PH 4819 .JilJ^ Ingelov; /- in-n Jnlrn. I Southern Branch of the University of California Los Angeles Form L 1 D7i Jr CO. Iliiuited ^ This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 10V : 1923 5 iS2l 192tt / Form L-9 '^^,^ DON JOHN. Don John. A NOVEL. I 7 7^ BY JEAN INGELOW, AUTHOR OF "off THE SKELUGS," " FATED TO BE FREE," " SARAH DE BBRENGER," " POEMS." BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1887. AUTHOR'S EDITION. University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambriocx. The Mother of Maria Jane Aird, who was the Mother of " I suppose, whatever you may have thought all your — all your life, you — you — you never thought your mother was a fool ? " — Page 29. DON JOHN. CHAPTER I. While I listened, like young birds, Hints were fluttering; almost words, — Leaned and leaned, and nearer came ; — Everything had changed its name. Sorrow was a ship, I found. Wrecked with tiieni that in her are, On an island richer far Than the port where they were bound. Jean Ingelotv. IT may be doubted whether in all London there is, considering its width and the size of its houses, a more gloomy street than Upper Harley Street. The houses in this fine street are too deep to be lighted well within ; and so high as to give it on a dull day very much the effect of an exceedingl}^ long rail- way cutting between two high hills. Some 5'ears ago, a ver}' young woman in a widow's cap was furtively peeping out from an upper window in the front of one of these houses, and as she gazed down towards Cavendish Square and up towards Har- le}' Place she made the above comparison in her mind. It was rather a dull day in the beginning of April, but she did not find the gloom of a London spring at all depressing, for she was sometimes allowed to take the baby, now lying in a frilled bassinet behind her, into Oxford Street, where she could feast her eyes on the splendid contents of the shop windows, or she might stroll into the Soho bazaar, or she would be 6 DON JOHN. taken for a drive in the park with her charge by the baby's mother, for she was wet-nnrse to the said baby, and thus found herself for the first time in her life a personage of great importance, whose tastes were to be consulted, whose dinner was by no means to be de- layed, and whose comfort and even pleasure were con- sidered to be of consequence. To do her justice, she gave herself fewer airs than most of her class, and did her best for the bab^', who was the child of a lawyer in excellent practice. His name, the very same as that of his son, was Donald Johnstone ; he was of Scotch extraction, but his family had been for two generations settled in the South. Maria Jane Aird, such was the name of the nurse, had been higlil.y recommended to her present place ; and, in order to take it, had left her own young infant under the charge of her mother. But that she fretted after him now and then, she would have been thor- ' onghl}' content ; she had not much loved the young husband whom, to please her mother, she had married. She was consoled now, for he had been already dead six months ; the main regret she still felt was that dur- ing his long illness (he was a carpenter) all his savings had been spent, so that she had nothing whereon to begin life again, and had even become familiar before the birth of her child with both want and cold. She was a sweet-tempered young creature, had never done any particular good in the world ; but then what opportunitj- had she found ? for the same reason pos- sibly she Iiad never done any particular harm. She had one habit which Mrs. Johnstone, the baby's mother, did not like ; she was constantly reading books from a circulating library. Some of these were dirty, and smelt of tobacco ; Mrs. Johnstone had remarked nidre than once that she did not approve of books of that kind in tlie same room with the bal)v. He was her only son, and a very precious infant ; everything that love and money could do was to be lavished on him. His three little sisters were in the DON JOHN. 7 country under the charge of an old servant, and just as Mrs. Aird withdrew her head and cautiousl}* shut down the window, a boy with a telegram in his hand came up the street, containing a ver^' important mes- sage concerning them. They were expected home that very afternoon, and their father was gone to fetch them. Mrs. Aird, as she turned, looked about the wide chamber, with that kind of exultation which comes of a fresh and advantageous change. It was before the . date when the browns we use on our wall-papers began to be reverently studied from Thames mud, and the greens and 3'ellows from mouldy cheese. No one as yet toned down tender dirty drab within to match the formless smoky drab without ; no one adored rhubarb tints, or admired the color result- ing from mixtures of cocoa and milk. The walls here were all one flush of comely cabbage roses making the most of themselves in quantities enough if they could have been gathered to fill several clothes' baskets. They sprawled quite innocent of ar- tistic propriety over a paper satin-soft, and glossy, and in hue of a delicate dove-color. There was gilding about certain picture-frames, and pink flutings and em- broidered muslin draped the dressing-table. The baby, as a little god of love, was half smothered in lace frill- ings, his little quilt was edged with swan's-down, and all his surroundings were enriched with fine needlework. All was gaj* and fresh and clean. Mrs. Aird, hearing a step on the stairs, thrust away her novel, took up a piece of needlework, and at the same moment Mrs. Johnstone came in, looking ver^' much flushed and agitated. The nurse set a chair for her, but she was too restless to sit down. She had a telegram in her hand. " This has just come from Mr. Johnstone," she said ; " it is about the little girls, nurse." "Indeed, ma'am." "Mr. Johnstone telegraphed from Reading Station." "Indeed, ma'am," repeated the uurse ; "I hope thei'e 's nothins wrons: ? " 8 DON JOHN. "I don't know, I hope not; but he says my eldest little girl has a slight rash on her neck." " Dear, ma'am ! " exclaimed the nurse, " don't flurrj^ 3-ourself so ; consider how ill you have been. I dare say it 's nothing ; might I see the message ? " With a trembling hand Mrs. Johnstone held out the-* telegram. It ran thus : — " Have only just obsen'ed that Irene has a slight rash on her neck ; seems unwell, and is cross. Send baby into lodgings before we arrive. I hope nothing of consequence. If doctor saj's so, can have him back to-morrow." Upwards of twent}' words ; how these gentle-folks throw away their money ! This was the nurse's first thought ; after it crowded in others that nearly took her l)reath awa}'. " I understand, I am told, Mrs. Aird, that your mother lives at Dartford, and has the care of your baby." " Yes, ma'am ; it is a very nice clean place." "Oh, I have of course no thought of sending 3'ou there for on 13- one night." Mrs. Aird showed no disappointment in her face ; she on 13' said, — " This handsome street and these squares about here never have any card up to show they let lodgings." "Oh, no, no; and there is so little time^ what can I do?" '• There 's Kew ; is that far off, ma'am? " " Kew, 3-es, of course it is ; but why?" " I have a friend there, close to Kew Green, a very respectable woman that comes from the same place in Oxfordshire that my poor husband did, and she told me this very mf)rning tliat an artist gentleman had just left her, and she wished she could hear of another let" " I hope it would be only for a night," mused the motiier. " She is the cleanest woman that ever was," urged the nurse, " and I am sure she would not charge much." DON JOHN. 9 " It would be sure to be for two nights," thought Mrs. Aird. "T can telegraph as well as other people, and I might get a sight of my blessed baby." '"Ma'am, I would not deceive you for the world," she cried, the clear color at a thought of this possi- bilit}^ flushing up all over her face and throat. "You mean that this person is really clean and respectable ? " " Yes, ma'am." " And no other lodgers taken? " " Oh no, ma'am, the house is too smaU for that." " It is a health}' place ? " " Oh yes, close to the gardens." "And in half an hour they will be here; ring the bell, Mrs. Aird." "The baby is ready dressed to go out," proceeded the nurse as she rose. " And the carriage," sighed the mother, " is already at the door." It had been ordered in fact to take Mrs. Johnstone out. " If I trust you for this one night," she pleaded, " 3'ou will not leave my dear bab}' for a moment? " "No, ma'am, it cuts me to the heart to see you so trembling. I would not, I assure you, as I am a Christian. But I '11 be bound there 's very little the matter with little miss ; perhaps it 's scarlatina she 's got coming on, and all children must have that ; the baby could not have it at a better time." The sight of Mrs. Johnstone's nervous anxiety and changing color wrung these words from the nurse almost in spite of herself, and though she longed to go ; but the bell was soon answered b}- a housemaid who was told to help Mrs. Aird at once in packing the bab3^'s clothes. Mrs. Aird observed with excitement and joy that though the baby was to come back to-morrow, enough clothes were put up to last him at least a week. She herself was told to take a box of clothes with her, and in a very few minutes all was x-eady. lO DON JOHN. " I shall hope to drive over for 30U to-moiTow," said Mrs. Johnstone, and in the meanwhile she gave her twelve postage cards and three pounds, in case she should not be able to come, charged her not to return without further orders, and took leave of her bah}-, with floods of passionate tears. In the comfortable closed carriage the nurse was driven through the streets in a state of exultation scarcely to be described ; here at least was absolute freedom for twenty-four hours, and if it proved that there really was any danger of infection, she might be left there some days, and manage to send her mother monev to Uartford to bu}' a third-class ticket with, so that she miglit be 'willing to bring over the bahj'. This would be a costly pleasure certainly, but her circumstances as she understood them were so com- fortable that she could afford it well. That very afternoon, having taken a fricndlv leave of the coachman and footman, and established herself in all state in the clean tidy lodgings which were ever} - thing she had described, Mrs. Aird wrote to her mother to relate these circumstances, dwelt on her longing to see her child, and expressed a naive., and perhaps not unnatural, hope that the rash might turn out to be scarlatina, in which case she was likely, as she thought, to have her time to herself for at least a week, and she should take it hard if her mother did not spare a da}' to bring the bab}'. The next day passed and no notice was taken of Mrs. Aird ; ]Mrs. Johnstone did not appear, and a cai'd was posted to her according to her directions. The following day Mrs. Aird's spirits were put into a flutter by the arrival of a telegram, in which she was informed that the little Miss Johnstone really had got scarlatina, that Mrs. Johnstone's doctor would pay her a visit that day at four o'clock, and that he would give her any directions which she might need. Mrs. Aird was ready to receive the doctor, she was so fresh, clean, cosy, and cheerful, that she looked a very ideal nurse, and the baby only six weeks old (her DON JOHN. II own being one fortnight older) , looked already the bet- ter for her ministrations. The little lodgings were so neat, the house so de- tached in its prett}' little garden, the air so pleasant, that altogether the doctor was very well satisfied. " You ma}' be here a week yet," he observed, knowing that if she was found to be doing her duty siie would be there much longer. "Of course it is perfectl}' un- derstood that 3'ou are never to go into London." " Oh, yes, sir, and I have no such wish, I am sure. I have not a single friend there." " Nor are you to go into any houses here." " Sir, I have not a single acquaintance anywhere near. " "Of course you are to have no communication with Mr. Johnstone's servants, not even by letter." " You have not been there, then, sir?" It was taking a great liberty in the nurse to sa}' that. "Certainly I have," he answered a little sternly; " that is another thing, doctors understand these mat- ters, doctors never convey infection." " No, sir," answered Mrs. Aird, as an echo of his words, but not as conve3'ing an}' opinion of her own ; " I hope the little girl is not very ill?" she continued. " Oh, no, quite an ordinary case." The doctor then stepped out into the road. "Yon are in a position of great trust, Mrs. Aird. Prove 3'ourself worthy of it for your own sake. Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone are both rich and kind. By-the- bye, I may be expected to drop in any day." " Yes, sir, at what time?" "At any time." " Then I had better never take the bab}' out of sight of the house." "I don't say that, I will always send a telegram an hour or so before I come, and if 3'ou take care never to be awa}- more than an hour I shall be sure to find yon." He thus effectually prevented her from doing more than take the bab}- for a walk, but she b}' her absolutely 12 DON JOHN. contented face when he spoke, prevented his thinking it needful to come ! She evidently did not mind the restraint at all, and he left her without haviog the re- motest intention of going near her any more. The bab^- was thriving, the nurse was well, the lodgings were all that he could wish, the young w^oman had no friend, and believed herself liable to frequent super- vision. But why was the nurse so well contented to stay at home? Because she had got an answer to her letter from her mother, and it set forth, to her great joy and surprise, that this frugal and respectable woman, hav- ing made up her mind to leave her lodgings at Dartford, where she got as ^ Maria well knew such a poor living out of the washing," was coming up with the baby to her old quarters at the back of Kensington Square, and to-morrow might be expected to drop in to an early dinner, and, if it was not an ill conveniency, could enjoy a pork chop or two and a gi'een gooseberry pud- ding. Mrs. Aird could hardly believe her good fortune. She saw at once a reason, though not the reason, for this sudden resolution. She w^as herself to ha^-e every comfort ; if more pork chops w^ere eaten than could have been expected, no questions wonld be asked provided the baby was well and flourishing. Her mother intended, of course, to come and share in some of the good things. The friend in the lodgings would never tell that she might now and then have cooked for two instead of for one. Moreover the mother had hinted already that she might as well constitute herself the baby's washerwoman as allow any other woman to have tliat post. Mrs. Aird was rather late the next morning, and was about to dress the baby, who, hav- ing only just been washed, was sprawling on her knee, a little red, limp, crying creature, when, to her delight, her mother with her own baby came in. "Oh, mother, mother, take this one," she cried, " and give me mine ! " The exchange was instantly eflTected, and Mrs. Aird DON JOHN. 13 began to devour her own baby with kisses. Her mother laid the Uttle Johnstone down on the bed. and let him comfort himself as well as he could with his own tinj^ fist, while she carefully took off and folded her own best shawl, and put on an apron. " A nice little fellow," she then said, looking at him critically. "A fine boy I call him, for he's as big as yours already, and a fortnight younger. A nice fresh ' skin," she continued, taking him up and turning him over on her competent motherly arm, " not a spot nor — nor — nor, a mark about him. Yes, he's as near as may be the same weight as yours." The young mother, absorbed in her child, took no notice of these remarks, but tenderly- cuddling her own baby against her neck, said sighing, — "And to think he's weaned! Oh, how much more interesdng he does look than that other woman's child." "La!" cried her mother, "how can 3'ou saj' so, Maria ! I call that real, real foolish. Interesdng in- deed, one's just as interesdng as — as the other, same size, same blue eyes, and what little down there is on their heads, just the same color." ' ' Well, mother, 3'ou were all for my having a nurse- child, so you 're bound to make out it 's for the best." ' ' And I hope it '11 prove for the best, m}- — m}^ girl," said the mother, with a slow, quiet impressiveness. " Well, if this child ain't gone off to sleep ! I'll just wrap him in — in the nursing apron and put him in his cot. I've brought 3'ou a bundle, Maria," she contin- ued, cautiously lifting the child. " A bundle with j'our two old print gowns in it, no need for you to go tramp- ing up and — and down these dull roads in your good new clothes. Did 3'ou manage to — to get those library books returned? I should be loath for you to get into' trouble, through their being sent for to the house, such a lot as 3'ou had too b}' what }'ou wrote." ' ' Yes, mother, I got them back ; I had to send them from here by the carrier, and send the ninepence too in \ stamps for the reading of them." ) " See how you waste your money," answered her 14 DON JOHN. mother, cautionsl}' laying the baby in his cot, "read, read, for ever read ; that's what came of — of my set- tling at Kensington, and 3'our going to b'Mar}- Abbots' schools. What a man the old vicar is, to be sure ! If all the S'Mary Abbots' scholars can't read the — the smallest print and — and write the longest word as soon as look at them, it's not for want of his worritting after them. Little he cares, I'll be bound, what your mother had to pay in that very High Street for novels for you to read by candle-light in bed (all along of his being so keen after the learning). It's a wonder you did not burn the house down 1 " " Mother," said Mrs. Aird, " I don't want Mrs. John- stone to know I was brought up at Kensington ; she 's not aware but what we 've lived at Dartford all our lives, instead of only while poor Lancey was with u^." " Of course not," answered her mother, with gentle deliberation, which derived emphasis from a verj' slight impediment in her speech. " And she never need, Ma — Maria." She showed this imperfection of speech very little unless she was excited or agitated, and this is the exact contrary of what happens in most cases. " She hates the notion of my so much as lookin*' at poor people, as if the very air of them could foul^er child," said the daughter. " Most of 'em do." "And as to your coming all the way from Dartford through me wanting to set my eyes on my own just for an hour, she 'd never believe it." "Just like 'em again, hvi most of us is even with 'em, Ma — Maria. And it does see — seem a good deal to act out for — for an hour or two, it does in — deed, Maria." "Well, mother, it does; but 3-ou see I sent the money." " Ay," continued the mother, Mrs. Pearson by name, with her gentle, slow hesitation, "and don't vou go hiring your rubbishing no — novels here. It m"ight be found out. And — and — arid I 've — I 've lit on two oj DON JOHN. 15 three first — first-rate ones, that I brought with me, shilhng ones, I got half — half price — Ma — Maria." "Wh}' should mother be so put out about the nov- els ?" thought Mrs. Aircl ; '' 1 've not heard her talk so badly I don't know when." " What are you doing, mother?" " AVoll, I'm not fond of washing frocks constant I 3'ou 're crumpliug the child's robe, and he — he — poor little fellow ! has — has but one. I'll la}' it by till we — we — go home. And how's Mrs. Leach, Ma — - Maria?" (Mrs. Leach was the landlady.) ^' She's well, and full of joy ; got work for nine days to come, morning till night, charing. I 'm to have my dinner cooked at the bake-house, and I shall oblige her b}' making my bed, and that." Master Lancelot Aird, having been divested of his best frock, was now laid in his mother's bed, with bis bottle, over which he also fell asleep Mrs. Aird let her mother know that now she could do as she liked, she dined at twelve, and then she could enjo}' her tea at four o'clock, and eat a good supper by half-past eight. "I wonder how you'll do when j-ou've weaned this child?" observed the mother, her capricious impediment quite gone ; '' a'ou '11 find a difference then, my girl." "Don't talk of that, mother; I hope that won't be for six months at least." "It'll be no trouble," replied the mother, "be it sooner or later — sooner or later, Ma — Maria. For by what you told me, he has been used to have the bottle once a day from his birth. I had no trouble with — with yours my — my — my girl. And — and if their being as like as — as two peas is an}* — an3-rule, you'll have none with — with him." " There she goes again," thought Mrs. Aird, quite impressed b}' the uncommon degree of discomfort that her mother was suffering. Then it all went off again, the dinner was carried in- to the tin}- parlor, the two babes slept in peace, and the two women, leaving the door open, sat down to enjoy themselves, a pot of porter, and some new bread, and other luxuries being set on the tabl$. i6 DON JOHN. " Mrs. Leach does n't so much as know I brought your child," said Mrs. Pearson, the 3'oung widow's mother. ''Why should she, mother? " answered Mrs. Aird shar|)ly, " she might take it into her head to tell Mrs. Johnstone." The mother nodded with an air of 's\dsdom and tri- umph, '• The children have all got the scarlatina now, my girl, and one of them is very ill." "■ How do you know, mother." " I went and inquired. Said I to the cook, she was cleaning the steps, ' Mrs. Thompson's love, and has heard the little Johnstones are ill, and I was to inquire,' She told me all I wanted to know. Mrs. Johnstone 's very unwell herself, and the servants say she '11 certainly- fret herself sick, so ill as she has just been, and she won't leave the children a minute. ' Well,' said I, ' you won't forget to give Mrs. Thompson's love to 3-our lady ; ' and I left. You 've some days to 3-ourself, my girl, yet." " So I think, mother." " Then — llicn — ilien do — your best." "Yes, mother, why not ?" answered Mrs. Aird care- lessly, when at last her mother had managed to utter these words. Mrs. Aird now went into the little kitchen and fetched in the pudding, she was by no means too proud to wait on herself when her friend and landlady was bus}'. And now that this comfortable meal was over, Mrs. Pearson, to her daughter's great surprise, expressed a strong wish to see Kew Gardens. "But as 3-ou've never dressed the baby, Maria," she continued, " along of his beiug asleep, you have no call to come too, 3'ou can see them any day. There he is awake, I hear him stirring, and yours '11 wake too directly." She stepped out into the road, and before her daughter had recov- ered from the surprise of feeling that there was some- thing unusual about her mother, she was gone. " I '11 — I'll — I'll be in by tea-time, my — my girl," she said; " undo the bundle and i)ut in any — anything you have for the wash, and I '11 take it with me." DON JOHN. 17 CHAPTER II. Oblivion is not to be buried. Sir T. Browne. MRS. PEARSON had no sooner departed than the Johnstone baby began to cry lustily. His nurse took him up, and while she sat on the side of the bed, satisfying his little wants, she gazed at her own child with tender love. Two or three tears rolled down her comeh' cheeks, while the alien baby made himself at home at her breast, and half choked his greed}' little self, over the nourish- ment she had sold away from her own. As she held her nursling with one hand, she drew towards her the bundle her mother had brought, with the other, untied the knots, shook out her two gowns, and three shabby little volumes fell awa}- from them on to the bed. She lifted one, and a sudden touch of self- consciousness made her feel how odd it was that her mother should have accidentally lighted on such a story ; but she put it aside without another thought, for she had read it before, and it was not interesting. Then she took up the next, and when she saw that it was on the same subject — a very common and favorite subject with writers of fiction — she no longer thought there was any accident in the matter. Her mother, she perceived, had Ijrought these books to her on purpose to suggest what she did not dare to say. She took up the Third book — one very dirty volume from an old-fashioned story called "The Changeling." She turned very pale ; her first thought was one of almost unreasonable anger against her mother. If she had been minded to do this thing, as she now perceived, 2 1 8 DON JOHN. she could not have done it without an accomplice, with- out doubling therefore the slender chance of escape from detection. She felt that a longing that such a thing could have been done had already existed deep down in her heart. .She accused her mother as alone ha^nng given it form and possibility-. The little nursling, now fed to the lull, was awake and quiet in her arms ; but temptation was too new to be acted on. She put on his fine and ample clothes all but his robe, and laying him down beside the other babe, began to recall the things her mother had said. They had the same colored eyes, the same colored down on their heads, they w^ere about the same size ; but as to bringing the remote romances of a by-gone age into families that lived in Harley Street and sent a baby with his nurse to Kew — now, at this ver}' present time — it was a thing too arduous for thought, too wicked for every-day life. An Irish castle — tumble-down, haunted by ghosts, and full of re- tainers — had been the scene of one of these stories. A fugitive famih' hundreds of years ago had stolen away the heir of the house, in another ; and had left their child in its stead. In the third, children were also changed at nurse — but there was a gipsy in the case, and there were awful midnight incantations, and the nurse was conjured into the crypt of a ruined chapel, far among the Scotch mountains ; and thei-e the baby was charmed away from her, and an elf-child left in her arms. She mocked at her mother, and was sore against her in lier heart. She was holding up the broidered robe of her mirsling ; did it look like anything that her child could wear upon his pretty low-born limbs without de- tection ? Yes ! There was nothing to choose. He was the finer child of the two ; at least, if there was any- thing to choose between them. It was time he had his bottle. She would warm its contents for him. She did so, and her tears fell fast, as she leaned over the little kitchen Hre. AVlien lie had finished this meal — each child bein^ full dressed, excepting that it liad its frock oiT — she DON JOHN. 19 thought she should like to see how her child would look in the beautiful robe. She put it on ; and to her fond eyes he seemed to become it far better than the other did. To change them ! Oh, that such a thing could be ! But she was not unreasonable ; she knew as well as possible that it could not ; but, for the moment — onh- for the moment — her child should look like the gentleman's son. Nature was not unfair at the first ; the carpenter's bab}' as he had come from her hand was as fair, as refined, as innocent in aspect as he could be. It would only be when art stepped in and educated him, that he would be, however he might dress, all the cock- ney and all the carpenter. His mother (over the Johnstone baby's robe) put on the delicate blue cashmere cloak, enriched with swan's- down, and the pretty satin hood, with its lace cockade. And sat hanging over him with a yearning sense of envy against the other bab}- and a rapture of pride in him. She did not care whether her mother came in or not. She would by no means do this thing. In fact, it could not be done with the least chance of success — but not the less, her mother should know she perceived she had been tempted — not the less — A sudden qualm at the nurse's heart. A noise of wheels ! A dust rising up ! A carriage! — oh misfortune, a carriage, — and both the children in the house ; she herself, sitting in the little bedroom, which was on the ground floor and led out of the sitting-room, must have been plainly seen by its one occupant — a lady ; and this lady was now de- scending. It was Mr. Johnstone's mother. Something must be done, and done instantly. But nothing could ever make things come right if it were discovered that two babies were in the house and one of them her own. She had but one instant to decide ! the lady was coming up the tiny garden. The little Johnstone was lying con- tentedly on the bed — no time to dress him, no time to undress the other. She kept her own baby on her arm, and in sheer desperation opened the bedroom door, and shutting it behind her, came to meet her guest with a curtsey and a welcome. Something sadly like a prayer 20 DON JOHN. was on her trembling lips — her situation was temble — anrl for the first few moments while the supposed grandmother ^- a fine capable woman little more than fifty, who had just come up from .Scotland — lifted the baby's lace veil, kissed him, chirped to him, and asked how he was, she trembled so as to attract attention — he was lying flat on his mother's arms staring at the nodding feathers in the visitor's bonnet. " You look very pale, nurse ! " exclaimed the grand- mother. " Oh, ma'am," answered Mrs. Aird, the ready lie rising to her lips. " I was afraid you might be come to say the children were worse." '• The children are worse, I am sorry to sa}*," was the answer. " I have not seen them, of course, that would not be prudent — but Mr. Johnstone writes me word that Miss Irene causes tliem a good deal of anxiet}'." " You iTia}' put your bonnet on, nurse. The darling is dressed — you shall take him out with me for a little airing in the carriage." What I and leave the other baby all alone on the bed? Mrs. Aird felt as if her heart stood still. "Oh, ma'am !" she exclaimed, lying again, "I am so sorry, but the person of the house is gone out for an hour or so, just to do a little shopping, and I promised to see to the house while she was away — and she has locked the back-door and given me the key." '• Oh, well, another time, then," said the lady slowly, and as if Mrs. Aird's manner surprised her. " Y'ou are quite well?" she inquired. " Oh, yes, as well as can be, ma'am." and all her soul was iu her ears. What if the Johnstone baby should cr)- ! '' Pretty little man," said the grandmother, again caressing the bal»y, Init not taking him from the nurse ; '' I hope he is thriving." She had not seen her gi^aud- son before. " (.)h, ma'am, he is as good-tempered and as contented as he can be." The nurse had now recovered her color, every moment that the other bab}- remained quiet was DON JOHN. 21 a great gain, she was beginning to pluck up courage, and was trying to look cheerful. " Well, well," said the lady, smiling kindh^ " I con- fess I do not see much virtue in a baby's contentment, when he has as good cause for it as I hear you give this one." " Thank you, ma'am ; I am sure I try to give satis- faction." "I am ver}^ well satisfied," answered the grand- mother gracioual}" ; " I shall write to my daughter that I am." A few more commonplaces, a few more adverse chances to be overlived, a few more flutterings of the heart on the part of the nurse, and then her visitor got up and took her leave and went back to the carriage, followed b}- the nurse with her own child in her arms. It seemed to her that she had never listened and never looked before. That baby on the bed, how her ears were open to him ! That velvet mantle she was following, how she noted every fold and every " frog " upon it I But now her curtsey' was made and the carriage was gone. She ran back into the house, laid her child on the bed, and burst into tears ; for the first time in her life she knew what bitterness there is in the fear of detec- tion. " The wages of sin are hard." Her ruin as re- garded this situation and the chai'acter she hoped to have from it would have been irretrievable if anything had been found out. Even if she had meant really to do the thing, and keep to it, such an interview would have been more than she could have borne. What if Mrs. Leach had walked in, and it had come out that she had not left the house at all ! AYhat if the other baby had begun to cry ! And yet how sweet that one of her own had looked when the strange visitor had nodded and chirped to him, and he had twisted his tiny mouth into the promise of a smile ! It was not worth while to so through so much. 22 DON JOHN. No, that was not exactl}" it. She loved herself as well as her baby. She had not expected to be so fi-iglitened. The least questioning would have betrayed all. She never could so much as act such a thing again, and she pulled down the broidered robe, even tearing it in her hurry, and threw it aside from her own child. Then she took up her nursling, dressed him in all his braver}', and waited her mother's' arrival with an easier heart. She had not known herself before. She was aware now what shame and dread had come of the mere pro[)hecy of a crime in her heart. AVhat, then, would experience be ! Well, it might be a pit}', perhaps it was ; but she was not one of those who could stand such a thing. It was not her con- science that was awake, but her reason ; even if she could do such a thing successful!}', she should suffer constant fear of detection ; she would not do it. Master Johnstone had enjoyed his supper, and was in his cot, and Master Aird had enjoyed his bottle be- fore Mrs. Pearson came in. She entered slowly, and as if she would not startle her daughter. Mrs. Aird had one of the babies on her knee. Mrs. Pearson never cast her eyes on him. " La, Maria, my girl," were her first words; " such queer things as I have seen ! " '' No, have yon, mother?" answered Mrs. Aird, with a keen consciousness that her mother cared about the said things nothing in the world. " If some of those cactus things was n't just like an — an old man's head all over white hairs, my name 's not Fanny Pearson." said the mother, without any signs of hesitation. "There was a — a glass-house full of such. Tlui last time I saw them was the first bank holiday Parliament made. The shops all shut up, and yet the Punches going, and l)arrows of fruit cried all about the streets, it was just like — like a wicked Sun- day, that had got sorted wrong and come in the middle of the — the week." Her daughter, with a baby on her knee, remained silent. DON JOHN. 23 ' ' And so tea 's read}-, Maria, my girl, and ver}^ accepta- ble, I say." She glanced at her daughter, and no- ticed the signs of tears upon her face. " I'm always glad of — of my tea," she continued ; " how quiet tlie dear children are ! " she added, as she drew her chair to the table. " One of them has been crying pretty hard," replied the daughter, without specifying which. She had a little white pinafore in her hand, and seemed to be giving her attention to the sleeve which she was folding back with a button. Her mother glanced keenly at her, but did not dare to look at the face of the child she had on her knee. Tea was now poured out. Mrs. Pearson had begun to feel the silence rather awkward, when at last her daughter said, "Those three novels you brought me, mother, I wonder 3'ou should have thought I had n't read them, they're old things every one of them." " Well," answered the mother, with obliging suavit}^, "if you don't mean to read them again, I'll take them back, Ma — Maria." "No, I don't," said Mrs. Aird. She knew she was making her mother uncomfortable, but a certain slight perversity of temper afflicted her just then. " I saw you 'd looked them over before you chose them," she continued. Her mother reddened, she was not at all sure that the thing suggested had not been done. "Maria's so deep," she reflected, " that she's quite capable of pla}'- ing at innocence with me. Still ' Least said is soonest mended,' and I wish she would hold her tongue." "I'll take them back," she managed to sa}', with many breaks and repetitions through the return of her impediment, and she rose and tied them up in a blue handkerchief, and returned almost meekly to the tea table, she was quite at her daughter's mercy now ; she could not articulate tolerably. The least little smile hovered about Mrs. Aird's lips, such a subtle small smile as justified at once her mother's assertion that she was " deep." 24 DON JOHN. "I should burn them, mother, if I was you," she observed cahnh', " not that they signify." Her mother answered nothing. ''I've read dozens such — dozens," continued the daughter. "I've not forgot one of them. Thej^'re enough to dishearten the willingest sinner that ever breathed." "I don't know lyhat yon mean, Maria," the mother burst out, anger overcoming her hesitation. She hardl^^ knew whether she was most angr}- with her daughter for ' ' giving words " to the matter at all when perfect silence would have been most prudent, or for thus leav- ing her in some doubt what she had done or meant to do, or for (as it really- seemed) not being perfectly cer- tain whether she dared trust her own mother. "Don't know what I mean, mother ?" rejoined the daughter, that small smile hovering over her upper lip ; " well, I call them disheartening because after they've (whoever they may be), after the3-'ve done it so beauti- ful, you know, they're alwaA-s found out." The mother looked very red and irate. " No," she continued, ap- pearing to cogitate, " I don't remember one but what's found out, nor one but what's brought to shame for it." And what was the effect of this speech on the mother? She caught the subtle smile as it went and came, it never rose higher than the lip or warmed the e^'e, and she was in doubt. Something had put Maria out she thought ; perhaps though she meant to do the thing that had been hinted at, the peril of it mixed as worm- wood with the sweetness of her hope. "They're always found out," repeated the daughter. The mother recovered speech. " iVo, they're not," she replied angrily, " 1 know better than that." The significance of her manner was inexpressible. ]\Irs. Aird gave a great start, and with frightened eyes gazed at the woman who had claimed for herself such awful experience. But having said so much, the mother either could not or would not sa}' more. She poured out some tea, cut her daughter more bread and butter, DON JOHN. 25 and still not looking at the bab}^ scarcely looking in his direction, left her words to work their due effect. What she had to do was finished. She had made a certain suggestion, and her daughter surely was aware that she might count on her help to carry it out. There was silence ; then Mrs. Leach, the landlady, came in. She had a promise of seA^eral days' charing, wanted for many days to be away till eight o'clock at night, was ver}^ anxious to propitiate. Did Mrs. Aird think she should mind answering the door herself if any- body came to see the bab}-? Mrs. Aird was sure she should not, and also was quite wilhng to have a baked dinner for the next few days. Mrs. Leach had not seen the second baby who had made his appearance on the scene, neither the mother nor the daughter cared to mention him. He was Ijing on his mother's bed with his bottle. The little John- stone, taking it into his head to be very fractious, Mrs. Aird carried him into the bedroom, and there, shutting herself in, comforted him and contemplated her heir. The mother and Mrs. Leach meanwhile (tea being over) proceeded into the back of the house together, to inspect a new copper, and were a long while away, so that Mrs. Aii'd had plenty of time for thought. It was nearly three quai'ters of an hour before Mrs. Pearson returned and saw her daughter sitting b}- the window with a baby on her lap. He was dressed in the robe that had been folded up so carefully in the morn- ing, had on the neat little gray cloak and hood familiar to Mrs. Pearson's eyes, he had also a fine handkerchief trimmed with imitation lace lightly laid over his face. A bundle of clothes to be washed was l3'ing beside her. The nurse explained that the omnibus her mother had wished to go back by was veiy nearly due, and that she had dressed the baby ready. The grandmother did not look either at her or at the child with anything but a hast^' glance. She took the child upon her arm and advanced to the open door, but the omnibus was not 3'et visible. She 26 DON JOHN. could not stand waiting, she felt too much excited, and she proposed, as well as her impediment permitted, to go on and let it overtake her. She was just stepping out when, as if b}' an irresistible impulse, the daughter exclaimed, " Oh, I must have another kiss of him." She flung back the handkerchief, and, behold, it was the same baby that had been brought, it was the carpenter's child I the grandmother could not doubt it, and auger reddened her face and filled her soul. Then Maria had not done it after all — after the trou- ble she had taken to come and live at Kensington — after the day's work she had given up in order to bring the child to Kew. She was so wrath that she would have liked to box Maria's ears. So irate in fact when Ma- ria burst into a little chuckling laugh that she trembled all over till she was fain to step inside again and sit down, setting her bundle beside her on the floor. Mrs. Aird, after that small laugh, darted into the bedroom and appeared with the other baby in her arms and an au* of simple innocence. The omnibus went by and neither of them noticed it till too late. The mother was trying hard to calm herself, and the irate hue of her face was fading ; the daughter had the subtle smile about her lips when their eyes met, but it gave waj- to a gleam of surprise when her mother spoke as pleasantly as if nothing had happened. "I wish you could have managed to take him off my hands for two days while I look about me, Ma — ISIaria, he is a great handful." " Why, mother, it would be found out, you know it would." "Mrs. Leach don't know he's here; 3'ou couldn't help your own crying now and then in the night, but there's no ne — eed they should ever bo — oth cry to- gether, for the other you can always stop. They'd only — only seem to be one." *' So I could, mother ; how I should love to have him till you bring the clothes back ! " " The doctor is to send a telegram if ever he comes. There 's a girl in the cottage round by the green that DON JOHN. 27 would take him out at what's calling time for ladies, Ma — Ma — ria." "To be sure," answered the daughter ; "they never lunch till nearlj^ two, they cannot possibh' get here till three at earliest ; I might send the blessed babe out at that time of da}-. The girl need never see my nurse- child. Well, mother — " "Well, you'll take him off — off — my hands then, till the clothes are — are — are ready." Mrs. Aird took him, that is, she got her mother to la}' him in the cot, for her own arms were full, and she agreed with her mother to send on the girl who had been mentioned to speak to her. The temptation, as she herself looked upon it, was over, she had not yielded. She now thought she could enjoy the sweet for that little time without the bitter. She could have her own baby to sleep in her arms for those two nights, and send him away during the afternoon, so that she could no more suffer as she had done during the gi-andmother's visit. She was glad at heart. It was only safety she wanted. Kot to do the right, but to be safe in doing wrong. So the bab}' was left, and Mrs. Pearson departed with a light step and considerable confidence in her mind as to what would be the end of it. There never was such a chance, as she told herself as she went home — babies altered from week to week, who could challenge them? The mother who could at this moment tell her child out of a hundred was sure not to come near him for fear of infection ; and though she might in her jealous love and care send a friend almost every da}' to look that he was happy, clean, and cared for, the visit would be of no use as regarded the child's real danger, the onl}- danger that threatened him. Mrs. Johnstone did indeed send almost every day, and was consoled b}' letters from various friends who came at her desire. They always found a charming, fresh, healthy young nurse, a clean room and a fat babv. They never found any one with the nurse. She seemed glad to see them, and always expressed much sympathy with Mrs. Johnstone. 28 DON JOHN. CHAPTER in. It 's more asking than answering in this world, asMng back and asking on. — Adeline D. T. Whitney. AT about ten o'clock on the morning of the ap- pointed da}-, Mrs. Pearson entered the cottage at Kew with the bab}- Johnstone's clean clothes. Mrs. Aird looked tired and flushed. " Such a night as I have had, mother, you would n't believe ! " she ex- claimed ; "as fast as one was Cjuiet the other set off crying, and it's been nothing but cry, crj-, one or the other, all the time I 've been washing and dressmg them. The}- 're both just fed, and I hope the}- '11 take a spell of sleep now, for I 'm about tii'ed out." The clothes from the wash were then spread on the table, and Maria proceeded to pay her mother for doing them. '•And now, mother, sit down," she proceeded. " You are the washerwoman, you see, sit down, but in case anybody should come in, leave the money and the clothes on the table to look natural." " Nobody will come to-day," answered the mother, rather seriously. "Why not?" "That — that little girl that was first taken ill — she 's dead, Maria." "Mother!" " Yes, I inquired, and — and the cook told me ; " she gave a little gasp here, as if making a supreme eflTort to overtake and run down her words, then went on quite easily. She said, " They 've just sent the death to the Times, and — and you '11 see it to-morrow, ' Irene, be- DON JOHN. 29 loved child of Donald Johnstone, aged three years and three months.' " " Yes, she was then- eldest child. Poor Mrs. John- stone ! I wonder how the others are, mother? " " Very ill by what I hear ; the cook said Mrs. John- stone was very ill too, and the master was so knocked down by that, and his trouble at the child's death, that it was a pit}^ to see him." "He is very fond of her; I wonder whether she is going to have the fever." " Nobody will know that yet, with gi'own-iip people it seldom shows before the fourteenth day. But — but — but, dear me, my girl, j'ou do look tired out." " I am tired. I 'm sorry at my heart for the John- stones. Mother, I 've done a deal of thinking since we parted." ' ' Thinking about what, Ma — Maria ? " "^Yell, partly about you, mother, and what you let out the other da}'." " I suppose, whatever you may have thought all your — all your life, you — you — you never thought your mother was a fool ? " " No, I never did ; but I have thought there might be things — " " Things as you 'd have a right to hear when 3'ou was older. Well, there might be, or again there might — might — might not be. Ma — Maria." " But if you go on like this, mother, I shall know as clear as can be that you 're not easy in your mind about trusting me, and don't seem to like it ; if so, I 'd as lief not hear anything." " I 've no call to be uneasy. Ma — Maria, what I had a hand in is done constant — constant, Maria." "Mother!" " And if I tell it you now, it 's — it 's for your good." "Yes, mother, what else should it be for?" but the daughter blushed, and the mother looked anywhere rather than at her face. " Before I married your father, when I was in service — nursemaid to Mrs. Plumstead — wc were in Italy, and the babv died." 30 DON JOHN. " Yes, I 've heard you say so." "But she kept me, Ma — Maria, for there was an- other expected very soon, and the master was going so fast in con — consumption, that she was glad enough of me to help to nurse him." She lilted the edge of a Paisley shawl she had on. " She was very free-spoken. This ver^' shawl, such a good one it was, she gave it me the first par — par- ticular talk we had. She said she knew he (she — slie always called him /ks. " A foolish thing, and lost my hold over her. I married your father. He came to see me, and vowed he would not wait any longer. And I married him." "Well, mother, many's the time you said he made vou a good husband, and he never drank." DON JOHN. 35 " No, my girl ; but she had promised me two hundred pounds, and she — she said she could not get at it be- fore I married, for — for she must not part with any- more of her jewels. Afterwards she was engaged to be married again, and I — I heard it. I was bent on hav- ing that mone}'. I thought if she put me off any more, I would threaten her that I would speak ; and as soon as I got well, after you were born, I took 3'ou on mj' arm and went to her house. Oh, Ma — Maria! it cuts me to the heart to think on it. I 'd done my level best to serve her, and nothing was to come of it. "'You cannot speak, with Mrs. Plumstead to-day,' said the butler, 'she's distracted with — wdth grief; •we've lost Master Geoffry.' I did see her, though; she was hiding herself in her dressing-room. She did not wish it to be seen that she had no tears to shed. But oh ! she was vexed. He had died of croup. I saw it was a bad chance for me ; she — she put me off with promises and promises." " Then why didn't you say you would speak of it?" asked the daughter eagerly. " AYhere would have been the use, vax girl? And — end she promised me so fiiir. Who could I tell it to either — nobod}' cared? He was out of the way of the next heir, and — and — and the girl could never come and seek her own ; she did not so much as know our names. But, Maria, it — it seemed hard." "Mother, didn't I sav that those stories never end well ? They are alike for that." "I got but ten pounds of her, Maria, and when I was put out she smiled — 3'es, she did ; she — she looked at me and smiled ! " " It was a shame." " Ay, and she soon went to Scotland with her new husband, and had five fine boys, one after the other ; but — but she never gave me aught but their old clothes for mine, and paid the carriage of the parcels — I will say that : she — she paid the carriage." ' ' You 've no writing for the two hundi-ed ? " asked the daughter. 36 DON JOHN. "No — and there's nothing to be done. I — I — I can't punish licr without ac — accusing m3-self." '' It you think so, mother — " " I know it, my girl, and it seems to hold mc back ; and me only live and forty and a widow, to think of my missing such a payment after — after, as you ma}' say, it was fairly won ! " "I'm sorry I vexed j-ou the other daj-, mother," said the daughter with absurd compunction. " A}', Ma — Maria, ni}' girl, it was not dutiful of 3'ou." The daughter kissed her, and the mother wiped away some tears. Then there was a long silence. "You'll stop and dine, mother? "We could both dine in the kitchen ; and, if an3i»ody called, I could leave you and bab}' there," said Mrs. Aird at last. "No, I'd ])est not; but if 30U could keep him another da}' or so — " •• To be sure, mother. Wh}', I find nobody ever comes except between three and six. As to Mrs. Leach, she '11 not have a da3' at home for the next fort- night, so she'll never see him. Leave him, mother, and, when I want 3'Ou to come for him, I '11 di'op 3-ou a post-card." .So 3Irs. Pearson departed, not having sta3'ed more than an hour or seen either of the children. Mr. Johnstone's mother drove over again that after- noon, and wept as she told the story of the little Irene's death, and the father's distress. Her daughter-in-law, she said, was causing great anxiety to them all by the w;iy that she appeared to be sinking under this trial. ^Maria Aird won golden opinions for herself by the tears she also shed when she heard this. One baby was gone out for a walk, in charge of the girl; the other was lying on her knee: which was it? If it was not the same that Mrs. Johnstone's mother had seen two or three days before, she certainly did not notice any such fact. Maria Aird. after that, expected at least one visitor every day, and never failed to have one. The day fol- lowing the grandmother's visit came a telegram from DON JOHN. 37 the doctor. She was in eveiy wa}^ read}' for him ; the house very clean, the bab^' fast asleep (she said she had just nursed him), the other baby away. " I shall not be able to come again," he said as he departed. " Mrs. elohnstone's mother will now see that you have what )ou want. At the same time, if an}-- thing should ail the child, you will of course telegraph to me ; for in such a case, you understand, I certainly should come." So he took his leave, having done mischief which, when it disclosed itself, he was truly sorry for. But what are doctors to do? He had changed his coat after his morning visit to Ilarley iStreet, and, as we all know, doctors never convey infection. Mrs. Tearson had agreed with her daughter that a card should be posted to her when the baby was to be fetched, but she was very much surprised when a fort- night within one day had elapsed, and the expected card liad not arrived. '^ But Maria is very deep," she reflected, " and, if she is going to do her duty by her own child, she'll yet be wishful that I should not know it — know it, for certain. Very like I may go on to the end of my days and never hear the real truth from her own mouth ; but I shall feel sure about what it is for all that ; and she thinks the child may alter a good bit in a fortnight. Besides, she'll have weaned the other." The same evening a letter arrived : — " Dearest Mother, " I feel myself very ill. Come as soon as ever you can to-morrow morning and fetch away Lance}-. The}' are both so very fractious, I don't know where to turn. [" B(Ah so fractious, are they'? 1 expected it of one of them" mused the grandmother.'] I shall get up as earl}' as I can, and have mine read}'. I do so want you to take him; I cannot do with them both [" That looks well/"'], for my head aches so, night and day, and his fretting makes me feel worse, ilother, don't fail to come. Your dutiful daughter, " Maria Jane Aikd." 38 DON JOHN. At nine o'clock the next morning, Mrs. Pearson walked in. Her dauohter Maria, who seemed to be sitting np with difficulty, was dressing one baby ; the other — presumably her own — was already in cloak and hood. Tlie mother's keen glance made her at once aware of something more the matter than she had anticipated. The daughter acknowledged no discomforts but head- ache and sore throat, and was presentl}' so giddy that her mother made her go into the chamber and lie down on her bed. And now, as is often the case, the daughter found herself more than commonly' under the dominion of her natural qualities of mind, just, as it seemed, because it was more than commonlj- needful to success that she should escape from them. She preserved an open innocence of manner, and said nothing at all to her mother, who knew, or thought, at once that no confidence would be reposed in her, and that all dei)ended on her own keenness of observa- tion. So she left her on her bed, and, taking her time to examine the children, to cogitate, and to make her arrangements, sent, in about an hour, by a passing child, to fetch the girl always trusted to carry out one of tlie children, put him into her arms in the little gray cloak and veil, and, having already despatched a tele- gram for the doctor, sat nursing the other child till his carriage appeared, and out he bustled. Mrs. Pearson- met him. " My daughter wrote me word, sir, last night, that she felt herself ill, and I have just come over to see her." '• What is the matter?" "I hope, sir, considering that — that she has done her best," the mother began, following him iuto the little chamber. "Take the baby out of the room," were almost his fii'st words. " I feel so confused, sir, and my throat so sore," said the poor 3"oung creature. DON JOHN. 39 Mrs. Aird felt more confused as the day wore on, but she knew her mother was sometimes present, and that both the liabies were gone. She was quite able also to take pleasure in the knowl- edge that she was to be nursed at the charges of the Johnstones, and she did not forget that, when her mother said to the doctor that, she knew A^er}^ well how her daughter had caught the infection which had de- prived her of her situation, he looked concerned, said not a word, but put his hand in his pocket and gave her a sovereign. She was skilfully and carefully nursed, and was never seriously ill — scarcely in bed more than a fortnight. Then began her education. She sat up, thin, white-handed, and with eyes full of brooding thought and doubtful cogitation. She was to remain in the little lodgings at Kew for a full month, and then to have change, that the Johnstones might not have it on their consciences that anything was left undone for her good, or to prevent the further spread of infection. Mr. Johnstone's mother had fetched awa3' the baby, and liappil}' he did not have the fever. The other child took it, and, of course, was nursed in the little lodgings at the back of Kensington Square. Alwa3's in doubt, turning things over in her mind, Maria Aird would sit out in Kew Gardens, pondering over what she had done. "■ Was it worth while to have done this thing? No, but it was now not worth while to go through the far worse misery of undoing it. But was it done, after all? That depended entirely on what had been her mother's opinion of matters when she had been left alone with the children. But, oh, to be well again ! " thought the 3'oung woman, " and see the baby again. I shall know whether it 's my own or not. If it is, after all I've gone through, I think I shall be glad, though it ma}^ seem hard, when I 'd got it done, to have it undone. Yet if it is not — oh ! I do tliink I must confess it, come what will ! " But all sense of the possibility of such a thing as 40 DON JOHN. coiilessiou and restitiitiou was soon over, and every day she got more used to the dull brooding pain that had worn itself a home in her breast. kShe knew and felt that she had done a criminal action, but she did not, strange to say, bj' any means think of herself as a criminal. A criminal seemed to be some one whose crime was a part of himself, some one with whom crime was ingrain, and she felt, in spite of all Bible teaching and school teaching, as if her fault was external to herself — some- thing into which she had been tricked b}' circumstances. And yet she knew it was wrong to dislike, as she did, the notion of having to work for, and bring up, and act mother to, the Johnstone baby, Ver}- soon, almost all her sense of wrong-doing attached itself to this dislike. She longed to go to service again, though she should have to pay her mother half the mone}' she got to take care of this child and bring him up. And how soon could she make interest for his being got into some orphan school? Then she could go abroad and see him no more. Better b}' half never to set her eyes upon her own son again than have that other woman's sou always beside her ! DON JOHN. 41 CHAPTER IV. And shut the gates of silence on her thought. Jean Ingelow. IT was nearh' the end of Jul}' when Maria Jane Aird, getting out of an omnibus, passed througli Kensing- ton Square to her mother's lodgings. She was expected. Her sister, a girl of fourteen, ran and snatched up the bab}', and, thrusting him almost into her face, expatiated on his good temper, and de- manded her eulogies in the same breath. " Ain't he grown?" she exclaimed, giving him a sounding kiss. The mother, having greeted her daughter, turned again at once to the ironing-board and looked awa}', while Mrs. Aird, without taking the child, gazed at him with earnest, anxious attention. " What ails you? " asked her sister. " He 's so changed," she murmured. The thing sat boldly up, and stared at her — she stared at him. Though it was a hot night, she began to shiver ; she remembered so well the two balies she had parted from, and air the small but unmistakable particulars of feature and countenance in which they dilfered ; but this dif- fered from both. This little fellow had a certain small amount of specu- lation in his bead-like blue eyes ; he was more than five months old. He clutched the little sister's hair, and tried to suck it ; when she tossed him up, he uttered an ecstatic squeal to express approval ; he turned his head when he heard the click of the iron as it w'as set down ; when she took him in her arms he cried, for his dawn- 42 DON JOHN. ing intelligence seemed to assure him that she was a stranger. She had thought incessantly on the two children CA-er since they had been taken from her. This child was not the least like her faithful recollection of either. ''By my not knowing him," she reflected, "I am sure he is not mine ; mine 1 shall certainl}* know, and I shall ncA-er rest till I've seen him." '' He kicks ever so when he wants me to put him down," observed the zealous little sister ; "he likes to lie on the floor on the woolly mat." Mrs. Pearson then came forward to show off some of his accomplishments ; he took a great deal of notice, it appeared. " Toss him up and make him laugh, 'Lizabeth." No sooner said than done. The baby crowed and cooed, and showed his toothless gums, and, at the sight of this reality, her remembrance faded awa}'. 8he took him and pressed him to her bosom with a sort of yearning, for he might be hers ; but she soon put him down again, for — oh, strange uncertaintj', he might not ! The baby, tlie two sisters, and their mother, all slept in one room that night ; there was but one other — the living-room, which also served for a kitchen. There was scant opportunity for such conversation as the young widow might have been supposed to long for with her mother; but it was characteristic of both the women that, so ftir from wishing to talk, thej' dreaded to be alone together. The mother, having for so many years kept her own secret, felt a kind of resentment against her favorite child for having been so tardy, so unwilling to take a hint as to have at last forced it from her ; the daughter feared to ask a direct question, lest her mother should prevaricate in her answer, and so make her feel doubtful evermore in spite of am' protes- tations that might come after. No, she should certainly find her own child less altered ; she should know him easily enough. She would wait, and in the meantime tr}- to be good to this one. DON JOHN. 43 Some weeks after this the Johnstones came back to London for a short time preparatory to an autumnal sojourn at the seaside, and Mrs. Jolmstone received a letter, wliicli she thought a ver}' nice one. She was quite well herself, and her little girls were well, so was the baby — indeed, he had never been otherwise. "Madam," ran the letter, "I have long been pei'- fectl^y recovered, and hope never to forget how good you have been to" me. I came home some time ago and found my bab}' ver^' well under mother's charge. " Madam, I feel such a great wish to see your dear babe ; might 1 take the liberty to come some morning to set my e3-es upon him? I hope he was none the worse for my being ill so suddenl}'. Hoping to hear from 3'ou, madam, I am, " Your humble servant, "Maria Jane Aird." " Kindl}' creature!" said Mrs. Johnstone, handing over the letter to her husband. " Many women feel a great love for their foster-children. I shall be pleased to show baby to her." So one morning, about the end of September, Mrs. Aird was shown up into the nursery at Upper Harley Street. She was to dine there and spend the da}*. Mrs. Johnstone brought her up herself. The bo}' was asleep in his cradle ; he was a great, fat, heav}' child, almost half as big again as the active, lean little fellow she had left at home. She had all but made up her mind — the want of maternal yearning towards the baby at home having persuaded her most of all — yet she longed to recognize this child, and so be sure for ever. She full_y looked for certainty, but this child also was so much changed, that, as she stood looking at him, she could not help shedding tears. He awoke, ros}' and cross, and would not come to her, and she knew she must now tell all to her mother, and get the real truth from her, or else for ever be uncertain which was which. She looked round at the pretty little sisters ; there was no special likeness between him and them ; just so she had recalled all her own and her husband's relatives as 44 J^ON JOHN. far as she had known them in childhood, and she found no decisive hkcness to either child there. The children were both fair, l:)Oth blue eyed ; this was a fine fat bab}', Dut then he had never been ill. The other had had an attack of scarlatina, had been pulled down by it, and was not fat ; that was all. Maria Aird did not get out of the omnibus ■which brought her to Kensington High Street till about seven o'clock in the evening ; the day had been hot and the street was more shady than dusk, though the weather was remarkably overcast. As she walked on, she saw a stretcher preceding her. It was borne on the shoulders of four policemen, who were pacing carefully along. At first she knew not what was upon it — it Avas something brown. Then suddenly it revealed itself plainly to her — a woman's gown. Yes, poor creature, it was a woman. Bandages were swathed round and round her and the stretcher, but she did not move or show any sign of life. Mrs. Aird could make out her figure, and, as she went on, still the stretcher preceded her up a street, thi'ough the square, then down another street, then to the little court where she lived, and there — oh, terror I it stopped at her mother's door. A cry from within echoed her agonized voice without, " Oh, mother, mother ! " The dull misery of the day was as nothing, now this more acute agony absorljed all her thoughts. The poor patient was carried to her bed, and her daughters were told of her having been run over in one of the narrow streets near, and from the first, having been insensible, showing in her face no expression of pain. A kindly neighbor proposed to take charge of the baby for the night. The young widow let him go, scarcel}' looking at him ; she remembered eveiy few minutes, with a flash of fear, that she might now perhaps never be able to ask the question on which so much depended. She loved her mother, and between this love and this fear it seemed as if nothing could exhaust her. That DON JOHN. 45 night and the next da}', and through the next night, her untiring eyes kept watch ; her unwearied hands were busy about the silent patient. Sometimes a httle better, there would seem to be in- telligence in her mother's eA'es, then again there would be a wandering and aimless gaze. The daughters were told to hope, and hope assisted in sustaining them ; but as yet no communication was possible. At last Maria Jane Aird felt that she could do no more, and left her place by the bedside to her sister. Another wearj' day and night passed, still they were told to hope ; then, just at dawn, the tired sister crept to Maria's bed and woke her with, " Mother has spok- en quite sensibl}" several times ; " and she got up, and came to take her turn at the nursing. The red flush and solemn light of sunrise was on the ceiling, and seemed to be cast down on her mother's pallid and wasted feat- ures. She saw at once an improvement of a certain kind, but the face was no longer calm ; she laid her hand gentl3'on her mother's, saying, in a soothing tone, ""You must be quite still, mother dear, and not fuss yourself about anything — there's no occasion." Such a commonplace reph', — "Me not fuss, and j-our silk gown gone to the pawnbroker's ? " ^ Don't trouble about that, dear mother." ' ' And 3-onr watch — I heard you both express that you'd do it when you did not think I noticed." " Well, mother dear, I can get them out when you're better," said the daughter soothingly. "I — I never loved to see the dawn, I told Am — told him that lie, just at the dawn." "It did no harm in the ending of it, mother dear," she answered, understanding her instanth^ "Then it — it don't signify, Maria, my girl?" " No, nothing signifies but 3'our gettmg well." " And where 's the child?" "I paid fourpence to have him taken care of for to- night. — Mother ? " " Ay, my girl." 46 DON JOHN. "The child — we were talking of the child. Is he mine ? " She leaned down with a face full of earnest entreaty and anguish ; the mother gasped, and seemed to make an effoi't to speak. "Is he mine?" murmured the daughter. "Did j'ou change him, mother? .Sa}' 3'es, or say no." And yet neither could be said. There seemed to be some eflbrt first to speak, then some effort to bear in mind tlie matter that should be spoken of, and after that the little glimpse of sense and reason was gone. The daughter thought she whispered, '■'Some other time;" then her eyes closed, and the fallacious hope of recovery was over. It was about a month after this that Mrs. Johnstone got anotlier letter from Mrs. Aird, and was touched b}^ the simple filial love and grief that breathed through it. Her dear mother, the best of parents, had been knocked down by a cab in the street on tlie very day that the writer had spent in Upper Harley Street, and had met with injuries to her head. The last sentence Mrs, Johnstone read without an}- thought of the anguish which had wrung it from the writer, or of how much it concerned herself. "She died, and, O madam! there were words I longed above all things to liear from her poor lips, and she could not say them." "Poor thing!" said Mrs. Johnstone, quietly la^'ing the letter aside, " I like that young woman ; there 's son)ething so open and sincere about her." " But 1 rather think this is meant for a begging let- ter, my dear," observed Mr. Johnstone ; " this is rather a telling sentence as to her not being able to maintain herself in serAice again on account of the burden of her young child." He had a newspaper in his hand, and, as he spoke, he looked down and aside from it at the little Donald, who was now seven months old, and was crowing and kicking on the rug — a pu])py nestling close to him, and receiving meolvly various soft infantile thumps from his DON JOHN. 47 fat little fist. A red setter, the mother of the puppy, looked on with a somewhat dejected air, as if she knew her offspring was lionored by the notice of this child of the favored race, but yet could have wished those dim- pled hands would respect her treasure's eyes. Mr. Johnstone, from looking at his heir, got to whistling to him. ''You 're a burden — a very sore burden," he said, smiling, to him ; " did j'ou know that?" The l)ab3' stared at him, understanding the good-will in his pleasant face, but nothing more. He was old enough already to answer the paternal expression, and presently he smiled all over his little face. As long as only the puppy had been procurable as a pla^'mate, he had been contented with it ; but now, conceiving hope of a more desirable slave, he made vigorous eiforts to turn himself over, and, clutching his father's foot, soon got himself taken up, and began forthwith to amuse himself and make himself agreeable according to his lights, dashing his hand into his fa- ther's breakfast-cup, and, when this had been withdrawn and dried, seizing various envelopes, dropping them on the floor, and beginning to crow and screech with the peculiar ecstasy of a baby in full action, while he worked his arms and legs about, reckless of the trouble it was to prevent him from wriggling off. Meanwhile Mrs. Johnstone smiled with some quiet enjoyment, and care- fully removed all the knives and all the crockery out of his reach. '' Well, love," she said at last, " have vou had enough of it?" Thereupon Mr. Johnstone called to the dog, '• Die, ring the bell ; " and the setter wallvcd forth from under the table, and, grasping the bell-handle in both paws, pulled it down, while his master, still struggling with the baby, exclaimed, "This bov has more life in him than all the girls put together. I defy any fellow to hold him, and take care of him without giving his whole mind to it and to nothing else." "There goes the milk!" said the mother; "I did not think he could have reached it. Look, my baby, dear ! does baby know what he has done? " 48 DON JOHN. " He looks as if he did ; the sapient air he gives him- self is something wonderful. It is evident that a man- child from the first is different from girl-babies. What shall I do with ^'on, mj sou, when _you are older?" " Don't afflict thyself, love," said his wife, caressing his hand; "he is just like the others; but you know you were never in the habit of having them downstairs at breakfast time, nor of otherwise troubling yourself with the charge of them." The nurse now appeared, and had no sooner carried off Master Donald Johnstone, and shut the door behind her, than Die the setter started up with several little yaps of satisfaction, and, seizing her puppy by the neck, deposited it in Mrs. Johnstone's lap. The setter knew verj' well that her puppy was a thing of no ac- count W'hen the baby was present, and she sometimes testified her dissatisfaction, and expressed her sensa- tion of dulness in his society, and the neglect brought her, by uttering a loud and somewhat impertinent 3'awn. Now she was happ}', and probably thought things were as they should be ; her puppy had curled himself up in the upstart baby's place, and she was watching him, with her chin upon her master's foot. Mr. Johnstone was a man about thirtj'-four 3-ears of age ; he was about the middle height ; in complexion he inclined to fairness ; he was neither handsome nor plain ; he walked much more like a soldier than a civilian, and he had one remarkably agreeable feature — his eyes, which were of a ))right light hazel, had a charming power of expressing affection and frankness. He was a man whom everybody liked, and most of all those who had the most to do with him. People who made his acquaintance often found themselves attached to him before they had discovered why. Mrs. Johnstone, on the other hand, was much above the middle height ; she had not one good feature, and yet she was exceedingly admired by the other sex, and had been won, with great difficulty, b}' her husl^and from several other suitors who sighed for her. She had that hair which, of all the varieties called red, is alone DON JOHN. 49 beautiful. It was so light and bright that it crowned her like a glor}', and she had blue eyes and thick light ej'e- lashes. An eas}', cordial manner, and that observant tact which always characterize a much- admired woman, were in her case mingled with real sweetness of na- ture and wish to do kindness. These good qualities, however, b}- no means accounted for the love which had been lavished on her. That must be indeed an unamia- ble woman whose lovers can find no good quality to quote in excuse, or perhaps as a reason (!), for the extravagance of their love. Mr. Johnstone had never raved about her virtues ; thait was, perhaps, because he had taken them all for granted ; and when-, after some months of marriage, he discovered tliat her charm was an abiding one, and that she was just as sensible, just as devoted, and no more extravagant than other men's wives, he could hardly believe in his own good fortune. He also showed himself a sensible man. Of course she was lovel}' — most men thought so — but he never had her photographed. Photographs deal with facts, and when the photograph showed him rather a long upper lip, e^-es b}- no means lustrous, and a nose neither Roman nor Grecian, he destroyed it, all but one cop3', which he intended to keep carefully hidden for himself, and begged her never to be photographed again. Then she laughed, but not without a certain tender- ness, and said, " Oh, Donald, what a goose ^'ou are ! " "Do 3'ou think so, m}' dear?" he answered, still looking at the portrait rather ruefully', and then at her as she sat by him on a sofa. "Of course," she answered, looking him straight in the face, as if lost in contemplation. , "Well?" he asked. ' ' And yet I always did — and I suppose I alwaj's shall — think you the only man worth mentioning." But that little scene had been long over at the time when Die the setter put her puppy into Mrs. Donald Johnstone's lap. A discussion took place which con- 4 50 DON JOHN. cerned Mrs. Aird, and ■which ended in a handsome present of money being sent her In' post-office order, with a letter from Mrs. Johnstone, who told her that, if ever she did go to service again, she might depend on a good character from her as an honest, sober, cleanlj-, and thoroughly trustworth}' person. Having written this kind letter, and shown herself just as able as most of us to judge of character — that is, just as unable to divide manner from conduct, to make allowance for overwhelming circumstance, and bridge over the wide gap, in her thoughts, which rends apart the interests of the rich from those of the poor — Mrs. Johnstone almost forgot Maria Aird. She had a letter of thanks from her, but she was never asked for the "■character;" the very dangerous illness which had caused her to want this young woman's services, and the loss of her little girl, began alike to recede into the background of her thoughts. Slie could think of her precious little Ii'ene without tears. Her two little girls were healthy and happ3% her bo}' was growing fast, and she was shortly hoping to add another bo3' to her little tribe. Of course it was to be a bo}' ; her husband's great desire for sons always made her feel as if her girls were failures. He was fond of them, and imagined that he made no difference between one and another of his children ; but his little daughtei's, though bv no means able to express a contrary opinion, not onl^' held it, but would certainly have justified it, if they had known how ; they shared their father's views, and considered that their " boy-baby " enhanced their own dignity. It was about the longest day ; Mr. Johnstone, com- ing home to dinner, was advancing along Upper Harley Street on foot, when a young man, who seemed to be loitering along, looking out for some one, met him and suddenly sto[)[)ed sliort witliout addressing him. Mr. Johnstone for the moment stopped short also. "Sir," said the man, turning as he went on, and walking beside him, "lam aware that I am speaking to Mr. Johnstone." " Certainly you are : what do you want with me? " DON JOHN. 51 He paused, for he had reached his own steps. He had spoken "with the brusque manner that an oflicer uses in addressing a soldier. He now loolved the young man straight in the face, and saw, to his surprise, the signs of great and A'arying emotion, and a strange flush of anger or shame. " Not drunk," tliought Mr. Johnstone. Tlie man looked at him, and at that instant the footman answered his master's knock. "Well?" said Mr. Johnstone. "I can't say it," exclaimed the young fellow; and, turning round, he almost ran away. "Queer!" thought the lawyer, and he entered his own house, pondering on the matter ; but he soon forgot it, for Mrs. Johnstone was not at all well. In the course of a few hours there was another infan- tile failure in Upper Harley Street. The father, intensely grateful for this endeared wife's safety, went to bed in broad daylight ; but, first putting his head out of the open window to inhale the earl}' air, he saw, looking up — but it flitted away almost at once — a female figure that seemed fVimiliar to him. Surely that was the nurse — the young widow, Mrs. Aird? Odd of her to be gazing up at his window at three o'clock in the morning — and with her was (or he was ver\' much mistaken) the identical young man who had accosted him in the street, and then so suddenl}' taken himself off"! Mr. Johnstone closed the window, and very soon fell asleep, looked down upon by hundreds of cabbage roses — for this was the same room where Mrs. Aird had been sitting with his boy-bab^- when the telegram came in that sent them out of the house. A few days had passed, Mrs. Johnstone was said to be "as well as could be expected," when one evening, just as he had dined, her husband was told that a 3'oung man wanted to speak with him. The 3'Oung man had been shown into a library at the back of the house, the light was alread}' going, but Mr. Johnstone recognized him instantly. 