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WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 NEW AND CHEAP EDITIONS, 
 Each in One Volume, Illustrated, and Uniformly Bound, price 5s. 
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "This Is a very good and a very interesting work. It is designed to trace the career 
 from boyhood to age of a perfect man a Christian gentleman, and it abounds in incident 
 both well and highly wrought Throughout it is conceived in a high spirit, and written 
 with great ability. This cheap and handsome new edition is worthy to pass freely from 
 hand to hand as a gift-book in many households." Examiner. 
 
 "The story is very interesting. The attachment between John Halifax and his wife ia 
 beautifully painted, as are the pictures of their domestic life, and the growing up of theii 
 children, and the conclusion of the book is beautiful and touching." Athenaeum. 
 
 " The new and cheaper edition of this interesting work will doubtless meet with great 
 success. John Halifax, the hero of this most beautiful story, is no ordinary hero, and this 
 his history is no ordinary book. It is a lull-length portrait of a true gentleman, one of 
 nature's own nobility. It is also the history of a home, and a thoroughly English one 
 The work abounds in incident, and is full of graphic power and true pathos. It is a book 
 that few will read without becoming wiser and better." Scotsman. 
 
 A WOMAN'S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN. 
 
 "A book of sound counsel It is one of the most sensible works of its kind, well written, 
 true-hearted, and altogether practical. Whoever wishes to give advice to a young lady 
 may thank the author for means of doing so." Examiner. 
 
 " These thoughts are worthy of the earnest and enlightened mind, the all-embracing 
 charity, and the well-earned reputation of the author of ' John Halifax.' " Standard. 
 
 " This excellent book is characterised by good sense, good taste, and feeling, and is 
 written in an earnest, philanthropic, as well as practical spirit" Post. 
 
 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 
 
 "We are always glad to welcome this author. She writes from her own convictions, 
 and she has the power not only to conceive clearly what it is that she wishes to say, but 
 to express it in language effective and vigorous, in 'A Life for a Life' she is fortunate 
 in a good subject, and she has produced a work of strong effect The reader, having read 
 the book through for the story, will be apt (if he be of our persuasion) to return and read 
 again many pages and passages with greater pleasure than on a first perusal The whole 
 book is replete with a graceful, tender delicacy ; and in addition to its other merits, it is 
 written in good careful English." Athenaeum. 
 
 NOTHING NEW. 
 
 Nothing New ' displays all those superior merits which have made 'John Halifax' 
 one of the most popular works of the day." Post. 
 
 " The reader will find these narratives fully calculated to remind him of that truth and 
 energy of human portraiture, that spell over human affections and emotions, which have 
 stamped this author one of the first novelists of our day." John Bull. 
 
 THE WOMAN'S KINGDOM. 
 
 "The Woman's Kingdom ' sustains the author's reputation as a writer of the purest 
 and noblest kind of domestic stories. The novelist's lesson is given with admirable 
 
 eomm' is remarkable for its romantic interest The character. 
 are masterpieces. Edna is worthy of the hand that drew John Halifax, Post. 
 
 STUDIES FROM LIFE. 
 
 " These Studies are truthful and vivid pictures of life, often earnest, always full of right 
 feeling, and occasionally lightened by touches of quiet genial humour. The volume is re- 
 markable for thought, sound sense, shrewd observation, and kind and sympathetic feeling 
 for all things good and beautiful" Post. 
 
 [CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE.] 
 
WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 (CONTINUED.) 
 
 CHRISTIAN'S MISTAKE. 
 
 "A more charming story, to oar taste, baa rarely been written. Within the compass 
 Of a nln*le volume the writer has hit off a circle of varied characters, all true to nature 
 tome true to the highest nature and she has entangled them in a story which keeps us 
 in suspense till iu knot is happily and gracefully resolved; while, at the same time, a 
 pathetic interest is sustained by an art of which it would be difficult to analyze the secret 
 It Is a choice gift to be able thus to render human nature so truly, to penetrate its depths 
 with such a searching sagacity, and to illuminate them with a radiance so eminently the 
 writer's own. Even if tried by the standard of the Archbishop of York, we should expect 
 that even he would pronounce 'Christian's Mistake ' a novel without a fault." The Times. 
 
 " This is a story good to have from the circulating library, but better to have from one's 
 bookseller, for it deserves a place in that little collection of clever and wholesome stories 
 that forms one of the comforts of a well-appointed homo." Examiner. 
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 
 
 M A good, wholesome book, as pleasant to read as it is instructive." Athenaeum. 
 " This work is written with the same true-hearted earnestness as ' John Halifax,' The 
 spirit of the whole book is excellent "Examiner. 
 "A charming tale charmingly told." Standard. 
 
 A NOBLE LIFE. 
 
 "This is one of those pleasant tales in which the author of 'John Halifax ' speaks out 
 of a generous heart the purest truths of life." Examiner. 
 
 "Few man, and no women, will read a 'Noble Life' without finding themselves the 
 totter." Spectator. 
 
 " A story of powerful and pathetic interest" Daily News. 
 
 A BRAVE LADY. 
 
 - A very good novel, showing a tender sympathy with human nature, and permeated 
 by a pure and noble spirit" Examiner. 
 
 M A most charming story." Standard. 
 
 "We earnestly recommend this novel. It is a special and worthy specimen of the 
 author's remarkable powers. The reader's attention never for a moment flags." Post 
 
 HANNAH. 
 
 A powerful novel of social and domestic life. One of the most successful efforts of a 
 successful novelist" Daily News. 
 
 " A very pleasant, healthy story, well and artistically told. The book is sure of a wide 
 circle of readers. The character of Hannah is one of rare beauty." Standard. 
 
 THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 The author of ' John Halifax ' has written many fascinating stories, but we can call to 
 mind nothing from her pen that has a more enduring charm than the graceful sketches in 
 this work. Such a character as Jessie stands out from a crowd of heroines as the type of 
 all that is truly noble, pure, and womanly." United Service Magazine. 
 
 YOUNG MRS. JARDINE. 
 
 " Young Mrs. Jardine ' is a pretty story, written in pure English." Tft Ti 
 ' There is much good feeling in this book. It is pleasant and wholesome." ^ 
 
 Times. 
 -Athenaeum. 
 
 " A book that all should read. Whilst it is quite the equal of any of its predecessors 
 in elevation of thought and style, it is perhaps their superior in interest of plot and 
 dramatic intensity. The characters are admirably delineated, and the dialogue is natural 
 and dear." Morning Pott. 
 
 HURST AHD BLAOKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
HANNAH. 
 
. 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 BY 
 THE AUTHOR OP 
 
 JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN/ 
 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 1 Nane erer f eamd that the truth should be heard, 
 But those v, bom the truth wad indite.' BUB* s. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, 
 
JL 
 
 HANNAH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ' A STRANGE, sad kind of letter/ said Miss Thellusoii 
 to herself, as she refolded and replaced it in its en- 
 velope : she had a habit of always putting things back 
 into their right places. ' I suppose I ought to answer 
 it at once. And yet ' 
 
 She stopped; leant her elbow on the table, her 
 head upon her hand, and pressed down her eyelids. 
 They were wet eyelids though she was not exactly 
 weeping and tired eyes; for it was late at night, 
 and she had had a hard day's work, of teaching first, 
 and private study, in order to teach, afterwards ; since, 
 not being a brilliantly clever woman, it cost her some 
 pains to keep up to the level of accomplishments re- 
 quired of a first-class governess in a ' high ' family. 
 
 ' High ' though it was, an earl's indeed and though 
 the little Ladies Mary, Georgina, and Blanche, now 
 safely asleep in their beds, were good, pleasant children, 
 and very fond of their governess still, as she sat in 
 that homely - furnished, dimly-lighted sitting-room, 
 Hannah Thelluson looked a lonely kind of woman ; 
 not one of those likely to make many friends, or keep 
 up a large correspondence. This letter, which seemed 
 to affect her a good deal, was the only one which she 
 had received for days past, and the servants had for- 
 gotten to bring it up until they brought her supper : 
 it did not matter, being only for the governess. Miss 
 Thelluson was scarcely sorry : it was best read when. 
 
 B 
 
2 HANXAH. 
 
 she was alone, for it was from her brother-in-law, the 
 husband of her lately dead sister. 
 
 ' Poor Hosa ! ' she sighed, as her eyes fell on the 
 big, upright, rather peculiar handwriting which she 
 had scarcely seen since the time when she used to 
 bring in Rosa's daily love-letters 'and poor Mr. 
 Bivers, too ! ' 
 
 She had never learned to call him anything but 
 Mr. Rivers; for the marriage, which had all come 
 about when Rosa was on a visit, had been a sudden, 
 frantic love-match between a rich young man and a 
 lovely, penniless girl ; and during their brief bright 
 year of wedded happiness, the elder sister had seen 
 almost nothing of them beyond a formal three-days' 
 visit. But even that had been enough to make Hannah 
 not regret that her duties had stood in the way of her 
 pleasures, and caused her to feel by instinct that a 
 grave governess-sister was not likely to advance young 
 Mrs. Rivers J s dignity in the eyes of Lady Rivers and 
 the people at the Moat-House, who had looked very 
 coldly on the marriage. And when fate suddenly broke 
 the tie, leaving Mr. Rivers a sorrowing widower with 
 a little month-old daughter instead of the longed- for 
 son and heir, Hannah bitterly felt that, whosoever 
 might grieve after poor Rosa, it would not be her hus- 
 band's family. 
 
 They merely communicated to her the fact of the 
 death, which, like the birth, had taken place abroad ; 
 and except a brief answer from the grandmother to a 
 letter she wrote, inquiring after the baby, she had heard 
 no more. She could not leave her duties ; she had to 
 sit still and suffer silently, as working women must, 
 and patiently, as women learn to suffer who have been, 
 to use that most pathetic of phrases, 'acquainted with 
 grief/ She had put forward no claim either for sym- 
 pathy or consideration to her brother-in-law or his 
 relatives, and believed that henceforth the slight inter- 
 course she ever had with them was probably ended. 
 
HANNAH. 3 
 
 Therefore she was a good deal surprised to receive this 
 letter, which entreated of her the very last thing she 
 would have expected that she would assume a sister's 
 place towards Mr. Rivers, and come and take charge 
 of his household, and especially of her little motherless 
 niece. 
 
 ' How strange ! ' she kept thinking. ' How can he 
 want me when he has sisters of his own ? ' But then 
 she remembered that the Misses Rivers were young 
 and lively women, very much out in society, and pro- 
 bably not inclined to burden themselves with the care 
 of a widower's dreary house and a widower's forlorn 
 infant, even for the sake of their own flesh-and-blood 
 brother. So he came for help to his wife's sister 
 who, though almost a stranger to himself, could not 
 but feel, he said, the strong tie of blood which bound 
 her to his child. He pleaded, for this child's sake, 
 that she would come. 
 
 Hannah could not help feeling pleased and touched. 
 It was a sort of compliment which, coming to her, 
 a lonely woman, and from a person of whom she knew 
 so little, was rather pleasant than not. She tried to 
 recall all she had ever noticed of her brother-in-law 
 not very much ; except that, though he was young, 
 handsome, and rather excitable, there seemed a sim- 
 plicity and affectionateness about him which she had 
 rather liked. Still, in their slight intercourse, the only 
 thing the sister had ever cared to find out was that he 
 loved Rosa and Rosa loved him. Satisfied of these 
 two facts, she had left the young people to their happi- 
 ness, and gone back to her own quiet life; which 
 would have been a dreary life, had she herself been 
 a less self-dependent and un exacting woman. 
 
 And now the happiness, which she might have 
 envied had she seen more of it, was over and done. 
 Bright, beautiful Rosa had lain six months in her 
 grave ; and here was Rosa's husband asking the soli- 
 tary sister to fulfil towards him and his child all the 
 
4 HANNAH. 
 
 duties of a near and dear relative. For he addressed 
 her as ' My dear sister ; ' and in his letter, which was 
 impulsive, fragmentary, and evidently in earnest, he 
 seemed to fling himself upon her pity and help, as if he 
 had no one else to appeal to. 
 
 * I have been reading over again the letters you 
 used to send weekly to my poor Rosa/ he wrote ; ' it 
 is these which have induced me to make this request : 
 for they convince me that you must be a good woman 
 a woman fitted to give help and consolation to such 
 a forlorn creature as I am. How forlorn, you little 
 know ! A man who has had a wife and lost her, is the 
 wretchedest creature on earth infinitely more wretched 
 than one who has never known that blessing. Every 
 day, every hour, I miss my darling. Continually I 
 hear, in a sort of ghostly way, her step about the 
 house, her voice outside in the garden ; till sometimes, 
 in the excessive loneliness, I am actually frightened 
 not of her, but of myself lest I should be going 
 mad. Men do go mad with grief sometimes, especially 
 husbands who have lost their wives. I have read 
 several such cases in the newspapers lately: my eye 
 seems to light upon them, and my mind to retain 
 them, with a horrible pertinacity. But why trouble 
 you with these personalities? No more/ 
 
 And then he began to describe his baby ; saying 
 she was a dear little thing, but that he did not 
 understand her. She seemed to be always crying, 
 and nobody could manage her, though he saw a 
 different woman almost every time he came into the 
 nursery. 
 
 When she first read this passage Hannah had 
 started up, her always pale face hot and warm. The 
 weak point in her nature rather a pathetic weakness 
 in one whom some people called, and she herself 
 firmly believed to be, a born old maid was her love 
 of children. Her heart had yearned oftentimes over 
 Bosa's motherless babe, but she felt that she could not 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 interfere with the grandmother and father. Now the 
 picture of it transferred from nurse to nurse, neg- 
 lected or ignored smote her with a sort of self- 
 reproach, as if her pride or her shyness, or both, had 
 led her weakly to desert her own flesh and blood 
 her sister's child. 
 
 'I ought to have gone and seen it seen what 
 they were doing with it. I have as much right to it 
 as any one of them all. Poor little baby ! Rosa's 
 very own baby!' 
 
 The tears, which came so rarely and painfully to 
 her eyes, came now ; and they did her good. It 
 seemed to open and warm her heart even to think of 
 that little baby. 
 
 Gradually her thoughts took shape and purpose. 
 Though she seldom meditated much upon herself, still 
 Miss Thelluson had not lived thirty years in this trou- 
 blesome world without knowing her own character 
 pretty well. She was quite aware of one great want 
 in her nature the need to be a mother to somebody 
 or something. It came out even towards the large 
 white cat that lived in the school-room, and loved the 
 governess better than any creature in the house. It 
 had helped her to manage many a difficult pupil, and 
 stood her in good stead with her little Ladies Dacre, 
 who, before she came, had been rather disagreeable 
 and unmanageable children. Now they were very 
 good, and loved her with all their aristocratic little 
 hearts as warm as other hearts, though perhaps more 
 suppressed. She loved them also ; but it was rather a 
 sad kind of affection, as she knew it could be only tem- 
 porary. They would drift away from her, and marry 
 earls and dukes ; and she would be no more to them 
 than * our old governess/ It was nearly the same 
 with other little folks of her own rank the children 
 of her friends or schoolfellows who generally called 
 her Aunt Hannah, and were very fond of her while 
 she was with them; but, of course, soon forgot her 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 when she was away. All natural quite natural; 
 yet it sometimes seemed rather sad. 
 
 Now here was a child to whom she had an actual 
 right of blood. Whether or not the Rivers family had 
 liked Rosa, or herself, they could not abolish the fact 
 that she was the child's aunt ; and, if the father desired 
 it, its natural guardian. The first impulse of strange- 
 ness and shrinking passed away, and as she read over 
 again Mr. Rivers's letter, and began clearly to com- 
 prehend what he wished, there grew up a longing, 
 indescribable, after that duty which was set before her 
 in such a sudden and unexpected way ; yet which, the 
 more she thought about it, seemed the more distinct 
 and plain. 
 
 She dried her eyes, and, late as it was, prepared 
 to answer the letter, knowing she would not have 
 'leisure to do it next morning before post- time. Be- 
 sides, she wished to ' sleep upon it/ as people say, and 
 then read it over again in the calm light of day : 
 Hannah Thelluson being one of those people who dis- 
 like doing things in a hurry, but who, having once 
 put their hands to the plough, never look back. 
 
 She was fully aware that if she acceded to her 
 brother-in-law's request she must not look back ; how- 
 ever difficult the position might be, it would be still 
 more difficult to quit it and return to her old calling 
 as a governess. And that provision for her old age, 
 which she was year by year slowly accumulating, 
 with the pathetic prudence of a woman who knows well 
 that only her own labour stands between her and the 
 workhouse, that too must be given up. For Mr. 
 Rivers would, of course, offer her no salary ; and, if he 
 did, how could she possibly accept it? Was she not 
 coming to his house as a sister, with all the honours 
 and some few of the bondages of that relationship? 
 Her common sense told her that, pleasant as in some 
 measure her duties might be, they entailed consider- 
 able sacrifices as well. But women like her, though 
 
HANNAH. 7 
 
 they dislike a leap in the dark, will often take a most 
 difficult and dangerous one with their eyes open, fully 
 counting the cost. 
 
 'Yes. I will venture it/ she said, after a long 
 pause of thought. ' The risk cannot be much, and 
 it is only my own risk, after all.' 
 
 So she sat down to write her letter. 
 
 While she does so, let us look at her, the solitary 
 governess whom few ever looked at now. 
 
 Miss Thelluson could not have been handsome, even 
 in her first youth, which was past now. Her face was 
 long and thin; her eyes deep-set, though they were 
 sweet eyes in themselves, grave and tender, and of a 
 soft grey. Her hair was of no particular colour, in 
 fact, she had no special attraction of any kind, except 
 a well-proportioned figure, which in motion had a wil- 
 lowy grace that some tall women not all possess. 
 And her smile was very winning, though slightly sad, 
 as if fate had meant her to be a bright-natured woman, 
 but had changed its mind, and left her so long without 
 happiness that she had at last learnt to do without it. 
 In this, as in most other things external as well as 
 internal she was utterly unlike her sister Rosa. A 
 certain family tone in their voices was the only resem- 
 blance that was likely in any way to give the widower 
 pain. 
 
 It was strange to write to him, ' My dear brother/ 
 she who never had a brother but she thought she 
 ought to do it, and so she did it ; trying hard to feel 
 as an affectionate sister should towards a sorely afflicted 
 brother, unto whom she was bound to show every pos- 
 sible tenderness. Yet it was difficult, for she was a 
 reserved woman, who took a long time to know any- 
 body. 
 
 'And I really know almost nothing of him/ she 
 thought. ' No blood- relationship, no tie of old asso- 
 ciation ; and yet one is expected to treat a strange man 
 as one's brother, just because one's sister has gone 
 
8 HANNAH. 
 
 through the marriage ceremony with him. If I had 
 seen more of Mr. Rivers, if I had lived actually in 
 
 the house with him But, no ; that would not have 
 
 done it ; nothing would have produced what did not 
 really exist. I can only hope the right sisterly feel- 
 ing will come in time, and I must get on as well as I 
 can till it does come.' 
 
 So she pondered, and wrote a letter ; short, indeed, 
 but as affectionate as she could conscientiously make 
 it ; suggesting plainly that one of his own sisters would 
 be a much better house-keeper for him than herself ; 
 but that, if he really wished for her, she would come. 
 And she signed herself, after a considerable struggle, 
 for the word, which she had thought she should 
 never say or write more, cost her a gush of tears, 
 'Your faithful sister, Hannah Thelluson.' 
 
 It was fully one in the morning before the letter 
 was done, and she had to be up at six, as usual. But 
 she slept between whiles soundly, not perplexing her- 
 self about the future. Hers was an essentially peaceful 
 nature ; when she had done a thing, and done it for 
 the best, she usually let it alone, and did not ' worry ' 
 about it any more. That weak, restless disposition, 
 which, the moment a thing is done begins to wish it 
 undone, was happily not hers. It had been Rosa's, 
 even in the midst of her bright, pleasant, loved, and 
 loving life ; which, perhaps, accounted for the elder 
 sister's habits being markedly the contrary. 
 
 Yet, when her mind was made up, and she put her 
 letter into the post-bag, it was not without a certain 
 doubt, almost a fear, whether she had done rightly 
 no, rightly she had little doubt of, but wisely, as 
 regarded herself. Then came her usual consolatory 
 thought 'It can only harm myself.' Still she felt 
 it was a serious change, and many times during the 
 day her thoughts wandered painfully from her duties 
 in the school-room to her brother-in-law and his child. 
 
 Nobody noticed her pre-occupation, for it was one 
 
HANNAH. 9 
 
 of the essential and familiar facts of the governess's life 
 that she might be sick or sorry, troubled or glad, with- 
 out anybody's observing it. Not that she ever met 
 with the least unkindness, indeed, her position in 
 this family was a very happy one ; she had everything 
 her own way, and was treated by the countess with 
 that stately consideration which so perfectly well-bred 
 a woman could not fail to show to the meanest member 
 of her household. But, necessarily, Miss Thelluson's 
 life was one of complete isolation ; so that, but for her 
 pupils, their naughtinesses and goodnesses, she would 
 have ceased to recognise herself as one of the great 
 human brotherhood, and felt like a solitary nomad, of 
 no use and no pleasure to anybody. A sensation 
 which, morbid and foolish as it may be, is not rare to 
 women who are neither old nor young who, on the 
 verge of middle age, find themselves without kith or 
 kin, husband or child, and are forced continually to 
 remember that the kindest of friends love them only 
 with a tender benevolence, as adjuncts, but not essen- 
 tials, of happiness. They are useful to many neces- 
 sary to none ; and the sooner they recognise this, the 
 better. 
 
 As Miss Thelluson kissed the little Ladies Dacre 
 in their beds where, somewhat in defiance of the 
 grand nurse, she insisted upon going to them every 
 night the thought of that helpless baby, her own 
 baby for was not Rosa's child her very flesh and 
 blood? came across her in a flash of sunshiny delight 
 that warmed her heart through and through. She 
 began to plan and to dream, until at the end of that 
 solitary evening walk through the park, which she 
 seldom missed, it was sweet and soothing after the 
 cares of the day, she began to fancy she had not half 
 appreciated Mr. Rivers's proposal, nor responded to it 
 half warmly enough; and to fear, with an almost 
 ridiculous apprehension, that he might change his mind, 
 or that something might happen to prevent the scheme 
 
10 HANNAH. 
 
 from being carried out. And she waited with a ner- 
 vous anxiety, for which she laughed at herself, the 
 
 ;rn cost bv which she had requested him to write 
 his final decision. 
 
