on saving ; on paying my debts firstly ; secondly, on getting 
 rid of the mortgages, if I can." 
 
 " Quite right ; and now. Miss Gordon, let me give you a dis- 
 interested piece of advice — ^have a solicitor in the neighborhood." 
 
 " No," replied Beatrice, smiling, " that would be dangerous. 
 I must be quite open with you, Mr. Lamb. Mr. Gervoise is a 
 very clever man — a man who succeeds nine times out of ten." 
 
 " He is a very clever man," admiringly said Mr. Lamb — " a 
 very clever man. It is impossible to deny that. Well, Miss 
 Gordon, I will do my best to run down when you want me, and 
 when I cannot come I shall write ; but before we dismiss this 
 subject, allow me to put a question to you : Is it absolutely ne- 
 cessary that Mr. Gervoise should remain in Carnoosie ? " 
 
 The attorney's tone startled Beatrice. She looked at him — 
 he seemed very grave, but she was accustomed to the danger 
 which was new to him, and she calmly answered : 
 
 " Whilst my mother lives, Mr. Gervoise must remain in Car- 
 noosie." 
 
 " Then, Miss Gordon, get married." 
 
 The colour steadily rose to Beatrice's face, then slowly left 
 it, for the blood had rushed back to her heart as she remembered 
 Gilbert, but her reply was sad and grave : 
 
 *' I cannot, Mr. Lamb." 
 
 A surgeon cannot feel much compassion, it is said ; let us 
 not wonder that a lawyer's heart is none of the softest. Still, so 
 11* 
 
250 BEATRICE. 
 
 far as he could feel, Mr. Lamb felt for Beatrice as she stood 
 there before him, proud, sad, and calm — ^young, handsome, and 
 rich, but alone — worse than alone, for she was compelled to har- 
 bour her mortal enemy. His experience of life taught him that 
 in so unequal a contest she must be worsted, and he was sorry to 
 contemplate her defeat ; but if she would sacrifice or risk safety 
 and happiness for her mother's sake, what could Mr. Lamb, or 
 any one else, do for her ? 
 
 " In short," thought that acute gentleman, after they had 
 parted, " what can you do for a bird that keeps the cat in its 
 cage ? " 
 
 ^: 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 "With a sigh of weariness Beatrice sank on a chair, and, 
 burying her face in her hands, she tried to collect her thoughts, 
 and contemplate her dreary destiny. The courage she had shown 
 to Mr. Lamb had forsaken her ; she could only think : " Ah, 
 what a hard lot is mine ! " It was a very hard lot, a lot of strife 
 and anxiety, of solitude and watchfulness-; a lot such as rarely 
 falls to youth and beauty. But Beatrice was energetic and 
 strong. She would not indulge in vain regrets and idle self-pity. 
 There was much to do yet, and she would do it. She had a 
 noble fortune to guard and redeem ; she would fuhSl her task. 
 " He has taken Gilbert from me," she thought, " and he shall 
 find that I can take something from him." She roused herself, 
 rang the bell, and asked for Miss Jameson. Their interview was 
 brief, but it ended in tears on Miss Jameson's side ; for though 
 Beatrice had not uttered one word of reproach, the decree had 
 gone forth : Miss Jameson must leave Carnoosie. Mrs. Scot's 
 turn came next. That lady entered the room stem, mistrustful, 
 and half defiant. She expected her dismissal, and having that 
 attachment for Carnoosie which most people who lived in it con- 
 ceived for that pleasant abode, she was agreeably disappointed 
 when Beatrice merely informed her that henceforth she was the 
 virtual as well as the nominal mistress of the house, and that to 
 her, and her only, Mrs. Scot must apply for orders and instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 " I intend retrenching," she continued ; " Monsieur Panel is 
 going to leave — please to get me a good cook. Five servants 
 shall go. I shall keep seven, the oldest ones, of course." 
 
 " Carnoosie is large, ma'am." 
 
 " I shall make it small by shutting up, if need be," replied 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Mrs. Scot looked grim. She liked Carnoosie, but she hated 
 the very names of retrenchment and economy. 
 
 " Perhaps seven servants will do," she said at length. " Mr. 
 
252 BEATRICE. 
 
 and Mrs. Gervoise are going this eveningj and two persons less 
 will make a difference." 
 
 " Very true," composedly remarked Beatrice, " Miss Jame- 
 son, too, is going ; so you see we can manage very well, Mrs. 
 Scot. That will do for to-day," she added, after a pause. 
 
 Mrs. Scot withdrew with a stern curtsey, and she left her 
 mistress, as she meant to leave her, with a thorn in her heart. 
 
 So Mr. Gervoise, who had been ominously calm and silent 
 for the last five days, still kept that threat of taking her mother 
 away hanging over Beatrice. She knew he did not mean to do 
 it — that he wanted to stay, and that he would stay, but she did 
 not know what concession he would exact in return for his yield- 
 ing. Her heart sickened at the thought of the coming strife. 
 She leaned back in her chair. " Oh ! Carnoosie, Camoosie," 
 she thought, looking out of the window, " how dear you cost 
 me ! " Mr. Gervoise's entrance broke on her thoughts, and 
 roused her to defiance and action. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said, with great dignity, " are you at 
 leisure ? " , 
 
 *' Certainly, Mr. Gervoise ; pray take a seat." 
 
 " Miss Gordon, my share in your concerns is, I am happy to 
 say, safely over. I am no longer your guardian, I am no longer 
 your trustee. The law puts you in possession of your liberty. 
 I have no doubt that you will use it wisely. Mrs. Gervoise and 
 myself trust in your discretion ; at the same time, Beatrice, allow 
 us to advise you either to marry speedily or to take a chaperon 
 of mature age. Shall we say Miss Jameson?" 
 
 " Miss Jameson is leaving," quietly interrupted Beatrice. 
 
 "And what other lady, then, will you have?" asked Mr. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 Beatrice smiled as she replied : 
 
 " My mother is my best chaperon." 
 
 " My dear Beatrice," said Mr. Gervoise, rising, "you speak 
 too late. Look ! " 
 
 He opened the door of the library as he spoke, and showed 
 Beatrice a row of trunks standing in the hall, securely corded, 
 and with cards five inches square, on which she read in large 
 capitals : Mr. Gervoise, Frai^ce. 
 
 "What a prime minister that man would have made !" ad- 
 miringly thought Beatrice ; " how he would have worried or 
 coaxed parliaments and outwitted potentates ! When do you 
 think of going?" she asked. 
 
 " This very day, Miss Gordon." 
 
BEATRICE. 253 
 
 Beatrice's pretty lips, and she had an exquisite mouth, curled 
 in dainty scorn. She knew Mr. Gervoise had no thought of 
 going, but she was resolved to compel him to ask to stay. " He 
 is a serpent," she thought, " and crawl he must." Aloud she 
 said, looking out of the window : 
 
 " You will have a rough passage, I fear." 
 
 The sky was stormy and wild ; clouds chased each other 
 across its grey plains, and the trees of Carnoosie bent and twisted 
 to every blast. 
 
 " A "decidedly rough passage," continued Beatrice. 
 
 She nodded lightly to him, and carelessly left the library. 
 But the triumph on which Beatrice reckoned eluded her once 
 more. If Mr. Gervoise was a serpent, he had one of the ser- 
 pent's attributes : he was slippery. No more this time than 
 many a time before could Beatrice's slender fingers grasp him. 
 Before the afternoon was out, Beatrice's mother was alarmingly 
 ill, so Mr. Gervoise said, and Beatrice's fears confirmed it. She 
 felt sure that he had caused this sudden attack, but how she 
 could not imagine, and her timid mother did not dare to teU. 
 
 " Don't ask me, Beatrice," she entreated, " don't. Only I 
 cannot go, indeed I cannot." 
 
 " Darling, you shall not. Even if I were to beg it of him on 
 my knees." 
 
 And almost on her knees had Beatrice to ask Mr. Gervoise 
 to remain. 
 
 " No, Miss Gordon," he said curtly ; "we do not get on well 
 together, and we must part." 
 
 " My mother cannot travel, sir, and she shall not." 
 
 " Miss Gordon, this will not do ; you want to bully me, but 
 this will not do." 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise," said Beatrice moodily, " I love my mother 
 dearly, but remember that, if you take her from me, I can marry 
 Gilbert to-morrow. Remember it, I say, and do not drive me 
 to despair — do not, if you wish to stay." 
 
 " Miss Gordon, if I stay, I will have full authority in this 
 house." 
 
 "Never!" replied Beatrice, almost sternly. "Never! 
 Twelve weary years have I been your slave, but I am free now." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked scared. 
 
 " May I ask in what light you wish me to remain, then?" 
 
 " As my guest, certainly not as master. As my guest — for 
 my mother's sake, Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 He knit his brows, and thought a while. 
 
254 BEATBICE. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said, in a calm but dogged tone, " I will 
 stay for your mother's sake, but on one condition, and I warn 
 you beforehand that from that condition nothing shall make me 
 swerve. You have spoken of dismissing a person from this 
 house. I insist that this person shall remain as long as I please." 
 
 Beatrice gave him a doubtful look. What did he want with 
 Miss Jameson ? She knew that her mother cherished a feeble 
 jealousy against that poor lady, but Beatrice had ever thought 
 the feeling unfounded ; and yet could Mr. Gervoise be guilty of 
 a kind and generous action ! He was considerate enough to 
 undeceive her. 
 
 "If M. Panel does not remain, I leave," he said senten- 
 tiously. " He knows how to bleed — and I need him in the 
 house as a safeguard against apoplexy." 
 
 Beatrice smiled scornfully at her momentary error. 
 
 " Let M. Panel stay," she said. " I will do more. I will 
 give up the cellar to you, Mr. Gervoise ; but be careful of it, for 
 it shall not be replenished in a hurry." 
 
 With this taunt, which neither mortified nor humbled her 
 enemy, Beatrice left him and went back to her mother. 
 
 " You shall stay, darling," she whispered softly ; " and stay 
 for ever." 
 
 The fear of going had made Mrs. Gervoise ill, the certainty 
 of staying cured her rapidly, or at least brought her back to that 
 languid state of sickliness which was habitual to her. M. Panel 
 remained, and Miss Jameson left, after a vain appeal to Mr. 
 Gervoise, who regretted he could not interfere. Three servants 
 were dismissed instead of five, as Beatrice had intended ; and 
 thus balked in her plans of retrenchment, she began her new life 
 as the mistress of Carnoosie. Alas ! that new life was not such 
 as Beatrice had once pictured it. She sent away her maid, 
 knowing she was only a spy, and did without one, knowing, too, 
 that she could keep none faithful ; she got a carriage for her 
 mother, and they took drives in the country ; and she paid no 
 visits and received none. The balls, the society, the pleasure 
 she had once longed for, were now no longer desired by Beatrice. 
 The future had become present, and not kept one of its promises, 
 and this was sad ; and, sadder still, Beatrice, absorbed in one 
 bitter regret, did not care. 
 
 From this torpor unexpected events soon roused her. Bea- 
 trice was reading the Times in her room one morning, when she 
 heard Antony's voice on the terrace. She had not invited him ; 
 why had he come ? Of course his father had asked him. " Well, 
 
BEATEICE. 255 
 
 what need I care now?" she thought, and she took up the paper 
 again. 
 
 Beatrice was very fond of the Times. It was to her the 
 great world from which she was virtually shut out. She would 
 not weary of its close-printed columns, full of information so 
 complete and so varied. She read the long debates, the prolix 
 accounts of trials, the police reports, the daily news domestic 
 and foreign ; and she felt like one who hears far inland the wild 
 roar of the ocean. But for once these fascinating sheets had lost 
 their charm, for Beatrice kept thinking, " How dare that man 
 bring his son here ! How dare he ! " 
 
 She impatiently threw down the newspaper, put on her hat 
 and walked out. She saw no one until she reached the orchard ; 
 but scarcely had she walked ten steps along its grassy paths, 
 above which the boughs of young apple-trees crossed and met, 
 when Mr. Gervoise's younger son appeared before her. 
 
 They exchanged a greeting haughty on Beatrice's side, sub- 
 missive on his. 
 
 " You told me to go away, and I went," he said, recalling 
 their last parting. 
 
 " Very true ; but you have come back, and I had not bar- 
 gained for that." 
 
 " You are hard," said Antony. 
 
 " Very. And it is astonishing, considering that I was locked 
 up in order to make me more amiable." 
 
 " Locked up ! if I had known that " 
 
 " You would have done nothing," she interrupted ; " how- 
 ever, I wiU tell you the means I used to ensure my liberty, as 
 they will give you the depth of my resolve and the measure of 
 my liking for you." 
 
 She paused, and looked full at him with her bright young 
 eyes. 
 
 " Well, and what did you do?" he asked. 
 
 " What wild things do from the meanest to the mightiest ; I 
 would not eat, and so got my liberty." 
 
 " You did not eat ! " said Antony, looking shocked. 
 
 " Not a morsel. You would not have done that. Well, it 
 was not pleasant. The memory of that day, with the untasted 
 food lying on my table in my room, in my own house, is not 
 pleasant. It is not pleasant to remember that I owe that day to 
 you. So, if you please, let us meet as little as we can." 
 
 She bowed, and, without waiting for a reply, left him. She 
 went to her mother's room. Perhaps she thought to find Mr. 
 
256 ; ' BEATRICE. 
 
 Gervoise there, and in her present mood their meeting would 
 scarcely have been one of peace ; but it was not to be ; Mrs. 
 Gervoise's companion was only Doctor Rogerson. 
 
 Beatrice had never liked him much ; and as a child she had 
 been rude and overbearing with him, but as a girl she changed 
 her manner toward this poor gentleman. She knew that he had 
 a sickly wife, a large family, scanty means, and heavy cares, and 
 she pitied him, and was ever courteous and considerate toward 
 him. She now gave him the hand she had not extended to 
 Antony, and inquired how Mrs. E-ogerson and the children were. 
 
 " Pretty well. Miss Gordon y thank you ! " replied Doctor 
 Rogerson, in his low, nervous voice; "you are too kind, but 
 they are pretty well." 
 
 " And how do you find mamma to-day ? " 
 
 " Much better, I am happy to say." 
 
 Beatrice's bright face brightened again as she heard him. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," hesitatingly resumed Doctor Rogerson, " I 
 have a great favour to ask of you. Mr. Antony Gervoise has 
 returned, would you kindly make interest with him for me. My 
 lease of the cottage is nearly out ; Mr. Gervoise spoke of raising 
 the rent, and my wife is nearly distracted at the thought of leav- 
 ing it." 
 
 He gave Beatrice a shy, yet searching look. He knew what 
 the whole world knew — what does not the world know ? — ^that 
 his young landlord was very sweet on the mistress of Carnoosie, 
 and therefore he asked her to plead his cause. 
 
 " I am powerless," said Beatrice, at once ; " even Mr. An- 
 tony Gervoise, though your landlord, would not grant your re- 
 quest. He leaves all those matters to his father. Apply to him." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson sighed wearily. Did she think Mr. Ger- 
 voise would renew the lease ? 
 
 " Try," she answered cheerfully, unwilling to take hope from 
 that poor pitiful Doctor Rogerson ; "I see him in the flower- 
 garden." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson rose, fumbled at his gloves, and went out 
 with a sigh. He thought how easy it was for Miss Gordon to 
 talk so, and how hard it was for him to go and meet Mr. Ger- 
 voise on such an errand. He found him near one of the foun- 
 tains, looking quite benignantly at the dancing water. 
 
 " How do you do. Doctor Rogerson? and how is Mrs. Roger- 
 son ? Pretty well, I hope — and how is Mrs. Gervoise ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise is improving, I am happy to say ; Mrs. 
 
BEATRICE. 267 
 
 Rogerson is not very well, and, indeed, I came to you on the 
 subject of that cottage. It is troubling her mind so." 
 
 " Cottage ! — :what cottage?" asked Mr. Gervoise ; " you do 
 not mean to say it is yours, Doctor Rogerson ? Do not tell me 
 that you have been troubling yourself about that — do not ! " 
 
 Doctor Rogerson coloured with pleasure. 
 
 "Then I may hope for a lease," he said, with imprudent 
 eagerness. ^ 
 
 " Certainly not — I grant no leases until my son takes on him- 
 self, as I hope he will soon do, the management of his own prop- 
 erty. But what of that ? Can't you stay in the meanwhile. Doc- 
 tor Rogerson ? Am I the man to send you away ? " 
 
 Doctor Rogerson could not speak his thanks ; his gratitude 
 overpowered him. Without seeming to see DoctoiP^Rogerson's 
 agitated face, Mr. Gervoise said, insinuatingly : 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson, we are neighbours, let us be open and 
 neighbourly. Are you short of money? Mrs. Rogerson is deli- 
 cate, you have a large family, would you like me to advance you, 
 say twenty pounds? What is it? — a trifle ; no thanks. Mrs. 
 Gervoise is so delicate that I am sorry to say you will always 
 have the means of repaying me without putting your hand into 
 your pocket. 
 
 Doctor Rogerson looked startled, surprised, and flurried. He 
 stammered ; it was plain he longed to accept, though shame 
 made him decline. 
 
 "Pooh, pooh, nonsense!" said Mr. Gervoise; "twenty 
 pounds is a trifle, let us say no more about it." 
 
 He waved his hand in graceful denial of possible rejection. 
 A little further coversation ensued, and Dr. Rogerson took his 
 leave, and went home a happy man. 
 
 We have never seen by daylight the cottage to which Gilbert 
 was conveyed, and where Doctor and Mrs. Rogerson had spent 
 their honeymoon. It was not a place that many people would have 
 liked to live in. It stood in a green hollow, suggestive of damp ; 
 but roses grew around it, and Mrs. Rogerson loved it, and Doc- 
 tor Rogerson's seven children had been born within its white- 
 washed walls, and, in Doctor Rogerson's eyes, it was a very nest 
 of love and beauty. 
 
 He hastened to enter a most untidy parlour, which neither 
 Gilbert nor Beatrice would have recognized. Twelve years and 
 seven children had sadly marred the chintz furniture, which they 
 had seen in all its honeymoon freshness. The neat and dainty 
 bride, with hair carefully braided, and perfect sleeves and collar, 
 
258 BEATEICE. 
 
 had suffered from the same causes. Mrs. Rogerson had grown 
 delicate and careless, and untidy too ; and Doctor Rogerson 
 found her, as usual, lounging on the sofa, with several children 
 around her. On the carpet rolled the last haby — an unmistak- 
 able though decidedly cheerful likeness of its papa. 
 
 " My dear, I bring good news," said Doctor Rogerson, sit- 
 ting down with a sigh — ^he had learned to sigh about every 
 thing ; " we can have the cottage." 
 
 A flush passed across Mrs. Rogerson's faded face. 
 
 " A new lease?" she said. 
 
 " Why, no, my dear ; Mr. Gervoise cannot very well do 
 that. The cottage is his son's, but, you know, Mr. Antony 
 Gervoise goes by his father, and a kinder man than Mr. Ger- 
 voise I nev^r met. Would you believe it, my dear, guessing the 
 difficulties of our position, he offered to advance me twenty 
 pounds on my attendance on Mrs. Gervoise." 
 
 Mrs. Rogerson brightened considerably. 
 
 " And have you got the money? " she asked. 
 
 " Why, no, my dear. I did not like to take it." 
 
 "Now, Doctor Rogerson, how could you? And the chil- 
 dren have not a thing to put on, you heard me saying so only 
 yesterday." 
 
 " My dear, there is no time lost, for Mr. Gervoise put it so 
 that I can have the twenty pounds any day I choose." 
 
 " Jane, give me pen and ink," said Mrs. Rogerson to her 
 eldest daughter. 
 
 Doctor Rogerson looked inquisitive, but he made no com- 
 ment. Mrs. Rogerson took out her pocket-book, dipped her 
 pen in the inkstand, held by Jane, a tall blue-eyed girl, and be- 
 gan writing. 
 
 " My dear, what is it?" asked Doctor Rogerson. 
 
 " I am writing down a list of indispensable articles to be 
 purchased out of the twenty pounds," calmly replied his wife. 
 " Shall I read them to you? " 
 
 " If you please, my dear. Mary, be quiet." 
 
 " For William a new suit of clothes ; for James ditto ; for 
 Andrew ditto ; for Mary a cloak ; for Jane a new frock ; for 
 baby a pair of boots." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson sighed. He knew what baby's feet could 
 wear out of boots ; a pair a fortnight was baby's allowance. 
 
 " And for yourself, my love, what have you put down?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Nothing," sighed Mrs. Rogerson. " We cannot afford it. 
 Doctor Rogerson." 
 
BEATEICE. 259 
 
 " Yes, my love, we can and must. If the children are to be 
 provided for, their mother must be provided for too. I cannot 
 allow it, my dear. I cannot." 
 
 " Well, my dear, I cannot deny that I should like a- cloth 
 jacket, a braided one, I mean." 
 
 " Certainly," he replied, with great alacrity. " Certainly, 
 my dear." 
 
 It was very pleasant, this easy way of getting money. It 
 always is, unless to the prudent and the proud, and Doctor and 
 Mrs. Rogerson could not afford to be either. They were of the 
 countless tribe to whom the present and its necessities are all in 
 all — who close still more securely the door that locks the future 
 from man's view, and shut their eyes lest they should get a stray 
 glimpse of the fate, often dark and threatening, which lies be- 
 yond the threshold of to-day. It was all as it should be to Doc- 
 tor Rogerson and his sickly wife this morning. The cottage 
 was not to be taken away from them just yet ; Mr. Gervoise 
 kindly offered twenty pounds ; what though his promises were 
 said to be slippery and insecure, better not think of that. What 
 though this unearned money was but forestalling the resources 
 of the future ; one was hope, so sweet to the struggling, and the 
 other was that boon invaluable to the needy, ready money. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Antony and Beatrice met at dinner, and to Beatrice's sur- 
 prise Mr. Gervoise mentioned the Stones. 
 
 " My dear boy," he said, at the dessert, " can you give me 
 any information about these new tenants of yours ? Who are 
 they?" 
 
 " City people, I believe." 
 
 Unmindful or unconscious of Mr. Gervoise's furtive look, 
 Beatrice leaned back in her chair and listened. 
 
 "Are they rich?" continued Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 Antony looked impatient, and shortly answered : 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " thought Beatrice, " that sort of acting is not 
 in his way ; besides, he does not like being made a constant 
 cat's-paw. Take patience, Antony, I am much deceived if you 
 wiU not soon act on your own account." 
 
 "Well, my dear boy, you have acted for the best, of course." 
 
 Beatrice smiled disdainfully. She knew that she was the 
 person Mr. Gervoise meant to deceive, and she thought him very 
 shallow. 
 
 " Is it a large family? " she asked. 
 
 Unwise question. Mr. Gervoise at once read through Bea- 
 trice as she had read through him. She took some interest in 
 this matter, therefore she meant to thwart him. Mr. Gervoise 
 had no objection to thaf ; his life had been cold and dull of late, 
 but better times were at hand. With great suavity of manner 
 he turned to his son, and repeated Beatrice's question. 
 
 " Are they a large family, my dear boy?" 
 
 " An old gentleman and his sister," answered Antony, peel- 
 ing a pear ; but he could not meet Beatrice's eye full upoD him. 
 The truth flashed across her in a moment. She rose, and push- 
 ing away her chair from the table, she said, significantly : 
 
 " Not his sister — ^his daughter. Will you come, darling?" 
 
 She led her mother out of the room. 
 
BEATEICE. 261 
 
 " I told you so ! " triumphantly whispered Mr. Gervoise, 
 leaning across the table. " I told you so ! She is already 
 jealous." 
 
 Antony's blue eyes overflowed with fond, foolish, and cruel 
 delight. 
 
 " I wish she were ! " he said. " I wish she were, the 
 vixen ! " 
 
 " She is ! " 
 
 " WeU, then, let her be !— let her be ! " 
 
 " Very true ; only mind you play your cards well, my dear 
 boy. Mind ! " 
 
 Antony nodded, as much as to say : Trust to me," and he 
 looked at Beatrice through the window. She was walking 
 slowly with h^r mother on the terrace. The sun shone on her 
 bare head. How rich and glossy looked her dark curls ! What 
 a warm smooth bloom there was on her young face ! She was 
 ripe as a peach, and she was jealous. 
 
 " Let her be," thought Antony, again, " let her be. It is 
 time I should pay her out." 
 
 He could not resist the temptation of increasing her torment. 
 He rose. His father said, quickly : 
 
 " Mind, my dear boy, Beatrice is very keen, don't commit 
 yourself. She is in the net, but don't close it yet upon her." 
 
 " I know what I am about," shortly replied Antony, and he 
 left the room, and at once joined Beatrice. She did not look at 
 him, but then she did not banish him with one of her haughty 
 glances, so he lounged by her side until Mrs. Gervoise sat down. 
 Beatrice, instead of remaining near her mother, went and leaned 
 against the stone balustrade, and looked at one of the fountains. 
 " She wants me to go to her," thought Antony, swelling with 
 triumph. " Well, perhaps I will, perhaps I will." And he did, 
 that kind Antony. He went and leaned against the stone balus- 
 trade near her, and looked at the samp fountain. Beatrice 
 turned upon him with an icy mien. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise," she said, " how is it that you are letting 
 your own house and staying in mine ? " 
 
 "I let the cottage before I thought of coming here," com- 
 posedly answered Antony. 
 
 " And you have let it to a rich man who has a daughter ? " 
 
 " Ye — es," drawled Antony, " he has — a lovely girl, too," 
 
 Beatrice smiled with great scorn. 
 
 " All this is your father's doing," she said. " God help you, 
 Antony ! It is all your father's doing ; but you will abet him. 
 
262 BEATRICE. 
 
 God help you ! You have not a friend, and you are unworthy 
 to have one ; it is your fate to fall and perish." 
 
 Tears stood in Beatrice's dark eyes. She spoke with her old 
 pity and half liking, and Antony's eyes sparkled. " Ay, she was 
 jealous, and desperately jealous ! " 
 
 " Beatrice ! " he fondly whispered, and he pressed her arm. 
 
 Beatrice gave him an amazed look, and drew back two steps. 
 She was keen, as Mr. Gervoise had said ; in a moment she saw 
 how the father had lured on the son, and that she was to be an 
 unconscious agent in his scheme. 
 
 " Do not be ridiculous, Antony," she said, with cool irony, 
 " and never believe what your father says of me. You and he j 
 live in one world, and I in another. When you forget that. An- I 
 tony, you become his tool and his dupe." 
 
 She went back to her mother, and left him looking both 
 foolish and angry. His father was right enough. Antony was 
 no match for Beatrice ; she could learn from him all she pleased, 
 and he could not exchange two words with her but he blundered. 
 Mr. Gervoise spared him the mortification of doing so any more, 
 for cross-examination having probably told him that Antony had 
 been defeated in the first onset, he used such excellent arguments 
 to make him leave Carnoosie, that the very next morning his 
 son bade that pleasant abode and his mistress adieu. His de- 
 parture relieved and surprised Beatrice. It perplexed her too. 
 Had she been mistaken, or had she scared Mr. Gervoise from 
 his plans ^ Neither seemed likely to her. Still Antony was 
 gone, and if Mr. Gervoise did not want Mr. Stone's daughter for 
 his son, what did he want? She watched, and saw, and learned 
 nothing, and at length forgot these strangers in the bitterness of 
 her own lot. Into that bitterness we will not enter. Let Bea- 
 trice bear her burden, it is light as yet. A day will come when 
 she will remember this time, and wonder that she once found it 
 so hard. Antony had been gone a week, when one of those lit- 
 tle accidents against which Mr. Gervoise could not always guard, 
 partly betrayed him to his step-daughter, and helped to remind 
 her of the very persons he most wished to forget. 
 
 Gilbert had promised to write, and he kept his word ; but his 
 letters were not frequent. It would not have been good for either 
 of these two to have exchanged written speech too often. They 
 could not and would not forget, but they did not always dare to 
 remember. Still it now seemed very long to Beatrice since he 
 had written ; her heart ached, her whole being longed for him. 
 Mrs. Gervoise did not feel equal to a drive, and Beatrice went 
 
BEATEICE. 263 
 
 out alone in the grounds. Instead of walking down her favour- 
 ite avenue, she followed the banks of the little green and shining 
 river, which, after cheerfully singing its way through the grounds 
 of Carnoosie, flowed on beneath the shade of the mighty forest 
 trees. When she had got about half way, she sat down and 
 rested. The spot was beautiful and very still. The water 
 flowed with a faint ripple on its edge of sand, the trees shivered 
 in the sun, and birds sang hidden in their deep leafy boughs. 
 How often had she and Gilbert sat down together on this spot 
 and looked at the flowing water, at the green landscape beyond, 
 at the blue sky and its fleecy clouds ! Oh ! if he were to come 
 suddenly upon her ; if she could see, feel, and hear him once 
 more ! Her heart beat at the thought : she closed her eyes, and 
 would see no outward object to banish so sweet and so happy a 
 vision. But Beatrice had not closed her ears, and a methodical 
 commonplace voice broke the charm, and sent the dear illusion 
 to the winds. " Put the camp stool here. Rosy," it said. Bea- 
 trice looked up with a start, and on the opposite *bank of the 
 stream she saw a grey, shrewd-looking man, a pretty fair girl in 
 a straw hat, and Mr. Gervoise. One look at the group was 
 enough : they were friendly, nay they were intimate. Mr. Ger- 
 voise helped Rosy to settle the camp stool, and Rosy laughed up 
 in his face with a saucy air, and the father looked on, adjusting 
 his fishing tackle all the time. They were intimate, and these 
 were the Stones, of course ! They had not seen her, and Bea- 
 trice rose and walked away, and at her heart lay one of the 
 deepest feelings of pity she had ever known. 
 
 So these were Mr. Gervoise's new victims. But were they 
 victims ? That grey man looked cool and keen, and that bloom- 
 ing girl with the shining fair hair seemed the very apple of his 
 eye. If love could guard, surely she was safe. Granted even 
 that Mr. Gervoise had some bad or sinister object, could she in- 
 terfere ? She could not, so she steeled her heart, and forbade it 
 these 'thoughts. 
 
 But what the will decrees, it cannot always accomplish. 
 Beatrice felt sure that Mr. Gervoise had some deeply-laid scheme ; 
 her childhood and her youth had not been spent in mere revolts 
 having self for their object. She had watched him at work, and 
 she had reckoned his victims. None were too mean for him — a 
 prince or 'a cowherd would suit Mr. Gervoise, but nothing that 
 was not human would. Antony could whip his dog, and like it ; 
 his father scorned sport so mean. Antony could ride through 
 young corn and enjoy a farmer's wrath; Mr. Gervoise would 
 
264: BEATEICE. 
 
 not tread on a blade of grass, but he was a pitiless landlord, and 
 there was one dark story of a tenant whom he had played on, 
 and driven to despair, and who had been found floating dead and 
 swollen in the cheerful little river that flowed through Carnoosie. 
 Besides, could she forget Mr. Baby and Mr. Ray? Beatrice 
 knew all his turns and doublings, and remorseless tenacity. He 
 would have held a human life dear if purchased at five shillings, 
 but five pounds, and even five hundred, were nothing for the 
 accomplishment of a favourite aim. The little system of espi- 
 onage which Mr. Gervoise had established in Carnoosie was ex- 
 pensive ; he held it cheap. "Without information it was impos- 
 sible to act, and information could therefore never be dear. How 
 Mr. Gervoise would have scorned economy ! How he would 
 have hated the meanness of a thrifty schemer ! "What ! grudge 
 the seed that was to yield so abundant a harvest ! All these 
 things Beatrice knew, and knowing them, how could she help 
 pitying the Stones ? " "Why is not that girl a beggar's daughter ? " 
 she thought ; " why is she rich, to be coveted by the cruel and 
 the greedy ? "Well, I cannot help it — ^the poor, foolish flies must 
 take their chance ! " Ay, they must, yet it was hard to think 
 that perhaps they were already entangled in the web, and must 
 soon be sucked and devoured. 
 
 "When Beatrice entered the house, she was surprised to find 
 Mr. Gervoise there before her. Had he seen her? Did he 
 want to prove an alibi, arid cheat her out of the evidence of her 
 senses ? She walked up to him, impetuous and indignant. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise," she said, " who gave these Stones the right 
 of entering the grounds of Carnoosie ? " 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " You might have consulted me first." 
 
 " "V^ery true, but I did not." 
 
 The entrance of Mrs. Gervoise checked Beatrice's angry re- 
 ply. Miss Gordon bit her lip. She, too, was in the web, and 
 its meshes were of steel. " And shall I ever break through it ? " 
 thought Beatrice, turning to the window with a feeling of 
 despair. 
 
 " Are these Stones very rich?" timidly asked Mrs. Gerv^oise, 
 who had heard their name mentioned as she entered the room. 
 
 " Rich ! " scornfully repeated Mr. Gervoise ; " city people 
 always pretend to be rich, Mrs. Gervoise." 
 
 " That's for me," thought Beatrice, " but it will not do. I 
 will see these Stones, and ask them here, and know the whole 
 story, Mr. Gervoise." 
 
BEATRICE. 265 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Gervoise, " here is a letter for you." 
 Beatrice turned round. Behind her stood the footman with 
 a letter on a tray, and she knew in a moment that it came from 
 Gilbert. All thoughts of the Stones went adrift. Her cheek 
 flushed, her fingers closed on the epistle with eager grasp. She 
 put it into her pocket ; she would not read it then and there — 
 she would not leave the room at once. So she lingered at the 
 window till she could bear no more ; and, opening it, she walked 
 out on the terrace, on through the flower-garden. Mr. Gervoise 
 followed her with a keen, mistrustful eye. He, too, had his 
 thoughts and his soliloquies. 
 
 " She is sharp — she is. Miss Gordon," thought Mr. Ger- 
 voise ; " but it is hard work to her, and it is play to me." 
 
 12 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 It was play, indeed, to Mr. Gervoise, and he knew, too, the 
 power of Gilbert's letter. They were not wholesome food, but a 
 philter sweet and strong ; and they threw Beatrice into a deli- 
 cious torpor, which lasted days, and from which few thoughts 
 had power to awaken her. So he kept them back, or gave them 
 by means she could not detect, and used them as a convenient 
 bait — for he watched her as closely as she watched him, and far 
 more keenly than she did. Poor Beatrice ! she was pure and 
 true, but hers was not the nature, though hers was the destiny, 
 of sacrifice and self-denial. She was born for joy and love and 
 a life of noble and delicate pleasures, not for love denied, and the • 
 captivity of Carnoosie, and the companionship of Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 But she did not think of this as she ran along the garden 
 paths until she reached a retired arbour, enclosed by melancholy 
 yews, and lying near a silent grass-grown path. Here Beatrice 
 would not be disturbed, and here she sat down and read. 
 
 It was a letter, tender and fond, but sad. Gilbert's heart 
 was growing weary of the long probation. It is all very well to 
 part in heroic mood, and lay yourself a willing victim on the 
 altar of duty — ^it is hard, but it is intoxicating too — ^there are 
 sublime sorrows worth any joy. But hard, oh ! hard and bitter 
 is the slow torment of a suffering heart ; the day after day long- 
 ing which must never be sated. Thus Gilbert had no doubt felt 
 when he wrote, for, as Beatrice read, the bitterness of his grief 
 reached her ; her full heart overflowed. She flung herself on the 
 grass, and gave way to her sorrow. Should she never see Gil- 
 bert again ? — never, as he seemed to fear ! Alas ! Carnoosie 
 was her prison ; he could not come to her, she must not go to 
 him. Oh ! to be free ! to be free and to fly to him ! Her tears 
 fell like rain on the grass ; but the sound of a stealthy step made 
 her start to her feet. Who was coming upon her to watch her 
 in her grief ! She looked, and with amazement she saw Antony 
 
BEATKICE. 267 
 
 Gervoise. It was he, she could not doubt it. He did not see her, 
 but with a cautious look and a light step he passed on. 
 
 "What brings him back?" thought Beatrice with mistrust- 
 ful surprise. Her next thought was a flash of light : Antony- 
 was taking the road to the forest, the road that led to the cottage 
 of the Stones. Beatrice had been deceived all along. She 
 clasped her head between both her hands, and tried to concen- 
 trate her bewildered thoughts. At length slowly, but surely, 
 the truth came to Beatrice — a truth she would never have imag- 
 ined ; so brazen, so audacious, was the scheme. Antony Ger- 
 voise had never left the house. 
 
 She had sat down .again ; she now rose in a transport of in- 
 dignation and anger — she knew that her servants were bought, 
 mere spies upon the mistress who fed and paid them ; but she 
 had not thought that even Mr. Gervoise would have dared to do 
 this. And yet it was so easy ! The house was large, and the 
 servants were not merely bought, they also lived in fear of 
 Mr. Gervoise. Nothing was easier than for Antony to remain 
 in Carnoosie, and go in and out without the knowledge of its 
 mistress. 
 
 " And that is how I am treated in my own house," thought 
 Beatrice with a burning cheek ; " well, I should deserve any 
 treatment if I bore with this." 
 
 Within five minutes after this incident our old acquaintance, 
 John, knocked at Mrs. Scot's door, and requested her, in the 
 name of his young mistress, to step into the library. John had 
 never liked Mrs. Scot, and the tone in which Beatrice had issued 
 her commands made his eyes twinkle with satisfaction. " That 
 Mrs. Scot is a-going to get a dressing," he thought, and he de- 
 livered his message with amiable alacrity. Mrs. Scot was in her 
 room casting up accounts. She had grown stout during years of 
 comfort, and her apartment bore witness to the excellent situation 
 she enjoyed at Carnoosie. Luxury had crept in to her, and had 
 been kindly entertained. Soft yielding chairs, better carpets, 
 cheerful curtains, birds in a cage, showed an improvement in 
 Mrs. Scot's temper and position. True, her stern face was rather 
 bloated than fat, her eyes had lost none of their fixedness, but for 
 all that Mrs. Scot was an altered woman, and looked rather less 
 fitted to struggle with the world than when Mr. Gervoise brought 
 Beatrice to Carnoosie. She received Miss Gordon's message 
 with a half scornful 
 
 " What does she want with me ? " 
 
 John replied that Miss Gordon would tell her that herself, 
 
268 BEATRICE. 
 
 and reminded Mrs. Scot that their mistress did not like to be 
 kept waiting. Mrs. Scot smiled, turned a page of her ledger, 
 and cast up another column. 
 
 " If she don't pay for that," thought John, chuckling. With 
 an excess of zeal he went and told his mistress that Mrs. Scot 
 was busy, but would come presently ; which piece of information 
 Beatrice received so quietly that John went away disappointed, 
 and began to think that Mrs. Scot was not going to get it after 
 aU. 
 
 Mrs. Scot's accounts were complex. It took her a full half 
 hour to set them right. When every farthing was explained to 
 her satisfaction, she closed the book, locked her desk, locked her 
 door, and, putting her keys into her pocket, she went down-stairs 
 to the library. Miss Gordon was writing. Without looking 
 round she said : . 
 
 " Please to wait, Mrs. Scot. I shall soon have done." 
 
 She did not keep Mrs. Scot very long waiting, for in a few 
 minutes she turned her chair and said : 
 
 " Mrs. Scot, how long has Mr. Antony Gervoise been in this 
 liouse without my knowledge ? " 
 
 " I can't tell, ma'am," was the imperturbable reply. 
 
 " Then how long has he been in it with your knowledge, Mrs. 
 Scot?" 
 
 " Two hours, ma'am." 
 
 " Two hours ! And he has not slept, and lived, and eaten 
 here for two weeks ? " 
 
 " Not that I know of, ma'am." 
 
 " Then, Mrs. Scot, if you do not know what passes in this 
 house, and if you can remain ignorant of the presence of a young 
 man here, you are not fit to be the housekeeper of Camoosie ! " 
 
 Mrs. Scot heard her young mistress with a defiant stare. It 
 seemed portentous that this girl, whom she had helped to lock 
 Tip, should now bring her to an account, and lord it over her. 
 
 " I foresaw your answer, Mrs. Scot," said Beatrice taking 
 no notice of the look, " and since you have chosen to forget what 
 I told you when I came of age, here is mine." 
 
 She handed her two papers as she spoke. One was a check 
 for Mrs. Scot's wages, nicely calculated to the utmost farthing, 
 but not beyond it. The other a written notice intimating to Mrs. 
 Scot that Miss Gordon no longer required her services. Mrs. 
 Scot shook with anger, and tore both notice and check to pieces. 
 
 "I shall not go!" she cried, stamping her foot; "you are 
 no mistress of mine, and I will not go at your bidding, I say ! " 
 
BEATEICE. 269 
 
 *' You shall leave within an hour," composedly said Beatrice. 
 
 "Iwillnot!— IwiUnot!" 
 
 " Hush," interrupted Beatrice, " leave the room at once." 
 
 Mrs. Scot clenched her fists, and looked with impotent wrath 
 at Beatrice's calm face, but she obeyed so far as to leave the 
 library. At once she made her way to the study, where Mr. 
 Gervoise, unconscious of this domestic storm, was supporting 
 exhausted nature with a glass of wine and a couple of biscuits. 
 For some minutes Mrs. Scot could not speak. She had a violent, 
 as well as a bad temper, and rage now choked her. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise," she said at length, " what did you tell me 
 when that girl came of age ? — what did you tell me ? " 
 
 " Tell you ! " echoed Mr. Gervoise, deeply astonished, " why, 
 I told you nothing, Mrs. Scot." ^ 
 
 "You did not tell me she should never be mistress?" 
 screamed Mrs. Scot — " you did not tell me that?" 
 
 " No," coolly replied Mr. Gervoise, '• I did not ; but I 
 remember you told me Miss Gordon had informed you that 
 henceforth you were to apply to her for orders and instructions." 
 And Mr. Gervoise smiled at Mrs. Scot over his glass of wine. 
 
 A keen and bitter consciousness that she had been made a 
 tool of, and deceived and duped, once more, to be cast aside in 
 the hour of danger, came to Mrs. Scot. Tears of rage rose to 
 her eyes and dimmed them, as she thought of Carnoosie, and her 
 room, and its comforts, and power, and its sweetness — all for- 
 feited in one hour to serve Mr. Gervoise, and perhaps, too, to 
 spite Beatrice. 
 
 " rU tell you what," she said at length, " Miss Gordon has 
 given me notice, and bid me leave within one hour ; but if I do, 
 Mr. Gervoise — if I do, you'll repent it as long as you live ! " 
 
 This threat did what the most pathetic entreaties would not 
 have done ; it determined Mr. Gervoise to interfere. 
 
 '^ Mrs. Scot, you amaze me," he said. " What is all this 
 about ? — ^what has happened that Miss Gordon should give you 
 notice?" 
 
 " Miss Gordon has learned that your son has been here by 
 the sly for two weeks, and as she hates the very sight of him, 
 she vents her spite upon me." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise smiled derisively. 
 
 " Mrs. Scot, this is some delusion of yours," he remarked 
 suavely. " In the first place, my step-daughter is sincerely 
 attached to my son — in the second, it is absurd to suppose that 
 she was ignorant of his presence in the house. You conamitted 
 
270 BEATRICE. 
 
 a mistake, Mrs. Scot — a mistake. Nevertheless, I sliall do my 
 best for you." 
 
 He rose, but Mrs. Scot stood before him, swelling with im- 
 potent wrath ; she felt mocked and derided, as well as wronged, 
 and speak she must. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise," she said, " of all bad men, you are the 
 worst ; but for all that, let me leave Carnoosie if you dare ! — ^let 
 me leave it if you dare ! " 
 
 She shook her forefinger at him, and Mr. Gervoise, who was 
 sincerely alarmed, tried to pacify her. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Scot," he said, " I will do my best — I tell 
 you I will do my best for you ! " 
 
 " Do your best for me — for yourself you mean — ^I tell you 
 again, let me leave Carnoosie if you dare ! " 
 
 She nodded at him, and walked out. 
 
 " Dangerous ! " thought Mr. Gervoise—" dangerous ! I 
 know what she will do, though, and forewarned is forearlned, 
 Mrs. Scot." 
 
 He took two turns about the room, then sat down and wrote 
 a letter, which he despatched immediately. When this was done, 
 he requested a servant to take his compliments to Miss Gordon, 
 and solicit the favour of an interview with her. The favour was 
 granted, and within five minutes Beatrice and her step-father 
 stood face to face in the library. 
 
 " My dear Beatrice," he began, " what is this unpleasant 
 matter between you and Mrs. Scot ? Can it not be settled ? She 
 has been many years in the family, my dear." 
 
 Beatrice smiled almost sternly. 
 
 "That is to say," she replied, "that for twelve years and 
 more I have been cherishing, feeding, and paying a mortal 
 enemy." 
 
 " My dear, let Mrs. Scot remain for my sake. I do not 
 often solicit favours." 
 
 " No, you take them ; I cannot prevent much that I dislike ; 
 but nothing shall make me submit to a servant's insolence ! " 
 
 "Insolence!" cried Mr. Gervoise; "Beatrice, forget and 
 forgive every word I have said in her favour. I wash my hands 
 of her, and I insist on giving her a lecture in your presence before 
 she leaves." 
 
 " It is not necessary," said Beatrice. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, it is." 
 
 He rang the bell with nervous haste. 
 
 " John, send Mrs. Scot to us." 
 
BEATRICE. , 2Y1 
 
 John grinned ; within five minutes Mrs. Scot appeared on 
 the threshold of the room. She looked at Beatrice, then at Mr. 
 Gervoise, with a furtive and yet defiant look. Beatrice was sit- 
 ting cool, careless, and disdainful. Mr. Gervoise stood with his 
 hands behind his back, benignant and dignilSed. Had he pre- 
 vailed, and Beatrice yielded? or was she sacrificed without re- 
 morse or shame ? She soon knew. 
 
 " Mrs. Scot," said Mr. Gervoise, with a wave of his right 
 hand, "what is this I hear? — ^you have been insolent to your 
 mistress ! You did not tell me that, Mrs. Scot. How do you 
 suppose that I can do any thing for you ? It is out of the ques- 
 tion, I assure you — wholly so. And now, Mrs. Scot, that you 
 are losing an excellent place for a motive so paltry, allow me to 
 give you a few words of sound advice. Do not another time 
 trifle so wantonly with your happiness — do not, Mrs. Scot." 
 
 Beatrice could not help smiling, not so much at Mrs. Scot's 
 defeat as at Mr. Gervoise's consummate impudence ; but the 
 housekeeper saw the smile, and it exasperated her. 
 
 " So you think yourself the mistress oi Carnoosie, Miss Gor- 
 don ! " she said, in a low voice, more ominous than insolent. 
 " Do you know how you got it? Through that man's trickery 
 and fraud, and I can prove it. You are very proud of yourself. 
 Miss Gordon, but it is a lie brought you here, and it is a lie 
 keeps you. Old Mr. Carnoosie never meant you, a girl and a 
 papist, to have Carnoosie, and you got it because that man," and 
 she pointed a scornful forefinger at him, *' because that man, I 
 say, wanted to marry your mother. I know you hate him — well, 
 then, let it humble you to know that every thing you have you 
 owe to him. As for you, Mr. Gervoise," she added, turning to 
 him, " I shall have a word or two with Mr. Stone yet — a word 
 or two." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise who had heard her unmoved, replied with 
 great composure : 
 
 " If I can assist you in that quarter ; if, on my recommenda- 
 tion, Mr. Stone can help you to a good situation, Mrs. Scot, I 
 shall be happy indeed." 
 
 She gave him a scornful look, and left the room without a 
 word. When the door had closed upon her, Beatrice turned 
 upon Mr. Gervoise, and said, in a clear, ringing voice : 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, can you explain all this to me? What does 
 this woman mean ? " 
 
 She gave him a keen and searching look, for, incomprehensi- 
 ble as they were to her, Mrs. Scot's taunts had startled and al- 
 most alarmed her. 
 
272 BEATEICE. 
 
 *' My dear Beatrice, how should I know ? " he replied, coolly. 
 " That woman keeps a devil in her heart, and you know that 
 out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh." 
 
 To this charitable application of Scripture Mr. Gervoise 
 added an amiable and lenient " it is hard to lose a good situation, 
 I suppose," which satisfied Beatrice. Her pride revolted at the 
 thought that Mrs. Scot could have spoken the truth, that she 
 could owe Camoosie to falsehood and to fraud, and especially to 
 Mr. Gervoise. Rather than believe that, and feel humbled to 
 the dust, she steeled herself to do a very hard thing indeed, and 
 that was to believe Mr. Gervoise for once. 
 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 With despair in her heart, Mrs. Scot entered the quiet room 
 where John had found her an hour before, casting up accounts. 
 And so it was over ! That large, pleasant, affluent Carnoosie, 
 where money was to be had so easily, where living was so 
 abundant and so good, that land of Goshen, so sweet after the long 
 fast of the desert (Mrs. Scot's life had not always been one of 
 happiness), was exhausted, and Mrs. Scot must turn to other 
 fields, and seek another home. She had saved money, but noth- 
 ing like the capital that would give her an income equal to the 
 board, lodging, and salary of Carnoosie. Mrs. Scot hated small 
 houses, with their mean little gardens, and charwomen, and 
 their thievish ways. She wanted lofty ceilings, and broad stair- 
 cases, and the state and insolence of wealth around her. She 
 wanted a posse of servants at her command ; men and women 
 who would tremble if she frowned, and run and do her bidding. 
 She wanted, too, money to spend, not in the pitiful way of shil- 
 lings and pence, but in fifty pounds at a time, if need be. She 
 wanted to be courted by tradesmen, and be fawned on and flat- 
 tered for favours she rarely granted. In short, what the pictures, 
 the wines, and the gardens of Beatrice were to Mr. Gervoise, 
 her house, her servants, and her money were to the housekeeper. 
 Both were human leeches in their way. 
 
 But perhaps the sorest blow of all to. Mrs. Scot was the giv- 
 ing up of her room. She had spent years in bringing it to its 
 present state, not of beauty, to that she was indifierent, but of 
 comfort. The carpets, the footstools, the chairs and tables, 
 suited Mrs. Scot exactly. Never would she find others like these, 
 never ! Tears of grief and rage flowed down Mrs. Scot's cheeks. 
 For a moment she regretted not having betrayed Mr. Gervoise 
 at once, and turned to Beatrice ; but hatred proved stronger than 
 interest. " No," she thought, stopping in the very midst of her 
 packing, " no, the ugly little-faced monkey, better starve ten times 
 than submit to her ; but I will pay him out, I will, the mean, 
 pitiful wretch ! " , 
 
 12* 
 
274 BEATEIOE. 
 
 In this mood slie packed. But alas ! if Mrs. Scot could take 
 a well-fiUed purse with her, she could not pack up her room, her 
 chairs, and comforts, and Carnoosie. These darling treasures 
 must remain behind, come what may. Tears of spite and vexa- 
 tion dimmed her eyes ; then, being a practical woman, she sat 
 down awhile and matured her plans. A nod showed that Mrs. 
 Scot had come to a satisfactory conclusion. She rose, locked her 
 trunks, and gave her room a last look. She did not think how 
 calm and easy her life might have been had she proved herself a 
 faithful, or at least a respectful servant, she only thought that 
 Beatrice and Mr. Gervoise had combined to hunt her out, and 
 she vowed to make them both suffer for their sin. 
 
 It was five o'clock as Mrs. Scot left Carnoosie by the front door. 
 On the staircase, and at the gate, she found servants waiting for 
 her with insolent faces, on which beamed unequivocal delight. 
 Mrs. Scot had been the terror of housemaids, and had had many 
 a fierce contest with the male members of the household. Now 
 was their hour of triumph, and revenge being sweet in all stages 
 of society, to Mrs. Scot's victims as well as to Mrs. Scot herself, 
 we must not wonder at the escort she now finds in her path. Be 
 assured that she has merited it, though it may be, and is, un- 
 generous, no doubt, still she has earned it by years of petty des- 
 potism and mean tyranny, scarcely to be expiated by the humili- 
 ation of those five minutes from the hall-door to the gate. When 
 Mrs. Scot had crossed this, and stood on the road, there arose a 
 subdued but derisive cheer behind her. She turned round and 
 shook her fist ; they laughed scornfully ; but who knows, perhaps 
 the threat was not meant for them, perhaps it was for those red 
 brick walls behind them, for that Carnoosie which she hated now 
 that it was lost, and hers no more. 
 
 In this mood Mrs. Scot went to the village inn, the " George." 
 The innkeeper had been one of Mrs. Scot's few favourites, and, 
 to do him justice, he did not prove a turncoat in the calamity that 
 deprived her of all power to serve him. He gave Mrs. Scot his 
 best room, and readily acceded to her request that he would send 
 for her luggage. 
 
 " And, Mr. Brown, I am going out for a little while, and I 
 shall be glad of something when I come in." 
 
 " We have got bacon and eggs, and a cold ham and greens," 
 was Mr. Brown's triumphant reply. 
 
 Mrs. Scot's heart overflowed with bitterness and gall. This 
 was Mr. Brown's best, and what no kitchen-maid at Carnoosie 
 would have condescended to touch. The memory of M. Panel's 
 
BEATRICE. 275 
 
 French dishes, so sweet and savory, of delicious soups and 
 fricassees, came back to her ; but Mrs. Scot had energy and will, 
 and pride in her way, and scorning to show her regret for the 
 flesh-pots of Egypt, she smiled in her stem fashion, and said : 
 
 " I am very fond of bacon and eggs, Mr. Brown. And now 
 I am going, as I said, for a little while." 
 
 She went. Her path took her through the forest, now in all 
 its summer splendour and beauty. But Mrs. Scot's thoughts were 
 not turned that way. What mattered trees and their verdure, 
 and nature and her skies, to Mrs. Scot in her present mood? 
 The shortest path, that which would lead her most quickly to her 
 revenge, was the pleasantest to Mrs. Scot. On she went until 
 the forest was crossed, and the fair fertile plain was reached. A 
 noble region was that which spread around Carnoosie ; a world 
 of luxuriant corn and ripe orchards, which called Beatrice mis- 
 tress. But in the very midst of that fair continent was the small 
 green island which Antony claimed as his, and in the centre of 
 this again stood the cottage which the Stones had taken. Beneath 
 its wails flowed the same rippling cheerful stream which pass- 
 ed through Beatrice's grounds, and by which she sat so often, 
 dreaming of Gilbert and the sweet, tormenting past. To this 
 cottage Mrs. Scot made her way ; a mild-looking servant-man let 
 her in, and asked her business and her name. 
 
 " I am Mrs. Scot, the housekeeper at Carnoosie, and I come 
 to speak to Mr. Stone on important business." 
 
 So answered Mrs. Scot, for she was not one to disguise her 
 name, or beat about the bush. The mild-looking servant-man 
 went in, delivered her message, and presently Mr. Stone came 
 out. 
 
 This gentleman did not look like one who needed any warn- 
 ing. There were strange lines of thought and care and worldly 
 experience in that wrinkled face. The small eyes, the long, keen 
 nose, the thin, cautious mouth, spoke of prudence, if there be lan- 
 guage in physiognomy. 
 
 Mrs. Scot gave this worldly-looking gentleman a doubtful 
 glance, and began cautiously : 
 
 " I must apologize for the liberty I am taking, sir, but I come 
 on important business." 
 
 " Don't mention it — don't mention it," was Mr. Stone's answer. 
 
 " I was Mr. Gervoise's housekeeper this morning, sir," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Scot. " If I were remaining at Carnoosie, I do not 
 say I should have come here this evening ; but I am leaving, and 
 it lies on my conscience not to speak." 
 
276 BEATRICE. 
 
 She looked hard at him, but Mr. Stone's face remained im- 
 perturbably cool. 
 
 " You have a daughter, sir," said Mrs. Scot, " a very pretty 
 daughter, and probably a rich one, and I know some one who 
 wants her, and is laying a trap for her. Take care, sir, a worse 
 man, a more serpent man, a more snake one, there does not exist. 
 Take care, sir ! " 
 
 Mrs. Scot spoke passionately, for she forgot every thing ex- 
 cept her own feeling of resentment. Her hands twitched ner- 
 vously, her eyes gleamed, and Mr. Stone looked at her with con- 
 temptuous observation. 
 
 '' I am very much obliged to you for taking all this trouble," 
 he said, with a smile. 
 
 ^' But you don't believe me," quickly replied Mrs. Scot, "you 
 don't believe me. Why, I can tell you all that has passed be- 
 tween you and him. I know him. I tell you I know him, the 
 serpent ! He has told you that he does not want his younger 
 son to marry yet. Do not believe it — for father and son are in a 
 plot against you. He has told you that Miss Beatrice is mad, or 
 next door to it. Do not believe it ; she is in her right senses, 
 sir, as well as you and I are. He has told you that he and his 
 sons are rich ; they are poor as rats, and as mean and as sneak- 
 ing. He has told you that, when Miss Beatrice is locked up, his 
 son Antony will come into the property — do not believe it, he is 
 but her cousin ever so far removed, and there is an heir-at-law 
 who lives somewhere in Devonshire. Whatever he says believe 
 the very reverse. If he speaks of counts and nobles, make sure 
 he is low, quite low. Whatever he says, believe the reverse. 
 He was born with a lie in his mouth, and with a lie on his lips 
 he will die." 
 
 Mrs. Scot spoke readily and fast. She was keen and shrewd, 
 and she had all her master's doublings by heart. She knew, as 
 if she had heard him, all he must have said to tempt a man of 
 Mr. Stone's turn and temper. The triple lure of blood, money, 
 and property must not have been wanting. But, unfortunately 
 for Mrs. Scot, she knew the truth too well. She said so nearly 
 all that Mr, Gervoise had said, that doubt had no room. She 
 merely denied what he asserted, but in the violence of her anger 
 and the hurry of her revenge she gave no clue — she threw no 
 new light. 
 
 Mr. Stone saw in her what she was — a revengeful, discarded 
 servant, but he did not see the torch of the goddess truth burning 
 in the hand of this domestic Nemesis. The commonplace, ugly 
 
BEATEICE. 2Y7 
 
 side of this transaction appeared to him. No presentiment told 
 him that this might be the turning • point in his destiny. He 
 smiled again. 
 
 " My good lady," he said, with evident complacency, " you 
 come too late, though I do not think it would have made much 
 difference if you had come earlier ; Mr. Gervoise wrote to me 
 about you an hour ago." 
 
 " Well, and what did he say about me 9 " she asked defiantly. 
 
 Mr. Stone took a letter from his pocket, and put it into her 
 hand. It was addressed by Mr. Grervoise to Mr. Stone, and ran 
 thus : 
 
 " My deak Sir, — My amiable though erratic step-daughter 
 has had an unpleasantness with an old and valued servant, Mrs. 
 Scot, the housekeeper. Of course the servant is sacrificed to the 
 child. There are cases when it is too hard to be just. Never- 
 theless, Mrs. Gervoise and I feel this to be a severe trial. A 
 better and more faithful and attached dependant we never Jiad. 
 We are of course ready to make every pecuniary compensation 
 the case affords, but Mrs. Scot is too efficient to retire on a pen- 
 sion. If you could therefore recommend her, you would confer 
 a lasting favour on your faithful servant, 
 
 "A. Gervoise." 
 
 Mrs. Scot felt thoroughly bewildered on reading this high- 
 flown eulogy of herself. She did not at once detect the motive 
 that had dictated it. Mr. Stone enlightened her. 
 
 " I think that will do, Mrs. Scot," he said. " I suppose I 
 need not tell you the value I set on your visit here, and the reli- 
 ance I place on your advice." 
 
 The look of Mr. Stone's little shrewd eyes expressed so much 
 amusement at her defeat, that Mrs. Scot could not keep in her 
 temper. , 
 
 " Be his dupe," she said, setting her teeth, " be his dupe, sir, 
 and remember my warning when it is too late. What did I 
 come here for ? — did I ask money from you ? — what did I come 
 here for ? " 
 
 " You came for revenge, Mrs. Scot," replied Mr. Stone, 
 smiling, " and Mr. Gervoise is the softest man I ever knew, 
 that's all." 
 
 " Oh ! you think him soft, do you? " said Mrs. Scot, turning 
 to the door, " well, then, I am revenged upon you, that's all." 
 
 Mr. Stone did not condescend to resent her insolent tohe. 
 
278 BEATRICE. 
 
 This was another of the world's many shifting scenes, and it 
 amused him. A heavy book lay on the table, and Mrs. Scot 
 longed to take and throw it at his head in the rage of her defeat. 
 The letter had crushed her. What could she say ? Deny its 
 truth ! Impossible ! Attribute to malice language so considerate ! 
 Absurd ! This was indeed a trap she had not foreseen. Mr. 
 Stone saw her anger and confusion, and he smiled at both. 
 Poor man, he thought himself spectator in the drama, and never 
 suspected that he was prime actor. Thus it is on the great stage. 
 We act our part all the better that we never know it. We are 
 ridiculous or sublime unconsciously, and it is only when the play 
 is half over, when our hearts are broken with grief and our days 
 worn out with calamity that we remember how, when we thought 
 ourselves freest, we were already deep in it, slaves and victims 
 of the fatal sport. 
 
 Mr. Stone's hand was on the lock of the door that led to the 
 room where he had left his daughter, when the door through 
 which Mrs. Scot had just departed, opened again, and she ap- 
 peared on the threshold. 
 
 " I can tell you many things," she said, without coming for- 
 ward — " mind I can tell you many things." 
 
 She stood there like a dark spirit waiting to be called in 
 within the room, but Mr. Stone looked bored, and said shortly : 
 
 " That will do-^that will do ; we have had enough of that, 
 Mrs. Scot." 
 
 The door closed on Mrs. Scot, and this time she did not come 
 back. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Miss Stone had left the parlour when her father re-entered 
 it. He did not wonder at it. Rosy was fond of the garden, and 
 often wandered alone beyond its precincts into the forest, or the 
 grounds of Carnoosie. The country was safe, Mr. Gervoise 
 assured him, and Mr. Stone saw nothing to make him doubt it. 
 His interview with Mrs. Scot had made Mr. Stone thirsty ; the 
 evening was close, too, and the servant had not yet cleared away 
 the tea-things, so he drained the teapot, and poured himself out 
 another cup of tea. But Mr. Stone was not to take his tea in 
 peace this evening. Scarcely had he raised the cup to his lips, 
 when the mild-looking man-servant announced Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 He came in, looking very warm and tired, and sank down on 
 a chair with a breathless air. 
 
 " Are you not well, Mr. Gervoise? " asked Mr. Stone ; " will 
 you have some tea ? " 
 
 " Tea ! oh no, thank you ; tea excites me so ! — I am not ill, 
 thank you, only a little flurried. The fact is," plaintively added 
 Mr. Gervoise, " I cannot get over parting with poor Mrs. Scot. 
 She went away this afternoon, and I am afraid she was vexed 
 — ^I am afraid she was. You see the poor soul did not like 
 being sacrificed to Beatrice's whim. But, then, what were we 
 to do ? Beatrice, an only child, a susceptible girl — no, we could 
 not keep Mrs. Scot. And yet, Mr. Stone, you cannot imagine 
 what a good, faithful, honest creature that Mrs. Scot has always 
 been ! Now allow me to give you an instance : Some two years 
 ago I had dealings with a farmer named Robinson. This man 
 attempted to bribe Mrs. Scot ; he offered her a gold watch to get 
 him the information he wanted. Mrs. Scot refused, sir, point 
 blank. Mind, a gold watch, sir." 
 
 "And you had that on good authority, of course?" asked 
 Mr. Stone. 
 
 " The best authority, sir ; Mrs. Scot told me herself." 
 
 Mr. Stone drank his tea in silence. Should he unveil that 
 
280 beateice: 
 
 black Mrs. Scot to this soft and good gentleman ? or leave him 
 his amiable illusion? He resolved on the former course, but, 
 unable to check some contempt for blindness so persistent, he 
 said rather ironically : 
 
 " Of course you have no doubt about the depth and sincerity 
 of Mrs. Scot's attachment for you ? " 
 
 " Doubt ! " cried Mr. Gervoise, staring, " oh ! . of course 
 not!" 
 
 Mr. Stone thrust his hands into his pockets, leaned back in 
 his chair, and bent his shrewd eye on Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 "Mrs. Scot has just left," he said, " and she came, reversing 
 the usual case, to give her late master a character." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise opened his mouth, but could not speak at once. 
 
 " To give me a character? " he said at length. 
 
 " Oh ! servants will do that sometimes," replied Mr. Stone, 
 with a low, knowing laugh ; " well, I will not repeat the charac- 
 ter Mrs. Scot gave you — it was not a flattering oi^e, and did not 
 raise my opinion of her. Mrs. Scot is an impostor ! " 
 
 " Mr. Stone, you take my breath away ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Gervoise. " What can poor Mrs. Scot have said or done to 
 make you so severe ? " 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Scot, indeed ! I tell you she is a wretch ! — an 
 ungrateful, vindictive wretch ! Trust me, Mr. Gervoise, I have 
 not lived in retirement like you. I am an old man of the 
 world." 
 
 " Why, yes," sighed Mr.' Gervoise, " that is very true ; and 
 indeed, Mr. Stone, I have the greatest faith in your judgment ; 
 only I can't — I really cannot understand it at all, about poor 
 Mrs. Scot — I really cannot." 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, I tell you that poor Mrs. Scot has imposed 
 upon you. She told you some story about that Robinson and 
 the gold watch, and you believed her, but I repeat it, she is, and 
 always was, a gross impostor ! " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise's look of distress made Mr. Stone smile. 
 
 " You don't know the world, my dear sir," he said kindly ; 
 " you don't know the world." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Stone," a little testily replied Mr. 
 Gervoise, "I do know the world; but Mrs. Scot is not the 
 world, is she ? '\ 
 
 " Certainly not ! — certainly not ! " 
 
 " And I can't help thinking you are mistaken about poor 
 Mrs. Scot ! " persisted this good man. " I never detected any 
 thing of the kind in her— never ! " 
 
BEATRICE. 281 
 
 " I dare say not." 
 
 " And I have always been allowed to have a great deal of 
 penetration," continued Mr. Gervoise, " and great insight into 
 character, Mr. Stone." 
 
 Mr. Stone had something ado not to laugh at this absurd as- 
 sumption ; but good breeding kept him silent, for "just so " was 
 no reply. 
 
 " And on the whole," triumphantly concluded Mr. Gervoise, 
 " I do think it was all a mistake of yours about poor Mrs. Scot." 
 
 If Mr. Gervoise wanted, by this persistent declaration of 
 Mrs. Scot's innocence, to ascertain what Mrs. Scot had said, he 
 was disappointed. Mr. Stone felt excessively bored at all this. 
 Indeed, there was one point of Mr. Gervoise's character which 
 he had detected from the first, and that was that Mr. Gervoise 
 was a bore of the first water. So, though he held him, alas ! as 
 a good sort of a soft stupid man, so thick was the bandage Mr. 
 Gervoise had placed across those shrewd, worldly eyes of his, 
 he also held him one of those men whom the wise must keep at 
 a distance, even though they make use of them. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise, perceiving he could get nothing, changed his 
 theme. 
 
 " There is no one within hearing," he whispered, " is there, 
 Mr. Stone?" 
 
 " No one," answered that gentleman, rather surprised at Mr. 
 Gervoise's mysterious air. 
 
 "Do you mind shutting the window?" continued Mr. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 Mr. Stone did not mind, so the window was shut. Mr. 
 Gervoise drew his chair near to Mr. Stone's, and said con- 
 fidentially : 
 
 " I'm in a mess." 
 
 Now, as this was the tenth time or so since the opening of 
 their acquaintance that Mr. Gervoise had come to him with this 
 ominous declaration, and the tenth time or so that Mr. Stone 
 had had to get him out of the deplorable condition, though Mr. 
 Gervoise's messes were decidedly light, Mr. Stone did not show 
 any extraordinary amount of concern, but merely asked : 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " About the child ! " So Mr. Gervoise affectionately called 
 Beatrice to Mr. Stone. " She is going all wrong," he whispered, 
 gently tapping his forehead ; " and I cannot let her marry 
 Antony, can I ? " 
 
 " And does your son, knowing this, persist? " 
 
282 BEATEICE. 
 
 " He shuts his eyes — sees and believes nothing." 
 
 "And you think she is really wrong?" said Mr. Stone, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Think ! Alas ! I am sure. Do you not remember all I 
 told you on this subject? " 
 
 " Yes, you did mention something of the kind." 
 
 " Her new freak now is frantic jealousy of Antony, who, 
 poor boy, gives her no cause. She is ready to scratch his eyes 
 out if he looks at another woman, and there was a scene the 
 other day because he said Miss Stone was pretty." 
 
 '*I was not aware that he had seen her," drily said Mr. 
 Stone. 
 
 " "Well, I am not sure that he has ; but he is a baby, and 
 likes to tease, and now he has come back to Carnoosie, and I 
 want to part them, and how am I to do it, Mr. Stone ? " 
 
 " Nothing seems easier to me — they are both in one house- 
 let one go." 
 
 But Mr. Gervoise could not manage this at all. 
 
 " Can you not invent some excuse and make your son leave ?" 
 
 " No, Mr. Stone, I cannot. I have a good deal of insight 
 and penetration, and all that, but I am a perfect fopl at inventing 
 — I can — not do it." 
 
 Mr. Stone, with his hands still in his pockets, smiled benev- 
 olently. 
 
 " Well, then," he said, " do not invent ; get Mrs. Gervoise 
 ordered to the seaside, and take her and Miss Gordon away." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise's eyes sparkled, and he rubbed his hands in great 
 glee. 
 
 " Capital ! " he said, " the very thing. Fll do it at once. 
 I'll get Mrs. Gervoise ordered to the seaside — admirable — and 
 take the child away. I am so much obliged to you ! " 
 
 He was, indeed, much obliged to Mr. Stone, and shook his 
 hand most cordially. 
 
 " Shall we go to the garden," said Mr. Stone, " and join 
 Rosy?" 
 
 " No, thank you, I must go home and impart your valuable 
 suggestion to Mrs. Gervoise, without whose advice I never act. 
 Good night, and good-bye, Mr. Stone, for I may not see you 
 again before we go. I am so much obliged to you ! " 
 
 There was something in Mr. G^rvoise's tone, something like 
 a touch of irony, which startled Mr. Stone. He gave him a 
 sharp look, but the room was dark. Mr. Gervoise's face gave 
 him no clue, and that passing glimpse of light left no trace be- 
 
~\,)^ 
 
 BEATRICE. 283 
 
 hind it ; Mr. Gervoise was a simple, stupid, good man, who, in- 
 stead of getting his crazy step-daughter locked up, indulged her 
 whims to the verge of peril ; and Antony Gervoise was a foolish 
 young fellow, who would marry a mad girl for the sake of her 
 face. With this infatuated belief in the danger of others, and in 
 his own security, Mr. Stone saw Mr. Gervoise to the door, and 
 called in his daughter from the garden. 
 
 It was some time before Bosy could be found ; at length she 
 came, and whilst Mr. Gervoise was walking home to consult 
 with Mrs. Gervoise — without whose advice he never did any thing 
 — Mr. Stone sat listening to Rosy — happy little Kosy ! — who 
 was warbling away at her piano like any bird. Sing away, poor 
 little bird, sing away, do not think of the storm which is brood- 
 ing over your peaceful nest ! 
 
 Mr. Gervoise liked a round-about way in more senses than 
 one. Instead of crossing the forest, he now walked on its out- 
 skirts, and instead of going straight home to Carnoosie, he went 
 down to the hollow in which nestled Doctor Rogerson's cottage. 
 The garden-gate stood half open, the house door was ajar, and a 
 sound of voices proceeded from within. Mr. Gervoise coughed 
 gently, then pushing the door open, looked in most benevolently 
 around the untidy parlour. Mrs. Rogerson remained aghast, 
 and Doctor Rogerson, who was taking his tea and nursing the 
 baby, blushed rosy red, and, being a foolish man, longed, in the 
 burning shame of the moment, to fling the baby anywhere out of 
 the way. 
 
 " Don't mind me, doctor," kindly said Mr. Gervoise ; " but 
 if it is not too much trouble, just come out to me for five min- 
 utes, will you?" 
 
 Doctor Rogerson handed the baby to his wife, and leaving by 
 his unfinished tea, at once went out to Mr. Gervoise. Mr. Ger- 
 voise was a cautious man ; he knew that walls have ears, that 
 bushes even are treacherous, and he led Doctor Rogerson into a 
 green paddock, where the Doctor's pony was grazing. Mr. Ger- 
 voise gave the animal a shrewd look, and, probably thinking him 
 safe, he opened the matter on his mind with much less ceremony 
 than if he had been speaking to Mr. Stone. 
 