52 DON JOHN. ' ' You accosted me in the street the other clay ? " " Yes, sir." The clear hazel eyes looked straight at him ; his next speech seemed to be in answer to them, — ' ' I am not come here to deceive you, sir." DON JOHN. 53 CHAPTER V. " Man is born to trouble as the sparks to fly upward." MR. JOHNSTONE rang the bell, and a shaded lamp was brought in. The young man did not speak till the servant had shut the door ; then, looking at Mr. Johnstone as he stood on the rug, "I should wish to prevent mistakes," he began. " You had better sit down," was the answer. The young man sat down. " I am not come to ask your professional aid, sir," he continued; "I know this ain't the place to do it in, and I know you 've noth- ing to do with criminal cases either. But, sir, it is a crime that I 'm come to speak of. Well — no, I don't know what it is, and nobody else does." Here Mr. Johnstone naturall}^ felt some astonish- ment, and his clear, keen eyes held the .young man so completely under their control that he seemed to find nothing to say, but to repeat his former assurance. "I am not come here to deceive you, sir — win- should I ? I might have kept awaj- and never said "a word. But, oh, it 's hard upon me that I should have it to do ! " "It seems to me that you have to accuse some one else, then?" said his host, intending to help him. "Yes." " By the way j-ou express 3'ourself, I gather that the crime, whatever it maybe, is not committed yet? It might be a burglary, for instance, projected but not accomplished ? " "Oh, no, sir, no — they were both as honest as the day, poor things ! " 54 DON JOHN. "Women, then?" " Yes, sir." " Well, man, speak out ! " " Speak out ! " repeated the ^-oung man passionately ; "speak out! when it's my own wife, that I haven't been married to three weeks, and when I don't know what you'll do to her? Speak out! If you'd ever loved a woman as I love her, you 'd — you 'd be more merciful, sir." Excited as the 3'oung man was, he perceived at once that this exclamation was, in the ears of his listener, absolutel}' absurd. Donald Johnstone bad, as if in- voluntaril}^ lifted his eyes ; the}- rested on the wall, behind where the j'oung husband had been ordered to sit. He saw for a moment, in their clear depth, not the assertion, but the evidence, of a passionate love which, even in the first freshness of his own, brouglit his thoughts to a pause. Then there was something deliberate in their withdrawal which checked the young man's desire to glance behind him. Something like a flash of dis[)leasure met his gaze. He perceived that he was sujjposed to have taken a liberty. There was no answer to his speech ; he must begin again as well as he could. "It's my wife and her mother," he said in a low voice, "that I've come to speak of — what one of them did, as we are afraid (for, mark you, sir, we are not sure) — what one of them did, and the other let to be done — what one of them did, and then died, and we think wanted to speak of first, but could not find the words." "Your wife and her mother?" repeated Mr. John- stone with a weighty calm; "and you feel that you must la.y it before some one? You want advice — is that it?" " No, sir, not advice ; mj- wife wants forgiveness, if yon could forgive her." 3Ir. Johnstoue looked surprised, but not at all alarmed. The young man wiped his forehead. " I fell in love DON JOHN. , 55 ■with her when she had her widow's cap on a full year ago," he said ; •' but, when I offered to her, she Avonld not have ine. I was so fond of her ; I said, ' I ain't capable of taking a denial without a reason.' Then she saj's, 'Have the reason: I've something on my mind.' Her name was Maria Jane Aird." Mr, Johnstone was not surprised ; he remembered how he had seen this young woman when he looked out of the window in the night. Pit}- for the husband arose in his mind. ''She was in a situation of trust," he said, "audi am afraid 3-ou mean that she abused it?" "Yes, sir — alas! she did. But at that time she would not tell me what her fault was. ' You, may be, would not hold to your wish to take me,' was all she said, ' if you knew what I haA'e on m^' mind ; ' but I did hold to it — I could not help it — and she never did speak, though, in the end, she married me." His distress was such that Mr. Johnstone tried to help him again. "And then she probably told you that she had un- fortunately taken something of value out of this house — some jewel, perhaps? If so, you are come to return it? "Well, I pity you, and I forgive her." "Bless you, sir!" exclaimed the yoimg man, quite impatient at his calm; " I told 3'ou the}' were honest. Sir, don't make it harder for me and yourself too. You will have it that this thing is nothing to you. It is ; I think, if 3-ou would sit down, I could speak bet- ter ; won't you, sir? There, that 's it ! I 'm talking of my wife, Maria ; she was wet-nurse here." ""Yes." "And you sent her away from the house with xour baby?" "Yes." Now, at last, something like fear began to show itself in Donald Johnstone's face, but it was a vague fear. " You never ought to have done it, sir." " He was quite well." answered the father, amazed and pale, " quite well all the time ; he cannot have met 56 DON JOHN. with any injiiiy? She must have clone her duty by him." " You sliould not have done it," repeated the 3'oung man. " As I make out, you were so afraid of an illness 3'ou had in the house that you never came near him or set your eyes on him for two or three months ; and how were ^-ou to judge, when 3'ou had a cl^ild back, Wiiether it was the same ? Sir, sit down ; don't look like that ! There ! it 's quite possible the children were not changed." " Changed ! " exclaimed the father, shuddering. "I'm sure I don't know how to tell it you, but my poor wife, all on a sudden, was taken very ill, and sent for her mother, who came with the bab}^ — Maria's bab}-. Maria did not see either of the children again, being so ill. I don't know how to tell it you, but I 'm afraid that woman, wishing her own grandchild in a better position — I am afraid those children were changed." No need now to tell the father to take this thing seri- ously ; he trembled from head to foot, and could not speak. "But we shall never know," proceeded the young man. " ' is the other child living"^ ' I seem to think 3'OU would ask. Yes, sir, and as well as can be." " It's impossible 3-our wife should be in any doubt," exclaimed the other, recovering his voice and starting up, white to the lips. " Impossible she should not know ! She must know, she does know, whether this wicked, base, cruel crime was perpeti-ated or not. And what makes her even suspect such a thing?" he added, sinking back faint between his passion and his despair. " Her mother many times tempted her to do it, sir, and was angry with her because she would not," said the 3'oung man in a deprecating tone. " The3' had words, and Maria was angr3- with her mother too." " Xo, that story won't do. Angny with her, and then send for her, and leave her alone witli all opportu- nit3' to do her worst?" DON JOHN. 57 " It seems bad, sir," continued the young man with studied gentleness and patience. "And it's only a I'anc}' of Maria's that she might have done it. We have n't the least proof, Mr. Johnstone." " If she connived at it, she is a wretch, as lost to all justice and mercy as her mother." " And that's what hes so heavy on her mind," said the husband, still in a low, deprecatory voice. " How did she tell it 3'ou? Let me. know the worst — for heaven's sake let me hear it aU ! " "We had but been married three daj's, and it was Sunda}'. Maria was putting the little chap's coat on. I saj's, ' He's a credit to you, Maria.' ' He'll be my punishment before he 's done,' she makes answer ; ' for, David, this child is what I have on my mind.' She was kneeling on the ground ; she put on her things, but 3'ou may think we did not go to church that morning. I carried the child into Richmond Park (I hve and have my trade at Richmond) . There we sat down, and I said, ' Maria, my dear, it 's now time to speak. I 've often seen you fret — and so it 's concerning your child ? ' ' Yes,' she makes answer again, ' for I give you my plain word for it — and what I say I mean, David — 1 don't know whether he 's mine or not.' " It will be observed that this version of the stor}' was not the true one, for Maria Aird did change the chil- dren. All her doubt was as to what her mother had done, otherwise she would have known well enough that the child her second husband was so willing to be good to was not hers. The young man, hoM-ever, did his best to make the thing plain ; he gave the version he had received. His wife's sorrow and repentance were genuine — this he had perceived at once ; and that she was capable of fretting over her fault, and yet misrepresenting it, never entered his head. She screened herself at the expense of the dead. He never supposed that her misery, in the sense of this uncer- tainty, was half owing to her doubt as to whether or not she had secured a better lot in life for her child in return for her own distress of mind. If she had been 58 DON JOHN. sure this was the case, she would have felt herself re- paid ; but to haA'e lost her own child utterl}', and yet to have no reward — to be unable to love the one she had in her arms, and yet not be sure that she did not owe him a mothei-'s love — was more than her half-awak- ened conscience could bear. She had turned herself out of the paradise of innocence ; she had gathered the apple and not tasted its sweetness : how was she to know what a common experience this is? How could she suppose that the promised good in evil was all a cheat, and that she should find nothing but bitterness in it from the ver}- first? The everlasting lie had been uttered to her also. There was silence now, and the 3'oung man did not dare to break it. His heart was beating more freely, for the dreaded words had been said. He felt a strange consciousness of the })icture that he knew was hanging behind him ; but. though Donald Johnstone's head was bowed into his hands, it seemed impossible to turn and look at it. But this poor gentleman was thinking of her whom it represented. '"Oh, m}- wife ! " the 3'oung man heard him murmur. The words gave him a lump in his throat ; he longed to be dismissed ; he thought of rising, and proposing to take his leave, but did not see his way to this. How long would Mr. Johnstone sit with his face in his hands ? Mr. Johnstone hfted it up at last, and the young man had never been so astonished in his life as he was at the tone and manner, at the most unexpected words, and the most keen expression of countenance with which he accosted him. " What is your name, Isix. David ?" " My name is David Collingwood. sir." " And what is your calling, Mr. David Colling- wood?" " I 'm a carpenter, sir, the same as Maria's first hus- band was." " Oh ! Have j-ou any thought of going abroad — of emigrating ? " "Yes, sir!" exclaimed the young man, verj' much DON JOHN. 59 astonished ; ' ' that 's what I think of doing as soon as ever I can. I 'm saving money for it." "I thought so!" "Sir?" " A child would be a great burden to 3'ou on a vo}'- age." " So Maria has alwaj's said, sir." " She has, has she? Mr. David ColUngwood? " "Yes, sir?" " You know nothing of me?" " No, I don't." " For instance, as to whether I am a man of my word or no ? " Mr. David ColUngwood here began to look a little alarmed ; involuiitaril}' he glanced towards the window. His host was looking straight at him. " Don't be frightened," he said again, coming close to Mr. David Collingwood's thought. " I have no in- tention of tlirowing 3'ou out of that ! " David ColUngwood rose quietl}', — "Sir, I've said what I had to sa}'." " Yes, but you have not heard what I have to say ! " " No, sir, but I can't make out what you should have to say as I need be afraid of! " " Why are you afraid, then?" " I 'm not ! " said the carpenter, but he trembled. " Do I look like a man who may be expected to keep to what I sa}-? " " Yes, you do." "Well, I say, then, if you will confess to me that all 3'OU have said to-night is a lie — " " A lie ! " shouted the man. " Yes, a lie, and that 3'ou — not unnaturally — feel- ing what a burden this child will be to you, and hoping to get rid of him, have persuaded your wife — " "A lie ! " shouted the man again, almost in a I'age. " Have persuaded your wife to bear you out in this story, I will give you, David ColUngwood, two hundred pounds, and no man out of this room shall ever hear a word of the matter." 60 , DON JOHN. " Why, what good would that do? " cried the carpen- ter, so much astonished that it ahnost overcame his anger. Mr. Johnstone was silent. There was a long pause. " It wouldn't help me to get rid of the child," rea- soned David CoUingwood at last, almost remonstrating with him, '^because, anyhow, one of them must be my wife's, and thereby' one of them must be on my hands to bring up." ' ' You don't think iSO ? " " Don't I, sir? " said the carpenter, almost helplessl}', and with an air of puzzlement indescribable. " No, you are just as well aware as I am that, rather than let you two take over to Australia — (you a step- father as 3'ou are. and she a worse than step-mother, as she must be, whether her tale is true or false, and whether the boy is hers or not) — rather than let you two carry away for ever a child who may be mj" child, I shall take him off 30ur hands — do you hear me ? — take him off your hands and bring him up m3-self. Do j'ou mean to tell me you have not thought of this and counted on it ? " David CoUingwood trembled visibl}'. " I may have gone so far as to think — " he began. " To think what?"- " That maybe I should do so if I was 3'ou, sir, and one of the children was mine." "And what did your wife sa}'' when she and ^-ou talked it over together? " " We never did talk it over together." " You never said to her, then, that if you two stuck to this tale, the child was secure of a good bringing up ? " "Xo, I did n't." " She never wept over the boy, and said it would be a sore distress to her to part with him ? " "No, she didn't; she has not a mother's feelings for him, because of her doubt." "Well, David CoUingwood, I offer you two hundred pounds to confess that this is all a lie, and a plot be- tween you and 3-our wife to get rid of her child." DON JOHN. 6 1 David CoUingwoocl was silent. " I should onl}' add one condition — that is. that 3-ou would stay here, in this room, till after I have seen your wife, and seen her alone, I should tell her of 3'our confession, and then j'ou have my word for silence ever after." " Mv wife would be frightened out of her senses ! " "Why?" " She thinks, and I was afeard, you would have the law of her — take her up and prosecute her for what she 's done." " But she did not do it." David Collingwood was sitting down with arms folded ; he had looked very much puzzled, and sat long silent. At last he lifted his face, and when Mr. John- stone saw its expression, he involuntarily sighed. "I've had mean thoughts in ni}' mind, like other men," he began. " Sir, you may go to my wife, if you have a mind, for I think you have a right so to do. In short, come what ma}', I don't see, now I've once spo- ken, what I 've got it in my power to do for her. Yes, you may go, of course, to her ; it ain't in my power to prevent it. I seem to observe now what 30U mean, sir. If I would own to a lie, it Would what you lawj-er gentlemen call discredit me as a witness, and then you could get alone with my wife, and perhaps make her tell you a different tale, and so you 'd buy your own son, and be sure 3'ou 'd got him. But I say — " " Yes, David Collingwood." " I say, be hanged to 3'our two hundred pounds ! If my poor wife has done you the base wrong she says she has — (well, I mean the wrong she owns to have let her mother do, wishing and hoping it was done) — that money ain't of an}' use. It is onl}' of use in case she has told 3' on and me a lie. I may have had a mean thought as well as another man, but I 'm not a villain. Y"ou want, b3' means of that money, to bring out the falseness of the tale. It cuts me verv sharp to sa}' it to you — the tale's not false ; worse luck ! it's true." ^ No answer to this. Donald Johnstone, looking 62 DON JOHN. straight before him, very pale, but not conAnnced, was searching over his recollections. David CoUingwood ■went on, — '"She never told me this that was on her mind through any thought that I should up and tell it to 3-ou. It slipped out along of her feeling how fond I was of her, and to relieve her own mind. She cannot keep a secret. And when I broke to her that it must be told to you, she fell into a great faint, and said you would take her up and she should be imprisoned. Through that I went to a law^'er." "Oh! you did?" " AVell, 1 did, sir, and told him all except the names and the places. If he had said you could and would prosecute, you would never have heard a word from me. lie said, ' The weak place is ' — but 3'ou know what it is, sir." "Goon." " ' What is the woman afraid of ? ' he said ; ' there is no witness — not one ! The person is dead that is accused of liaving probably done this thing.' ' I was afraid she might be prosecuted for a conspirac}',' said I. 'Xo,' said he, 'there was no conspiracy.' "'It's her opinion,' said I, 'that it's more than likely the thing was done.' ' But,' said he, ' she cannot be"^ prosecuted for an opinion, and one that, if she is frightened, she is not obliged to stick to. If there had been any evidence whatever, but wliat is to come out of her own mouth — ii' she had ever breathed a word of this, or if the other woman had — ' " Here he paused. '_' Tlien the supposed father might have brought an action in hope of obtaining more evidence — more wit- nesses—was that it? How do you knoAv that I shall not do so even now ? " "Well, I satisfied him fully, and liad to pay for it. I satisfied him that the thing — the whole of it — was in my wile's mind and nowhere else." " And then you went liome and told her you believed it? AVhat was the lawj'er's name?" DON JOHN. 63 " Oh, sir, you'll excuse me." " You paid for his information — I am willing to pay for mine." " I couldn't tell 3^00, sir." " If he was a respectable man, he told 3'ou, first, that he would have nothing to do with the case ; and, sec- ondly, that he believed it was a got-up stor}' intended to extort mone}' from an unfortunate father. He ad- vised you to drop it, and said you were i3la3-ing with edge-tools." David CoUingwood's look of astonishment and in- tense dismay seemed to show that something very like this had actually been said to him ; he sat silent and became angry. Donald Johnstone never took his eyes off him, but, with a pang not to be described, he saw the astonishment subside, the anger fade away, and the young man said, meeting his gaze with tolerable fii'm- ness, — " And what do 3'ou think yourself, sii'? Do 5'ou think it is a got-up story ? " " I don't know what to think." " No, sir ; and as to 3'our wanting to turn it against me, you 've met with such a cruel wrong that I should be a brute if I could n't take it patiently — only — I 've met with a wrong too, sir." "This concerns m}' own son — my oul}^ son. By what 3'ou sa}', I am never to know — never can know — whether the child I am bringing up is my child or not." "And you've tried one way and another to find out whether I've lied, and 3'Ou have a right — I know it cuts — but it doesn't cut you only." " No, I am truly sorry for you, David Collingwood. If this is true — " "For she's not what I thought she was, and I've only been married to her three weeks." He broke down here, and shed tears, but the other had no tears ; he was extremel}- pale, and he trembled as he sat looking at the portrait on the wall with un- speakable love and almost despair. David Collingwood sat some time trying in vain to 04 DON JOHN. recover himself. Not a word was spoken, his host knew neither what to say nor what to do. How should he tell this beloved wife, who had almost died to give him birth, that he knew not whether their one son was theirs or not? how should he bear it himself? Suddenly a bright hope came into his mind. The other child might prove to have no likeness whatever to himself or to his other children ; he might prove to be specially unlike them. At least there would be comfort in this if he did. David CoUingwood spoke while he was deep in this flattering hope. He rose and said sullenly, " What do you want me to do, sir? It's late — my wife — " " Your Avife will be uneasy? " "Yes, sir." "I am afraid that on this one occasion 3'ou cannot consider her feelings." " What am I to do, then ?" "I am going to Richmond. It is essential that I should see her before 30U do." "I never said she was at Richmond; she is in the street, waiting for me." " And the child with her?" "No, sir, she's alone." " Then you stay in this room and I will call her in." "You may turn the lock on me, sir, if you please." Donald Johnstone put on his hat, left the young hus- band, and, opening the front door, looked keenly right and left. There was not far to look : a woman in black, near at hand, was dejectedly pacing on. As she came absolutely to the foot of his door-steps, he descended and looked straight into her eyes. She stood and gazed as if fascinated, the color fading out of her face, and her hands clenching themselves. "You — you won't prosecute me?" she entreated helplessly, and stammering as her mother had done. " No, 3-ou base woman," he answered, "because it would be useless. Come here ! " ' ' Must I — oh, sir ! — must I come in ? " She entered. He was even then mindful of his in- DON JOHN. 65 valid upstairs, and shut the door most deliberately and gently behind him ; then he entered the dining-room, locked tlie door, put up the gas, and turned. She had followed him but a little way into the room, and was already on her knees ; her terror was far from simu- lated, and his quickness of observation showed him in an instant tliat no probable fault of her dead mother's could ever have l)rought that ashen pallor and deadly fright into her face. " Maria Colhngwood," he began, almost in a whisper, as he stood leaning slightly towards her and looking straight down into her eyes, " you have told lies to your husband — do 3'ou hear me ? — lies ! " Her white lips murmured something, but it hardly seemed to be a denial. She was kneeling upright, and with folded hands. " But you may look for all mercy that is possible from me, if you will now speak the truth." This was far from the way in which he had intended to begin. Her own face had brought his accusation upon her. She stammered out, "He — he would hate me ; he — he would cast me off, if — if I did. Oh, have mercy ! " Then she had deceived her husband ; there was no plot, the man was her dupe. " I will have mercy if 3'ou tell me all the truth." ' ' And he shall not know ? " she moaned. " I '11 give 3'ou no time for meditation, and for the in- venting of fresh lies ; unless you speak, and instant!}-, he shall know what you have already said ; but if you speak, and I feel that you speak the truth, he shall not." And then, at a sign from him, she rose, took the chair he pointed to, and told all her miserable story in few words. Donald Johnstone ground his teeth together in the agonizing desire to keep himself silent, lest he should frighten back the truth, and never have a chance of hearing it more. He allowed all to be told — her temptation, her yielding, her illness, her intention of sending away the wrong child, and then her doubt as to 5 66 DON JOHN. what her mother had done. All, he perceived, de- pended on what had been the mother's opinion. She hud no conscience. '•And 30U incline to think this second villain}' was accomplished — wh}' ? " "Mother couldn't look at me, sir, when I got home." " And, on the other hand? " " On the other hand, when I saw the baby here, I seemed to think he was the most like what I remem- bered of mine." DON JOHN. 67 CHAPTER VI. Let me be only sure ; for sooth to tell The sorest dole — is doubt. Jean Ingelow. THAT was a miserable night for Donald Johnstone. It was twelve o'clock before the guilty woman and her husband were sent awa}' — David Collingwood almost with kindness, and his wife without one word. The possible father had got what he wanted — two distinct tales, differing from one another, but, as he lis- tened to the details of the second, he shared in the unsolvable doubt. He ordered David Collingwood to bring the child the next morning, and, having dismissed the pair, he sat till daylight (iltered in between the leaves of the shut- ters, and could not decide what to do further. It was the doubt that mastered him and confused his mind. And what father in real life, or in any true his- tory, had gone through such an experience as would be a guide to him? He was the victim of an unknown crime — as truly unknown in life as well known in the penny theatres. His distracted thoughts dragged him through all the phases of feeling, even to scornful laughter that left a lump in his throat. " Have you a mole on your left arm ? " asks the supposed father in Punch. " No ! " "• Then come to my arms, my long-lost son ! " He laughed bitterly, and could not help it ; then he moaned over his wife. How would she bear it, and how and when could he tell it to her? There was tragedy indeed here, and 3'et what a hate- ful, enraging smack of the ridiculous too ! He per- ceived that he could not possibly let such a story come 68 DON JOHN. out ; all London would ring with it. When the children were taken out with their nurses, people would collect at his door on purpose to look at them ! No, not a soul must hear of it. How, then, could he do his duty, and satisfy his love towards his son ? lie was in his room only three hours or so. When he came down to breakfast, he said to the footman, " I have told Mrs. Aird to bring Master Donald's foster-brother here. AVhen tliev come, show them in." He had a headache, and sighed bitterl}- as he sat down ; the hand trembled that poured out the coffee. The moment after, there was a modest knock at the door, and the little child who perhaps had so vast a claim on him was perhaps come to his rightful home. He looked up ; David Collingwood and Maria Col- lingwood were standing stock still within the door. Maria did not lift up her eyes, she was mute and pale, and she held a lovely little boy in her arms. "Put that child down," was all Mr. Johnstone could say ; and he did not rise from his place at the table. But, lo ! the small visitor, not troubled with any doubts or fears as to his welcome, no sooner found himself on the floor than he began to trot towards the rug, on which was lying the old setter, with a puppy as usual. This one was about two months old. She seized him as the baby advanced, and slunk under the table. Then the pretty little fellow laughed, and showed a mouthful of pearls, pointing with his finger under the table. " Boy did see doggy," he said, fearlessly addressing the strange gentleman ; then, coming straight up to him, he laid his dimpled hand on Mr. Johnstone's knee, aivl stooped the better to see the dog. " Up, up ! " he next said in an entreating tone. Mr. Johnstone took him up on his knee with perfect grav- ity and gentleness, and looked at the man and woman who were standing motionless within the door. The man was trembling; the woman, white and frightened, held herself absolutely still. "• You may go," he said. "One — for — Lanc}-," lisped the child, pointing to some straAvberries on a plate. DON JOHN. 69 '■■You may go," repeated Mr, Johnstone; he could not trust himself to say more. " Yes, sir ; when is she to come back for him ? " " Never ! " " One — for — Lauc}'," repeated the child with sweet entreaty. The possible father put one into his little hand. "I mean, sir, what are we to do — when is she to take him back ? " '• I know what 3'on mean : I answer, never ! " The 3'oung man whispered to his wife, and she, with- out once looking at the child, turned to the door. " I wish 3-0U good morning, sir," he said, and in another moment tliey were gone. David Collingwood had caused his wife to spend mone}- of his in dressing the little Lanc}'. The child was healthy and rosy, clean, well arra3'e(l, and without the least sh3-ness. He was a more beautiful little fel- low than the treasure upstairs, but not quite so big. He talked rather better ; his hair was a shade browner than that of the two little girls in the nurserv. Little Don- ald's, on the contrary, was a shade lighter ; and there seemed to be no special likeness, in either child, to him- self or to his wife. Left alone with the little Lancy, all the pathos of the situation seemed to show itself to him. He could en- dure it well enough, he thought, for himself; but, like many another S3'mpathetic and affectionate man, he had already l)egun to suffer for his wife ; her supposed fu- ture feeling was worse to him than his own present dis- tress. If he could be sure that she could bear it, he thought he could bear it verv well. Of course the child's face did not help him. At such an earh' age, children rarel\' show strong family likeness, unless the appearance of the parents is pecul- iar indeed. When we see fiimil3- likeness, which we constantly do, we think how natural it is ; but when we see famil3' un- likeness, which we also constanth^ do, it never costs us a moment's surprise, a moment's thought. In life, no- 70 DON JOHN. hody is ever surprised if, or because, a brother and sister are diverse in featui'e, complexion, or cliaracter, and 3-etwe all have a theory concerning famil3^ likeness, and generally it is an exaggerated one. A Fresh series of observations, if theory could be set aside, would perhaps show that strong likeness is almost always founded on peculiarit}'. A man of average height, with no exaggerated feat- ure, with somewhat light hair, grav or hazel e3-es, and a certain freshness of complexion (neither pale nor ruddy), together with a figure rather firmlj- built, though not stout, — this description would suit many thousands of Englishmen ; add a shade of auburn to the beard, and it would suit many thousands of Scotchmen ; add a shade of blue to the eyes, and it would suit many thou- sands of Irishmen. These are the men who transmit national likeness. But here and there 3'ou may meet a man with a nose like an eagle's beak, stalking about his fields with his young brood after him. In all probability, a like nose is in course of erection on their youthful faces. Or 3'OU fall in with a man who has a preposterously deep bass voice — too deep for ordinar}^ life — much deeper, in fact, than he is himself — his children, more likely than not, echo that voice, sons and daughters both. Or 3'OU see a man, lank}-, and so tall that, when he has done getting up, 3'ou think liow conveniently he might be folded together like a yard measure, his children rise and step after him like storks. Ten to one his ver}- baby is taller than it ought to be. Such men as these transmit family likeness. The little Lanc3- soon shpped off Mr. Johnstone's knee, and began to talk and scold at the puppy, because he would not come and be friendly — in other words, to be tormented. The old mother knew lietter than to leave him to the tender mercies of a baby-boy. She rose, and, taking him in her mouth, walked slowly awav round and round the table, the child following, and just not overtaking her. This srame was o-oins; on when Mr. Johnstone caught DON JOHN. 71 sight of a parcel lying on a chair close to the door. He had told David Collingwood to ask his wife whether she had an}' photograph in her possession of her first hus- band — if so, to bring it. He now cut open the little package, but there were no photographs in it, only two letters — one from a lad}-, ffivins: an excellent character to Maria Jane Pearson as a housemaid, setting forth that she was honest, sober, and steady. It seemed to have been preserved as a gratifying testimony of approval, but did not bear on the present case. The other letter was from David Col- lingwood, and was as follows : — " Sir, — As it ain't in my power to say what I meant to sa}- when I see you, along of my feeling so badly about this matter, I write this to inform 3-0U that my wife has no portraits of her first husband, for he was very badly marked with small-pox, and never would be taken, and she says he had no brothers nor sisters, and his parents are not living. Herewith you will find her marriage lines. She has alwa_ys kept herself respectable, and do assure me she never did wrong in her life but in the one thing you know of. And she humbly begs your pardon. I am, }our obedient humble servant, " David Collingwood." A bab}^ hand was on his knee again. He looked down ; tears were on the little flushed cheeks ; the long- slow chase had been useless. "Boy did want doggy," he sobbed. Mr. Johnstone felt a sudden yearning, and a catch in his throat that al- most overcame him. He took up the child, and pressed him to his breast. For a moment or two the child and the man wept together. He soon recovered himself; it was a waste of emotion to suffer it to get the mastery now ; there would come a day when he and his wife would weep together — that was the time to dread. He must save his courage, all his powers of consoling, flattering, encouraging, for that ; the present was onl}' his own dis- tress — it was nothing. There was rejoicing in the nurser}' upstairs that morn- 72 DON JOHN. ing ; the babj' Aird, as he was called, had come to spend the da}-. He made himself perfecth' at home ; the little Johnstones produced all their toys for him. " What a credit he is to his mother!" said the nurse. "His clothes quite new, and almost as handsome as our chil- dren's." David Collingwood, as he led his wife to the omnibus which was to take them home, could hardl}' believe his own good fortune. The child, " the encumbrance " that he had perforce taken with her, and had meant to do his duty by, had, contrary to all sober hope, been re- ceived into another man's house, and there he had been told to leave him. His wife, though confused and frightened, did not seem to feel an}' distress at parting with him. "Is this all?" he repeated man}- times to himself as they went on. "Is this over?" "Is she truly going to get off scot-free ? " if so, the sooner he took her away the better. At the other side of the world he felt that he should have more chance of forgetting that, which while he remembered it made his love for his young wife more bitter than sweet to him. " Is it over ? " Xo, it was not quite over. They got out of the omnibus at their own cottage door. A han- som cab stood there, and Mr. Johnstone was paying the cabman. He followed them in. IMaria Collingwood sank into a chair. Mr. Johnstone, not unnaturally, de- clined one ; he stood with a note-book in his hand. " If you 've — you 've altered your mind," Maria began, " I 'm willing, as is my duty, to take back the child." David Collingwood darted an indignant look at her, but ]Mr. Johnstone took no notice of the speech. Va- rious questions were asked her, and answered ; the hus- band weighed the effect of her answers as each was given: "He can make nothing of that;" "He can make little of that;" "He sees she speaks the truth there;" "He'll not give the boy back for that ! " He was mean, as he had said, but not base. DON JOHN. 73 The little sister — Mr. Johnstone wanted her address. She was in a place : the address was given. "■"Where was she when 3"onr mother came home with the child ? " " She was in a place then, and till a month after." " Can yon prove that? " The matter was gone into. Donald Johnstone hoped then for a few moments, and David Collingwood feared ; bnt their I'espective feelings were soon reversed, for Maria did prove it. The sister was in a place as kitchen- girl at a school, and did not come home till it broke np for the holidays ; consequent!}', she never saw the child till after her mother had brought him home to Kensington. "Where did Mrs. Leach live?" Her address was given. It was asserted that she had never known there was more than one child under her roof ; consequently, that she could not have harbored any sort of suspicion bearing on the case. " Where was the girl who had carried one of the children out?" David Collingwood had ascertained that she was dead. Mr. Johnstone stood long pondering on this matter ; finally he took David Collingwood with him to the cottage of Mrs. Leach, and asked a few questions, which abundantly l)roved the truth of what Mrs. Aird had declared. He therefore said nothing to excite her astonishment ; but gave her a present of money and withdrew. Donald Johnstone came back to London in the course of the morning, and found the nurse who had lived in his family when the little Donald was born. She was very comfortably married, and he agreed with her to take jNIaster Donald's foster-brother under her charge for a little while. ]\L-s. Aird, he informed her, had mar- ried again, and he intended to be good to the child. Less could hardly be said ; and what his own servants miglit think of this stor}-, he considered it best to leave to themselves. In the course of time, Mrs. Johnstone perfectly recov- ered, the London season was just over, and the quietest time of year was coming on. 74 DON JOHN. The worst, though he did not know it, had already been endured. His anxiety as to its effect on her had so wrought on him that she had discovered it, and a heav}- portion of it was already weighing on her own heart. It was necessary that she should now be told, and she was so full}' conscious that a certain something — she knew not what — was the matter, that when he said she had something to hear which would disturb her, she was quite relieved to find that he now thought her strong enough to know the worst. She soon brought him to the point. It was not his health ; it was nothing in his profession ; it was no pecuniary loss : but when she saw his distress, she was sure that more than half of it was for her, and she did her ver\- best to bear it well for his sake. And yet, when the blow fell, it was almost too much for her. She had all a woman's horror of doubt. Let her have anything to endure but doubt ; yet doubt had come into her house, and, perhaps, for ever was to reign over her. She, however, took the misfortune very sweetly and bravely. In general, the woman bears the small mis- fortunes and continued disappointments of life best, and the man bears best the great ones. Here the case was reversed : the woman bore it best, but that was mainl}'' because of the supreme comfort of her husband's love and sympathy. If we consider women whose lot it is to inspire deep affection, we shall sometimes find them, not those who can most generously bestow, but those who can most graciousl}- receive. All is offered ; the}' accept all without haggling about its possible endurance ; their trust in affection ]iel|)s to make it lasting, and their own comfort in it is so evident as to call it forth and make it show itself at its best. Donald Johnstone's wife had a disposition that longed to repose itself on another. Her peculiar and almost unconscious tact made her seem generall}' in har- mony with her surroundings. All she said and did, and wore, appeared to be a part of herself; there was a sweet directness, a placid DON JOHN. 75 oneness about her, which inspired beUef and caused contentment. "Why am I so calm, so satisfied, so well with myself in this woman's presence ? " men might have asked them- selves ; but they seldom did, perhaps because her lov- ing, placid nature was seasoned in a very small degree with the love of admiration. She had a gracious in- sight into the feelings of others, and used it not to show off her own beauties, but to console them for defects in themselves. Many people show us our deficiencies b}^ the light of their own advantages, but Donald Johnstone's wife showed rather how insignificant those deficiencies must be since she who was so complete had never noticed them. A sincere and admired woman, her firm and open preference for her own made her own for ever satisfied ; yet she always gave others a notion that she felt she had reason to trust them, sense to acknowledge their fine qualities, and leisure to delight in them. Keverend in mind, and, on the whole, submissive, she yet was in the somewhat unusual position of a wife who knows that her husband's religious life is more de- veloped and more satisfying than her own. Master Donald's foster-brother was now sent for to dine in the nursery again, and delighted the nurse and her subordinate b}^ the way in which he made himself at home, tyrannizing over the little Donald, picking the grapes out of his fat little hand, and trotting off with them while he sat on the floor and helplessly gazed at his nurse. "Run after the little boy, then. Master Donny," cried the nursery maid ; " why, he ain 't near so big as 3'ou are ! " But the little Donald placidl}' smiled ; either he had not pluck ^-et, or he had not sense for conten- tion ; and, in the meantime, the little Lancy took from him and collected for himself most of the toys, specially the animals from a Noah's ark, which he carried off in his frock, retu'ing into a corner to examine them at his leisure. ^0 L)UI\ fUJiJV. Mr. Johnstone came upstairs soon after the nursery dinner, and said the little Laney might come with him and see Mrs. Johnstone ; so the child's pinafore was taken off, and, with characteristic fearlessness, he put his hand in "■ gentleman's " hand and was taken down. Mrs. Johnstone was in the dressing-room ; her hus- band, having considered the matter, had decided to spare her all waiting for the child, all expectation. He opened the door quietly ; she did not know this little guest was in the house ; she should guess his name, or he should tell it her. She had just sent the nurse down to her dinner, and was lying on a couch asleep — the babj' in her bassinet beside her. Fast asleep as it seemed ; yet, the moment her hus- band came in with the child in his arms, she started as if the thought in his mind had ))ower over her, and, opening her eyes, she looked at them with quiet, un- troubled gaze. The time she had been waiting for was manifestly come. She rose, and slowl}', as if drawn on, came to meet her husband, with her ej'es on the little child, who was occupied with the toys wl\ich he still held in his hand. Neither the husband nor the wife spoke ; she came close, laid her hand on the child's little bright head, and her cheek against his, " Lad_y did kiss Lanc}'," said t,he child; then, look- ing attentively at her, and perhaps approvingly, he pursed up his rosy mouth and proffered a kiss in his turn. " Lad}' must not cry," he next said, almost with in- difference ; then, as if to account for her tears, he con- tinued, " Lady dot a mummy gone in ship — gone all away." "Does Lanc}' cr}' for his mummy?" she asked the child, who was still embraced between them. He shook his head. " Why not? — I feel easier, love, now I have seen him," she murmured ; " our children are not like him. — Wh}''not, sweet baby-bo}' ? " she repeated. "'Cause boy dot a horse and two dogg}*." He DON JUMN. 77 opened bis hand and displayed this property. Noth- ing more lilcel}' tlian that tliis infantile account of him- self was true. The animals from the ark had driven all the mother he knew of clean_ out of his Laby-heart. " He talks remarkably well for two years and a quarter," she said, and that was almost an assertion of her opinion, for the little Donald had only reached the age of two years, two mouths, and a foi'tnight. Mr, Johnstone heard it almost with disma}' ; his own opin- ion was drifting in the other direction. She dried her eyes and held out her arms. "Will Lancy come to lady ? " Of course he would ; she took him, and sat down with him in her lap on the couch. "I know how this will end," she exclaimed, holding him to her bosom with yearning unutterable. Then she burst into a passion of tears, kissing the little hands and face, and bemoaning herself and him with uncon- trollable grief. "O Donald! how shall I bear it?" She was bearing it much better than he could have expected. He Avas almost overcome himself, thinking- how cruelly she had been treated, but he had nothing to say. He could only be near, standing at the end of the couch, leaning over her, to feel with her, and for her. Then the child spoke, putting his arms round her neck — "• Lancy loves lady." He seemed to have some intention of comforting her in his little mind. " Estelle ! " remonstrated her husband. " But I shall know," she exclaimed, "I shall know in the end. You are making all possible inquiry? " " JMy bright, particular star ! " was all he answered ; the tone was full of pity. "■ And is nothing found out, Donald, nothing?" "It is early days yet. If anything more can be done, I am on the look-out to do it." " And you find nothing to do at present?" "No." "I know how this will end," she repeated. "I never will love my own less ; he is so dear to every libre of my heart." 7» DON JOHN. " He is most dear to us both." " But this one has come so near to me ab-eady, and the nearness is such a bitter pain — such pain. (Oh, you poor Uttle one !) I know it will end in m}' so lov- ing him, from anxiet}" and doubt, that I shall not be able to bear him long out of m^' sight." '' All shall be as you wish, my Stella," said the hus- band ; but he thought, "You are far happier than I, for it will end — I know it will — in your loving both the bo^s as if they were your own ; whilst I feel al- ready that, if the shadow of a doubt remains, I shall not deeply love either," DON JOHN. 79 CHAPTER VII. THE time was a little past the middle of the cen- tury ; the " Great Exhibition" had not long been over ; the Metropolitan Railway had not yet begun to burrow under London, encouragiug the builders to plant swarms of suburban villas far out into the fields ; Lon- doners paid turnpikes then before they could drive out for fresh air, and they commonly contented themselves with a sojourn in the autumn at the sea-side, or in Scotland, instead of, as a rule, rushing over and dis- persing themselves about the continent. But Donald Johnstone decided to take his wife there that autumn, baby, nurse and all. First he would estab- lish the children at Dover ; then he would propose to their mother that the little Lancy — " boy," as he more frequently called himself — should be sent to them, and have also the benetit of the change ; then he would take her away and reproduce for her their wedding tour. This had been to Normandy and Brittan}-, where they had seen quaint, sweet fashions, even then on the wane ; beautiful clothes, which those who have not already seen never will see ; and peaked and pointed habitations, so strange and so picturesque, that nothing but a sojourn in them can make one believe them to be as convenient as those of ugl}* make. Estelle should see again the apple-gathering, the great melons, and the purple grapes drawn into market with homely pomp ; the brown-faced girls gossiping beside their beautiful roofed wells, dressed in garments such as no lad^y in the finest drawing-room puts on at present ; creatures like countrified queens, stepping after their solitary cows, each one with the spindle in 8o DON JOHN. her hand. He would take her to Contances, and then on to Avranches, and there he would unfold to her a certain plan. She fretted much over the doubt, which at present no investigation availed to solve. Time had not befriended her : the more she thought, the more uncertain she be- came. Yet he hoped that time might bring them enUghtcn- ment in the end. He would take her to Avranches, where lived his only sister, the widow of a general odl- cer, who, from motives of economy, had settled there, and did not often come to England. In his opinion she was one of the most sensible women to be met with anywhere — just the kind of creature to be trusted with a secret — a little too full of theories, perhaps, almost oppressively intelligent, active in mind and body, but a very fast friend, and fond of his wife. He felt that, if the two boys could be parted from Estelle for three or four years, and be under the charge of his sister, it would be more easy, at the end of that time, to decide which of them had really the best claim to be brought up with his name and with all the pros- pects of a son. It was quite probable that, in the conrse of three or four 3'ears, such a likeness might appear in one of the boys to some member of his famil}' as would all but set the matter at rest. Nothing could be done if they remained in London, brought up among his own friends, and known by name and person to every servant about him. But if he left them at Avranches with his sister, among French ser- vants, who knew nothing about them — each known by his pet name, and not addressed by any surname — and if the}' themselves knew nothing about their parentage, there could be no injustice to either in the choice the parents might eventually make, even though they should decide not to take the child first sent home to them. He was desirous, for his own sake as well as for theirs, that they should hear of no doubt; that would be cruelty to the one not chosen, causing him almost DON JOHN. 8 1 inevitable discontent and envy, wliile tiie one chosen might himself become the victim of doubt, and never be able to enjoy the love of his parents, or any other of his advantages in peace. "We must be their earthl}' providence," he said to his wife, when he had unfolded this plan to her; '* we must absolutely and irrevoeabh' decide for them. We must tr}' fully to make up our minds, and then, which- ever we eventually take, we must treat altogether as a son." " And the other, Donald?" " The other? I think one's best chance of peace in any doubtful matter is not to do the least we can, but the most ; we must give them both the same advantages in all respects, and so care for, and advance, and pro- vide for, and love the other — so completely adopt him, that if we should ever have the misfortune to find that, after all, we have made a mistake, we may still feel that there was but one thing more we could have given him, and that was our name." "■ Then, even in that case, the choice having once been made, you w^ould keep to it?" " What do you think, my star? " ' ' It would be a cruel thing ou the one we had taken for our own to dispossess him." " Yes ; but if w^e allowed things to stand, the loss and pain would all be our own ; they would be nothing to the other. Some wrongs are done in spite of a great longing after the right, and such I hold to be irrevo- cable." " I see no promise of rest in any plan. Perhaps my best chance will be to leave it altogether to you ; you often talk of casting our cares upon God. I have tried, but it does not seem to relieve me of the burden. I can — I often do cast them upon 3-ou, onl}^ I hope — " "What, Estelle?" " I hope your sister will not sa}-, as 3'our mother did when our little Irene died, that it was one of those troubles which was ordained to work for my good." " She was onl}' quoting Scripture." 6 82 DON JOHN. "■When she used to come and pray with me, and read with me, I felt at last able to submit ; and I found, as she had said, that submission could take the worst sting of that anguish out of my heart. But no one must talk so to me now. I have not fallen into the hands of God, but into those of a wicked woman. This is dif- ferent." "Is it, my wife?" " Your sister may say it is a rebuke to me for having loved this present life, and my husband, and m}^ chil- dren too much, or she may sa^' it is a warning to me that these blessings can — oh, how easily! — be with- drawn. I will try to bear it as a discipline, as a punish- ment ; let her teach me, if she can, to submit ; but I cannot bear to hear about blessings in disguise. My own little son ; he was the pride of my heart ; and now, when I hold him in my arms, and see the other playing at ni}' feet, I wonder which has the best right to me. I know that nothing can make up to me for the doubt. I shall never be so happy any more ! " So she thought ; but she was utterly devoid of mor- bid feelings, and quite willing to let time do all for her that it could. She had a sincere desire to be well and happy. A woman, with an}' insight into man's nature, generally knows Ijetter than to believe that, in the long run, delicac}- can be interesting, and low spirits and sor- row attractive. She did not aggravate herself with anger against the nurse. " She knew she was to part with both the boys for years, while a doubtful experiment was tried. Yet she ' let herself be refreshed by the sweet weather, the nn-al signs of peace and homely abundance ; and when she drove up to the quaint abode her sister-in-law had made a home of, she could be amused with its oddness ; the tiled floors, numerous clocks, clumsy furniture, thick crockery ; the charming kitchen, full of bright pots and pans, so much lighter and more roomy than the drawing- room ; the launtlry in the roof; its orchard that stood it instead of a flower-garden, almost every tree hoar}* with lichen, and feathery with mistletoe ; its Httle fish-pond DON JOHN. 83 and fountain, with a pipe like a quill, and its wooden arbors, with all their great creaking weather-cocks. And there was one little child, a girl, in the house — a small, dimpled thing, about six months younger than the two boys. That first evening passed off, and both husband and wife shrank from entering on the subject of their tlioughts. Mrs. O'Grady, Charlotte b}' Christian name, was full of talk and interest about all manner of things. Siie had the disadvantage of being ver}- short-sighted, and so missed the flashing messages and expressive communications tliat passed between other e3'es. This defect makes man}- people more intellectual than the}- otherwise would be, and less intelligent, throwing them more on thought and less on observation. But in her case it was only a question of wearing or not Avear- ing her spectacles. When she had them on, " all the woild was print to her ; " when the}- were off, her re- marks were frequently more sensible in themselves than suitable to the occasion. Politics, church parties, familj- affairs, the newest books, the last scientific theories — nothing came amiss to her, everv scrap of information was welcome. Mrs. Johnstone looked on rather hstlessly, and soon it was evident that her husband could not make an opening for the matter that was in their thoughts. He was letting himself be amused and interested while waiting for a more convenient season. When the}- had retired, she said, — " I shall be so much more easy, Donald, when you have managed to tell her our story." "But what was I to do?" he answered. " I could not suddenly dash into her sentence with a ' by-the-bye,' as she does herself. ' By-the-bye, Charlotte, we don't know whether one of our children is, in fact, ours or not ! ' " ' ' That would at least astonish her into silence for a time." The next morning just the same difficulty ! They were in the midst of a discussion before they knew that it had begun. 84 DON JOHN. The bab}' was taken out after breakfast, b}" her nurse, into the apple orchard. " You have no servants who speak English, have 3-ou, Charlotte?" asked Mr. Johnstone, thinking to open the matter. " No," she answered ; " and I prefer the French as servants, on the whole, to the English. But I like that 3-oung Irish w^oman, Estelle, that you have brought with 3^our baby. There is something sweet about her that one does not meet with here. Do j'ou know, I have long noticed that, of all modern people, the Irish suffer least, and the French most, from the misery of envy?" "Do 3'ou think so?" said her brother, only half hs- tening. "Yes, and hence the Irish chivalry towards the wo- men of ' the quality,' and the total absence of an}' such feeling in a Frenchman. He, frugal and accumulative, thinks, ' I am down because }'0u are up.' The poor Frenchman would rather all were down than that any should have what he has not ; but it is the material ad- vantages of those well off that he envies them ; but the poor Irishman, wasteful and not covetous, could not do without something to admire. One of these two takes in anguish through his e3-es, whenever he casts them on beauty or riches not his ; the other takes in consolation through his e3-es. He is not wholl3' bereaved of gran- deur or loveliness if he ma3' look on them, and he troubles himself little that the3- are not his own." ' ' When demagogues leave him alone ! " her brother put in. " It is singular, though," she continued, gliding on with scarcel3' anv pause, " that though the Irish can do best without education and culture, the3' repa3' it least, the3' are least changed 1)3' it. Now the English, of all people, can least do without culture and education, and repay them most. What a brute and what a dolt a low Englishman frequentl3' is ! but a low Irishman is often a wit, and full of fine feelings." " Marr3' an Irishman," said the brother with a smile, " and speak well of the Irish ever after." DON JOHN. 85 " Of course ! I alwa^'s used to sa}-, ' Give ine an Irish lover and a Scotch cousin.'" ' ' Wh}' an Irish lover ? " " Because he is sure to inarr^" me as soon as he can, just as a Scotch cousin, if he gets in anywhere, is sure to do his best to get me in too." "• You want notliing Elnglish, then?" " Yes, ccrtainl_y, give me an Enghsh housernaid. Let a Frencli woman nurse me when I am ill, let an Englisli woman clean me my house, and an Englishman write me my poetry' ! For it is a curious thing," she went on, '• that sentiment and poetic power never go together. The French are rich in sentiment and very poor in poets. How rich in sentiment the Irish are, and how poor the English ! "We call the Irish talk poetical, yet Ireland has never produced a poet even as high as the second order. How far more than the lion's share England has of all the poetr}' written in the English tongue — or, if you speak of current poetry, you might add, ' and in all other tongues.' " Here she chanced to put on her spec- tacles, and immediately came to a full-stop. "Well?" said her brother ; but she was no more to be lured on, when she could see', than stopped when she could not. His chance had come. " If you will put on your bonnet, Charlotte," he said, " we will go out about the place. I have something im- portant — to us — to say to you." She rose instantl}' with the strange sense of defect and discomfiture that she often felt when her spectacles showed her other people's eyes, and thus that she had been at fault because her own w'ere not better. It was a difficult stor}- to tell, and at first she could not be made to believe that all had been done which could be done* An unsolvable doubt seemed just as unbearable to her as it had done to the mother. She sat downi on a bench in the apple orchard with nothing to sa}' and nothing to propose. " I do not believe this thing ever was done," she said hesitatingly at last. " I think the nurse's baseness be- 86 DON JOHN. gan and ended when she planted this horrid doubt in your hearts. She foresaw that it would rid her of her own child. What could jou do but take him?" "But 3'ou have told me this," she presently said, " because you think I can help 3'ou? " " Yes, you can help us — what we want is to gain time." He then unfolded his plan. Each of the little fellows called himself by a pet name. One went in the nurser}' by tlie name of " jMidd^-," so called after a favorite sailor-doll thev had ; the other generally called liimself " Boy." If they could be taken charge of till they were five or six years old, and the parents denied themselves all in- tercourse with them during those ^-ears, it was not in nature that the one trulj' theirs sliould not show some strong likeness either to one of his parents or to some of [lis brothers and sisters — for there might well be both by that time — or a likeness as to voice or even disposition might show itself; and, failing that, there was the other child. He might begin to betray his par- entage ; the Johnstones had no Likeness of Aird, but could never forget his wife. An irrevocable choice must be made at the end of that time ; and when the father and mother came over to make it, neither child would have heard anything about his story. The one selected would soon return their love and subside into his place with the unquestioning composure of childhood, and the other would be equally contented with his position, having long forgotten all about his native country and his earliest friends. Little more than a week after this, Mr. Johnstone was sitting on the sands of a small French bathing- place, his sister with him. He had brought over the two tiny boys, and Ihey were playing at their feet, while Mrs. O'Grady scanned them eagerly. '' Yours — I mean the one you call 'Middy' — is the most like our family, and like j^ou in particular," she observed. " Yes, we think so." ' ' And he is the one whom j'ou brought up till the DON JOHN. 87 nurse herself put it into your heads that he might not be yours ? " " Even so." " The other has slightly darker eyelashes and brown- er hair than either yours or Estelle's." " Of course we have noticed that." ' ' And yet you doubt ? " " We fancy that ' Boy' is a little like our dear child Irene." " Estelle says she wants me to dress them precisely alike, and treat them absolutely alike." "Yes, we have decided on that. We shall leave photographs behind us. When the}- see these in your book, they can be told to call them father and mother. And we shall never take these names from either, but only teach one of them to understand that he is an adopted child." ' The parting with the bo3-s was ver}' bitter to Mrs. Johnstone. .She held each to her heart with yearning's unutterable, though, as was but natural, onh' one fret- ted after her at all, and that for a very little while. And when they were brought into the quaint house near Avranches, it was doubtful whether either had the intelligence to be surprised. One was perfect!}- fearless, and found out directly that the " 'tupid mans and wo- mans could not talk to ' Boy ; ' " the other listened to the babble about him with infantile scorn, and sometimes, bal)y as he was, showed himself a true-born Briton bj' laughing at it. But that stage of their life was soon over ; their French nurse made them understand her very shortly ; and before they had discovered that little Charlotte's English was worse than their French, she was taken away — gone to Ireland to her grandmother, as they were told. They thought this was a pity ; her mother, with a touch of bitterness, thought so too ; but the grandmother had long urged it, promising to provide for the little Charlotte, and but that the Johnstones had known of her intended absence, they would not have proposed theu- plan. 88 DON JOHN. The poor must do — not what they would, but — what they can. Even if her httle Charlotte was left unprovided for at the grandmother's death, the mother felt that here was a chance of saving several hundred pounds for her. Donald Johnstone's payment was to be liberal in pro- portion to the importance of the interest at stake. And, in the meantime, the little Charlotte cost her mother nothing, and the two boys were just as happ}' together when she was gone. The}- had not been a year in France before the}' spoke French as well as French children, which is not saying much. In less than another year the}' spoke their Eng- lish with a P^ench accent, loved their nurse more than any living creature, excepting one another, and had altogether lost the air of English children, for their clothes were worn out, and the}- wore instead the frilled aprons and baggj trousers of the countr}- ; their hair was cropped perfectly short, as is there the mode, and every article they had about them was eciually tasteless and unbecoming. But their toys were charming. Their aunt, as the}' both called her, was careful to waken in their infant minds a certain enthusiasm for England ; they had many pictures of English scenes in their nursery. The nurse also did her part ; she fre- quently talked to them about the dear papa and mam- ma, caused them to kiss the portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone every night before they went to bed, and instilled into them something of the peculiar French tenderness and sentiment towards a mother. They both loved this pretty mother, and they grew on in health and peace till they wore nearly five years old, about which time it became evident that the Johnstoncs could not make up theu- minds to be absent much longer. ilrs. O'Grady had not, for some time past, found it possible to doubt which was her brother's child, but she loyally forebore to make the least difference in her ti-eat- ment of them, or to conve}- an}- hint to her brother. DON JOHN. 89 And now the children were told that dear father and mother were coming, and this imi)ortant news was a good deal connected in their minds with the growth of their own hair. It was much too long now, their nurse said, but English boj's wore it so. They thought it would have been impossible for father and mother to come and see them while it had been cropped so short. Tlieir aunt also had sent to London for complete suits of children's dress for them. Their nurse was very gra- cious as regarded these. Melanie, the cook, came up to see them dressed a V Anglais; she agreed with her that there was much to be said in favor of the English style. Certainly, but for these clothes, the dear father and mother would never have taken the trouble to come ; it was to be hoped they would like them. How slight was the feeling of the children as to this expected interview ! how intense were the feelings of the parents ! A door opened, and a pretty little bo^', who knew nothing of their arrival, came dancing into a rooniAvhere were seated a lad}' and a gentleman close together. In an instant he knew them, and stood blushing. Then that lady said, — " Come on, sweet boy ! " and he advanced and kissed her hand, and that gentleman looked at him — oh, so earnestly ! This was the dear mother ; she had tears in her eyes, and she took him on her knee, and kissed his little "face and head, and stroked his hair. So did the dear father. ' ' Did he know them ? " " Oh, yes, and he and Middy had wanted them to come for a long while. The dear mother was quite as pretty as he had expected," he continued looking up at her. He spoke in French, and paid her a little French compliment as naturally as possible. Then he l>lushed again with pleasure as she caressed him, and was glad he had all his best things on. After a time, his aunt came in, and quietly took him out of the room. 90 DON JOHN. " I should not have known him, he is so much grown and altered," sighed Mrs. Johnstone; "but he has made it evident that it is Midd}- whom we have not seen." " Tliis is a most lovable, prett^' little fellow," said the husband. '" And not at all unhke our little Irene," she an- swered. But, in a minute or two, another child, equally un- conscious of. what awaited him, opened the same door, and marched boldly in, A sudden thrill shook the hearts of both. The child paused, drew back, and trembled ; then he put up his arm before his face, and burst into tears. "What it was that he felt or feared, it would have been quite past his power to express ; but the dear mamma was there ; she had tears in her eyes ; was she going to kiss him? He did not know what to saj- ; what should he do? He could not look, he was crying so ; and somebody carried him to her, and put his arms round her neck, and called him his dear little son. " Mamma, I never meant to cr}'," he presently said, with all naivete — and mother was crying too, and so was father — well! it was ver^" extraordinary, when he thought he should have been so glad. And presentlj' he was ver}' glad because they were so kind. They said they had wanted him so much for such a long time, and he should go to England — go home and see his dear little sisters. They said he was just like the others, and there was a baby brother at home ; he must teach him to play. So Middy was very happy indeed, as in a child's paradise he nestled close to the long-lost mother, and admired his father, and thought how nice it would be to go to England with them. It would have been hard to doubt any more ; the little flaxen-haired fellow was so like the children at home ; they were so vastly- more drawn to him than to the other, and yet he too was greatl}' altered. He was not such a fine child for his years as when they had left DON JOHN. 91 him. But if the}' could have doubted, his own love and agitation would have settled all. The shy and yet de- lighted gaze, his contentment in their arms, the manner in which he seemed to have thought of them, — all helped them to a thankful certaint}'. The mother had not been without her soi'rows. fSince the parting she had lost two more little girls in infancy', and had longed inexpressibly to have her boy back again. Charlotte came in at last ; she still had him in her arms. There was no mistaking the father's look of con- tentment. Charlotte had her spectacles on, and saw the state of the case at once. " Of course," she exclaimed ; " how could it be other- wise? I am afraid. Middy, father and mother will be rather shocked when 1 tell them that you have forgotten your other name." " I thought I was Midd}-," answered the child. Of course he did ! Great pains had been taken to prevent his thinking anything else. " But that is a baby-name, m}- sweet boy ! Don't 3-0U know what your father's name is ? " "Yes, Donald." '' Well, then, 3-ou are Donald too." 92 DON JOHN. CHAPTER VIII. " T NEVER had am' doubt which of the children was JL yours," observed Mrs. O'Grady the next day. " It was the more good of you to say nothing, then," replied the mother. ' ' But now I hope you really feel at peace ? " " Yes, at peace ; but, in order to do so, I must adopt your theor}-, and believe that IVIaria Aird or her second husband invented the story of the changing of the chil- dren, — that supposes baseness enough — but how far easier to do than to effect a real change ! " "And you, Donald?" asked his sister. "My dear, I suppose myself to be quite satisfied which is nn- child ; but I am not satisfied to leave the other out of my care and influence for an hour." "It is certainly time Donald was taken home," ob- served his sister; " he is a complete little Frenchman, And 3'ou would not like to leave Lancy, then, in m^'' charge a little longer?" "If I had no other reason I should still think it his right to be brought up as an Englishman also." " Then he must not breathe this air and eat this diet much longer. Race has not half so much to do with national character as people think ! Why, some of the English families brought up here by English parents talk like the French, and cannot produce the peculiarly soft sound of the English ' r,' the}' either ring it or slur it over." " Companionship, my dear, nothing more." " But Charlotte would not deny herself the society of her one child, unless she felt what she has been saying ver3' strongly," said Mrs. Johnstone. DON JOHN. 93 Donald Johnstone looked at his wife. Tall, placid, fair, she was at work on a piece of knitting, and toolc her time about it. All her movements spoke of tran- quillity, and she observed what was going on about her. Then he looked at his sister, who was netting. Even the movements of her small ivory shuttle had an ener- getic jerk which seemed to suit the somewhat eager Hash and sparkle of her clear hazel eyes ; her thoughts were swift, her words were urgent for release, she longed to spread her theories, and scarcely noticed how they were received if she could but produce them. "No, Estelle, companionship is not all; your bo3's have hardly any companions, English or French, bii,t they do not play half so boisterousl_y, and they are not half so full of mischief as they would be if they had been brought up in equal seclusion on English soil. The French child is more tame in early cliildhood than the English. It is France that does this, not his race." " You really think so?" " Of course I do ; the world is full of facts that bear on this point. In many parts of Germany, the men have a most unfair advantage over the women. They are better made, taller in proportion ; they are far more intellectual, and 3'ou must admit, Donald, that they are handsomer. All this mainlv results from the superior diet of the men, specially in the towns. Many of them regularly dine out excellently well, leaving their women- folk at home to cabbage-soup and cheap sausages." "Mean hounds!" exclaimed Donald Johnstone, laughing. " Yes, but unless the climate of Germany had already caused an inferiority in the women, they would not allow themselves to be so ' put upon.' It is the intense cold of their winter, together with poor diet, which dwarfs and deteriorates the women ; the same cold, with good food, braces the men. There is no nation in Europe where the height, strength, and wits of the sexes are so equal as in France. In fact, I think the Frenchwoman has the best of it ! It is partly the excellent climate — not hot enough to enervate, not damp to induce them to 94 DON JOHN. drink — and partly it is the excellent food. Soil influ- ences air — air inthiences food : these together influence manners, and are more, on the ■nhole, than descent." " I shallalways feel, Charlotte, that you have a right to preach to us, and to i)ut forth as man}^ theories as you please," said Donald Johnstone, when at last she came to a pause. " Because you feel that there is a great deal in what I say?" she inquired. Then she put on her spectacles, and caught a smile, half amused, half tender, flitting over her sister-in-law's face. Her brother was openly laughing at her. "Not at all," he replied, "but because 3-ou are, as you always have been, the best of sisters and the most staunch of friends. You can understand people ; you are willing, and able too, to help them in their own way." Then, observing that she was a little touchy and not at all pleased, he quietly- stepped out over the low window, and left her to his wife, for he knew that it would be difficult for him to set matters straight again. The two little follows were very docile children, and less independent than English boys of their age. "Donald," as Mrs. O'Grady was now careful to call him, " Donald has fewest faults, but he is the least in- teresting. Lancy is a verv endearing child." " lias he any special fault? " asked Mrs. Johnstone. " Well," she answered, " I hardly know what to say about that." Mrs. Johnstone looked up a little surprised ; her sister-in-law appeared to speak with a certain caution. " He is a very endearing little fellow," she repeated. "But if he has any special childish fault, I ought to know it, Charlotte." " Yes, my dear. Well, I must be very careful not to make a mountain of a mole-hill, and you must try, if I tell you what has occurred, not to think too much of it. He was but a baby, Estelle, when he first did it." "Did what, Chai'lotte?" DON JOHN. 95 '' But I have taken great pains not to make light of it, and also, I could not let you know, because it is a fault so rare in our rank of life, that it would have ap- peared to be a telling piece of evidence against him in j-our mind. It would have diminished his chance." Estelle colored with anxiet}-. " The fact is, he has several times taken little articles that were not his own, and appropriated them. Thej^ were things of no great value. Can this be hereditary? Were the father and mother honest ? " " I cannot tell. But what a fault, Charlotte ! Does little Donald know?" " Yes, but you need not be afraid for him. Lancy was scarcel}' more than three years old when, walking home from the town one day with his bonne., a minute toy was found in his hand that he could give no account of. They had been into several shops, but I never sup- posed that he had taken it. I thought some child nmst have dropped it, and that he had picked it up on the road. But, a few weeks after, I was in the market, bar- gaining for some oranges. I saw Lanc}', who was with me, looking red and roguish, and was ver}' much vexed when I found that he had snatched up an orange, and evidently meant to carr\' it off. The woman, with nods and winks, pointed this out to me ; she evidentlj^ re- garded it as a joke. I told her how wrong she was to laugh at him, made him give it back, and for several days, in order to impress his fault on his little mind, I deprived him of his usual dessert, though the oranges were always on the table." " This was two 3'ears ago? " "Yes." " Then I am afraid it is not all." " It was nearly all that I know of till last Christmas, when Donald sent over a box with some English school books, and a number of little presents for the hoys ; among these were two silver medals. JMiddy lost his almost at once, and there were great searchings for it. Lancy helped to look, but it could not be found ; then, one night after they were both asleep, la bonne was . 96 DON JOHN. turning out the pockets of their little coats for the wash, and the two medals rolled out of Laney's coat. One had been tucked into the lining. Poor little fellow ! when I took him alone into ni}' room the next morning, and showed them to him without saying a word, he wept piteously. And, Estelle, I believe he is cured. It was very touching to see the distress of both the little fellows when I made Lancy give back the medal and confess to Donald that he had taken it. Donald is mucli the most atfectionate of the two, and when Lancy saw how much he was shocked and how sorry he was for him, he seemed to think all the more of his fault himself. 