 It came in six lines : 
 
 ' I shall expect you, as soon as you can make it 
 practicable. You will be like her lost mother to my 
 poor little girl ; and as for me, my wife's sister shall be 
 to me exactly as my own.' 
 
 Hannah wondered a little how much his own sis- 
 ters were to him ; whether it was the close, affectionate 
 bond so free yet so strong which had always been 
 her unknown ideal of fraternal love, or the careless tie, 
 less of sympathy than of habit and familiarity, such as 
 she often saw it in the world for she had seen a good 
 deal of the world, more or less, since she had been a 
 governess. Also, just a little, she wondered whether, 
 with the best intentions, it was possible to create an 
 artificial bond where the real one did not exist, and 
 how soon she should learn to feel at ease with Mr. 
 Rivers, as much as if he had been her born brother. 
 
 But these speculations were idle ; time would decide 
 all things. Her only present thought need be that 
 the die was cast ; there was no drawing back now. She 
 had, as speedily as possible, to arrange her own affairs - r 
 and first to give ' warning ' as servants say to Lady 
 Dunsmore. 
 
 This was not exactly a pleasant task, for the 
 countess and her governess had always got on together 
 remarkably well ; the one lady recognising calmly, and 
 without either false pride or false shame, that, though 
 a lady, she was also a governess a paid servant, dis- 
 charging her duties like the rest ; the other lady re- 
 ceiving and appreciating those services as a lady 
 should. Therefore, nothing was lost, and much gained 
 on both sides. Miss Thelluson had been two years in 
 the family, and it seemed tacitly understood that she 
 was to remain until the young ladies' education was 
 
HANNAH. 11 
 
 finished. Thus suddenly to desert her post looked 
 almost like ingratitude a vice abhorrent in all shapes 
 to Hannah Thelluson. 
 
 It was with a hesitating step, and a heart beating 
 much faster than its wont this poor heart, strangely 
 stilled down now from its youthful impulsiveness 
 that she knocked at the door of the morning-room 
 where her pupils' mother, young and beautiful, happy 
 and beloved, spent the forenoon in the elegant em- 
 ployments that she called duties, and which befitted 
 her lot in life a lot as different from that of her 
 governess as it is possible to conceive. The two women, 
 were wide apart as the poles in character, circum- 
 stances, destiny : yet both being good women, they 
 had a respect, and even liking, for one another. 
 Hannah admired the countess excessively, and Lady 
 Dunsmore always had for her governess a smile as 
 pleasant as that she bestowed on the best ' society.' 
 
 * Good morning, Miss Thelluson ! Pray sit down. 
 I hope nothing is amiss in the school-room? Mary 
 seems working more diligently of late. Georgy and 
 Blanche are not more troublesome to you than usual ? ' 
 
 * Indeed, I have no fault to find with either Lady 
 Blanche or Lady Georgina, and Lady Mary is as good 
 a girl as she can be/ returned Hannah warmly, half 
 amused at herself for noticing what a week ago she 
 would have accepted as too natural a fact to be 
 observed at all, that it never occurred to her pupils* 
 mamma to suppose she could have any interest beyond 
 Lady Mary, Lady Georgina, and Lady Blanche. That [ 
 their governess should have a separate existence of her 
 own, or any personal affairs to communicate, seemed 
 quite impossible. 'Have you ten minutes to throw 
 away, Lady Dunsmore?' continued she. ' May I have 
 a word with you about myself and my own concerns ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly ; nothing could give me greater plea- 
 sure ; J and then, with that sweet, courteous grace she 
 had it might be only outside good-breeding, and yet, 
 
12 HANNAH. 
 
 as it never failed her, and all outside things do fail 
 sometimes, I think it must rather have been from her 
 kindly heart the countess settled herself to listen. 
 But first she cast a slight sidelong glance of observa- 
 tion and inquiry. Was it possible that Miss Thelluson 
 was going to be married ? 
 
 But no love-story was indicated by the grave, quiet, 
 dignified manner of the governess. 
 
 * You are aware, I think/ she said, ' that my only 
 sister died six months ago/ 
 
 ' Ah, I was so sorry to hear it ! Was she married?' 
 
 Yes/ 
 
 'Of course! I remember now. She died at her 
 confinement, and the dear little baby also?' 
 
 ' No/ returned Hannah shortly, and then was vexed 
 at herself for being so foolishly sensitive. What pos- 
 sible impression could Rosa's sad story have made, be- 
 yond the passing moment, on this beautiful and brilliant 
 woman, whose interests were so wide, who had such 
 myriads of acquaintances and friends ? To expect from 
 her more than mere kindliness, the polite kindliness 
 which her manner showed, as, evidently annoyed at 
 her own mistake, she cudgelled her memory to recall 
 the circumstances, was exacting from Lady Dunsmore 
 too much, more than human nature was capable of. 
 Hannah recognised this, and saved herself and the 
 countess by plunging at once in medias res. ' No ; the 
 baby happily did not die. It is alive still, and my 
 brother-in-law wishes me to come and take charge of 
 it, and of his household.' 
 
 ' Permanently P' 
 
 ' I hope so.' 
 
 ' Then you come to tell me that you wish to relin- 
 quish your position here. Oh, Miss Thelluson, I am 
 so sorry ! At the commencement of the season, too. 
 How shall I ever find time to get a new governess ?' 
 
 The countess's regret was unmistakable, though it 
 took the personal tone which perhaps was not unnatural 
 
HANNAH. 13 
 
 in one for whom the wheels of life had always turned 
 so smoothly, that when there was the least jar she 
 looked quite surprised. 
 
 1 1 am very sorry, too, on many accounts/ said Miss 
 Thelluson. * I love my pupils dearly. I should like 
 to have remained until they grew up, to have dressed 
 Lady Mary for her first drawing-room, as she always 
 said I must, and watched how people admired Lady 
 Blanche's beauty and Lady Georgina's magnificent 
 voice. They are three dear girls/ continued the go- 
 verness, not unmoved, for she loved and was proud of 
 her pupils. 'My heart is sore to leave them. But 
 this baby, my poor little niece, is my own flesh and 
 blood/ 
 
 * Of course ! Pray do not imagine I blame you, 
 or think you have used me ill/ said the countess, 
 gently. * You are only doing what is natural under 
 the circumstances, and I shall easily replace you I 
 mean I shall easily find another governess ; it will be 
 more difficult nearly impossible to get a second 
 Miss Thelluson/ 
 
 Miss Thelluson acknowledged, but did not attempt 
 to deny, the delicate compliment. She knew she had 
 done her duty, and that under many difficulties far 
 more than the countess suspected. For hapless count- 
 esses, who are the centre of brilliant societies, have 
 only too few hours to spend in their nurseries and 
 school- rooms ; and these three little ladies owed much, 
 more than their mother guessed, to their governess. It 
 had sometimes been a comfort to Miss Thelluson in 
 her dull life to hope that the seed she sowed might 
 spring up again years hence in the hearts of these 
 young aristocrats, who would have so much in their 
 power for good or for evil. She had tried her best to 
 make them really 'noble* women, and it was pleasant 
 to have her labour appreciated. 
 
 ' And how soon do you wish to go ? ' asked Lady 
 Dunsmore, rather lugubriously, for she had had endless 
 
14 HANNAH. 
 
 changes of governesses before Miss Thelluson's time, 
 and she foresaw the same thing over again or worse. 
 
 ' Do not say I "wish" to go. But my brother-in- 
 law requires me much, he says, and would like to have 
 me as soon as you could spare me. Not a day sooner, 
 though, than you find convenient. I could not bear 
 that. You have been so kind ; I have been so happy 
 here.' 
 
 'As I trust you will be everywhere/ replied Lady 
 Dunsmore, cordially. 'Your brother's home I for- 
 get exactly where it is.' 
 
 ' Easterham. He is the Reverend Bernard Rivers, 
 the vicar there.' 
 
 ' Son to Sir Austin Rivers, of Easterham Moat- 
 House, who married one of the Protheroes?' 
 
 ' I really don't know Lady Rivers's antecedents 
 I never can remember pedigrees,' replied Hannah, 
 smiling. ' But his father is certainly Sir Austin, and 
 they live at the Moat-House.' 
 
 ' Then I know all about them. Why did you not 
 tell me before ? I must have met your brother-in-law. 
 He is the eldest no, I am forgetting again the 
 second son, but takes the place of the eldest, who is of 
 weak intellect ; is he not ?' 
 
 ' I believe so, unfortunately. He has epileptic fits.' 
 
 'And is not likely to marry. All the better for 
 the clergyman. I am sure I have seen him a tall, 
 bearded, handsome young man.' 
 
 'Rosa used to think him handsome. As to his 
 youth, I fancy he was about five years her senior. 
 That would make him just my age ; but men are quite 
 young still at thirty.' 
 
 ' Women, too, I hope,' said the countess, smiling 
 with a pleasant consciousness that if Lodge had not 
 betrayed it, no one would ever have imagined that she 
 was herself fully that age. Then, as if struck with a 
 sudden thought, she eyed Miss Thelluson keenly one 
 of those acute, penetrating looks of hers, a mixture of 
 
HANNAH. 15 
 
 the shrewd woman of the world with the single- 
 minded, warm-hearted woman that she undoubtedly 
 was, also. 
 
 * I am going to take a great liberty with you, Miss 
 Thelluson,' she continued after a pause ; * but I am a 
 candid person may I say a few candid words?' 
 
 'Certainly. And I should thank you for saying 
 them/ 
 
 ' "Well, then, you are still a young woman.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ; not young.' 
 
 The countess put out her pretty hand with impera- 
 tive gesture, and repeated, 
 
 ' Yes ; a young unmarried woman, and I am a 
 matron and a mother. May I ask, have you well 
 considered in every point of view the step you are 
 about to take?' 
 
 ' I think I have. That there are many difficulties, 
 I know ; and I am prepared for them.' 
 
 ' What sort of difficulties ?' 
 
 Hannah hesitated ; but the frank, kind eyes seemed 
 to compel an answer. She was so unused to sympathy 
 that when it did come she coidd not resist it, 
 
 'First I know I may speak confidentially, Lady 
 Dunsmore first, there is the Moat-House. The Rivers 
 family did not quite like my poor Rosa ; at least, they 
 wished their son to have married higher. They may 
 not like me either, and they may naturally feel offended 
 at his choosing his wife's sister to live with him, 
 instead of one of his own.' 
 
 ' He had better have chosen one of his own.' 
 
 ' I think so, too, and I told him this ; but he makes 
 no answer, and, therefore, I conclude he has good 
 reasons for not wishing it, and for wishing me instead. 
 Then I shall hold a most responsible position in his 
 household, have much parish work to do, as much as 
 if I were the clergyman's wife.' 
 
 ' He should take a wife as soon as he can.' 
 
 Hannah winced a moment. ' It is only six months 
 
16 HANNAH. 
 
 since her death ; and yet and yet Yes ! I feel 
 
 with you that the sooner he takes a wife the better ; 
 his need of help, he tells me, is very great ; but in the 
 meantime I must help him all I can/ 
 
 ' I am sure you will ; you are made to help people,' 
 said the countess, cordially. 'But none of these are 
 the difficulties I was foreseeing.' 
 
 ' About my poor little niece perhaps ? You think 
 an old maid cannot bring up a baby, or manage a 
 house, with a man at the head of it men being so 
 peculiar ? But Rosa always said her husband was the 
 sweetest temper in the world/ 
 
 ' He looked so. Not gifted with over-much strength, 
 either mentally or bodily ; but of a wonderfully amiable 
 and affectionate nature. At least, so he struck me in 
 the few times I saw him. I only wish I had seen 
 more of him, that I now might judge better.' 
 
 ' On my account ? ' said Hannah, half amused, half 
 pleased at the unexpected kindliness. 
 
 The countess took her hand. 'Will you forgive 
 me ? Will you believe that I speak purely out of my 
 interest in you, and my conviction that, though you 
 may be a much better woman than I, I am a wiser 
 woman than you at least, in worldly wisdom. Are 
 you aware, my dear Miss Thelluson, that this is the 
 only country in the world in which a lady of your age 
 and position could take the step you are contemplat- 
 ing?' 
 
 ' Why not ? what possible reason ' 
 
 ' I am sorry I have put the idea into your head, 
 since it evidently has never come there. No ! I am 
 not sorry. Whatever you do ought to be done with 
 your eyes open. Has it never occurred to you that 
 your brother-in-law is really no brother, no blood- 
 relation at all to you ; and that in every country, 
 except England, a man may marry his wife's sister ?' 
 
 Hannah drew back ; a faint colour rose in her 
 cheek ; but it soon died out. The idea of her marry- 
 
HANNAH. 17 
 
 ing anybody seemed so supremely, ridiculously impos- 
 sible of her marrying Rosa's husband painfully so. 
 
 'It certainly did not occur to me/ she answered 
 gently, ' and if it had, it would have made no different e 
 in my decision. Such marriages being unlawful here, 
 of course he is simply my brother, and nothing more.' 
 
 ' He is not your brother/ persisted Lady Dunsmore. 
 ' No force of law can make him so, or make you feel 
 as if he were. And, I assure you, I who have gone 
 about the world much more than you have, that I have 
 seen many sad instances in which ' 
 
 But the expression of distress, and even repulsion, 
 on the governess's face, made the other lady pause. 
 
 ' Well, well/ she said ; ' you must have thought the 
 matter well over, and it is, after all, purely your own 
 affair/ 
 
 ' It is my own affair/ replied Hannah, still gently, 
 but in a way that would have closed the subject, had 
 not the countess, with her infinite tact and good breed- 
 ing, dismissed it at once herself, and begun consulting 
 with Miss Thclluson on the best way of replacing her, 
 and the quickest, that she might the sooner be free ' to 
 go to that poor little baby/ 
 
 'And remember/ she added, 'that on this point 
 you need have no qualms. My old nurse used to say 
 that any sensible woman, with a heart in her bosom, 
 could manage a baby/ 
 
 Hannah smiled, and her happy feeling returned, 
 so that she was able to listen with interest, and even 
 amusement, to a vivid description which the clever 
 countess gave of baby's grandmother and aunts, whom 
 she had met in London last season. 
 
 'All Easterham is terra incognita to me, Lady Duns- 
 more ; but I shall try not to be afraid of anything or 
 anybody, and to do my best, whatever happens a 
 very commonplace sentiment ; but, you see, I was 
 always a commonplace person/ added Hannah, smiling. 
 
 'In which case you would never have found it out/ 
 c 
 
18 HANNAH. 
 
 replied the countess, who had hitherto had few oppor- 
 tunities of any long talk with her governess on other 
 topics than the children. Now, having both an apti- 
 tude and a love for the study of character, she found 
 herself interested unawares in that grave, still, refined- 
 looking woman, who, though perhaps, as she said, a 
 little commonplace when in repose, was, when she 
 talked, capable of so much and such varied expression, 
 both of feature and of gesture for there is a language 
 of motion quite as plain as the language of form, and 
 of the two, perhaps, it is the more attractive. 
 
 She said to herself, this brilliant little lady, who had 
 seen so much of life of aristocratic life especially, and 
 of the terrible human passions that seethe and boil 
 under the smooth surface of elegant idleness she said 
 to herself, ' That face has a story in it.' 
 
 Yes, Miss Thelluson had had her story, early told 
 and quickly ended ; but it had coloured her whole life, 
 for all that. 
 
 She had no brothers ; but she had an orphan cousin, 
 of whom she was very fond. As childish playfellows, 
 the two always said they would marry one another, 
 which everybody laughed at as an excellent joke, until 
 it grew into earnest. Then Hannah's father, an emi- 
 nent physician, interfered. There was consumption in 
 the family, and the young man had already shown 
 ominous symptoms of it. His marrying anybody was 
 unwise ; his marrying a first cousin absolute insanity. 
 Dr. Thelluson, much as he blamed himself for allowing 
 the young people every chance of falling in love, when 
 it was most imprudent for them to marry, was yet too 
 good a man frantically to shut the stable-door after the 
 steed was stolen, and to overstrain parental authority to 
 cruelty. He did not forbid the marriage, but he re- 
 monstrated against it, both as a father and a physician, 
 in the strongest manner, and worked so much upon 
 Hannah's feelings, that she consented to be separated 
 entirely from her cousin for three years, until she came 
 
HANNAH. 19 
 
 of age. Her reason told "her that was no unfair test 
 of so youthful an attachment. Her father's secret 
 hope was that the test might fail, the affection wear 
 away, and the union which, though sanctioned by law 
 and custom, he believed nature totally disapproved of, 
 might never come about. 
 
 It never did. Long before the three years were 
 ended, young Thelluson died at Madeira of the family 
 disease. Hannah restored her betrothal ring to her 
 finger, saying calmly, ' I am married now/ and seemed 
 to bear her sorrow quietly enough at first. But the 
 quietness grew into a stupor of despair, ending in that 
 state of mind almost akin to madness, in which one 
 dwells hopelessly and agonizingly upon what might 
 have been ; for some people were cruel enough to hint 
 that a wife's care might have lengthened her lover's 
 life, and that his grief for Hannah's loss accelerated 
 his fatal disease. Many a time when her father looked 
 at her he almost wished he had let the hapless cousins 
 marry running all risks for themselves or their pos- 
 sible children. But all his life the physician had held 
 the doctrine that hereditary taint, physical or moral, 
 constitutes a stronger hindrance to marriage than any 
 social bar. He had acted according to his faith, and 
 he was not shaken from it because he had so keenly 
 suffered for it. 
 
 After a time Hannah's sorrow wore itself out, or 
 was blotted out by others following her father's 
 death, and the dispersion of the family. There was no 
 mother living; but there were three sisters at first, 
 then two, then only ^ne, her quiet, solitary self. 
 For her great grief had left upon her an ineffaceable 
 impression not exactly of melancholy, but of exceed- 
 ing quietness and settled loneliness of heart. She said 
 to herself, ' I never can suffer more than I have 
 suffered ; ' and thenceforward all vicissitudes of fate 
 became level to her at least, she thought so then. 
 
 Such was her story. It had never been very pub- 
 
20 HANNAH. 
 
 lie, and nobody ever talked of it or knew it now. 
 Lady Dunsmore had not the least idea of it, or she 
 would not have ended their conversation as she did. 
 
 ' Good-bye now, and remember you have my best 
 wishes av , even if you marry your brother-in-law. 
 It is not nearly so bad as marrying your cousin. But 
 J beg your pardon ; my tongue runs away with me. 
 A.11 I mean to say, seriously, is that, my husband being 
 one of those who uphold the bill for legalising such 
 marriages, I am well up on the subject, and we both 
 earnestly hope they will be legalised in time/ 
 
 ' Whether or not, it cannot concern me/ said Miss 
 Thelluson gently. 
 
 ' The remedying of a wrong concerns everybody a 
 little at least I think so. How society can forbid a 
 man's marrying his wife's sister, who is no blood-rela- 
 tion at all, and yet allow him to marry his cousin a 
 proceeding generally unwise, and sometimes absolutely 
 wicked I cannot imagine. But forgive me again; 
 I speak earnestly, for I feel earnestly/ 
 
 'I am sure of it/ said Miss Thelluson. 
 
 She was a little paler than usual ; but that was all ; 
 and when she had parted, quite affectionately, from 
 her pupils' mother, she went and sat in her own little 
 room as quiet as ever, except that she once or twice 
 turned round on her third finger its familiar ring, the 
 great red carbuncle, like a drop of blood, which had 
 belonged to her cousin Arthur. 
 
 'What a fancy of the countess's, to call me " young," 
 and suggest my marrying ! ' thought she, with a faint, 
 sad smile. ' No, I shall never marry anybody ; and 
 therefore it is kind of Heaven thus to make a home 
 for me, and, above all, to send me a child. A child 
 of my very own almost ; for she will never remember 
 any mother but me. How I wish she might call me 
 mother ! However, that would not do, perhaps. I 
 must be content with " auntie." But I shall have her 
 all to myself, nevertheless, and perhaps Mr. Rivers 
 
HANNAH. 21 
 
 may marry again, and then I would ask him to give 
 her up wholly to me. Only to think, me with a child ! 
 a little thing trotting after me and laughing in my 
 face a big girl growing up beside ine, a grown-up 
 daughter to comfort my old age oh, what a happy 
 woman I should be ! ' 
 
 So pondered she this lonely governess, this 'old 
 maid/ whose love-dreams were long ago vanished 
 and began unawares to let the past slip behind her and 
 look forward to the future ; to build and freight with 
 new hopes that tiny ship she that had never thought 
 to put to sea again to set her empty heart, with all 
 its capacity of loving, upon what ? A baby six months 
 old! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A HorsE on a hill. It has its advantages, and its 
 disadvantages. It is hard to climb to, and harder to 
 descend from. Everywhere round about you may see 
 from it ; but then everybody round about can see you. 
 It is like the city set on a hill, it cannot be hid. Its 
 light shines far ; but then the blacker is its darkness. 
 However, one need not carry out the metaphor, which 
 speaks for itself. 
 
 Hannah Thelluson's ideal of a house had always 
 been a house on a hill. She had a curious dislike to 
 living, either physically or morally, upon low ground. 
 She wanted plenty of breathing-room : space around 
 - ier and over her : freedom to look abroad on the earth 
 i nd up to the sky. And though her nature was neither 
 ambitious nor overbearing, she experienced even yet a 
 childish delight in getting to the top of things, in sur- 
 mounting and looking down upon difficulties, and in 
 feeling that there was nothing beyond her, nothing 
 unconquered between herself and the sky. At least, 
 that is the nearest description of a sentiment that was 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 quite indescribable, and yet as real as intangible fancies 
 often are. 
 
 Therefore it had given her a certain sensation of 
 pleasure to hear that Mr. Rivers had removed from his 
 house in the village, the associations of which he found 
 it impossible to bear, to another, on the top of Easter- 
 ham Hill, or Down, as it was generally called, being a 
 high open space, breezy and bright. On it he was 
 building a few cottages a cottage convalescent hos- 
 pital he meant it to be in memory of his late wife. 
 