 " Doctor," he said, " don't you think Mrs. Gervoise wants to 
 travel? It would do her good, would it not?" 
 
 " It certainly would. You remember, Mr. Gervoise, that I 
 suggested " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know ; but as I said it would do her good. You 
 would recommend France, would you not?" — say the Norman 
 sea-coast." 
 
284 BEATEIOE. 
 
 " Why, no, Mr. Gervoise. I do not think a sea-joumey 
 would be good for Mrs. Gervoise." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise stared. 
 
 " You mean to say that the air of my native province, the 
 sea-air of Normandy, would not be good for Mrs. Gervoise?" 
 
 " Yes — I am indeed afraid it would be injurious to her." 
 
 "Afraid, sir! are you a medical man? and are you. not 
 sure?" 
 
 Mr. Gervoise's tone was aggressive and insolent. It was the 
 tone of a man who wants to quarrel, and Doctor Rogerson per- 
 ceived it with secret- alarm. He gave Mr. Gervoise a scared 
 look, and remained silent. 
 
 " Well, sir, will you give me a plain answer or not?" asked 
 Mr. Gervoise, indignantly. 
 
 " I have given it," was the mild reply. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise drew back two steps, and looked at him with 
 scorn. 
 
 Doctor Rogerson," he said, " I ask you again if the sea-air of 
 Normandy will not be the very best thing for Mrs. Gervoise, 
 and I beg you to answer me plainly ? " 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, I have given you my opinion, and I must 
 give it again. Mrs. Gervoise cannot bear sea-sickness — I fear 
 not, at least " 
 
 "You fear not!" hotly interrupted Mr. Gervoise; "you 
 speak in a tone of doubt when Mrs. Gervoise's welfare is at 
 stake ! Sir, you do not understand your profession, and your 
 attendance on Mrs. Gervoise is at an end ! " 
 
 Doctor Rogerson bowed. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise put his hand in his pocket. 
 
 " How much do I owe you, sir," he asked, imperatively. 
 
 " I called twice on Mrs. Gervoise since you were so kind as 
 to advance me twenty pounds," began Doctor Rogerson. 
 
 " Then, sir, you owe me eighteen pounds," interrupted Mr. 
 Gervoise, and he looked at Doctor Rogerson as much as to say, 
 " Pay me this instant." 
 
 " If you will kindly remember, sir, the circumstances under 
 which you advanced that money," said Doctor Rogerson timidly, 
 " you will see that it is not in my power to pay you for some 
 time yet." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise stared in mute indignation at this dishonest 
 debtor. 
 
 " Do you mean to say, sir," he asked at length ; " do you 
 mean to say that you are going to keep my money ? " 
 
BEATEICB. 285 
 
 Doctor Roger son raised his hands in token of deprecation. 
 
 " Oh ! you may threaten me, sir !" said Mr. Gervoise, with 
 dignified defiance. " I have your I O U, and I will use it, sir, 
 I will use it. I know my duty to society, and I will not allow 
 it to become your victim through me." 
 
 " For God's sake, Mr. Gervoise, have alittle mercy upon me ! " 
 piteously cried Doctor Rogerson, following his persecutor with 
 eager entreaty. " Remember how openly I told you my unfor- 
 unate position, think of my poor dehcate wife ! " 
 
 " Did you think of mine, sir," asked Mr. Gervoise. " Did 
 you not, through sheer obstinacy, cruel obstinacy, persist in say- 
 ing that the sea-air of Normandy would be bad for her ? No, 
 sir, you were pitiless to that unhappy lady ; expect no pity from 
 me." 
 
 And without giving Doctor Rogerson time to recover from 
 his confusion and surprise, or even to put in a word, Mr. Ger- 
 voise walked rapidly away. 
 
 Doctor Rogerson stood looking after him in mute despair. He 
 must have been very blind and obtuse indeed if he had not under- 
 stood how and why he had sinned, but this knowledge mended 
 nothing, and only made his misery the more certain. Pale as a 
 ghost, and shaking in every limb, he went back to the parlour 
 where Mrs. Rogerson sat waiting, indulging in rosy dreams of 
 another twenty-pound note volunteered by that benevolent-look- 
 ing gentleman. 
 
 " If Doctor Rogerson will only have the sense to take it ! " 
 she thought. 
 
 It was then Doctor Rogerson came in, looking, as we said, 
 pale as a ghost; but the room was well-nigh dark now, and 
 Mrs. Rogerson saw and suspected nothing, for she said : 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson, don't you think you could get a leetle 
 more money from Mr. Gervoise? Twenty pounds will never 
 do, never ! " 
 
 Doctor Rogerson leaned back in his chair and groaned. 
 
 " We are all ruined, Mary ; all ruined and undone." 
 
 Much frightened, Mrs. Rogerson rose at once, and went to 
 her husband. 
 
 "What is it, Edward?" she asked, in a terrified whisper. 
 "What can it be?" 
 
 " He wants the money back, and we are all ruined and all 
 undone ! " 
 
 " But you can't give it, Edward, you can't. Tell him so." 
 
 " I*have told him so ; but he has my I O U, and I tell you 
 we are ruined." 
 
286 BEATEIOE. 
 
 It is always hard to deceive a woman, but it is very hard to 
 deceive a wife. Mrs. Rogerson saw there was more in this than 
 her husband had told her. She took him by the arm and led 
 him out of the parlour, where the children had stood still, in the 
 very midst of their playing, to look and listen to their parents. 
 
 " Ned, what has happened ? " she asked, when they stood 
 outside the house in the little blooming garden. "What can 
 you have done to Mr. Gervoise ? " 
 
 " Mary, I did nothing to him — ^but he wanted me to prescribe 
 sea-air and Normandy for his wife, and I did not." 
 
 Mrs. Rogerson stared and clasped her hands. 
 
 " Good gracious ! Doctor Rogerson, how could you act so? 
 What harm would it have done you if you had prescribed Nor- 
 mandy and sea-air to Mrs. Gervoise ? Why, poor lady ! I 
 should say that a change was the very best thing for her. And 
 for you to go and risk our welfare for such a trifle. I am 
 amazed at you." 
 
 " My dear, it is not a trifle. Mr. Gervoise asked my opin- 
 ion, and I gave it. I do believe that a sea-journey would be in- 
 jurious to Mrs. Gervoise." 
 
 " But, Doctor Rogerson, how can you be sure? And surely, 
 in a case of doubt, you might give us the benefit of it." 
 
 " My dear, I had no suspicion that Mr. Gervoise wanted his 
 wife to travel. He generally goes a roundabout way to attain 
 his ends or give his opinion, but this time he went straight on." 
 
 " Of course he did. It is all your imagination to think he 
 goes roundabout. Why should he ? " 
 
 " Mary, don't turn against me. I cannot bear it. I tell 
 you Mr. Gervoise wanted to quarrel with and ruin me, and that 
 I could not have avoided it." 
 
 But Mrs. Rogerson was too shrewd to take so limited a view 
 of the subject. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " she said, decisively. " I am not turning 
 against you, Edward, my dear, and Mr. Gervoise did not want 
 to ruin you ; but he wanted you to sent his wife to France, and 
 you would not, and so he got angry. Rich people like to be un- 
 derstood on the first hint, and I dare say you compelled him, in 
 your blundering way, to speak plainly, instead of falling in at 
 once with his views." 
 
 " But, my dear, I could not do that. A sea-journey " 
 
 " Now, Doctor Rogerson, don't tell me a sea-journey could 
 do any one any harm. I wish I were ordered one, and Nor- 
 mandy, and sea-air ! " she added, with a sigh. 
 
BEATEICE. 28Y 
 
 Doctor Rogerson sighed too. The weary burden of his 
 cares, which had for awhile been lifted off his shoulders, now 
 fell on them once more with tenfold weight. He loved his wife 
 and his children very dearly ; but oh ! how he longed to be 
 lying asleep in the bed of the little river he could hear rippling 
 along in the gray and still evening ! No such thoughts were in 
 Mrs. Rogerson's mind. She looked languid, yet she had ten 
 times more energy than her husband, and she had but one thought 
 now, a needful one in this pressing peril, and that was how best 
 they might escape the danger with which they were threatened. 
 
 "Doctor Rogerson," she said decisively, "if you do not 
 order Mrs. Gervoise to the sea-side, some one else will. I do 
 not see why you should not have the benefit of it ! " 
 
 " Mary ! my conscience, my honour ! " 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson, do you mean to say that I would advise 
 any thing against either ! " 
 
 " No, my dear, but if I do this " 
 
 " And why should you not do it ?" asked his wife. "Are 
 you sure it will injure her ? You are not, but you are sure it 
 will be done ; and with that doubt on your mind you will ruin 
 us ? That is not conscience or honour, Edward, it is pride, false 
 pride, and no more." 
 
 She spoke excitedly and fast, perhaps not to hear a secret 
 voice that pleaded against the sophistry of her argument. Her 
 husband listened to her with a troubled heart, and he seemed to 
 hear the soft low tones of his dead mother teaching him those 
 words of the Lord's prayer : " Lead us not into temptation." 
 
 Alas 1 where was the pure and lofty ideal of their honey- 
 moon when young, happy, and free as yet from the bonds of 
 life, they spoke of their stainless future with innocent pride. 
 
 Oh ! what sad havoc this hard world does make with the 
 dreams of the innocent and the young ! What a downfall with 
 more than Doctor Rogerson and his wife ! 
 
 In these sad struggles between conscience and necessity it is 
 often woman who takes the part of tempter, and a pitiless 
 tempter Mrs. Rogerson now was to her husband. She proved 
 to him that unless he yielded to Mr. Gervoise he was a ruined 
 man, and that therefore he could not yield too soon nor yet too 
 readily. 
 
 " I shall see to-morrow morning," said the poor man. 
 
 " To-morrow morning ! you may then spare yourself the 
 trouble and the humiliation, Doctor Rogerson. By to-morrow 
 morninff another medical man will have been called in and will 
 
288 BEATKICE. 
 
 have received a guinea for saying what it will cost you eighteen 
 and your home not to have said." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson groaned. 
 
 " It is no use groaning," said his wife in a clear, hard voice, 
 " do it at once, or do not do it at all." 
 
 He still stood irresolute, looking desperately at the starry 
 sky. 
 
 " Jane," said Mrs. Rogerson, " bring your papa his hat and 
 cane." 
 
 Jane obeyed. Her little innocent hands put the hat and cane 
 into her father's, and felt them shake like an aspen-leaf. He 
 took both, and went away without uttering a word. His wife's 
 heart smote her for the part she had acted. She ran after her 
 husband, and soon overtaking him, laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Edward," she said softly, " don't go if you feel you can't 
 do it. We have struggled twelve years together and can bear 
 ruin if it should come to the worst." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson turned round and kissed his wife in the 
 darkness, then he put her away without a word and went on. 
 He went on as many a better man has gone before him, to seek 
 disgrace and shame for the sake of those he loved. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Mrs. Gekvoise was very unwell that evening. The night 
 was sultry, and she complained of the closeness of Carnoosie, 
 
 " It is such heavy air," she said to Beatrice. " Oh ! how I 
 do long for a change ! I thought I should have one when you 
 got of age." 
 
 " My poor darling," softly whispered Beatrice, bending over 
 her mother, "you are not well, and this is a close evening, but 
 Carnoosie is fresh and breezy enough." 
 
 She said no more, for, contrary to his habit, Mr. Gervoise 
 now joined the ladies. He looked very bright and cheerful, and 
 hearing his wife sigh and complain, he said pleasantly : 
 
 " My dear, I know what ails you, we are too dull. You 
 want society. It is a pity Beatrice will not have the Stones 
 here." 
 
 Beatrice could scarcely repress a start. The whole of that 
 day she had been wondering how she could make the Stones 
 come to Carnoosie in spite of Mr. Gervoise, and now he sug- 
 gested it of his own accord. Habitual distrust bade her not be- 
 lieve in his sincerity. Since he said he wished the Stones to 
 come, it was sure proof he objected to it with all his might. 
 
 " I don't care about the Stones," querulously said Mrs. Ger- 
 voise, " but I long, oh ! I do long for a little change, Mr. Ger- 
 voise." 
 
 " My dear, change would do you no good ; besides, you know 
 of old my decision on this subject." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise sighed, and Beatrice gave her step-father an 
 indignant look, which he received with a mild smile. 
 
 " But we ought to have the Stones," he resumed. " Do you 
 still object, Beatrice ? " 
 
 " No," haughtily replied Miss Gordon. " They may come 
 or not, it is a matter of no moment to me." 
 
 " My dear," said her step-father with mild reproof, " how 
 often must I tell you that this tone is unbecoming and strange," 
 13 
 
290 BEATRICE. 
 
 Beatrice's lip curled with scorn, but she did not deign to re- 
 ply. Mr. Gervoise continued : 
 
 " The Stones are charming people, and if you do not like 
 them it can only be because you do not know them. Mr. Stone 
 is a man of sound practical sense, his daughter is exquisitely art- 
 less — I called there to-day, and found her quite engaging. She 
 prattled about her poor, and her schools, and flannel petticoats, 
 and tracts, in the most innocent and natural fashion. She is not 
 brilliant or witty, certainly, but she is a sweet little thing. I 
 wish I could remember the story she told about the old woman 
 to whom she gave a cloak, and who wanted a fur collar to it — 
 her father and I were ready to split our sides with laughing. 
 And she did look quite a quaint little thing — a real Dutch pic- 
 ture it was." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise, we need not say, was fpnd of introducing pic- 
 tures, Dutch or not, in his conversation ; and, as Beatrice was 
 acquainted with this amiable and picturesque peculiarity of his, 
 she made no doubt that this view of Miss Stone was a thoroughly 
 Gervoise view. But what was all this waste of eloquent and 
 imaginative speech to lead to ? 
 
 " Since you do not object to having them," continued Mr. 
 Gervoise, " I think we had better ask them to spend a week 
 here. What room shall Mr. Stone have ? I really think Mrs. 
 Scot's room will do very well. And suppose we give Miss 
 Jameson's to Rosy. We can put in the blue furniture to make 
 it a little bit smart, and a rosewood table or two." 
 
 There was a restlessness in Mr. Gervoise's mind which made 
 even useless planning and scheming pleasant to him. Nothing 
 was further from his thoughts than having the Stones at Car- 
 noosie ; he did not even intend asking them to come, but still it 
 was pleasant to worry his wife and Beatrice with plans for their 
 reception. As Beatrice would not reply, he insisted on making 
 Mrs. Gervoise talk, and give her opinion concerning the blue 
 furniture and the rosewood tables. 
 
 " I am sure I don't know, Mr. Gervoise," said the poor lady. 
 *' I only know that I am quite unwell this evening, and that I 
 wish Doctor Kogerson were here." 
 
 " To-morrow, my dear," soothingly said Mr. Gervoise, " to- 
 morrow morning, early." 
 
 *' This evening — at once," impetuously said Beatrice. " My 
 mother wishes for Doctor Roger son, and he shall be sent for." 
 
 She rang the bell. Mr. Gervoise rose. 
 
 "Miss Gordon," he said severely, '^ Doctor Rogerson may 
 
BEATEICE. 291 
 
 com« once more, since Mrs. Gervoise wishes for him, but I do 
 not think him a competent adviser, and I shall provide her with 
 another of my own choosing, Miss Gordon." 
 
 " Never with my consent shall a doctor of your choosing 
 prescribe for my mother," defiantly said Beatrice. 
 
 The door opened as she spoke, and on the threshold appeared 
 a servant answering her summons. 
 
 " Send_^for Doctor Rogerson at once," imperatively said Miss 
 Gordon. 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson is below, ma'am." 
 
 Intuitively Beatrice looked at her step-father. A little gleam 
 of triumph shone in his eyes. She felt vaguely that she had 
 fallen into a trap, though how so, and of what nature it was, she 
 could not tell. 
 
 " Show him up," she said hesitatingly. 
 
 The door closed ; then in a few minutes opened again, and 
 Doctor Rogerson entered the room. Beatrice stood at its fur- 
 ther extremity ; she saw him advance slowly, with his subdued, 
 shy bearing, and the mistrust she had ever felt against this man 
 rose keen and strong within her, for Doctor Rogerson was pale, 
 and if his look was calm, it was dull and cold, and Beatrice felt 
 that it shunned hers. She 'walked toward him, but did not give 
 him her hand. 
 
 " Good evening. Doctor," she said hurriedly. " Mamma is 
 very restless, and we were going to send for you when you 
 came." 
 
 " I saw it was a sultry evening, and knowing Mrs. Gervoise 
 was but poorly yesterday, I thought I would call in." 
 
 He said it quietly enough, but still his look shunned Beatrice's 
 keen eye. 
 
 " That man is bought — ^bought ! " she thought with rapid 
 conviction. She sank down in a chair, and leaned her forehead 
 on her hand in a strange confusion of mind. What was she to 
 do ? What did Mr. Gervoise intend ? For a moment she forgot 
 her mother ; she saw Mr. Stone's shrewd face, or she heard 
 Rosy's girlish laugh, and she felt herself involved in their destiny. 
 She roused herself to listen to her mother's languid voice. 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson," she was saying, " I feel so weak. Car- 
 noosie is so close." 
 
 Beatrice half turned round and looked at Doctor Rogerson. 
 He was sitting near the sick lady's couch ; his downcast eyes 
 were fastened on the hat he held between his knees ; his pale 
 lips moved with mechanical regularity as he replied : 
 
292 BEATRICE. 
 
 "The air of Carnoosie is excellent, my dear lady, but you 
 certainly want a change." • 
 
 " A change ! " interrupted Mr. ,Gervoise, in a tone which 
 might be sharp or surprised, Beatrice could not say which. 
 " And what change would you recommend. Doctor Rogerson? " 
 
 " Sea-air ! " replied Doctor Rogerson, slowly. ." Continental 
 sea-air, there is less moisture in it than in ours." 
 
 "Dear me!" cried Mr. Gervoise, "I should never have 
 thought that. Doctor Rogerson. For my part, I think no air 
 equal to British air, coast or inland, it is of the finest quality." 
 
 " For some complaints continental sea-air is much better," 
 said Doctor Rogerson. 
 
 " Oh ! I should like it so ! I should like it of all things ! " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Gervoise, looking imploringly at her husband. 
 Mr. Gervoise seemed to hesitate. 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson," he said impressively, " I do not hide 
 from you that it is extremely inconvenient for me to leave Car- 
 noosie just now. I put it to your conscience, now, is it really 
 necessary that Mrs. Gervoise should have continental sea-air?" 
 
 Beatrice bent forward and fastened her searching dark eyes 
 on Doctor Rogerson's face. She saw his troubled look seek Mr. 
 Mr. Gervoise's, as if asking, "Why inflict this useless torment 
 on me ? " And though she did not understand its meaning, that 
 look alarmed her. But Mr. Gervoise was not the man whom looks 
 could soften, and Doctor Rogerson had gone too far to recede. 
 With a trembling lip, but a tolerably firm voice, he said : 
 
 "It is really necessary that Mrs. Gervoise should have con- 
 tinental sea-air." 
 
 And having given his conscience, his honour, and his profes- 
 sional skill this distinct lie, the unhappy man rose, and muttering 
 a low good evening, he hastened to leave the room in which his 
 shame had been consummated. 
 
 Beatrice saw him go without stirring, but when the door had 
 closed upon him, she too rose. 
 
 " Beatrice, where are you going? " coolly asked Mr. Gervoise, 
 stepping across her path. 
 
 With a queenly gesture of disdain, Beatrice put him aside 
 and walked out, not deigning to close the door behind her, and 
 Mr. Gervoise did not dare to follow her. Beatrice swiftly went 
 down-stairs and overtook Doctor Rogerson at the bottom of the 
 staircase. She opened the door of the library and signed more 
 than she asked him to enter. He obeyed with some embarrass- 
 ment, and the secret fear of a conscience ill at ease. 
 
BEATEICE. 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson," impetuously asked Beatrice, " how and 
 what is this ? You have always spoken against a change, forbid- 
 den sea-journeys — why do you recommend them now? " 
 
 The imprudent question put Doctor Rogerson on his guard. 
 
 " The complaint from which Mrs. Gervoise is suffiering is 
 undergoing a great change," he said, " and change of treatment 
 is required." 
 
 Beatrice looked at him unconvinced. She longed to tell him 
 plainly : 
 
 " You are bought. Doctor Rogerson ; tell me you are bought, 
 and I will buy you, too," but shame for the man held her back, 
 and that shame proved Doctor Rogerson' s undoing. 
 
 " You must be telling me the truth," she said very bitterly, 
 "you cannot deceive me, can you, Doctor Rogerson?" 
 
 A deep indignant flush dyed Doctor Rogerson's pale cheeks. 
 
 " Deceiving you, madam ! " 
 
 Beatrice laughed, and tried to appear careless. 
 
 " Deceiving yourself, I mean. Good evening. Doctor Roger- 
 son. Do not be offended with me. You know me of old ; I al- 
 ways say the wrong thing, but I mean the right one." 
 
 She spoke kindly, for Beatrice had learned to rule her tones, 
 and if Doctor Rogerson was bought he was an enemy, and a 
 dangerous one, and he must be dealt with carefully ; but though 
 she opened the front door for him herself, and saw him to the 
 threshold of the house, she did not give him her hand. 
 
 Doctor Rogerson noticed it, and what was more, he knew 
 what it meant. The circle of shame which had begun with his 
 wife was spreading fast around him. It would soon be broad 
 and endless as a sea. 
 
 Six in the morning of the next day was the hour appointed 
 for the journey. This haste would have confirmed Beatrice had 
 she needed confirmation in the conviction that so extraordinary 
 an infraction to Mr. Gervoise's resolve never to let his wife leave 
 Camoosie, must have been planned by that gentleman himself. 
 
 Mrs.' Gervoise went to bed early, lest she should oversleep 
 herself, and Beatrice sat alone in the library by the open window. 
 She knew they were going to Verville, and, as she looked at the 
 deep dark sky where stars burned with a trembling light, deli- 
 cious languor stole into her veins and invaded her whole being. 
 She, too, was bribed, and though not bought, she felt how sweet 
 and fatal temptation can be made. What money was to the 
 needy Doctor Rogerson, what change was to her mother, Gilbert 
 was to her. She could not put away that sweet cup, but, even, 
 
294: BEATRICE. 
 
 though she drained it, she would not sell her conscience to Mr. 
 Grervoise. He was sending her out of the way, lest she should 
 speak. 
 
 " But he shall find that I can speak before going," thought 
 Beatrice. 
 
 She heard a step at the door of the library, and without wait- 
 ing for the knock, she opened and found John outside. 
 
 This uncouth old servant of the old Carnoosies, who neither 
 liked nor flattered her, but who was least under Mr. Gervoise's 
 influence, was Beatrice's favourite. He now came rather grumb- 
 ling at this unusual summons, but when his young mistress said : 
 " I want to have a walk in the forest, and you must come with 
 me," his brow cleared, he nodded, and followed her in a more 
 pacific mood. The old Carnoosies had been an eccentric race ; 
 indeed, there had been a touch of madness in their blood, and 
 they had been fond of doing strange things. Little as Beatrice 
 was in John's good graces, she now and then won his favour by 
 out-of-the-way proceedings in which no person of vulgar lineage 
 would have indulged. This night walk in the forest took John's 
 fancy amazingly. None of your namby-pamby young ladies 
 would have thought of it, would they ? No, it was that drop 
 of the old Carnoosie blood which was in Miss Beatrice that made 
 her do it. 
 
 The moon had risen as Beatrice walked through the grounds 
 at a quick step, followed by John, trotting with his hands in his 
 pockets. It was a bright clear night now. The sultriness had 
 passed from the air, the trees rose vast and dark against a deep 
 sky, and in the stillness sounded the little river rippling pleas- 
 antly. They entered the forest, and still Beatrice went on with 
 a light and happy step. Alas ! the spell was around her. It 
 was not the errand on which she was going that Beatrice thought 
 of. No, she thought of the evening when she and Gilbert were 
 lost in the forest ; of that other evening when they met and parted 
 and spoke for the last time, of the love that had been in their 
 hearts so long ; and beyond that world of waving trees, Beatrice 
 thought of the French shore, and of Gilbert to be seen again after 
 the longing of the last four months. Wonder not if, though her 
 errand was a sad one, she felt happy and gay. She could not 
 help it ; that world of our own hopes and desires within which 
 we all live, was around her then. 
 
 John whistled internally, when, as they reached the skirt of 
 the forest, Beatrice asked if he knew the way to Mr. Stone's cot- 
 This was more than a common freak, then, this night 
 
BEATRICE. 295 
 
 walk in tlie forest ; it was and must be some act of rebellion 
 against Mr. Gervoise. Now, if John did not mucli like Beatrice, 
 he liked Mr. Gervoise infinitely less ; for if Beatrice was not 
 much of a Carnoosie, Mr. Gervoise was a foreigner and an in- 
 truder, and he had no business in Carnoosie at all. With secret 
 glee, therefore, did he feel that Beatrice was flying in Mr. Ger- 
 voise's face, and with chuckling satisfaction and most amiable 
 alacrity did he abet the same. 
 
 " That is Mr. Stone's cottage where the lights are burning, 
 miss," said John, after awhile. 
 
 " Well, then, go on before me ; ring the bell, and ask if Mr. 
 Stone is within. If he is, tell him I want to speak to him 
 alone." 
 
 John did as he was bid. Beatrice, who followed him close, 
 heard the cottage door open and the servant reply that his master 
 was at home. John delivered his message, and Miss Gordon 
 quietly entered the house, and was shown into the same parlour 
 where Mrs. Scot had been received a few hours before. There 
 she sat down, listening to the sounds that came from the neigh- 
 bouring drawing-room, to Rosy's silver laughter, and to her 
 father's heavier tones. Both suddenly ceased. The door open- 
 ed, and Mr. Stone advanced toward her with a wondering look. 
 
 " You are surprised," said Beatrice quietly ; " and well you 
 may be. We are leaving Carnoosie early to-morrow, and I 
 should come to-night or not at all." 
 
 Mr. Stone bowed, and looked at her keenly. She was very 
 handsome, but she was flushed and excited, and surely there was 
 lurking insanity in those dark eyes of hers, so strangely fuU and 
 brilliant. 
 
 Unconscious of his thoughts, Beatrice sadly wondered if he 
 would believe her. 
 
 " I have no time to break this matter to you," she said, after 
 a short pause. " I must be both plain and brief. I come to 
 give you an important warning concerning your daughter and 
 Mr. Gervoise's younger son." 
 
 Mr. Stone smiled. 
 
 " He has been a frequent visitor here of late," resumed 
 Beatrice. 
 
 " No," interrupted Mr. Stone, " he never comes here." 
 
 Beatrice looked bewildered, then her eyes flashed. 
 
 " He meets your daughter in secret," she said vehemently, 
 " that is it, that is it." 
 
 Mr. Stone reddened, and looked silently indignant. 
 
296 BEATRICE. 
 
 ". Forgive me," resumed Beatrice, " but I know that unhappy- 
 young man, and whr*: I do not know I guess. For God's sake, 
 sir, take care, be on your guard, take care, if you love your 
 child." 
 
 Mr. Stone's indignation had calmed down, and Beatrice felt 
 he was more intent in watching her than in heeding her warn- 
 ing. 
 
 " You do not believe me," she said ; " ah ! yours is a hope- 
 less case indeed." 
 
 " My dear young lady," quietly said Mr. Stone, " you forget 
 that I am no boy, and that I have taken the habit of trusting an 
 experience of men and women which, up to the present, has not 
 failed me." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that," replied Beatrice, " for ia that 
 case you wiU rely upon it and be deceived at last." 
 
 " I hope not," composedly said Mr. Stone. 
 
 Beatrice looked at him compassionately. 
 
 " And that is life," she said with a sigh ; " that is how warn- 
 ings come and are not heeded, and then we quarrel with Provi- 
 dence for having given us the very fate we sought. Well, Mr. 
 Stone," she added after a pause, "lean say no more than I have 
 said, and yet I wiU add this : Mr. Gervoise and his son have 
 been many years in this neighbourhood ; they are well known, 
 question and seek to know ; perhaps you will get information 
 which may stagger you." 
 
 Mr. Stone smiled, and laying his hand on her arm, he said 
 soothingly : 
 
 " My dear young lady, I need no such information — you are 
 quite mistaken — quite — ^you came to warn me — allow me to 
 advise you. Another time think twice before you take the step 
 you have taken this evening. Think that it may be unpleasantly 
 construed ; that few men will be so charitable as not to attribute 
 to you some personal motive of pique — of feminine resentment — 
 in short, something you would not like to be taxed with in return 
 for your unsohcited kindness. I do not say such is my impres- 
 sion. I only bid you take care another time." 
 
 Beatrice rose. Her face burned with indignation and shame. 
 
 " When we meet again, Mr. Stone," she said — " if we do 
 meet — remember this evening." 
 
 Mr. Stone heard her unmoved. She was mad. This night 
 visit was the act of a madwoman, and certainly of a jealous and 
 vindictive girl. Should he inflict on his understanding the insult 
 of heeding her even for a moment? He smiled derisively at the 
 
BEATRICE. 297 
 
 thought, and for the second time that evening refused to heed the 
 warning sent by Providence. 
 
 Thus they parted, soon to meet again. John thrust his hands 
 into his pockets, and walked behind his young mistress through 
 the forest with the conscientious satisfaction of having fully 
 abetted her freak. But sad was Beatrice's mood on her return. 
 A sense of melancholy which she could not conquer oppressed 
 her. She thought no more of the sweet past, or of the pleasant 
 morrow ; she forgot Gilbert and their approaching meeting. 
 She only thought of that calmly-blind Mr. Stone, and of his 
 daughter's silver laughter. "And why should that fair girl 
 trouble me?" thought Beatrice, as she walked along the chill 
 avenue of the silent forest ; " is she not guarded by her father's 
 boasted experience ? — is she not protected by a love which I never 
 enjoyed? Have I not warned? Is not Mr. Gervoise known? 
 Poor little fair, blue-eyed thing ! I do think of her, and my 
 heart aches ! And yet even if the worst should come, this is but 
 one of the countless sad stories which fill this world, and against 
 which we are powerless. Nations, races, heroes, kings, and 
 queens are there to tell it. Greece bled six hundred years ; Po- 
 land was rent asunder, and Europe looked on. Mary Stuart, 
 Charles, Louis Seize, and Marie Antoinette died on a scaffold 
 even in the days when kings were as gods among men. She 
 must bear her fate and run her chance. I cannot help it. I have 
 done all I could — I must forget her ! " 
 
 We need not say that Mr. Gervoise had not long remained 
 ignorant of Beatrice's excursion ; and no more than Beatrice 
 need we wonder to find him sitting up for her and John. Indeed, 
 Mr. Gervoise carried condescension so far as to come out and 
 meet his step-daughter on the staircase. She saw him, and 
 went up toward him, the gas-light shining on her bright, hand- 
 some face, her gloved hand resting on the banisters, and looking 
 " a right-plucked one, every bit of her," as John internally 
 remarked. 
 
 " My dear Beatrice, we have been so uneasy," said Mr. 
 Gervoise ; " where have you been all this time ?" 
 
 " Taking the air," saucily answered Beatrice. 
 
 " Allow me to remark that it is highly imprudent in you to 
 do so at such an hour." 
 
 Beatrice's reply secured John's heart for ever. Turning 
 toward him with a bright smile, she said, " John was with me." 
 
 Then, seeming to think Mr. Gervoise answered, she went up 
 past him to her room. 
 13* 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Do you know the French coast, reader ? — especially do you 
 know that line, dotted with villages and towns and bays, which 
 extends from Dieppe to Havre, skirting with the blue sea the 
 green Norman landscape ? If so, you surely know Verville ; not 
 under that name, perhaps — ^but what about a name? Shake- 
 speare has told us that it has nothing to do with the sweetness of 
 a rose ; and call Verville by what name you please, it is none 
 the less one of the prettiest nooks in Normandy. It lies in a 
 cleft of the steep white coast which shuts out the encroaching 
 sea. A clear and rapid little river shaded by trees flows in the 
 narrow valley, and turns on its way the wheel of many a mill. 
 Thatched houses rise on the slopes, and look out at the sea, or 
 down on the green valley where the old abbey church — ^half- 
 hidden in the verdure of broad orchards — stands lone and grey. 
 In a quiet lane at the end of an avenue rises the chateau ; it was 
 partly demolished during the revolutionary times, and there are 
 places in the roof where thatch has replaced tile and slate. It 
 is an old building, quaint and solid, but by no means beautiful. 
 Painters like its conical-roofed turrets and its ivy-covered front, 
 and broad-arched gate, and that green wilderness which extends 
 around it, and spreads on to the edge of the sea-girt cliffs ; but 
 the chateau is old and dismal to live in, and it has neither pic- 
 turesque grounds, nor flower-garden, nor any of the charms of 
 modern comfort. It is what many such a place was in the olden 
 time — the dwelling fit for peasant nobles, and it is no more. 
 
 Melancholy though this old house looked, and dismal as were 
 the rooms, it was lovely in the eyes of Mrs. Gervoise after the 
 captivity of twelve weary years. And Beatrice, too, felt her 
 heart beat with secret joy as she passed through those dark old 
 chambers, and thought that here Gilbert was born and had been 
 reared, and that here, too, perhaps, she might see him again. 
 He had not come as yet, but Mr. Gervoise was gone, no doubt, 
 to lure him to the chateau ; and Beatrice hoped and waited in 
 
BEATRICE. 299 
 
 the room wliicli had been selected for her mother. Evening had 
 come on ; and Mrs. Gervoise sat a little back from the open 
 window, but Beatrice, half-leaning out, was looking at the far, 
 calm sea. 
 
 " Beatrice," said Mrs. Gervoise, " I can scarcely believe in 
 my happiness. Do you think it will last?" 
 
 " No, darling. I am sure it will not ; but let us enjoy it 
 whilst we have it." 
 
 "It is so very sweet to be in a new place," resumed Mrs. 
 Gervoise, sighing. " I never feel at home in that old Camoosie, 
 where every one seems to be watching you. I wish we could be 
 away somewhere, Beatrice." 
 
 Beatrice was thinking : " He will not come ; but the place 
 is small, we cannot help meeting. It will be a sweet sort of tor- 
 ment ; a bitter joy." She looked at the deep, dark blue sea, and 
 at the paler sky with stars scattered over it. She felt above life 
 just then, above its trials and its sorrows. It seemed little to 
 suffer and endure at that moment ; life was so short, eternity so 
 full and so blissful. 
 
 Low down in the valley, by the little river, rose a red brick 
 house, whence the blue smoke was curling among green trees. 
 It was his, she was sure ; in that humble and narrow dwelling, 
 less stately than the lodge of her gamekeeper, he toiled and 
 struggled without hope. Oh, to be happy and free, there, 
 between her mother and that dear, true Gilbert, the heart of her 
 heart ! What are presentiments ? What language is it that 
 speaks so plainly to the heart, and tells it, this bliss you shall 
 never reach, this happiness you must forego, they are not, and 
 can never be for you ! Something thus spoke to Beatrice as she 
 looked out at the deepening night. No ; she felt it, happiness 
 was not for her. She was young and rich ; she had health, and 
 a bright, hopeful temper, and every thing which could bless her 
 to the vulgar eye, and yet she was a captive, and must never 
 hope for liberty. Never whilst her mother lived, would Beatrice 
 be free. 
 
 " Beatrice, what is it?" 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise spoke in a tone of surprise, and looked at her 
 daughter — for Beatrice, leaving her place by the window, had 
 come and sat by her mother, and tenderly clasping her arms 
 around her, had laid her head on Mrs. Gervoise's shoulder. 
 
 "What is it, my dear?" asked Mrs. Gervoise again. 
 
 Beatrice kissed her cheek. 
 
 " Live long — live long," she said ; " do not die and leave me, 
 my darling." 
 
300 BEATEICE. 
 
 " My dear, do you think I am worse?" uneasily asked Mrs. 
 Gervoise. 
 
 " ;N"o — no. It was a foolisli thought of mine, but it saddened 
 me. My darling, I hope we may never part, not even in death ; 
 I hope there may never be a day between us." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise gave her a sUent caress, but she did not know 
 what Beatrice felt. Beatrice felt that her mother was the chain, 
 and that the chain must never be broken ; and that she must 
 never feel as that mother lay dead before her, " I am free now." 
 Another freedom there was, the death of the tyrant ; but Bea- 
 trice was proud, and scorned to think of that. 
 
 " I suppose that is Mr. Gervoise coming back," said Mrs. 
 Gervoise, as a sound of steps and voices neared the door of the 
 wide room. 
 
 Beatrice's heart beat. She had recognized the quiet tones of 
 Gilbert's voice. He was coming, then ; coming after all ! The 
 door opened ; a servant brought in two wax lights in a wonderful 
 pair of old brass candlesticks, delicately engraved with mediaeval 
 trefoils and thistles. Behind, in the half gloom of the room, 
 stood Mr. Gervoise, and behind his flushed face appeared the 
 pale and noble features of his elder son. 
 
 " My dear Gilbert, I am so glad to see you," said Mrs. 
 Gervoise, half rising. 
 
 Beatrice said nothing, but Mr. Gervoise, who stood behind 
 his wife's chair, watched her face. He saw her flushed cheeks, 
 her beaming eyes, and the smile that trembled on her red lips, 
 and he felt that the bait was good and strong. Less signs of 
 emotion appeared in Gilbert. He was more master of himself 
 than poor Beatrice, and he was of a more denying nature too. 
 What his heart felt his face seldom revealed ; and it may be that 
 now the sense of a sad and austere future subdued the present 
 joy. Mr. Gervoise watched him with growing displeasure. 
 Gilbert was tame and cold, and would undo every thing ; but 
 there are temptations which even the cold cannot well resist, and 
 Mr. Gervoise knew it well. 
 
 " My dear," he said to his wife, with the affectionate polite- 
 ness he could put on so easily, " I have a note to write — will 
 you excuse me?" 
 
 He withdrew, to Beatrice's great relief; an evil influence 
 seemed to fill the room whilst he was by. Her husband being 
 gone, Mrs. Gervoise became talkative. 
 
 " Gilbert, do come and sit by me and Beatrice," she said, 
 *' and do tell me how you like Verville ? Is it pretty ? are there 
 
BEATRICE. 301 
 
 nice walks? will you take us about? Doctor Rogerson ordered 
 me French sea-air — do you think it good for me ? I already feel 
 so much better ! " 
 
 " I think it very good for you," replied Gilbert ; " and that 
 you wiU like Verville I scarcely doubt. It is quiet, and pretty, 
 and green, and very different from Carnoosie." 
 
 " I like Carnoosie," a little jealously said Beatrice, and Gil- 
 bert smiled, for she spoke in the very tone of the little Beatrice 
 whom he remembered so well. 
 
 " I am sure Verville is a much pleasanter place," almost pet- 
 tishly said Mrs. Gervoise ; "I wonder you do not see it, Bea- 
 trice." 
 
 Beatrice did not answer ; she spoke no more, and the conver- 
 sation was carried on between Gilbert and her mother. She 
 questioned him with a vivacity very unusual in her, concerning 
 Verville and its scenery, and its people, and Gilbert replied ; and 
 Beatrice shading her eyes with her hand as if from the light of 
 the wax candles in the high brass candlesticks, saw him through 
 her slender fingers, and fed on the sight of his face and the sound 
 of his voice. A quarter of an hour had been spent thus, when 
 Mrs. Gervoise's maid tapped at the door, and whispered a mes- 
 sage to her mistress. Mrs. Gervoise looked puzzled and sur- 
 prised, and rose slowly : 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise wants me for a few minutes," she said, " but 
 you are not to go, Gilbert, for he will want you too ; so wait till 
 I come back." 
 
 Beatrice half rose to follow her mother out, then sank back 
 in her chair. She knew what Mr. Gervoise wanted, he wanted 
 her to remain alone with his son, and for once Beatrice would 
 not oppose him. And Gilbert knew it too, and a flush, which 
 might be from pleasure or from resentment, rose to his cheek and 
 dyed it, as Mrs. Gervoise and her maid left the room, and he re- 
 mained alone with Beatrice. 
 
 They should have been more than mere mortal if they had 
 not tasted at least the tempting cup Mr. Gervoise so unsparingly 
 placed before them. 
 
 Gilbert rose and took Mrs. Gervoise's vacant chair, and Bea- 
 trice, sitting by him, laid her head on his shoulder, and wept, and 
 sobbed as if her heart woijldHbreakr^But that storm of tears 
 born of the joy of their meeting and of theibitterness of their lot, 
 did not last. She sh0ok away the heavy dew on her cheek and 
 smiled ; but deep and^sad was the long look which Gilbert, bend- 
 ing over her, fastened on her upraised face. 
 
302 BEATRICE. * 
 
 "Beatrice," he said, " we should never meet — it is too hard 
 to part again." 
 
 " Then let us not part ! " impetuously exclaimed Beatrice ; 
 " why did you ever leave me, Gilbert?" 
 
 The reproachful look which Gilbert gave her was eloquent 
 and sad. Beatrice's heart smote her, and her lids fell. 
 
 " Forgive me," she said, almost humbly. 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive," replied Gilbert very sadly. 
 " Beatrice, I am not wise. There are days and hours when I 
 long for happiness and you with insatiable longing. "When the 
 hard fate which divides us seems too hard to bear. But after 
 all, Beatrice, mere happiness is no more the end of love than it 
 is the end of life. "We strive for it, oh ! how eagerly and how 
 vainly ! but it is not the end. The end of love is to love, and 
 they who seek for any thing else in it are surely most unwise." 
 
 "Yes," said Beatrice, looking up at him, "you are right, 
 happiness is not the end." 
 
 But sad and bitter is the philosophy which teaches such wis- 
 dom to a man of twenty-six, and a girl of twenty-one. As Gil- 
 bert and Beatrice sat thus, near and divided, without hope for the 
 future, they could not enjoy the present. Mr. Gervoise did not 
 know them, after all. The bait was coarse and tame, and could 
 not take with proud and noble natures. It was not being side 
 by side, it was not a fond look or the pressure of a hand, that 
 could deepen the love of Gilbert and Beatrice. Something was 
 wanted, something which Mr. Gervoise could not give : the 
 treasure of Hope which remained in the box of Pandora when all 
 the evils which covered this ill-fated earth had escaped from its 
 depths. 
 
 Gilbert, calm though he looked, felt most the sting of that 
 hopelessness, for he was a man ; he had a hard life : he was 
 morning, noon, and night at the call of the sick and the needy, a 
 true village doctor, whom no one spared, and his hearth was 
 solitary, and must remain so, for never, he felt — ^never must an- 
 other woman besides Beatrice sit there. He piqued himself on 
 no heroic constancy, on no ideal of passion, but there was only 
 one woman in his eyes, and that woman was Beatrice Gordon. 
 The very strength of his feelings made it too hard to bear her 
 presence. Mrs. Gervoise did not return ; Gilbert rose quietly 
 and bade Beatrice good night. She did not attempt to detain 
 him, but she looked hard at him with a piteous, frightened glance 
 which he shunned. 
 
 " I shall light you down," she said. She took one of the 
 
BEATEIGE. 303 
 
 heavy brass candlesticks and preceded him down the oaken stairs. 
 They met no one ; the old house was very still. 
 
 " Come no farther," said Gilbert, as they reached the last 
 step. 
 
 Beatrice put down the light. They stood for a while looking 
 at each other silently. Gilbert drew her toward him and kissed 
 her with strange, sorrow'ful passion and ardour. Then he put 
 her away and opened and closed the door without a word. 
 
 Beatrice sat down on the steps of the staircase, and clasping 
 her hands between her knees, cried as if her heart would break. 
 He had not said so, but she knew well enough that he would 
 come no more ; and, alas ! he did not, for he could not, he dared 
 not. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 "With keen regret Mrs. Gervoise had seen the marriage of 
 Beatrice and Gilbert broken off, though but few words had passed 
 between her and her daughter on this subject. She had hoped 
 that if the lovers met again they would yield and marry. She 
 was now bitterly disappointed to find that Gilbert came no more 
 to see them. 
 
 " I hope Gilbert is not ill," she said, one morning, to her 
 husband. 
 
 She spoke on purpose in the presence of Beatrice, who stood 
 with her sketch-book under her arm, ready to go out and draw. 
 
 " I hope not," replied Mr. Gervoise with paternal tenderness. 
 " Shall we call upon him, my dear ? " 
 
 " I shall like it of all things," eagerly replied Mrs. Gervoise, 
 and she looked at Beatrice. 
 
 " You must go without me, darling," replied Beatrice, with 
 her brightest smile. " I must sketch the cross this morning, 
 w;hilst the sun shines upon it." 
 
 And as she spoke Beatrice looked at Mr. Gervoise, and her 
 'look said plainly : 
 
 " Do your best against me. You can no more bribe me by 
 the sweetest of temptations, than you could conquer me by the 
 direst tyranny. Do your best ! " 
 
 She turned away, and with a light step crossed the wide, 
 empty rooms of the old chateau. The last ended with a flight of 
 stone steps, insecure and grass-worn, down which Beatrice went, 
 into a green orchard. Beyond this, again, she found a long 
 stretch of pasture, inclosed by high hedges, and skirted by trees. 
 Still walking quickly, as if to reach some eagerly-wished-for 
 bourne, went Beatrice, bending the high grass on her way, and 
 leaving behind her a waving line of path in the lonely field. At 
 length she came to a ruined gatew^ay, which had once closed this 
 portion of the demesnes of Verville. Ivy, delicate grasses, corn- 
 flowers, sown there by the wind, crowned the two crumbling 
 
BEATRICE. 305 
 
 brick pillars. Rude bars of wood, intended to prevent strange 
 cattle from entering, replaced the solid iron grating of old times. 
 Through this barrier Beatrice slipped easily, and she stood in the 
 wild, lonely country, seemingly miles away from every human 
 dwelling. 
 
 A painter alone could find this spot congenial and lovely. 
 Near the gate, the centre of a group of shivering poplars and 
 aspens, stood an old stone cross — rude, worn, and grey. Every- 
 where around it spread fields of waving corn, meeting the blue 
 sky in a line of tawny gold. Through the two pillars appeared 
 the green field Beatrice had crossed, and beyond it the shining 
 sea ; of the chateau there was no sign, the high grass and a rise 
 of ground concealed it as securely as a forest. 
 
 It was to draw the cross that Beatrice had come, but she sat 
 down on the last of its three steps, and throwing her sketch-book 
 on the earth, she leaned her cheek upon her hand and looked 
 vaguely before her. The wind was high and keen, it came from 
 the sea with the rising tide ; but though it blew fiercely around 
 her, Beatrice did not heed it. She was in a deep and troubled 
 dream, far from the lonely cross, and the waving corn, and the 
 ruined gate. She was wondering why years pass and bring with 
 them such a weight of care and woe, why endless sacrifice is the 
 law of life. In vain she looked for an issue. The fatal error 
 of her mother's second marriage condemned her to endless 
 misery. And it is ever thus ; the sins, the mistakes, even of 
 those whom we love, are fatal to us as to them. We are bound 
 to each other by bonds indissoluble, even though often invisible. 
 But perhaps it was part of Beatrice's sorrow that she knew so 
 well whence came the evil of her lot. And whilst she sits thus 
 sadly, feeling that she must not even cross the threshold of Gilbert's 
 dwelling, her mother, sitting in Gilbert's chair, is looking with 
 calm curiosity around that room which his letters have so often 
 described to Beatrice. 
 
 The young doctor's house stood between the main street of 
 Verville and its shining little river ; shut in from the dust of one 
 by a garden of roses, and open to the coolness of the other. It was 
 a small brick house, with white stone windows, and a vine-covered 
 front. Tall trees grew around it, and gave it their freshness and 
 their shade. He was not within when Mr. Gervoise and his wife 
 called, and whilst her husband walked about the garden, Mrs. 
 Gervoise went in and rested. A middle-aged servant, in a clean 
 white cap, and short black petticoat and jacket, had shown her 
 into the doctor's best room. It was long, and took up the full 
 
^ 
 
 306 BEATRICE. 
 
 depth of the house. Mrs. Gervoise, sitting near the old- 
 fashioned fire-place, could see through the window-panes at the 
 farthest end the bright roses in the sunny garden, and through the 
 open window at the other extremity of the room near her, the 
 willows, and the little river that washed the walls of the build- 
 ing. High trees gave to this part of the room a quiet green 
 light, full of repose. The walls wainscoted with young oak, the 
 dark and shining floor, the crimson cloth on the table, two shelves 
 covered with books, pleased Mrs. Gervoise's eye, wearied with 
 the stateliness of Carnoosie. 
 
 " I wish Beatrice were here," she thought. 
 
 Ah ! she little guessed how well Beatrice knew that room ; 
 not merely through Gilbert's description of it, but by actual 
 sight. She little knew how often, when he was out on his rounds, 
 Beatrice, standing on the opposite bank of the narrow stream, 
 and hidden among the trees, had looked in through the ever-open 
 window. " And who knows after all," thought the sanguine 
 girl, " who knows that all will not end sweetly and happily yet ?" 
 And then she saw herself the happy wife of the young doctor. 
 She preferred that dream to Carnoosie, for Carnoosie was reality ; 
 it was Mr. Gervoise and her mother — ^her gaoler and the chain. 
 To think of Carnoosie was to think of what must never be ; but 
 that little house of Gilbert's, so like a happy nest, was romance, 
 and of that she could dream. How well she knew that chair 
 where her mother now sat, that floor which her feet had never 
 trod, that quiet nook over which the green shade of young trees 
 ever fell. " I should sit and work there," thought Beatrice, 
 " and look out at the river, green with the trees above it, and 
 watch the trout on the bed of pebble and sand, and then when 
 the garden-bell rang, and the watch-dog barked, I should run out 
 to meet him, and get a kiss for my pains, and it would be a 
 happy life ! " 
 
 Who doubts it, Beatrice ? It would be Eden upon earth — 
 but oh, Beatrice ! do not think that even that pure happiness 
 should not be bought at some heavy price. You have tasted 
 much sorrow in your short life, and you think that happiness is 
 a free gift, and you do not know how dear is its cost to the most 
 favoured. 
 
 " I am sure Beatrice would like this room," pursued Mrs. 
 Gervoise ; and, as the door opened as she came to this conclu- 
 sion, and Gilbert appeared on the threshold, she imparted it to 
 him in her childish w^. 
 
 Gilbert had seen his father in the garden, but, without telling 
 
BEATEICE. 
 
 307 
 
 him that Beatrice had not come, Mr. Gervoise had said to 
 him : 
 
 " Gilbert, my dear boy, will you go in, and have a talk with 
 Mrs. Gervoise ? Do not alarm her, but still let me know what 
 you think of her state ? " 
 
 Gilbert had obeyed, and on entering the room,' given it a 
 quick look, hoping to find Beatrice there ; but Mrs. Gervoise 
 was alone, and by her first words she had dispelled the vague 
 hope he still felt of his dear mistress's presence. 
 
 " My dear Gilbert, how Beatrice would like this room," said 
 Mrs. Gervoise, half-rising, " especially this end near the river. 
 I remember she said yesterday that if she had a house here, she 
 would have a window looking out on the stream with the trees 
 to make a green shade near it." 
 
 Gilbert's pale face flushed. He guessed at once that Beatrice 
 must have seen this his quiet retreat, and he remembered that 
 one afternoon, when, overpowered with fatigue and heat, he had 
 fallen asleep in his chair, he had been wakened by a rustling 
 sound in the opposite trees. Had she stood and looked at him, 
 loving and despairing, as he often wandered in the dark night 
 around the old chateau lo catch her shadow on the mus- 
 lin curtains of her window? 
 
 Forgetful of Mrs. Gervoise's presence, he stood for a mo- 
 ment feeling as if every drop of blood in his body had rushed to 
 his heart, conscious but of one thought : " why do we not brave 
 every thing, and break through every bond ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you do not think Beatrice would like it, after all," 
 suggested Mrs. Gervoise, bewildered by his long silence. 
 
 Gilbert roused himself, and smiled : 
 
 " I hope she would," he said ; " do you like it, Mrs. Ger- 
 voise?" 
 
 "Oh, so much!" sighed the wearied lady, sinking back in 
 her chair ; " it is so different from Carnoosie, and I am so tired 
 of Carnoosie." 
 
 " Do you not feel better than when you came to VerviUe?" 
 asked Gilbert, sitting down by her side. 
 
 " I like Verville better ; I like the change, hut I do not feel 
 belter. I suppose I never shall." 
 
 Gilbert said a few kind words. Mrs. Gervoise, like all other 
 invalids, took pleasure in speaking of her ailings. He let her 
 talk, and by the time Mr. Gervoise came in, Gilbert knew all he 
 wanted to know. 
 
308 . BEATRICE. 
 
 " Gilbert, do come and explain this to me," cried his father, 
 drawing him outside. 
 
 " Well?" he said with an anxious inquiring look. 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise is very unwell." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise grasped his son's arm, and looked terrified, as 
 well he might. Mrs. Gervoise meant Carnoosie and its comforts. 
 
 " Is she in danger?" he asked faintly. 
 
 " I hope not — indeed there is no immediate danger, but she 
 is very delicate. She may live years, and may die almost sud- 
 denly." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise grew sallow. Indeed it required all his strength 
 of will — and he had a will of iron — to repress the horror and 
 dismay with which he heard Gilbert. He remained silent for a 
 while, thinking and planning ; at length he said : 
 
 " My dear boy, I am, I need not say, shocked and grieved. 
 My old age I see is destined to be desolate. Ah ! Gilbert, why 
 did you not marry Beatrice ? " 
 
 His voice was full of paternal pathos. 
 
 " Why?" echoed Gilbert, " surely you know why?" 
 
 He spoke with a sorrowful gravity, not free from reproach. 
 
 "What did I want?" pursued Mr. Gervoise, mildly — "the 
 few thousands owing to me, but which delicacy and pride for- 
 bade me to ask from Beatrice, and a home in Carnoosie. Then 
 my old age would have been gladdened. And now Beatrice will 
 marry some one else, and it is all over, and I shall live and die 
 a solitary old man." 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise may live years," said Gilbert ; "all she 
 needs is a quiet and a happy life." 
 
 " Just so — I do my best." 
 
 " Even a slight annoyance must be most injurious to her," 
 pursued Gilbert. 
 
 His father heard him with mistrust, but replied eagerly : 
 
 " Oh, of course ! I must tell Beatrice. She is peculiar, 
 you know. You are aware there was insanity in the Carnoosie 
 family." 
 
 Gilbert looked his father full in the face. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise calmly pursued : 
 
 " I hope and trust that Beatrice has escaped the taint, that 
 she is only flighty as girls often are. Ah ! my dear boy, why 
 did you not heed me ? I sometimes think this disappointment 
 has been too much for her." 
 
 Gilbert smiled drearily to hear the author of that disappoint- 
 ment deplore it. 
 
BEATRICE. 309 
 
 " If you could reconsider your resolve," resumed Mr. Ger- 
 voise thoughtfully, " it would really be a good thing, Gilbert." 
 
 " Will you reconsider your terms?" asked Gilbert, his cheek 
 flushing with sudden emotion. 
 
 " My dear boy, consider. My claims are so simple and so 
 just." 
 
 " Let us say no more," replied Gilbert. 
 
 " My dear boy, you really are too hasty. This is a most 
 serious matter — come and see us " 
 
 " Never," again interrupted Gilbert with some force ; " I wiU 
 see Beatrice as her fnture husband, or not at all." 
 
 *' That is just it — I do want you to see her as her future hus- 
 band." 
 
 " And I will marry her without terms, or I will not marry 
 her," continued his son. " You know very well," he added with 
 sad though calm reproach, " that if her mother were dead I 
 could marry her at once." 
 
 " I know that Beatrice is an ungrateful child, but I do not 
 think you would abet her ingratitude." 
 
 " Pray let us drop the subject," said Gilbert very sadly, " we 
 cannot agree." 
 
 "We might agree but for that imprudent abruptness of 
 yours. My dear boy, you will never be a man of business ; 
 why, surely you ought to see how much I wish to please you. 
 There may be a way to manage. I should like to purchase the 
 chateau of Yerville from you ; Mrs. Gervoise might like to re- 
 main here. French air agrees with her, as English air agrees 
 with me — in short, my dear boy, we might compromise." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked most amiably at his son through his 
 glasses, but if Gilbert understood him he did not seem to do so. 
 Perhaps mistrust had entered his heart since they had had 
 another conversation in Carnoosie, and could not leave it so 
 readily. It suited Mr. Gervoise, however, to consider this mat- 
 ter settled. 
 
 '^ My dear boy," he said, giving Gilbert's hand an affection- 
 ate squeeze, " I am glad we have had this little confidential con- 
 versation. We can now go straight on, and I think I shall go 
 and look for dear Mrs. Gervoise." 
 
 Dear Mrs. Gervoise, tired with waiting, had fallen asleep in 
 her chair. Her husband wakened her with a tenderness which 
 showed how much he valued her system. 
 
 Gilbert saw them to the garden gate, and felt sad and lone 
 when they were gone. It was hard, it was very hard, this in- 
 cessant strife ; and alas ! it was very useless. 
 
CHAPTER XXXYin. 
 
 Gilbert was in tis first sleep that night when a loud ring at 
 his garden-gate roused him. He opened his window, asked in 
 French who was there, and Beatrice's voice answered in English. 
 
 " It is I, Gilbert, come quickly — my mother is ill." 
 
 " Are you alone, Beatrice ? " 
 
 " Yes, I would wait for no one." 
 
 " I shall be with you in five minutes." 
 
 In less time than he said Gilbert was dressed and by her 
 side. He took her arm, and, as they walked quickly to the 
 chateau, he said, 
 
 " Do not be alarmed. These night attacks are nothing in 
 her complaint ! " 
 
 " They are not dangerous?" 
 
 " Not at all. But why did not my father come for me? " 
 
 '' He went ofi* to England after dinner." 
 
 " Gilbert wondered at this abrupt departure, little suspecting 
 he had helped to hasten it. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise found his son and step-daughter a great deal 
 too cool, and he wanted to forward their happiness. They both 
 defied him, and he was bent on conquering them both. If they 
 braved him with the same sweet yet provoking smile, they ac- 
 knowledged their pain by the same symptoms. In either there 
 were tokens of fever and unrest which spoke of minds ill at 
 ease, but most in Beatrice. Gilbert was the stronger of the two, 
 and for Gilbert should his trap be set. The young man would 
 not come near Beatrice ; the candle was too bright and too visi- 
 ble for this wise moth, it must be put in the shade and another 
 lure held forth. Mr. Gervoise had business in England, and 
 annoyance made Mrs. Gervoise ill. He kindly informed her 
 that he did not mean to remain in Carnoosie, and, having thus pre- 
 pared her for requiring Gilbert's professional assistance, he hast- 
 ily left Verville, trusting Gilbert and Beatrice to the unavoidable 
 temptation of their own hearts. 
 
BEATRICE. 311 
 
 Mr. Gervoise would have been alarmed if he could have 
 suspected how strong a dose he had administered to his delicate 
 wife. Gilbert was shocked with her appearance when he en- 
 tered her room ; and though he assured Beatrice there was no 
 danger, yet when she said, "You will not go away to-night?" 
 he replied, " Certainly not," with an emphasis that struck her. 
 
 They watched together that night. Gilbert sat at the foot 
 of Mrs. Gervoise's large square bed, Beatrice at the head. The 
 room was wide, and, save when the sick lady moaned with pain 
 and fever, very still. A night-lamp burned with feeble light 
 near them, and left all else in gloom. The pillow on which 
 rested Mrs. Gervoise's flushed face and the white coverlet gave 
 gleams of light in the dark room ; but heavy shadows lingered 
 around the long sombre curtains, and Gilbert could scarcely see 
 Beatrice. She sat back in her chair, one hand buried in her 
 heavy curls, the other resting on her mother's bed. But what 
 the young doctor could not see he could guess. He knew that 
 bright face, lit up by radiant eyes, so well. The graceful turn 
 of the young white neck, the drooping shoulders ; all these he 
 knew, and he was twenty-six, and he had but to speak, and 
 Beatrice, fond and happy, would gladly be his. 
 
 Seriously Gilbert questioned his own wisdom. Was it not 
 dreadful folly to cast away a happiness so true, so pure, and so 
 deep ? What fantastic honour or false duty kept him back ? Car- 
 noosie was wide — could not one of its many rooms shelter him 
 and Beatrice ? What more did they ask but to be blest with one 
 another and forget all else? In those noble grounds, covered 
 with ancient trees, there were many sweet retreats for happy 
 lovers ; true bowers of delight where none need ever intrude. 
 
 But even as the knight roused himself from the dangerous 
 charms of the gardens of Armida, so did Gilbert waken with a 
 sigh from his sweet vision. No, Carnoosie was not wide enough 
 to hold him and his father on those terms ; and beautiful though 
 its shady bowers might be, fond and loving as Beatrice was, 
 Gilbert felt, with all the pride of manhood, and all the pride of 
 love, that he was born for another destiny. 
 
 But he could not help remembering the conversation he had 
 had with his father that morning, and, remembering it, he won- 
 dered if there were no other issue. Ah ! what a dream came be- 
 fore him, what a temptation rushed to Gilbert's heart ! 
 
 " Beatrice," he said softly. 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise was sleeping. Beatrice rose and went to 
 Gilbert, who led her to the open window. 
 
312 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, " if it were possible — would you ? " 
 
 She knew his meaning, and wondered at the question. 
 
 " Yes, Gilbert," she replied honestly, " you know I would." 
 
 He could not help clasping her hand in both his with an 
 ardent pressure. Then memory, conscience, and pride came 
 back, and he dropped Beatrice's slender fingers with a sigh. 
 
 " Ah ! but it is not possible," he exclaimed in a low voice ; 
 " never mind me when I speak so." 
 
 Beatrice was too generous to question him, and silently walk- 
 ed back to her mother's bed. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Gervoise was much better, but Gilbert, 
 though he returned to his own house, did not cease to call at the 
 chateau. He could not, and perhaps he would not. There are 
 cups of happiness which one cannot take and dash to the earth 
 untasted. 
 
 Thus they met once more, and Mr. Gervoise*s scheme was 
 accomplished. Beatrice knew what his purpose was, yet for 
 once she would not resent it. He wanted to try if his absence 
 could not effect what his presence had impeded. She knew he 
 would fail, that Gilbert was unconquerable, and yet it was very 
 sweet to be thus left with him, far from the evil eye that tainted 
 every joy it looked upon. Much that Mr. Gervoise had ex- 
 pected came to pass. Gilbert came at first because his step- 
 mother was ill, then because he could not do without seeing 
 Beatrice. Once more they met with the freedom and the 
 liberty of happy lovers. They shut out from their view the 
 bitter knowledge that marriage was either forbidden or remote ; 
 they felt but the charm of the present time, and yielded freely to 
 the temptation set before them. 
 
 Every morning Gilbert came to see Mrs. Gervoise. Some- 
 times he found her walking below in the green pasture, which 
 was the garden of Verville, and unless when pressed for time he 
 lingered with her and Beatrice. She never asked him to stay, 
 but she used unsparingly the hundred arts of a fond and loved 
 mistress to detain him. Gilbert saw and felt it and jdelded ; for 
 of all the chains that bound him Beatrice's love was the sweetest 
 and the strongest. His youth had been lone, and sad, and 
 unloved, and now this noble young creature gave him her 
 love with prodigal liberality. She knew that he would not 
 marry her, because he could not in honour, and she was neither 
 hurt nor offended at the rejection. With a nobleness akin to his 
 own she fortified him in his resistance, and, with the unselfish 
 tenderness of a woman, she gave him freely, not caring for hope, 
 
BEATEICE. 313 
 
 the boon others would have been so eager to win. There was a 
 magnanimity in her constancy which stirred the depth of Gil- 
 bert's heart. 
 
 " You have a royal nature, Beatrice Gordon," he once said 
 to her ; " you are a true queen, every inch of you." 
 
 Beatrice laughed, and tried to seem careless, but her cheek 
 flushed, for she knew his meaning. 
 
 Every evening after dinner Gilbert joined the ladies, and sat 
 or walked with them until night set in and it was time to part. 
 These were happy evenings ; but once before had either known 
 such. 
 
 "This is too pleasant a time to last," thought Beatrice,' as 
 she looked at or listened to him, " I know ifwiU not. I am now 
 as I often am in my dreams. I then wander in delightful places, 
 real gardens of the Hesperidee, where the golden apples shine, 
 and I feel it is delicious, but all the time I know I am dreaming. 
 Even so is this life. It is delightful, and Mr. Gervoise is a won- 
 derful enchanter, and knows the might of his spells ; but for all 
 that it is a dream, and it were wrong in us to forget it. I won- 
 der if he ever does ? " 
 
 She did not dare to question him, but she knew how far 
 Gilbert forgot it one evening. 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise had taken a long walk for her. She had 
 crossed the valley, and rested in Gilbert's house. Beatrice had 
 entered it too, not for the first time, yet her presence there, 
 giving his little dwelling the charm of home, had sent all Gil- 
 bert's prudence and wisdom to the winds. He listened to her 
 playing on his piano ; he heard her footstep on the floor ; he 
 watched her light and graceful motions, as she made her wearied 
 mother a cup of tea, and again he remembered the broad hints 
 which his father had dropped. 
 
 " Mamma is rested — we can go on the downs," said Beatrice, 
 coming up to where he stood. 
 
 "Go! why go?" 
 
 She gave him a surprised look. He continued, in a tone of 
 suppressed passion : 
 
 " I cannot bear to see you go out of this house, Beatrice." 
 
 Beatrice, troubled to the very heart, and not knowing what 
 to say, turned to the window ; Gilbert followed her. 
 
 " You know my meaning, Beatrice. I cannot bear it — ^you 
 must either be my wife, or we must part again ! " 
 
 His voice rose ; Beatrice raised her forefinger, for her mothei: 
 might hear, and her mother must not be troubled. He silently 
 14 
 
314 BEATRICE. 
 
 walked away to Mrs. Gervoise, and they all three left the house, 
 and made their way to the downs. Pleasant sights and sounds 
 met them in the village. Women were spinning at their doors, 
 men were watering cattle in the pond, where geese and ducks 
 were cackling. Children shouted in wild glee, and the little 
 river flowed on, and the mill wheels turned with a clacking 
 sound, and everywhere Gilbert saw poor homes, where hard- 
 working men could possess in peace the girls they had loved and 
 chosen. Once or twice he looked at Beatrice, but her eyes sank, 
 and would not meet his. 
 
 A lane, winding between two hawthorn hedges, led them to 
 the wide and fertile plain which extended on the summit of the 
 cliffs. The evening was very calm, the tide was going out, and 
 a long line of shore skirted the receding sea. Mrs. Gervoise 
 was tired again, and she sat down on the last step of a wooden 
 cross that rose alone in the desert of the cliffs, a memorial and a 
 sign of the great mystery of our redemption. Beatrice stayed 
 awhile near her ; then, starting to her feet, she cried : 
 
 " I must look for a bee orchis," and she wandered away 
 until a rise of ground hid her from her mother's sight ; she then 
 slided down on the grass, and hiding her face in her lap, wept 
 long and desperately. 
 
 " Beatrice," said Gilbert's voice. 
 
 She looked up. He was sitting by her, looking at her with a 
 countenance full of grief, but seeming unable to speak. 
 
 "Is it I who have grieved you so ? " he asked at length. 
 
 " No. You only spoke as you felt, and as I feel ten times 
 a-day. Gilbert, we have been mad — we must part ! " 
 
 " Part ! " he repeated, with involuntary bitterness ; " how 
 readily you come to that conclusion, Beatrice ! " 
 
 "What am I to do?" 
 
 " What, indeed ! Beatrice, it is hard, and all the harder that 
 it would be so easy. We are both our own masters. Let us 
 but say the word, and in a few days the mayor will marry us in 
 that square house below, Beatrice, and the priest give us a bless- 
 ing in the little church, of which it seems as if I could reach the 
 spire with my hand." 
 
 " Yes, I know all that, Gilbert ; but I cannot leave my poor 
 darling. I could live with Mr. Gervoise, ay, and have my way 
 too, for I believe he fears me ; but my mother was born to be 
 crushed and conquered, and I must be by to save her.^' 
 
 Gilbert rose and walked about agitatedly. 
 
 *' Beatrice," he said, when he came back, " this must cease. 
 
BEATEICE. 315 
 
 We are but mortals, and we act as if we were angels — more 
 than angels, beyond the reach of temptation. If we could hope, 
 Beatrice, I should not repine. Twenty years of bondage in the 
 house of Laban, would not seem hard to have you at last. But 
 as it is — oh ! Beatrice, it is all Leah and no Rachel, bitter ser- 
 vitude and no hope of liberty ! Oh ! my darling, we must 
 part ! " 
 
 His voice of sorrow smote Beatrice's very heart. She 
 buried her face in her hands ; when she looked up again it was 
 bathed in tears. 
 
 " Part ! " she said—" part ! " 
 
 " Beatrice," he cried, taking her hands in his and pressing 
 them fervently, " there is another alternative, but I dare not pro- 
 pose it. Beatrice, my father will let me have both your mother 
 and you here in Verville." 
 
 " Will he ? " cried Beatrice, with sudden joy. 
 
 " Yes, Beatrice ; but can you leave Camoosie ? " 
 
 Beatrice blushed, but she answered — 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Why not!" he echoed; <'oh! Beatrice, think of the 
 change." 
 
 Beatrice smiled. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, fervently, "to my dying day I will 
 bless you for this ; for I must take you at your word, Beatrice. 
 I cannot do without you any longer — I cannot ! " 
 
 He sp'oke with mingled passion and longing, and he.longed 
 for her indeed. The thirst and the fever of love had entered his 
 very heart, and made him, if not forget all else, at least forget 
 much that he should have remembered. 
 
 " Have I your promise ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, you have it." 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice, how can I take you at your word? You do 
 not question me — you ask to know nothing." 
 
 " No, I would rather know nothing. Let me shut my eyes, 
 Gilbert!" 
 
 She stood by his side, her arm within his, a wife's trusting 
 tenderness in her whole bearing. Gilbert looked down at heir 
 and felt supremely blessed. 
 
 " Are you sure you like Verville?" he asked. " What will 
 you change in the house ? " 
 
 " Nothing. It is yours, and therefore perfect I " 
 
 " Ay I Beatrice," he replied, smiling ; " but yet change 
 
316 BEATEICE. 
 
 something, something to please me, Beatrice, something of which 
 I can say ' It was Beatrice would have it so ! ' " 
 
 With a smile, Beatrice looked down at the young doctor's 
 house. Its brick chimney rose amongst green trees, and sent 
 forth a blue wreath of smoke on that verdant background. 
 
 What a small home it was when she remembered Carnoosie, 
 but what a happy home they would make it ! 
 
 And when Beatrice thought of that happiness, never hoped 
 for, it seemed so unattainable, and now within her reach, her 
 heart melted within her. Ah ! perfect happiness is too sweet, 
 and therefore it is not meant for mortals. There must ever be 
 some alloy, and for the time being there seemed none to Bea- 
 trice. The enervating softness of the new life of love before her 
 stole into her veins. All strength, all nobleness of purpose for- 
 sook her. She only thought of Gilbert's house, and in that nest 
 of love seemed centred every delight she could know. To move 
 about those quiet rooms between the river and the garden, so 
 full of roses, to see him daily, hourly, to be his as he would be 
 hers ; this was all Beatrice dreamed of as she now stood by his 
 side, and looked down at the house which would soon call her 
 mistress. 
 
 Gilbert shared the sweet intoxication, and neither remem- 
 bered Mrs. Gervoise until her voice called out anxiously : 
 
 " Beatrice, Beatrice, where are you?" 
 
 " Here, darling," replied Beatrice, springing forward to meet 
 her ; " but I can find you no bee orchis." 
 
 Her tone was light and cheerful. In vain Gilbert, wakening 
 for a moment from his blissful dream, looked for tokens of re- 
 gret or sorrow, her brow remained calm, her eyes smiling and 
 sweet. As fondly, as tenderly as ever she gave Mrs. Gervoise 
 her arm, and supported her lingering steps when they turned 
 homewards. And seeing her thus happy and free, Gilbert stifled 
 every dawning scruple, and only felt, as he walked by her side, 
 that Beatrice was his at last. 
 
