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in-n Jnlrn.
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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
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192tt
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Form L-9
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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 /<e, and whispered as if she was cau-
tious about being overheard) — she knew he could n't
live long, and she did so wish for a bo}'. Once when
— when we talked she said, 'If — if I have a girl, I
shall be a nobody ; but if it 's a bo}', he will inherit the
estate, and I shall have a handsome allowance for —
for bringing of him up.' She said, ' Fann}^ Slade, my
husband is ver}- dark, as — as dark as most Italians.
It's likely his son should be dark. Don't you think,'
she said, verv soft and gentle, ' Don't you think I can
manage to have a boy?' 1 knew a — a good many of
her thoughts b}' that time, I said, ' You would n't be so
cruel, ma'am. What ! and — and leave your own child,
if it's a girl, with these nuns and people.'
" She laughed me to scorn at that. ' Leave my own,
if it's a girl,' she said ; ' for shame of you. to think of
such a thing, but why — wh}' — why shouldn't I have
twins, Fanny Slade?'
"She had a curious smile. Ma — Maria. Many an
hour I sat and thought on it after I left her. A "little
smile like — like yours. She was so deep that I could
never make out more of her than — than she liked to
explain. Yet she seemed so free-spoken. I often
wondered over her. She would sit and look up in the
bare sky, not a bit afraid of it."
" Why should she have been afraid of it?"
"Why — why, wait till — till you see it, everything
wiped clean away l)etwixt you and heaven ; seems as — ,
as if M?y niust see down so awful clear — everything
you're doing, and that for — for weeks and weeks
together. When — when I came to have things on my
DON JOHN. 31
mind I hated that sky, and there seemed to be nothing
TV'orth breathing, it was so clear. All the time before
j-ou were born, I — I often sat and thought how she
vfoukl paint her flowers, and smile when he was n't look-
ing at her. He — he was very fond of her. She had
a dove-colored quilted satin gown, and she would be
dressed in it for him to admire her, and then when he
fell asleep she would smile.
''She said, 'Why shouldn't I have twins, Fanny
Slade?' and she looked at — at — at me so quiet. She
would be often painting, and — and she would send me
out under the olive-trees to — to gather flowers for her.
I did n't like it. You — you may think your mother
soft, Ma — Maria, but I often cried over that work, I —
I assure you."
"Why, mother?"
" The}' were so mortal beautiful ; they stood so thick
together, white, and crimson, and blue, in the shadow
among the green wheat, all scent and glory. I was
afraid of them, for — for — for I knew the Lord would
never have made them like that, and not often be com-
ing down to look at them."
All this time the daughter listened wide-eyed, and the
mother whispered, " We had been all the winter in that
little island I told you of, they call it Capri ; and now
we was journeying — we — we was joarneying slowly
home. Ma — Maria. The orange-trees were full of
blossom, and what with their scent and the sun I — I —
I used to feel quite giddy.
" We stopped once at a little — little village inn, for
the master was very faint ; he went indoors, and he laid
liimself down on the bed to rest a couple of hours. We
sat down on a bench under a vine. As we sat we saw
a young girl with a very 3'oung baby on — on her arm.
Down there they fix them out straight. Mrs. Plumstead
called her, and began to whisper to her. and she sat —
sat down almost at her feet. She could speak Italian
quite well, but the master could not, at — at all, no, nor
understand it.
"Such a pretty young girl she was, and by — by
32 DON JOHN.
what Mrs. Plumstead told me, she had no father for her
babe.
" Well, I went in to see how the master was, and — ■
and we dined there ; after that they sent for me, and
when I came she said, ' Fann}- Slade, Mr. Plurnstead
has — has just noticed that my diamond ring is not on
my finger, and he is sure I had it this — this morning.'
'Sure,' said he. She looked at me so — so calm and
gentle. Said he, ' 1 seem to recall the sound of some
small thing that I heard roll on the floor before dinner,'
and he thought it had rolled under the skirting. Well,
I searched, and when it was not found, if he didn't have
all tlie flooring up ! she encouraging him. But m}'
thought was that she had given it to the girl. Well,
we — we slept there, and — and — and the next day he
was better. We went on and then stopped (because
she said she was tired), in the market-place of a little
small town, and there to — to — to ray wonder, I saw
that same girl forty miles from her home, looking out
for us. I — I looked at missis. She said, so gentle
and sweet, ' Love, I wish you were not so short-sighted,'
she said, ' there is such a pretty cos — costume" down
there,' that was said to him, but it was meant for me,
he — he could not see the girl. AVe had a ^-ast deal of
talk that afternoon, she and I. Then we went on and
— and again, in a little village by an inn door was the
girl, she had gone on before us, Mrs. — Mrs. Plumstead
saying what— what inn she should drive to. We did
not move any more. That — that night Mrs. Plum-
stead was taken ill, and about dawn her baby was born,
and — and. Ma — ria, it was a girl.
"As soon as the doctor was gone I knocked at —
at Mr. Plumstead's door. Well, it — it was shocking to
hear him thank God for my lie. I told him he had
twin children born, a son and a daughter."
She gave a little gasp here in this the crisis of her
story, and as if her words could not be commanded,
went back to an easier i)art of it.
" Mrs. Plumstead jiad said tome, ' I mean to have
that girl for a wet-nurse, and I have told her also to —
DON JOHN. 33
to wash laer bab}- and bring him to me to — to look at.'
I could see in the dawn light how — how wan Mr. Plum-
stead looked ; but he gave thanks as — as well as he could
like a Christian; and — and said he, 'It's a sin — sin-
gular thing. Fanny Slade. that Mrs. Plumstead has more
than once expressed to me a sort of pre — sentiment,
that she should have twins.'
*■• I was obliged to leave him, ill as — as he seemed.
"When I went to him again he seemed to rally a bit,
but little as I knew then about sickness and death, I
knew that death was nigh.
"And — and he would send me out for flowers.
There never were such people for flowers. They were
easy enough to get, the olive-3'ards were choked up
with them, spread-out anemones, and tulips, and Jacob's
ladder. I pulled an armful, but 1 was frightened, for
— for there was a sign in the skj-."
" Mother ! what sign ? "
" I had — had seen too many pictures of angels not
to know what sign. It was a vast way off". It was an
angel, you could not make out the form of its — its body,
but his two long pointed wings just like a gauze cloud
were tilted towards the world as — as if he was flying
down. I saw the — the faint shadow of them, it fell
just where I stood."
' • You saw only the white wings ? "
" Yes, I tell 3'ou only the wings. The sky being so
clear there, you can see things, Maria, that — that here
are invisible. It was the Angel of Death jDassing —
passing down and going to stop.
"■ I ran in. He was propped up with pillows, wi'iting
to his father, to express the birth of the twins. He —
he directed the letter and sent me to his wife with his
dear love, and how did she feel herself? When I got
back, dying he was with the letter in his hand. I
could see his face change as I gave him the — the mes-
sage. He expressed he was pleased, but he soon began
to ramble m his talk, and just at noon that day he died
in my arms, as softly as could be.