1 did all I could to deepen the impres- sion, to show them the sin of stealing, and the punish- ment too. For several da3-s they were both ver}' trisie. Then Lancy said to me, ' When Middy says his prayers to-night, he 's going to ask God to forgive me.' I could do no less than say I was sure God would forgive him. But I have not let the matter drop ; and you must be on the watch, Estelle, to help the poor little fellow against himself." And so, with all tenderness, the childish ftiult was told, everything that watchful love could do being extended to Lancy afterwards, and to all appearance he was cured, and as a rule, was a better bo}' than his foster-brother. The two little Frenchmen were brought back to their native isle. At first, the_y took it amiss that there was no soup at the nurserj' breakfast, but then the nurse never expected to have hold of their hands when they walked out. And the dogs did not understand them ; they thought this must be on i)urpose ; but, on the other hand, they were allowed — indeed, they were en- couraged — to climb the trees, and the cher pere had given them some spades and a wheelbarrow. There were no drums, swords, and shrill French pipe to parade the garden with, but these spades were better than nothing. The cher pere said they might dig as deep as the}' liked with them. " But the clay would stain their new coats." " Oh, that could not be helped ! " DON JOHN. 97 " Might they dig down to the middle of the world, then?" " Certainly, if they could." They began to think England was a nice place to live in, and after a short sojourn in it contrived to make as much noise and do as much mischief as any other two little urchins breathing, for they were in the coun- try now\ The cher pere had a ramljling, homely old liouse in the country, and there they gradually mastered English, learning it from the little sisters, though the}' continued, to the great scandal of the servants, to jab- ber Erench, and tutoyer one another when they were together. Childhood is long to the child, and his growth is slow, though to his parents he appears to " shoot up." Donald and Lanc}- shot up, and, neither of them showing the slightest taste for any branch of learning whatever, they gave their governess a great deal of trouble. The nurse said there never were two such j'oung Turks. That was partly because, being of the same age and size, whatever piece of mischief attracted one, the other was always ready to help him in. Then the little girls were always ti'ying to imitate them. It made them so rude " as never was." As to the nurser}' chil- dren, specially Master Ereddy, who would have been as good as gold but for them, they took delight in lead- ing him astray, and had taught him to speak Erench too, on purpose that she might not understand what the}' said to him. Master Freddy kept his seventh birthday without having had any broken bones to rue, which was won- derful considering the diligence with which he had studied the manners and actions of his two brothers, as they were always called. But, about this time, the}^ were sent off rather suddenly' to school, it being at last allowed by governess, nurse, and even mother, that they were past feminine management. Mrs. Johnstone was excessively fond of them both. None of the anguish of doubt remained. Her boy 7 98 DON JOHN. was her own, and he was intensely fond of her ; j'et towards Lancy she felt a never-satisfied yearning. She was rather more indulgent to him than to Donald, as if she could never forget lier period of uncertainty ; and if there was a soft place in Lancy's heart — which is doubt- ful, for little boj's are often hard-hearted mortals — it was probabl}' reserved for her. It was certainly- to her tliat he always complained when he had an}- grievance against the nurse, and in her arms that he cried when the governess punished him for any grave delinquencj- by making him stop in doors on a half holiday. Lancy remembered long after he went to school (that is to say for nearly six weeks) how dear mother had talked to him when he was in his little bed the night before he went. She kissed him a great man}- times, and she cried, and he promised he would be so good, and never make her unhappy- by doing naughty things. And then she talked to Donald. And Donald declared that he was never going to get into any mischief any more ; he would promise her that he never would, and he would always say his prayers ; and he would never fight with the other bo^'S — at least he wouldn't if he could help it ; and certainly he would never tell a lie whether he could help it or not. The house in Upper Harlej- Street was a far more comfortable abode when they were gone, and they saw very little of it for several vears to come, their holidays always taking place when the family was in the coun- try. As to their entrance on school life it was much like that of other little boys. It was rather a large prepar- atory school to whicli Mr. Johnstone took his son and his adopted son, both the little fellows chubby, brave, according to their years, truthful and idle. They had a box of cakes and other prog with them. He knew bet- ter than they did what would become of it. Thev had also plenty of money. He did not, of course, expect that they could have much to do with the si)ending of it, but he found out two of the bigger boys, whose fathers he was acquainted with, gave each a handsome tip, DON JOHN. 99 turned his fledglings over to them, and left them, feel- ing the parting, on the whole, more than they did. Under the auspices of these their new friends, the two little boys, when their own prog had been con- sumed, were privileged to put their mone}' into a com- mon purse, which happened just then to be nearly empt}' ; a great deal more prog, some of it ver}' un- wholesome, was then bought and consumed, after which the school sat in judgment on the new boys, kicked some of their caps round the playground, and ordered them never to wear them any more ; tore up some of their books as being only fit for the nursery, and then decided that such a name as Donald Johnstone was not to be borne. There had been another bo}' whose name was so spelt, but he called it Johnson, wlij' could n't this fellow do the same. Yes, it was a troublesome name to pronounce — not really long, of course — but it sounded long. It was an uppish name ; thc}^ were sure he was proud of it. Half of it was quite enough for any fellow ; from henceforth he should be called Don John. Don John accepted the verdict, and took it in good part. His father had impressed on both the boys that they must never be " cheeky-," or it would be the worse for them. He thought when they next decreed that Lancy should be called Sir Lancelot, that they were rather inconsistent, but he did not take the liberty to say so, and the two little fellows made their waj- pretty well on the whole, seldom getting into trouble, except- ing b}' a too ardent championship of one another. To learn how to disguise this, their only deep affection, was their first lesson in duplicity. Alwa3'S to take one another's part, right or wrong, when they dared, was their natural instinct ; their fealty and devotion was far stronger than that felt b}- most true brothers, they were never known to quarrel. Thej'' were always side by side in their class because Lanc}^ would not learn as fast as he might have done, lest he should outstrip Don John, and get into a higher form, and they were always together in their play because 100 DON JOHN. Don John did not care to outdo Lanc}', and have to be with sti'onger bo^ys instead of witli him. But the longing for companionship, a certain cama- raderie as they would have called it, was not> Don John's only reason for keeping close to Lancy. For a long while the childish fault had been almost foVgotten ; if ever alluded to, it was b\' Lanc}' himself; but \vhen the bo^s were twelve years old, and had just returned to school after the Easter holidays, Don John showed symptoms of illness, and was seized upon and sent home again forthwith. He had the measles, and was awa^' for nearly six weeks. There never was much the matter with him, and he returned ; but in a day or two a very slight something, he hardly knew what it was, seemed to let him know that Lancy was watched, and that be knew it. Lanc3' did not meet bis ej-e ; and that alone was strange. An opinion seemed to be floating in the air that it was better not to leave things about. It was hardly ex- pressed, but it was acted on, and the first hint he saw of such action drove the blood to Don John's heart ; he remembered the medal. The next day the two boys were alone together in a class-room for one minute. Don John looked at Lancy, and putting his head down on the high desk, whispered with a long sigh that was almost a sob, — "They don't hioxo anything against vou, do the}', Lancy ?'' " No," answered the other little fellow in a frightened whisper, and feigning to be bus}' with his dictionary. "Don't seem to be talking to me. The}' only sus- pect." Lancy's guilt was thus taken for granted, and con- fessed at once. A boy, dashing into the class-room, called them out to cricket. "Where are the things then?" sobbed Don Jolin again. "Can't they be found?" I DON JOHN. lOI " I've buried them," replied Lancy, and they darted out together, pretending to be eager for the game. As the two passing one another were for an instant apart from tlie rest, Don John cried out, — '•Where?" " You can't get them out," replied Lancj', as after an interval they passed each other again. " I buried them in the garden, and you know the door is almost always locked." " Say whereabouts it was," answered Don John. But the two did not meet an}- more till the game was over. ' ' What do you -want to get them out for ? " asked Lancy, as crestfallen and sad the}' left the cricket-field together. "Because I know one of them is Marsden's watch. You always said last half that it was a far better watch than either of ours. He never will rest till he gets it, or till they find you out." He spoke in French, using the familiar " tu." He was not angry with him, and the other was less ashamed than afraid. "He only suspects," repeated Lancy, sick at heart, and already feeling the truth of those words, "The wages of sin are hard." " And I took some monc}' too — Oh, Don, how could I do it?" " You might have known I should have plenty when I came back. Wh}' could n't you wait? " " I don't know. I took two sovereigns, one was an Australian sovereign. He left them on his locker, and when he was telling the boys that it was gone, he said he knew that it was not a safe place to have put it on, and he looked at me." "Then we must get back that very sovereign," said Don John ; " one of mine will not do." Lancy said no, the}* onl}' suspected him, and now he knew the misery that came of taking things he should never do it any more. He then explained exactly where he had buried the watch and the two sovereigns. On the I02 DON JOHN. head-master's birthday the}^ alwa^-s had a hohday, and were allowed to range all over the place. While he was walking about in the garden on that day, miserable on account of what Marsden had just said, he found that the other boys had lallen back from him, and then dis- persed themselves ; he was quite alone. He hastil}^ pushed a hole in some loose earth, close to a melon- frame, by which he was standing, dropped in the watch and the mone}', and with his foot covered them, just as some bo3's drew near. It was five da3-s since this had occurred, and the first shower would probablj' uncover this property again. In the evening of that very daj'- Don John had come back with lots of prog, lots of moncn'. " And then," said Lanc}', " I wished I hadn't done it." Don John burst out with, — " If 30U were found out you would be — " he stopped awe-struck. "I know," said Lanc}-, "and father would be sent for — oh what shall I do — and mother would know too." "It w-as wicked," answered Don John, " I won't go to sleep all night thinking what we can do. It was wicked ; it was worse than being a cad." Yes, Lanc}' felt that it was worse than being a cad. Human. language could go no further; they had both, as it were, made their confession, and their minds for the moment were a little relieved. DON JOHN. 103 CHAPTER IX. THE morning after this conversation two remarkable things occurred. There were four other bo3"s in the dormitor}' where Don John slept ; these were Lanc}', Marsden, and two younger fellows. When the}' began to get up Don John complained that liis left arm hurt him horribly. It was very much swollen, and he could not dress himself. The weather was hot. the boys had been out rather late the previous evening in the playing-field. Don John was a great climber, he confessed to having had a fall ; he must have sprained it then, Marsden said. He seemed to have no opinion to give on the matter. His room-mates gave him a good deal of awkward help, which hurt him very much ; but when they found that his jacket could not be put on, thej' went and fetched their Dame, and she took him awa}'. Don John asked if Lancy might come too. "Oh, not by no means; he was better b3'-half by himself." So she bore him off to a little study set apart for such contingencies as hurts and accidents which were distinct from illness, and there she much consoled him for his pain by giving him a little pot of hot tea all to himself, two eggs, and a plate of buttered toast. He felt much better after this, but he wanted Lanc}'. Presently the head-master came in, and with him a surgeon. " How had he managed to hurt himself so much?" " He had been climbing a tree, and he could not get down, so he sprang from the end of a bough, and fell on his arm." 104 DON JOHN. " Then it did not hurt him much at fii'st?" " No, it felt quite numb." Neither asked when this had taken place ; that it had been just before going to bed the night before was taken for granted. Yet the surgeon did testify a little surprise. " It 's extraordinary what boys will sleep through," he remarked. " You should have mentioned it last night, my bo}'," said the master kindly. " Win' did n't you ? " Don John said nothing, but he turned pale. ' ' It gives you a good deal of pain, does u't it ? " he proceeded. "It did n't, sir, until I began to talli about it," an- swered the boy. In fact he could not bear the pain and the fear of detection together ; he began to tremble visibly'. But he had much worse pain to bear before the sur- geon had done with him, for it was found that his wrist was badl}' sprained, and that the small bone of the upper arm was broken. Soon after this the other remarkable thing occurred. At twelve o'clock, when the bo3's came out of school, their Dame asked to see Marsden. " Master Marsden, 3-ou 're mighty careless of 3'our things," she exclaimed, when he and some of the other boys came running up. " I was just a having 3'our dor- mitory' cleaned out, and when we moved the box atop of 3'our locker, look here — if there was n't 3'Our watch and the two sovereigns behind it that 3'ou 've been making a work about." Marsden took these things and blushed as he had never blushed in his life before ; what to do he did not know ; but Lancy just then passing by and looking as usual crestfallen and miserable, he obe3"ed a good impulse, — " 1 sa3', Sir Lancelot," he exclaimed, " look here, I must be an uncommon stupid ass ! " Lanc3^ looked with all his might, there was the Aus- txalian sovereign, and there was the watch and the other sovei'eign. ■DON JOHN. 105 "They were found at the back of ray box !" pro- ceeded Marsden. " I could have declared I had looked there, but it seems I didn't." A friendly bo}- at that instant stepped up, and stared him full in the face. " Hold your tongue," he whispered ; "we were mis- taken ; don't let out that we suspected him." "They were found at the back of my box," repeated Marsden. " Oh, were they ?" said Lanc}- ; "well, I 'm glad you 've got them again," — moderate and quiet words, but his gratitude was deep ; he was reprieved. " Of course it's nothing to you," said the blundering Marsden. " but I thought you 'd like to know." Several other boys in an equally blundering spirit be- trayed their former suspicions b}' making like speeches, and showing a sudden desire to pla^- with Lancy. Nobody but Don John, he was sure, could have done this — but how? This was how ; but LantT did not know it till some time afterwards. The boys went to bed as usual, and the others — even poor Lancy — soon fell asleep. Don John then began to carry out the hardest part of his projected task ; this was to keep himself awake till the dead time of the night, for he well knew that if he once went to sleep he should not wake till he was called in the morning. He sat upright in his little bed and cogitated. There were three wa3-s of getting into the garden ; and once in there were several ways out, but they were all difficult. It was well-known that to get in otherwise than by the door, you must go through the kitchen, which in- volved a long tramp down dark passages, and a great risk of making a noise. Or if you did not go that way you must descend the principal staircase (which had a nasty trick of creaking), and go past the head-master's own bedroom door ; or, finally, you might creep along the corridor and descend by the washhouse roof. This, I06 DON JOHN. in hot weather, when the corridor window was wide open, was by far the shortest and easiest wa^', but then, unless the garden-door, whicli was always locked inside, had the key in it, liow should he get out and get back again? He could not come through the kitchen, the bar would be up ; and that he could only remove on the other side. He could jump down from the washhouse roof, but he could not get up to it again without a short ladder, which would betray' him. Even if he could sur- mount that difficulty it was doubtful whether he should not make more clutter in creeping up the tiles than in creeping down. Therefore, if the garden-door was locked, he would have to climb to the top of the high garden wall, by the . branches of the trained fruit-trees upon it, and creep along the top of the wall till he reached a certain tree whose branches hung out over it ; from one of these he must spring, or drop himself down as well as he could. He would then be in the playground. To break a pane of glass, and so undo the fastening of a window, push up the sash, get in, shut it down again, and softly come upstairs to his little chamber ; all these things had to be done successfulh', if Lancy was to be saved. And if he himself was found out, what would happen? ' ' "Why, if he had the watch and the two sovereigns upon him, it would appear that he was the thief, and, moreover, that he had committed the high misdemeanor of getting out at night, perhaps to perpetrate more thefts. Certainly for no possible good purpose. Per- haps it would end in his being expelled ; and mother — " Here Don John choked a little. " But then, if he did not do it, Lancy in the end was sure to be found out, then he would be expelled. And father — " Here he choked again. " Well it 's no use funking or arguing^'" said Don John to himself, " be- cause 3'ou know it 's going to be done, and 30U 're going to do it." It was almost like a nightmare when he tho^ht of it afterwards, but he certainly enjojed the deed wliile it was adoing. DON JOHN. 107 To slip out of bed, listen all breathless, and watch his room-mates, while the clock in the corridor, the wheezing old clock, swung its clums}" pendulum, this was the only ditlicult tiling he really had to do. It was the beginniug ; his own assurance to himself that the daring thing was to be attempted. But a stealthy exultation in the strangeness of the adventure was damped by that obtrusive tick. The old clock was disagreeabl}' wide awake ; it seemed quite vicious enough to run down just at the decisive moment, and wake the second master, who might — who natu- rally would think a bo}' must be at that moment climb- ing down by the washhouse roof into the garden. It seemed equally natural that he should look out, and catch the boy. No, that clock must be stopped at all risks. He stole out of the open door and along the bare corridor, full of dim moonlight and confused sounds of snoring. A childish figure in a long white night gown ; he stopped before the clock, and gentl}' opening its door, seized the great pendulum in his hand, and with one long gasping click the clock stopped. Then was his real danger ; the cessation of a noise so often wakes people, A'et nobody did wake, not even the master. What a wicked boy he was ! he felt as if he had choked off the incorruptible witness. He held the pendulum s(}ueezed hard in his hand for two or three minutes, then stole back to his room and put on his clothes. Often in his dreams it all came back to him after- wards ; how he had tied his slippers together, and slung them round his neck, and how, as he got out, there was a white cat on the washhouse roof. In the dim light, her eyes gleamed on him strangely. He all but slipped — yet no — he reached the eave, and jumped clown safely into the soft mould underneath. Then he stooped and put on his slippers, and effaced the marks of his feet in the mould. The cat had jumped down after him, and was looking on. Here he was in the garden at one o' clock in the morning, and the moon was fast going down. I08 DON JOHN. How beautiful those tall white lilies were. They en- jo^-ecl themselves in secret all through the night, gave out their scent, drank in the clew, and never let men and women find out that the night time was their life and their day. Th6 great evening primroses, too, white and j'ellow, were in their glory, and it seemed as if they also were keeping it secret, and still. The cat was very jealous of liis being out to see it all. It would be very unlucky for cats if people in a body should dis- cover how much more jolly it was to be out in the warm golden mist of moonlight, when all was so fresh and sweet, than tucked up in their heated bedrooms under the low ceiling that shut out the stars. Don John shared in the still stealth}' delight of the flowers ; he knew all was easy till he had to get into the house again, and he put ott thinking about that till the last moment. But the moon was fast southing ; it behoved him to be quick, unless he meant to staj- out till day dawned. 80 with a beating heart he went softly across the dewv lawn among the wet flowers, the cat following him ever}- step of the way, and looking on, while he secured the plunder, while he effaced the traces of his search, while he climbed the wall by means of the spread-out branches of a fig-tree, and while he softl}' crept along the top. Oh, to be a cat for two minutes then ; for cats never slip, and cats can see even under the branches in the dimness of a summer night ! Don John sprang into the tree successfully, but whether he mistook a branch for a shadow, or whether the white cat, springing after, startled him, he never knew, but the next instant he was on the grass at the foot of this tree, and his arm was under him. He was on the right side of the wall, in the play- ground, that was his first thought. He felt as if he had no arm, it was so perfectly numb. He was ver}" cold, but })resently thinking of himself, far more as a sneak than a hero, he got up and crept slowl}' towards the house. " I 'm glad I 'm not obliged to be a burglar, too," he DON JOHN. 109 said to himself, as he drew near, for a window was parti}' open, and be could get in Avithout breaking a pane. He had got the watch and the two sovereigns, but now the deed was done tliere seemed to be no glory in it, that was perhaps because he had hurt himself. He stole up to his little bed, thinking what a bad boy he had been to have thought the flrst part of the adventure such rare fun. But now neither he nor Lancy would be expelled, that was something. It was as much as the}^ could expect, and they must make the best of it. It always seemed to him afterwards as if the cat understood the whole matter better than Lanc}' did. Have cats a natural s^'mpath}' with wickedness? proba- bly they have, for the cat was tlie fast fiiend of Don John from that day forward ; and when his "dame" came in would march in after her, gravel}' inspect his sling, and smell at his nice savory dinner. And Lancy? Why, Lancy at first was very much relieved, and also very sorry that Don John was hurt, but both the boys felt, — one as much as the other, that to have a broken arm was as nothing compared with being expelled, and it did not signify to either, which had the broken arm so much as it should have done. Father and mother now would never know. AVhat real gratitude Lane}' felt was mainly on that account. Don John loved them far more keenly than Lancy did, and this was but natural, but Lancy loved no one better. They were his all, and Don John's brothers and sisters and home were his too. The boj's never set themselves one above the other, every- thing al)Out them appeared to point plainly to their being equals, and little as Lanc}' had been told about his parentage, it satisfied him, and he asked no ques- tions. He had always known that he was a dear adopted son, that his father's name was the same as his own, that he had died before his child's birth, and that his mother had married again and gone to Australia. It was Don John who asked awkward questions, no DON JOHN. Lancj' did not care ; what did it signify who gave him all he wanted so long as it was given ? No such thought had shaped itself distinctl}' in his young mind, thought was lyiug^ dormant as j'et, and the love that cherished him and the well-being in which he lived kept it from expansion. Once Don John asked his mother why Lancy's mother never wrote to him, and she answered that mothers did not all love their children as much as she did. The boy looked up at her with clear blue e^'es full of surprise. It had seemed as natural that a mother should love as that a flame should burn. His arm was just well when she said this unexpected thing. She had a very long string of amber beads round her neck ; he loved to rub the larger ones against the sleeve of his jacket, and make little bits of paper stick to them. He always remembered afterwards how she looked down upon him as he sat by her, when he asked what was the use to an}' fellow of having a mother if she did not love him, and she moved his thick flaxen hair from his forehead while he made another little bit of paper leap to the beads, and then he put his arm round her waist and leaned his head against her shoul- der to cogitate. She was never in a hurry, this sweet comfortable mother. She alwa3'S had time to listen to GA-ery grievance about hard lessons, and childish scrapes. She even S3'mpathized when tops would not spin. She generally knew when her children wanted to say some- thing to her, and would wait till it came. She was expecting something about Lanc}' now, and hoped the question might be easy to answer, but though Don John was thinking about Lancy, it concerned what he him- self had lateh' done for him, and when he spoke at last she was a good deal surprised. " Oh, mother," he said, "' you don't know how wicked I often feel." She looked down on him, but said nothing, and he went on. "And I think Mr. Viser is a very odd man — par- ticularly for a clergyman." DON JOHN. 1 1 1 " What have those two things to do with one another, 111}" dear boy," she answered. " Oh, a great deal," answered Don John. " But you know, mother, yon are the soul of honor." "Yes," she repeated, without smiling, "I am the soul of honor." She meant that when things were confided to her by her children she always kept them strictly to herself. Sometimes the confidence related to quarrels, and then she general!}- managed to persuade the penitent to make them up, or they concerned misdoings, were in the nature of confessions, and she was to tell their father, and persuade him to forgive. They all had a very wholesome fear of their father. " And you never think of telling." " Of course not! " "I listened to his sermon 3'esterday — I never used to listen, but I did, and — well, if it 's of no use punish- ing one's self, what is of use? j^ou know fathers, and mothers, and masters are always punishing boys." " Yes, thev are." " To make" them better? " "Yes." " But if I had done something horrid — told a good many lies, for instance — and invented a story, which could not be confessed to father so that he could punish me, I think it extremely mean of Mr. Viser to make out that it 's of no use m}' punishing m3-self instead." The mother did not startle her penitent by asking, " Have you told a great many lies?" She only said, "And have 3'ou punished yourself, my bo}-?" " Yes, mother," he answered, " and here is the pun- ishment. I did it up more than a week ago, when first we came home for the holida3's. It almost choked me when father and you were so pleased with m}' papers. And you know you talked about trusting me when 1 was out of 3'our sight, and feeling sure I should be a good honorable boy. Oh, you know what j'ou said." He produced a small brown paper parcel. " I meant — meant, at first to dig a very deep hole and bury it — 112 DON JOHN. but I am afraid I might afterwards not be able to help digging it up again, for that mouse real!}' is such a — " He paused, and still she did not smile or hurr}' the penitent, whose hand trembled a little, and who looked rather red and irate, and he presently went on, — " So whatever Mr. Viser sa^-s, you are to take the parcel, mother, and lock it up — and mind, I am never to have it any more." " Very well, m}- boy," she answered, not at all as if she was surprised, and asked calml}', " What is there in it?" ' ' There 's all my mone}' that grandmother sent, and my mechanical mouse that runs round and round when it is wound up, and several other things that I hke. Now I have punished mj'self ! " " Yes. Can you repeat Mr. Viser's text to me?" "No, not all of it." "Get me a Bible." Don John fetched a Bible, his wrong against the vicar did not seem less present to him when he had read the verses in question, the beautiful and well-known verses beginning "Wherewith shall I come before the Lord," and ending, "Hear ye the Rod, and who hath appointed it." " You see it is all in the Bible," she observed ; " and what did he saj' it meant, but that we must not think we can please or propitiate God by depriving ourselves of our goods, or even of any earthly thing, though we love it best. Not to punish yourself, but to confess your sin and forsake it, is the wa}- to obtain forgiveness." "Yes, but I did sa}' that I could not confess this; that would be worse than doing it. I cannot tell the real thing, the thing of consequence, but I can tell 3'ou a little more, and you will be sorry." " Yes, I shall — tell me as much as 3'OU can." " What I said to father when he questioned me about how I broke my arm, and when I did it, was all a lie — all mj^ own invention. I made it up — I am in such a rage sometimes after I go to bed and think about it, that I can hardly help crying. I wish father could pun- DON JOHN. ' 113 isli me for it, and then forgive me, and I should be all right then." '' But that cannot be unless 3-ou confess your fault to him." '^ Oh, mother, I did tell you I could not confess it. So if punishing m3-self won't do, I suppose it's my duty to be miserable about it, when I don't forget it," he added with boyish naivete. " 1 dare say Lancy knows," she next said, and when he made no answer, " Don't you think he would be glad if you confessed?" she asked. "Why, of course not, mother," the boy exclaimed, and then she never doubted that she should hear the whole ; but no, Don John was very loving, ver}- peni- tent, yet he stuck to it, that he must not tell her any- thing more, though when she asked him afterwards whether he had at least confessed his fault to God, he answered, — " Oh, 3'es," with a fearlessness that surprised her. She was surprised both that he should have done so, and that he should think nothing of telling her that he had. Like most other boys he was in general extreme!}' shy of all such subjects. She urged him again to confess his fault to her, and he paused, as if considering the matter. "As God knows everything," he began, and then broke off. " Yes, ni}' dear boy?" /'And Mr. Viser doesn't, I shall not take back my mouse." Here being hard put to it not to smile, she held her peace. "When boys are at school," he went on with a cer- tain quaint simplicity that was natural to him, — " when bo3'S are at school, it's not at all easy to think about God. But He knows what I mean. Bo3'S are not so •good, mother, as you suppose. If you knew everything just as God does, without m}- telling 3'ou, I should be very glad." This was all his confidence — childhood was nearly over, not precisel3^ even in that fashion could he ever talk to her again. 114 DON JOHN. It was only Lancy who seemed never to have any- thing to hide. Seemed — he was such a sweet little fel- low, so ready to confess a fault, so apparently' open ; Donald Johnstone and his wife always felt themselves repaid for the kindness and the love they had shown him, and the family circle appeared to be incomplete unless he was in it. But of course Mrs. Johnstone never asked him an3'thing about Don John, hovv he broke his arm, and wh^' he was obliged to tell lies to his father about it. .She would not have been " the soul of honor " ii" she had done such a thing as that. DON JOHN. 115 CHAPTER X. THE faniil}- circle, as has been explained, never seemed perfect nnless Lancy was in it, and this was more true than ever when, after another year, the two boj's came home healthy, cheerful, and well- grown. Lancy had not got himself into a scrape since the memorable stealing of the watch, and. consequently both the boys were happier. A somewhat singular circle it was. The house in Upper Harle}' Street had been let. The long rambling homestead in the country suited the mistress and the children far better. Her easy household ways often sur- prised Mr. Viser, her children inherited her placid tem- per and her unruffled ease. The}' were all ' ' characters " already ; observed with amusement by the neighbors, both rich and poor ; at home ever^-where, and perfectl}' independent. Mr. Viser and his wife, Lady Louisa, had a large, young family-, but none of their children, though taken great care of, showed half the strength and spirit of the Johnstones. Sometimes Lady Louisa came to call on Mrs. John- stone, and made quiet observations on the manners and fashions of that gentlewoman, but it did not occur to her that these had anything to do with the sparkling e3'es and high health of the children. Once she had known Mrs. Johnstone to take up a parasol, when a ver}- great noise of shouting and laugh- ter almost deafened them, as the}' sat in tlie drawing- room. She went out into the garden. Lady Louisa Il6 DON JOHN. accompanied her ; the bo}^ and girls were easily found by the said noise. Were they told to make less? not at all; the}' were merely admonished to go a little further off. The little Visers never shouted ; they never went out of doors without a nurse or a governess ; the}- wore gloves, and generally had parasols. A buttoned glove ! handcuffs are hardl}' more power- ful to restrain. Such an article was never put on to the little Johnstone girls, unless when they went out in the close carriage to pay calls with their mother, then thej- had also the regulation quantity of ribbon and feathers, and behaved accordingly. The groom in that establishment acted as an under- gardener ; he also went out on errands occasionally, but when Mrs. Johnstone ordered the pony-carriage, she never troubled herself to inquire whether he was at home or not. Why ? The boys of course could bring the pony up from the meadow, run out the little carriage, and harness the docile beast as well as he could. And, to be plain with the reader (at the same time hoping not to shock or displease), the girls could too. When Mrs. Johnstone heard the wheels of the pony- carriage, as it was brought round to the front door, she would step forth equipped for the occasion, and serene as usual. In holiday time she always found one of the two boys read}' to drive her ; he would have brushed himself up a little and put on a tolerably good hat. The carriage had a moderately comfortable seat in front, the back of it was somewhat like an open square box. There was a movable bench-like seat in it, under which old Die was generallv lying, for she liked the air. The white cat was not unfreqnentl}' there also (she had followed Don John from school). " So long as a'ou keep 3'ourself to yourself," Don John would sa}', "there's no objection to your seeing the country." A third passenger would be Peterkin — old Die's grandson. She knew why he was brought. He was not to be trusted at home b}- himself. It was all I DON JOHN. 117 very well to bark at tramps, "but Peterkin was such a cad, that he would bark at the honest poor." The mother and son would then set forth in homely state ; but if their errand was to the town the}- would be sure to overtake Lancy and the elder girls, perhaps IMar}' and Fredd}" also, about a mile down the hill. These young people, as a rule, would be arrayed in flap- ping sun-bonnets and "over-all" garden pinafores, but ^•ou perceive "that there would not have been time to ' dress up,' and mother did not mind." They also had errands to the town, which was about four miles off. A couple would get in behind, when mother told Don John to drive slowly, at the same time nests, and ferns, and flowers would be put in. Some did not attain to the town, but lingered in the lane pick- ing up property till the return journey, then they would perhaps all get on board the somewhat clums}' craft l^ulling out the dogs to follow on foot. Sometimes on a sudden they would all get down, excepting the boy who was driving, and scurry into the little wood on either side, turning in like rabbits. This was when a farmer's smart phaeton, with the farmer's lady in it, appeared at the top of the hill, or when Mr. Viser and Lady Louisa drove into the lane in their landau. Such a feeling as shyness was quite alien to their na- tures, but they felt that their garden pinafores rather disgraced mother, filled as they would be with cowslips, blackberries, or nuts, as the case might be. It was as well, therefore, to make themselves scarce. Mrs. Johnstone never took any notice of these pro- ceedings. Occasionally Mr. Viser could see flitting fig- ures and bright eyes peeping through the hedge, while the placid and admired mother exchanged civilities with her neighbors ; but, of course, he took no notice, and never looked back ; while the children stole out again, and quietly got into the carriage without stopping it, as the pony labored slowly up the hill. Their purchases were as strange as themselves. Once he saw a gawky girl, the eldest of the brood, Il8 DON JOHN. dart into the wood with a good-sized tin kettle in her hand. That kettle, which had cost two and eightpcnce had, together Avith a cuckoo clock, exhausted the whole resources of the family', the clock had cost eleven shil- lings, two shillings of which had been ))orrowed of mother as an advance upon next week's allowance. Mother was not fond of advancing mone}', but this was for a great occasion. These were birthda3' presents for a particular friend. Here it is really needful to give some account of the friend, together with certain other friends, their place, and their surroundings. Within thirty miles of London there is a good deal of rural scenery. If any doubt this let them go and look about them — not south of the metropolis, of course, and not west. There are some little towns also with a general air of being old-fashioned and altogether behind- hand with the world. One of these was the little town beyond that long hill that the pony hated and the children liked ; because his natural pace as he climbed it enabled them to fling their wildings into the back of the carriage without ask- ing to have it stopped. They generally got out when they came to the steep part, and often, in a chivalrous spirit, gave the lumbering machine an unanimous push behind; while mother took the reins. Mr. Johnstone had a "clarence," but this carriage was mainly used for taking him five days in the week to and from the station, Avhich was more than four miles off. His expenses were large, and he had three sons to educate and to provide for, when there should have been but two. But his wife had persuaded him to let their town house for a term of 3-ears, so that it became a source of revenue instead of an expense to him ; and M^hen he found tliat she enjoyed her quiet life in the countiy, where there was next to no " neighborhood," that she looked more charming and fresh in her country attire than she had done when they mainly lived in London, where her milliner's bill was six times as high, and that all her children were healthy and happy, he DON JOHN. 119 fell back on his old thought that he was the luckiest husband going, and let himself take the same cheerful view of things that she did. His abode was called '-the house," and about two fields off, with no means of reaching them but a foot- path, which led, without any compromise, tlirough his stable-yard, were six cottages called "the houses." Each of these had a nice plot of vegetable garden at the back, but in front it had scarcely six. feet of flower- 1)order, divided from the field by a simple wooden rail- ing, and having no outlet to an}- road or lane, and yet this field, a charming field in its waj', might al- most itself have been thought of as a lane, for it was verv long and ver}' narrow, and was divided from its neighbor field by a running brook, edged with haw- thorn and maple, and a wastefnl tangle of brambles and whitethorn. Very bad farming prevailed in those parts. In the first of the tenements, dignified by this name "the houses," lived the very particular friends tor one of whom the tin kettle and the cuckoo clock had been purchased. Her cottage consisted of a very neat and rather room}* front kitchen, a little washhouse behind, and upstairs two tolerably- comfortable bedrooms. By calling, she was a humble dressmaker ; she and her sister worked for Lady Louisa's children and servants, made the little Johnstones' common clothes, worked for the farmer's ladies, and did odd jobs generally. In the next cottage (the}' were all detached) lived the cobbler. His name wast Salisbury. The particular friend's name was Clarbo}' — Mrs. Clarboy, and she ■was aunt to the nurse up at the house. The houses were supposed to be Mrs. Johnstone's district ; if the people there were ill it was her special business to look after them ; she also lent them books and tracts, and persuaded them to join the parish coal club and go to church. So far as the young Johnstones were concerned, these cottages constituted "the neighborhood," very frequentl}- went on their own invitation to drink tea 120 DON JOHN. with Mrs. Clarboy, who was a widow, and her sister Jenii}'. They geiierallj' trundled the loaf, the cake, the butter, and the tea, the}- proposed to consume, through the fields in a child's wheelbarrow, frequently they added radishes out of their own little gardens or some fruit. If the sisters confessed that their coal was low, the wheelbarrow, after having been dulj' emptied, was trun- dled on to the last cottage, which was called the shop, where there was often as much as a whole sack of pota- toes on sale, a matter of tlu-ee or four "hundred" of coal, gilt images made of gingerbread in the window, bull's-eyes and yellow butter, together with a jar of treacle, with other like dainties, and a moderate allow- ance of bacon, all of inferior quality and somewhat the worse for keeping. A quarter of a hundred of coals would be purchased, and if the young Johnstones had not the requisite cash to pay at the time, they brought it the next day, but if it was at the beginning of the week, and they had plenty of mone}', they bought half a hundred and wheeled it to its destination at twice. The}' then made up a good fire. The sisters had a cap- ital pair of bellows, presented to Miss Jenny by the same 3'oung friends on a previous birthday. They used them liberally. Mrs. Clarboy and Miss Jenny, proud and pleased, looked on, at the same time continuing to stitch ; they never thought of interfering M'ith the preparations. A great deal of toast was made, salh'-lun cakes were buttered, tea set on the hob to " brew," then rad- ishes were washed and the cloth was laid. Some of the company sat on Windsor chairs, others on tall stools or boxes set on end, which they had im- ported from their home. The hostesses enjoyed their meal to the full as much as their guests. Nothing ever interfered, the sisters never had any other engagements. If the}' were very busy, the girls helped to hem frills, or were trusted to run seams afterwards, or at least they threaded nee- dles, while the boj's made themselves popguns, or dis- DON JOHN. 121 ported themselves in or beside the brook, catching caddis-worms, or sailing boats. Mrs. Johnstone knew all about this? Certainly. What a singular woman Mrs. Johnstone must have been ! There was a sweet gentleness about all these chil- dren, and an untroubled air of quaint independence. Where, indeed, was their governess ? Wh}', she was at her lodgings in the nearest farm- house, where she spent her evenings, and where she slept. It was as much to her enfranchisement as theirs ; but very few mothers would have deliberately ban- ished her, and undertaken herself all the supervision re- quired between five o'clock one day and nine o'clock the next. It made the governess — a very good woman — ex- tremely happ}' ; it gave an earl^y sense of responsibilit}^ to the children, for if the}' got into an}- scrape, or per- petrated any mischief, they were expected to go and tell, which the}' did. Lady Louisa called one evening when they were pres- ent. She only stayed a minute. ''■ We've come to tea," tlie company told her. Mrs. Clarboy, rising, colored and curtseyed. Lady Louisa did not look or express the least sur- prise. She had several small books nicely bound in her basket, and she said, — "Mrs. Clarboy, the Rector has had his course of Easter sermons published, and he wishes me to present you with a copy." Miss Jenny was a Methodist, so to her Lady Louisa merely bowed. She then took her leave and went on to the next cot- tage. Mrs. Clarboy, a shrewd, industrious woman, more than sixty years of age, was rather silent after Lady Louisa's visit. She was in the habit of going out to work as well as of taking work in. She hoped her enter- 122 DON JOHN. tainment of the part}' would not stand in her light as regarded work at the rectory. Could Lady Louisa disapprove? Well, though it might be a libert}- to think it, what business was it of hers ? Mrs. Clarboy took up her needle again with great vigor the moment t^a was over, the Methodist sister having first said a long graee, expressive of fervent thanks for the meal. She said just the same grace when the two sisters had only partaken of stale bread and the weakest of tea with no milk in it, but she im- parted to the words on these occasions an unconscious fervor. " You had need not overdo yourself to-night," she remarked, '• for you're going to the Hall Farm to work to-morrovf." "Yes, I had need," answered Mrs. Clarboy; "for they look to it there that they get their money's worth out of me." " Is n't it verv amusing, Mrs. Clarboy, dear, going to so man}' different houses?" asked Lanc}'. Lancy was waxing Mrs. Clarboy's thread. "Well, Master Lancy, yes, I may say it is. Not but what two shillings a day is liarder earned working out than working in ; but you must count in the ex- per'ence you get of life. You see the world. As 1 often say to Jenn}-, ' Jenny,' I sa}', ' what should I be now if I had never seen the Avorld, and what would you be- either ; not that 3'ou go out, ni}' pore girl ! 3'ou hav'n't the nerve for it.' " Miss Jenny assented by rather a foolish simper, "Nobody can never be dull," she remarked, "with such an one as sister to talk to, as we sit and sew. She's better by half than an}- printed book that /ever had the reading of." Don John, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was labori- ously threading needles. It took him nearl}' as much time to perform this operation as it did the two sisters to work up the thread. The little girls were elaborately hemmins the frills for the sleeve of a kitchen-maid's DON JOHN. 123 new gown, which was to be finished and taken home that night. ' ' But I look for no thanks — let the fit be as good as it ma}' — from that sort of customer," observed Mrs. Clarbo}'. " It's your ma that's the lady to sa^- she's pleased or she 's satisfied. To be sure that best — bed furniture I put up for her after it had been calendered was the intricatest thing I ever got the better of." "• But then you had your reward," said Miss Jenny, simpering ; ' ' the head house-maid showed you the drawing-room wliile the famih' was at dinner." " She did, Jenny ; and I've wished times and again you could see it, so frequently as 3'ou complain that 3'ou can't make a picture to yourself of what hea^■en 's like. But j-ou hav'n't the nerve to go up to the house. You '11 have to wait. It might be an advantage to 3'OU, though, if ^-ou could see it." " Do you think it so ver}^ prett}', then, Mrs. Clarbo}-, dear ? " " Pretty ain't the word, Miss IMarjoric. It fairl}' made the tears start, so full of great looking-glasses, and gilding, and silk hangings. I felt quite solemn. I said at the time, ' It makes me think of heaven ; ' so clean, too, and so cheerful." " I know heaven 's not a bit like that," observed Don John, with conviction, at the same time handing up another needle, the thread of which, from much handling, was not quite so clean as it should have been. "Well, and you maybe right, sir," answered Mrs. Clarboy, with due gravity; "and the Scripture says, as we all know, ' eye hath not seen.' And yet it stands to reason that very beautiful things and places must be more like than such as are not beautiful at all." The eompan}- were not able to give an opinion here ; but the}' were not much surprised at what they had heard, being already accustomed to look at things through other eyes, and ditferent points of A'iew from that of their own class. "There's not much to see at the Hall Farm," said Miss Jenny. 124 DON JOHN. "But to them that can take notice," observed Mrs. Clarbo}', "it's all' interesting ; it shows one people's ■v\'a3's. I know what it is to have two candles as g'ood as Avhole ones all to m^^self, and I know what it is to have to share the end of a dip with two others working by me." "You like as well as anything working at the Rod Farm," observed Miss Jenn}', " where you sit in the kitchen with the mistress. There 's plenty- to hear there, if there is n't much to see." " A}-, I 've worked for three generations of the Holl}-- oakes." " He was one to argue, was the old Mr. Hollyoake," proceeded Miss Jenny; "you alwa3-s said so. Why, he would argue with a ghost ! " " Ay, but you 've no call to talk of ghosts now," said Mrs. Ciarboy. " You 've not an ounce of discretion in 3'our whole body, Jenn}-." " You mean because of us," said Marjorie ; " but we often pla}- at ghosts at home, Mrs. Clarbo}', and father and mother don't mind." " Are j-ou sure, miss?" "Oh, yes! and we often go to the Polytechnic and see the ghosts — real ones, you know." " Oh, well, miss, I was not aware. Well, as Jemi}' was saying, old Jem Hollyoake was so given up to arguing, that he would argue even with a ghost. He had brought up his brother's son. The lad died, and his ghost rose, got into the kitchen, and pointed his long linger at his uncle. " 'Uncle Jem,' said the ghost, 'as you brought me up — ' " 'Bring you up, did I?' interrupted old Hollyoake, beginning at once. ' Bring you up, did I ? Little enough of that you needed ; it was impossible to keep you down I ' " ' I mean,' said the ghost, obliged to explain him- self, ' as you 've brought me up to speak with you out of the silent tomb.' "'I did nothing of the sort,' sa5-s Mr. Holl3^oake, very much frightened. DON JOHN. 125 " ' You did,' said tlie ghost. "The family was gone to bed, but I dare say old Jem had drunk enough to keep his courage up, and ai-gue he would. " ' How dare you tell such a falsehood,' said he. ' I wish nothing more heartil}- than that you would keep in your proper place. Is n't your headstone to your mind?' " 'Yes,' said the ghost, 'it's a real handsome one. But, Uncle Jem, you 've brought me up by for ever think- ing and thinking about those seven silver spoons you 've lost. 1 took them ! ' ' ' Mr. Holly oake said he was sorry, and the ghost went on, — ' ' ' They 're at the bottom of the least of the two old hair trunks in the garret, hid under my velveteen coat.' Then he vanished." ' ^ Are 3'ou sure the ghost said all that ? " "Yes, Master Lancy. But you'll think it strange that when, the next morning, old Hollyoake related all this, and got some of the neighbors to go with him into the garret, they found the trunk and the old coat in it ; but the spoons were not there." "Not there?" "No." " Then I don't believe the story ! " " Why not, sir? Oh, 3'OU ma}^ depend it 's true. It Was a story against himself, and how disrespectful he 'd been arguing with the ghost." " You said he was alone when the ghost rose? " " Yes, sir, smoking his pipe in his own kitchen." " He must have been di-eaming ! " " Oh no, sir, not he, the kitchen is tiled. "WTiy, he has shown me many a time the very tile the ghost stood upon. It was a 3-ellow one — all the others are red. The tile is there to this day ! " "Well, ghosts are mere bubbles," observed Don John, repeating something that he had heard at the Polytechnic. "No, sir, the man was most like a bubble here," 126 , DON JOHN. said Mrs. Clarbo}*, " for he broke, and never paid but two and eleven-pence in the |jouud, whereb}- we got no more than that for making the mourning his wife stood upright in ■when she cried at the ghost's funeral." Here the story ended. The 3'oung Johnstones pon- dered over it with deep interest and attention, as some- thing that would do capitally to act. They were fond of play-room theatricals, but thanks to the Polytechnic the}- were, so far as ghosts went, perfectly- fear-proof. "Oh, mother," said Lanc}', when they got home, " Mrs. Clarboy told us such a jolly ghost storj-. Will you come into the playroom to tea to-morrow and see us act it ? " ' ' You should not have asked mother in that uncon- ventional way," said Naomi, " when 3'ou know we planned to send a proper note on pink paper, and paint a monogram for it." "Oh well, I think it had better be considered then that I know nothing about the tea at present," said the mother. Naomi was mollified. " And, mother," said Don John, " may we have two more chairs for the playroom? I told you last week that we had got a Fetch." "And I did not know what 3-ou meant, Don John." " Wh}', mother, 3'ou must have noticed that when droll or ridiculous anecdotes are invented for the pa- pers, or told in books, the}' are often palmed off on peo- ple who had nothing to do with them. Well we have Invented two characters. AVe act them. And we palm off our funny things that we sa}- upon them. They are Fetches of our own imagination, mother." "What do they want with chairs, then?" " Now, mother, it's not fair to laugh. Why, we have a seance twice a week ; we keep minutes of it. Our Fetch is frequentl}- called to the chair, so Ave want one, to pretend that he is in it." " Ah, I see." " Robert Fetch Fetch, Esq. ; that 's his name. We DON JOHN. 127 have pretended a large house for him in the rectory glebe. ]t seems quite odd to go there and find nothing in it. And Fanny Fetch is his old cousin, who lives Trith him." '' And ^'ou want a chair for her, too?" " Oh, yes, that we ma}' know where she is sitting. Of course their chairs will not appear to us to be emptj'. When we act them and do their voices, 3'ou cannot think how real they seem." " You '11 come and hear the siance sometimes, won't you, mother?" asked Naomi. "Certainly." "You'll like them much better than our charades; for sometimes, you know, you think those are rather long." " I have thought so once or twice when the}' lasted more than an hour." " Well, it takes a long time to dress up ; but ma}- n't we have the two chairs ? It 's ver}' awkward for our Fetches to have to sit upon stools." ' ' You may take two chairs out of the blue bed- room." " Oh, thank you, mother ; and3'ou shall see ever}" bit of the ghost acted before tea," cried Lancy, with effu- sive gratitude. He wagged his longest finger. "It's a jolly one. ' Uncle Jem., as yon^ve hrouglit me lip ' — mind I 'm to do the ghost, Naomi. ' Uncle Jem, as you 've brought me up.' " Here Lancy, delighted at the prospect, turned head over heels, and the young people shortly departed to- gether. 128 DON JOHN. CHAPTER XI. SHORTLY before the bo3S were sent off again to school, Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone went over to Normandy to be present on an interesting occasion. Mrs. O'Grady married again. She married a some- what impecunious military man, and • forthwith pro- ceeded with him to India. Her one little girl. Charlotte b}- name, had been brought up near Dublin, but had lately come home to her mother ; her paternal grandmother, who had taken charge of her, having died. She was pretty, very clever, ver}- awkward, and extremelv shy. Quite differ- ent from most girls of her age, and keenl}' conscious of it. She had never been accustomed to the society of boys and girls of her own age, and when she heard that she was to go back with her uncle and aunt, and be edu- cated with her cousins, she wept with shyness and a sense of disadvantage. Her behavior when first she appeared in the play- room was so stiff, her discomfort was so evident, that she made the young Johnstones feel almost as ill at ease as herself. As for Don John, at first he almost hated her. Bo.ys are extremely intolerant of awkwardness and causeless fear. But in a short time what kindness he had in his heart was touched for Charlotte, and while he scolded he roughly encouraged her. "Now then, Charlotte, hold up ^-our head. "What are you so shy about ? "' " I can't help it, indeed ; it won't go off, Don John." " Won't it ? Well we can't stand this much longer. DON JOHN. 129 Do you think it would go off if I gave you a good shaking?" "]^o-o." " Suppose I try? " He advanced ; tiiey were in the garden. Charlotte, tak- ing all for sober earnest, turned, and, fleet of foot as a fawn, darted along the grass walk and across the first field, he after her whooping, and with all the John- stones at his heels. She reached the brook, he was gaining on her, he was close behind. She checked herself for an instant on the edge, gave a shriek, made a spring, and instead of clearuig it, splashed into its very midst. Astonishment, and the water bubbling about her, brought her instantly to a dead pause. Then she heard shouts of laughter behind her. She turned cautiously round, and when she saw Don John gaping at her in dismay on the bank, and all the others laughing, she could not help laughing too. ' ' Keep as still as ever you can ! " shouted Lancy , as he came up breathless. '' Well, I don't know whether this was xtiO%\, funhj or most plucky ! " Charlotte b}^ no means wanted courage, and sh3'ness could not stand against such an adventure as this. The water was almost up to her shoulders, and it was not without some difficulty, and the help of the cobbler's — Mr. Salisbury's — bench that she was extricated, for she was standing on a little shoal, and the water was deep on either side of her. Breathless was the interest of the folk from "the houses," while Charlotte, drippiug and blushing, was taken to Mrs. Clarboy's house. Marjorie having rushed home for the nurse, that functionary soon appeared with dry clothing, and Charlotte was arrayed in it. When she appeared outside, Don John met her look- ing ver}- sheepish, but instead of apologizing, he said bluntly," — " You 're not to do that again ; it 's more horrid of 3'ou even than being shy. I was only in fun." " I shall not do that again, unless you do that I30 DON JOHN. again," said Charlotte, not without a certain audacity- ; for she was still excited and her shj-ness for the mo- ment was gone. She shook back her thick Ijlack hair. She was a pretty little girl ; but Uou John cared not for her good looks, for the lustre of her dark blue eyes, and the soft carnation flush which had spread itself over her small oval face. " Well, let 's be friends," said Don John bluntl}- ; " 30U know it was hateful of 3-ou to be so shy." " Yes," said Charlotte, " I know it was." "If you'll be nice to us," he continued, with a sud- den burst of generosity, "• I '11 let you write the minutes of our society, and tell you all about our Fetches." Hints of the Fetches had reached Charlotte. She was devoured with curiosity about them. "Come! I don't like writing, and 30U can write so fast." He iield out his hand as a token of forgiveness. She was the culprit, of course. Charlotte looked at matters in the same light. The minutes of our society. These were fine words ; they meant the meagre and badly-spelt notes, written in ruled cop3'-books, of these children's fantastic doings. Charlotte held out her hand, and amitj- was pro- claimed then and there. The little girl was now at her ease with this espe- cial company, and did not know that the desired state of things had not come about by any resolution of her own, but onl}- through accidental circumstances. Poor little Charlotte ! She was more utterly at home and at ease than most people with those whom she did fully iiuow and love ; but she had a fresh access of sh3'ness with every stranger, every visitor, and even ever3' new housemaid that appeared on the narrow scene of her life. If she went to drink tea with the 3'oung Visers, she made herself ridiculous b3' her stam- mering and her blushes ; if a farmer's lady made a po- lite remark on meeting her in a lane, she left the John- stones to answer it and retreated behind them, flushing furiousl3\ DON JOHN. 131 Sometimes, as time went on, and she was more shy than ever, she would sa}' it was hard when lier cousins laughed at her. '^Then 3'ou sliouldn't write verses, Charlotte. Onl3- think of a" girl of your age writing verses," observed Marjorie on one such occasion. " It can't be that," answered the poor little victim, drying her e3-es. "Oh yes, it is," said Don John, with youthful cer- tainty and inconsequence. '' Father says it 's the poeti- cal temperament that makes you so shy." " But I've tried to leave otf writing my poetry, and it makes no difference," said Charlotte, choking a sob ; "I haven't written any for a fortnight." " And those verses she did for poor Peterkin's epi- taph were perfectly stunning," observed Lanc^'. Charlotte was consoled. "And mother says she thinks it's extremely inter- esting to have the poetical temperament," remarked Naomi, the second girl. "So now, Charlotte, don't be moone}' ; setoff! — proceed! — go it! — and finish the minutes. Don't you know that Fetch is coming to tea — and mother," exclaimed Don John. Don John and Lancy were now fourteen years old, Marjorie was nearly sixteen, and Naomi fifteen. But the two boys were quite at the head of the family — bigger, stronger, cleverer, and bolder than the sisters, they reigned over all, especiall_y over Charlotte, though she alone had the touch of genius, which guided their fancies and suggested their most amusing play. The boys were just come home for the midsummer holidays, and had been to pay a short call at the houses. There was poor Mrs. Appleby, who was a cripple, and lived with her daughter ; to these patient women they took some tea, and a little shawl, bought with their own money. Then they paid their res[)ects to Mr. Salisbur}- and his wife, and were astonished to' find the cobbler at work in his little back kitchen, and the front room with a new square of carpet spread over 132 DON JOHN. its brick floor, a sofa with a soft puff}' seat, some new chairs, smartly covered with rep, and a good-size loolving- glass ; while, standing on a small wicker-table, was a lady's w^ork-basket lined with quilted satin, and filled with odds and ends of colored threads. Mrs. 8alisbur3' answered the door when they knocked. She had on a clean gown and a white apron. " Glad to see you, young ladies, and you. Master Lanc}', and j'ou, Master Don John. Salisbury and me we have promoted ourselves into the wash' us." Mrs. Salisbur}- looked a little confused. " We 've got a lodger," she continued, " that is out at the present time." "• But who might be coming back," said Marjorie instantly, feeling that to come in might be to intrude. So the bo3-s, having been assured bj- Mrs. Salisbury that they "were so growed as never was," proceeded with their sisters and Charlotte to Mrs. Clarlioy's cot- tage. " Hue doings, young ladies, and gentlemen, at Salis- bury's," exclaimed Mrs. Clarboy, when the usual greet- ings had been exchanged. " You 've heard of the ladj', no doubt." " What lady, Mrs. Clarboy?" "It's a very 'sterious thing," began Miss Jenny, quite solemnly-. " Ah ! 3'ou may sa}' that, my pore girl ! Jenny has had a shaking of the nerves lately, pore thing : but a truer word she never said, Mr. Don John, than that as has just passed her lips. There 's a lady come to lodge here ! .She have our front bedroom all to herself (and put in the best of new furniture) ; and eight shillings and sixpence a week paid regular she has promised us for it. And she has Salisbury's front room for her par- lor. And it's a 'sterious thing." " She came in ^-esterda}' was a week," observed Jenny. "And," said Mrs. Clarboy, "I told her truly when first she walked up to the door, and asked if we had lodgings to let, ' No, ma'am,' said I, ' not for a lady DON JOHN. 133 like 3'ou.' ' It 's not what I 've' been used to, I '11 allow,* she said, rather high, ' but I feel as if I should take to this quiet place ; and I've seen the world, so I can make allowance.' She was all in silks and satins, and had a long gohl chain, and a gold watch ! ' Why, ma'am,' said I, ' just look round. There 's not so much as a high road to look out of the window at, and sec the carts, and carriages, and what not pass, when 3-011 're dull. A narrow field and a few bramble bushes are all very well for poor folks, such as we, to ha^'c for a pros- pect. But 3'ou, that I make no doubt might lodge in the best street of the town ! Besides,' said I, ' we 've no accommodation.' She did n't seem convinced, but she went on to Salisbur3-'s, and there the3' said the same thing." ' • But I think I would rather be in these houses than in the town," said Marjorie. " There now ! " cried Miss Jennv, and shook her head as much as to say " tlie3^ none of them have an}' sense, these gentlefolk." A great deal of folding and measuring of flounces followed ; the girls lent their aid ; but when all was set in order, and the sisters could take up their needles again, Mrs. Clarbo}' resumed the subject so much in her thoughts. "Jennv, pore girl, has seen little of life, to be sure, and her nerves are not strong, so she is not to be judged (she pronounced this word jedged) like other folks that have had exper'ence. I went out to work next day. When I came home she said — 3'ou did, did n't you, Jenn3-? — she said, ' Often do I prax' against the fear of the world, but I 'm afraid the love of the world and the handsome things in it has got the better of me this day. Elizabeth,' she said, ' the lad}' has been here again, and I was that dazzled with her beautiful gown, made of the best corded silk, and her things io general (and the picture of a gentleman hung round her neck) ; but though 3-ou had said our place was too humble for such as she, I took her upstairs when she told me, and showed her our front bedroom.' " 134 DON JOHN. " Yes, that was what I said," Miss Jenn}- answered. " Onl}' I did n't lay it all out so straight on end as you can, sister, and I went on to her, as was my duty ; I said, 'It's a poor place, ma'am, lor such as you.' 'I think. Miss Jenny,' she says, ' if you and your sister was to sleep in the back room, and put some new furni- ture in here, it would do for me very well.'" "• And here she is," said Mrs. Clarbo}-, cutting the story short, for she observed that it did not much inter- est her young visitors. " But I hope it 's not wronging her to take the eight shillings and sixpence a week," continued Miss Jenn}^ who for the moment was irrepressible, "being as it is so much more than our whole rent. And it 's strange and worldly to come down of a weekday morning as she does in a silk and cashmere costume almost as good as new." "That 's nothing to us," said Mrs. Clarboy, austerel}^ and the young people took their leave. They could not sta}- to tea, they said, their mother was going to drink tea with them in the playroom, and they must go back at once to receive her. But Don John had spent the morning at the town, and had not come home in time for the early dinner, his noontide refection had been limited to two buns, he was therefore about to have a " meat tea," with the addition of gooseberr}' pie and beer. "You here?" exclaimed Lancy, when he and Don John entered the playroom, and he saw Mary and Freddy seated in a corner with all humiUt}'. "No, you can't sta}-, j-ou must slope!" proceeded the other young despot. " Did n't we tell \o\\ you might make the raspberry wine in the nursery?" " But we don't see any fun in that." "Oh, you don't! Well, now, I wish j'ou would do something really useful for me." " Yes, we will, Don John." " Take two or three matches out into the garden, and strike a light, that you may see whether the sunshine 's of the right sort. If it is, bring me word." DON JOHN. 135 " We wanted to hear you do Sam AVeller." "•Don't snifl'," proceeded Lancy. " And the cake smells so good," continued Maiy, in a piteous tone, and twinkling away a tear. "Oh, the cake!" exclaimed Don John. "Yes, m}' 3-oung friends, that's fair. Now then, ' share and share alike,' as the tiger said to the washerwoman ; ' you shall mangle the skirts and I the bodies.'" "That's meant for Sam Weller," Lancy exclaimed. " Now 3-ou 've heard him ! " " Pass a knife," proceeded Don John. The little sister handed him a handsome ivory paper- knife. Don John was wroth. ' ' What ! my prize — my carved knife that father gave me? AVell," he continued, falling into thought, " ' I don't see that it can be put to a better use,' as the Queen said in the kitchen at Balmoral, when she stirred up the porridge with her sceptre." "And there's no other knife," said Fredd}' humbly. " And," Mary put in, " we 've often seen you cut with this one j'ourself." Don John was feeling the edge of the knife. " That 's nothing," he answered uttering a great truth without perceiving its importance, " things are perfectly different, and are always reckoned so according to the person who does them." He dug the knife into the cake, and carved out a handsome quarter. But just as the operation seemed about to terminate successful!}', a hard piece of citron got in the way. A portentous crack was heard, and the heft broke off short in his hand. The little brother and sister seized their share and immediately took themselves off. Under the circum- stances, how could they hope to be tolerated in the playroom any longer. The company set chairs, Lancy nicked out more portions of cake with his pocket-knife, and then they bethought themselves of ringing for what they wanted. When Mrs. Johnstone made her appearance, the 136 DON JOHN. paper-knife had been put away and forgotten. Don John was pouring out a glass of beer, and saying, — " ' I like my drink frotlied, and plent}- of it,' as tlje porpoise said in the storm." Then, when the foam disappearing with mortifj-ing rapidity, he went on in more natural fashion, — "'Oh, mother, don't you think father might let us have the beer a little less /?ort'er/V//y weak ? It really reminds me of the old story he told me himself, that the proper way to make small beer was to tie an ear of barley to a duck's tail, whip it round the pond with a bunch of hops, and serve out the liquor. No, mother, j-ou are to sit at the head of the table opposite to me. That chair is Fetch's seat." '' Is he here?" asked Mrs. Johnstone. "Not yet, mother; he was here j-esterday," said Lanc}', "and Fanny drove over in the pon}' chaise to conve^'him home. ' Oh, Rob,' she said — his Christian name is Robert — (here Lancy fell into a soft foolish tone), 'I left your boots at Salisbury's to be patched. He certainly is an ugly fellow ; I little expected ever to see him, though I have heard of Sahsbury plain all my life. And I have yet to learn, my dear, why they calls him Salisbury plain, instead of plain Salisbmy.' " " And then," said Charlotte, " Fetch told us this anec- dote, and said we were to enter it on the minutes. Three men, after a hot day's work in the hay fields, got very drunk ; their names were Miller, Wright, and Watt. When their wives came to fetch them home thej' had tumbled down in a heap, and were fast asleep on the hay. Wright's wife said, ' Wright 's wrong.' Miller's wife said, ' My man 's so jumbled up with the others, that I don't know which is which,' and Watt's wife said, ' I don't mind which is which, all I care for is what 's Watt.' " " After that," observed i\Iarjorie, " we had great fun, Lancy did Fetch, and Don -John was Sam Weller ! He 's generally Sam AVeller now." " Rather ambitious," remarked Mrs. Johnstone. " Yes — we read Charlotte's epitaph pn poor Peterkin, DO A' JOHN. IZ7 and Sam Weller said, 'Very affecting, "I incline to blabber," as the whale said when he was half seas over.' There you see, mother laughed at that quite naturally, and without trying!" exclaimed Naomi. "I told 30U 1 was sure it was funny. And then Faun}' Fetch inter- rupted — the stupid thing continually says what has nothing to do with the subject. ' My pretty Rob,' Naomi simpered, ' if 3'ou were to steal a joke, would that be burglary or petty larceny ? ' There ! mother laughed again." " But I wish Fetch to come," said Mrs. Johnstone ; " I like him to be present." "We can't always make him be here," Lancy ex- plained; " sometimes we have nothing for him to sa}'. But he told some more anecdotes 3-esterday. He said a man met one Mr. Tooth, and a lad}' supposed to be his mother. The man sai bind her to secrec}^, and let her save him as she had said ? It was easy, this last plan. It was a respite ; but he felt instinctivel)', for he was not calm enough for any decided thoughts — he felt that to run away bore with it the blessed possibilit}' of coming home again and being forgiven. But to stay as her son was to give up the home, he could not have both. Then he looked .|ft her, and for the moment was even more sony for her than for liimself. And he rose and came towards her, for DON JOHN. 165 this Lancy was not always to act basely and with un- kindness. He dried away his tears. " But I know very well that you love me now," he said, with her last word still ringing in his ears. " You would like to kiss me, would n't you? " and he bent his fresh young cheek to her lips. She kissed him, and with what joy and gratitude no words can tell. Holding him for a moment round the neck, — "Promise you won't run away from me," she entreated. "No, I will not." Then astonishment getting the better of his emotion, he went on, " You — no, I need not fear that 3'ou will betray me. But if you are my mother, how comes it that my own — I mean my other father and mother — do not know .you? " " Mr. Johnstone does know," she answered, sobbing. " When I met him in the fields I saw that he recognized me. So then jow know nothing at all about me, Lancy ? " She trembled. She was seated on a chair next to him now, had taken his hand, and was pressing it to her heart. He scarcely cared about this, or noticed it. He*perceived that he was saved, but then he was lost ! This mother who had found him would want to keep him, and she could never be admitted as an equal in the adopted mother's home. " I know nothing but that 3'our name is Collingwood," he answered, with a sigh. "Oh yes! m}' name is Collingwood. You know nothing more, my son? Think." She looked intently at him, and he added, — " The}- said that ni}' father's name was Aird, and after his death that you married again." It's quicker than lightning. 1 have no time to think, was his re- flection, and he held up his hands to his head. '• Yes, but nothing more?" she asked. " Nothing, but that you never wrote to me, which we thought was strange." "We?" "Don John and I." Then there was a pause, and they both wept. 1 66 DON JOHN. " Can't you sa}- Mother to me, Lancy?" "No," said Lancy, dejectedly. "I love the other one. I don't mean — I don't wish to love an}' but her." " But surely — "- " she sighed as if deeply wounded — ' ' surely you are thankful to be saved ? " A lump seemed to rise in Lanc3's throat then, and he trembled even more than she did. "I am not saved," he answered hoarsel}' ; " I don't wish to sa}' anything wicked to 30U. Let me alone, or I shall." " 1 '11 onl}' say one thing, then ," she persisted. ' ' That ten pounds : you are welcome to it. Consider that I gave it to you. It is yours." Lancy's chest heaved ; there certainly was some relief in that sigh. Presentl}' she spoke again. " I heard what you wrote in vour letter to Mrs. John- stone — all the servants and children know — that you had run awa\' to sea. Nothing could be like the aston- ishment of them all. I think it was as good a thing as you could have said ; and so, when I got here, I said the same thing, that my son had run off to sea ; but I said I hoped 3'ou would come and take leave of me, and I bribed the waiters to look out for you." Oh ! what a world of difference there was between this speech and anything that had ever been said to him in his lost and forfeited home. But it suited poor Lancy, and he gradually became calmer. He was to l)e aided with this lie that concealed a theft. She hoped b}' means of it to conciliate and make him lovingl_y dependent on her ; and he, b}- the same means, ho[)ed to pass for nothing worse than an extremely ungi-ateful, bad, and foolish schoolbo}-, to obtain forgiveness and get awa}' from her. Each was subtle enough to conceal such thoughts. Lancy at once determined that he would try to be more pleasant to her, and she began to throw out hints of projected visits to Paris and to Switzerland, which, witliout distinctly asking him to go with her, seemed to show that his company at home, or abroad, would always be a pleas- DON JOHN. 167 lire to her. A clock on the mantelpiece struck one. Now was the decisive moment. "You'll stay and have j-our lunch with me, of course?" she said. "I suppose so," he answered dejectedly; and then, on reflection, added, "If you please." The color came back to her face. She knew her game was won. She rang the bell, quietl}' ordered lunch for two, and added, but rather slowl^y, " And this young gentleman — my son — will sleep here to-night. 1 shall want a room for him near to mine." The waiter tried, but not verj- successfully, to con- ceal his interest and amusement. Lancy, with a dis- consolate air, was looking out of the window. Mrs. Collingwood put a small piece of paper in the waiter's hand, on which was some Avriting. ' ' You '11 see that this goes at once ? " " Yes, ma'am." It was a telegram addressed to Mr. Johnstone, at his house in the country-, and was thus expressed : — " Sir, Master Lancelot Aird is with me at the Euston Hotel ; I await j^our wishes. M. J, C." As the lunch drew to its conclusion, Lancy became hopelessly restless. INIrs. Collingwood noticed this, and asked what he would like to do. He had nothing to do. He had thought of going to see the beasts fed ; but it was too earlj'. Lancy brought out this plan in his most boyish and inconsequent fashion. ' ' But he had two green linnets and a little tortoise in his lodffinffs. He should like to have them with him at the hotel, for he had nothing to do." Mrs. Collingwood said she would go with him and fetch them. "And as I've got some money left," continued Lanc3', sighing between almost every word ; ' ' mone}'' that 3-ou have given me now, I should like some more creatures. I saw a puppy at the shop ^-esterday — a stunning one, a skye — and, perhaps, if I had it" — here a great many more sighs — "• 1 should n't be so miserable." 1 68 DON JOHN. So an open fly was hired, and Lancy appeared at his late lodgings to claim his property. His landlady was a good woman. She was pleased to see him with a fine lad}', who thanked her for having been kind to her son. " Does he owe 3'ou anything?" she asked. "No, ma'am, nothing." " Excepting for the castors," said Lanc}'. " WeU, now," exclaimed the landlady, " to think of your remembering that, sir ; and to think of my for- getting ! " Mrs. Collingwood paid a shilling for the use of the castors, and generously forbore to take back the three- pence change. Lanc\y felt rather less forlorn Vviien he reached the hotel again with his tortoise, his two linnets, a skj'e pupp}-, and some wood and wire with which he meant to enlarge a cage for a starling", that he had added to his menagerie. He was very clever with his hands, and being much occupied, took no notice when a tele- gram was brought in for Mrs. Collingwood. It ran thus, — "I will be with j'ou to-morrow morning, about ten o'clock." So after breakfast the next morning — a meal during which Lancy was still disconsolate — Mrs. Collingwood asked him if he did not wish to see Mr. Johnstone, and ask his pardon for having run away. Lancy said "Yes," but not with any hope that this wish would so soon be realized. In two minutes the waiter announced Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone. A tall lady entered, and with a jealous pang, Maria CoUingwood saw her boy rush up to her. "Oh, mother — mother!" he cried. His face was on her bosom, and her hand rested on his forehead. " Ask fatlier to forgive me," he cried. His arm was round her neck, and she kissed him. How beautiful she was, how motherl}', how tall. The other woman lookcsd and envied her from the bottom of her soul ; her face w^as colored with agitation, and her ejes flashed. She had but vaguely noticed, she DON JOHN. 169 was scarcely aware of Mrs. Collingwood's presence ; but Mr. Johnstone was, he walked up to her, as she sat slightly turning away from the unbearable sight of her Lancy's love for another mother. "How much does that boy know?" he inquired, looking steadih' at her, and speaking low. ' ' Nothing, sir — " " Nothing?" " I have told him that I am his mother, sir," she whispered, " but nothing else ; nothing at all." Donald Johnstone turned ; Lancy had made a step or two towards him, but before he took an^- other notice of him, he said, — "■ Set your mother a chair." "Yes, father," said Lancy. And as Mrs. Johnstone sat down she made a slight movement of recognition to jMrs. Collingwood, who was keenly aware that her Lauc}' was standing humble and crestfallen for what seemed a long time before the adopted father, whose steady, penetrative eyes appeared to look him through and through. It seemed a long time, but it could not have been many seconds. When he did speak his face changed, and his voice, which was low, trembled with impassioned emotion. "Have I ever denied ^'ow any one thing that was good for vou all your life long ? " "No, father."" " Have I made any difference between j'ou and the dearest of mv dear sons ? " " No, father." " Look at me." Lancy lifted up his daunted foce, and looked entreat- ingly at his judge. ' ' Your mother, as we drove along this morning, begged me to forgive you, Lancy, — for running aio ay ." Lancy's eyes fell. The stead}', clear emphasis imparted to those last words shook him, and frightened Mrs. Collingwood no less. There was more meaninsj; in them than met the I70 DON JOHN. ear. How could be hare discovered what she only had seen? And if he had not, what did he suspect? He sighed deeply-. "For running awa}'," he repeated; "and I said — I would." Another pause. " Have I anything else to forgive you for?" Lancy's head was bent, as he stood, but he murmured something in his fright and confusion. It seemed to be "No." Then the other mother spoke. She said, " Oh, j-es, my Lane}- ; yes. Your father has to forgive you for long distrust of his anxious goodness, and care for 3'ou. If you were unhappy at home, why didn't you say so? If 3'Ou longed so much for a sea life, why did you never tell it even to me? Why have you done this to us? We deserved better things of you, Lancy. You have been ungrateful and unkind." He does know, thought Mrs, Coliingwood, and she does not. Lancy was completely overcome. He staggered as he stood, and in another instant the adopted father was holding him by the shoulder; he made him sit down, and unfastened his necktie. As he bent over him to do this, Mrs. Coliingwood saw Lancy lean his forehead for a moment against Mr. Johnstone's breast. "You won't tell mother?" he faltered. And Mrs. Coliingwood heard the words with a passion of jealous pain. Of course he did not care that she knew. She heard the whispered " No." Then she saw him put his hand on her boy's head. He said, — " May God Jbrgive you, my poor child, and grant 3'OU time to retrieve the past." A silence followed. The adopted mother and the true mother both wept. Lancy, now the terrible ordeal was over, felt almost as if he was in his former place, and was going to his home as if nothing was changed, but yet the many strange things that had come to pass flashing back on his memory, enabled him quickly to overcome his emotion. DON JOHN. 171 " Mother," he burst out, addressing Mrs. Johnstone, ' ' this — this lad}' says that she came home from Aus- traha on purpose to see me. She says she is — " "■ Slie says she is your mother," said Mrs. Johnstone. "Well, my son, ^'ou always knew that I was not; we always told you that you were a dear adopted son." " You won't let her take me from you? " " Lancy," cried Mrs. CoUingwood, "I have been ver3' good to you, and this 1 cannot stand. But for me, 3'ou would have been on shipboard by this time." "Father," repeated Lanc}', " you won't let her take me from you ? " " No," he answered, just as decidedly as if the whole matter was in his own hands. " Sir, you may find that I have something to say as to that," sobbed poor Mrs. CoUingwood. " I have no doubt of it," he replied, " and now- is the time to say it. If Mrs. Johnstone will let Lancy take her to his sleeping-room, you can speak as you could not in the presence of the boy, and I can tell you my intentions." Still taking in all respects the upper hand, he was soon left alone with Mrs. CoUingwood, and while she dried her eyes, he said, — " Mrs. CoUingwood, I am sorry to begin with a dis- paraging question. You went away declaring that you did not know, and had no means of knowing, which of those two children was yours — how is it that you come back, to the full as sure as we are, if not more so? " No answer. ' ' This certaint}' of yours almost ties me down to the thought that 3-ou did know always ; but that in an un- W(n-th3- hour you yielded to 3'our husband's desire to get rid of 3'our child, and made up a stor3' which 3'Ou knew would i:»rovide him with a kind father, and a better mother than you had been." " No, sir," she replied, moving her hand as if to put all this aside, " don't." "How is it, then?" "I came to see which you had chosen, and the mo- 172 DON JOHN. ment I set my eyes on Lancy, I felt — I was sure — I could have sworn that he was my son. I loved him so. 1 knew that you were right. I saw j'our son, sLi", several times first, and felt that I did n't lilce him, that he was nothing to me. But Lancj' — oh, sir! you know he's mine as well as I do." " I believe he is, so does Mrs. Johnstone." " I have plenty, sir. My husband's — Collingwood's — relations in Australia left him four hundred a year ; they had been so prosperous. It all came by David's will to me." " That I have nothing to do with." "Sir?" " You can leave it to Lancy, if jou please ; but that is nothing to me." " I am ever deeplj' thankful for all 3'ou have done for my Lancy. You have made a gentleman of him ; but I meant, sir, that of course I should wish to take him off your hands now, and finish educating of him, and pro- vide for him m3'self." " Quite impossible." " How so, sir." " You cannot prove that the boy is j-ours." " Prove it? — no, of course not." " Nothing on earth but proof will do for me. That it is to the last and uttermost improhahh he can be mine, I fully admit ; but I will not give him up unless 3'OU can prove that it is impossible." '•Why, you have five, Mr. Johnstone — five beside him — and I have none." " The thing is entirely your own doing." " But my poor husband, ColHngwood, had no doubt in the world ; when, after some years — we had plenty of money and no children, and he so fond of me — I told him at last everything. How I concealed from poor mother and denied that I had changed the children, and so — " " And so she did it herself; j-es, probably." " Oh, you '11 let me have my boy, then? " " No, never." DON JOHN. 173 " I 'm a miserable woman ; but there 's law. I take the law of you, sir." '•• You are talking nonsense ; there is no law for such a case ; and if you make it public, you will cover your- self with disgrace, and make your son detest you ; we have never told him anything at all against you. To the utmost of m}- ability, 1 am bringing him up as I would if it was proved to me that he was mine ; and whether he is to be my honor or my disgrace, so help me God, I will never forsake him." CHAPTER XV. DONALD JOHNSTONE'S words, no less than his manner, which seemed to announce no doubt whatever that he both could and would keep her boy, were too much for poor Maria ColUngwood. She wept pnssionately, but she was highly irritated also. "You're extremely unforgiving and hard upon me," she sobbed; "and, as for Mrs. Johnstone, if I had been the dirt under her feet, she could hardly at first have taken less account of me." " She did not see you. She was thinking of the boy ; and she never said one word of reproach to j-ou when she did see 3'ou." " She was very high — very, and it hurt my feelings — before Lancy and all. She 's not so very much above me now." "Listen to reason, Mrs. Collingwood, and acknowl- edge what you very well know, that my wife is immeas- urably aliove you. She has been as noble as you were base. She has never said one word against 3'ou to the child through whom you wrought her for some 3'ears such unutterable pain." " TJiey can't both be yours," sobbed the poor woman ; — she still remonstrated. 