 He stayed long with them that evening. The sense of com- 
 ing happiness made him talk with a flow and eloquence which 
 bewildered and dazzled Mrs. Gervoise ; they were so unusual in 
 Gilbert, and which moved Beatrice's very heart, they told her 
 80 plainly what he felt. He could not go, do what he would, and 
 when, once or twice, he made the attempt, Mrs. Gervoise de- 
 tained him with an eager : 
 
 " Oh ! do stay — ^this is so pleasant — ^we are so happy, are we 
 not, Beatrice ? " 
 
BEATRICE. 317 
 
 And Beatrice did not answer, save by a soft, mysterious 
 smile that played on her rosy lips, and that was eloquence itself 
 to Gilbert. 
 
 At length he rose ; the village church was striking twelve, 
 and, though charmed, Mrs. Gervoise was tired. Beatrice let 
 him down-stairs, as she often did, as she had done on the firsf 
 evening of their arrival in Yerville. When they reached the last 
 step he turned to her. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, " it is a promise?" 
 
 Beatrice, still holding the light in her right hand, laid her 
 left on his shoulder, and looked down in his fkce. She did not 
 speak, but what her lips did not tell her whole aspect revealed. 
 She was not his mistress then, but his wife ; he was not her 
 lover, but her dear lord and master. There was a simplicity, a 
 trust, and a love in her act and mien which were stronger than 
 vows, and which Gilbert felt very deeply. He turned to the 
 hand which still rested on his shoulder, and pressed his lips 
 upon it. 
 
 " I am yours — all yours," she said, very earnestly, " and I 
 wish," she added more gaily, "• I were ten Beatrices for your 
 sake." 
 
 Gilbert looked up laughing. 
 
 " What a sultan you would make of me — ^ten Beatrices ! " 
 
 But Beatrice knew her own meaning. Ay ! she would gladly 
 have done ten times more than she meant to do for his sake. 
 She had to tell him to go and to leave her ; he would have lin- 
 gered there talking to her till morning, and when he went, when 
 the gates closed upon him, and he walked down the avenue and 
 crossed the moonlit village, he felt treading upon air. He could 
 not enter his own dwelling. Restless with happiness, he walked 
 about the silent street. In a few days he would have Beatrice ; 
 she had said it, and he would keep her to her word. No fond 
 excuse, no maiden coyness, should win him from his purpose. 
 She was his now, tenderly and sacredly his, and he would keep' 
 her fast. Of his father's consent he was sure, of Mrs. Gervoise's 
 no less — there was nothing now that the long, and, as it seemed, 
 the vain obstacle of their own wills was broken ; there was noth- 
 ing to prevent them from being truly blessed. And so Doctor 
 Gilbert Gervoise, as we said, wandered about the sleeping village, 
 till a dog found him out, and barked, and the dog's mistress, a 
 decent widow, rose in alarm, and looking out of her window was 
 all amazed to recognize the sober young doctor in this night- 
 walker. " What can he be thinking of? " What, indeed ! 
 
318 BEATRICE. 
 
 What were you thinking of forty years ago, a week before your 
 marriage day, Madame Blondel ? Have you forgotten it now, is 
 it far gone in the past among your childish dreams, a puerile 
 reminiscence ? And can you link no such folly with the calm 
 fair-haired young man who tends the physical welfare of Ver- 
 ville ? Calm ! he is not calm now. There is a day of fever for 
 every one of us, and that day has come for him. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 " Darling," said Bertrice to her mother when she came 
 back to her after leaving Gilbert, " how will you like to live in 
 Verville with Gilbert and me ? " 
 
 " My dear ! " 
 
 " Yes, darling, I am going to marry him, that is to say if you 
 live mth us." 
 
 "Mr. Gervoise will never consent." 
 
 " Yes, he will," replied Beatrice, with some bitterness, " Gil- 
 bert will bribe him." 
 
 It was some time before Mrs. Gervoise could realize the 
 change Gilbert and Beatrice contemplated, but at length she un- 
 derstood it, and, with tears of emotion, declared her willingness 
 to remain in Yerville with them. 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice," she could not help adding, " what a poor 
 match ! " 
 
 " Poor ! He is ten times too good for me, darling. How can 
 he, so perfect, so noble, love me? However, we must all be 
 weak, and his weakness is that he cannot help being fond of 
 me." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear," sighed her mother, " be careful. Do not 
 see him better than he is — it would make you exacting, and per- 
 haps imjust." 
 
 Unjust to Gilbert ! Beatrice smiled at the thought. 
 
 "You do not know him as he is, darling," she said compas- 
 sionately, " and I do ; and from childhood to manhood Gilbert 
 has been all but perfect — perfect in those virtues which are the 
 test of a man. No meanness, no ungenerous emotion, ever stained 
 his noble heart." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise clasped her hands. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " you are making a god of him." 
 
 Beatrice laughed. 
 
320 BEATEICE. 
 
 " Gilbert is no god," she said gaily ; " or if he is, he is a 
 heathen god, for he has one signal weakness, darling — ^he is fond 
 of a mortal woman." 
 
 " But, my dear, you surely are his equal — ^you are young and 
 pretty." 
 
 " That is just it," interrupted Beatrice, a little sadly, " I am 
 afraid Gilbert is fond of me because I am, as you say, young and 
 pretty. He is man, and true man in this. 1 do not say he likes 
 me for nothing else ; but still, without that, even Gilbert, the 
 good and wise Gilbert, would not care for me." 
 
 " Well, but my dear," objected her mother, "it is very nat- 
 ural a young man should like youth and beauty." 
 
 " Of course it is natural," pettishly said Beatrice ; " but Gil- 
 bert should not be natural — ^he should be supernatural, you see. 
 Any one can be natural ! " 
 
 Beatrice looked extremely pretty as she indulged in this 
 high-flown paradox. Her cheeks were flushed, her soft dark eyes 
 shone like diamonds, and turning abruptly round, she caught 
 sight of her own face in an old greenish mirror above the mantel- 
 shelf. Even in its dismal depths her face shone with a beauty 
 and a glow of which Beatrice herself was conscious. Beatrice 
 was not habitually vain, but a complacent thought now arose 
 within her. She was young, and she certainly was pretty — why 
 be so exacting toward poor Gilbert as to expect him not to per- 
 ceive either ? It was folly, to say the least of it. She turned to 
 her mother with a smile, and said : 
 
 "What nonsense. I have been talking, eh, darling? — and 
 how late I am keeping you up ! Ah ! I am selfish — very 
 selfish!" 
 
 She kissed her mother, and bade her good night. Mrs. Ger- 
 voise slept little that night ; Beatrice slept soundly and deeply ; 
 on wakening rather late she heard Gilbert's voice below. He was 
 asking for her, and on being told that she was not up yet, he said 
 he would go out and wait in the orchard. Beatrice dressed 
 quickly to go down to meet him. 
 
 He did not hear her coming down the stone steps, or cross- 
 ing toward him through the dewy grass of the orchard. He was 
 not conscious of her presence until she uttered a saucy " Well, 
 sir," when, turning round, he saw her fresh and smiling face. 
 Calm, secure, and fond, as if she had been his for years, he took 
 her arm, and leading her away under the green apple trees, he 
 told her his errand. 
 
BEATEICE. 321 
 
 " Will you come and look at my house this morning, and see 
 it with Mrs. Gervoise, and tell me what to change ? " 
 
 " You are very persistent on that head," she answered gaily ; 
 " well, to please you, mamma and I shall go and look at your 
 house after breakfast, sir." 
 
 " Then I shall be within. I must leave you now — I have to 
 go round the village." 
 
 " Go, then, and do your duty. I like to thi,nk you are no idle 
 butterfly — ^like myself — ^but a real worker." 
 
 "Butterflies have their uses in creation," gravely replied 
 Gilbert. 
 
 " Their uses — ^pray what uses? " 
 
 " They are very beautiful to look at," he answered looking 
 her full in the face, " and very pleasant to catch and possess," he 
 added, softly and tenderly laying his hand on her arm. 
 
 Beatrice blushed rosy red, then looked sad, and half turned 
 her head away. 
 
 " Well, what is it?" he quickly asked. 
 
 " Oh ! Gilbert," she impetuously replied, " I must tell you 
 the truth. There is a feeling which haunts and pursues me, and 
 which is not pleasant. You never sought me, Gilbert, though I 
 know you love me ; and whatever pleasure there may be in pur- 
 suing, I did not give you. It was I, Gilbert, — I who sought 
 you, and I am not very sure that if you could in some sort help 
 it, you would marry me. It is always I, Gilbert, who seem to 
 lead you on." 
 
 Gilbert looked at her in mute surprise. 
 
 " I suppose I am talking great nonsense," said Beatrice, red- 
 dening. 
 
 " Indeed you are," he interrupted, smiling, " wonderful non- 
 sense, my little Beatrice — nonsense which I shall not even con- 
 tradict, for it is not worth while. Let us drop the simile of the 
 butterfly, since you do not like it, and listen to a true story. For 
 a week, a beautiful bird perched on a tree near my room win- 
 dow. I could have laid snares for it, but I would not, and dared 
 not, for I might have killed it, or frightened it away, but I left 
 my window open in secret hope, and at length it flew in, and I 
 kept and caged it. Beatrice, do you think I love it less because 
 I waited till it came to me in sweet trust and confidence, "and gave 
 me the liberty which I did not like to take, for what could I give 
 in return? Some seed, and a tiny cage." 
 
 " And is that a true story? " gravely asked Beatrice. 
 
 " You will see the bird when you come, you sceptic ! " 
 14* 
 
322 " BEATRICE. 
 
 " But it was not a wild bird ? " 
 
 " Of course not, but I suppose it had an unkind master, and 
 broke its bonds ; then, weary of cheerless freedom, came to me." 
 
 " It could not do better, Gilbert," said Beatrice, and her 
 voice shook a little as she spoke ; "what kinder master than you 
 are could it hope to find ? " 
 
 Poor Beatrice ! She could not go against her own heart, and 
 she always came back to the language of her fond adoration. 
 Gilbert would not have been mortal if he had not felt the sweet- 
 ness of this tender flattery. Oh ! it was very delightful to be 
 thus loved by this bright young creature, who, willingly or not, 
 was always laying her pride at his feet, and who, in her subjec- 
 tion, ever preserved the wild grace of liberty. His eyes over- 
 flowed with a passionate tenderness Beatrice had rarely read in 
 them — for Gilbert's feelings were habitually silent and deep, and 
 his voice faltered with unusual emotion, as he said : 
 
 " Do not disappoint me, Beatrice. Do not forsake or put me 
 off at the eleventh hour ! I could not bear it now ! " 
 
 " And why should I do that? " asked Beatrice, surprised. 
 
 " I do not know ; but you are not my wife yet, Beatrice. 
 The window is open, but the bird is still on the bough. What 
 if something should frighten it away ? " 
 
 "Ah, never from you, Gilbert," warmly replied Beatrice; 
 " if I could be your wife this morning, I would, not out of love 
 for you, sir," she added, smiling, " but because I am weary — oh ! 
 so weary — of the hard life of strife I lead ; because I long, with 
 a selfish longing, to throw all my cares, upon you, and to sleep 
 safe and warm in the nest whilst you are out fighting and strug- 
 gling for me — my master if you will, but also my bounden de- 
 fender." 
 
 Ah ! if they had not been standing in the middle of the or- 
 chard, with all the windows of the chateau looking out upon 
 them like so many watchful and spying eyes, how fondly he 
 would have clasped her to his heart, and vowed, with tender ca- 
 resses and kisses, to be the true master and loving protector she 
 so longed for ! As it was, he looked at her with dim eyes, and 
 the hand that clasped hers shook as their fingers met. 
 
 " Oh, Beatrice ! Beatrice ! " he said, " God gave you a tongue 
 that would witch away any man's heart ! " 
 
 " Because I speak as I feel," said Beatrice, smiling ; " and 
 now the church clock is striking a c[uarter to nine. How much 
 longer are Docteur Gervoise's patients to wait ? " 
 
 Docteur Gervoise looked impatient. He was full of thoughts 
 
BEATEICE. 323 
 
 of young love, and disease and pain were abhorrent to him just 
 then ; but a sigh chased the selfish feeling away, and returning to 
 the settled calmness of his usual mood, he bade Beatrice a good 
 morning, and was gone. 
 
 Very flighty and impatient, and decidedly fidgetty did his pa- 
 tients find the young doctor that morning. " There was no get- 
 ting any good of him," crossly said Madame Blondel, when he 
 was gone. She was his last patient, and with eager haste he 
 left her, and walked back to his own house. Beatrice and his 
 step-mother were already there. Mrs. Gervoise was sitting by 
 the window near the river, and Beatrice was standing looking at 
 some of Gilbert's books. 
 
 " "Where is the bird? " she asked at once. 
 
 " Come with me, and I shall show it to you." 
 
 She followed him into a back room, and there in a cage she 
 saw a bird of bright exotic plumage. 
 
 "Well, do you believe me now?" 
 
 " I believe some lady gave you that pretty creature. That 
 it ever came in to you, of course I do not believe." 
 
 Gilbert smiled, and looking round him, said : 
 
 " This room is too bare — is it not, Beatrice ? " 
 
 " This room is mine from this hour ! " authoritatively said 
 Beatrice ; " room and bird I claim. Here I shall sit and read, 
 or mend your stockings. I believe that is part of a wife's duty. 
 Here I shall receive Docteur Gervoise's poor patients, and ad- 
 minister domestic medicine under the shape of jelly and be^f-tea. 
 Oh ! you may shake your head at me — I know the life I am 
 going to lead — not a particle of poetry shall there be in it ! " 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice," said Gilbert, looking thoughtful, " it seems 
 incredible you should give up living in your noble Carnoosie for a 
 poor tame life with me. Are you sure you will never repent it ?" 
 
 "Do you think you will make me repent it? No! Well, 
 then, never put such a question. Since you would riot maiTy 
 me and live in my house, I must needs marry you and live in 
 yours. That you choose to lead a useful and active life is to 
 your honour, and will add to my pride in you. And now pray 
 let me look over the rest of this house, and suggest the changes 
 for which you are so anxious." 
 
 Was it in good earnest or to tease her lover that Beatrice pro- 
 posed alterations so sweeping that they amounted to rebuilding 
 part of the house, and refurnishing the whole ? He heard her ta 
 the end, then said resolutely : 
 
 " I see, Beatrice, that you want to drain my pockets ; but 
 
324 BEATEIOE. 
 
 you shall have your way after we are married, for it would 
 simply be putting off our wedding day six months to begin by 
 complying with your demands." 
 
 " That is to say I am to have my way provided you first 
 have yours ? " 
 
 "My exact meaning. And -^here shall I find you this 
 evening ? " 
 
 " On the downs. We mean to go there." 
 
 " Beatrice, there shall be no delay, shall there? " 
 
 " Sceptic ! " 
 
 "Beatrice, I cannot help it. It is so great a happiness that 
 I shall doubt to the last. Confess yourself it is incredible that a 
 rich girl like you should throw herself away upon a poor country 
 doctor like Grilbert Gervoise, and be glad to be buried alive with 
 him in a place like Yerville." 
 
 Beatrice did not answer. She went down-stairs back to her 
 mother, and spoke no more until they left. She did not look of- 
 fended, and Gilbert knew her too well to fear that she was ; but 
 still, as he had told her, it was incredible, and he went about the 
 rooms over which they had wandered together, and felt restless, 
 impatient, and scarcely happy. When he came back to the room 
 where the bird was chirping in its cage, he looked at the prisoner 
 with a longing smile. Ay ! if he only had her so, fast, fast 
 locked up, a captive, willing and beloved, chained by religion, 
 duty, law, and love ! The young doctor, albeit not much given 
 of late to reverie, sat down by the open window, and as he lis- 
 tened to the flowing water and the rustling trees, he fell into a 
 delicious dream. It was the present and the past, Carnoosie and 
 the little childish Beatrice, Yerville and the blooming girl, the 
 old friendship, sweet and trusting, and the new, generous, bound- 
 less love. No, he felt it in his inmost heart, few men were loved 
 as he was. He did not say to himself that he deserved it, he 
 only felt that he possessed this rare and precious gift,* and yield- 
 ing to the intoxicating consciousness, he revelled in dreams of his 
 future and speedy happiness. Ay ! she would sit and work there, 
 and he would come in to her, and by his presence bring sunshine 
 to her face, and receive the fulness of content in his heart. Years 
 passed in that dream, and children who had their mother's dark 
 eyes played around them, or sat on her lap, or slept on her 
 bosom. Every fond and tender thought which can gladden the 
 heart of man, which can sweeten domestic Kfe, and make its hap- 
 piness more complete and full, passed through Gilbert's dream 
 during the next hour. If this cup of happiness be sweet, he 
 
BEATEICE. 325 
 
 quaffed it then, and, prodigal for once, he quaffed it without 
 measure or stint. No darkness and no cloud came over the 
 future. Time robbed not Beatrice of one girlish grace, and the 
 young matron was as fresh and as blooming as the girl. Sick- 
 ness, sorrow, were absent from that new world, so unlike the real 
 and the true, for in it all was content, peace, and love. 
 
 " Monsieur works too hard," thought Babet, in her kitchen ; 
 " there he has been locked up with his books the whole morning." 
 
 Ah ! Babet, grudge him not the book in v^hich he is now 
 reading. It is very sweet and fair, no poet ever penned a fairer ; 
 and, alas ! it is a book which few open, and fewer still read to 
 the end without much sorrow, and many bitter tears. 
 
CHAPTER XL. \ 
 
 There is no reason why we should go on dreaming of love and 
 Beatrice with Gilbert Gervoise. He is not thirty yet ; he is in 
 the very prime and noon of love, when it has lost its early weak- 
 ness, and is mature and ripe, and strong as red wine. Let him 
 dream. The wakening will soon come, it is coming fast, nay, it 
 has arrived in the chateau of Verville under the shape and as- 
 pect of Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 Neither his wife nor his step-daughter was within, but 
 Brownson, Mrs. Gervoise's maid, was. With this discreet 
 damsel, who had succeeded Miss Jameson and Mrs. Scot in their 
 office of private and delicate inquiry, Mr. Gervoise had a long 
 conversation, and, to his dismay, learned how rapidly matters 
 had been going on whilst he was away. 
 
 We say to his dismay, for Mr. Gervoise's plans had under- 
 gone a radical change. Of the two arrows in his quiver, one had 
 taken such sure and speedy effect that it would be more danger- 
 ous than useful to discharge the other. He accordingly gave 
 prompt orders for packing up, and leaving the servants engaged 
 in the task, he went off to Gilbert's house. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise found his son within, and he lost no time in 
 opening the business in hand. 
 
 " I thought Mrs. Gervoise and Beatrice were here, Gilbert," 
 he said, looking round. Gilbert replied they were gone, but he did 
 not add that they were on the downs, where he was to join them. 
 
 " I want to tell them that we are going off this evening," 
 calmly continued Mr. Gervoise ; " it is late, they really have no 
 time to lose." 
 
 " Going to-night ! " exclaimed Gilbert. 
 
 " And pray why should you object? " asked his father. His 
 tone was curt and aggressive, and yet Gilbert had no choice ; he 
 must speak, and speak at once. 
 
 " My reason for objecting," he replied, " is that, acting on 
 your wishes, I am going to marry Miss Gordon." 
 
BEATEICE. 327 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked all amazement. 
 
 " You — you going to marry Beatrice ! " lie cried. 
 
 " Miss Gordon is of age," said Gilbert, " she is ;jvilling that 
 you should reside in Carnoosie, and she will live here with her 
 mother and me. I will make any other concession you can 
 name. Give up all right over the chateau at Verville — do any 
 thing, in short." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise gave him a half contemptuous look. 
 
 " You shall never marry Beatrice Gordon with my consent," 
 was his reply. 
 
 " I can marry her without your consent," replied Gilbert, 
 reddening and forgetting the existence of Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 " Beatrice must not marry, and she shall not," said Mr. Ger- 
 voise. " I have quite changed my mind on that subject. As to 
 your proposal that my wife should come here and live with you — 
 it is simply insolent." 
 
 Gilbert looked very hard at his father. What did he mean 
 by this sudden change ? what did he mean by saying that Bea- 
 trice should never marry? He could not prevent her from 
 marrying. 
 
 " Mrs. Gervoise has not many years to live," said Gilbert 
 calmly ; " when she dies, it seems to me that the power which 
 Beatrice's love for her mother gives you dies too." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise was probably aware that he had said too much, 
 for he did not answer one word, but walked to the door. 
 
 " Is there no chance of our agreeing? " asked Gilbert. 
 
 " None," replied Mr. Gervoise, and he walked out. 
 
 Gilbert went out too, but by a side door. He crossed a bridge 
 which spanned the river. He quickly made his way to the 
 downs, and found them waiting for him. 
 
 " Go and walk with Gilbert, my dear," said Mrs. Gervoise, 
 who looked very bright and smiling. 
 
 Beatrice refused, but Gilbert gave her a look her mother could 
 not see, and she altered her resolve, and walked away by his 
 side. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, when they were out of hearing, " has 
 my father any power over you to prevent you from marrying 
 now or at any future time ? " 
 
 Beatrice turned pale. 
 
 " Is Mr. Gervoise come back? " she asked. 
 
 "He is, but you have not answered my question." 
 
 " He has no power over me. Why do you ask, Gilbert? " 
 
 Gilbert gave her a look full of woe. 
 
328 BEATRICE. 
 
 " He has refused his consent?" 
 
 " He has, Beatrice." 
 
 " Gilbert, comply with his terms. Gilbert, let us be happy 
 — I do not care about money." 
 
 " Beatrice, my father will take no terms. He says you shall 
 never marry." 
 
 Beatrice tightened her clasped hands, and looked back at the 
 spot where Mr. Gervoise was sitting. Ah, there was her chain, 
 and she could not break it — ^no, come what would, she never 
 could forsake her. She turned back to Gilbert, and said very 
 drearily : 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " Well, Beatrice, must we part once more?" 
 
 " I suppose so. And yet I should so like a little happiness. 
 I should so like it, Gilbert. Let me be happy, Gilbert." 
 
 The appeal almost unmanned him. He took her in his arms 
 and covered her face with kisses and tears. 
 
 " Oh, that you could be happy ! " he sighed, " as happy as I 
 would make you ! " 
 
 " You see," said Beatrice, letting her head sink on his shoul- 
 der with languid grace, " you see, I have suffered a good deal, 
 and life is short, and youth is still shorter. A few years more, 
 and I shall be so weary of it all that I shall not care what be- 
 comes of me. Now I still care for myself. It has pleased God 
 that you should love me, and wonder not that, having received 
 such a blessing, I hold it fast and let all else go. I will make 
 any concession to keep my darling and stay with you. I will 
 settle Carnoosie house and estate on Mr. Gervoise for my life- 
 time — ^I cannot do more, surely he will be satisfied with that." 
 
 Gilbert did not answer. His countenance was turned from 
 hers, and he remained silent so long that Beatrice raised her 
 head, and leaned forward to see him. His face was pale as death, 
 his eyes were dull, his lips were white. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, " you will not leave your mother, and I 
 dare not blame you ; but neither must you betray your conscience 
 and your honour. It is one thing to allow my father to live in 
 your house, and another to settle the estate upon him. I dare 
 not say he would refuse such a bribe, though I offered him Ver- 
 ville, and he declined it ; but let us be open, and ask ourselves 
 how he would use this power ? Beatrice, I dare not answer this 
 question. But remember that you are not absolute mistress of 
 this property. If you have no children, it is to go to certain 
 heirs, so my father has told me. How can you then make an- 
 
BEATEICE. 329 
 
 other sovereign of the little realm which Providence has en- 
 trusted to your care ? " 
 
 Beatrice heard him in silence, but with a bleeding heart. 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice/' he said, "it is bitter ; but better endure 
 such bitterness than seek the sting of a lasting shame ! " 
 
 Beatrice was too proud to answer. She withdrew from his 
 side, and stood before him collected and calm, though without a 
 trace of colour in her cheeks. 
 
 " You are right, and I was wrong," she said. " Yes, Gil- 
 bert ; it would be dishonourable to give up my inheritance, even 
 to get a few happy years. I have often thought of it, and often 
 rejected the thought with scorn ; although, Gilbert, I did place 
 the great happiness of my life in spending it with you." 
 
 " Beatrice ! Beatrice ! do not tempt me again." 
 
 " No, Gilbert. And what is more, I have tempted you for 
 the last time. We must not merely part, because it would be 
 useless folly to subject ourselves to such torment ; but we must 
 meet no more. You must not write to me — Gilbert, we must 
 not love." 
 
 Gilbert looked at her in mute and sorrowful surprise. 
 
 " No, we must not love," continued Beatrice ; " for the love 
 that leads to nothing is, I see, a snare and a danger. Besides, 
 why should I hide it from myself, Gilbert ? You are too much 
 above me, and I am too much below you. I am so weak, so 
 erring. Oh ! if I could, how I would annihilate that duty, 
 honour, and sacrifice which are ever before you ! I know you 
 love me truly and nobly, Gilbert, but then you can do without 
 that love, and I feel, too, you are best without it. I have been 
 to blame from the first. I compelled you to speak when you 
 wanted to remain silent ; I would be engaged when you wanted 
 us to be free. Forgive me, Gilbert, I knew no better. I had a 
 heart full of hope then, and thought every obstacle must yield to 
 my will. Now I confess myself conquered. Our case is hope- 
 less. Let us part then. We are old friends now ; we are not 
 lovers, and you are no more the Gilbert whom twice I was 
 going to marry." 
 
 " Is that your final resolve, Beatrice? " 
 
 " It is. You are blameless in my eyes, all but perfect ; but, 
 Gilbert, we are best apart, for we did not love after the same 
 fashion. You were ever ready to give me up, because it was 
 right, and I to love on, whether is was right or wrong to do so. 
 Ah ! why did you not marry Mademoiselle Joanne ? for then you 
 would have been happy, and we should have been friends for 
 life." 
 
330 BEATRICE. 
 
 Gilbert did not speak at once. He could not. Beatrice did 
 not know how deep a wound her words inflicted. So that was 
 how the woman he held so dear read him ! as a cold, passionless 
 being, who could sacrifice easily, because he did not feel deeply. 
 Do not repine, Gilbert, yours is no solitary fate ! The men and 
 women who break their hearts at the voice of duty, who do not 
 display the bleeding wound even to the loved one's eye, must 
 never expect their reward here below. They will be thought too 
 perfect, ungenial, admirable no doubt, but scarcely human ; and 
 they who yield to their impulses, who gratify their passions, will 
 be said to feel strongly. All these thoughts passed rapidly 
 through Gilbert's mind. . But he loved Beatrice deeply and 
 tenderly, even though she was unjust, and that love told him it 
 was best for her not to be bound to him. It was not in his 
 power to make her happy, let her then be free ! He walked 
 away a few steps, that she might not see the deep grief he could 
 not have concealed ; he was tolerably calm when he came back 
 to the spot where he had left her standing. He did not attempt 
 to justify himself and enlighten her — better let her think he was 
 passionless and cold ; he only said with sorrowful calmness : 
 
 " Let it be as you wish. Good-bye, Beatrice." 
 
 But there was something in his tone that frightened her, and 
 made her heart sick — a revelation of her cruel injustice. 
 
 " You are not angry with me, Gilbert?" she said. 
 
 " Angry ! why should I be angry? " 
 
 *' Because I always say and do the wrong thing," im- 
 petuously cried Beatrice — " because I am so imperfect, so 
 erring." / 
 
 He looked .at her, and felt very weak. Ay, she was indeed 
 an erring creature ; but how attractive were her errors ! She 
 was indeed no perfect being, not even in his eyes, but how 
 delightful it would have been to possess such sweet imperfection, 
 and call it his for ever ! Why was this handsome and ardent 
 girl, who loved him so fondly, and was ever longing to give her- 
 self to him, so far beyond his reach ? Why could he not pluck 
 th^ ripe and delicious fruit, but must leave it on the bough for 
 another hand to gather, and another heart to enjoy at last? He 
 could not bear to look at her, and turned his eyes away from 
 a face that must henceforth be forbidden to their gaze ; and 
 Beatrice never guessed or knew that the truest and the most 
 impassioned love she was ever to inspire in man's heart, had been 
 felt for her whilst she stood looking at Gilbert's pale, sad face. 
 
 " I am not offended," he replied at length ; "I should be 
 most unjust if I were." 
 
BEATRICE. 331 
 
 " And you cannot be unjust," said Beatrice, in a low voice. 
 " If' you are beyond the weaknesses, you are also beyond the 
 errors of mortality." 
 
 She could not help looking at him with the adoration which 
 was ever in her heart. Gilbert felt it was time this should end. 
 A little more and he would take Beatrice in his arms, and they 
 would exchange new vows of eternal love, and forget all in the 
 sweet delirium of passion. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said again. And, without an embrace, 
 without one touch of her hand, he turned away and left her. 
 
 He walked down the cliff with more eager haste than he had 
 felt when he came up to meet Beatrice. He turned his back on 
 his lost happiness, and did not look round. With calm despair 
 he went on, seeking his own woe. It was all over. That 
 young folly was ended. It had always been madness, though it 
 had been so sweet ; it was better to have it over. Calm, reso- 
 lute, though ^ale, Gilbert Gervoise entered the house of which 
 Beatrice was not to become mistress. He walked over the 
 rooms through which they had gone that morning, and wondered 
 to find them so chill, and cold, and dreary. He entered last that 
 where Beatrice had said : 
 
 " I shall sit and read here," and he looked at the bird in its 
 cage. After a while he took it out, opened the window, then 
 tossed it on the evening air and bade it seek another master. 
 
 The bird flew away with a wondering scream, but Gilbert 
 did not watch its flight. He shut the window on the little 
 stranger, and shut it, too, upon hope and love. 
 
 And how fared it with Beatrice after that sad parting on the 
 downs? Calmly enough she went back to her mother, and 
 merely saying that Gilbert had been obliged to go home, she sat 
 down by her, and clasping her hands around her knees, looked 
 at the red sun slowly bending towards the west. 
 
 There are days and hours that seem to burn themselves into 
 memory, and such was this hour to Beatrice. 
 
 The sun was dying on the golden horizon like a king on his 
 couch. He was dying, wrapped in purple and flame ; proudly, 
 carelessly, for he knew that he should be born again on the 
 morrow. The evening was beautiful and very still : air, earth, 
 sea, and heavens were mute. The spot was lone, the wild 
 downs, the vast sea, the beach and its edge of foam, and the 
 setting sun, were all Beatrice saw. Fast, very fast, sank the 
 sun ; and the faster it sank the fainter grew the beatings of 
 Beatrice's heart. It was all over, all, every thing ; that sun was 
 
332 BEATEICE. 
 
 her destiny. The yellow orb touched the blue edge of the wave ; 
 it was but a half sun now, it was but the last bright edge of a 
 golden globe — it was nothing — it was gone — the dark bitter 
 waters of Time had closed over it. 
 
 " Beatrice ! " cried her mother, alarmed at her desolate, 
 intent look. 
 
 Beatrice turned round. 
 
 " Darling," she said passionately, " he has left me for ever — 
 and my heart is broken ! " 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 " I wish I were dead ! " piteously said Mrs. Gervoise ; " I 
 am the cause — I am the cause ! " 
 
 Beatrice started to her feet with a sort of terror. 
 
 " If you love me, never say that," she cried — " never ! " 
 
 And as the dew was falling, she took her arm and led her in. 
 They found Mr. Gervoise waiting for them, and very cross at 
 their long stay. 
 
 " I am surprised at you. Miss Gordon, to keep Mrs. Gervoise 
 out so long." 
 
 Beatrice did not answer. She felt mortal hatred in her heart 
 as she looked at him, and she also felt that that hatred was a 
 crime. 
 
 "We are going back to Carnoosie within the next hour," 
 continued Mr. Gervoise. " Please to be ready." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise felt full of dismay, but did not dare to answer. 
 Beatrice resolved not to speak, but stood and looked out of the 
 window. Suddenly she started. She saw Babet, Gilbert's ser- 
 vant, coming up the avenue with a letter in her hand. She felt 
 it was for her, and at once left the room and swiftly went down 
 stairs. She reached the door as Babet was hand^g the letter 
 to her mother's maid, Brownson. 
 
 " That letter is for me, Brownson," said Beatrice, and unable to 
 deny the fact in the presence of Babet, Brownson slowly replied 
 she believed it was, and reluctantly, as Beatrice could see, sur- 
 rendered it to her, without have first taken it, as in duty bound, 
 to her honoured master. 
 
 Beatrice broke the seal and unfolded the page on which 
 Gilbert had merely written, 
 
 " If ever you want a friend, send for me. 
 
 " Gilbert." 
 
 It was all, but it was enough. Beatrice knew his meaning. 
 
BEATEICE. 833 
 
 He was hers in sorrow and danger ; hers entirely. She went 
 up the staircase and met Mr. Gervoise half way. 
 
 " You have received a letter," he said, looking at the open 
 page in her hand. " It is a short One." 
 
 " It is an appointment," replied Beatrice, with a bright, defi- 
 ant smile ; and she passed on, leaving him perplexed. 
 
 That same evening they left Yerville, and the old chateau 
 was shut up once more. 
 
CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 "It is better to be at Carnoosie/' thouglit Beatrice, as she 
 stood once more in her favorite avenue, and looking around her, 
 felt that land and sea divided her from Gilbert. " It would have 
 been too hard to have remained in that little French village, and 
 yet be separated from him. Here I can bear my fate ; I have 
 chosen it, and I will abide by it." 
 
 But it was a hard fate, and hard was the battle she had to 
 fight against her own longing heart. She had given up Gilbert, 
 and no doubt she had done well. What availed an engagement 
 which, as she had said to him, was only a snare and a danger 
 to them both ? But perilous though it was, it had been a pleas- 
 ure too — a deep, exquisite pleasure. And now it was gone. 
 No more could she think of him and say, " He is mine !" No 
 more must she expect the fond and yet manly letters which had 
 been the food of her heart so long. 
 
 " And yet he loves me still," thought Beatrice ; " and I have 
 but to send for him and he will come." 
 
 There was sweetness in that thought, a triumphant sweetness 
 made to gladden a proud woman's heart. And as she thought 
 so, Beatrice walked on beneath the shade of the mighty trees with 
 a quick and eager step. She went on as if she were going to 
 meet Gilbert, but alas ! the endless green of her wide demesne 
 alone met her view ; she saw herself the mistress of that stately 
 solitude, beloved, indeed, but alone. She stood still and looked 
 around her. The solemn trees arched their green summits above 
 her head. How mighty, how eternal they looked, these friends 
 of her childhood and comforters of her youth ! 
 
 "I wonder if they know me as I know them?" thought- 
 Beatrice. " I wonder if it is something to them when I pass 
 beneath them glad and happy, or disturbed at heart and troubled, 
 as I am now ? Who knows where the communion between man 
 and nature ends? And there is wonderful life in trees. A 
 mountain looks inert and cold. Snow, torrid heat, are the same 
 
BEATRICE. 335 
 
 to rock and granite. But a tree has life. It is bom, and it dies, 
 and between these two extremes it has green youth and stately 
 maturity. Man can fell and lightning scathe it ; it is mortal in 
 its vicissitudes, grandly immortal in its durability. How old are 
 these oaks ? Older than the coming of the Carnoosies from Scot- 
 land to this their English estate. I wonder if they liked the 
 Carnoosies, or if they care about Beatrice Gordon ? Was there 
 some elder brood more racy of the soil, more Saxon or Norman, 
 whom they loved better ? Have we been aliens and intruders 
 here — Scotch beggars come to fatten on English land ? Never 
 mind, good oaks ! We have been your masters, our breath has 
 been your fiat. You have flourished with our favour, and stood 
 or fallen at our decree ; but do not fear me, whilst I live and 
 have power you are secure. Dews of heaven shall bathe your 
 boughs, and earth moisture feed your roots ; birds shall build 
 their nests in your branches, and rear their young, and sing love- 
 song between your leaves, and the fawn shall rest beneath your 
 long shadows, and a kind mistress shall you ever find Beatrice 
 Gordon!" 
 
 She looked at the trees, and tears stood in her eyes, for the 
 emptiness and the folly of her rhapsody were heavy upon her. 
 What was she dreaming about trees, and all but talking to them 
 for? Because her lot was so lone that her heart overflowed, and 
 she was Beatrice Gordon, young, pretty, and rich, but solitary. 
 
 " And alone I must ever be," thought Beatrice. " Oh ! Gil- 
 bert ! Gilbert ! I would give all the oaks in Carnoosie for a 
 gooseberry bush in your garden ! Oh ! Gilbert, shall we never 
 be happy — never?" 
 
 She flung herself on the still dewy grass at the foot of an 
 aged beech. She shed bitter tears, and where was the com- 
 munion of nature ? Birds sang, leaves rustled, stirred by the 
 pleasant breeze, and Beatrice might weep, whilst aU around her 
 rejoiced. 
 
 In a mood subdued and sad, the mistress of Carnoosie 
 returned to the house. As she crossed the flower-garden she 
 caught sight of two figures passing arm-in-arm through the 
 orchard door. She remained petrified, for in one she recognized 
 Antony, and in the other Miss Stone. In a moment Beatrice 
 saw it all ; they were married, and they were living in Carnoosie ! 
 She turned round in a transport of indignation and saw Mr. 
 Gervoise standing on the terrace looking at her with an odd smile. 
 She went up to him, and said briefly : 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise, I will not have them here." 
 
336 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Miss Gordon, where I am my son and his wife shall be." 
 
 " Go, then. I will not have them here." 
 
 " If I go, my wife goes with me ; but I may add, to relieve 
 your mind, that I will not go ! " 
 
 He gave her a cold, deliberate look, turned his back upon 
 her, and entered the house. 
 
 Beatrice went up to the room where her mother was resting 
 from the fatigue of the journey. She learned from her that 
 Antony had run away with Miss Stone, and that Mr. Gervoise, 
 after being desperately angry, had forgiven him. 
 
 " And if you care for me, Beatrice," pathetically added Mrs. 
 Gervoise, "do let them stay here. Surely the house is large 
 enough, and Mr. Gervoise declares that if they go, I must go 
 too." 
 
 Beatrice's lips trembled with passionate indignation, but once 
 more she felt her powerlessness. Mr. Gervoise was complacency 
 itself when they met at dinner. Beatrice was cold as ice to 
 Antony and his young wife, but she was strictly civil. To anoth- 
 er person, who also sat at her table an uninvited guest, she was 
 rather colder than to Mr. Gervoise's son and daughter-in-law. 
 This person, who was no other than Mr. Stone, nevertheless 
 filled her heart with secret pity. He had aged ten years since 
 they had met, and he was now a worn and grey old man, with a 
 shy, troubled look that ever shunned hers. He left soon after 
 dinner was over, spite of Mr. Gervoise's fervent entreaties that he 
 would remain ; and Beatrice saw him walking through the 
 grounds with his hands in his pockets and his eyes bent on the 
 earth — leaving his darling alone with the despoiler. 
 
 Without seeming to do so, Beatrice also bestowed a consid- 
 erable degree of her attention on the young bride. Antony's 
 manner, fond to his wife, defiant to her, did not surprise Bea- 
 trice ; but Rosy's, which was gay, saucy, childish, and shrewd 
 to every one else, did — ^for whenever their eyes met Rosy became 
 mute, or seemed to shrink into herself with a frightened air, and 
 she looked either at her husband or at Mr. Gervoise as if for 
 protection. 
 
 " What have they been saying about me to that poor little 
 thing?" thought Beatrice; "well — ^no matter. It is plain I 
 need fear no encroaching intimacy. I shall be left to myself — I 
 want no more." 
 
 If this were all, indeed, that Beatrice wanted, she had her 
 wish. As time passed — and we must let weeks go by — she per- 
 ceived that she stood in a sort of moral isolation. No one sought 
 
BEATEICE. 337 
 
 her ; few, save her mother, spoke to her. Antony's honeymoon 
 overjflowed with sweetness, no doubt, and his young wife was 
 evidently very fond of him, and Mr. Stone, who came daily, 
 appeared reconciled to his fate, and Mr. Gervoise was both grand 
 and meek ; but the mistress of the house was as much alone as 
 a statue in its niche, or a goddess on her pedestal. 
 
 It was a solitary life that she led in that large Carnoosie of 
 hers — a deep lull before the coming of the greatest storm in her 
 life. She lived mostly, when she was not with her mother, 
 within the shadow of her favourite oaks. Young Mrs. Gervoise, 
 who was very fond of fruit, had taken a fancy to the orchard, 
 and was often joined there by her indolent, ever-doing-nothing 
 husband. They seemed unable to live apart, yet Beatrice noticed 
 that at meal-times they were fond and pettish by turns, and she 
 perceived, with great annoyance, that Rosy did her the honour, 
 as Mr. Gervoise would have said, of being jealous of her. It 
 was a small, childish jealousy, that showed itself in trifles, and 
 which Antony most artfully fomented. If he spoke to Beatrice, 
 or looked at her — and this, being the easiest of all, and the most 
 difficult for her to avoid, and probably, too, the pleasantest to 
 himself, Antony did most — ^his young wife looked miserable, and 
 either sat apart sulking and seeming ready to cry, or she darted 
 angry glances at Miss Gordon. 
 
 " Poor little thing ! " thought Beatrice, " she does not see the 
 trap," for it was plain to her that Mr. Gervoise had advised his 
 son to act this part in order that dangerous intimacy might never 
 rise between his step-daughter and his daughter-in-law. 
 
 Well it was, therefore, for Beatrice to live alone with her 
 books, her oaks, and her solitary walks — alone in that wide Car- 
 noosie of which she was mistress to her sorrow. 
 
 There are many sad and fearful dramas in private life. Some 
 are condemned to enact them from the first to the last scene on 
 the great stage, and some must sit in the boxes, and look on, and 
 either fate cannot be avoided. This is no common theatre where, 
 having paid for your seat, you can rise and leave ere the play is 
 half over, because you are weary with its dulness or grieved at 
 its incident. You must sit through the five acts, and when these 
 are over, you may in your turn ascend the stage and become an 
 actor, and have others looking on, laughing at your troubles, and 
 perhaps grieving at your grief. Such a spectator now became 
 Beatrice. Her own drama was either over or still to come, but 
 before her eyes, and within her compidsory observation, was 
 enacted the drama of young Mrs. Gervoise's life. 
 15 
 
338 BEATRICE. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise could never be at rest. He should rule and 
 torment, and he now fixed on Mr. Stone. He had managed him 
 so easily, and Mr. Stone had taken his daughter's elopement so 
 quietly, that Mr. Gervoise had felt bound to go on. Had he 
 been more observant, he might have noticed that Mr. Stone was 
 silent and gloomy, that he often forgot to shave, that he angled 
 no more, that he walked listlessly with downcast eyes, and show- 
 ed the symptoms which appear when a man's affections or his 
 pride have received some hopeless wound ; but it would have 
 been useless to complain, and Mr. Stone knew it and was silent. 
 
 This Mr. Gervoise forgot. He forgot that resentment can 
 be silent as well as spoken, and he most amiably endeavoured to 
 persuade Mr. Stone that he could not do better than take up his 
 final residence in Carnoosie. 
 
 " Let us make but one family," he said affectionately. 
 
 " Excuse me. Miss Gordon is the mistress of Carnoosie." 
 
 " The owner of Carnoosie — I am master. Poor Beatrice is 
 unfit for authority, you know." 
 
 This allusion to Beatrice's supposed insanity exasperated Mr. 
 Stone. He had been deceived once, he knew better now, but he 
 was silent, his little Rosy might suffer if he spoke. 
 
 " I might assist you in your business matters," continued 
 Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " I have none," was the short answer. 
 
 But Mr. Gervoise would not be disheartened. He had a long 
 purse of his own, yet he was always longing to dip his fingers 
 into somebody else's. Beatrice's was closed now, Antony's was 
 empty. If he could only persuade Mr. Stone to invest his money 
 in pictures ! Cautiously he felt his ground, and, encouraged by 
 Mr. Stone's patience, he opened his batteries. Mr. Stone had 
 borne heavier wrongs and not murmured, but this insolent at- 
 tempt made the cup overflow. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise and Mr. Stone were sitting on the terrace. 
 Beatrice^was standing a little apart from them. Her eyes were 
 fixed on the flower-garden and the fountains, but she did not see 
 them. She saw a cross on lonely cliffs and* a red sun setting 
 above a dark blue sea, and she went over the unutterable bitter- 
 ness of a last parting. 
 
 Absorbed in her own thoughts, she lost the opening of the 
 critical conversation, but roused at length by Mr. Stone's angry 
 voice, a very unusual sound, she listened without looking round. 
 
 " Pictures ! " that gentleman was saying, " and who save 
 fools care for pictures? Perhaps you take me for a fool, sir?" 
 he said bitterly. 
 
BEATRICE. 339 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " piously answered Mr. Gervoise, " a man 
 of sounder judgment I never met with than Joseph Stone, Esq." 
 
 " But he did not show much by letting your scapegrace son 
 come within reach of his pretty daughter, did he, Mr. Ger- 
 voise ? " 
 
 " My dear sir, why bring up this unpleasant past? Have I, 
 too, not been wronged? Was not this stolen match as great an 
 offence to me as it was to you?" 
 
 Beatrice gently turned her head. 
 
 Mr. Stone had risen ; she saw him stare at Mr. Gervoise, 
 still calmly sitting, and there was ill-concealed fury in the gaze. 
 
 " An offence to you ! " he said at length, " the thing for 
 which you plotted and plotted till it came to pass." 
 
 " I ! " exclaimed Mr. Gervoise in amazed innocence. " Why, 
 I was in France at the time ! " 
 
 " In France ! of course you were — you kept out of the way 
 — an old dodge ! " 
 
 " Mr. Stone, you forget yourself," virtuously said Mr. Ger-: 
 voise ; "it was you who advised me to take that French jour- 
 ney. And now my eyes are opened at last. Is it possible you 
 were in a plot with your daughter to entrap my unfortunate 
 son?" 
 
 He pointed his fore-finger at Mr. Stone, who stood silent, 
 confounded at this rare impudence. 
 
 " Of course that is it ! " resumed Mr. Gervoise, amazed at 
 his long blindness, " of course it is ; you advised me to 
 travel on I know not what flimsy pretence, and the very night I 
 left your daughter ran away with my poor boy. Mr. Stone, 
 was that right ? — was it just ? " 
 
 " I have deserved it," at length said Mr. Stone, wiping his 
 forehead ; " I was warned you were a devil — a real devil, and I 
 would no't believe it — I have deserved it ! " 
 
 " Mr. Stone, do not be absurd, I beg. I have a great dis- 
 like to absurdity, and allow me to remind you of a few facts, 
 just a few. I did nothing to draw you to this house ; I seldom 
 went near you, and finally, when I went to France, it was on 
 your urgent advice. I defy you to prove in the faintest manner 
 that I ever did the least thing to promote this unfortunate mar- 
 riage. I am secure there, Mr. Stone, and I repeat it — I defy 
 you." 
 
 l He spoke as he felt, with insolent triumph. We all like 
 [and enjoy success, and Mr. Gervoise was not above this weak- 
 
340 BEATRICE. 
 
 ness. His well-laid plans had not been defeated, in one tittle — 
 every thing had come to pass as he had schemed it ; why, then, 
 not enjoy the innocent gratification of proving to Mr. Stone that 
 he had been thoroughly defeated ? 
 
 " You are a devil," said Mr. Stone again, " a real devil. 
 Rosy, come and kiss me," he added, turning to his daughter, 
 who was coming up the stone steps with her husband, " come 
 and kiss me, my poor darling," continued her father ; " I am go- 
 ing away, and you will not see me here in a hurry." 
 
 Rosy gave her father and Mr. Gervoige a scared look. .She 
 saw well enough they had been quarreling, and Mr. Stone's face 
 told her the quarrel had been a severe one. She stood for a 
 moment like one bewildered, then she sprang toward her father 
 with a pitiful cry. She clung to him with a passion which was 
 more than sorrowful — it was desperate. Alas ! she had felt secure 
 and strong whilst he was by, and she felt weak and forsaken now that 
 he was going. Antony stood and looked on, at first with a sneer, 
 then with dark and jealous displeasure, and as his nature was 
 coarse as well as cruel, he soon went up to his wife, and taking 
 hold of her arm, attempted to pull her away. 
 
 " Come along, you idiot ! " he said. " And as for you, sir," 
 he added insolently, turning on his father-in-law, " leave the 
 house ! " 
 
 Mr. Stone had no time to reply or to resent the insult. Bea- 
 trice had come forward, and turning her flushed and indignant 
 face on Antony, she said : 
 
 " Mr. Antony Gervoise, attempt to repeat words like these 
 in my house, and you leave it forever and on the instant ! " 
 
 Antony, who had not seen her, drew back almost frightened. 
 Beatrice turned to Mr. Stone, and said quietly : 
 
 " I hope I need not tell you that I am mistress here, and that 
 you are welcome to come or stay at your pleasure." 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am, thank you — much obliged," said Mr. 
 Stone, without heeding her, and looking at Rosy with eyes that 
 said: "Oh! why can't I take you away, my darling?" he 
 turned away, and with a quick step walked out of that ill-fated 
 Carnoosie. Rosy, bathed in tears, stood looking after him, then 
 ran to overtake him ; two hands of steel held her back. Antony 
 looked savage, but said nothing. Mr. Gervoise said, with aus- 
 tere courtesy : 
 
 "Know your duty, madam, I pray. Stay with your hus- 
 band. Know your duty, I say." 
 
 Rosy gave Beatrice a pitiful look, but Beatrice, though 
 
BEATEICE. 
 
 341 
 
 grieved, remained mute, and did not interfere. She could not ; 
 voluntarily this young thing had put the yoke around her neck, 
 and now she must bear it. 
 
 That same evening Mr. Stone left the cottage ; he knew well 
 enough that his presence there could no longer serve, and might 
 injure his darling. 
 
 ..v4i^/iiil4^-l' 
 
CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 The day was dark and sullen. Heavy clouds hung in the 
 sky ; motionkss and vast, like stranded ships, they lay on that 
 grey sea. Pale mists dropped above low plain and wooded park, 
 above dull and silent mansions, above slow rivers, that flowed 
 without a sound through the summer landscape. 
 
 " What are you thinking of Beatrice ? " asked Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 Beatrice turned from the window where she had been look- 
 ing at the clouds. 
 
 " Are you thinking of Gilbert?" continued her mother. 
 
 A sharp thrill of pain shot through Beatrice's heart. She 
 thought of Gilbert daily, almost hourly, but she could not bear 
 to hear or to utter his name. Was not all over ? Had she not 
 told him so, and had he not ceased to write? Why was she 
 asked, then, if she was thinking of him ? " 
 
 " I was thinking of Mrs. Antony Gervoise," she replied ; 
 " she looks wretched." 
 
 " Poor young thing ! " sighed Mrs. Gervoise. " But, Bea- 
 trice, do not meddle," she added timorously, "pray do not ! " 
 
 " I do not intend it, darling," sadly said Beatrice. " Where 
 is the use of meddling when I cannot mend ? " 
 
 " My dear, you look very low. You stay too much with me. 
 Why do you not go out and take a walk ? " 
 
 " I cannot walk to-day." 
 
 "Why do you not go out and sketch, then? You used to 
 sketch, Beatrice ; but you are not the same since we went to 
 Verville." 
 
 Beatrice rose quickly. 
 
 " You are quite right, darling," she said. " I shall go out 
 and sketch. The rainy weather will soon come, and then I can- 
 not." 
 
 She took her sketch-book and went out with a sort of haste. 
 Oh ! if she could have left her sad and useless thoughts behind 
 her ! She sat down as soon as she entered the grounds, but she 
 
BEATEICE, 343 
 
 did not draw ; her book lay open on her lap, and her thoughts 
 went back to the pale, sad face, and the tearful eyes of little 
 Rosy. Antony's wife was fearfully altered, her cheeks had 
 grown hollow, her plump little figure had shrunk, and she went 
 moping about in a way which made Beatrice's heart ache when 
 they met, which was but seldom. Mrs. Gervoise took her 
 meals in her own room, and Beatrice was glad to take them 
 there with her, and not listen to Mr. Gervoise's polite insolence, 
 or to Antony's coarse remarks, both directed to the young wife. 
 Ever since Mr. Stone's departure the young man had spoken to 
 Rosy, and even looked at her as if she had lost all grace and favour 
 in his eyes. Was his short love exhausted, did he resent his 
 wife's affection for her father, or, worse still, was his nature so 
 mean that he disliked the defenceless being he could now torment 
 with impunity ? 
 
 " And shall I let him go on tormenting her ? " thought Bea- 
 trice ; and even as she thought so, a light step on the grass be- 
 hind her made her turn round. She saw young Mrs. Gervoise 
 coming toward her. She looked listless and sad, and stopped by 
 Beatrice's side. 
 
 " How nicely you draw ! " she said, with a sigh. 
 
 Beatrice looked up. There were traces of tears on Rosy's 
 cheeks. "There has been a quarrel, and she wants to tell me 
 about it," she thought. She replied coldly enough : 
 
 " I am happy to hear you say so." 
 
 " There is plenty to sketch in Carnoosie," continued Mrs. 
 Antony Gervoise, and she sat down on the grass by Beatrice's 
 side. 
 
 " Plenty indeed," replied Beatrice. 
 
 There was a pause, then Mrs. Antony Gervoise said impet- 
 tiously : 
 
 " I wish I had never seen it," and she burst into tears. 
 
 It was not in Beatrice's nature to resist this appeal for sym- 
 pathy. She put by her drawing, and turned to the poor little 
 thing by her, who was weeping and sobbing as if her heart would 
 break. 
 
 "Be of good cheer," she said, " matters will mend." 
 
 " He told me I did not love him," sobbed Rosy, " that I 
 loved my father and hated him." 
 
 " That was great nonsense." 
 
 " I hate Mr. Gervoise ! " impetuously resumed Rosy. 
 
 Beatrice looked at her compassionately. So she, too, knew 
 whence all the mischief in Carnoosie came. 
 
344: BEATRICE. 
 
 " It was he told my husband I did not love him — ^Antony told 
 me so." 
 
 " Like father, like son," thought Beatrice. 
 
 " I wish I were out of this house," sobbed the young wife, 
 " I shall never be happy here. I am sure my maid tells Mr. 
 Gervoise all I do. Oh ! Miss Gordon, I feel helpless and alone 
 — do advise me." 
 
 " I cannot," replied Beatrice. " I wish for your sake you 
 were out of Carnoosie, but to advise you is not in my power." 
 
 "But how do you manage?" insisted Rosy. "No one 
 interferes with you. You seem free as air, and Mr. Gervoise is 
 afraid of you." 
 
 Beatrice smiled rather drearily. 
 
 " I wear a chain round my ankle," she said ; " you do not 
 see it — I scarcely feel it — habit has made it light and easy ; be- 
 sides, I know how far to go ; yet there are moments when it eats 
 into the flesh, and I almost cry out with the pain. But habit, 
 which has done much, has taught me what to shun. This ex- 
 perience alone can teach you. Carnoosie is a noble mansion and 
 a fine place, but there are traps and pitfalls over the whole of it. 
 I can walk blindfolded where you are in danger every moment. 
 How then can I advise you ? " 
 
 Rosy looked frightened. 
 
 " I shall leave it," she said, " I shall tell Antony we must go ; 
 I will not stay." 
 
 " Do not attempt it," decisively said Beatrice. 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " You would fail, and failure is dangerous." 
 
 " Fail ! " cried Rosy. " I will leave Carnoosie, Miss Gor- 
 don, and you shall see it." 
 
 She rose, looking red and angry. Beatrice gently laid her 
 hand on her arm. 
 
 " Whatever you attempt," she said, " let it not be now, after 
 leaving me. I do not speak for my sake, but for your own. 
 You would only defeat your own ends. Be patient — wait a day 
 or two." 
 
 Rosy looked gloomy. 
 
 " Why, what sort of a house is this?" she asked angrily. 
 
 " A fair house, and which might be a blessed home to all 
 within its walls," replied Beatrice, turning back to look at Car- 
 noosie as it stood, square and stately on the terrace, with its 
 bright flowers waving and its fountains glancing in a stormy sun ; 
 " but what is there man will not mar ? " 
 
BEATRICE. 345 
 
 Rosy sat down once more on the grass, and, leaning her el- 
 bow on her knee, she looked darkly before her. 
 
 " Poor little thing ! " said Beatrice kindly, and resuming her 
 drawing, she added : 
 
 " I said I would not advise you, and yet I will : be patient 
 and be firm." • 
 
 Rosy looked bewildered. To be patient and firm — she to 
 whose wishes every thing had yielded in her father's house, and 
 who had learned vehemence, but scarcely firmness. 
 
 " I cannot," she replied. " I know what you mean, but I 
 cannot. When I am aggrieved, I must speak and I must have 
 my way." 
 
 " God help you, then ! " thought Beatrice, but she said 
 nothing. 
 
 Rosy felt Miss Gordon's prudent reserve, and it offended her. 
 She spoke no more of herself, and after a while she rose and 
 walked away, with mistrust in her heart. Beatrice knew it, and 
 did not resent it. She knew, too, how Rosy's struggle for liberty 
 would end, and she was even prepared for bearing the penalty 
 of the words she had spoken. That same afternoon Beatrice and 
 Antony met on the staircase. He stood still on seeing her, and 
 said insolently : 
 
 " So it is war — is it? " 
 
 Beatrice did not condescend to reply. 
 
 " I warn you," he continued, his voice rising, " that there 
 must be nothing between my wife and me — no mischief — no in- 
 terference." 
 
 Beatrice looked him steadily in the face, and continued as- 
 cending. He walked down, muttering sulkily. Up-stairs Beatrice 
 found Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " My dear Beatrice," he said, " what is this ? Rosy has been 
 complaining to you. Dear little foolish flighty Rosy ! My dear, 
 let us understand one another. Leave the young couple to me, 
 Beatrice ; I know young people and their ways, and if you will 
 be kind enough not to meddle, what is there I shall not be happy 
 to grant ? " 
 
 " Why are they both so much afraid that she should talk to 
 me? " thought Beatrice, but she did not answer. 
 
 " Would you like to travel in England with your dear 
 mother? " continued Mr. Gervoise. " She would like a change. 
 What would you say to an excursion to the lakes ? " 
 
 The temptation was brief, though keen enough. For Car- 
 noosie was but a prison. Oh ! it would be sweet to be away 
 15* 
 
346 BEATRICE. 
 
 somewhere, even though but for a while ! What were these 
 Stones to her? Had they not rushed on their fate, and how 
 could she mend it now ? All that Mr. Gervoise asked of her 
 was to remain neutral — he had found a new victim, and would 
 leave her and her mother in peace. But if these thoughts passed 
 rapidly through Beatrice's mind, other nobler,* more generous 
 thoughts also came with them. She looked steadily in Mr. Ger- 
 voise's face, and said with a scornful smile : a 
 
 " Carnoosie is mine, and as much as I please I shall meddle 
 in what passes beneath my roof." 
 
 " I made a proposal," mildly said Mr. Gervoise, and he 
 raised his hand to his ear to catch her answer. Mr. Gervoise 
 had of late shown symptoms of deafness, feigned or real. 
 
 " I am not to be bought," replied Beatrice ; " and, more- 
 over, I care little whether the chain be short or long." 
 
 She rose as much as to say " our discourse is ended," and 
 Mr. Gervoise rose too, and in the same mild and courteous tone 
 he said : 
 
 " I am truly sorry, Beatrice." 
 
 He left the room, and Beatrice sat down again and sighed. 
 She felt before her the coming of a long struggle, and she was 
 very weary. N 
 
 "What is that little pink and white thing to me?" she 
 thought almost angrily, " that I should thus be troubled about 
 her ? — and what is her foolish father to me either ? Did I not 
 warn him, and have I forgotten how the warning was received? 
 I heartily wish that his Rosy would leave me in peace." 
 
 She learned the same evening that with Rosy at least she was 
 not likely to be troubled in a hurry. She had gone out on the 
 terrace after dinner, and was leaning against the stone balustrade, 
 and looking down at the fountains, when a voice behind her half 
 whispered : 
 
 " Do look round, Beatrice." 
 
 Beatrice looked round, but with some scorn, for it was An- 
 tony who spoke. He was standing behind her, looking at her 
 with that cruel fondness in his blue eyes which Beatrice had al- 
 ways hated. 
 
 " My name is Miss Gordon," she said haughtily. 
 
 "And Beatrice," he persisted, "you are a true dark queen, 
 royally handsome." 
 
 This flight of speech was so far beyond Antony's reach, that 
 Beatrice wondered whether it has been suggested by his father. 
 With open mistrust she drew away from the young man, and 
 
BEATRICE. 347 
 
 thus perceived little Rosy standing within two paces of them with 
 a pale face and jealous eyes. Beatrice indignantly looked at 
 Antony, who laughed and went off. 
 
 Rosy, too, walked away in another direction, alone and mis- 
 erable no doubt. Beatrice did not see the contest or hear the 
 quarrel, but she saw Rosy's eyes the next morning, and she 
 knew that the bird had beaten its wings in vain against the iron 
 bara of the cage in which the fowler had placed it. 
 
 " Poor little bird ! " thought Beatrice ; " I wonder if it will 
 ever sing again. 
 
 Thus matters went on for a while, and then there was a 
 change. Mrs. Antony Gervoise had a bright defiant look, and 
 went about the house with a buoyant step. Beatrice saw it, and 
 she saw, too, that Mr. Gervoise watched his daughter-in-law with 
 a mocking eye. Observation soon told Miss Gordon what ailed 
 Rosy. She was expecting a letter. Every morning, when the 
 post was due, the young wife looked bright and expectant, but 
 when the hour had gone by, she went out into the garden to hide 
 her misery. Beatrice could not bear to see her face as the letter- 
 bag was brought in, and its contents, few enough — for Carnoosie 
 was a charmed place that had little to do with the outer world — 
 Were distributed to the other members of the family and she alone 
 received nothing. Her anxious eyes, pining in vain for that 
 token of affection, and the cruel pleasure with which Antony 
 and his father watched her bitter disappointment, filled Miss 
 Gordon with pity. Her whole soul rose within her. Was she 
 to tolerate such things beneath her roof? " Am I not answer- 
 able for them if I do ?" thought Beatrice as she walked down the 
 oak avenue. ^' Does not the dishonour of such doings reach me 
 — I will not allow it. My old Carnoosie shall not be sullied with 
 such iniquities whilst it calls me mistress." 
 
 Beatrice knew her ground too well to talk to or to argue with 
 Mr. Gervoise ; but she made an opportunity that same day to 
 meet Rosy in a solitary spot, and going up to her, said at once : 
 
 " You are expecting a letter — you will never get it — yours 
 never reached. Give me another, and I will post it." 
 
 Rosy turned red and pale. 
 
 *' They dare not," she said, " they dare not have done that." 
 
 " Poor child ! Give me a letter, I say, and I warrant that 
 the answer will come." 
 
 Rosy looked frightened. 
 
 " Do you think I am safe here ? " she whispered, taking Bea- 
 
348 BEATRICE. 
 
 trice's arm and leading her away to a closer and more covered 
 spot. " He threatened to kill me last night." 
 
 Beatrice smiled. 
 
 " And jou believed him, and he frightened you. Trust me, 
 he may beat you, he will never kill you. He knows the law too 
 weU." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Rosy with a deep sigh, "he is always talking of 
 the law, and it seems it is all for him and against me ! " 
 
 " Trust to the law so far as your life is concerned. He has 
 neither the will nor the daring to attempt it." 
 
 "And do you think I can write a letter, and be safe too?" 
 suggested Rosy. 
 
 " Why not? " asked Beatrice. 
 
 Rosy gave a fearful look around her, then pushed up her 
 sleeve and bared her arm ; a deep purple mark had imprinted it- 
 self on the delicate white flesh. 
 
 " He taxed me with the letter," she whispered, covering her 
 arm up, " and dared me to write another, and he did this ! God 
 help me ! " she added, clenching her two hands, and looking up 
 at that serene blue sky, which calmly sees all man's iniquities — 
 " Grod help me ! I was the apple of my father's eye, and the dar- 
 ling of his heart, and now I am beaten so. Oh ! Miss Gordon, I 
 must die, or it cannot be true ! I married for love a few months 
 ago. It cannot have come to this ! What have I done ! I only 
 wished to please him, and be happy with him, and you see how 
 he uses me ! This morning. Miss Gordon, when I showed this 
 mark to Mr. Gervoise, he shrugged his shoulders in his horrid 
 French fashion, and answered, his son had told him how I had 
 fallen and hurt myself, and he assured me with a smile — ^he 
 smiled his horrible, hateful smile — ^he assured me no one would 
 believe me." 
 
 " But I do — I believe you, and I will help you," warmly said 
 Beatrice ; " write the letter, I tell you, and I will post it." 
 
 " I will," sobbed the poor young thing. " I have borne it in 
 silence as long as I could, in order not to grieve my poor dear 
 father's heart ; but longer than this I cannot bear it. Miss Gor- 
 don. I cannot — I cannot. He must help me." 
 
 Beatrice knew Mr. Gervoise and his son too well to suppose 
 that even Mr. Stone could do much to assist his daughter ; but 
 she also knew that they hated and feared exposure, and had 
 speculated on her silence. It was right, too, he should know 
 how his darling was treated, and she said again : 
 
 " Write the letter, and I will post it." 
 
BEATEICE. 349 
 
 " But when ? " asked Rosy ; " he never leaves me now." 
 
 " Well, then, leave him, and come to my room this after- 
 noon. No one will venture to seek yon there." 
 
 " I will," replied Rosy ; " thank you, Miss Gordon. Good- 
 bye, I think I see him." 
 
 She nimbly ran down a path and vanished in its green wind- 
 ings. Beatrice looked after her with a thoughtful eye. 
 
 "Which of us too is unlike other women?" she wondered. 
 " I know so little of my own sex. Are we meant to yield and 
 be crushed like that poor little Rosy ? — or to resent wrong, and 
 throwback injury like Beatrice Gordon? Which of us is the 
 right womanly woman? The gentle, weak, and yielding one, or 
 the indignant and passionate one ? No matter. Were we all 
 born to be trampled under foot by such beings as Antony Ger- 
 voise and his father, I should still wish to be what I am, to hate 
 and oppose him with all my might." 
 
 It was the habit of Beatrice to be out every afternoon whilst 
 her mother slept, but this day she stayed within, reading and 
 waiting for Rosy. She waited until she heard her talking in 
 the garden, and then, concluding she had been unable to come, 
 she went out. She found her at the foot of the terrace, walk- 
 ing arm-in-arm with her husband. He looked very amiable and 
 fond, and the honeymoon sweetness had come back to his bear- 
 ing and attitude. Rosy never looked up as Beatrice passed, but 
 Antony raised his eyes, and fastened them with a mocking look 
 on Beatrice's face. 
 
 " How late you take your walk to-day. Miss Gordon ! " he 
 said, significantly. 
 
 " How kind of you to take any notice of my hours ! " coolly 
 replied Beatrice, and she walked on, thinking, " the little simple- 
 ton has betrayed me." 
 
 An hour later, as she was coming in, she found Rosy waiting 
 for her on the staircase. 
 
 " I could not come," she whispered. 
 
 " Did you wish to come?" sadly asked Beatrice. 
 
 " He has promised to behave better," replied Rosy with a 
 blush. 
 
 " Did you tell him you were to come to me ? " 
 
 " No, Miss Gordon — indeed I did not." 
 
 " Very well — I am glad you are happy again," and leaving 
 Rosy, she walked on, and went into her mother's room, thinking, 
 " I wonder how long her happiness will last? " 
 
 It lasted three days, two more than Beatrice had expected. 
 
350 BEATRICE. 
 
 On the morning of the third, Kosy ran to her in the orchard, 
 overflowing with indignation and tears. 
 
 " I will write to-day, I will. He has behaved dreadfully. I 
 cannot stay with him. I told him so. I will not remain with 
 him any longer. I will write to-day. Miss Gordon." 
 
 " If you can," suggested Beatrice, gravely. 
 
 Rosy gave her a piteous look. 
 
 " Will you not help me ? " 
 
 " I am willing, but you have made it difficult for me to do 
 so." 
 
 Beatrice spoke so seriously that Rosy was frightened. 
 
 " What am I to do ? " she asked, helplessly. 
 
 " Nothing to-day." 
 
 It rained hard the next day, and the opportunity Beatrice 
 hoped for did not come, for it was out in the grounds she meant 
 Rosy's letter to be written. The following day was as wet and 
 gloomy as its predecessor, and, as Beatrice remained with her 
 mother, she did not see Antony's wife ; but on the fourth morn- 
 ing the sun shone again, and they met in the flower-garden. 
 Beatrice was shocked to see that Rosy was pale as death. 
 
 " What ails you? " she asked kindly. 
 
 " Nothing. Pray do not speak to me — do not mind me — 
 nothing ails me." 
 
 Her looks, her voice, breathed the deepest terror. Without 
 heeding her fear, Beatrice resolutely took Rosy's arm under her 
 own, and walked openly with her on the terrace within sight of 
 Mr. Gervoise's windows. 
 
 " You do not know this house and these men," she said in a 
 subdued voice, though without any appearance of mystery. " It 
 is your terror that makes it dangerous, and gives them strength. 
 Be fearless, and you are almost safe. I can see you have been 
 imprudent — writing a letter, perhaps " — here Beatrice felt Rosy's 
 arm shake on her own — " and you have been detected and 
 
 eatened, but trug 
 
 " Miss Gordon- 
 
 " Do not answer me," quietly said Beatrice. " You cannot 
 command your face, and your looks would betray you ; laugh, 
 if you can — if you cannot, say nothing, and do not take your arm 
 from under mine. I am going up-stairs with you." 
 
 Rosy submitted, but, as Beatrice could see, with the greatest 
 fear. They entered the house together, and went up to Bea- 
 trice's room. At the door they found Antony. He gave his 
 wife a significant look, beneath which she shrank. 
 
BEATRICE. 351 
 
 " You will spare me Mrs. Antony Gervoise for awhile. I 
 want her," said Beatrice, opening the door and going in. 
 
 Her head was turned, and she did not see the threatening hand 
 which Antony raised in his young wife's face ; but he did not 
 dare to speak ; he went down, his sullen countenance overflow- 
 ing with silent anger. 
 
 " He will kill me ! " whispered Rosy, as Beatrice closed the 
 door upon her. " Oh ! Miss Gordon, you have ruined me — ^let 
 me go — he will kill me ! " 
 
 " I will not use force to keep you," Beatrice said gravely ; 
 " but unless you are mad you will stay." 
 
 Rosy wrung her hands, flung herself on a sofa, and burst into 
 passionate sobs and tears. Beatrice looked at her thoughtfully, 
 and felt half inclined to open the door and bid her seek her fate, 
 but pity proved too strong ; the unkind words could not be 
 spoken. She sat down by Rosy, and, taking her hand, said very 
 gently and tenderly : 
 
 " Listen to me. Rosy ; there are two courses open to you — 
 patience or revolt. Either submit to wrong or repel it bravely, 
 but to do neither will ruin you." 
 
 Rosy looked up. 
 
 " Oh ! God help me ! " she said. " I am friendless and 
 alone. God help me ! " 
 
 " Am 1 not your friend?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " No, Miss Gordon, you only pity me." 
 
 " But I will be your ftiend, and, what is more, I will help 
 you. Never, if I can prevent it, shall you be ill-used in this 
 house." 
 
 Rosy looked up in ,.her face ; she read true and deep pity 
 there, and flinging her" arms around Beatrice's neck, she cried 
 and sobbed again. Beatrice let this violent grief exhaust itself; 
 then, when Rosy's tears flowed more slowly, and her sobs had 
 almost ceased, she said : 
 
 " You are married, and you must make the best of your hard 
 bargain. But I know Antony. Generous and patient forbear- 
 ance will not win him to better behaviour — ^he must fear. That 
 he liked you, I have no doubt, but he married you for your 
 money " 
 
 " No," interrupted Rosy, " I have none." 
 
 " You are not rich?" Beatrice exclaimed. 
 
 " No, not at all." 
 
 " But your father is." 
 
 " He has a moderate income," replied Rosy. 
 
852 BEATRICE. 
 
 Beatrice looked as she felt, amazed. 
 
 " But you will be rich?" she persisted. 
 
 " I hope it will be long before I am, Miss Gordon," said 
 Rosy, reddening. 
 
 Beatrice thought she must be dreaming. 
 
 " I hope you will long live and enjoy Carnoosie," continued 
 Rosy, in low, hesitating tones. "And surely Antony cannot 
 have thought of that when he married me — you are so young." 
 