 'I had planned a marble monument/ he wrote 
 to Hannah, ' a recumbent figure of herself, life-size, 
 with two angels watching at head and foot. But I 
 found this would cost nearly as much as the cottage, 
 and it struck me that Rosa would have liked something 
 that was not only a memorial of the dead, but a bless- 
 ing to the living.' 
 
 Hannah agreed with him, and that little circum- 
 stance gave her a favourable impression of her brother- 
 in-law. She was also touched by the minute arrange- 
 ments he made for her journey, a rather long one, and 
 her reception at its end. Some of his plans failed 
 he was not able to meet her himself, being sent for 
 suddenly to the Moat- House but the thoughtful kind- 
 ness remained, and Miss Thelluson was grateful. 
 
 She wound slowly up the hill in her brother-in- 
 law's comfortable carriage, and descended at his door, 
 the door of a much grander house than she expected 
 till she remembered that since Rosa's death Mr. Rivers's 
 income had been doubled by succeeding to the fortune 
 of a maternal uncle. With him. wealth accumulated 
 upon wealth, as it seems to do with some people ; per- 
 haps, alas ! as a balance-weight against happiness. 
 
 Miss Thelluson asked herself this question, in a sad 
 kind of way, when she entered the handsome modern 
 house very modern it seemed to her, who had been 
 living in old castles these two years, and very luxurious 
 too. She wondered much whether she should ieel at 
 
HANNAH. 23 
 
 home here ; able to be happy herself, or make the 
 widower happy the forlorn man, who had every bless- 
 ing in life except the crowning one of all, a good wife : 
 the ' gift that cometh from the Lord/ He had had it, 
 and it had been taken away. Was this worse or 
 better for him ? Hannah thought, with a compassion 
 for the living that almost lessened her grief for the 
 dead, how desolate he must often feel, sitting down to 
 his solitary meals, wandering through his empty gar- 
 den Rosa had so loved a garden and back again to 
 his silent room. How at every step, in everything 
 about him, he must miss his wife. A loss sharper 
 even than that one the sharpness of which she knew 
 so well. But then, she and Arthur had never been 
 married. 
 
 * I must try and help him as much as I can my 
 poor brother-in-law ! ' thought she to herself as she 
 came into the dreary house ; all the more dreary be- 
 cause it was such a handsome house ; and then she 
 thought no more either of it or its master. For did it 
 not contain what was infinitely more interesting to 
 her the baby :- 
 
 Some people will smile at what I am going to say : 
 and yet it is truth, a truth always solemn, sometimes 
 rather sad likewise. There are women in whom mother- 
 love is less an instinct or an affection than an actual 
 passion as strong as, sometimes even stronger than, 
 the passion of love itself ; to whom the mere thought 
 of little hands and little feet especially * my little 
 hands, my little feet/ in that fond appropriation with 
 which one poet-mother puts it gives a thrill of ecstasy 
 as keen as any love-dreams. This, whether or not 
 they have children of their own ; often, poor women ! 
 when they are lonely old maids. And such a one was 
 Hannah Thelluson. 
 
 As she entered the house (I feel the confession is 
 more pathetic than ridiculous) she actually trembled 
 with the delight of thinking that in a minute more 
 
24 HANNAH. 
 
 she would have her little niece in her arms ; and her 
 first question was, ' Where is the baby ? ' 
 
 Apparently a question quite unexpected from any 
 visitor in this house ; for the footman, much surprised, 
 passed it to the butler, and the butler circulated it 
 somewhere in the inferior regions: whence presently 
 there appeared a slatternly female servant. 
 
 ' I am Miss Thelluson, baby's aunt. I want to see 
 my little niece.' 
 
 Upon this the slatternly girl led the way up a 
 steep stair to the nursery. *It was a long, low, gloomy 
 room, which struck chilly on entering, even in full 
 summer, for its only window looked north-east, and 
 was shaded by an overhanging tree. It had in per- 
 fection the close nursery atmosphere of the old school, 
 whose chiefest horror seemed to be fresh air. Sunless, 
 smothery, dull, and cold, it was the last place in the 
 world for any young life to grow up in. It cast a 
 weight even upon the grown woman, who loved light 
 and air, and would never, either physically or men tally, 
 willingly walk in the gloom. 
 
 Miss Thelluson contemplated sadly that small pale 
 effigy of a child, which lay in the little crib, with the 
 last evening light slanting across it through a care- 
 lessly drawn curtain. It lay, not in the lovely atti- 
 tudes that sleeping children often assume, but flat upon 
 its back, its arms stretched out cruciform, and its tiny 
 feet extended straight out, almost like a dead child. 
 There was neither roundness nor colouring in the face, 
 and very little beauty. Only a certain pathetic peace, 
 not unlike the peace of death. 
 
 'Don't touch her/ whispered Miss Thelluson, as 
 the nurse was proceeding roughly to take up her 
 charge. ' Never disturb a sleeping child. I will wait 
 till to-morrow.' 
 
 And she stood and looked at it this sole relic of 
 poor Eosa ; this tiny creature, which was all that was 
 left of the Thelluson race, notable and honourable in 
 
HANNAH. 25 
 
 tts day, though long dwindled down into poverty and 
 obscurity. 
 
 As she looked, there came into Hannah's heart that 
 something mothers say they feel it at the instant 
 when God makes them living mothers of a living 
 babe ; and perhaps He puts it into the hearts of other 
 women, not mothers at all, in solemn, exceptional cases, 
 and for holy ends that passionate instinct of pro- 
 tection, tenderness, patience, self-denial ; of giving 
 everything and expecting nothing back, which consti- 
 tutes the true ideal of maternity. She did not lift the 
 child ; she would not allow herself even to kiss its little 
 curled-up fingers, for fear of waking it, but she con- 
 secrated herself to it from that moment, as only 
 women and mothers can, and do. 
 
 Nurse, who disliked her authority being set aside, 
 approached again. * Never mind waking it, miss. It 
 only cries a bit, and goes off to sleep again/ 
 
 But Hannah held her arm. 'No, no!' she said, 
 rather sharply ; * I will not have the child disturbed. 
 I can wait. It is my child.' 
 
 And she sat down on the rocking-chair by the crib- 
 side with the air of one who knew her own rights, 
 and was determined to have them. All her nervous 
 doubt of herself, her hesitation and timidity, vanished 
 together ; the sight before her seemed to make her 
 strong; strong as the weakest creatures are when the 
 maternal instinct comes into them. At the moment, 
 and for ever henceforth, Hannah felt that she could 
 have fought like any wild beast for the sake of that 
 little helpless babe. 
 
 She sat a long while beside it ; long enough to take 
 in pretty clearly the aspect of things around her. 
 Though she was an old maid, or considered herself 
 so, she had had a good deal of experience of family 
 life in the various nurseries of friends and employers ; 
 upon which her strong common sense and quick ob- 
 servation, had made many internal comments. She 
 
26 HANNAH. 
 
 letected at once here that mournful lack of the mother's 
 eye and hand ; the mother's care and delight in making 
 all things orderly and beautiful for the opening in- 
 telligence of her darling. It was quite enough to look 
 around the room to feel sure that the little sleeper 
 before her was nobody's darling. Cared for, of course, 
 up to a certain extent, in a stupid, mechanical way ; 
 but there was nobody to take up, with full heart, the 
 burden of motherhood, and do the utmost for the little 
 human being who, physiologists say, bears in body and 
 soul the impress of its first two years of life with it 
 to the grave. 
 
 ' And this duty falls to me ; God has given it to 
 me,' said Hannah Thelluson to herself. And without 
 a moment's questioning, or considering how far the 
 labour might outweigh the reward, or indeed whether 
 the reward would ever come at all, she added solemnly, 
 ' Thank God!' 
 
 *I shall be here again before bed- time,' said she 
 aloud to the nurse as she rose. 
 
 'You can't, miss,' returned the woman, evidently 
 bent on resistance ; ' I always goes to bed early, and I 
 locks my nursery-door after I've gone to bed.' 
 
 'That will not do,' said Miss Thelluson. 'I am 
 baby's aunt, as you know, and her father has given 
 her into my charge. The nursery must never be 
 locked against me day or night. Where is the key?' 
 She took it out of the door and put it into her pocket, 
 the nurse looking too utterly astonished to say a word. 
 ' I shall be back here again punctually at half- past nine.' 
 
 ' My first battle ! ' she thought, sighing, as she went 
 away to her own room. She was not fond of battles ; 
 still she could fight when there was something worth 
 fighting for ; and even her first hour in the widower's 
 household was sufficient to show her that the mistress 
 of it would require to have eyes like Argus, and a 
 heart as firm as a rock. This was natural ; like every- 
 thing else, quite natural : but it was not the less hard, 
 
HANNAH. 27 
 
 and it did not make her home-coming to the House 
 on the Hill more cheerful. 
 
 It was a new house comparatively, and everything 
 ahout it was new. Nothing could be more different 
 from the old-fashioned stateliness in which she had 
 lived at Lord Dunsmore's. But then there she was 
 a stranger ; this was home. She glanced through the 
 house in passing, and tried to admire it, for it was 
 her brother-in-law's own property, only lately bought. 
 Not that he liked it he had told her mournfully that 
 he neither liked nor disliked anything much now 
 but it was the most suitable house he could find. 
 
 She went out into the garden, and wept out a 
 heartful of tears in the last gleam of the twilight, then 
 she came back and dressed for the seven o'clock dinner, 
 for which the maid who appeared at the door, saying 
 she had been specially ordered to attend on Miss 
 Thelluson told her Mr. Rivers was sure to return. 
 
 * The first time master ever has returned, miss, to a 
 regular late dinner, since the poor mistress died.' 
 
 This, too, was a trial. As Hannah descended, 
 attired with her usual neatness, but in the thorough 
 middle-aged costume that she had already assumed, 
 there flashed across her a vision of poor Rosa, the last 
 time, though they little knew it was the last, that she 
 ran into her sister's room just before dinner; all in 
 white, her round rosy arms and neck gleaming under 
 the thin muslin, so happy herself, and brightening all 
 around her with her loving, lovesome ways. And 
 now, a mile distant, Rosa slept under the daisies. How 
 did her husband endure the thought ? 
 
 With one great sob Hannah smothered down these 
 remembrances. They would make the approaching 
 meeting more than painful intolerable. She felt as 
 if the first minute she looked into her brother-in-law's 
 face and grasped his hand, both would assuredly break 
 down, although over both had grown the outside com- 
 posure of a six-months- old sorrow. 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 lie himself seemed in dread of a 'scene/ and 
 watchful to avoid it, for instead of meeting her in 
 the drawing-room, she found him waiting for her at 
 the stair-foot, under the safe shelter of all the servants' 
 eyes. 
 
 1 1 am late/ he said ; ' I must apologise.' 
 
 Then they shook hands. Mr. Rivers's hand was 
 trembling, and very cold, but that was all. He said 
 nothing more, and led her at once into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 In such circumstances, how dreadful sometimes are 
 little things the little things that unconsciously crop 
 up, stinging like poisoned arrows. There was one 
 Hannah recalled it long afterwards, and so did others 
 dwelling malignly upon the innocent, publicly- 
 uttered, kindly words. 
 
 The table had been laid for two persons, master and 
 mistress, and the butler held for Miss Thelluson the 
 mistress's chair. Struck with a sudden pang, she 
 hesitated glanced towards Mr. Rivers. 
 
 ' Take it/ he said, in a smothered kind of voice ; 
 * it is your place now. I hope you will keep it always.' 
 So she sat down, in Rosa's seat ; with Rosa's husband 
 opposite. How terrible for him to see another face in 
 the stead of that dear, lovely one over which the 
 coffin-lid had closed ! It was her duty, and she went 
 through it; but she felt all dinner-time as if sitting 
 upon thorns. 
 
 During the safe formalities of the meal, she had 
 leisure to take some observation of her brother-in-law. 
 He was greatly altered. There had passed over him 
 that great blow the first grief of a lifetime; and it 
 had struck him down as a man of naturally buoyant 
 temperament usually is struck by any severe shock 
 sinking under it utterly. Even as sometimes those 
 whom in full health disease has smitten, die quicker 
 than those who have been long inured to sickness and 
 suffering. 
 
HANNAH. 29 
 
 His sister-in-law observed him compassionately but 
 sharply ; more sharply than she had ever done before. 
 The marriage having been all settled without her, she 
 had not to criticise but to accept him as Rosa's choice, 
 and had actually only seen him twice on the wedding- 
 day, and the one brief visit afterwards. She had 
 noticed him little until now. But now, when they 
 were to live together as brother and sister ; when he 
 expected her to be his friend and companion, daily 
 and hourly ; to soothe him and sympathise with him, 
 put up with all his moods and humours, consult him 
 on all domestic matters, and, in short, stand to him in 
 the closest relation that any woman can stand to any 
 man, unless she is his mother or his wife, the case 
 *vas altered. It behoved her to find out, as speedily as 
 possible, what sort of man Mr. Rivers was. 
 
 He had a handsome face, and yet this 'yet' is 
 not so unfair as it seems it was likewise a good face ; 
 full of feeling and expression. A little feminine, per- 
 haps he was like his mother, the first Lady Rivers, 
 who had been a very beautiful woman ; and once 
 Hannah had thought it boyishly bright too bright 
 to interest her much, but it was not so now. The 
 sunshine had all gone out of it, yet it had not attained 
 the composed dignity of grief. Irritable, restless, 
 gloomy, morbid, he seemed in that condition into 
 which a naturally good-tempered man is prone to fall 
 when some great shock has overset his balance, and 
 made him the exact opposite of what he once was 
 hating everything and everybody about him, and him- 
 self most of all. 
 
 Hannah sighed as she listened, though trying not 
 to listen, to his fault-finding with the servants, some- 
 times sotto voce, sometimes barely restrained by his 
 lingering sense of right from breaking out into actual 
 anger he who was, Rosa used to assert, the sweetest- 
 tempered man, the most perfect gentleman, in all the 
 world. Yet even his crossness was pathetic like the 
 
00 HANNAH. 
 
 naughtiness of a sick child, who does not know what 
 is the matter with him. Hannah felt so sorry for him ! 
 She longed to make excuse for these domestic delin- 
 quencies, and tell him she would soon put all right; 
 as she knew she could, having been her father's house- 
 keeper when she was a girl of sixteen. 
 
 She was bold enough faintly to hint this, when 
 they got into the drawing-room, where some trivial 
 11 -^lect had annoyed him excessively, much more than 
 it deserved ; and she offered to rectify it. 
 
 ' Will you really ? Will you take all these common 
 household cares upon yourself?' 
 
 ' It is a woman's business ; and I like it.' 
 
 ' So she used to say. She used constantly to be 
 longing for you, and telling me how comfortable 
 everything was when her sister was housekeeper at 
 home. She she ' 
 
 It was the first time the desolate man had ventured 
 off the safe track of commonplace conversation, and 
 though he only spoke of Rosa as ' she,' it seemed 
 impossible to him to call her by her name the mere 
 reference to his dead wife was more than he could 
 bear. All the flood-gates of his grief burst open. 
 
 'Isn't this a change? a terrible, terrible change?' 
 he cried, looking up to Hannah with anguish in his 
 eyes. A child's anguish could not buve been more 
 appealing, more utterly undisguised. And, sitting 
 down, he covered his face with his hands, and wept 
 also like a child. 
 
 Hannah wept too, but not with such a passionate 
 abandonment ; it was against her nature, woman 
 though she was. Her own long-past sorrow, which, 
 she fancied, most resembled his, and had first drawn 
 her to him with a strange sympathy, had been a grief 
 totally silent. From the day of Arthur's death she 
 never mentioned her cousin's name. Consolation she 
 had neither asked nor received from any human 
 being this sort of affliction could not be comforted. 
 
HANNAH. 31 
 
 Therefore she scarcely understood, at first, how 
 Bernard Rivers, when the seal was once broken, 
 poured out the whole story of his loss in a continuous 
 stream. For an hour or more he sat beside her, 
 talking of Rosa's illness and death, and all he had 
 suffered ; then going over and over again, with a 
 morbid intensity, his brief, happy married life ; appa- 
 rently finding in this overflow of heart the utmost 
 relief, and even alleviation. 
 
 Hannah listened, somewhat surprised, but still she 
 listened. The man and the woman were as unlike as 
 they well could be ; yet, thus thrown together 
 bound together, as it were, by the link of a common 
 grief, their very dissimilarity, and the necessity it 
 involved of each making allowances for, and striving 
 heartily not to misjudge, the other, produced a certain 
 mutual interest, which rendered even their first sad 
 evening not quite so sad as it might have been. 
 
 After a while, Hannah tried to lure Mr. Rivers out 
 of his absorbing and pitiably self-absorbed grief into 
 a few practical matters ; for she .was anxious to get 
 as clear an idea as she could of her own duties in 
 the household and the parish : her duties only ; her 
 position, and her rights if she had any would, she 
 knew, fall into their fitting places by-and-by. 
 
 'Yes, I have a large income,' said Mr. Rivers, 
 sighing; 'far too large for me and that poor little 
 baby. She would have enjoyed it, and spent it wisely 
 and well. You shall spend it instead. You shall 
 have as much money as you want, weekly or monthly ; 
 just as she had. Oh, how clever she was ! how she 
 used to bring me her books to reckon over, and make 
 such fun out of them, and fall into such pretty despair 
 if they were the least bit wrong. My own Rosa ! 
 my merry, happy wife! yes, I know I made her 
 happy ! She told me so, almost her last words.' 
 
 4 Thank God for that!' 
 
 ' I do.' 
 
32 HANNAH. 
 
 Hannah tried to put into the heart-stricken man 
 the belief essentially a woman's that a perfect love, 
 even when lost, is still an eternal possession a pain 
 so sacred that its deep peace often grows into absolute 
 content, But he did not seem to understand this at 
 all. His present loss the continually aching want 
 the daily craving for love, and help, and sympathy 
 these were all he felt, and felt with a keenness in- 
 describable. How could the one ever be filled up and 
 the other supplied ? 
 
 Hannah could not tell. She grew frightened at 
 the responsibility she had undertaken. A kind of 
 hopelessness came over her; she almost wished her- 
 self safe back again in the quiet school-room with 
 her little Ladies Dacre. There, at least, she knew 
 all her duties, and could fulfil them ; here they already 
 seemed so complicated that how she should first get 
 them clear, and then perform them, was more than 
 she knew. However, it was not her way to meet evils 
 beforehand, or to try and put more than the day's 
 work into the day. She was old enough to have 
 ceased to struggle after the impossible. 
 
 So she sat watching, with a pity almost motherly, 
 the desolate man, with whom, it seemed, for a time at 
 least, her lot was cast ; inwardly praying that she 
 might have strength to do her duty by him, and 
 secretly hoping that it might not be for long, that 
 his grief, by its very wildness, might wear itself out ; 
 and the second marriage, which Lady Dunsmore had 
 prognosticated as the best thing which could happen 
 to him, might gradually come about. 
 
 'Kosa would have wished it even Rosa/ the 
 sister thought, choking down a not unnatural pang, 
 ' could she see him as I see him now.' 
 
 It was a relief to catch an excuse for a few 
 minutes' absence; she took out her watch, and 
 told her brother-in-law it was time to go up to the 
 nursery. 
 
HANNAH. 33 
 
 'Nurse does not like it I see that; but still I 
 must go. Every night before I sleep I must take my 
 latest peep at baby.' 
 
 'Ah, that reminds me I have never asked you 
 what you think of baby. I don't know how it is 
 I fear you will think me very wicked/ added the 
 widower, sighing, ' but I cannot take the interest I 
 ought to take in that poor child. I suppose men don't 
 care for babies not at first and then her birth 
 cost me so much ! J 
 
 'It was God's will things should be thus/ an- 
 swered Hannah gravely. 'It should not make you 
 dislike your child Rosa's child/ 
 
 'God forbid ! only that I cannot feel as I ought 
 to feel towards the poor little thing/ 
 
 ' You will in time/ And Hannah tried to draw 
 a picture such as might touch any father's heart 
 of his wee girl toddling after him ; his big girl taking 
 his hand, and beginning to ask him questions; his 
 sweet, grown-up girl becoming his housekeeper, com- 
 panion, and friend. 
 
 Mr. Rivers only shook his head. ' Ah, but that is 
 a long time to wait. I want a friend and companion 
 now. How am I ever to get through these long, 
 lonely years ! ' 
 
 ' God will help you/ said Hannah solemnly, and 
 then felt half ashamed, remembering she was preach- 
 ing to a clergyman. But he was a man, too, with 
 all a man's weaknesses, every one of which she was 
 sure to find out ere long. Even already she had found 
 out a good many. Evidently he was of a warm, 
 impulsive, affectionate nature, sure to lay upon her all 
 his burdens. She would have the usual lot of sisters, 
 to share most of the cares and responsibilities of a 
 wife, without a wife's blessings or a wife's love. 
 
 ' I must go now. Good night/ she said. 
 
 'Good night? Nay, surely you are coming back 
 to me again? You don't know what a relief it has 
 
 r 
 
34 HANNAH. 
 
 been to talk to you. You cannot tell how terrible to 
 me are these long, lonely evenings/ 
 
 A moan, to Hannah incomprehensible ; for her 
 solitude had no terrors never had had. In early 
 youth she would sit and dream for hours of the future 
 a future which never came. Now she had done 
 with dreaming; the present sufficed her and the 
 past. She liked thinking of her dear ones living, 
 her still dearer ones dead, and found in their peaceful, 
 unseen companionship all she required. Never was 
 there a person less dependent on outward society. 
 And yet when she had it she rather enjoyed it only 
 she never craved after it, nor was it any necessity of 
 her existence. On such women, who themselves can 
 stand alone, others always come and lean men espe- 
 cially. 
 
 As Miss Thelluson quitted him, Mr. Rivers looked 
 after her with those restless, miserable eyes of his, 
 from which the light of happiness seemed fled for 
 ever. 
 
 'Pray come back soon/ he said, imploringly. 'I 
 do so hate my own company.' 
 
 'Poor man! How sad it would be if we women 
 felt the same ! ' thought Hannah. And she, who un- 
 derstood, and could endure, not only solitude but 
 sorrow, took some comfort to herself; a little more, 
 also, in the hope of imparting comfort. 
 