174 DON JOHN. " They are both mine in one sense, and in the same sense neither can ever be yours ; for if you gave me any serious trouble about this matter (which I am sure 5'ou will not do) , I should tell Laucy — the one w^hom you want — the whole story. He would probably be- lieve himself to be 3'ours. I leave you to judge what he w^ould think of you compared with the woman who has brought him up. But it is possible that he might do worse ; he might, spite of all that we think, entertain a lurking fanc}' that, after all, he had the best of rights to every single thing we have done for him. And what chance would aou have of anything but hatred and re- pulsion from him in such a case as that ? " " It is but right — you 'II own it 's right — that I should see him sometimes," she sobbed, when she had pondered this last speech. "Yes, I own it; and if you will do my bidding, I will make this thing as little bitter to you as I can." " I had not left him in your parlor in Harley Street a day — not one da}' — before ni}- heart began to cry for him ; not but what 1 truh* was in doubt then, sir. But David — he was so jealous of the child, and I was that desirous to please him, and that he should not have the expense of his bringing up ! It was years after, when he got fonder and fonder of me. that I relieved my mind with telling him all — and he did so reproach me ! ' If you 'd had a mother's heart,' said he, ' you would have known there was no reasonable doubt ; and now,' said he, ' I want that child of yours ' (that was when he was ill), ' since I 've none,' said he, ' of my own ! ' "But I give wav, sir; I did wrong; and if you won't tell him anything against me, I '11 do my best to be patient. You "11 let me see him sometimes ? " "I will ; and now I am afraid I have to ask you a question which will give you pain. His father, Lance- lot Aivd — " "Yes, sir." "Well, the thing must be said. Did he ever get himself into trouble, as the}' call it? — was he ever taken up for any — larceny ? " DON JOHN. 175 The color rushed over her face and neck, and she drew herself np, and darted a reproachful look at him. " I think you will do well to answer," he said. "He was in trouble once — onl}' once," she whispered. " Oh, sir, I KNOW — mj' poor boy ! " " It seems as if it must be hereditary," he murmured. " What do 3'ou know, Mrs. Collingwood?" She was silent, and shook her head. " It is said that ^ou were robbed three days ago." Still she was silent. " "When my own dear boy found that Lancy had run away, he was naturall}^ very much distressed, and told me Lancy had no real desire to go to sea. He also confessed to me something which had happened some )'ears ago at school, which instantl}' excited a terrible suspicion in my mind. I could not but perceive what m}^ boy thought, as I now perceive that 3'Ou under- stand me." " I promised him I would not betray him," said the poor, shamed, and sorrowful woman. " Then, Mrs. Collingwood, I must m3'self make him confess all." But there proved to be no need for this. Mrs. Col- lingwood, with all her faults, was not a foolish woman ; she soon was made to feel that the bo^-'s best chance of being cured of his propensit}' and dul}' looked after lay in his being under Mr. Johnstone's supervision. She gave way. She would part with him then and there, only she begged that she might not have to see Mrs. Johnstone again. Lancy was therefore sent for to return to the room he had left, a little note from Mr. Johnstone asking his wife to remain where she was. Accordingly, Lanc}' ap- peared, but it was with an altogether new expression on his face. He looked dejected and ashamed, but the craven air was gone. He walked straight up to Mr. Johnstone. "Father," he said, "I have confessed it all. I have told mother ever^-thing." AYhen Maria Collingwood heard this, she felt as if Lancy was saved, but yet that he was all the more lost 1/6 DON JOHN. to hei'. She had now no hold ; the other woman was supreme, and she was nothing. "And she has forgiven me," proceeded Lanc}', in a whisper. " May God forgive 3-ou, mj' bo}-," answered Donald Johnstone, solemnly, " and bring you to a better mind. Understand me." "No, father," Lanc}' burst out; "I am not daring to ask you to forgive me yet ; but I will — I will do better." " Understand me," Donald Johnstone went on, " I am disgraced. Your wickedness is undiscovered as yet ; but I am amazed with the shame of it, and I feel that I shall not be able to hold up my head as I have done." " Oh, father I " Lancy interrupted again, " don't sa}' it. Have pity on me." " For better or for worse, I and mine are so far one that we must rise or sink together. I have a thing now to hide. When I meet my neighbors — especiallj' ni}' poor neighbors — I shall hope they will not find it out. I shall be ashamed — I am ashamed." " Father, I cannot bear it." " And nobody but us knows," murmured Maria Col- lingwood ; but happily poor Lancy cared nothing for her opinion. The only severe punishment he had ever suf- fered in his life was now being inflicted on him, and he felt it most keenly. " Will there never be a daj' when you can forgive me, father?" he sighed. " Oh, 3-es, I can forgive 3-ou even now ; but not the less I know that ^'ou are on the ver3' brink of ruin, as I am liable at any moment to y-our being detected and m3' being disgraced." After this, though Maria Collingwood perceived the salutar3" contrition it had wrought on Lanc3', she hated Mrs. Johnstone and Mr. Johnstone too ; for Lanc3'' could not think about her — could not care that she had to part from him ; could not even take thought for his birds, and his tortoise, and his sk3'e puppy, which he had hitherto been making so much of. DON JOHN. 177 Nothing that concerned her signified much. He knew he had been wicked, but he felt it most because the other mother had wept over her adopted son, and lie felt the shame of what he had done because of the words of his adopted father. '• Oh, to save them for the future ! Oh, to lead a bet- ter life ! " That was what Lancy felt now ; and when Mr. Johnstone drew him aside, and told him that he was to part from this poor mother of his, and he was to do it aftectionatel}', he could hardl}' give his mind to it, though he was left alone with her. But her distress was like his distress, though it was from a different cause. " It 's hard, m}- son," she sobbed, " to come from the other side the earth to see you, and then find (I have plenty of friends there) that you neither care to go back with me, nor to stay with me here." He was deep in his own painful thoughts, and made her no repl}'. ' ' But you '11 call me ' mother ' once, won't 3'ou, Lanc^" ? " " Yes, I will, mother; 3'ou have been kind." " I did the best I could." "But I don't understand it at all, mother." "And I majMi't explain it to you. No; I know it would do no good to explain it to 3'ou." He was not listening, and she forbore to go on ; but as she sat be- side him on a sofa, she drew his head for a few moments on to her bosom, and he allowed her to hold it there. "Lancy," she whispered, "if 3'ou get into a scrape again — " " I never will," he answered, and groaned. " But if you did, my own onh' one, you'd come to me, wouldn't you, to get you out of it? " "Yes," was the answer. She waited some moments for it. Then releasing him, he lifted his face. " Good- bye, mother" he said. She kissed him, and in another moment he was gone. Poor woman ! She looked out of the window, and saw ]\Irs. Johnstone step forth from the hotel and enter a carriage which was waiting ; and then, Lancy having got in, she gazed at him, till the reins were given to Mr. 12 178 DON JOHN. Johnstone, and they drove off, and the carriage and her treasure disappeared. He had left all his pets behind, and as the}^ had con- soled him while he sat disconsolate in his lodgings, so they consoled her a little. She took to the starling- most, because she had seen her boy at work on his cage. She let the pupi)v set his little white teeth in the trains of her gowns, and worry her slippers, and drag her knit- ting over the floor ; and she thought about Lanc}', and felt how lonely she was, and considered, as man}' an- other has done, not only how she could have been such a sinner, but such a fool. And now, having made voluntary confession so far, the boy's involuntary confession of other delinquencies was soon made to follow. Don John had told his father of the suspicions which had fallen on Lanc}', owing to certain pett}' peculations, and then of the more serious theft, followed b}- his own adventure and his broken arm. After this, as Don John believed, all had gone well. He had hoped that Lancy was cured ; and yet when it vras found that he had run away, just after the ten pounds had been stolen, he could not help dwelling on the recollection that ' ' the lodger's " room had been en- tered bj' Lancy for a moment in order to bring awa}' a book. But why — ]Mr. Johnstone pondered — wlw had he done this? He was not a child now, that he could thoughtlessh' yield to temptation not knowing the con- sequences. He had felt the fear of detection, and the bitterness of danger already. So far as was known he did not care to hoard ; could he have risked so much misery that he might have ten pounds to squan(ier away ? Thinking thus, and pursuing his advantage now that Lanc}' was penitent and crestfallen, Mr. Johnstone pressed him with questions. One admission soon led to another. Lanc_y did not dare to prevaricate, and ver}' soon the miserable story of his last fall found out by the bo}' who was now his t3Tant was told. He had con- DON JOHN. 179 cealed this from Don John as he now declared because he could not bear to be despised by hiin. Don John had no idea of the misery he had gone through, con- stant threats of exposure hanging over his head. " And it can never be put an end to," sighed poor Lancy ; " he will soon write to me again." " Oh yes, it can be put an end to. Where is his last letter?" asked Mr. Johnstone. "Did you leave it behind in your desk ? " " No, father, I was afraid it would be found. He is at the seaside now, and when I got the post-offlce order for him, I put it in my pocket to be sure that I sent it to the right address." " Give it to me." Lanc}^ produced it, and Donald Johnstone having read it sealed it up. " Now you can write to this fel- low," he said. " Tell him 3'ou have made full confes- sion of ever^-thing to your father, who has taken his last letter from you. ' He remarked,' you can say ' that at first he thought of sending that letter to 3'our father, but that on second thoughts if you at once wrote to me promising that under no circumstances should I ever hear from you again, he should not do so — for if your father was an honorable man, it would make him mis- erable, while you were too old to be flogged, and no other punishment was likely to reach you.' " Laucy looked amazed, but he wrote the letter, and of course was delivered from that form of bondage ever after, but he had a good deal to endure. It was soon explained to him that he could not go to school again with Don John, or indeed to any school. He was not to be trusted, he might disgrace himself and the family that had adopted him. " Father always used to say that Don John and I should both be articled to him," he remarked to Mrs. Johnstone. " So you shall," she answered, " if he has ever}' rea- son to believe 3'Ou are quite cured. I pray to God every day, Lanc}-, that you may be cured." Mrs. Johnstone in fact never admitted the least doubt that he would be cured. She was ardently hopeful, and l80 DON JOHN. alwaj^s loving ; taught him a pra^'er against his beset- ting sin which he promised to say night and morning, and did all she could to make him ashamed of his pro- pensity' and afraid of himself. But Lanc}' was not taken home, he was sent to be the private pupil of a clergvman, to whom his fault was duly conlided, and who watched him, prayed with him, and also taught him. It was not so pleasant as being at school with Don John and many other boys for companions, but he was there shielded from temp- tation, and he also knew and felt that he was watched. Besides the frequent letters both from father and from mother had some effect upon him, while every now and then his new mother as he called her wrote to him by permission, and always sent him a ver}- hand- some " tip," which, by way of being candid and truth- ful, he mentioned in his letters home ; he had thus always plenty of mone}', as well as al)sence of tempta- tion, and he appeared to himself to loathe the sin of theft, because the constraint and distrust it had brought upon him were always in his way. He longed for his home, and even for his sisters and Charlotte, whom he had not specially cared for; but at the end of the year he did not go home. The Johnstones came as they had done several times already to see their adopted son, and brought Don John with them ; and the}' told him he should take a tour w'ith them and Don John on the continent, but that they could not let him be with his sisters, and close to the scene of his lust delinquency at present. So he was still during tliese holidaj's to be exclusively with those who knew of his faults. Well, he thought. he did not much care — anything to get away from this dull place, and if he was still to be exhorted, to enjoj' at least a change of exhortation. Lancy was grown, and was a fine, good-looking fellow. There was something not unpleasing to him in the deep, loving anxietj' of them all for his welfare. It made him so important ; and as his moral sense was weak, he did not despise or reproach himself so much as to diminish DON JOHN. l8l his enjo3Tnent of the holidaj' toiu*. He had done very ^\ long. It would have been strange if after so many ti^'urs, such fervent prayers, such tender letters, such loving care, so much as this had not been impressed on his mind. He said to himself that he should never do such a thing as that again of course. The consequences had been very unpleasant and the risk very great. Besides father had taken great pains to let him know that he would never be poor — never want, for that he should leave him a provision by no means to be de- spised ; and the new mother had expressl}^ told him that everything she had would be his. Lanc}' was seventeen 3'ears old and perfectly cured in the opinion of everybod}" when at length his eyes lighted on his own home again, and he saw with delight and surprise the two grown-up sisters, and Charlotte, and the old garden, and the still prized and unaltered playroom . He might have come home a year ago, but that the so-called "■ new mother" pleaded so sorely to have him dui'ing the midsummer vacation, that she was allowed to do so. She crammed as man3' pleasures as she could think of for him into the time, and sent him back loaded with presents, but to her sore discomfort he was just as urgent the following j'ear to be allowed to go home as she had been to be allowed to see him. Home he went aceordingl}', and was every hour aware that it was a different home. There had been a tiresome, sh}' child in that former home called Charlotte — a child who teased him and whom he teased, that child's frock was always crumpled, her hair, like a mat or a bird's nest as he had loved to declare, used to hang over her fore- head ; she often pouted. He remembered that she had always ])ossessed most beautiful blue Irish eyes with long black lashes, and that he had not cared about them the least in the world. Charlotte — well, this was Charlotte now — Don John called her five feet nothing — in fact, she was a small creature and looked specially so among the tall young Johnstones. 1 82 DON JOHN. Charlotte, the morning after Lancy came home, wag sitthig at the schoolroom table -writing, her rosebud mouth pouting, and her lashes hiding the blueness be- neath. What a pretty little figure she had. Charlotte was ver}- youthful looking ; Don John, onl}' seventeen, looked much older. Charlotte was his little slave, and still his partner in the minutes. Lancy rather wondered to see him order her about. He observed what a charming air and manner she had — how the small waist was graced with an ample chatelaine. He thought she had a pretty gown on, and admii'ed the little feet which in their trim slippers were perched on the cross-bar under the table. "Poetess!" the voice of Don John was heard to shout from the garden below. Charlotte was too deep in thought to answer — her fingers were inked. She took up a bit of blotting-paper and dried them on it, and looked at the tips of them, but as if her thoughts were far away. Pier lips moved. "She's muttering her poetr}-," thought Lancy, very much amused, and in another moment Don John burst in. " Wasting the morning in this waj', Charlotte," he exclaimed; "and Lauc}' has never even seen the new pon}' carriage." Charlotte turned her dreamy e^-es upon hun and gradu- ally woke up. " Here 3-ou sit all in a bunch with 3'our shoulders up to ^'our ears — like a 3'e How-hammer sing- ing on a rail — what are you doing ? — some of 3'our rubbish of course." "I was onl3- putting a bit of Chaucer into modern English, for the minutes." "Modern fiddlesticks! — come on, Lancy, and 3-ou too, Charlotte. The3- 've found three snakes in the dairj-, and one of them was drinking the milk." Char- lotte sighed, she was writing of thoughts and things which had never come near her 3-et, excepting in a po- etic vision. "I must copy it out first," she said, " or I shall never remember how it goes." Don .John sat down to wait with a tolerably good grace, and he too came in for a share of Lauc3''s observation. DON JOHN. 183 Don John would have been a difficult person to de- scribe to one who had not seen him — he was neither short nor tall, he was neither handsome nor plain, he was not graceful, he was not awkward. He had ex- tremely light hair, liglit eyebrows, a specially open, sweet-tempered expression, a good many freckles about his face and on his hands, extremely white teeth, and twinkhng e3'es full of fun. In manner, he was blunt, in behavior to his sisters he was affectionate, but per- emptorj' — as yet it was firmly fixed in his mind that '■• the masculine gender is worthier than the feminine ; " he was lord and master at home, reigned over Charlotte more despotically than over an}- of the others — scarcely perceived at present that she was grown up, admired and loved his mother above all creatures, and looked on most young ladies not related to him, as mistakes of nature and bores. Charlotte with her pretty head on one side and her eyebrows slightly elevated, copied out her version. " Still for your s.ake — hy night I wake — and sigh, By day I am near — so sore my fear — to die, And to all this — no care I wis — ye deign, Though mine eyes two — never for you — be dry; And on your ruth — and to your truth — T cry. But well away — too far be they — to attain, So plaining- me — on destiny — amain, I mourn, nor find — how to imbind — my chain. Knowing my wit — so weak is it — all vain. Think on your name — whj'- do (for shame) — ye so, For it shall be — thou slialt this dree — sweet foe, And me think on — in such wise gone — this day, That love you best — (God, Thou wottest) — alway." A deep groan from Don John. " Oh, very well," ex- claimed Charlotte, " if I am not to finish it now, I never shall." " Of all the unreasonableness in this world," replied Don John, " there 's no unreasonableness like that of you people who pretend to be poets." He loolced round the room. ' ' And what 's the good of poetry ? " he burst forth. 1 84 DON JOHN. Charlotte felt a certaia fitness in Don John's honest indignation and sincere scorn ; she wiped her pen. " I never said it was any good," she pleaded — " only 1 cannot help writing it." " Even when there are snakes in the dair}' ! and you are expressly told of it." " Yes, I do want to see the snakes," said Charlotte. ' ' Wh}' do j-ou trj' to make out that I don't care about interesting: things ? " CHAPTER XYI. THE 3'oung people now ran down into the dairy, where three snakes were twisting themselves about under a wire meat-safe, while Maijorie and Naomi, standing well away from it with their backs against the wall, held their skills with needless care, and regarded the silver3' things with distrust and curiosit}'. Little Mar}-, the only creature about the place who could still be considered a child, was perched upon the slate shelf. Lancy and Don John poked slender skewers between the wires of the safe, and Charlotte no sooner heard the snakes hiss in acknowledgment of this attention than she sprang on the top of a covered bread-pan, and de- manded to be saved, to be set on the shelf beside Mary, to be got out of their way. "They're perfectly harmless," said Mary, looking down from her elevation with complacency; but she took special care to keep high above them. Charlotte, by the help of ''Lancy's hand, perched her- self beside Mary, and began to feel safe and l)rave till the cook, coming in, said to Don John, — " I hope, sir, you are certain sure there are no more of the artful things lurking about on the top shelf? " " The top shelf! " cried Charlotte, " how could there be any there ? " DON JOHN. 185 "Oh, no," said Don John, " there are no more; aiifl, besides, I told 30a they were perfect!}' harmless." The cook put her hand on her side. "No peace have I had in this place at all," she remarked, " since 3'ou said, sir, it was a pop'ler error, — ' Cook,' you said, • it 's a pop'ler error to think of a snake as if it could n't glide up a steep slope.' I've been in here for milk and eggs times out of number as innocent as could be, and have heard a kind of rustling, and little thought the deceitful things were perhaps lolling their heads over and looking at me." All the girls shivei'ed in sympath}'. " But there it is, young ladies, when once you let yourself down — begging your pardon for saying it — let yourself down to go into the country' (being London- born and one that ought to know better) , wh}', 3'ou can never tell what may happen." " Hiss — s — s " again. " And me always taught that they lived in dung- hills, the only proper place for them, and then to hear that Mr. Don John with his own hands, pulled two out of Mrs. Clarboy's thatch, that they used to climb up to 1)3' the iv}' — and found a long string of leathery eggs as well — such a respectable woman as Mrs. Clarboy is too ! " ' ' They did n't require a reference as to character when they went to lodge there," said Don John. "And hadn't need, sir," cried the cook, smiling. " I should hope the wickedest family that ever lived was too good for such reptilly things as they." " Mrs. Clarbo3''s roof comes down at the back of her house to within three feet of the ground, and the old iv3' is almost as thick as tree trunks, they got up it both here and tliere ; a snake must be a fool indeed if he cannot climb that." " Instead of which he is rather cunning," observed Lanc}'. " Yes," said Charlotte, knitting her pretty brow into a thoughtful frown, "cunning, but not so cunning as to lead one to any painful doubts or speculations. I 1 86 DON JOHN. have never supposed that snakes were reasonable crea- tures." Lanc}' looked up surprised. " Reasonable creatures ! " he exclaimed. " Oh, it's only one of her theories she 's alluding to," said Don John, " read our minutes., and 3'ou'll see." The cook now retired, having certain matters to at- tend to, and Don John, having managed to push a flat piece of tin under the wires, carried awa}' the snakes. Marjorie and Naomi followed, but Lancy had found some curds on a dish and set it between Charlotte and Mar}-, who were still perched on the shelf, and, helping himself also, sat down on a wooden stool, and thought how pretty Charlotte looked. Charlotte in one respect much resembled her mother, her mind was full of specu- lations, and in general she was ready to discuss any of them with an}- person at an}- time. Lancy wanted to hear her talk, so he said, "How about the reasonable creatures ? " " Oh," answered Charlotte, " I think that though we are in this globe at the head of the reasonable creatures, there are at least two other races that have reason and are able to commit sin." " Queer ! " thought Lancy. Her speech had so much surprised him that he had attended to it, no less than to the well-favored face that looked down earnestly at him, and to the shapely curves of her lips. "Do you think they are responsible, then?" he exclaimed. "I said 'can commit sins,' so I suppose they are responsible — ants, for instance." " They're so small," pleaded Lancy. amazed. ' ' They are not in any degree worth mentioning smaller than we are — I mean with relation to the size of the globe on which we live and they live. In my own mind the more I think it over the more I feel that I ought not to shrink from the notion that they are responsible creatures." "But what are their sins, Charlotte? " "They go to war, planning murderous raids before- DON JOHN. 187 hand, the}' take slaves in battle, both living ants which they make slaves, and eggs which the}' hatch, and bring- up the 3'oung as thralls — as subject races. But what makes me niainh' sure that the}' are responsible is that they are punished just as we are, but more severely, tiiiough these very crimes. The eagle is not punished 1 u- stealing the lamb and picking out its eyes. The ivc,' for anything we can find out to the contrary, swal- ^ ws a whole fauiil}' of young fishes, and does not know he's a cannibal. They are not punished, but the ants are, for having used themselves to be fed, cleaned, and waited on by their slaves, they absolutely lose the power to do these things for themselveSj so that if the slaves get away or die, they die too." " And why may not all that be instinct? " said Lancy, cogitating. '•'• If it were — which still I think it cannot be — what do you say to their having domestic animals just as we have? We have tame creatures, flocks that yield us milk ; so have they." ' " It's queer certainly," said Lancy. "If they were as large as we are, it would seem queerer still ; we were ignorant of it all for a very long time because they are so small. But only fancy, Lancy, if they were as large as Inillocks, and we met them every now and then driving their unlucky prisoners home, taking them to their underground dens and keep- ing them there, what a queer sensation it would give us ! And then when we walked forth and saw them milking their flocks, the question is, whether it would be more strange to us than to see us milking ours would be to them." " But if they have reason." said Lancy, "why can- not they communicate with us ? " ''I don't know: most likely because one of their senses is diflferent from ours, on purpose to keep us apart — they are deaf. I suppose if we had not only no hear- ing, but no consciousness of such a sense as hearing, we should have no real knowledge of one another, and none of other races." 1 88 DON JOHN. " Does one sense less, then, make all the difference?" " Oh, I did not say one sense less. If we had the greater and more perfect facult}' that they possess, we should be ver}" superior to our present selves, and be able to communicate also with them. It is our disabil- ity that keeps us back, not theirs ; and one strange cUf- ference must strike ever}^ one. Language, which we address to the sense of hearing, often decei^'es — it is inadequate and often false as well — but that direct touch by means of which they communicate seems to cause the actual flow of one mind into the other. We have no reason to tliiuk it can deceive, we do not sup- pose that they can lie to one another. In a minor sense they may be said on touching to ' know even as they are known.' " "Yes, but all insects communicate by the touch — are all responsil)le?" " Why should they be, any more than all beasts and birds are responsible because they can all hear? " " But I think if they are reasonable creatures," said Lancy, "it's an odd thing that they never try to com- municate with us." " Do we ever make any S3'steraatic efforts to com- municate with them ? " Lancy laughed, the question seemed hardly worth answering. " And how do we know," continued Charlotte. " that they never have made efforts to communicate with us? They too may have come to the conclusion that we have reason. How do we know what little longing crafty signs Ihey may, after long consultation, have put out, hoping to attract our notice ? " '' They may wish to let us know," said Mary, " that they do n't hke to be trodden on. I never tread on them since Charlotte wrote of their ways in the minutes. Don John sa3's perhaps the negro ants have found out that we have emancipated our negroes, and hope we sliall some day by moral force get their masters to emancipate them." "Yes," said Charlotte, who was ver}^ truthful, " but i DON JOHN. 189 Don John only wrote that in the minutes for a joke. He has no sympathy at all with the movement — at least with my cogitations as to how, if they have reason, we can possibly find out how to comnmnicate witli them. I ought not to call it a movement yet ! But is it not a most extraordinary thing, Lancy, that considering what mil- lions of worlds Almighty God has made, and consider- ing the almost intinite vastness of space, that He should appear to act as if space was very precious, and He wished to make the most of it? How crowded this world is — every inch turned to account as it were ! So many races under, over, and beside one another. Only think, if all the suns and worlds and moons should be as full as our world is, and all different ! " '■'• It is strange," answered Lancy. ^ I suppose she will have a lover some day," he thought ; '• how it will stump that unlucky fellow, if she breaks forth to him iu such discourse as this ! " " And which do you think is the third race of reason- able creatures ? " he asked. '' Oh," said Charlotte, " I think the observant mind often gets hints of some such race, but I do not think it is visible to our eyes as at present constituted. 1 mean a race not angelic nor demoniacal — but that we (know- ing so little of it) are inclined as a rule to be afraid of." " Oh ! " said Lancy. "They're skinned!" exclaimed Don John, putting his head in, and he and Lancy darted off together. " Oh, you cruel boy!" exclaimed Charlotte, for she knew it was the snakes that had been referred to. Then she and Mary jumped down from the shelf, and Charlotte went and finished the minutes. Lancv. in spite of the joy Avith which he had looked forwairl to coming home, found that thorns which had grown up in his al)sence encompassed the roses there. Things were now and then said which made him feel hot ; he wns not always so much at ease as he could have wished. There were some })lacGS that he did not want 190 DON JOHN. to visit, some people whom he did not care to see. And 3'et he would question with himself as to whether his brothers and sisters would not think it strange if he re- frained from going to those very jjlaces, would not have their attention attracted towards him as acting oddly if he did not expressl3" seek those ver^' people. It was easy enough to go with Don John and see Lad^y Louisa, and hear her somewhat tedious talk about her childi-en's delicate chests, and how she thought of spend- ing the next winter at Nice, because Evelyn, the eldest son, had too long a neck. Lancy bore a great deal of discussion as to sloping shoulders and the said long neck, almost with compla- cencj-. It stirred no uneasy recollections. He rose up to be measured by Mr. Viser as a proof that he was not taller than Evelyn. Then he and Don John stood an examination as to their health. Their experiences were mainly negative. They did not feel by any means disinclined for their breakfast. They did not feel giddj- when the}' read. They never heard an}' drumming in their ears, and they did not lie awake at night. Lady Louisa sighed. Then Don John burst forth with, — "If Evelyn had no work to do in the holidays, he would not feel giddy." Evelyn nudged Don John in a fitful, weak way, and Don John responded to the nudge by saying, — " And German is one of the hardest things a fellow can have to get up." "Oh," said Lady Louisa, "but Evelyn is devoted, perfectly devoted, to his German, and to the Herr Pro- fessor ; lie quite enjoys his eight hours a da}'." Evelyn, fixed by liis mother's eye, gave the answer expected of him, but added, with a natural sigh, and in a piping voice, — .' ' But I wanted to dig out those water-voles with ihem." When Lady Louisa remonsti-ated, " But you would get your feet wet, my boy," the long-necked student DON JOHN. 191 succumbed, and Don John and Lanc}' made no obser- vation. The wild ass tossing his mane in the desert is so dif- ferent from the flounder flopping on liis nuid-bank, that he cannot hope to understand him and his fashions. " Wet his feet. Ugh ! " thought Don John. " I think Evelj'u a ver^' nice bo_y, poor fellow," said Charlotte, as the^' were walking home, " and extremelj- clever. I like him." " Oh, 3-es, of course," answered Don John. " ' Like loves like,' as the old maid said, when she bought the primrose. You '11 be an old maid, Charlotte, 1 know you will." "Yes, I know I shall," said Charlotte, a little rue- full}'. " There 's no abstract reason but — " " Nonsense ! " Lancy exclaimed ; "why, Charlotte is as pretty as — as anything." Don John looked at Ciiarlotte criticalh'. "She's just as pretty — you're just as prett}' as some girls who are sure to be married, Charlotte," he remarked encouragingly. '• It 's not that." " But you 've often said I was improved since Fetch wrote me those letters," said Charlotte. Don John rejoined, — • "Fetch is a sensible fellow. I always thought there was a good deal in him." ' ' He did not show his sense in wanting to alter Char- lotte," said Lancy, hotly, and easily perceiving that Don John had written the letters himself. " You don't know much about Charlotte yet. You 've not heard her dash into abstract questions^ and develop her theories to fellows when they come to call." Here Charlotte blushed consciously, and Lancy laughed. Then Don John said, " 'What's the joke?' as the ghost asked of the laughing hyena. ' Dear sir,' he an- swered, ' you can't see a joke in the dark.' But is this fellow in the dark? Charlotte, your blushes testify against 3^ou ! Mary, I now feel that I 've done my duty by you — this is meant for a Sam Weller." 192 DON JOHN. "Oh," said Mary, "it's verj' nice, Lanc}-, to hear him sometimes remember "poor Fetch and tSam. Don John, you 're so grand now you Ivnow 3'ou 're to be arti- cled to father directly — you hardly ever come into the playroom at all. When I sprained my arm, you did Fetch for me every da}-, and Sam too — " The}' were now close to the back of the house, and a piano was heard, together with two fresh young voices singing a duet. The}- were not both ladies' voices. " There he is spooning again," said Don John, " and Naomi playing for them. No, Mary, I am always telling you that I cannot do Sam Wellers for you when- ever I please. But I '11 dance three times with 30U round this geranium bed, if you like, to Naomi's tune. Now, then, ' Do you polk?' as the Ornithorhyncus Par- adoxus said at an evening party when the}- introduced him to the blue-faced baboon." " And what did the blue-faced baboon say?" " She replied that she would dance because she wished to conform to the usages of society, but that she preferred swinging from a bough by her tail, be- cause that amusement was so much more intellectual." " How jolly he is ! " thought Lanc}-, " nothing to con- ceal, nothing on his mind." " When are we going to see the people in the houses?" he asked aloud, for he was impelled by dislike to an inevitable visit, to have it over as soon as possible. " Oh, whenever you like. Shall it be after lunch?" So some time after lunch, Don John and Laney, with Mary and Charlotte, set forth. Laney would have felt more easy if they had been a lai-ger party, but it ap- peared that there was important practising to be done. Two tenors and a harytnne had arrived : ench evidently thouglit his voice suited best with Marjorie's. Naomi stayed behind to play for them. " And how does the new boiler do, Mrs. Clarboy?" asked Don John, when the first greetings w-ere over, and Laney had been assured that he was almost grown out of knowledge. "Oh, sii-, it goes lovely — lovely it does — but it's DON JOHN. 193 rather slow of heating — shall I light it now, sir, and show you ? " " Yes, do, and Lanc3", you sit on the top and let us know Avhen the water boils. You won't? "Well, I never knew such a disobliging fellow ! and when you 've been away s(^ long too." "Master Don John, he's always full of his jokes," said jNIrs. Clarbo}'. " And how is Miss Jenny to-da}-?" asked Charlotte. " Tliank you kindly for asking, miss ; and pore Jenny feels herself better this afternoon. It 's a great comfort to her our niece being with us." Here she made a show of introduction between Charlotte and a prett}- young woman in a close cap. "■ My niece Letty Fane, miss; she is a trained nurse, and understands Jenny's nerves. Y'^es, Lett}' was in a regular hospital, Miss Charlotte, but she has taken a situation in a workhouse now." " Y'ou must tind that a pleasant change," said Char- lotte. " Ma'am," answered the young woman, with an ag- grieved air, " nothing of the sort, I find it very dull, there are no operations." "But she thought it her duty to take the situation, having a widowed mother to help, and there being bet- ter pay," observed Mrs. Clarboy. After this Letty P'ane went upstairs, taking with her some food for the"^ sick aunt, but her account of herself and her tastes had cast a chill over the guests, and Charlotte presentlv rose to take leave, Lancy alone re- maining behind to slip a little present of money into Mrs. Clarboy's hand for the benefit of the sick sister. Mrs. Clarboy accepted it graciously. "And I am sure, sir," she remarked, "I'm right glad to see you at last. I 've often said to pore Jenny, 'Depend oii it, this is only for a time.' They ^11 forgive Master Lancy in the end, and have him back." " It was very wrong of me to run away from home,' said Lancy, with apparent candor. " I liave long been very sorry I did it." A look of indescribable intelligence darted into Mrs. 13 194 DON JOHN. Clarbo^^'s eyes. She had the air of one who feels that she knows more than she wishes to know, and would fain hide it. She colored deeph'. " Yes, sir," she answered, with- out looking at him, and then added hastil}', "And how might that lady be — her that we used to call the lodger?" Then she looked at him. He had drawn back a little, and seemed abashed. So she hurriedly went on : " You find all a good deal growed up about us, sir, you and Mr. Don John ; while you 're away at school, or at college, or where not, the trees grow on ; we shall be almost smothered in them soon." " Yes," said Lancy, looking about him rather for- lornly. " Well, good afternoon, Mrs. Clarbo}-," and he withdrew. There were the others standing at Salisbury's door a little farther on. Oh, what should he do? Sureh' Mrs. Clarbo}- knew something, or at least suspected something ; but it was manifest that no hint had ever reached the girls. He went on to join the party — he must, or they would wonder why. " Good afternoon, sir," said Salisbur}', with a certain gravity as Lancy thought. Presentlj' Mrs. Salisbmy came out, and she too said, " Good afternoon, sir ; " and Lancy, who had intended to be patronizing and pleas- ant, found that he had not a word to say. That visit was made ver}' short, and Lanc}' took special care not to be left one moment behind the others. The manner and the words together amounted to so little — a look in one case, in the other a certain grave restraint. Is a boy who runs away to sea met in that fashion by cottagers several years after, when his with- drawal has been no concern of theirs ? Lancy considered this matter, and could not feel at his ease. He took the first opportunit}' to ask Don John, — " I suppose none of the people about here know any- thing about that — about the unluck}' time of mj' run- ning awa}- ? " " Of course not," said Don John, with conviction. DON JOHN. 195 " But they might suspect something." '' How nervous you are ! They know that Mrs. Col- lingwood is your mother. Father told them. They know nothing more." '■'■ Were you present when he told them?" " Yes, and they all behaved like country bumpkins as they are. They held up their hands, and some of them said, ' Lawk, 3"ou don't say so, sir.' " ' ' And none of them said anything about her having lost anything? " " 1 particularlj' remember that not one said a word about it." " Well, then, I think that was rather odd ! " " No, there was nothing odd in the manner of any of them. If they had known, they must have betrayed the knowledge." " I consider that the poor are far better actors than we are. They knew father must hope the}' had found out nothing (I always hate m^-self when I think of the shame he felt about it) . They like both father and mother ; they may have known, and j'et have spared them." " Nobody knows anything," repeated Don John, yet more decidedl}' ; "you're saved, dear old fellow, this once. Only hold 3'our head up, or you'll excite sur- prise, and make people think there is something wrong." CHAPTER XVII. LANCY was still glad to be at home. He admired his two sisters ; he thought his mother more beau- tiful than ever, and yet the pleasure of those holiday's was made dim by his growing certainty that "the Lodger's " loss and his disa[)pearanee were in some way connected together in the minds of his humble friends. Don John was of an open, joyous nature. He was 196 DON JOHN. devoted and most dutiful to his father and mother ; his abiUties were not b}' any means above the average, but he was blessed with a strong desire to do his best. He was to leave school and be articled to his father ; there was no talk of his going to the University. He was delighted at this, but he well knew that it arose from a change in his father's circumstances, not from an}- desire to please him that he was to escape from the hated Latin and Greek, and take to more congenial studies. Don John accepted all his father'^ decisions as if the}' had been the decrees of fate ; he was no whit more thoughtful than most youths of his age, but he had somewhat unusual observation of character — he could make his influence felt at home, and much of his talk was seasoned with a peculiar humor. 'Jlie friends of the family considered him to be a youth of great promise ; so he was in a certain sense, and a thorough good fellow ; but though he worked fairly well at school, and may almost be said to have done his best, he never brought home one prize during his whole career except- ing for good conduct, while Lancy scared}' ever came home without one or two. And Mr. Johnstone, having looked over their papers, always expressed himself to the full as much pleased with Don John as with Lanc}', sometimes more so. Neither boy was surprised. This was only justice, and they forthwith subsided into the places that nature had intended for them. In the schoolroom Don John ruled just as naturally as he took the head of the table ; he headed the expeditions ; if there was any blame, it all fell on him. If any treat Avas to be obtained he went and asked for it. If any one of the party in childhood had committed an accidental piece of mischief of a flagrant nature, such as letting a pom' down and break- ing its knees, or making a great smash of greenhouse glass, Don John, whoever had been the delinquent, was always deputed to go and make confession, and he gen- erally began thus: "Father, I'm sorr}' to say we've done so and so." Lancy was almost as much loved as Don John, but DON JOHN. 197 he was neither feared nor looked up to ; he did as he lilved, and was great in criticism, but not in command. Lancy spent man}- an hour in thought during those holidays. He perceived that circumstances gave him a certain power. There was a great deal of cunning in his nature, he felt a little ashamed of Mrs. Collingwood because, as he perceived, "she was not a lad}*." He had always been told that in the course of time he should l)e articled to the father who had adopted him ; but he had hoped for several years at Cambridge, where he should do much as he liked. Still he wished to be under Mr. Johnstone's charge rather than under Mrs. Colhngwood's. Such love as he had in his nature he bestowed on the Johnstones, specially on Mrs. John- stone and Don John. But his first visit to "the houses" changed every- thing. He could not bear to think of being so near to those peoi)le, feeling sure as he did that they were aware of his delinquency. Another inevitalile visit soon took place, and set the matter at rest in his opinion. He was sure they knew, just as sure as that his sisters did not. And the servants? Had they, too, been made par- takers of Mrs. Clarboy's and Mrs. Sahsbury's suspi- cions? He longed to live "at home" again, but his fault had risen up and fiiced him when he'hoped it was dead and buried. Why, rather than walk home through that field three or four times every week, he thought he could almost find it in his heart to run away again ! But there would be no need for that ; he would write to Mrs. Collingwood, and make use of her to get his own wa}-. So he did, he never called her mother, and he was not base enough to use more expressions of affection than just enougli as he thought to serve his end. This was his letter : — "My dear MA]\nixV, " When 5'ou wrote to me about going on the conti- nent to travel with you for a v/hole year, I did not con- 19S DON JOHN. sent to ask father's leave, for in the first place I knew from Don John that he would not give it, for he meant to article me to himself; and in the next, of course I like better to -be with my own family — the Johnstones 1 mean, of course, — than with you. " But 3'ou are very kind, and I am not so happ}- here as I expected — because I am quite sure those people in the houses know about it. You understand what I mean. And so, mamma, if you like, I '11 go the tour with you. 1 know I shall be disagreeable and cross to you sometimes when I think that I 'm awaj' from them, but that I can't help, and I can hardly bear to write this letter, but I must. " I think the best thing will be for 3'ou to write to father (not telling that 1 wrote this), and ask him if I may travel with you — 3'ou have said several times that if he wished one thing and I wished the same, you had no chance ; but I think if you wish one thing and I wish the same, he will have no chance ; but mind, mam- ma, if he is very angry and will not consent, I am off the bargain. " I am, yours affectionately, "L. AlKD." In a few da3's a letter was written to Mr. Johnstone by Mrs. Collingwood, just such a letter as Lancy had suggested, and when the adopted son was told that the plan was out of the question he seemed much disap- pointed. ' ' You must either be articled to me or j-on must go to Cambridge, you cannot afford to waste a whole year on idle pleasure. It is my duty to see that you are put in the way to earn a comfortable living — " " But i shall have four hundred a 3'ear,^' pleaded Lancv rather d('jectedl3'. " How do you know that? what makes you think so? " "Oh, father, Mrs. Collingwood always says that of course what she has will all come to me." " She is 3-oung, she ma3' marr3' again." " She sa3's she never will." DON JOHN. 199 "Well, grant that. Do 3-ou think I married, and that I bring np my iarnih', on four hundred a year? " "No, fatlier." " " Or on treble tliat sum ? " " Perhaps 1 shall have something more." " Of course you will. We need not go into that question. There ! forget this letter, it will not do — I wish to have you under my own eyes, and living here, at home." '- But the people in the houses know it." "Know what?" exclaimed Donald Johnstone, for- getting for the moment what Lancy meant. " Father, must I tell 3'ou what? " No rei)ly was made to this, the suggestion that his poor neighbors knew what Lancy had done w^as as gall and wormwood to Donald Johnstone. '•'■ May n't I wait a year, and then perhaps 3'ou '11 go back to riarley Street, and I could be articled to you, and not be in their neighborhood ? " " No ; I shall never go back to Harley Street. I am not nearly so well ott', my bo}', as I was in 3'our child- hood." " And yet you say that I shall have more than four hundred a j-ear." There was a long pause. Then Lancy said, — ' ' Father, will }ou tell me one thing ? " And before any answer could be made, he went on: " My father, Lancelot Aird, did he — did he save your life?" "No," said Mr. Johnstone. He felt as if he had been taken at a disadvantage by this sudden question, but he little supposed that Lancy had long meditated asking it. "Then he must have done you some great — some very great kindness, surely, father." " No," said Mr. Johnstone. " he did not." " When you last saw him, did you promise him that you would bring me up ? " Had the secret been kept so long to be drawn forth by such a simple question as that ; such a natural ques- tion, one that it seemed a sou might surel}' have a right 200 DON JOHN. to ask? Donald Johnstone scarcel}' knew, but he looked at Lancy ; he was impelled to answer, and could not help it. '' I never made Lancelot Aird anj' promise of any sort." " He was not brought up with you?" said Lanc}" in a faintl3- questioning tone. " No." " When did you first meet with him, then, father?" " I never met with him at all." Lancy, on hearing this, hung his head. It was not for his father's sake, then, that he had been brought up. "You have made a mistake, 3'ou see," said Donald Johnstone, in a low voice. " You have got an answer to a question which sooner or later 3'ou almost must have asked, and it is a shock to 3-ou. There is another that 3'OU now desire to ask, but it pleases me to observe that 3'OU cannot do it. I will ask it and answer it for 3'OU. It is, I think, ' When did you first meet with Lancelot Aird's wife.' " Lanc3', who had colored deepl3', did not move or lift up his face. '' I first met with her at a time of deep distress, when my son was about ten da3-s old, and there was everA' reason to fear that I should lose his mother. I went once into her darkened room to look at her, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I saw seated at the foot of her bed a young woman in a widow's dress, who had my poor little infant son in her arms. She rose and curtseyed when she saw me, and I perceived at once that she was the wet-nurse of whom I had been told, and who had been engaged. She was nursing Donald. The first time, then", that I saw her, was when her child was about two months old." Lane3', for the moment, was overcome with bashful- ness, but when Mr. Johnstone said with a sigh, " I am not displeased with 3-ou, my boy," he put histwo hands on the adopted father's hand ns it was l3ing near thei-e on the table, and leaned his face on it and kissed it. DON JOHN. 20 1 Then he said with a better, sweeter expression than had dawned on his lace for a long time, — '' I am glad you are such a good man, father, but — but that only makes it more wonderful that I should be here, and tiiat you should be so fond of me. Why, when I was a little fellow I used always to thinlc 3'ou were even more fond of me than of Donald." " Did 30U, m}- dear boy? I am exceedingly attached to 3'ou, Lancy ; and when 3-011 went wrong, and I was told of that former delinquenc}-, I lost my spirits. I became ill." " But I 'm cured," pleaded Lanc}', with a sob. "■ Yes, I thank God for that hope. And now you per- ceive that b}- this conversation you have learned certain things ; 3'ou took me at a disadvantage, and 1 spoke. You had meditated for some time asking these ques- tions ? " "■Yes, father," said Lancy. " I advise you, as loving ^-ou, which I have proved, and as deserving well of you — " " Oh, yes, father." "I advise you not to ask any more, but rather to court ignorance. Let things be, my boy. Even Donald is not more welcome to everything I can do for him than 3'ou are. Let that satisfy 3-ou, Lancy." "Twill let things be," said Lanc}', in a low voice. " Father, if I never thanked you and mother /or all tJiis all these years, it must have been because till Mrs. Col- lingwood appeared it seemed so natural I should have it, that I never thought about it — any more than the others did." "Nothing else that 3-ou could possibl3- have said — nothing ! — would have pleased me as much as this does ! " exclaimed Mr. Johnstone. Lancy was surprised. He saw how true his father's words were, that he had given him great jileasure. He could not but look inquiringly at him, and thereupon, with an effort, Donald Johnstone recalled his usual ex- pression ; and when Lancy went on, "But I want to thank 3-ou now, and to sa3- that I am grateful," he an- 202 DON JOHN. swered, " That is enough, my dearest boy. Now go. I am about to write to Mrs. Collingwood. I am sorry she evc-r proposed to you to take this tour without first con- sulting me, and I must tell her it would not suit my views respecting you." So Lanc}' left Mr. Johnstone, and even in the going, though his heart was warmed towards him, and he rc' spected him more than for some time past, AX't a certain ease of mind with which he had of late accepted his bene- fits was now gone. He wondered, as he had not been adopted for Lancelot Aird's sake, for whose sake it could be ? His opinion had been highly disrespectful also to- wards Mrs. Collingwood — perhaps hardly more so than she deserved ; but the least suspicion of anything like the truth, and that he had been adopted for his own sake, never entered his head. So Donald Johnstone wrote to IMrs. Collingwood, and told her that he did not consider a lengthened period of idleness and pleasure at all suitable for Lancy at his early age ; that he did not approve of mere feminine super- vision for a high-spirited youth ; and that he trusted to her known affection for him not to damage his prospects b}' making the restraints of professional life irksome to him. The first step was now to be taken towards fitting him for his profession. When Mrs. Collingwood got this letter she was excessively' disappointed ; and then, on reading it a second time, she was exceedingly wrath. She felt the galling nature of this yoke under which she had put her neck. Lanc}' had made her so sure she should get her own wa}-, that she was resolved to do battle for it ; and she wrote, urging her claim to his compau}', and begging that he might not be forced against his Avill to be frequently among people who knew of " the childish faults which he had been so long and so severely pun- ished for." " And besides, sir," she continued, ''^'ou are quite wrong if you think my dear boy has no natu- ral feelings towards me, his mother. He knows his dut}'' to you, and he strives to do it ; but he takes it haixl that he is never to be with me, and you may depend that I do." Then she went on : "' And I think it is but right, DON JOHN. 203 sir, that you should ask Mrs. Johnstone whether she thinks I ought to be always kept out of seeing my dear boy. She "knows what a mother's feelings are ; and, though she is always so high with me, she will tell you that no mother could put up with what 1 am putting up with much longer." Of course 3Irs. Johnstone saw this letter. She sighed as she folded it up. '^ Donald, I am afraid if she will have him, she must have him. When we met, you carried things with a high hand, and I hoped she did not see her own power. Now, on reflection, I be- lieve she does." " Yes," he answered, " she is sure, 3'ou are sure, and I am almost sure, Lancy is hers. Let her take him for awhile, and I think she will be appeased ; but with- stand her, and she Avill tell him all." " You might exact a promise from her as the price of your consent." " Oh, a promise goes for ver}" little, m}^ Star, in such a case as this. There is nothing that we ought not to do for Lancy, even to the point of telling him ourselves, if he was in temptation, or seemed likely to fall again, and to know of such a possible part in us might help to keep him upright for our sake — only — " " Only," she went on, when he paused. " Only that, for the chance of elevating him, we should be sacrificing Donald. We should break Donald's heart." "A boy's heart is not so easily broken," he re- plied. "But ho is our good boy — a very loving son," she answered almost reproachfullv. " Who has never made U3 ashamed of him. Shall we take everything away from him, and fill him with doubt and distress in order to give almost nothing to the other ? " "Not if we can help it, my dear," and at that mo- ment Lancy came into the room. "I've got a letter from my mamma," he said, he would not call her mother. " She sa3-s you do not like me to take a long tour with her, dear father and mother, but will I ask if I may go for one month?" The letter was dulv read; "one 204 DON JOHN. month or six weeks " was the phrase used, and the letter was both urgent and humble. " You wish to go?" "Yes, father, if3-ou don't mind." Then observing that the tender woman whom he called mother was moved, and that her eyes, more moist and ' bright than usual, seemed to dwell on his face atten- tively, Lancy blushed and said, "I think I ought to pity her, for, as she often says, 1 am her only child." Mr. Johnstone looked at him deliberately, and with- out any tenderness of aspect, he seemed to take a mo- ment's time to consider his words, then he said, "If 3'ou were my only child, I should hardly love you more ; certainly I coukl not be one whit more anxious for your welfare. Therefore, knowing her feelings, and consid- ering that her present request is reasonable (her wish to take you away for a j-ear was not), I think if your mother agrees with me — " Here he paused, and it pained them both a little, when, after waiting just one short instant for her rejoinder, he said rather urgently, — "Oh, mother, _you always wish me to have treats — mother, you '11 let me go ? " " Yes," she said, without looking at him. He scarcely observed her emotion, certainly never divined that it was on his account, but he gave her the customary kiss they always bestowed when thanking her for any favor, and he took out of the room with him a vivid recollection of what Donakl Johnstone had said. He felt a little daunted by it. He knew it would be a restraint upon him. But it was no restraint as regarded that only point at which just then he was in danger. CHAPTER XYin. " "Xl^T"'^-^''^' ^-^^^ ^ have leave to go." thought Lanc}', V V looking out of the window of his own bedroom ; "now I have leave to go; and the question is, am I glad, or am I sorry? If it was not for the people in DON JOHN. 205 the houses, of course I would never lend nijself to aid JNlrs. Colli ngwood's plans. Is it really onl_y because I have not courage enough to meet those people's looks that I mean to go ? Of course things would be no better at the end of six weeks." He reflected on a sentence written on a distinct piece of paper and put inside her letter by Mrs. Collingwood : '' 8how this letter, xq.j dear, to Mr. Johnstone, and I '11 manage, when we have once set out, to keep you as long as 3'ou and me think tit." "Yes, as long as she thinks fit, whether I like it or not — for I shall have no mone}', I shall not even have my allowance." He sauntered rather disconsolately down the corridor. After that short conference with " father and mother " he had, as it were, dismissed himself that he might write to jMi'S. ColUngwood. He looked out at another win-' dow, and there were father and mother in the pon}' car- riage, and there was Mrs. Johnstone's maid behind with some bottles and a basket. "Father" for once had taken a holiday, and all the party were to have lunch and afternoon tea in a wood about four miles off". Don John and all the girls were standing about the donkey — a babble of girls' voices came up to him very pleasantlj-. The donkey turned his head over his shoulder with an air of discontent and disgust. Well he might, for little Mary was seated on his back, and Charlotte and Naomi were filling his pan- niers with Crocker}-, a tin kettle, fruit, cakes, and all sorts of miscellaneous prog. Lanc}' was to run after them when he had written his letter. Really he hardly knew now whether he would write it or not. He sauntered on ; the door of Mrs. Johnstone's dressing-room was open, and he idly entered. Lanc}' never had an}' evil intentions unless pi-esent opportunity seemed to his weak mind to be ministering to them. He was thinking just then, " If I once go, then, how- eA''er much I may long to get back, I shall have no money to do it with." 206 DON JOHN, There was a good large dressing-case of Indian work- mansiiip standing on the table opposite to him. Often when a little fellow he had been allowed to open it. He remembered how mother nsed sometimes to let him and Don John rub her little amber and agate ornaments with wash-leather wlien she was b}'. There was an upper tray, with nothing of value in it, that he had often helped to put to rights ; there were some ivory hearts and some bangles in it — how well he remembered them ! — and there were some Indian silver butterflies, which trembled on flowers with spiral stems. There were two or three trap's in that box ; but when it ap- peared to be emptj- there was a little spring somewhere on which thej* used to ask mother to put her finger, and then they used to see a shallow drawer suddenly start forth and display its contents. "■ I have n't seen it for 3'ears," thought Lanc}' ; " some old rings were there." The color flushed over his face ; he began to know tliat he was in danger, for he did remember again that he had no money. He made no movement to go out of the room, Init lie half turned his head, and so it fell out that his eyes lit on a book which was lying face downwards on the table. He took it up open as it was. " Mother," had evidentl}' been reading it before she went out. For one instant it seemed as if, prescient of this visit, she had put the book there as a warning ; for what was it that he read ? ' • There are two kinds of sin — wilful sin and willing sin. "• Wilful sin is that into which, because of the frailty of our nature, because of the strength of passion and temptation ; not loving but loathing it, not seeking but resisting it, not acquiescing in "out fighting and strug- gling against it, we all sometimes fall. This is the struggle in which God's spirit striveth with our spirit, and out of which we humbly l:)clieve and hope that God will at the last grant unto us victor}' and forgiveness. " But there is another kind of sin far deadlier, far more heinous, far more incurable, it is wUling sin. It DON JOHN. 207 is when we are content with sin ; when we have sold ourselves to sin ; when we no longer fight against sin ; when we mean to continue in sin. That is the darkest, lowest, deadliest, most irredeemable abysm of sin ; and it is well that the foolish or guilty soul should know that on it, if it have sunk to this, has been already executed — self-executed — the dread mandate, ' In the da}- that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.' " "Who wants to commit sin?" exclaimed Lancy aloud. "Always preach, preach, preaching, — I'm sick of it. And just as if I did n't know the difference 3'ou talk of as well as you do — or better. Wilful sin is what we are dragged in to do for its own sake, but loillinri sin is what we plan to do for our own sakes, be- cause it will be to our interest at some future time. Well I had better go and write my letter." But he did not stir ; he gave the pages of the book a flick and they turned ; he could not stand there with no ostensible occupation, he actually began to read again. " For first, m}- brethren, let us all learn that the con- sequences of sin are inevitaUe ; in other woixls, that ' punishment is but the stream of consequence flowing on unchecked.' There is in human nature an element of the gambler, willing to take the chances of things ; willing to run the risk if the issue be uncertain. There is no such element here. The punishment of sin is certain. All Scripture tells us so. ' Though hand join in hand the wicked shall not be unpunished.' ' The way of transgressors is hard.' All the world's proverbs tell us so. ' Reckless 3-outh, rueful age.' ' As he has made his bed, so he must lie in it.' ' He that will not be ruled by the rudder must be ruled bv the rock.' " Even Satan himself would not deny it. In the old legend of Dr. Fausfns^ when he bids the devil lay aside his de\ilish propensity to lying, and tell the truth, the devil answers, ' The world does me injustice to tax me with lies. Let me ask their consciences if I have ever deceived them into thinking that a bad action wa? * good one.' " ^ ^ Sermon by the Rev. Canon Farrar. 208 DON JOHN. Something quaint or strange or striking impelled him to read thus far, or it ma^^ have been that he was or- dained to have every possible warning this time ; he could not smother his better convictions without a long struggle, and he trembled. Something seemed to whis- per within him that this time he could not say if he sinned that it was on the impulse of the moment and almost unawares. But he stood stock still. He would not go out of the room. He sighed, and the color faded out of his cheeks. " But if I was not to do it again," he whis- pered, " I ought never to have done it at all." He put down the book — and went up and o^Dened the box, and lifted the tra}- and touched the little spring. The small box started forth at once and displayed its contents before his e^'es. He chose out a little faded ring-case of yellow leather he found in it. It contained an old-fashioned, clumsy ring, a ring for a man's finger. Perhaps about once in two years ' ' mother " wore it on her middle finger. It had belonged to her grandfather. A handsome dia- mond ring. He took it out, closed the leather case, and put that back in its place. He pushed back the drawer and closed the spring over it, put down the trays, then shut the dressing-case and walked slowly out of the room — with the ring on his finger. "Mother does not often leave her box unlocked," he said to himself, " she must have been in a hurry." He thought with something like dismay of the good clergyman whose exhortations had been such a weari- ness to him. Then there flashed on his mind the only thing that had ever been said to him that had made au impression. " Father" had talked to him but a few days before, and Lanc}^ had without hesitation claimed as an excuse for his sin a propensity that he unfortunatel}' had for laying his hands on what he saw before him. He was cured now — but there were unfortunate people who could not help stealing — and if great care had not been DON JOHN. 20g taken with him — for whicli lie was ver}' thankful ( I) he might have become one of them. Ilis mentor answered, " iSJo, my boy, a thousand times no — what 3"ou have suffered from has been by no means an instinct of covetousness, but an absence of principle." " I wished for tlie things," said Lancj' faintl}'. "But not for the mere sake of possession — not to liide them and go in secret to gaze at them. No, you took fruit that you might eat it — 3'ou took mone}' that you migiit spend it. There is no powerful instinct of acquisitiveness against j'ou : be afraid of the right thing, a feeble sense of justice, a slack hold on good principle." He remembered this now because, of all that had ever been said to him, it had most impressed him. He was no Kleptomaniac, nothing of the sort. Reason showed him that possession was good, conscience did not govern him enough as to how he came into posses- sion. He spoke within himself from time to time as he stood in his own room, looking out at the window. " It 's worth about fifty pounds, that ring." "Mother does not want it; will not know perhaps for years that it 's gone." "But suppose it should be missed — is it possible that they would suspect me ? " " Oh, they never would, they never could !" — Lancy was actually almost indignant at the thought of such a thing. He appeared to see — as if he was one of them, how unlikely such a thing was, what a shame it would be in their opinion. No, they ought not to suspect him. In fact, the thing was not done yet in such a way that it could not be undone. It was almost time to set out to follow the family party. "I can easily put it back if I like," he murmured. " To rob one who has adopted me as a son ! " " It sounds bad — " ' ' In this house particularly — " 14 2IO DON JOHN. " But this will onl}' be an ideal loss after all — " " If it 's not found out, it can hardl}- be said to have been done — " " Very likeh* at the end of six weeks, having had no need to sell it, I siiall bring it back." ''He that will not be ruled by the rudder must be ruled b}' the rod." "I'll put it back." " To-morrow I '11 put it back." " Before I go on m^' tour I '11 put it back." " Well, if I mean to overtake them in time for lunch, I must start." He meant to put it back, but yet to keep it in his own power till the last minute, /or he might not have an op- portunity to take it again. Having said even this to him- self, and provided for a possible future wish to be a thief, he went into a spare room which was carpeted all over, lifted the carpet in one corner, and hid the ring under it. "I've done it now!" he whispered, with a sigh. " Well, then, they should not try to make me live down here where that other thing I did is known." " Perhaps I 've done for myself too — " "Perhaps. It's Mrs. CoUingwood's fault if I have. Does she suppose I care for her, that she suggests to me to cheat them as if I wished to do it? To cheat them in order to be in her company?" Lancy walked and ran through the fair woodlands and pastures till he came to the place where he was to join his people. The father and mother, as more to one another than ever the children could be to them, sat a little apart, and looked on together. Two dark, eager young men hovered about ]Marjorie, ambitious to help her, desirous to absorli her notice. Naomi and Charlotte cut up salad, Mary held the dressing, Don John laid the cloth on the grass and set out the viands. "I care for neither of those fellows, my star," ob- served Donald Johnstone. DON JOHN. 2 1 1 " Nor does Marjorie," she answered ; " don't disturb thj^self with an}- fear of an unwelcome son-in-law." ' ' I suppose this sort of thing will go on till she makes her selection among the youth of the neighborhood. It 's rather hard on Naomi. When first I saw 3'ou, Estelle, you were seated just so — just two such aspir- ants heaved wind}' sighs in your near vicinity. In twenty minutes 1 hated them with unchristian fervor. In twent}- minutes more I loved ! I was blighted ! I had attained to the very fanaticism of jealousy ! And I re- member even now, how a girl as graceful as Naomi and as pretty as Charlotte stood by, and none of us took the least notice of her. It w^as LesUe that I hated most." " Poor Leslie ! " she said, w-ith a quiet smile ; " you were always very jealous of him." He laughed. " I could find it in my heart to be jealous of Leslie even now," he answered. " I know you could, love," was her thought, but she only said, "What! when our grown-up children are about us? Donald, how odd that you should have taken it into your head to sa}' that just now ! " " Why just now?" "Because I had a letter from him this morning." "No!" "He is coming home invalided. His health seems to be quite broken up." "Poor fellow! What an ass he made of himself! but he is a ver}^ respectable ass." "And so conscientious!" she added, with a little, irrepressible laugh. He looked at her inquiringly. "After expressing his unalterable affection, his deep respect for me, he desired that I would show his letter to j-ou — ' it was only right that you should see it — and then if you permitted it, would I write him a few lines of sympathy ? ' There, now read his effusion ; and Donald, you really should not talk about being jealous of such a foolish fellow as Leslie, even in joke." 212 DON JOHN. ' ' I am quite aware of it, my star ; but look at our children." 