"We kept the — the girl about us, and when Mrs.
3
34 DON JOHN.
Plumstead was able to travel, we took her and the —
the boy-baby too, for it was made out that the poor lady
was — was too delicate bj' half to nurse her child.
" When we got well away, INIrs. Plumstead had to
give the — the girl a ver\' heavj- ])ribe, to leave her
child. She was a thief and a good-for-nothing little
— little huss;,' ; but she loved her babv, and at last
Mrs. Plumstead got out her jewel-case and sat smiling
at her, and showed her — her two diamond earrings ;
and she sat staring as — as if she would eat them.
Then Mrs. Plumstead put them in her ears, and gave
her a little hand-glass to look at herself; but she kept
sulking and pouting. Then Mrs. Plumstead gave her
a pink coral brooch, and she began to talk and smile
and show her pretty white teeth ; and — and at last
jNIrs. Plumstead shook out a long gold chain, and looked
at her and smiled, and put it round her neck, and —
and the girl started up and gave a great cry, and ran
out of the room, never looking back, and took herself
off, and — and we saw her no more.
" That's all about it, JMaria. it was very easy done.
"We soon hired a Avet-nurse for the bo}-, and came out of
Italy to a place they — they call Mentone.
'• But nothing seemed to go right, for here the little
girl-baby died, and Mrs. Plumstead took on most —
most fearful, and made out that I 'd encouraged her to
do the tiling, and the death of the baby was sent to punish
her. She fretted and used to put herself quite in a rage
over the letters she got from her relations. She must be
— be thankful, they all said, she 'd got her dear boy left.
"• She was all brown, her cheeks were soft and brown,
and her e3"es like — like brown veh'et. The baby was
not as brown as she. Well, Maria, in a few months we
came to England, and there I did a — a foolish thing — "
The daughter, all eyes, sat listening ; tears were on
the motlicr's che(>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<l, ' Is that your own tooth,
or a false one?' She answered, ' He 's both.' "
" If it's not a breach of confidence, I should like to
know who made Fetch sa}' that? "
"Well, mother, it would be a breach of confidence
to tell you her name ; but perhaps I may whisper to
you that her initials are C. O'G. Don John was so
much pleased with the minutes and her anecdotes, that
while she was writing this morning he invented a Sam
Weller for her. ' You can't speak to me now, I 'm
composing,' as the little boy said when he was making
the dirt pie, and sticking it round with barberries."
" Oh, here 's Fetch ! " exclaimed Don John, rising up
and shaking hands violentl}' with nothing. " How d' ye
do ? — how d' ye do ? You find us in the midst of our
simple meal — consomme de bread and cheese, seed
cake an naturel, and small beer u la maitre d"h6tel."
Fetch was then bowed into his seat and introduced
to Mrs. Johnstone.
"Having had nothing to eat for some hours, mj'"
friend," said Laficy, as Fetch, "I think I could enjoy
a slice of that cake."
"Good," said Don John, " that's quite fair."
Lancy accordingly began his meal over again ; but
138 DON JOHN.
Mrs. Johnstone proposing that the cake should be served
all round, stopped the conversation for a few minutes.
"And now, my friends, tJie minutes. Charlotte, get
out the book," said Don John, as Fetch. "I wish to
have placed on record an anecdote of m}' own family-
that I thought of last night."
Fetch spoke in a high raised voice, and Don John
and Lancy produced it equally well.
'' But 1 wish 30U were not so proud," said Charlotte,
"always boasting — about something — I'm tired of
writing down — about my property — my famil}-."
She spoke quite sharply.
" Tl/y old clothesman — my undertaker," interrupted
Don .John. " Yes, it 's too true, Charlotte, I am proud ! "
" The minutes don't seem natiu'al with so man}' anec-
dotes," persisted Charlotte.
"Well," said Lancy, as Fetch, "but what am I to
say if I can think of nothing else? Don't be so pep-
per}' ! Some people are never satisfied. Come ! I '11
tell an anecdote about that. I invented it some time
ago, but I never got an opportunity to bring it in.
There w'as once a Titan who had the largest hand ever
seen. Jupiter proposed to give him a ring. 'I know
it won't be big enough,' grumbled the Titan. Jupi-
ter w^as determined it should. He ordered it to be made
as large round as the earth's orbit. And 3-et when it
was sent home, the Titan declared he could n't wear it.
He pretended it was too big."
"Mr. Fetch, I consider your anecdote ver}- good,"
said Mrs. Johnstone. "But is it true that 3-ou have
ever boasted of your undertaker? "
LancT not being ready, Marjorie answered, —
"It's true, mother, that Fetch signed a paper secur-
ing his funeral to a particular undertaker, and he re-
ceived a small sum down for doing it."
" That shows Fetch's frugal mind," said Don John.
" M}' cousin Fanny is very saving — very frugal
too," said Lancy, as Fetch. " In fact, I often tell her
she is even mean. I said to her only vesterday, ' Fan-
ny Fetch, you are so selfish, that ii" the whole sea
DON JOHN. 139
was 3'ours, 3-011 'd still charge twopence a bucket for
salt water.' Mother," continued Lancy in his own
character, " the most disagreeable thing about this
game is that when we have invented anything funny,
we can't find an opportunity- to bring it in. Now, Don
John said yesterday-, when Freddy was tootletooing in
the garden with his fife and pretending to drill Marj',
' ■•' I alwaj's adored the militar}-," as the young lad^'-ele-
phant said vvhen she lieard her lover trumpeting in the
rice swamp.' But you know if we were to wait for a
year, nothing would happen to enable us to bring that
in naturally."
" I am afraid, my bo}', this sorrow of j'ours is com-
mon to all wits \ jet 3-ou see you have managed to
briuo; it in ! "
I40 DON JOHN.
CHAPTER XII.
ABOUT that lodger.
We often think we are of great importance to
certain people ; that they must be thinking of us and
our affairs, that the}^ watch our actions and shape their
course accordingly. In general it is not so ; we are
quite mistaken.
The .young Johnstones and Lancy never had any
such ideas as regarded the lodger ; never supposed that
she walked up and down the little path through the
fields between the wood that skirted their garden and
" the houses " on purpose to catch a glimpse of them;
never thought that when she was not taking this mo-
notonous exercise, she was often peeping out between
the small damask curtains of her so-called parlor,
which had been the cobbler's front kitchen, in case they
should pa'ss b3' ; never thought anything of the kind ;
and the}- too were mistaken. She thought of hardly
anything else but of them and their doings, specially
of one of them. But through the bushy tangle of
the wood they could always see whether she was
in the field, and so surely as she was the}^ kept out of
the way.