 A child asleep ! Painters draw it ; poets sing about 
 it ; yet the root of its mystery remains a mystery still 
 About it seem to float the secrets of earth and heaven 
 life and death : whence we come, and whither we 
 go : what God does with and in us, and what He 
 expects us to do for ourselves. It is as if, while we 
 gaze, we could catch drifting past us a few threads 
 of that wonderful web which, in its entirety, He 
 nolds solely in His own hands. 
 
 Hannah Thelluson looked on this sleeper of six 
 months old with a feeling of not merely tenderness, 
 
HANNAH. 35 
 
 but awe. She listened to the soft breathing which 
 might have to draw its last sigh who knows? per- 
 haps eighty years hence, when she and all her gene- 
 ration were dead, buried, and forgotten. The so- 
 lemnity of the charge she had undertaken came upon 
 her tenfold. She stood in the empty nursery, appa- 
 rently left deserted for hours, for the fire was out, and 
 the candle flickered in its socket. Strange shadows 
 came and went ; among them one might almost 
 imagine human shapes perhaps the dead mother 
 gliding in to look at her lonely child. Even as in 
 some old ballad about a cruel stepmother 
 
 ' The nicht was lang and the bairnies grat, 
 Their mither she under the mools heard that, 
 
 ' She washed the tane and buskit her fair, 
 She kamed and plaited the tither's hair;' 
 
 and then reproached the new wife, saying the words 
 came vividly back upon Hannah's mind 
 
 ' I left ye candles and groff wax-li^ht 
 My bairnies sleep i' the mirk o' night. 
 
 1 1 left ye mony braw bolsters blae 
 My bairnies ligg i' the bare strae.' 
 
 A notion pathetic in its very extravagance. To Han- 
 nah Thelluson it scarcely seemed wonderful that any 
 mother should rise up from * under the mools/ and 
 come thus to the rescue of her children. 
 
 * Oh, if this baby's father ever brings home a 
 strange woman to be unkind to her, what shall I do ? 
 Anything, I think, however desperate. Rosa, my 
 poor Rosa, you may rest in peace ! God do so to me, 
 and more also, as the Bible says, if ever I forsake vour 
 child/ 
 
 While she spoke, half aloud, there was a tap at 
 the door. 
 
 'Come in, nurse.' But it was not the nurse; it 
 was the father. 
 
36 HANNAH. 
 
 'I could not rest. I thought I \*ould come too. 
 They never will let me look at baby.' 
 
 'Look then. Isn't she sweet? See how her 
 little fingers curl round her papa's hand already.' 
 
 Mr. Rivers bent over the crib not unmoved. 
 ' My poor little girl ! Do you think, Aunt Hannah, 
 that she will ever* be fond of me ? ' 
 'I am sure she will.' 
 Then I shall be so fond of her.' 
 Hannah smiled at the deduction. It was not her 
 notion of loving especially of loving a child. She 
 had had enough to do with children to feel keenly the 
 truth that, mostly, one has to give all and expect 
 nothing at least, for many years. But it was useless 
 to say this, or to put any higher ideal of paternal affec- 
 tion into the young father's head. He was so com- 
 pletely a young man still, she said to herself; and 
 felt almost old enough, and experienced enough, to be 
 his mother. 
 
 Nevertheless Mr. Rivers seemed much affected by 
 the sight of his child, evidently rather a rare occur- 
 rence. 
 
 ' I think she is growing prettier/ he said. ' Any- 
 how, she looks very peaceful and sweet. I should like 
 to take her and cuddle her, only she would wake and 
 scream.' 
 
 ' I am afraid she would,' said Hannah, smiling. 
 'You had better go away. See, there comes nurse.' 
 Who entered, in somewhat indignant astonishment, 
 at finding not only Miss Thelluson, but Mr. Rivers, 
 intruding on her domains. Whereupon the latter, 
 with true masculine cowardice, disappeared at once. 
 But when Aunt Hannah who accepted gladly the 
 ^welcome name rejoined him in the drawing-room, 
 she found him pacing to and fro with agitated steps. 
 
 ' Come in, sister, my good sister. Tell me you 
 don't think me such a brute as I have been saying 
 to myself I am. Else why should that woman have 
 
HANNAH. 3? 
 
 thought it so extraordinary my coining to look at 
 my own child ? But I do not mean to be a brute. I 
 am only a miserable man, indifferent to everything in 
 this mortal world. Tell me, shall I ever get out of 
 this wretched state of mind ? Shall I ever be able to 
 endure my life again?' 
 
 What could Hannah say ? or would there be any 
 good in saying it ? Can the experience of one heart 
 teach another ? or must each find out the lesson for 
 itself? I fear so. Should she as, with the strange 
 want of reticence which men sometimes exhibit much 
 more than we women, he poured forth the anguish of 
 his life should she open to him that long hidden and 
 now healed, though never forgotten, woe of hers ? 
 But no ! she could not. It was too sacred. All she 
 found possible was gently to lead him back to their 
 old subject of talk commonplace, practical things 
 the daily interests and duties by which, as a clergy- 
 man, he was necessarily surrounded, and out of which 
 he might take some comfort. She was sure he might 
 if he chose : she told him so. 
 
 * Oh, no/ he said bitterly. ' Comfort is vain. I 
 am a broken-down man. I shall never be of any 
 good to anybody ! But you will take care of my 
 house and my child. Do just as you fancy. Have 
 everything your own way/ 
 
 'In one thing I should like to have at once m^ 
 own way/ said she, rushing desperately upon a sub- 
 ject which she had been resolving on all the evening. 
 ' 1 want to change rooms with baby.' 
 
 ' Why ? Is not yours comfortable ? Those horrid 
 servants of mine ! I desired them to give you the 
 pleasantest room in the house/ 
 
 ' So it is ; and for that very reason baby ought to 
 have it. A delicate child like her should live in 
 sunshine, physically and morally, all day long. The 
 nursery only catches the sun for half -an -hour in the 
 day/ ' 
 
38 HANNAH. 
 
 ' How can you tell, when you have not been twelve 
 hours in the house?' 
 
 She touched the tiny compass which hung at her 
 watch-chain. 
 
 'What a capital idea! What a very sensible 
 woman you must be!' And Mr. Bivers smiled for 
 the first time that evening. Miss Thelluson smiled too. 
 
 'What would become of a governess if she were 
 not sensible ? Then I may have my way ?' 
 
 'Of course! Only what shall I say to grand- 
 mamma ? She chose the nursery, and was quite con- 
 tent with it.' 
 
 ' Grandmamma is probably one of the old school, 
 to whom light and air were quite unnecessary lux- 
 uries nay, rather annoyances/ 
 
 ' Yet the old school brought up their children to be 
 as healthy as ours.' 
 
 ' Because they were probably stronger than ours : 
 we have to pay for the error of a prior generation; 
 or else the strong ones only lived, the weakly were 
 killed off pretty fast. But I beg your pardon. You set 
 me on my hobby a governess's hobby the brmging- 
 up of the new generation. Besides, you know the 
 proverb about the perfectness of old bachelors' wives 
 and old maids' children.' 
 
 ' You are not like an old maid, and still less like 
 a governess.' He meant this for a compliment, but 
 it was not accepted as such. 
 
 ' Nevertheless, I am both,' answered Miss Thel- 
 luson gravely. ' Nor am I ashamed of it either.' 
 
 ' Certainly not ; there is nothing to be ashamed 
 of,' said Mr. Rivers, colouring. He could not bear 
 in the smallest degree to hurt people's feelings, and 
 had painfully sensitive feelings of his own. Then 
 came an awkward pause, after which conversation 
 flagged to a considerable degree. 
 
 Hannah began to think, what in the wide world 
 should she do if she and her brother-in-law had thus 
 
HANNAH. 39 
 
 to sit opposite to one another, evening after evening, 
 through the long Winter's nights, thrown exclusively 
 upon each other's society, bound to be mutually agree- 
 able, or, at any rate, not disagreeable, yet lacking the 
 freedom that exists between husband and wife, or 
 brother and sister who have grown up together, and 
 been used to one another all their lives It was a po- 
 sition equally difficult and anomalous. She wished 
 she had known Mr. Rivers more intimately during 
 Rosa's lifetime ; yet that would have availed her little, 
 for even that intimacy would necessarily have been 
 limited. A reticent woman never, under any cir- 
 cumstances, cares to be very familiar with another 
 woman's husband, even though he be the husband of 
 her own sister. She may like him sincerely, he may 
 be to her a most true and affectionate friend, but to 
 have his constant, exclusive society, day after day and 
 evening after evening, she would either find extremely 
 irksome or, if she did not God help her! Even 
 under the most innocent circumstances such an attrac- 
 tion would be a sad nay, a fatal thing, to both 
 parties. People talk about open jealousies ; but the 
 secret heart-burnings that arise from misunderstood, 
 half-misunderstood, or wholly false positions between 
 men and women, are much worse. It is the unuttered 
 sorrows, the unadmitted and impossible-to-be-avenged 
 wrongs, which cause the sharpest pangs of existence. 
 
 Not that Miss Thelluson thought about these 
 things ; indeed, she was too much perplexed and be- 
 wildered by her new position to think much about 
 anything beyond the moment, but she felt sufficiently 
 awkward and uncomfortable to make her seize eagerly 
 upon any convenient topic of conversation. 
 
 ' Are they all well at the Moat-House ? I suppose 
 I shall have the pleasure of seeing some of your 
 family to-morrow ? ' 
 
 'If if you will take the trouble of calling there. 
 I must apologise' and he looked more apologetic 
 
40 HANNAH. 
 
 than seemed even necessary ' I believe Lady Elvers 
 ought to call upon you ; but she is growing old now. 
 You must make allowances/ 
 
 His was a tell-tale face. Hannah guessed at once 
 that she would have a difficult part to play between 
 her brother-in-law and his family. But she cared not. 
 She seemed not to care much for anything or anybody 
 now except that little baby up- stairs. 
 
 ' One always makes allowances for old people/ an- 
 swered she gently. 
 
 * And for young people, too/ continued Mr. Rivers, 
 with some anxiety. ' My sisters are so gay so care- 
 less-hearted thoughtless, if you will.' 
 
 Hannah smiled. * I think I shall have too busy a 
 life to be likely to see much of your sisters. And, I 
 promise you, I will, as you say, "make allowances" 
 except in one thing/ And there came a sudden 
 flash into the deep-set grey eyes, which made Mr. 
 Rivers start, and doubt if his sister-in-law was such 
 a very quiet woman after all. * They must not in- 
 terfere with me in my bringing-up of my sister's 
 child. There, I fear, they will find me a little 
 difficult.' 
 
 ' No ; you will have no difficulty there/ said he, 
 hastily. * In truth, my people live too much a life 
 of society to trouble themselves about domestic con- 
 cerns, especially babies. They scarcely ever see Rosie ; 
 and when they do they always moan over her say 
 what a pity it is she wasn't a boy, and that she is so 
 delicate she will never be reared. But, please God, 
 they may be mistaken.' 
 
 ' They shall/ said Hannah, between her teeth ; 
 feeling that, if she could so bargain with Providence, 
 she would gladly exchange ten or twenty years of her 
 own pale lite for that little life just beginning, the 
 destiny of which none could foresee. 
 
 Mr. Rivers went on talking. It seemed such a 
 relief to him to talk. 
 
HANNAH. 41 
 
 'Of course, my father and they all would have 
 liked a boy best My eldest brother, you are aware 
 well, poor fellow, he grows worse instead of better. 
 None of us ever see him now. I shall be the last of 
 my name. A name which has descended in an un- 
 broken line, they say, for centuries. We are supposed 
 to have been De la Riviere, and to have come over 
 with William the Conqueror. Not that I care much 
 for this sort of thing/ And yet he looked as if he 
 did, a little; and, standing by his fireside, tall and 
 handsome, with his regular Norman features, and 
 well-knit Norman frame, he was not an unworthy re- 
 presentative of a race which must have had sufficient 
 elements of greatness, physical and moral, to be able 
 to keep itself out of obscurity all these centuries. ' I 
 am rather Whiggish myself; but Sir Austin is a Tory 
 of the old school, and has certain crotchets about keep- 
 ing up the family. Things are just a little hard for 
 my father.' 
 
 ' What is hard ? I beg your pardon I am afraid 
 I was not paying much attention to what you said 
 just then. I thought/ Hannah laughed and blushed 
 a little, * I thought I heard the baby/ 
 
 Mr. Rivers laughed too. * The baby will be Aunt 
 Hannah's idol, I see that. Don't spoil her, that is 
 all. Grandmamma is always warning me that she 
 must not be spoiled.' Then seeing the same ominous 
 flash in Miss Thelluson's eye, he added, ' Nay, nay ; 
 you shall have Rosie all to yourself, never fear. I 
 am only too thankful to have you here. I hope you 
 will make yourself happy. Preserve for me my fragile 
 little flower, my only child, and I shall bless you all 
 my days.' 
 
 Hannah silently extended her hand : her brother- 
 in-law grasped it warmly. Tears stood in both their 
 eyes, but still the worst of this meeting was over. 
 They had reached the point when they could talk 
 calmly of ordinary things, and consult together over 
 
42 HANNAH. 
 
 the motherless child, who was now first object to both. 
 And though, whether the widower felt it or not, 
 Hannah still felt poor Rosa's continual presence, as it 
 were ; heard her merry voice in pauses of conversa- 
 tion ; saw the shadow of her dainty little form stand- 
 ing by her husband's side, these remembrances she 
 knew were morbid, and not to be encouraged. They 
 would fade, and they ought to fade, gradually and 
 painlessly, in the busy anxieties of real life. Which 
 of us, in dying, would wish it to be otherwise? 
 "Would we choose to be to our beloved a perpetually 
 aching grief, or a tender, holy memory ? I think, 
 the latter. Hannah, who knew something about sor- 
 row, thought so too. 
 
 ' Good night,' she said, rising not regretfully the 
 instant the clock struck ten. * I am an early bird, 
 night and morning. Shall you object to that? No 
 house goes well unless the mistress is early in the 
 morning/ 
 
 The moment she had said the word she would 
 have given anything to unsay it. That sweet, dead 
 mistress, who used to come fluttering down-stairs like 
 a white bird, with a face fresh as a rose, would 
 the time ever come when her husband had forgotten 
 her? 
 
 Not now, at any rate. 'Yes/ he answered, with 
 evident pain ; ' yes ; you are the mistress here now. 
 I put you exactly in her place, to manage every- 
 thing as she did. She would wish it so. Oh, if we 
 only had her back again! just for one week, one 
 day ! But she never will come back any more ! ' 
 
 He turned away ; the forlorn man whom God had 
 smitten with the heaviest sorrow, the sharpest loss, 
 that a man can know. What consolation could Han- 
 nah offer him ? None, except the feeble one that, in 
 some measure, she could understand his grief; because 
 over her love too the grave had closed. For a moment 
 she thought she would say this ; but her lips, when 
 
HANNAH. 43 
 
 she opened them, seemed paralysed. Not yet, at any 
 rate, not yet. Not till she knew him better, and, 
 perhaps, he her. 
 
 So she only took his hand, and again said 'Good 
 night ; ' adding softly, ' God bless you and yours ! ' 
 
 1 He has blessed us in sending Aunt Hannah to 
 take care of us.' 
 
 And so that first evening, which she had looked 
 forward to with no small dread, was over and done. 
 
 But long after Hannah had retired, she heard her 
 brother-in-law walking about the house, with restless 
 persistency, opening and shutting door after door, 
 then ascending to his own room with weary steps, 
 and locking himself in not to sleep, for he had told 
 her that he often lay awake till dawn. She did not 
 sleep either; her thoughts were too busy, and the 
 change in her monotonous life too sudden and com- 
 plete for anything like repose. 
 
 She sat at her window and looked out. It was a 
 goodly night, and the moon made everything bright 
 as day. All along the hill-top was a clear view, but 
 the valley below was filled with mist, under which its 
 features, whether beautiful or not, were utterly indis- 
 tinguishable. That great white sea of vapour looked 
 as mysterious as the to-morrow into which she could 
 not penetrate ; the new life, full of new duties and 
 ties, now opening before her just when she thought 
 all were ended. It interested her a little. She won- 
 dered vaguely how things would turn out, just as she 
 wondered how the valley, hid under the misty sea, 
 would look at six o'clock next morning. But soon 
 her mind went back, as it always did in the moon- 
 light, to her own silent past her own people, her 
 father, mother, sisters, all dead and buried to her 
 lost Arthur, with whom life too was quite done. He 
 seemed to be saying to her, not near, for he had been 
 dead so long that even his memory had grown phan- 
 tom-like and far away, but whispering from some 
 
44 HANNAH. 
 
 distant sphere, words she had read somewhere the 
 other day 
 
 ' maid most dear, I am not here, 
 
 I have no place, no part : 
 No dwelling more on sea or shore 
 But only in thy heart.' 
 
 ' In my heart ! in my heart ! ' she repeated to her- 
 self, and thought how impossible it was that any living 
 love could ever have supplanted ever should sup- 
 plant the dead. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THIS is no sensational or exceptional history, but one 
 that might happen does happen continually. The 
 persons herein described are just ordinary people, 
 neither ideally good nor extraordinary bad. Not so 
 weak as to be the mere sport of circumstances, yet 
 human enough to be influenced thereby, as we all are. 
 In short, neither heroes nor heroines, but men and 
 women the men and women of whom society is 
 mainly composed, and for which government has to 
 legislate. 
 
 Hannah Thelluson was no heroine, Bernard Rivers 
 no hero ; and they had not lived many days under 
 the same roof before they made that common dis- 
 covery more especially as they had plenty of spare 
 time in which to make it ; for, the fine Autumn 
 melting in continuous rain, no visitors came near the 
 House on the Hill. Not even from the Moat-House. 
 Miss Thelluson had called there, as she promised; 
 but the family were out driving. Next day a footman 
 brought her the cards of Lady and the Misses Rivers, 
 with an apology for not calling, on account of the rain. 
 
 ' They will ask you to dinner next ; my people 
 are very particular on points of etiquette/ observed 
 Mr. Rivers, evidently annoyed. 
 
HANNAH. 45 
 
 But Hannah was not annoyed at all. Not even 
 when the invitation never came, and the rain cleared 
 up ; yet somehow or other she had been nearly three 
 weeks at Easterham without having once met her 
 brother-in-law's family. 
 
 Of Mr. Rivers himself she had enough and to 
 spare. It is a severe trial for any two people to be 
 thrown on one another's exclusive society at meal- 
 times and all other times that politeness requires 
 striving in a hopeless manner to make conversation, 
 eager to find out and seize upon the smallest point of 
 mutual interest which will break the dull monotony 
 of the time. What they were to her brother-in-law 
 Hannah could not tell, but to her the first four days 
 seemed like fourteen. 
 
 It was not from the dulness, which she would 
 have put up with, being a very patient woman ; but 
 Mr. Rivers sometimes vexed her exceedingly. His 
 desultory, lazy way of hanging about the house ; his 
 variableness; his irritability; and, above all, his in- 
 difference and carelessness about everybody and every- 
 thing, were to a woman who all her life had found 
 plenty to do, and if she could not find work, made it 
 utterly incomprehensible. 
 
 'But I suppose it is because I am a woman, and 
 have never been used to live with any man except 
 my father, and he was not a man, he was an angel ! ' 
 
 So she argued with herself, and ' did her duty/ as 
 <she considered it, to the full ; placing herself at Mr. 
 Rivers's beck and call every hour in the day, following 
 him about obediently, as he evidently liked to be fol- 
 lowed, for his craving after sympathy and his horror 
 of solitude were almost painful to witness ; in short, 
 trying to devote herself to him as a nurse does to a 
 sickly, naughty child naughty because sickly. But 
 she did not enjoy this task. His unhappy, restless face 
 made her heart ache ; his aimless, useless life afflicted 
 her conscience. A. man, a father, a clergyman, surely 
 
46 HANNAH. 
 
 he was made for better things. If Heaven had taken 
 away his delights, his duties still were left him. He 
 ought to rouse himself. 
 
 And one day, driven almost to desperation by the 
 way in which he had done nothing hour after hour but 
 moon about and ' bother ' her, as an idle, melancholy 
 man does bother a busy woman and Hannah had not 
 been twenty-four hours in that chaotic, headless house 
 before her head and hands were quite full of business 
 she ventured to hint this. 
 
 ' Work ! ' he answered. ' I have no work ; nothing 
 that I care to do. She always did everything with 
 me; we went about the parish together; she used to 
 call herself my curate in petticoats; and the curate 
 was much more useful than the vicar, I believe. Oh, 
 Hannah ! you knew what she was, but you never knew 
 what she was to me ! ' 
 
 A tender idealization, perhaps ; but the sister felt 
 it deeply. Every memory of poor Rosa was most 
 sacred to her heart too. 
 
 'But/ she reasoned, 'is there nothing you could 
 do, if only for Rosa's sake ? She could not bear to 
 see the parish neglected, as you say it is. She would 
 like you to look after the poor and the sick, and carry 
 them comfort/ 
 
 ' I carry comfort ! ' 
 
 ' Those can, who have known sorrow.' 
 
 The widower looked at her, uncomprehendingly, 
 with his wild, wistful, miserable eyes this woman so 
 quiet, so gentle, yet somewhat sad too. 
 
 ' You have known sorrow?' 
 
 'I have.' 
 
 ' Can you teach me how to bear mine ?' 
 
 What she answered was very little ; but it was to 
 the purpose, something like what the Lord said to the 
 man sick of palsy what He says to every man who 
 is sinking under the \ ara^ysis of grief, ' Rise up and 
 walk!' She told him, in plain words that, instead of 
 
HANNAH. 47 
 
 sifting at home to mourn, he ought to go out and 
 work. 
 
 ' I would, only I have no heart to go alone. There 
 is an endless number of parish visits due where she 
 always went with me. If ' 
 
 He hesitated. Hannah hesitated too. It seemed 
 usurping so pointedly the place of the dead ; and yet 
 that dreary, helpless, appealing look of the lonely 
 man ! 
 