 Beatrice had enough self-control not to question her, nor to 
 startle her by one imprudent word, but she felt her blood turn- 
 ing cold in her veins with the horror of an unforeseen danger. 
 Who was this young thing who clung to her, and spoke of her 
 death and of Carnoosie in one breath ? 
 
 " Then Stone is not your real name?" she said, smiling. 
 
 "Didn't you know?" answered Rosy, surprised; "papa 
 changed it when he came back from Australia. His uncle left 
 him the property he now has, on condition that he should change 
 his name from Carnoosie to Stone." 
 
 Beatrice's lips felt parched and dry. This girl whom she 
 was clasping in her arms, whose tears had been shed on her 
 bosom, was her mortal though unconscious enemy ; for by the 
 tenor of Mr. Carnoosie's will, she was her heiress if Mr. Morti- 
 mer died childless, and Mr. Mortimer was unmarried, and in the 
 last stage of disease ! This was why Mr. Grervoise had plotted 
 to make Antony marry a girl whose dowry was Carnoosie. 
 
 " He will poison me," thought Beatrice. 
 
 " Poor, poor dear papa ! " sighed Rosy. " Oh ! Miss Gor- 
 don, what trouble he has gone through ! Mamma thought he 
 was dead and married again, and she was dead as well as my 
 little brother when papa came back and took me, and I have 
 been with him ever since. Oh ! Miss Gordon, how he does love 
 me ! " Her tears flowed again at the thought. 
 
 " Poor little Rosy," softly said Beatrice, " it shall make no 
 difference, it shall make no difference," and she kissed her ten- 
 derly. 
 
 "What?" asked Rosy. 
 
 But Beatrice's answer was a smile. 
 
 " Antony wants to subdue you — ^that is his plan, or rather 
 his father's," she said. " Well — he shall not prevail." 
 
 " He wants to break my spirit," replied Rosy, " he told me 
 so this morning. ' I will break your spirit, my lady,' he said." 
 
 Beatrice's lip curled with scorn. This was the man who had 
 dared to think of marrying her. 
 
BEATRICE. 353 
 
 " How did he come to say this?" she asked ; " you wrote to 
 your father — tell me all. I shall not be offended." 
 
 " I did write to him yesterday. Antony was with his father 
 — at least I thought so, and I wrote." 
 
 " Did you tell him I had offered to post your letter?" 
 
 Rosy was silent. 
 
 " And he came and found you and took it from you, and read 
 it," said Beatrice ; " poor little Rosy ! " 
 
 Rosy looked at her. 
 
 " Miss Gordon, what do you think he did? He said to me — 
 ' So you have been writing to your father that I beat you, and 
 that the mark is not quite gone ! Well — I shall manage better 
 now ! ' And so he did. Miss Gordon. He did not beat me, and 
 he left no marks, but he locked the door, and he worried me as 
 his dogs worry game, until I felt half mad. And when he had 
 done with me, and I was crying my heart out, he laughed at me, 
 and called me shameful names. And I hate him !" cried Rosy, 
 her blue eyes flashing, " I do ! " 
 
 " And you fear him," said Beatrice, " and he has forbidden 
 you to speak to me." 
 
 Rosy looked piteous. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, *' and pray do not talk to me opposite 
 him — pray do not, Miss Gordon." 
 
 Her scared look, her clasped hands, spoke of terror strong 
 and deep. 
 
 "What ami to say?" replied Beatrice, gently; "he may 
 ill-use you, he never will injure you, and it is your fear makes 
 him strong. He wants you, child, your death would be his 
 greatest misfortune ; but if he can convince you that you are in 
 danger, what am I to say? Submit then, bear your fate, and do 
 not write to your father — do not speak to me." 
 
 Rosy looked helpless. 
 
 " Advise me. Miss Gordon," she entreated. 
 
 Beatrice rose sadly. 
 
 " You Avant no advice," she said ; " your mind is made up ; 
 you will not write — ^you will not speak to me. Go, child, I am 
 not angry with you, and whenever you want me, remember I 
 am willing and ready." 
 
 She kissed Rosy as she spoke, and opened the door ; and 
 Rosy, crest-fallen, but glad at heart to have escaped Miss Gor- 
 don's dangerous protection, glided out of her room. 
 
CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 " And now," thought Beatrice, locking her door, " what of 
 me?" 
 
 She sat down, and pressing her head between her two hands, 
 she read the past as in a book. Why Mr. Stone had taken 
 Antony's cottage was not clear to her yet. Mr. Gervoise had 
 been deceived in this ; he had let it to a stranger, and no doubt 
 it was on Teaming who that stranger was that he had fallen into 
 a fit. Mr. Stone was the heir-at-law, and, by Mr. Carnoosie's 
 will, his daughter, for his son had been excluded, came into the 
 property after Beatrice and Mr. Mortimer should either die child- 
 less. Mr. Gervoise had probably thought that Mr. Stone would 
 attack the will ; hence his dismay on learning that he lived. 
 But how soon the serpent had turned this knowledge to good 
 account. If Mr. Stone had meant aught against Beatrice, the 
 retribution had been severe. His daughter had been stolen from 
 him, and his weapon of strength was now in the hand of his 
 enemy: If he were ten times to wrest her inheritance from 
 Beatrice, would not that inheritance go to the traitor who had 
 robbed him of his child ? 
 
 Beatrice almost shuddered as she traced back Mr. Gervoise's 
 plans. She understood now what Gilbert meant when he asked 
 if his father had a hold upon her ; what he feared when he wrote 
 to her, " If ever you want a friend send for me." The instinct 
 of love had warned him of that danger invisible to her eyes, 
 but perceptible to his view, even though he could not guess its 
 nature. 
 
 That was why, then, Mr. Gervoise would not let her marry. 
 Of course not — for her marriage meant his ruin, if her mother 
 died. 
 
 No, she must live alone, to preserve to his son that inher- 
 itance for which he had sinned so deeply. 
 
 " I wonder they did not forbid Kosy to tell me," thought 
 Beatrice ; " I suppose they did not dare to betray their evil intent 
 
BEATRICE. 355 
 
 SO far. Poor little innocent ! she little suspects that she 'is death 
 to me ! I wonder when they mean to do it, for they will surely 
 never wait till nature rids them of me. I am so young, as Rosy 
 says. Whilst Mr. Mortimer lives I am safe, for he is my heir. 
 When he dies ^" 
 
 She did not finish the sentence even in her own thoughts, 
 for she caught sight of her startled face in the glass before her. 
 How pale and terrified it looked ! — what a shadow of death 
 seemed to have settled upon it in Beatrice's eyes ! 
 
 "And must I die — must I submit to this?" she thought, 
 clenching her hands with passionate despair ; " must I sit and 
 await death in my own house, as the Roman senator sat and 
 awaited it in^ his curule chair when the Gaul invaded Rome ? 
 ]Must I harbour these my mortal enemies ? I have but to bid 
 them depart, and they must go. I have but to marry Gilbert, 
 and I am safe for ever. Oh ! if he were here, if I could but 
 tell him my deadly peril, would he forsake me again?" 
 
 But, alas ! what availed these thoughts ? She could not tell 
 Gilbert, " Your father and your brother are in a conspiracy to 
 take my life." There was but one alternative before her, and that 
 was to bid Mr. Gervoise, his son, and his daughter-in-law leave 
 her house. This she could do, but to do it was to turn out her 
 mother too — worse, far worse, it was to deliver her to the fate 
 of little Rosy — to a life of daily torment. 
 
 " After all, I am safe while Mr. Mortimer lives," thought 
 Beatrice, " it will be time enough to think of myself when he 
 dies." 
 
 But the life of that Mr. Mortimer whom she had never seen, 
 about whom she never thought, and which an hour before had 
 had so little value in her eyes, now became infinitely precious. 
 At once she wrote to Mr. Lamb, and having posted her letter 
 herself, and secured the means of receiving his reply safely, she 
 felt more calm. 
 
 At the end of a week, Mr. LamVs answer came. Mr. 
 Mortimer was at Torquay, and his medical man did not expect 
 him to live beyond the autumn. 
 
 Beatrice called for this letter at her banker's in the neigh- 
 bouring assize town, and, as she drove home, she tore it to pieces 
 and threw the fragments out of the carriage window. She was 
 safe until winter, but after that time what would become of her ? 
 She knew her step-father suspected and watched her, and that 
 the desperate game both meant to play had already begun in good 
 earnest. For, though Beatrice had not determined how to act 
 
356 BEATRICE; 
 
 when Mr. Mortimer died, she had resolved to have a hard battle 
 for her threatened life and liberty. 
 
 Miss Gordon was now too much absorbed in the new fear 
 which had come over here life to think much of Rosy's concerns. 
 Moreover, Rosy had rejected her aid — how could she interfere ? 
 True, the young wife looked very sad and low. Antony had said 
 that he would break her spirit, and Beatrice feared he had 
 kept his word but too truly. But she saw nothing to cavil at. 
 Mr. Gervoise was paternal and Antony was affectionate, and if 
 Rosy was listless, it no doubt was because, as her husband had 
 said, she was out of health. Doctor Rogerson prescribed ass's 
 milk, and Rosy took it regularly every morning. 
 
 Beatrice's conscience beg^n to sting her. It seemed to her 
 that Rosy was dying slowly before her eyes, and that she passive- 
 ly abetted Antony's crime by not interfering. " Would Gilbert 
 have done that ? " she thought. And at once came the reply, 
 " Oh ! no, never." 
 
 That same day she met her alone in the dining-room. Rosy 
 stood in one of the deep windows, looking out with her sad face 
 close to the panes. Beatrice gently laid her hand on the 
 shoulder of Antony's wife and asked her how she felt. 
 
 " Very well, thank you," calmly replied Rosy, and without 
 showing any of the old terror. 
 
 " You do not look well." 
 
 " Oh ! I shall soon be better." 
 
 " Would you like to write to your father? " 
 
 " I write every week." 
 
 " And he sees the letter?" 
 
 Rosy nodded. 
 
 "And you write that you are well and happy? " 
 
 Rosy did not reply, but her look said, " And so I am — it will 
 soon be over, you know." 
 
 Tears rose to Beatrice's eyes. 
 
 " I said I would not act unless you asked me," she said, 
 " but I will — your father shall come and see you." 
 
 Rosy's face lit for a moment, then fell again. 
 
 "Where is the use?" she sighed. "Oh! Miss Gordon, I 
 can bear it and not trouble him. Antony does not worry me 
 much now, and I feel half-asleep. I shall go out of life, I think, 
 as if I had taken opium, and I can bear that. It was the violent 
 death that made such a coward of me." 
 
 " Rely upon me," said Beatrice, " and hope." 
 
 She spoke confidently. Rosy looked up in her face and 
 
BEATRICE. 35Y 
 
 smiled, but very listlessly. Hope was dead, or had fled on faith- 
 less wings far beyond her ken. But Beatrice was resolved now 
 upon interference, and interfere she did to some purpose, as Mr. 
 Gervoise found two days later. In his darkened face Beatrice 
 read the result of the step she had taken. It was not to his 
 daughter-in-law that Mr. Gervoise showed his displeasure ; for 
 once he dealt with Beatrice, whom he now seldom attacked, and 
 requested her presence in his study. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said to her, with solemn gravity, " are we at 
 peace ? " 
 
 Beatrice leaned back in her chair and played with the tassels 
 of a long girdle which she wore, and requested him to speak 
 more plainly. 
 
 " You know my meaning quite well," austerely replied Mr. 
 Gervoise. " That little foolish daughter-in-law of mine has 
 been writing to her father, who has honoured me with an indig- 
 nant letter, and who is coming back to the cottage to-morrow. 
 Now, she can only have done this through your agency, and this 
 is what I complain of. You meddle in my family concerns. 
 Beatrice, I ask again, are we at peace ? " 
 
 " As you please," answered Beatrice. 
 
 " Beatrice, I will not be trifled with. Rose is a good child — 
 a very good child ; but she has been a spoiled child, and we can- 
 not go on spoiling her." 
 
 " There is not much fear of that." 
 
 " I entreat you not to meddle with her ; you might repent 
 it," said Mr. Gervoise grandly. 
 
 Beatrice raised her young haughty head, and fastened her 
 bright defiant eyes full on his face. 
 
 " Do your worst," she said. " I am vulnerable on one point 
 only, my mother, and there I defy you. I am of age, my own 
 mistress, and mistress of this house, too. Attempt to torment 
 her, and you and yours leave Carnoosie that moment. You 
 have the power of making her wretched, you have not that of 
 making me look on. There I escape you. I will never see it, 
 Mr. Gervoise. I know I am buying peace very dear. For it I 
 give up liberty, independence, marriage, and the enjoyment of 
 my own, but do not suppose I will pay the price and not have 
 my fuU value. Attempt to cheat, and the bargain is at an end, 
 and we part." 
 
 " My dear Beatrice," said her step-father, amazed, " how 
 can you wrong me so far as to think that your dear mother's hap- 
 piness is not the chief object of my life ? But what has it to do 
 
368 BEATRICE. 
 
 with Mrs. Antony Gervoise's insubordination ? Her husband is 
 not happy. She will not obey his most gently-uttered commands, 
 and now, to make bad worse, she writes off to her father, who is 
 coming here to have a quarrel Avith her husband, I suppose." 
 
 " Sir. Gervoise, what have I to do with that?" 
 
 " You posted her letter." 
 
 " Would it not have reached without my posting? Is she a 
 prisoner ? Are the servants such traitors that they would sell 
 their duty to the highest bidder, and betray the poor young 
 thing?" 
 
 " Beatrice, you posted that letter." 
 
 Beatrice rose. The blood rushed up to her clear brow, and 
 her lips quivered with generous indignation. 
 
 " I wrote it, Mr. Gervoise," she said. 
 
 " You ! — you ! " he repeated, astounded at the audacious con- 
 fession. 
 
 " Yes, I indeed. And did you think I could go on and see her 
 slow torture, and be silent ? Did you think that was in my nature ? 
 Poor little victim, she would not have written, she would have 
 died uncomplaining ; but I wrote to her father, I told him the 
 usage his darling had got, and the iron rod under which she 
 lived, and he is coming to see and judge for himself, and to give 
 her at least the consolation of his presence." 
 
 For once Mr. Gervoise lost his composure ; he turned pale 
 with passion, raised a trembling hand and shook it at Bea- 
 trice. 
 
 " Do not meddle, madam," he said warningly, " do not 
 meddle." 
 
 " Carnoosie is mine," haughtily replied Beatrice ; and thus 
 disclaiming the possibility of meddling in her own house, she left 
 the room, followed to the door by Mr. Gervoise's thi-eatening eye. 
 Beatrice looked brave and careless, but she was troubled at 
 heart. She did not and would not yield ; but then she knew this 
 man, and to know him was to wish avoiding any contest with 
 one so remorseless and so dangerous. The long truce was broken, 
 and what revenge would he not take, for revenge he must have, 
 Beatrice knew that too. 
 
 " Poor little foolish Rosy !" she thought, " ill-fated was the 
 day that brought you here to this Carnoosie, which looks so 
 bright and fair, and is more gloomy than Mrs. Radcliffe's 
 Udolpho. There the outward monument told of the treason 
 within ; here this smiling sky, the bright flowers, the fountains, 
 the cheerful rooms, are tokens of a happy, honoured, and peace- 
 
BEATEICE. 359 
 
 ful dwellingT Oh ! Carnoosie, my own Carnoosie ! shall you 
 ever be my own really, my stainless home, where I can live a 
 happy wife, with children around me? Never ! — ^never !" 
 
 She sat down, sad, disheartened, and depressed, in the library 
 which she had entered, and then a voice spoke within her, a pure 
 and holy voice that sounded like Gilbert's, the voice of sacrifice 
 and duty. 
 
 " Happiness, liberty, love, and its blessings are not the only 
 end of life. There is another, nobler, purer, better by far — duty. 
 Can you buy peace by forsaking that poor little thing who is liv- 
 ing beneath your roof — a lamb between two wolves ? You can- 
 not — ^you cannot. Better perish and die with all you love best 
 than be such a coward." . 
 
 That same afternoon Mr. Stone, who had arrived in the cot- 
 tage an hour before, entered Carnoosie, and asked to speak to 
 its mistress. In vain had Beatrice endeavoured to alter some 
 matters since she was of age. Her new housekeeper was both 
 zealous and honest, but the inferior servants were still Mr. Ger- 
 voise's paid spies. Beatrice knew it, and only submitted be- 
 cause she had no hope of procuring others more incorruptible. 
 Her commands, however, were never openly violated, and though 
 Mr. Stone was scarcely at the gate before two zealous menials 
 informed Mr. Antony Gervoise of the fact — Mr. Gervoise was 
 out for the day — his request to speak to Miss Gordon was at 
 once transmitted to her. 
 
 Beatrice was reading aloud to her mother when the door 
 opened, and Mrs. Gervoise's maid delivered Mr. Stone's message 
 in her glib voice, and with her demure look. 
 
 '' Mr. Stone ! " faltered Mrs. Gervoise, frightened to hear a 
 name that sounded as an omen of coming woe. Beatrice raised 
 a warning finger. She sat with her back to the door, near 
 which BrowTison still stood respectfully ; but she faced a large 
 mirror, in which the girl, whose eyes saw every thing, perceived 
 both the significant gesture and the expressive look that accom- 
 panied it. 
 
 " Show Mr. Stone into the library," quietly said Beatrice, 
 " and say I am going down." 
 
 " Very well, ma'am," and the demure Brownson vanished as 
 if to hear were to obey. The door hkd scarcely closed upon 
 her when Mrs. Gervoise exclaimed : 
 
 '' Beatrice, you are meddling in the concerns of these people." 
 
 '' Yes, darling, I am, but you are safe." 
 
 " But you, Beatrice — ^you ! " 
 
360 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Oh ! I shall have a battle or two," replied Beatrice care- 
 lessly, " and then it will be over." 
 
 " I wish we never had seen that girl," almost passionately 
 cried Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 ''And so do I; for, darling, I do long for peace, you will 
 never know how deeply. But do not look at me so ; it is too 
 late ; and, moreover, I should do what I am doing, or be a shame- 
 ful coward. Do not be afraid, my darling, and let me go to Mr. 
 Stone. He is waiting, and I daresay I shall be some time with 
 him. He will be full of his grief, poor man, and I shall have to 
 listen.'* 
 
 Beatrice remained an hour away, and to Mrs. Gervoise 
 never had an hour seemed so slow aud so wearisome as this. 
 She gave her daughter an anxious look when she returned ; but 
 Beatrice's eyes shunned hers. 
 
 " Well," at length said Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 "Well," replied Beatrice, "he asked to see his daughter, 
 and Antony sent word that Mrs. Antony Gervoise had a bad 
 headache and could not come." 
 
 " And what will you do, Beatrice? " 
 
 " Do not ask me, darling. You cannot then be compelled to 
 teU." 
 
 " Beatrice ! Beatrice ! how will all this end?" 
 
 Beatrice laid her head on Mrs. Gervoise's lap. She looked 
 out through the window at the sky flushed with crimson and 
 gold, at the deep, solemn-looking trees, at the cool dewy earth 
 over which blue evening shadows were softly steaHng, and, clasp- 
 ing her mother's waist, she said : 
 
 " Oh ! darling, if we could only be away somewhere together 
 out of all this weariness, I should be happy — somewhere on this 
 earth or within it — I should not care." 
 
 " You want to die, Beatrice ? " 
 
 " No, darling ; but I want peace," and within her Beatrice 
 felt a great cry — a longing and a passion that seemed to say, 
 " Oh ! Gilbert, Gilbert, why have you forsaken me ? " 
 
CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 With mingled amazement and indignation did Mr. Get 
 voise learn the next day that Antony had refused to let his wife 
 see her father. 
 
 " But did you not tell me I was to prevent them from meet- 
 ing?" said Antony. 
 
 " To prevent, but not to refuse. You will ruin aU if you go 
 on so. On learning that Mr. Stone was in the house, you should 
 have taken a drive, or, if need be, a journey with your wife." 
 
 " You said she was not to go out," urged Antony. 
 
 " My dear boy," affectionately said his father, '' if you apply 
 my advice to the letter, you had better never take it." 
 
 Antony, rather crestfallen, asked what he should do now. 
 Mr. Ger voise answered that since, instead of taking Rosy away, 
 and throwing Mr. Stone off the scent, he had been so injudicious 
 as to confess a knowledge of his presence, the only thing he 
 could do now would be to make Rosy call on her father. 
 
 " Suppose she should not come back?" suggested Antony. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise smiled, and said mildly : 
 
 " There is no fear of that this morning." 
 
 Nor was there. Rosy went joyous and eager, as Antony saw 
 with jealous displeasure ; but she did return, and when Beatrice 
 haughtily informed Mr. Antony Gervoise that she would trouble 
 him not to turn Carnoosie into a prison, he pointed to his wife, 
 who was even then coming in, and said quietly : 
 
 " Why, there she is, Miss Gordon." 
 
 But was this Rosy indeed ? She had a colour now, and a res- 
 olute, defiant look, too, that struck Beatrice. 
 
 " You look well to-day," she said to her. 
 
 " I am both well and strong," replied Rosy. 
 
 Her tone was a declaration of war. Rosy sat down to din- 
 ner with the same cool and deliberate mien. She contradicted 
 Mr. Gervoise twice during the meal, and disdained answering 
 her husband's sneers. Even Beatrice could scarcely get a civil 
 16 
 
362 BEATKIOE. 
 
 reply from her-. She seemed excitable, and as wild as a youug 
 bird which has just got back its lost liberty. When dinner was 
 over, and she followed Beatrice out of the room, Miss Gordon 
 said to her, as she closed the door : 
 
 " Take care — do not go too far." 
 
 Rosy smiled disdainfully. 
 
 " I am not afraid of them," she said. " Both father and son 
 will find that they can no longer trample upon me now, and I 
 will not stay here. Why should I be living in another person's 
 house ? " 
 
 Beatrice smiled half sadly. Rosy spoke like a child, as she 
 was. She felt strong now, and her dead-like submission had 
 vanished with her father's return ; but Beatrice had noticed An- 
 tony's black looks, and Mr. Gervoise's observant eye, during 
 dinner time, and she knew the fowler's net was spread. The 
 evening was very close and sultry, and Beatrice and her mother 
 sat with the windows wide open. They could hear voices in the 
 garden below, and Beatrice distinguished among them Rosy's 
 laugh. It was loud, but to Beatrice it sounded hollow and 
 forced. 
 
 "Beatrice, what are you thinking of?" asked her mother, 
 and Beatrice, who was still listening to the voices below, did not 
 reply. Mr. Gervoise was saying : 
 
 " You really must oblige me, my dear boy, by going off on 
 that business for mp. Pray go 'to-night. What is a journey to 
 London at your time of life ? " 
 
 With an oath Antony vowed he would not stir, for respect 
 toward his parent was not his failing. But still Mr. Gervoise 
 persisted. In a clear and distinct voice, very unusual in him, 
 he pressed his son to leave by the express train. 
 
 *' You will be back to-morrow by twelve, you know," he per- 
 suasively added; "and this business at the bank is really im- 
 portant." 
 
 Now secrecy in all its branches was an art most carefully 
 cultivated by Mr. Gervoise. This allusion to the bank struck 
 Beatrice as a trap. It was incredible to her that he should dis- 
 cuss a private matter on the terrace within the hearing of Rosy, 
 of herself and her mother, and even of the servants. " He means 
 something, assuredly he does," she thought; "but what is it?" 
 How the argument between Mr. Gervoise and his son ended she 
 did not know, for they entered the house together, and arousing 
 herself, Beatrice answered her mother's renewed inquiry : 
 
 " What are you thinking of, Beatrice ? " 
 
. BEATKICE. 363 
 
 " I am thinking it is very strange that Mr. Gervoise should 
 talk so loud on the terrace." 
 
 The words had scarcely passed her lips when the door opened, 
 and Mr. Gervoise entered the room. 
 
 " Well, my love, and how are you?" he kindly asked, sitting 
 down by his wife — " how are you this evening? " 
 
 It so happened that Mrs. Gervoise was irritable this evening, 
 and she replied with some asperity : 
 
 "I should be better, Mr. Gervoise, if I had a change." 
 
 " My love, where would you like to go?" 
 
 " To Switzerland, Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 " Then, my dear, we shall consult Dr. Rogerson to-morrow 
 morning, and if he advises Switzerland, to Switzerland you shall 
 
 " My poor darling," thought Beatrice, " you will never see a 
 Swiss mountain." 
 
 But Mrs. Gervoise, who only knew that Dr. Rogerson had ad- 
 vised the French sea-coast, felt sanguine that he would also advise 
 the Jura and Mont Blanc. Her spirits rose ; she had not been 
 so cheerfal for many days, and most complacently her husband 
 helped her on with the delusion. Beatrice felt too indignant to stay 
 and listen. She rose and went to the window. The night was 
 dark and still. She heard, however, unusual sounds toward the 
 gates of Carnoosie — the grinding of wheels on the gravel of the 
 avenue, it seemed to her. She turned round toward Mr. Ger- 
 voise, and said sharply : 
 
 " Who is leaving the house to-night?" 
 
 " Antony, I suppose," replied Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 Beatrice went swiftly to the door. Mr. Gervoise rose and 
 tried to stop her. 
 
 ''Beatrice, what is it? what do you want?" he asked. 
 
 " To see if Antony is going," she replied ; " pray don't delay 
 me," and her tone was so imperative that Mr. Gervoise drew 
 back and let her pass. 
 
 Beatrice probably felt no doubt concerning Antony's depar- 
 ture, for instead of going down, she ran up-stairs until she stood 
 at the door of Rosy's room. She knocked, and receiving no re- 
 ply, she entered. A light was burning on the table. Beatrice 
 gave a rapid look around ; the room was vacant — more, it was 
 in confusion of Rosy's making, for the drawers had been almost 
 emptied of their contents, which had been thrown on the floor in 
 wild haste. Beatrice knew where Rosy kept her jewel-box ; she 
 looked, and saw that it was gone. Alas ! there was no doubt 
 
364: BEATRICE. 
 
 about it ! She had fallen blindly into the trap set for her. The 
 foolish bird, seeing the door of its cage open, had taken flight. 
 
 " K I could only reach the cottage in time ! " thought Bea- 
 trice. She did not hesitate, but went down to her room, threw a 
 cloak around her, and without asking for John, left the house, 
 crossed the grounds, and entered the forest. She walked fast ; 
 the dark night, the solitary forest, did not stop her. At length 
 ^ts outskirts were crossed, and in the plain beyond she looked for 
 the light of Mr. Stone's cottage. Her heart sank to find every 
 thing dark. " Too late ! — too late ! " cried the voice of a secret 
 but sure presentiment. And alas, it was too late ! When Bea- 
 trice reached the cottage and knocked, the old woman who an- 
 swered her summons informed her that Mr. Stone and his daugh- 
 ter were just gone to see Mr. Stone's dying mother. 
 
 " Poor little thing ! " thought Beatrice, turning away, " she 
 will pay very dear for that glimpse of liberty." 
 
 She took the long and safe route to go home. When she en- 
 tered her mother's room, she found Mr. Gervoise still sitting 
 there. As she opened the door, she looked at him with a keen 
 searching eye ; but Mr. Gervoise sat with his hands folded on his 
 knees, and his lids all but veiling his eyes. 
 
 " He looks like a cat half asleep," thought Beatrice ; " I see ; 
 he will know and perceive nothing. Mrs. Antony Gervoise may 
 follow her own will and pleasure — Mr. Gervoise knew nothing. 
 He was in his wife's room enjoying that domestic life which is so 
 much after his own heart — ^he is innocent. Poor little foolish 
 Rosy!" ^ ' 
 
 To all appearance young Mrs. Gervoise was not missed the 
 next morning. In vain did Beatrice listen for sounds of alarm 
 or exclamations of dismay. The house was as quiet as usual ; 
 the servants went about their every-day tasks, and Mr. Gervoise, 
 after lounging in bed, smoked a cigar on the terrace. 
 
 When Beatrice and he met at breakfast, she look significantly 
 at Posy's vacant chair ; but Mr. Gervoise's lids were down, and 
 he saw nothing. Beatrice questioned him openly. She asked : 
 
 " Is Mrs. Antony Gervoise unwell?" 
 
 " I trust not," paternally replied Mr. Gervoise, " you know 
 of course that she went off with her husband ? " 
 
 " Ah ! what a dreary comedy it is ! " thought Beatrice ; 
 " that man knows I went to Mr. Stone's cottage last night, and I 
 know that he helped little Posy's flight, and here we are question- 
 ing and answering each other as if either could be deceived." 
 
 *^The little thing wanted a peep at London," continued JMr. 
 
BEATEIOE. 365- 
 
 Gervoise, sipping his tea — " at least I suppose so, for she went 
 off in such a hurry that her maid knew nothing about it until she 
 found her room empty, and strewn with all her things. Perhaps 
 they will be back this afternoon, though maybe not. Antony 
 will not like to fatigue his little wife ! " 
 
 Beatrice did not answer. She knew enough now — she knew 
 all. Antony had never really left — ^he had merely hidden and 
 watched and followed Rosy, and no doubt overtaken and caught 
 her by this time. But if such were the case, Antony was no doubt 
 too tender of his little wife to fatigue her by a long journey ; for 
 not during the whole of that day — and how long a one it seemed to 
 Beatrice ! — did the faintest sound of wheels announce his return. 
 It was deep, dark night, and she was sitting with Mrs. Gervoise, 
 when that lady saw her start. She looked inquiringly at her 
 daughter, who tried to say calmly : 
 
 "It is only a carriage darling — ^Antony coming back, I sup- 
 pose." But she felt her heart sickening within her. Was he 
 alone ! She did not long remain in doubt. She heard Antony's 
 voice on the staircase, saying to his wife's maid : 
 
 " Go and fetch Mrs. Antony Gervoise's shawl — it is in the 
 carriage." 
 
 Irresistible compassion made Beatrice rise and open the door 
 of her mother's room. She did not cross the threshold, she had 
 no need ; coming up toward her she ,saw Antony and his wife. 
 Two lamp-bearing statues in their niches made the broad stair- 
 case of Carnoosie bright as day. Beatrice saw distinctly An- 
 tony's cruel exulting face, and Rosy's pale as death. The poor 
 young thing clung to the banisters with convulsive grasp, and 
 seemed as if she must have fallen but for that support. She did 
 not see Beatrice's sad, pitying face — she saw nothing. Before 
 her ever passed a frightful scene — frightful to her, following o|i 
 the anxious escape and flight, and closing them in dreary capture. 
 But Antony saw Beatrice well, and he read the meaning of her 
 look, and when their eyes met, his had a mocking light. With 
 sad severity Beatrice returned the gaze. She felt far more com- 
 passion for than anger against Antony Gervoise ; she knew he was 
 but a tool in another's hand, and though a willing tool, also a 
 blind one. But Antony was resolved on braving her. He said, 
 with ironical emphasis : 
 
 " You see. Miss Gordon, what it is to be a married man. I 
 went off without my wife, but she soon overtook me." 
 
 Rosy was too much cast down to feel this taunt, but a flush 
 of resentment rose to Beatrice's face. 
 
366 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Do not keep Mrs. Glervoise on the staircase," she said to 
 Antony ; " she looks faint and unwell." 
 
 " Why, you know when ladies will go off racing after their 
 
 husbands " jeeringly began Antony. Beatrice did not give 
 
 him time to go on. She went down a few steps, took Rosy's 
 arm, and led her into her mother's room. 
 
 "Miss Gordon," sullenly said Antony, "I shall thank you 
 not to interfere." 
 
 Beatrice turned upon him with a wearied look. 
 
 " Mr. Antony Gervoise," she said, " if my interference dis- 
 pleases you, the remedy lies in your own hands — leave this 
 house." 
 
 She did not wait for his answer, but, closing the door, led in 
 Rosy, and made her sit down in a deep arm-chair. Mrs. Ger- 
 voise raised herself from the couch on which she was lying, and 
 looked alternately at Beatrice and at Mrs. Antony Gervoise's 
 pale face. With kind but silent solicitude, Beatrice took off her 
 things, went and brought her some wine and a biscuit from 
 her mother's ever-ready stores, and only spoke when she saw 
 her reviving. 
 
 " What else w^ould you wish for ? " 
 
 " Could I spend the night here?" whispered Rosy, looking 
 around her, "here with you?" 
 
 " This is my mother's room, but you can come to mine." 
 
 " Beatrice ! " anxiously said her mother. • 
 
 " Darling," gravely said Beatrice, " we cannot deal with 
 this poor lamb otherwise than we would be dealt with our- 
 selves." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise was mute, and Rosy, who was too prostrate, 
 and too much absorbed in her own trouble to understand the 
 anxiety she caused, only looked at Beatrice. 
 
 " Would you like to rest now?" asked Miss Gordon. 
 
 "Would it be safe?" 
 
 " I shall lock you in." 
 
 " Oh ! do. Oh ! Miss Gordon, I so long for rest ! " 
 
 " Then come with me." 
 
 Beatrice took a light, and led her to her room at once. She 
 showed her that all the doors were securely fastened, then helped 
 her to undress. 
 
 " Miss Gordon, do you think it a sin to wish one were 
 dead?" sighed poor little Rosy, as she crept into Beatrice's 
 ample bed, and Miss Gordon enclosed her in the heavy curtains. 
 
BEATEICE. 367 
 
 " Because I do so wish this bed were my grave," she con- 
 tinued, without waiting for Beatrice's answer. 
 
 " And your father ! " suggested Beatrice. 
 
 " I am his torment, Miss Gordon. If you were to know how 
 miserable all this has made him ! Oh ! what a wicked child I 
 have been ! " 
 
 " Do not think of that — ^try and sleep." 
 
 " I cannot. I am too miserable." 
 
 She looked very wretched indeed, but she was also at the age 
 when physical fatigue conquers every other feeling, and even as 
 she spoke to Beatrice, drowsiness, heavy and deep, overtook her. 
 The room was large, and the wax light Beatrice had brought 
 and placed on the table lit it feebly. Through her half-shut eyes 
 Rosy saw the walls covered with faded damask, the vague out- 
 lines of furniture, and, in the shadow of the heavy curtains, 
 Beatrice's handsome face looking at her tenderly from the foot 
 of her bed. A sense of security from all unkindness, of a rest, 
 brief, but sure, in her sad young life, came to her. She forgot 
 the morrow, she felt the present, and, childlike, surrendered her- 
 self to its sweetness. Her lids closed, consciousness remained a 
 moment, then suddenly vanished, and she sank into sound and 
 deep slumber. Beatrice waited awhile, then softly stole out of 
 the room, locked the door, and went back to her mother. She 
 found Mrs. Gervoise in tears. 
 
 "Beatrice, we are undone ! " she cried, piteously. " Do not 
 think you can interfere with impunity, do not. It is not for my- 
 self I am speaking, Beatrice. I know you think me a great 
 coward, but it is not for myself I fear. Beatrice, it is for you." 
 
 " Darling, what are we to do? You saw her face? We 
 cannot forsake her, come what will. I would rather have noth- 
 ing to do with her ; for she is his wife after all, but I cannot for- 
 sake her. I should fear the displeasure of Heaven if I could be 
 so selfish and so cold. She is fast asleep in my bed now, and 
 she looks such a child ! I do not think she is eighteen yet. Oh ! 
 what a fate slie has rushed on ! What a fearful trap is mar- 
 riage, when it is not the greatest happiness of life." 
 
 "Yes, Beatrice ; but still be careful. This is mere flying in 
 Mr. Gervoise's face ; be careful, my darling." 
 
 Beatrice was silent. If her mother had known about Mr. 
 Mortimer, if she had known who Rosy was, what would not her 
 terror have been ? 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise laid her hand on her daughter's shoulder, 
 looked anxiously in her face, and asked what she would do ? 
 
368 BEATRICE. 
 
 Beatrice clasped her hands around her knees, and raising 
 her bright dark eyes to Mrs. Gervoise's pale and anxious face, 
 replied : 
 
 " Darling, I cannot forsake her." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise sank back and sighed. 
 
 " We are ruined, Beatrice, and you will see it when it is too 
 late." 
 
 "I trust in God and in His providence," replied Beatrice, 
 fervently. " If I fight the battles of that poor weak child. He 
 will not forsake me ! " 
 
 She rose to go. It was late, and to argue any longer with 
 her mother pained Beatrice. It hurt her to find that long suf- 
 fering and constant fear had rendered Mrs. Gervoise so cautious 
 — not to say selfish. She did not know that the strong alone are 
 truly generous. 
 
 Beatrice bid her mother good night, and went back to her 
 room. She found Rosy still fast asleep, and sitting down near 
 the bed, she looked at her and thought : 
 
 " Poor little silly thing ! Am I to pay so dear for your error 
 as my darling thinks ? Who knows ? I believe it is a law of 
 this world that the strong should bear the burdens of the weak. 
 When my poor mother bids me forsake you, she forgets that she 
 fell into your error, and that to my dying day I shall pay the 
 cost of her fancy for marrying Mr. Gervoise. She had her way 
 and her short joy, and I, who was a child then, now sufier for if 
 as a woman. Even so with you, Rosy. You would have that 
 fair-haired and blue-eyed Antony, ^nd I must pay the price. 
 Why should I suffer ? Have I not well nigh broken my own 
 heart, and given up one in whose shadow neither Antony nor his 
 father is fit to stand, and if I did that, could not you, both of 
 you, do this ? It seems not. It seems, too, that I must be 
 dragged from my last stronghold, quietness, into the turmoil of 
 this hard battle ! Be it so ! I would rather perish fighting 
 bravely, than live secure in ignoble peace." 
 
 And still Rosy slept sound and deep, and Beatrice at length 
 undressed, and stole in near her. It was dawn ere her lids 
 closed from very weariness, and scarcely had she slept an hour 
 when she was awakened by a stifled scream. She started up, 
 and saw Rosy sitting in bed, looking around her with scared 
 eyes. 
 
 " I suppose I dreamed," she gasped. " I thought my hus- 
 band was here." 
 
 " You certainly must have dreamed it, Rosy. Lie down and 
 sleep again." 
 
BEATEICE. 369 
 
 "Are you sure there is no danger, Miss Gordon? Are the 
 doors safe and strong ? " 
 
 " They are. But my security rests on something stronger 
 than oak and bolts of iron. Do not suppose for a moment that 
 your husband would venture to enter this room. He knows well 
 enough that if he made the attempt he would leave Carnoosie the 
 next moment. You are safe." ^ 
 
 " Yes, but I cannot always stay." 
 
 '' No, poor child, you cannot. Ah ! why were you so iU-ad- 
 vised as to fly ! How did you not see it was a trap laid for you ? " 
 
 " So he told me when he caught me, and laughed at me. Oh ! 
 Miss Gordon, he will assuredly kill me ! " 
 
 Beatrice felt her tremble with the intensity of her fear. She 
 looked at her with a sort of wonder. She could not understand 
 a terror so deep. It seemed to her that no amount of physical 
 danger could have made her feel so. 
 
 " And I must go back to him, I suppose," said Rosy with a 
 shudder. 
 
 " Do not fear him, my poor child," replied Beatrice with a 
 bright smile, " trust in me. I can help you yet." 
 
 Rosy gave her a doubtful look, then got up slowly, and dress- 
 ed with a sigh. 
 
 When she was ready, she sat down and said piteously : 
 ^ "I cannot go to him. Miss Gordon." 
 
 " Very well, then, I shall," replied .Beatrice, who had been 
 dressing too, and, giving Rosy a cheerful nod, she left the room, 
 and went out to seek Antony. 
 
CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 Antony was on the landing. He gave Beatrice a sullen look, 
 and asked with forced politeness, 
 
 " May I trouble you for my wife, Miss Gordon? " 
 
 " She is coming — ^but I want to speak to you. Come with 
 me.'' 
 
 Antony looked as if he scarcely liked to trust himself with 
 Beatrice, yet, ashamed to refuse, he obeyed and followed her 
 down stairs. He stopped still at the door of the library, as if 
 expecting they should enter it together, but Beatrice shook her 
 head. 
 
 " Not here," she said, " the morning is fine, and I like out- 
 door conversations best, Antony." 
 
 With a light step she went out on the terrace, passed through 
 the flower-garden and entered the orchard. 
 
 It was very beautiful on this morning. The dew lay heavy 
 and bright on the grass. The apple-trees, laden with fruit, 
 spread their green branches far and wide, and threw a dappled 
 shade on the earth. Through the light foliage Beatrice could see 
 the blue sky speckled with light morning clouds. On every 
 bough birds sang and rejoiced. How could sorrow and discord 
 abide in a scene so fair ? Reckless of the dew, Beatrice sat down, 
 and signed Antony to sit down by her. He did so, and with a 
 full heart she began : 
 
 " Antony, do you remember that morning in spring when 
 you told me you loved me, and that you wished to marry me? I 
 do, and I cannot help thinkingf of it now, after leaving your poor 
 little wife pale with fear in my room. If I had said ' Yes ' instead 
 of saying ' No,' and became your wife, how would you have used 
 me ? You could not have made me fear you, but you would have 
 been cruel and unkind. I suppose you would have beaten me, 
 Antony, and that a blow would have been the end of all your 
 love." 
 
BEATEICE. ' 371 
 
 She looked at him very sadly, for her old pity for this mis- 
 guided young man was fast coming back to her. 
 
 Antony looked moved, and, clearing his voice, he said : 
 
 " I would never have struck you. You know well enough I 
 was fond of you." 
 
 " I believe you were, Antony, but I know, too, that you have 
 a young wife, pretty and good, a child in some things but with a 
 fond and true heart, and I know too that she did what I could 
 not have done, she married you fop4ove. How is it, then, that 
 you cannot be happy together, or, rather, that you cannot make 
 her happy ? If she was exacting at first, she is cured of the fault 
 by this. All she wants is your affection and peace. And I 
 think she could have both, Antony, if you were not living in 
 Carnoosie." 
 
 " Why so ? " he sharply asked. 
 
 " You know my meaning," gravely replied Beatrice, " yet I 
 do not mind explaining it, you may even repeat every word I ut- 
 ter to Mr. Gervoise, if you please. What I have to say is this — 
 whilst you are under his influence neither you nor Rosy will be 
 happy. It has been the aim of his life to rule by dividing. 
 Leave him. I do not sin by telling you to do so. Scripture 
 says, '• And a man shall leave both father and mother and cleave 
 unto his wife.' Follow that rule. You are not poor. What is 
 to prevent you from having your home, and enjoying it with 
 Rosy?" 
 
 " I wish I had it," impetuously cried Antony. " I am sick 
 of this life, Beatrice. You think you know my father — ^you do 
 not. He is not merely your greatest foe, he is mine. Beatrice, I 
 hate him ! " he whispered. 
 
 "Hush! " said Beatrice, rising and looking the disgust she 
 felt, " if you cannot honour him, Antony, you can at least be 
 silent. And now you asked me for Rosy, I think I see her 
 coming." 
 
 It was indeed poor little Rosy, who, thinking to escape her 
 husband, had sought the very spot where he was. She saw him 
 and Beatrice when it was too late to turn back, and she walked 
 toward them with a frightened mien and hesitating steps. But it 
 was not at her, it was at Antony that Beatrice looked. Alas ! 
 there was but little promise of good in that cruel face. Still 
 Beatrice did not lose heart. 
 
 " Rosy," she said, " you must spare your husband to me for 
 a while — I want him still." 
 
 She passed her arm within Antony's and led him away, and 
 
37B BEATEICE. 
 
 Antony allowed himself to be led, and thought that Beatrice 
 looked sweetly handsome this morning. He was weak, as the 
 bad often are, and though he soon knew she was taking him to 
 Mr. Stone's cottage, he did not attempt to resist. When they 
 stood within view of the house, Beatrice stopped short, and said : 
 
 "It is a pretty place, but it is mortgaged — mortgaged to your 
 father," she continued, " and the interest almost swallows up the 
 rent ; and your farm brings you in a mere trifle, and you are deep 
 in debt, Antony." 
 
 " How do you know it? " he asked. 
 
 Beatrice had only guessed it, but she did not choose to say so. 
 She continued : 
 
 " Rosy brought you no ready money, but, Antony, do you 
 wish to know the advice I gave Mr. Stone the other day ? — the 
 advice he promised to follow, and which he did not ? I advised 
 him to pay your debts." 
 
 Antony's face brightened, then fell again. 
 
 " He will not do that," he said. 
 
 " Yes, he will, if you will go abroad with him and his daugh- 
 ter. He tried his plan, and it failed ; he will try mine. Now, 
 Antony, you are thinking of ^eating, but it will not do. Mr. 
 Stone will not pay a farthing for you until he has his daughter 
 safe out of Carnoosie." 
 
 " And suppose he should cheat, and not keep his word when 
 he has got her ? " bluntly said Antony. 
 
 " I shall be his guarantee," gravely replied Beatrice. 
 
 Antony was greatly tempted, but the thought of his father 
 held him back. , 
 
 " You know," said Beatrice, " that if you consult Mr. Ger- 
 voise, the bargain is at an end." 
 
 " Why, what do you want me to do, then?" asked Antony, 
 bewildered. 
 
 " To send Mr. Stone's servant for your wife, and to see her 
 off with her father before an hour is over. You can follow her 
 at your leisure," she composedly added. 
 
 " Well, that is a tight bargain," said Antony, drawing a deep 
 breath. 
 
 " Perhaps it is ; but, then, you can stay in Carnoosie, and 
 keep your debts if you please. You see," she added, "it is not 
 pleasant for me to bribe you in this way ; but what is one to do, 
 Antony, when one deals with a man like you ? " 
 
 The sad severity of her tone stung Antony. Ay, it was a 
 shameful bargain, this buying of him to take Rosy away from a 
 
BEATRICE. 373 
 
 life of woe to one of comparative peace ; but then she need not 
 make him feel it ! 
 
 " Do it, Antony," she said, softly pressing his arm, " do this 
 one good deed, and make yom'self happy as well as that poor old 
 man and your little wife." 
 
 This adjuration was considerably strengthened by the recol- 
 lection that, the very day before this, Mr. Gervoise had warned 
 his son not to contract new debts, as he really could not assist 
 him any more. 
 
 " rU do it," resolutely said Antony — " Til do it this very mo- 
 ment.'* 
 
 " Very well," answered Beatrice quietly. " Let us go in — 
 I dare say Mr. Stone is within." 
 
 He was within, sitting by the window, but with his back to 
 it, and his arms moodily folded. He looked up on hearing them 
 enter, and stared at Antony. His lips quivered, the veins in his 
 forehead swelled and started ; he looked as Beatrice had seen 
 her watch-dog look before he sprang. She hastened to speak. 
 
 "Mr. Stone," she said, "you remember our conversation ; 
 if you are willing to act on the suggestion I then made, Mr. An- 
 tony Gervoise is willing to travel abroad with your daughter and 
 you." 
 
 The two men exchanged glances. Mr. Stone's was stern 
 and wary ; Antony's half shy, half insolent. 
 
 " Are you both willing?" asked Beatrice again, in a clear, 
 ringing voice. 
 
 They did not reply, but she saw that they were. She turned 
 to Antony. 
 
 " What is the figure of your debts ? " she resumed. 
 
 Antony hesitated. She gave him a chair, brought an ink- 
 stand and a pen, asked Mr. Stone for some paper, and leaving 
 them together, she walked out into the garden. She knew it 
 would be a hard bargain ; for, dearly though he loved his child, 
 Mr. Stone was not the man to let himself be plundered recklessly, 
 and she did not wish to hear the particulars. 
 
 "Oh ! " she thought, as she walked up and down the narrow 
 path, " if I but had the blessings given to that unthankful boy ! 
 If I had happiness and a true heart bestowed on me, could I so 
 waste the priceless boons ? Oh ! Gilbert, Gilbert, why are we 
 not as they are, bound by the chain of marriage, and compelled 
 by duty to happiness ? And why are they not as we are — apart 
 and free from all bonds ? " And stiU time passed, and she heard 
 them talking within. At length Mr. Stone came forth to her. 
 
374 BEATEICE. 
 
 "Well," said Beatrice. 
 
 " Well, it is settled, and I am to be off with Rosy as soon as 
 she comes. The servant is gone with a note from him to her." 
 
 His face was very moody, but Beatrice had no need to ques- 
 tion him. Of his own accord he poured forth all the bitterness 
 in his mind. 
 
 " And so, she must live with him," he said, " with that black- 
 leg, that gambler, that low-minded groom, and I must look on 
 and see it, and be patient too." 
 
 " Ay, you must indeed," replied Beatrice, " for remember 
 that she married him for love, and that she loves him still." 
 
 " I do not believe it — ^pray do not say so — I know you mean 
 well — I am very much obliged to you, but you have not the feel- 
 ings of a parent, or you would not say that." 
 
 He spoke with much asperity. He could not help it. He 
 did not like, and had never liked Beatrice. She was the cause 
 of all his woe. His inheritance had been bestowed upon her, 
 and his fatal belief in her insanity had been his final undoing. 
 Some of his feelings Beatrice guessed, and she forgave him both 
 silently and freely. Mr. Stone spoke no more, though he stayed 
 with her ; he had come out to shun Antony's hateful presence, 
 not to talk. The young man remained within, not caring to join 
 them, and thus a long while passed, until at length Rosy's muslin 
 dress appeared at the garden gate. Her father went and spoke 
 a few hurried words to her, then brought her to Beatrice. 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Gordon," she sobbed, flinging her arms around 
 Beatrice's neck — 
 
 " Hush ! " said Beatrice, " go quickly. Antony might take 
 another whim. Do not thank me ; kiss me and go. I shall 
 send every thing you want after you. Go at once, or the oppor- 
 tunity may slip by." 
 
 Mr. Stone took his daughter's arm, aid led her away. The 
 station was near their cottage, they would reach it in a quarter 
 of an hour, take the express train, and stand on the French coast 
 within three hours. . Once they were there, it would not be quite 
 so easy for Antony to change his mind. Beatrice went in to 
 him, and found him sitting on the parlour table, looking at a box 
 he had taken from the chiffonnier. 
 
 *' I suppose that is Rosy's," he said, and he threw it down 
 carelessly, and the little gold thimble and scissors rolled out on 
 the floor. 
 
 " Had you not better go back to Carnoosie?" he said after a 
 while. 
 
BEATRICE. 376 
 
 " Do you not return?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Why — no — I am going down to Yorkshire, and thence I 
 shall probably join them in France." 
 
 Beatrice smiled rather scornfully. She knew that he did not 
 dare to meet his father, and so left her the task of breaking the 
 news to him, but she said " As you please," and turned to the 
 door. 
 
 "Won't you shake hands?" coaxingly asked Antony. "I 
 have done a good deal to oblige you, you know, for he's dread- 
 fully stingy. Wouldn't come down with more than a paltry 
 check, the old miser ! " 
 
 He stood by her side, and Beatrice gave him her hand, not 
 in friendship, not in regard, but in mere pity for his very degra- 
 dation. And as she walked away, Antony looked after her sup- 
 ple and stately figure, and compared her with a sigh to his fret- 
 ting little wife. 
 
 Every thing had combined to favor Rosy's second flight. Mr. 
 Gervoise had overslept himself, and never learned that she was 
 gone, and that his son and Beatrice were missing, until Mr. 
 Stone and his daughter were on board the steamer. Even when 
 he perceived her absence, he was not alarmed ; it was out of the 
 question that she should have run away again. Accordingly, 
 when, from the terrace where he stood smoking, he saw Beatrice 
 slowly advancing toward him through the flower garden, he was 
 struck with the thoughtful gravity of her countenance. 
 
 " My dear Beatrice," he said, taking out his cigar and going 
 to the head of the steps to address her, " can you give no news 
 of Antony ? He is to be found nowhere." 
 
 " I believe he is gone or going to Yorkshire," replied Beatrice, 
 " at least he told me so." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise felt that something had happened. 
 
 " Is his wife with him?" he asked. 
 
 " No, she is gone to France vrith her father." 
 
 "And I suppose Antony will join them." 
 
 " I suppose so," she composedly replied. 
 
 Whatever Mr. Gervoise felt, he put on his grandest and 
 calmest manner to say : 
 
 " Miss Gordon, may I inquire if you are at the bottom of 
 this." 
 
 There was a pause, just one second of rest, then Beatrice's 
 bright eyes flashed, and she said : 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " Perhaps, Miss Gordon, you will not mind teUing me what 
 
^^fi^ BEATEIOE. 
 
 argument you used to persuade my son into this most extraordi- 
 nary step." 
 
 " An unanswerable argument — ^I told Mr. Stone to pay his 
 debts." * 
 
 Mr. Gervoise smiled ; he might resent Beatrice's interference, 
 but to think that the silly girl should imagine Antony could stay 
 away from him ! As " the deep calls the deep," so did Mr. Ger- 
 voise's badness call his son's. 
 
 They spoke no more. Beatrice lightly came up the steps, 
 and broad though they were, Mr. Gervoise stepped back to let 
 her pass. No seigneur of the ancient regime looked grander than 
 Mr. Gervoise, or had manners more courteous and stately than 
 his this morning, as he stood thus dignified, though respectful, 
 whilst his step-daughter went by him and entered the house. 
 She ran up to her mother's room, and found the poor lady sadly 
 anxious. On hearing what had happened, Mrs. Gervoise looked 
 at Beatrice, and said drearily : 
 
 " Antony's father will never forgive you taking him away — 
 never, Beatrice." 
 
 " Perhaps not," replied her daughter, and her careless smile 
 said plainly, " What need I care?" 
 
 A few days later came a happy and hopeful letter from Rosy. 
 Her husband had joined her — all was well again. 
 
 ,iM 
 
CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Beatrice did not care, yet she could not fall asleep that night. 
 Rosy's deliverance from trouble, which now seemed final, gave 
 her no relief. She felt exhausted and wearied, and life was once 
 more a burden and a labour. The consciousness of something 
 to do had roused her for a time ; now that it was done, she knew 
 that she must sink once more into the old apathy and dreariness. 
 
 It was very late when her eyes at length closed in sleep, and 
 she had not been sleeping long when a light flashing suddenly 
 across her eyelids awoke her. She started up and saw her mother 
 in her white night-dress standing by her bed, with a lighted wax 
 candle in her hand. 
 
 " My darling, what is it?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Beatrice, I told you it would be ruin if you interfered in 
 Rosy's matters, and it is ruin. It is hanging over us now, and 
 there is no remedy — none, Beatrice." 
 
 " My darling, what makes you come to me at this hour ? You 
 are shivering with cold ; come in to me, and tell me what it is." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise was shivering, indeed, but with nervous fear. 
 Yet she crept in to her daughter's bed, and whilst Beatrice sat 
 bending over her, she laid her head on the pillow with a sigh. 
 
 " Beatrice," she said, " I have long felt the end coming, and 
 now it is at hand, and, Beatrice, it will be terrible. Antony is 
 here. I have heard and seen him speaking with his father." 
 
 Beatrice pressed her hand to her forehead. Ay ! evil was 
 surely near if these two had once more met in council. 
 
 " Darling, how do you know this?" she asked. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise keeps his papers in the room next mine, as 
 you know, and though I was dozing, I heard them talking to- 
 gether, and I felt, Beatrice, they were talking about you. I sat 
 up and listened, but at once the door opened and Mr. Gervoise 
 came in upon me. He looked hard at me, and said : ' Have you 
 been talking in your sleep?' I answered 'No.' 'You have,* 
 he insisted. ' I heard you.' Beatrice, I am a born coward, I 
 
3Y8 BEATRICE. 
 
 said I had been dreaming. ' There is no doubt about it/ he 
 continued, ' I heard you most distinctly.* He stayed some time, 
 then left me." 
 
 " Darling," soothingly said Beatrice, " you look excited, 
 perhaps you dreamed this." 
 
 " Beatrice, I heard them, and I saw him when he came into 
 my room, the light from the night-lamp fell full on his face, and 
 I saw him." 
 
 " Yes, darling, but the rest might be a dream." 
 
 " No, Beatrice, for there is more. I could not sleep after he 
 had left me. The house was very quiet. I got up, half dressed 
 myself, and entered the room where I had heard them. They 
 were not there, but there was a dull sound of voices in the library 
 below. So I softly stole down, and unbolting the door of the old 
 dining-room, I walked out on the terrace." 
 
 "Oh ! darling, how could you do that?" 
 
 " It is not cold, Beatrice ; besides, I would be convinced. I 
 stole to the library window, where a light was burning, and, 
 Beatrice, I saw them within. The table was covered with books, 
 at which they had been looking, I suppose, and they sat side by 
 side, talking in whispers. Suddenly Mr. Gervoise got up ; I was 
 frightened, ran back to my room, and got into bed. I thought 
 he would come and tax me with watching him, but he did not, 
 so I took courage again and came to you." 
 
 " Darling ! " exclaimed Beatrice, much amazed, " indeed you 
 are feverish, you must h^ve dreamed it. What could take them 
 to the library, and make them look at ray books ? They would 
 find nothing in them, and they know it." 
 
 " Beatrice, I tell you that I saw them, and their two faces 
 are before me still. There was something in them which I could 
 not forget, something assuredly against 'you, Beatrice. I know 
 that I have been selfish, and cold, and torpid, but you were not 
 in danger ; now you are, and the mother's instinct is awakened 
 within me. I tell you these two men are plotting, and, Beatrice, 
 weak as I am, I will do battle for you against them both." 
 
 She sat up in the bed and clasped her hands. A deep hectic 
 flush had settled on her pale cheeks, her eyes burned with unusual 
 fire, and Beatrice felt her whole frame tremble. 
 
 " My darling," she said, fondly, "it is your great love for 
 me that sees danger. Alas ! I will not deny it — mine is not a 
 happy life — not what the life of Beatrice Gordon might be. But 
 yet, darling, danger and Beatrice must not be spoken of in the 
 same breath. Am I not the mistress of Carnoosie, guarded by 
 
BEATRICE. 3Y9 
 
 station, wealth, and that law which, if it shields all, most shields 
 the rich who command all its resources. I say it again, who 
 dare hurt me? It is something to feel thus fearless. Other 
 women are protected by love and home — I am alone, yet not 
 undefended, for I have money, a cold substitute for love ; but 
 never mind, darling, I regret nothing. Every woman's venture 
 on that sea is not a safe one ; what is, is best." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise sank back on the pillow and wrung her hands. 
 "You are thinking of Gilbert?" she said. "Of Gilbert who 
 has forsaken you, and I am thinking of Gilbert's father and 
 brother who are leagued against you. Beatrice ! Beatrice ! you 
 will believe me when it is too late ! " 
 
 Beatrice had her own thoughts. She would not confess 
 them ; but she asked what Mrs. Gervoise wanted her to do. 
 
 "What you did when you tried to deliver poor little Rosy 
 from their meshes. Watch, be brave as well as vigilant. You 
 have been dull of late, and if they had not seen you so listless, 
 they would not have dared what they are now daring. Beatrice, 
 take your mother's warning ! " 
 
 She had sat up again, and Beatrice was struck with Mrs. 
 Gervoise's strange earnestness. It was like a wakening of the 
 dead to hear that poor sick woman, whose thoughts had all been 
 of her complaints and ailings, and the thermometer, now talk 
 in that earnest, solemn way, of her daughter's peril. A thrill 
 of fear shot through Beatrice's brave heart. The known danger 
 she would have met with defiance, but the hidden peril cowed 
 her. What would these bad men do in their cruel and cowardly 
 way against her ? Her thoughts flew to Gilbert, and for a mo- 
 ment sickened her. But no, he was safe, surely. 
 
 " What will you do ? " asked her mother. 
 
 " I shall watch, darling," replied Beatrice with a bright and 
 radiant smile ; for she thought as she said it, " and I shall write 
 to Gilbert. And now," she resumed aloud, " had you not better 
 leave me ? You might be missed from your room, you know." 
 
 " Yes, I had better go ; but, Beatrice, come with me, I am 
 afraid ! " 
 
 "I shall go with you, ay, and stay till you are safe and 
 sound asleep." 
 
 They rose together, and went back to Mrs. Gervoise's room. 
 They found it quiet and silent. She got into bed again, and 
 Beatrice, as she had promised, sat and stayed with her, until, 
 wearied by her long watch, Mrs. Gervoise slumbered. Beatrice 
 then softly stole away and went back to her own room. 
 
380 BEATEICE. 
 
 It would soon be dawn, and daylight would soon come ; 
 servants would arise and enter the library and disturb whatever 
 tokens of Mr. Gervoise's presence might be left there. Why 
 not go and visit it at once ? Was she not the mistress of the 
 house ? Whom and what need she fear ? She took a light and 
 went down. 
 
 Neither Mr. Gervoise nor his son was in the Hbrary now ; 
 but Beatrice almost fancied that the sound of her opening door, 
 or of her step on the staircase, must have disturbed them, for 
 the table was still covered with the books Mrs. Gervoise had 
 mentioned. Beatrice's eyes flashed with resentment. Was no 
 room of her house to be free from that man's hateful intrusion? 
 " I must find some means to drive him from Carnoosie," she 
 thought ; "I must be free, I must live, or death would be 
 sweeter than the life I lead." She threw herself in a chair near 
 the table. Mr. Gervoise was not fond of light literature, and he 
 had been looking over several of Beatrice's cyclopaedias. The 
 letter P had, however, alone had any attraction for him ; for 
 none of the other volumes had been touched. 
 
 "What did he want with them?" thought Beatrice. She 
 took up one of the volumes and opened it at random, and read : 
 
 " This poison, like many other vegetable poisons, acts swiftly 
 and surely. It leaves no traces behind, unless such as a few 
 hours will efface. It is supposed to have entered largely into 
 the aqua tofana of the Italians, and to have been the chief in- 
 gredient in the French jpoudre de succession so celebrated in the 
 seventeenth century." 
 
 , Beatrice looked hastily back at the other page, and found 
 that it was wanting ; it had been torn out, but whether recently, 
 or ere she had become mistress of Carnoosie, she could not tell. 
 The volume was one she had never opened before. She looked 
 at the others, she looked for the word poison, but she found 
 nothing to confirm suspicion. Yet why deny it ? — that page so 
 ominously wanting made Beatrice turn sick and her blood run 
 cold. Ay, that would be a sure way to Carnoosie. A few 
 drops of that nameless poison would convert the most whole- 
 some nutriment into deadly food, and end Beatrice Gordon, and 
 her troubles, and her cares. In vain she tried to master the 
 cowardly fear. It overpowered reason, courage, and blinded 
 her. In a moment all the histories of poisoners and their deeds, 
 all the trials which the daily press reveals, crowded to her mind. 
 And they were capable of it. Antony was piteously cruel, Mr. 
 Gervoise was cautious, but knew neither fear nor ruth. Show 
 
BEATEICE. 381 
 
 him the means of escaping the law, and there was no deed he 
 could not do. And this poison left no trace ! 
 
 " I shall get mad if I keep thinking of that torn page," 
 thought Beatrice. " And yet what an easy and a ready way to 
 Carnoosie ! " She threw open the window to escape the thought, 
 and it met her in the noble prospect before her. These stately 
 gardens and long avenues which she saw dimly in the grey light 
 of early morning, were something to strive for. Men and 
 women had done it for less. The five pounds of a burial club 
 had been sufficient, and Carnoosie, with its estate and its rent- 
 roll, was surely a temptation for Antony and his father. 
 
 ^ " God help me ! " thought Beatrice, " and deliver me from 
 the agony of thoughts like these. Happy is the pauper who has 
 no wealth to tempt bad men ; happy is the 'beggar-woman, 
 whose lot none envies. And must I, rich and young as I am — 
 must I, Beatrice Gordon, the mistress of Carnoosie, basely yield 
 my life because they want it ? I will not." 
 
 She closed the window ; she walked up and down the room, 
 revolving how she might defeat them, and cheat them out of 
 their opportunity. But, alas ! might they not poison the food 
 on the table whilst she was looking on ! Agaiji and again such 
 things had been done ! " Oh ! I must forget all this ! " thought 
 Beatrice desperately, " I must forget it ! " 
 
 She hurried out of the library, as if that quiet retreat, where 
 she had spent so many happy hours, were doomed to jjecome 
 her grave. She went back to her room, and asked herself, 
 "What shall I do?" 
 
 " I shall write to Gilbert," she thought, " and bid him come. 
 His presence here will dispel all danger." At once she sat down 
 to her bureau, and wrote from the fulness of her heart : 
 
 " Gilbert, come — I want you. Trouble and danger are near 
 me ; I confess I do not know under what form they will appear, 
 but I feel them at hand. Come — it is to my friend I speak. I 
 do not care what new ties may have come between us — ^you are 
 still the true Gilbert Gervoise on whom I can rely in peril or in 
 sorrow. Forgive me if I cause you to take what may prove a 
 useless journey, but I have endured much and not summoned 
 you — even this letter shall not go until some more certain token 
 of its urgent need has come. Adieu ! if you should not answer 
 this appeal, I shall lay no blame to you, Gilbert ! You ever 
 shall be the best and the noblest to Beatrice Gordon." 
 
382 BEATKIOE. 
 
 She wrote no more, but sat back in her chair thinking and 
 dreaming. She felt happy to know that he would come to her. 
 Yes, no matter how they might be divided by life and its ties, 
 once more, at least, they would meet in that wild waste so dreary 
 without him. Once more she would feel the presence of a friend 
 able and willing to protect and defend her. Sweet, therefore, was 
 the danger, whatever it might be, which would summon him to 
 her side. 
 
 Foolish girl ! near half a year has passed since Gilbert and 
 you have parted. His faith is no longer pledged to you ; the 
 friend, the calm counsellor you have, but the fond lover may 
 now be another woman's. There are many fair-haired girl* in 
 and around Verville, Norman maidens with the blooming beauty 
 of their race, daughters of rich farmers or litigious lawyers, who 
 would be glad to marry the young Docteur Gervoise, and to live 
 in that house between the garden of roses and the little shining 
 river. Think of that, Beatrice, and pause ere you send a sum- 
 mons that may call him away from a honeymoon or a courtship. 
 
 And Beatrice did think of it, and, laying her head on the 
 table above her clasped hands, she wept, she, whose tears seldom 
 flowed, she wept tears of jealous sorrow. But at length the 
 grief was conquered. She looked up, and speaking to herself, 
 she said to her own thoughts : 
 
 " Love is over — ay, over for ever, or he had not relinquished 
 me so easily. Why bring him here ? Will not Mr. Lamb do ? 
 His devotion money can secure, and it will not fail me." 
 
 She took the letter she had just written and burned it de- 
 liberately ; then she wrote another — a very cold, calm, and clear 
 letter, requesting Mr. Lamb's prompt attendance in Carnoosie, 
 and immediate answer to one question — ^Was Mr. Mortimer 
 alive or dead ? 
 
CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise had told her daughter to watch, and Bea- 
 trice obeyed the behest ; but she saw nothing to confirm the 
 warning she had received. Danger, if danger existed, was in- 
 visible. The sky was clear and blue, and the thunder-cloud was 
 not even as yet a speck on the purple horizon. In plain speech, 
 she met Mr. Gervoise at breakfast, and could not detect the least 
 token of unfriendliness, or, what would have been worse, of 
 friendliness in his manner. 
 
 " Yet I shall post my letter," she thought. 
 
 She was prompt to act as well as to resolve, and she went 
 forth at once on her errand. The way to the post office lay 
 along a quiet lane shaded by tall trees, where nightingales sang 
 sweetly in the pleasant spring. Along that lane had Beatrice 
 often wall?;ed, telling it the ever new story of her love. There 
 was not a tree, there was not a hedge-flower, that had not heard 
 the tale. Oh, Beatrice ! Beatrice ! I fear much you were one 
 of earth's earthly daughters — no unstained saint, no angel were 
 you, but a poor fond girl, in whose heart passion was strong, 
 and though not supreme — for you were pure, Beatrice, and lofty 
 in your way — at least very mighty. And now you could not 
 forget, though, alas ! it was in bitterness that you now remem- 
 bered as you walked along the path which no more led to love, 
 though it recalled love so vividly. 
 
 It is said of the dead that they are not dead whilst we re- 
 member them as if still present among us ; and love is not dead 
 whilst its first sweet sense of reality remains behind. But when 
 bitterness comes, when reproachful thoughts enter our vexed and 
 wearied hearts, love is dead indeed, or dying fast. As she 
 walked on, Beatrice did not think of danger hanging like an evil 
 cloud above her old ancestral home ; she did not think of the 
 two enemies whose presence ever defiled it. She thought of 
 Verville, of a parting on a lonely cliff, of an adieu which must 
 be eternal, of a face which she must see no more, and she 
 
384 BEATKICE. 
 
 thought of it with infinite bitterness. Mr. Lamb, the dearly- 
 paid solicitor, the law — that cold and severe friend — were her 
 defenders now. " They were truer than Jove after all," thought 
 Beatrice. 
 
 " What matter about love — that is over. I must save my- 
 self and fight my hard battle for that old Carnoosie before me. 
 Oh ! darling, you cost me dear, indeed ; for you I gave up love 
 and freedom, for you now I must strive, but I will not grudge 
 it, my poor darling, come what may. And to the last I will 
 bear with these men, whilst the arrow which might pierce them 
 must first pass through you." 
 
 She was crossing the gates of Carnoosie, and Mr» Gervoise 
 saw her. 
 
 " I have been to post a letter," said Beatrice, unquestioned, 
 as she passed by him, and her look overflowed with indignant 
 defiance. 
 
 " A servant could have done it, Beatrice." 
 
 " Ah ! but think of the pleasure of seeing the letter drop into 
 thebox." 
 
 " Pity you cannot see the reply come out." 
 
 " I expect a living reply," rose to Beatrice's lips, but she r 
 was wise enough not to utter the imprudent words. She walked r 
 on without answering, and left him looking after her with a^ 
 mocking eye. 
 
 Beatrice had few means of information at her command, and 
 these few she would not use, for she would not question or bribe 
 servants. It was useless to question Mr. GervQise, he knew 
 how to keep his counsel ; not so Antony, and for this, no doubt, 
 he was hiding once more. From him Beatrice could learn in 
 some degree what Mr. Gervoise intended, and what course he 
 meant to pursue. Accordingly, on entering the house, she 
 went up at once to the room which had been Rosy's sitting 
 apartment. 
 
 Antony was not there, but a sound in the next room be- 
 trayed him, and in a clear and distinct voice Beatrice called him 
 out. 
 
 He was taken by surprise, and came at her bidding. Bea- 
 trice greeted him standing in the centre of the apartment with 
 the look of a young queen, injured in her dignity. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ? " she asked. " Why are you 
 here a second time without my knowledge ? " 
 
 "I have just arrived," replied Antony. 
 
 "Ah! Antony, Antony, what have I done to you?" asked 
 
BEATEICE. 386 
 
 Beatrice, not without pathos in her voice. " Why must I ever 
 find you first and foremost among my enemies ? Why are you 
 here once more to act against me ? " 
 
 ^' Nonsense ! " said Antony impatiently. " What makes you 
 think that ? I came to see my father." 
 
 " Why, then, see him in secret? Why not see him openly? 
 You cannot answer — ^you had better not. I know much — too 
 much — and if I came up here, it was to tell you ' let us have 
 open war, for Beatrice cannot be deceived or surprised.' " 
 
 Antony gave her a doubtful look. 
 
 " I don't know why you speak so," he said, at length. " You 
 have been, my enemy, helping my wife to run away from me, 
 and all that, and I have never injured you." 
 
 " Because you could not, Antony, and you cannot even now. 
 Right is strong, and I am tlie mistress of Carnoosie." 
 
 "Who said you were not?" doggedly replied Antony, and 
 turning his head away from her, he sat down and slapped his 
 black kid gloves on his knee. 
 
 Beatrice was keen and quick ; the truth she had been seek- 
 ing for came to her like a flash of lightning, and Antony's black 
 gloves told it to her. Black he never wore unless when he could 
 not help it. He was in mourning, then ; who was dead ? She 
 smiled a bitter smile, and said proudly : 
 
 " I am the mistress of Carnoosie, and Carnoosie shall never 
 be yoiirs, although Mr. Mortimer is dead I " 
 
 The defiant smile with which Antony had heard her vanished 
 as she deUberately uttered the last words. He stared at her in 
 sullen surprise. 
 
 " Give up your evil purpose before I defeat it," continued 
 Beatrice, very calmly. " Your wife is my heiress now, but I 
 am young, I shall outlive your father and you, and what is more, 
 I shall marry if need be, and give other heirs to Carnoosie." 
 