What a bother that lodger is, Don John wQuld say,
when he would notice her trailing her fine flounces
among the buttercups. She was far too gay to look
otherwise than vulgar in such a country solitude, and if
there was anjlhing pathetic in her longing to see them,
and in their always thwarting her, the}' did not
know it.
Sometimes, if it was hot and she was tired, she
would bring out a folding camp-stool and sit upon it in
the shade of the wood, knitting. She was come from
DON JOHN. 141
London for the sake of country air, so she said. No-
body at the house thought of inquiring her name, or
cared at all about her excepting that the young John-
stones wished her out of their way.
At the houses, when they begged to ask what
they should call her, meaning " What is your name,
ma'am?" she answered, —
"You can call me ' the lad}'.'"
But tliey did not.
They called her " the lodger."
They all knew in spite of her shining gold watch
and chains, and satins and rings, her handsome silks
and her fastidious ways, that she was not what they
were pleased to consider a lady, bj' winch they meant,
if they had known how to use the English language
correctl}', a gentlewoman.
Those women who have an undoubted right to the
title of lady, and yet are without that culture, that st3'le,
that consideration which would enable them to pass
muster as gentlewomen, are always very unpopular
among the rustic poor. The lodger, of course, had no
right to the title of lady ; and because she wanted to
pass for a gentlewoman, which she was not either, they
gave her even less than was her due.
She was rich; free with her money; not dillirult to
please ; moderately civil to her hosts ; but the}" re-
warded all this b}' disparaging comments.
" She was not a lady born, not she ! She 's not like
Mrs. Johnstone ; but she 's well enough, and she pa3-s
her way."
But an important da}^ was approaching ; a friend's
birthday.
The young Johnstones collected a quantity of excel-
lent prog, and bought several presents, among others a
box iron and a Brighton reading lamp.
The two boys were allowed to ha\-e the pony-carriage
and go into the town in the morning to fetch home these
things. "We girls," said Marjorie, half envious]}',
" are never trusted to drive by ourselves."
"I should think not, indeed !^" said Lancy ; "girls
142 DON JOHN.
must always be property attended," and he ran off into
the wood, where the good things were being collected
preparator}" to being carried off" to Mrs. Ciarboy's cot-
tage.
" How good they smell," said little Mary. " Choco-
late — and O! toffee — and tarts, and muffins; what
lots of money you and Lanc}' have. Oh, Don John, I
wish I was a bo}' ! " .
Don John as purveyor-general was looking on.
" It 's lucky," remarked Lanc^-, in rcph', '' that being
a girl is not infectious. If I thouglit I should catch it
of you, Mary, I would never come near 3'ou or anj- other
girl, any more."
"Of course you wouldn't," said Mar}', with convic-
tion.
" But 3-ou two little wretches are alwa^-s thinking
about eating," said Lanc}', rather contemptuous^. " It
makes me feel that if we did our duty b}- 3'ou, we
should not think of letting you go to these tea-parlies."
"Oh, Lancy!"
"Yes, it does ; most likel}' ^-ou '11 never be allowed
to go to any one but this. Now be off", Button-nose,
and you too, Freddv, and fetch the other parcels."
" You are always hard on the kids," said Don John.
"I rathel' like to hear them talk their talk, and play
their little rigs in holiday-time."
"But the}' bother one," said Lancy. "And j'ou
really did encourage them j^esterdaj-, till there was no
bearing their cheek."
Then Don John burst forth in these noticeable
words, —
"'It's always a graceful thing to unbend,' as the
goldstick-in-waiting said when he balanced a pepper-
mint-drop on his nose, as he stood behind the queen's
chair."
'•Charlotte," shouted Lancy, "here! Don John has
broken out in a fresh place ; come and write this down,
and stick it in the minutes."
"That's a good one," said Charlotte, "but I don't
think the goldstick does stand there."
DON JOHN. 143
" It does n't signify," said Don John, " everyone of
yon now, who reads the minutes, will be obliged to
think of him as if he did ! "
"Tell us a Sam Weller, too," said Bntton-nose,
otherwise Mary, coming back with the parcels.
"We hke Sam. Weller better than Fetch," observed
Freddy.
"You're not to interrupt your betters. Charlotte
has n't done writing yoX,. Yes, I '11 tell you one pres-
ently about — "
" Yes, Don John, about ? "
"About something to eat. I am happy to see, But-
ton-nose, that you can l.ilush. When 1 was in the town
this morning, and saw all the shops, the butchers', the
bakers'^the pastrj'-cooks', and the rest, I sighed deeply."
"Oh!"
" And said what should we be without these. Man is
made of what he eats. ' This is the stuff our heroes are
made of,' as the Prince of Wales said when he peeped
into the Eton boys' ' sock ' shop." Fetch, who was
listening, burst into tears and said, "Alas I "
"Why, Don John?"
" Because he thought it was so good of the Prince of
Wales to take notice that we are made of what we eat,
and because he remembered that asses are too."
" Is that all the story?"
" It is ; now let the procession be formed."
Don John marched first, a somewhat thickset boy,
broad-shouldered, fair-haired, with light eyebrows and
lashes, a martial walk, and a sweet-tempered expres-
sion ; Lancy came next. They cut across the lodger's
path, so that she paused and waited a moment. She
looked at Lancy with all her eyes. He was not so big
as Don John, he had fine brown hair, pleasant blue
eyes, a general air of roguery, and an elastic walk.
Lancy was brandishing the box-iron, and singing at
the top of his voice. Then came the four girls, all small
for their years. Charlotte ver}- prett}', the others not
pretty, but sweet and rather graceful ; Freddy brought
up tlie rear.
144 DON JOHN.
Lancy was rather a handsome hoy, the lodger saw
his face well for the first time, and a perfectly unreason-
able pang shot through her heart as she ol)sei'ved the
utter indifference of his manner towards her. How
should it be otherwise. She dragged herself on to
Salisbury's cottage, trembling ; while Mrs. C'larboy shed
tears of pleasure, as peeping through the blinds she
saw her guests coming.
She only wiped them awa}' just in time to receive
their congratulations.
"Well, and I'm sure I'm obliged to j'ou, young
ladies and gentlemen, more than I can sa}' ; and to
think- of you always knowing the very things I should
like to buy mysell", if I could afford them. You '11 stay
to tea with Jenn3' and me, now won't you ? It 's but a
loaf of bread we 've got in the house, and a bit of butter."'
Mrs. Clarboy always offered hospitality in these words,
and always feigned not to see the parcels of eatables till
they were actually presented to her.
'•Well, I never did ! such a noble lot of cakes, and all
so good and acceptable," she exclaimed, "on the pres-
ent occasion. And there now ! I priced that veiy box-
iron yesterday was a week, when Jenny and I walked
into the town. You bought it of poor Robinson's widow,
now did n't 3'ou, sir? "
" Yes," said Lancy ; " she was selling off."