 * If you like that is, if you do not dislike my 
 coming, and I can be of any use to you ' 
 
 * Would you go with me ? That would be so very 
 kind. Only this muddy, damp day ' 
 
 * Oh, I never mind mud or rain ! ' 
 
 ' Nor trouble, nor fatigue, nor anything else un- 
 pleasant, so long as you can do a kindness. 8he always 
 said so, and now I have found it out for myself/ 
 
 Hannah smiled. Until now she had no idea whether 
 her brother-in-law liked her or not, and she was not 
 above the pleasantness of being liked. ' Suppose, then, 
 I go and put on my bonnet at once ?' And as she did 
 so she caught a sight of her own face in the glass 
 smiling. ' If he likes me I may get some influence 
 over him, so as to make my duty easier. And I will 
 try to see his faults less plainly, and his good points 
 more plainly, as people should who are obliged to live 
 together. How shall I be able to teach my little girlie 
 to love her father if I do not love him myself a little ? 
 I may in time ! ' 
 
 And she went down-stairs with a more cheerful 
 heart. 
 
 After that, nearly every day, she and 'the parson ' 
 went out together, and he made her acquainted with 
 all the poor people in the village. Only the poor ; the 
 few big houses there were taking their cue from the 
 biggest of all the Moat-House or from some other 
 mysterious reason, into which Miss Thelluson did not 
 care to penetrate, but which apparently annoyed 
 
48 HANNAH. 
 
 Mr. Rivers a good deal of these she saw nothing. 
 They did not call. 
 
 Little she cared ! Every minute of her day was 
 occupied. Household affairs, parish work, the endless 
 help that her brother-in-law soon came to expect from 
 her ; often Hannah smiled to herself at finding that 
 before her new life had lasted twenty days, she was 
 growing a busier woman than ever too busy to heed 
 outside things. Besides, in addition to all this, there 
 had come over her a change which made her feel as if 
 outside things never could affect her any more. She 
 had fallen in love. 
 
 Smile not, readers, masculine readers especially, 
 who think that we women can fall in love with no- 
 thing but your noble selves. The object of Hannah's 
 passion was only a baby ! 
 
 People say that babies are all alike ; but it is to 
 those who do not discriminate them or love them, who 
 take no interest in that wonderful and most pathetic 
 sight the growth of a human soul. Ay, and a child's 
 soul begins to grow almost as soon as it is born. 
 Within three months mothers know you can almost 
 see it growing. At least in most children. 
 
 Now, at nine months old, little Rosie Rivers was 
 an actual individual character, with an individual soul. 
 It had shone out of her eyes, that very first morning 
 when she opened and fixed them on her aunt, who sat 
 beside her, watching for her waking. And when 
 Hannah took the little white bundle in her arms, 
 Rosie first drew herself back, and with grave, sad, 
 appealing eyes, intently contemplated the stranger. 
 ' Who are you ? What do you want with me ? Are 
 you going to be kind to me?' said the mute little 
 face, as plainly as any words. Then, as if satisfied 
 with her investigation, she slowly dropped her head 
 on her aunt's shoulder, and Hannah pressed her 
 passionately to her breast. 
 
 Thus they fell in love the woman and the child 
 
HANNAH. 49 
 
 and the love grew day by day in a miraculous no ! 
 in not any miraculous way. Children have a heavenly 
 instinct in finding good people and people that love 
 them, in whom they may safely trust. Ere two days 
 were over Rosie would leave anybody to go to her 
 aunt's arms. As for Hannah, she could not get enough 
 of her felicity. Had she not longed for this, ay, ever 
 since she had dressed up her big doll in her own half- 
 worn baby-clothes, and caressed it with all a mother's 
 devoted ness, at eleven years old ? To have a baby a 
 baby of her very own, as it were for nurse had given 
 warning at once it was perfect content. Every minute 
 that she could steal from Rosie's father she gave to 
 the child ; she would have liked to be in the 
 nursery all day long. When wearied out with 
 Mr. Rivers' s restlessness, saddened by his gloomy face, 
 she would fly for refuge to that sunshiny room 
 her own room which she had made as cosy and 
 pretty as she could, and find it a heaven of peace ; 
 for the bright little face, the happy little voice, were 
 something nearer heaven than anything her life had 
 as yet ever known. 
 
 It might not have been the same with all children ; 
 but the poor motherless Rosie was a very original 
 child. Small, quiet, gentle, pale, there was yet in the 
 baby-mouth a firm little will of its own, and in the 
 serious eyes a strange out-looking, as if seeing some- 
 thing grown-up people could not see seeking, per- 
 haps, the mother she was never to know. Very soon 
 Hannah learnt to think that tiny face unlike all the 
 faces she had ever beheld. Not that it was pretty 
 poor Rosie was wholly unworthy, physically, of her 
 handsome father and beautiful mother but it had 
 such a world of changeful meanings in it ; it was 
 such a wonderful thing to study and marvel over. In 
 its peaceful, heavenly dumbness it seemed to come to 
 the lonely, shut-up woman like a face out of the un- 
 known world. 
 
50 HANNAH. 
 
 Such a companion Rosie was too ! Miss Thelluson 
 was accustomed to big pupils, and fond as she was of 
 children, they sometimes worried her : but this soft, 
 silent creature, with its pretty ways, its speechless yet 
 intelligible wants, only soothed her, and that inex- 
 pressibly. She would sit or lie for hours on the 
 nursery floor with Rosie crowing over her, investi- 
 gating her watch, her keys, her hair, her dress, with 
 that endless pursuit of knowledge under difficulties 
 peculiar to infants who are just catching hold of the 
 key of mystery which unlocks to them the marvellous 
 visible world. 
 
 And the world invisible even that seemed to be 
 very near about this little child. The words, 'In 
 heaven their angels do always behold the face of My 
 Father which is in heaven/ were always coming into 
 Hannah's mind ; and the awful punishment of those 
 who sin against ' one of these little ones/ seemed to be 
 only natural and just. 
 
 ' You seem very fond of that baby/ said Mr. Rivers 
 one day when she had tried to make it an attractive 
 drawing-room guest for about a quarter of an hour. 
 
 ' Fond of ' what an idle, unmeaning word ! Why, 
 Rosie was a treasure that one of God's angels had 
 dropped into her arms straight from the Father's 
 house, and bade her cherish it and make it into an 
 immortal soul, fit for His kingdom on earth, which is 
 one with His kingdom in heaven. This was how 
 Hannah felt when she watched the child. But she 
 said nothing. How could Mr. Rivers, or any man, 
 understand ? Who could put into any father's face 
 the mother-look of the Virgin Mary ? 
 
 As she stood there, with Rosie leaning across her 
 shoulder, and patting auntie's cheek with that little 
 dimpled hand, Mr. Rivers, who had travelled half over 
 Europe, and knew every Madonna by heart, called her 
 to look at herself, for she and the child were just the 
 picture of a certain Holy Family he named. 
 
HANNAH. 51 
 
 The colour came painfully into Hannah's cheek. 
 She, too, like Mary, could have sung her Magnificat ; 
 all to herself her quiet, lonely self. What had she 
 done that Heaven should send her this blessing she, 
 a solitary woman of thirty years old ? As she carried 
 away little Rosie who was quite too much for papa, 
 except in the character of a Raffaellesque bambino, and 
 for about the space of ten minutes she clasped the 
 child passionately to her heart. It had never beat so 
 warmly, so hopefully, since her Arthur died. 
 
 This was on a Sunday morning, the first sun- 
 shiny Sunday since her arrival, and as Miss Thelluson 
 and her brother-in-law walked together through the 
 bright-looking village, all the neighbours turned out 
 in their best clothes to go to church and criticise the 
 stranger. Easterham was a sufficiently small place 
 for everybody to know everybody ; and Hannah was 
 fully aware she was running the gauntlet of innumer- 
 able eyes, ' upper-class ' eyes : among the poor she 
 was already well known. But this was the first time 
 she had taken her public place in the parish the first 
 time, for many a long year, that she had walked to 
 church arm-in-arm (country -fashion, he offered his 
 and she accepted it) with a man, and a man that be- 
 longed to her. It felt not exactly uncomfortable, 
 but strange. 
 
 Her brother-in-law, however, seemed quite at ease, 
 and every person who came up to speak to him he 
 carefully introduced to 'my sister Miss Thelluson.' 
 Sometimes it was ' sister-in-law/ but always pointedly 
 ' sister/ 
 
 * He is not in the least ashamed of me no more 
 than he was of his wife/ thought she, with a certain 
 comfort. For if she had been much given to mind 
 outside things it might have struck her that this 
 handsome young man, with his Norman ancestry, his 
 easy fortune, and his position as heir-presumptive to 
 one of the first families in the county, was a strong 
 
52 HANNAH. 
 
 contrast to a quiet, rather old-fashioned governess 
 even though she was his wife's sister. But if she 
 had also been a duchess he could not have shown her 
 more tender politeness, and Hannah was grateful. 
 
 It was only when he looked towards the wicket- 
 gate which divided the church from the Moat- House, 
 of which it seemed originally to have been a mere 
 appurtenance, that his countenance fell. 
 
 'I see my people coming. We must stop and 
 speak to them. It will be best, as you sit in the same 
 pew, and as as we may have to go to lunch. They 
 generally expect me on Sunday/ 
 
 'But not me oh, I hope not. I want to be at 
 home to give Rosie her dinner.' And Hannah, with a 
 nervousness for which she despised herself, shrank 
 back from the fashionable elderly lady and her four 
 fashionable daughters, who seemed to fill up the whole 
 of the yew avenue, quite shutting out little old Sir 
 Austin, who came tottering after on his gold-headed 
 stick. 
 
 'Never mind Rosie, for once. If they ask you, 
 do not refuse, pray/ whispered Mr. Rivers. He 
 seemed either excessively fond of, or painfully sub- 
 servient to, his family a family which appeared to 
 Hannah very much like most other county families 
 well looking, well bred, well educated, and exceedingly 
 well dressed. Among the odd fancies that flitted 
 across her mind she had had a keen sense of hu- 
 mour, and even a slight turn for satire, in her youth 
 was the comical suggestion What would they be 
 without their clothes ? That is, how would they look 
 or feel if dressed like workhouse-women or labourers' 
 wives or, still worse, in the red chemise of Charlotte 
 Corday or the white sheet of Jane Shore ? They 
 looked so very proper those five ladies, sweeping one 
 after the other down the church aisle, and kneeling, 
 not a fold awry in their draperies, round their re- 
 spectable square pew that, to imagine them placed 
 
HANNAH. 53 
 
 in tragical or anywise exceptional circumstances, where 
 the trappings of worldly formality had dropped off 
 them, and they had to feel and act like common 
 creatures of flesh and blood, seemed a thing impossible. 
 
 Foolish thoughts these were, perhaps; but they 
 were partly owing to her brother-in-law's sermon, 
 which was exceedingly commonplace. He had said 
 himself, overnight, that he felt not the slightest in- 
 terest in his sermons, and only did them mechanically, 
 not believing them at all. It looked like it ; and as 
 Miss Thelluson listened or rather tried hard not to 
 listen, for it irritated her so she wished that instead 
 of being in church she were sitting on the sunny 
 lawn, beside that little white daisy with a pink hood, 
 which, as she kissed it before leaving, had looked up 
 to her with eyes in which were written the best ser- 
 mons in the world eyes that seemed as if only an 
 hour ago they had seen the angels. 
 
 As Hannah thought of them, she forgot Lady 
 Rivers, with her withered, but still red ah! far too 
 red cheeks, and the Misses Rivers, with their fashion- 
 able clothes. What were they to her ? Had she not 
 her baby her little Rose of June? The dainty, 
 soft, round, innocent thing! how sweet she must be 
 looking now in her midday sleep at home! It was 
 the first time that even in thought Miss Thelluson 
 had called her brother-in-law's house 'home.' She 
 did so now, for her baby was there. 
 
 Her baby, and no one else's ; for no one seemed 
 to take the smallest interest in it. After service, the 
 procession of five silk gowns, with women inside them, 
 sailed slowly back down the yew avenue, and through 
 the garden to the beautiful old Moat-House : but no- 
 body asked after baby. Neither grandmamma nor 
 aunts seemed to remember there was such a creature 
 in the world. Hannah hugged herself half indig- 
 nantly, half exultingly, in the fact. Her baby was 
 all her own. 
 
54 HANNAH. 
 
 The Rivers family was perfectly polite to her. 
 The invitation to lunch was given, and chiefly be- 
 cause of the anxiety she saw in her brother-in-law's 
 eyes accepted ; so they sat down all together in the 
 grand old dining-room, with generations of defunct 
 Riverses watching them from the walls. The conver- 
 sation was quite general, and rather insipid; indeed, 
 Hannah could not help thinking how very dull was 
 the company of grown-up people after that of her 
 baby. Her baby ! whose dumb intelligence was such 
 an infinite mystery, such an endless interest. She 
 longed to be back at home with Rosie ; nevertheless 
 she did her best, for Mr. Rivers's sake, to be pleasant, 
 and when he having a christening and a funeral, 
 though there was no second service he asked her 
 to wait for him, that they might walk home together, 
 she sat down again to endure another hour of the 
 foolish heart-ache which mothers understand, when 
 they are kept away for a good many hours from the 
 helpless creature that depends on them so entirely. 
 
 The bright day had settled into autumnal rain, so 
 the family party gathered round the fire doing 
 nothing, of course, as it was Sunday. Sir Austin 
 openly fell asleep ; Lady Rivers took up a huge Bible 
 and * meditated' nodding a good deal at intervals; 
 the girls began, sotto voce, that desultory gossiping 
 which is supposed to be so much more Sabbatical than 
 books or work. They were all pretty girls nay, 
 rather pleasant girls, these four paternal aunts of 
 little Rosie ; and her maternal aunt tried hard to get 
 acquainted with them, and find out what was really 
 in them. But, of late years, Hannah's life had been 
 so much spent with children, and so little with young 
 ladies, that she found herself completely at sea, and 
 watching these specimens of modern womanhood with 
 the grave, perplexed criticism of an elder generation. 
 
 ' Will my Rosie grow up thus?' she thought to 
 herself. 'Will she talk about "jolly," and "green," 
 
HANNAH. 55 
 
 and "the maternal parent," and "the governor?" 
 "Will there come into her little innocent head such 
 very odd ideas about love and marriage?' (One of 
 the girls was engaged, and the others evidently hoped 
 to be so, ere long.) * Is she to grow up a little Miss 
 Rivers, after the pattern of these?' 
 
 Not if auntie can help it, answered auntie's quiet, 
 strong heart, as the awfulness of her self-imposed duty, 
 extending far into future years, came upon her with 
 double force. A boy would have belonged to his 
 father, and been made naturally and wholly a Rivers, 
 but a girl this little unwelcome girl was hers and 
 Rosa's. Might not baby grow up to be the foundress 
 of a new family, the mother of many sons ? This 
 childless old maid, whose race was done, built up no 
 end of castles in the air for her niece Rosie. In 
 which, I am afraid and yet in time to come Miss 
 Thelluson was not sorry, but glad of this Rosie's 
 father had not the slightest share. 
 
 She fell into such a dream about the child even 
 in the midst of the young ladies' chatter that she 
 quite started when Lady Rivers, suddenly waking up, 
 and most anxious to appear as if she had never been 
 sleeping, put a sudden question. 
 
 ' By-the-by, Miss Thelluson, I hear you have dis- 
 charged Anne Savage, and taken a new nursery-maid ?' 
 
 ' Mrs. Savage gave me warning herself, but I 
 was not sorry, as I prefer a younger woman/ said 
 Hannah quietly. 
 
 'That, pardon me, is a mistake. I always made 
 a point that iny head-nurse should be over forty.' 
 
 ' But you had a nursery full of children ; I have 
 only Rosie.' 
 
 ' Oh, by-the-by, how is Rosie ? ' cried one of the 
 girls. But as she did not wait for an answer, Han- 
 nah never gave it. 
 
 'And who is your new nurse?' said grandmamma, 
 in a rather severe grandmotherly tone. 
 
56 HANNAH, 
 
 ' Grace Dixon, sister, I believe, to those Dixons 
 of whom the village is so full. It was Mrs. John 
 Dixon, the blacksmith's wife, who recommended her 
 to me. She said you knew the family well.' 
 
 ' Miss Thelluson seems to have acquainted herself 
 with Easterham people as if she had lived here all her 
 days, or meant to do so/ said the eldest Miss Rivers, 
 who was at times a little sharp of speech. She was 
 nearly twenty-eight, and still Miss Rivers, which she 
 did not like at all. 
 
 * No, I do not mean to live at Easterham all my 
 days/ returned Hannah, glad of an opportunity to 
 remove any false impression the family might have of 
 her coming to take entire possession of her brother- 
 in-law, and rule rampant over him all the rest of his 
 life, as evidently they thought he might be ruled. 
 ' On the contrary, I earnestly hope my stay here will 
 be short ; that your brother may soon find a good 
 wife, and need me no more/ 
 
 * So you approve of second marriages ?' 
 
 'Yes/ said Hannah, swallowing down a slight 
 pang. 'Yes. In a case like this, most decidedly. I 
 think the wisest thing Mr. Rivers could do would be 
 to marry again, after due time. That is, if he married 
 the right woman.' 
 
 'What do you mean by the "right woman ?" ; 
 asked Lady Rivers. 
 
 ' One who will make a good mother as well as a 
 good wife. In his first choice a man has only to think 
 of himself, in a second marriage he has usually to 
 consider not only himself, but his children/ 
 
 ' I don't fancy Bernard will be in any haste to 
 marry again. He was very, very fond of poor Rosa.' 
 
 It was Adeline, the youngest, who said this ; and 
 Hannah's heart warmed to her the first who had 
 called her dead sister 'Rosa/ or, indeed, spoken of 
 her at all. To Adeline she turned for information 
 about the Dixon family, and especially about the girl 
 
HAXNAII. 57 
 
 Grace, whom she had taken chiefly upon instinct, be- 
 cause she had a kind, sweet, good face a sad face, 
 too, as if she had known trouble ; and had, indeed, 
 begged for the place, because ' her heart was breaking 
 for want of a child to look after/ 
 
 ' What an odd thing to say ! Well, my heart 
 wouldn't break for that, at any rate/ laughed Adeline. 
 ' But really I can tell you nothing about the poor people 
 of Easterham. We have no time to go about as your 
 sister did. Bernard ought to know. Here he comes.' 
 
 Hannah looked up, almost glad to see Mr. Rivers 
 return. His society was not lively, but it was less 
 dull than that of his sisters. Just to keep conversa- 
 tion going for it had reached a very low ebb she 
 explained to him the matter under discussion, but he 
 seemed to have forgotten all about it. 
 
 'If you remember, I brought the girl into your 
 study, and you liked her appearance, and said I might 
 engage her at once.' 
 
 ' Did I ? then of course it is all right. Why talk 
 it over any more? I assure you, girls, one of Miss 
 Thelluson's great merits is that she does not talk 
 things over. As I always tell her, she can act for 
 herself, and never need consult me on anything/ 
 
 'But you ought to be consulted/ broke in Lady 
 Rivers, ' and in this matter especially. My dear 
 Bernard, are you aware that, in your position, you 
 ought to be very cautious? Miss Thelluson a stran- 
 ger is of course ignorant of certain facts; otherwise 
 Grace Dixon is the very last person she ought to 
 bring into your household.' 
 
 ' Why so ? The Dixons are an excellent family ; 
 have lived at Easterham Farm half as long as the 
 Rivers have lived at the Moat-House.' 
 
 'It is the more pity/ said Lady Rivers, drawing 
 herself up. 'My dear Bernard, you have surely for- 
 gotten ; and the subject is a little awkward to speak 
 of before Miss Thelluson and the girls.' 
 
58 HANXAH. 
 
 Hannah sat silent, expecting one of those sad 
 stories only too common in all villages. And yet 
 Grace Dixon looked so sad so innocent, and her 
 kindly and very respectable sisters had not seemed in 
 the least ashamed of her. 
 
 * I cannot guess what you mean, Lady Rivers, ' 
 said Bernard irritably. ' I know nothing against the 
 Dixons. The daughters were all well conducted, and 
 the sons ' 
 
 ' It was one of the sons. But perhaps I had better 
 not mention it.' 
 
 The good lady had a habit of 'not mentioning* 
 facts, which, nevertheless, she allowed to leak out pa- 
 tently enough ; and another habit of saying, in the 
 sweetest way, the most unpleasant things. Her step- 
 son had winced under them more than once to-day ; 
 as, Hannah noticed, he did now. Still he replied, 
 with perfect politeness 
 
 ' I think you had better mention it. It cannot be 
 anything very bad, or I should have remembered it. 
 Though I do forget things often often/ added he, 
 relapsing into his usual dreary manner. 
 
 ' If you will rouse yourself, you surely will remem- 
 ber this, and the discussion there was about it one 
 evening here : a discussion in which your wife took 
 part, and gave her opinion, though it was an opinion 
 contrary to your own, and mine/ 
 
 Bernard's countenance changed, as it did at the 
 slightest mention of his lost darling. ' Yes ; I recall 
 the matter now/ he said, and stopped suddenly. 
 
 But Lady Rivers went on triumphant. ' The scan- 
 dal, Miss Thelluson, though I must apologise for 
 referring to it before you, was just this. One of the 
 brothers Dixon lost his wife, and six months after 
 wanted to marry her sister, who had been keeping 
 his house. He actually came to Mr. Rivers, as her 
 clergyman, and asked him to marry them. A mar- 
 
HANNAH. 59 
 
 riage, you understand, within the forbidden degrees 
 between a man and his deceased wife's sister/ 
 
 She looked hard at Hannah, as if expecting her to 
 be confused ; but she was not : no more than when 
 Lady Dunsmore had referred, though in a much more 
 direct way, to the same subject. It was one so entirely 
 removed from herself and her own personality, that 
 she felt no more affected by it than she should have 
 been if in Lord Dunsmore's drawing-room she had 
 heard some one telling a story of how a father eloped 
 with his children's governess. Of course such things 
 were, but they did not concern her in the least. 
 
 Her entire innocence and composure seemed to 
 shame even Lady Rivers ; to Mr. Rivers, though at 
 first he had coloured sensitively, they gave self- 
 possession at once. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' I remember the whole story now. 
 Dixon did come and ask me to marry him to his 
 sister-in-law, which of course I refused, as it was 
 against both the canon law and the law of the land.' 
 
 'And the law of God also,' said Lady Eivers 
 sharply. 
 
 'That I did not argue; it was no business of 
 mine. I was rather sorry for the man he seemed 
 to have no ill intent ; but the marriage was impos- 
 sible. However this does not concern the rest of 
 the Dixon family or the new nursemaid. What about 
 her?' 
 