8he looked, and the scene before them often rose in the memory' of both parents afterwards. Don John was dipping water out of a tin_y clear stream with a cup, and pouring it into a large china l)asin which Naouii held, leaning towai'ds him with supple grace, and keep- ing her feet away from the moist brink. Don John might now almost be called a fine youth. He only just reached the middle height, but he looked very strong, was well made, and had a charming air of contentment and intelligence. The two 3-ounger children, with Lancy, were hovering about the table-cloth, and Mar- jorie, with a somewhat pensive air, sat quietly on her throne ; it was the trunk of a fallen tree. The two lovers, one of whom was a mere 3'outh, a nephew of Mr. Viser, and the other a young ofBcer, Campbell by name, gazed at her resplendent robe, her exquisite gloves, underneath which were yet more exquisite hands. They admired the incomparable grace of that hat with matchless feathers in it. A smaU locket rose and fell on her delicate throat, no jeweller's shop con- tained an ornament so deeply to be admired. Marjorie and her sister were dressed and adorned, precisely alike, even to the locket. Neither of the lovers knew it, the two looked so different in their e3-es. Her hair was the reddest brown or the brownest red ; wherever the light struck, it looked the precise color of rust. • Marjorie admired a trail of hone^'suckle which de- pended from the bough of a tree. Both the lovers started up to gather it^ then Campbell fell back, think- ing that the occasion promised him a moment alone with her. Then Viser also held back ; how could he leave her alone for that same moment with his rival ? Mary and Master Frederick Johnstone, now thirteen A-ears old, perfectly understood this little scene. The)' burst into a laugh of keen delight ; Lancy joined, and Marjorie felt very foolish. Fredd_y's surprised e3'es somewhat daunted her. Thev meant that it was ridicu- DON JOHN. 213 lous to have a lover, and it was ridiculous to be a lover. The}' seemed to ask what the 3'oung fools could be thinking of, and Don John exclaimed, — "It's all very m^II for a time, but 'Blow these sparks ! ' as the fire said to the bellows, if they don't soon burst into flame I shall certainh' go out." "You are a very vulgar boy!" exclaimed Naomi. "Mother hates slang, you know she does." "Well, they shouldn't be so long about it, then. Let them propose, and she can accept one." " Then that one would always be here ! " " And I shall go out. Grandmother has asked me many times ; I shall go to Edinburgh." In the meantime Charlotte had been walking up and down a short level space under the trees. There was a tree-trunk to bound her path at each end, and when she reached it she turned ; but getting quite lost in thought, she at last walked up to one of the trunks, and, being brought to a stand, forgot to turn, but stood with her face close to it cogitating, and quite unaware that cer- tain peals of laughter which she heard had an3'thing to do with her, Don John pelted her with little rose-colored fungi, and little buds of foxgloves, flicking them with such dexterity that several lighted on her shoulders. At last he threw a good-sized hedge rose at her hat. Then she half roused herself, and, calmly turning, gazed at them all. Even the lovers were laughing. Charlotte blushed ; she knew not how to move, whether to join them or walk away from them. She was covered with con- fusion ; but here was Lancy coming. Lancy held out his hand ostensil-dy to help her over the tiny brook, and when she put hers into it, he squeezed it. It was the very first time any one had squeezed her hand. With startled eyes she looked up. It was the same old Lancy, the familiar companion of her childhood, but somehow he looked different. Selfish fellow, he was only pleas- ing himself for the moment ; she did look so prett3'. His fine eyes looked into hers and told her that she was lovely, and that he thought so. The admiration of the 214 DON JOHN. other sex, and what eflFect it might have on her, she knew at present nothing of. ISweet little Charlotte never had prettv speeches made to her ; nobody wanted to appropriate the flowers she had worn, the gloves she had laid down ; nobody stole her photographs out of the album ; nobody " on his bended knees" begged for one. Charlotte was surprised to the point of feeling con- fused, and 3'et there was a little elation too ; and when she joined the party she had forgotten that they had laughed at her. She hardly knew what passed. But Don John knew all about it, or at least he thought he did. He had seen the look between the bo}' and the maiden. " I did not think Lancy could be a muff," thought this sensible youth with scorn. "And Charlotte to be so pleased ! Ugh ! they 're all alike, I declare." CHAPTER XIX. MANY a long day passed before those who met at that picnic came together again. The next morning Lancy took leave of his parents, not without guilty beatings at the heart, for he took with him the ring. The afl'ection they showed him — the almost confidence in him — he could not accept without some ver}' keen stirrings of shame. He was only to be away a month, as was supposed, but he re- ceived a great deal of wise, graA^e, and truly fatherlike admonition and counsel. '' What would he think if he knew all ! " thought Lancj', and he held his tongue, and yet lie was shaken, he was compelled to think the world into which he was wilfiillv flinging himself was more full of danger, not than he had known, but than he had felt. " I'm a valuable article, and it's manifest that Mrs. DON JOHN. 215 CoUingwood is not thought competent to have the charge of me. Well, lather's right there; I should be a fool indeed, supposing that I wished to go wrong, if I could not do it in spite of her." " And now it is fully understood that this tour is only to be for a month?" observed Donald Johnstone. Lancy answered, "Yes, father," and to take a tour of one month he went away. And yet when he had taken leave of his sisters and of Don John, and went to kiss his mother, she was aware of something in his manner, something which he could not conceal, which struck her as if it portended a leave- taking for a long time. He looked at her ; he was agitated as if in spite of himself. The diamond ring was in his waistcoat pocket pressed so tightly by his arm against his heart that he felt it plainly. It almost seemed to burn him. But that was not all. He knew that he was not to be trusted ; he was sure that he should not come back. It flashed into his heart that this was hard on them, for they had treated him in all respects as a son. It flashed back to him in an instant that if he had been their own son he should have done it just the same, and then he gave Mrs. Johnstone his fresh young cheek, and having his free choice and time to think, elected to shake off the salutarv .yoke with the peaceful security of liome, and if the tour proved to be delightful or exciting, leave it to fate to find liim excuses for prolonging it, and to the same " agreeable party " to get him out of the scrape if the home authorities should be wroth. In time circumstances would drift him home again, he would eventually render himself so disagreeable to " his mamma," that she would be glad to get rid of him, and then, throwing all the blame upon her, he could humbly beg pardon. And — would they forgive him? Of course they would. At tlie end of the month, two or three letters having already been received from him, he wrote a very humble letter full of anxious excuses, and, as it seemed, of per- plexity. He declared that jMrs. Collingw^ood, who, in 2l6 DON JOHN. other respects, was most kind, had suddenly informed him that she meant to cross from Brindisi to Alexan- dria, and spend some time in Egypt ; that he had no mone}'' to come home with ; that she was very willing to take him with her and pa}- all his expenses, " as was only right," she said, " but she declined to give him money in order that he might leave her." Certain phrases in this letter let Mr. Johnstone see plainly that Lancy had not concocted it without aid, perhaps prompt- ing, from Mrs. Collingwood. He was not deceived, but he felt himself to be powerless. He had long, indeed always, acted as if both the bo3's were his own sons, now he was made to feel that he could do it no longer without their consent. As for Lancy, he was generally amused, often excited, but not always happ}'. He could not respect, he did not love the woman who was helping him to outwit his best friends. He soon got into idle habits, and the longer he stayed away the less willing he felt to go home and work and submit himself to the restraint of a well-ordered English family. Feminine supervision was of little use to him, and he soon began to take advantage of Mrs. CoUingwood's want of education, and more than once or twice helped himself to mone}' of hers in the changing for her of one sort of currency into another. But even that was not enough ; befoi'e they left Europe the ring was gone, and Lanc3' was the worse for a quantity of loose money always under his hand, yet not wanted for an}' good or needful expenditure. And he was the worse also for a fear that he could never dare to come home now lest tlie ring should be eventually missed and he should be sus- pected of the crime. Lancy pitied himself and he pit- ied " his folks," as he called them. " It's not so bad for them, though, my running away as it would have been if I had been their own son. It might have been Don John. Yes, and if I had been Don John — no, I mean if I had been the son and he the adopted fellow, I should certainly have done it just the same. Wh}'. what a fool I am ! I should have clone it without half as much DON JOHN. 21 y worry and conscience-pricking as I feel now, because I should have been so much more sure tiie}' would forgive me. Numbers of fellows run awa}' — hundreds of fel- lows, in fact — but — well, they don't take any family jewels with them. How do I know that? Why, I don't know it. I dare say I 'm no worse than other people." All the winter in Egypt — wonderful things to see, strange fashions, a floating home, sunn}' temples in the sand, and blank-faced gods to find fascinations in ; per- fect impunit}' yet from any questioning as regarded the ring, and any calling to order, or even inquiry as to when he meant to return. And then having written sev- eral somewhat moderately penitent letters home, he got answers before the}- went up the Nile. " Father " at first was manifestly displeased, and yet Lancy thought he was restraining his anger, he wished almost, as it were, to jDropitiate the scapegrace. And "mother" did not so nuich blame as reason with him. He could have re- mained at the hotel if he had pleased, she said, and there telegraphed to his father to send him money — he could easily do so now. Not so very easil}'. He did hesitate for half a day, but to spend almost a whole win- ter on the Nile, and see so many marvels, and have nothing to do but to please himself — how could he give this up? He did not give it up. And to see so much, increased his thirst for seeing more. So the winter wore away, and before the cherry blossom was out in the orchard behind his old home, just as the buds began to turn white, and the girls were saying, " Lanc}' must be on his way to us by this time," there came a letter from him dated Jerusalem. It realh^ was a very nice letter, and it seemed to make out, though it did not exactly assert, that he had not heard from home for a long time, and he felt sure they would be pleased to know that Mrs. Collingwood, though she would not allow him to leaA^e her, was j-et very kind, and gave him ever}' opportunity to improve himself. He said nothing of how "father " had proposed to send him money, but left it to be supposed that he had never received that letter. 2l8 DON JOHN. INIr. Johnstone felt that he was foiled. Mrs. John- stone was ver}- jealous of the other woman, and, with ^yearning love, began to admit for the first time that • much as she had been wronged, Maria Collingwood had wronged herself more. She knew perfectly well that Lancy did not love her ; he never spoke of her as " my mother," onl}' as "m}' mamma." As for Don John, he got accustomed in the end to the loss of this life-long companion. He ruled and reigned over the other young people and allowed Mar- jorie's lovers to perceive the good-natured pity with Avhich he regarded them, not so much for '• spooning," as he called it, for that, as he graciously observed, was natural, but for being so long about it. '' I shall take the matter in hand myself," he observed to Naomi. " Marjorie likes Campbell best, and, be- sides, Viser will not be able to marrj' for ten years, by what I hear." '' Wliy, what can you do?" exclaimed Naomi, laugh- ing at him. " And after that," proceeded Don John, " I shall look lip some lovers, one each for you and Charlotte. If 1 don't, I shall have you both on m}' hands all mj' life, so far as I can see." Naomi still laughed; "You can do nothing," she repeated, " a bo}' like you ! " "We sliall see. Campbell is horridly cast down be- cause he 's ordered to P^dinburgh. And I feel sure that ass Viser is putting off making his offer till the power- ful rival is out of the way. I shall write to grandmother, and — well, I shall tell her my views." "No, Don John." " I shall ! She will invite Marjorie to visit her; and I shall take her down." "Well?" " Well, father admitted the other day that though he had not cared for Campbell at first, he now thought he should like him very well as a son-in-law." "Well?" " He never has the least chance here, alwa3"s some of DON JOHN. 219 YOU present, geuerall}' one at least of 3'oa laughing at him." "Well?" " I am not going to stand an)' more of this question- ing. 1 f iMaijurie's frocks and feathers and things are not in good order, yon will have to lend her some of yours, and CUiarlotte may lend her pearls — for she is going to Edinburgh in about a week, and I do not intend that father should be teased for any money for her just now." He turned as Naomi, still laughing, but believing that he was in earnest, walked on to the house. He was in the middle of the cherry orchard, and, be- hold, there was Cliarlotte advancing ! The sky was blue above ; a cup of azure liglit without a cloud ; the trees were one mass of pure wiiite blossom, and under foot the ground was covered with the glossy flat leaves and yellow astral flowers of the celandine. A blue and yellow world — all pure white and pale glory. Was there no red at all in it? — nothing to give a hint of coming damask roses and the intense pure blush of the carnation ? Yes, Charlotte drew near; she was reading as she walked. Don John's time to rave about beauty was not yet come ; but he did look at Charlotte's damask lips and carnation cheeks ; and somehow he perceived that she supplied a deficienc^y, that she carried about with her all that nature and April possessed of a very precious color just then. A smile of joy broke out over his face ; something occurred that was a revelation to himself, and that in an instant he communicated to her. A crisp sound, as of a foot treading on last year's leaves and fiillen twigs, was heard behind them ; and there emerged from the side path, and evidently was making for Chai-lotte, a somewhat jaunty-looking young man, whose buoyant tread made him almost seem to dance up to her. Yes, he knew what he was about ; he had a deprecating and yet a somewhat elated air. It was the j'onthfullest of the curates. It was he of Mdiom a ver}' ancient dame in one of the cottages had said, " He been a father to me, he have." 220 DON JOHN. " At last ! " whispered Don John. " Now, Charlotte, remember Fetch's admonitions. The best of cousins withdraws." He turned, and deliberately- marched off, but so slowly that he heard the young man's greeting to the maiden. He heard him assure her that the weather was all that could be wished. Don John joined Naomi. Naomi was very much his friend. She thought it was not fair that Marjorie should have all the lovers and Charlotte none. For herself, a happ}' carelessness made her more than willing to bide her time. Meanwhile she and Don John shared confidences, passed family circum- stances under review, and in their 3-outhful fashion tried to throw good chances in the waj" of their sister and cousin. And what was happening now? Charlotte ought to have seated herself on the wooden bench in the orchard, and there the youthfuUest curate, sitting cosily beside her, should have been allowed to say prett}- things — that is, if he had any in his mind to saj' : but no. it appeared, after Don John had told the news to Naomi — the remarkable news that some- bod}- had actually' come to call whose manifest object was Charlotte — and while these two, standing behind a white thicket of bloom, were deciding that mother should be informed of this call, and asked to invite the youthful one to lunch — it appeared that Charlotte, so far from sitting on the bench, was walking towards the house with a brisk, elastic step, he after her ; and he was not talking at all ; it was she -whose words were heard. The brother and sister drew themselves closer together behind the bushes ; they did not care to be eavesdrop- pers ; but when they inevitabl}' heard a few words of what Charlotte was saying, they looked at one another with just indignation. Charlotte had naturally been put. out of countenance when Don John, with a good-humored but somewhat threatening air, withdrew, having let her 'know both what he thought and what he expected of her. DON JOHN. 221 She glanced at the 3'oung curate, and he immediately became sh}', ridiculously out of countenance and awiv- ward. He opened his mouth, and, finding nothing to say, left it open for an instant, then actualh' fell back on the weather again, repeating his encomium on it, and declaring with earnestness that it was all he could wish. Now shyness is almost as independent of rules as it is of reasons ; but if any one thing may be said of it with certainty, it is this, that to encounter sh3-ness greater than itself kills it on the spot. This is why shy people never think others shy. The one who has the quickest perception is instantly cured, and the other has to bear it all. Charlotte pitied him, and became quite at her ease. She began to converse ; he, more and more out of coun- tenance, found nothing to say. So in a short time she came to the conclusion that he had nothing to say ' ' of that sort." Young men never had anything of that sort to say to her ; there was no abstractt reason for it, but so it was. Now, if it had been Marjorie ! She had often heard young men talk to Marjorie, and knew the style quite well of that sort of thing. In her modest mind, she could not see anything in herself to give rise to that sort of thing ; she felt no leaning towards the curate. He asked after her aunt. Charlotte promptly replied that her aunt was well, and would be glad to see him. So she proceeded slowly towards the house, and, as silence was awkward, began to talk about the book she had in her hand. It was one of Max Miiller's. He, glad of anything which, while detaining him in her presence, granted him some delay, while he recovered from this shyness, which was an astonishment to himself, responded gratefully. Everything she did, said, and looked, w'as right in his e^-es. He thought she perceived the state of his affec- tions, and with sweet maiden modesty — for Charlotte had a peculiarly modest manner — was occupying the time (thus, in fact, giving him the best kind of encour- agement, and all with perfect tact) — the time till he 222 DON JOHN. could recover his manly courage and pour forth his heart, at the same time lading himself metaphorically and his prospects actually, at her feet. But Charlotte, who at first had talked C00II3' enough] about the book, presently- began to warm with her sub- ject. He responded as well as he was able ; but, as she became earnest and eloquent, he found himself com- pletety drawn awa}' from what he had intended. He could not think what she meant. Surely' she was over- doing her part ! He was quite read}' to begin now, and she actually would n't let him ! No ; nothuig was farther from her thoughts. With ■ hazy half-perception the 3'outhfullest curate heard her explain that in some respects she dissented from the view of Max Mliller, as she did from the school of those who had mainly founded themselves on him. But before he knew Mhat he was about he was assent- ing, while with keen regret she spoke on the instabilit}' of language. "What was the instability of language to him, particularly just then, when the}' were drawing close to the edge of the orchard ? He was so lost in astonishment that he opened his mouth again, and it , was at that instant that, passing the thicket of 3'oung^; trees, Don John and Naomi heard Charlotte sa_y, — "Yes, of course, mere pronunciation is a matter of^ secondar}' importance ; and j-et even in that respect any ' civilized nation must desire to escape change." The curate assented with a forlornness which imparted an air of doubt to his words. '• It is always loss and never gain that an old, settled language has to fear," proceeded Charlotte. " I think I see one if not two losses not very far ahead of us. The Italians have utterly lost their aspirate ; and it cer- tainly appears to me tliat, even during the last twelve years, for I have noticed peculiarities of language about "that length of time, it certainly appears to me that we are losing it too. This is sad, but I fear it is inev- itable." A murmur repeated at her side that it was sad. "Even the pains we take (that is the more cultivated DON JOHN. 223 among us) to give the letter ' h' clue force, the increas- ing notice it attracts, the manner in which we measure culture by its absence or presence, all these symptoms show that we keep it and use it with clifFiculty and against the grain. Yet that we are in process of losing it I cannot doubt, and that we have been doing so for nearly 200 years ; before which date, as 3'ou have no doubt noticed, there is nothing in literature to sho^v that our common people used it amiss any more than the}' now do the letters T, M, or D." The curate could not assert that he had noticed au}'- thing of the sort in literature ; but in a feeble sort of way he foundered throngh an answer, which amounted on the whole to dissent from Charlotte's opinion. ''■If you think so," answered Charlotte, "only take notice of the first conversation you are present at. The aspirate is at present always given with due distinctness at the commencement of a long or an important word, specially if it begins the sentence ; but I must sa}' I often hear good readers and speakers soften the sound far too much in the little words when tliey conclude it. 'And what did 3-ou say to him?' An Irishman will say, ' Wliat did you say toom ? ' ' She handed me her own bouquet ; ' when you next hear such a sentence as that, remark whether the first aspirate is not sounded much more strongly than the second. I might give ex- amples by dozens, but the fact is the danger is immi- nent, and I greatly fear the worst symptom is our unconsciousness. It almost makes me weep ; but I plainly foresee what the end will be." The curate w'as lost in astonishment ; he would have liked to comfort her ; but here they were at the hall- door, and if any one had told him beforehand that he should have found Charlotte alone, and been quite un- able to make his offer, and that in his ensuing state of discomfiture to be with a dozen other })eople would seem to him more desirable than to be obliged to talk about the instability of language, he would not perhaps have easily believed this ; but he knew Charlotte better now, and himself too. 224 DON JOHN. CHAPTER XX. WHEN Naomi and Don John appeared to take their places at the luncheon-table, Charlotte and the vonng curate were seated one on either side of Mrs. Johnstone. Charlotte was full of enthusiasm, and the youthful one was staring at her with an expression of countenance which Don John understood perfcctl}' . He had entered the orchard fully intending to do a great deed, a dillicult deed, and one that he dreaded inexpressibly. He had greatl}- feared a dismissal, and had many times pictured himself to himself as returning crestfallen and dejected to his lodgings, with some such words as these ringing in his ears : — "I have the high- est esteem, ]\Ir. Brown, for your character, and I always find your sermons most interesting ; but the fact is my cousin, Don John, has had m}' heart from my childhood, and we are only waiting, &c., &c. ;" — and not hav- ing a high opinion of his own courage, he sometimes thought he might return without having been able to make his offer at all ; or, having bungled through it, might find himself confronted witli a face full of wonder at his audacity ; for, of course, Charlotte must have a just idea of her own merits. Thus he had tormented himself for some time, but nothing like this had occurred. A straiige revulsion had taken place in his soul. He was not dismissed : he was quite at his ease Avith Charlotte opposite to him, and her aunt making him welcome. He had not com- mitted himself in anyway. Committed himself! "What an expression, he marvelled, as he turned over in his thoughts the undoubted fact that it had occurred to him. And now, was he glad of this state of things? He could not tell ; but he had a kind of involuntary sense of having escaped. He ate his luncheon with a DON JOHN. 225 certain urgency ; laughed, and was more hilarious than usual ; trembled, and felt rather cold. Oh, certainly she was handsome, handsomer than he had ever thought. He had never seen on any cheek such a pure perl'ect carnation. Her eyes did not sparkle in the least — they shone. She had the deepest, the most bewitching- dimple in one of her cheeks — only in one — that he had ever set his eyes upon. It almost prevailed to plunge him again into his dream, and thereupon he looked at Charlotte ; his sh3'ness and embarrassment returned, and with them a necesslt}- to talk — he must needs say something. He took uj) what had so much astonished him — the instabilit}^ of language — Char- lotte's favorite despair. For a few minutes it did well enough. He found himself half listening while she and Don John argued together. Then he lost himself in cogitations over the situation, till his wide-open cn'cs encountering Naomi's, he saw that her attention was attracted — she was ob- serving him. He wrenched himself awa}^ from his inner self and listened. " Yes," Charlotte was saying, " hopeless to stem the flood when once it has begun to rise." " Well," Don John rejoined, " what then? The lan- guage has no al^stract rights, the nation has. The nation must, it will, use and even change the language as it pleases." "And, my dears," obsein^ed Mrs. Johnstone placabl}', " I think it was ouly j-esterda}' that you two were re- joicing in some changes that you felt to be improve- ments." " In pronunciation," Don John put in. " Oh, yes, aunt ; it was a very curious circumstance, we were saying, — that while some provincial defects of pronunciation are handed down for generations, others even in our own da}' and since Dickens wrote (Dickens, who only died ten years ago) are com- pletely gone out, at least in the South and in London. ' Spell it with a TJ^e,' Sam Weller sa^-s to his father — • and he always calls himself Veller. All that has van- 15 226 DON JOHN. ished. I never hear an}' one sa}' winegar or weal ; I never hear William called Villam. And that shows that this peculiarit}' was less dialect than slang. Slang is always to be deplored." " Deplored ! " echoed Don John solemnl}*. " But dialect to be cherished — one dialect is just as good reall}- as another." ' ' Just as good as another ! " Charlotte appeared to find a protest rather than as- sent in this behavior of Don John's. She went on : " It is only because our literature is written in one par- ticular dialect of English that we give that the prefer- ence ; this is intolerant, to sa}' the least of it." " Ver}- ; and after all a great deal of literature, and even poetry, is written in what we unkindly call provin- cial English. AVe have but to step into our own fiehls, for instance, to hear language very like ' the lay of the hunted pig : ' — ' So sure as pegs is pegs, Eiglit chaps ketch'd I by the legs.' I have often wept over the affecting beauty of that poem ; I could now% only I would rather not. And how beautiful, how tender is the speech of the Wilt- shire maid to her lover, when, feeling a little jealous of a rival, she persuades him — ' From her seat slie ris'n, Says she, Let thee and I go our own way. And we '11 let she go sliis'n.' " " Quite impossible to reason with you when you are in this mocking humor, and 3'et what I said was quite true, the London interchange of V and W has suddenly gone out, but one hears people leave out or soften the aspirate more and more ever}' day, particularly in church and by clergymen," she added, after a moment of reflection; " and really and truly I have sometimes felt as if the service and the lessons were ari-anged ou purpose to make this defect conspicuous." Mr. Brown here felt a tingling sensation down to his DON JOHN. 227 finger-tips, he colored deeply, and knew not where to look. His own aspirates were not conspicuously ab- sent, of course, but he felt a miserable doubt whether they were always adequately present. Mrs. Johnstone for the moment could find nothing to sa}", but Don John suddenly burst out with, — " Ah, those are ' school of cookery' tarts, Marjorie ! I am sure you and Naomi must have made them after your lesson." " Of course we did, but how did you know it?" "Because they bulge out in all directions, they are as slovenl}' as a bullfinch's nest. Let me give 3'ou one, Mr. Brown." The curate accepted one. Charlotte meeting Don John's eyes as he looked straight at her, began to per- ceive that she had made a blunder, and forbore from any further remark. The conversation meanwhile be- came general, and any contributions made to it by the guest were received with flattering attention by Mrs. Johnstone and Marjorie, who managed to put him at his ease. "Aunt, have I made a very terrible blunder?" said poor little Charlotte, while Don John and his two sisters accompanied Mr. Brown as far as the schools, which he had asked them to visit on his way home. "I mean an unkind blunder," she added. Mrs. Johnstone was always specially tolerant of Char- lotte's gauche speeches, and gentle with her shyness. " It was a pity, my dear, that j'ou made that unlucky remark. I am certain you did not mean to be unkind ; but lie felt it so keenly as to confirm me in an idea I had that he admires you, Charlotte." "I thought so too," said Charlotte, "just at first, but after we had talked a little while I was sure he did n't, and then — " "AVeU, and then?" " Wh}-, we got interested in our conversation, and I quite forgot it." " So you thought he admired 3'ou? " " Yes, but that was because Don John put it into my 228 DON JOHN. head. And it made me feel so shy and so ridiculous at first that when I found it was not the case, of course I was more at m}' ease than usual. And so I talked to him." ••' You should have let him talk to 3'ou." '•He had nothing to sa)-. At least he had nothing to converse about of any real or solid interest." " AVell," said her aunt, taking care not to let the shadow of a smile appear on her face, "if he comes again, let him liave time to lead the conversation to an}' subject he chooses." " I could never take any particular interest in him." " How do you know? you are almost a stranger to him." " I am so Sony I said that," repeated Charlotte with a sigh. Her aunt kissed her. What was the use of arguing with Charlotte or laughing at her? she would onlj- be made more sh}' and more gauche by such a course. She went to the playroom feeling very angry with herself, and began* to turn over the leaves of the book of " Minutes," to look for the letters Don John had written to her on her behavior to the " conflicting sex." This was the first : — "Charlotte, " Tlie mind of man (in which I include the mind of woman, even of young woman), the mind of man, as I have read in books, ever feels impatient of doubt. " Thus when a fine .young fellow, such as I am, one at the acme, point and prime of his life, at which time he is most interesting, and justly so, to the youthful female, viz. fort^-five last birthday — one of good estate and old family — when, to come to the point, Fetch Fetch, Esq., begins to pa^^ fi-equent and somewhat long calls at a house where there are tlu'ee marriageable young ladies, it is ver^' certain that his motive in so doing cannot fail to suggest hopes to each of the three which she w^ould fain translate into certainty, and doubt which she longs to solve. DON JOHN. 229 " Yes, doubt. ' Wh}-,' she will sigh to herself, ' does this, the — shall I confess it? 3'es I will — the cherished hero of in}- dreams come day after day with a buoyant, an almost tripping foot, when the school-room duties are over, and having just put our prettiest frocks on, and our best lockets, we repair to the drawing-room to afternoon tea?' « "I think I see you now, Charlotte, as standing be- fore 30ur mirror 3-ou clasp 3'our hands, while blushing at 3'our own thoughts, you exclaim, 'Naughty one' (it is 3-our own heart that 3-ou thus apostrophize), 'art thinking of th3' Fetch again? Oh' (I hear 3'ou go on) ' can it be for m3- sake he stuck that bunch of daisies in his button-hole ? Is it because I kissed a dais3' one day when I thought he was not looking (at least, I think I thought so), and murmured over it, "Innocent poetic flower, come to your Charlotte's heart " (at least, I think that's what I said, or something quite as foolish). Who,' 3'ou go on, ' shall resolve me this harrowing doubt?' "Charlotte, I have an imaginative, and so far as such a thing is desirable in a fine 3'oung man, I have a poetic mind m3'sclf — and in the silence which would be complete, but that our dog is barking, and that my sister, Fann3- Fetch, is chattering, and a dozen at least of sparrows are chelping at the top of the rick — in the silence I hear 3'our spirit calling to me as plainl3^ as possible, and I consider that it is onl3' generous in me to resolve the doubt 3-ou have with so much maidenly reserve and modesty felt impelled to mention, at the same time telling you for 3"our future guidance why 3-ou are not my object when I sit spooning over 3-our aunt's Bohea. " Among the manv reasons, Charlotte, whvthis is the case, one of the foremost is that you have such a velic- nient desire to be instructed. A fine 3'Oung fellow sel- dom knows much. (I do not sa}' that this is m3' case.) It frightens him to feel that he is liable to be put at a dis- advantage l\v being asked questions that he cannot an- swer. And then, again, 3-ou haA'e a no less ardent desire 230 DON JOHN. to instruct. If you have piclved up any piece of infor- mation, 3'ou think it must needs be as interesting to a fine 3'oung fellow as to yourself. Now I may say for m}' own part that there is nothing I hate like being in- structed and having to give my mind to learning out of school ; when I am unbending among a lot of pretty girls, \ like to spoon. It is \\\\ wish to feel that I be- long to the superior sex. It is their business to make me sure that I am an agreeable specimen of that sex. I must be set at my ease. ' ' But I do not wish, as is too much your own habit, to talk at large and utter aphoi'isms. I wisli rather to persuade you for your own good to alter 3'our manner. I have heard that remarkably sensible young man, Don John, sa}' of his schoolboy brother, that if he declined to obe}' any of his behests, he should persuade him with a stick. But the custom of thus persuading the fair sex has, to some extent, gone out in this country. Also it is almost decided now that woman is a reason- able creature ; in fact, if we did not tihak so, we could not blame her for being the most utterly unreasonable creature that ever lived, because this would not be her own fault, which it is. Observation and experience are counted among the gifts of reason. I appeal to these. You observe that fine .young fellows fl}' from you, and 3'Ou experience mortification ; therefore, Charlotte, I leave these to guide 30U, and will no more use (meta- phorically) the stick ; but remind you of the conduct of the charming Maijorie 3-our cousin : when a stumpy 3-oung Juan with high heels to his boots stands talking near her and showing himself careful, by holding himself scrupulously upriglit, not to lose the tenth of an inch of his stature, Marjorie always keeps her seat if she possi- bl3' can ; you never see her rise and from her graceful height look down upon him ; Avhen a stupid fellow blun- ders in an attempt to pa3' her some compliment, the best he knows how to fish up out of his foolish heart, she respects his dulness, she never smiles, she feels foi' him a gracions pit3', and while encouraging no ridicu- lous hope, she saves his self-esteem b3' helping him to show himself to her at his best. DON JOHN. 231 " With that last sentence, which I feel, to be worthy ofme, and very neatly pnt, I remain, Charlotte, yonr sincere friend, and yonr consin Marjorie's lover, " Fetch Fetch." Charlotte langhed a little over this letter. " Bnt after all," she said almost alond, " I do not want a lover ! It is not becanse I cannot have one that I need distress myself so much about ni}' gauche behavior, my shyness, ni}' unattractive manner and stiff conver- sation. It is because I bore them at home so much with what they call my ' poetic facnltv ' and my ' in- tellectual fads ' that I wish to be dilierent. I lay down one subject after another, and urge it on them no more, but the fresh one, as I take it up, the}" laugh at just the same. I know there is something in what my aunt says, that there is no malice whatever in their teasing, and that if I became just like everyljody else, it would make them all ver}' dull, myself included, for I should miss that attention now bestowed on me, and they would miss what helps to stimulate them and draw their in- terest to various abstract subjects, which otherwise (particularly the girls) the}- would never take any notice of at all. " How kind and sweet m}' aunt is ! Is she right, does it really amuse me as much as it does them? " Yes, of course I do not want a lover — I should not know what to do with one — and yet, perhaps, even I might have a lover some day. '• Ah ! here 's Don John's ode that he wrote to make game of me for thinking that they could take any inter- est, any of them, in my essay on the nature and prov- ince of poetry. How they all laughed ! Lancy more than any of them. It was two days before he went away — before he helped me over the brook. Don John declaimed it in the playroom in a voice of thunder, put- ting intense emphasis on every short line." She glanced at the composition in question, it had been copied into the "Minutes" in a round text hand and ran as follows : — 232 DON JOHN. " To Charlotte on her demonstrating to me that poetry was altogether independent of rhyme. "Unto thee, O Charlotte, Unto thee, Do I indite this Ode, For thou hast removed, O joyful Day, an insurmountable obstacle ^ To My being a poet. I may compare it Unto a considerable obstacle. Which, This time last year, I being in the steamer Crossing from Holyhead, Rear'd itself right in front of me, Looming to North and Soutli ever nearer And nearer. I said, ' Now if I were minded To Cross the Atlantic to America I could n't, in Consequence of this insurmountable Obstacle,' Which at that moment we ran Into, Being prevented by a buffer from Doing Ourselves any harm. The obstacle was in point of fact Ireland. And as to tliis day. Whoso would cross the Atlantic, Must needs sail round that Con- siderable obstacle. For, He cannot sail through it So liast Thou taught me, Charlotte, Sailing clear of the obstacle of rhyme. To Be a poet." Steps on the stairs. Charlotte pricked up her head; Naomi and Don John entered. " Here she is ! " exclaimed Naomi, " and not tearing her hair." DON JOHN. 233 " Let her alone, Na}'," said Don John. "We have business on hand, and she is onlj- a poetess." "I am veiy sony, I am sure; 1 never could have believed I should have made such a blunder," said Char- lotte. " Well, we forgive you. We feel that it is of no use to reason with 3'ou ; and if that speech is not severe enough to cure you, nothing is." "And besides," proceeded Don John, following up his sister's remark, "if that young ass had anything better to do, it can hardly be doubted that he would do it instead of — " "Instead of wasting his morning," interrupted Char- lotte, " in paying such a long call. He only came here to while away the time." "Well, he has not much to do; he told me himself that he walked to the railway station, which is three miles off, every day to bu}' a penn}' paper — for there being only 200 poorish people in the parish, and they being almost always quite well, he felt a delicacy about paying many visits. ' You are quite right,' I said, ' not to harry your parishioners.' AVell, now, Charlotte, you are actuall3' forgiven, and going to help us — going to be of use to the best of cousins." " What am I going to do? " " Help us to write a letter to grandmother; 3"ou are not the only pei'son in this house who has poetic visions — I have had a vision too. Methought (that is how your last vision began ; I read it, for you left it in the playroom blotting-book) — methought, Charlotte, I saw Dizz}' and Gladstone playing at pitch-and-toss with the British lion, as if it had been a halfpenny. ' Heads I win ! ' shouted Dizzy." " And which did win ? " " You should not interrupt the vision. Why, the lion methought came down upon his head of his own accord, and, winking on them Jpoth, spake in pretty good English. He said fair play was a jewel; and it was now time that the public should see how he looked when he was wrong end upward. Then the Lord 234 DON JOHN. Mayor, for methought he was looking on, the Lord Mayor sairl, ' That was a beautiful andaffecting speech, " heads I win ; " ' and when he saw what the lion had done he put up his hand to feel whether his own head was in its place. Then the vision brake and faded (that 's a quotation) ; and pondering on it, inetliought I too will play at pitch-and-toss with cir- cumstances, as this gracious vision (that 's another quotation) suggests to me. I will see what will turn up, eke I will write to my dear grandmother ; and Charlotte and Naomi shall help. Well?" CHAPTER XXI. "TTTELL?" repeated Don John: "are you quite VV lost in amazement? I like to see a poetess gazing at me with her mouth open." Charlotte hastily shut her mouth. ''And we want you to give us some of 3'our large copying paper," observed Naomi, " because, as we told 3'ou before, we are going to write a letter to grand- mother — a verv particular letter." " Why? " asked Charlotte. Don John told her in much the same fashion as he had told Naomi in the orchard — having first arranged, their chairs in a triangle that the party might have a "three-cornered crack." "I know Marjorie likes Campbell," said Charlotte. " I know she feels his going away." "You do?" Don John glanced at Naomi, who nodded. " Why did n't you take that for granted," she ob- served, "when I consented to help with the scheme?" "But as you did not know it," obsei'ved Charlotte, " why this sudden zeal for match-making?" " Well, if you must know, it is partly- because I have within the last few days heard a piece of news which I know makes father uneasy." DON JOHN. 235 " From whom?" " From Lanc3'." Charlotte bhished, and wished to ask, but did not, whether Lancv was coming home. "Mrs. Collingwood has four hundred a year of her own, that is, as she told f^her, it is absolutely at her own disposal, and she could leave it to whom she would. She added th^ she'should of course leave it to Lancy. 8he made a will before she went abroad, and deposited it with father of her own accord. Father has sometimes alluded to this will to me, and said it pleased him." "Well?" " Of course we know that Lancy being adopted by both father and mother, they have always said they should look after his interests in the future." "Lancy is a dear boy," said Naomi, with the least little contraction of her forehead as if for thought. "And if father and mother had an}' real reason for loving him so much, of course they would long age have told us ; therefore I have for some time been sure they have no reason : they let him come to stay with them for a while, thev got fond of him quite unawares, and kept him on and on, till at last they loved him al- most as they love us ; and it seems to them quite natu- ral that they should, and also quite natural that we should think so. I never grudged Lancy anything in my life, Init though it does seem natural that we should all love him, 3-et surel}' his place in the family is re- markable." Don John looked keenly at his sister and listened attentively while she spoke. This was a subject on which, fi-om his boyhood, he had thought a good deal, and nothing that he had arrived at as a reason for Lancy's place in the family had satisfied and pleased him so well. "After all," he thought, "why should there be an}' great and important reason ? "\Vh}" will not this reason do, which is hardly a reason at all?" His thoughts went on while both the girls were silent. "Perhaps if I had not instinctively been so careful to 236 DON JOHN. hide from father and mother that I felt the least sur- prise, I might have been told." "But the news," asked Charlotte at last, "what is it?" " Mrs. Collingwood is going to marry again." " Lancy says so ? " • ^ " Yes ; it seems that she was verj' desirous to keep him with her, and she prop<%ed # go back to Australia, and over-persuaded him, he says, to go too. She took passage in the P. and O. steamer as far as Colombo, where she promised him thej' should stay a month. And there was a man on board whom Lancy calls ' a gentleman of position and fortune,' but father says the account he gives of him sounds as if he were an adven- turer. He declared that he fell in love with that short, fat, little woman at first sight ; he landed with them at Galle, and when Lancy wrote, his mother was to be married to him in a day or two." " And that will make a great difference to Lancy?" "Of course, because, if tliere were no settlements made before the marriage, every shilling she has is now her husband's ; and she cannot make a will. As to the will she made before, it is no l)etter than waste paper." " Then Lancy will have to work?" said Charlotte. " Oh, yes, of course ; so have I — still — " he paused suddenlv, and did not add, "but my father's children are worse off than they were by that four hundred pounds a year, for Lancy and I cannot both be wrong, and we think that in our early childhood we were told we should be left equal in father's will, and Lancy thought afterwards that he was to have less from father by four hundred pounds a year." "And that's very odd," he said aloud; "it's very extraordinary-," and while the girls bothered him as to his obliging desire to get lovers for them, and declared that there was no chance of his succeeding, he sat lost in thought. "This news is onlv part of my reason," he said at last, " and I did think 3Lirjorie liked Campbell, though I was not sure as I am now." DON JOHN. 237 Don John was still almost a boy in j-ears, and he was young foi' his years, otherwise he would hardly have concocted such a scheme, and deliberately detailed it to his grandmother, which, with the help of the two girls, he now actually did ; saying, however, nothing about his father's circumstances. His grandmother was excessively amused, and wrote forthwith, telling him that she would decide what to do in a da}' or two, and desiring that he would on no ac- count mention the matter to any one. B}' the same post she sent his letter to her daughter-in-law, requesting to know her opinion, and askhig her to name her wishes, but not to betray the confidence reposed in her. Mar- jorie's father and mother had a long, loving consulta- tion over it, the father not without shouts of laughter, the mother with somewhat admiring amusement. The family was at breakfast three days after, when the letters came in, and Mrs. Johnstone, turning one of hers over with the quietest of smiles, said, "• Edinburgh, I see." The three conspirators blushed furiously, Don John was pink up to the roots of his very light hair. Mrs. Johnstone began to read the letter aloud. It set forth that the grandmother had, for some time past, not seen any of the girls, and had quite suddenly determined to ask her dear Stella to spare one of them. Here, with the gentlest audacity, she paused, and beginning again at "quite suddenl}-" repeated the sentence. ' ' One of them to spend a couple of months with her ; she should prefer to have Marjorie," here Marjorie blushed as rosj- red as the others had done, not one of the 3'oung people could look up, the father and mother exchanged glances, Mrs. Johnstone went on. " And, my dear Stella, will you let Don John bring her down, for I have not set my eyes on the young rascal for some time." When she had finished reading, she folded the letter quietl}', the conspirators neither spoke nor looked up, so she looked at Marjorie, and said, with a gentleness which was almost indifference, "Do you think ^'ou should like to go, dear one ? " 238 DON JOHN. And Marjorie replied, with unwonted hesitation, that she did n't know. That settled the matter in the mother's mind, she im- mediatel}' said, much more decidedly, '' Oh, I think ^-ou should accept your grandmother's invitation, and be- sides, as she asks Don John too, 3-ou should not deprive Iiim of the visit." "Oh, 3-es," Marjorie interrupted, sparkling all over, and blushing with pleasure, "and he has actuall}' never been to Edinl)urgli yet ; you would like to go, Don John, would n't 3'ou? " And so the matter was settled. And all that Don John had proposed was done to the letter : Charlotte did lend her pearls, and Naomi her prettiest featliers, and scarceh' an}- money was asked for, INIrs. Johnstone, from the contents of the Indian box, fitting out Marjorie with various beautiful ornaments, and having some most becoming dresses made for her from her own wardrobe. Nobody knew what was becoming to Marjorie so well ,as her mother, and she sent her forth to conquer. The daughter had no more than her mother's beauty, but she had inherited the same reposeful serenity and convincing charm. Don John, with pride and confidence, took charge of her ; brother-lilce. he declined to let her have anything to do with the taking of the tickets or the looking after her luggage. It was therefore all left behind, as was that of a young man in the same carriage. When this was found out, which was in consequence of Marjorie's looking out of the window, and seeing it with her own e3'es as it stood on the platform, she made at first some lamentation, but Don John and the 3'oung passenger became friends over the telegraphing for it at the first stoppage, after which Marjorie was almost persuaded by her brother that it was safer on the platform than in the van, and would reach Edinburgh almost as soon — if not sooner ! But there is no need to enlarge upon this experience of Marjorie's. There is probabiN' no woman living who has not gone through it ; a more uncommon part of the DON JOHN. 239 matter was that the three young people thus left together iliscovered that they had many friends in common, that the}' knew all about each other's families, and wei'e aoing to visit at houses situated not a hundred yards apart. The 3'oung man's name was Foden. "•Campbell is too common a name to please me," thought Don John, "but I like it better than Foden." AVhy this thought came into his head will appear ver}- shorth'. '• Marjorie Foden sounds foolish, so does Duncan Dilke Foden," lie cogitated thus as they reached Edinburgh. '•Why, she's as tall as her brother!" thought the grandmother, when the two 3'oung people presented themselves. " An awkward height, and her haii- as red as rust." " Campbell 's laid up with the chicken-pox," she whis- pered to her grandson, as soon as Marjorie had been escorted to her room. "The chicken-pox?" repeated Don John, with scorn. " Yes, all the children of the regiment have got it, and he caught it." "Oh, well," answered Don John, rather dreamih'. "I don't know that it particularly signifies." His grandmother looked sluvrplv at him. "I suppose you know that he's a great flirt?" she went on. Don John woke up suddenly. " No. grandmother, I did not." "Yes, after I had decided to invite you both down, his old aunt — Miss Florimel Campbell, coming in, amused me, as she supposed, with tales of his flirta- tions." Don John repeated, with rather more decision, "I don't know that it particularl}' signifies." And it did not signifv at all, for Duncan Dilke Fo- den, presenting himself almost immediately after break- fast the next morning, to pay an outrageously early and outrageously long morning call, passed through a suc- cession of changes in manner, mind, and face, which the grandmother read as easily as from a printed book. He 240 DON JOHN. was elated at the sight of Marjorie, and expressed as much dehght and surprise as if she might have been ex- pected to evaporate in the night, or to melt like a lump of sugar ; and then he became suddenly humble, as one who had no right to be glad ; and then he was atflicted with a great desire to talk sensibly and seriously, as one desiring thereby to excuse too long a presence ; but at this stage of affairs Marjorie broke in quietly with some commonplace question. Duncan Dilke Foden was taken in hand, first set at his ease, and calmed, then made to show himself at his best, and finally let alone to remem- ber that he had paid a long visit, and with a tolerable grace to tear himself away. Pondering on this visit soon after, the gi'andmother said quietly to Marjorie, " What sort of a fellow is joung Campbell?" " He 's not very wise, grandmamma," answered Mar- jorie. "Did not I hear something about his paying ye a good deal of attention ? " "Oh, yes, he did." " And not the only one to pay it — at least, I have had hints to that effect." Marjorie lifted up her fair face, " But that is not my fault, grandmother, I do assure you." ' ' Meaning that 3'e have no wish to be a flirt. No, it is not your fault, I dare say ; but, Marjorie, it is your misfortune." "Yes, I used to be a great deal happier before I had all these ridiculous compliments," answered the 3'oung girl, mistaking her meaning. " And yet, grandmother, though I have never had any attentions from any one I cared for — no, I mean I never have cared for any one yet-" " Well? " asked tlae grandmother. Marjorie laughed, but answered, not without a little ingenuous blush of embarrassment, — " I used to be so happy at home with the others, and now though I could not, on an}^ account, marry any one of my lovers — " DON JOHN. 241 "No?" exclaimed the grandmother, interrupting her. "Oh, no, certainly not — 3'et you cannot think how utterl}' flat and dull everything seems when I have n't got one. I did not care in the least for Campbell, for instance, yet I had got so accustomed to his com- pliments that when he went awa}' I hardly knew how to do without him. You think me a very foolish girl ! " "Just like her mother," thought the grandmother. " And so ye did not care for Campbell, my dear ; well, so much the better for Foden." " And yet I do wish to be different," proceeded Mar- jorie. "If the men will let ye!" interrupted Mrs. John- stone. " And I was so glad when your letter came. I am sure I shall enjoy this visit so much." " And Foden — what are ye going to do with him ?" " I sent him away as soon as I could this morning, without hurting his feelings." " There has been a great deal of harm done by that false proverb, ' Marriages are made in heaven.' " " Grandmother? " " In one sense everything is decreed above ; but in the other sense it ma}' fairly be said that marriage is the one thing heaven leaves to be made on earth. Her birth, her station, her fortune, her beauty the maid had not the making of; but if she does not exercise her wits, and her best discretion as regards her marriage, nothing her people can do can much avail her." " Of course we ought not to marry for money," ob- served Marjorie, demurely ; " nor," she went on after a pause, " without being in love." " How many lovers might ye have had already," asked the grandmother ; " six? " Marjorie laughed. " Well if ye cannot deny it, six it is ; and, as I said, not your fault, perhaps, but certainl}' your misfortune, for if ye cannot love one of the first six, why should ye 16 242 DON JOHN. love one of the second six ? The girl that is reall}' well off is she who waits some time, has one chance, and, it being a reasonably good one, takes it thankf■u^3^" " Oh, I shall like some one well enough to marry him in the course of time," said Marjorie, who was very much amused at her grandmother's way of putting things. " That is how your mother used to talk. She felt no enthusiasm, she once told me, for any of her lovers, and I answered, ' Consider which is the best worth loving and on the whole the most agreeable to ye, then dismiss the others, and let that one have a chance.' If it had not been for me," she went on, with perfect gravity and sincerit}-, " your father never would have won the wife he wished for. She had many lovers, and did not care to decide between them ; but I talked to her. I said, ' Yes, manj^ lovers, but one is old, and one beneath ye, and one above ye, and one is not a good man ; and here are two left that are thoroughly suitable, but one of those even has an advantage not possessed by the other, or in- deed by any one of the others.' " Marjorie was interested, she had not expected to find that her father had needed any assistance in his wooing. "Well, grandmother?" she said. "Well," repeated tlie grandmother, "I said to her, ' There are women, Estelle, that long to keep their sons single, and there are those who look to patch up fallen fortunes with rich daughters-in-law, and there are women of such a termagant nature that all their sons have quarrelled with them, and there are women illiter- ate enough to make their daughters-in-law ashamed of them, and I know of one who dreads a beauty more than anything, and thinks such a one must needs be a spendthrift ; ' and now said I, ' I have named the mother of every lover you have but one, and that one longs to see her son married, looks for none but a small fortune, and would willingl}- help him from her own, desires an equal match and a beautiful 3"oung wife for him, has loved him more than anything mortal since her widow- hood, and would thankfully resign him to — 30U.' " DON JOHN. 243 "And what did mother say?" asked Maijorie. " .She said she would tliink of it, and she did." "Mother alwaj's talks of you with so much affec- tion. She always sa3's you are so good to her." Mar- jorie did not add, " and I often hear her remind father that it is his day for writing to you ; " that would have given pain, but it was true. There was something rather sweet, as Marjorie felt, in being thus shown a glimpse of the past. Something so lixed, so inevitable, so without alternative as the marriage of her father with her mother had hung in the balance then ! — had been a matter for discussion and for persuasion. " Your mother M^as greatly admired," proceeded Mrs. Johnstone, senior, "and as was but natural, she soon found out that all the good and worthy young men were more alike than she could have supposed. As the proverb runs, ' She wanted better bread than can be made with loheat^ she went on seeking for it. She did not want mereh' a good and worth}' 3'oung man ; she told me so. But said I, ' Ye do not propose to live and die single?' — 'Oh, no, she proposed no such thing.' — ' My dear,' said 1, ' men are not made of better stuff than yourself, far from it! But ye have had choice of some of the best of them, and I think your real difficulty comes from this, that you put your fancy before your duty.' " "Duty!" exclaimed Marjorie, drawing herself up, and speaking for her mother as well as for herself. " Yes, it is a woman's duty, if she has man}- lovers, to set them free from vain hopes, by choosing as soon among them as she can, even it she make some sacrifice to do it, with onl}' a sincere preference for one, and as your mother said, ' no great enthusiasm.' Such a self- sacrifice is almost always rewarded. There is nothing so sweet as duty, and all the best pleasures of life come in the wake of duties done." 244 DON JOHN. D CHAPTER XXII. ON JOHN thus announced his sister's and his own safe arrival at Edinburgh : — " Dearest Naomi, " AVe reached our destination last night just as it was getting dusk. Grandmother is not at all grown. " I am much impressed with the magnificence of this city. The streets are fine, the populace polite, and the various methods of locomotion, omnibuses, cabs, tram- cars, &c., are admirably arranged, and convey the trav- eller cheaply and expeditiously in every direction. The view from Arthur's Seat is remarkably fine, as is also that from Salisbur\' Crags. I will not expatiate on the prospect from the ancient castle, its reputation is Euro- pean. "•I am writing before breakfast, and have not 3"et quitted the house since my arrival. Immediately after breakfast, I propose to do so, in order to view the vari- ous objects which I have so graphically described. I trust, my dear girl, that they may be found to justify the terms in which I have spoken of them. AYitli this ramble I shall combine a visit to the railwaj' terminus in search of Marjorie's luggage, which I left behind at King's Cross. Grandmother appeared^ to think this strange, but L reminded her that we arc all subject to the law of averages, and as, on an average, half a box per thousand of all that this railway carries is left be- hind, lost, or delayed, and somebody must be owner of that half-box, she ought not to be surprised if that somebody proved to be her granddaughter. She said that as Marjorie had three boxes, and had lost them all, her average was rather high. A truly feminine answer, which shows that she did not understand the question. DON JOHN. 245 Ah ! I see a railway van coming up with, those three boxes in it. Yes, the higgage is come. "• Best love to father and mother and all of you. " Your affectionate brother, "" Donald Johnstone." When Naomi read this letter aloud at the breakfast- table, one more person listened to it than Don John had counted on. Captain Leslie was present, a sunburned, stooping man, veiy hoarse, very grave, and ver^' thin. He had called on Mr. Johnstone the da3' before in Lon- don, and wlien he found that he was not recognized, it appeared to hurt his feelings ver^- much. But he was so much changed by climate and illness, that when he had been invited " to come down and see Estelle," Mr. Johnstone carefully telegraphed to his wife of the ex- pected arrival, lest she also should meet him as a stranger. He was a distant cousin of Mrs. Johnstone's, hence the use of the Christian name. When he had seen his first and only love with her children about her, in a happy luiglish home, and look- ing, to his mind, more beautiful than ever, when he had heard the cordial sweetness of her greeting, such a glow of tender admiration comforted him for long absence, such a sense of being for at least the fortnight they had named to him delightfull}- at home, that his old self woke up in him ; isolation on staff duties, irritating heat, uncongenial companions, exile, illness, all appeared to recede. He had thought of his life — excepting his religious life — as an irretrievable failure ; but for that first evening he felt strangely young. He was very stiff, and when he reared himself up, his^own iron-gray head, seen in the glass, confronted him, and appeared for the n)omentto be the only evidence about him of the time that had passed. Estelle was a little different, but it was an advantageous difference, motherhood was so infinitely becoming to her ; and as for Donald, he took the honors of his place so quietly that the old bachelor and imsuccessful lover did not grudge them to him as he had done at first. He spoke but little to his wife, 246 DON JOHN. being even then awai-e that the old love in Leslie's heart was as intense as ever. With a keen perception of everything said and done in the presence of Cstelle, Leslie felt that her husband scarcely' looked at her ; but he could not know the deep pity with which his successful rival regarded him, — what a short lease of life he appeared to him to have ; how little, as he supposed, there was 3-et left for him to enjoy in his native countr3-. That night Leslie thought a good deal of Estelle's eldest son ; he was much disappointed to find him away ; his letter the next morning presented him in a rather unexpected light. " Is that 3'our boy's usual style of writing, John- stone? " he inquired. " Yes, I think it is ; he is a dear, good fellow, but quite a character, and he always had naturally a whim- sical waj- of looking at things." " I am glad the luggage has arrived," observed Mrs. Johnstone ; '' but is it quite fair, Donald, to speak of our bo}' as an oddity ? " " My dear," exclaimed her husband, " I wish him to be what pleases you ; but I have thought of him as an oddity ever since he was six years old, Avhen he said of the cook on his birthda}'. ' She put my cake in the oven, and it rose ambrosial as Venus rose from the sea.' " " It was clever of him," said little Mary, " for he had not been to a cooking-class as I have." Leslie smiled. " And Don John invented Fetch, you know, mother," observed Naomi, " and Fanny Fetch and the ' Minutes.' " Mrs. Johnstone made no reply, but Leslie had a real motive for wanting to investigate Don John's nature and the character he bore at home ; so after breakfast, when left alone with the girls, he easily got them to talk of him, and at the end of less than a week he was quite intimate with them, made welcome to a place at the playroom tea, treated to Charlotte's opinions on things in general, consulted by her as to her poetry, and even allowed to read selected portions of the " Minutes." DON JOHN. 247 These abundantly bore out his father's opinion that he was a character ; but Leslie made one mistake about Don John at once, for finding how many of the jjapers consisted of criticisms on Charlotte's opinions, remarks on her behavior, or counsels to her on her literary pro- ductions, he jumped to the conclusion that Don John must needs be half in love already- with the beautiful little cousin ; he wondered whether Estelle knew it, and he forthwith began to take a keener interest in Charlotte also for his sake. The girls liked him ; little Mary loved him, " though he almost always talked," she said, ''as if it was Sun- day." He had not been in the house ten days before he was in the confidence of all the young people, and at lib- erty to turn over the leaves of the " Minutes " for him- self. lie thought he knew Don John thoroughly, and Char- lotte too. His religious counsels, his unconscious be- trayal of a life-long interest in them and their parents and their home ; his unexpected knowledge of various incidents before their birth, which had hitherto been un- known to themselves, all combined to make them think of him as one who might be trusted absolutely, and who had a right almost to the position of a near relative. He gave them presents, too, and discussed -with them beforehand what these should be. As the days went on he found himself more at home with the children than with the parents. Estelle was the love of his whole life ; but she was in a sense remote. Her children and Char- lotte became intimate with him, as much b}' their own wish as by his, and they in the same sense were near. He felt towards them as an uncle might have done ; he perceived that the parents consciously allowed them thus to ally themselves with him, and he did not know the reason. On the mother's i)art it was done because it made more easy her personal withdrawal. He must needs love her ; but it was better for him to widen liis interest and love her children too, and amuse himself with tliem 248 DON JOHN. than have opportunity to sit apart with her, and waken np again the old want which for so many years had slumbered in absence. On the father's part it was from pure pity. Why should not Leslie enjoy the flattering consciousness that these young creatures liked him? His time was so short ; the sods of his native valle}' would be laid over his head so soon. Leslie did not think so. He supposed that he had come home to recruit his health. Estelle and her hus- band had no reason whatever to suspect the scheme which was taking form in his mind ; he delighted him- self with the certainty' of this fact. Various little hints let him perceive that Mr. John- stone, if not actually somewhat emliarrassed in his cir- cumstances, was assured!}' not well off". "As to ni}^ making their son my heir," he would cogitate, "they have no reason to think I have anything worth mention- ing to leave ; but it is sweet to know that when I am taken to my rest, Estelle will reap a benefit from me, dead, which living I could not give; she will dwell more at ease if her eldest son is provided for. John- stone cannot feel jealous of my memory as he might have done if I had left it to her ; and Estelle will know well that all I did for her boy was for her sake." "But he is a character," continued Leslie; "his father was quite right ! " Leslie had strolled into the playroom, the girls had gone to their cooking-class, and he had wandered through the downstairs room without finding their mother. It might have been supposed that he would go out, but no, the girls had strictly charged him to wait for their return, when there was to be an early lunch, and he was to go with them to a farm-house to choose some lop-eared rabbits which he had promised them. " He's a character," repeated Leslie, and he turned over the leaves of the "Minutes," as he had full leave to do. "Here's some of his handwriting — all about Charlotte — alwa^'s Charlotte. Let me see. DON JOHN. 249 THE POETRY OF MISTER BARNES, DONE IN THE DORSET DIALECT. " What is it you do find in thik tlieer bookl " Says I. " They poems," says the maid, " they be so high ; When on un I do look, They till my heart wi' swellin' thoughts, Idyllic, The most eclogucy thoughts they do ! And I attain to view The worrold as thougli 'twas made anew. And I do feel," she says, says she, " So frisky as a lamb under a grete weak tree, So light 's a little bird, A hopping and a chirruping Over the fuzzen." (Thinks I, "My word!") Says slie, " You muzzen Laff," for she read my thoughts in a trice. Says she, " Tiiis here 's the poet's vice A speaking to 'ee." " Oh," says I, " shut up." I could n't stand no mwoor 'ee see. Tliey all cried, " What a vulgar bwoy he be! " And I did call out passen drough the door, For I was forced to Hee, " Do 'ee shut up." "Innocent enough all these writings," he observed to himself, " and they show activity of mind in an un- usual degree. Oh, that these dear children had the root of the matter in them ! I must not shrink from talking to them on their best interests." To do Leslie justice, he never did shrink from utter- ing anything that was on his conscience, and all his religious discourse was considerate and evidentl}' devoid of affectation. The fortnight came to an end. Leslie by that time was so desirous to see Don John, that if any opening had been given him, he would have proposed to prolong his stay. lie went away one morning, accompanied by all the girls to the station. The next afternoon Don John re- turned, and was in like fashion accompanied from it. After he had seen his mother he was borne off to the playroom, where, at afternoon tea, he ate as much 250 DON JOHN. cake as would have spoiled the dinner of most young men ; but Don John's appetite at that stage of his ca- rreer was spoiling-proof. Maiy being present, a certain caution was observed in the discourse. "You hardl}' ever wrote to us," said Naomi. " But I wrote to mother — " " Yes, — well, tliere could have been nothing partic- ular to tell us. How is Campbell? " Don John looked a little confused during the first part of Naomi's speech ; he answered the second part. " Campbell? why, we never saw him once." Charlotte and Naomi looked as if they thought this verv bad news. ''Not well yet?" " Grandmother thought that for another da}- or two he was just as well away. But, I sa}-, what about Cap- tain Leslie ? " "Oil, we liked him so much !" exclaimed little Mary, " but he 's a very good man." " But! ! — Yes, I know he's ver}- religious." " And very evangelical, of course," observed Char- lotte. " Officers in the armj' always are when they are exceptionallv rclioious." "Why should they be?" " Well, my theory is that thej' have so many rules to enforce and obey — so much to do with discipline and drill, that it is natural they should take to that sort of religion which is the most gentle and free from hard rules, which insists least on the letter and most on the spirit — " " How many oflficers of that sort do we know, three, isn't it? Quite enough for you to found a theory on. I think Captain Leslie must be an odd fish." "No, he is not," said Naomi, "but he talks often just as father does when on some rare or serious occa- sion he has one of us into his own room and — " " What ! did he pray with you ? " " He asked mamma if he should pray with us before he went away ; she said ' yes,' and so we all knelt down DON JOHN. 251 in this room," and here little Mary in all simplicit}' at- tempted to give an account of this prayer. Don John opened wide eyes of surprise at his sister, but the}' had sufficient reverence for her childhood not to offer any connnent. ''And he says that God loves us," she continued, "•and so we ought to love people — and poor people too." " But, my dear little woman," exclaimed Don John, not at all irreverentl}', " I think we knew that before Captain Leslie came here." "Yes," said Mary, "but I did not think about it; and now I am going to love the poor people, you know." "And Mary took one of her birtliday half-crowns to give to Miss Jenny ; she asked him if he thought that would be a good thing to do ; and I went with them to give it," said Naomi, still quite gravely. "And Mrs. Clarboy, who generally knows how to adapt her talk to her company, made rather a mistake, and got herself reproved, for she told us her nephew had taken her to an entertainment in London, which she had ver}' much enjoj-ed. Captain Leslie asked what it was about, and she said, ' AVell, I can't hardly tell j-ou, sir, what it was about, but there was a good deal of music, and Cupid came down and sang something sacred, his wings were bej-ond anything, sir, they were as natural as life.' Then Captain Leslie said he hoped she was not in the habit of frequenting tlie theatres ; and she assured him she had never been to one before, poor old soul ! and she was vexed with herself for having told, and Miss Jenny groaned and was very much edified." "And then we went on to Mrs. Black's to give her my other half-crown," said Mary shrewdly, "and he asked her if she went to church, and she said ' she 'd been so massacred with the rheumatism that nobody could n't exi)ect it of her,' and then Captain Leslie laughed, and he said afterwards he was sorry he" had done it, and it showed a gi-eat want of self-con- ta-ol." 252 DON JOHN. "Poor old Clarboy I " exclaimed Don John, "the idea of her frequenting the theatres ! I don't think she has been in London more than three times in her life." Then Naomi went on: "She said afterwards, 'I know your pa 's rather in the same line as tliat gentle- man, miss, and never takes 30a to the theatres, but yet I should n't have minded letting him know, for he 's not so straitlaeed. However,' she went on, ' Cap- tain Leslie 's a powerl'ul pious gentleman, no doubt, and one like him it was that sent a tract to poor old Mrs. Smart on her death-bed. It was called ' The dying Malefactor.' If ever there was a peaceable, humble, blameless creature, it was that woman, and a joined member too of the Methodist connection, but this world had got that hold on her still, that when I 'd opened the envelope for her. and she saw it began in large letters " To you,"' she burst out laughing, and she and I talked a good bit over it. It seemed such a queer thing to have done. I don't den}- that we did let a few sec'lar words pass over our tongues, till her daughter that is a Methodist too got vexed, and she says, ' Now, mother, 3'ou have no call to think of these worldly matters any more, ^'ou lie still and mind your dying.' Miss Jenny had gi'oaned a good deal during this talk, but she never dares to interrupt her sister. As soon as there was a pause she said, ' True it is that Sarah Smart laughed on her death-bed, but I have good hope as it was never laid to her charge.' " ' No,' exclaimed Mrs. Clarboy, who never can un- derstand Jenny's point of view, ' she was a good-living woman, and the Almighty (I sa}' it reverently) would never take notice of such a small sound such along, waj' off.' " ' It's not that,' cried Jenny, ' it was that she was not one to put the least trust in her own works, she trusted in the Rock of our salvation, and three days after she died triumphant.' " "If I was a guardian angel," exclaimed Charlotte, " and might choose, I would never wait on people like DON JOHN. 253 us, but always on the poor — such people as these. When do we ever sa}' things so beautiful in their simple- ness ? " "Yes," observed little Mar}', "the angels must be very much amused with them." Charlotte and Don John exchanged glances; "I think, if I were you, I would include children in my choice," he said. " But I forgot to add," observed Naomi, " that Miss Jenn}' ended her account of Mrs. Smart \>\ saying, ' She 's gone where there 's no more sorrow — nor laugh- ing neither;' and Charlette said, ' Oli, Miss Jenny, I hope not, I think we shall often laugh in heaven.' " " But don't we think that at least angels can laugh?" asked Maiy. "There can be no laughing in heaven or among heavenl}' creatures that has malice in it — but many things witty and droll are Avithout that." " But, Charlotte, if I met Don John in heaven, I should like him to call me ' button-nose ; ' do 3'ou really think he never will ? " "I am almost sure of it, — he invented that name to make game of }'ou, only for fun, you know, but still it was malice." " Well, then, I shall say to him, ' Though you are not to say it here, 3-ou must not forget that you used to say it.' " " But wh}' do you want it to be remembered? " " He never said it when he was cross, but when I sprained m}' ankle and he used to carry me about the garden he did, and when 3'ou used all to be doing ' Fetch,' and Freddy and I knocked at the door, if we were not to come in he alwa3-s shouted out, ' No, you two kids must go ; ' but when Fred was gone back to school and I knocked sometimes, he said, ' Oh, it's only button-nose,' and then I knew I might come in. So, as it's kind malice, I should like him to remember ; for you know I could n't help being the youngest." " Well, no, I do not see that you could, but, Mary, I should n't wonder if when you get to heaven ^'ou find 254 DON JOHN. Tou 're the eldest ; dou't you know that it sa3's in the Bible, the last shall be first and the first last?" " Do 3-ou think I shall be older than you, then, Don John ? " " It might be so — " " I shall take great care of j'ou, then, and if .you are a baby when you come, I shall carry you about and show you all the beautiful things." CHAPTER XXIII. DON JOHN, now that his short holiday in Scotland was over, fell at once into his regular work, going up to London daily with his father. Meanwhile Cap- tain Leslie spent a few weeks at ditferent English watering-places in search of health which almost to his surprise he did not find. He meant eventually to live in 'Scotland, where he had some distant cousins, his only relatives excepting Mrs. Johnstone, but first he had wanted to see Don John and Estelle's eldest daughter Marjorie. Don John had said in joke of his grandmother that she was not grown. Marjorie, under the auspices of this same grandmother, grew very fast during the months she spent at Edinburgh and its neighborhood. She was of a grave and gentle nature, moderate in her demands of hfe as to pleasure, and she was high- principled and tender. This same girl, who had not cared for an early mar- riage for her own sake, found a certain chaiTn in it now that her grandmother had linked it in her thoughts with duty and even with self-sacrifice. She would not make more men unhappy, nor unsettle any for her sake, but she would essay to be an elevating hope and then a helpmate and a comfort to one ; she would do her part to make one man and one home what God meant that they should be. DON JOHN. 255 There are such people in the world, they need some- times to have it discovered to them that such they are, and then they need a little guiding. Marjorie had only a veiy little of tliis last, but she had also the advantage of being awa_y from a sister and a cousin who were much inclined to criticise and make game of her lovers ; and, further, she had the advantage of a lover who had many manly qualities, and among them a capacity for all tlie improvement that comes to manhood from loving a beautiful and pure-minded young woman. Marjorie, instead of amusing herself with this lover, looked out for his good qualities. He was of average height, of average good looks, his position in life was such as her own, he had excellent principles, he could afford to marry, and he loved her. This was his case, as she said to herself at the end of a week ; and hers was that she was inclined to be pleased with him, and to think a good deal of the self-sacrifice which life as a general rule demands of woman. At the end of another week, she thought about this again, but as to average good looks, anybod}' might see that his was a face which grew upon one. It was while she was dressing for dinner tliat she passed him in review on this second occasion, but there was not as much time as before to think of the self-sacrifice, be- oav;se she had not quite finished considering his agree- able countenance when it was time to go down to din- ner. He was coming to dinner. Don John was to go awa}' the next morning. The brother and sister were alone together for a few minutes at night before they retired. Marjorie, seated by a little table, was untying some tawny roses and putting them in water. Don John had never said a word yet to his sister about young Foden. He now remarked that her flowers appeared to require a great deal of attention. "Yes," answered Marjorie, "I shall take care of them because I have told Duncan that he is only to bring them every other day." " Oh," said Don John, and presentl}' Marjorie said, — ' ' What do you think of Mm ? " 256 DON JOHN. ' ' I think he is one of the jolliest fellows I ever knew," answered Don John ; " he 's so joll}' straightforward and manly." Marjorie was pleased wath this tribute to Duncan Dilke Foden, boyish though it might be. " He beats Campbell to fits," continued Don John. " Oh, vou don't care about Campbell, then?" "No." " Nor do I." Then after a pause, — "Don John?" "Marjorie." " Though Campbell paid me so much attention, he — he went away without making me an offer." " Just like his impudence." "Oh, but I was going to tell yow. that he wrote to me at home, where he thought I was, and yesterda}* mother sent me on the letter. He said he felt that on reflection he could not bear to be parted from me, and he had made up his mind to offer me his hand." "Just like his impudence again! Made up his mind, I like that. I call it quite a providence his hav- ing the chicken-pox, quite a providence and nothing less." ' ' I should like j-ou to take his letter back to mother, and tell her — " "Well, tell her V " Of course till he made me an offer I had no right to consider him a lover — " " No, any more than 5-ou could any other fellow who had not 3-et offered his hand — " The last two remarks probably came in by way of parenthesis, but Marjorie went on as if she found the second ver}' much to the point. "Of course not, so I Avant you to tell mother that even if I was sure no one else would ever ask me to marry him, I must have answered Campbell as I did this morning. 