" ' Ah,' says I to her by way of being neighborly, for
I knew she was going to selile^ ' I hear Cupid's been at
his old tricks again.' 'Yes,' sa^'s she, 'I'm going to
marry the butcher.'"
With talk like this the time sped till the cloth was
laid, and all the good things were set out, and then
just as the tea was poured out there was a light tap at
the door.
Mrs. Clarboy knew it well, but vexation kept her
silent, and Lancy jumping up went and opened the
door.
The lodger !
" I would n't intrude on any account," said the lodger,
c little hiuTiedly. " I was onl}' just going to pass up-
DON JOHN. 145
stairs to m}- room," and she moved a few steps forward,
and then came to a sudden pause, and turned exces-
sively pale.
"Ma'am," exclaimed Mrs. Clarbo}-, "don't 3-ou feel
j'ourself well ? "
" Yon 're all of a tremble, ma'am," said Miss Jenny.
" Oh," sighed the lodger, "let me sit down just for
a minute."
A chair was set for her. She was a fat 3'oung woman,
extremeh- fair, and now as pale as a lil}'.
" If you would n't mind letting me sit a few minutes
and taking no notice of me," she began.
Marjorie in the meantime brouglit her a cup of tea,
and Lancy handed her a biscuit. Even Lancy noticed
her face when she looked up at him, it was full of
entreaty, full of love. What does she want? thought
the bo}'. What a bother that she should have come to
spoil our fun.
She began to sip her tea, and such a rapture of ten-
derness made all her nerves thrill and her pulses tingle,
that she quite forgot to consider her position as an
nnl)idden guest. Don John sat full in view, with his
side towards her. She could look at him at her ease,
she felt almost repelled by him, a sense of conscious
dislike towards him, as having been the cause — inno-
cent enough, ceilainly — of a great deal of misery to
her made her shrink from his talk, tremble at the sound
of his laugh, and feel offended and iiurt when Lancy
spoke to him.
How familiar Lancy was with them all, commanding
and admonishing the two little ones, making fun of the
girls, arguing with Don John. "And what a'real young
gentleman he is," she felt with tender love and pride.
"I could never have brought him up wherever I had
put him to school, to talk and to look like that. Oh,
that I should long to kiss him, and may n't ; it 's hard."
Just as the tea-drinking was all but over, one of the
girls said to Mrs. Clarboy that if she had done reading
a certain book, which she had lent to her, her mother
rathei- wanted it, and she would take it home.
10
146 DON JOHN.
Then the lodger with somewhat affected flurry was
shocked to think that she had got it. (She had quite
done \Yith it. She would fetch it.
" Don't trouble yourself," said Lancy. "I can go."
"It's on the table, sir, I think, in mj parlor," said
the lodger.
Lancy and Don John said the}' were going down first
to the brook to look after a hedgehog, and after -tliat
the book should be fetched.
They departed, and went whooping to the brookside,
their two dogs after them ; and the lodger, quietly ris-
ing, went out the back way into the little kitchen garden
and so over the little low fence, not two feet high, which
divided this from Salisbury's garden.
She hardly knew what she wanted to do — surel}' not
to say anything to Lancy — no, she thought not. No,
it could only be to look at him while he was finding the
book. Stop ! the Salisburys were both out, but the
least little noise in her parlor warned her that Lancy
had alread}' come in. There was a minute window,
consisting but of two small panes let into the wall,
between the front and back room. A thin muslin
curtain was hanging before it. The lodger, trembling
with a pleased agitation, stepped up to it, and through a
narrow opening in the muslin looked and saw — what?
At first astonishment made her incredulous. AYhat
was he doing?
He was standing almost with his back to her, and
gazing, as if fascinated, at a small desk which stood on
a table under the window ; her keys were dangling
from its lock, and it seemed as if he meant to open it.
No, he turned away, took the book, and with a boy-
ish whoop sped to the door, then all in a moment he
turned on his heels and — what a sight for her ! she
saw him go back to the desk, and turn the ke}', — and
lift it, — and look in.
He dropped the book on the floor, and with his now
disengaged hand lifted a little drawer, while he held tlie
desk open with the other. There was a small canvas
bag in it. She saw him shut the desk, saw him slip
DON JOHN. 147
certain gold coins into his palm, then in one instant re-
turn them to the bag which he put in his pocket, and
let the desk fall to. Then he darted out of the house,
taking the book with him, and leaving the door of her
parlor wide open.
She stood trembling, but not now with tenderness so
much as with distress.
Through the open door she saw him run down again
to the brook ; and shocked and amazed, she stepped
back again through the garden and into Mrs. Clarboy's
house.
She crept in pale as a lil}-, all her jo}'' and excitement
over, she sat down in her former place, and scarcely
heard a word that passed about her.
Presently the two boys came in again, Don John
had a dog under each arm, Lancy had the book. She
looked earnestly at him, as it seemed to Lanc}', appeal-
ingh'. For a moment his guilty mind appeared to as-
sure him that she must know, and he felt ready to sink
into the floor with fright and shame. Oh, to have the
last ten minutes over again, and put that mone}- back.
But in another moment his better sense, as he falsely
thought, came back to him ; it was quite impossible that
she could know. He eeitainly had not been one minute
in her room; and he had left her door wide open, so
that the inhabitants of six houses liad easy access to it.
He was a bad boy, guilty, and utterly- unprincipled;
but he had not done this out of mere wantonness ia
theft and greed of gold. No, Lancy knew what it was
iiow to be in bondage to a boy who had found him out,
and who was always threatening him with betrayal.
He had taken ten sovereigns. To this boy two of them
had to go, as the price of his silence. '• And if I am
suspected," thought poor Lanc}-, '-but it's not likely,
I'll run away."
As the young Johnstones and Lancy retired, the
lodger went upstairs to her bedroom, threw herself on
her bed, and wept. She knew the door of Salisbur3''s
cottage was wide open, that he and his wife were gone
to the town, and were not likel}- to be back till dusk,
148 DON JOHN.
and she knew why he, whom she called "her dear boy,
her only dear, her precious Lancy," had left it so. He
had not onl}- taken the money, hut he was more than
wilHng that some innocent person should be accused of
the theft.
" Do they keep him so short of money, that he can-
not forbear to take mine?" was her foolish unreasonable
thought. " Oh, I must, I will speak to him now. Tell
him I forgive him ! Tell him it shall all be his, and I
have plenty for us both. Oh, mj' Lancy, j'ou are
breaking my heart ! "
The next morning, Mrs. Johnstone sent Lancy over
to the town on an errand. What could be more oppor-
tune? He got a post-office order, and sent his young
tyrant the two sovereigns. She had given him a shil-
ling and told him to get his lunch there, for he and
Don John were to meet Mr. Johnstone at the station,
and walk over from it with him. Lancy had tliree or
four hours therefore to spare, and he wandered about
in the little town and amused himself as well as he
could.