 But as often as he tried to slide away from the 
 unpleasant topic his step -mother pertinaciously slid 
 back again. 
 
 ' Excuse me ; I think it does concern the rest of 
 the family. No one can touch pitch without being 
 defiled, and a scandal like this affects every one con- 
 nected with it. How did it end, Bernard?' 
 
 'I cannot tell. Probably Dixon went to some 
 other and less scrupulous clergyman, or some distant 
 
60 HANNAH. 
 
 parish, where they could put up banns and be married 
 without being known ; or else he went back and they 
 lived together without being married at all. Such 
 cases happen continually. But why speak of them:' 
 Is it necessary to speak of unpleasant things?' 
 
 Yet the way he himself spoke of them, with a 
 mixture of directness and grave simplicity, as only a 
 pure-hearted man ever does speak, struck Hannah 
 much. Also his quiet way of getting over an ex- 
 tremely awkward position, which to avoid would have 
 been more awkward still. But Lady Rivers would not 
 let him alone. 
 
 'And I suppose you think now, as I remember 
 Mrs. Bernard did at the time, that you were wrong 
 in refusing to marry the man?' 
 
 ' No ; I was right. I have been similarly applied 
 to many times since, for the poor have strangely con- 
 fused notions on this point, and I have always refused. 
 The law makes these people brothers and sisters, 
 therefore they cannot possibly be married. But, my 
 dear Lady Eivers, let us leave a topic which really 
 does not concern us. The matter of moment now, 
 Aunt Hannah/ turning towards her with the smile of 
 a worried man who knows that there at least he shall 
 find rest, 'is that you and I must leave this warm 
 fireside and walk home through the wet together; 
 unless, indeed, we make up our minds to swim.' 
 
 The perfect freedom, and yet friendly respect of 
 his manner, healed over all the discourtesies which 
 Lady Rivers had so remorselessly inflicted. Miss 
 Thelluson rose, thankfully enough, and they two 
 started off in the pelting rain, for nobody ever thought 
 of ordering the Moat-House carriage on a Sunday. 
 Besides, Hannah never minded weather, and the storm 
 seemed almost to do her brother-in-law good. Like 
 all really manly men, he was roused and cheered by 
 the necessity of fighting against something ; perhaps, 
 also, of protecting something. He wrapped his sister- 
 
HANNAH. 61 
 
 in-law well up, and sustained her steps carefully 
 against the wild equinoctial blast, which was almost 
 like pressing against a stone wall. 
 
 After they quitted the Moat-House,' Mr. Rivers 
 never referred to the matter which had been so ob- 
 stinately and unpleasantly discussed in their presence. 
 He seemed at once to accept it and ignore it, as those 
 should whom fate has placed in any anomalous or 
 difficult position that lays them open to many annoy- 
 ances ; which must, nevertheless, be borne, and are 
 best borne with complete indifference. Hannah took 
 her lesson from him ; not without a certain respect, 
 deeper than she had yet felt and did the same. 
 
 They parted in the hall, he to go into his study, 
 she to run eagerly up-stairs, drawn thither by the 
 little merry voice which was heard through the nur- 
 sery-door chattering its utterly unintelligible English. 
 Hannah's face brightened into something almost like 
 beauty at the sound. Rosa's father stopped to say 
 
 'You are getting very fond of my child !' 
 
 'It would be strange if I were not. Is she not 
 my niece my own flesh and blood? And, besides, 
 I don't think there ever was such a child!' cried 
 foolish Aunt Hannah. 'Just look there!' 
 
 The little round rosy face it was rosy now, 
 having grown so already in the pleasant new nur- 
 sery, and under incessant loving care was looking 
 through the balustrades, making a vain effort to say 
 ' Peep ! ' at least so Rosie's imaginative female wor- 
 shippers declared it to be. Behind appeared Grace 
 Dixon's pale, kind, sweet looks, moved almost into 
 cheerfulness by the brightness of baby's. A pretty 
 sight, and for the first time it seemed to bring a ray 
 of sunshine into the widower's household. He sighed, 
 but his sigh was less forlorn. 
 
 ' How happy the child looks ! Poor Rosie, she is not 
 in the least like her mother except in that sunshiny 
 nature of hers. I hope she may keep it always.' 
 
62 HANNAH. 
 
 ' I hope so too, and I believe she will. I did not 
 think her pretty at first; but never never was there 
 such a touching child/ 
 
 'It is your doing, then.' 
 
 'And Grace's, too. She has been quite different 
 even these few days since Grace had her. I hope ' 
 and here Hannah could not help colouring a little 
 ' you will not require me to send away Grace ?' 
 
 'No.' Mr. Rivers paused a minute, and then 
 said gravely : ' I am sorry that anything should have 
 vexed you to-day. Do not mind grandmamma ; she 
 speaks thoughtlessly sometimes ; but she means no 
 harm. She likes interfering now and then ; but you 
 can bear that, I know. Remember, I will always up- 
 hold you in matters concerning Rosie or the house- 
 hold, or anything else that you think right.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' replied Hannah warmly. She shook 
 cordially the hand he gave, and ran up-stairs 'to 
 Auntie's darling' with a light heart. 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 IT is a mistake to take for granted, as in books and 
 life we perpetually do, that people must always re- 
 main the same. On the contrary, most people are 
 constantly changing growing, let us hope, but still 
 changing in character, feelings, opinions. If we took 
 this into account we should often be less harsh to 
 judge : less piteously misjudged ourselves. For in- 
 stance, we resolve always to love our friend and h^te 
 our enemy ; but our friend may prove false, and our 
 enemy kind and good. What are we then to do ? 
 To go on loving and hating as before ? I fear we 
 cannot. We must accept things as they stand, and 
 act accordingly. Or and this is a common case 
 
HANNAH. 63 
 
 we may ourselves once have had certain faults, which 
 we afterwards had sense to see and correct ; yet those 
 who knew us in our faulty days will never believe 
 this, and go on condemning us for ever which is a 
 little hard. And again, we may have started honestly 
 on a certain course, and declared openly certain 
 opinions or intentions, which we afterwards see cause 
 to modify, or even to renounce entirely. Time and 
 circumstance have so altered us that we are obliged 
 to give our old selves the lie direct, or else to be 
 untrue to our present selves. In short, we must just 
 retract, in act and word, boldly or weakly, nobly or 
 ignobly, as our natures allow. And though we have 
 been perfectly sincere throughout, the chances are 
 that no one will believe us : we shall be stamped as 
 hypocrites, renegades, or deep designing schemers, 
 to the end of our days. This, too, is hard ; and 
 it takes a strong heart and a clear conscience to 
 bear it. 
 
 When Hannah Thelluson consented to come to 
 her brother-in-law's house, and he thankfully opened 
 to her its dreary doors, they were two most sorrowful 
 people, who yet meant to make the best of their 
 sorrow, and of one another, so as to be a mutual 
 comfort, if possible. At least this was her intent ; he 
 probably had no intent at all beyond the mere relief 
 of the moment. Men and young men seldom 
 look ahead, as women do. 
 
 Now, two people living under the same roof, and 
 greatly dependent upon one another, seldom remain 
 long in a state of indifference; they take either to 
 loving or hating ; and these two, being both of them 
 good people, though so very different in character, 
 were not likely to do the latter. Besides, they stood 
 in that relation which of all others most attracts 
 regard, of reciprocally doing good and being done 
 good to. They shared one another's burdens, and 
 gave one another help. Consequently the burdens 
 
64 HANXAII. 
 
 lightened, and the help increased, every day that 
 they resided together. 
 
 Their life was very equable, quiet, and, at first, 
 rather dull. Of course, the widower did not visit, 
 or receive visitors. Occasional family dinners at the 
 Moat-House, and a few morning calls, received and 
 paid, were all that Hannah saw of Easterham society. 
 She had the large handsome house entirely to herself, 
 often from morning to night ; for gradually Mr. Rivera 
 went back to his parish duties, which he once used 
 most creditably to fulfil. Consequently, instead of 
 hanging about the house all day, he was frequently 
 absent till dinner-time. This was a great source of 
 satisfaction to Miss Thelluson ; at first let the honest 
 truth be told because she was heartily glad to get 
 rid of him ; by-and-by from sincere pleasure at the 
 good it did him. 
 
 * Work always comforts a man/ she said to her- 
 self, when she saw him come in, fresh from battling 
 with rain and wind, or eager to secure her help and 
 sympathy in some case of distress in the parish, his 
 handsome face looking ten years younger, and his 
 listless manner gaining energy and decision. 
 
 'You were right, Aunt Hannah/ he would often 
 say, with an earnest thoughtfulness, that was yet not 
 exactly sadness. ' To preach to sufferers one needs 
 to have suffered oneself. I shall be a better parson 
 now than I used to be, I hope. On week-days cer- 
 tainly, and perhaps even on Sundays, if you will 
 continue to look over my sermons/ 
 
 Which, people began to say, were much better 
 than they used to be, and Hannah herself thought so 
 too. She always read them, and, after a while, 
 criticised them, pretty sharply and fearlessly, every 
 Saturday night. On other nights she got her brother- 
 in-law into the habit of reading aloud ; first, because 
 it was much the easiest w.iy of passing the evening, 
 and after being out all day he absolutely refused to 
 
HANNAH. 65 
 
 go out again, lessening even his visits to the Moat- 
 House whenever he could; secondly, because soon 
 she came to like it very much. It was like falling 
 into a dream of peace, to sit sewing at Rosie's little 
 clothes (for Aunt Hannah did all she could for her 
 darling with her own hands), silent she always 
 loved silence yet listening to Mr. Bivers's pleasant 
 voice, and thinking over, quietly to herself, what he 
 was reading. In this way, during the first three 
 months, they got through a quantity of books, both 
 of prose and poetry, and had grown familiar enough 
 now and then to lay the books down, and take to argu- 
 ments : quarrelling fiercely at times, until either be- 
 came accustomed to the other's way of thinking, and 
 avoided warlike topics, or fought so honourably and 
 well, that the battle ended in mutual respect, and very 
 often in a fit of mutual laughter. 
 
 It may be a dreadful thing to confess, but they 
 did laugh sometimes. Ay, even with the moonlight 
 sleeping, or the white snow falling, on Rosa's grave a 
 mile oil' Rosa who was with the angels smiling in 
 the eternal smile of God. These others, left behind 
 to do their earthly work, were not always miser- 
 able. Rosie began the change, by growing every 
 day more charming, more interesting, more curious, 
 in her funny little ways, every one of which aunt 
 retailed to papa when he came home, as if there 
 had never been such a wonderful baby in any house 
 before. 
 
 A baby in the house. Does anybody fully kno-^r 
 what that is till he no, she has tried it? 
 
 Hannah did not. Fond as she was of children, 
 and well accustomed to them, they were all other 
 people's children. This one was her own. On her 
 alone depended the little human soul and human 
 body for everything in life everything that could 
 make it grow up, to itself and the world, a blessing 
 or a curse. A solemn way of viewing things, per- 
 
 p 
 
66 HANNAH. 
 
 haps; but Hannah was a solemn-minded woman. 
 She erred, anyhow, on the right side. This was 
 the ' duty ' half of her new existence ; the other 
 half was joy wholly joy. 
 
 A child in the house. Say rather an angel ; for, 
 I think, Heaven leaves a touch of the angel in all 
 little children, to reward those about them for their 
 inevitable cares. Rosie was, to other people besides 
 her aunt, a very remarkable child wonderfully sweet, 
 and yet brave even as a baby. She never cried for 
 pain or fretfulness, though she sometimes did for 
 passion, and for sorrow a strange, contrite, grown-up 
 kind of sorrow whenever she did anything the least 
 wrong, which was very seldom. She was usually a 
 perfect sunbeam of brightness, wholesomeness, and 
 content. Her delicacy and fragility, which were only 
 that of a flower reared up in darkness, and recovering 
 its healthy colours as soon as ever it is brought into 
 the sun, soon became among the things that had been. 
 Not a child in all Easterham seemed more likely to 
 thrive than Rosie Rivers ; and everybody, even at the 
 Moat- House, now acknowledged this, to Miss Thellu- 
 son's great glory and delight. Grace's also unto 
 whom much credit was owing. 
 
 Hannah had taken her rather rashly, perhaps 
 wise people sometimes do, upon instinct, rather rash 
 tilings. She thought so herself when one day, acci- 
 dentally asking Grace some apparently trivial ques- 
 tion, the girl burst into tears, confessed that she was 
 a married woman, and her husband had run away 
 from her. 'But I was married, indeed I was, and 
 his sisters know it ! ' Which the sisters, who were 
 in fact sisters-in-law, resolutely confirmed ; but no 
 more facts could be gained. Nor did Hannah like to 
 inquire, having a feeling that poor women's miseries 
 were as sacred as rich ones. It was an unwelcome 
 discovery a nurse with a living and, probably, scape- 
 grace husband might prove very inconvenient; still, 
 
HANNAH. 67 
 
 she had grown fond of the girl, who was passionately 
 devoted to Rosie. 
 
 * For Rosie's sake I must keep her, if possible ; 
 and for her own sake, poor thing, I cannot bear to 
 send her away. What must I do ? ' 
 
 Rosie's father, to whom she thus appealed for, 
 despite what he had said, she persistently consulted 
 him in everything answered decisively, 'Let her 
 stay/ So Grace stayed. But Miss Thelluson in- 
 sisted that she should no longer pass under false 
 colours, but be called Mrs. Dixon ; and, finding she 
 had no wedding-ring her husband, she declared, 
 had torn it from her finger the day he left her 
 Hannah took the trouble to buy her a new one, and 
 insisted upon her wearing it, saying ' she hated all 
 deceits of every kind/ Upon which Grace looked 
 up to her with such grateful, innocent ej r es, that, 
 Quixotic as her conduct might appear to some people 
 it did at the Moat-House, where the girls laughed at 
 her immoderately she felt sure the story was true, 
 and that she should never repent having thus acted. 
 
 This was the only incident of the Winter, and 
 as week after week passed by, and nothing ill came 
 of it, no runaway husband ever appeared, and poor 
 Grace brightened into the tendcrest nurse, the most 
 faithful servant, hardly thinking she could do enough 
 for her mistress and the child, Hannah ceased to think 
 of it, or of anything unpleasant, so busy and con- 
 tented was she. 
 
 More than content that she had always been 
 actually happy. True, she had thought her May-time 
 wholly past ; but now, as Spring began to waken, as 
 she and Rosie began to gather primroses in the garden 
 and daisies in the lanes, it seemed to her as if her 
 youth had come back again. Youth, fresh and full, 
 added to all the experience, the satisfied enjoyment, of 
 middle age. They were like two babies together, she 
 and Rosie, all through this, Rosie's first earthly 
 
68 HANNAH. 
 
 spring. They crawled together on the sunny grass- 
 plot ; they played bo-peep round the oak-tree ; they 
 investigated with the deepest interest every new green 
 leaf, and flower, and insect; for she tried to make 
 her child like the child in the * Story without an 
 End* a companion and friend to all living things. 
 And Rosie, by the time she was eighteen months old, 
 with her sweetness, intelligence, and the mysterious 
 way the baby- soul opened out to the wonders and 
 beauty of this our world, had taught her Aunt Han- 
 nah quite as much as Aunt Hannah had taught her, 
 and become even a greater blessing than the blessings 
 she received. 
 
 'It is all the child's doing/ Hannah said, laugh- 
 ing and blushing, one day, when Mr. Rivers came 
 suddenly in, and found her dancing through the hall 
 with Rosie in her arms, and singing too, at the top 
 of her voice. 'She is the sunbeam of the house. 
 Every servant in it spoils her, and serves her like a 
 little queen. As for me, auntie makes a goose of her- 
 self every hour in the day. Doesn't she, Rosie ? At 
 her time of life, too ! ' 
 
 'What is your time of life? for I really don't 
 know,' said Mr. Rivers, smiling. 'Sometimes you 
 look quite young, and then, again, I fancy you must 
 be fully as old as I am.' 
 
 ' Older. Thirty-one.' 
 
 'Well, I am thirty; so when you die of old age 
 I shall begin to quake. But tell her not to die, 
 Rosie.' And a sad look came across his face, as it 
 still often did. Hannah knew what it meant. 'Bid 
 her live and take care of us both. What in the wide 
 world should we two do without Aunt Hannah ? ' 
 
 And Rosie, with that chance instinct of baby- 
 hood, often so touching, patted with her tiny soft hand 
 her aunt's cheek, saying, wooingly, 'Nice Tannie, 
 pitty Tannie,' which had been her first wild attempt 
 at 'Aunt Hannah!' 
 
HANNAH. 69 
 
 'Tannie,' the name clung to her already, as 
 baby pet-names always do pressed the little breast 
 to hers in a passion of delight and content, knowing 
 that there was not a creature in the world no 
 woman certainly to come between her and her 
 child. Her child! Twenty mothers, she sometimes 
 thought, 
 
 ' Could not with all their quantity of love 
 Make up the sum ' 
 
 of that she felt for her motherless darling. 
 
 The father stood and watched them both. As 
 Rosie grew older and more winning, he began to 
 take more notice of his little girl, at least when Aunt 
 Hannah was present to mount guard over her, and 
 keep her good and quiet. 
 
 * You look quite a picture, you two, Hannah ! ' 
 (he sometimes called her 'Hannah* without the 
 'Aunt/) 'You must be excessively fond of that 
 child?' 
 
 She laughed ; a low, soft, happy laugh. Her feel- 
 ing for little Rosie was a thing she could not talk 
 about. Besides, its sacredness had a double root, 
 as it were; and one root was in the dead mother's 
 grave. 
 
 'The little thing seems very fond of you too, as 
 well she may be/ continued Mr. Rivers. 'I trust 
 she may yet repay you for all your love. I hope 
 I earnestly hope that you and she may never be 
 parted.' 
 
 A natural thought accidentally expressed. Han- 
 nah said to herself over and over again, that it must 
 have been purely accidental, and meant nothing ; yet 
 it shot through her like a bolt of ice. Was there a 
 chance, the dimmest, remotest chance, that she and 
 the child might be parted? Did he, now that the 
 twelvemonth of mourning had expired, contemplate 
 marrying again, as Lady Dunsmore had foretold he 
 
70 HA xx AH. 
 
 would ? Indeed, in a letter lately for she still wrote 
 sometimes, and would by no means lose sight of her 
 former governess the countess had put the direct 
 question, at which Miss Thelluson had only smiled. 
 
 Now, she did not smile. She felt actually un- 
 easy. She ran rapidly over, in her mind, all the 
 young ladies he had seen or mentioned lately very 
 few ; and he seemed to have no interest in any. Still 
 there might be some one whom she had never heard 
 of: and if so, if he married again, would he require 
 her of course he would! to quit the House on the 
 Hill, and leave behind his little daughter? 
 
 ' I could not ! No ! I will not/ thought she. And 
 after the one cold shiver came a hot thrill of some- 
 thing more like fierceness than her quiet nature had 
 known for long. * To expect me to give up my child. 
 It would be cruel, barbarous ! ' And then came a sud- 
 den, frantic idea of snatching up Rosie in her arms 
 and running away with her, anyhow, anywhere, so as 
 to hide her from her father. * I shall do it I know 
 I shall ! if he drives me to it. He had better not 
 try!' 
 
 And hot tears dropped on the little white night- 
 gown which Aunt Hannah was vainly endeavouring 
 to tie. It was Sunday night ; and she always sent 
 Grace to church and put the child to bed herself of 
 Sundays. Bitter, miserable tears they were too, but 
 only on account of the child. Nothing more. After- 
 wards, when she recalled them, and what had produced 
 them, this first uneasy fear which had shot across the 
 calm heaven of her life, a heavenly life it had grown 
 to be since she had the child, Hannah felt certain 
 that she could have looked the child's angel, or its 
 mother, in the face, and declared positively they were 
 nothing more. 
 
 But the notion of having to part from Rosie, under 
 the only circumstances in which that parting was 
 natural and probable, having once entered her mind, 
 
HANNAH. 71 
 
 lurked there uneasily, troubling often the happy hours 
 she spent with her darling ; for the aunt, wholly en- 
 grossed with her charge, had her with her more than 
 most mothers, with whom their children's father holds 
 rightly the first place. Nevertheless, Miss Thelluson 
 did her duty most satisfactorily by her brother-in-law. 
 Whenever papa wanted auntie, little Rosie was re- 
 morselessly sent away, even though auntie's heart 
 followed her longingly all the while. But she had 
 already learnt her lesson she never allowed the child 
 to be a trouble to the father. 
 
 * Not one man in a thousand cares to be troubled 
 about anything, you may depend upon that/ she said 
 one day gaily to the second Miss Rivers, who was 
 about to be married. 
 
 * Who taught you that ? my brother ? Well, you 
 must have hacl plenty of experience of him, faults and 
 all; almost as much as his wife had,' said the sister 
 sarcastically, which made Hannah rather sorry that 
 she had unwittingly betrayed the results of her year's 
 experience at the House on the Hill. 
 
 Yes ; she knew her brother-in-law pretty well by 
 this time all his weaknesses, all his virtues ; better, 
 he told her, and she believed it, than his own sisters 
 knew him. He was so unlike them in character, 
 tastes, and feelings, that she had now ceased to wonder 
 why he chose none of them to live with him and 
 Rosie, but preferred rather his wife's sister, who might 
 a little resemble his wife, as Hannah sometimes vaguely 
 wished she did. 
 
 More especially when the approaching marriage 
 forced him out of his retirement, and he had to offi- 
 ciate in the festivities as eldest brother, instead of poor 
 Austin, whom nobody ever saw or spoke of. Bernard 
 had to act as head of the house, Sir Austin being 
 very frail now ; and he accepted his place and went 
 through his duties with a cheerfulness that Hannah 
 was surprised yet glad to see. If only he could have 
 
72 HAXXAII. 
 
 had beside him the bright, beautiful wife who was 
 gone, instead of a grave sister like herself ! Still, she 
 did her best ; went out with him when he asked her, 
 and at other times stayed quietly at home half 
 amused, half troubled to find how she, who in the 
 first months of Winter almost longed for solitude, now 
 began to find it just a little dull. She was not so glad 
 of her own company as she used to be, and found the 
 evenings, after Rosie's bed-time, rather long. Only 
 the evenings : of mornings, when Rosie was with her, 
 she felt no want of any kind. 
 