 "Who said I wanted it?" asked Antony, looking no whit 
 disconcerted. " A pretty thing to be heir to a woman of twenty- 
 one ! Do you think me a fool. Miss Gordon ? " 
 
 " I think you my mortal enemy, and capable of every iniquity 
 and every wrong to attain your ends," answered Beatrice, her 
 bright eyes flashing ; but I tell you that, though alone, I am 
 strong, and that you shall not defeat me whilst God befriends the 
 good ri^ht." 
 
 She spoke with a fervour that brought the pure blood to her 
 cheek, and made her very handsome. Antony was both cowed 
 and dazzled. His blue eyes softened as they dwelt on Beatrice's 
 17 
 
886 BEATRICE. 
 
 sweet and yet defiant face. Ay ! this was sometliing instead of 
 that pale, pining Kosy, with her reproachful eyes and her weari- 
 some weeping. 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice ! Beatrice ! " he said, drawing toward her, 
 " why are we divided? Why would you not have me ? I shall 
 never find another girl like you ! " 
 
 " Are you a widower?" asked Beatrice, with icy coldness. 
 
 " I wish I were," almost savagely replied Antony ; "I am 
 sick of her, Beatrice ; I wish she would run away again, but 
 with some one, and then I would divorce her. Beatrice, I have 
 tried it, and I cannot bear it. I am like a boy between her and 
 her father, with my misdeeds, as they call them, ever thrown in 
 my teeth." 
 
 Beatrice nodded. 
 
 " I see," she said, " the rein and bit are hard to bear, and so 
 you want my Carnoosie. You shall never get it, Antony, never ! " 
 she added, with another defiant smile, which roused all his dor- 
 mant passion. 
 
 " I can't help it," he said angrily ; " you would not have me, 
 and you are in my way, and must go to the wall, Beatrice. And 
 yet it is a pity," he added, the longing of his old love, such as it 
 was, wakening once more, " you are so handsome and so spirited, 
 so thoroughbred, Beatrice, that it irritates one not to have had 
 you, and it would have been so easy. But you wouldn't, and so 
 you must suffer. And I will have Carnoosie," he added, with his 
 bad laugh, " I will have it, Beatrice, though I could not have its 
 young mistress." 
 
 " Thank you, Antony, for saying it at length," replied Bea- 
 trice, turning away. " You are your father's son in badness, but 
 not in guile. He would never have confessed so much. Thank 
 you, I say, I have won my object in coming up here to-day ; you 
 have told me your end, and, Antony, you will find me a match 
 for you, and you shall no more get Carnoosie than you got 
 me." 
 
 She nodded at him, and was gone. 
 
 " And now, what is it they want? " thought Beatrice, stop- 
 ping short on the staircase ; " it is — it must be my life — oh ! my 
 darling — my poor darling — must I then turn them out, and for- 
 sake you, to save myself? " 
 
 The luncheon bell rang as she came to this dreary conclusion. 
 She heard it with a start. "Would they do it to-day ? — it was not 
 likely — ^this morning ; it was next to impossible ? No — she was 
 still safe. 
 
BEATRICE. 387 
 
 Calmly enough she entered the dining-room. Mrs. Gervoise 
 was too unwell to come down. Mr. Gervoise, however, enjoyed 
 his usual health and appetite, and was present, but not Antony. 
 At once Beatrice asked why he was not there. 
 
 Without showing the least surprise, Mr. Gervoise rang the 
 bell, and asked for his son, who soon appeared, and took his 
 place in sullen silence. He looked pale and troubled. " Perhaps 
 it is to be this morning, and that he would rather not be present," 
 thought Beatrice bitterly ; " yes, it would be pleasanter not to see 
 it done." 
 
 The meal began. Of late Mr. Gervoise had never helped 
 Beatrice at table ; he now did so for the first time ; she thanked 
 him, though she played with her fork on her plate, she did not 
 touch the food, a French fricassee, until she saw him partake of 
 it ; then she ate, but as she did so, she thought : " He is giving 
 me the habit of being helped by him, so that I shall not think it 
 strange when the time comes. I wonder if he has got the 
 poison." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise never went out. If he liked Carnoosie, none 
 could deny him the praise of liking it well. Its boundaries suf- 
 ficed amply to his happiness, such as that was, but on this day 
 Mr. Gervoise no doubt required change of scene, for he went out 
 on foot, and alone. 
 
 " He dare not purchase poison in the neighbourhood," 
 thought Beatrice ; " and yet if it leaves no trace ! " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise remained the whole day out. Where had he 
 been ? To London perhaps, there and back again. His depar- 
 ture and his return coincided with the express trains. 
 
 " Mr. Lamb cannot be here before to-morrow evening," 
 thought Beatrice ; " perhaps all will be over then. Why do I 
 not fly from the house ? " 
 
 It seemed as if every thing were meant to confirm the fright- 
 ful thought which had taken possession of her mind. Mrs. Ger- 
 voise was very unwell. In going up to her, Beatrice had to pass 
 by Mr. Gervoise's study. The door was ajar, and through the 
 opening she caught a glimpse of him ; he stood with his back to 
 her and his face turned to the light, holding up a small phial as 
 if examining it. It was a chemist's phial, and there was a label 
 upon it, and-Mr. Gervoise, as Beatrice saw, was tearing the label 
 off. She saw no more, perhaps the rustle of her dress had be- 
 trayed her. He closed the door, and, as Beatrice heard, he 
 locked it. 
 
 Her heart sickened within her. She retraced her steps, and 
 
388 BEATRICE. 
 
 went out into the open air ; she needed its freshness, though a 
 fine autumn rain was falling. The thought of having to fight for 
 her life disheartened her. She felt inert, lifeless, caring for 
 nothing and no one. 
 
 As she stood thus on the terrace, Antony met her. He gave 
 her a quick look, and, as he passed, he whispered, " take care ! " 
 
 Beatrice heard him distinctly and soon overtook him. 
 
 " What did you say ! " she asked, taking hold of his arm. 
 
 " I said nothing," he boldly replied. 
 
 " You did — you said ' Take care,' and I ask what was your 
 meaning? What should I fear? what should I take care of here, 
 in my own house ? " 
 
 " You mistake, I said nothing of the kind. I do not see how 
 I could. Why should you take care here in your own house, as 
 you say ? " 
 
 Beatrice let his arm go with a sigh. 
 
 " I have appealed to you for the last time," she said ; " there 
 is neither pity nor shame in you. Go your way, as I henceforth 
 shall go mine. I would rather perish ten times than appeal to 
 you." 
 
 Antony did not reply. He hung his head and walked awaj', 
 looking ashamed and downcast ; and Beatrice, feeling brave and 
 strong once more, went up to her mother. Doctor Rogerson was 
 with Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 " How do you find mamma to-day, doctor," asked Beatrice. 
 
 Doctor Rogerson looked rather grave. 
 
 " I find her excitable and feverish. She is not well, Miss 
 Gordon." 
 
 Beatrice gave him a frightened look. Was her mother in 
 danger ? Doctor Rogerson's face seemed to say so. 
 
 " Come this evening," she said eagerly. 
 
 " I do not think it absolutely necessary ; but if you wish for 
 it." 
 
 " I do," she interrupted, with the same eagerness. She 
 longed to speak to him alone, but did not dare to follow him out, 
 for Mrs. Gervoise was watching her. 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Gervoise when he was gone, " you 
 will soon be free, and all your troubles will be over ; the end is 
 coming — I feel it — ^I know it — ^be patient a little while longer ; it 
 will soon be over." 
 
 " Darling, do you want to break my heart?" 
 
 " No ; but be patient a little longer. Your face frightened 
 me when you came in just now— do not quarrel with them, if you 
 can help it." ■* 
 
BEATEICE. 389 
 
 " My darling," said Beatrice, taking her hand, " what have I 
 said or done to deserve this ?— do you not know that I will bear 
 every thing for your sake ? " 
 
 " Beatrice, I am a coward ; but I should not like to die away 
 from you — well, do not cry, child, I will say no more — ^there, 
 that is the dinner-beU ; go down to them, or they will think I am 
 plotting with you." 
 
 Beatrice'^ brow knit. Was her mother unconsciously sending 
 her down to her fate ? She looked at the poor lady, who seemed 
 very ill indeed, and she drearily wondered, " Which of us two 
 shall outlive the other ? Oh ! my darling, if you knew of what 
 kind is the danger you foretold ! " 
 
 But she went down after all. They were waiting for her. 
 It seemed to her that Antony's eyes could not meet hers. Mr. 
 Gervoise, on the contrary, was particularly gracious. " It would 
 be like him to fondle and murder," thought Beatrice. 
 
 M. Panel excelled in a Sole Normande, and Mr. Gervoise 
 was fond of it. This day it figured on the table. Beatrice was 
 struck with the look Antony gave it as the servant placed it 
 before her. "Is it this dish— -does he know?" she thought. 
 With an abrupt motion she placed some of its contents on his 
 plate, which Antony handed at once, and without a word, to the 
 servant. Beatrice looked at him fixedly ; he tried to laugh, and 
 said: 
 
 "These made-up dishes do not suit me." 
 
 " I believe this is a favorite of yours, Mr. Gervoise," observed 
 Beatrice, helping him. 
 
 " Will you take none?" he asked. 
 
 Beatrice smiled. 
 
 "I rarely touch it, but I will eat some to-day," and she 
 helped herself too ; but as she did so, she glanced stealthily at 
 father and son. Antony was watching her intently, Mr. Ger- 
 voise never looked at her, but neither did he eat ; for once the 
 Sole Norrtiande tempted him not. Beatrice took a mouthful, 
 then put it down, untasted, with a shudder of horror. 
 
 " I am afraid you are not well," said Mr. Gervoise, " or, per- 
 haps, your selection was not judicious — allow me to recommend 
 this morsel." 
 
 " Thank you, I am satisfied with what is on my plate." 
 
 " Nay, but allow me. I am sure this is so much more deli- 
 cate." 
 
 Beatrice allowed him to heap her plate ; then, pushing it 
 away firom her, she said, with cold irony : 
 
390 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Gervoise, but this food is poisoned !" 
 
 " Poisoned ! " screamed Mr. Gervoise ; " good heavens ! are 
 we poisoned?" 
 
 Beatrice did not answer him, but rose, and left the room, 
 and, as she did so, met the amazed look of the servant carving 
 at the side-table. She went up to her own room. She felt 
 thirsty, sick, and faint ; she poured herself out a glass of water, 
 then threw it away, and emptied her decanter. She put on her 
 hat and cloak, and, hiding the decanter under it, she stole softly 
 down, and went out into the grey, damp evening, to the spring in 
 the orchard. She heard more than she saw it, rippling along 
 between two grassy banks ; and, stooping, she filled the flask 
 with the pure water, which treason had not defiled, then softly 
 as she had left it she returned to the house. When she entered 
 the room she found it tenanted by Brownson, her mother's maid, 
 who stood with a light in her hand, looking curiously at the 
 toilet-table, whence the decanter, which Miss Gordon always kept 
 there full of spring water, was missing. She turned round with 
 a guilty look on hearing Beatrice, and said hurriedly : 
 
 " I came to tell you, ma'am, that Dr. Rogerson is below." 
 
 " Very well. Tell him I feel unwell, and ask him to come 
 in here to me before he goes to my mother." 
 
 Brownson went, leaving the light behind her. When Beatrice 
 had heard her going down, and not till then, she poured herself 
 out a glass of water, and drank eagerly. 
 
 Feverishly and anxiously she waited for Doctor Rogerson. It 
 was a long time before he came, at least Beatrice thought so. 
 At length a tap at her door was followed by the entrance of 
 Brownson, saying: 
 
 " Please, ma'am, here is Doctor Rogerson." 
 
 Beatrice rose, and tried to be calm. She was sure Mr. Ger- 
 voise had been talking to him. Did they want to make him an 
 accomplice? The man could be bought, but could he be bought 
 to a crime ? She looked hard at him without speaking, and her 
 look was so expressive of mistrust and dislike, that Doctor Rog- 
 erson coloured and stammered rather than he asked how she 
 was. 
 
 " I feel feverish, and my head aches," replied Beatrice. 
 
 Doctor Rogerson felt her pulse, put a few more questions, 
 and asked Brownson, still standing in the room, for pen and ink. 
 
 " What for?" inquired Beatrice. 
 
 " To write a prescription, Miss Gordon." 
 
 '^'^ I understand — ^Brownson, leave the room. Doctor," she 
 
BEATEICE. 391 
 
 added, as the door closed upon her, " you need not write, I will 
 take nothing you prescribe unless you bring it yourself. From 
 your own hands I will take it — not otherwise." 
 
 " Madam ! " exclaimed Doctor Rogerson, looking, as Beatrice 
 thought, conscious and confused. 
 
 " I have said it, and I repeat it. I am unwell because I 
 scarcely ate this day ; and if I did not eat in my own house, it 
 is because the food placed before me was poisoned. It was 
 poisoned, Doctor Rogerson — I saw it in their two guilty faces, 
 and I will not touch a drop of medicine which might pass through 
 their hands." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, madam, think, reflect before you say 
 such terrible things ! " exclaimed Doctor Rogerson, pale with 
 emotion ; " do not speak so, especially to me." 
 
 "And why especially to you. Doctor? — ^because they will 
 question you when you leave this room. I tell you I am reck- 
 less. The house is mine, and I will not be murdered in it if I 
 can help it." 
 
 " My dear madam," entreated Doctor Rogerson, " if not for 
 your own sake, at least for mine, be silent. Think — ^but do not 
 speak ; tell me nothing." 
 
 He trembled from head to foot. Beatrice looked at him long 
 without speaking. It was plain this man knew something, but 
 how had they dared to take him into their confidence ? It was 
 frightful and incredible. Her brain ached with the effort to pen- 
 etrate this mystery. 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson," she said at length, " what do you know? 
 what have they told you?" 
 
 " My dear madam, you do not suppose — you cannot think — " 
 here Doctor Rogerson paused, unable to continue ; " indeed," 
 he added, after a brief pause, "I have nothing to say — nothing 
 of the kind you mean. On my word, I have not." 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson, I leave it to your conscience how you 
 deal with me. I have never injured you. I would willingly 
 benefit you if I could. I do harm to none, and good to some ; 
 but I stand between greed and its prey, and I am to be sacrificed 
 if it can be done safely. Again I say I leave it to your con- 
 science, and as you deal by me so will you and yours be dealt by 
 one day. And now,". she added, calmly, " let us go in to my 
 mother." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson bowed and looked affected, but he did not 
 reply. Beatrice took the light, and showed him into her mother's 
 room. 
 
392 BEATEICE. 
 
 " What have you and Doctor Rogerson been talking about?" 
 eagerly asked Mrs. Gervoise ; " what is it, Beatrice ? — what 
 is it?" 
 
 She sat up, and turned her feverish, glittering eyes from one 
 to the other. 
 
 "I feel unwell, darling," replied Beatrice, trying to look 
 cheerful, " and I asked Doctor Rogerson to come to me first. 
 How are you? — how do you feel ?" 
 
 " Very strangely — ^very strangely — ^not well ! I wish you 
 would let me tell you all I feel, Doctor Eogerson ! " 
 
 " Certainly, my dear madam." He sat down and listened to 
 her, and smiled, and shook his head, and after hearing her out, 
 said quietly : 
 
 " You want repose, my dear madam, mental and bodily re- 
 pose." 
 
 It was to her that he spoke, but at Beatrice that he looked, 
 and Beatrice knew his meaning. Her mother's mind must not 
 be disturbed, and Beatrice indeed felt no inclination to impart to 
 her the dark suspicion which had sent her fasting from her own 
 table. 
 
 When Doctor Rogerson was gone — and he soon left, promis- 
 ing to call the next morning, Beatrice, though faint and feverish 
 and weary, compelled herself to stay with Mrs. Gervoise, and 
 even to be gay and cheerful, until the sick lady fell asleep. Her 
 daughter then softly withdrew, and, locking herself up in her 
 own room, ate a few biscuits which had been forgotten there 
 since the morning. Whatever her suspicions might be, pride 
 would not let her confess them to the servants. 
 
 It was late when she slept and late when she awoke. As 
 soon as she was dressed she went to her mother's room, and was 
 struck with the change she found in her. 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise said she was better, but her sunken eyes belied 
 the assertion. 
 
 "Doctor Rogerson has been here, and says I am no worse," 
 she remarked, noticing perhaps her daughter's scared look. 
 
 "And why did he leave without seeing me?" asked Bea- 
 trice, quickly. 
 
 She put that question to Brownson, who answered glibly : 
 
 "Please, miss. Doctor Rogerson, on learning you were asleep, 
 said that was better than medicine, and would not let me waken 
 you." 
 
 This was too plausible by far. 
 
 " Go and see if he is gone." 
 
BEATEIOE. 393 
 
 Brownson went to see. She soon came back. Doctor Roger- 
 son was gone ; but Brownson brought an official-looking letter, 
 which, after bidding her leave the room, Beatrice opened with a 
 beating heart. 
 
 It was a gloomy letter indeed. Mr. Lamb was dead, and 
 Mr. Lamb's partner, who gave her the news, added the informa- 
 tion, which Beatrice scarcely needed, that Mr. Mortimer had 
 been dead ten days. As Beatrice had expressly requested that 
 Mr. Lamb should send no substitute, his late partner and suc- 
 cessor, Mr. Brown, had not come down to her. 
 
 " Beatrice, what has happened ? " cried Mrs. Gervoise, sitting 
 up in her bed, and frightened at Beatrice's face. 
 
 " My last stay is gone," said Beatrice, drearily : " Mr. Mor- 
 timer is dead, and Rosy is my heiress, and Mr. Lamb is dead 
 too, and cannot come. I am alone, my darling, and it must be 
 a battle." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise sank back in a fainting fit so long and deep 
 that Beatrice bitterly regretted her imprudent words. When she 
 at length rallied her daughter looked cheerful and said : 
 
 " Why, darling, you ought to have known me better than to 
 mind me, and you have frightened me, and I shall go for Doctor 
 Roger son." 
 
 " Send for him, dear." 
 
 " No, darling, I must go myself." 
 
 Her tone, though calm, was very resolute. Mrs. Gervoise 
 gave her a pitiful look, but did not oppose her departure. 
 
 11* 
 
CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 Doctor Rogerson was closing the garden gate of his cot- 
 tage as Beatrice came up the path. He started on seeing her. 
 
 With a smile she went up to him and said : 
 
 " The world is all going*wrong, doctor, for your patient comes 
 to see you." 
 
 The world was all going wrong indeed if the visit of a cured 
 patient could make Doctor Rogerson look as he looked when 
 Beatrice spake thus. "^ 
 
 " I am very happy '* he began. 
 
 " Then, indeed, your looks belie your words," interrupted 
 Beatrice. "Doctor Rogerson, how is my mother? — I find her 
 very unwell. Is there danger ? " 
 
 " Not immediate danger — ^yet I am uneasy about her." 
 
 " Come again. Doctor Rogerson, slje has had a fainting fit 
 since you left." 
 
 *' Miss Gordon, I can do nothing. In Mrs. Gervoise's com- 
 plaint science is at fault." 
 
 Beatrice's lip quivered. 
 
 " Do you — do you think the end is coming?" she asked. 
 
 " I fear it, but yet I hope not." 
 
 " You fear it, and you have told Mr. Gervoise so — do not 
 deny it — ^you have told him. Oh ! my poor darling, live long to 
 defeat them." 
 
 " Miss Gordon — " began Doctor Rogerson, with evident un- 
 easiness. 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson, why did you not ask to see me tliis morn- 
 ing?" interrupted Beatrice. 
 
 " I heard you were asleep and better." 
 
 She fastened her dark, keen eyes on his face. Then, sud- 
 denly going up to him, she took his arm and led him^ into the 
 green paddock where he and Mr. Gervoise had held their memo- 
 rable conversation. 
 
BEATRICE. - 395 
 
 " Not here, Miss Gordon, I entreat you ! " implored Doctor 
 Rogerson. 
 
 " Where, then?" asked Beatrice, in the tone of one who was 
 not going to relinquish her prey. 
 
 " In the house," agitatedly answered Doctor Rogerson, lead- 
 ing her back to the cottage. 
 
 They entered it together. The front parlour was vacant, and 
 Doctor Rogerson showed Miss Gordon into a small back room. 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson," said Beatrice, standing near the door, 
 so as to preclude all hope of escape, " you shall not leave this 
 room until I know what is plotting against me — you know it, and 
 you shall tell me. Against all evil consequences of your confes- 
 sion I promise beforehand that I will shield you, but the truth I 
 must and will know. As you are a Christian and a gentleman, 
 you must help to save me." 
 
 "Miss Gordon," said Doctor Rogerson, "you speak as if I 
 were guilty, or your enemy ; whereas, if it were not for me, you 
 would not be standing here to-day." 
 
 " Then I was not mistaken after all — they wanted you to get 
 them the poison ? " 
 
 Doctor Rogerson's pale face flushed. 
 
 " No one would have dared to speak of that to me," he said 
 indignantly ; " and yet I was not surprised to hear you talk of it 
 yesterday, it was part of the plan, and, unfortunately, you fell 
 into the trap at once." 
 
 Beatrice looked at him in mute surprise. What new unsus- 
 pected danger was this ? 
 
 " Miss Gordon, you must not be offended at what I am going 
 to say," continued Doctor Rogerson ; " but you have brought on 
 yourself a great peril, and fortunate indeed will you be if you es- 
 cape it without having first to suffer keenly for your imprudence." 
 
 "Peril! what peril?" 
 
 " That of imprisonment in a mad-house," replied Doctor 
 Rogerson. 
 
 Beatrice looked astounded, then smiled incredulously. 
 
 " Imprison me as a mad woman !" she said, in great scorn. 
 " Doctor Rogerson, you know I am not mad." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Gordon, I know it ; and yet for all that I have 
 the power of sending you to a mad-house, and for the last week 
 I have refused to sign the order that would do it. I have refused 
 it, with ruin hanging over my head ; but will another?" 
 
 Brave as she was, Beatrice shivered with fear as she heard 
 him. Oh ! this was worse than death a thousand times, this 
 
BEATRICE. 
 
 slow, lingering torture of years ; and yet, and spite tlie first 
 shock, the impossibility of the deed was again her ruling con- 
 viction. 
 
 " No, Doctor Rogerson," she said, " no man will sign the 
 order that would consign me to a living grave. I am in the full 
 possession of my senses, and there is not the shadow of a proof 
 against me^." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson remained silent. 
 
 " God help me !" cried Beatrice, in anguish. " You do not 
 mean to say I am insane?" 
 
 " No, but they could make out a strong case, and if they do 
 not get you locked up, they may yet prevent you from marriage, 
 from spending and enjoying your own. In short, from all the 
 acts of civil life." 
 
 "But on what grounds?" cried Beatrice, desperately ; "on 
 what grounds ? I am sane, and surely I could prove it. You 
 would come forward and say that I am not mad ; you would 
 come forward and denounce them." 
 
 " Miss Gordon, I cannot appear. I have betrayed them to 
 you — I will do no more. I will do nothing against you — ask for 
 no more." 
 
 He spoke doggedly. Beatrice saw there was more behind, 
 and that Doctor Rogerson was not stainless enough to bear the 
 light of broad day. 
 
 " Be it so," she said, indignantly ; " be it so. I shall find 
 other testimony." 
 
 "Whose?" asked Doctor Rogerson ; "that of servants 
 bought by your enemy ; of the footman who heard you saying 
 the food on the table was poisoned ; of Brownson, who saw you 
 bringing water from the spring in the orchard, lest that in your 
 room should have been tampered with ; of John, who went with 
 you at night to see Mr. Stone ; of Mr. Stone himself, who tried 
 to find out from me if you were mad or not — ^heaven knows for 
 what reason ? Miss Gordon, you have lived away from society, 
 and there are many of its ways and forms which want of knowl- 
 edge makes you infringe, and this the world often calls insanity ; 
 you are eccentric, too, and independent, and, forgive the liberty 
 I take, you are wilful. All this is stored up against you ; more- 
 over, no one knows you, and Mr. Gervoise has not lost an oppor- 
 tunity of proclaiming you insane. Of course you never heard of 
 it, but it is the common talk of the country. Your conviction 
 that your life was attempted, and the imprudence with which you 
 expressed it, have strengthened his case considerably. I do not 
 
BEATRICE. 397 
 
 say he will prevail, but I say you are in danger, and that you 
 will have a hard battle to fight." 
 
 Beatrice's face had been downcast whilst Doctor Rogerson 
 spoke ; she now raised it, it was pale but resolute. 
 
 " Doctor Rogerson," she said, " let me first assure you, that, 
 even though you have not been quite my friend in this matter, 
 yet that for this warning I am grateful to you, and will prove 
 my gratitude. Next let me tell you that I will show you what 
 good right can do unaided. It is a hard battle that lies before 
 me, I feel and know it ; and yet. Doctor Eogerson, I shall pre- 
 vail — ^you will see it." 
 
 She opened the door as she spoke, and in the front parlour 
 she found Mr. Gervoise and his son, who had that moment en- 
 tered it. The guilty start Antony gave on seeing her could alone 
 have confirmed Doctor Rogerson's tale, had Beatrice doubted it, 
 but she did not ; and on the information he had given her she at 
 once acted. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise," she said, " there has been in my life an act 
 of egregious folly, and that has been allowing you to live in my 
 house once I became its legal mistress. Enter it no more ; your 
 son and you will find its doors closed for ever against you. No 
 consideration will make me alter this resolve. You are bent on 
 my ruin — accomplish it if you can ! I wiU not at least lend you 
 arms to act against me." 
 
 If Mr. Gervoise's bleared eyes had possessed the fabled pow- 
 ers attributed to the glance of the basilisk, Beatrice would assu- 
 redly not have survived that speech. He smiled, and staring at 
 her, he said : 
 
 " You are mad. Miss Gordon, and I will prove it. I tell you 
 that you are mad ; insanity is in your blood, and shows itself in 
 your bearing and your actions. Doctor Rogerson, you know 
 this is a mad woman, and I will call on you to prove that she 
 accused me of poisoning her. She is mad — you are mad, 
 madam ! " 
 
 He spoke in his grand disdainful way, but Beatrice heard him 
 with a calm brow. 
 
 " Good-bye to you both," she said as she crossed the thresh- 
 old of the house and stepped out into the garden, " you have seen 
 your last of Camoosie." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise was sighing with impatience and weariness 
 when Beatrice at length entered her room. 
 
 "Where have you been, Beatrice?" she said querulously; 
 " why did you leave me." 
 
398 BEATEICE. 
 
 " Darling, you know I went for Doctor Rogerson, but he 
 cannot come just now." 
 
 Beatrice had also been to send a telegraphic message for Mr. 
 Brown, but this she did not tell her mother. 
 
 " You should not have left me," said Mrs. Gervoise ; " I 
 shall not long remain with you." 
 
 "Darling!" 
 
 " Beatrice, it is no use — I know it, and you know it. Ring 
 for Brownson, please." 
 
 Beatrice was glad to comply with the request, and to turn 
 her face away. She rang, but though she had met Brownson on 
 coming in, had even spoken with her, and tried to bribe her into 
 faithfulness, the present summons was not answered. Again and 
 again Beatrice rang, and still the girl did not appear. 
 
 "It is no use having a maid of my own," querulously said 
 Mrs. Gervoise ; " why does she not come?" 
 
 " I shall go and look for her," suddenly said Beatrice. 
 
 " Indeed I hope you will not. Surely, Beatrice, it is not 
 your place — send some other servant for her." 
 
 " No, darling, I must go myself." 
 
 Without waiting for further argument, Beatrice rose and left 
 the room. She ran up to the upper floor where tlie servants 
 slept, and at once she found Brownson's room. She entered it 
 without knocking, and saw her mother's maid kneeling on the 
 floor and busy packing. As sharp and keen a pain shot through 
 Beatrice's heart as if she had detected the infidelity of a trusty 
 servant and friend. Brownson turned round on hearing her, and 
 for a moment looked confused. 
 
 "Why were you going without your wages, Brownson?" 
 asked Beatrice ; " why were you leaving your mistress by stealth, 
 as if you had robbed her ? " 
 
 " I can have my boxes searched, ma'am," said Brownson, 
 firing up. 
 
 Beatrice made a gesture of disdain. 
 
 " You may lock them up and go, Brownson," she said ; "I 
 know you ; you will betray the hand that feeds you. You have 
 neither truth nor honesty, but you are too cunning and too shrewd 
 to be a thief. Go, then, and take your wages," she added, 
 counting the money on the table ; " yet let me tell you, Brown- 
 son, that I am the true mistress of Carnoosie, and that honesty 
 might have been a better policy than treason." 
 
 Brownson looked incHned to make an insolent reply, but 
 Beatrice silenced her by a quick, haughty gesture, and went back 
 to her mother. 
 
. BEATRICE. 
 
 " Darling," she said, " I must be your maid now. Brown- 
 son is leaving." 
 
 " You have sent her away. Oh, Beatrice, I wish you had 
 not — I know you never liked that girl, but I assure you she was 
 very handy — I wish, Beatrice, you would not be so hasty." 
 
 " Darling, Brownson is going away of her own accord. She 
 is leaving us for Mr. Gervoise. It is no use attempting to con- 
 ceal it from you," continued Beatrice, looking sadly at her 
 mother, "the great break has come. I met Mr. Gervoise at 
 Doctor Rogerson's this morning ; I told him to enter Carnoosie 
 no more, and I have forbidden the servants to let him in." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise turned pale as death, and trembled in every 
 limb. 
 
 " I am ruined and undone ! " she cried, sitting up and clasp- 
 ing her hands ; " he will come and take me away." 
 
 " No, darling," replied Beatrice, " you are safe ; it is I who 
 must fear and tremble. Yes, you were right enough when you 
 came to me the other night — a great danger threatens me, and I 
 am alone — alone ! There is no one to help or defend me ! " 
 
 The deep despondency of her voice went to Mrs. Gervoise's 
 heart. 
 
 "Beatrice, my poor Beatrice, what is it?" she cried anx- 
 iously ; " tell me all." 
 
 " I must," replied Beatrice, still very sad ; " the time has 
 gone by when I thought I could keep all my sorrows and troubles 
 from you ; my poor darling, you must share them. They want 
 to prove me mad." 
 
 " But you are not mad ! " cried Mrs. Gervoise ; " it is a con- 
 spiracy ! " 
 
 "Ay, darling, and one that has long been hatching against 
 me. For years I have been proclaimed insane by Mr. Gervoise, 
 and it seems I am peculiar ; besides, who knows me ? Oh ! I 
 shall have a hard, a very hard battle to fight, and I am alone ! 
 Doctor Rogerson was their tool, and, who knows, perhaps he is 
 so still. I am alone, and God help me, or I am undone !" 
 
 " God help us both ! " cried Mrs. Gervoise, in sore distress. 
 " Oh ! Beatrice, will Heaven ever forgive me for marrying that 
 man?" 
 
 Beatrice did not reply. Her elbows rested on her knees, 
 and her head in the palms of her hands. She felt sad — sad to 
 the very heart, and weak as a child against her foes. Alas ! 
 hers had been a long contest against her enemy, and in the hour 
 when she needed it most her worn-out courage well-nigh failed 
 
400 BEATRICE. 
 
 her. The close of that day was not calculated to give her heart. 
 Whether Mr. Gervoise attempted to enter Carnoosie or not, Bea- 
 trice did not know, but toward four in the afternoon the gate- 
 keeper vanished from the lodge, where he was seen no more. 
 
 "I suppose he was a good witness against me," thought 
 Beatrice. " I noticed that the man looked hard at me when I 
 told him not to let them in — yes, he will figure well in the in- 
 quiry concerning the sanity of Miss Gordon, of Carnoosie. I 
 think I have read such testimony. ' She looked wild and ex- 
 cited,' and so forth. Ay, he wiQ do." Others were probably of 
 equal value, for one by one three of the upper servants dropped 
 off ere the day was over. John, and a few who had perhaps 
 been found too insignificant to bribe, or who were too timid to 
 take so strong a step, remained behind. Beatrice did her best 
 to conceal this ominous fact from her mother, but a few words 
 dropped by John in Mrs. Gervoise's presence betrayed all to 
 her. 
 
 " The very servants forsake us ! " she cried, clasping her 
 hands ; " Beatrice, send for Mr. Gervoise, and make peace." 
 
 Beatrice smiled sadly. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise wants Carnoosie," she said, " and he will 
 take no other price." 
 
 "But what shall we do, Beatrice? " 
 
 " God knows, my poor darling ! If the law be the impar- 
 tial goddess with bandaged eyes and even scales, why should I 
 fear ? But if Themis can be bought and sold like your maid ; 
 if purchased eloquence, if bribed witnesses, can convince preju- 
 diced judges and juries, our peril is great indeed ! I see nothing 
 to be done, and that is the worst of it. I cannot forestall at- 
 tack — ^that is impossible. I must wait for it; by the time it 
 comes I shall, I hope, have found support of some kind. Medi- 
 cal men will have decided that I am not more insane than my 
 neighbors. Mr. Brown will be down here and able to advise 
 me, but I have no trust in him. I keep imagining that he too is 
 bought, and would betray me." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise did not answer. She could not. The calamity 
 was too great for her, and it overcame and prostrated her ener- 
 gies. She looked" pitifully at her daughter, and moaned and 
 wrung her hands, but said or suggested nothing. And Beatrice, 
 looking at the sky darkening with evening clouds, through which 
 a dim, yellow moon vainly attempted to pierce, felt almost as 
 weak and as helpless as her mother. Alas ! she had fears which 
 she did not dare to tell. She was haunted by the thought that 
 
BEATEICE. 401 
 
 another Doctor Rogerson would be found, five lines of whose 
 writing would confine her to a living grave. Her weak mother 
 would lament over her, but never dare to interfere, and Gilbert 
 would not know, and who would care to meddle with a man like 
 Mr. Gervoise ? . Beatrice shuddered with horror as she contem- 
 plated such a fate. She thought of leaving the house at once, 
 and of throwing herself on the protection of a magistrate, but 
 shame at the scandal of the proceeding held her back. Then 
 the thought of the gates unwatched and unlocked, open to Mr. 
 Gervoise and the man who at his beck could and would appre- 
 hend the mistress of Camoosie with little more ceremony than 
 if she were a common felon, made her blood boil. What pre- 
 vented her from going to lock them herself ? The uselessness 
 of the proceeding, the sense that bolts and bars were no protec- 
 tion against her enemy. " God help me ! " she thought again, 
 " God help me ! " 
 
 Ay, God help you indeed, Beatrice, for you are in the web, 
 and its meshes are very close around you. 
 
CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 Sleep did not come near Beatrice that night, which she 
 spent with her mother. Anxiety of every kind oppressed her. 
 Mr. Brown had not arrived, and as time passed, Mrs. Gervoise 
 became alarmingly unwell. Her daughter arose with dawn and 
 sent off John for Doctor Rogerson. John came back with omi- 
 nous tidings ; Doctor Rogerson was gone to London, and Mrs. 
 Rogerson did not know when he would return. It was not hard 
 for Beatrice to understand by whom, and for what purpose, this 
 weak gentleman had been sent out of the way. She smiled 
 bitterly, but told John to take a horse and ride off for a Doctor 
 Lovell who lived several miles off. This time John came back 
 within a few minutes ; Mr. Gervoise had the key of the stables, 
 and he refused to give it up. The message was delivered to Bea- 
 trice outside her mother's room. 
 
 "Where is Mr. Gervoise?" she asked. 
 
 " He's on the terrace smoking. Miss." 
 
 Beatrice went down-stairs at once. 
 
 Ay ! John had spoken truly. Mr. Gervoise, who had 
 evidently spent the night in the house, was standing on the ter- 
 race, smoking calmly and comfortably. On seeing her he took 
 out his cigar and bowed and smiled with mock politeness. 
 
 Beatrice could not come forward, this man's audacity fright- 
 ened her, for it was the certain forerunner of calamity. Since 
 he had returned to her house and settled himself once more 
 within it, he must indeed be sure of his position. A thrill ran 
 through her frame when she thought that the five lines of which 
 Doctor Rogerson had spoken might be within his pocket. True, 
 it seemed impossible to her that the head of a lunatic asylum 
 would not recognize her sanity and set her free ; but suppose 
 such a person could be bought ! She was rich, and out of her 
 stores a splendid bribe might be given. Beatrice's very lips 
 turned white as she looked this direful "it may be" in the 
 face. 
 
BEATRICE. 403 
 
 Ay ! Beatrice, you well may fear. It is peril for you that 
 lies in Mr. Gervoise's smiling countenance. Seeing that she 
 stood still, he came toward her. 
 
 " My dear Beatrice," he said, " this is very childish ; you 
 had better have kept quiet. My dear, you have not a leg to 
 stand on. I tell you that your behaviour has been childish in 
 the extreme." 
 
 Beatrice did not answer. She knew that if he braved her 
 with insolent impunity, it was because, though she might bid her 
 servants turn him out, he was sure they would not obey her. 
 She felt ready to choke. Her breath would scarcely come for 
 excess of emotion. It was not anger, it was not sorrow, it wag 
 something between both, with which mingled passionate indigna- 
 tion. "What ! was she, the mistress of Carnoosie, to submit to 
 this? Were her liberty, her property, and her peace at tho 
 mercy of this stranger to her blood and race ; of this foul bird 
 who, in an evil hour, had entered her ancestral nest ! Alas ! 
 she vainly looked around her for a remedy ! The law ! It was 
 to that Mr. Gervoise must appeal to consummate his final wrong. 
 That severe judge must pronounce on her fate, and absolve or 
 condemn her. 
 
 " I advise you to be calm," resumed Mr. Gervoise, in a tone 
 evidently meant to provoke and exasperate her. " I advise you 
 not to attempt leaving this house. I have been to a magistrate, 
 Miss Gordon, and I know my duty. I will not allow you to ex- 
 pose yourself and your family by such wild conduct as took you 
 to Doctor Rogerson's. The gates are locked, every door of the 
 orchard and grounds is locked, and I advise you not to attempt 
 leaving it." 
 
 Whether the gates were locked or not Beatrice did not know, 
 but she knew what Mr. Gervoise wanted. He wanted a scene, 
 frantic screams, or hysterics, any thing that could make his evil 
 tale more credible. She set her teeth, that no indignant or ve- 
 hement exclamation might pass them. But though she should 
 die in the effort of restraint, he should not, she vowed, have that 
 satisfaction. So she turned her back upon him, first smiling de- 
 fiantly in his face, whei:e she read evident disappointment at this 
 silent submission. 
 
 With her blood boiling, but her will subduing all, Beatrice 
 re-entered the house, and went up to her own room — ^to her 
 mother's she dared not go. She locked herself in to tliink ; for 
 now, indeed, had come the crisis of her fate — now was thought 
 
404 BEATRICE. 
 
 needful, if it was ever to avail her. She sat down and clasped 
 her throbbing forehead in her hands. 
 
 " He wants to drive me mad, I know he does, and there is 
 or has been insanity in the blood of the Carnoosies, so there may 
 be insanity in that of their descendants, the Gordons. Oh ! to 
 become really insane, driven into that fearful confusion of the 
 senses by the badness of one's mortal enemy, that were a fate 
 indeed ! " 
 
 She shuddered' and rose ; a face looked back at her from an 
 old Venetian mirror. It was her own, pale, startled, and wild. 
 How like it was to the portrait of the Italian lady, and how she 
 remembered Mrs. Scot's remark, "It is unlucky about the 
 mouth ! " Was she unlucky ? Was there such a thing as mis- 
 fortune clinging to some, walking in their steps like the ancient 
 furies? With all her might Beatrice rejected the belief. Her 
 share of happiness had been given her by a beneficent Creator, 
 and man should not rob her of it. She sat down again and tried 
 to think, but thought would not come — ^it was a wild confusion 
 of wrath, despair, and grief. 
 
 " His object must be to drive me mad," thought Beatrice, 
 when she grew more calm, " for it is not now-a-days that ladies 
 of property can be locked up without proof. Were he to shut 
 me up in this very room it would bring him no nearer to his 
 end. I should still be the mistress of Carnoosie, and Antony 
 could not touch a penny of my fortune. Therefore he must mean 
 to drive me mad. My reason is the battle-field, and as it fares 
 there, shall he or Beatrice conquer." 
 
 And as she came to this conclusion, Beatrice remembered 
 that there were deleterious drugs that afiected the mental facul- 
 ties. What if Mr. Gervoise were to take these means to insure 
 his end ! What if that harmless-looking water on her table con- 
 tained a poison more deadly than any she had ever feared ! She 
 remembered the phial she had seen. Perhaps it was not merely 
 to frighten her that he had torn the label off". 
 
 " I shall go mad if I pursue these thoughts," said Beatrice to 
 herself, " and I will not go mad ! " 
 
 With a swelling heart she looked at the noble prospect from 
 her window. 
 
 " Carnoosie, my own Carnoosie, you are my kingdom !" she 
 said, " and I will fight bravely for you. The usurper shall not 
 prevail over your mistress, nor reign in your solitary avenues, 
 and over your herds of deer. These are my subjects, and for 
 them, and for me, and for the good right will I struggle bravely, 
 so help me Heaven ! " 
 
BEATEIOE. 405 
 
 She felt almost calm again, and when she went to her mother 
 she said, with smiling eyes and a cheerful voice : 
 
 "Darling, I cannot send for Doctor Lovell at once, for John 
 cannot get the key of the stable, but he shall come later. How 
 do you feel ? " 
 
 " Beatrice, I feel very ill, but never mind about the doctor, 
 he could do me no good. Beatrice, I want peace — peace ! " 
 
 " And what if he takes her away from me?" thought Bea- 
 trice, in silent despair. " I can save myself, but can I prevent 
 that?" 
 
 " Beatrice, I have but a short time to live," pursued her 
 mother ; " marry Gilbert when I am gone." 
 
 Beatrice's eyes flashed with strange light. 
 
 " Where is Gilbert ? " she asked. "lam in deep grief — ^iu 
 heavy trouble, almost in danger — where is Gilbert ? " 
 
 " Beatrice, he loves you dearly." 
 
 " I know nothing about it if he does, and, alas ! my poor 
 darling, sad though it be to say it, I feel cold, bitter, and dead to 
 Gilbert. Let us not speak of him. I dare say I am not fair to 
 him — besides, it was I wished for this parting — I will never 
 seek him, never recall him." 
 
 " And I am the cause of that too," said Mrs. Gervoise, in 
 deep sorrow. " Beatrice, every grief of your life has come 
 through me — every one. God forgive me ! — God take me away 
 soon, or worse will happen ! " 
 
 Beatrice was not heeding her. She had started to her feet, 
 and bending forward, she was listening intently. Without a 
 word she glided out of the room, passed swiftly down the stair- 
 case, and reached the hall as Mr. Gervoise was saying to a 
 strange gentleman : 
 
 " Miss Gordon, I am sorry to say, is too unwell to see you, 
 but I am her step-father, and she has authorized me ^" 
 
 " I am Miss Gordon," said Beatrice, in a clear, ringing 
 voice, " and you, sir, are Mr. Brown, I suppose?" 
 
 The stranger bowed. 
 
 " Then be my witness," said Beatrice, in distinct tones, and 
 slightly raising her hand, " that Mr. Gervoise remains in this 
 house against my wish, and that I once more request him to 
 leave it." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise shook his hand threateningly at Beatrice, but 
 without a word he walked away. 
 
 " Pray come in here," said Beatrice, showing Mr. Brown into 
 
406 BEATEICE. 
 
 the library, " and be kind enough to wait for me. My mother is 
 very ill, and I must send at once for the medical man." 
 
 In a few minutes she came back, and as calmly as she could 
 she told Mr. Brown her whole story. He heard her very dis- 
 passionately, and as Beatrice could see, with some tinge of in- 
 credulity. He was accustomed to exaggeration, and on his 
 guard against it. Yery civilly, but very distinctly, he scouted the 
 idea that Beatrice's reason or her liberty could have been in any 
 sort of peril. He assured her that sane people were never locked 
 up now, or if by any sad chance such a case happened, that their 
 sanity was promptly discovered. He therefore advised her to 
 disbelieve Doctor Rogerson, and he mildly blamed her for turning 
 out Mr. Gervoise so peremptorily. 
 
 " He bribed my servants — he locked my gates — he threatened 
 me." 
 
 Mr. Brown smiled a calm, incredulous smile. ■ He was one 
 of the men who cannot be deceived. He assured Beatrice that 
 she looked at Mr. Gervoise with the eyes of prejudice, and that 
 she never had been in peril, 
 
 " Then what do you advise for the future? " she asked. 
 
 '^ My dear madam, what is there to advise ? — why, nothing 
 — ^nothing whatever. Here you are in Carnoosie, mistress of a 
 handsome estate and mansion, surrounded by servants, living in 
 your own house, what can you fear? The only danger that I can 
 see lies in your being afraid, and the only conspiracy that I re- 
 cognise is that of making you afraid." 
 
 " You maybe right," replied Beatrice, " yet I doubt if to in- 
 spire me with fear be Mr. Gervoise's only object. He is a prac- 
 tical man, and had assuredly more in view. Up to the present 
 we have lived, if not in peace, at least in a sort of truce. He 
 would never break through all bonds if he had not some hold 
 against me." 
 
 " What hold? " asked Mr. Brown. 
 
 " His daughter-in-law is my heiress if I die childless, as I al- 
 ready told you." 
 
 " That is a very remote hold," said Mr. Brown, smiling, 
 " and if Mr. Gervoise is the practical man you say, he cannot 
 have relied upon that. Depend upon it, this is a case in which, 
 unless I am greatly mistaken, the word ' fear ' had best been 
 struck out — annoyance I can understand and admit ; fear is out 
 of the question." 
 
 Mr. Brown leaned back in his chair and played with his 
 
BEATRICE. 407 
 
 watch-guard, as he looked at Beatrice through a pair of gold spec- 
 tacles with a very complacent air. 
 
 " But since I am afraid," persisted Beatrice, " what do you 
 advise ? " 
 
 " You wish for my candid opinion? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Well then — get married." 
 
 " That," said Beatrice icily, " is impossible." 
 
 " Thereby hangs a tale," thought Mr. Brown. 
 
 " What shall I do with regard to my mother ? " resumed Bea- 
 trice, after a pause. " Mr. Gervoise will come to take her from 
 me, and I cannot give her up, Mr. Brown, I cannot. She is ill, 
 very ill ; besides, it is out of the question." 
 
 But Mr. Brown shook his head, and gave Beatrice no com- 
 fort on that head. A wife belonged to her husband, not to her 
 daughter ; a wife must go with her husband, wherever he pleased 
 to take her. Better make the best of a bad bargain, &c. Bea- 
 trice heard him out, then said coolly : 
 
 " Very well — I shall take her abroad." 
 
 " And evade the law?" thoughtfully said Mr. Brown, " and 
 evade the law ? Mind, Miss Gordon, I do not advise, I do not 
 recommend such a course." 
 
 More comfort than this Beatrice could not extract from Mr. 
 Brown. Moreover, he spoke of going, for he had pressing bus- 
 iness in town, and Miss Gordon did not, he supposed, require 
 his presence. Indeed, it was very plain, he thought. Miss Gor- 
 don had never required it at all. 
 
 " Mr. Lamb was right — I should have had a solicitor in the 
 neighborhood," thought Beatrice ; " this man is worthless — jet, 
 such as he is, I think he has saved me." 
 
 *' Then you do not think I need fear any attempt from Mr. 
 Gervoise ? " she said aloud. 
 
 Mr. Brown smiled benevolently. 
 
 " My dear madam," he said, " I have already explained that 
 your personal liberty is quite secure. If Mr. Gervoise takes 
 legal proceedings, you will resist them of course ; but depend 
 upon it, if he is an acute and experienced man, he will take none 
 save legal proceedings." 
 
 " Well, then, Mr. Brown, you may go," replied Beatrice ; 
 " but I am much deceived if I do not apply to you before long." 
 
 " I hope not — I trust not — we shall see." 
 
 He rose. Beatrice's heart ached — ^he was going after all. 
 Was it really over — should she need him again? She felt 
 
408 BEATRICE. 
 
 cowardly and weak, and would have given any thing to keep 
 him. 
 
 " I suppose you must go," she said. 
 
 '' My dear madam, I -really must. I am grieved to think 
 and see that you are still nervous. Have you no friend whom 
 you could summon to your assistance, your moral assistance I 
 may say, in this emergency ? " 
 
 " None," replied Beatrice, and her tone was so desolate that 
 Mr. Brown felt really sorry for her. 
 
 " Well — well, take my word for it, you need not fear — ^you 
 need not. There is no sort of danger." 
 
 Beatrice bowed, and thus they parted. Mr. Brown in so 
 great a hurry to go that he declined all refreshment. 
 
 With a heavy heart Beatrice went back to her mother. She 
 found Doctor Lovell with her. Doctor Lovell thought that Mrs. 
 Gervoise was excited, and recommended repose. 
 
 " Then I suppose my mother must not travel?" quickly said 
 Beatrice. 
 
 " Not yet — not yet ; repose, perfect repose for the present, if 
 you please," and he too went and left them. 
 
 And now they were alone in that great house, alone with ser- 
 vants ever ready to forsake or betray them. So thought Bea- 
 trice as she sat by her mother's bed, looking at her pitifully. 
 
 "My dear, where were you all this time?" eagerly asked 
 Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 " With Mr. Brown the solicitor. He says I need not fear — 
 that there is no danger. He is gone." 
 
 Beatrice spoke mechanically. Her mother took her hand and 
 looked at her. 
 
 " Beatrice, do not fret," she said, " if Mr. Brown says there 
 is no danger, there is none; and do not fret about me, I shall 
 soon be beyond Mr. Gervoise's reach — only, Beatrice, do not let 
 him enter this room— it would kill me at once ; tell John — ^you 
 can trust him — to watch at the door. Do not let him enter the 
 room." 
 
 " He shall not." 
 
 " Yes, but go and tell John, Beatrice, go and tell him." 
 
 She looked so eager and anxious that Beatrice obeyed at once. 
 She went herself, and found John in the kitchen. She brought 
 him up, gave him a chair on the landing, and said : 
 
 " John, I believe I can trust you." 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 " Sit here, and stay here. When you feel worn out with your 
 
BEATEICE. 409 
 
 watching, knock at the door and tell me, and I will let you go, 
 but do not stir without giving me warning. My object in placing 
 you here is this, you will let no one — no one, mind you, John 
 — enter this room." 
 
 John requested her not to be afraid, and, relying on his prom- 
 ise, Beatrice went back to her mother. 
 
 " Is John at the door," asked Mrs. Gervoise. 
 
 " Yes, darling, and he will let no one in." 
 
 " That is right. Beatrice, it is not that I cannot forgive him, 
 but if he came in, and came in to take me away, it would kill me." 
 
 Beatrice groaned inwardly ; for, alas ; he would come, and 
 he would take her away, and resistance would be useless, and 
 her conscience now said : 
 
 " You should have borne it all rather than have driven mat- 
 ters to this extremity." 
 
 " Beatrice," said her mother, in a whisper, for she did not 
 want John to hear, " you must marry." 
 
 Beatrice shook her head. 
 
 " You must, and it must be Gilbert." 
 
 " Darling, all that is over — for all I know, Gilbert is mar- 
 ried — besides, I was in trouble and distress, and he never came 
 to me." 
 
 " He did not know it, child." 
 
 " He did not seek to know it. Besides, that feeling is gone. 
 I believe a woman's liking cannot survive some things. Gilbert 
 gave me up too easily. I felt it, and resented it, and perhaps I 
 did not love him so much myself. Darling, you have been the 
 great passion of my life," she added, laying her head softly and 
 fondly on her mother's pillow. " Do you not remember how, 
 when I was a little child, I was your little maid and servant ? 
 Darling, if we were poor I would be so again. I have loved 
 Gilbert very dearly, but never, darling, as I loved you — for I 
 gave him up for you — and I would never have given you up for 
 him — never — ^never ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise smiled faintly, and her pale thin hand smoothed 
 her daughter's heavy curls, and stroked the blooming cheek, 
 which trouble and anxiety could not turn pale. 
 
 " I think I could sleep," she said. 
 
 " Sleep, then, my darling, Doctor Lovell said rest would do 
 you good." 
 
 " Yes, but stay so." 
 
 " Ay ! darling, I will." 
 
 Mrs. Gervoise closed her eyes, and Beatrice patiently stayed 
 18 
 
410 BEATRICE. 
 
 by her, her hand clasped in her mother's, her head lying on the 
 same piUow. 
 
 You do well, Beatrice, for the spoiler may be on his way ; a 
 little more, and you may be bereaved. Therefore grudge no 
 cost, however dear, which you may have paid for that love ; let 
 the memory of your sacrifice be sweet to you in after-times ; bet- 
 ter suffer for having been faithful to that poor, frail, sleeping 
 mother, the cause of all your woe, than, by forsaking her, to 
 have had the fulness. of life's joys, even with Gilbert, the lover 
 of your youth. Repent nothing that you have done, and rejoice 
 that you could do so much. 
 
 '' Repent," thought Beatrice, looking at the sleeper's face, 
 " no, my darling, never — ^never — come what will ; and something 
 tells me that thelbad man who has poisoned your life and mine 
 shall not prevail against you ! " 
 
 John, where were you when that stealthy step stole up-stairs 
 to Mrs. Gervoise's room? "Was this your faithful watching after 
 all ? Could the enemy enter the very heart of the citadel, and 
 you, the faithless sentry, not be there to give due warning ? Mr. 
 Brown was right. Whatever danger Beatrice's liberty might 
 have run, she was safe now. Mr. Gervoise was too cautious to 
 make a useless and certainly dangerous attempt. Bat retaliation 
 was in his power, and he had vowed that Beatrice's very heart 
 should thrill at the revenge he "would take. He had stolen in 
 through the grounds with the shadows of evening, and, sheltered 
 by the darkness of the night, he entered the house and crept up- 
 stairs unseen. Abruptly he opened the door of his wife's room. 
 A lamp burned on the table, and Beatrice sat alone by her 
 mother's bed. She looked up on hearing him, but neither spoke 
 nor stirred. Mr. Gervoise advanced toward her. 
 
 "Madam," he said, "you have forbidden me this house — 
 you have braved me insolently, and whilst it is yours I enter it 
 no more. But your mother is my wife — remember that. When 
 I go, and I will go, she goes too ; and allow me to assure you 
 that when I take her away this evening you have seen your last 
 of her." 
 
 Beatrice still looked at him, and did not answer. 
 
 " Do you hear ! " he asked. 
 
 " And do you see?" replied Beatrice. 
 
 She rose. She drew back the heavy bed curtains, and showed 
 him sleeping on its pillow — oh ! how deep and how calm was 
 that sleep ! — the pale marble face of Mrs. Gervoise ! 
 
 Oh ! boaster, where is your revenge ? Tyrant, where is your 
 
BEATEICE. 411 
 
 power? Shall that cold image follow you, or will you, her 
 master, go down with her to the chill, damp vault of Carnoosie ? 
 Speak ! — answer ? What ! not a word ? Turn away, then, sub- 
 dued for once, and, by your very silence, confess yourself con- 
 quered I 
 
CHAPTER L. 
 
 "Whatever changes time may have wrought since this tale 
 began, none appear in the old house in Great Ormond Street. 
 It is still a dilapidated tenement outside, with plenty of mouldy 
 wood-work within. Indeed, there is a shutter on the second 
 floor which is the misery of the neighbourhood. Every time the 
 breath of a gusty November night gets in through the broken and 
 dust-stained window-panes, the shutter gives a dreary bang, and 
 numberless doors within answer the call, and creak and slap in 
 friendly response. The house has been proclaimed a nuisance, 
 and energetic steps to abate it are going to be taken by the parish 
 authorities, when relief comes on a dull foggy afternoon. 
 
 Two carriages laden with luggage drove through the fog, and 
 stopped at the door. A servant man jumped down from the box, 
 and using a rusty key, sadly in need of oil, at length succeeded 
 in effecting an entrance. Then a lady in deep mourning alighted 
 and entered the house, followed by a maid in black, who looked 
 piteous and miserable, and shivered as she met the chill air of 
 this long-closed abode. 
 
 They went up-stairs. Through the half-empty, hollow-sound- 
 ing rooms, John led his young mist^ress to the apartment which 
 had once been his old master's. He opened the window, and 
 even the fog was welcome, so damp and vault-like felt the air of 
 this room. Mr. Carnoosie's chair still stood where he had sat in 
 it a few days before his death, near the fire-place, in which re- 
 mained the ashes and cinders of a long-spent fire. With rough 
 courtesy John, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, tried to re- 
 move from this chair the accumulated dust of years, but he only 
 raised a cloud which set Beatrice's maid coughing desperately. 
 
 " Get this place cleaned, John," said Miss Gordon, and going 
 down-stairs she walked out into the street. She went out without 
 a purpose, and purposeless she wandered through the foggy 
 streets, where gas-lights were already burning. She cared, 
 wished, and hoped for nothing. It was not grief she felt, but 
 
BEATRICE. 413 
 
 something more — a dull heart-ache, that found no relief in tears 
 or in lamentations, a pain that went with her wherever she might 
 go — a pitiless, a wearisome burden. At length, after walking 
 for a mile or more, she retraced her steps, and found Ormond 
 Street and her house again, not without some trouble. It was 
 John who opened the door to her, and though not habitually talk- 
 ative, he exerted himself so far as to inform her that " the place 
 was right down comfortable now, and the dinner was just ready." 
 
 Miss Gordon found the cloth laid in the room up-stairs. She 
 also found that it had been considerably improved ; and, chilled 
 as she was with her walk, she was not indifferent to the warmth 
 of the fire that blazed in the grate, but she expressed neither sur- 
 prise nor satisfaction. All she said was, as she sat down in the 
 arm-chair : 
 
 " I expect a gentleman here this evening ; show him up as 
 soon as he comes." 
 
 " Am I to ask his name ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 And she leaned her forehead on her hand, and seemed so 
 thoroughly disinclined for speech that John thought he might as 
 well wait till he was addressed to talk. He went down and 
 nodded to his own thoughts ; of course John had known all about 
 Gilbert and his mistress and their thwarted loves, and he now 
 set it down in his mind what gentleman it was whom Miss Gor- 
 don expected, and whom he was to show up without asking his 
 name. Only, remote as was John's experience of such matters, 
 he thought that his young lady looked rather stern and gloomy, 
 and he was obliged to conclude that she was downright unkiad 
 when he saw her sitting down to a solitary dinner without so 
 much as waiting for him. 
 
 John's surprise lessened when in the course of the evening a 
 double knock announced the presence of the visitor, who proved 
 to be a bald gentleman of fifty, with gold spectacles and a portly 
 figure. John stared at him in his uncivilized fashion, but without 
 a word showed him up to the room where Beatrice sat waiting, 
 looking at the fire, and her eyes shaded from the light of the two 
 wax candles which burned on the table in a pair of tall dreary- 
 looking candlesticks. She turned round and rose slowly on 
 hearing the door open, and Mr. Brown — for it was he — was 
 shocked at the change in her appearance which a few weeks had 
 wrought. Her face was of a dull paleness, the token of sorrow 
 and ill-health. Her dark eyes looked preternaturally large, and 
 had a fixed, intent look. Grief, and something more than grief, 
 
414: BEATRICE. 
 
 appeared in her whole aspect. It was as if much suffering had 
 turned into bitter sternness a nature once genial and ardent. She 
 welcomed Mr. Brown with a few cold words, then said briefly : 
 
 '• May I know on what business you wish to speak to me, 
 Mr. Brown ? I am here for a day or two only." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Mr. Brown; "you are going to take a 
 journey, I suppose?" 
 
 " Yes, I am going to Turkey, to Asia, anywhere." 
 
 " I suppose Carnoosie is locked up?" 
 
 " It is ; the servants are gone, and I am going too. There- 
 fore I troubled you to call this evening. The sooner we settle 
 whatever business you have with me, the better." 
 
 Mr. Brown coughed. 
 
 " I am afraid it may interfere with your journey, Miss Gor- 
 don." 
 
 Beatrice looked coldly surprised. The solicitor resumed : 
 
 " I have received a letter from the solicitors of Mr, Gervoise 
 and his son, and by that letter I learn that Mr. Gervoise claims 
 an annuity of fifty pounds a year, which the late Mrs. Gervoise 
 bequeathed to him ; and that his son, Mr. Antony Gervoise, 
 claims the estate of Carnoosie in behalf of his wife, the legal 
 mistress of the same, so he declares." 
 
 Beatrice smiled derisively. 
 
 " Let them," she said. 
 
 " Miss Gordon, excuse me. I formerly made light of your 
 fears, but this is quite another matter. Mr. Antony Gervoise 
 disputes the will of ^he late Mr. Carnoosie." 
 
 "On what plea?" 
 
 " On the plea that it was not duly executed ; that at the time 
 he made that will Mr. Carnoosie was not of sound mind, mem- 
 ory, or understanding ; also that undue influence was exercised 
 to make him leave his property to you." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 She looked profoundly disdainful. 
 
 " A woman all over," thought Mr. Brown ; " the imaginary 
 peril upsets her, the real danger makes her say ' Indeed ! ' " 
 
 "And what about these people?" asked Beatrice after a 
 while. 
 
 " I can only tell you that legal proceedings are going to com- 
 mence. If you are inclined to resist — " 
 
 "If?" she interrupted indignantly. 
 
 " Well, then, now is the time." 
 
 " Mr. Brown," said Beatrice, after a pause, " will you take 
 charge of this matter?" 
 
BEATEICE. 415 
 
 " Certainly ; will you kindly furnish me with all the necessary 
 information ? " 
 
 Beatrice did not understand him at once. He had to explain 
 to her some of the machinery of the law in these cases ; also, 
 that as Mr. Gervoise's solicitors were not likely to tell him the 
 weak points of her case, she must do so. 
 
 " I know of none," replied Beatrice haughtily ; " Mrs. Antony 
 Gervoise has not the shadow of a right — I am the legal mistress 
 of Carnoosie." 
 
 But lawyers never take any thing for granted. Mr. Brown 
 persisted in questioning, and he questioned to such purpose that 
 he got out of Beatrice not merely what she knew of her own his- 
 tory, but a good deal that she did not know. 
 
 " I see — I see," he said, after hearing her out, " a will case, 
 and, I will venture to add, a great will case." 
 
 He looked at it professionally. 
 
 " I suppose it will last long?" 
 
 " Years most probably." 
 
 " And what do you think of it so far, Mr. Brown?" 
 
 Mr. Brown leaned back in his chair, and played with his 
 chain. 
 
 " So far as I can see," he said cautiously, " the fact that Mr. 
 Gervoise, your guardian and trustee, married your mother, sug- 
 gests to my mind that the will was made in your favour by Mr. 
 Carnoosie at his instigation." 
 
 Beatrice started as if she had been stung, for she suddenly 
 remembered Mrs. Scot's taunts. 
 
 " Why at his instigation?" she asked indignantly. 
 
 " Because you were not the heiress-at-law, and that he had 
 an interest, and, according to your description of him, a strong 
 one, in making you heiress de facto. If he married your mother 
 because you were rich — and you say so — he most probably helped 
 to make you rich. And if he now attempts to undo his work, I 
 fear it is a proof that he knows of some weak point which will 
 tell against you in the long run. Of course we will do our best 
 to defeat him, but depend upon it he has some ground on which 
 to proceed." 
 
 Beatrice clenched her slender hands. 
 
 " I will die a beggar," she said, "before that man conquers 
 me. Whilst my mother lived I bore with every thing, rebelliously, 
 I grant, but still I bore it. Now death has set me free, it is a 
 battle ; be it so, all I ask for is a fair field and no favour to de- 
 feat him." 
 
416 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Did you know Mr. Camoosie?" asked Mr. Brown. " Had 
 he any affection for you? Can you give any reason why he 
 should have left you this large property ? " 
 
 " No," reluctantly replied Beatrice, " I never saw him. I 
 know nothing about him." 
 
 " Was he attached to your father, or friendly with him?" 
 
 " No," she answered, again, " I believe they were not friends." 
 
 " And yet he makes him his heir — depend upon it, the weak 
 point is there ; undue influence was used, and who should know 
 it and be able to prove it better than the person who used that 
 influence ? " 
 
 Beatrice looked at Mr. Brown almost sternly. Every word 
 he uttered confirmed Mrs. Scot's assertions, and she could not 
 bear to look this possibility in the face. 
 
 " May I ask," resumed Mr. Brown, " why Mr. Mortimer was 
 preferred to Mr. Stone's daughter, and why that daughter was 
 preferred to her father?" 
 
 " He was thought dead. Why Mr. Mortimer was preferred 
 to her I do not know." 
 
 " That is something in your favour ; it shows Mr. Camoosie 
 to have been a capricious, or, let us say, an eccentric man. Was 
 his will never attacked before the present time?" 
 
 " I have heard my mother say that Mr. Mortimer spoke of 
 disputing it, but he never did so." 
 
 " Did you hear on what grounds?" 
 
 Reluctantly Beatrice answered : 
 
 " Undue influence was spoken of." 
 
 " Just so — -just so — only Mr. Mortimer, not being heir-at-law, 
 did nothing. I see — I see." 
 
 " Mr. Brown," said Beatrice, in a cold, distinct voice, " let 
 us understand one another clearly. I will not give up my claim 
 to Camoosie, or, rather, I will not cease to consider myself its 
 lawful mistress for one moment." 
 
 " My dear madam, I am not deciding on your case in the 
 least ; but I am showing you, so far as I can see, that it has weak 
 points. Of course it has strong points too. I shall have a look 
 at the will, and as the case proceeds we shall see our way 
 better." 
 
 '•But how dare Antony Gervoise attack that will?" asked 
 Beatrice. " Why is it not attacked by the only one who can 
 claim a right to do so, Mr. Stone?" 
 
 '' For the excellent reason that the poor gentleman is dead. 
 He died of a fall from his horse ten days ago." 
 
BEATEICE. 41Y 
 
 Beatrice looked at him in dreary amazement. 
 
 "Will Heaven never weary of favouring that man?" she 
 asked ; " I suppose he bribed the horse to do it ! Do not smile, 
 Mr. Brown, he is capable of it, ay ! and of ten times more. 
 God help his poor little daughter ! Poor little innocent ! She is 
 but a name, which they are using against me, and however it 
 fares with me she must suffer. Well, I cannot help her now. 
 I have my own battle to fight, and though you seem to think it a 
 hard one, I shall prevail against them, Mr. Brown." 
 
 " I hope so," civilly said Mr. Brown, and he left her. 
 
 And Beatrice remained alone, sitting in old Mr. Carnoosie's 
 chair, looking at the fire, as he had looked at it twelve years 
 before, feeling, as he had felt, the bitterness of a desolate lot, and 
 bearing, though she knew it not, the burden of ill-got wealth. 
 
 By the time Mr. Brown called the next day Miss Gordon's 
 mind was made up. She would yield the fifty pounds annuity 
 her weak mother had bequeathed to Mr. Gervoise, but in the mat- 
 ter of Carnoosie she would resist to the utmost, and she would 
 stay in London to do so. She gave up her journey, and devoted 
 herself to her dreary task with sudden ardour. Mr. Brown had 
 read the will, and declared it had weak points, but Beatrice's 
 resolve was not shaken ; he confessed that her resistance could 
 be prolonged for years ; and this intelligence, which at a happier 
 time would have seemed so dreary, now gave her a stern sort of 
 pleasure. The spirit of strife had entered her very heart. With 
 morbid avidity she listened to Mr. Brown's professional particu- 
 lars. She followed him eagerly as he mapped out for her the 
 course her case would probably pursue. She went with him from 
 court to court, within the realms of Chancery itself, without dis- 
 may. True, the end might be ruin ; true, she might be com- 
 pelled to give up Carnoosie, but by that time the suit would have 
 cost fabulous sums, which must fall on the estate. She might 
 be ruined, but so would her enemy. If he made her poor, he 
 could not enjoy that of which he robbed her. 
 
 She brooded over these thoughts until they mastered her. 
 She fell under their dominion, she knew it and did not rebel. 
 She had opened her gates to the evil spirits, and welcomed instead 
 of casting them forth. They came, and with them they brought 
 others, a direful kindred and a sad progeny. Gilbert, where 
 were you then ? Now, if ever, is the time to prove your friend- 
 ship and your faith. And did Beatrice think of him ? Ay ! 
 daily, hourly sometimes. Ay ! she thought of him with infinite 
 bitterness, with mingled admiration and resentment. She ad- 
 18* 
 
418 BEATEICE. 
 
 mired that cold masterdom over self which kept him aloof whilst 
 she was in sorrow, but she hated it too. Surely he was his father's 
 son after all, not in wickedness or in guile, but in the misery he 
 had caused her. To her sorrow had she ever known these two 
 men. Fatal had been the hate of one, and no less fatal the love 
 of the other. But she would show both that she was not to be 
 braved with impunity. She would defeat Mr. Gervoise, and she 
 would compel his son to behold what he would call her spiritual, 
 ruin. He was pious ; then he should see what his father had 
 made of her, and what he could have saved her from had he but 
 loved her ! 
 
 These were but some of the thoughts over which Beatrice 
 Gordon brooded in that dreary old house which consorted so well 
 with her new mood. She had sent John to Carnoosie for some 
 old law books, and day after day she sat in Mr. Carnoosie's chair 
 and read the heavy volumes ; and when she was tired of the task, 
 she bent forward with her elbows on her knees, and her cheeks 
 on the palms of her hands, and looked at the burning coals, and 
 lived over again the last two bitter years. Mr. Brown's visits 
 were no interruption to this morbid mood. He came often, not 
 half so often as she wished. She had acquired some knowledge 
 of dreary histories like her own, and could hear him and not be 
 wholly ignorant. He vainly tried to impress upon her that she 
 need not take all this trouble, and had better not let her thoughts 
 dwell on this subject. 
 
 " That is my life now," she replied, " and I can live for 
 nothing else." 
 
 Matters had gone on thus for some time, when one morning 
 Beatrice awoke with a throbbing headache, and pains in all her 
 limbs. ^ 
 
 " Am I going to be ill?" she thought, with a sort of horror. 
 
 She compelled herself to rise and dress, but she could do no 
 more. Illness had really seized and conquered her. 
 
 '' Send for a doctor," she said to her maid. 
 
 "What doctor, ma'am?" asked the girl, frightened at her 
 looks. 
 
 " The first John can get. I am ill, very ill ! " 
 
 She sank back in her chair, shivering and faint. Doctors are 
 abundant in London. A medical man resided in the house next 
 Miss Gordon's, and he happened to be within. He came, a gen- 
 tlemanlike and acute-looking man, whose appearance inspired 
 Beatrice with immediate confidence. He sat down by her side, 
 felt her pulse, questioned her, and ordered but one thing, rest. 
 
BEATEICE. 419 
 
 " You have been anxious and busy of late," he said, not 
 questioning, but taking the fact for granted. " There is but one 
 cure for you now, immediate and absolute repose." 
 
 '' But I cannot rest," feverishly said Beatrice, " I cannot, in- 
 deed. I have a law-suit, a most important law-suit, which I must 
 attend to. So you see I cannot rest." 
 
 " I see," replied the doctor, " that you will be in bed to-mor- 
 row, and that it will be physically impossible for you to attend to 
 any law-suit, howsoever important. So I. advise you to place the 
 matter in safe hands at once, for, I repeat it, to-morrow you will 
 no more have the power than you will have the inclination to 
 attend to it." 
 
 " You are in earnest, quite in earnest?" said Beatrice, struck 
 with dismay. 
 
 " I am, indeed, in sober earnest." 
 
 "And shall I be long ill?" 
 
 " I think we may count some weeks." 
 
 Beatrice guessed that weeks might be months, and what was 
 to become of her suit during that time ? 
 
 " Heaven itself is against me, and for that man," she thought, 
 with infinite bitterness. 
 
 " Perhaps I may be better this evening," she said, rallying, 
 and not knowing how the look of her glittering dark eyes, burning 
 with fever, belied the assumption of being better. " I have a 
 strong will, I believe, and sometimes will and energy can con- 
 quer the body." 
 
 " Will and energy can conquer weakness, not disease. You 
 have a genuine illness, which has been coming on a long time — 
 a low, nervous fever, which science can conquer, but to which 
 you must submit." 
 
 " Nevertheless, call again this evening," said Beatrice, " I 
 feel as if I should be better." 
 
 " As you please." 
 
 The Doctor was scarcely gone when Miss Gordon rang for 
 John. 
 
 " John," she said, eagerly, when he answered the call, " go 
 at once for Mr. Brown. Tell him I am very ill, and that he 
 must come immediately ; do you hear, immediately ! Nothing 
 must prevent him — nothing." 
 