It was market-day ; Lanc}', as an}" other bo}' might
have done, sauntered about in the market, bought a
few earl}' jennetings, looked at the gingerbread stall,
kept his dog in order, inspected some young dormice,
and declined to purchase, saying that he had not enough
money. Nobody looking at him would have supposed
that he was a boy who had anything on his mind, or
that he dreaded the moment when he was to go home
and walk with his adopted father through Salisbury's
field.
But that time came at last ; Lancy, with Don John,
went at the appointed time to the railway station ; Mr.
Johnstone, at the expected moment, stepped out of a
carriage, and thev all proceeded home through the field.
And there just as he turned towards his own house,
skirting the wood, the lodger saw them.
He was walking with somewhat of a martial upright-
ness, coming on steadily and straightforward ; Don John
walked at his right side, with precisel}' the same car-
DON JOHN. 149
riage. The two were talking together ; Lane_y now a
step or two in front, now behind, meandered about them
with a bo.yish gait.
'' Wlio is that person?" said Donald Johnstone, when
lie caught sight of the trailing skirts.
" Oh, that's ' the lodger,' " said Lancj'.
" Humph ! " said Donald Johnstone.
" Father," exclaimed Don John, " Salisbury's house
was robbed last night, did you know — "
"Robbed!" said Mr. Johnstone, "why, I should
not have thought the worthy soul possessed anything
worth stealing."
" No ; but it was their lodger's things that were taken.
It seems she left their door open last night, and I think
it was open all night, by what I hear."
Lancy's terror was intense ; and Don John spoke so
coolly that it was evident he had no suspicions.
" it is to be hoped she did not accuse the poor honest
people," said Mr. Johnstone.
" Oh, no. She had left the keys dangling in her
desk ; she felt sure, she said, that nobody in the houses
was dishonest."
" That's a queer storj'," said Donald Johnstone.
" Who ever passes there in the night;" and he went
marching on ; while she, afraid to turn ;■ too sharply out
of his path, lest she should attract more observation,
came on, hoping he would not look at her.
He would not have done, but just as they met, both
the boys lifted their hats. He had not been aware tliat
they had the slightest acquaintance with this person. He
looked up with momentary keenness of attention, the
boys, one on each side of him, went on a step or two ;
he came to a dead stand, and she saw in a moment that
he knew her.
Twelve years' foreign travel, plenty of money, fiish-
ionable clothes, had not so much changed Maria Jane
Collingwood that she could pass the scrutiny of those
keen eyes unknown. 'He gave her no greeting of any
sort, but after his involuntary pause went on again, and
the boys lingering slightly he was soon between them.
150 DON JOHN.
CHAPTER XIII.
DONALD JOHNSTONE walked on to his house
and said not another "word.
Maria Jane Collingwood in his field — the lodger
whom he had heard liis children talk of. He had recog-
nized her instantly ; to what end could she possibly
have come there that did not bode disquiet, if not dis-
aster to him and his.
He walked straight to his wife's room, and there
remembered that he was to entertain a party at dinner
that night.
Mrs. Johnstone was just dressed, her maid had
stepped back to survey her. The two elder girls, who
loved to assist at their mother's toilet, were tying up
some flowers.
Tall, upright as a wand, slender, and placid she
stood. He looked fixedly at her, and sighed.
" Father," said Naomi, " mother has got our favor-
ite gown on. Does n't she look sweet?"
He continued to look at her, but said nothing.
"It's so thick and soft," said Marjorie, feeling the
folds of the satin ; "■ and just tlie color of cream — and,
mother, these roses are exactly the same color — and
look at their little soft brown leaves."
The mother took her bouquet and smiled at their
enthusiasm.
"You look well, my star," said her husband. He
felt that there was no time now to say an3'thing to her,
and lie hastened off to his dressing-room.
There, while he dressed, he saw the fat little woman,
who had been the plague of his life, waddhng along the
path through his field, and he hated the sight of her.
He trembled with irritation and impatience, for noth-
ing could be done. He must entertain his guests, and
DON JOHN. 151
he absolntel_y must leave his boj-s and girls to wander all
about the fields that evening, though she might have
come tliere on purpose to say to them Avhat he most
wished tlicm not to hear.
His wife's unconsciousness calmed him a little, how-
ever. They were alone together for half a minute in
the drawing-room before the first guests entered.
" Estclle," he began, " I met that woman this even-
ing whom the children call the lodger. I wish they had
not seen anything of her."
A tentative remark. She answered with perfect
serenity.
" Oh, yes, my dear — I wish it too — but there is no
harm done ; and I have told them not to go into the
field at all, but to keep in our woods and garden this
evening."
" Ko harm done? " he repeated in a tone of inquiry.
" I meant that there is no reason they should not
associate a little with the honest poor ; but this person,
a vulgar, second-rate woman, as I gather, is just the
sort of creature we sliould like to guard them from."
"Ah! exactl_y so," he answered; and added men-
tally, while the first guests were announced. " if we can."
"Well, I hope there is no harm done," he reflected ;
" and yet if that woman had wished to say anything to
either of the boys, surely she might have found oppor-
tunity to say it by this time. It must be a month, or
nearl}- so, since I first heard them mention her."
lie made rather an inattentive host that evening ; he
was nervous, and sometimes absent, but not half as
much so as he would have been if he could have known
what was coming to j^ass.
Lancy's punishment had begun.
The young people, while their elders dined, were hav-
ing their supper in the playroom. It suited Lancy to
appear to be in excellent spirits. All the girls began
to talk of the supposed robl:»erv, and then, frightened as
he was, he had to feign interest and curiosity.
" Does the lodger mean to have a policeman come?"
asked Don John.
152 DON JOHN.
Lancy turned cold and sick.
" I don't know," answered Charlotte, who had been
sent to Mrs. Clarboy's house with a message about some
needlework ; " Mrs. Clarbo}' and Jenny were both cry-
ing when I got there. Tliey said the}' were wretched
for fear they should be suspected — and so were the
Salisburys ; and yet — "
" Weil ?" said Lancy.
" They said tliey wished the}' had never seen her, and
yet, when Salisbur}' came in the morning to break it to
her, that the door had been open all night, and her keys
were dangling in her desk, where, of course, she never
could have been so careless as to leave them, she said,
' I know I have been robbed ; I know all about it.' "
" Extraordinary ! " exclaimed Don John. •
" She too had been crying bitterly they saj'."
Lancy was so giddy with fright that if the least sus-
picion concerning him had crossed Don John's mind,
and he had looked at hiin, he must have discovered all.
As it was, dismissing the contemned lodger from his
mind, he said, —
"■"Well now, Charlotte — the minutes — call in Fetch
and let's have some fun."
How Lancy got through the next hour or two he never
could remember afterwards. He knew he was fright-
ened, miserable, guilty ; he knew that in order to satisf}''
his tyrant he had risked and lost tlie happiness of all his
future life.