 Following the wedding to which Miss Thelluson 
 was of course asked, and, somewhat unwillingly, went, 
 seeing Mr. Rivers wished it came many bridal par- 
 ties, to which she was invited too. Thence ensued a 
 small difficulty ridiculous in itself, and yet involving 
 much which, when her brother-in-law urged her to 
 accompany him everywhere, she was at last obliged to 
 confess. 
 
 i I can't go,' she said laughing it was much better 
 to make it a jesting than a serious matter. * The real 
 truth is, I've got no clothes.' 
 
 And then came out another truth, which Mr. 
 Rivers, with his easy fortunes and masculine indiffer- 
 ence to money, had never suspected, and was most 
 horrified at that, her salary as governess ceasing, 
 Aunt Hannah had absolutely nothing to live upon. 
 Though dwelling in the midst of luxury, and spending 
 unlimited sums upon housekeeping weekly, the utmost 
 she had had to spend upon herself, since she came to 
 the House on the Hill, was an innocent fifteen-pound 
 note, laid by from last year, the remains of which went 
 in the wedding- gown of quiet grey silk which had re- 
 placed her well-worn black one. 
 
 * Dreadful ! ' cried Mr. Rivers. ' While you have 
 been doing everything for me, I have left you like 
 a pauper ! ' 
 
 ' Not exactly/ and she laughed again at his ve- 
 
HANNAH. 73 
 
 hement contrition. 'Indeed, I had as much money 
 as I wanted, for my wants arfe small. Remember, I 
 have been for so many years a poor governess.' 
 
 ' You shall never be poor again, nor a governess 
 neither. I cannot tell you how much I owe you 
 how deeply I respect you. What can I say ? Rather, 
 what can I do ? ' He thought a little, and then said, 
 ' The only plan is, you must let me do for you exactly 
 what I would have done for my own sister. Listen, 
 while I explain.' 
 
 He then proposed to pay her a quarterly allow- 
 ance, or annuity, large enough to make her quite 
 independent personally. Or, if she preferred it, to 
 make over the principal, in a deed of gift, from 
 which she could draw the same sum, as interest, at 
 her pleasure. 
 
 'And, you understand, this is quite between our- 
 selves. My fortune is my own, independent of my 
 family. No one but we two need ever be the wiser. 
 Only say the word, and the matter shall be settled 
 at once.' 
 
 Tears sprang to Hannah's eyes. 
 
 'You are a good, kind brother to me,' she said. 
 ' Nor would it matter so very much, as if I did take 
 the money I should just make a will and leave it back 
 to Rosie. But I cannot take it. I never yet was 
 indebted to any man alive/ 
 
 ' It would not be indebtedness, only justice,' argued 
 He. ' You are a practical woman, let me put it in a 
 practical light. I am not giving, only paying as I 
 should have to pay some other lady. Why should I 
 be more just and liberal to a stranger than to you? 
 This on my side. On yours What can you do? 
 You are fed and housed, but you must be clothed. 
 You are not a lily of the field. Though ' looking 
 at her as she stood beside him, tall, and slender, and 
 pale ' I sometimes think there is a good deal of the 
 lily about you, Aunt Hannah. You are so single- 
 
74 HANNAH. 
 
 minded and pure -hearted and, like the lilies, you 
 preach me a silent lesson many a time.' 
 
 'Not always silent/ said she, yet was pleased at 
 the compliment. He had never made her a pretty 
 speech before. Then, too, his urging her to remain 
 with him, on the only possible terms on which she 
 could remain those he proposed proved that he was 
 not contemplating marriage at least, not imme- 
 diately. 
 
 All he said was thoroughly kind, generous, and 
 wise. Besides her sound common-sense told her that 
 clothes did not grow upon bushes, and that if she 
 were to continue as mistress of the House on the Hill, 
 it was essential that Rosie's aunt and Mr. Rivers's 
 sister-in-law should not go dressed, as he indignantly 
 put it, 'like a pauper/ She considered a little, and 
 then, putting her pride in her pocket, she accepted 
 the position of matters as inevitable. 
 
 ' Very well, Mr. Rivers. Give me the same salary 
 that I received from Earl Dunsmore, and I will take 
 it from you as I did from him. It will cover all 
 my personal needs, and even allow me, as heretofore, 
 to put by a little for my old age.' 
 
 ' Your old age ? Where should that be spent but 
 here in my house?' 
 
 ' Your house may not always be ' She stopped : 
 
 she had not the heart to put into plain words the plain 
 fact that he might marry again few men were more 
 likely to do so. But he seemed to understand it. 
 
 'Oh, Hannah!' he said, and turned away. She 
 was so vexed at herself that she dropped the conver- 
 sation at once. 
 
 Next day Miss Thelluson found on her toilet-table, 
 in a blank envelope, a cheque for a hundred pounds. 
 
 At first she felt a strong inclination to throw the 
 money into the fire then a kind of sensation of 
 gratitude. 
 
 ' If I had not liked him, I couldn't have touched 
 
HANNAH. 75 
 
 a halfpenny ; but I do like him. So I must take it, 
 and try to please him as much as I can.' 
 
 For that reason, and to do him credit when she 
 went out with him, poor Hannah expended more 
 money and thought over her clothes than she had done 
 for years, appearing in toilets so good and tasteful, 
 though simple still, that the Moat - House girls won- 
 dered what in the world had come over her to make 
 her look so young. 
 
 We are always changing within and without, mo- 
 dified more or less, as was said in the beginning of 
 this chapter, by continually changing circumstances. 
 Had any one a year ago shown Hannah her picture, 
 as she often appeared now, in pretty evening dress 
 she had lovely round arms still, and it was Rosie's 
 delight to catch them bare, and fondle and hug them 
 to her little bosom as 'dollies' Hannah would have 
 said such a woman was not herself at all. Yet it was ; 
 and hers, too, was the heart, wonderfully gay and 
 light sometimes, which she carried about through the 
 day, and lay down to sleep with at night, marvelling 
 what she had done that Heaven should make her 
 life thus content and glad. 
 
 The change was so gradual, that she accepted it 
 almost without recognition. Ay, even when there 
 came an event which six months ago she would have 
 trembled at the first dinner-party at the House on 
 the Hill, given in honour of the bride. 
 
 ' 1 must give it, I suppose/ said Mr. Rivers. ' You 
 will not mind? I hope it will not trouble you very 
 much?' 
 
 1 Oh, no.' 
 
 ' Be it so then.' He walked off, and then came 
 back, saying a little awkwardly, ' Of course, you 
 understand that you keep your usual place as mistress 
 here.' 
 
 ' Certainly, if- you wish it.' 
 
 So she sat at the head of his table, and did all the 
 
76 HANNAH. 
 
 honours as lady of the house. At which some other 
 ladies, country people from a distance for it was a 
 state dinner-party looked just a little surprised. 
 One especially, a malign-looking old dowager, with 
 two or three unmarried daughters, whispered 
 
 'His sister-in-law, did you tell me? I thought 
 she was quite a middle-aged person. Better, perhaps, 
 if she had been. And they live here together quite 
 alone, you say ? Dear me ! ' 
 
 The words were inaudible to Miss Thelluson, but 
 she caught the look, and during the evening several 
 other looks of the same inquisitorial kind. They made 
 her feel she hardly knew why rather uncomfort- 
 able. Otherwise, she would have enjoyed the evening 
 considerably. No woman is indifferent to the pleasure 
 of being mistress of an elegant, well-ordered house, 
 where her servants like her and obey her she doing 
 her duty and they theirs, so that all things go smoothly 
 and well, as they did now. Also she liked to please 
 Mr. Rivers, who was much easier to please than for- 
 merly. His old sweet temper, that poor Rosa used so 
 fondly to dilate on, had returned ; and oh ! what a 
 rare blessing is a sweet temper in a house, especially 
 in the head of it ! Then, by this time, his sister-in- 
 law understood his ways, had grown used to his very 
 weaknesses, and found they were not so bad, after all. 
 He was far from being her ideal, certainly ; but who 
 are they who ever find their ideal ? And Hannah 
 sighed, remembering her own the loveliest and most 
 loveable nature she had ever met, or so it had appeared 
 to her in her girlhood's long-ended dream. But God 
 had taken Arthur home ; and thinking of him now, it 
 was more as an angel than as a mortal man. 
 
 Looking round on the men she saw now and they 
 had been a good many lately she found no one equal 
 to Bernard Rivers. As he took his place again in 
 society, a young widower who had passed from under 
 the blackest shadow of his loss, though it had left in 
 
HANNAH. 77 
 
 him an abiding gravity, he would have been counted 
 in all circles an attractive person. Handsome, yet not 
 obnoxiously so ; clever though perhaps more in an 
 appreciative than an original fashion ; pleasant in con- 
 versation, yet never putting himself obtrusively for- 
 ward, he was a man that most men liked, and all 
 women were sure to admire amazingly. Hannah saw 
 she could not help seeing how daughters bright- 
 ened as he came near, and mothers were extraordinarily 
 tender to him ; and, in fact, had he perceived this 
 which he did not seem to do, being very free from 
 self- consciousness Bernard Rivers would have run a 
 very good chance of being thoroughly ' spoiled.' 
 
 He was not yet spoiled, however ; it was charming 
 to watch him, and see how innocently he took all this 
 social flattery, which Hannah noticed with considerable 
 amusement, and a sort of affectionate pleasure at think- 
 ing that, however agreeable he was abroad, he was still 
 more so at home, in those quiet evenings, now sadly 
 diminished. She wondered sometimes how long they 
 would last, how soon her brother-in-law would weary 
 of her companionship, and seek nearer and fonder ties. 
 Well, that must be left to fate ; it was useless specu- 
 lating. So she did her best now ; and when several 
 times, during dinner, he glanced across the table to 
 her and smiled, and also came more than once through 
 the drawing-rooms to look for her, and say a kindly 
 word or two, Hannah was a satisfied and happy woman. 
 
 Only during the pause of a long piece of concerted 
 music by the three remaining Misses Rivers fancying 
 she heard Rosie cry, she crept away up-stairs, and 
 finding her sitting up in her crib, sobbing from a bad 
 dream, Aunt Hannah caught her child to her bosom 
 more passionately than usual. And when the little 
 thing clung for refuge to her, and was soothed to 
 sleep again under showers of kisses, Hannah thought 
 rejoicingly that there was one creature in the world to 
 whom she was absolutely necessary, and all in all. 
 
78 HANNAH. 
 
 His guests being at length gone, the host stood on 
 Lis hearth-rug, meditative, even grave. 
 
 ' Well, Hannah ! ' he said at last. 
 
 She looked up. 
 
 ' So our dinner-party is safe over. It went off 
 beautifully, I must say ! ' 
 
 'Yes; I think it did.' 
 
 'And I am so much obliged to you for all the 
 trouble you must have taken. I do like to have things 
 nice and in order every man does. Especially as 
 Lady Eivers was there. They think so much of these 
 matters at the Moat- House/ 
 
 Hannah, half pleased, half vexed, she scarce knew 
 why, answered nothing. 
 
 ' Yes, it was very pleasant, and the people were 
 pleasant too. But yet I think I like our quiet even- 
 ings best/ 
 
 1 So do I/ Hannah was going to say, and then 
 hesitated, with a curious kind of shyness, for she had 
 been thinking the very same. Wondering also, how 
 long this gay life they now led was to go on, and 
 whether it would end in that climax for which she 
 was always preparing herself Bernard Rivers taking 
 a second wife, and saying to his sister-in-law, ' Thank 
 you ; I want you no more. Good-bye ! ' A perfectly 
 right, natural, and desirable thing too, her reason told 
 her. And yet and yet Well ! she would, at least, 
 not meet difficulties half-way, but would enjoy her 
 halcyon days while they lasted. 
 
 So she sat down with him on the chair he placed 
 for her, one on either side the fire, and proceeded to 
 talk over the dinner and the guests, with other small 
 familiar topics, which people naturally fall into dis- 
 cussing when they are perfectly at home with each 
 other, and have one common interest running through 
 their lives. All their associations now had the easy 
 freedom of the fraternal relation, mingled with a certain 
 vague sentiment, such as people feel who are not really 
 
HANNAH. 79 
 
 brother and sister; but, having spent all their prior 
 lives apart, require to get over a sort of pleasant 
 strangeness, which has all the charm of travelling in 
 a new country. 
 
 In the midst of it, when they were laughing to-- 
 gether over some wonderful infantine jest of little 
 Rosie's, there came a knock to the door and a face 
 looked stealthily in. 
 
 Hannah sprang up in terror. ' Grace ! What 
 is it ? Anything wrong with baby ?' 
 
 ' No, miss, nothing. How wrong of me to frighten 
 you so ! ' cried the young woman contritely, as Miss 
 Thelluson dropped back in her chair, so pale that Mr. 
 Rivers hastily brought her a glass of wine, and spoke 
 sharply to the nurse. 
 
 Grace looked at him with a scared face. ' It's 
 true, sir; I hardly know what I'm saying or doing. 
 But never mind ! The little one is all right ; it's only 
 my own trouble. And I've kept it to myself all day 
 long because I wouldn't trouble her when she was busy 
 over her dinner-party. But, miss ! will you speak 
 to me now, for my heart's breaking ! ' 
 
 ' You should not have minded my being busy, poor 
 girl!* said Hannah kindly. * What is it?' And 
 then, with a sudden instinctive fear of what it was, she 
 added, * But perhaps you would like to go with me 
 into my own room?' 
 
 ' No, please, I want to speak to the master too. He's 
 a parson, and must know all about it ; and it was him 
 that he went to first ! J 
 
 ' My good woman, if you'll only say what " it " 
 and " he " refer to ; tell me a plain story, and I'll give 
 you the best advice I can, whatever your trouble may 
 be.' And Mr. Rivers sat down, looking a little bored 
 like most men, he had a great dislike to ' scenes/ 
 but still kindly enough. ' Tell me, is it anything about 
 your husband ? ' 
 
 Hannah had not given him credit for remembering 
 
80 IIANXAH. 
 
 that fact, or for the patience with which he sat down 
 to listen. 
 
 * My husband ! ' cried poor Grace, catching at the 
 word, and bursting out sobbing. ' Yes, you're right, 
 sir, he is my husband, and I shall always believe he is, 
 though he says he isn't, and that I have no claim 
 upon him, no more than any wicked woman in the 
 street. But I was married, Mr. Rivers ! ' and the poor 
 girl stood wringing her hands, while her tears fell in 
 floods. * He took me to London and married me 
 there, I've got my certificate in my pocket, and when 
 we came back everybody knew it. And a year after 
 my little baby was born, my poor little baby that I 
 never told you of, miss, for fear you should send me 
 away ! ' 
 
 ' Is it living ? ' said Hannah gravely ; having lis 
 tened, as Mr. Rivers did also, to this torrent of grief 
 stricken words. 
 
 ' Yes ; he is living, pretty lamb ! though many a 
 time I have wished he wasn't, after what his father 
 said when he went away. 13 ut that might not be true, 
 no more true than what he sent me word yesterday, 
 and I've been nigh out of my mind ever since ! ' 
 
 ' What was it ? Do keep to the point. I cannot 
 make out the matter if you talk so much/ said Mr. 
 Rivers. 
 
 Hannah sat silent, waiting for what was coming 
 next. An uneasy feeling, not exactly a fear, but not 
 unlike it, came over her as she recalled the long-ago 
 discussion at the Moat-House about the Dixon family. 
 
 Grace gathered herself up and looked her master in 
 the face. She was a sweet-looking little woman, usually 
 reticent and quiet enough, but now she seemed des- 
 perate with her wrong. 
 
 'Dixon says, sir that's my husband; he's James 
 Dixon of your parish that I'm not his wife in law, 
 and he can get rid of me whenever he pleases, only 
 he won't do it if I'll come back and live with him, 
 
HANNAH. 81 
 
 because lie likes me, lie says, and all the poor children 
 are crying out for me. But that if I won't come back 
 he shall go and marry another woman, Mary Bridges, 
 of Easterham, that lived as cook with Lady Rivers. 
 He'll. put up the banns here next Sunday, he says.' 
 
 ' He cannot. It would be bigamy.' 
 
 ' Bigamy ! That's taking a second wife while your 
 first wife's living, isn't it, sir? And I'm living, 
 though I wasn't his first wife ; but I suppose that 
 doesn't matter. Oh, why did I ever take him ? But 
 it was all for them poor children's sakes ; and he was 
 such a good husband to my sister that I thought for 
 sure he'd be a good husband to me ! ' 
 
 Mr. Rivers started. ' Stop a minute. Your story 
 is very confused ; but I think I take it in now. Is 
 James Dixon the Dixon who once came to me asking 
 me to marry him tc his deceased wife's sister ? And 
 were you that person ?' 
 
 He spoke in a formal, uncomfortable voice ; his 
 cheek reddened a little, and ho looked carefully away 
 from the corner where Hannah was sitting. She did 
 not move how could she? but she felt hot and red, 
 and wished herself anywhere except where she was, and 
 was obliged to remain. 
 
 Grace spoke on, full of eager anxiety. * Yes, sir, 
 he did come to you, I know, and you told him, he 
 said, that I was not the proper person for him to 
 marry. But he thought I was, and so did I, and so 
 did all the neighbours. You see, sir ' and in her 
 desperation the poor young woman came close up to 
 her master ' I was very fond of my poor sister, and 
 she of me, and when she was dying she begged me to 
 come and take care of her children. Jim was very glad 
 of it too. And so I went to live with him ; it was the 
 most natural thing possible, and it wasn't wrong, 
 miss, was it?' 
 
 Hannah felt she must answer the appeal. She did 
 so with a half-inaudible, but distinct, ' No.' 
 
 G 
 
82 HANNAH. 
 
 'Nobody said it was wrong. Nobody blamed me. 
 And the children got so fond of me, and I made Jim so 
 comfortable, that at last he said he couldn't do without 
 me, and we had better get married at once. AVas that 
 wrong, sir?' 
 
 ' Yes ; it was against the law/ said Mr. Rivers, in 
 the same cold tone, looking into the fire, and pushing 
 backward and forward the ring he wore on his little 
 finger poor Rosa's wedding-ring, taken from her dead 
 hand. 
 
 'But people do it, sir? I know two or three in 
 our village as have done it, and nobody ever said a 
 word against them. And, as it was, people did begin 
 to say a deal against me.' Grace hung her head a 
 minute, and then lifted it up again in fierce innocence. 
 ' But it was all lies, sir. I declare before God it was. 
 I was an honest girl always. I told Jim I wouldn't 
 look at him unless he married me. So he did at last. 
 Look here, sir.' 
 
 Mr. Rivers took nervously the marriage- certificate, 
 read it over, gave it back again, and still remained 
 silent. 
 
 'It is all right, sir? I know it is! He did 
 marry me ! ' 
 
 'Yes but ' 
 
 'And it wasn't true what he said when, after a 
 while, he took to drinking, and we squabbled a bit, 
 that he could get rid of me whenever he liked, and 
 marry somebody else ? It wasn't true, sir ? Oh, please 
 say it wasn't true, if only for the sake of my poor baby ! ' 
 
 And Grace stood waiting for the answer that to 
 her was life or death. 
 
 All this while Miss Thelluson had sat silent, scarcely 
 lifting her eyes from the carpet, except once or twice 
 to poor Grace's face, with keen compassion. Not that 
 the question seemed to concern her much, or that she 
 ttiueuipt^d to decide the wrong or right of it, only the 
 whole cast seemed so very pitiful. And she had grown 
 
HANNAH. 83 
 
 fond of Grace, who was a very good girl, and in feeling 
 and education rather superior to her class. 
 
 As for Mr. Rivers, the look in his eyes, which he 
 carefully kept from meeting any other eyes, was not 
 compassion at all ; but perplexity, uneasiness, even 
 irritation ; the annoyance of a man who finds himself 
 in a difficult position, which he wishes sincerely he 
 were well out of. 
 
 To Grace's frantic question he gave no reply at all. 
 She noticed this, and the form of her entreaty changed. 
 
 * You don't think I did wrong to marry him, sir ? 
 You are a parson and ought to know. Was it wicked, 
 do you think ? My sister that's Mrs. John Dixon, a 
 very good religious woman, and a Methody, too, told 
 me no ; that the Bible said a man was not to marry 
 his wife's sister in her lifetime, which meant that he 
 might do it after her death/ 
 
 * Apparently you have studied the subject very 
 closely ; closer, I doubt not, than I have/ replied Mr. 
 Rivers, in that hard voice of his. Hannah thought it 
 at the time almost cruel ; * therefore there is the less 
 need for me to give you any opinion, which I am very 
 reluctant to do/ 
 
 A blank look came into poor Grace's beseeching 
 eyes. * But, sir, my sister ' 
 
 ' Mrs. Dixon is a Dissenter, many of whom, I be- 
 lieve, think as she does on this matter ; but we Church- 
 people can only hold to the Prayer-book and the law. 
 Both forbid such marriages as yours. You being 
 brother and sister ' 
 
 * But we weren't, sir ; not even cousins. Indeed 
 I never set eyes on Jim till just before Jane died.' 
 
 ' You being brother and sister/ irritably repeated 
 Mr. Rivers, ' or the law making you such ' 
 
 * But how could it make us when we were not born 
 so ?' pleaded poor Grace with a passionate simplicity. 
 
 ' You being brother and sister/ Mr. Rivers said for 
 the third time, and now with actual sternness, ' you 
 
84 HANNAH. 
 
 could not possibly be married. Or if you were married, 
 as you say, it was wholly against the law. James 
 Uixon has taken advantage of this, as I have heard of 
 other men doing ; but I did not believe it of him.' 
 
 Grace turned whiter and whiter. ' Then what he 
 says is really true ? I am not his wife ?' 
 
 * I can't help you ; I wish I could/ said Mr. 
 Rivers, at last looking down upon the piteous face. 
 ' I am afraid it is only too true.' 
 
 ' And my baby, my baby ! I don't care for my- 
 self much ! but my baby ! ' 
 
 ' If you ask me to tell you the truth, I must tell 
 it. I refused to marry James Dixon because I knew 
 it would be no marriage at all, and could only be 
 effected by deceiving the clergyman, as I suppose was 
 done. Therefore you are not his wife, and your baby 
 is, of course, an illegitimate child.' 
 