1 said it could not be." " I will tell her that." " And nothing else." DON JOHN. 257 " Well, so fax- as jour having offers, there is, as I suppose, nothing to tell." " Of course not." " All right," answered Don John, and then the^y were silent for a few minutes, when Marjorie suddenly' asked, — " What is the middle height for a man, Don John?" " Oh, from five feet seven to five feet nine. I meas- ure five feet eight." Marjorie reflected awhile, then she said, — "The)' always say the strongest men are those of middle height. It 's just as well not to be too tall." "Just as well," echoed Don John. He was in the habit of thus ferventl}- endorsing his sisters' remarks when he wished to call their attention to them as absurd. Marjorie laughed, but she blushed too, and then the brother and sister kissed and took leave of one another, for Don John was to start early the next morning, almost before dawn. He left his grandmother in rather an uneasy state of mind. She saw no reason to think that Marjorie cared for 3'oung Foden, but she perceived that she was giving him every kind of modest encour- agement, and from time to time Marjorie sent a stab to her heart by making remarks which evidently showed that she had taken her grandmother's advice in good earnest, and would be actually glad to follow it if she could. This good lady had all her life loved to give advice ; she had been liberal as to the quantity of it, and fervent as to the manner ; but she had become fearless, be- cause, weigh tj- though she felt it to be, it hardh" ever took effect. She remembered but two instances in which it had. These were important ones, it is true. She could not regret the first ; she might have cause deeplj- to regret the second. "And it was hardly advice at all," siie would sigh, when thinking this over. "It amounted to no more than suggestion. I have put something into her head ; who would have expected her to be so docile ? " So the grandmother thought ; but she could do no 17 258 DON JOHN. more in this matter than her son had done, when, Don- ald being a little boy, he had once come in from the garden with a large basket of very fine pears just gath- ered, and had set them on the hall table. The little fellow ran up and regarded them with open admiration, and his father said, in a bantering tone, '• Do 30U think, Donald, if you were to tr^-, 3-ou could eat all those pears before dinner?" " I 'm not sure whether I could," answered the child, scanning the half-bushel basket seriously. "What, not to please papa!" exclaimed the father, bantering him ; and being just then called away, the bo}' and the pears were left alone for about twenty minutes, at the end of which time Donald the elder coming back, Donald the younger greeted him in all good faith with, — " AVell, father, what do you think? — I'm getting on — I 've eaten nine." Nine very large pears, — their stalks and their cores were laid in a row for his inspection. Donald the younger, strange to say, was none the worse, but Don- ald tiie elder was much the better : in talking to his children he took more pains ever after to make his meaning plain. And now Don John had come home again, and was holding his head rather higher than usual. Like many another very young man, he had a sufficiently high notion of his own importance both in the world and in his famil}'. None but the unthinking or the cold-hearted are seriously displeased with this quality in the very j-oung. It is in fact rather pathetic, rather touching ; a proof of ignorance as to what life, time, and trouble really are. And it often goes so soon ! Perhaps it is just as well that they should begin b^' thinking they are to do a good deal, and have a good deal, for nothing can be worse than to despond beforehand. Despond indeed ! "Who talks of desponding when things are so jolly? Don John exulted ever}' da}- of his life. It is true that he had been perfectly wrong DON JOHN. 259 as to Campbell, but then if it had not been for him JNIarjorie never could have met with Foden. "Wlien he thought of this he whistled and sang every morning wliile he stropped his razor preparatory to the morning shave. He only shaved his very light moustache as yet, to encourage it to come on. His whiskers were but a hope at present, they had not sprouted. His father's dressing-room was next to Don John's little bedroom, and when he heard the outbreaks of whistling, singing, and other signs of good health and good spirits that the young gentleman indulged in while dressing, Donald Johnstone sometimes thought of the pleasure expressed b}' the poet Emerson on hearing a 3'oung cock crow. It is somewhat to this effect : " When I wake in the morning, and hear a .young cock lustily crowing I think to myself. Here, at least, is a fellow-creature who is in the best of health and spirits. One of us, he would have us know, is well, and has no doubt as to his right to a place in creation. And this," he goes on to remark, "is a pleasant thing to be as- sured of in this doubting, low-spirited, dyspeptic age." Somebody- rapped at Don John's door, when he had been at home two days. He opened it with a little lather on his upper lip. It is possible that he was not sorr}' to exhibit this to Naomi, who was standing there. " Come into the playroom as fast as you can," she exclaimed ; " something has happened ! " and she darted off witliout telling him what it was. The celerity with which he obeyed the summons may be held to prove that shaving was not actually necessary, it must have been performed daily more as a pleasure than as a duty. Charlotte was in the playroom, she had a letter in her hand, and looked at him as if so much flustered, so much ovcrwhelmetl by tlie weighty event which had taken place, that she knew not how to utter it. Don John sat down on the deal table — a favorite place of his. He surveyed Charlotte and his sister. "It's an offer!" he exclaimed. "Charlotte, you've had an offer ; it can be nothing less." 26o DON JOHN.* " Oh, dear no," exclaimed Naomi ; " it's nothing so commonplace ! Your conspiracy that we helped ^'ou "with came to nothing ; but we contrived a better one wliiie you were away, and it has succeeded, and nobody knows wliat it ma}- end in ! " " Yes," said Charlotte, " I can now see a vista open- iiig before m3 ! " 8he handed him a piece of paper: as it was a post- ofliec order for '21. 10s., lie may have been forgiven for exclaiming, " I don't think much of the vista if this is it." "But we hope it's onlj' the first of a great many. Now listen ; Charlotte and I, when 3'ou were gone, looked over all her verses and essays and things, and chose out four, which I copied beautifully at her dic- tation, and we sent them to four magazines ; tiu'ee were rejected, and we were getting rather despondent, but one is accepted, and this money is come, and here 's the magazine with her thing in it — and among the notices to correspondents, ' We shall be glad to hear from a Daughter of Erin again.' " "Poetess! I'm stumped!" exclaimed Don John. "Even if you'd had an offer, I could not have been more surprised. Shake hands ; to think that anything should have been wi'itten on this inky, rickety deal table, that I have cut my name in witli a buck-handled knife, and burnt my name in with a red-hot poker ! To think, I sa}- ! No, I am not equal to thinking or saying anything — the most burning words would not blaze high enough — they surge disconnected in my brain. T3-pe — Fame — Wealth — Pica — P^pics — Colons, and last, not least — Cousins. 1 am your cousin, Char- lotte ; when 3'ou become famous I should wish to have that remembered." He feU into thought. "No," he went on. " I never could have believed it." " Of course not," said Charlotte, "you always made game of my things, and now you see ! " " Some of those poems, whoever pa3's for them, were the ver}' mildest lot I ever set my ej-es on. Everything you have ever done is the better for my criticism." DON JOHN. 261 " Yes, I know, I always said 3'ou had good taste and great critical facult}' — and now I consider tliat reall}' — in order tliat I may not lose all this mone}', &c., it will Ijo your duty to help me as much as you can." '" The young person, though she laughs, is quite in earnest. Yes, that is what things are rapidly coming to. Some years ago this might have been thought af- fecting. Here is a young man, shall I saj' it? in his early prime, 1 think, girls, a fellow of mj- age — " "■Just beginning to shave," interrupted Naomi. " May so characterize himself — " "As he swings his legs, sitting on the plajToom table." "Without undue self-laudation (the voice of a poet- ess should never be strained to such a shriek as that!) — a fellow, I sa3' — " " He says," echoed Naomi. "A fellow, I repeat," shouted Don John, "just launched into the responsibilities of life, and it is sug- gested to him as the most useful thing he can do, to criticise the poetry of a girl ; I say it 's enough to make a Stoic grin ; j^es, she belongs to the dominant sex." "My dears," exclaimed Mrs. Johnstone, looking in, " are j'ou aware that your father has been calling you for some time ? What is all this laughing and shouting about?" "And what is Don John roaring out for about the responsibilities of lifeV said Donald Senior, looking over her shoulder. "Oh, father and mother!" exclaimed Don John, " I hope you '11 take my part, I am so crowed over by the superior s^x ! " "Is that all?" said Donald Johnstone. "Do you good. Come down to breakfast, my Star, and teach youi' son to imitate his father; put yourself in your right i)lace, my boy, and 3'ou will never be crowed over ; you should submit the moment j'ou find out what they wish, and then they will have no occasion to crow." A henpecked man never talks thus ; but the wife in this case was well aware that either her husband's love 262 DON JOHN. for her, or his deference to her wishes, or his depend- ence on her judgment, made her ver}' much wliat he often called her, his guiding star. As a rule he found out what she wished, and did it. But he was so abso- lutely' blind to this fact that he rather liked to boast of it, and talk about the yoke of matriraon}', which he never would have done if he had felt it. But there w^ere occasions when he would announce an intention, and then she never interfered. " It never rains," says the proverb, " but it pours." This remarkable news concerning Charlotte had not been half enough wondered at and discussed when the letters came in : one was from Edinburgh, as Don John saw at a glance before his father opened it, and one in Lancy's handwriting, which was handed to his mother. "Duncan Dilke Foden " was the signature of the Edinburgh letter, and before breakfast was over Char- lotte and Naomi heard, to their great astonishment, that the said Duncan Dilke Foden, having made Marjorie an offer, she had desired him to write to her father. With one consent his two fellow-conspirators looked fixedly at Don John, he must have known that this event was probable, and he had kept tliem out of his counsels. But the event was ver^- interesting. Mrs. Johnstone read the letter, and handed it back again, when it was read aloud. "Just like Foden," thought Don John, who could not help noticing that neither father nor mother showed the least surprise. As no one spoke, Don John said, while Mr. John- stone folded up the letter, "I call it jolly respectful to you, father. Foden is such a fine, straightforward fellow." "Yes, the missive really reminds one, in spirit, at any rate, of some of the old Paston letters, ' Right tt-or- shipfal, and inine especial (jnod madn\ I commend me to your mastership as lov^li/ as 1 may., and do you to wed that an it please you J am fain to seek your favor with the fair maid, my Mistress Marjorie., your daur/hter.' This must be a great surprise to you, my boy? " DON JOHN. 263 Don John looked a little foolish when his father said this ; he wondered how much his parents knew, or sas- IDeeted ; was it possible that his grandmother had be- tra3'cd him ? A look darted at him by Naomi showed that she was thinking of the same thing. He could not help glancing at his mother, but she gave him one of her benignant smiles that told nothing excepting that she was '' weell pleased to see her child respected like the lave." And the other letter? "Well, there was to be no end to the surprises of that morning. Laucy was coming home. CHAPTER XXIV. IN another fortnight letters were received again from Lancv. The}- appeared to show an altered frame of mind, and opened a question whcli hitherto he had managed to evade and put by. "He knew he had acted very badly, he had felt this for a long time. It was wrong to have thus gone awaj- and kept away. He humbly begged pardon — would his dear father and mother forgive him ? " This in the first letter. In the second, by the same mail, but dated a week later, Lancv said that he and his mamma were miserable ; that she was verv much afraid of her new husband; she had no settlements, and could not draw her own dividends. He had been' very kind to her, till he had got her j^roperty into his own hands, and he now said that her son was an un- dutiful fellow, and ought to go back at once to the good friends whom he had "left in" England. That he would advance him enough money to pay the passage, which was all he should do for liim. He ought long ago to have been earning his own li\ing. This second letter was addressed to Don John, who 264 DON JOHN. for a week or two after its arrival was almost as miser- able as Lancy said he was himself. But another mail-day went b}-, and there was no let- ter at all ; then again the day passed, and Don John made up his mind that Laney must be coming. He still retained an affection for Lancy, though in the minds of his sisters such a feeling had begun to fade. Don John knew all Lancy's faults and delinquencies, j^et he clung to him without effort. The girls knew none of his delinquencies, but sometimes one would say to an- other, " We ought not to forget him, poor fellow, con- sidering how fond father and mother have always been of him." As for Charlotte, she thought of him a good deal, but his behavior, which at first had given her ver\' keen pain, because she would not understand it, began in time to show itself in its true light. At first she would not see that he had meanl\- taken advantage of the John- stones, had got away and kept awa}' against their will ; that he was shifty about the letters ; that he pretended not to understand ; that he was amusing himself as long as he dared, hoping to come back when he must, and throw himself on their bounty and goodness again. When Charlotte did begin to see this, slie was ashamed for him, and all the more because her own ideas of right and duty and gratitude were high. She also had a home in the same house which had sheltered him. She scorned herself when she found that she had for man}" months been tacitly excusing his conduct to her own mind, as if it was not his duty to do the same tilings wliich in such a case would have been her duty ; as if wrong could possibly be right for his salce. " Could I misundei'stand as he professes to do? AVliat should I deserve if I treated my uncle and aunt thus?" Charlotte for several months thought a good deal more about this than was consistent with her own peace. She could not help arguing the matter over, she was often weary of the subject and of Lancy too. Yes, at last she began to feel this, and then — well, then, hap- pil}- for her, she ceased almost suddenly to think about DON JOHN. 265 it. The tired mind, which was vigilant in its desire to forget, fell asleep over the subject unawares, and when it woke up again, the importunate presence was with- drawn. Charlotte soon began to forget how importu- nate it had been. Of course she had not loved him, but he had touched her imagination, and she soon must have loved him if he had not made her ashamed for his sake. ''It has been a rude shock to me," Charlotte some- times thought. " I am obliged to see that he is mean, and not straightforward. I never can care for him as I might have done." In the meantime Marjorie sta3-ed three months at Edinburgh, was now engaged to 3'oung Foden, and about to return home. The sununer was passing, Charlotte had been invited to contribute to a well-known magazine, and when Lancy and his return, and Marjorie and her engage- ment had been discussed in all their bearings, this affair of hers continued to aff"ord constant talk, in which no one was more interested than Don John. Even Mrs. Johnstone aj^peared to find the subject interesting, at least she frequently came and sat in the old playroom after Don John had come home in the afternoon. There she would quietly work and look on, and weigh in her mind something that Captain Leslie had said. She saw no good ground for his supposition, but she made many reflections as to whether an^- change in existing arrangements would tend to bring such a thing on or not. But, no, there was no ground for such a thought, none at all. Don John Avas almost uncivil to Charlotte ; but thougli he gave his opinion about her writings witli a lordly air of superiority, he wished her to get on, be- cause as he graciously remarked " she is one of us." " Now, look here," he was saj-ing once, when, the conversation getting animated, she Avas drawn from her considerations about JMarjorie and about Lfincy to look at and to hsten to him; "you always talk about the poets as if they were such sacred creatures that it is 266 DON JOHN. quite taking a liberty to see that there was any humbug in them even after the}' are dead. There is Words- worth, for instance — " " Anj- humbug in Wordsworth? how dare you ! " "I grant you that he was crammed fall of human nature. He was full of us and the place we live in. AVe take a beautiful pathetic pleasure in reading him, because we like that a man who knew us so well should love us so much. But it was humbug in him to say that everything the poet writes is vahiable and interesting because he writes it — for — for it is n't." " Splendid reasoning," exclaimed Charlotte, " and quite unanswerable ! " Don John, seated on the table, was making a cherry net. Charlotte and Naomi, standing at two easels, were painting decorations for a cottage hospital. Don John brandished the mesh and went on, delighted to see Charlotte fire up. " I've never thought so much of that old boy since I found out that he did not know how to pronounce his own language." " My dear," exclaimed his mother, beguiled into re- monstrance, " what canyon mean?" " Well, mother, listen to this — ' I 've heard of hearts unkind, kind hearts With coldness still returning, Alas the gratitude of men. Hath oftener left me mourning.' You see he pronounced ' mourning' as if it rhymed with ' returning,' which is the north country provincial way." '' Accidental," exclaimed Charlotte ; " it would have been out of the question to spoil such an exquisitely beautiful verse for the sake of a more perfect rhyme." " I quite agree that the verse is beautiful ; but, Char- lotte, he always rhymes ' mourning ' with such a word as ' burning' or ' returning.' I defy you to find a case ^ where he did not." " Then," said Charlotte, after a moment of cogitation, " perhaps that is the right way." \ DON JOHN. 267 " That answer was just like jou. As to Pope, I am almost sure he spoke with several provincial peculiari- ties. Look at his inscription on his grotto : — ' Let such, such only tread this sacred floor As diire to love their country and be poor.' You see he pronounced 'poor' as Miss Jenn^- does 'pore.'" " Nothing of the sort. It is a modern invention to be so particular about rhymes. Pope felt a noble care- lessness about them. So did AYords worth. At the same time I must admit that one has sometimes very deepU' to regret liis carelessness in other respects. That most beautiful poem, for instance, on ' The lesser Celandine,' how he took away from its perfectness b\' not being at the trouble to arrange the las|, verse properly ! I dare say he dictated it tirst to his wife or his sister, and never looked at it afterwards. The states mentioned in the first two lines are meant to be contrasted, not the one worse than the other, but he says, — ' To be a prodigal's favorite — then worse truth, A miser's pensioner — beliold our lot ! O man, that from thy fair and shining youth, Age might but take tlic things youth needed not ! ' " "Well, I see nothing the matter with it excepting that it is a pity he put in the word ' youth ' twice. But he was obliged to do so in order to have a rhyme for ' truth.' To be sure this rather spoils the climax." "Of course it does. I have so often wished he had written just a little differently, it would have been so easy. Thus: 'To bo a ])rodigars favoi'ite — then for- lorn, — (forlorn of that delightful favoritism, you know, and made) ' a miser's pensioner.' 'To he a prodigal's favorite — then forlorn, A miser's pensioner, — behold our lot ! man, that from tliy fair and sliining morn, Age might but take the things youth needed not ! ' " "Well, that is what I call audacitv ! That's the 268 DON JOHN. real thing. If the critics could only hear j^ou improv- ing Wordsworth, would n't you catch it ! " "Of course I should; but the}- never will! And now be quite fair, for once. If you had first seen the lines according to my version, and had thought it was the original, should you not have been ver}* angry with me if I had proposed to alter it and put it as it now stands ? " ' ' I shall not argue with j'ou', arguing as a rule sets me so fast in my own opinion. And, Charlotte, you are not asked to write reviews, you know ; if 30U were, there is no evil and contemptuous thing that reviewers ma}' not say of authors and their works ; but I never met v/ith one yet who after saying that a poet was a fool Avrote an improved version of his lines to show the reader what they should have been." " AVhy should you be surprised at my criticising things?" said Charlotte. "All intelligent reading is critical. Even our admiration of a masterpiece is our criticism of it ; we judge it to be fine and true." "She said tlie other day," observed Naomi, "that Keats wrote of Greek scenery as if he was describing an English market-garden." Charlotte excused hei'self. "I said he wrote not differently of ' The sides of Latmos ' and of an English wood and brook. He is here in spring, — ' While the willow trails Its delicate amber, and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk/ and he hopes to write a good deal before the daisies ' Hide in deep herbage, and ere yet the bees Hum about globes of clover and sweet-peas.' Then forthwith he is in a mighty forest on the sides of Latmos, 'Paths there were many, Winding through palmy fern and rushes fenny And ivy banks.' DON JOHN. 269 Then he comes to a wide lawn — ' Who could tell The freshness of the space of heaven above Edged round with dark tree-tops through which a dove Would often beat its wings, and often too A little cloud would move across the blue.' Is not that England ? " "Certain sure. But J'ou must not forget that in classic times there were forests in Greece, though it is as bare as a down now." ' ' But was there ' rain-scented eglantine ' ? did the cold springs run ' To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ' ? " Don John reflected — then shirked the question and disposed of the poets. "I don't know; Keats is a muff. I couldn't read him half through. Wordsworth I respect, he knows all about me. But I think, as 3-ou delight in him so much, it is odd ^you are so fond of choosing out pretty and beautiful things to write about, instead of choosing to make homel}' things beautiful as he did." "I write of what I see," said Charlotte. "We do not all live in the same world. In the swallow's world, though it be our world, there is no snow." " Yes, but though the swallows never heard of snow that is not the less their own doing. They live always in the light and the sunshine because they go to seek them. You mean that you too may go in search of sun- shine if you please." " I suppose I do." " But the swallows are inferior to the robins for ever, because these last have experience of summer and win- ter too. However," continued Don John, "• I am rather sick of the fine things written lately about birds. I suppose we shall hear next that they admire the sun- sets." "But it is nice," said Naomi, "to know that they delight in gay colors just as we do." " Yes, and to be told almost in the same breath that 2/0 DON JOHN. man has himself onl}' developed the color facult}- very lately indeed. Well, all I know is that I have fre- quently with a pewter spoon taken a pink egg streaked witli brown, and put it into a nest full of blue ones. If the bird 1 gave it to could see the ditlerence between blue and pink, why did she sit upon and hatch the alien egg ? " '' Perhaps some birds are color-blind, as some of us are," said little Mar^', speaking for the first time. "I have sometimes thought," said Charlotte, "that whole generations and ages saw things differently as to color. The ancients all agree that a comet is a lurid, a portentous and a red-colored light in the heavens. Up to about two hundred years ago we never hear them spoken of as anything but red ; but the comet 1 have seen could never have suggested anything but a pathetic calm, infinite isolation, and it had a pure pallor which made the stars look yellow." " 1 saw one once when I was a little girl," said Mary, " it had a long 'tail, but the next time they.showed it to me the tail was all gone." " Tliat tail," said Don John, " was the comet's ' hor- rent hair,' it got in between the sun and the planets, so it is probable that they sent for a number of old Daily Tehriraphs, the largest paper in the world, you know, and twisted it all up in curl-papers to be out of the wav." '' Thev did n't." " Well, then, jjerhaps the sun pulled all the comet's hair off to fill up his spots with." " No, Don John," said Mary, with sage gravity, " I would rather believe about the cm'1-papers than believe that." " Thereby you show your discretion, Mar}", alwaj'S believe the most likely thing." Whether he would have gone on to explain this celestial matter to her, will never now be known, for at that moment a servant, one new to the house, flung open the door, and not at all aware what a commotion the name would excite, announced, — DON JOHN. 271 " Mr. Lancelot Aird." Lanc3' was among them ; he had kissed his mother «nd sisters, Charlotte had greeted and shaken hands with him, and Don John was still clapping him on the back, laughing, shaking hands with him over and over again, then stepping back to exclaim on his growth and altered appearance, then coming close and shaking hands again, when he suddenly caught sight of his moiher's face, and both the young men paused sur- prised. 'Inhere was for a moment an awkward pause. Mrs. Johnstone, who had risen, was winding the loose worsted round a ball with which she had been knitting ; when she looked at Lancy, her eyes, more moist than usual, had a pathetic; regret in them. She said calmiy, '■'■ Have you seen 3"our father _yet? " '" No, mother," answered Lancy, looking very foolish, " Father 's in the orchard, I '11 go and tell him ! " ex- claimed little Mary, dancing out of the room, and almost at the same instant Kaomi and Charlotte, each feeling that the manner of Lancy's reception at home was un- expected, stole quietly after her. Don John felt his mother's manner with a keenness that was almost revolt against it. if he had been awr,y so long and hacl|bcen so met, lie thought it would have gone near to breaking his heart, but he also saw in- stantly, because it was quite evident, that Lancy was not liurt in his affections, he was only a good dea\ asliamed. He had planned to take them unawares. " You should have asked his leave before .you ap- peared among your brothers and sisters," she went on — oh, so gently. And then she sighed, and the two tears that had dazzled her eyes fell on her cheeks, which v.ore colored witli an unusual agitation. If Lancy had fallen on her neck, and kissed thein away and implored forgiveness, it might even at that pass have been different. But no, it was Don John who did that, while Lancy, looking red and irate, turned to the window, and ap- peared to look out. 272 DON JOHN. "Oh, my mother! " exclaimed Don John, in a voice full of remonstrance and astonishment. She answered calmly, looking into his e^'es, — " Yes, my son." "You will beg father to forgive him, if — if indeed there can be an}' doubt about it. Mother ! what can this mean — mother ? " His arm was still on her shoulder, she took her hand- kerchief, and wiping awa}' her tears, said, " Lancy ; " and wlien he turned from the window she kissed him a second time. " Father has come in and gone into your dressing- room, mother, and he sa3's Lancy is to go to him there," said little Mary, returning. " No, mother, not there ! " said Lanc}*, turning white to the lips. He had hoped to the last moment ; now, before he knew what he was about, he had betrayed himself. When Lancy appeared at the dressing-room door with his mother, Don John was there, pale, shocked, falter- ing, choking, he had been entreating, questioning, what could Lancy have done ? what did it mean ? "You will forgive him!" he exclaimed. "I don't know — I cannot believe that there is no more than I know — but I cannot bear my life unless 3-ou forgive him." Lanc}' listened with eager hope. It was but an in- stant. Then before any greeting was given to himself, Donald Johnstone put his two hands on the young Donald's shoulders, and looked aside to his wife. She said, " Your poor son Lanc}' comes to submit himself to _you, and to confess." "You will forgive him, then, whatever it ma}' be, father? " cried Don John. " M3- much-loved son," was the reply. " If I had no better and stronger reason, I would forgive him for your sake," DON JOHN. 273 CHAPTER XXV. SOMETIMES one who has veiy good cause for sus- picion against another, repudiates it heartily for a long time, and obstinately holds on to a hope that it is groundless. On the memorable day of the picnic, the day when Lancy stole the ring, his mother, as she entered her dressing-room after coming home, noticed a small piece of fohU'd writing-paper on the floor, under her table. JShe picked it up carelessly ; it was one leaf of a ridicu- lous letter from Don John to Lanc}'. It had been shown to her alread}', was full of jokes, in fact it was droll enough to make her wish to read it a second time, and she put it in her pocket. She had a good deal to think of just then besides part- ing with Lancy, and as soon as he was gone she went into her dressing-room, to revolve a little plan for pro- ducing, as she hoped, about two hundred pounds. Be- fore she went to the picnic she had put in order all her jewelry ; there was much more than she ever used. Her husband had told her of a loss he had lately had on some shares ; if he would let her part with some of it, this loss would be made up without the least inconven- ience of any kind. Lancy had onl}- been gone a few hours ; her mind was still full of him, of his eagerness to get away, of the little love with which he repaid theirs — when she went up to her jewel-box again, and found to her surprise, but not to her dismay, that it was unlocked ; she must have left it so, but it was most unlikely that any one should have noticed this fact. She began gently to take out the jewelry she meant to part with, and was not in the least disturbed till she missed the ring. It had been in her hand so recently, she would not believe that it was gone ; but it was not till the box had been searched 18 274 DON JOHN. a second time that the finding of that little piece of folded paper flashed into her mind, and made her feel sick at heart. She told her husband, and at first, as Lanc_y had foreseen, they both felt veiy angry with them- selves for having harbored such a suspicion. It seemed a shame that they could, for an instant, believe him base enough to steal from them. And yet the letter had'been found there — and 3'et the ring was gone ! He had perfectly believed that no suspicion attached to him, because, though the letters had expressed dis- pleasure and surprise, no mention had ever been made of this ring. But his guilt}- conscience accused him to such a degree when he saw Mrs. Johnstone's face, that he no sooner heard where his so-called father meant to receive him, than he gave up all for lost. And yet, in one sense, all was not lost. "Whatever he did, the}- would not, thej' could not, altogether give liim up. " I shall receive him in this room," Donald Johnstone had said of his adopted son, " and if he bears the ordeal badl}- — " " Yes," she answei-ed, " if he bears it badly, we may get him once more to confess and repent ; but what if lie bears it well? We cannot accuse him." There was no need to accuse him. The deed which had been done was not named — it was taken for granted. " Our taking this thing for granted," said Mr. John- stone, " ought to show you how deep is your disgrace." The adopted son hung his head ; he was alone now with his parents. " If you had been my own son — do 3'ou hear ? " "Yes, sir," said Lancy ; he did not dare to say " father." " If you were my own son now standing before me, and accusing his conscience of having robbed me, even me — if it had been Don John that had done this, I never would have spoken to him more ; but 3-ou — j'ou have no father — and you are unfortunate in 3'our mother." DON JOHN. 275 He paused, appearing to hesitate ; and Lanc3% thougli veiy inach frigiitened, was astonished too — he lifted his daunted face. The adopted fatlier had turned away from liim, and gone to the window. Yes, it actually was so — he perceived that he was to be forgiven. He was intensely relieved, but he felt, almost with terror, that he could not call up that amount of emotion, and above all of deep affection, which could alone meet suitably the love and grief that he saw before him. He bungled through this scene as well as he could. He meant to live at home again if the}' would let him, and submit himself to the yoke — at any rate till he could get some more mone}', for he was penniless. But work and restraint were now more distasteful to him than CA-er ; money and idleness had afforded him ample opportunity to cultivate the knowledge of things evil, and he had done this with diligence. He still retained a certain degree of affection for Don John, but he was so surprised b}' a few things inci- dentally said by him, that he paused to make further observations before talking confidentiality to him on life, as he now unfortunateh' thought of it, on its fashions a4id experiences. He hardly knew, after a day or two, whether he looked upon Don John with most aston- ishment or most contempt, for he was not onl}- verj' straightforward and honorable, veiy desii'ous to learn his profession, very high principled, but he was in some respects a good and blameless youth ; he had everything to learn, as Lancy thought. This was a contemptible state of things ; but on the whole Lanc}' elected not to teach him. Don John had something on his mind just then, he was penitent and disgusted with himself, he had begun to perceive that in plotting Marjorie's flight to Edin- burgh he had very much forgotten himself, as well as what was due to her. He was much displeased also with his grandmother for having played into his hands. He thought this over till there seemed to be no peace )ut in confession, and he told his mother all. 276 DON JOHN. She took his confidence very calmly, and paused be- fore answering. "Your lather will be glad of this," she said at last, "for, as time went on, your want of perception in the matter has disappointed him." " Mother ! then grandmother told you? " " Of course ! — 1 knew perfectly' that Marjorie did not in the least care for Campbell, and we agreed with your grandmother that while she sta3'ed in Edinburgh he should never be invited to the house." "I'm stumped," was all Don John rephed, and he retired, feeling much relieved, and a little humiliated. " The human mind," he reflected, " is deeper than I had supposed ! " And now Lanc}' was fitted out with proper clothes and personal possessions, for he had come back shabby and almost destitute ; and then he was told that something had been found for him to do in London, and he was to board in the family- of a clergyman, for it would not be just towards the other children that he should live at home. He understood that he was under probation — was well aware that his host and hostess, probably his employer too, knew perfectly of his propensit}'. It pleased him to receive frequent letters from " mother," with as fre- quent presents of fruit, books, or the various trifles that she thought he might want or like. And sometimes " father " would send round on a Saturday to the office where he was ernployed, and propose to take him down with him to spend Sunda}-. Lancy liked this A-erv well just at first, but he soon made m^oy friends for himself, not by any means all of an undesirable sort ; some were old school-fellows and their families, some were people whom he had met with on his travels. He had shortly a circle of his own, and seemed to take a certain pleasure in letting the Johnstones see, that as they would not any longer have him to live with them, he should make him- self independent of them as soon as possible. At present his salary was extremely small, and Mr. Johnstone paid for his board and his clothes ; his pocket->| money was all that he provided for himself. jij DON JOHN. 277 There was only one thing in this world that he cleepl}' dreaded. This man who still watched over him, and had been a true father to him, would on some rai-e occasions take him into his stud}-, and after certain fatherl}- admo- nitions and counsels would kneel down and pray with him. Lancy regarded this as a very awful ceremony, so did all the children of the house. It came so seldom that it never lost its power. It was far worse, as Lancy felt, than any punishment ; in fact the recollection of it actually kept him, and that not seldom, from doing wrong ; but it was an additional reason for wanting to get free, to throw off the paternal yoke altogether. So things continued for nearly a 3'ear, and all, includ- ing himself, appeared to be going on satisfactorilv. Captain Leslie had not been able yet to see Estelle's eldest son. Earl}' in the autumn he took a tour on the continent, and was detained there by illness. He was almost always ill, and could not think how it was. He was prudent, he never fatigued himself; he would like to have speut^ his strength, and money, and time for the good of others ; and all he could do was to care for himself. He consulted several physicians: "Perhaps he had better remain in the south of Europe for the winter," said one, and he submitted, finding the charge of his own health, of himself in fact, very dull work. It was not till the hottest da3's of the English summer, the middle of July, that he found himself in England again, and ou his way to the Johnstones'. He longed to see Estelle, and her son. He felt that he had almost asked for an invitation, but not, the less that his welcome was spontaneous and sweet. The girls had corresponded with him, they were all charmed to see him. The mother gave him a shaded comfortable cor- ner in the drawing-room, and sent for some tea. 8he perceived at once that he was quite an invalid, and for the first time he fully admitted it — to himself. And Don John? Could anj'thing be so unfortunate? Don John was away again. He would be disappointed, for he had 2/8 DON JOHN. wished to see Captain Leslie. They did not thinli he had been awaj" for nearly a 3'ear. But Lanc}' — " Did he remember that the}' had told him about Lancy?" asked little Mary. " O, yes." " He is our adopted son," said Estelle ; "we brought him up with our own children." " But he lives with his own mother now," proceeded Mary ; '• her name is Mrs. Ward, and she is come liome from Australia. And Lanc}' has been ill, very ill ; so Don John and Mrs. Ward took him to Ramsgate for a change. Did you ever see Mrs. Ward ? " " No ; I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance." " She used to be rather rich, and had the grandest rings, and the thickest chains and bracelets 3'ou ever saw ; but this is ver}- fortunate, for she has married a ver}' bad man, who treats her so unkindly that she ran away from him, and now she has all that jewelry to sell. She told Lancy it was worth four hundred pounds, and she keeps selling it when she wants money ; and she and Lancy live together. Lancy sa}"^ he shall go to law with that man soon, but it will not be an}' use. Don John knows all about law, and he says so." " But Don John will be back in about a week," said Mrs. Johnstone, " so you will see him." . Captain Leslie Was very well amused, falling as be- fore into the possession of the girls, to whom.Marjorie was now added. As before, he made them talk a good deal about their brother. Freddy, a fine boy of fifteen, was at home, but he excited no interest. Don John, his doings, his writings, and the photographs of his honest face, wei-e what pleased Leslie. He was a very joyous young fellow, as was evident — the leader of the young brood, Marjorie's confidant in her peaceful hapi>y love affair, Naomi's comrade. Charlotte's critic, Mary's patron — looked up to by Freddy as one much exalted, but whose various doings were not be}'ond hope of imi- tation, and whose privileges might one day be shared. He was of age now, and gave himself occasionally DON JOHN. 279 the airs of a man of thirt}', taking it much amiss that his two grown-up sisters were older tlian himself, and almost as tall. However, as he frequentl}' said, their being so tall was their own lookout ; he was himself quite up to the average height, in fact, half an inch taller than his father. Charlotte and Don John, about this time were fre- quently seen sitting with their heads together, in doors or out of doors, and manifestly concocting somewhat that amused them ; but though Mrs. Johnstone took notice of this fact, she was not careful to influence cither party in any way. The brother and sister-like intimacy, the old habit of writing "the minutes" to- gether, kept them always familiar, but neither ever sur- prised the other ; they were never absent, and then, uniting, saw each other in that new light which is apt to produce a new feeling. The fact was that about this time Mr. Brown began to cultivate Don John's friendship with a certain assi- duity. The young gentleman was not taken in. " It won't do," he would think; "Charlotte does not care about your prospects a bit ; why must you need confide them to me?" But in their next conversation IMr. Brown with much diffidence let Don .John know that lie thought he might have mistaken his own feelings as regarded Miss Charlotte, and he felt sure she did not look on him with any favor. Don John assented with needless decision, and added, of his own proper wis- dom, that he was sure Charlotte was not a girl who was ever likelv to marry anybody. But there was always something curiously deferential in Mr. Brown's manner when he called upon the ladies of the family. Don John was sagacious ; he felt tliat bis society was not sought for his own sake. He had been told that it was not for Charlotte's. He consulted Charlotte. Charlotte said it must be Xaomi. Mani- festly she did not care about his turning awa}' from her so soon. But Naomi would care. And yet Mr. Brown was decidedly a good fellow. 28o DON JOHN. He was rather a fine 3"oung man. Would it be a good thing to let him have a chance ? Of course, if Naomi knew anything of this beforehand he would not have a chance. They were some time reflecthig on the matter, and Xaomi often thought they had more conferences than usual ; a dawning suspicion occasionally induced her to surprise them. They may have been adroit, or she mistaken, it was almost always "the minutes" the^' were discussing, for b}' this name all Charlotte's contributions to literature were still called. Evidently it must haA^e been the minutes, for if there was an}' conspiracy nothing came of it. Mr. Brown frequently called ; Charlotte often went out of the room on these occasions, and Naomi had to enter- tain him ; but when Charlotte came back again it never appeared that Naomi had been well entertained. And in tlie mean time Lancy was frequently in the house. He delighted to make Charlotte feel shy, and3-ct he saw that she resented his half- careless compliments. He would often try to squeeze her hand, for he liked to see the pale carnation tint rise on her clear cheek ; and when she was distant to him, or when displeased, he would laugh and enjo}' it. He diet not truly care for her, but he would have been very avcU pleased to make her care for him, and he flattered himself that she did. Leslie, true to his interest in Estelle's eldest son, was pleased to learn all he could of Charlotte and her writ- ings. It was the afternoon of the daj" when Don John was expected home ; seated where he could see the path by which he would arrive, Leslie easil}' beguiled her into conversation. She and Naomi wore doing " art needle- work," and Leslie was so fixed in his opinion that Char- lotte and Don .John were all in all to one another, that it surprised him when she sat down with her back to this path. All had hitherto lavored his idea, and the talk as usual came round to Don John. That afternoon, for the first time, I^'aomi noticed it. — started a su1)ject which had uotiiiug do with her brother, and then fell silent to DON JOHN. 281 obsen'e what would Imppen ; but her attention wandered. 8he knew not how this was, but when it returned there was Don John's name again. " Then why does he think that stor}- was rejected?" LesHe was asking. " Oh, because I had tried to bring in some of the old- fashioned courtesies. It is such a pity that we are obliged to do without ' madam ' and ' sir.' Don't you think so?" " I think I have not thought. So it is ; we must make the best of it." " Such expressions as ' my lady ' and ' your lordship' must always have been a hideous incubus on a polite tongue ; but English has not been so pretty since we left off ' madam,' nor so terse since we parted witli ' sir.' I do allow myself in conversation to use those words now and then, for the mere pleasure of hearing them, but it does no good." " How do 3-ou mean, no good?" " Oh, it does not help to bring them in again." " No," said Naomi ; " when you do it in societj' it only makes people think you kuow no better." " I fancy, madam, that their da}' is gone b}-," said Les- lie, smiling. Charlotte sighed, as if she really cared about the mat- ter. "• We are growing so rude." "And so Don John counsels you to do without ' madam ' and ' sir ' ? " " Yes, and without my theories." " What theory, for instance?" "Oh, in that paper I ])rought in my notion that birds have an articulate language." "Articulate?" " Yes, some birds ; he has shown me that no creatures differ so much from one another, in point of intelligerice, as birds ; but I am sure some have a real language, bank- swallows, for instance. When you hear them chattering together at the opening of their holes, does it never occur to you thatif 3-ou heard any language you do not under- stand, such as Malay-Chinese or Hottentot, it would not 282 DON JOHN. sound more articulate than swallow-talk does, particu- larl3' if it was uttered as hastily and in as low a tone?" Leslie smiled, as if he would put the question l\v. She went on, '' Of course their verbs must be ver^', very simple." " What ! you believe that they have verbs?" " Certainly, for the}- possess the idea of time; the}' must be able to sa}-, *■ We ivere there., and ' We (ire here.' And as the^- are perfectl}' aware that tliey shall go back again, and as they do it in concert, I think they must be able to sa}', ''Let us depart.' " " Tliey may have signs which stand for such ideas," said Leslie doubtfully', " as we have." "Yes." " And we call them verbs." "Irresistible reasoning! and j'et I resist it alto- gether." " But how will 3'ou resist it? What theory will j-ou set up instead ? " Leslie considered: "The verbs I cannot admit," he said doubtfully ; "I could rather think your sand-mar- tins have a monosyllabic laugunge, like Cliinese." " Yes ; but I don't think that idea will help yon. be- cause the latest books about Chinese show, and 1 think prove, that originallv that language had parts of speech, verbs, and inflections ; but it has gone to decay, partly from isolation, partly from the idleness of those who spoke it — from their letting their phonetic organs pass out of use. Chinese is not simple and young. It is as it were in its second childhood, going to pieces from old jjo-g." ""Indeed." " And 3'on must have noticed that it is the tendency of language to have, as time goes on, a richer vocab- ulary and a simpler grammar." "You are going to found some theor}' on that, as regards 3'our swallows ? " "No; but I think it likely that theirs being only a rudimentary language, what fails them most is their store of nouns — not of verbs." DON JOHN. 283 "Charlotte," said Naomi, "Captain Leslie cannot help laughing at jou." " Perhaps you picked up these theories from constant companionship \vith Don John?" said Leslie witli an air of apology. " Oh no ; Don John is always criticising my theories ; but for him I should indulge in man}- more." " I must admit that in this one I think you claim far too much for the martins." " Do you think then that all their chatter conveys no knowledge from one to the other — no intention, no wish ? " ' ' Why shonld it more than the lark's song ? He pleases his mate, but he tells her nothing." "No, any more than we do when we sing without words ; but sand-martins cannot sing — they talk. Some birds, for aught we know, can only sing. But our sense of hearing is ver}- dull. It may be that besides singing the thrushes can say many things, and yet their speech may be too low and too small to be audible to us. Sand- martins are the onh' birds I know who talk manifestly and audibly." "Ah, here is Don John," said Naomi, and she laid down her work, and went out at the open window to meet him. Leslie hfted his eyes, and looking out into the gar- den saw a young man slowly advancing along the grass. Could this be Don John? Mary came running up to him ; he stooped slightly, and she kissed his check. He looked languid, and tired ; and while Mary chattered and danced about him, seeming to tell him some inter- esting piece of news, he gazed llxedly on a bed of petu- nias, and with his hands in his pockets stood motionless, as if lost in thought. Naomi came near, and the two girls advanced towards the house, one on either side of him. . " Captain Leslie is here," Naomi said, as they came up. Leslie heard this, and the answer — "Oh!" That was all. Rather a gentlemanly looking young fellow, Captain 284 DON JOHN. Leslie thought. The extreme gravity and seriousness of Iiis manner made his smile appear sweet ; but it was soon gone again, and after the Urst greeting, he sank into thought. And so this was Estelle's son ! Of how much conse- quence he had been to Leslie ! Leslie was of no conse- quence at all to him. CHAPTER XXVI. AMONG the minor surprises of his life, none had ever struck Leslie so much as the behavior and air of young Donald Johnstone. He had gathered a good deal of information as to his voice, his manners, his laugh : he appeared, and scat- tered it all ; the picture was not like, in an}' respect. There was something almost pathetic in the gentleness, the serious and silent abstraction in which he sat, and, remote iu thought from everything about him, cogitated with folded arms. His light e3-elashes concealed in part rather expres- sive blue eyes ; he v/as pale with that almost chalk}' hue of a fair skin not naturallv pale. He only spoke when spoken to — and Leslie did not speak. The girls, evidently surprised, asked if Lanc}' was worse. No, it appeared that Lanc}' was almost well again. " Nothing is the matter then?" " The matter ! with whom ? " "Why, with you. Did you come up b}' the boat, Don Joim?" " Yes." " Ah, then you were sea-sick I You always are ! It is such a mistake to think that, to be often on the sea at intervals, just for a few hours will cure you." Oh, what a sigh for answer ! " I wish you would n't do it, dear," said Naomi, leaning over the end of the sofa on which he sat, and touching his light hair lovingly ; "it has made j'ou look so pale." DON JOHN. 285 "I've got a headache," was his reply ; and then, all in a moment, there was a step heard, and the tall grace- ful mother came in the door. Don John roused him- self, he almost seemed to shake himself, and rose up and met her, and kissed her, and seemed quite cheerful. " My dear ! " she exclauned, " how pale you are ! " "Yes, mother!" cried Naomi; "and he's been on that steamer again." "A fellow looks such a muff," said Don John, " if he is sea-sick. I wish to cure m3-self." Leslie look(^d up, and met Don John's e^'es ; he knew as well as possible that there was something more than sea-sickness the matter. "When he got up from the sofa," exclaimed Mary, " he staggered ; he is quite giddy." "Tliere!" said Don John, impatient!}' ; "no more! It's more muffish to talk of it than to have it." "Yes," said the placid mother, soothingly; "I'll ring for some strong tea, and when ^'ou have had it 30U will be quite well." "Shall 1?" he answered; and then he seemed to make a supreme effort again, and this time with better result. It appeared to be almost by his own will and resolu- tion that he cast over the matter that had held him down, and that the natural hues of life came back to his face. The tea came in, perhaps it helped him ; he ate and drank, and seemed to feel a certain comfort in his mother's observance, so that when in the course of time Donald Johnstone himself entered, all that was remarkable in the young Donald's appearance and manner had passed awa}*. He was still pale, that was all. Could it be, Leslie thought, that all this pathetic air and abstracted expression had come from a mere fit of sea-sickness? He almost despised young Donald when the thought suggested itself. But the night un- deceived him. There is something so pathetic in the anguish of the young. Leslie had a feeling heart, and when, lying awake in 286 DON JOHN. the dead of the uight, when the healthy and the strong shomd have been asleep, he heard a sound of sobbing in the next room to his, he could have wept too. This was his heir — bemoaning himself in the night on his pillow, when he did not know that any one could hear. But the heads of the two beds were close to- gether, one on either side of the wall. What could it be ? He was not yet twenty-two 3'ears old ; could he be breaking his heart alread}' for some woman's love? Or had he committed some grave faults, and was he craving forgiveness of his Maker ? or was he sick — was he in pain ? The sobbing went on so long that Leslie almost thought he must rise and enter the joung fellow's room. But no, he controlled himself; he feared to do more harm than good ; and at last, but not till da^- had dawned, there was a welcome silence. Don John was aslee[) ; and Leslie, who had offered up many a prayer for him, fell asleep too. Leslie did not hear that midnight mourning onl}' once ; but for several nights there were no articulate sounds with it. Don John, though in the morning he appeared grave and dull, and though he looked pale, went every morning to London with his father, and had the air of striving to behave as usual, so that Leslie felt that to speak to him or to his parents would be to make matters worse — it would be a breach of confidence. But once before dawn, waking at a now well-known sound, he heard words as well as sighs: " Oh, father! Oh, mother ! " He started up ; these were about the last words he should have expected to hear ; he could not risk being obliged to hear more. The heir, for whom he had already begun to feel some affection, must surely be mourning over some fault which he knew would distress his parents when the}- found it out. "Was it not possible that he c mid help him? He rose, and lighting a candle, began to move about in the room without making any attempt at special quietness. There was absolute silence. In a minute or two a DON JOHN. 287 tall figure in a quilted dressing-gown appeared at Don John's door, shut it behind him, and came in. He set do\Yn his candle, drew a chair, and seated himself. " I must have disturbed you," said Don John, deeply vexed and disgusted with himself, and perliaps with Captain Leslie too. Leslie answered " Yes ; " and when Don John made no answer, he presently went on : " And if I feel a ver}'' deep and keen sympatiiy with your sorrow, whatever it may be, there are reasons for that, dear fellow, which probably you never knew." Surprise had for the moment mastered emotion. Don John raised himself on his elbow, heaved up another great sobbing sigh, and stared at him. "Are you aware that I have loved your mother all my life," he went on, while Don John was considering that it was no use to sa}' anything, he must let him alone — "all my 3-outh — and I never had the least chance with her? A hopeless attachment, and to such a woman, is very hard discipline for a man. I say it that you may feel sure of m^' S3'mpathy ; but I have had faults to deplore as well. Sin has full often been stand- ing at the door. If that is your case, feel sure of my deep sympath}- there also. And now tell me — you, the much-loved son of m_y first and only love — if there is anything in the world that I can do for you, do 3'ou think I should be thankful to do it?" "Yes," said Don John, quite simplv, " I think 3"ou would ; " and he laid himself down again, and made no attempt to say more. " You have got into some scrape ; you have, perhaps, done something tliat you deeply' regret, and — " " No,'' interrupted Don John, " I have n't." A little thrown back by this, Leslie paused, and after aaihort silence the youth went on — "But I feel that wnat you have said is extremely kind : and perhaps now I may be able to sleep. I have not slept well the last few nights." A. hint surely to LesUe to go — but he stayed. 288 DON JOHN. ' ' Are j-ou so sure then that there is nothing at all I can do — with my advice, my assistance, my propert}- ? " '' I am sure." " There remain onl}' my prayers." " And they cannot help me to anything but patience." " My dear fellow — " " But I am as glad you came in as I am sorr}' for having disturbed you, because 1 am sure you will promise me not to mention this to any one — any one at all." " Xot even to 3'our parents." " That was what I meant." " But if I promise 3-ou this, 5'ou will owe a certain dut}- to me in return." " "What duty? " " If a time should ever come when I can help 3'ou, I shall have a right to expect that 3-ou will claim m3' help, to any extent and in an3- way." •' Thank you." " And I must not ask what this sorrow is?" " I cannot tell you." Leslie thought of Charlotte. She had treated him with composed indifference, but he had appeared to the full as indifferent to her. He could but speak carefully. " I hardly like to give this matter up," he said. " When I first loved your mother I was scarcely older than you are now. If there had been no other bar to my hopes, it would have been enough that I was poor. Now, if you feel any likeness in m^' case to vours. and if the 3"oung lady's father — I mean, if tv.'o or three thousand pounds — " " In love with a girl I " exclaimed Don John with a short laugh, whose bitterness and scorn it would be im- possible to describe, for he was contrasting an imagi- nary sorrow with a real one. '' Fall in love with a girl, and cry about her in the night ! I am not such a muff." '• "What ! " exclaimed Leslie, rather shocked. " I am not come to that yet." continued Don John with unutterable self-contempt ; '' but perhaps I shall " — \ DON JOHN. 289 and the suddenh' arrested storm asserted itself with an- other great lieaving of the chest. Then he begged Los- lie's pardon, for he saw that he was hurt. ''That's not ni}' hne," he said. " But what you say, or seem to say, perfectly astonishes nie. You arc very good ; I have no claim on 30U in the world — and — I am sorr^- I disturbed you." " I think you mean that you are sorry I have become aware of this." Don John made no answer ; Leslie turned towards his candle ; the gra}' light was beginning to wax, and it was burning dim. " I must go, then," and he held out his hand. But the next da}', when his heir came down, he deeply re- gretted that he had promised silence. Don John was not able to go to town ; he had low fever hanging about liim, and his already wasted hands looked whiter than before. The day after that a medical man was sent for. Don John could get up, but he complained of his head ; and in another day it became manifest that both his lather and mother were alarmed about him. Leslie's visit had nearly come to an end — he felt that he must go ; but it was bitter to him. He longed to talk to his heir, and offer him the best consolation that he could ; and Don John was aware of this. In his shrewd but somewhat youthful fashion, he per- ceived the real affection that Leslie felt for him. He thought it would be very unfair if he did not have his innings before he went. Expressing himself in these words to Leslie, on an occasion when he was feeling shghtly better, and not being understood, he explained — "i meant that I thought 3-ou would like to pray with me ; father does sometimes. I should not mind it at all — in fact, I think, I should like it." " Out of kindness to me, dear fellow? " asked Leslie ; but of course he took the opportunity offered. There could hardty have been anything api)ropriate to the peculiar circumstances of the patient in that prayer, and vet he derived from it his first conscious desire to sub- ly 290 DON JOHN. mit — his first perception that if he could submit he could get well. He knew that he had rebelled hitherto, and thus when the thinking-fit over this misfortune came on, rebellion was at the root of its keenest sting. He had merelj' meant to be kind, and he had his re- ward. He was very ill, and both father and mother lavished observant tenderness on him. Sometimes he could get up, come down stairs, and talk almost as usual. Then all on a sudden something which had been held at ba}- appeared to got hold on him, and low fever devoured his strength. One da}- he could hardh* lift his head from his pillow, but he was vet not quite in such evil case as before, for there was that in the manner of both parents which made Leshe sure that they knew now what had pros- trated him. It was very hot weather, his door was set wide open, and the family came in and out, not aware, and not in- formed, that there was any anxiety felt about him. And there was little in the placid mother's manner to show that she felt any. She was generally with him. It was not so much tendance as consolation that she seemed to be giving him ; not in words. And his father, too, he spoke bravely and cheerfull}' ; 3'et the patient lost strength and flesli dail}-. " As one whom his mother comforteth," thought Les- lie, when he saw his life-long love watching by his heir. Who could fail to be consoled ? Yet Don John did not appear to derive direct comfort from their manner, only from their presence ; he could not bear to be left without either one or the other of his parents. And yet it was he himself who had first consoled ; and he went away, and endured a very anxious fortnight, till the girls, who had promised to write frequently, could at last say that Don John was better. With what gratitude he heard this. He was going up shortly to Scotland, and could not help proposing to stop on his way, and pa}' a call of one hour on the Johustoues. DON JOHN. 291 There was the beautiful Estelle, and there were her tall daughters, and her invalid ; he was Iving on the sola, undei'going a course of indulgence and waiting on, from all parties. His hands were thin, and as white as a girl's, his cheeks were thin, and his eyes were sunken ; but the struggle was over between youth and death, and youth had won. And yet it was not the same Don John. Leslie was just as sure of this as the others were. His mother put down the book she had been reading to him, and looked at him with anxious love. "He must go out soon for a change," she said, '' and then I hope he will be well." ''I don't want to go awa}', mother," said the young invalid ; " but if I must go anywhere, perhaps Captain Leslie would have me." The beautiful mother actually blushed ; the wa}- in which all her children took to Captain Leslie was almost embarrassing to her. She could not see any charm in him herself; but that was an old stor^*. Leslie was highly flattered. She was about to say, "I really must apologize for my boy ; " but when she saw Leslie's pleasure she had not the heart to do it. He looked as if he would have liked to hug Don John. " Captain Leslie ought to have me too," said Mar}- ; "I've done fourteen errands for him this very day, finding books for him, and fetching his eau-de-Cologne, and handing him his beef-tea, and all sorts of things." Mrs. Johnstone did not speak, but she looked quietly at Leslie. The look was not an apology to him lor not having given him her love, but it exi)ressed an affection she had never shown him before, and she said, " If you can have Don John" (''And me too," interrupted Mary), "my husband and I could trust you with hun with more comfort than I can say." "And me too," insisted Mar}-. " Don John, and j'ou too," answered Leslie. His mahogany-colored face could not change its hue, but short of that it expressed all the pleasure possible. 292 DON JOHN. "Invited themselves, did they?" exclaimed Donald Johnstone, when he was told of this by his wife. " My children invited themselves into this man's house, who has of all men least reason to like their father ! How did he stand it? and how did you get him out of the scrape, my Star?" " He was delighted ; so I let them alone." "' Let them alone ! But it will be a great inconven- ience to him ; ver}" likel}'^ he wiU have to get in more furniture and other servants. I believe he has a mere shooting-box." "Yes, I felt all that, and was ver}' much out of countenance." "And doubtless he perceived it. I don't see how 3'ou could have done less than blush, m>- dear. You are actually repeating the performance, and ver}- becom- ing it is." " Perhaps he wishes that old attachment to be for- gotten — perhaps he feels only friendship, now that be has seen me again." " Perhaps ! " " Well, we must make the best of this now. They proposed the visit with the greatest composure, and he accepted with acclamation." So in a couple of weeks Don John and Mar}' were in Scotland, in a moderatel>' convenient house, wedged into one corner of a triangular valle}'. Its one carriage road led down beside a prattling stream to the sea. Mar}' was intensely happ}', and Don John was conva- lescent. The sensation of returning health and strength is in itself delightful, and the refreshment of clear skies, long sunsets, scented air, and mountain solitude, all helped to console and calm, Don John gained strength daily, but Leslie did not observe any return of the joyous spirits for which he had hitherto been conspicuous in his little world. He never ventui-ed to ask what the sorrow was, but he per- ceived that its cause was not removed ; and sometimes there would come over the pleasant but somewhat com- monplace countenance an expression which removed it DON JOHN. 293 into another world of feeling and experience. An ar- dent yearning would come over it, the outcome it seemed of some impassioned regret, which made it look more noble, if less 3'oung. CHAPTER XXVII. "TII^ATHER is ill," cried Mar}-, running down one iP afternoon to the shore of the long loch beside which Don John was sitting, watching the little wild ducks as they crept into the shelter of the reeds ; '' not very ill, but "rather ill. Captain Leslie has got a letter from mamma. He is better, and we are not to be at all disturbed, and not to think of coming home." Father ill ! Such a thing had never taken place for one day in the memory of the oldest of his children. Leslie followed closely on Mary's message. Don, John read the letter, and neither he nor his sister were so uneasy as might have been expected. He looked at them. '' They have this composure from their parents," he thought. " It was one of Estelle's great charms that she never was in the least nervous, never apprehensive." The nearest telegi'aph station was fifteen miles off, and did not open till eight o'clock in the morning. Leslie had waited behind to make arrangements for having a servant thei-e, to send a message off at the earliest mo- ment for the latest news. The sick man's children slept in peace. As soon as possible the next morning, an answer came from Naomi to Don John. " Father is not worse. You need not be uneasy ; but mother wishes you both to come liome." Don John had been prepared for this, for his packing was fountl to be ready. All little Mary's effects by his decree were to be left liehind, excepting what could be put into a hand-bag. Thus they were all ready as soon as the hoi'ses could be put to. 294 DON JOHN. "But why are 3'ou in such a hurry?" askecl Mary. " Mother says we are not to be uneasy." LesHe Ustened for the answer. " And therefore I am not uneasy about father's ill- ness ; but he is sure to want me, and I want to go and help." '• 1 am glad to see that 30U have your mother's de- lightful temperament. ^Vhy indeed should you be un- easy- ? why anticipate disaster? " said Leslie. Don John's eyes dilated with a startled and gratified expression. " M}' mother's temperament," he began, almost vehemently, and then checked himself. " Yes, 30U often remind me of her, both of you." Though Leslie was driving, and the horses were rather fresh, he could not help noticing that he had pro- duced a great elfect by this speech, and that it was a pleasurable one. That his own feelings should be of the most romantic cast towards Estelle, seemed to him the most natural thing in the world ; but that her son should share any such feeling was, he well knew, a verj' uncommon circumstance. But then she was not an ordinar3' mother ; so he present!}' told himself. Why then should hers be an ordinary son ? Don John lost himself in cogitation. This remark of Leslie's appeared to be such a spontaneous testimony to his sonship. Very slight, but the more sweet. Undoubteclh' his handwriting was extremely like his father's, but he had tormented himself wnth the thought that this might be because he liked it, had admired and copied it, as remarkably firm, clear, and round. It ex- pressed the qualities he wished to have. And then his manner, and the carriage of his head : he walked just as his father did. The remembrance of this consoled him just at first, but his sick fancy turned that into poison also : "I constantly walk with father," he thought ; " and when I was a little fellow I liked to go as if I was marching, because he did." Leslie pailed from Don John and his sister with much affection. Neither the son nor the daughter anticipated evil ; but Don John sent a telegram on to mention DON JOHN. 295 at what time he hoped to reach King's Cross, and re- questing that one miglit meet liiin there with the latest news. He found all as he had expected. His lather had been ill, but was bettei» — still in bed, and not allowed to get up. '• And you are not to ask him how his illness began," said the mother. '' But how did it begin, then?" '' That is what we do not know, m}' dear. We thought he had had a fail. Dumplay came home qui- etly", and 30ur father not riding him." '' But that fat, old, peaceable creature could not have thrown him. Impossible, mother." "So I think. Mr. Viser found him sitting up lean- ing against the gate of the long field, and brought him home just after Dumplay came into the stable-yard. He was a little cut ab(>ut the face, seemed ill, and that first day gave no account of the matter. "We were told he was not to be questioned at all, or teased about it. The next day he roused himself, and said, Avheu he saw Dr. Fielding, 'Now am I better?' 'Better than I could possibly have hoped,' Dr. Fielding an- swered, ' wonderfully better ; ' and then, to my distress, your dear father went on : ' I cannot think how^ this came to pass.' But we are assured that there is no danger. That evening he said he remembered dis- mounting and opening "the gate; he remembered seeing Dumplay walk through it, but nothing more. If he fiiinted and fell, he must have hurt his head and cut his face in the fall." Then she put her two hands on Don John's shoulders as he stood gravely listening, and said, "Mv much loved son, what a comfort it will be that you"^will be with him, able to help him, and knowing all al)ont his aflairs. It consoles me to see you look- ing well again." The new expression came into Don John's lace then ; and after that again, \then sitting by his father he found that he could calm and satisfy him, and that his mere presence was doing good. 296 DON JOHN. He went up to London the next day about such of his father's affairs as he could attend to, and walked home from the station through the long Held. Several people out of ''the houses" waylaid him to ask after his father ; perhaps that was the reason why he did not notice, till he almost reached the shrubbery gate, that Charlotte was standing there waiting for him. Charlotte. He perfectly knew Charlotte's face, and yet it was true that he had never looked at her with au}^ particular attention before. It was a light green gate that she was leaning on, just of the proper height to support her elbows. She was dressed in white, and had no color about her dress at all ; on her head was rather a wide white hat, limp, and onlj- suited for a garden. Her whole dress, in short, was dazzlingly white and clean. Her small face seen under the hat was in shade ; a pure pale carnation suffused her cheeks, and the lips were of the hue of dark damask roses. The same Charlotte ! and 3'et the beautiful Irish e3'es seemed almost new to him. Don John stopped. " I thought I would come to meet you," said Char- lotte, not moving from her place on the other side of the gate. " My uncle is so much better ; he is up, and sitting in the pla3-room." This was certainly Charlotte, and ^-et he looked at her with wonder. "AVell?" she asked with a little smile, and added, " I knew you were uneasy, you always look so grave ; so I thought I would come and tell \o\\ that Dr. Field- ing says he is more than satisfied." "It was kind of you, it was good of you," said Don John. "What 'a beautiful gown yoii have on, Charlotte ! " " This old thing," said Charlotte, lifting her arms, and letting him open the gate ; " why, I have had it for a 3'ear ! " " Oh," answered Don John ; and how long he would have stood gazing at her it is impossible to say, if she had not turned and moved on, saying, as she preceded DON JOHN. 297 him in the narrow path, " No doubt 3'ou will want to si'C m}' uncle first ; but after that 1 want to consult you :i))out something." Charlotte and Don John generall}' were consulting idgether about something or other; he was always ex- pected to criticise her essays and tales, and did not re- gard this as by any means a privilege, but as he often thought, '' she is not likely to marry, and therefore she ought to have something else to give a meaning to her life." On this occasion he did think of the coming consultation as a privilege, and ardently hoped that Naomi would not be present. His past thoughts were full of images of Charlotte, and for a moment he was not aware that he was looking at them with ditferent eyes. His father was so much better, that but for the cuts about his face it would have been difficult to be uneasy about him. These, however, reminded them how sud- den the seizure had been, and made them long to know whether it was ever likely to recur. Don John had tried to discuss this in the morning ; but when he found that he was put o(f with remarks about symptoms that he knew could be of no consequence, he said no more, but he looked so much alarmed that the friendly doctor said, "I have told you that there is no danger — for the present. But if I allowed you to get anything out of me, your father would very soon get it out of you, and that would be bad for him. When he asks ques- tions, you know nothing." " Excepting that there is something to know," thought Don John. Marjorie was away, staying with her grandmother, as was often the case now. Dr. Fielding went on : " I would not let your sister be sent for, but I wonted you ; your presence will be of the greatest use, and ma}' be of the utmost consequence." Don John took easily to resi)onsibilitv. guessed that his father was not to be left alone, ancl found a great solace in the consideration that he had so. arranged his life as to have his son almost alwa^-s at his side. 298 DON JOHN. I The dinner that evening was a veiy pleasant meal. The head of the family was so manifestly better that no one could be uneasy about hiui. A nurse was in the house, and she sat witli him. Little Marj' was allowed to dine late, and was full of talk about .Scotland. Don John was in better spirits than he had been since before his illness, and sitting in his father's place surveyed the family. His mother looked tired, but peaceful and thanliful. Mar}' and Naomi had on white muslin and blue ribbons — pink does not look well with reddish hair ; bat Charlotte had on pink ribbons. How much prettier pmk i^ than blue ! Her almost black hair, not glossy — how soft and thick it looked ! A twisted rope of peal-ls was embedded in it. Her mother had just sent it to her, and at the same time some silver ornaments to Naomi. Don John did not know that, but he could not helj) looking at Charlotte, and she and Naomi kept glancing at one an- other. ' ' Don't they look sweet, both of them ? " exclaimed the admiring little sister ; and then Don John was told that the girls had put on their best to do honor to these ornaments, which had just arrived ; and before he had reflected that he should have included Naomi in his re- mark, he had burst forth with •' Well, I thought I had never seen Charlotte look like that before — look so well, I mean." It was the end of September, remarkably hot for the time of year, and though they were dining by candle lio-lit, all the windows were open. "" Girls alwavs look better when they have their best things on," said Mary. Don John glanced at both the girls"'; Naomi looked' just as usual, Charlotte's appear- ance was really indescribable. " You never sav anything civil, excepting to mother," said Naomi to her brother. " Now there was an open- ing for you to have said that we look well in every- thing." "Only he doesn't think so," observed Charlotte. " No ; he often says, What a guy you look when 3'ou DON JOHN. 299 liave a crumpled frock on ! and, How horrid it is of 3011 to ink 3-onr lingers ! " observed Mary. " Yes," said Charlotte, with sweet indifference ; " but I 'ni not half so untidy as I used to be." Don John would like to have made fervent apologies lor his past rudeness ; he would like to have put Naomi's liiut into impassioned language, but he had just sense enough to hold his tongue ; and he thought his mother's encomium very inadequate when she said, "Yes, I am pleased to see a great improvement in 3-ou, my dear ; you almost always look nice and neat now." Charlotte's cheeks blushed and bloomed ; a deep dimple came. Her smile was naturally slight, but it always lifted the upper lip in a strangely' beautiful way, and then the teeth showed. One never saw them but then. Nice and neat ! CtO out at dawn and apply those words to a dewy half-opened damask rose. Charlotte for her part found this praise very much to her mind, and both the girls continued to remai-k on one another's ornaments in a way that enabled Don John, with wholly new shyness, to glance at them. He tried to make his glances impartial, but the silver chain was only an orna- ment round his sister's neck. The pearls twasted in Charlotte's hair appeared to be almost a part of her- self, l;e felt that if he might touch them they w'cre close enough to her to l:)e warm. When he opened the door for them all to go out, that vision of beauty was last, and she whispered to him. '''•\\\ the orchard, Don John ; you won't forget?" No, he was sure he should not forget. He argued w-itli himself for some minutes as to the length of time he was accustomed to sit at table. He reminded himself that when the evenings were liglit he generally rose wdien his mother did. and strode straight into the garden. It was rather dai'k now, but hot, and the air was still. He could hear the girls' voices, they were all out of doors. He could not wait any longer ; he ran upstairs to wish his father good night, and then came down to give a cheerful message to his mother, who was alone in the drawing-room. 300 DON JOHN. After that he too stepped forth into the dark. Naomi and Mary were together ; Charlotte was walking on just before them, and held a lighted candle, which she was protecting with her hand. There was no stir in the air to make it flicker. Xaomi was very fond of Charlotte ; when Don John teased her, she always took her part. " Another ' thing' of Charlotte's has been declined," said xsaonii — and added in a persuasive tone, " 3-ou 've never written one word about the minutes since you went away ; and I think Charlotte would like to discuss some letters she has got ; 3'ou '11 ask her to read them to j-ou?" ''Yes," answered Don John; "what letters are they?" "Oh, from some of her editors, no doubt; no one else writes to her. I have advised and criticised as well as I could while you were away, and now you must ; but we need n't ail be there, need we?" " Xo," said Don John with an air of impartial fair- ness. It was a piece of hypocrisv, which for the mo- ment he realh- could not help. 80 Xaomi, as he stood still, gave him the gentlest little push towards Charlotte, who had now got on a good way before them, and with her arm over her little sister's shoulder, turned her down another path, saying. "Well now. Mar}', tell me some more about the gillies." Don John, like a moth, went after the candle. He got into a long walk, sheltered on one side b}' the shrubbery, and at the end of it, in a small arbor where was a little rustic table, sat Charlotte, her candle burning Ijefore her. She seemed to be poring over some letters, but as Don John drew near she folded and put them into her pocket, and sat perfectl}' lost in thought, till, standing in the door of the arbor, he spoke to her. Then, to his gi-eat astonishment, she put her hand in her pocket again, drew out, not the letters, but her handkerchief, and leaning her elbows on the table, cov- ered her face and began to cry. DON JOHN. 301 " Wh}-, Charlotte," exclaimed Don John, " what can be the matter, clear ? " When Charlotte got into a worse scra])e than usual, he generall}- said " dear" to her, so did she to him on grave occasions — she had often done so when he was ill ; what a valuable habit this seemed now. " I told you I wanted to consult you," said Charlotte trying to recover herself — her lovely color hatl lied, her hands trembled a little, and her long eyelashes were wet — "but I don't know how to begin," she sighed, almost piteonsh'. " I '11 begin then," said Don John. " If that editor has declined your last thing, he is a humbug ; it is the best you ever wrote." " But he has n't," said Charlotte. *'0h, it's not that!" "No, but it's ever3'thing else — it's all, excepting that." "It's not the curate," exclaimed Don John with sudden alarm. " Surely he has not turned round again to 3'on?" " Oh, no — of course not ; " then the color came back to Charlotte's face. Don John sat down on the other chair, and Charlotte said, " If you were in my place — I mean if, instead of being the son of the house, you were (as I am) only here because ni}- uncle and aunt are the kindest people in the world, you would under- stand — " She fell silent here — he had become rather pale. " I should understand?" he repeated. "That I cannot bear, having never had the least chance of even showing that I am aware of their good- ness — I cannot bear to put away from me a possible means of returning it, even at the risk of perhaps making myself unhappy." Then she leaned her elbow on the table again, and said with i)atlu'tic siuii)licity, — " I could easily make myself love him, if I chose." Don John made a movement of snrj.trise and alarm, but she was thinking of far more important matters than his feelings, and went on, ''But he is not good — I 302 DON JOHN. know he is not good — and I don't believe he really cares for me." "Then, for heaven's sake, Charlotte — for all our sakes — don't ' make 30urself love him.' Tv'lw, what does the fellow mean, that he should dare to ask it? Whom can you be talking of ? who has presumed — " She was thinking too intently to notice his agitation. " You always said, 3'ou know," she present!