He gave Button-nose a kiss when she was going to
bed. it seemed to liim almost for the first time in his
life that he loved these so-called brothers and sisters'
very much — that no fun w'ould be so well worth having
if Don Jolm was not there to share it with him ; that if
father and mother found out what he had done, he never
would be so^happy any more.
AVhy had he done it? At least he need not have
taken so much. If he had contented himself with the
sum that he so sorely needed, the lodger might have
thought herself mistaken, when counting over her money
she found less than she expected. And, oh, why had
DON JOHN. 153
he taken the bag. And now one and another went off
to bed. LantT was left to the hist ; he wrote a letter
and cried over it, and at length he too stole into his
little room, and, holding the letter in his hand, sat down
at tlie loot of his bed. The letter was full of lies — Iving
came just as naturally to poor Lanc}' as thieving, and
he could already- do both witli a practised hand.
Sometimes when people think intensely- of us it makes
us think of them. Was that the reason why, in the mid-
dle of the night, Mrs. Johnstone had a singular dream?
She dreamed that she saw Lancy sitting on the foot
of her bed in his long white night-gown ; the moonlight
was streaming in, so that every locli of his brown hair,
every line of his features was distinctly visible as he sat
with his side-face towards her, and he had some coins
in his hand which he was counting and laying out upon
the quilt.
She thought she spoke gently to him, thinking that
he had been walking in his sleep. "• Lancy, Lanc}-,"
she said, and then he turned, and looked earnestly at
her and at his adopted fatlier. She thought he whis-
pered in a mournful tone, " Oh, mother and father, oh,
mother and father ! " still sitting on the bed ; and then
she thought he went into the moonbeam and that he
walked in it through the open window, and so on and
on in the air till he was lost in a cloud.
With a start she awoke, the moon had gone "down,
all was perfectly dark and perfecth' still. Whenever
anything aroused in her a solicitude about one of the
children, the feeling soon spread till it had embraced
them all. She pra^'cd for Lancy as she laid awake
thinking of tliis dream, and then she prayed for all the
others. At last sletp came to her again, and she did
not awake till it was nigh day. LancT was gone.
He sat on his little bed a long time, reflectino- and
fearmg, and repenting, but he saw no opening for
confession.
To confess such a deed as he had done, even to Don
John, was past his courage, because, to have any effect,
it must bring other confessions in its train.
154 DON JOHN.
Could he possibl}' put back the eight sovereigns which
remained, and having done so could he sta3'in his liappy
home, and lirave all the talk he should hear on this sub-
ject without betraying himself.
He hoped, he thought he could. A flattering fanc}'
showed him a picture of himself stealing up between
the hollyliocks, softh^ undoing tlie casement-hasp, and
slipping in the mone3-. The}- would not hear.
iSomething like genuine repentance made him sigh
and sob as he stole downstaii's, got awa^' into the gar-
den, and crept round the bushes into the wood. The
stars, wdiich moonlight left visible, looked so bright
and so near, that tliey seemed to be prj'ing at him.
Lanc3' walked down the wood-path till he came op-
posite to Salisbury's cottage. He was full of tremor
and fear — night-beetles bumped against his face; a
great white woolly moth sailed up smelling of musk,
little mice ran across the path, and all of these startled
him. He passed between the bushes. There was no
light burning within ; the moonlight struck the little
casement-panes without, and made them glitter. He
pushed his finger into his waistcoat j^ocket, and felt
the eight sovereigns in the bag. The great experiment
was soon to be made. He stole nearer, constantly
thinking of how Don John had done that very thing
before ; surely as he wished to do well — good would
come of it ; surely he should be helped to do what was
right.
The lodger did not really know " all about it," as she
had said. She could onl}- have meant that she strongly
suspected some person, the wrong person ; and if he
coukl only put so much of the money back nobodj'
would believe her story. He must, he would risk ever}'-
thing, for he was lost and ruined, if once investigations
were made.
His heart beat high, his breath came in little pants,
he was quivering with agitation, in which was far more
hope than fear. He crept on behind the bushes at the
further side of the brook. It was nearl}' midnight when
he stole across the narrow field and risked several times
DON JOHN. 155
being seen, so sore was his longing to get close to the
casement window.
He reached it at last, and his hope was quenched.
He laid his cheek against the glass, and put his fingers
on the fastening. Tiie curtains hung a few inches apart,
and to his alarm he heard soft whispering voices within.
Salisbury and his wife — perhaps a policeman, who
could tell — were sitting up ; evidentl}' on the watch.
He edged himself back among the hollyhocks, and
quite calmly went awa}' by the back of the house. His
last chance had failed, his home was forfeit ; go he
must.
He hardened his heart — had he not tried his very best
to repair his fault ! — he must now keep the eight
sovereigns, that was manifest. He supposed all that
money would last a long time, and then when he had
nothing left, why, he could go to sea.
In the meantime he had always heard that the best
place to hide oneself in was London.
Lancy was young for his years, he was strangely un-
decided, he had often longed to see the world, and wished
he could go to sea. But he loved comfort more than
adventure, and to a certain extent he loved the parents
who had adopted him, and the brothers and sisters with
whom he had been brought up.
He thought he would wait another hour before he
started ; he went and took leave of his rabbits, and of
oM Die, it was a sore wrench to leave them behind. He
would stay for this one hour in the church porch, surelv
something would turn up — surely he was not going away
forever ?
The shadows were long now the moon was southing.
He could steal along by the hedge and not be seen, and
he came and leaned against the old wall of the church
tower and shed some miserable, contrite tears. But
there were strange creakings and aroanings up aloft.
He could hardly believe that the old clock in the tower
was responsible for them all, and then there seemed to
be running up and down and jumping in the body of
the church. He turned very cold, something appeared
156 DON JOHN.
to fall ; a squeak almost human followed ; in the daj--
time he might have thought of rats, but now his mind
was on more awful tilings. The clock '' gaA'e warn-
ing," it was an awfal sound — a new sound — and when
midnight began to strike, his guilt}' conscience drove
him foi'th as if the brazen echoes were proclaiming his
guilt to all. He ran away in good earnest, glad and
almost thankful to go.
About seven o'clock on a sultry evening a decent-
looking woman was laying the cloth on a small round
tabk' in a moderately clean and verj' scantily-furnished
parlor in London.
Now and then she glanced curiously at a fine boy,
who looked very tired, and was sleepily watching her
operations.
'' He can hardly keep his eyes open," was her
thought ; " what ever shall I do? "
Lancy — for Lancy it was — had walked during the
previous night to within four miles of London ; and
then a fit of indecision had come upon him, and he liad
lingered about, losing his wa}', and lamenting his fate
till it was high noon, then finding himself close to the
railway bv which Mr. Johnstone came up to London
every day, he walked across the country from it till an
omnibus overtook him, and getting in he coiled himself
up in a corner. It did not matter in the least where he
was going, for he himself was not bound to any place
in particular. He dozed, and ate gingerl)read, and in
course of time the omnibus stopped at the King's Cross
Station, the terminus by which he was accustomed to
enter London.