 " For who knows," thought Beatrice, though she did not say 
 so, " who knows if my mind will be my own? I feel a strange 
 confusion here. Oh ! if I were to go mad now, what a triumph 
 for that man ! " 
 
420 BEATRICE. 
 
 She brooded over the dangerous thought till she began to 
 fear that it would work its own fulfilment. Then she tried to 
 banish it, and to think of happier themes. She could find none. 
 If she went to her childhood, her enemy was there ; if she re- 
 called her youth, his yoke was heavy upon it. He stood like an 
 evil shadow between her and her mother ; his hand ever divided 
 her from Gilbert ; wherever she turned, his hateful image was 
 present, nothing was safe and sacred from him. Her happiest 
 as well as her saddest hours had known him, and acknowledged 
 his empire. 
 
 " Please, ma*am, here is Mr. Brown,'' said the voice of her 
 maid. 
 
 And Mr. Brown entered the room, and looked in mute con- 
 sternation at Beatrice, who sat in her chair, flushed and fev^erish. 
 
 " Mr. Brown," she said, in a rapid, excited way, " I must be 
 brief, yet say much ; I am going to be very ill." 
 
 Mr. Brown had no difiiculty in believing it. He saw that 
 this was no future contingency, but an actual reality. Beatrice 
 was already ill, and very ill too. She continued : 
 
 " I felt, and still feel unwell, but I thought I could bear up. 
 The doctor, who has not long left me, says no ; he condemns me 
 to be weak and helpless by to-morrow, and every passing mo- 
 ment convinces me he spoke too truly. To-morrow, then, I 
 shall be unable to direct you, unable to hear you, but to-day is 
 mine. Tell me, then, and tell me quickly, how matters are 
 going on." 
 
 She fixed her dark eyes full upon him with feverish eager- 
 ness. Mr. Brown returned the look with one of sincere sym- 
 pathy. It was hard indeed not to pity this young, unprotected, 
 and lonely girl, fighting her hard battle alone, and fighting it to 
 the last, with the hand of disease full and heavy upon her. 
 
 " There is nothing new going on now," he said gently, " noth- 
 ing whatever." 
 
 " Then my illness will not interfere ? " 
 
 " Not for the present at least." 
 
 " God knows how long it will last, and how it will end," 
 very sadly said Beatrice ; " if I die, Carnoosie goes to Mrs. 
 Antony Gervoise, and the suit is at an end, and I am conquered, 
 not merely by death, but by my mortal enemies." 
 
 " Do not agitate yourself, my dear madam, and pray take a 
 more hopeful view of your case." 
 
 " Mr. Brown, it is a very hard lot, is mine. I am not in 
 my own hands, and my bitter necessity compels me to trust you 
 
BEATRICE. 421 
 
 entirely. Do not mistake my meaning.* I do not mistrust you. 
 But if I were not the solitary being I am, there would be some 
 one to take my place now, some second self." 
 
 " There are not many second selves in business," said Mr. 
 Brown, a little drily. 
 
 " Perhaps not — at all events, I leave my case in your hands 
 — ^I have no more to say," she added, after a pause. 
 
 " Shall I call again to-morrow?" asked Mr. Brown ; " you 
 may be better." 
 
 " You need not," replied Beatrice, in a tone of evident dis- 
 couragement ; " the doctor's words are coming true very fast. I 
 can attend to nothing." 
 
 And very fast indeed was the doctor's prophecy fulfilled. 
 Long before he called that evening, Beatrice was prostrate and 
 conquered. It would have done Mr. Gervoise's heart good, if he 
 could have seen the proud girl now, as she lay on her bed tossing 
 and moaning in fever and pain and utter helplessness, chastened 
 by a mightier hand than his. 
 
CHAPTER LI. 
 
 Long and bitter was the battle between life and death. 
 Several times there were strong chances that the law courts of 
 England should not be troubled with another great will case, and 
 that a judge to whom Mr. Gervoise had not thought of appeal- 
 ing would end the litigation between himself and Beatrice 
 Gordon. 
 
 At length life prevailed ; but doubtful and precarious was 
 her victory, and Doctor Leveson, who was unremitting in his 
 attendance upon Beatrice, told her, in guarded language indeed, 
 but still in language which she could understand, that her life 
 was in her own hands : happiness, peace, and the absence of all 
 strong emotion might save her ; even as trouble, care, and anx- 
 iety might bring on a fatal relapse. It was plain he knew some- 
 thing of her present history, and Beatrice heard him with ap- 
 parent docility, and with secret mistrust. 
 
 Her illness had been like a long, feverish, and troubled 
 dream, and her convalescence was as the wearisome wakening. 
 She returned to the ways and uses of life with a sense of fatigue 
 and almost of pain ; loathing every surrounding object, hating 
 the dreary room, the wet streets, and dull fire, the old furniture, 
 which were all she had to look upon as she sat for the first time 
 in her chair. It was the first time, and she was still weak and 
 faint, yet Mr. Brown was coming, and Beatrice's first act had 
 been to send for him. 
 
 Mr. Brovm had other business, no doubt, for he eame late. 
 Beatrice made no effort to rise on seeing him, but welcomed him 
 in a cold, languid sort of fashion. "With more politeness than 
 truth, Mr. Brown expressed himself pleased to see her looking 
 so much better. 
 
 " I am much better," she replied, " and that is why Doctor 
 LeT»eson allowed me to get up." 
 
 " You do not look strong, but we will not talk about business, 
 so—" 
 
BEATEICE. 423 
 
 " "WTiy not? " interrupted Beatrice. 
 
 " I am sure that Doctor Leveson would object- 
 
 " I cannot help it," she interrupted again ; *' besides, sus- 
 pense would do me more harm than any thing you can tell me." 
 
 Mr. Brown was silent. 
 
 " "What news have you got? " she asked. 
 
 "You mean legal news ? Oh! I shall come to that pres- 
 ently. In the meanwhile, allow me to ask you if you are equal 
 to another important matter ? " 
 
 " There is but one important matter for me, Mr. Brown — 
 you know it and shun it. Why so ? Tell me all. I know well 
 enough there is not much to tell me." 
 
 " Quite the reverse, I assure you. I have a good deal to tell 
 you." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes. The fact is, the case has assumed a new aspect — ^I 
 may say a totally different aspect from that which it wore at 
 first." 
 
 And Mr. Brown looked hard at her, as if to watch how she 
 would take this. 
 
 " Indeed ! Pray tell me about it." 
 
 " Perhaps you will allow me to begin at the beginning." 
 
 " Pray do." 
 
 " You remember that three pleas were urged against Mr. 
 Carnoosie's will ; that it was not duly executed ; that Mr. Car- 
 noosie was not of sound mind at the time ; that he was subject 
 to undue influence. Well, Miss Gordon, I am bound to say that, 
 so far as I can learn, the will was duly executed ; let us there- 
 fore consider the two other pleas. Mr. Carnoosie, if not actually 
 insane, was, at least, in such a state of mind as to throw strong 
 doubts on his sanity. Did you ever hear any thing of the 
 kind?" 
 
 " I heard that he was odd." 
 
 "He was more than odd. Miss Gordon. There are people 
 living who say that he was mad. One of the medical men who 
 attended him has told me so. There are strange stories still 
 told about him. Mr. Carnoosie had lost his two sons, and he 
 hated to see the children of other people. One of his tenants 
 having unluckily called upon him, and brought with him his two 
 boys, to whom Mr. Carnoosie had formerly been partial, the old 
 gentleman was so indignant that he deliberately ordered John — 
 the same John who is still in your service — to take and throw 
 them into the river." 
 
424 BEATRICE. 
 
 An ironical smile curled Beatrice's delicate lips. 
 
 "And did John throw the children into the river?" she 
 asked, with an air of imperial indifference to the result of Mr. 
 Carnoosie's command. 
 
 "Not that I know of," drily replied Mr. Brown. "But 
 these are no idle rumours. Miss Gordon ; the evidence, so far as 
 it goes, is not to be shaken, and it certainly proves Mr. Carnoosie 
 to have been in a strange state of mind at the time he made his 
 will." 
 
 "Poor old man!" said Beatrice. "I suppose every idle 
 word he uttered in passion or in temper will be raked up now, 
 and turned into evidence. Do you think that evidence will 
 stand?" 
 
 " I do not say so ; but there is evidence on that second plea, 
 and, I am sorry to add, that on the third there is not merely evi- 
 dence, but certainty. I am sorry to say that when he made his 
 will the master of Carnoosie never intended to bequeath it to 
 you." 
 
 Beatrice gave Mr. Brown an amazed look, but merely say- 
 ing : " Pray go on, Mr. Brown," she sank back in her chair 
 with a wearied air. 
 
 " Mr. Carnoosie's will was executed in this house, and prob- 
 ably in this room," said Mr. Brown, looking around him. " And 
 I can tell you the history of that will as if I had been present. 
 Miss Gordon. Mr. Carnoosie had several strong feelings and 
 prejudices. He disliked your father, he hated the Catholics, he 
 always said that no woman should come into Carnoosie if he 
 could help it. Now, his will is in contradiction with all this, for 
 it bequeathes his property to the Mr. Gordon whom he dislikes, 
 who is a Catholic, and whose only child is a girl. Moreover, 
 the wording of the will seems to show that Mr. Carnoosie 
 thought Mr. Gordon was the father of several boys, and of boys 
 only, for it speaks of children, and makes no exception of the 
 girl or girls. I say that all this appears in the will, and I am 
 sorry to tell you that all this is proved to have been the case." 
 
 " How so ? " sharply asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Simply thus. To prove that the will was duly executed, 
 the two witnesses who saw it signed by Mr. Carnoosie were ex- 
 amined ; one was John, whose testimony was unimportant ; the 
 other was a Mrs. Scot, whose evidence, though terribly damaging 
 to Mr. Gervoise's character, was ruin to you. That the will was 
 duly executed, she proves ; that Mr. Carnoosie was sane, she 
 declares ; but that he was wholly under Mr. Gervoise's influ- 
 
BEATRICE. 425 
 
 ence, and that he was completely deceived by that gentleman for 
 your benefit, is conclusive, from all she says. This woman 
 seems, in telling the truth, to have been actuated by a strong 
 but blind feeling of resentment against Mr. Gervoise. I do not 
 think she was at all aware that in ruining his reputation she was 
 also rendering him a high pecuniary service ; but she did both, and 
 the result to you was disastrous. It is plain, from her evidence, 
 that Mr. Carnoosie was a very weak old man, and that Mr. Ger- 
 voise had blinded him completely. Thus he persuaded him that 
 Mr. Gordon, who had been dead a year, and whose widow he 
 was going to marry, was living, and was the father of three 
 boys ; some other minute and evidently truthful particulars Mrs. 
 Scot gave, but I will not trouble you with them. I have said 
 enough, and more than enough, to show you that this is a des- 
 perate case." 
 
 " Mrs. Scot always hated me, and it is to ruin me that she 
 has spoken," said Beatrice, sitting up in her chair, and looking 
 flushed and roused. " She is in a league with Mr. Ger- 
 voise " 
 
 " No," interrupted Mr. Brown, " she hates him bitterly. 
 There is no league between them." 
 
 " I tell you she is in a league with him ; but I say that her 
 testimony is false ; thaji the will is a good will, and on it I take 
 my stand. It shall be tried in every court in England in which 
 it can be tried before I will confess myself conquered." 
 
 " You cannot be in earnest," said Mr. Brown, " or rather 
 you cannot have calculated the fearful cost of such a battle." 
 
 ''Who would calculate when the matter at issue is life or 
 death?" 
 
 " But where will the money to cover your expenses come 
 from if you fail ? " 
 
 " Mr. Brown, I shall not fail. However, if you wish to 
 withdraw from me, say so — it is not too late ! " 
 
 " I have no such intention," replied Mr. Brown ; " for, to tell 
 you the truth, Miss Gordon, I have done my duty by you, and 
 served your best interests, by accepting Mr. Antony Gervoise's 
 offer." 
 
 " Offer ! what offer? " cried Beatrice. 
 
 " His object was to save his father from further exposure, of 
 course, but with that I had nothing to do. He offered a com- 
 promise and I accepted it." 
 
 "What?" asked Beatrice, in a tone which startled Mr. 
 Brown. 
 
426 BEATRICE. 
 
 " I have compromised this matter with Mr. Antony Ger- 
 voise and his wife," very deliberately said Mr. Brown. " You 
 will have what you could never hope to have if the case had 
 gone on, five hundred a year for your life, and the house you are 
 in." 
 
 Beatrice rose slowly from her chair and fronted the lawyer. 
 Her dark eyes burned like fire in her white and wasted face. 
 
 " And Carnoosie ! " she said, '' who is to have Carnoosie ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Antony Gervoise." 
 
 " Never ! — never shall she, or rather these men, have it un- 
 der her name. I will die first ! " 
 
 Mr. Brown looked very much amazed. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said, " I expected more conciliation 
 from you, after what I have told you." 
 
 " Conciliation ! — conciliation about Carnoosie, and with my 
 miortal enemies ! — never ! I repeat it — I will die first ! " 
 
 "• It is too late, however, for resistance," rejoined Mr. Brown, 
 rather sharply. " You left this matter in my hands, and, acting 
 on your authority, I have compromised the matter, and Mrs. 
 Antony Gervoise is even now in possession." 
 
 " He has got Carnoosie? — ^you gave him up Carnoosie?" 
 
 "Yes," bluntly replied Mr. Brown; "and by so doing I 
 saved you from a disgraceful and ruinous defeat." 
 
 Beatrice clenched her small hands and compressed her lips. 
 She would not speak at first. Her passion and indignation would 
 have been too great. When she at length addressed Mr. Brown 
 it was with all the natural haughtiness and imperiousness of her 
 temper. 
 
 " Mr. Brown," she said, " you are mistaken in me. You 
 will find it to your cost. All you have done shall be undone, and 
 your treason shall bring both loss and shame upon you. My case 
 has not been tried out, and Carnoosie is mine still ; I will eject 
 the insolent intruders, and I wi]] compel you to cancel the no less 
 insolent compromise you made in my name. I am not so igno- 
 rant of the law as not to know that your powers are limited, and 
 you shall find to your cost that you have exceeded them." 
 
 She sat down as she concluded speaking, and Mr. Brown 
 looked at her amazed, and, legal man though he was, somewhat 
 indignant. 
 
 " Madam," he said, with some heat, " I can make allowance 
 for your feelings'; but do not take my word on this matter. 
 Read over Mrs. Scot's evidence, consult some other professional 
 man, and let him only take the pains I have taken to arrive at 
 
BEATEICE. 
 
 427 
 
 the truth, and he will tell you that five hundred a year and the 
 house you live in is a magnificent compromise. I am only 
 amazed to have got it." 
 
 A low scornful laugh was Beatrice's reply. 
 
 " Oh ! if you have allowed yourself to be deluded by that ser- 
 pent I must wonder at nothing. To begin with this house — are 
 you aware that it is not a freehold, and that the ground lease will 
 soon be out ? Moreover, why did you not ask for a thousand a 
 year instead of five hundred ? Mr. Antony Gervoise would have 
 given one quite as readily as the other, for he has not the least 
 intention o£, paying it. Mr. Brown, you have injured me fear- 
 fully, but I could almost pity you when I see you falling so easily 
 into that man's trap. Why, if I were so mad as to accept these 
 terms, I should merely be condemning myself to life-long litiga- 
 tion, without the compensation of enjoying Carnoosie in the mean- 
 while, and the chance of keeping it in the end. However, I re- 
 peat it, I have no intention of accepting this compromise." 
 
 " The thing is done," put in Mr. Brown, rather warmly ; 
 " and by that agreement, which I maintain to be a good one, we 
 must both abide." 
 
 " I tell you again that I will not abide by it." 
 
 " And allow me to tell you that you will find it no easy task 
 to undo what I have done with your authority, although mthout 
 your knowledge," said Mr. Brown, rising. 
 
 " I suppose so," answered Beatrice, with much bitterness, 
 and rising too as she spoke, " but I have not yet acknowledged 
 myself conquered, and I will not begin to do so now." 
 
 "•Allow me to hope that you will reconsider your decision," 
 very gravely said Mr. Brown ; " for the present I will not pur- 
 sue the argument further." 
 
 He bawed formally, and left her. 
 
 " There goes another enemy ! " thought Beatrice. 
 
 She wronged Mr. Brown ; he was much displeased indeed, 
 for he had acted for the best, and thought he deserved the thanks, 
 and not the bitter reproaches, of his client ; but he was too much 
 a man of business to feel wrath, or even more than passing re- 
 sentment, against Miss Gordon. With her present mood, in- 
 deed, he did not trouble himself. He knew it would calm down ; 
 experience had told him what became of such mighty resolves to 
 resist to death and never be conquered. 
 
CHAPTER Ln. 
 
 Mr. Brown went, thinking thus, and Beatrice listened to his 
 steps slowly going down the old staircase. A sort of stupor had 
 followed on her indignation, and left her weak, powerless, and 
 inert. It seemed incredible that she should have wakened mis- 
 tress of Carnoosie that morning, and be robbed and plundered 
 before the night. She looked at the wax light which burned on 
 her table, contending with the dull light of day behind the yellow 
 window blind, and she wondered what o'clock it was. Scarcely 
 five, her watch ticking on the mantel-shelf above the fireplace 
 told her. Scarcely five, and it was all over, and Carnoosie was 
 surrendered to her enemies. Was it — could it be true ? There 
 is something so tangible in house and land that it is hard indeed 
 to understand how a few words or the stroke of a pen can despoil 
 us of either or of both. Beatrice could not believe it, and yet 
 something stole within her — a subtle consciousness — that it was 
 so ; that she was betrayed, defeated, and conquered ; that resist- 
 ance was useless, and that the time for it had passed, a dreary 
 belief in her own ruin and undoing. " Surely it cannot be ! " 
 she said half aloud, and she shivered as slie bent over the fire, in 
 the very attitude of old Mr. Carnoosie. Ah ! if that old room 
 could have told tales, what would Beatrice have thought of the 
 means which had made her mistress of Carnoosie, and of that old 
 house where she sat brooding over her conquered fate. Con- 
 quered indeed, for what was to become of her ? The humiliation 
 of the compromise she would not submit to ; better beggary than 
 food bought at that cost. 
 
 What, then, was she to do? If Mr. Brown, in whom she 
 had trusted, had deserted her, what attorney would undertake 
 her cause, and whom could she trust with it? " God help me ! " 
 thought Beatrice, in the bitterness of her heart,* "for in man I 
 have no faith." 
 
 Almost all the doors of the wide old rooms were open, and in 
 the silence of the house Beatrice distinctly heard a man's step 
 
BEATKICE. 429 
 
 coming up the staircase. Who was it ? Not John. Mr. Brown ? 
 Why was he coming back ? The step stopped on the landing. 
 Beatrice rose nervously, and stood facing the door ; the farthest 
 was slowly pushed open, and a man appeared on the threshold. 
 
 " Miss Gordon," he said hesitatingly. 
 
 " I am Miss Gordon," replied Beatrice, and, seizing the light, 
 she came forward. She stood still after taking a few steps. It 
 was Gilbert who stood before her ! 
 
 There had been a time when his sudden appearance would 
 have sent the blood in tumultuous tide to Beatrice's heart. Now 
 that heart felt dead and cold within her, and she could scarcely 
 summon a few words to welcome him. But Gilbert seemed more 
 shocked with her altered appearance than with her altered manner. 
 
 " Pray take a seat," said Beatrice, sinking wearily in her own 
 chair, and pointing to that Mr. Brown had left vacant. 
 
 Silently Gilbert sat down, and silently he looked at her, seek- 
 ing for the face he had so fondly loved in days gone by. 
 
 Ah ! he should not have sought her had he been wise ; this 
 pale, faded, and wasted girl was not that other gii-1 with the ra- 
 diant eyes, bright as the morning, and whose blooming face had 
 haunted his sleeping and waking dreams so long. She was not 
 that fond Beatrice whom he had so often clasped to his heart, and 
 who had given him a love so ardent and so true. She was not, 
 or, if she were, woe for the changes which life can bring ! And 
 oh ! Beatrice, you should never have seen him again — never ! 
 You should have left him at least an image of life and love to 
 survive the wreck of his youth. So she thought as she saw him 
 look at her still in sorrowful surprise. 
 
 " You have been ill," he said, at length. 
 
 " 111 and worried," replied Beatrice, bitterly. 
 
 " Yes," rejoined Gilbert, with downcast eyes. "I went to 
 Carnoosie " 
 
 " And you found them there ! " she cried, with kindling eyes. 
 " Yes, I have been basely betrayed, but when you see them you 
 can tell them all is not over yet." 
 
 " There was no one in Carnoosie when I was there," said 
 Gilbert ; " and God knows," he added, in a low voice, " if I shall 
 ever see them again ! " 
 
 At once Beatrice softened. She held out her hand to him, 
 and said very gently : 
 
 t' Forgive me, Gilbert^ but this is a bitter hour in my life, 
 and I could not be just to you ; forgive me ; it were better for 
 
4:30 BEATRICE. 
 
 you, poor Gilbert, never to have seen me — I have ever been a 
 thorn in your lot, and must be so still ! " 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive," replied Gilbert. " I must stand 
 by right v^^herever I see it ; kindred does not make justice, and, 
 alas ! Beatrice, you have been cruelly used." 
 
 " Gilbert, it is not over yet," said Beatrice, with suppressed 
 indignation. " The contest has but begun, and I will fight it 
 out to the last." 
 
 Gilbert raised his calm eyes to hers. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said steadily, " do you believe in my in- 
 tegrity?" 
 
 " You know I do." 
 
 " Well, then, submit to your defeat." 
 
 "Submit! Why so?" ^ 
 
 " Because, though you have been cruelly used, right is not on 
 your side." 
 
 Beatrice set her teeth firmly, in order not to make some 
 cruel reply that would remind Gilbert he was Mr. Gervoise's 
 son after all ; but he read her face, and though he forgave her, 
 the pain of her wrongful thought pierced his very heart. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, very gently, for he felt how sore she 
 was, and how tenderly she must be dealt with, " be lenient to me 
 if I, an impartial observer, cannot see this matter as you see it. 
 Unjust, indeed, do I hold the means which, by giving you Car- 
 noosie, have now effected your ruin ; but that strengthens the 
 fact that Mr. Antony Gervoise's case is strong and yours weak." 
 " Yes, you think so, but I do not," bitterly said Beatrice. 
 
 Gilbert sighed deeply. 
 
 " Life is short," he urged, " and the procedure of law is very 
 slow in England ; will you spend half a lifetime in cares so wear- 
 ing for the chance — for it is not a certainty — of success?" 
 
 " We jnust talk no more on- this subject," decidedly replied 
 Beatrice. " Say something about yourself, Gilbert. How are 
 you getting on? Are you married and happy?" 
 
 "I am not married," he replied, as calmly as she questioned, 
 " and I am getting on as men in my position do, neitlier ill nor 
 well." 
 
 Beatrice was silent, and looked moodily at the fire. She felt 
 sore with Gilbert, and knew not how to hide the feeling. She 
 little suspected how plainly she showed it to his penetrating 
 eye. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, after a pause, " do you remember our last 
 parting ? " 
 
BEATRICE. 4:31 
 
 Beatrice turned pale as death. The remembrances against 
 which she had been struggling since he entered the room came to 
 her as in a flood. Did she remember it ? — did she remember 
 youth and love, and despair and happiness, all in one ? Oh ! 
 what a question ! Love was dead indeed, but not the memory 
 of love, not the bitterness of the contrast between the present and 
 the past. Ah ! why did he speak so ? Why did he come to 
 her, he, the man strong and handsome, she, the woman faded and 
 pale, and bearing to her grave, first of all her woes, the sting of 
 this grief? 
 
 " I see you do," resumed Gilbert ; " and, Beatrice, surely you 
 guess my errand ? " 
 
 She looked at him doubtfully. She knew his meaning, but it 
 brought no colour to her faded cheek. He contitiued : 
 
 "When I learned by chance that Mrs. Gervoise was no more, 
 I asked a friend to replace me in Yerville, and I went over to 
 Carnoosie. I was told that you were here, and when I came 
 here, Beatrice, I found you lying dangerously ill and un- 
 conscious." 
 
 " You saw me?" she said abruptly, 
 
 " Yes, I saw you several times with Doctor Leveson ; but 
 when you could have known me again I ceased coming, not to 
 the house, but to your room ; Doctor Leveson did not think it 
 advisable, nor, indeed, did I. I took some rooms in a house op- 
 posite, and' there I have stayed till now. I tell you these things, 
 Beatrice, because it is plain to me that Mr. Brown, who was to 
 prepare you for my visit, has not done so." 
 
 " No, he did not." 
 
 " But you know my errand. I come to see if old times are 
 living or dead ! Will you marry me, Beatrice ? " 
 
 Beatrice turned full upon him. 
 
 " Marry you? " she said, clasping her hands. Marry you?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " You are generous, Gilbert,'^ — ^he made a gesture of protest 
 — "you are generous, I say ; but I cannot say ' yes' this time, 
 as I did twice before. Poor Gilbert ! you came to me thinking 
 to find the girl whom you had known ! Do you think I would 
 give you the wreck you see now ? " 
 
 " You are cruelly altered," replied Gilbert ; " but for all that, 
 be my wife ! " 
 
 " No — formerly I had something to give you. I do not 
 speak of money, but I had something else, beauty, if you like, 
 a warm heart, a great worship. What I am now, your eyes 
 
4:32 BEATEICE. 
 
 tell you as ttey told me the moment you entered this room ; 
 the inner change is greater still. Gilbert, I once told you that 
 I needed you as my bulwark against sin ; you did not believe me, 
 or you could not act on that belief. Time has passed since then, 
 and I have had fearful trials. I have not gone through them in 
 vain. My heart is seared. Gilbert, I feel dead to love, dead to 
 all save the spirit of strife. I honour you still — who that knows 
 you must not ? — but the girl's adoration is gone for ever." 
 
 Gilbert smiled, and taking her hand, smoothed it softly be- 
 tween his own. 
 
 "How you wrong yourself!" he said. "You have been 
 very ill, but your beauty will come back. You have suffered 
 keenly, but your heart is not dead ; what heart dies at twenty- 
 one ? And as to your adoration, Beatrice, did I ever ask you for 
 it ? All I want is to marry you ! " 
 
 Beatrice withdrew her hand from his, and looked him ear- 
 nestly in the face. 
 
 " You want more ; you want to draw me from my purpose ! " 
 
 " I have already said so." 
 
 " And I have told you it could not be." 
 
 " Are you sure of it, Beatrice ? " 
 
 "Am I sure that I live? " she passionately replied. " Gil- 
 bert, I will not give up Carnoosie — I cannot ! " 
 
 " You give up what is worth infinitely more, Beatrice, a gen- 
 tle, peaceful, and happy life." 
 
 " Perhaps I do — ^but I cannot help it." 
 
 Gilbert looked at the fire, and did not speak. He was en- 
 during a keen and deep sorrow. He had thought that, spite of 
 every obstacle, he might win Beatrice ; he had felt sure of her 
 ever-enduring love, and now he found that even a short separa- 
 tion had been too great a trial for his once ardent mistress ; that 
 worldly cares were paramount in the heart his image had once 
 filled, and over which it had reigned supreme. He took her 
 hand again and made one last effort. 
 
 " Beatrice ! Beatrice ! " he said, " think of it well ; this is a 
 turning-point in our two lives. If ever we loved, let us show it 
 now. Love is neither the end nor the fulness of human joys, 
 but when it has survived years of sorrow, when it has outlived 
 its first ardour as well as beauty's first bloom, it is the crown of 
 life. I came here judging you by your own heart. I have longed 
 for you ever since we parted. When I was happy I wanted you. 
 and when I was not I wanted you still. Let not the vain hope 
 of recovering what is for ever lost blind you to the true happiness 
 
BEATEICE. 433 
 
 of life — of woman's life especially — ^love, home, and its joys. 
 The strife in which you think of wasting your youth is fearful to 
 contemplate. I believe it will end in terrible defeat ; at the best, 
 what will the cost of success be? " 
 
 Beatrice lifted up her head and smiled. 
 
 " You mean well, Gilbert," she replied, " and reason tells 
 me that it would be well for me to marry you, and go to Verville 
 and live and die there. But you have uttered a word, ' defeat,' 
 which appeals to something besides reason. Gilbert, you come 
 in an evil hour. Do you know, can you even imagine, what my 
 feelings- were when Mr. Brown told me the treachery that had 
 been accomplished ? As I heard him I realised all that betrayed 
 sovereigns, conquered generals, and fallen statesmen feel. Agony 
 of that kind I had never known before, and never can know 
 again. I cannot marry ; I have but one thought, one hope, and 
 one feeling now. Pity me, forgive me, and forget me I" 
 
 " Good-bye, Beatrice ! " said Gilbert, rising. 
 
 " Good-bye," she replied, and rose too. 
 
 They looked at each other with the lingering earnestness of 
 last looks. Then suddenly Beatrice's heart melted within her. 
 
 " Stay ! — stay ! Gilbert ! " she cried. " Stay and forgive me ! 
 I was mad — mad with bitterness and sorrow ! " 
 
 She could scarcely speak for sobs and tears, for the reaction 
 from her new to her former self was violent and strong. Gilbert 
 made her sit down, and sat down by her side, and waited till she 
 was calm again. She was the first to speak. 
 
 " Gilbert," she said rather sadly, " I wish I had let you go. 
 I am selfish to bind your lot to mine." 
 
 "Selfish! Why so?" 
 
 " Because I am not what I was, and never shall be again. 
 I felt it a while back all the time I was repelling you. It was 
 not merely Carnoosie that made me say no, Gilbert ; it was the 
 feeling that it would be ungenerous and selfish to give you such 
 a wife as I shall be now, Gilbert. I come to you not merely 
 portionless, but penniless. I may silently give up Carnoosie. 
 Nothing will make me submit to the ignominious compromise 
 which was signed in my name. The place is either mine, or it 
 is not." 
 
 " Did I ask you for a portion !" 
 
 " No, but you are not a rich man, and it may be hard upon 
 
 you to take so poor a wife. If that were even all ; but, Gilbert, 
 
 do not look the denial you do not feel. I know that my health 
 
 1*3 ruined and gone, and I almost think, Gilbert, that you know 
 
 19 
 
434 BEATRICE. 
 
 it, and that if you marry me it is to secure me a peaceful and 
 easy death with you." 
 
 The hand that still clasped hers trembled ; in vain the modi 
 cal man tried to smile and laugh her fears away, the lover shared 
 them too deeply for his face not to betray him. 
 
 " As you love me tell me the truth, the whole truth," earnest- 
 ly said Beatrice ; "it may do much to reconcile me to ray in- 
 evitable destiny." 
 
 " Beatrice, I cannot and will not deny that your health has 
 undergone a severe shock. Grod knows if it will ever be again 
 what it was once ; but time and care will do much ; all that my 
 skill or that of others can achieve shall be called in to save you, 
 and surely not in vain." 
 
 " Poor Gilbert ! what a wife !" she sighed. " If I did not 
 know how truly you loved me, and if the world were not what 
 it is, I would not marry you. I would go and live, or rather die, 
 with you, Gilbert." 
 
 He gave her a look of sad and silent reproach. 
 
 " I cannot help it," she said. " All this comes too late. Love 
 and marriages are only fit for health and hope and life, not for 
 disease and death and a weary heart — it is too late ! " 
 
 " Beatrice, it is never too late when the heart is true." 
 
 " You should not say so," she replied a little moodily ; " it is 
 good for me to think as I think. There are things which one 
 must not begin anew, and love is one. It does not do to rise 
 from the grave to life, or at least it is too bitter to die after that ; 
 think of it, and do not tempt me into believing you, Gilbert. Let 
 me think that life is going from me, and forgive me if I cannot 
 help being selfish. But I confess it will be a dreary sort of joy 
 to die near you and not alone, with strangers around me." 
 
 " You shall not die," he said bending over her ; " you shall 
 not die. Beatrice, believe me when I say it." 
 
 But though he said it, his tears fell fast on her wasted face. 
 The dreary comfort of which Beatrice had spoken entered her 
 heart. She forgot Carnoosie, and Mr. Gervoise, and her wrongs. 
 She only felt the shadow of death softly stealing over her, and 
 true love clasping her in its embrace, and she thought, though 
 she would not pain him by saying so, " Gilbert will teach me 
 how to die." 
 
 Thus a third time they met ; all obstacles were removed — 
 all barriers were broken — there was nothing and no one to divide 
 them now. Mrs. Gervoise slept in her grave, and Mr. Ger^ 
 voise lorded it in Carnoosie. Beatrice was poor now — all but 
 
BEATEICE. 435 
 
 penniless ; and who that saw her leaning her wearied head on 
 Gilbert's shoulder, closing her sunken eyes, who would have en- 
 vied this man, still in all the prime and beauty of health and 
 manhood, the faded and sickly girl? Truly no one. And thus 
 no bar, no obstacle came between them, and from that day for- 
 ward they are one. 
 
 This is their present ; what will their future be ? The weak 
 often outlive the strong — ^besides, what matter ? A few days can 
 be more blest than years. Happiness is not reckoned by its 
 duration, but by its depth and sincerity. Let these two put what 
 is left of life and love in theirs, and none need pity their lot. 
 
CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 Along the high road, which, after passing through a green 
 and fertile landscape, becomes the main street of Verville, and 
 ends with the pathless sea, moved a travelling carriage on a mild 
 February morning. It had not reached the village yet, but went 
 slowly up the steep path. 
 
 It stopped on reaching a sort of ruined gateway ; a gentle- 
 man alighted, and he helped out a pale sickly-looking girl in 
 mourning, who leaned on his arm with a wearied and languid 
 air. 
 
 *' Let us go in there," she said. 
 
 He gave her a reproachful look, but yielded to her wish. 
 They stood in the little cemetery of Yerville, a narrow place, 
 full of hillocks and crosses. She sat and rested at the foot of an 
 old stone cross, quaintly carved, and, through the broken arches 
 of a church which had once stood on the spot now consecrated 
 to death, she saw the receding sea. On heaven and earth there 
 was a glory like that of a holier world. 
 
 She clasped her hands and trembled from head to foot. 
 
 '• Oh ! to die ! to die ! " she thought with a sort of passion. 
 
 Love, patient, faithful, much-enduring, stood by her side 
 watching her with sorrowful earnestness, and yet Beatrice yearned 
 for the great repose, and this desire was full upon her now. 
 "Wonder not that she should feel it. 
 
 She had suffered much, and death, though the working of a 
 curse, is surely not a curse. It is the coolest draught which the 
 children of Eve athirst for heaven can drink here below. Saints 
 have taken it as the symbol of their renunciation to sin They 
 have longed to die to the flesh, to the world, to themselves, to 
 all, that they might live to God. Oh ! death, beautiful death ! 
 thou for whom the holy have pined, thou at whom martyrs midst 
 the flames have smiled — death, sweet as sleep to the weary, all 
 do not turn from thee in horror. There are still hearts that burn 
 and sigh because thou, the loved one, comest not quickly. 
 
BEATEICE. 437 
 
 " Oh ! Beatrice, what are you thinking of?" said a fond and 
 reproachful voice. 
 
 She smiled, took his arm, and let him lead her down the path. 
 He gently chid her as they went along, and Beatrice thought : 
 
 '' Poor Gilbert ! he would not believe me when I told him 
 that my heart was dead. Poor Gilbert ! he might as well have 
 married a corpse as have married me. He will soon be a widower, 
 and short and dreary will have been his wedded life. Oh ! why 
 can I no longer return this great love I " 
 
 As she thought, Beatrice could not help speaking. 
 
 '• Gilbert," she said, looking up in his face, " it is hard that 
 all your goodness to me should meet with so cold a return. But 
 you know I am not what I once was." 
 
 Gilbert reddened even though he smiled. He could not have 
 been mortal if his heart had not been stung by the passive indif- 
 ference of Beatrice's manner. Ay, she Avas right enough. Never 
 was lover blessed with so cold a bride. Never was a great and 
 devoted affection received with such languid calmness. True, 
 her better self, her reason, her judgment, did- him justice ; and 
 true, Docteur Gervoise knew that his wife's iU-health was the 
 great cause of all that tormented him. But, though he was too 
 just to feel any resentment, he was human, and could not help 
 feeling pain. And pain it was, pain keen and deep, that made 
 him redden as he heard her. Why did she tell him she was cold 
 and altered ? Did he not see and feel it ? There are some wrongs 
 it is easier to bear than to hear mentioned. 
 
 " Nonsense," he said, making light both of her remark and 
 of his own sense of it, "you are not cold, Beatrice ; besides, you 
 do not know how fond you will be of me yet. And see, here we 
 are at home." 
 
 Before them stood Docteur Gervoise's square brick house. 
 The garden was bare as yet, but tokens of the coming spring 
 were upon it. Behind, rose a green slope covered with young 
 trees, and, though the shining little river was invisible, the clack- 
 ing wheels of mills betrayed it on its way. It was a bright and 
 cheerful little picture, and Beatrice smiled as she saw the children 
 leading cows, the women in white caps, the youths in blue blouses, 
 going along. She smiled, but he sighed, for he remembered Car- 
 noosie, and thought to how poor and small a nest he was bring- 
 ing this dainty bird of paradise. 
 
 The garden-gate was opened for them by Babet, all smiles 
 and curtseys, though some of the smiles died away as she saw 
 
4:38 BEATRICE. 
 
 the bride's pale face. And yet Beatrice already looked better ; 
 Gilbert was surprised and charmed to hear her say : 
 
 " I am glad to be at home." 
 
 At home ! The words sounded very sweet, though the voice 
 that uttered them was more languid than cheerful. But it was 
 plain, at least, that Beatrice was making no comparisons between 
 the present and the past. Her mind was otherwise engaged. 
 She was remembering the changes Gilbert had formerly asked 
 her to make, and which to please him she had suggested ; and 
 as, leaning on his arm, she went through the lower rooms, she 
 saw that every thing was as she had once wished it to be — the 
 very piano had taken another place, in obedience to her desires. 
 • She turned to her husband ; he knew her meaning, and smiled, 
 and clasped her in a long embrace of that love, purer than passion, 
 which outlives health, beauty, sorrow, and time. 
 
 Beatrice sat down. A mild sea-breeze stirred the curtains 
 of the open window. Warm gleams of sun stole along the pol- 
 ished oaken floor, the rooms looked pleasant, and made to live in. 
 
 " I am very happy," said Beatrice ; and happy indeed did she 
 feel, her very heart overflowing with the sacredness of that tie 
 which binds two lives in one, and blends all that poetry and ro- 
 mance hold of delightful, with the deep charm which lingers 
 around a happy human home. 
 
 " I do not know if I shall be happy long," she said, after a 
 while ; " but for the happiness which God has given to me, be it 
 brief or enduring, I shall ever be grateftil." 
 
 ••' Believe me, Beatrice," replied her husband, " your hour 
 has not come yet." 
 
 Beatrice smiled ; bat did she believe him ? 
 
 "And now that you are at home," said Gilbert, gaily, "I 
 must leave you and go and speak to the mayor on the business 
 he wrote to me about." 
 
 He left her looking happy and cheerful, but sad at heart. He 
 believed, he hoped, that she would live — ^but alas ! should he 
 ever have again that gay and fond young Beatrice who was 
 enough to send any man's wisdom to the winds ? 
 
 For a long time after her husband had left, Beatrice remained 
 sitting in a sort of dream. She felt happy, but very languid. 
 The sound of the opening door roused her at length. She looked, 
 and saw Babet nodding and smiling at her. 
 
 " Please, madam, at what hour shall we have lunch?" 
 
 '' At the usual hour, Babet." 
 
 " And please, madam, what shall there be for lunch?" 
 
 I 
 
BEATEICE. 439 
 
 This was a mucTi more perplexing question. 
 
 " Any thing you please, Babet." 
 
 Babet shook her head. This was not market day ; there was 
 no meat at the butcher's, no fish had come in that morning, and 
 Monsieur, having said they would not arrive until next day, Babet 
 had relied upon that, and provided nothing. This was a very 
 bewildering state of housekeeping affairs, and Beatrice looked 
 alarmed. 
 
 " Get something for your master, Babet," she said. 
 
 " What am I to get, madam?" 
 
 " Any thing, Babet." 
 
 Babet shook her head. Any thing meant nothing ; however^ 
 Monsieur was not hard to please, and she supposed that bread 
 and cheese would do. 
 
 " No, no, Babet," hurriedly said Beatrice, rising, " it will 
 not do. Your master must have something hot. I shall go to 
 the kitchen with you." 
 
 With a sigh at the exertion she went. In the kitchen she 
 discovered eggs, bacon, and potatoes, and with some surprise at 
 Babet's silence concerning these, she gave her directions for the 
 forthcoming meal. 
 
 ••' And now perhaps madam will tell me about the linen and 
 the rooms ? " said Babet. 
 
 " The linen and the rooms, Babet ! " 
 
 " Yes ; I have taken down all the curtains," drily said Babet. 
 
 Beatrice, though annoyed, would not begin her reign by cen- 
 sure, so she forbore to ask Babet why she had taken so extraor- 
 dinary a step. The truth was, Babet had been provoked into it 
 by a quarrel with a neighbour, whom she had imprudently called 
 in to see the house before her master and the bride returned. 
 The quarrel was not a clear one, and when it was over Babet 
 did not know exactly what it was about, nor yet what line of 
 argument she had followed ; but in the excitement of the moment 
 she took down all the curtains, and would have upset the whole 
 house if the arrival of her master and his wife had not interrupt- 
 ed her. Thus it was that housekeeping and its cares fell upon 
 Beatrice the very moment she entered the region of home. She 
 wanted Babet to do it all as she pleased, but this Babet declined. 
 She would do nothing without madam's orders, and, with a 
 wearied sigh, madam followed her up-stairs and yielded. 
 
 There is, however, a charm, a sort of subtle iever, in house- 
 hold matters, which few women can resist. With all her apathy 
 Beatrice soon felt this. Should the white curtains be put up in 
 
MO BEATEICE; 
 
 the green room, or not ? The momentous question led to others 
 of equal interest. 
 
 " Babet," said Beatrice, with sudden animation and interest, 
 " let us go over the whole house. I have thought of some 
 changes." 
 
 The changes were excellent, no doubt, but they were sweep- 
 ing. Beatrice liked certain pieces of furniture to be removed, 
 and Babet, who was strong, though short and square, was eager 
 to remove them at once, and please that poor pale young wife. 
 It would amuse and do her good, and what harm could it do 
 Babet ? So a store-room was upset ; a large press was shifted 
 from one place to the other ; a table was removed from one corner 
 of the room to another corner, and a good deal of dust was raised, 
 which required allaying. When Babet, by dint of the broom 
 and of a pail of water, had done her share, Beatrice removed the 
 cloth which had been thrown over a shelf full of apples during 
 the operation, and getting up on a chair, began inspecting her 
 stores for many a dessert. 
 
 " And now I shall go down and see about the omelet, madam," 
 said Babet. 
 
 " Do," replied her mistress. 
 
 So Babet went clattering down-stairs with her sabots, and 
 Beatrice remained counting the apples and selecting the ripest. 
 
 Gilbert was much surprised when he returned to learn from 
 Babet that his wife was engaged up-stairs. 
 
 " I hope she has not been fatiguing herself," he said anx- 
 iously ; " you should not have helped her in that, Babet." 
 
 " Oh ! I should not ! " rather scornfully said Babet ; " why, 
 she was like a ghost sitting and moping until I came, and spoke 
 to her about lunch. That roused her, the curtains did the rest, 
 and now she is as busy and as happy as can be. Monsieur 
 thinks that because he is a doctor he knows a good many things ; 
 so he does, but Babet knows something too. Monsieur should 
 remember that Babet nursed him through the measles, and the 
 hooping-cough, and chicken-pox, and made him what he is now," 
 added Babet, casting an admiring glance at Gilbert's fine person ; 
 " and if he will just leave madam to Babet, he will see what she 
 will make of her before a week is out. I'll engage," stoutly Con- 
 tinued Babet, " to make her as fresh as a rose, ay, and as hand- 
 some as she was last summer." 
 
 Gilbert smiled and sighed, for he had little faith in Babet's 
 power, and he knew what it was that ailed Beatrice. She had 
 told him that her heart was dead, and Gilbert half-believed it. 
 
BEATRICE. 441 
 
 If the true and fond affection of a husband who had once been 
 passionately beloved could not waken that torpid heart, what 
 would do it ? So sadly and heavily he went up-stairs to seek 
 her. The door of the store-room stood ajar — Gilbert saw her 
 without entering. She still stood on the chair counting and sur- 
 veying the apples. Her dark dress fell down to her feet, the sun 
 shone on her bare head and on her half-averted, face. She was 
 still very handsome, though so thin and worn. " But," thought 
 Gilbert, with a pang, " she cares as much about me now as 
 about the apples she is counting." And he stood and looked at 
 her somewhat moodily. 
 
 " Beatrice, what are you doing? " he asked at length. 
 
 She turned round smiling, with an apple in her hand, and 
 looked down at him gaily. Her eyes were bright ; her cheeks, 
 though thin, had a warm and gentle glow. She looked almost 
 as handsome as ever, and what her husband prized infinitely 
 more, and saw at a glance, she looked gay, well, and happy, 
 
 " Will you have it?" she said, holding up the apple to him, 
 as if it were a prize. 
 
 " Come down and give it to me." 
 
 " No — having reached an eminence I keep it." 
 
 And she still held the apple up, tempting him with it. Oh ! 
 Babet, you had worked wonders indeed • She was again the 
 sweet, laughing Beatrice of old days. She had crossed once 
 more the gates that lead from death to life. And oh ! life joy- 
 ous, happy life, gift of a bounteous God, with the quick, warm 
 blood running in thy veins, and thy glad heart beating to the 
 tune of health, and thy eyes smiling the happiness of that glad 
 heart, who that sees thee does not bless thee and thy great 
 giver ! 
 
 Many had been Gilbert's joys and triumphs by sick-beds, 
 many victories had he won over disease and death, but none had 
 been so sweet as this ; for he measured its depths in a moment, 
 and from these depths rose the vision of a life-long happiness. 
 
 " You look well, Beatrice," he said ; and do what he would, 
 his voice was not quite steady. 
 
 " Oh ! I feel so well," she said, jumping down from her chair 
 with a quick and joyful step, " and so altered ! I do believe I 
 wanted to die an hour ago, and now, Gilbert, I should like to 
 live for ever ! " 
 
 Her eyes sparkled with joy, and well they might. She who 
 had thought her heart so cold that morning had found it living 
 and warm before the night. Without token, without warning, 
 19* 
 
44S BEATRICE. 
 
 the great change had come ; and that change was going back to 
 those sweet fountain-heads of love and youth which so rarely bless 
 human hearts a second time. 
 
 But however deeply he might feel, Gilbert would show noth- 
 ing of it. He could read gentle excitement in Beatrice's eyes, 
 and he would not indulge her in a mood delightful but wasting. 
 
 " "What have you and Babet been doing?" he asked. 
 
 " Don't you see ? Cleaning up, to be sure. I like this house 
 and — oh ! Gilbert, I feel so happy ! " 
 
 " The wind is from the west, and I dare say it suits you." 
 
 " The wind, indeed ! " she said, a little provoked. " I tell 
 you I am happy, and that the happiness is running over." 
 
 He smiled silently at her bright face. 
 
 " Ah !" she could not help saying, " I know what brought 
 me out from darkness into light, from sorrow into happiness, 
 from bitterness into joy. It is you, Gilbert, it is you ! I should 
 be dead if it were not for you — dead in mind or in body, and 
 perhaps in both. God help those who in their great trouble do 
 not find what I have found." 
 
 " A lover — a husband, I mean," suggested Gilbert. 
 
 " A friend ! — a friend ! " cried Beatrice, her tears flowing ; 
 " a friend — God's greatest gift to man. Call him parent, brother, 
 lover, or husband, there is nothing, Gilbert, like a friend. And," 
 she added with her brightest smile, *' there never was a friend 
 like you." 
 
 There is no knowing what Gilbert might have answered, for 
 he was in the mood to say foolish things, and he had not been 
 married many days ; but Babet luckily came to the rescue of his 
 wisdom by bringing the tidings that luncheon was waiting. Gil- 
 bert, who had felt some uneasiness about that meal, saw with 
 pleasure and surprise a goodly array of dishes on the table. 
 
 " Ah ! you did not expect that ! " triumphantly cried Bea- 
 trice. ''You knew you brought me home to an empty larder, 
 and you fled and left me to get out of the scrape as well as I 
 could. You did not expect that, did you ? " 
 
 '' How did you manage, Beatrice? Tell me, that I may ad- 
 mire your housekeeping genius." 
 
 " Babet and I did it." 
 
 " It was madam's idea," put in Babet. 
 
 " And Babet's execution," replied her mistress. " Eggs, milk 
 and potatoes did the rest. "We have acted like nature, given a 
 variety of forms to one primeval dish." 
 
 Whatever difference Gilbert misrht find between nature's exe- 
 
BEATEICE. 443 
 
 cution and Babet's, he was too politic a monarch to displease that 
 loyal premier by confessing it. He pronounced every thing per- 
 fect ; and Beatrice, though she smiled now and then, said, too, 
 that every thing was wonderfully good. The result of which ju- 
 dicious conduct was that Babet informed her next door neighbour 
 that Monsieur had married an angel. The neighbour, being of 
 a carping disposition, regretted that Madame Gervoise was not 
 better-looking. 
 
 " Better-looking ! " screamed Babet. " Why, she was lovely 
 a year ago, and she will be lovely again." 
 
 So thought Babet's master, as, after a happy day, he sat by 
 his hearth looking at his wife's face, on which played the bright 
 light from the fire, whilst the rest of the room was wrapped in 
 soft twilight shadows. 
 
 " Gilbert," suddenly said Beatrice, looking up, " do you 
 know what my darling's last words were ? ' Marry Gilbert,' she 
 said. And do you know," continued Beatrice, " why I tell you 
 this — why I can mention her name almost for the first time since 
 she died? — ^because my heart is open, Gilbert; because, after 
 weary years and bitter days, I can say at last — I am happy ! " 
 
 And before the week was out Babet's prophecy was fulfilled, 
 and her mistress was fresh as a rose, and Babet triumphantly 
 said to her master — 
 
 "See what I made of her ! " 
 
CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 The sunbeam that stole in through the window of Docteur 
 Gervoise's parlour lit a pretty picture. The room, with its pol- 
 ished floor and cool-looking walls — with its open window and the 
 green trees bending above the shining river — was a pleasant back- 
 ground to Beatrice sitting on a low chair and dancing a baby on 
 her knee. She laughed, and the child laughed too, and pulled 
 her dark curls, whilst she raised it in the air and kissed one little 
 pink foot from which its blue shoe had fallen ; and of those two 
 merry faces Beatrice's was rather the merrier one. 
 
 Ah ! what a change happiness can make in a human life ! The 
 Beatrice whom we see now is not the Beatrice whom we knew. 
 Mr. Gervoise's rebellious step-daughter is a submissive wife. 
 The obedience which Gilbert does not require she yields. As he 
 feels, she feels ; as he believes and worships, Beatrice believes 
 and worships too ; but sometimes when they kneel side by side in 
 the grey old church of Verville, she forgets to pray, and looks at 
 his bending face, and reckons in her full heart every blessing she 
 owes to him. " You are my better half, Gilbert ! " she often 
 said. She said it in jest and meant it in earnest, and was not far 
 from the truth. Gilbert had faults to which she was not blind. 
 He was too cold""and too distant to the patients by whom he lived ; 
 too reserved with men who thought themselves his superiors be- 
 cause they were rich, and whom he thought his inferiors because 
 they were ignorant ; and too much inclined to severity in his 
 dealings with all ; but above all these imperfections his great love 
 for his wife rose clear and strong. She had tried him, not inten- 
 tionally, but because they were so different that she could not 
 avoid doing so, and she had never alienated, irritated, or provoked 
 him for one moment. This true love conquered her on a point 
 which might have been a sore point, her scepticism and his reli- 
 gious belief. Gilbert had half-smiled, half-reasoned his wife's 
 doubts away, and by the tenderness of a human affection con- 
 vinced her of the truth of Divine love. 
 
BEATRICE. 445 
 
 Narrow are the varieties of a happy wedded life. Retirement 
 had been Beatrice's fate from childhood, and was her lot still. 
 There was no society in the little French village, and it was well 
 for her that she was satisfied with her husband's, for she had no 
 other until the birth of her first child. And yet she" was happy, 
 deeply happy — so happy that she almost forgot Carnoosie. Day 
 by day the image of her old home, and its noble trees and its 
 fountains, receded into the past, and threw a remoter shadow 
 over the present. But deep and strange are the links that bind 
 us to the spots we once have loved. Her husband could not 
 trace a sign of regret in Beatrice, yet often at night he knew that 
 her slumber was broken by tears and sobs, 'midst which she ut- 
 tered the name of her lost inheritance. In the magic world of 
 dreams she went back to the orchard, and wandered once more 
 in the solemn gloom of the avenue. 
 
 And thus two happy years had passed away, when Gilbert 
 entered the room where we have found Beatrice, and, stooping 
 behind her low chair, began playing at hide and seek with Char- 
 lie. Suddenly he rose and moved toward the door. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Nowhere," replied Gilbert, as he came back. 
 
 M. Lenoir, the village schoolmaster, had passed on instead 
 of opening the garden gate. This man was also the village gref- 
 fier^ and Beatrice knew that her husband had business with him, 
 but what that business was he had not told her. Beatrice had 
 never questioned him. If he would not teU, it was right he 
 should not, and her generous and trusting temper forbade her to 
 press him on this point. She remained thoughtful awhile, then 
 compelled herself to think of something else by saying : 
 
 " Gilbert, Charlie must not be a doctor, you know." 
 
 " Of course not. His father's profession is not good enough 
 for baby." 
 
 " That is not it, Gilbert, but it is such a hard life you have, 
 and for what ? It is lucky we have Verville to look to. If we 
 have no more children it will do for Charlie to begin farming 
 with on a small scale, he can extend it afterward. Now, do not 
 look at me so, I never meant that you were to give it him. No, 
 Gilbert, we will retire to the chateau when we grow old. I shall 
 like the dark old rooms and the orchard ; there is a sense of peace 
 about large houses which small dwellings never give me. In 
 these silence cannot abide as in the former. And do you know 
 that I am sure Verville is more valuable than you think ? The 
 old furniture is very fine ; but that is a trifle, the ground belong- 
 
4:46 BEATRICE. 
 
 ing to it is certainly the best about here. "Well, what is it?*' she 
 added, breaking off as Gilbert looked wistfully at her. 
 
 He sighed deeply, and, drawing his chair to hers, he said 
 gravely : 
 
 " You are not unhappy here, Beatrice?" 
 
 " Unhappy ! " she laughed. 
 
 "It is a small house, but you could live on in it and not feel 
 miserable ? " 
 
 " Gilbert, you pain me ! " 
 
 " Well, then, Beatrice, you must know the truth ; this house 
 is the only one that we must ever look to ! " 
 
 " And Verville?" said Beatrice, looking at him. 
 
 " I have sold it." 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 An expression of great pain passed Gilbert's face. 
 
 " To my father," he said at length. 
 
 " Poor Gilbert ! " thought Beatrice, " he too has been plun- 
 dered." 
 
 There was a pause, after which Beatrice said gently : 
 
 " Gilbert, how came you to do this ? " 
 
 " I had no choice. This house was my father's as Verville 
 was my mother's. I bought it, and paid for it by instalments. 
 We married before it was all paid, and it so happened that my 
 father was in want of ready money, which I could not give him. 
 So we compromised the matter. I sold him Vervdlle, and he 
 cancelled my debt." 
 
 " That was your business with M. Lenoir?" 
 
 " It, was." 
 
 " And what did you sell Yerville for?" 
 
 " Twenty thousand francs." 
 
 " Poor Gilbert ! " thought Beatrice, but her heart swelled 
 within her as she looked at the baby in her husband's arms. 
 
 " Beatrice, I could not help myself," said Gilbert, detecting 
 the look. 
 
 " No, Gilbert, I am sure you could not. But since your 
 father had the life interest in Verville, what did he want it for ? '* 
 
 " To sell it, I believe." 
 
 "Sold! it is sold?" 
 
 " Yes, I understand that the people to whom it is let have 
 bought it." 
 
 " For how much?" 
 
 " Do not ask me, Beatrice." 
 
 " I need not, Gilbert," she replied, her full heart breaking 
 
BEATEICE. 447 
 
 forth in speech. "It was bought from you for profit, say cent, 
 per cent. Oh ! Gilbert, I guess more than you tell me. It is 
 marrying me that undid you, and made your father your enemy. 
 He found you in his power, and he used that power without 
 pity, all out of hatred to me. God forgive him, Gilbert ! Has 
 he not Carnoosie ? Gould he not leave you Verville for yourself 
 and your children ? But he knew that if there could be a bitter 
 thought to Beatrice Gordon's pride it was that of bringing ruin 
 to the man she loved. Well, Gilbert, I confess it, he has con- 
 quered me at last. I could bear losing my own, I could bear 
 coming to you penniless, but I cannot bear to think that I have 
 helped to despoil you ! " 
 
 Sobs would not let her say more ; she hid her face in her 
 hands in an agony of poignant grief. Gently did Gilbert remove 
 one hand, then the other ; reproachfully did he look at her face 
 bathed in tears, the first tears of grief she had shed since their 
 married life. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said rather sadly, " do not grudge my father's 
 son that he has borne something for your sake." 
 
 At once Beatrice's tears ceased, and trying to smile, she re- 
 joined gaily : 
 
 " If it were not that I will not spoil you, and that no prudent 
 wife ought to spoil her husband, I would say that I stand cor- 
 rected ; but having your moral welfare at heart, I do not say it." 
 
 " Of course not," replied Gilbert, laughing. 
 
 Seeing him laugh the baby laughed too, and thus ended in 
 sunshine the first dark hour. But there was a cloud on the hori- 
 zon, a speck as yet, but a cloud of coming trouble and grief. 
 Gilbert rose and left his wife, and though she saw him go with a 
 smiling face, there was heavy sadness in her heart. 
 
 " I have been blind," she thought, as the glamour, which 
 happiness had thrown over her life vanished, and she saw 
 things, not as they had seemed, but as they were in sober 
 reality. 
 
 Gilbert was poor ; he had told her once, "I cannot afibrd to 
 marry a poor girl," and she had come to him penniless, and Gil- 
 bert had sacrificed every dear pursuit, every pleasant task, which 
 had made liis sober youth content. Since his marriage Gilbert's 
 books had remained closed, his chemical apparatus untouched. 
 He had given himself up, body and mind, time, energy, and will, 
 to the making of money. Truly Beatrice'^ love had cost him 
 very dear indeed. 
 
 "If he had married a rich woman," thought Beatrice, " or 
 
4:48 BEATRICE. 
 
 at least a woman who would have brought him a competency, 
 he need not have been a mere doctor, at every sick peasant's 
 call ; he would have made himself a name that would have been 
 known beyond Yerville. Poor Gilbert ! you gave up every thing 
 for me, even your dearest and best part, and I selfishly accepted 
 the sacrifice, and never suspected its depth, nor measured its 
 generosity." 
 
 Beatrice's tears fell on the despoiled baby's face, but in vain 
 might those tears flow. The once rich mistress of Carnoosie was 
 very poor now. So poor, that she could not even earn her liv- 
 ing, but must remain a burden on her husband's love for ever. 
 
 " He thinks me proud," thought Beatrice, with a swelling 
 heart, " but it is not that, it is that I love him, and that I have 
 dragged him down. Oh ! why did he come to me in Great Or- 
 mond Street, or why did I say 'yes?' I ought to have known 
 better ; but I thought of myself, and not of him." 
 
 To these bitter reflections was added another. Mr. Gervoise 
 was now his elder son's enemy. It was plain he had resented 
 their marriage, and had shown his sense of it by the vindictive 
 spirit which made him press the debt he knew Gilbert could not 
 repay. 
 
 " He hates me," thought Beatrice, " and he will persecute 
 me through his own son rather than give me rest. I thought the 
 weary battle over, and it goes on stiU. Only now I stand de- 
 fenceless and unarmed, and every blow tells." 
 
 She went out into the garden and sang Charlie to sleep. 
 " These are your inheritance, my darling," she thought, looking 
 at the fruit-trees ; this is your forest of Carnoosie. Well, I 
 was rich once, and I envied a beggar's lot — let it be — let it be ! " 
 
 As she walked up and down, Beatrice became aware of a 
 timid shrinking female figure in black peeping at her through the 
 wooden railing that fenced in the garden from the road. Bea- 
 trice looked at her in surprise ; the long black robe, the close 
 bonnet and thick veil, had an air of disguise, strange in this quiet 
 village, where none thought of concealment. Suddenly the gar- 
 den gate opened, and the stranger came toward her. She walked 
 slowly with a heavy step that told of coming age. When she 
 stood near Beatrice she raised her veil, and showed her a pale 
 worn face and sunken eyes. 
 
 " You do not know me, Miss Gordon," she said in English ; 
 " I am Rosy." 
 
 Rosy, this was* Rosy, once fresh as the flower whose name 
 she bore ! She saw doubt and amazement in B eatrice's face, and 
 
BEATEICE. 449 
 
 she burst into tears. Beatrice took her by the hand and led her 
 into the long sitting-room on the ground-floor. 
 
 Antony's wife sank down on the nearest chair ; her tears 
 flowed a while, then ceased. It was an hysterical feeling that 
 had prompted them, the source of grief lay far deeper. Beatrice 
 sat down by her and did not question ; perhaps she had no need 
 to do so. Rosy too was silent. Drearily she looked around her. 
 It did not seem as if external objects struck her eye. The pleasant 
 STinlit room did not cheer her, but she felt the sea-breeze to 
 which Beatrice was accustomed, and she shivered as she looked 
 at the black fireplace. At once Beatrice rang and got Babet tcT 
 light a fire. 
 
 As soon as the logs began to blaze Rosy drew near, with the 
 chilly motion of one in pain ; she looked at the fire with a gaze 
 of dull enjoyment. 
 
 " What will you take?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 Rosy looked up. The eagerness of desire passed over her 
 faded face. 
 
 " Have you any brandy?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes," replied Beatrice doubtfully. 
 
 She left the room and soon returned with a very small liqueur 
 glass full of brandy, but she brought no bottle with her. She 
 saw Rosy's look of disappointment, and it confirmed her fears. 
 With a promptly outstretched hand Rosy took the glass from her, 
 and she drank its contents with an avidity that boded no good. 
 Unconsciously Beatrice's face betrayed her thoughts. 
 
 " I know what you are thinking of," said Rosy with a dreary 
 smile, " but you need not fear. Miss Gordon ; they put plenty of 
 brandy in my way ; they wanted me to take it — I never did — not 
 once ! " she added with a fierceness of energy that was very un- 
 like the gentle though petulant Rosy of old days. 
 
 " They have made me cunning," she added with a laugh ; 
 " I have run away from them, when they thought me safest. 
 When they find it out — it will be too late." 
 
 " Are they not in Carnoosie?" 
 
 " No, they both went down to Scotland yesteraay. As soon 
 as it was night I escaped. I had money, though they thought I 
 had none. I have plenty of money still, and when they find out 
 I am gone, it will be too late to. catch me." 
 
 " Oh ! Rosy, poor little Rosy ! " said Beatrice, taking her 
 hand and pressing it gently, " what a life you have led?" 
 
 "■ The life of a dog ! " replied Rosy ; " and* they thought they 
 had broken my spirit. I thought so too ; but I found they had 
 
450 BEATEICE. 
 
 not after all. Miss Gordon," she added, drawing her chair near 
 Beatrice's and whispering, " do you know what frightened me 
 and made me run away ? They wanted me to make my will." 
 
 " Well," answered Beatrice, " what about it?" 
 
 " You know well enough what I mean," said Antony's wife ; 
 " you know it, but you will not seem to know it. I do not care 
 who hears me," she added, raising her voice and her blue eyes 
 flashing, " I tell you they wanted me to make my will, because 
 they wanted to get rid of me and be sure of Carnoosie. But my 
 poor father had always warned me. 'Do not make your will, 
 Rosy,' were his last words, ' or they will kill you for what you 
 have got.' " 
 
 " That is not Mr. Gervoise's way," said Beatrice with much 
 bitterness ; "he does not kill, but he gets rid of people all the 
 same." 
 
 " I tell you they would have killed me," persisted Rosy, 
 " The place is not what it was when you were in it. Oh ! how 
 I hate that great dreary old Carnoosie, and the fountains, and 
 the trees ! how I hate them all. Miss Gordon ! " 
 
 " I am Gilbert's wife. Rosy." 
 
 Rosy calmed down, looked at her and at the baby, and said 
 after a while, 
 
 " Yes, I remember you are married. Are you happy?" 
 
 " Very happy." 
 
 " You look like it, and yet I cannot understand it — ^how can 
 married people be happy ? " 
 
 " And what do you intend doing?" asked Beatrice ; " do you 
 intend any thing ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do not mind telling you. My father's half-sister is 
 living in Switzerland, and I shall go and join her." 
 
 " Will you be safe there ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, quite safe. If I could get a separation I would ; 
 but there is no chance of that — it is the old story, you know, I 
 have no proof." 
 
 She spoke with a dreary sort of ti*anquillity, the apathy of 
 much and deep grief, that smote Beatrice's heart. What a fright- 
 ful wreck of youth, beauty, and natural goodness was this ! What 
 a sickening thing it was to think that one man could thus destroy, 
 blight, and ruin every thing around him. Rosy seemed uncon- 
 scious of Beatrice's thoughts. She was watching the baby as it 
 wakened. 
 
 " Give him to me, please," she said. 
 
 Not without reluctance did Beatrice comply with the request. 
 
BEATEICE. 451 
 
 She almost hoped that the child would cry on seeing himself sur- 
 rendered to a stranger, but he did not. He looked at Rosy with 
 large black wondering eyes, and a most serious face, then sud- 
 denly laughed and jumped in her arms with baby glee. Tears 
 silent, but bitter, flowed down Rosy's faded cheeks. 
 
 " If I had had a child," she said, " I might have been happy. 
 I would have turned to it in all my troubles, and it would have 
 given me comfort. Oh ! Miss Gordon, why can I not stay here 
 with you and rest ? I feel so weary — so very weary. But I 
 must not," she added without waiting for Beatrice's reply ; " I 
 must go this very day. They have hunted me from my own 
 house, and they would hunt me from yours. Besides it would 
 be cruel in me to remain near you. Mr. Gervoise would not hate 
 you so much if you had not taken my part against him ; and if 
 you were to receive and shelter me now, what would he not 
 do?" 
 
 " I will not fear him," said Beatrice, with the old rebellious 
 spirit. 
 
 '* Do not defy him," impressively replied Rosy, her voice 
 sinking to a whisper. " I came here to see you and to warn 
 you." 
 
 Beatrice was silent, but she felt her heart beating fast. She 
 had lived in great peace and happiness for the last two years, far 
 from the old discord which had once been familiar as her daily 
 bread. 
 
 " He hates you," said Rosy again. 
 
 " He always did. Rosy. He hated me when I was a child, 
 and before he married my mother." 
 
 Rosy nodded, as much as to say of course, but she added : 
 
 " He hates you, but he hates Gilbert ten times more." 
 
 Beatrice felt as if she had received a sharp, keen stab. She 
 clasped more closely to her bosom the child Rosy had given back 
 to her. 
 
 " You remember how you warned me once," continued Rosy ; 
 " be now warned by me. If you can leave this place and be out 
 of his reach, do so." 
 
 " Why, what can he do to us?" 
 
 " I do not know ; but you know the man, and ever since 
 Gilbert married you he hates him. I once overheard him and 
 Antony, when they did not think I was nigh, talking about Gil- 
 bert, and it was plain they intended something against him, for 
 they were laughing and sneering together in their horrible way." 
 
 '' What did they say, Rosy?" 
 
452 BEATRICE. 
 
 " I could make out nothing save his name." 
 
 "Was that long ago?" asked Beatrice, hoping that the cha- 
 teau of Verville was the subject of the conversation. 
 
 " About a fortnight." 
 
 " Rosy, try and remember what they said." 
 
 But Rosy shook her head. She could remember nothing, or 
 rather she could only repeat broken words and implied threats 
 with which Gilbert's name had been mixed. Beatrice's heart 
 sank within her. The invisible peril is worse than that which 
 the eye measures with a look, and of which it can at least esti- 
 mate the adverse chances. What could Mr. Gervoise do against 
 her husband ? Had he not despoiled and plundered him of his 
 maternal inheritance ? True, this was a poor revenge for Mr. 
 Gervoise ; but if his hatred took some keener and more active 
 shape what would that be ? 
 
 " Well," said Rosy, watching her, " what will you do?" 
 
 " There is nothing to be done." 
 
 " Yes, there is. You might go far, very far away out of his 
 reach." 
 
 Beatrice smiled and tried to look brave. 
 
 " We surely need not fear him so much," she said. 
 
 " You know him, and you say that," exclaimed Rosy ; " why, 
 what is there that that man cannot accomplish ? Is it possible 
 you do not see your danger ? To me it is as plain as day. He 
 wants your ruin, and your ruin he will effect." 
 
 " My husband will never leave Verville." 
 
 There was a long pause. Rosy broke it by saying " she 
 must go." When Beatrice attempted to detain her she shook 
 her head and uttered a brief but emphatic denial. The carriage 
 that had brought her was waiting for her at the inn, and would 
 take her on to the neighboring railway station. In two days her 
 journey would be ended. Beatrice renewed her entreaties, but 
 faintly ; there was something in Rosy's face that froze back cor- 
 diality, and repelled affection for ever. She had suffered too 
 much, and they whom great sorrows have visited are like the 
 dead ; they stand alone on another shore than ours, for ever be- 
 yond the reach of human love, tenderness, and sympathy. It 
 was almost with a sense of relief that Beatrice bade her unbid- 
 den guest good-bye ; but, when she reentered the house and saw 
 Rosy's vacant chair standing by the hearth on which still biu-ned 
 the dying embers, her heart smote her for the inhospitable and 
 unkindly feeling." 
 
 " Poor Rosy ! Poor little Rosy ! " she thought, " the beggar 
 
BEATRICE. 453 
 
 in the street, the starving wretch in his garret, have a better lot 
 than hers. Oh ! Gilbert ! Gilbert ! how I ought to love you ! " 
 
 But with the thought of Gilbert came another inexpressibly 
 bitter. Rosy's last words had been, " Mind what I told you — 
 be on your guard — ^beware ! " And the sense of danger threat- 
 ening thejbeing she most loved was to become henceforth a thorn 
 in Beatrice's lot. She forgot all that she had already cost him 
 in the past ; she even thought little of the trials and troubles of 
 the present ; it was the future that haunted her like a spectre. 
 She recapitulated Mr. Gervoise's crimes, and their name seemed 
 legion. To him darkly, unjustly, perhaps, she attributed the 
 loss of the ten thousand pounds which had broken her father's 
 heart. To him she ascribed every evil feeling — every misfortune 
 of her youth. The death of Mr. Ray, that of Mr. Raby, An- 
 tony's unnatural perversity, Rosy's blighted life, had all one 
 source. Closing this long record of woe came her mother's 
 deathbed, which he had hastened ; Carnoosie, of which he had 
 despoiled her ; and that last iniquity, which would surely not be 
 the least : his robbery of his eldest son's little estate. Of what 
 was not such a man capable ? What would he not do yet ? 
 
 When Gilbert came in Beatrice told him of Rosy's visit, and 
 related all that had passed. To this recital she added the com- 
 ment of her own fears. Gilbert heard her in sad silence, and 
 did not utter one word of reply. 
 
CHAPTER LV. 
 
 Time had passed, and nothing had come of Rosy's warning, 
 when Babet looked very busy and anxious on a bright summer 
 morning. She went in and out of the house, declined answering 
 her enemy the neighbour's inquiries, and when toward evening 
 that lady accosted her with a triumphant " Babet, I know all 
 about it," Babet, turning up her nose, which was but a short 
 one, replied — 
 
 " Of course you do, you always know what it is no business 
 of yours to know." 
 
 With which gracious reply Babet reentered her master's 
 house and went up to her mistress's room. 
 
 In that room, unhappily closed to the neighbour's inquisitive 
 eyes, we can follow Babet. There is a cradle in it, and in that 
 cradle, over which Gilbert is bending, there is not one new baby, 
 but two. Two twin sisters, "beautiful as the day," proudly 
 said Babet, "and as like Monsieur as two drops of water ; " the 
 simile of two peas not holding good in France. 
 