}' went on, ' ' that I should not have lovers — and it 's quite true ; but there might l)e some one whose interest it is to many me, particularlv now. When Christmas comes this year I shall have a hundred pounds from those two editors. I am ashamed to think meanly of him, but I know — I am almost sure, he does not love me." "• Then he is even more a fool than a knave ! " Don John burst out ; " and j-ou will not be so cruel to us all ; you will not so make us sure that your welcome has not been warm enongli here — " " Gently, gently ! " interrupted Charlotte ; " but I do like to hear you burst fortii in this way beforehand. When I tell you his name do not forget what you have said, for you are the only person whose opinion I have truly feared in this matter — you love him so." Don John almost groaned ; he thought he knew then what she meant. " Who is it? " he inquired. And she whispered, " Lancy ! " CHAPTER XXYin. DOX JOHN looked forth to right and to left, as if casting aljout in the dark garden and shaded sky for somewhat to comfort or to counsel him. Some of the stars were out. It never comforts any human soul to contemplate them ; the_v are so change- less. And there was a crescent-moon, sharp as a sickle, and too young to give auyhght. The old moon had DON JOHN. 303 waned while he was in Scotland ; sometimes he had Ibund in this familiar show a new signiiieance. So, his happiness had waned awa}' — his careless joy ! He was a man now,. and must abide what manhood and sorrow might hring liim. And the new moon ! almost as young as this iast-wax- ing love. Oh, what should he do ! The}' would both grow. Plis e^'es had only just been opened to see what Char- lotte was, and what she might be to him, and now she was to tell him of a lover who, of all young men in the world, he would fain not try to supplant. " For it is not impossible " he thought, with a sharp pang, "that I maj' already, without my own will or knowl- edge, have ousted him out of everything in the world that is worth having. Not impossible., though, as my father and mother both declare, the chances are a thou- sand to one against it. All that is to me worth having," he continued, in mental correction of his first thought. " But though I should never call her mine, it is not fit that poor Lancy should get her." " That would indeed be sacrificing 3-ourself," he said, in a low voice. " You think so," answered Charlotte, in a tone of re- Hef. " Because, as you have said, he is not good." "I know he is not good," she answered, "but he said if I would take him it would make him good. He said he was no worse than other young men, excepting in that one matter, Avhich he declares he most sincerely repents." '"' What one matter, Charlotte ? " "Oh, the affair of— the ring." " He did not, of course, lead you to think that he had never erred in that way but once?" Charlotte looked up at Don John, as he stood leaning in the doorway, with an air of such amazement that he could not meet her eyes. He turned away. Charlotte should not be sacrificed in ignorance of this, he was determined ; but he knew his heart would accuse him of 304 DON JOHN. baseness forever if be tried to set her against Lancy for an}' other cause. And then he struggled hard with him- self. He knew Lancy was on the road to ruin ; that he was not in the least worthy of a lovely, pure, and high- minded girl. He could have told Charlotte things of more than one nature, which would have been quite enough to set her against Lanc}' for ever. But she herself — was she not setting him an exam- ple? AVhy was she inclined to yield? Only because she longed to return the goodness she had experienced from those who so manifestly loved him, and for some, to her, inscrutable reason had linked his lot to theirs. Might not Lancy, in this one matter, prove himself good and true, if he could be made so by anything or any circumstance ? But wh}" must the experiment needs be tried with what was so precious ? The gulf when one leaps into it does not always close. Don John knew well that this fancy for Charlotte, or rather that this plan to obtain her, must be a very sud- den one on Lancy's part, and with a flash of thought he felt that if he had heard of it a week ago he should cer- tainly have blamed him in no measured terms for daring to think of her. Pie would have left no stone unturned to make Charlotte give up the thought of such a sacri- fice — wh}- was he not to speak now ? All this took but a minute or two to think out. Then he turned again and looked Charlotte in the face. "I thought he did not love me," she faltered, " be- cause there was something so fitful and so sudden in the way that he poured forth his devoted speeches — yes, they seemed devoted for the moment — and then ap- peared almost to forget me and them. I believe it was nothing but an unlucky blush of mine that put it into his head that I liked him — and — I was rather near it once." Don John had suspected this, but he did not hear it without a jealous pang, and Charlotte went on. " But I think however fond you may be of Lancy — and you always used to say that j'ou loved him better than some of your own brothers and sisters — and DON JOHN. 305 though, to do him justice, I believe he returns 3'our aifection, yet if you know — not that he has actually stolen anytliing more than once — that I do not of course suppose — but I mean if you know him to be uni)rinci- pled — " "■ liiit I do mean that ; I do mean that he has erred in that one way more than once or twice." The color flushed into Charlotte's face. " Do they know it?" she whispered witii an awestruck air. " Father and mother? Yes." "They never could wish me to take him then; and _yet, if he should go from bad to worse, and they should hear that I had refused him ; — they might feel what his mother wrote to me, that I was cruel, for he wanted only such an attachment to make him all that could be wished, and I, it seemed, did not believe in his deep and abiding repentance." " She is a base woman," exclaimed Don John. " It always makes me shudder to think of her." "Oh, you dislike her?" " I cannot bear her; but I am not so wicked or so unkind as to say that he does not repent ; or so false as to say that I do not see in a marriage with you his very best chance of a thorough reformation." Charlotte loolied pleased — she hardly knew herself what she wished. It was sweet to think herself be- loved, but yet she was inexorable in pointing out things which had made her doubt it. " Do you know I could not help thinking when I saw liis mother's letter, that it was she who had put it into his head — of course, if I was sure of his love I could not talk of him in this cold-hearted fashion." The tone of inquiry, and almost of entreaty, was evi- dent. "You have made it dillicult, you know, forme to believe anything of that sort ! " Don John forced himself to say, "It was an unpar- alleled piece of imprudence on my part to put such non- sense into your head ! " Charlotte looked up at him, her smile increasing till the dimple came. She was pleased. " The event justi- 20 306 DON JOHN. fled you ! " she said, "• and 3'our finding it out so early did you great credit. But do give your mind to this, and your opinion about it, for you are thinking of some- thing else. 1 want you to understand how queer his declaration was ; and it was mixed up with remarks about my uncle, who was severe to him, he said, and about how splendidl}' he was getting on — he should soon be quite independent of him." '' Lanc}- getting on ! " exclaimed Don John ; " Lancy independent! How, can he be getting on? I never heard a word about it. It is all since I saw him." "I am sure he said so, and also sure that he came to ask for his quarter's allowance. M3' aunt and I were both sitting with uncle, and when he saw Lanc}', who came in gently, he seemed a good deal distressed." ' ' M}- dear father ! What did he say ? " "He said, 'That's m}' prodigal son: it embitters m}' bread to know that he will some da}' bring himself to want bread.' He was a little confused after the blow on his head. Aunt Estelle took Lancy away, and then my uncle said to me, ' I hope you vtill never forsake him.' I said, ' No.' Well, afterwards Aunt Estelle came back, and sent me awa}', and Naomi and I cried together a little in the playroom. In the garden, after that, Lancy talked to me. Oh, I cannot be ungi-ate- ful ! He came again the next day, and I laughed at him ; and I cannot help laughing now. It seemed no more real to me than Feich does ! I do not know how it was, but I did not think he talked like a lover. I thought of you." She laughed a little nervously. "Thought of me," repeated Don John. Her words were rather ambiguous : they made his heart beat. Charlotte turned the pearl bracelet on her arm and blushed excessively-. "I am sure it was not the right thing," she said. "He asked me to marry him — to be engaged at once ; but if my uncle has been very much displeased with bim, as his mother's letter seems to hint, and if Lanc}'' is almost afraid that he should give him up, how natural DON JOHN. 307 that he should wish to marry into the family, and so make such a thing almost impossil)le. Lancy cannot jict it out of his head that I love him. He never had any tact any more than I have. First he urged me to accept him on account of his love, then he as it were threatened me that if I declined it would be the worse lor him. I don't think he was considering me much ; and I formed this theory as to why he wanted me almost while he spoke." Don John did not know what dangerous ground he was venturing on. Who could have supposed that lie was not to agree with her? He said, — "I think that shows you do not really care much about him. You have given the verdict yourself, why ask for one from me ? " " I do care," said Charlotte, looking dreamily at him, "and I must read you the letters." The candle was low in the socket. !She began to sort them, but had hardly opened the first, when the leaping light covered her with its yellow flickering radiance, and then sank and was out. " Some other time you shall hear them," she went on. " No, I have not decided ; I could make myself marr^- him if I chose." " And you might be miserable." "Not if I saw that I was improving him, saving him, and so relieving Aunt Estelle and ni}- uncle ; only what 3'ou have just told me is such a sad surprise as almost to render that impossible which I had been try- ing to make up my mind to. But you speak with a kind of restraint — I am sure you do." "I speak like a fellow who feels that he must and will repeat and justifv all he has said to the person whom it most concerns. I must and sliall tell Lancy what 1 have said against him. And I speak, remembering how Lancy and I were bound to one another all our childhood l)y a great affection, which 1 know he depends upon to this moment." "And that makes you wish to be as moderate and fair as you possibly can." " That, and other things." 308 DON JOHN. " You will talk to him then? " "Certainly." "What sliall you say?" " Would it be lair to him that I should tell j'ou?" " I think it would be fair to me. You seem to for- get we." Silence here for a moment ; then Charlotte put her little warm baud on Don John's sleeve, and added, " But perhaps you have no lixed thought in ^'our mind as to what you shall say?" " I knew before you spoke what I should first sa}-." He did not la}- his hand upon hers ; but when she withdrew it, and said, " Tell it me," he answered, — " 1 shall first say that I am aware — at least, I know — that he does not love you." "You will?" exclaimed Charlotte rather bitterly. "Oh yes, of course you would be sure to think that; and secondly, I suppose you will say that you know he is not reformed." "I certainly shall." "But you need hardly add, for it does not matter, that you should not care to see your cousin dragged down through an}- foolish hope of serving yours or you ; or that 3-ou see an}- presumption in his offer ; for that, in fact, the son of an English carpenter is quite equal to the descendants of Irish kings." Thereupon Charlotte broke down again, and began to cr}- Avith vexation, and perhaps with mortified self-love. "I beg your pardon," blundered Don John. " You said yourself that you felt he did not love you, or I should not have presumed — " She had started up by this time. " It is quite time to go in," she remarked, interrupt- ing him ; and she stepped forth into the dusky garden, when, having dried her eyes, she presently answered some further apologetic speech by asking him some question about his visit to Scotland. Charlotte had never had a lover in her life. She was quite capable of expressing doubt as to the truth of this one ; but when it was taken for granted, by the person DON JOHN. 309 who should have dissipated her doubts, that he could not be true, it was rather too much for her philosophy. Slie would have sacrificed herself without mercy, if she had heartil}' believed that she was beloved ; and now — well, Lanc}', poor fellow, was certainly not worth hav- ing. It would have been a great convenience to this lauiily if she could have reformed him ; but since her gieat ally knew that he only wanted to make a conven- ience of her, all the sweetness of a sacrifice would be taken away if she made it, and only degradation and unser}- would be left. Charlotte was very disconsolate the next da}'. So was Don John. She did not meet his etibrts at recon- ciliation, but simpl}' passed them over. A woman, young, beautiful, warm-hearted, it was a peculiar mortification to her not to be beloved. She must have lost her heart at once if she had known that an}' eyes found the light in hers sweet. That there was a foolish young fellow close at hand, who found ever}' nook in house or garden complete and perfect if she was in it, treasured up all her sayings with approval, thought the changes on her cheek more fair than the flush of sunset — she could not have believed without due assurance ; but she was not to have that assurance. She never mentioned Lancy now, and slie could not get over the mortification which she had, however, brought upon herself; and Don John soon knew from Lancy himself that she had refused hiui, and yet had so far yielded to his mother's deprecating letters as to promise that she would not utterl}' decide against him, she would let him speak again in the spring. That was a long, cold, dark winter. It appeared as if the spring would never come. Don Jolm had anxie- ties common to himself with all the family, and he had some which op[)ressed him alone. Among the first was the putting off of Marjorie's marriage. The two thou- sand pounds promised to his eldest daughter could not be produced without expedients whicli Donald John- stone considered unjust to his other children. So he 3IO DON JOHN. put it off till " the spring," hoping to produce it then ; but only Don John knew how this told on his health and spirits, surprised and anno^^ed the fainilj- of his intended son-in-law, and disappointed his daughter. As to Don John, he groaned in secret over the as- surance which had suffered him so fearlessly to inter- fere. If he had but left Marjorie alone ! In the meantime Donald Johnstone soon recovered from his accident, and began to resume his usual habits. He thought himself well, and it did not come under his observation that he was never long alone. He might have a sudden fainting fit again. He must not go to town or walk or drive alone, but quite natu- rally it came to pass that he hardly ever was alone. His wife saw to that when he was at home — his son always went to town with him, lunched with him, sat in the same room, and came back with him. Such consolation as was to be got out of the increas- ing love of both parents Don John received that winter, but his life was dull, and time and events seemed hard upon him. A good deal more money was lost that winter ; and Lancy caused Don John a world of worr}', for Lancy was getting on — so his mother said ; but how could this be ? He was onh' a clerk — he had never been articled. Sometimes Don John went to see his mother, Mrs. Ward. She had possessed a good deal of handsome jewelry, and Avas parting with it by degrees. She had easily persuaded Lancy that it was to his ad- vantage to share her lodgings, and the Johnstones had not been able to prevent this. Little enough, if any. of her four hundred a year ever came to her ; yet a certain air of triumph appeared sometimes in her manner, and surprised Don John, no less than did the suUenness and reserve of Lancy whf n he would come from time to time to see his adoptive father, and receive his quarter's allowance. So the winter dragged slowlj' on. Don John had much more to do than before his father's illness. Char- lotte was a good deal awa}' with her own people, and she had soon appeared to forgive him after their uu- DON JOHN. 311 luck}' conversation ; but there was seldom an3-thing to discuss as of old. Don John knew that several letters had been written l\v Lanc3-'s mother to Charlotte, and he ollen longed to tell her that she ought to confide the matter to his parents, who were her natural guardians. He was sure i»f this, but how should he say it? why did he wish it, excepting because he knew they would not a[)prove? No, Lancy must and should liave his chance, however bitter this might be to his ibster-brother. It was not till the end of March that Charlotte, who had just returned from a long visit, said to him as they were walking home from church, and a little behind the others, — '•'• Mrs. Ward has been teasing me again about Lancy, asking whether I consider that this is the spring. You have said that you know he does not care for me now, but I suppose you can hardl}' say that you know he never will ? " " No, I am not so base as to say that. But then, Charlotte, yon are not so poor in alTection that you do well to hang on the hope of his, if it is yet to come. There is not one person in our house that does not love 3-ou heartily." " More than Lancy is ever likely to do? " ff*^ " ' Comparisons are odious.' I only say that we all love von heartil}-. M}' father and mother do." "Yes." " And the girls do." " Yes." "And I do." " Well, now you say it in so many words T remember that I have had no cause all these years to think other- wise. And yet wh}- should von, there seems no reason ? " "There is every reason." A short silence here, then Charlotte looked up at him and said, " Sometimes we have quarrelled, and often we have argued together, and I have not been nice to you at all." Don John felt a singing in his ears, it appeared to re- 312 DON JOHN. peat to him"Lanc3' — Lanc}' — Lancy ; " he set his teeth together, and was silent. 8he went on in a tone of sweet elation, "But that was because I did not know. So many people in the ■world who love me heartily — almost as heartil}', he appeared to say, as I loved them. And it sounded quite true. Kow the world seems much more beautiful and happy, and I am enriched, and that other talk of Lancy's is all the more sham. I forgive you, Don John ; I am consoled, and 1 shall never quarrel with j'ou an^^ more." Was not this the right time to speak ? If so Charlotte did not know it. She found the former speech com- plete. CHAPTER XXIX. AND now, the very day before Lancy was expected — Lancy, who was to spend a fortnight, and do no one could tell what mischief — have all opportunity^ to plead his cause, and perhaps to win Charlotte, under the open eyes of her true lover — now, when Don John, quite out of heart, almost wished himself old, that he might have lived through and forgotten the bitterness of his youth — now. while he was tossed about in twenty minds what to say and what to do — his course was sud- denly decided for him. At breakfast-time there came in a telegram, setting forth that Captain Leslie was dangerously' ill and desired exceedingly to see him. Such a scramble to get him ready, that his travelling np to London in his father's company might come to pass naturally ! Such fervent thankfulness expressed b^- his mother that Lancy, as would be equally natural, was to be his (companion for some time to come ! >sol)ody had much time to consider that to request Don John's presence was strange ; and as for him, he never thought about it. DON JOHN, 313 So far as anj- comfort that he might have been to Les- lie, or any counsel he might have received, he was too late. Captain Leslie "was insensible, he was fast passing away ; but Don John sat in his presence for many hours of several days and scA'eral nights, and the solemnities of death came on and showed themselves, surprising both his sorrow and his love. This would certainly be the end, whatever might come in before it. lie had time to contemi)late its absolute isolation as well as its mnjestic calm. At last one day at dawn, while he half dozed, the doctor touched him on the shoulder. That impassive form had taken on an air of rapturous peace ; he saw at once that all was over, and he shortly went downstairs, and pre- pared to depart. A paper had been left giving directions about the fu- neral, and mentioning where the will would be found. It was at a banker's in London — Don John remembered afterwards that he had heard this said b}- Leslie's law- yer — and he then set forth home, thinking how little there had been in the letters from his fomily. He had telegraphed, so that they knew when to ex- pect him ; and after his long journey, he approached the garden gate, through the field, about eight o'clock on an April morning. A white figure, glorified with morning sunshine, stood and waited. 80 far off as he could see her at all, he knew that it was Charlotte. Lancy was not with her, and she did not look up. No, a sort of tender shame touched the rose-hued lips, and made the long black lashes droop. " Charlotte ! Are you well? are they all well?" " Yes." " Where 's Lancy ?" He wanted to know the worst — suspense was tor- ture. 8he only answered, — " I thought 1 would rather see you at once, and — and yon would have a minute to think before you met them all." 314 DON JOHN. " I can easily think what it is, dear," he answered, trembling. '' No, you cannot," the color faded from her face. " You were quite right about Lauc}-." Don John drew a long breath. What did she mean ? was she not come to tell him that she was engaged ? IShe seemed to be overcome with a shy, sharp pain. '' Lancy is not here," she almost whispered. " He never camel " " Never came ! " " No, he wrote to uncle that he had an indispensable engagement to fulfil. Uncle was so much displeased and so much hurt : he went and saw Mrs. Ward, and she told him that Lancy had been sent into the country' by his employers. But it 's false, Don John. Uncle be- lieved the stor}- ; she said she was not at liberty' to say where they 'd sent him. She wrote to me the ver}' same day, imploring me, if I knew anything of Lanc3''s whereabouts, to let her know, for she feared the worst — he had run awa^'. He harl taken all his best clothes and possessions, and he had been gone twent3'-four hours." Don John, pale to the lips, looked at her, and for the moment found nothing to say, of course she knew noth- ing of what was passing in his mind. " There," she said with a little movement of her hand, as if she would put Lancy from her, "it is agreed be- tween us that you would say something kind to me if nnder circumstances of such ignominy thei'e was any- thing to be said." She looked almost more distressed than ashamed. "Don't cry, Charlotte," was all Don John found to sa}' ; he was so dumfoundered that his thoughts were all scattered abroad.* " But this letter," he presentl}- ex- claimed, " what was the post-mark on it? " " His mother sa3-s he left it behind, with the envelope not fastened. She read it, and not knowing what bet- ter to do, sent it on without comment or explanation." "Of course he has not written to you?" " No, and uncle has not been told what Aunt Estelle and I dread, for I went at once and related all to her; DON JOHN. 315 and we have had a miserable week, for there was no one to go np and down with uncle. I-Ia[)pily he is Avell, and you are come home, so that trouble settles itself. I do not forget that you too have had a solemn and anxious week. But I have not told you half about Lancv yet. He has changed his name, as his mother tells me, and that bodes no good, 1 am sure. But, Don John, this is not the only scrape we are in." She had dashed away her tears now, and an air almost of amusement came into her face. The}' were emerging from the cherry orchard by this time. The starr}- celandine was glittering all over the grass, and the cherry blossom was dropping on Charlotte, when she turned, and standing still for the moment, "Yes, we two," she went on, "and nobod}' else." " Not Mr. Brown's affair? " exclaimed Don John. " Here they all are coming forth to meet you ! Yes, Don John, Mr. Brown's affair. This time, I suppose he thought he had better not conduct the matter personall}' ; he got his father to write to my uncle. The old Canon seemed therefore to think his consent very doubtful, but he wrote politely ; gave some hint, I believe, that his for- tune was small, but spoke of his high respect for uncle ; and said that in about ten days he should be in the neighborhood staying with the vicar, and if by that time the young lady had made up her mind to accept his son, he hoped to be asked here, to make her ac- quaintance and assure her of a welcome." ' ' And Naomi ? " " O, Naomi! when my uncle showed her the let- ter she did not attempt to disguise her delight." " What on earth is to be done?" "When I consider how we encouraged his modest hopes, how we set him before Naomi in the best light ! Oh — " "Why it is not without the greatest difhculty that father will be able to produce the two thousand pounds he promised to Foden with Marjorie. It will l)e years, if ever, before he can give the same to another daughter. Oh ! what a fool I have been." 3l6 DON JOHN. ••' You must not meet them with such an air of con- sternation. You must make, the best of it." '' But there is no best. It's all my own doing. I have already' I>ronght father into peeuniarj- straits, and now I am going to make Naomi miserable." And thereupon they all met. It was not an occasion when smiles could have been expected, but even the parents who shared all their anxieties with Don John were surprised at what Char- lotte had called his consternation. Marjorie was present ; she looked serene now, the da}- for her wedding was fixed, her fortune was to be read}', and she little knew at what a sacrifice. And Naomi was present. Don John was very fond of Naomi ; when he saw her face he felt a lump rise in his throat. It was all his own' doing ! What had they said to her? Perhaps they had told her the whole truth, that she was dower- less ; perhaps they had only liinted at a long engage- ment. "What was it that she knew? Well, he could never forgive himself; he had aneddled, and he had his reward. " I '11 sit down," exclaimed Don John snddenl}- ; "I don't feel as if I could breathe." His mother was at his side instanth'. He was close to a bench, and she took him Ijy the arm. He sat down and battled with the lump in his throat. " I dare say he has been \\\y for two or three nights," observed his mother, " and perhaps has had nothing to eat for hours." '' I 'm all right," said Don John, almost directly, and the whirling trees seemed to settle down into their places, so did the people. A strange sense of disaster and defeat was upon him. And Charlotte was gone. He felt Avith a pang that though Lanc}' was ofi', Charlotte had never spoken of him in a tone of such pit\-, nor to himself with such un- conscious indifference. But presently here was Charlotte again, in one hand a roll, in the other a glass of red wine. He had time DON JOHN. 317 to notice her solicitous haste ; two or three drops of the -nine had flowed over the brim. There never was such a precious cordial before ; he clasped the little liand that held it, without taking the glass from her, and she held it to his lips ; a delightful thought darted into liis mind. He was quite well again. He looked up at her as she leaned towards liim, and slie wliispered, ''Xever mind, perhaps it will all come right in the end." A prophetess of hope, how lovc;!^- she looked as she stepped aside ! He often thought of her words after- wards ; just then the}' oul^y meant kindness, the con- solation was only in her good intentions. And so she stepped aside, and Mary came runniug up with a telegram, addressed to Donald Johnstone, Ksq., the j-oimger. Donald Johnstone, Esq., the 3'ounger, took it in his hand and turned it over. His mother was beside him, and tiie otliers were grouped before him as he sat. He really for the moment could not take his eyes from Charlotte's face. At last he read the telegram ; and then he looked at her again. His air of liel[)lcss astonishment was almost ridiculous — Charlotte thought so — that dimple of hers showed it. It was very sweet. "Well?" exclaimed Marjorie. Then he read the telegram aloud. It was such an important one that the}' forthwitli forgot to notice how he was behaving. It ran thus : — " Sir, — The will has arrived, and we look to yon for orders. You are respectfully requested to retin-n for the funeral, the deceased Captain Leslie having left you his sole heir." Nobody had a word to say. Each one looked at some one of the others. Don Jolm i)resently rose, and in absolute silence they all walked in to breakfast. Don John was relieved to find all the blinds of the breakfast-room down, he was in a state of elation which he felt to be almost indecent ; he was trymg hard to 3l8 • DON JOHN. conceal it, and hoped that the green gloom made by these blinds would help him. It was not about his inheritance ; no, that was aston- ishing, but hardly yet understood. It was not that Lancy seemed to ha^e given up Charlotte ; no, for Char- lotte was distressed at it — how much distressed he could not 3"et be sure. It was because he had felt that morning a momentarj' faintness. Such a thing had never occurred in his life before ; but just as he felt as if about to faint, a flash of ecstatic pleasure at the thought completely' restored him. " I should not wonder," he said to himself, with boyish delight and pride, "if I've got a heart com- plaint ; and if so, I 'm all right. I must have inherited it from father. I '11 never give myself an uneasj' moment about that cruel woman's story any more." He had been up four nights, and had travelled many hours without food — he wished to gi^■e these facts their due attention ; and while he ate his breakfast he got deeper and deeper into cogitation over them, all his people letting him alone. At last, but not till breakfast was nearl_y over, he began to look at Charlotte and Naomi. Naomi was so pale, and Charlotte was so nervous, and so perturbed. He longed for time to talk to them, but if he meant to go back to Scotland there was absolutely none to be lost. '"• Time 's up, my boy," said Donald Johnstone. Per- haps he was a little disappointed, considering the pecu- niar}' straits, Avhich had all been confided to his son, that not one word was said to him in private before the young man started off. As to the mother, she was moi-e than distressed, she was almost displeased. He had scarcely mentioned Leslie. He meant to go, and not first tell her anything of the solemn days he had spent. He would give her no chance of telling him anything of Lancy. She had "wislied so sorely to consult him about Naomi. Even when he kissed her, he was so lost in thouglit that he gave no answering glance to hers that seemed to wonder and to question him. DON JOHN. 319 No, before the morning meal was quite over, he was off; and she went up to her own room to look at him as he went down the long field, running rather than walking. It was an unsatisfactor}' parting. In the two or three letters that followed it hardly anything was said. The meeting at the end of a week was quite as strange. He came in unexpectedly, just before dinner, and llie wliole e\ening he seemed to be fencing olf any discussion. Then, before his sisters had withdrawn he fell asleep in the corner of the sofa, and soon took himself olf to bed, tired out, as it seemed, with travel and with busi- ness. But the next morning Don John was up as early as usual, and his father heard him bustling about. It was a brilliant morning, and Don John was taking out basket chairs, and placing them under a certain tree at the edge of the orchard. After breakfast he said, " Won't you spare this one day for talk, father? Don't go to town ; you have never said one word to me yet. Why. 30U don't even know what was in the will, though I did let 3'ou know how absolutely, and without conditions, all comes to me." '■' 80 be it ; I will stny," answered Donald Johnstone. "I have made a place in the orchard," said Don John. " I could tell you and mother best out of doors." His mother finding herself included, took up her work and a parasol, and followed. " It will be less awkward for me to do it there," he went on. ''Less awkward, my boy," repeated the father. " Why should it be awkward at all? " There was silence after this till they reached the three basket chairs, which he had set into the shadow of a young lime-tree. The parents seated themsehes. The son threw himself on the grass at their feet. "It's more than you expected," he said, looking up at them. "There 's seven thousand pounds in different investments, and then the laud is worth at the very least ten tliousaud more." 320 DON JOHN. " That is more than I exijectecl." "And I suppose, father, though it is left to nie as Donald Johnstone, the eldest sou of Donald Johnstone and his wife Estelle, I suppose no one can dispute it with me." "No, m}' son; no one can dispute it, since I ac- Icnowledge 3'ou. 1 do not care to hear yon bring for- ward that subject. It can only give us pain." " But I consider that if this inheritance had come to me before I was of age, it would have been your busi- ness, and your right, to say what should bo done with it." " I don't catch your meaning." " There are two, if not three courses, that 3'ou might have pursued, or at least wished to pursue, and I should Lave had nothing to sa^' against an^' of them." "Well?" " You might have wished that it should all be equally divided between me and Lancy — mone}' and land." The father made no answer. " Or you might liave wished that I should give, or leave the land, to Fred (for that is in my power), and that I should divide the mone}' with Lanc}'." Still no answer. " Or you might have wished that I should keep it all." " Yes, I might have wished that you should keep it all." " And yet it was left me for m}' mother's sake." The father and mother fell silent here. What more indeed could be added to all that they had felt, or even to the little that they had said ? '•'• I owe a great deal to Captain Leslie," said Don John, after a long pause. " When I was so ill, he came and prayed for me. I did not like it, but afterwards I could not help thinking about it. How anxious he was to console me. I thought I should die of misery. He could not make out what the misery was, but he suffered it too for mother's sake." " I know he felt for us." ;. " And he said he knew I was under the shadow of a DON JOHN. 321 great grief, but that if I could trust God, He could turn it into a ground of consolation. He said, take this grief and lay it in the Saviour's hands. He will show its other side to you, and you shall not feel its bitter- ness an\' more." "Good people," said his mother, "have said liko things to me ; " and she remembered how she had felt when the doubt about her child first fell on her : " this, at least," she had said "■ could never be made a blessing in disguise." "Well," continued Don John, "I used to lie and think that no fellow had ever been so basely used ; but after that prayer of his, I felt suddenly consoled by the ver^- last thought that you would have said could have in it an}- consolation." "AYhy should you think of that time at all? You are our dear son." "I like to think of it now. He was a ver}' curious man. He spoke to our Saviour that night just as if he was sending up a message by Him to the Almight\' Father which was sure to be duly delivered. The}' were very reverent, but yet they appeared so intimate — those things that he said ; and he spoke of his love for mother, as if it w^as perfectly well known up there, and as if the}- pitied him." " His love for mother." She had not been able till his last days to give Captain Leslie even a moderate degree of kindly liking in exchange for his love ; but now she sat back in her chair, and covered her face with her hand. An almost unbearable pang smote her, and made the tears course down her cheeks. She could not get beyond the thought that he was hidden away in the dark, and she was out in the bountiful sunshine of early summer, there was such a peaceful spreading forth of }oung green leaves about her. It was so well with the world ; but he was gone, and she had not been kind enough to him. She longed to get away from any sense of death and darkness for hiui, and said to her son, "1 cannot beai* more of this; tell me about Leslie's prayer." 21 322 DON JOHN. CHAPTER XXX. DON JOHN looked at his mother. "Why are 3-011 distressed?" he said. " AVhat Captain Leslie wanted was to comfort me. I soon let him know that he had done it. He took the sting out of that cruel story that he knew nothing of." "Then he had his reward," remarked Donald John- stone. He and his son hardly ever so much as mentioned " that cruel story," against which Don John had at first raged, and then fallen sick. Botli parents had done all they could to comfort him, and inspire him with their own intense belief that he was theirs. ''It was a base lie," continued Don John. "You told me to think so ; and }ou said tlie chances against my not being your own son were a thousand to one." " Yes, my boy, a thousand to one against it in fact, and far, far more than that in our o[)inion and feeling. I feel always, that nothing could ever disturb the fa- therl}- affection which belongs to 3'ou, quite as much as to any of my other children." " But I tliought it was so hard that such a tale should have been told to me," said Don John. "I hated it, and that woman, and could not get well because I raged against her so. But it stole into ni}- mind' all at once as he prayed for me, that I was not unfortunate after all, for by tliose nine hundred and ninety-nine chanees I certainly had all I wanted — all the right in you and mother, in this brother, these sisters, and this home, that I could have ; but there was yet that one other chance to l)e thought of. It should not be left out alto- gether, faint, and slender, and slight as it was. If that one of the thousand chances was mine, how then? Had I any quarrel against my life, and grudge against my DON JOHN. 323 destiii}' then? It was not so; then I had all. It was so ; and then the most singular piece of good for- tune had fallen to me that was ever in the lot of man ! "• But ftither, how good you have always l)een to me — moi'e than most fathers you have let me jcuow all your affairs ; you have even consulted me ; and I should not like — I mean, I do not like to suri)rise you." He had surprised both parents now, but though he looked confused and shame-faced, he laughed. Then taking otf his "chimney-pot" hat, he remarked on its being such a queer thing to wear in the country, but it was the only black one he had ; and he smoothed it ■with his sleeve, and appeared to examine the band of crape upon it with interest. It was a transparent device for gaining a little time. "As he chose to leave this property to me," he be- gan, and then came to a dead pause. "Well?" said his father. " Of course it's mine," continued Don John, after a very long pause. "That's rather a flat conclusion to your speech," said Donald Johnstone, and laughed himself. " Of course it would seem only natural that I should consult you about it." " It would indeed ! " " Yes, father, I am glad 3-00 could laugh. I believe 3-ou will trust me. I am sorry — I am dressed in a little brief authority 3-ou see, and mean to use it — I am sorry, but I cannot consult you at all." "I always told your mother you were a ver3' odd young fellow." Don John looked up at him. " Like father like son," he murmured, but not at all disrespectfully. " What, sir ! do you insinuate that I am an odd fel- low too? But take' a little time to consider, my boy, before you do anything, or promise an} thing. I hope you are not proposing in 30ur own mind anything Utopian." "Have I not alwa3's lived in Utopia? What could 324 DON JOHN. have been more Utopian, father, than your conduct and mother's, unless indeed it is Captain Leshe's?" "Take a little time," repeated the mother. " Not till I have told 30U, which I want to do at once, that poor Lanc}' must not have any of it." Kather a surprised silence here. He pi'esently went on, "•Because that would not be just to mother, and the younger children. "But I wanted to tell you at once, father, that two thousand pounds of the money is absolutely at mj' own disposal at this moment. AVe shall want it for Mar- jorie." " We ! " exclaimed his father. "Yes, thank God," said the mother. "Let him alone, Donald. What better with it could, he do?" "You know veiy well with what difflcultv, and at what a disadvantage 3'ou were, to borrow it. Marjorie's dower is to be paid down by me to-morrow." " Yes," repeated the mother, " quite right. Let him alone, Donald ; let him show himself your true son." " Onl}'," continued Don John, " nobody knows that you have done anything Utopian, father, and we can- not afford to have people talk as if I had ; so j'ou will have to accept the money from me by deed of gift, and forthwith settle it on her ; and neither she nor anj'one else must know." The father drew a long breath, and found not a word to sa}', the relief was so opportune, the advantage so great. " And then there is Naomi," continued Don John. " 1 do not believe the old bo}' (well, I mean him no dis- respect ; he has a right to expect what his son has no doubt told him you were to give to your other daughter) , I do not believe he would welcome her without it. I make over another two thousand pounds at once to you. I herebv declare the fact ; and to-morrow, when the Canon calls, I hope that matter will be settled." "Stop, my boy, it is too much for you to despoil yourself of." "Me — for me to despoil myself of! — What does that mean ? " DON JOHN. 325 ' ' I did sa}- to you that I did not wish Lancy to have any of this — " '' Yes." " Then I cannot either." " Wait a minute," exclaimed the mother. " I fore- saw this ; but, my dear boy, decide nothing more at present ; do wait." " I will delay to tell you, mother, if 3-ou please." " Do advise with us," she repeated tenderh'. "1 have made avow that I would not, but I will delay." "A vow, not that you would do this or that, but only that 3-ou would not consult us ? " "■Yes, mother, that I would not consult 3'ou." " I do not care to wait, then ; so far as your decision is made, I wish to know it." '' Mother, you must not be vexed. I decide, that when Fred is of age, he is to have the house, and the farm, and the land." " And you think that would not cause talk, and ap- pear strange ? " " Not if my father takes me into partnership at the same time." " And are you really proposing all this only that Lancy ma}- not feel himself aggrieved ? " "No, mother, and yet it is mainly on Lancy's ac- count ; but we have no time to talk any more." A gleam of amusement lighted up Don John's eyes. A tall girl was ushering into the orchard a fat old divine. Blushing, and very becomingly shy, she came slowly forward, he waddling beside her. Don John had inet her that morning on the stairs. She looked pale, drooping, dull. Don John in brotherly lashiou, which means with intimate and somcAvhat bhilf kind- ness, devoid of chivalry, and devoid of deference, had kissed her, and whispered in her ear, ''Don't mope, Nay. I'm sure it's all right." A light leaped into Naomi's eyes. '• How do you know?" she replied. " I thought it was all wrong ; father — " 326 DON JOHN. "Well, father?" replied Don John, followhig her into the pla3-room. " Father said almost as much as that he hoped I should not be disappointed if — if it could not be ar- ranged." " And Trh3' should n't it be arranged ? " said Don John, with a stolid air. Naomi's face took on a soft blush of pleasure. "I wish you had been at home," she said naivel3- ; " I haA'e been so miserable. I thought father meant that he could not give me the same fortune he is giving Marjorie, and I was afraid — Oh, I knew Canon Brown depended on my having it." " There 's no occasion to think of such a thing," ex- claimed Don John ; this in a whisper, '• Mark ray words, father will lay down the two thousand pounds like a brick." " He will be able then? dear father ! " " You '11 see." So now Naomi was seen between the trees, sweet in her maidenly dignity, and trying hard not to show in her manner that she supposed this to be more than an ordinary morning call. She came on, and as her father and motlier rose and advanced to meet their guest, Don John accompanied them far enough to bow to him ; then, bestowing on his sister something uncommonly like a wink, he graveh' withdrew, or, as he would him- self have expressed it, " sloped." He had a great deal to think of, and many things to do ■which were not likel}' to be as easily arranged as Naomi's dower. Naturally he was drawn to the house, for there Charlotte was. The playroom was generally given u.p to her in the morning, and as he came round lie looked up at the window, and saw her as she sat writing. He entered the room, and when he shut the door be- hind him, she said, " 1 knew you would come as soon as possible." Don John had hardly time to feel agitated and pleased before she went on — "I hope you will not be disappointed : there is nothing more to tell _you about Lancy ; neither his mother nor I have heard anything DON JOHN. 327 of him." Her mind was too full of Lancy just then to admit an^ytliing else, so it seemed ; but presently she Ic^oked up, and as if surprised at something that she saw. eontem[)lated Don John for a few moments witli a nuising expression in her deep blue eyes. He was at once very much out of countenance, but she did not notice this. She said, with the downright straightlbr- wardness of a sister, "" I 'm sure INIarjorie is riglit : 3-ou look different. AVe never used to think yon were at all — I mean particularly — good-looking when you were a bov." An implied change of opinion gave Don John un- feigned delight. He tried to hide it. "No; but, as INIrs. Nickleby said of Ralph, you two used always to declare, ' but it 's an honest face.' " " Yes," said Charlotte, and went on, oh, so dispas- sionately. " but I always liked it; I mean, 1 liked the look of you." Here she folded her arms on the table, and leaned forward, as if about to dismiss that subject for something of real interest. *" But have you heard anything? " she went on ; '' do you tliink tluit anything can be done ? " Don John succumbed at once. There was only one way to interest her — it was to talk of his rival ! To do him justice, he was almost as much distressed for her as for himself; and Lancy — he had the best reason to know that Lancy cared for her nothing at all. " Yes, I have heard a good deal," he began ; and went on, making a pause between each sentence, as if not to overwhelm her with the waves of a too sudden disaster, '' I did not mean to tell yon just yet. If any- thing can be done, I am on the look-out to do it. Lancy is gone away to America, and does not intend to return. I have seen his mother." " Seen her! Oh, where?" " As I stood by the grave during Captain Leslie's funeral I felt as if something obliged me to look up ; I did, and there she stood among the bystanders. Lancy was gone ! He had written taking leave of her, and saying that he should never see her again. He has 328 DON JOHN. changed his name also, and desired her to tell his old friends that it was useless to tiy and communicate with him. And yet she wished to follow ; she had heard of my inheritance, and came and asked me to give her thirty pounds. I did, but I begged lier at least not to sail till she had given him time to write, in case he chauged his mind." ''And she did not tell you wh}' he is so urgent to leave his own country for ever?" " She could not ; she knows of no reason at all." " She docs," said Charlotte, indignantly ; " she does know ! " "What! have j'ou seen her too? has she told 3'ou anything?" " No ; but before j'ou came home from Scotland the first time, I told you that she had written to me. In that letter she said she had too much reason to fear that it ivas the old stonj. Almost by the next post she wrote again, and begged me to return that letter, telling me that she felt she had made some groundless charges ; she desired to liave both her letters, and I sent them back to her, hoping against hope. But if Lancy is really off, and really in hiding, as 1 consider he is if he has changed his name, I cannot hope the best — I fear the worst." " I never thought of this," said Don John, quite aghast; "but I have known for some time that he Inlays high. I thought he had got himself so crushed under the. weight of these shameful debts of honor that his only chance was to fly." " IIow distressed Aunt Estelle and my uncle will be if it is anything worse." Two large tears had gathered in Charlotte's e^'es, and now they treml)led on the long, dark lashes. " And the mother said notliing more, but only asked 3'Ou to give her this thirty pounds? " she continued. "Oh, yes," exclaimed Don John, " she said a great deal more ! " In fact< this is what had occurred ; Mrs. Ward had reminded Don John that his father had always said the DON JOHN. 329 two bo3's should be equally well off. She did not see " but what his wish ought to be binding on Mr. Don John — to divide all honc'stl3\ She might not see her way to keep silence any longer," she observed, '' unless she had his promise tliat this should be done." To her great surprise Don Jolui lauglied scornfully at her, and defied her, bidding her do her worst. " Look at me," he exclaimed, almost in a passion, "■ look sti'aight into my face and tell me whether if you were my mother it would be possible for me to dislike you as I do. J>ook at me, I say, and if there's an}- truth in you speak it out and tell me how you hate the sight of me. Is that possible to a mother — that?" " 1 did n't mean to put you out," she faltered. " It was onl}- when yon made as if you 'd shake hands with me that I — " " That you shrank ! you trembled from head to foot. You can't bear me. And now hear this, I would rather all tlie world knew your base stor}' — I would rather all liiis property vwis sunk into the sea than that it should go to i)ay the debts of an inveterate selfish gambler." "Mr. Johnstone always made out that he had a claim ; " she was ver}' much frigiitened by this time, and perfectly pale, but she still dared him. " A claim ! " repeated Don John. '• Oh, yes, a fine claim ! You know best what it amounts to. But granted that he had the utmost claim — granted that he was the son, the eldest son — is this prodigal son, who has run awa}' twice from his family, disobeyed his father, and disgraced himself, is he to be allowed more tliuii aiuj other produfdl would he to share this property with the younger children, and lay it out in paying for his vices." "You needn't be in such a passion, sir. I'm a l)Oor weak woman, but it's my duty to speak up for my Lancy. He's the only creature I've got in the world to love." She spoke in a faltering tone, but no tears came. She was too much frightened for that. "Ain't it his right to have any of it then ? " she went on. " Mi*. Johnstone would sa}- very diHei-ent, I know." 330 DON JOHN. " Lanc}' shall never touch a shilling of it," exclaimed Don John, "• unless I utterly change ni}- mind." '• AVell then," she cried, flaming up, " I will say it's bard. It was a shame to bring him u^) like a gentle- man and then leave him in the hu'ch, and you used to pretend yon were so fond of him." " Yes, I did, and do. There is nothing that is not unjust which I would not do to save him even now." "•'I don't care to hear talk like that," she answered, rising, but trembling so that she could not get away, as she had meant to do. '• I shall go to Mr. Johnstone ; he was always Lancy's friend — " " And so am I. I hope to help him. There is hardly anything I long for so much." " I hate to hear such hypocritical talk," she cried out, almost more angiy than he had been. " Don't tell me what you long for — and do nothing. I don't like it." '' Then," he answered, with a bitterness that sur- prised to the point of calming her, "• I will tell you something that you will like." Here, however, he fell into a musing fit, and paused. "Yes, sir," she faltered, "something that I shall like?" All this time she had kept the purse in her hand which contained the thirt}' pounds ; she now slipped it quietly into her pocket. She wished to defy him to the utmost, but not to give him his money back. He lifted up his face, and went on : " This prop- ert}' — I have decided that as I cannot share it with Lancy, I cannot keep any of it for myself." Though she had been so angry with him she was shocked when he said this, and experienced a keen sen- sation of shame. This was not Don Jolin's fault, nor Lancy's either. It was all hers. Did she dislike him heartily enough then to be glad that he nmst forfeit his inheritance? And did he know it? Somethhuj that you WILL LIKE. It was of uo use denying it, he read her better than till this moment she had read herself. " I shall keep nothing in un- own power," he added, " but the disposing of it." Now, indeed, she had nothing to say, and she shed a few contrite tears. DON JOHN. 331 Don John went to the window and stood cogitating when Charlotte asked him whether Lane^y's mother had said anything more. He revolved the conversation just detailed in his mind, but did not see what he could do, or what others could do, supposing that Lancy I'eally was otr. A man cannot be followed to America and made to pay I'alsel}- called " debts of honor." And Charlotte seemed to be taking his utter withdrawal with very consoling calmness. In fact she had taken up her pen, and was beginning to write. He turned suddenly : ves, she was writing, and she took no notice when he came and sat down opposite to her at the table. He went and fetched a little box of pens. He had a sort of notion tliat he should like to break a certain matter to Charlotte; how was he to begin? He came again, and began to pull out the pens from the great playroom inkstand. iSuch a sorry lot they were. The girls Avere all by nature untidy ; sometimes they put them down without wiping them. Interesting pens ! crusted with dried, rust-like ink. Charlotte so often had one or another of them in her little tanned and dimpled fist. Don John had alread}' put a fresh steel point into ever}' one of the holders excepting the one Ciiarlotte held. He was naturally rather neat with his posses- sions. He glanced at her as often as he dared — she often pouted slightly and knitted her brow when she wrote. Of course, as he remarked her she became con- scious of it — people always do. She noticed his occu- pation, and that all the holders were clean excejiting the one she lield — Don John had rubbed them with a piece of blotting-paper. The inkstand had been put to rights, and looked quite creditable. It was rather a narrow table ; Charlotte put her pretty hand across — with the one old pen in it, and Don John seized it and looked at it. Now ? No, not now — some other time. He could not kiss her hand — he did not dai'e. 332 DON JOHN. Cliiuiotte was a little ashamed of the pointed waj' in which, as she thought, he had called her attention to her inky fingers. She snatched awa}' her hand, and rushed out of tlie room to wash it. '■ What a calf I am ! " said Don John to himself in unutterable self-abasement. "Why didn't I do it then ? " There was company- to luncheon that day — very im- portant company. Canon Brown and his son were present, and were made much of. The next time Charlotte went into the playroom she saw two large new pen-wipers on the inkstand, each with a gold tassel. CHAPTER XXXI. DON JOHN was not present at luncheon on the occasion of Canon Brown's visit ; lie had gone up to London, to see if he could find Mrs. Ward or any traces of her. But he could not ; she had gone from her late lodgings, and left no address. She had said nothing to him when she had hunted him up in Scotland, as to wh}- Lane}- was off. AVhether he had lost largely at play, and was gone to hide his head abroad ; or had won largely, and was gone to spend his ill-gotten gains, was what Don John could not decide. But now this tliird reason for his absence forced itself on his foster-brother's attention. That he had been getting on — that is, that he generally had plenty of mono}' — might be owing to pla}- ; there were several families of the better class in whose houses he often visited, and was known to pla}' high ; he was much sought after, for his manners were chai'ining. But his mother's hint about '' the old story" could onl}- mean, if it was true, that he had been a tliief again. If so, he might be followed to America and brought back, and, spite of all the love and cai-e, and all the DON JOHN. 333 prayers that had been expended on him. he might yet be a disgrace to his bringing up. The miserable storj' might jet come out, and in the most public and painful way. Don John was marching off to the station after his nnsuecessful inquiries. He wanted to catch the train whicli would take him home in time for dinner, when lie heard some one calling after him, and a lad caught him by the arm. " AVhat is it?" cried Don John, not best i)leased. The lad pointed to a man with a monkey under his arm ; he looked Like an acrobat — perhaps a Christy Minstrel. "• He called to me ' Tliat genleman has lost somethiti,' " said the lad, and he passed on. The man had come np, was almost close to him. Don John had instinctivcl}' slapped his pockets — his watch was safe, and his purse. He darted a look at the supposed acrobat ; he was a fellow of about the middle height ; he had on a shirt made of pink flannel, a pair of white duck trousers ; he wore an old barris- ter's wig ; his face was chalked, and he had a triangu- lar patch of black on each cheek, and one of brick red on his nose. He tapped his wig with his forefinger and whispered, " You notice it." It was tied under his chin with blue ribbon. Don John heard the bell ring and the train start, but he stood as if spellbound. "I've been hanging about between this and father's chambers looking out for you for nearly a week," muttered the acrobat, "and I'm half starved." If Don John had stared at the patched and painted face for hours he would not have recognized poor Lancy. But the wig, and a long scarf that he had dressed himself up in, had been used time out of mind in the playroom at home for acting charades. These he i-ec- ognized at once. "What does it mean?" sighed Don John, drawing in his breath with a gasp, and his legs shaking under him. " AVhaton earth is to be done? " " There 's a policeman," muttered Lancy ; " he 'U tell 334 DON JOHN. me to move on. Good gen'Tmayi, give us a copper to buy the monkey his nuts." " Now you move on," said the policeman, just as had been foretold ; " yon 're not wanted here." Lancv, who seemed ^ery footsore, accordingly moved on, with a linn)ing gait ; and Don John noticed the di- rection, and followed him as soon as he could do it •uithout exciting attention. " What on earth does it mean?" he repeated when he ventured to pass him and speak, for they had got into a quiet back street. "You go into that shop and buv a tract," said Lanej, " and I '11 tell you." "A tract I said," he repeated impatiently, "and give me a shilling, do." Don John produced the shilling ; Lancy darted into a cook's shop, and presently- came out with cold meat and bread in his hand. Don John was looking into the shop he had pointed out (it was a depot of the Tract Society), and trying to marshal his scattered wits. " Bu3' tracts," whispered Lancy as he limped past him. There was nothing for it but just to do as he was bidden, and he presentU' came out with some tracts in his hand. " Now we can talk as long as need be," said Lancj*, who was eating ravenousl}'. " Since I have been rigged up in this wa}-, cit}' missionaries and Gospel fellows often offer me tracts. Look out and keep your wits about you, do! There, offer me one. If there is no obAious reason for such as you are talking to such as I seem, it will excite attention, and I shall be spotted, and perhaps nabl)ed." As he hurried through this speech, Don John offered a tract to him : but the monkey sitting on his shoulder was quicker than Lancy. He put out his weazened hand to the -very great delight of some passing chil- dren, and snatched it, then turning it over smelt it sus- piciously, after which he rolled it up into a tight ball, and persistently tried to get it into Lancy's mouth. There was soon a little crowd ; poor Lancy groaned. DON JOHN. 335 " Go on," whispered Don John ; " I '11 not lose sight of 3"on." The crowd gathered and followed with de- light, halfpence were forthcoming, and the children took it amiss if he did not stop while the monkey received them in his little hot hand. It was almost sunset, and Lancy's strength was nearly spent, when, getting a little beyond llornse}', they reached some green fields and got over a stile, finding themselves alone at last. Lanc}' threw himself upon the long grass among the buttercups. Don John had bought some food and a bottle of beer as they walked ; he made him eat and di'ink, after which poor Lanc}' lifted himself up, and they walked together through the deep meadow grass, and sat down on the small bank on which grew a tall hawthorn hedge. Their disaster seemed to be too deep for any words of comfort on one side or of explanation on the other. "Oh, don't," groaned poor Lancy piteousl3" ; "I haven't .ried since this happened, wretched as I have been — and if you do ! Oh, how shocking it all is, how hateful ! " Then the}' both broke down utterly ; the one wept with a passionate storm of sobs, the other weakly and piteously, like a tired child. These two still had such an amount of affection for one another that the misfortune had ,to be borne in common. Lanc}- hoped now that something might 3-et be done for him, and while the stars came out, and the summer dusk gathered, he told his miserable story. But not without man}' pauses of sullen silence, not without much questioning. '' That old fellow was such a fool," he began, while his chest was heaving still with sobs ; "■ what business had he to put temptation in mv way ? " ' ' What old fellow do you say ? " "Why, old Cottcnham — ohl Cottenham. I was liis clerk. 1 've no patience Avith iiim. He took such a lik- ing to me from — from the first, and he knew nothing about me — nothing at all." " I can't help you unless you '11 tell me what you have clone." 336 DON JOHN. " Done ! I 've done what you can never set right. I nearly got away — I got to Liverpool — I was all but off", and had paid for my passage." " You robbed him, then? Lancy, I can help j-ou if you '11 only tell me all." " Yes, I robbed him then. I had paid for m^- pas- sage, when I saw a face that I knew, a porter old Cot- tenham eraplo3ed, looking at the passengers as they went on board. There were detectives with him. I edged myself back. In short I got ashore and hid ray- self." " But tell me what vou had stolen." " I used to play high ; sometimes I won — very often I won — and had such sums of money as you never fingered in your life. But there came a run of ill-luck, and I lost all — and got nearly* three thousand pounds into debt. And that old ass — that old fool -^ when I was in despair al)0ut my debts he sent me to his bahkers with a large sum of money. He had often sent me with securities of different kinds, but not such as I could use ; but in this parcel were two cheques for large amounts, the rest all in notes and gold ; and I cashed the cheques, for it had flashed into m}- mind, as I went, that pla}- was a miser}- and a bondage, and if I could get away 1 could had a more innocent life^ and yet not have to pay these debts at all." Don John groaned. "Before I had time to think, I had got home and packed up m\' clothes. I told mother, Cottenham had sent me on a journe}- for him, and I was off." "But Where's the money, then? You did not go. There 's yet time, there 's yet hope ; give it to me and let me pay it back. He might forgive you." " There 's no time, and there 's no hope. I 've lost it." "How?" ' ' I gave awa}' — I had to give away — a large part of it, to some fellows who found me out. Hush-money. Don't vou understand ? " "And the rest?" " I 'm Sony ; it cuts me to the heart to know that the DON JOHN. 337 police are after me, and to dread that I shall be a dis- grace to 3'0ii. It's gone ; I thought I would risk what Avas Icl't, to get perhaps all back, and re[)a3- it; and I (lid. I risked, and lost. It's all gone; I gambled it away. Oh, I wish I could die, but I can't. I found out next that I was followed, and I put on this dis- guise." " There's one thing more that I want to know," said Don John, " and you must tell it me as carefulh- and as plainly as you can, for on it mainl}' depends m}' yet being able to help — " " You can't help, dear bo}', as to setting me right with old Cottenham, so that I can show my face and not be taken up." " 1 want to know about your changing your name. Your mother said you liad changed .your name." '•Yes, I called myself John Ward. Cottenham only knew mo as John Ward." " Why did you do that?" " I suppose because I foresaw — " "Foresaw what? Are you going to sink yourself lower 3'ct in this alnss of crime and disgrace by admit- ting that you did it with a view to making a future crime easier ? " " Your father is so sensitive," said Lancy, " he would feel an}- disgrace that came upon me, as if it was a re- flection upon him, on my education tliat he gave me, on my home and my bringing up ; and so — so I did it in case." Don John noticed the unusual expression, '■'■ your father." Lancy had the grace to feel his position, l-'or the first time in his life he spoke as if not claiming this fatlier for himself. "You'll act like a brother to me," he said, with a heavy, despairing sigh. " Yes," answered Don John, " if it can be done con- sistently with acting like a son towards liim." Lanc}' was surprised ; he turned towards Don John, who Avas aware that in the dusk he was scanning him attentively. 22 338 DON JOHN. " So far," he repeated a little faintly ; and when Don John made no answer he went on, "AVhat I want you to do of course is to help ine cross the water. I dare not leave oil' my disguise, but even as I am I can get to Liverpool begging and walking; and if I had money enough from you, 1 think I could get over." " That would do 30U no real good. You are not re- formed, not repentant, not aware of your disgrace, and sin, and misery." - '^ 1 am ! " "■You wish you had got over to America with that mone}' in 3'our pocket." " I tell you I do repent. I am miserable, I am lost, and I know it." " I am going to help you, dear boy, as well as I can, but I shall never call you Lancy again. The only chance of 3'our not disgracing father and mother and me, is in what you did for a wicked purpose. You can be helped as John Ward — unless the police are too quick for us, and you are taken up on a charge of felony be- fore I can see the man whom 3'ou wronged." " Onlv help me over, that is the thing to do. What can vou be thinking of ? Going to see Cottenham would be bearding the lion in his den ; it would be almost like betra3ing me. Surely you don't hope to make him sa3' tliat he '11 not prosecute, that he will forgive me. He liked me, I tell you ; he trusted me tliough I was almost a stranger. He cannot forgive me, for he'll have found out bv this time." "Well?" "There were things of his in m3' desk," whispered Lancy. " You 're sunk so low — so low, that I — " "■ I 'm not sunk so low fliat I would do you any harm," exclaimed Lanc3'. "You know verv well tliat when mother told us two that base stor3' at Ramsgate, and 30U were so dumfoundered that 3"ou could n't sa3' a word, I told her to her face that it was all a lie, and, b3' Jove, I almost made her own as much." " You have never taken any advantage, though 3'ou DON JOHN. 339 have had eveiy possible advantage given you with re- gard to that story." '* I know." Tliereupon followed the account of Captain Leslie's bequests ; and Lancy listening, found once niore that there was hope for him, in spite of everything that he had done to throw himself away. \\\ a hurry and in a whisper, for Don John and he did not dare to risk being found together, the poor young crhninal was tokl to keep himself in hiding only I'or a few days longer ; and as he did not dare to go to post- offices, and could not tell in what part of the country he might be, he was to buy e\'ery da^y a certain i)enny paper agreed on between them, and there he should, in as short a time as possible, lind an advertisement telling him what his foster-brother had been able to do. In any case he was always to be John Ward ; and even if he had the misfortune to betaken up b}- the police, in that name he was to abide his prosecution. And so his disgrace and punishment would cause no pang to those who had so loved him ; they would never know. And on this con- dition his foster-brother promised never to forsake him. It was nine o'clock when Don John stole back along the hedge, leaving Lancy sitting under it alone. Don John perceived, as he turned the matter over in his mind, tiiat it was the miser}- and disgrace of the situation, not the crime he had committed, that weighed on Lancy's heart. Even if Don John's conscience could have suffered him to procure the money, and help Lancy over to America to escape from justice, this would do no real good — he might be followed there, and the Johnstones might have to suffer-. The crime of tliis still dear ailopted son would be such a life-long distress and misfortune as almost to swallow up the sense of his disgrace. All Don John's determination that Lancy should have none of Captain Leslie's money melted away. He must be set right, and the sum he had taken must be restored, as the only chance of saving him ; and with this money it must be done, and no other. 340 DON JOHN. Little more than twelve hours after this, in a small diist\- office in the heart of the cit}-, a young man sat writing, and opening his ej'es from minute to minute so widely that he could not see the page. His pen splut- tered — he sighed with excitement; it was no use try- ing to write, he put it down. In a minute or two a remarkably sweet man's voice was heard outside, and the speaker (;ame in and took up a row of letters, all addressed '■'• Locksley Cottenham, Esq." ''• Now for it," thought the cle)'k. " Thei'e's — there's somebodj- upstairs who wants to speak to you, sii'." ^ What did you show him into my room for?" said Locksley Cottenham, Esq., frowning. It was not much of a frown ; the face was as pleasant as the voice — a round chubby face, open and smiling; it did not look wrinkled, but it was surrounded by perfectly white hair, as soft as wool. " Did he tell 30U his business? " " It 's not a man at all," answered the clerk, " it 's a ^•oung lady." The clerk felt a certain jo3' in communicating this astonishing piece of news. That it might lose none of its effect, he did it as abruptly as he could. Locksley Cottenham, Esq., went slowly upstairs, his little den door was open, a worn oilcloth was on the floor, a writing-table heaped with papers Avas in the mid- dle, and there were two chairs, in one of which, sure enough, sat the voung lady. Oil ! what a pretty young lad}- ! Plis old heart warmed to her at once. What an air of shyness, and sweet blushing confusion ! What color might the eyes be that were veiled by those downcast lashes ? She gave him time enough to think all this before ever she lifted them. It was Chai'lotte. >She looked at him, and half rose as if to acknowledge his presence ; then she cast her eyelids down again. It was a very little room. He stood iu the doorwa}' aud said, — DON JOHN. 341 " I haven't the pleasure of knowing ^-our name?" Then she spoke, with an air perfectly sweet and con- fiding ; it was not he, it was the circumstances that made hai' sli.y. " Tlie friend who brought me said I was not to tell 3'ou any name." As she spoke she looked at him, and thought what a nice old gentleman he was. He was so very chubby ; his face might almost have been called a sweet face, it had so much of the child in it. " Tliis parcel," she continued, trying to untie a piece of pink tape, and not succeeding, for her hand trembled a little. He had seated himself in the other chair, with the table between them. " Shall I undo it for 3'OU? " "Yes," said Charlotte, '' and look at what it contains." She perceived a certain gravity now in his manner. He did not seem altogether pleased with her ; br.t in a min- ute or two, while she watched him, so much depending on what he might think, she saw the chubby face take ou an air of utter puzzlement and surprise. ''A friend gave you these to show to me ?" he in- quired, lifting up some parchments. " Yes." " Do 3"ou know what they are?" "Of course; they are the title-deeds of a Scotch estate." "The title-deeds of a Scotch estate, which seems to have been sold by the executors of the late Fraser JMac- donald to Patrick Leslie. I never heard any of these names before. What has this to do witli me?" "The fi-iend who sent them wants to pa}- j'ou a sum of money Avhich — no, I am not saying this aright — he is going to pay it as soon as possible. He prays you to keep these title-deeds as security till he can produce it, aiul in the meantime, if you could be merciful and kind." She looked at him and paused : she observed that he was startled, and that he hastily put down the deeds. 342 DON JOHN. " It appears that certain things are imderstood here which arc not expressed," he remarked. "Yes." " Yonr friend — I need not mention him h}- name -r- " " You do not know his name." " Indeed ! I thought it might be John Ward." " No, it is not." "That makes the matter no better — quite the re- verse." " But I want to explain this to 3-ou, so far as I ni^^y." " If I understand you ariglit, you offer me money to stop certain proceedings." "That is not at all how my friend expressed it to me. " Perhaps not." He began to tie up the parcel with its pink tape. " I am ver}- sorrj*. I must return these deeds." "You will not consider this again? a'ou will not be merciful ? " " You must take the deeds." He put them into her hand. "Then you will see my friend. I am sure he can make you understand better than I have done. We never counted on your refusing.*" " I am very sorry for you, my dear young lady." " But you will at least see my friend?" "It is nuich better that I should not. I will send a message to him instead." " Yes. You will advise him how to act, as this wa}'' does not please you. It will be a kind message, for you look so kind." She looked at him appealingly, and when he made no answer, she went on in a faltering tone, — * ' ' Then what am I to say to him ? " " You can ask him if he ever heard of such a thing as compounding a felony ? " DON JOHN. 343 CHAPTER XXXII. THE dnsty, smoky sunbeams were shootins; down into Mr. Cottenliam's room about three o'clock on a warm afternoon, when his clerk knocked at the door. He may have been dozing, for he seemed desirous to show himself more alert, and to speak a little more shari)ly, than usual ; while some one was shown in, and the door shut behind him. "■ Decidedh" I must have been asleep — bad habit. Don't rememl)er saying this young fellow was to be shown up — don't remember what he is come about," thought Mr. Cottenham. " Can't recall it at all." He looked at his guest — at Don .John, in fact, remarked his very light hair and fair complexion, the frank, good- tempered air, and was sure he had never seen him be- fore. He said to himself, — "A gentlemanly-looking 3'oung fellow, and in no hurry to speak. I see that he knows I have been nap- ping." The young man spoke at last, not without a slight air of deference, which was very agreeable. " You sent a message to me." " A message? " "By a young lady." The smiling, chubby face took on an air of concern and wonder. " She was to ask me whether I had ever hoard of such a thing as compounding of felon}'." " Yes." " I am an articled clerk to a lawyer. Criminal cases are not in his line, but 1 have access to the best law- books." " I consider that the young lady, innocently of course, and in ignorance — " interrupted Mr. Cottenham. " Pardon me, I come only \\\ reply to your message, 344 DON JOHN. to inform 3'ou according to tlie best autliorities wliat is meant by compounding of felony-." "Well, well, this is remarkable." Don John unfolded a sheet of foolscap paper, on "which was some writing in the round hand of a copying clerk, and began, — " ' Compounding of felony is the taking of a reward for forbearhig to prosecute a felony ; and one species of this olfence (known in the books l)y the more ancient appellation of theft-base) is where a party robbed takes his goods again, or other amend, upon agreement not to prosecute.' " '' I thought as much ! " " It could not be more clear. Shall I go on? 