"Father" never came up at that time of day; but
yet Lancy did not much relish finding himself at the
foot of Pentonville Hill, a locality so familiar to him.
He dived into a side street, and observed almost at
once that nearly every house had a card in some win-
dow, or over the door, setting forth that lodgings were
to let in it.
He remembered that he must sleep somewhere, and
DON JOHN. 157
if he went to a hotel he should be far more liable to
discovery than in a quiet street such as this.
So Lancj took some cheap lodgings for a M^eek, a
tiu}' room called a drawing-room, with a tiny bedroom
behind it. He was tired and hungry, but he was not
equal to the task of ordering dinner, because his laud-
lady seemed to be examining him and cogitating over
him.
He went out and subsisted on refections of buns,
tarts, and fruit. At last he came back to his rooms,
and his landlady helped him by asking when he would
have his supper, and what he would like. He did not
know what to have. 8he told him, and requested
money to pay for the various items, looking curiously
at him while he took out his well-fihed purse and gave
her what she wanted.
He had felt very forlorn during the afternoon. There
was a little bird shop not a hundred yards from the
station, to which he and Don John alwnys paid a visit
when they came to London. The station was not visi-
ble from it, and Lancy had felt irresistibly drawn to it.
There were squin-els as well as birds, dormice, young
tortoises, and goldfish. There you might bu}- a cock
redbreast for sixpence ; a chaffinch for twopence, and
various other English birds at moderate prices.
Lancy had laid out a small sum in the purchase of
two green linnets in cruelly smnll cages, a bag of seed,
and a little tortoise, in a lidless wooden box, lined ■with
a damjj sod.
His landlady, having laid the cloth, brought him up
some mutton chops, potatoes, tea, and bread and but-
ter, and left him. Lancy had never in his life been so
glad of a comfortable meal. She told him to ring when
he wanted her to clear away.
She was a little bustling, clean woman, niotherh' and
observant. Her eyebrows had a peculiar faculty for rais-
ing themselves. Lancy knew as well as possible that
she was making observations on him, and that frequent
sensations of surprise made these eyebrows go up into
her forehead as two black arches, which left her large
158 DON JOHN.
e3'elids full of little veins, to droop over her inquisitive
brown e_yes, which for all their penetration made him
feel a certain confidence in her. He thought she was a
kind, good woman.
AVhen she came in to clear away, he had set the two
cages on the table, and was shaping two small wooden
perches for his miserable little thralls. He evidently
did not wish to look at her, and having nothing else to
do was whiling awa}' his time b^' feeding and attending
to these new pets.
As he did not speak to her, she made an opening for
herself b}' saying, ''You'll have to pa}^ for the use of
the castors, sir."
Lanc}' looked up.
"For the mustard, and pepper, and vinegar inside
'em, I moan," she explained.
" How much?" asked Lancy, a little uneasily.
" Ninepence a week."
On hearing of such a small sum, the interest and
uneasiness of her young lodger immediately' suljsided ;
he pushed the perch into one of the cages, and when
the linnet had ended its distressful fluttering she said
in a clear, decided tone, —
" Not much used to taking lodgings, I reckon?"
Lancy said nothing.
" And your luggage, sir, when might that be coming? "
" I have no luggage," answered Lancy, blushing.
" Left it at home, I reckon? " and before Lancy had
time to reflect his answer had slipped out, " Yes."
She folded up her cloth. " They 're in a fine taking
about you there b}' this time, I'll go bail." she observed.
" I don't know what you mean," said Lanc}-, flush-
ing up.
" Just as if I didn't know as well as if 3'ou 'd told me
that you 'd run away from home ; but now here _you are
as safe as can be, and 3-ou've got at least a whole week
to think it over."
" I don't know what 3'ou mean," repeated Lancy.
" AVhy. I mean that you've paid for these lodgings
for a week — and j'ou can turn things over in j-our
DON JOHN. 159
mind. The}' 're fond of j'ou, I '11 be bound — you can
turn that over." She lifted up her tra}'. "■ I have a son
that ran away to sea three years ago come Michaelmas ;
I '11 assure you he has bitterly enough repented it ever
since, poor fellow."
If Lancy had not supposed himself to be utterl}* be-
yond fear of detection he would not have answered at
all ; as it was, wishing to shirk further discussion, and
so confirming her in her thoughts, he said he was sleepy
and should now go to bed, which he did, and in spite of
uncertainty as to his future, sorrow for his fault, and for
the parting from all he held dear, he slept as soundly
and as sweetl}' as the most innocent bo}- in London.
It was ten o'clock before he had finished his breakfast
the next morning, and he ordered his dinner, which was
to be at five o'clock, with the air of one who so fully in-
tended to eat it, that his landlady was sure she should
see him again, and hoped he might be in a better humor
for answering questions than he was at present.
And yet, as he was about to go out, she did hazard a
question. '
" And where might you be going now, sir? "
" To the Polytechnic," he answered carelessly, and
off" he set.
'' To the Polytechnic, whj^, you poor Innocent, mis-
guided child — for child j-ou are, and loves childish
pleasure still — what ever am I to do for you ! Who
would think it?" While the landlady said this she
looked after Lanc}' as he walked down the street, and
her eyebrows went up almost to the roots of her hair.
Yes, Lanc_y was actually going to the Polytechnic ;
he had nothing on earth to do. " Pepper's ghosts "just
then were all in their glory ; he had money enough, as
he supposed, to last nearly three weeks. Of course, he
should not go to sea till the last minute. He and Don
John had been trying to produce Pepper's ghosts by
means of a magic lantern and two looking-glasses. He
should stop there the whole daj', and to-morrow (unless
he altered his mind and went to see the beasts feed at
the Zoological Gardens) to-moiTow he would go to the
docks.
l60 DON JOHN.
To say that Lancy was happy at the Polytechnic
would be to make a mistake ; but he certainl}- had in-
tervals of enjoyment, when he forgot the past and the
future, and puzzled himself over " Pepper's ghosts," and
afterwards listened to a lecture, which was enlivened bj-
various chemical experiments, that made noise enough
to delight (and deafen) any boy of average tastes.
He came home, ate his dinner, and played with his
bird and tortoise. He was more cunning than he had
been the previous night. His landlady got nothing at
all out of him. He went to bed, but did not sleep so
well. He must not spend all his money, he now thought,
before he had even decided whether he would go to sea
or not. There might be an outfit to bu}', and if it cost
anything like as much as his clothes did at school, he
had not half enough monc}- for it even now, unless he
sold his watch.