 " Gilbert," said Beatrice's low voice. 
 
 At once he was by her side. 
 
 " You will be weighed down with trouble and care. A wife 
 and three children ! Poor Gilbert ! " 
 
 Poor Gilbert smiled, and reminded her that He who sent 
 children also sent the means of providing for them. 
 
 "Oh! it is not of want I am afraid," she replied; "but, 
 Gilbert, care will be too much for you. You are so altered." 
 
 " Monsieur has got a little thin," put in Babet ; " but he is 
 just as handsome as ever." 
 
 A strong and rather a jealous admiration of Monsieur's good 
 looks was one of Babet's characteristics. Gilbert laughed, and 
 Beatrice smiled languidly, and no more was said. 
 
 But when Beatrice recovered, and was up and about again, 
 she was more than ever impressed with the consciousness that 
 there was a great and marked change in Gilbert's appearance 
 
BEATEICE. 455 
 
 and temper. He looked thin and worn, and though not unami- 
 able, or even irritable, he was silent, and, as it seemed to Bea- 
 trice, gloomy. She was also struck with a singular fact : Gil- 
 bert stayed a good deal within. What could have happened ? 
 
 Verville was a small place — a real village — and Beatrice led 
 a solitary and retired life, that gave her few opportunities for 
 acquiring information. The mayor was a widower, the land- 
 owners were either absentees or peasants ; and three of the 
 ladies whom Beatrice might have visited, she would not see un- 
 less in a cold and formal fashion ; for one was the mother, and 
 the other was the aunt of Lucie Joanne, and the third was that 
 lady herself, who had recently returned to Verville a young and 
 childless widow. 
 
 True, Gilbert had never loved her, but he had admired her, 
 not without cause, for she was a very attractive and pleasing 
 person ; and if she was not rich, she was in easy circumstances, 
 and, in a worldly point of view, he could not have done better 
 than to have married her. Madame Landais seemed to wish for 
 Beatrice's acquaintance, and Gilbert, who lamented the solitude 
 in which his wife lived, gently urged her to meet this lady's ad- 
 vances in a friendly spirit ; but Beatrice's frank reply checked 
 him at once. 
 
 " I cannot, Gilbert," she said — " I cannot ; for I should get 
 mean and jealous. Now, you need not redden up ; I should not 
 be jealous of you^ or fancy you are regretting her, but I should 
 feel that it would have been better for you to have married her ; 
 and, Gilbert, I do not want to feel that, though it is true." 
 
 " Never say that again," he replied, a little passionately. 
 
 " Very well, but do not ask me to see her." 
 
 He did not, and thus it was that Beatrice lived in a sort of 
 solitude, and though not unhappy, knew nothing of what went 
 on about her. But this ignorance could not last, and Babet, 
 though reluctantly, became her mistress's informant. 
 
 Gilbert was up in his study ; he had often been there of late, 
 to Beatrice's surprise and pleasure ; she sat in the room below, 
 sewing busily by the open window, and rocking with her foot 
 the cradle where the twins slept — their blue eyes shut, and their 
 rosy faces lying on one pillow-^and all the time minding Char- 
 lie, who was rolling on the floor. 
 
 Babet went in and out, muttering to herself, and sometimes, 
 as Beatrice heard, talking to the neighbour outside. 
 
 The two ladies — ^Babet and the neighbour — had had a con- 
 flict by the river that morning. They had both been washing. 
 
4:56 BEATEICE. 
 
 and one had interfered with the other. The interference seemed 
 to last the whole day ; it was not over when Beatrice heard the 
 neighbour saying : 
 
 " Now, Babet, I did not take the piece of soap. It went 
 down the river, and, I dare say, it is at Farmer Pierre's by this." 
 
 " I wish it were down the mean fellow's throat !" screamed 
 Babet. 
 
 The neighbour laughed, and Babet, abruptly opening a side 
 door, reentered her master's house. At once Beatrice called her. 
 
 " Babet," she said, " what were you saying about Farmer 
 Pierre?" 
 
 Babet grew very red — saying, she was saying nothing. But 
 Beatrice insisted, and so gravely, that Babet pleaded guilty to 
 wishing the missing piece of soap down his throat, " by way of 
 medicine," she explanatorily added. 
 
 " Is he ill?" quickly asked Beatrice. 
 
 " He pretends that he is," as quickly replied Babet. 
 
 "And who attends him, then?" asked her mistress. 
 
 Babet used every art to evade answering this question, but 
 Beatrice was peremptory, and at length the truth, the bitter truth, 
 came out : A new doctor from Paris had settled half a league 
 away ; a large number of Gilbert's patients had forsaken him, 
 and Pierre had been one of the first. 
 
 '' That will do, Babet," said Beatrice, a little faintly ; " you 
 may go now, thank you." 
 
 But when Babet had left her, Beatrice looked at Charlie, still 
 playing on the floor, at the twins, still sleeping in their cradle, 
 and, remembering her husband up-stairs, she felt that her heart 
 was full to overflowing. After a while she rose and softly went 
 up to him ; she opened the door, but he was engaged in some 
 experiment, and did not hear her. Beatrice's heart smote her as 
 she remembered how she had gone to him in the laboratory at 
 Carnoosie on the morning that followed his arrival. She was 
 rich then — rich, and gay, and generous ; and she remembered 
 how Gilbert had kept aloof from her, and shunned and repelled 
 the wealthy girl. And now she was his wife, and the three 
 children below were her portion to this over-burdened, and sorely- 
 tasked, and tried man. 
 
 " May I come in?" she said softly, and almost humbly. 
 
 " May you come in?" he asked, turning round with a smile — 
 "what a question!" 
 
 She came forward, and passing her arms around his neck, she 
 said, a little passionately : 
 
BEATRICE. 457 
 
 " Gilbert — Gilbert, why did you marry me?" 
 
 " Why ! " he repeated, affecting to take this as a literal ques- 
 tion. " Well, I believe it was because you had dark eyes and 
 dimples. I believe, but am not sure." 
 
 '^ Oh ! Gilbert, do not jest ; this is no time for jesting. I 
 know what you have been hiding from me so long. What new 
 doctor is this who is attending on Farmer Pierre ? " 
 
 " We cannot help that, Beatrice," he replied, gently ; " and 
 we had better endure what we cannot help." 
 
 '^ Gilbert, it is your father who has sent him — it is he who 
 wants to ruin you, and perhaps to drive you from Verville." 
 
 " Beatrice you have no right to say that, nor I to believe it." 
 
 Beatrice, looked at him very earnestly ; he did believe it, and 
 she saw it. 
 
 " Well, Gilbert," she resumed, after awhile, " let us not be- 
 lieve it ; it would be too bitter for you, and for me too. I would 
 rather not think, Gilbert, that I am the cause of all your troubles, 
 and that it would be better for you that we had never met." 
 
 He gently wiped away the tears which, spite all her efforts to 
 restrain them, flowed down her cheeks ; but though his language 
 was kind and tender, he did not make light of the cause of her 
 trouble. Beatrice felt that. 
 
 '^Gilbert, tell me all," she urged; "tell me every thing; 
 how are matters going on with you ? " 
 
 Gilbert looked at her wistfully and sighed ; but he yielded to 
 her wish — he made her sit down by his side, and whilst the cool 
 and pleasant green of the trees which hung over the river gave 
 them its freshness, whilst the sun played through the leafy 
 branches, and the water flowed with a gentle sound, he told her 
 a bitter story of disappointment and impending ruin. 
 
 Shortly before the birth of the twins, the new doctor had 
 come and settled in the neighbourhood. For no reason that 
 Gilbert knew of, he had taken the people by storm. The feeling 
 in his favour had been strengthened by a cure he had effected in 
 a case which Docteur Gilbert Gervoise had pronounced desperate. 
 From that time forward Gilbert had declined, and his opponent 
 had gone on rising. 
 
 '' And now," added Gilbert with a sigh, " there is no denying 
 it, Beatrice, he is up and I am down." 
 
 Thus sadly closed his narrative. 
 
 " But you will get up again, Gilbert," said his wife, trying to 
 look cheerful. 
 
 " Beatrice, I must be true — I do not expect it. Confidence 
 20 
 
4:68 BEATEICE. 
 
 once withdrawn is not easily restored ; and what can I do to get 
 patients back?" 
 
 " Then, Gilbert, what is to be done?" 
 
 " Do you trust in me?" he asked. 
 
 " Entirely." 
 
 " Then wait a week, and I shall probably have something to 
 tell you by that time." 
 
 " And remember," said Beatrice, " that whatever it. may be, 
 I am content." 
 
 The dark eyes, for which Gilbert professed to have married 
 her, looked up at him with trust so perfect and devotion so com- 
 plete, that, spite the weight of his troubles and cares — and how 
 heavy they were Beatrice did not know — Gilbert felt strangely 
 happy. Lucie Joanne would have done her duty, but Beatrice 
 did better by far, she loved him so truly, that with her love and 
 duty were one. Never — Gilbert felt it with infinite softness — 
 never need they be divided one moment in her heart. 
 
 For a week they did not once renew this subject ; and yet 
 Gilbert received letters, some from England, and his wife saw 
 that his mood became more grave every time he opened and read 
 these epistles. But when the week was out, he requested her 
 one evening to come and have a walk on the downs. She asked 
 with a wistful look if they should take Charlie, and Gilbert re- 
 plied " No." 
 
 Beatrice put on her hat, took his arm, and they went out. 
 He led her to a spot which was one of their favourite haunts — 
 that where they had parted four years before. Now, as on that 
 sad evening, they sat down on the grass, and saw the broad sea 
 on one hand, on the other the blue smoke rising from their roof, 
 deeply embosomed in the trees of the valley. For some time 
 they were silent. 
 
 " Beatrice," began Gilbert at length, and he took her hand as 
 he spoke, and involuntarily looked down at the little house below. 
 
 "I know what you mean," said Beatrice ; " we must leave 
 Verville." 
 
 " Yes," he replied with a deep sigh, " we must." 
 
 *'Well," she returned, spealang bravely, "let us leave it, 
 Gilbert." 
 
 " I could stay and struggle on," resumed Gilbert, " but the 
 end would be defeat, and, what is worse, ruin. I think it best 
 therefore to go before I am conquered." 
 
 " And you are right, Gilbert." 
 
 " I have tjjought over many plans, and I believe the best is 
 to go to London." 
 
BEATRICE. 459 
 
 Beatrice looked her surprise. 
 
 " Perhaps you think that as a foreigner I shall not do well 
 there. But I have a chance — I may say a certainty. When I 
 was a boy at school in England, before you knew me, I had a 
 friend, James Fleming, a clever and acute lad, who is now a 
 distinguished scientific man. He called upon me some five years 
 ago, and spent a week here with me in Verville. I wrote to him 
 some short time back to sound him ; his reply came a few days 
 ago. He wants an assistant, a man who knows enough to help 
 him in his labours, and who has not too much ambition to scorn 
 the office. For this assistance he ofiTers me two hundred pounds 
 a year." 
 
 Gilbert looked earnestly at Beatrice ; her tears were flowing. 
 
 " It is not much,'* he began, '' and yet ^" 
 
 " Oh ! Gilbert, that is not it," she interrupted ; '' but it 
 breaks my heart to see how I have dragged you down. For me 
 you gave up your ambition and your pride ; and now your mind, 
 your leisure, and your knowledge must go to another, in order 
 that your wife and your children may not want. Gilbert, if ever 
 you wished for me much, surely you pay a heavy price for me." 
 
 " Not too heavy," said Gilbert, smiling. 
 
 " Oh ! how I wish I were better, handsomer than I am ! " 
 cried Beatrice. 
 
 " Do not," he interrupted ; " I might not care for such a pat- 
 tern of perfection. But what about Mr. Fleming's offer ? " 
 
 " What pleases you, Gilbert, shall please me too ! " 
 
 " Then I may accept? " 
 
 " Assuredly ; but what will you. do with our house ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I have got a tenant," Gilbert replied hurriedly. 
 
 '* A tenant ! what tenant? " 
 
 " A tenant who will give me fifteen hundred francs a year." 
 
 "Who is it, Gilbert?" 
 
 It was not without an effort that Gilbert replied ; ' 
 
 " The new doctor." 
 
 His wife looked at him in mute sorrow. 
 
 " You will let your house to the man who ruins you? " 
 
 " Why not? " he sadly said. " He has offered to take it for 
 ten years at that price — a high one — and which tacitly includes, 
 I suppose, what is left of my practice. If we leave Verville, 
 what harm does it do us that he should live in our house ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Gilbert, you have the spirit of a saint and a hero." 
 
 Gilbert did not answer, but his wife little knew the inexpres- 
 sible bitterness he felt in giving up his cherished home to the 
 
4:60 BEATRICE. 
 
 rival by whom he had been supplanted. But a man who has 
 a wife and children gives pledges to fate , and has nothing to do 
 with superfluous pride. Gilbert would not have stooped to mean- 
 ness even for those loved ones, but he could not afford to discard 
 a good tenant. J 
 
 " And so we must go," sadly 'said Beatrice, clasping her 
 hands around her knees, and looking down at the little nest be- 
 low ; " we must leave that green and pleasant Verville, where I 
 have been so happy, Gilbert, that Carnoosie and the old life both 
 seem like a dream. Let it be. Wherever we go together I 
 shall be very happy still. Can I forget that terrible evening 
 when, sitting here, I saw the sun sink in the sea after you had 
 left me, and I thought the world ended. I mean for myself. 
 Such deep, desperate darkness seemed to have settled over my 
 lot. After that — after that other cruel sorrow, the death of my 
 poor darling, what can I not bear and endure, and think little of? 
 Gilbert, we shall live in Kensington, have a green home again. 
 Do you remember how happy we were there as children, and 
 how kind you were to me ? But when were you not kind ? Oh ! 
 if I have had many bitter griefs, there has been one crowning 
 blessing ever mixed with thepa — and that is you, Gilbert ! — that 
 is you ! " 
 
 " Flatterer ! " he said, smiling. 
 
 "It is no flattery, Gilbert. You have made me very happy, 
 and if sorrow is good for some, believe me when I tell you that 
 too much sorrow is good for none, and for tempers like mine is 
 fatal. Gilbert," she added, with something like passion, " I was 
 going to perdition when you came to me in Great Ormond 
 Street." 
 
 " Hush ! " he said, gently. 
 
 " Gilbert, I do not exaggerate ; but when I remember what I 
 felt then, it frightens me." 
 
 ' " When do we go ? " asked Gilbert. 
 
 " When you please,'' she replied, cheerfully. " Shall we take 
 Babet?" 
 
 " Of course we shall. We must go soon, Beatrice." 
 
 " Let us go soon, Gilbert. 
 
 Thus it was decided, and thus the pleasant home in which she 
 had spent the happiest years of her life was closed on Beatrice. 
 
CHAPTER LYI. 
 
 In the green home of which Beatrice had spoken to her hus 
 band she was now settled with him and her children and Babet, 
 who had decKned remaining in Verville. To see the new doctor 
 in her master's house was more than Babet could bear. 
 
 It was a green home indeed, its white front covered with 
 roses, its tiny square of garden blooming with flowers. In the 
 settling and furnishing of this abode Babet had taken a keen in- 
 terest, which Beatrice tried to share, but could not. Ah ! this 
 was not coming home a bride to the house in Verville, feeling 
 herself mistress, and entering on marriage and housekeeping at 
 o-nce ! This was, alas ! going down in the world, and feeling 
 poor and conquered, and knowing that her husband, of whom she 
 was so proud, was no longer his own master, but dependent. 
 Yet he spoke well of Mr. Fleming, by whom he had been most 
 kindly received ; and his present pursuit was, if not highly lucra- 
 tive, at least most congenial. 
 
 " I like it, Beatrice," he said to her, as they sat one evening 
 by their open window, whilst Babet and the children were in 
 the garden outside, " I like it truly, so do not pity me." 
 
 " Do you remember the laboratory in Carnoosie ? " she asked 
 with a sigh. 
 
 Gilbert remembered it very well. 
 
 " I wanted you to come and have it, and you were too proud. 
 Ah ! Gilbert, it might have been better if we remained there. 
 Our children would have Carnoosie, and your daughters, sir, of 
 whom you are so proud, because they have blue eyes, I suppose, 
 would each have had a portion. Ah ! what a place that Car- 
 noosie was ! The trees in Kensington Gardens are not finer than 
 those in my avenue. I dare say Antony has cut them down now. 
 Gilbert, do not think I regret these things for myself, it is for 
 you I think. Why, you could be a famous man, better known 
 than Mr. Fleming, if you had leisure and ease." 
 
462 BEATRICE. 
 
 ' Gilbert sighed. Ay, he had given years to toil obscure and 
 uncongenial. Ay, fortune was sweet, and ease and time were 
 sweeter still ; but for all that he did not repent — he had done his 
 duty, and he could not regret it. In this spirit he answered his 
 wife. 
 
 " Tell me more about Mr. Fleming," she said. " Have you 
 seen his wife ? What is she like ? " 
 
 " She will call on you to-morrow," replied Gilbert, " I sus- 
 pect to ask us to dinner." 
 
 Beatrice looked disturbed. He saw it, and asked to know 
 why? She smiled as she told him the truth. She had only an 
 old silk dress to wear. Gilbert looked dismayed : he was very 
 short of money, and a new one could not be bought. 
 
 " Never mind," gaily said his wife, " Babet and I will settle 
 this and make a new one of it." 
 
 " Ah ! how beautifully you were always dressed in Carnoo- 
 sie ! " sighed Gilbert. 
 
 " Yes, but I found the dressmaker's bills on my majority. 
 Gilbert, I shudder to think of the pounds which were lavished on 
 this miserable body." 
 
 " Miserable ! Beatrice, I like to see women well dressed. It 
 is natural to them, and it suits them, too. You are very hand- 
 some, of course, but " 
 
 " I can be improved ; very true, Gilbert, only it is not to be 
 just now." 
 
 She made light of his trouble on this head, yet in her heart 
 Beatrice hoped that Mrs. Fleming would make no dinner invita- 
 tions. She, too, liked to be well dressed. She, too, thought 
 that a handsome silk robe, rich in texture, delicate and bright in 
 hue, would set off Beatrice wonderfully. 
 
 Gilbert was not within when a small but styhsh carriage 
 drove up to the cottage door the next day. A tall, fair, and 
 rather faded lady in blue alighted and asked to see Mrs. Ger- 
 voise. She found that lady with her children in the front par- 
 lour, and at once greeted her with friendly grace. 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Gervoise," she said, " I have so longed to know 
 you ; and what lovely children you have ! How well they would 
 look in blue ! Are you not very proud of them ? These little 
 girls are exquisite, and so like their father, and he is such a hand- 
 some man ! " 
 
 Beatrice smiled a little proudly, for Mrs. Fleming looked as 
 if she were going to add : " And you are such a handsome 
 woman." Beatrice's sedate manner, however, calmed her down. 
 
BEATEICE. ' 463 
 
 Tlie conversation became more subdued, and, after flowing 
 smoothly for a quarter of an hour, ended in the invitation to din- 
 ner, which Beatrice accepted. Upon which Mrs. Fleming reen- 
 tered her carriage and drove away. 
 
 And now the great day had come, and Beatrice was dressing, 
 and her husband was superintending her toilette with evident 
 anxiety. He watched Babet settling this curl or arranging this 
 flounce, with a Frenchwoman's innate taste, and his brow, which 
 had been overcast, gradually cleared as every touch showed him 
 an improved Beatrice shining out more and more brightly, like a 
 dawning sun rising above the horizon. At length Babet's task 
 was over, and Babet declared that her mistress was beautiful as 
 the day ; and Babet's master said with an admiring smile — 
 
 " How handsome you are, Beatrice ! " 
 
 " Madame has been getting handsomer and handsomer ever 
 since she married Monsieur," said Babet ; " and she has been 
 quite lovely since the twins were born." 
 
 " A new receipt for beauty, that ! " said Gilbert. 
 
 " Well, I do believe I am handsome ! " said Beatrice, gaily 
 glancing from the little looking-glass above her toilet to her hus- 
 band ; " and I am glad of it, for your sake, Gilbert. I am glad 
 that Mr. Fleming should see you, too, can have a handsome wife, 
 though you are a poor man." 
 
 " Madame is handsomer than the lady who called the other 
 day," put in Babet ; " she is a dozen years younger, to begin 
 with, and she has much finer eyes and a pleasanter face too." 
 
 Beatrice and her husband laughed, and as it was time to go, 
 and Gilbert had been waiting, they went ; Babet and the twins 
 and Charlie all collected at the door to see them enter the fly and 
 drive away. Gilbert still seemed impressed with his wife's good 
 looks, for he reverted to the subject. 
 
 " You are very handsome," he said, " and I am sorry the 
 twins are not like you." 
 
 " We are both handsome," gravely replied Beatrice, " and 
 good and virtuous and wise, so let us build a little temple and 
 worship at the shrine of our own perfections, and only lament 
 that nature, which did so much for us, forgot one important item 
 — to make us rich ; for then we should not be going to dine with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Fleming, and you would not have been vexed and 
 sore all last week because your wife had not a new silk dress, 
 and only recovered your equanimity an hour ago when you saw 
 that her youth and good looks were still sufficient to triumph over 
 the disadvantage." 
 
4:64: BEATEICE. 
 
 " For once you are the wiser of the two," frankly replied 
 Gilbert; "but I cannot help it, Beatrice. I cannot forget that 
 you were bright as a bird of paradise when I first saw you in 
 Carnoosie." 
 
 " And now I suppose some of my gayest and best feathers 
 are gone. Never mind, Gilbert, enough are left for me to shine 
 still and do you no discredit." 
 
 She spoke as if she were in the lightest mood, but at heart 
 Beatrice suffered. It was something new in the life of this proud 
 girl to dine at the table of a patron. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Fleming lived on the borders of the great world. 
 Its confines they sometimes passed, and they made excursions, a 
 few of which were daring raids into the precincts consecrated to 
 the mighty of the land ; but as a rule they kept between the two 
 regions, in a sort of mild limbo, where the great now and then 
 descended, and to which the humble strenuously endeavoured to 
 climb. Mr. and Mrs. Fleming were well born, more than moder- 
 ately rich, handsome, clever, and thoroughly well-bred. They 
 were generally pronounced pleasant people to know, and most of 
 their acquaintances and friends found them so. Their reception 
 of Gilbert and his wife was kind and civil. Mrs. Fleming seemed 
 much struck with Beatrice, and even fascinated ; and as there 
 were no other guests, intercourse was unrestrained. 
 
 " Mr. Fleming thinks so highly of Mr. Gervoise," she said 
 confidentially to Beatrice, when they were alone in the drawing- 
 room, " I have so often longed to know his French friend." 
 
 Beatrice smiled a proud, calm smile. No praise of Gilbert 
 sounded excessive in her ear. 
 
 " And how well he speaks English ! " continued Mrs. Flem- 
 ing ; " but of course you taught him," she added, with a signifi- 
 cant smile. 
 
 " No, but I dare say I improved him," replied Beatrice. 
 " When we met a few years back, he certainly did not speak the 
 language well." 
 
 " He speaks it beautifully now, with so much taste and re- 
 finement ; but no wonder, if you were his teacher." 
 
 She looked very graciously at Beatrice, and her whole man- 
 ner implied that she was conscious of being gracious. Beatrice 
 smiled a little haughtily perhaps, and looked somewhat above such 
 graciousness. Mrs. Fleming did not feel this, but she felt, and 
 was surprised to feel, that Beatrice was very unlike the wife of a 
 man who for two hundred a year had become her husband's as- 
 sistant. Beatrice had never been in what is called the world, but 
 
BEATEICE. 465 
 
 she had been rich, she had lived in a large and stately home 
 which made Mrs. Fleming's London house look poor and mean 
 by comparison. She had been accustomed to wealth and its 
 habits and luxuries, and to the sort of easy indifference it gives. 
 Unconsciously, and though Mrs. Fleming's feminine eye detected 
 that her silk dress had seen some wear, and that she had not one 
 ornament of real value on her whole person, Beatrice looked a 
 rich woman from head to foot. And Mrs. Fleming felt per- 
 plexed, and could not help trying to find out how this came to 
 pass. That it was a mere gift of nature she was far too keen to 
 believe. No, there was something more than nature gives in 
 Beatrice's easy and languid grace, a grace which could start up 
 into imperiousness and vivacity, and which neither awkwardness 
 nor bashfulness could subdue. So she began talking of Verville, 
 and gently pumping about the society, the old noblesse which no 
 doubt abounded thereabout. 
 
 " Oh ! no," candidly replied Beatrice, " they are all peasants, 
 rich or poor, but peasants still." 
 
 Mrs. Fleming then shot a random arrow. 
 
 " I suppose the country is lovely though," she said ; " Iheara 
 Mr. Gervoise talking of such fine timber." 
 
 " Oh ! he meant Carnoosie," replied Beatrice ; " there is no 
 fine timber about Verville." 
 
 Mrs. Fleming was too well-bred to inquire what Carnoosie 
 was V but, indeed, she had no need. She had heard Beatrice's 
 story, and the name of Carnoosie and the fact that this estate and 
 mansion, which she had visited some time before, when Mr. Ger- 
 voise and Antony were away, belonged to a lady bearing the same 
 name as Beatrice, told her all she could wish to know. So this 
 handsome woman in the half-faded silk was the dispossessed mis- 
 tress of the fine old place she had raved about. No wonder she 
 was so easy and cool, and sat on Mrs. Fleming's blue satin furni- 
 ture, and looked at Mrs. Fleming's ormolu with such perfect self- 
 possession. What was all this little London splendour to one 
 who had been reared in noble old rooms so vast that shadows 
 slept in them ; who had called half a forest her own, and walked 
 in an avenue fit for a royal park ? Mrs. Fleming reddened, bit 
 her lip, and was silent for a few minutes. She would not have 
 been envious of the mistress of Carnoosie had they met years 
 ago, but it annoyed and offended her that the poor and clever 
 man's wife should ever have been above her in position or in 
 wealth ; moreover, it destroyed all her plans. Mrs. Fleming was 
 both imperious and kind ; she liked feminine protegees in her 
 20* 
 
4:66 BEATRICE. 
 
 train, for she was too handsome, and thought herself too young 
 for male specimens of the tribe ; young, timid, amiable and clever 
 women, poor of course, were those she preferred ; she did not 
 object to their being prett}', indeed she liked them to be so, con- 
 sidering them in the light of so much elegant and moving furni- 
 ture, which, like the blue satin, set her off, and did credit to her 
 taste. 
 
 But the post of protegee is an arduous one, and it was often 
 vacant. It had been vacant a whole month when Mrs. Fleming 
 called upon Beatrice. No sooner did she see this handsome 
 young thing, who happened just then to be standing with a twin 
 on either arm, than Mrs. Fleming discovered she was the very 
 person she wanted. In a moment she dressed the twins in blue 
 from head to foot, and took out their mother for drives in Rotten 
 Row. And let us do justice to Mrs. Fleming. She felt a gen- 
 erous pleasure in shedding happiness on the poor ; she liked to 
 help the struggling, and to bestow glimpses of gaiety, and concerts 
 and balls and drives, on such as often pine in vain for these bless- 
 ings. Now all these nice little plans were completely upset 
 when Mrs. Fleming learned that Beatrice had been the mistress 
 of Carnoosie. It was impossible to patronize this fallen princess, 
 and out of the question to dazzle her. As for bringing her out, 
 it was not to be thought of. The disappointment was almost 
 more than Mrs. Fleming could bear, and it required all her civility 
 to keep her ill-temper under. Luckily the gentlemen came in, 
 and the conversation grew general. At eleven the fly called for 
 Docteur Gervoise and his wife, and they took their leave and 
 drove home. 
 
 Gilbert seemed in very good spirits. 
 
 " Mr. Fleming is smitten with you, Beatrice," he said gaily. 
 
 "Is he?" replied his wife; " well, then, I can inform you 
 that Mrs. Fleming admires you ; so you see what charming peo- 
 ple we are." 
 
 But Beatrice had her own thoughts. Mr. Fleming was a cool 
 and haughty man, and Mrs. Fleming's adieu had not by any 
 means been so kind as her welcome. Beatrice resolved to keep 
 out of that lady's way, and hoped with an inward sigh that 
 Mr. Fleming would never discover how much her husband was 
 beyond him. We may as well say that Beatrice took the latter 
 fact for granted and indisputable, without having any precise 
 reason for coming to this conclusion. For how could she know 
 that Gilbert was Mr. Fleming's superior? 
 
 Her husband did not share her fears. His temper, though 
 grave, was not despondent. 
 
BEATEICE. 467 
 
 " Fleming and I get on beautifully," he said to his wife 
 when they had reached home ; " and I really think we shall 
 be very happy here, Beatrice." 
 
 He was bending over the cradle where the twins were sleep- 
 ing, and Beatrice answered Avith a smile : 
 
 " I think, Gilbert, that you will be happy wherever these 
 young ladies are." 
 
*-^jd&. 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 Whether the twins had any thing to do with it or not, calm 
 happiness certainly came once more near Gilbert and his wife. 
 She saw that the life he led now suited him, for he was so 
 fond a lover of science that he could even court this coy lady for 
 a friend and be happy in the task ; and seeing him pleased, she, 
 too, was content. The children throve wonderfully, and Babet 
 expressed herself satisfied. She had got rid of her neighbour, 
 and seemed to think this a compensation for every other evil of 
 her lot. So time passed, and Beatrice sank once more into sweet 
 and calm peace. 
 
 She was sitting alone one evening, waiting for Gilbert, and 
 thinking. Beatrice could not help questioning her wisdom in 
 keeping so much aloof as she had done from Mrs. Fleming. 
 
 " It is all your pride, Beatrice," she said reprovingly. " Your 
 husband works for her husband, but you were too proud to let 
 that great lady be friendly to you. It was not pleasant, but then 
 it might have been useful to him — ^you should have thought of 
 that." 
 
 She put down her work for a while, and when she took it up 
 again, Beatrice had resolved to call on Mrs. Fleming the next 
 day. As she came to this resolution the garden gate opened, 
 and she recognized her husband's step. She ran and opened to 
 him, for Babet went to bed early, and they entered the parlour 
 together. Beatrice resumed her seat, and Gilbert sat down near 
 her, and laid his arm on the back of her chair. 
 
 He did not speak at once. ^ 
 
 " Where are the children?" he asked at length. 
 
 " Up-stairs sleeping." 
 
 " And what are you doing for them, Beatrice?" 
 
 " Did you think this was meant for Charlie's foot?" she re- 
 plied, showing him one of his own stockings. 
 
 He stooped and kissed her cheek. 
 
BEATEICE. 469 
 
 A presentiment of the truth flashed across Beatrice. She put 
 down her work and looked up in his face. 
 
 " Tell me all, Gilbert," she said. " Tell me aU, I can bear it." 
 
 He looked down at her wistfully, but with infinite tender- 
 ness. He never loved her more than in these hours of trial and 
 sorrow. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know you are fond of me," she said, her bright 
 eyes flashing. " And so you would rather not grieve me ; but, 
 Gilbert, I must know it, so tell it quickly." 
 
 " Fleming and I have parted," he replied. 
 
 " You have quarrelled." 
 
 " We have — or at least differed." 
 
 " About what ! " 
 
 " I was right and he was wrong in an induction, and he 
 could not bear it ; that is all. For some time I guessed this 
 was coming, but I would not tell you so, Beatrice : sufficient to 
 the day is the evil thereof." 
 
 " Well, it is a pity," said Beatrice, after a pause. " But we 
 must bear it ; and we will — shall we not, Gilbert ? " 
 
 " Of course," he replied, a little impatiently ; " and of course, 
 too, I shall find something else. The present time alone troubles 
 me." 
 
 And as he thought of his wife and his three children, Gilbert 
 could not repress a sigh. Beatrice rose, went to a bureau, and 
 came back with a thin book, which she put triumphantly into 
 her husband's hands. 
 
 " Well, what is that?" he asked. 
 
 " Babet's account at the savings bank, sir. Babet has got 
 fifty-three pounds and sixpence, exclusive of interest, in the Ken- 
 sington Savings Bank, and the money is yours — not hers." 
 
 Gilbert reddened. 
 
 "Beatrice, how did you do that?" he asked. 
 
 Beatrice took up the stocking and showed it him. 
 
 " By this, sir, and by every thing like it ; in plain speech — 
 by thrift. I learned the lesson in my childhood, and -it has come 
 back to me now. Besides, from the first I mistrusted that fair 
 and haughty Mr. Fleming. Neither that man nor his wife 
 could like us, Gilbert." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " You are more clever than Mr. Fleming, and I have been 
 rich and cannot be patronized by Mrs. Fleming. And though 
 we have been married some years, and have three children, we 
 are still in love, Gilbert, which Mr. and Airs. Fleming have long 
 
4Y0 BEATEICE. 
 
 given up. I felt she did not like to see you so attentive to me, 
 when her husband snaps her up, civilly of course, on every oc- 
 casion. And who knows, Gilbert, I may show that I am both 
 fond and proud of my husband, more than a gentleman whose 
 wife is moderately fond of, and not at all proud of him, may 
 like. Besides, remember our crowning offence. They who are 
 rich are childless, and we who are poor have actually indulged 
 in the luxury of twins ! " 
 
 " What a good wife you are, Beatrice ! " said Gilbert, laying 
 his hand on her shoulder. " You first take a weight oiF my 
 mind by saving that money for this great necessity ; and then 
 you put a smiling face on your own trouble to lighten mine." 
 
 Beatrice did not answer at once. 
 
 " I believe," she said at length, " that you took me first as 
 men take a luxury ; then afterwards as a duty " 
 
 " No," he interrupted. 
 
 " And now," she continued, " you find out my real value." 
 
 " Which is much greater than I thought," replied Gilbert ; 
 " but indeed, Beatrice, what sort of a wife is she who is not of 
 more value after than before marriage ? " 
 
 His hand caressingly smoothed back the curls from her flush- 
 ed cheek. Beatrice laughed, but tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 " Poor Gilbert I " she said, " I try to put a good face upon 
 it, and so do you ; but a wife and three children are a heavy 
 burden." 
 
 " To be sure." 
 
 " Oh ! Gilbert, it is the children especially," continued Bea- 
 trice, hiding her face on his shoulder. " We could bear much, 
 but we could not see them suffer." 
 
 " Nor shall they ! " said Gilbert, a little proudly. 
 
 " Wh^t do you intend doing?" she asked, after awhile. 
 
 " Any thing, Beatrice, by which a man can turn an honest 
 penny. I will have no mean paltry pride about me." 
 
 " I shall work too," she said. 
 
 " You ! " 
 
 " Why not? Is it a disgrace that I should work?" 
 
 " No, but I remember Carnoosie." 
 
 " But you did not take me from Carnoosie, Gilbert ; why, I 
 was penniless when you married me. If ever man proved dis- 
 interested love, you did ; for Babet will tell you that I was not 
 merely poor but plain ; and if I am at all pleasant to look at, 
 the merit lies with you, in Babet's creed." 
 
 " If Babet had seen you as I saw you in Carnoosie, she 
 would have been dazzled." 
 
BEATEICE. 471 
 
 " As you were ! " demurely said his wife. 
 
 Gilbert smiled, then he sighed. If was very pretty and 
 sweet to talk so, but the cares of the morrow were still before 
 him, marring the sweetness of the present. 
 
 " What are your plans?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Fleming had a Scotch friend, a Mr. Balfour, who once 
 pretty broadly hinted to me that if ever I needed any one to 
 help me in life he was willing and able to be that person. I 
 confess to you that I rely on this Mr. Balfour, who looks as if 
 he would keep his word. I shall call on him to-morrow." 
 
 " What sort of a man is he?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " A grave, silent, cautious man of fifty." 
 
 " And you have no idea of the shape his good-will is likely 
 to take." 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Well, we will hope, as you say." 
 
 Sweet is hope, and needful, too, to the struggling. Mr. Bal- 
 four had told Gilbert that he was to be found in the morning. 
 So early the next morning Gilbert set out. As he was leaving 
 the cottage Beatrice called him back ; she had seen a speck of 
 dust on his coat, and she removed it carefully. 
 
 " Am I all right now?" he asked, smiling. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, all right indeed," she sighed ; for though Gilbert 
 was still very handsome, there was a deep line of care on his 
 broad forehead, once so open and so calm. 
 
 " Well, then, give me a kiss for good luck, and let me go." 
 
 She raised her face to his, then Charlie came clamorously ; 
 then Babet appeared with the twins, who had just wakened, and 
 looked all rosy still with sleep. And Gilbert kissed them all, 
 the mother, the children, and the faithful servant, and he went 
 forth to seek the labour without which that little home of love 
 would be shattered and broken. He went forth not without 
 emotion ; the stakes were heavy, and for the first time in his 
 life he faced an uncertain future. 
 
 Beatrice was restless and anxious whilst her husband was 
 away. The whole morning she and Gilbert had talked Mr. Bal- 
 four over, and speculated on every one of that gentleman's pecu- 
 liarities. He was cautious, therefore Beatrice concluded that he 
 was sure. He was a silent man, hence one could rely on his 
 promise. He was a cold man, all the more certain, therefore, 
 was the hold which Gilbert must have taken on his liking. Gil- 
 bert laughed at all her conclusions, and would not confess that he 
 shared her hopes, and that he too built a fair edifice on the foun- 
 
472 * BEATRICE. 
 
 dation of Mr. Balfour's good-will. Restless and anxious, there- 
 fore, was she whilst Gilbert was away ; every now and then 
 looking for him out of the window down the street, regardless 
 of the astonishment she created by this breach of English de- 
 corum. At length she saw him turning the corner. She rose 
 swiftly, and went and opened the door herself. She did not 
 speak, but looked eagerly in his face. 
 
 " My good luck is deferred," he said cheerfully. " Mr. Bal- 
 four left town yesterday." 
 
 <' For long?" 
 
 "He is gone to the East." 
 
 To the East ! Alas ! what can be expected from a man who 
 is gone to the East? 
 
 Beatrice said nothing, but silently followed her husband into 
 the parlour. 
 
 " We must not be cast down, my dear," he said gently. 
 
 " Oh ! no," she replied, trying to be gay and cheerful, " we 
 must not indeed." 
 
 But it is probable that they were both somewhat cast down, 
 nevertheless, for though they again attempted to discuss plans 
 for their doubtful future, they did so coldly and languidly. The 
 sweet flavour of hope had evaporated from all their schemes. 
 
 Bitter was the story of Gilbert's trials for the next two 
 months. He tried every thing, and every effort brought its 
 hopes and disappointments. Beatrice, too, though she did not 
 tell him so, had her failures. She tried what her mother had 
 tried before her, teaching ; and less successful than Mrs. Gordon 
 had been, she did not get even the encouragement of temporary 
 success. At length one morning, and when attempt itself seemed 
 hopeless, she glanced over the advertisement sheet of the Times, 
 and saw the following paragraph : — 
 
 " Wanted, a lady to teach three yotong children (hoys) daily, 
 from twelve to three. She must he a first-rate musician and a 
 good Latin scholar." 
 
 " And I am both," thought Beatrice, with sparkling eyes. 
 
 " Do you see any thing, Gilbert?" she asked. 
 
 " No," he replied, with a despondent and wearied sigh ; 
 " nothing but situations wanted— there is nothing for me here.' 
 
 He leaned back in his chair, and he looked so careworn that 
 Beatrice's heart ached ; but she did not dare to speak ; if any 
 thing could make Gilbert lose that gentleness which was one of 
 his traits in domestic life, it was an allusion to his anxieties. 
 
BEATRICE. 473 
 
 "When these were touched upon, he became irritable and sharp. 
 So Beatrice had learned to hold her peace and pity him silently. 
 
 " You are going out/' she said, seeing him rise and take his 
 hat. 
 
 " What should I do at home? " was his short answer. 
 
 And he went, as was his daily habit, to seek for impossible 
 chances, and weary himself with fruitless exertions ; and he did 
 not ask his wife to kiss him and wish him good luck, and there 
 was no family gathering at the door before his going this time. 
 
 " Poor Gilbert ! " thought Beatrice. She looked again at 
 the advertisement in the Times, and taking down the name and 
 address it mentioned, she put on her bonnet and cloak and went 
 out at once. 
 
 The lady who wanted the first-rate musician and a good 
 Latin scholar lived in Hammersmith. Beatrice soon reached 
 the house. It stood in the centre of a terrace, and was fronted 
 by a good-sized garden. Beatrice rang the garden bell. The 
 house door opened, a footman came out, walked up the gravel 
 path, and stood by the gate, looking through the iron bars at 
 Beatrice outside. 
 
 " I come to answer an advertisement in the Times " she said, 
 feeling compelled to declare her errand. 
 
 .The footman, who had probably been taking his luncheon, 
 stared at her, picking his teeth. 
 
 " There's been such a lot of governesses," he said, with 
 another broad stare. 
 
 " Is the lady at home?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " No— she's out." 
 
 " Then I shall wait for her." 
 
 The footman stared again, but opened the door and let her 
 in. He showed her into a cold, vacant room on tljs ground 
 floor, and left her there. Beatrice had not been sitting long, 
 when the door opened and a tall lady in deep mourning entered 
 and sat down opposite her. A few minutes later a young girl, 
 timid and blushing, appeared ; then another, and another again. 
 They had all come on the same errand, and they soon entered 
 into a general conversation, which Beatrice, less accustomed than 
 they were to this life, found both sad and instructive. Poor 
 things, how loud and how bitter were their laments, what a pic- 
 ture they drew of situations, and mothers, and pupils ! 
 
 At length a carriage drove up to the gate. There was a rush 
 of children along the garden, up the steps, and a rustling of silk 
 in the hall ; then the door of the room where Beatrice and her 
 
474 BEATRICE. 
 
 companions were waiting opened, and a pleasant-looking woman 
 glanced in upon them. 
 
 " I am so sorry you have been waiting," she said ; " and in 
 this cold place, too. There is a fire in the next room." 
 
 So therp was, but the footman had been reading his paper 
 there. Beatrice was first. She accompanied the lady up-stairs, 
 and there her examination took place. It was minute and pro- 
 lix. Every thing was discussed, from the birth of the lady's last 
 child to Beatrice's method of teaching Latin. 
 
 " Mr. Green is very particular," said Mrs. Green, explan- 
 atorily ; " but I believe that when I tell him you undertake 
 Tacitus, he will be satisfied." 
 
 Beatrice hoped so too, and they came to terms. The lady 
 was a very pleasant lady, but she could drive a hard bargain. 
 She wanted three hours a day, first-rate music and good Latin, 
 all for fifteen shillings a week. 
 
 " That is very little," urged Beatrice. 
 
 "• Yes, but you live so near," quickly urged Mrs. Green. 
 
 The argument was unanswerable, especially as Beatrice 
 longed for the fifteen shillings. Mrs. Green promised to let her 
 have an answer soon, and on this agreement they parted. 
 
 " Three pounds a month," thought Beatrice, as she walked 
 home; "thirty-six pounds a year, and sixty pounds from the 
 rent of the house in Verville ; I wonder if, taking matters at the 
 worst, we could live upon that ? " 
 
 It was not impossible, but what a hard life was that ! What 
 a mere existence ! how unlike the gentle and happy days of Ver- 
 ville ! Gilbert came home late, as usual ; he came home gloomy 
 and dissatisfied too. He put away Charlie, who wanted to kiss 
 him, and had not a look for the twins. His wife gazed at him 
 in. wistful silence. Ah ! what a good thing for man was a little 
 ease, when its absence could so change one who was best among 
 the good ! 
 
 They sat down to dinner without speaking. The meal was 
 nearly over when Babet brought in a note which a footman had 
 left for madame. Beatrice opened it with a trembling hand. It 
 contained Mrs. Green's compliments, and the hope that Mrs. 
 Gervoise would be able to begin her teaching next Monday. 
 
 " From whom is that letter?" asked Gilbert. 
 
 She went round to him, and said coaxingly : 
 
 " Now you must not be cross, but I cannot help being 
 learned, can I?" 
 
 '• What is it? " persisted Gilbert, rather uneasy. 
 
BEATEICE. 4:Y5 
 
 " Why, a Mrs. Green, of Hammersmith, having heard of 
 my classical acquirements, has lured me into teaching her three 
 boys Latin. Here is her letter." 
 
 She handed him the note. He read it and returned it in 
 silence. 
 
 "Well, you are not vexed, are you?" she said a little anx- 
 iously. 
 
 " No, not vexed," he answered sadly ; " but I did not ex- 
 pect this when I married you," 
 
 " Gilbert, do not grudge me that I can do something. Have 
 I not been living on you all these years ? Is it such a hardship 
 to work? Besides, it so happens that this is woman's work 
 completely. Mrs. Green told me that she would have none but 
 a woman to teach her boys, and that woman must be married. 
 So you see, sir, you would never have had a chance of that 
 occupation." 
 
 Gilbert felt that she was right, and that he was WTong, but 
 for all that his pride smarted. He had married Beatrice think- 
 ing to give her a happy, peaceful life of ease and love, and now 
 he was compelled to live in idleness, whilst she went out to work, 
 and earn fifteen shillings a week. 
 
 But joyously Beatrice went forth when the time came. 
 Pleasant to her was the task of teaching, and pleasant, too, she 
 found it to earn money and spare what still remained — she shud- 
 dered sometimes to think how little it was— of their store. She 
 felt well and strong ; the children, too, throve under Babet's care, 
 and she would have been content and hopeful but for Gilbert. 
 He looked so pale, so worn, so haggard ! She long kept her 
 anxiety to herself, but Babet having broached the subject one 
 afternoon, Beatrice spoke freely. 
 
 " Monsieur does not look well," said Babet, solemnly. " I did 
 not like to mention it to Madame, but he does not look well." 
 
 " You do not think him ill, do you, Babet? " anxiously asked 
 Beatrice. 
 
 "I do not think him well, " rejoined Babet ; "he is sallow, 
 and he used to be fresh as a rose ; his eyes are dull and 
 sunken, and I need not tell Madame how bright they were ; then 
 as to his figure, I am sure that if one were to measure him round 
 the waist one would find that he has lost two inches at least." 
 
 This diagnosis, which would have made Beatrice smile at 
 another time, now filled her with trouble and grief. 
 
 " He is thin, Babet," she said, " and worn, and out of health. 
 He doe 3 not sleep well, and he eats— " 
 
4:76 BEATRICE. 
 
 " Like a bird," said Babet, " and formerly he used to eat like 
 a wolf. My opinion," added this Job's comforter, " is that he is 
 wasting a^vay." 
 
 "How dare you tell me that?" cried her mistress, turning 
 upon her with flashing eyes, and then bursting into passionate 
 tears, she threw herself on the sofa in an agony of grief. 
 
 Before Babet could utter a word of explanation or comfort, 
 the parlour door opened, and Gilbert, whom Charlie had let in, 
 entered the room. 
 
 "Beatrice, what is the matter?" he cried, and in a second 
 he was by her. "What has happened? The children — " he 
 looked round with an alarmed glance for the twins. 
 
 " They are all right," said Babet, " and so is Madame ; but, 
 like a fool, I have frightened her about Monsieur." 
 . "About me, Babet?" 
 
 Beatrice looked up and tried to smile. 
 
 " We have been frightening ourselves about you," she said. 
 " You look so worn, so thin, so wearied, Gilbert." 
 
 " Nonsense, I feel quite well, and very hungry too ; so please, 
 Babet, let us have some dinner. And so that foolish Babet has 
 been alarming you?" he said, when Babet was gone. 
 
 " Gilbert, she only gave my thoughts words, and I found that 
 I could not bear to hear them spoken. You are sadly altered of 
 late, and the mere thought that any thing could happen to you, 
 that you are liable to illness like another, is too much for me." , 
 
 " In short, Beatrice, I am mortal." 
 
 " Yes, that is it," she said sadly. " I cannot bear you to be, 
 as you say, mortal ? " 
 
 " Well, we will not think of that just now," he replied gaily. 
 " I bring news." 
 
 " Do you, Gilbert?" she replied, sitting up, and trying to re- 
 gain her lost composure. 
 
 "Yes, and good news, too ; so be prepared." 
 
 " I am quite prepared," she said calmly. 
 
 " Well, I met Mr. Balfour a week ago." 
 
 " He is come back ! " she cried. 
 
 " He is ; and I would not tell you, lest I should give you 
 hopes which might never be fulfilled. He got ill in the East, 
 and came back to England out of health. He was full of his 
 ailments, and talked about them at length. Of course he was un- 
 der medical advice, and I should not have spoken, but I happened 
 to make a suggestion, and this suggestion he acted upon, and 
 most fortunately it proved successful. So when I called upon 
 
BEATRICE. 4YT 
 
 him to-day, thinking to get him to assist me in my endeavours, 
 what do you think he proposed to me ? " 
 
 " To attend upon him? " 
 
 " To become his physician at a fixed salary. "We have not 
 mentioned terms yet, but I understand they will be handsome. 
 What do you say to that ? " 
 
 " I say, Gilbert, that if you can have rest and peace of mind, 
 and become yourself once more, I shall be so happy, that I shall 
 want for nothing else." 
 
 " And you will give up teaching Latin? " 
 
 " Mrs. Green talks of going out of town — I shall wait till 
 then. Wliere does Mr. Balfour live?" 
 
 " Oh ! he travels — that is the only drawback." 
 
 " Never mind me," quickly said Beatrice ; " you will like 
 travelling, and it will do you good ; never mind me." 
 
 Her ready and generous acquiescence took a weight off her 
 husband's mind. He knew how passionately she loved him, and 
 he could appreciate the disinterestedness of this speedy consent. 
 She loved him so well that his pleasure and convenience and 
 comfort went far and ever beyond her own. What a warm, 
 fond, and true heart she had, what a gentle and yet noble Bea- 
 trice was this, when he compared her with the girlish Beatrice 
 who was, however, so charming in her way. After awhile she 
 asked if Mr. Balfour took long journeys. 
 
 " No ; he told me himself that he could never remain long 
 away from London. He leaves it suddenly, and returns sud- 
 denly. I shall come in upon you when you least expect me." 
 
 Dinner put an end to the conversation, and when the meal 
 was over, Gilbert asked for the children, who dined early and 
 alone. Presently the parlour door opened, and Charlie came in, 
 and behind him came the twins in Babet's arms, their two rosy 
 faces shining on either side of Babet's withered and brown visage. 
 Their father took them and put one on each knee. If there was 
 a weak spot in his heart, it was for these, his blue-eyed little 
 daughters, both as like him as they were like each other. Ten- 
 derly he looked down at them, thinking how he would save and 
 provide for them, and smooth every thing away from their path ; 
 and whilst he thought thus, Charlie, standing between his father's 
 legs, looked gravely from him to his sisters, and Beatrice, sitting 
 a little behind her husband, looked down at the three children 
 over his shoulder, and thinking of the new, calm future opening 
 before them, felt very happy. 
 
 " God bless Mr. Balfour, Gilbert ! " she said softly. 
 
478 BEATRICE. 
 
 He looked round at her and smiled. 
 
 " And why not God bless me ? " he asked. 
 
 Ah ! if blessings from heaven came down at the prayer of a 
 fond heart, what husband and father would have been more blest 
 than Mr. Gervoise's eldest son ? 
 
CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 Babet was in her second sleep when a voice in her ear roused 
 her suddenly — 
 
 " Babet ! Babet ! " it said, " waken, get up ! " 
 
 Babet awoke with' a start, and sat up rubbing her eyes. Her 
 mistress stood near her bed with a light in her hand. 
 
 " Your master is ill, Babet," she said ; "get up and fetch a 
 doctor!" 
 
 The idea of fetching a doctor for Monsieur was folly in 
 Babet's eyes, and she tried to convince Beatrice of the fact. 
 
 " Babet, get up, I say ! " interrupted Beatrice. " I tell you he 
 is ill, and unable to prescribe for himself ! Go for the doctor in 
 the next street ! " 
 
 "I knew he was wasting away," dolefully said Babet; " I 
 told you so." 
 
 "Babet, you will waken the children," very calmly remarked 
 Beatrice. She felt as she looked, very calm, ready to act, pre- 
 pared for every thing, and able and willing to postpone grief until 
 the time when action would have ceased to be available. 
 
 She had wakened toward four, and found Gilbert very ill in- 
 deed ; he would not tell her how ill he really was, because he 
 would not alarm her ; but she saw it, and at once she got up, and 
 roused Babet. And Babet, convinced at length that her master 
 needed medical assistance, got up, dressed with all speed, went 
 out, and soon came back with the nearest chemist. 
 
 " I should have gone myself," thought Beatrice, on learning 
 what she had done ; " what knowledge or experience can this 
 man have ? " But unwilling to hurt any one's feelings, she al- 
 lowed him to enter Gilbert's room. 
 
 " You will find," she began, then stopped short : it was Doc- 
 tor Rogerson who stood before her ! They exchanged amazed 
 looks. Was this the mistress of Camoosie ? Was that chemist 
 who kept a shop the man who formerly wrote an M. D. to his 
 name ? Truly Mr. Gervoise had conquered and humbled them 
 
480 BEATRICE. 
 
 both. He had plundered one of her inheritance, he had driven 
 the other from his home, a disgraced man. Beatrice recovered 
 first. 
 
 " You will find my husband very unwell," she said ; and to 
 Gilbert she added, " This is Doctor Rogerson." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson, though he called himself Mr. Rogerson 
 now, drew near the sick-bed. His looks told Beatrice that her 
 husband was very ill. His hesitating language confirmed it when 
 she followed him down-stairs. 
 
 " We will get him round," he said, trying to speak cheerfully, 
 " we will get him round, but it will take time." 
 
 Mechanically Beatrice saw him out, and stood at the cottage 
 door as he walked away. The morning was fresh, dawn was 
 breaking in the sky, the stars were going out one by one, the 
 street was very quiet, garden trees rose dark and still against 
 sleeping houses. Beatrice shut the door on that calm picture, 
 and entered the parlour to collect her thoughts. She saw, by the 
 light she had left burning on the table, the chair in which her 
 husband had been sitting a few hours before with their children 
 around him. She remembered the fulness of happiness which 
 there had been in her heart, and, falling down on her knees, she 
 clasped her hands and prayed passionately, almost desperately ; 
 for in the anguish of that hour she felt as if the blessing she had 
 called down had turned into a curse. It had seemed impossible 
 to Beatrice that her husband should die, therefore was she spared 
 the anguish of that fear, but every other she endured. Doctor 
 Rogerson gave her hope, but he clogged hope with dire condi- 
 tions. Rest, change of scene, a mild climate, would secure Gil- 
 bert's final recovery. " He shall have them," said Beatrice, 
 almost passionately; "he shall. Doctor Rogerson! He must 
 live ! " 
 
 Doctor Rogerson's lip quivered. His wife, unable to bear up 
 under the weight of their troubles, had been dead six months ; 
 his eldest daughter was in a decline, and had he been able to save 
 one, could he save the other ? Was he not weighed down with 
 shame and anxiety and care ? Had not Mr. Gervoise ruined his 
 name and hunted him out of Carnoosie with the cruel power of 
 the strong, and where was the remedy for it all ? 
 
 Beatrice left him with despair in her heart. Oh ! money, you 
 can buy life, and she who was rich once had never known it. You 
 can give health and peace and happiness, and she learned it now 
 that you had left her grasp for ever. She hated herself for hav- 
 ing married him and dragged him down, for having, in her reck- 
 
BEATRICE. 481 
 
 less pride, scorned that compromise whicli, if she had accepted 
 it, might have saved Gilbert. Ah ! what did she care about her 
 pride now ? A hundred times she would have laid it under Mr. 
 Gervoise's feet, to save the life of his son. 
 
 Two days after this Beatrice, after being out a long time, 
 came in toward evening. Gilbert, though still weak and laii- 
 guid, had got up, and was sitting near the parlour window 
 reading. , 
 
 " How flushed you are ! " he said ; " Beatrice, you must give 
 up teaching those boys." 
 
 She did not answer. She could not tell him that Mrs. 
 Green was gone. 
 
 " You must teach no children but our own," continued Gil- 
 bert. " You shall lead a quiet, happy, and domestic life ; and as 
 I am jealous, you shall not stir whilst I am travelling with Mr. 
 Balfour. I shall set Babet as a Duenna over you, and woe betide 
 you if her account is not such as I like ! " 
 
 How ill-timed often is the jest of the being we most love ! 
 how often it jars with some secret mood of sadness we conceal in 
 very tenderness from that fond gaze ! Beatrice tried to laugh, 
 but she could not repress a nervous thrill, and her husband, 
 whose hands clasped hers, detected it at once. He guessed she 
 was hiding something from him, and on that suspicion he acted. 
 
 " I wonder Mr. Balfour has not called upon me lately," he 
 said. 
 
 '' He is out of town," quickly replied Beatrice. 
 
 " Beatrice, Mr. Balfour is gone ? " 
 
 " Yes," she stammered, " he is," 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Very far, Gilbert." 
 
 " Beatrice — ^Mr. Balfour is dead ! " 
 
 She turned very pale and looked frightened, but she could 
 not deny it. Mr. Balfour was dead ; he had left town a fort- 
 night before, and died almost suddenly on his arrival in Scotland. 
 
 " Poor man ! " said Gilbert, after awhile, " I am afraid his 
 complaint was not understood. Who knows if I could not have 
 saved him ? And so you would not tell me ! " he said, after 
 awhile. " Well, this is a blow, Beatrice ; but as soon as I get 
 well I shall bestir myself — with success, I hope." 
 
 " Gilbert, you want rest — and rest you must have. Mr. Bal- 
 four is dead, but there are other means. I have written to An- 
 tony's solicitor, and though his reply is niggardly and cruel, still 
 21 
 
482 BEATEICE. 
 
 it is something ; if I will waive all future right to Carnoosie, he 
 will settle a hundred a year upon me." 
 
 Gilbert was silent. He was much affected ; he knew as well 
 as Doctor Rogerson his real state, and he knew for whose sake 
 Beatrice humbled her pride. 
 
 " Have you accepted? " he asked. 
 
 " I would not without your knowledge, Grilbert." 
 
 " Poor Beatrice ! " he said at length ; "a sick husband and 
 three children ! Oh ! why was I so selfish ? " 
 
 " Alas ! why was I selfish?" she said, clasping her hands on 
 her knees. " Why did I come and burden you, a poor man, with 
 a poorer wife and a family ? Gilbert, Elizabeth said that every 
 woe of her life was called Mary Stuart ; surely you may say that 
 every woe of your life is called Beatrice Gordon ! " 
 
 " Hush ! " he interrupted ; " we are not wise either of us. 
 God joined us, and it is well. Let us not repent or murmur." 
 
 " Gilbert, what answer shall I give ? " 
 
 " Beatrice, you must decline. You have no right, for our 
 present convenience, to alienate the chance of such an inheritance 
 from our children. Let them never say that their parents were 
 cold or selfish in their love." 
 
 Without a word of demurring, Beatrice at once wrote and sent 
 her refusal. And yet how much money was there then between 
 them and utter want ? Gilbert did not ask, and his wife did not 
 dare to tell him. And now began the real bitterness of their lot. 
 Gilbert was hardly able to go about again when he found and 
 accepted some work, ^ome wretchedly paid task, that needed all 
 his time and all his strength. He slaved at it until he had a re- 
 lapse, and could not go on ; then he got well again, and worked 
 once more ; then came another relapse. And so weeks wore on, 
 and Beatrice felt that to see him wasting life and strength away 
 in this fearful struggle was more than she could bear. 
 
 She told him so one evening when he came in suddenly and 
 found her in tears. 
 
 " Beatrice, what is it? " he asked. 
 
 " Gilbert, I cannot bear it ! " she sobbed. " You are killing 
 yourself, and I cannot bear it ! " 
 
 She clasped her arms around him, and cried on his shoulder 
 as if her heart would break. Poor Gilbert heaved a deep sigh. 
 He tried to comfort her, and he could not. He was killing him- 
 self, and he kn^w it ; he was hastening on the fearful day when 
 Beatrice would be left a widow, with three young children, and 
 he could not help it. The pitiless present would go and meet 
 
BEATRICE. 483 
 
 that terrible future which would assuredly devour it, and Gilbert 
 was helpless and powerless. 
 
 " Beatrice," he said, at length, " this is a trying time, but we 
 must bear it ; think how happy we have been ! I do not know, 
 Beatrice, if ever man felt more perfect happiness than I felt on 
 the day when I brought you home to Verville. You entered my 
 house sad and depressed, wrecked in health and broken in spirit, 
 and before sunset you were bright and gay and loving. Beatrice, 
 we have been very happy ; beyond the lot of most. There has 
 never been a cloud between us. We did not waken out of love 
 into indifference or hate, but through every trial we have loved 
 on, a great and, alas ! a rare blessing. We have children, too, 
 healthy, handsome, and, it seems to me, good. For all that hap- 
 piness we must pay now ; let us not grudge Heaven the price ! " 
 
 Beatrice did not answer, but she shuddered as she thought 
 that the price might be her husband's. life 
 
CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 Whilst poverty, sorrow, and sickness were with his eldest 
 son, Mr. Grervoise enjoyed life in Carnoosie. His health was 
 perfect, and health is to the body what an easy conscience is to 
 the mind. An easy conscience Mr. Gervoise also enjoyed. He 
 was far too wise to let his little misdeeds press upon it ; he for- 
 gave himself with the moslf amiable leniency, or rather he looked 
 hard and fast at his sins, and he defied them. 
 
 Both Mr. Gervoise and his younger son had taken Rosy's 
 flight very quietly. It was provoking that she had not made her 
 will before running away, but she did not trouble them for ali- 
 mony, or interfere with their enjoyment of her property ; and she 
 was young and would live long, and they were satisfied — Mr. 
 Gervoise especially. 
 
 And now we must note a change in the man. When the boa- 
 constrictor has swallowed his goat, or despatched his couple of 
 rabbits, he sinks into sluggish sleep. Some such torpor seemed 
 to have overtaken Mr. Gervoise. He was getting alarmingly 
 stout in body, and inert and lazy in mind. His triumph over 
 Beatrice had been his last great battle, and seemed to have ex- 
 hausted both his wiles and his energy. Monsieiu* Panel's cookery 
 acquired greater charms daily, and Beatrice's cellar, which still 
 yielded exquisite Chateau Margaux, was ever more and more 
 prized by Beatrice's conqueror. With alarming rapidity he sank 
 into the sensual delights of his ill-gotten wealth. The pictures 
 themselves lost some of their beauty in his eyes. To sit and eat, 
 or to sit and sleep, was almost the only variety in Mr. Gervoise's 
 daily life. 
 
 Antony's life was not less sensual ; but he was still a young 
 man, and his sensuality, which had ever been coarser than his 
 father's, was also more energetic. He ate less, but he drank 
 more than Mr. Gervoise. He kept his hounds and his horses, 
 he shot and he hunted, he patronized the ring and betted at races, 
 but even his companions could not be called his associates, much 
 
BEATRICE. 485 
 
 less his friends. Men kept aloof from him ; and Antony, who 
 was not thirty, had no society save his father's or that of his ser- 
 vants. The sense of his social and mental degradation, which 
 had never been keen, got blunted with time, and he looked on 
 this coarse animal life as embodying every enjoyment existence 
 was meant to confer. 
 
 To the promising household over which ruled these two a 
 visitor came, however, in the early part of the winter which 
 opened so gloomily for Gilbert and his wife. Antony entered 
 his father's study one morning and found Mr. Gervoise inditing 
 a letter. He bluntly asked to whom he was writing. 
 
 " My dear boy," aifectionately replied Mr. Gervoise, " I am 
 writing to Miss Jameson. I am asking her to come to Carnoo- 
 sie. I learned yesterday, by the merest chance, that she has 
 come in to twenty thousand pounds, and I think it only right to 
 give her some advice concerning the management of her money. 
 Women do not understand these matters." 
 
 Antony whistled. 
 
 " I say, don't marry her though ! " he said. 
 
 "Why not?" mildly rejoined his father. "Miss Jameson 
 could not do better than marry me, and I might do worse than 
 marry her." 
 
 Antony thrust his hands into his pockets and walked away 
 chuckling ; Mr. Gervoise dipped his pen into his bronze inkstand 
 and resumed his Avriting. 
 
 His sleeping intellect had suddenly wakened. A new fly can 
 tempt even the gorged spider, and Mr. Gervoise was not the man 
 to let twenty thousand pounds escape him without making an 
 effort to secure them. Two plans had at once occurred to him. 
 The simplest was to marry Miss Jameson, the most complex was 
 to induce Miss Jameson to come and live with him, and let him 
 manage for her those money matters which are so apt to perplex 
 female minds ; but either plan was to appropriate her money. 
 There was, we are sorry to say it, no variety in Mr. Gervoise's 
 schemes. The fertility of his invention was rather displayed in 
 the minute detail than in the general scope of his undertakings. 
 His handsome person had first suggested the victims he should 
 select. Rich women he found answered his purpose, and to rich 
 women he kept. Simplicity after all is the test of genius, and 
 simplicity had marked the plans which had enabled Mr. Ger- 
 voise to live in Carnoosie for nearly twenty years undisturbed. 
 
 His present tenure of Carnoosie, however, was tinged with 
 uncertainty, and the vision of Miss Jameson's twenty thousand 
 
486 BEATRICE. 
 
 pounds was very attractive. Why not marry her, sink the money 
 at ten per cent., and enjoy his two thousand a year, exclusive of 
 his other little pickings ? 
 
 These considerations dictated the cordial letter of invitation 
 which Miss Jameson promptly accepted, and which brought her 
 to the gates of Carnoosie two days after it had been written by 
 Mr. Gervoise. To do her justice, the poor lady had no suspicion 
 that she was coming to a bachelor's establishment ; and when 
 Mr. Gervoise came out to meet her, and, in answer to her in- 
 quiries, coolly said that his daughter-in-law was not at home, she 
 saw, but saw in vain, the trap into which she had fallen. 
 
 "Dear me!" she stammered, "I had no suspicion — I did 
 not imagine — that you were alone." 
 
 Her impulse was evidently to reenter the carriage that had 
 brought her, but Mr. Gervoise gave her no time to do so ; mildly, 
 but most tenaciously, did he take hold of her arm and lead her 
 into the house. Once she was in, he knew he was sure of her. 
 
 Dinner was ready, and Antony, grave and decorous — ^he had 
 received his lesson, and it amused him to follow it out — charmed 
 Miss Jameson by the gentlemanlike courtesy of his demeanour. 
 But Mr. Gervoise was irresistible. His fine, grand manners had 
 all come back to him, and once more exercised their charm over 
 a female heart. Then the grandeur of Carnoosie. Ever since 
 she had been expelled from that paradise Miss Jameson had 
 sighed over and deplored her lot. Never had she found again 
 those lofty rooms, so calm and so stately ; those silent, decorous 
 servants, those wide grounds, so shady and so lovely ; never 
 especially had she found the dishes of that matchless Panel, whose 
 genius only ripened with age, and, rare privilege, never lost the 
 exuberance of youth. Oh ! to live and die in a house like this ! 
 Mr. Gervoise saw at a glance that the battle was won ; but he 
 liked to linger over the pleasure of victory, so he did not speak 
 until the third morning. The interval he kindly employed in 
 giving Miss Jameson some of that advice which her altered cir- 
 cumstances required ; but on the third morning, as we said, he 
 spoke. Miss Jameson gave him the opportunity by talking of 
 her departure. 
 
 " Go ! You cannot think of going ! " said Mr. Gervoise, with 
 a melancholy start. " Oh ! Miss Jameson, don't forsake me ! " 
 
 Miss Jameson blushed, and murmured something about Mr. 
 Gervoise's kindness. 
 
 "I am not kind," said Mr. Gervoise, " but I cannot live 
 without woman. I cannot, Miss Jameson. I have been a lost 
 
BEATEICE. 487 
 
 man since my dear wife's death. My step-daughter's ingratitude 
 nearly broke my heart ; and ever since dear little Rosy left us I 
 have felt bewildered. Dear -Miss Jameson, I wish you would 
 stay." 
 
 " But, Mr. Gervoise, how can I stay?" said Miss Jameson, 
 with some emotion. " No lady in the house — I never thought 
 to find myself so situated." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise hesitated. 
 
 If he could only get hold of Miss Jameson's money without 
 marrying Miss Jameson ! But reflection, sure though brief, 
 showed him this could not be ; so he composedly said : 
 
 " How can you stay ? Why, as my wife, of course ! " 
 
 Miss Jameson was not exactly taken by surprise ; and yet 
 the abrupt declaration seemed to amaze her. Mr. Gervoise 
 could not mean it, he must be jesting. 
 
 Jesting with a lady, and on such a subject ! Mr. Gervoise 
 looked almost offended. Miss Jameson's ancient awe of him 
 returned, and she stammered out an apology. Mr. Gervoise 
 begged her not to mention it, but asked to be favoured with a 
 reply. 
 
 The same impulse which had made Miss Jameson long to 
 reenter the carriage three days before, prompted her to say 
 " no ;" and the same weakness which had made her reenter Car- 
 noosie now made her say " yes." 
 
 Do not think she was quite deceived ; she was not so foolish 
 or so blind as not to know the source of Mr. Gervoise's sudden 
 affection ; but vanity is an insatiable passion, and Miss Jameson's, 
 though stinted her whole life long, had never been starved out. 
 In youth it had fed on hollow admiration, and then it had been 
 so cunningly blended with the natural longing for affection, that 
 few could have detected its presence in Miss Jameson. But 
 later, when the blight fell on her life — when first love proved 
 false and second love never came to comfort and atone — when 
 Miss Jameson saw youth, and her share of beauty, melting away 
 for ever in the pitiless crucible of time — when she felt herself 
 neglected, slighted, laughed at by the young and the insolent — 
 when to read novels was to dream of what might have been, and 
 to know what would never come to pass — then the serpent vanity 
 stung her sluggish nature, and almost roused it to active wicked- 
 ness. Then, all longing for tenderness and love being over. Miss 
 Jameson acquired a sordid longing for marriage, for ample means 
 and a home to suit. Then, when her twenty thousand pounds 
 came to her, she trembled with joy to think she could purchase 
 
488 BEATRICE. 
 
 what her youth and beauty had failed to get. To look for a 
 husband and to drive a good bargain became Miss Jameson's 
 secret aim ; and it flattered her vanity to find that she had not 
 even the trouble of looking. Love, marriage, Carnoosie, were 
 laid at her feet. The house where she had been silently hated 
 by Mrs. Gervoise, and openly scorned by Beatrice, would now 
 become her home, and call her all but mistress. 
 
 The price at which these privileges were bought, the uncer- 
 tain tenure on which they were held. Miss Jameson would not 
 see. Voluntarily she closed her eyes and rushed upon her fate. 
 Mrs. Gervoise would not know it in her grave, but Beatrice 
 would learn, in her humiliation and her poverty, that the poor 
 governess whom she had so often humbled now filled her mother's 
 place, and enjoyed the home of which she had once been mistress. 
 
 " My dear love," said Mr. Gervoise, becoming conjugal with 
 all speed, " I am sure you will agree with me that the matter 
 cannot be settled too speedily." 
 
 Miss Jameson thought so too ; she was candid enough to 
 raise no objection ; so a prompt and private marriage was agreed 
 upon. It was to be followed by a brief excursion to the Isle of 
 Wight, whence the happy pair were to return to Carnoosie. The 
 privacy of the ceremony rather darkened the glory of becoming 
 Mrs. Gervoise in Miss Jameson's eyes ; but her future husband 
 gave her so many excellent reasons for avoiding publicity, that 
 she yielded, though somewhat reluctantly. 
 
 Antony, with kind regard for his father's love matters, kept 
 oiit of the way as much as he could ; so Mr. Gervoise's courtship 
 went on admirably, until two days only separated him from the 
 fourth happiest day of his life ; and then, so perverse is fate, there 
 came a hitch, and the golden prize which he had nearly grasped 
 escaped him for ever. 
 
 It occurred thus : 
 
 Antony, his father, and the future bride were taking tea, 
 when a letter was brought for Miss Jameson. A look told Mr. 
 Gervoise that this blue foolscap envelope contained business in 
 its folds, and, with the rapid intuition of genius, he smilingly re- 
 quested her to read it, to stand upon no ceremony. 
 
 Miss Jameson, who knew the writing of her solicitor, put 
 down her half-tasted cup of tea, and tearing open the envelope, 
 read its contents. They were brief, yet she read them twice 
 over, then she turned ghastly pale, stared at Mr. Gervoise, and 
 sank back in her chair in a fainting fit. Antony's hand was ex- 
 tended to ring the bell, but his father prevented him. 
 