'This ■was formerly held to make a man an accessory to the theft, liut is now punished only with line and imprison- ment.' " " Only ! " ejaculated the listener, " onJij with fine and imprisonment. Now what could possess you, to read all this to me?" " It defines the compounding of felony." " It defines it very clearly ! I am much afraid of the law, I have got into the clutches of the law three times." "That could only have been innocently, as yon said of the young ladv, and through ignorance." "You are sure of this? You don't require much time for making up your mind." "I have had time enough already- to feel grieved to think that when a certain thing is exi)lained and ar- ranged I shall probably never have the pleasure of see- ing you again in thjn world. I shall be obliged to wish indeed that you may never know even my name." The round, childlike face took on its sweete-st expres- sion. " P2xplalncd and arranged! Weh, w^ell, the confi- dence of youth is amazing ! " " There's a good deal more of it." said Don John. " This perversion of justice in the old Gothic constitu- tions was liable to the most severe and infamous punish- DON JOHN. 345 merit. Indeed the Salic law ' la trout cum similem habuit, qui fur/ ion' — " " Stop ! That I will not stand. What is such jargon to me?" '•I had better go on then to the English, ' And bv statute 24 and 25 Vict. c. 96, s. 102 (amended by 33 and 34 Vict. c. Go), even publicl}' to advertise a reward lor the return of property stolen or lost, and in such advertisement to use words purporting that no questions will be asked ; or purporting that a reward will be i)aid without seizing or making inquiry after the jjersons i)ro- ducing the same ; or promising to return to a pawnbroker oi" otlier person any money he may have advanced u[>on, or paid for such property ; or otiering an}- other sum of money or reward for the return of the same : sul)jects the advertiser, the printer, and the publisher to a for- feiture of fifty pounds each.' " "Is that all?" There was the least little touch of sarcasm in the tone of this question. '' I could have multiplied authorities, I could have cop- ied a great deal more, but I thought that was enough." " I think so too. Compounding of felony is now vcr}- clearly explained ; what I still fail to understand is the meaning of your conduct ! I am not expected to con- sider it disinterested, I suppose." "I had somctliing to hope for, of course." "And I should like to know whether, when you searched through the law-books for these definitions, you instructed yourself as to what compounding of felony was, at the same time that you prepared to instruct me ? " Don John for a moment endeaijored to preserve a stolid expression, but as he could not, — as he felt him- self detected, he glanced furtively at the round, chubby face, and then looked again, and seemed to gather con- fidence and comfort. " I want to dismiss that subject, now if you will let me, and mention to you a poor young man who has behaved verv wickedly to you, and who is ver}' misera- ble," 346 DON JOHN. " In short, John Ward. I trusted John Ward ; I was very kind to him." '• He told me so ; it aggravates his crime. lie robbed you of the sum of three tliousand and fifteen pounds and fifteen shillings." " He told you that ! 3'ou have seen him then." " Yes ; he is ver}- miserable. He says that he deeply repents — " "I am sorr}- for him, — and for myself, — and for you." •' Ih- a quite unexpected circumstance, some property was left, on which botli he and his mother thought that he had a claim ; at first his claim was disallowed, but now it is admitted." " Indeed, indeed. Well, I don't know what to make of this." " I have seen him a second time, and I am thankful to sa}' that when I was explaining" to him al)out this claim, he asked whether the money would amount to as much as three thousand and fifteen pounds and fifteen shillings. I was less miserable about him after I had heard him sa}- tliat. It shows that he really does repent." " You are his good friend." "■He humbly begs your forgiveness for what he has done, and he humbly desires to restore to you by me the whole of the mone}- that he stole. Here it is." He handed over the table a parcel neatly sealed. " Here it is," repeated Mr. Cottenham, as if this unexpected turn of affairs confused him to the point of leaving him devoid of any original words. He took up his eye-glass and leaned over the parcel without touch- ing it. Then he drew towards him the paper Don John had i-ead, and carefnlly considered that. In the shrewd- ness with which he scrutinized it there was something childlike and simple ; but in the silent pity with Avhich he turned over the yet unoi)ened parcel, there was some- thing that childhood cannot attain. At last he broke the seal, and slowly spread out the notes, and opened the little packet of gold. DON JOHN. S47 Don John's heart danced. " It was a large sum to lose," muttered Mr. Cotten- haui. "And his behavior cut me to the heart too. I suppose," he went on, but not addressing Don John ; '• 1 suppose I cannot be bound to prosecute now?" He appeared to hx his eyes on a map which was hang- ing on the oi)posite wall, and to address his remark to that. "I have been bitten by the law tliree times already." Don John chose out an opposite map, and in his turn made some cautious remarks. "A fellow nuist be prosecuted on some particular charge, either he is ac- cused of a crime against the prosecutor, or against ' Our Sovereign Lady the Queen.' Now if a man tried for murder could produce in court the supposed murdered man, and prove that he was alive and well — " "The two might walk out of court, arm in arm, for aught the judge could say ! There was no crime ! " "Or again, a man accused of a robbery, if he can produce a receipt in full, for the money in question, cannot be brought to trial, the intending prosecutor has jio charge to bring against him. Only," continued Don John, '•'if writs are out against such a man, and when he has paid he is arrested before he has the receipts to show, his people are liable to be disgraced ; his story might get wind." Mr. Cottenham lost himself in cogitation here, then he said, — "I shall give John Ward a receipt in full, and write him a short letter by you. AVhat can I say better than, ' Sin no more, lest a worse thing happen to thee ' ? You may trust me to do all I can for 3'ou." lie began to write, and having put a certain stamp at the end of the letter, handed it to Don John, who re- ceived it with eager joy and fervent thanks. " This has been a great trouble to you, since you first heard of it." "Yes." " So it has to me. I felt that he had ruined himself, and I had trusted him." 348 DON JOHN. " But I felt not onlj- that he was mined, but tliat his trial would disgrace my people. They know nothing of this, not one word." "• Well, if it depends on me, they never shall; fori think they never need. You have conducted this case verv well for your lirst client. 1 suppose I am jour first?" ''Oh, yes." " Father and mother both living?" "Yes, both. I thank God." " As doubtless they do for 3'ou. It is a fine thing to liaA'e a son. I lost my son — he was my only one. I have still a daughter, about the age, as I think, of that beautiful young girl whom you sent to me. She is not your sister, of course." At this mention of Charlotte, a sudden change came over Don John's face in spite of himself. The denial had leaped out of his eyes before he answered, "That young lady is not my sister — no." " If she is in any sense under your charge, or influ- ence, I cannot but express a hope that you may never liave to send her on an errand again which has to begin by her informing the one person present that she must conceal her name — " Don John looked up. " I fervently hope that young lady may never be sent on such an errand again. Being what she is, and look- ing what slie is, you could not have thought any evil of her. for a moment — any evil at all." "I did not." " And yon being what you are, and looking what yon are, she could think nothing but good of you. On what better errand (if you had understood it) could I have sent iier to you, unless I had sent her to ask for your blessing?" " Sir! no man was ever so acceptably reproved." " We are not strangers to 30U, we both know you by reputation." "Indeed! there is nothing else that I can do for you?" DON JOHN. 349 " Unless 3'ou will shake hands with me." Thereupon the}' parted, and Don John with the pre- cious reoeii>t buttoned up in his coat, ran clattering downstairs, and sped towards the Great Northern Kail- way, getting out at a station agreed upon between the two, and walking about in search of the poor aciobat. lie wandered tkrougli the suburban streets, and stared into the eating-houses, till he was getting tired out ; but he did not feel alarmed, for he knew Lancy might have taken tright, thinking himself watched. At last he came home. The next morning before breakfast, his mother with an ivory paper-knife was cutting open the newspapers, and laying them before his father's plate, when glanc- ing one over, she remarked, "I often wonder what some of these queer advertisements mean. Here is one odder than usual : ' The acrobat may wash his face.' " " I 've been told they concern some smuggling opera- tions ; they are signals it is thought," said Mnrjorie, " signals to vessels that have smuggled goods on board." " Perhaps the ' Acrobat ' is the name of one of those vessels," observed Mary. " Perhaps," answered the father carelessly, and with a smile. Don John and Charlotte exchanged glances: that was all which passed. The talk concerned IMarjorie's wedding, which was to be in three days. The bride- groom was already in the house, the grandmother was expected in an hour. The wedding presents were fre- quently arriving, and all was pleasant bustle and cher- ished confusion. It was so nice to have so much to do. Nobody wanted to think about the parting, espe- cially the bride's father. But the acrobat made no sign, and one day, two days, and then the wedding-day passed over, and still be was not to be found. Don John wearied himself with researches under hedges all about Hornsey, and out beyond Baruet ; he had large bills posted up over 350 DON JOHN. walls in waste places, on hoardings, and outside the railway stations. "It's all right. The acrobat may wash his face." A great many eyes became familiar with that strange announcement, but apparently not Lanc3's, and yet Don John was moderately easy in his mind. lie felt sure Lancy had not been arrested. Mr. Cottenham would have taken care of that. At the wedding everybody behaved very badly ; al- most all wept, some because thev were sorry, some be- cause tlie3- were glad, and some because the others did. The bridegroom stuck fast in returning thanks, when his bride's health was drunk. Her grandmother openl}^ prompted him. The bride's father stuck fast in re- marking how much he was blessed in his dear sons and daughters. People will say such things. This happ}^ remai'k caused a good deal of piteous sniffing. The grandmother prompted him also, but not so audibly ; he was glad to avail himself of her words, and then she counselled him to sit down. The day was hot, and there was an intermittent downfall of pouring rain. The bridesmaids' gowns, in spite of awnings, got wet at the bottom. The rain poured through openings in a tent which had been pitched in the field, and splashed into the bountiful bowls of custard, and weakened the claret-cup, and cooled the gravy, In that tent, the inhabitants of "the houses" were being feasted. The rain was not held on the whole to be a disadvantage, because, as some of the guests remarked, it cooled the air, and made the victuals seem to go down more sweetly. At last, in a heavier downfall than ever, and with more tears, both from gentle and simple, the bride drove away. The father shut liimself up in his study; the mother and her little Mary went upstairs to console themselves together. All the guests took their leave ; and Naomi and Mr. Brown, settling themselves com- fortably in a corner of the drawing-room, sat hand iu hand. There was nobody left in the great dining-room bat the grandmother, Don John, and Charlotte. DON JOHN. 351 " I shall not come up to Naomi's wedding," re- marked the former, " if 3-0 all mean to go on in this way. I 'm quite ashamed of you ! Charlotte too ; what liad 3'ou got to cry for, I should like to know? " " It was so atfecting," said Cliarlotte deraurel}', and trifling with the flowers of her bouquet. "Affecting! Yes; your little nose is quite swelled with crying ! " (Charlotte went and peeped at herseil" in a glass) " and your eyelashes are wet yet. I hope ye '11 behave better when your own wedding-day comes." " I shall never have one," said Charlotte, in the same demure fashion, and with a little smile, which seemed to betoken superior knowledge. " What, do ye reall}- mean to tell me that 3-6 never intend to marry ? " " Oh, no ! " said Charlotte, " I think I should like to be married. I always have a theory that I should." She laughed. " If anA-bod}' that was nice would have me." The grandmother sat bolt upright. " What ! " she exclaimed rather sharplv. " I shall not be married, because nobod^y wants to marr}' me," persisted Charlotte, not the least put out of countenance. "I never had a lover" (excepting once for a day or two, and then he changed his mind), " and they think I never shall have." "'They,'" repeated the grandmother, with infinite emphasis ; " and who are tliey^ I beg to know? " " Oh," said Charlotte careiessl}', " Don John and the girls." The grandmother looked steadily at Don John, and he appeared confused. " Don John said it, did he? said ye had no lover ! I thought lie knew better ! " Charlotte had not eaten much breakfast, and was dip- ping some ripe strawberries into the sugar, and eating them with bread. " But I forgot," she continued, '' that we mean to call him laird now. Marjorie made us promise not to forget. Laird, shut the door." "■ He may hold it open a moment for me first," said 352 DON JOHN. the grandmother, rising, and slightly' tossing her head — there were a good many feathers in the wedding- bonnet, and they wagged as she wahved. She laughed when she reached the door, but before it was shut be- hind her she was heard to murmur, — "No loA-er has she. Well, I thought j-e knew bet- ter, I did indeed." CHAPTER XXXIII. " OHE means Laney," exclaimed Charlotte, "and I >3 do think " — Don John had come up to her by this time — " I do think, considering what friends we have alwaj's been, and considering how I have helped you about him, 3-ou ought not to let her suppose it." She put her hand to her throat. " Xo, I am not going to cry again ; but two or three times grandmamma has hinted at this kind of thing to me, and remembering all the piteous truth, I feel as if her thinking of him as m}' lover was almost a disgrace to me, and that was wh}' I was so anxious to tell her that I had no lover." " She did not mean Lancy," said Don John. Charlotte had finished her strawberries. " She must have meant Lanc}'," she answered, " for there's nobody else." The grandmother had much exaggerated the traces of tears. Charlotte had never looked so lovely in her life. That ma}- have been parti}' because she had never been so beautifully adorned before. The shimmering white silk set off her dark hair, and there was lace round her throat, from which it rose like a small ala- baster column, and then the rosebuds in her bouquet, how they matched the hues of her mouth ! and it soft- ened, and the dimple came in her cheek. " Look," she exclaimed, pointing into the garden, and there was the grandmother marching about among the dripping flowers, with a certain air of determina- tion, " she is quite cross still." DON JOHN. 353 "Yes; but not with you. Do not be vexed. She did not mean Lancj." ' ' Then whom could she mean ? " ' ' A mere nobody ; for as you have said (and I deserve it), ' there is nobody else.' " " Don John ! " " She meant me." All the sweetest changes that Charlotte's face was capable of came into it then. She pouted as one cogi- tating, and her long lashes drooped, then she blushed — it was that real old-fashioned maiden blush, which is rather rare now, and so exquisitel_y beautiful that when seen under such interesting circumstances it can never be forgotten. She sat down on a sofa in the corner of the room, where she could not be seen from the garden, and quickly recovering herself, began, " Then go to her at once, of course, and say — " " Yes ; what may I sa}' ? " " I ought not to have been told this at all," said Charlotte, in a tone not quite free from reproof. ^ It is your aflair to find out how to sa^' — that she is mis- taken." " But she is not mistaken." "No!" Charlotte had got the corner of the sofa, and looked forth from it. Under such circumstances people can- not sit side hy side ; but Don John sat as near to her as he could. "No? "she murmured again, almost in a whisper, and she lifted up her eyes, and looked into his, which denied and denied that there M^as any mistake, in a fashion more convincing than words. Just for a moment she felt as if a kiss was impend- ing. Don John did not kiss her. He thought that was owing to his own new-l)orn modesty, deference, and devotion, and did not know that she had already' made him remote from her lips. He wanted to take lier hand, but she scarcely let him hold it for an instant. Even at that pass it Hashed into his recollection how 23 354 DON JOHN. often in their childhood he had lent her his own pocket- handkerchief to dry her fingers on, when the}- were inked. All was different now, and he must make the best of the change. It would seem so natural to go down on his knees — but would she laugh at him? On one knee — but would she laugh at him ? He started up on his feet, and burst forth with his love, and his entreat}-, that she would not remember his boyish im- pertinence, and before he knew what he was about, he Was on one knee, and the door being suddenly flung open, his grandmother entered. She was heard to utter a short laugh, and she hastih' withdrew. Don John sprang to his feet. He and Charlotte looked at one another, and the}' both laughed also. Charlotte as OA-ercome by a surprising and absurd in- cident, Don John as one who accused his fate. He had been pleading with her for a rosebud — onl}' one, out of her bouquet — and Charlotte had been so taken In' surprise, that she knew not what to do. But she was mistress of the situation now, new as it was to her. " Come and sit down here." she entreated. '' Let us be our old selves again, and tell me what this means." But he still wanted the rosebud, that he might get her hand to kiss, and when she withdrew it, she looked at it as if it might be changed. " All this is very amazing," she began ; and repeated, " Let us be our old selves again." "■ I cannot be ni}' old self; I love 3'ou." He looked down : her little feet in their white satin shoes peeped fortli, and seemed to nestle on the carpet, he thought, like two 3'oung doves ; but of course he had the sense not to say this, he knew she would laugh at him if he did. "But I meant that I want 3'Ou to explain what all this means. You always had a theory, you know, which — which I thought a very sensible one," said Charlotte, suddenh' giving her sentence a fresh form. Don John heaved up a great sigh. "• Yes, I know I have chiefl}' ni}' own insolence and foil}' to thank, if you cannot understand or believe me." "At anv rate there's no occasion to be so melan- DON JOHN. 355 choly about it," said Charlotte ; and tlien, overcome by tlie absurdity of this sudden change in her old comrade, she burst into a dehghtful httle laugh, which \Yas quite irresistible. Don John could not possibly help seeing how ridic- ulous the thing was as regarded in the light of his whole former conduct, and the two 3'oung creatures laughed together, both at themselves, and at the irony of fate. ''I never would have believed it of j'ou," exclaimed Charlotte, recovering herself. " It 's poetical justice done upon me." " I suppose it is." " I deserve it." " I had not reached to the point of thinking so ! " " But what are 3'ou going to do wath me? " "Do with you!" exclaimed Charlotte, laughing again. "Yes. You make me laugh, but it's no laughing matter. If_you only knew. Don't you think you can sa}' — something ? " "Something appreciative?" suggested Charlotte, when he paused. "Yes, laird; I can say that your property becomes you vastly in the giving of it awa3\ I can say that this must certainly have been a pleasant day to you, for you have got uncle out of a pecuniary scrape, made Marjorie happy, and are going to do as much for Naomi. I did say the other morning that I thought you had grown better-looking. 1 now see the reason of it; your bosom was glowing with virtue and generosity ; 3'Ou pose before my mind's eye as on your first return I saw you — classically bundled up in your new plaid, and smoking your cigar like a sort of Scotch Apollo." "It was only right you should know I had parted with that two thousand pounds. You, and only you ! " Charlotte blushed ; the hint w^as rather a strong one. "I shall have something much more difficult to tell you soon." " Don John ! " "Well?" 356 DON JOHN. " It 's not at all becoming to 3'ou to be tragical. You cannot have forgotten that in our charades you never would do the tragic parts ; because, as you said, a fel- low to act tragedy well ought to have a Roman nose." " But I am not acting now." "• No ; I never meant to insinuate an^'thing of the sort. But look how the sun shines and ghtters on the wet roses, don't you think if you were to take a cigar and go out, and think this over, you would come back in a different humor? " " I am always thinking it over." " Since how long? " "Since I came home from Scotland the first time, and you met me — waiting for me at the green gate — don't you remember? " "Remember! No. Wh^-, that's months ago." " You leaned on the green gate — and I saw .you." "I alwa^-s lean on the green gate. It couldn't be that." " I saw how beautiful you were, and how sweet — and — I loved you." ' ' All on a sudden ? " "Yes." " But what for?" "What for!!" " It was not for anything in particular, then? " ' ' It was for ever3'thing in general. I am alwaj's find- ing out more reasons for loving you. If you send me out to walk among the rose-trees I shall find them in the shadows at their roots, and in the rain-drops that they shake from their buds. All the reading in the book of my life is about you, and the world outside tells me of 3'ou. Things fair and young and good I must needs love, because they are hke ^'ou ; there is pity in me, and I find a pathos in what is unlovely and old, because it is unlike." ' ' Extraordinary ! " " Don't be unkind, Charlotte." "Oh, no." So many charms in one small face — such dimples DON JOHN. 357 and blushes, and shy dropping of black lashes, and such a whimsical pathos, and almost tenderness — when she vv^as not laughing at him — were hardly ever seen before. " Don't you think you could aflbrd me one kiss, Char- lotte?" "• Certainl}' not." "But you will think of all this — j'ou are not dis- pleased ? " " Displeased ! I always used to think nothing was so interesting as — " " As love — such love as this — as mine? " " Yes ; and so I think still. Nothing can be so in- teresting, in the abstract. ! " " Well, you might at least let a fellow kiss your hand ; I never heard of a lover yet who was not allowed to do that." " If it wore an}' other ' fellow' — but you ! Don't be so ridiculous." " It's cruel of 3'ou to make game of me." " And yet I love you better than any excepting Annt Estelle, and my uncle and mother. I liked j'ou, I be- lieve, better than any one at all till now." " Liked me best. Oh, do tell me what is the differ- ence between that and loving ? " "People whom we like are those who (we suppose) "will never astonish us ; people whom we are not obliged to explain things to, because they know ; people whom we perfectly trust — they are partners, comrades, friends." ' ' You like me less now ? " " Perhaps so, laird." " It is my belief that your poetic mind eschews with distaste the notion of prosperity ; if a fellow has, as you think, all he wants in this world, he is less interesting to you." " That i(5 not impossil)le." " And it is nothing to me. Not that I allude to Cap- tain Leslie's bequest. Between Lancy and the girls, I have despoiled myself already of most of the money, and I shall not have the land much longer." '• What can ^-ou mean, Don John? " 358 DON JOHN. " Why you knew that I had parted with enough mone}' to set poor Lancy straight. You helped nie to do it, my lady and queen." "But" the land?" •'Ah! yes, the land; there's the rub. You have always thought of me as rather a jolly fellow, have n't you? Not a fellow that had ever known misfortune, or had anything weighing on his mind." The rose hue faded out of Charlotte's face now, and by absence helped its new expression to a deeper em- phasis. " When you were ill," she began, " I thought you had something on your mind. My heart ached for you. I felt that you must have some sorrow clouding your nights and days. Even when you were getting better, I often saw it come over like a dark cloud to veil out all the sun- shine." " And 3'ou liked me then, better than any one, and understood — " "No, I did not understand; for I could not help thinking, that in some way it had to do with Lancy, and 3'our distress at his going wrong." " It had something to do with Lancy." "Lancy, and his place here, and their love for him, and yours, have been wonderful to me all my life ; but at least he can have nothing to do with this strange thing, that I thought you said about Captain Leslie's land. You cannot possibl}' want to give that to him?" " Certainly not, and yet it has to do with him, that I cannot keep it for myself." " You make him more important than ever," said Charlotte faltering, and obviously shrinking from she knew not what. "But he became ten times more important after I got better, after I had seen you leaning on the green gate, and 3'ou had told me about his tr3ing to make 30U like him, and of his mother's entreaties. I thought in- deed for a long time that 3'ou did cai'e for him. Till in fact 30U went with me to offer old Cottenham the title- DON JOHN. 359 deeds as a pledge. Then I knew for the first time that you did it for all our sakes rather than for his." •' Lancy is at least not going to have that estate." " No ; nor I either." " Amazing ! Oh, m}- uncle is no doubt in debt more than we had thought." "• No ; nothing of the sort. Mother is going to tell you why." " Your mother ! Aunt Estelle. Why should she tell ME?" " Because it might concern you." Charlotte blushed and flushed, and the dimple went awa}' into hiding. "■ Aunt Estelle," she repeated ; " but how should she know ? " "How should mj- mother not know? Could she sec rrie day by da}', and never divine that I loved you? She alwa3-s knows without being told what concerns the hap- piness of her children." " And she consented to — " '■'■ She proposed to tell a'ou several things. She said I ought not to ask you to be my Avife till you knew them." "Aunt Estelle?" " Yes ; whether you can ever love me, or whether you cannot, 3'ou will always love mother ten times more when she has told you." " Wait a minute, let me think." Don John had no objection. He leaned over the end of the sofa. He knew all the expressions of Charlotte's face — the beautiful pouting mouth, and shining tender eyes. How she pondered and wondered ! " There really is something? " slie sighed at last. " Yes, really." " And I cannot catch the remotest glimpse of it." Rut the mother's knowledge, and the motiier's apparent sanction, gave a strange, sweet surprise and reality to the thing. True love it was evident had come near her. She fore- saw that there would soon be a response to it ; but she thought most of the mother, her aunt who had brought 360 DON JOHN. her up, and been so loving to her. It was manifest that nothing could be denied to her ; but how amazing that she should 1)6 brought into the story. "• I cannot make it out," she exclaimed. "No." Then remembering how she had laughed at this mother's son, and teased him, and denied him the small comfort of a drooping rose-bud, she went on, — "But Don John, if you will let me teU 3"ou before- hand exactly what it means, I think after all I had better give you that kiss." " Oh, yes ! do tell me then what it is to mean." "First, it is to be for the past, for a parting with all the old 3-esterda3's. We used to be such friends, and I am glad we were." " Tell me the rest, and give it me." ' ' 1 knew so little of m}' mother. I always loA^ed yours best of all. There was something more, but I forget it." ' ' But give me the kiss." "Yes." CHAPTER XXXIV. AFTER all, when we read the parable of the Prodi- gal Son, we find him for all his fiiults more inter- esting than that blameless brother who was at work in his father's field. It was now twelve days after the wedding. In a small bare room, on a truckle bed, a poor disfigured patient was laying. A medical man without touching, leaped towards him, and regarded him with attention. He gave directions to two women, one of whom was seated on either side of the bed, then said, before re- tiring, "He'll do now. You'll do ver}' well now, my poor fellow. Do ^-ou hear me ? " DON JOHN. 361 The patient assented, but scarceh' in articulate words, and presently dozed again. After he had taken some food, and had his pillows altered to his mind, he began to look about him with interest and attention, specially to look at the face of his elder nurse, a simple and rather foolish face, but full of goodwill, " I should like to see mj'self in a glass," he presently said. "There ain't a glass in the house, my pore young man," she answered. "It's an empty house that you was brought into." " What is it that has been the matter with me?" he next asked. "Well, it's what they call an eruptive fever," said the 3'ounger woman. "Is it infectious ? " "Yes, it is; but it's m}' business to nurse such cases." " I thank 3'ou for your goodness to me." " You should thank God, m}' pore boy," said the other, " that lie has made some of us with a hking for such a business." "That's my aunt, Miss Jenny Clarboy," said the younger ; "I had to have soraebodj' here to cook, and wait, and help ; so she came." " For the love of God," explained Miss Jenny. The patient sighed distressfully, "Then I am not to have a glass ; but if I tell you that I hope my face is very much changed, you '11 let me know whether it is, or not, won't you ? " " ]My poor young man, we don't ask jou why you should want it to he c-hanged ; but I may say, that though you'll be like yourself again some day, yi)ur own mother would n't know you now, though she should look at you hard." " I 'ni thankful," said the patient faintly ; but whefller for his present disfigurement, or for the promise of re- covery, did not api)ear. The 3"0unger nurse now retired to take some rest. $62 DON JOHN. The patient for awhile was veiy still. He looked about, but there was little in the room for his eyes to rest on. The clean ceiling and the sloping walls were white- washed and bare. A small green blind was hung before the curtainless window. There was nothing to look at but his nurse, and he contemplated her till the circum- stance attracted her attention, and the simple creature w'as a little put out of countenance : for she had a clean, but exceedingly shabby, old print gown on, which was patched in various places. She actually began to ex- plain. " It 's a one as I 've kept for cleaning, and washing da3'S. I 've respectable things for going to my chapel in." " An3-thing is good enough for me, Miss Jenny," said the patient gently. ''Won't you draw the other chair nearer, and put your feet on the spoke to rest them?" " I will, vas pore young man. Now you can talk so as to be understood, I warrant there 's not much of the tramp on your tongue." "I was only a tramp, because I've thrown mj'self away." " That 's a sad hearing." " I heard you pray by my bed, when j'ou thought I should die." " There was httle else to be done for you." " And 3'ou said I was a poor lost creature." "We're all lost till Christ finds us — Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the world." " Till Christ finds us — yes — but I have tried hard to prevent Him from finding me. I have tried to hide myself from Him under the darkness of a great many evil deeds." ''You talk ver}' faint and very hollow. I maj' not let you go on, and I '11 only say this, m}- pore lad, that if nobod}' else will have an^'thing to say to you, and 3'ou are so lost that you have nothing but misery to call 3'our own, Avhy then lie still and wish (for 3'ou 're too weak to pray), wish that He may find you, and He will, for 3"Ou are the right sort for Him." DON JOHN. 363 There were man}' da^ys of pain and sickness after this ; there were many drawbacks, and sometimes it ahnost seemed as if the poor young patient woukl sink. ' ' Who 's going to pa}' for all this ? " he one da}- asked. "You've no call to think of that," answered the younger nurse, "for there's nothing asked for from you, John "Ward." John Ward sighed ; how could he tell that he ever should be able to repay this money. During the first stages of his illness, which had come on suddenly, he had been delirious ; he was lying under a hedge wet with dew, and ghastly with smeared paint and white- wash, when a policeman found him. He had some recol- lection of this, and that he had been able repeatedly to make known his wish that a penny paper might be bought for him. Of course no notice was taken of this request ; but his intervals of sense for several da^'s w'ere spent in repeating it ; and even after he became so weak and confused that he by no means knew himself what he had wanted it for, he could often be soothed l)y hav- ing some old piece of newspaper put into his hand, wlien he would fumble over it, and guard it jealously. Thus his desire for a newspaper was always regarded b}' these women as a proof of delirium, and one of his worst symptoms. Of course, though they did what was right hy liim and never left him, his sick-bed was not surrounded by those delicate, attentive cares that he would have had if he had been in the midst of a loving, cultured famil}'. No- body tried to find out a meaning in his fancies, or made experiments to discover whether this one or that would please him. So when he was a little better and again api)roached the subject of the i)apers, he was cut short by the remark that the doctor would by no means let them go to the book-stalls fresh from the sick-room ; for the doctor was a very conscientious gentleman, and par- ticular to prevent the spread of infection. " As vou may jedyc" Miss Jenny would say, " when you see saucers here and saucers there full of Cundijs Fluid that costs a pretty penny ; and that he does n't 364 DON JOHN. grudge j-ou, in}' pore 3'oung man, more than if it was water." Miss Jenny finding herself for the yer\' first time in her hfe in a position of authority, took adyantage of it, and seemed to rise to it strangely. She gaye John Ward a good deal of adyice, and he listened to it, wide as it was of the mark, with wonder and interest. It was ad- vice suited to an acrobat and a tramp. Such she thought him. That this should be possible was a thing so piteous as to give it often a keener edge than any satire ; but then she would go on in her simplest fashion to teach some of the most comforting doctrines of our faith. John Ward had heard these all his life, and yet they seemed new now. It is only those who haye known what it is to be lost who can truly long to be found. He listened, and was comforted. The Saviour does not often walk in high places. John Ward, who knew him- self to be a disgi'ace, and felt that he was wretched, had been cast out as the unclean thing, and lying in the dust had met with Ilim. He was sitting up in bed for the first time when his nurse thus let him know that he had been dependent on charit}'. His head had been shaved again during his illness. ' ' And those wretched calicoes and that sash and wig of yours were burnt because of infection," she continued ; " but see what good friends have been raised up for you, they are going to make a gathering for you at our chapel to get you some decent second-hand clothes and a pair of shoes so soon as you are strong enough to wear them." '• Her brother," said Miss Jenny, indicating her niece, " is a waiter, and waits in the best of families, so you'll jedge that he has to wear good clothes in his calling. That white shirt you have on is an old one of his." " Yes," said the niece ; " he gaye it to me for you, being fine and fitter for a sick patient than the coarse things they sell in the slop-shops. And he says he '11 give you a waistcoat when you go out, one that he has done with." DON JOHN. 365 John Ward cast his eyes on the fraj'ed wristband of his shirt. If ever in his life he had felt shame for him- self it was then. '' I am very much obliged to your brother that is a waiter," he said, with the peculiar gen- tleness of intonation that he always used towards his nurses. Miss Jenn}" was about to depart home. The patient could now be ver}' well attended to b}' one person. She talked of her sister, who was a respectable dress-maker, and always paid her wa^*, and then of the Johnstones. Not, of course, as the poor speak of the rich to the rich — but as they speak to one another — " M3' sister, ' Mrs. Clarbo}-,' and ' Johnstone's people,' that live at the great house." AVhat a pang it gave poor John Ward to hear these familiar names, and feel himself remote ! "Well, good-bye, aunt," said the niece, "you're not to shake hands with the patient now 30U 're dressed, nor go nigh him." " I 'm trul^- obliged to her," said John AVard. "How respectable and how well 3'ou look in that Sunda}- gown," continued the niece. "And nobod}' knows what a deal of use you 've been to me." " Kept up your spirits, did I, dear?" answered Miss Jenny complacently. "No, I don't sa}- that," replied the niece ; " I never feel my spirits half so good as when I 've got a right down bad case, that anybody else might be afraid to come near ; nor so well in ray health neither." "It's a providence," replied Miss Jenny; "and as for m}- pore nerves, I don't know where they 're gone to, since here I came." So then she nodded to John Ward, and was gone. He might not send any message by her : shame and probable danger to himself prevented that. He laid himself down again and cried feebly. Then his nurse gave him food. " Don't you take on," she said, " it's bad for you." "But I'^don't seem to get well," said the poor fel- low. 366 DON JOHN. "Get well," she repeated with the merciless direct- ness always used by the poor to those of their own class, " there 's a deal to be done before 3-011 get well." '• AMiat 's to be done ? " " Why,, for one thing, there 's 3-our skin to come off — when you see it coining off your hands and face in bits as big as sixpences 3'ou '11 know you 're getting well." John Ward inquired whether the process would hurt him much. "Not a bit," she replied; "but I ma}' tell you for your own comfort that the parish authorities are yery particular in this union ; they '11 keep ^'ou here, and let 3'ou haye the best of food till that 's oyer. In short, the}' won't let you go — or eyeiy lodging-house you went and slept in you 'd spread the infection, and that would soon raise the rates." John AVard perceiyed that he was a pauper, and felt it. Also he felt tbat charity, at least national charit}', was largely indebted to enlightened self-interest. " As cold as charity" has become a proyerb ; he was guarded here, and lodged and fed, as he was informed, because by coming out he might raise the rates. "And how thankful that ought to make 3'ou," she continued; "■all your meals coming up as regular as can be, and there 's a gathering to be made, to bu3' 3'ou clothes, and you 'ye time to think upon your wa3's." John Ward was not at all thankful to the parish au- thorities ; but he did much relish his meals, simple as they were, and for man}' an hour he did he still and think upon his ways. With a certain humbleness and simplicity he tried to pray. The chapters in the Bible that his nurse read to him appeared fresh and interesting ; the words were famihar, but they meant something new, and her homety comments, which seemed to take for granted that he bad broken almost all the commandments of the Deca- logue, did not rouse in him an}' resentment. It was all true, truer than she thought ; the wonder was that even now, eyen yet, there might be found a remedy. DON JOHN. 367 And so the hours and days went on, till at last, a poor, hoUow-ej'ed young man, he went forth from the cottage where he had been nursed, with a benefaction of two shilhngs in his pocket, and an ample meal of meat and bread tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, for the gathering at Little Bethel had provided even this last article. He had a loud, hollow cough, and with faded eyes he surveyed his grotesque habiliments — one of the waiter's old coats, very white at the seams, a shirt and hat contributed by the preacher, and trousers a world too wide for him ; also a pair of new boots, of strong workmanship, and heav}' with hob-nails. He must spend the half of his mone}' in sending a telegram, and before he reached the station he saw, torn and faded, and not perfect in anj' case, the token he longed for. On hoardings and walls, and on empt}' houses, ghii'ing and disreputable portions of it greeted him everywhere. His heart leaped with joy once more, and echoed the words, — " It 's all right ; the acrobat may wash his face." He doubted awhile in sheer delight, and si)elt over the disjointed sentence ; but at last he found a perfect cop3', and creeping into the railway-station, sent his telegram, and rested on a bench to await the event. His troubles now were soon over. In less than an hour Don John appeared. Lanc}' was very quiet, very humble ; he could sa}' little more than that he had been extremely ill, and he was thankful to be taken in hand, decent lodging found for him, and proper clothes bought for him ; then, weak as he was, shaken by his cough, and ashamed of the pauper position that he had just emerged from, he asked to know nothing but that he was safe from pi'osecution, and laid himself on his bed, leaAnng Don John to do and say what he pleased. So he was left to rest and food, and his own salutary and bitter reflections. He did not betray much emotion the next day, wheniiis foster-brother gave him old C'ot- tenham's letter ; but he wei)t when he was told how anxious the Johnstones had been at his disappearance. 368 DON JOHN. They often said it was certain he had gone to America, but no suspicion of his crime had ever crossed their minds. The^' hoped he would write soon to them. So far so good ; his crime had been condoned, and had caused them neither misery nor disgrace, and of his sufferings they had not known. But what next? Could it be right, or would it be possible to bring him under their roof again ? Fortunately' the deciding of this was not left to Don John. Lanc}' had no sooner found himself alone, than he had written a letter to " his mamma," setting forth that he had been extremel}' ill, and giving her his address with directions to come to him. He directed the letter to her old lodgings in which he had left her. He knew nothing of her visit to Scotland, or her wish to follow him to America. Fortunately for her, Don John's advice, that she should wait in England for tidings from Lancy, had taken some effect on her mind. She felt that if he did not want her, he would take care she did not find him, whether she followed him or not ; but if he did want her he would certainh' write to her at the only address he knew. So, after waiting awhile in the north, she came back as cheaply as she could, took a garret in that same house, and waited and hoped. At last a letter came ; and he was close at hand. She hastened to liim, bringing with her the few clothes he had not taken with him when he went on his nefarious errand. She was much shocked at his appearance and his cough, but there was little for them to talk about. He merely told her that he had had a dreadful illness, which he had entirel}- brought upon himself. She saw that he was humbled, and that all the spirit seemed to liave gone out of him ; but he said little more, and never complained. " I wish you had another suit," she said, holding up a dress-coat, ' ' for that one j^ou have on seems rather heavy for you this weather." DON JOHN. 369 " I have another," he answered, " a whole suit, I left in the box in our old pla3'room at ' the house.' " " Then ask Mr. Don John to send it you." " Perhaps I shall some day; he has enough trouble with me just now." '* And how did it come there?" Lancy seemed confused, and did not tell her how, in the middle of a summer night, tramping down from Liverpool, he had reached that once-beloved home, and wandered about in the garden ; then, knowing it, and where everything was kept so well, had got the longest fruit-ladder and put it against the playroom window, which was open, and there, the better to hide himself, had put on the wretched clothes and the wig, in which he had been found, and had folded up his own clothes and put them into the box. The rubbish in which they had been used to array themselves when they acted their charades ! He put on the worst of it. There was bread in the room ; Mary had been having her supper ; he took the loaf, went cautiously down the ladder, and replaced it, then filled his pockets with fruit, aud went his way. CHAPTER XXXV. WHEN Mrs. Ward heard that Lancy still had prop- erty at "the house," she was at once tempted to make that an excuse for going there, claiming it, and giving her own view of matters to Mrs. Johnstone. Mr. Johnstone and Don John would be away ; it seemed such a good opportunity for wringing the other woman's heart, by describing Lancy's cough — talking of his sufferings, how he had been picked up under a hedge, and how, if he had died, he would have had a pauper's funeral. Lancy was generally kind to her, he was even glad of her company ; but when she told him of this project, 24 370 DON JOHN. he was exceedingly angry, and desired that she would do nothing of the kind. '•'• You were always promised a share of everj'thing," she grumbled, " and it is m}- belief that thej^ are forget- ting all that, and you too." " If they can foi-get my past, the better for their own peace," sighed Lanc}', " and as to my share, I have had it alread}'. I was never promised a certain sum. I was onh' promised a certain proportion of the family- jDosses- sions." "And you have had nothing j'et," she answered, " but just your bringing up." "Yes, I have. I have had three thousand pounds from Don John." "Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. "Ward. "I thought — yes, I '11 allow that I thought — it was bluster and vapor- ing, when he said that on your account he should keep his hands from touching Captain Leshe's fortune. Three thousand pounds ! AVherever is it, then ? You told me "we were living on mone}' Mr. Don John sent to you — - living as I thought from hand to mouth ; but if it 's on the interest of three thousand pounds, I call that hand- some, and I don't feel that it's at all the same thing." She laid down her work and pondered. " Three thousand pounds ! " Lancy having justified Don John, felt too weak to enter on his own terrible stor}', and he let her alone. Many bitter and salutary thoughts had possession of his breast ; and when she added, " And yet it might be — I mean it may be — that you 've a right to all — " "You don't think so, you are sure of the contrar}^," Lancy burst out roughly. "Yes, my blessed boy, that I am." "And yet you're not at all thankful for this three thousand pounds, this great sum of money, which has saved me from a trial for felon}' — from becoming a wretched convict." " Don't talk so wild," she answered soothingl}'. "You are as weak as can be still. It's too much for you." DON JOHN, 371 " God forgive you, and me too," muttered Lancv, fretted almost beyond endurance by the knowledge that he had not strength to tell her all. " It is you who talk wildly, mamma," he began. " It makes me sick to hear such nonsense. We cannot both have a claim to all." " No, I allow that," she answered, as if it was a great concession. "Well it's their own doing that has made me talk and think wild about it." She presently added, " They treated 3'ou both exactly alike." " But they loved me the most," said poor Lancy, with something like a faltering in his voice. "I always felt and knew that though they were just, I was the fa- vorite ; nothing could have been done more for me." " And then 30U had me to be fond of you as well," said Mrs. Ward, ''as soon as I 'd set m3' e3-es upon you in the field, a pretty little fellow, jumping and shouting, I loved j'ou so as nothing could be like it." Lancy did not appear to notice the appealing tone in which this was said, he went on, — "It is only of late 3'ears, since I have gone on so that they conld not have me with them, that I have felt I was becoming less and less to them all, and Don John more and more." " But you had me," she repeated. " Yes," he answered, with unconscious indifference; and wlien he saw presently that tears were dropping on her hand, so that she could not see her work, he said fretfully, — " Oh, mamma, don't." "I often think you don't care for me a bit," she replied, with the short, sobbing sigh of a sick heart. " I feel so weak," said poor Lancy, trying to put off a discussion. " Is n't it time I had my stuff ?" She got up and poured him out his tonic, and as she handed it him she w-ent on, — • "You've often made me feel, in particular of late, that you 're only wilhng I should live with you because it's a conveniency to 3-ourself." 372 DON JOHN. " Don't cry, mamma," said Lancy, a little touched. " I 'd rather by half that you 'd reproach me and tell me it 's all my own fault (if 3'ou 'd be hke a son to me at other times) than treat me so cold as you do." "You'll not love me so well when j'ou know all," Lancy began, but he stopped short, for his conscience, and even his heart, told him that this would make no difference. She hardly heeded ; taking his self-accusation merel}' for an acknowledgment of gaming debts, and delin- quencies 3'et more to be deplored but not punishable by an^- human law. "Besides," he went on, much more gently, "what would be the good of reproaching you with its being 3'our own fault ? Why that is what makes you feel it so keenly and be so bitter about it. Mother was not bitter ; I am sure she did not feel it half so much. You have had the worst of it every way. But anyhow I am not the fellow that has any right to find fault. I could not have had more if I had been their own son, and if I had not been yours you could hardly have had less." "It's true. I have had the worst of it." " And I am often sorry for 3-ou." Still the remonstrance, though said gently, was not to her mind. She went on, having checked her tears, — " But as you never doubt I'm your mother, no more than I do, I wonder you don't love me more." " I like you. AVell, I love 30U as well as I can," said Lancy fretfuUv. " i 'm often afraid that when you get better j'ou '11 be off again, and leave 3'our poor mother. It will break my heart as sure as can be if you do." " I promise you that I never will." "They'll invite you to stay at the house for change of air — I know they will — and then you '11 forget me again." " I do not think Don John will ever let me go there again." " What ! set himself up against you ! — and pretend to order ^-ou ? " DON JOHN. 373 ' ' And if he does allow it, I am not sure that I shall think I ought to go." "You speak quite solemn, ray Lanc}'!" she ex- claimed, looking at him with alarm. "■ But you '11 stand by me, 1 have no doubt," continued Lanc3' ; " and 1 begin to think, mamma, that I have be- haved badly to 3'ou. I'm pleased (now 1 consider it), to know that it 's natural 3'ou should be foud of me. I don't mind kissing ^'ou — " Remarkable speech, but quite to her mind ; he raised himself up, and turned his hollow cheek to her. He had always greatl}' ol)jected to her bestowing on him this form of caress. There he drew the line. Mrs. Ward rose, and carefully drying her face with her handkerchief availed herself of the present gracious proposal. She kissed him ; and he kissed her, almost for the first time, and then, exhausted, laid himself down to rest, and to consider. Pie had hitherto so much despised her ; she had proved herself to be a mean and sordid person, without prin- ciple, and indeed without common honesty ; still she was a great deal better than himself, as he now dis- covered. When he was a little better he asked her to read him a chapter in the Bible. It was characteristic of Lancy, now that he felt himself to be much changed, that he should think of this Bible-reading as likely to improve her ; for his own part he was improved. She took the book, but she turned white even to the lips. " You don't think you 're going to die, my only dear." "Oh, no!" " This seems like it though." " AYe were always brought up to think a great deal of the Bible," said Lanc}', " they were always teaching us things in it." " But you told me j'ou hated those puritanic ways." " I did then ; but now those things comfort me, and seem to do me good." 374 DON JOHN. " Oh, well, if it 's only that, my Lancy, and if j'ou 're sure 3'ou 're not going to die." Thereupon she found the place he mentioned and read to him for some time. " And what did you think of it?" asked Lancy, not without a certain gentleness, as she closed the book. He had chosen chapters that he thought might be use- ful to her, ' ' I was so taken up with thinking of your poor father, I could not attend to the reading much," " Oh, what about m}' father? " " When he was on his death-bed he asked me to read to him just as you did ; I was that terrified that I ran down to the lodger below us. ' Mercy, Mrs. Ah'd,' said she, ' what now? how white you look ! ' so I told her. She was a pla3--actress of the lower sort, and not a good- living woman ; hi short, Lanc}' did n't like my ha\nng an3-thing to saj' to her. ' I cannot do it,' said I, ' it frightens me so.' ' Nonsense,' said she, ' I '11 go and read to him as soon as look at him ; he will die none the sooner for it.' Well, if that woman did n't go up as bold as brass and read to him, as if she'd been a saint. He died the day after." " It was of decline, was it not? " "Yes, my LancT." " Did his cough sound like mine? " - " Don't sa}- such heart-breaking things to me ; you'll be all right soon." "But did it?" " Well, it did." " There now, you need not cry. As the ' play-actress ' said, 1 shall die none the sooner for knowing this." " What with you making me read the Bible to 3-0U, and then talking about .your poor father, you 've quite overcome me," she exclaimed, starting up, and she went into her little bed-room to recover herself, for Lancy hated a scene. And almost as she went out, the other mother came in, and Don John behind her. She came in calm, tender, observant, and sat down beside his couch, taking him in her arms, and holding his head with her hand for a minute upon her bosom. DON JOHN. 375 "Mother," said Lancy, "J am not worthy that you should come to me." She did not contradict him, but releasing one hand, wiped away her quiet tears. "1 have never been worthy of you — never," con- tinued Lancy. " And all my faults and my sins against you and father seem much worse now that I feel how I have sinned against God." She arranged his pillows again and let him lie down on them. Don John had been looking out of the window, he now came forward to say, "•Father and mother know nothing about your last three months — excei)ting that 3'ou have been ver}' ill." " And that you wished to go to America without tak- ing leave of us," put in the mother. Oh, what a small delinquency for her to know of! " I am afraid, indeed I feel sure, that if we did know how j'ou have been conducting yourself, we should be much hurt, perhaps displeased — but Don John (and we have trusted him in this) — Don John thinks it best we never should know." Lancy and Don John looked at one another, the old bond was just as strong as ever that bound them, but it had never been one that seemed to admit of any deep sense of obligation. Thoy were both lucky fellows if the one could got the other out of a scrape, and save the parents from disgrace and pain. " I am afraid it will be a long time before 3'ou are well enough to go back to 30ur situation," she said tenderly. "Yes, mother^" was all he answered. "Will Mr. Cottenham wait all that time?" she next asked. So far as she knew, Mr. Cottenham was not aware of Lancy's intention of going to America, and this had been prevented by illness. Lancy could not answer. " Mother," said Don John, " I have seen Mr. Cotten- ham twice. Lancy has lost the situation." "Oh, but T hope he was kind?" " He was kind." 376 DON JOHN. And then she began to talk to him. A deep sense of the presence, nearness, and love of God had gradu- ally grown up in her heart. Sorrow had been the earthly cause of this. She had dwelt long in the pres- ence of a great doubt. It had first become sweet to her to feel that God knew which of these was her own son, and then opening her heart so full}- to both of them, she had begun to think of them as both God's sons, and to perceive that He was gi\^ng the one who was not hers very unusual blessings, care, guardianship from evil, love, prayer, teaching, warnings. It was true that one of the two had pcrsistentl}' turned away and done evil, but she believed firml}-, that the same God who had turned sorrow of hers into blessings for him, would certainh* go on with him. The last stroke of bitterness had been dealt to her when the other mother, angry at some lordly airs of Don John's, when he was indignant at a base thing which Lancy had done, had dared to tell both the young men their story ; and her own, as she had long known him to be — had come home, and fallen ill, and almost broken his heart. But how much more truly he had been her own, and his father's, ever since. How much more fully than ever before she had now become able to sympathize in her husband's religious life, and receive and partake of those consolations that he offered to his son. She deepl}' loved Lancy still : we do love those whom we have been so good to. She talked to him, and Lanc}- answered her humbly, and with what seemed ver}- true penitence ; but that he had been so lately' hunted b}' the police, in hiding among the lowest of the low, and within an hoar of being taken up to be tried for felony, she never dreamed. When she rose to go away — "I suppose j'ou send 3'our love to ^our father, and all of them," she said. Lanc}' darted a look at Don John, which said as plainly as possible, " May I ? " She saw this, and saw the nod of assent given. Then Lancy said, "Yes, mother." She had just been going to add, ' ' And of course as soon as you are fit to be DON JOHN. 377 moved, you will come and stay with us till you are well again." But the sight of this permission, asked and given, arrested her. She put her gloves on, consider- ing all the time, then took leave of him, and went her way. Don John soon observed that his mother was dis- pleased. He knew she had noticed that Lancy all through the interview had seemed to look to him for guidance, and had got it. Don John was not penitent ol" course, but he knew that he had got into a scrape. His mother presently said, " I meant to ask poor Lancy whether he could come down to us to-moriow, but I did not care to hear you answer for him, and tell him whether he could or not." Don John pondered. He and Lanc}' had already discussed this ver}* question. Miss Jenny had never been inside " the house " in her life, and he could easily keep out of the fields. Besides, though looking wretch- edl3' ill and thin, he was like his old self, not like the poor disfigured creature whom slie had lielped to nurse. When first they both talked of this, .and Lanc}- pointed out that Miss Jenny would not recognize him, he was surprised to observe that, as to his going again to the house, Don John made still the same demur. ''I am not a felon!" Lancy exclaimed, rather bit- terly ; ' ' that you should look as if you thought my presence would be a disgrace." ' ' No ; because it takes two parties to make a felon — the criminal and the law. You have done your part, the whole of it. it is the law that has not, and therefore 3'ou are not a felon." Lancy quailed a little. He had not been arrested, he had not been in the dock, his name and antecedents had not been published in the newspapers, his adoptive faui- il}' had not been put to shame. He seemed to himself to be indeed a sinner, and in need of God's forgiveness, but to be, someliow, nothing like such a sinner as if the law had found him out, and had taken its course. " I do not wish to excuse myself," he began, " and I owe it to you that I can hohi up my liead among my 378 DON JOHN. fellow-creatures; but if I am not to hold up my head, how am I the better ? " And now Mrs. Johnstone was hurt, displeased in fact. She knew nothing of the facts of the crime, of the hiding, of the giving up on Don John's part of the tln'ee thou- sand pounds. '•' His coming to us, poor fellow, is of course a mat- ter for 3'our father to decide, not for3-ou," she remarked. " It was indeed very wrong of him to break awa}' from us, as he has done. I cannot quite understand why he should have wished to go to America, having a good situation, and so kind a person to work under as Mr. Cottenham ; but it is not for j'ou to judge him, my dear, and if your father is inclined to forgive and have him home for a time, j'ou will of course acquiesce, and I hope I shall never see such evidence of his being sub- servient to your wishes as I have seen to-day. I know 3'ou are allowing him what he lives upon, but — " " But that's a mere trifle," Don John put in here, for the attack was unexpected and he did not know how to meet it. " That j-ou should be in the least hard or unjust to- wards him I cannot bear to think." No answer. " Still less that such a feeling as jealousy should — no, I do^iot think it, and the more because you have no reason." Still no answer. '' It is a long time now since that lamentable affair — " Don John's face appeared to ask a question. " Of the ring," she continued; "and since that he has been I fear little better than the poor prodigal ; but, ray verv dear son. though 3'onr father has lost so much tliat it would sound unreal if he were to say what that father said, yet so far as love, approval, trust and pride go, we may truly say each of us, ' All that I have is thine. ^ " Don John's face was almost a blank. She knew all its expressions. He did not intend her to find out what he thought. DON JOHN. 379 " But I must not be hard upon 3-ou, my dear," she went on ; ^ ^'outli is natui-nlly severe." To this general proi)osition Don John expressed neither assent nor dissent ; but lie presently said, in a somewhat constrained fashion, — '■'• 1 have never been jealous of poor Lancy — never." Just then the train ran into their station ; some of the home party were in it and the}- all walked through the fields together ; but in a few minutes Don John turned back, and sent a telegram to Lanc}', — " If 3'ou are invited to come here, pra^- make no ob- jection ; accept at once." i ' Don John was already in the midst of trouble about money. It had been dillicult to get the three thousand pounds for Lancy without his father's knowledge, he now wanted seven hundred more ; for to debts to that amount Lancy now confessed ; and he was dnily liable to be ar- rested. These creditors had to lie called upon and ap- peased, some were paid, some had advances made them on account. A farm, in order to meet these demands, had been already mortgaged. Don John did not feel even yet that he could trust to the truth of Lancy's repentance. He feared that if he came again to " the house," other creditors might appear, and chiimants of no ver}' creditable kind might dun him under Mrs. John- stone's ej'es. He had expressed this fear, Lancy had earnestly declared that he had no other debts than those he had named. Don John hoped this Avas true, but he must now take the risk of its being false, and if it was they would all have to abide the consequences. CHAPTER XXXVI. " T THINK after all," Charlotte had said, " I had bet- X ter give you that kiss." So she gave it. It was a sister's kiss, and he knew it. 38o DON JOHN. And she was so kind, so true, so helpful to Don John. The}^ were comrades, friends and consphators again. Tlie^' had a sad and damaging secret in their sole keep- ing, and held the famil}- honor in their own hands. And Naomi's affair went on prosperonsl}' ; and Mr. Johnstone in a great degree recovered his health, so that constant companionship was not needful for him ; but Mrs. Johnstone had not yet talked to Charlotte, and Charlotte held Don John remote. Charlotte was so beautiful ! But a young man's love not uncommonly is beautiful. It is a way she has. Lancy had his invitation, and accepted it. He was very weak still, had still a hollow cough, and used to lie on the sofa in the drawing-room, or in the old play- room, and he too perceived that Charlotte was beautiful, and he liked to be in the same room with her, and observe her sayings and doings. The same Charlotte, talking about things that so manv people cared for not one straw, and bestowing on them the most impassioned feeling and sincere inter- est. And once when " mother" entered the room, he saw her come to a pause, and regard them all, and especially regard him, with a certain attention. Why? And then she quietly' went out of the room, again looking as if lost in thought. It must be something the}' had been saying, and yet how could it be ? The girls had been laughing at Don John because they said he was such a complete John Bull, and he had justified himself, had even confessed to a conscious wish to keep up the old style and form of patriotism. He would like, if he could, still to believe that one English- man could beat three Frenchmen. "As to slaver}-," he went on, " I hate to hear the old English horror of it made game of. ' Down with it at once, sir,' as nurse said to Fred the other morning when she brought him the black dose, ' for the longer you look at it the worse it is.' " Fred, a great fellow of eighteen, made a sulky rejoin- DON JOHN. 381 der: " How came Don John to know anything about his physic ? " No, it could not be tlieir tallc which the mother had noticed. In about a quarter of an hour she came in again, and sat down in her own corner on the sola, tak- ing up her knitting. She still appeared to notice them all, and Lancy felt that he must not look at Charlotte so much, Charlotte and Don John were talking and arguing playfully, as of old, only that Don John treated her re- marks with more deference. There was nothing to interest Lanc}- in the conversation, but he listened idly, because the mother did. "Poetr}'! What! poetry, our finest English endow- ment ! poetr}- destined to become a lost art ! fSurel}-, Charlotte, you cannot think that?" " Not destined to decline at once, but in the course of 3'ears. The first move has been made already. We have begun to admire the wrong thing." "Other arts have been lost certainh*." " And why? Partly, I think, because we tr}' so man}' experiments ; it is not enough to have perfection. What could be more beautiful than an old seventy-gun ship, or a wooden full-rigged merchant ship, or a sloop?" " But we do not want our ships only for their beauty." " No ; and yet we came nearer to the Creator's work when we made our finest sailiug ships than man ever came before." " Nearer than when he built the Parthenon? " " Oh, yes ; there is almost the same ditlerence as be- tween a 111}' and a nautilus. The Parthenon is beauti- ful and stationary', but ships are beautiful, and they can moA-e." ' ' It does seem as if the ship of the future was to be like a giant polony, or a vulgar imitation of a turbot, with horns fuming out blackness on its back. But, as I think I remarked before, we do not want ships only for their beauty." "No." " And so we change them to gather speed, or to get power, or to save expenditure." " And we do want poetiy for its beaut}', you me Yes, only for its beauty ; for its moral power over w; its teaching, comforting, and elevating power all depc on its beauty. AVe know all this, and yet things cor. to pass." " Nothing particular is coming to pass that I can sect excepting that just lately some poets and people wIk think they are poets are getting excessively ingenious. The French never had much poetry in them, but they were exceedingly ingenious, as the old Italians were. And this sort of thing is being naturalized here. Is there any danger in it ? " " Yes ; because it makes the form of so much more consequence than the spirit, that it will end in taking the writing of verse out of the hands of the poets, and we shall end b}' admiring ingenious, artful rhymes more than a wonderful or splendid thought." " I should have thought a poet, if there was anything in him, would have been able to write even in that style." "But not better than an ingenious scholar. The future poets will be born in chains, and the}' used, es- pecially in England, to be born free. It will surel}' be a great disad^'antage to be born under the dominion of a culture of the wrong sort." " Well, I pity the poet of the future : he will have to look out." " The more art the less nature. I think the poet of the future will be like a wild bird in a handsome cage. He will beat his wings against the wires instead of sing- ing. And as all these old formal and difficult descrip- tions of verse come in, the themes must be carefully chosen to suit them. Lyrical poetry with us has always been rather a wild thing : now we seem inclined to tame it. The French partridge you know has nearl}' extermi- nated the English. ISo I think the French and Italian forms, in which we can onl}' after all write a finer kind of vers de societe, will prevail to smother the English lyric." " Well," said Lancy, who did not care a straw for DON JOHN. 383 itry, *' then let them, if the}- can ; we have got more -ny alread}- written than we know what to do with." • I should n't wonder," answered Don John, " and so i begin to want a change ; but I must say, Charlotte, lat I think the indications you speak of are very few nd faint." " Like the straw Avliich shows the way of the wind." Mrs. Johnstone was at the door by this time. Lanc}' nad felt sure that she would leave the room when this discussion began to flag, for he knew whom she would call to follow her. " Charlotte." He was right ! "Aunt EstcUe." " I want you, dear one." Charlotte got up, and the door was shut after them. The glorious soft orange of the sunset was reflected only on the red carpet, and on the pale blue sofa. Char- lotte's white gown was what it had rested on so beauti- fulh', and her absence made everything look dull. It came to Lanc^' almost as an inspiration that he himself was to be the theme of "mother's" discourse with Charlotte ; that he had looked a good deal at Char- lotte, and that '' mother " did not care that he should. He was a little nettled. She was quite needlessly careful ! It was true he frequently forgot what a bad fellow he had been, but then lie only forgot what she had never known. Lancy thought a good deal about this daring the evening and the next day ; but Charlotte did not seem to avoid him ; she played to him in the morn- ing, and in the afternoon she took her share of reading aloud to him with Naomi. Charlotte generally wore white ; either the sunshine was clearer or her gown was even whiter than usual tiiat afternoon, for as she passed down the garden grass walk she looked like a pillar of snow. She gathered a red rose-bud, and went to the green gate, and leaning her elbows on it looked out. Some thought, both sweet and strange to her, was lying at her heart, its evidence seemed to give a brood- 384 DON JOHN. ing beauty to her ej^es, and she pouted shghtly, as she often did when she was lost in cogitation. So she was looking when Don John came up the field. His father went into the house by the usual entrance, but he, remarking her, came on and approached her as she leaned on the gate. And she was so quiet, that though she looked at him, he wanted to partake of the jo}^ of her presence as she was, rather than to accost her and make her move. He stood for the moment on one side of the gate and she on the other. It was such a slight affair, only three green rails and a latch. Here he had first discovered her to be his love, and that on her answer to this hung his destiny. The folds of her white robe were not stirred by an^' wind, all was as still as a dream. She had the rose-bud between her hands, and she touched it with her lips. He had drawn oflT his glove when first he marked her, for sometimes when they met if he held out his hand she would put hers into it unaware. Now, he hardly knew b}' what impulse he took off his hat too, and laid it on the grass. What was she thinking of ? what did this mean? The rose-bud was at her lips again, her shining eyes looked into his, and she said, "Dearest, shall I put this into your coat ? " It was such an astonishment. " Let me kiss it first," he stammered, for he could hardly think this real. How could anj' 3'oung man so much in love have been so unread}' ! Her hands were busy for a moment with the breast of his coat. " I might env}' the rose if you did," she whispered ; and when he had kissed her, she put her arms round his neck and returned the kiss. How sudden and how vast a change ! But nothing, when one has it, appears so natural as delight. They went through the garden together, hand in hand, and when Charlotte had said, ''Aunt Estelle has told me all the story," there seemed to be nothing more to explain, and nothing so sweet as silence ; for it was DON JOHN. 385 manifest to both that the world was their own — a new world not learned, and unexplored. How can one utter the world ? No, " silence is golden," for at least it does this mar- vellous new world no wrong. During dinner the musing, ecstatic silence was hardlj' broken at all. In the course of the evening they began to consider how an3thing so remarkable as their love could be com- municated to the famil}'. The}' need not have troubled themselves, everybody knew. Even Master Fred, wlio generally stood upon his dignity, was not above stop- ping in the corridor that night to bestow upon his elder brother a neat and carefully modelled wink, and a very large smile — a smile in fact that spread over his face almost from ear to car. A chuckling, rolling sound burst from the j'oung gen- tleman's chest. It was as if a small earthquake heaved when it Avas young. He darted into his room and hastily bolted his door, his usual way when he had been "cheeky," for when that ceremon}' had been forgotten, Don John not un- frequently burst it open and threw at him anything that came to hand. ' Once or twice he had elaborately screwed him in, so that, as Mary said, — " If the fruit-ladder had not been long enough to let him out the next morning, he must have been fed through the key-hole." But such are the ordinar}- ways of brothers when one is several years older than the other, and they are as these were, pretty good friends. And Lancy knew. Somehow or other he thought it was rather unfair, — and yet he was very much improved. On the whole he was very penitent. AVhen he came to review and consider matters, he did not see how if they had known all, tliey could have let liim Avia C'lKU'lotte. And next he considered that there was reason enough against such a thing even in what they did know. This was a great advance to be made by such a young man 25 SB6 DON JOHN. as Lancy. Another advance was his not being afraid of his father's advice and prayers, he liked them. But his Aisit to "the house" was a grreat anxiet}' to Don John, and even to himself. He felt that he was always liable to be hunted up by those who had known him as John Ward, and to whom he had owed smaU sums. Little bills might have been forgotten. His parents might yet know of his dreadful disgrace ; and the fear of this, no less than his true penitence, left him on the whole humble and thankful. So several weeks went on, and at last it was decided that Lancy should take a sea-voyage as the best chance of perfectly restoring his health, and that his '• mamma " of course should accompany him. Mr. Johnstone found funds for this, and Don John arranged it. They were to go to Tasmania. And somehow Mrs. Johnstone felt, and yet could give no actual reason for it. that Lancy did not intend to return to his own country-, and Don John did not intend that he should. Lancy was an old traveller, he thought nothing of the voyage : and yet when he went awa}' from " the house," taking le.ave of them all he betrayed, for the first time in his life, very deep emotion. It was impossible he could stay ; not even Don John knew that as well as he did. And yet it was bitter to turn himself out of Paradise. , He felt how much dearer they all and every one of them were, than the poor woman whose all he was, and who was to go with him more because he needed her services than because he cared for her companionship. She, too. was much improved. She had been told all by Don John. She knew the extreme difficulty with which he had found money to pay Lancy's bills, and yet how he had refused to let Mr. Johnstone know an^-thing. She blushed for Lancy over some of these bills, and felt that it was like mother, like son. He was untinist- worthv. dishonest, and deceitful, as she had been. Don John was the soul of honor and uprightness. She sank in her own esteem when he came near her — and yet he was rather kind too. DON JOHN. 387 In the course of a few more weeks all was ready. The two mothers went on board, and Don John was there and Mr. Johnstone. Then while these and Lancy went over the ship, the one mother wept and said to the other that she hoped she would forgive her, •• My husband, CoUingwood, has said to me many a time that our having been suflered to plant such a doubt in you was enough to make you feel almost as if the ways of Providence were hard." She sobbed. " I did almost feel something like that at first," was the answer. "But I've got my own, and the doubts and disti'ess have long been over." "Ay," was the answer, "and you've had all the good and innocent 3"ears of the other too. I never had him back till I knew he would be a misery and a disgrace to me." '• You speak too strongh-," said Mrs. Johnstone. '■ Poor Lancy is very much improved." "But I've brought it all on myself," sobbed Mrs. Ward. "I own it; I humbly ask your pardon. I've had my punishment." " I do forgive you." ••It is but reason you should, for we both know yon 've got your own. But even if it was not so. why still you've got the best of it. It is not so; but if it was, I should have given you my good child and got your bad one." '' Yes ; I have felt that too ; but von must not think that anv distressing doubt remains. A mother's instinct, lioth in your heart and mine, soon grew too strong for any mistake to be possible." So they parted friends, and even with a kiss. It was Christmas when Lancy sailed. That was a l)leapant winter, even Xaomi did not think it long. She saw her lover frequently, and she was to be married in March. She knew by this time, because her mother had told her, from whom was to come her dower, and Fred knew at whose instance and whose charges he was to go to 388 DON JOHN. Oxford that his really brilliant talents might have scope. And Mr. Johnstone, feeling easy as to some matters which had weighed on his mind, improved again in health, so that it was a very cheerful winter for them all. And Charlotte was brought to say after much per- suasion, that the double-blossomed cherry was her favorite flower, and most appropriate for a bridal. Char- lotte was very demure. Sometimes she held Don John remote ; their engagement, in short, bv no means went on according to its beginning. But her mother was to come over that spring for six months, and he thought he knew what for. There was not half so much crying at Naomi's wed- ding as at Marjorie's. They were said to behave ex- tremel}' well, and the children from the houses strewed the aisles and the church path with yellow and white and purple crocuses. As they all stood in the porch to see Naomi off, she said when she came down the steps and saw Charlotte standing b}- Don John. — "Be good to him, Charlotte. There's nobody like our Don John." Charlotte's dimple came, but she blushed. In a min- ute or two the bride was gone, and the whole party ex- cepting herself, Don John, and his mother had rushed back into the house to the dining-room windows to watch the carriage as it turned up the road. These stood ^-et in the porch. The mother and Char- lotte on the upper step and Don John on the lower. ''Yes," said Mrs. Johnstone, smiling, though tears were in her eyes, " there 's nobody hke our Don John." Her hand was on his shoulder. " Oh, mother," he exclaimed, turning and looking at them, " if you did n't all make so much of a fellow — " " Charlotte would not need telling to be good to him, is that it?" she inquired. " On the contrary," said Charlotte, "if his merits were not so frequently set before me I might never have found them out." DON JOHN. 389 She laughed, and her blue eyes danced. How lovely she looked in all her fair adornments ! ''That was a very unkind speech," said the mother, smiling. "You must say something to make up for it." "Yes, to please you, Aunt Estelle ! " said Charlotte demurely. Then she pursed up her rosy mouth, and first bestowing on him a kiss under his mother's eyes, she said, ''There's nobody- like our Don John, and I alwa3"s think so." 0>ir Don John. He was always to be theirs ; first their joy and then their comfort, next their aid, and in the course of years all the}' had of honor and distinc- tion. And yet, after all — though in this world the}' were never to know it, though he was bound to them by more than common dues of service done, and love bestowed — after all, this was the carpenter's son ; and that Lancy, who but for him would more than once have been their sorrow and their disgrace, he was the true Don John. But he was to trouble them no more for ever. He was cast upon " the mercy of the Most Merciful." He was quiet iu the keeping of the sea. Cambridge : Electrotyped and Priuted by John Wilsgn & Soo. nf\ II T — 1>^^ .-y .. University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. OL OCT 1 9 1591 A\ SEP ^^i' / AA 000 369 803 2