Yes, he must go to the docks. He ordered his din-
ner as before and set out. Where should he get a cheap
map of London, for he had not a notion how to get to
the docks? He sauntered on till he reached the Gower
{Street Station of the Metropolitan Eailwa}' ; for a few
pence, as he knew he could go a long way to the east-
ward, he took a ticket and descended. Then, since a
merciful Providence had ordained that, in spite of his
crime, he should yet have a chance of well-doing, he
found that he had ten minutes to wait, and that on a
dark, dingy book-stall there were maps and the daily
papers ; he asked for a map of London, and while the
selling-boy dived under the back of the stall he glanced
at the rows of Times newspapers, Standards, Telegraphs^
&c., &c., and his eye carelessh' ran over the first ad-
vertisement on the top of the second column of the
Times.
" To L. A. — L., it is all discovered ; but yet there
is time. L., only one person in this world knows. Will
3-0U trust that one, and all shall be forgiven and made
right again? Do not. throw away 3'our home and your
prospects. Trust me, and come to the Euston Hotel.
Write your own name on a card, and send it up to No.
16."
DON JOHN. l6l
Lancy read the whole of this before it occurred to
him that the initials were his own. With a start his
eye then passed on to the Standard^ and there was the
same advertisement to L. A. He was instantly sure
that the message was to him. How could he doubt
that, any more than that Don John had put it in.
But where had the money come from ? A trembling-
seized Lancy. He began to be sure that this going to
sea was a horrid and unbearable thing ; that to give up
his home and his family would bring misery and ruin.
He had more than live pounds in his pocket : if Don
John had contrived to borrow the money here was some-
thing towards it, and he would sell his watch besides.
Oh, to be at home again ; oh, how sweet the promise
that all should be set right. " I don't want the map,"
cried Lancy, as the boy came forth ; but he snatched
the paper, threw down a shilling, and ran out into the
road and on towards Euston Square, never daring to
stop lest fear should get the better of him and he should
change his mind.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE Euston Hotel.
Lanc}' reached it, got in front of the railway
terminus, and looked right and left with a longing hope
that he might see Don John glancing out at some win-
dow. His heart beat wildly, as if all the hfe he had was
thumping at his left side. His hands trembled, his lips
were white. What if after all there was some mistake !
But what mistake could there be ?
Don John had written obscurely, but that was be-
cause he was afraid of being found out. Lanc}^ had
written a letter to his adopted parents, setting forth
that he longed to see the world, and so — he had run
away. But Don* John would have had time now to put
that and the stealing of the ten sovereigns together. He
11
l62 DON JOHN.
had no doubt jumped to the right conclusion, and would
save him ; but Lancy did not relish having to face him.
WlieneA'er he had committed any peculations, it was
Don John who was sick with shame and rage, not only
with fear of detection, which was what Lancy felt, but
with horror at the deed itself.
He had written his own name on a card, and though
he was full of hope, yet the dread of what Don John
would say, and of what he might have risked in order to
bring about this interview made Lancy tremble.
" is there a young gentleman w^aiting here for me? "
he asked of the porter.
" What is the young gentleman's name?"' was the not
unnatural answer.
Lancy hesitated, sank into the one chair which
graced the vestibule, and gave it, " Master Donald
Johnstone."
A young woman, who was seated in a kind of glass
case, began to examine some books.
"No, sir," she shortlj' answered, "we have no such
name here."
Perhaps Don John had not dared to give his own
name. Lancy now felt that he must follow the direc-
tions given.
"I was asked to. give this card, and inquire for
No. 16."
"No. IG ! Ah, yes, sir, that's it," exclaimed a
waiter, stai-ting forward almost with alacrit}', and tak-
ing the card. "Yes, sir; follow me, if you please."
Lancy rose to follow, but slowly. It seemed to him
that the 3'oung person w^ho had searched the books
looked at him with amusement, and that the porter at
the door was observant too. He was taken upstairs
and along some almost interminable passages ; then a
door was opened ; he was announced, — " Mr. Lancelot
Aird," and turning from a table in the window, and
coming slowly on as if not to startle him, he saw, not
Don John — but, the lodger.
" There 's some mistake ! " exclaimed Lancy aghast,
and starting back.
DON JOHN. 163
"No, there 's no mistake," she answered, looking at
him with that never-to-be-forgotten expression in her
ej'es. " No ; 't was I that advertised, — Lanc^y ! "
Something indescribable in her face and in her manner
astonished him almost to the point of making him for-
got why he had come.
She had passed between him and the door. She
leaned against it, and held the handle, while he sank
into a chair.
''Lancy," she began again, and said no more. The
silence that followed was so fnll of wonderment to
Lancy that no words, he felt, could add to it whatever
those words might be. And yet they did give him a
kind of shock, she said them with such difficult}' and
such distress.
" I saw you take it," she whispered, after that pause.
" Lancy, I saw 3'ou open my desk and stekl the ten
sovereigns ; and I — I am as miserable as you are."
Lanc}- looked at her as she still stood supporting
herself against the door. He was subdued by her pale-
ness, b}' the distress and miser}' in her voice, and the
3'earning in her face. He burst into tears.
O, it appeared so long before she spoke again !
" I want to save you. Do you know why?"
" Do I know why ? " he repeated, almost in a whisper.
" No."
He looked at her, and his heart seemed to whisper to
him what this meant. He put out both his hands as if
to entreat her not to come nearer to him yet.
" I took those lodgings in SaUsbury's house that I
might see you — only you," she continued.
' *• Why should you care about me ? " he burst out. ' ' I
don't know you. What are you to me? "
" Your mother."
Yes ! He was almost sure now that this was what he
had foreseen — this was what lie had known she would
say.
He trembled from head to foot ; the ten sovereigns
wore far away now, lost in a wild whirl of disaster, and
grief, and change.
1 64 DON JOHN.
' ' I can't love an}' other mother than that one at home,"
he said bitterl}'.
She answered, in a piercing tone of distress and re-
monstrance, "But you have run awa}- from her, my
Lancy. And could she forgive 3-ou if she knew all?"
"• I cannot sa}'."
' ' But I do know — and I do forgive — and I will for-
get. Only repent, my son, my only dear ; or you '11
break ray heart.'"
"I have repented. Oh, forgive me, and let me go!
I have left them all, and lost them. But — "
" But you cannot take me instead. I know it. You
cannot love me all on a sudden."
Lancy was too much astonished and agitated to ar-
range the many thoughts which were soon to press for
utterance. Onlv one came to the front, and he uttered it.
" It is late in my life for you to ask me to love you
for the first time."
"Yes," she sighed.
She stood pale and mournful of aspect and leaned
against the door. He knew that her distress for his
fault was overpowering the joy of recovering him. -He
revolved in his mind the circumstance, and vaguely
gazed about him at the commonplace room, the com-
monplace woman only distinguished from mau}^ others
b}' the over-richness of her dress, and the fineness of
her gold ornaments. Nothing helped him.
And she said she was his mother ! Which was
best? to run away to the docks and see what ships were
like, and make trial of the hardships of the sea ; or tr>
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.
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