BEATRICE. 489 
 
 " Wait," he said quietly ; and taking from Miss Jameson's 
 inert hand the letter, he read — 
 
 " Dear Madam, 
 
 "• I regret to inform you that Messrs. Luke and 
 Son, in whose hands, contrary to my advice, as you may remem- 
 ber, you left your £20,000, have stopped payment. 
 
 " Yours obediently, 
 
 "James Didson." 
 
 In a moment Mr. Gervoise's course lay clear before him. 
 Most affectionately he poured some cold water on Miss Jame- 
 son's face, clapped her on the back, and succeeded in restoring 
 her to consciousness. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. G-ervoise ! " she cried. 
 
 " What is it?" he asked, " you alarm me." 
 
 " My bankers have stopped payment ! " gasped Miss Jameson. 
 
 " Dear me ! that is very bad, very bad ; but where's the use 
 ol* fretting ? Who were your bankers, Miss Jameson ? " and he 
 patted her hand tenderly. 
 
 " Luke and Son," she replied, gathering courage at his kind- 
 ness. 
 
 " Luke and Son ! " Mr. Gervoise looked thunderstruck. 
 " Luke and gon," he repeated. " Did you say Luke and Son ? " 
 
 " Yes," was her faint reply. 
 
 " Then I am a beggar ! " cried Mr. Gervoise ; " every penny 
 I had was in their hands. My dear boy," turning to Antony, 
 " your father is a beggar in his old age ! " 
 
 Miss Jameson sat up and looked at the two men. She did 
 not believe a word of it, she did not ; she knew it was a lie, a 
 bold, bad lie, to cast her away remorselessly ; and though not a 
 violent woman, she set her teeth, and clenched her hands, not to 
 cry out in the vehemence of her rage and despair at such treat- 
 ment. But the sense of her powerlessness overcame her weak 
 anger. She was helpless, poor, and once more thrown upon life. 
 She burst into piteous tears, not one of which softened Mr. Ger- 
 voise from his purpose. He rang the bell and ordered the car- 
 riage. 
 
 " This is dreadful ! " he said ; " but you must be strong for 
 us both, dear Miss Jameson. I am too much overcome to act. 
 I rely on your superior sense. You must go to town at once, 
 and sift this frightful matter to the bottom. Mind you write to 
 me by every post. I shall join you as soon as I have recovered 
 the first severity of the blow." 
 21* 
 
490 BEATEICE. 
 
 Sullen and silent Miss Jameson heard him. She could not 
 realize the double calamity — the loss of the money and his inso- 
 lent abandonment ; but Mr. Gervoise gave her no time to re- 
 cover. He became ubiquitous in his anxiety to despatch her. 
 He helped the servants to bundle her things into her trunk ; he 
 put on her cloak, and all but tied her bonnet strings ; he took 
 ' her arm, and made her rise from the chair and led her out of 
 the house, and gently, but most determinedly, propelled her into 
 the carriage. When she was there, Miss Jameson turned her 
 ghastly face toward him. It was older by ten years than when 
 she had entered Carnoosie, and there was something fearful in 
 its mingled rage and despair. 
 
 " Mr. Gervoise," she said, " your baseness and your treach- 
 ery will get their reward some day." 
 
 She pulled up the glass ; Mr. Gervoise had heard her with 
 unmoved serenity, standing before her bareheaded and courteous, 
 and when choking with rage she ceased and leaned back in the 
 carriage, he made her his very grandest bow, and still stood po- 
 lite and calm as the carriage drove off, bearing away Miss 
 Jameson and her wrongs, and her useless resentment. 
 
 These grand ways were natural to Mr. Gervoise. He could 
 have murdered politely, even as, when there was need to do so, 
 he could fawn with all the dignity and the stateliness in the 
 world. Moreover, he was accustomed to such weak and foolish 
 menaces. Had not all his victims, from Beatrice to Rosy down- 
 wards, threatened him with retribution, and what had it come 
 to ? Therefore, perhaps, could he remain unmoved and calm, 
 whatever was said and whatever happened. Nature had given 
 him a fine person and a temper of aristocratic repose. They 
 who hated and despised him felt it as well as his merest dupes. 
 Mr. Gervoise could lie, cheat, and plunder with the serenity of 
 innocence. Falsehood fell from his lips as easily as truth flows 
 from the lips of the just man. He was polished and ruthless as 
 a steel blade. He could be insolent, too, when insolence served 
 his turn ; and there were few moods he could not take up, and 
 few deeds he could not perform, with this grand serenity. He 
 could dismiss a maid of all work and cheat her of her wages, 
 or rob an heiress of her patrimony, with the same splendid equa- 
 nimity ; take cent, per cent, from a half ruined wretch, or drive 
 a hard bargain with his own son ; claim a stray tablecloth as his 
 property, or refuse to pay his debts — all with equal composure. 
 
 He was born so, and so he had pursued his course through 
 life, cheating, robbing, deceiving, and conquering all who came 
 
BEATRICE. 491 
 
 within his reach, knowing neither anger, nor pity, nor weakness, 
 never swerving from the aim in view, even though his path were 
 strewn with human lives and tears ; doubling back but to take 
 a surer spring, submitting to seeming defeat the better to pre- 
 vail in the end, perverse and false to the heart's core, yet in his 
 very falsehood and perversity making a sort of grand whole, a 
 moral completeness of a deeply bad man. 
 
 Unmoved by his parting with Miss Jameson, he now turned 
 to the house. In the hall he found Antony grinning. 
 
 " You have had an escape, though ! " said the young man. 
 
 " Do not mention it," replied his father, shuddering. 
 
 And whilst Mr. Gervoise rejoiced at his escape, Miss Jame- 
 son felt in a frightful nightmare. It seemed a hideous dream to 
 have been rich, and to be penniless, and all within a few hours. 
 The independence, the married life, the Carnoosie state, were all 
 over at one fell blow, and in their stead appeared the dreary life 
 of toil and humiliation, which is hard in youth, but more than 
 bitter in age. 
 
 A train had just come in when Miss Jameson reached the 
 station. As she was entering the waiting-room she saw a neat 
 little gentleman in black, in whom she recognized her solicitor, 
 Mr. Didson. He was passing by her when she stopped him. 
 
 " You want me," she said eagerly ; " here I am, Mr. Didson 
 — wha1» news ? " 
 
 Mr. Didson stared. His letter had been forwarded from 
 Miss Jameson's town residence, and she was the last person he 
 expected to find near Carnoosie. 
 
 " News ! what news. Miss Jameson?" 
 
 " About Luke & Co." 
 
 " Ah ! you know I advised you against them." 
 
 " Then I am penniless," she moaned. 
 
 " Very sad, but they will give something in the pound. Seven 
 or eight shillings, I believe." 
 
 Miss Jameson revived. Her loss was severe, but not com- 
 plete. It was no longer a thousand a year, but it was still in- 
 dependence. 
 
 "Are you sure of it?" she asked, trembling with anxious 
 hope. 
 
 " Oh ! dear no, how should I be sure of it? — ^but there will 
 be something — I am sure of that." 
 
 Certainty thus qualified made Miss Jameson's heart sink. 
 
 " I believe you know Mr. Gervoise," said Mr. Didson, " can 
 you tell me if he is at Carnoosie?" 
 
492 BEATEICE. 
 
 " Yes, I have just left his house. Are you going there?" 
 
 " Just so. I mean the son, you know." 
 
 Miss Jameson looked at him eagerly. 
 
 " They are both at home," she said ; " what do you want with 
 them?" 
 
 " Business," replied Mr. Didson. 
 
 "Is it an execution?" she whispered ; "lean tell you all 
 about the plate and the pictures — don't give them time to hide or 
 take away — there is nothing they will not do." 
 
 " It is not exactly an execution," replied Mr. Didson, without 
 taking offence at the supposition, " but I do not mind knowing 
 about those little things." 
 
 Eagerly Miss Jameson began telling him all she knew, and 
 her memory was both pitiless and accurate, and very composedly 
 Mr. Didson took notes of all she told him. 
 
 " I am afraid I have made you lose the train," he said when 
 he had done. 
 
 " Oh ! never mind that," replied Miss Jameson, significantly, 
 " only please, if you find an opportunity, do tell Mr. Gervoise 
 what I have done for him." 
 
 " I shall not fail doing so," replied Mr. Didson, shrewdly. 
 " Good morning, Miss Jameson." 
 
 He went on his way, and Miss Jameson sat down in the 
 waiting-room, glad to think that trouble was coming to her enemy, 
 and that she had helped to add a new thorn to his lot. 
 
CHAPTER LX. 
 
 The morning of Miss Jameson's departure was one of bril- 
 liant frost, and Mr. Gervoise, who was chilly, enjoyed his fire 
 and his paper in his study. Now and then he raised his eyes 
 from the columns of the Times, to look at the blazing logs, or to 
 glance at the bright though cold landscape without. Through 
 the nearest window he could see the sparkling icicles of one of 
 the four fountains, a corner of the flower garden hoar with the 
 night's frost, the tall evergreens which skirted the grounds of 
 Carnoosie, so that verdure should ever meet the eye, whatever 
 might be the season of the year, and, above all these, a sharp 
 blue sky, and Mr. Gervoise enjoyed them all ; the newspaper, 
 with its stories of disasters, from which he was safe — the bitter 
 cold, of which not a breath reached him — ^the warm, luxurious 
 room, with its thick carpet and heavy curtains — the bright fire 
 with its blazing heat. 
 
 Ever since the days of Lucretius there have been men who 
 have found it pleasant to contrast their own safety on shore with 
 the despair and woe of the shipwrecked wretch at sea. We do 
 not know if Mr. Gervoise had read the Roman poet, nor yet, if 
 having read him, he put the right construction on the famous 
 passage ; but this we know, that, as he sat there reading, looking, 
 and enjoying, the remembrance of his insolent success filled him 
 with sensuous pleasure, and that he hugged himself, not so much 
 in a vindictive as in a selfish spirit, when he thought of the de- 
 feats of his tools or of his victims. An old man who had fretted 
 his foolish life away was sleeping in the cold damp vaults of Car- 
 noosie Church ; let him, he had died to make room for Mr. Ger- 
 voise ; two men had been struck out of his path — ^let them, they 
 were in the way ; a haughty woman was eating her own heart in 
 poverty and grief, let her ; it was for Mr. Gervoise that her in- 
 heritance had been wrested from her. A father had gone down 
 to his grave and left his child a helpless orphan ; let him, if he had 
 lived he would have been dangerous. A poor young wife was a 
 
494 BEATKICE. 
 
 fugitive and an exile ; let her, Mr. Gervoise enjoyed her home 
 and revelled in her substance. A vindictive servant was raving 
 about her revenge ; a ruined man was hiding his disgraced head 
 far away ; another woman had gone that very morning with 
 hatred in her heart and threats on her lips ; let her, let them 
 all say, feel, or do what they pleased. He was stronger than 
 they were, for he had conquered them every one — some by death, 
 some by sorrow, some by money, all by indomitable will and re- 
 morseless art. He had conquered them, and he stood safe on 
 life's warm shores, whilst they were engulphed by or tossing on 
 its stormy waves. 
 
 "Fool!" says the voice in the parable of the miser, " this 
 very night do they require thy soul from thee ! " 
 
 And even whilst Mr. Gervoise was exulting, his soul, not 
 that which he had received from his Maker, but that which he had 
 made for himself, and which he loved with eager and passionate 
 love — ^his large share of this world's goods — was required from 
 him, and the messenger had crossed his gates and stood at his 
 threshold. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise was sinking into a doze, when a servant brought 
 him in Mr. Didson's card. He remembered the name and smiled. 
 Poor Miss Jameson ! But no, that was not it ; Mr. Didson had 
 asked to see Mr. Antony Gervoise, who was asleep. He often 
 was asleep in the morning, twice a week generally, so his father 
 kindly asked Mr. Didson to be shown in. No sooner did Mr. 
 Didson enter the study, than Mr. Gervoise recognized an enemy 
 in that neat little man. At all times the visits of legal men have 
 something ominous in them — they rarely portend good, they fre- 
 quently bring tidings of evil. Mr. Gervoise looked on his visitor 
 with a mistrustful eye, and received him with wary courtesy. 
 
 " My son is too unwell to see you this morning," he said, 
 motioning Mr. Didson to take a seat ; " will you call again, or 
 will you speak to me?" 
 
 To all appearance the lawyer's choice was a matter of no mo- 
 ment to Mr. Gervoise. There was not a shadow of curiosity on 
 his face, no eagerness in his voice, no discomposure in his man- 
 ner. Mr. Didson had learned from Miss Jameson which was 
 Antony's prevailing complaint, and also that the symptoms were 
 apt to be violent. He expressed his willingness to unfold his 
 errand to Mr. Gervoise, and he added with formal seriousness : 
 
 " My errand is a painful one. I met Miss Jameson at the 
 station, and I gathered from her that you are unacquainted with 
 the tidings I bring. I was Mrs. Antony Gervoise's legal adviser." 
 
BEATEICE. 495 
 
 Subtle intellects take in a wide range of thought with mar- 
 vellous quickness. The word " was " told Mr. Gervoise all; 
 and in one moment he weighed the event and its consequences. 
 His hand grasped the arm of his chair, his brain reeled — for the 
 blow was sudden and fearful. He felt as if a strong hand had 
 taken him from a dizzy height and dropped him down to the sick- 
 ening depths below ; but he was a man of strong nerve, he was 
 ODe, too, inured to life-long deceit, and neither in look, nor in 
 sudden paleness, nor in quivering muscle, did his immovable face 
 betray the despair within. Mr. Didson resumed : 
 
 " Mrs. Antony Gervoise died a week ago." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise gave a surprised start and heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 " My poor boy ! " he said in a tone of deep feeling. 
 
 He looked and acted his parental part to perfection. If he 
 had had a life-long lease of Carnoosie he could not have seemed 
 more full of Antony's grief, and less troubled about the other 
 consequences of Rosy's death. 
 
 " But, Mr. Didson," he resumed, after a brief pause, " can 
 this be true ? She was so young. It seems impossible." 
 
 " Just so," calmly said Mr. Didson ; " but I have Mrs. 
 Ronald's letter, and a Swiss burial certificate attested by the 
 English consul, which I shall submit to Mr. Antony Gervoise 
 when he is well enough to see me." 
 
 " I am afraid that will not be just yet, Mr. Didson. Had I 
 not better take down your address, and request our solicitors to 
 manage this matter with you. Lincolns Inn, I believe ? ** 
 
 " It will save time if you direct to the ' George,' Carnoo- 
 sie," replied Mr. Didson. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise looked very grand, and seemed to expand as he 
 half rose from his seat. 
 
 " Am I to understand, sir, that you are staying here to watch 
 us? " he asked. " You are welcome, sir. "We do not fear the 
 scrutiny of our enemies." 
 
 " Just so," replied Mr. Didson with imperturbable coolness ; 
 " but the late Mrs. Antony Gervoise requested me not to leave 
 Carnoosie until I had seen the heiress-at-law in possession." 
 
 " Poor thing ! " said Mr. Gervoise, calming down, " she for- 
 got all about the deed, I suppose." 
 
 He glanced furtively at Mr. Didson ; but that gentleman 
 came to receive, not to give information, and he sat with his hat 
 between his knees looking perfectly unmoved. 
 
 " Mr. Didson," resumed Mr. Gervoise, " it may save you 
 trouble if I tell you that a deed in my son's favour was executed 
 
496 BEATRICE. 
 
 by Mrs. Antony Gervoise more than two years ago. I shall in- 
 struct my solicitors, in whose keeping the deed is, to submit it to 
 you. A deed, I need not tell you, is irrevocable, and cannot be 
 cancelled by a subsequent will." 
 
 " Just so," said Mr. Didson, rising. " I can see Mr. Antony 
 Gervoise to-morrow, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to see him now?" said Mr. Ger- 
 voise defiantly. 
 
 " I should much prefer it." 
 
 " Then I will go and break the news to him," resumed Mr. 
 Gervoise in a much milder tone. 
 
 He began to suspect that it might be better to get rid of Mr. 
 Didson at once, than have him come again. 
 
 Mr. Didson resumed his seat with the easy indifference of a 
 man to whom all this was of no personal interest, and Mr. Ger- 
 voise went up to his son's room. 
 
 It was a handsome room, luxuriously furnished, but there 
 was profligacy and coarseness in its disorder. Damask furni- 
 ture, velvet carpets, costly woods and rich carving, could not hide 
 the foul stain : here dwelt a vitiated mind and a degraded frame. 
 
 Antony had not attempted to get up that morning : his flushed 
 face lay on his pillow, and he slept sound and fast. 
 
 " That boy will kill himself with drink some day," thought 
 Mr. Gervoise uneasily ; but he had no time to linger on such con- 
 siderations now, and he called out aloud — 
 
 " Antony ! waken up ! " 
 
 A deep snore was Antony's reply. 
 
 With mingled impatience and disgust Mr. Gervoise shook the 
 drunkard's shoulder and called him again. 
 
 " Antony, waken up ! I have news for you." 
 
 "What is it?" growled Antony, opening one bloodshot eye. 
 
 " Your wife is dead ! " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise spoke in a cold, hard voice, and Antony sat 
 up, sobered at once. 
 
 " Dead ! " he repeated, and he looked at his father, who re- 
 turned the gaze. 
 
 Thus they remained a few seconds looking hard at each other, 
 until Antony grew more and more sallow, and finally burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Idiot ! " sarcastically said his father. 
 
 " You have been my ruin ! " fiercely cried Antony, clenching 
 his fist. " You have ! But for you she would never have run 
 away from me — never ! Oh ! Rosy ! — Rosy ! — my little Rosy ! " 
 
BEATEICE. 497 
 
 He flung himself down on the bed in a transport of grief. 
 
 " Idiot ! " said his father again, " a lawyer is in the house, 
 and you must have your wits about you. Antony, I suspect 
 you. I am afraid you are not square. You are just the fool to 
 run your head into a noose, and I tell you a lawyer, and a sharp 
 one, too, is in the house. Be cautious, answer no questions, and 
 leave every thing to me." 
 
 By this Antony was sufficiently collected to remember that if 
 his wife was dead he was an intruder in Carnoosie, now probably 
 Beatrice Gordon's property. He shook his fist at the thought. 
 
 " She shall never have it ! " he cried, with foaming lips. " I 
 will burn the house down first." 
 
 " Antony," said his father, sententiously, " you are a brute, 
 and you disgust me. I could not find out from the lawyer 
 whether there was a will or not, but I have told him there is a 
 deed in your favour. Get up, dress yourself, see the man, and 
 do not contradict me. 
 
 " A deed?" said Antony, and he looked at his father, think- 
 ing he guessed his meaning. 
 
 " Yes, a deed. Do you understand me ? " 
 
 Antony nodded, but he added doubtfully : 
 
 " Can you do her signature ? " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise remained aghast. 
 
 " You depraved wretch ! " he exclaimed. " Do you want me 
 to turn forger, and get transported ? " 
 
 " Then what are you bothering me with a deed for ? " cried 
 Antony, irritated and ashamed. 
 
 " Sleep out your drunkenness," said his father, contemptu- 
 ously, " and do not attempt to see Mr. Didson." 
 
 Antony did not answer ; he was sitting on the edge of the 
 bed, his golden locks tangled, his once handsome face bloated, 
 his once fine eyes bloodshot ; every thing in him telling of men- 
 tal and bodily degradation ; but over all that wreck of youth, and 
 youth's choicest gifts, hung the shadow of a remorse and grief 
 his more guilty father would never know. Ay ! Rosy, you were 
 with him in that avenging hour, and your pale face haunted him 
 — not that he had loved you much, not that he was good at 
 heart, but because, though guilty and depraved, he was young. 
 Wait a few years — if God gives them to him — and Antony will 
 be as callous and as smooth as the old man who stands looking 
 at him with a cynical eye. 
 
 With a contemptuous sneer Mr. Gervoise left his son ; but 
 even as he closed Antony's door he gave him up. Carnoosie 
 
498 BEATRICE. 
 
 was lost — lost for ever — unless he wrenched it back with a des- 
 perate effort. He had reckoned on Rosy's youth, but he was 
 baffled by death ; no matter, he must conquer his lost prize anew. 
 Antony's rights died with his wife. Antony must be given up, 
 and given up for Gilbert. Now it was that Mr. Gervoise reaped 
 the fruits of his wisdom in making his two sons marry the rival 
 heiresses. Beatrice's hatred and mistrust Mr. Gervoise could 
 not overcome, but he could twist Gilbert round his little finger. 
 Gilbert would never enter Carnoosie if by doing so he would 
 seem to turn out his father. Was it not possible by giving back 
 Verville, by makina: money concessions, by cutting down some 
 of the timber, was it not possible to make Gilbert's share ample, 
 and yet secure Carnoosie for his own lifetime? It would be 
 hard indeed to make terms, but not so hard as making none, to 
 leave that noble home for ever. These thoughts passed in rapid 
 succession through Mr. Gervoise's brain, and they ended as they 
 had begun with — " I must give up Antony, and I will stay in 
 Carnoosie ; let Gilbert eject me if he dare ! " 
 
 In this mood he went back to Mr. Didson with the informa- 
 tion that his poor boy was too much overwhelmed with the sor- 
 rowful news to see him that day. 
 
 " At what hour to-nfiorrow can I see Mr. Antony Gervoise ? " 
 asked Mr. Didson, rising. 
 
 " About this time," carelessly replied Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 Mr. Didson looked at his watch, and took his leave with an 
 easy coolness which, for once, Mr. Gervoise envied. What was 
 it to that neat little man in black in whose hands Carnoosie re- 
 mained or passed? He was paid to do certain things, and he 
 did them keenly and shrewdly, but impassible as the ancient 
 Fate, before whom the very gods trembled. Mr. Gervoise saw 
 him to the door with his grand serenity and stately courtesy ; 
 but as soon as the sound of Mr. Didson's steps had ceased, he 
 sank in his chair, dull, inert, and exhausted with the part he 
 had acted, and the strain he had put on his nerves. The de- 
 spair he had forced back, the fears he had defied, the exaspera- 
 tion he had kept under with inexorable will whilst he was listen- 
 ing to Mr. Didson or speaking to Antony, now came back to 
 him with might both pitiless and irresistible. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise survived this hour many years, but he never 
 forgot its horror and bitterness. The only chastisement that he 
 could feel had reached him. It would have been hard to have 
 been disgraced, but Mr. Gervoise could have borne it. He had 
 no sociable links with his kind, no loves, no friendships ; his 
 conscience was callous, his heart was of adamant ; scorn, hatred, 
 
BEATEICE. 499 
 
 and aversion left him as cold and unmoved as the graves of his 
 victims. Only one thing could he feel : Poverty. That grim 
 goddess was his only conscience, and she had come to him at 
 last. His whole life long he had lived upon others, and now he 
 was cast upon his own resources, and what were these to all he 
 lost? 
 
 Rosy was dead, and, just retribution, with the innocent vic- 
 tim died the bad man's power. With her died the wealth, the 
 consequence, the luxurious life, the sensual enjoyments of Car- 
 noosie. If these had been wrapt in her shroud and nailed down 
 with her in her coffin, they could not have been more surely lost 
 than they were to the man whose short-sighted cruelty had 
 helped to send her to an early grave. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise vvas not a youug man. Indulgence had lately 
 impaired a constitution of iron ; he had for the last half hour 
 suffered fearfully, and kept down that suffering with unflinching 
 but dangerous fortitude. Now the reaction came, strong and 
 perilous. He felt the blood rushing up to his brain, there was a 
 sound in his ears as of mighty torrents, and a dull pale mist crept 
 before his eyes. He uttered a cry, and another terror than that 
 of losing Carnoosie seized him. Life itself was going from him 
 like the shore from the drowning man. With frantic haste he 
 rang the bell at his hand, 
 
 " Panel ! " he gasped, as two servants came rushing at his 
 call—" Panel !— bleed me !— Panel ! " 
 
 His face was purple, his eyes were starting, his utterance 
 was thick, his hands beckoned and moved convulsively ; but if 
 terror added to these symptoms, and increased the danger, that 
 intense love of self which was Mr. Gervoise's attribute now 
 helped to save his life. Before five minutes had passed, M. 
 Panel stood by his master, and taking out his lancet bled him 
 with professional skill and coolness. The blood flowed freely 
 from Mr. Gervoise's bare arm, and, as it flowed, Mr. Gervoise 
 gradually revived. Once more the grim monster apoplexy was 
 kept at bay, and an ill-spent life was rescued from the very jaws 
 of death. 
 
 When Mr. Gervoise spoke, he asked for the doctor who had 
 succeeded to Doctor Rogerson's practice to be sent for ; then he 
 requested to be taken up to his room. When he was safe in 
 bed, his third injunction was that one should come near him. 
 
 " If you want to keep your places," he said, looking at the 
 two servants, " let no one come near me. Least of all, my son. 
 Keep him away, lock the door, push him back — do any thing ; 
 it is as much as my life is worth to see any one now." 
 
CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 The medical man merely recommended repose. But this 
 injunction Mr. Gervoise so literally obeyed, that for twenty-four 
 hours he would neither hear, nor speak, nor stir, but lay care- 
 fully tucked up in his bed, his nightcap drawn down, his lids 
 closed, his bed-clothes up to his chin, his room darkened and 
 silent. From this absolute rest Mr. Gervoise was roused the 
 second morning that followed Mr. Didson's visit, by a sharp 
 feeling of hunger. He had only taken a few refreshing drinks 
 since his attack, and though they were cooling, they were not 
 nourishing. 
 
 " I think some tapioca would do me good," said Mr. Ger- 
 voise to the servant who never left him ; " yes, James, I feel 
 equal to tapioca." 
 
 When the tapioca was despatched, Mr. Gervoise felt equal to 
 getting up, and when he was up and dressed, he felt equal to 
 knowing what had taken place during his illness, as he called it. 
 Two facts he learned : that Mr. Didson had called on Antony, 
 and that this legal gentleman was still at the " George." On 
 hearing this, the kind father felt equal to seeing his son, and im- 
 mediately sent for him. 
 
 Antony came, sullen, downcast, and half intoxicated. Now, 
 Mr. Gervoise held the medium stage of Antony's complaint a 
 dangCFOus one ; for he contended that when a man had not drunk 
 enough to lose his senses, he had generally drunk enough to be 
 mischievous. With the tenderest caution, therefore, he touched 
 on the sensitive point concerning which he wished to acquire in- 
 formation. 
 
 " I have been dreadfully ill," he said plaintively, " dreadfully 
 ill. I hope Mr. Didson has not called whilst I was unable to 
 assist you with my advice, Antony ? " 
 
 " Yes, he has," replied Antony, sulkily. 
 
 " I hope you were prudent, my dear boy? " 
 
 No reply. 
 
BEAtRICE. 501 
 
 *' Did — did he question you?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Had he any new information to give ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Did he mention a will?" 
 
 « No." 
 
 " Did you allude to — to the deed?" 
 
 " No," said Antony again ; but this time, whether provoked 
 by his father's questions, or irritated at the mention of the deed, 
 he uttered the monosyllable rather fiercely. 
 
 " Well, my dear boy," said Mr. Gervoise with a sigh, " what 
 have you resolved on doing? " 
 
 Antony gave his father a knowing look, a look that said, 
 "You want to find out, do you? " But this look was the only 
 answer he condescended to bestow on his parent. It was plain 
 he had some plan of his own, but what that plan was Mr. Ger- 
 voise could not imagine. 
 
 Antony's intellect was of the blunt and narrow order ; any 
 thing like a shrewd and ingenious conception was beyond it. 
 Still he was cunning enough to fashion some foolish and disas- 
 trous scheme, that would not merely complete his own undoing — 
 this was already certain — ^but his father's too. Now, Mr. Ger- 
 voise's plan, which had been matured during the repose of the 
 last twenty-four hours, was beautifully simple : he would try and 
 induce Antony to give up and leave Carnoosie quietly ; he would 
 accompany him to London, leave him there, and return to Car- 
 noosie, thence to make terms with Gilbert. Part of his plan he 
 unfolded to his son. 
 
 " My dear boy," he said with a deep sigh, " resistance is 
 useless. Carnoosie is lost. If I saw a chance of keeping it, I 
 would tell you to resist to the last ; but I see none. Let us 
 therefore withdraw with dignity. My advice is, that we go to 
 London at once." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise expected some violence, some cursing and 
 swearing at least ; but though Antony heard him moodily, he 
 also heard him silently. It was plain that Mr. Didson had con- 
 vinced him of the uselessness of resistance, and done Mr. Ger- 
 voise at least that good service. 
 
 " What shall we do in London? " asked Antony, after a sulky 
 pause. 
 
 " My dear boy, I am afraid you have been rather extrava- 
 gant ; but though my means are small, I have a father's heart. 
 Besides, though Carnoosie is lost, you are young and good-look- 
 
502 BEATRICE. 
 
 ing. You can marry again. Miss Jameson mentioned an heiress, 
 a young lady of thirty-three " 
 
 *' An old woman/' interrupted Antony, looking disgusted. 
 
 " I am amazed at you ! " exclaimed Mr. Gervoise. " Why, 
 a woman of thirty-three is quite a girl. Besides, this is a city 
 heiress, with her fortune in ready money." 
 
 Antony's knitted brows smoothed considerably. 
 
 " I think we had better go to-day," pursued Mr. Gervoise. 
 
 " Not to-day," said Antony decisively. 
 
 "Why so?" I 
 
 " Because I will not." 
 
 " Well, my dear boy, when you please," said his father 
 soothingly. " Shall it be to-morrow ? " 
 
 " No — ^not to-morrow." 
 
 " Antony, do you wish to stay here until your brother and his 
 wife come and take possession, and turn us out?" 
 
 Antony gave him another look, a look of which Mr. Gervoise 
 could not fathom the meaning. 
 
 " When shall we go ? " he asked a little uneasily. " Only tell 
 me, Antony." 
 
 " To-night," was Antony's unexpected reply. 
 
 To-night suited Mr. Gervoise admirably, for he could be 
 back before morning, and Mr. Didson be none the wiser. 
 
 " Very well, then, to-night let it be," he said a little eagerly. 
 " Have you been getting ready? " 
 
 Antony nodded. 
 Mr. Gervoise sighed. 
 
 "I possess so little," he said feelingly; " my share in this 
 world's goods is so small, that a few hours will answer my pur- 
 pose." 
 
 There was truth iu this, for through the course of his long 
 life Mr. Gervoise had maijaged to possess very little, as he said, 
 and to enjoy, though he forgot to add that, the possession of 
 others. 
 
 " Mind you do not leave any of your bonds and deeds be- 
 hind," sneered Antony. 
 
 " Deeds — bonds — what bonds ? " asked Mr. Gervoise, amazed. 
 
 " Securities and mortgages, you know," pursued his son. 
 
 This broad allusion to the usurious, or at least money-lending, 
 practices in which Mr. Gervoise was supposed to indulge, seemed 
 to offend that gentleman deeply. 
 
 *' Antony," he remarked, with austere suavity of manner, " I 
 advise you not to make yourself the echo of my slanderers. My 
 
beAteice. 503 
 
 long prosperity has given me some enemies — do not join -them, 
 Antony." 
 
 " Well, but do not leave the deeds behind," persisted Antony ; 
 " you would not like Beatrice to find them." 
 
 " I have no deeds," severely said Mr. Gervoise ; " I never 
 take mortgages and securities — I never lend money unless to you, 
 Antony." 
 
 Antony laughed with drunken insolence, and thrusting his 
 hands into his pockets, Avalked out of the room whistling. 
 
 " I must be on my guard against that boy," thought Mr. 
 Gervoise ;" he is up to mischief — does he want to rob me?" 
 
 He listened to Antony's heavy step going down, then he 
 stealthily locked the door ; so cautious was he about it, that a 
 timorous mouse would scarcely have heard the turning of the key 
 in the lock. When this was done, Mr. Gervoise stepped across 
 the floor on tiptoe, took a key from beneath his pillow and cau- 
 tiously unlocked a large cabinet which stood near his bed. Linen 
 smelling sweetly of lavender, seemed its only contents, but Mr. 
 Gervoise touched a spring, a shelf flew back and disclosed a 
 square iron chest, which he looked at with a meditative and anx- 
 ious eye. What should he do with it? Take it away with him? 
 It was a heavy chest ; suppose Antony should take a fancy to try 
 the weight of his trunk, he would detect its presence at once, and 
 was quite capable of breaking it open for the sake of its con- 
 tents. The same temptation might assail a dishonest railway 
 servant, and then where was his redress ? With a perplexed 
 glance Mr. Gervoise looked at that grim square box, which held 
 the fortunes of many, the honour of some, the peace of all. He 
 thought of burying it in the garden, of hiding it in the cellar ; 
 and then he came back to the more practical and prudent plan 
 of leaving it where it was. Surely it would be safe for twelve 
 hours, though no longer under its master's vigilant eye? Surely 
 those bonds, and deeds, and securities, to which Antony had so 
 imprudently alluded, could lie there undetected even in his ab- 
 sence ? Mr. Gervoise closed and locked the cabinet once more, 
 unlocked the door, and left his room with stealthy steps. It was 
 his habit to watch whenever he could do so, and now Mr. Ger- 
 voise felt inclined to watch his son. He was afraid of him : his 
 submission to so sudden a loss as that of Carnoosie was ominous. 
 It meant something, but what ? The day passed, Mr. Gervoise 
 could discover nothing. Antony had vanished, Mr. Didson did 
 not come near the place, no one called even on the most trifling 
 business, and Carnoosie seemed unusually silent on this clear 
 
504: BEATEICE. 
 
 frosty day. Mr. Grervoise prowled about the house, peeped in 
 the rooms, hovered like any uneasy spirit near his own, and saw 
 and discovered, and even suspected nothing. No, all was right ; 
 but why did Antony stay out? Did he mean to give him the 
 slip, or not to return and fulfil his promise of going that evening? 
 Mr. Gervoise had ordered an early dinner, and to his great mor- 
 tification he sat down to it alone. Antony's absence put an 
 abrupt end to all his schemes. He could not go and leave him 
 behind, and to stay with him and wait for Gilbert and Beatrice 
 to come and to act, was ruin. 
 
 Gilbert might find it hard to tarn out his father, but quite 
 easy to turn out a brother whom he neither loved nor respected. 
 What matter that Mr. Gervoise was in Carnoosie ; so long as 
 Antony remained he was principal, and Mr. Gervoise was 
 invisible. 
 
 " If I could only know where he is," thought Mr. Gervoise, 
 putting down his knife and fork ; but Antony's haunts were 
 varied ; public-houses, cottages, where virtue did not always 
 abide, low sporting clubs and assemblies, were equally favoured 
 with his presence. 
 
 " That boy will ruin me," thought his father ; and, even as 
 he thought so, the door opened and Antony entered the dining- 
 room. 
 
 He was very much flushed ; he had been drinking, but he 
 was again in that medium stage which his father held dangerous. 
 So, very gently and cautiously, he said : 
 
 " I ordered an early dinner, Antony." 
 
 " Oh ! I have dined," replied Antony. 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. At what hour do we leave?" 
 
 Antony did not answer at once. He seemed to be thinking 
 over his father's question. 
 
 " Why should we not go now?" he asked at length ; " it will 
 be night in an hour." 
 
 '• My dear boy," replied his father, " I am quite willing, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Perhaps you would rather stay," said Antony, with un- 
 wonted deference. 
 
 " Not at all. I have done dinner, and you have dined ; let 
 us have this painful affair over as quickly as possible." 
 
 Mr. Gervoise spoke with evident alacrity. Antony heard 
 him with a grim smile, and kept looking at the broad oaken 
 beams and at the polished oaken panelling of the dining-room. 
 
 " You will not get such a dining-room as this in a hurry," 
 
BEATEICE. 505 
 
 he said ; " and the pictures, you will not have the like of them 
 again ; and the plate, and the old furniture, and the wines, the 
 Chateau Margaux, and the Clos Vongeot — it is hard to leave 
 them ; there is champagne, too — but you do not care about white 
 wines." 
 
 " My dear boy, you do not do me justice. I value all these 
 things ; but in what comparison do they stand with your welfare ? 
 It is your loss that cuts me, Antony." 
 
 Antony laughed drearily and recklessly. 
 
 " Beatrice is welcome to them," he said bitterly ; "let her 
 have them, and leave them to her children, and much good may 
 they do her and them." 
 
 There was a wicked light in Antony's blue eyes, which 
 alarmed his father. He hastily rose from his chair, and spoke 
 of getting ready ; but Antony, sullenly replying that he was 
 ready, walked out of the room, and left to Mr. Gervoise what 
 still remained to be done. 
 22 
 
CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 Where there is a will there is a way. It was stiU broad 
 daylight when Mr. Gervoise and his son drove out of Camoosie. 
 Mr. Gervoise breathed a relieved sigh as the gates closed upon 
 them. He had never expected to get Antony away so easily, and, 
 now that it was done, what remained seemed as nothing. He 
 gave his son a furtive and half-wondering look. Antony leaned 
 back in the carriage, his arms folded, his hat drawn down over 
 his eyes. He was smiling and muttering to himself; but he 
 suddenly seemed conscious of his father's gaze, for he ceased, 
 became grave and gloomy, and, to Mr. Gervoise's alarm, pulled 
 the check string. 
 
 "What is that for?" asked his father. 
 
 " I am going down," was Antony's laconic reply ; " I like 
 walking best." 
 
 He alighted as he spoke, and stood looking sharply around 
 him, and in either direction of the solitary road. This strange 
 and sudden resolve boded no good, but Mr. Gervoise looked 
 cheerful, and said briskly, 
 
 " You are quite right, my dear boy, and I think I shall walk 
 too. The forest is beautiful." 
 
 He got down as he spoke. Antony gave him an odd look, 
 but raised no objection. 
 
 " Drive on» our luggage to the station," said Mr. Gervoise, 
 addressing the coachman ; " my son and I are going to take the 
 short cut." 
 
 The servant touched his hat and drove on. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise and his son entered the dark ridge of trees 
 which skirted the road. The forest looked very beautiful, as 
 Mr. Gervoise had said ; the evening was clear, though cold and 
 wintry, and the bare branches of the mighty trees stood out finely 
 pencilled on a pale sky. The crisp earth, hoar with frost, crackled 
 beneath their feet as they walked along, and Antony, regardless 
 of his father's shorter breath, walked fast ; but Mr. Gervoise did 
 
BEATRICE. . 507 
 
 not remonstrate — to his infinite comfort they were walking away 
 from Carnoosie at the rate of five miles an hom*, and every step 
 relieved him from a load of care. At length, however, he got 
 exhausted, and feeling pretty sure that all danger was over, he 
 began to rebel. 
 
 " What do you mean by walking at that rate, Antony?" he 
 asked indignantly. 
 
 Antony did not answer. They had reached the knoll where 
 the trees opened, and whence, at the end of a long avenue, you 
 could on fine summer evenings see the windows of old Carnoosie 
 all in a flame with the setting sun. Antony climbed to the top 
 of the knoll, shaded his eyes, and looked long and earnestly at 
 the house they had left. But the spot was cold and dreary, night 
 was coming on, and Mr. Gervoise wished to walk slowly, not to 
 stand still with the frosty air about him. 
 
 " Come on, Antony," he said shivering. 
 
 A low laugh was Antony's reply. 
 
 " Look !" he said, and he pointed to Carnoosie. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise saw the house rising a dark square mass against 
 the grey sky half a mile off*, but he saw nothing else. 
 
 "I told you I would!" said Antony, exultingly ; "I told 
 you I would ! " 
 
 "Antony, what is it?" cried his father, and fear crept like 
 ice through his very marrow. 
 
 " I told you I would," said Antony, nodding. 
 
 His blue eyes gleamed with wicked triumph, his handsome 
 but cruel mouth had nervous twitchings, he looked like one who 
 has flung all behind him ; shame, pity, honour— all that is dear 
 to man. 
 
 " But what have you done, Antony?" entreated his father, 
 distracted with a nameless terror. " What have you done?" 
 
 Antony laughed loud, thrtist his hands into his pockets, and 
 looked straight before him. Mr. Gervoise looked too. He saw 
 a dull redness in the sky, then a tongue of flame darting up like 
 a fiery serpent from behind Carnoosie, then a lull, then a broad 
 great blaze and a glare that spread from east to west. 
 
 ''There goes Carnoosie!" shouted Antony. " Let her and 
 Gilbert come to Carnoosie now — let them ! " 
 
 The excess of his despair seemed to stun Mr. Gervoise. He 
 stood staring at that house, with the flames now darting from 
 every one of its windows, and he neither spoke nor stirred. He 
 thought of the iron chest and its contents, the ill-got gains of an 
 ill-spent life ; he thought of that noble home whence he had 
 
608 . BEATRICE. 
 
 banished so many, and wMcli was now crumbling to asbes before 
 his very eyes — and he felt conquered. Plans, schemes cunning 
 and sure, hopes, sensual joys, money, triumph oyer his enemies, 
 were all perishing in that vast blaze which lit the whole country 
 round, and sent its flickering glow to the lonely spot in the forest 
 where he and Antony stood. 
 
 "There goes Carnoosie!" shouted Antony, with wild glee. 
 " Hurrah ! here's a health to Carnoosie ! " 
 
 He took a bottle from his pocket, raised it to his lips, and 
 drained its contents. 
 
 " You wretch ! " cried his father, snatching the bottle from 
 him and dashing it to the earth. " You wretch ! do you know 
 what you have done ? All I had, every farthing, is in that burn- 
 ing house ! " 
 
 "So you meant to go back to Carnoosie ? " said Antony, look- 
 ing at him askance. " You meant to go back without me. I 
 told you to bring your deeds and bonds and securities ; but you 
 wanted to cheat me. I was up to you all, though you were all 
 in a plot against me. It was in your room I lit the fire ! " added 
 Antony, triumphantly. 
 
 Terror, deep, selfish, and intense, entered Mr. Gervoise's 
 heart as he heard him. The fire had been lit in his room ; to 
 him would be laid the crime. 
 
 " You abandoned wretch ! " he cried, turning on his son with 
 mingled fury and despair, " how did you dare to do it?" 
 
 A laugh was Antony's reply. 
 
 " I wash my hands of you," said Mr. Gervoise, shrinking 
 back from him, and seeming to put him away with his hands. 
 " Go your way, as I go mine." 
 
 " All right ! " replied Antonyj sitting down on a bank, whilst 
 his father hastily struck into the nearest path. 
 
 The thought that he would assuredly be suspected of Antony's 
 deed nearly distracted Mr. Gervoise, and made him forget his 
 other troubles. He walked on through the forest, hearing Anto- 
 ny's shouts and drunken singing growing more and more faint, 
 and hurrying on toward Carnoosie. He did not see the old 
 house until he emerged from the forest on the road, and then it 
 stood before him a lurid mass of flames from the basement to 
 the chimney stacks. So scorching was their heat, that the last 
 trees of the avenue were already charred and black, but those 
 near the entrance gates were still safe, and would remain so. 
 The house, and the house only, would be burned down. 
 
 The village of Carnoosie had turned out ; an old fire-engine 
 
BEATEICE. 609 
 
 •had been brought to the scene of the disaster, but for some reason 
 or other it was not playing, Mr. Gervoise passed through the 
 crowd, which made way for him, until he reached the gate-keep- 
 er's lodge. At the door he found Mr. Didson standing with his 
 hands in his pockets, and looking at the conflagration with much 
 composure. He gave Mr. Gervoise a keen, searching look, but 
 took no other notice of him. 
 
 " This is a great calamity," said Mr. Gervoise, approaching 
 him, and putting on a bold front. 
 
 " Very," drily replied Mr. Didson. " I suppose you know 
 where the fire began ? " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise tried to speak, but his tongue clove to the roof 
 of his mouth. 
 
 " No lives lost ! " resumed Mr. Didson ; " and though the fire 
 broke out in so many places at once, we could save the plate and 
 the pictures." 
 
 " Mr. Didson," said Mr. Gervoise, with trembling eagerness, 
 " the fire broke out after I left — ^the servants can say it broke out 
 after I left!" ^ . ^ ^ 
 
 " Oh ! no one is accusing you, Mr. Gervoise," said Mr. Did- 
 son, with a smile. 
 
 " I have enemies, sir," resumed Mr. Gervoise, still eager and 
 troubled. " I leave this house under peculiar circumstances, and 
 those enemies might take advantage of the fact to slander me." 
 
 Habit is surely a strange thing. So little was this man ac- 
 customed to innocence, that he knew not how to carry it. The 
 merited accusation would have found him cool, wary, and well- 
 prepared ; the undeserved suspicion made him blunder and lose all 
 presence of mind. 
 
 " If I were you," coolly said Mr. Didson, " I would not fore- 
 stall accusation ; at the same time, this house is certainly burning 
 down under some unfortunate circumstance. The pipes being 
 frozen, we did not expect much water, still we tried them, and 
 we found — guess, now, Mr. Gervoise ? " 
 
 " I — I don't know," faltered the wretched man. 
 
 Mr. Didson laid his hand on Mr. Gervoise's shoulder and 
 looked at him. 
 
 " We found, sir, that all the pipes had been destroyed, so 
 that, even if a sudden thaw had set in, we could not have got any 
 thing like a supply of water. Strange, eh? " 
 
 Mr. Gervoise could not answer ; he could have groaned in 
 his anguish. This was how Antony did his work. The perspi- 
 ration stood in thick drops on his forehead. There were buzzing 
 
510 BEATRICE. 
 
 sounds in his ears like so many summer flies. Ruin, punishment,' 
 and disgrace hung over him. For a moment he cherished the 
 base thought of betraying Antony, but shame and fear, not truth, 
 held him back. Mr. Didson gave him a cool look and walked 
 away ; but Mr. Gervoise followed him with servile fear, clinging 
 to his side, though unbidden, moving when he moved, standing 
 when he stood, until Mr. Didson, wearied and rather bored, 
 hinted pretty broadly that his presence was not wanted ; and 
 with this polite intimation he turned his back on Mr. Gervoise, 
 who slunk away, mute, enraged, and especially afraid. Still he 
 did not leave the place. A fascination of mingled grief and ter- 
 ror kept him there ; mingling among the domestics, who had so 
 recently been his, and who now, aware, as they already were, of 
 his change of fortunes, scarcely minded him, looking at the burn- 
 ing house where he had plotted, cheated, and plundered so long, 
 and which by an avenging Nemesis had now become the funeral 
 pyre of his all ; and, above all, watching that little attorney, who 
 was more terrible in his eyes than an armed host, for on him and 
 on his testimony hung all the w^retched man could stiU call his — 
 safety and liberty. 
 
 That feeling of fear became one of desperation, when Mr. 
 Gervoise saw a sinister figure in black move out from the crowd 
 and seek Mr. Didson. He recognized Mrs. Scot. He knew 
 how she hated him ; he knew she had remained near Carnoosie 
 to brood over her revenge ; and he knew that she was not the 
 woman to shrink from a lie, if it would serve her purpose. 
 Stealthily he watched the pair. With iron coldness Mrs. Scot 
 talked, and coolly Mr. Didson listened ; finally, the attorney took 
 out his pocket-book and wrote down something. Mr. Gervoise 
 could look on no longer. He walked away. What had she told 
 the lawyer, what had he written down ? Something that would 
 complete his ruin. 
 
 He went on to the village. He entered the inn, and asked 
 for something to eat ; but when some cold chicken and ham were 
 placed before him, Mr. Gervoise felt he could touch nothing, and 
 requested a room to be prepared for him. He was shown to one 
 on the first floor : a small, cold room, with a dreary-looking tent 
 bed, hung with dingy chintz curtains. Mr. Gervoise went to 
 bed, but he could not sleep for hours. He was ruined and un- 
 done, and the weight of his troubles was too much for the man. 
 At length he sank into feverish slumbers, only to be haunted by 
 dreams more fearful than the waking reality. Amongst these 
 visions two came back aorain and aorain. In one Mr. Gervoise 
 
BEATEICE. 611 
 
 saw "himself setting fire to the window curtains of his room ; and 
 as the flames flared up, and the candle was still in his hand, he 
 felt seized from behind, and Mr. Didson's irouical voice said : 
 
 "• Caught in the act, Mr. Gervoise ! you can't deny it — caught 
 in the act ! ** 
 
 From this tormenting dream Mr. Gervoise wakened to fall 
 into another more frightful still. He stood for his trial, his 
 counsel had been heard, and the foreman of the jury delivered 
 the verdict : " Guilty." Then the judge put on his black cap, as 
 if he were going to pronounce sentence of death, and in a loud 
 and distinct voice he said : 
 
 " Antony Gervoise, you have been convicted on the clearest' 
 evidence of the awful crime of arson ; for this crime you are now 
 going to suffer the extreme penalty of the law " 
 
 " I did not do it ! — I did not do it !" gasped Mr. Gervoise ; 
 and awakening, he sat up in his bed and saw the morning sun 
 shining in his room, and the landlord of the " George" standing 
 at the door, and thence looking at him with a pale and frightened 
 face. 
 
 " Please, sir — ^" he stammered. 
 
 Mr. Gervoise felt all the terrors of death upon him. The 
 police were below, he was suspected, he would l)e apprehended, 
 tried, and sentenced, not to death as in his dream, but to worse 
 than death — a felon's fate ! 
 
 " What is it?" he gasped, for his lips felt parched and dry. 
 
 " Mr. Antony Gervoise," began the landlord. 
 
 It was his son, then, who was taken. Mr. Gervoise was too 
 selfish not to feel relieved. 
 
 " Well, what about him?" he asked, more composedly. 
 
 " He has been found, sir." 
 
 Another misfortune dawned over Mr. Gervoise's mind. 
 
 Found ! where and how had his son been found ? 
 
 The landlord's reply came hesitating and slow, but clear, and 
 Mr. Gervoise fell back with a groan. He was a bad and cruel 
 man, but that something of humanity which rarely leaves the 
 heart spoke to him then. 
 
 Dead! 
 
 Yes, Antony Gervoise had been found dead in the forest. 
 He had been found lying on his back, his arms stretched out, his 
 calm face looking up at the cold winter sky. No token of wrath, 
 or revenge, or unholy violence was upon him. No man's hand 
 had been raised' against him ; but the hand of the chastener had 
 
612 BEATRICE. 
 
 struck him down in the evil might of his youth, and before the 
 cool perfidy of age had utterly defiled the image of his Maker. 
 
 Thus perished the only being Mr. Gervoise had ever loved ; 
 thus the link which bound him to his kind was broken, and he 
 remained a miserable old man, with more than enough to live 
 upon, but with nothing for luxury or sensual enjoyment ; far be- 
 yond actual want, but poorer by his unsated greed, and envious 
 and feverish regret, than many a starving wretch. 
 
 The world's verdict on Mr. Gervoise was like that of a 
 Scotch jury ; Not proven. It is not proven that he set fire to 
 Carnoosie, that he sent men and women to premature graves, 
 that his whole life was one of stealthy iniquities, but who doubts 
 it ? Who has a good word for the fallen man ? The world does 
 not vary ; success is its idol, failure its abomination. Worse 
 men than Mr. Gervoise have not had their iniquities visited so 
 severely. Murderers, poisoners, escape detection ; dark sinners 
 die like good men, and leave fair names behind them inscribed on 
 honourable tombstones ; but in Mr. Gervoise's case failure settled 
 the question. His whole life was raked up, and not one of its 
 sins escaped detection ; and whereas formerly the evil he did was 
 not credited, now deeds that he never thought of are laid to his 
 door. Let it be ! Let him who was pitiless to others find others 
 pitiless to him ; let retribution come, tardy but sure. Above all, 
 deep in his heart, let there be a gnawing thought. Antony would 
 be living yet, but for you. If you had not pampered him in his 
 vices — if you had not indulged him in his evil passions — ^he 
 would not have died a premature death. Remember it, think of 
 it for ever. Keep that thought, it is yours ; too mild a punish- 
 ment for guilt so deep. 
 
 It is said of the damned that they have faith without love. 
 They believe, without the charity which could raise them out of 
 the dark abyss to the heavenly regions. Even so is the conscience 
 of the evil ; they know that they are guilty, and that knowledge 
 is not akin to repentance. In that knowledge Mr. Gervoise lives. 
 He has no fear of another world and of its punishments, but he 
 is haunted in this by his victims. Commonplace or terrible, they 
 all rise before him ; he defies them, he laughs at them, for there 
 was ever a certain boldness in the man's badness ; but whether 
 they wear Mr. Raby's bloated face, or Rosy's wild eyes, or 
 Antony's dead features, they haunt him — they go where he goes, 
 and tread in his steps ; and their mark is upon him, a mark 
 that deepens with years — ^let it be ! 
 
CHAPTER LXm. 
 
 In a darkened room, by the bedside of her sick husband, sat 
 Beatrice. The white curtain hung between him and her ; he 
 was very quiet, sleeping no doubt after his night of fever and un- 
 rest ; he could not see her, and she could weep unheard and un- 
 detected. Her heart was full to breaking. They had given up 
 the cottage as too expensive, and removed to very humble lodg- 
 ings ; and scarcely had they entered their new home, when Gil- 
 bert had fallen ill once more, this time so severely, that hope 
 almost left Beatrice's heart. Bitter and heavy were her cares. 
 She had again found some teaching, and this miserable resource 
 and the rent of the house in Verville were to be the support of 
 the whole family. She had been obliged to part with Babet, not 
 on account of the poor woman's wages, which Babet would will- 
 ingly have foregone, but because she could not afford to keep 
 her. Babet wept bitterly at their separation, but she could not 
 resist Beatrice's plainly spoken argument, " I am too poor, 
 Babet," and she went. Her departure inflicted on Gilbert one 
 of the keenest pangs he, had ever known. It was the last 
 string in his lot to feel that he lay helpless and powerless, a 
 burden on his wife, and that she whom he would have saved 
 from every trouble and care, now led a harder life than any 
 of the servants in her own Carnoosie. 
 
 Beatrice thought little of this. Hard though it was to be 
 poor, trying though it was to do household work, and mind three 
 young children, and go out and teach other children whose happy 
 mothers had no time for the task, there was something harder 
 stni : it was the terrible thought that her husband was very ill, 
 that if he recovered it would only be for a time, that his health 
 was gone, and would probably never return. It was this which 
 Beatrice could not bear, which made her sigh and moan in the 
 night — which made her cry out aloud wheiT she passed through 
 some solitary spot in Kensington Gardens on her way to her 
 lessons, and clasp and wring her hands in the excess of her 
 22* 
 
514 BEATEICE. 
 
 grief. To her husband she showed a bright and cheerful face ; 
 and when he sighed to see her engaged in some task beyond 
 her strength, and, alas ! often beyond her knowledge, she laughed 
 at him, and told him it did her good to go back to the ways 
 of her childhood. 
 
 But on this evening, sitting by him after the day's toil, think- 
 ing of the wasted face which lay on the pillow behind that cur- 
 tain, she could keep in no longer, and, believing herself unseen, 
 she wept. 
 
 He both saw and heard her. He watched her in silence for 
 some time ; then drawing back the curtain, he looked at her 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 " Poor Beatrice ! " he said, tenderly and pityingly, " what a 
 sad, hard life yours has been, and must ever be ! But God is 
 my witness, when I took you and brought you to Verville, I 
 thought to give you another life than this ; humble, indeed, but 
 not this ! — not this ! " 
 
 " I have but one trouble, Gilbert, and you know what it is." 
 
 " Ay ! Beatrice, and a hard one. Let us speak openly for 
 once. You will be a young widow, and you will have three 
 children to provide for, and all you will have to do it with is the 
 house in Verville. Sixty pounds a year — poor Beatrice ! " 
 
 " Gilbert, do you wish to break my heart, that you speak 
 so?" 
 
 " And where is the use of being silent? I may recover, but 
 it will only be to fall ill again. Do you think that I, a medical 
 man, can be deceived about my real state ? Beatrice, my con- 
 stitution is shattered, I fear beyond all hope, and almost the best 
 thing for you is that I should die speedily." 
 
 " Gilbert, have a little mercy upon me." 
 
 "Well, I should not have said that, poor Beatrice ! But do 
 not apprehend it. Your burden will last some time yet." 
 
 He heaved a deep sigh, and unwilling to meet the look of 
 her sad, reproachful eyes, unable, too, to gaze any longer on her 
 woe-begone face, he turned to the wall and closed his eyes as if 
 to sleep. 
 
 Beatrice remained silent. She could not speak ; she felt in 
 one of those moods when the burden of life is too heavy. Sud- 
 denly, and as if to . render the present more bitter, there came 
 back to her, vivid and clear, a bright dream of her youth. 
 Wakening one morning in Carnoosie, Beatrice had seen the sun 
 shining in her room, and the waving shadow of young trees 
 
BEATKIOE. 515 
 
 moving across her window-blinds ; and as she listened to the 
 splash of the fountains, she had thought : 
 
 " If fairy-tales were true, and that I had a fairy godmother 
 who would come and stand by my bedside and bid me wish a 
 wish, and that it should be granted, what would I ask for ? " 
 
 Beatrice was puzzled. She was young, she was pretty and 
 rich, and she was well born too. "What, then, should the wish 
 be ? She smiled to herself as her fancy pictured a lover, young, 
 handsome, and noble-hearted, one who would love her truly, and 
 whom she should love with her whole heart. Ay, this should be 
 the wish ! 
 
 So she dreamed, as girls will dream, out of very idleness ; 
 and fate, that perverse fairy godmother, who blesses or chastises 
 her darlings according to her caprices, had granted the wish, 
 and, by granting it, had made Beatrice wretched. Ay ! she had 
 had the lover, the ideal man — she had had him more than lover, 
 the fond and devoted husband, and how had it ended ? Better, 
 far better for both that they had never met. She had dragged 
 him down to her own miserable lot, and he had been unable to 
 save her. She had been his torment, and he had not been her 
 blessing. They loved — ^Heaven alone knew how truly ! — but 
 more than love is needed in life, and that more failed them. 
 
 A tap at the door roused her ; Beatrice got up and opened it 
 very gently. Outside on the landing she found her landlady's 
 little daughter. 
 
 "Please ma'am," whispered the child, "there's a gentleman 
 below who wants to speak to you. Mamma asked him into the 
 parlour, not to disturb Mr. Gervoise." 
 
 Beatrice gave a look at the bed. Gilbert seemed very quiet. 
 She could leave him ; so she softly closed the door and went 
 do^'n to the parlour. 
 
 It was some time before she came back. When she was 
 within view of the door of her husband's room Beatrice stood 
 still, much astonished. 
 
 The house to which they had removed on leaving the cottage 
 was an old one, in an old-fashioned square. The staircase was 
 broad, and every landing was broad too. Two rooms on the 
 second floor, and a kitchen below, were all Beatrice had now ; 
 and her two doors stood rather far apart on the landing, which, 
 as we said, was a broad one. Yet when she reached it, Bea- 
 trice, who had left a light burning on the highest step of the 
 staircase, was struck with the fact that the dimensions of this 
 landing ^ere considerably diminished. Some dark bundle was 
 
(516 BEATRICE. 
 
 placed against one of the doors, and that bundle wore a white 
 cap. Had one of the children got up out of bed ? She seized 
 the candle and raised it so that the light fell full on the cap and 
 its owner, and she saw no less a person than Babet. 
 
 There was a bundle, too, and on that bundle Babet was sit- 
 ting. She leaned against the door with folded arms, and in that 
 attitude gave her mistress a look half-supplicating, half-defiant. 
 
 " It is no use talking, madam," she said to Beatrice, who had 
 not opened her lips ; " here I am, and here I mean to stay. 1 
 went back to Yerville to please you, but not even to please you 
 could I stay there. I saw him, I did, the upstart, the mean 
 Parisian fellow ! " added Babet, with flashing eyes ; '^ not on 
 horseback like Monsieur, but riding in a cabriolet of his own. 
 And as he knew my feelings, he rode twice a day past the house 
 in which I was. You do not think I was going to stay and 
 please him by seeing that. Besides, how have you been getting 
 on without me ? I guess that Monsieur is ill again, and you 
 have been obliged to send the children to bed at this hour to 
 mind him. As to the furniture, I can see you must have sold 
 more than half. For how much would fit in your couple of 
 rooms? Nothing. The good mahogany table is gone, I am 
 sure, and you wiU never get another like it. I told you it was a 
 bargain when you bought it ; but no, you would have your own 
 way, and send away Babet." 
 
 " Oh ! Babet ! Babet ! " cried Beatrice, throwing her arms 
 around her neck, and bursting into hysterical tears, " you did 
 well to come back to me, I have been wretched without you. I 
 am wretched still, though now, Babet, I have a gleam of hope. 
 Never leave me again — never ! " 
 
 " You may make your mind easy about that," replied Babet ; 
 " I have reared Monsieur from a boy, and nothing shall make 
 me go away again. Where am I to go — in there ? " 
 
 " Yes, go to the children — ^but, Babet, do tell me how you 
 came back ? " 
 
 " How did I go ? " asked Babet, who had got up from her 
 bundle, and was shouldering it as if it were a soldier's knapsack ; 
 "you saw me off, did you not? Well, I saw myself on, and I 
 got here— of course I did." 
 
 Babet spoke almost roughly ; it was plain she still felt 
 wronged at her dismissal ; but Beatrice gave her a bright, for- 
 giving smile, and entered the room where she had left Gilbert 
 sleeping. 
 
 He was awake, and said restlessly : • 
 
BEATRICE. 617 
 
 "Beatrice, was that Babet's voice?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "it was. Poor, faithful Babet has 
 come back, and will not go away again ; and indeed she must 
 not, Gilbert, must she ? " 
 
 " Beatrice, what ails you? " he asked, leaning upon one elbow 
 and looking at her earnestly. 
 
 " Gilbert, I cannot help it. I am full of joy and of sorrow, 
 and the joy is the greater of the two. Gilbert, we are rich now, 
 and if going to a mild climate will save you, as Doctor Roger- 
 son once siaid, we can do it. Poor little Rosy is dead, and I am 
 mistress of Camoosie." 
 
 Her lips quivered as she spoke. She was, as she said, full 
 of joy, and full of sorrow. She remembered Rosy, bright, 
 young, and gay, and her heart ached ; and she thought of Gil- 
 bert, saved and restored to health, and her heart beat with hope 
 and joy. 
 
 "Beatrice, are you sure of this?" 
 
 " I am, indeed, Gilbert ; the lawyer who came to tell me has 
 not been gone ten minutes. I am as sure of it as that I stand 
 here." 
 
 She told him the little that she knew about Rosy's death ; 
 but she did not tell him that Camoosie was burned down, nor 
 who had done it. 
 
 " Poor little thing ! " he said sadly ; " what a life, and what 
 an ending ! " 
 
 " But, Gilbert, what do you think of yourself? " said Beatrice, 
 anxiously ; " do you not think that change of climate will restore 
 you?" 
 
 He stretched out his hand and drew her toward him. 
 
 " I think," he said gently, " that, whatever happens now, I 
 can at least die in peace ; that God has done for you what I 
 could not do — Beatrice, whether I live or die, a weight of bitter 
 cares is taken, off me." 
 
 And so that was all the comfort he could give her. She 
 looked at him drearily. 
 
 " Why will you not let me be happy? " she asked ; " why will 
 you take hope from me ? " 
 
 " Beatrice, whether I live or die, remember that I have had 
 some exquisitely happy hours, and that these hours I have owed 
 to you." 
 
 Beatrice checked her tears, which had already begun to 
 flow. 
 
518 BEATRICE. 
 
 " You must not die," she said resolutely ; " you must live and 
 be rich, honoured, and happy. The years of leisure of which I 
 have robbed you I can give back to you now, and you shall have 
 them every one. You shall have a laboratory like Mr. Flem- 
 ing's, and you shall pay clever men to help you, and you will be 
 kind to them, Gilbert, and the world shall hear your name and 
 praise it, and it shall not be said of you that you married the 
 mistress of Carnoosie, but that the mistress of Carnoosie married 
 you. And we shall live years, I say, and our children will grow 
 up around us, and not be left orphans ere they have known their 
 father." 
 
 "So be it," replied Gilbert, half smiling; "Beatrice I shall 
 be very glad to stay." 
 
 In the meanwhile Babet was very busy. Her first act was 
 to unpack her bundle, and in so doing, cautious of making a noise 
 though she was, she succeeded in wakening Charlie. His eyes 
 opened and grew round again with amazement, as he recognized 
 the brown and familiar face of Babet. He knew not merely 
 Babet, but Babet's white coif, and her black kerchief pinned down 
 her back and across, her chest, and her broad apron ; it was the 
 real Babet from head to foot, and no mistake. 
 
 ^ " Babet ! Babet ! " he said, clapping his hands with joy. 
 She turned round and smiled brightly at him, and went and 
 hugged him with jealous fondness. 
 
 " You did not tell me to go, my darling," she said, between 
 two hearty kisses. " You would never have bid Babet leave 
 you — never ! would you, my treasure ? " 
 
 "No," stoutly replied Charlie ; " and I cried so when you 
 went, Babet — a whole hour, I did." 
 
 " Of course you did, for if you are like your mother, you 
 have got your father's heart, you have, my darling ! God bless 
 you ! Babet will never leave you now — mind that." 
 
 This conversation, which was carried on in rather a loud key, 
 wakened the twins in their little cot ; but being too young, pei'- 
 haps, to appreciate the full blessing of Babet's return, they only 
 set up each a shrill scream, which filled the whole house. At 
 once the door of the other room opened, and Beatrice appeared 
 with a smile on her face. 
 
 " Come in to your master, Babet," she said ; " he wants to 
 see you." 
 
 And whilst Babet went in muttering, " Of course he does," 
 Beatrice, after pacifying the twins, took them one on each arm, 
 
BEATBICE. 519 
 
 and, followed by Charlie clinging to her skirt, she entered the 
 room where Babet was crying pitifully by her master's bed. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Beatrice, almost gaily. ''He is not ill — 
 or, if he is, he will soon get well. You nursed him through his 
 illness when he was a boy, and you will nurse him through this, 
 and we are all going away, says Doctor Rogerson." 
 
 So, indeed, had said that poor gentleman, who was now 
 standing at the further end of the room writing. He looked up 
 on hearing his name, and smiled faintly. 
 
 " There is no cause for fear," he said, though there may be 
 some for care." 
 
 '' Trust him to Babet," said Beatrice. 
 
 And Babet looked conceited, and her looks said what her 
 tongue did not exactly care to utter : 
 
 " Of course you may trust him to me ; you know what he 
 was when I had the care of him, and you see yourself what a 
 hand you made of him." 
 
 Doctor Rogerson took his leave, and Beatrice followed him 
 out. 
 
 "Oh! Doctor," she whispered, "is it quite true? — may I 
 really hope ? " 
 
 " Indeed you may-— on my word, I can say no more — ^you 
 may." 
 
 " Then I shall be too happy, that is all," for the weather had 
 got mild again, and they were to leave in all speed — so Doctor 
 Rogerson had said. 
 
 She felt too happy when she went back to her husband. She 
 felt it, and she said it to Gilbert, to Babet, to the children. 
 
 " Babet," she at length added, " I forgot to tell you the great 
 news. We are rich again, quite well off. We shall have plenty 
 of money now." 
 
 " Well, I am glad of that," solemnly replied Babet, who did 
 not realize perhaps all that Beatrice meant by plenty of money ; 
 "but take my word for it, you will never get a mahogany table 
 like it — never ! " 
 
 Beatrice laughed, and Gilbert smiled, and Charlie jumped, 
 and the twins looked grave and sleepy, and they were all very 
 happy, and surely they could not help it. But, poor little Rosy, 
 you did well to die ! 
 
 A year has passed ; Gilbert is in his laboratory in the south 
 of France, and Beatrice has sent Babet to fetch him ; and as 
 
620 BEATRICE. 
 
 Babet opens the door, and looks him at him, and sees him as tall 
 and straight and handsome as ever, she thinks with pride, " See 
 what I made him ! " 
 
 And dreary look the blackened runs of Carnoosie ; frost 
 locks up the four fountains, and the winter wind moans along 
 the avenue of tall, bare trees, and the deer reign alone in what 
 was once Beatrice's kingdom. 
 
 THE END, 
 
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 "3. The best minds of this country have been employed in enriching its 
 pages with the latest data, and the most recent discoveries in every branch of 
 manufactures, mechanics, and general science. 
 
 "4. It is a library in itself, where every topic is treated, and where informa- 
 tion can be gleaned which will enable a student, if he is so disposed, to consult 
 other authorities, thus affording him an invaluable key to knowledge. 
 
 "5. It is neatly printed with readable tj^pe on good paper, and contains a 
 most copious index. 
 
 "6. It is the only work which gives anything approaching correct descrip- 
 tions of cities and towns of America, or embraces reliable statistics showing the 
 ■wonderful growth of all sections." 
 
 Two Pictures; 
 
 Or, ^Vhat We Think of Ourselves, and What the World Thinks 
 of Us. By Maria J. McIntosh, author of " Two Lives," 
 *' Charms and Countercharms," etc. 1 vol., 12mo., 476 pages. 
 
 " The previous works of Miss Mcintosh have been popular in the best sense 
 of the word. The simple beauty of her narratives, combining pure sentiment 
 with high principle, and noble views of life and its duties, ought to win for them 
 a hearing at every fireside in our land. The lapse of time since we have had any 
 work of fiction from her pen, has only served to increase her power." 
 
 A Glimpse of the World. 
 
 By Miss Sewell, author of "Amy Herbert," etc. 1 vol., 12mo. 
 
 Of the authores8"'s style and language it would be superfluous to speak. 
 The simplicity of a refined nature, the ease of a skilled writer, and the correct- 
 ness of an industrious one, are conspicuous in every page. There is no straining 
 »t effect, no distortion of English palmed off as originality, no distrust of native 
 vigor evinced by a recourse to artificial."— 2%e Preas. 
 
D. APPLETON & GO'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 5 
 
 The History of Civilization in 
 England. 
 
 By Henry Thomas Buckle. — 2 vols. 8vo. 
 
 Whoever misses reading this book, will miss reading -what is, in rarious 
 respects, to the best of our judgment and experience, the most remarkable book 
 of the day — one, indeed, that no thoughtful, inquiring mind would miss reading 
 for a good deal. Let the reader be as adverse as he may to the writer's 
 philosophy, let him be as tlevoted to the obstructive as Mr. Buckle is to the prog, 
 ress party, let him be as orthodox in church creed as the other is heterodox, 
 as dogmatic as his author is skeptical— let him, in short, find his prejudices 
 shocked at every turn of the argument, and all his prepossessions whistled down 
 the wind— still there is so much in this extraordinary volume to stimulate 
 reflection, and excite to inquiry, and provoke to earnest investigation, perhaps 
 (to this or that reader) on a track hitherto untrodden, and across the virgin soil 
 of untilliBd fields, fresh woods and pastures new— that we may fairly defy the 
 most hostile spirit, the most mistrustful and least sympathetic, to read it through 
 without being triad of having done so, or, having begun it, or even glanced at 
 almost any one of its 864 pages, to pass it away unread.— iV^ew Monthly {London) 
 Magazine 
 
 History of the Romans under 
 - the Empire. 
 
 By Charles Merivale, B.D., late Fellow of St. John's College. 
 7 Vols, small 8v6. Handsomely printed on tinted paper. 
 
 CONTENTS : 
 
 Vols. I and II. — Comprising the History to the Fall of Julius 
 Csesar. 
 
 Vol. III. — ^To the Establishment of the Monarchy by Augustus. 
 Vols. rV. and V. — From Augustus to Claudius, B.C. 27 to a.d. 54. 
 Vol VI. — From the Reign of Nero, a. d. 54, to the Fall of 
 
 Jerusalem, a.d. 70. 
 Vol. VII. — From the Destructioji of Jerusalem, a.d. 70, to the 
 
 Death of M. Aurelius. 
 
 Thl3 valuable work terminates at the point where the narrative of Gibbon 
 commences. 
 
 . ..." When we enter on a more searching criticism of the two writers, 
 it must be admitted that Merivale has as firm a grasp of his subject ns Gibbon, 
 and that his work is characterized by a greater freedom from prejudice, and 
 a sounder philosophy. 
 
 . . . . ** This history must always stand as a splendid monument of his 
 learning, his candor, and his vigorous grasp of intellect. Though he is in some 
 respects inferior to Macaniay and Grote, he must still be classed with thein as 
 one of the second great triumvirate of English historians."- iV'o/'fA. American 
 Review, April, 1868. 
 
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