 Grace gave a shrill scream that might have been 
 heard through the house. Lest it should be heard, 
 or from some other instinct which she did not rea- 
 son upon, Miss Thelluson jumped up and shut and 
 bolted the door. When she turned back the poor girl 
 lay on the floor in a dead faint. 
 
 Hannah took her up in her arms. 
 
 1 Please help me ! ' she said to Mr. Rivers, not 
 looking at him. ' I think the servants are all gone to 
 bed. I hope they are, it will be much better. Once 
 get her up-stairs, and I can look after her myself.' 
 
 ' Can you ? Will it not harm you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! ' and Hannah looked pitifully on the 
 stony face that lay on her lap. ' It has been very 
 hard for her. Poor thing ! poor thing ! ' 
 
 Mr. Rivers said nothing, but silently obeyed his 
 sister-in-law's orders, and between them they carried 
 Grace up to Miss Thelluson's room. Almost immedi- 
 ately afterwards she heard him close the door of his 
 own, and saw no more of him, or any one, except 
 her charge, till morning. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Miss THELLUSON had always been lamentably deficient 
 in the quality which is called * respect of persons.' 
 She tended her servant half the night through, as 
 carefully as if poor Grace had been her personal friend 
 and a lady born. There was, indeed, much of the lady 
 about the girl, which was Hannah's great comfort in 
 having her as nurse a refinement of manner and 
 feeling, and a fine sense of honour, not always found 
 in her class. For since she had been mistress of a 
 large house, and many servants, Miss Thelluson had 
 discovered to her grief that in these days the moral 
 standard of kitchen and parlour was not always the 
 same. Still in her nurse she had always comfort ; and 
 Grace, probably on account of this difference, or from 
 other reasons now patent enough had seemed to 
 dislike mixing much with the other servants. Her 
 mistress could trust her thoroughly. She was, indeed, 
 quite a personal friend as every faithful servant 
 ought to be. 
 
 When the poor girl came to herself, she poured 
 her whole sad story into her mistress's patient ear. 
 
 'I hud no idea I was doing wrong no, that I 
 hadn't!' moaned she. 'Two or three in our village 
 had married their sister's husband. What can a poor 
 working-man do when he is left with a lot of child- 
 ren,, but get their aunt to come and look after them ? 
 And then, if she's young, or indeed anyhow, people 
 are sure to begin talking. Isn't it better to stop their 
 wicked tongues by marrying her at once, and making 
 all right and comfortable? For they're not comfort- 
 able I wasn't. And they're not real brother and 
 sister, whatever master says. And I'm sure they can 
 be married ; for there was our old squire, he married 
 
86 H AX SAIL 
 
 two sisters, and had two families one all girls, the 
 other boys. And the eldest son by the second mar- 
 riage young Mr. Melville came in for the pro- 
 perty, and is the squire now. And nobody ever said 
 his mother wasn't lawfully married, no more than, 
 when I came home from London, the neighbours said 
 I wasn't married to Jim. Married in church, too, 
 though we were Methodists both; and neither the 
 parson nor our own minister ever said a word against it.' 
 
 Though the poor girl talked in a wild, rambling, 
 excited fashion, still there was some sense in her 
 arguments; and when she implored Miss Thelluson 
 to speak to Mr. Rivers again, and repeat all she said, 
 and ask if there was not a chance of his having been 
 mistaken, or if he could not, at least, prevent the mar- 
 riage with Mary Bridges, Hannah scarcely knew what 
 to say. At last, just to soothe her for, out of con- 
 sideration to her mistress, Grace had kept her misery 
 to herself for a day and a half, till it had almost 
 driven her frantic she promised to do her best in 
 the matter. 
 
 ' And you'll do it at once, miss ; and tell master 
 that whatever is done should be done at once, or Jim 
 will get married, and then what is to become of me 
 and my poor child ? It isn't myself that I care for. 
 I didn't do wrong God knows I didn't! And I 
 don't mind what folk say of me ; but it's my poor boy. 
 And it's Jim, too, a little; I don't want Jim to do 
 wrong either.' 
 
 And she shed a few tears, over even the bad fel- 
 low, who, she confessed, had in his drunken fits 
 beaten her many a time. 
 
 ' But I forgive him ; for he was drunk/ said she, 
 using that too common but mistaken excuse. 'And, 
 then, I had the children to comfort me. Such dear 
 little things they were, and so fond of me ! And he'll 
 go and bring that woman Bridges to be step-mother 
 over them, and she is a bad temper, and she's sure to 
 
HAXXAH. 87 
 
 ill-treat them, poor lambs! Jenny's poor little mo- 
 therless lambs! I must go back to them directly.' 
 And she sat up in bed, in an agony of distress. ' 
 miss, please give me my clothes, and I'll get up and 
 dress, and be off by daylight/ 
 
 This bitter grief, not over her own boy who, she 
 said, was safe with his grandmother but over her 
 lead sister's children, touched Hannah to the quick. 
 She could understand it so well. 
 
 'You must lie quiet/ said she; 'or rather you 
 must go back to your own bed beside Rosie. You 
 have quite forgotten Rosie/ 
 
 The right chord was struck. The young woman 
 had, evidently, a strong sense of duty, besides being 
 excessively fond of her charge ; for Rosie was a little 
 creature that won everybody. So she sat up, fastened 
 back her dishevelled hair, and with her mistress's help 
 tottered back to the nursery. Soon she settled herself 
 in her customary corner, stretching out a caressing 
 hand to the crib beside her bed, where, sleeping quite 
 alone, but as sweetly as if all the angels of heaven 
 were watching over her, little Rosie lay. 
 
 * Ah, baby, baby,' Grace sobbed, ' what would have 
 become of me all these months without you, baby ?' 
 
 What would become of many a miserable woman, 
 if it were not for a baby? 
 
 How Grace had ever left her own Hannah could 
 not imagine ; but found afterwards it was the hard 
 necessity of earning money, the grandmother being 
 very poor, and Jim Dixon having gone off in search 
 of work, and left the whole combined families on the 
 old woman's hands. Now he reclaimed his three 
 eldest ; but disowned Grace's unfortunate babe. 
 
 ' My boy remember my boy ! ' implored she, as 
 in the dim dawn of the morning her mistress left her, 
 hoping her utter exhaustion would incline her to sleep. 
 ' Promise me that you will speak to the master, if only 
 for the sake of my poor boy/ 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 Hannah promised ; but when she went back to he* 
 room and thought it all over for she could not sleep 
 she was sorely perplexed. There might be some 
 mistake, even though Mr. Rivers, who was a magis- 
 trate as well as a clergyman, spoke so decidedly. 
 Grace's arguments were strong; and the case of Mr. 
 Melville, whom she had herself met at the Moat- 
 House, was, to say the least, curious. She herself 
 knew nothing of the law. If she could only speak 
 to anybody who did know, instead of to her brother- 
 in-law ! Once she thought of writing to Lady Duns- 
 more ; but, then, what would the countess imagine ? 
 No doubt, that she wanted the information for herself. 
 And Hannah grew hot all over with shame and pain, 
 and another feeling, which was neither the one nor 
 the other, and which she did not stay to analyse, 
 except that it made her feel more reluctant than ever 
 to name the subject again to Mr. Rivers. 
 
 Still, Grace was so unfortunate; so innocently 
 wicked if wickedness there was. And the projected 
 marriage of Dixon seemed much more so. 
 
 * Mr. Rivers will never allow it in his church, He 
 surely would not sanction such a cruel thing, even if 
 it be legal. And there is no time to lose. Whatever 
 it costs me, I must speak to him at once/ 
 
 With this resolution, and deadening her mind to 
 any other thoughts, Hannah lay down, and tried to 
 sleep, but in vain. After an hour or two of restless 
 tossing, she dressed herself, and descended to the 
 breakfast-room. 
 
 There she found Mr. Rivers playing with little 
 Rosie contrary to his habit ; for he seldom saw 
 her of mornings. He looked a little confused at being 
 discovered. 
 
 ' I sent for the child/ said he. ' Don't you think, 
 Aunt Hannah, she is old enough to come down to 
 breakfast with us ?' 
 
 ' Not quite,' said Hannah, smiling ; ' but she can 
 
HANNAH. 89 
 
 stay and play about on the floor. I daresay she will 
 be good won't she, auntie's darling ?' 
 
 And auntie clasped fondly the little thing, who had 
 tottered up to her and hid the pretty fair head in her 
 gown- skirt. Mr. Rivers looked at them, and turned 
 suddenly away as he often did now. 
 
 Rosie behaved beautifully for about five minutes ! 
 and then began to perpetrate a few ignorant naugh- 
 tinesses ; such as pulling down a silver fork, and a 
 butter-knife, with a great clatter ; then creeping 
 beneath the table, and trying to stand upright there, 
 which naturally caused a bump on the head and a 
 scream so violent that Aunt Hannah, frightened out 
 of all proprieties, quitted her seat and walked up and 
 down the room, soothing in her arms the piteous 
 little wailer. 
 
 'This will never do,' said papa sternly. 'Pray 
 take the child up-stairs.' 
 
 Which Hannah thankfully did, and stayed away 
 some minutes ; feeling that, after all, the nursery was 
 the safest, the most peaceful, and the pleasantest room 
 in the house. 
 
 When she came back, her brother-in-law had 
 finished breakfast, and was standing, gazing out of 
 the sunshiny window in a sort of dream. His tem- 
 porary crossness had subsided ; his face, though grave, 
 was exceedingly sweet. Now that she had grown used 
 to it, and it had gradually brightened, if not into 
 happiness, at least into composure and peace, Hannah 
 sometimes thought she had seldom seen so thoroughly 
 sweet a face such a combination of the man and the 
 woman that beautiful woman whose picture at the 
 Moat-House she often looked at, and wondered what 
 kind of young creature the first Lady Rivers had been. 
 Apparently, not like the second Lady Rivers at all. 
 
 It was exactly his mother's smile with which Mr. 
 Rivers turned round now. 
 
 * So the little maid is comforted at last. What in- 
 
00 II ANN A II. 
 
 fluence you women have over babies, and what helpless 
 beings we men are with them ! Why, it is as much 
 as papa can do to keep Miss Rosie quiet for five min- 
 utes, and Aunt Hannah has her the whole day. Do 
 you never tire of her?' 
 
 ' Never. Nor more does Grace, who has an in- 
 stinctive love for children which all women have 
 not, I assure you. This is what makes her so valuable 
 as a nurse.' 
 
 Hannah said this intentionally ; for, not two min- 
 utes before, the girl had run after her with a wild 
 white face. ' Have you spoken to the master ? "Will 
 you speak to him ? Don't forsake me ! Ask him to 
 help me ! Miss Thelluson, I'm fond of your child 
 think of mine ! ' Even if Hannah had not liked 
 and respected Grace so much, to her good heart, now 
 open to all children for Rosie's sake, this argument 
 would have struck home. 
 
 ' I hope the young woman is better this morning, 
 and that you did not fatigue yourself too much with 
 her last night,' said Mr. Rivers coldly ; and then began 
 speaking of something else. But Hannah, bracing up 
 her courage, determined to discharge her unpleasant 
 duty at once. 
 
 ' Have you ten minutes to spare ? Because I have 
 a special message to you from Mrs. Dixon.' 
 
 ' What Mrs. Dixon?' 
 
 * Grace. She insists upon it she has a legal right 
 to the name.' 
 
 ' She is under a complete delusion, and the sooner 
 she wakes up out of it the better. Pray, Hannah, do 
 not, with your weak womanish pity, encourage her for 
 a moment.' 
 
 Mr. Rivers spoke sharply more sharply than any 
 gentleman ought to speak to a lady; though men 
 sometimes think they are justified in doing so to 
 wives and sisters. But her brother-in-law had never 
 thus spoken to Hannah before she was not used to 
 
HANNAH. 91 
 
 it ; and she looked at him, first surprised, then slightly 
 indignant. 
 
 ' My pity is not weak or womanish, nor do I call 
 it pity at all. It is simple love of justice. Either 
 Grace is married or not married. All I want is, for 
 her sake and the child's, to find out the exact law of 
 the case.' 
 
 * Which is just what I told her last night. No 
 doubt she was married, as she says ; only the marriage, 
 being illegal, is null and void/ 
 
 ' But she says such marriages are not uncommon.' 
 
 'I believe they are not, in the lower classes. 
 Nevertheless, those who risk them must take the con- 
 sequences. The wife is only the mistress, and the 
 children are base-born. I beg your pardon for putting 
 plain facts into plain language, but you compel me. 
 Why will you meddle in this unpleasant matter ? It 
 can be nothing to you.' 
 
 And he looked at her keenly as he spoke, but 
 Hannah did not perceive it just then. Her interest 
 was too strongly excited for the cruel position of poor 
 Grace. She recalled involuntarily an old argument 
 of Lady Dunsmore on this very subject whether any 
 wrong could be exactly 'nothing' to any honest-minded 
 man or woman, even though he or she were not per- 
 sonally affected thereby. 
 
 'Pardon me,' she answered gently; 'it is something 
 to me to see any human being in great misery, if by 
 any possibility that misery could be removed. Are 
 you quite sure you are right as to the law ? It cannot 
 always have been what you say, because Grace tells 
 me of a certain Mr. Melville who visits at the Moat- 
 House' and Hannah repeated the story. 'Can it be 
 possible,' added she, ' that there is one law for the rich 
 and another for the poor ?' 
 
 ' No. But in 1835 the law was altered, or at least 
 modified : all such marriages then existing were con- 
 firmed, and all future ones declared illegal. Melville 
 
92 HANXAII. 
 
 escaped by a hair-breadth only, his parents having 
 been married in 1834.' 
 
 ' Then, what was right one year was wrong the 
 next ? That is, to my weak womanly notions, a very 
 extraordinary form of justice.' 
 
 Her brother-in-law regarded her inquiringly. 
 Evidently he was surprised ; did not at first take in 
 the intense single-mindedness of the woman who could 
 thus throw herself out of herself, and indignantly 
 argue the cause of another, even though it trenched 
 upon ground so delicate that most feminine instincts 
 would have let it alone. He looked at her ; and then 
 his just nature divining the utter innocence and in- 
 difference out of which she spoke, he said nothing: 
 only sighed. 
 
 ' You are a very good woman, Hannah I know 
 that, and Grace ought to be exceedingly obliged to 
 you. But you cannot help her not in the least.' 
 
 ' And cannot you ? Could you not, at least, pre- 
 vent the man's marrying another woman as he means 
 to do in your very church next Sunday ? ' 
 
 1 Does he ? The brute ! ' cried Mr. Rivers, passion- 
 ately. Then, relapsing into his former coldness 'I 
 fear nothing can be done. The former marriage being 
 invalid, he can contract another at any time legally, 
 I mean; the moral question is a different thing.' 
 
 ' So it seems,' said Hannah, bitterly ; for she was 
 vexed at his manner it seemed so hard, so unlike his 
 usual warm, generous way of judging matters. * But,' 
 she argued, resolved to leave not a stone unturned for 
 her poor servant's sake, ' if the marriage with Grace 
 was unlawful, why cannot he be prosecuted for that, 
 as for bigamy or similar offences? Either it was a 
 crime or it was not. If it was, punish it by the law ; 
 
 if not ' 
 
 ' You reason like a woman,' interrupted Mr. Rivers, 
 angrily. ' When I, a man, have already argued the 
 question with myself in every possible way ' He 
 
HANNAH. 93 
 
 stopped abruptly. ' I mean that you women will only 
 see two sides of a subject the right and the wrong!' 
 
 'Yes, thank Heaven!' 
 
 'Whereas there are many sides, and a man re- 
 quires to see them all. But we are slipping into 
 ethical discussion, which you and I are rather prone 
 to, Aunt Hannah. Suppose instead, we go and look 
 at our roses ? J 
 
 Go and look at roses when a fellow- creature was 
 hanging on every breath of theirs for hope or despair ! 
 Hannah had never thought her brother-in-law so 
 hard-hearted. 
 
 * I can't go/ she said. ' I must first speak to poor 
 Grace. What shall I say to her?' 
 
 ' Whatever you like. But I think the less you say 
 the better. And perhaps, if you could gently hint it, 
 the sooner she leaves us the better. Of course she 
 will have to leave.' 
 
 ' Leave ! ' repeated Hannah, much startled by the 
 new phase which this most unlucky affair was assuming. 
 ' Why " of course ?" I never thought of her leaving/ 
 
 ' Do you not see ? But no, you cannot you see 
 nothing at all ! ' muttered Bernard Rivers to himself. 
 ' Do you not perceive/ continued he earnestly, ' that 
 we live in a house on a hill, morally as well as 
 physically ? That a clergyman must keep out of the 
 slightest shadow of evil comment ? I especially, both 
 as rector of Easterham and as Sir Austin's son, must 
 expect to have my acts and motives sharply criticised, 
 and perhaps many a motive ascribed to me which 
 does not exist. No ; I have been thinking the matter 
 over all morning, and I see no alternative. Grace 
 ought to go. I believe Lady Rivers and all at the 
 Moat-House would say the same/ 
 
 Hannah drew back. She had never resisted her 
 brother-in-law before not even in cases where she 
 had thought him a little wrong: though this hap- 
 pened seldom. She had found out that, like most 
 
91 HANNAH. 
 
 men who are neither selfish nor egotistical, he was 
 remarkably just. Now she felt him to be unjust. 
 To send away Rosie's fond and faithful nurse would 
 be to the child herself a very harmful thing to 
 Grace, in her circumstances, a bitter unkindness, not 
 to say an actual wrong ; and Miss Thelluson was not 
 the woman to stand tamely by and see a wrong done 
 to any human being if she could help it. 
 
 Still it was needful to be very guarded, and she 
 might even have been less courageous, had not the 
 allusion to the Moat - House and its opinions always 
 more or less shallow and worhdly stirred up in her 
 something of that righteous indignation which blazed 
 up, quite unexpectedly sometimes, in Aunt Hannah's 
 quiet bosom. 
 
 * Excuse me/ she said, more formally than she was 
 used to speak, in the free and pleasant, even affec- 
 tionate relations that now subsisted between Mr. Rivers 
 and herself. ' Lady Rivers is mistress of the Moat- 
 House, but not of the House on the Hill. When 
 you did me the honour to give me that position, you 
 distinctly said I should manage it as I chose. I claim 
 my right. For Rosie's sake I must beg of you not 
 to send away her nurse/ 
 
 ' Good heavens ! you will not see ! How can I, 
 placed as I am, keep in my house a woman who is 
 disgraced for life?' 
 
 * Not disgraced ; only unfortunate. She is a ver y 
 good girl indeed. She protests solemnly she had not 
 an idea that in marrying James Dixon she was doing 
 wrong.' 
 
 ' How you women do hold to your point ! ' said 
 Mr. Rivers, in great irritation, almost agitation. 
 ' But she has done wrong. She has broken the law. 
 In the eye of the law she is neither more nor less 
 than a poor seduced girl, mother of a bastard child.' 
 
 Now Hannah Thelluson was an exceedingly ' proper' 
 person. That is, though not ignorant of the wicked- 
 
HANNAH. 95 
 
 ness of the world the things 'done in secret/ as 
 St. Paul terms them she agreed with St. Paul that 
 it was a shame to speak of them, unless unavoidable, 
 and for some good end. If duty required, she would 
 have waded through any quantity of filth ; but she 
 did not like it ; she preferred keeping in clean paths 
 if possible. Oftentimes she had been startled, not to 
 say shocked, by the light way in which some fast 
 young ladies who came about the Moat-House, and 
 even the Misses Rivers themselves, talked of things 
 which she and the girls of her generation scarcely 
 knew existed, and certainly would never have spoken 
 about, except to their own mothers. And among the 
 qualities in Mr. Rivers which first drew her towards 
 him was one which women soon instinctively find out 
 in men as men, they say, in women that rare 
 delicacy of thought and action which no outward 
 decorum can ever imitate, because it springs from 
 an innate chastity of soul. Thus, when in his ex- 
 citement Mr. Rivers used such exceedingly plain, 
 ugly words, Miss Thelluson looked at him in intense 
 astonishment, and blushed all over her face. 
 
 Some people called Hannah a plain woman that 
 is, she was tall, and thin, and colourless, not unlike 
 the white lily she had been compared to; but when 
 she blushed, it was like the white lily with a rosy 
 sunset glow upon it. For the moment she looked 
 absolutely pretty. Something in Mr. Rivers's eyes 
 made her conscious that he thought so or at least 
 that he was thinking of her, and not of poor Grace 
 or the subject in hand at all. 
 
 'Why do you not oftener wear white? I like 
 it so much/ he said, softly touching her gown, a thick 
 muslin, embroidered with black, which she thought 
 would be a sort of mediaeval compromise. She was 
 so fond of white, that it was half regretfully she had 
 decided she was too old to wear it. But among her 
 new dresses she could not resist this one. It pleased 
 
> HANNAH. 
 
 her to have it noticed, or would have done, had not 
 her mind been full of other things. 
 
 'I was going to the pic-nic in Langmead Wood, 
 you know ; but never mind that just now. Before 
 I start I shall have to tell poor Grace her doom. 
 A heavy blow it will be. Do not ask me to make it 
 worse by telling her she must leave us/ 
 
 Bernard was silent. 
 
 * I cannot bear to resist your will/ pleaded she. 
 'When I first came here, I made up my mind to 
 obey you that is, in all domestic things even as 
 she would have done. But even she would have 
 resisted you in this. Were she living now, I am sure 
 she would say exactly as I do dear, tender-hearted 
 Bosa!' 
 
 * Why do you name her ? ' said Mr. Bivers in a 
 low tone. ' Are you not afraid ? ' 
 
 'Afraid! Why should I be? Of all women I 
 ever knew, my sister had the truest heart, the quickest 
 sense of justice. If she thought a thing was right, 
 she would say it ay, and do it, too in face of the 
 whole world. So would I.' 
 
 ' Would you ? Are you one of those women who 
 have courage to defy the world?' 
 
 ' I think I am, if I were tried ; but I never have 
 been tried. I hope I never may be ; and I hope, too, 
 that you will save me from doing any more in the 
 defiant line/ added she, smiling, ' by retracting what 
 you said, and letting Grace stay.' 
 
 'But how can she stay? How can you keep her 
 miserable story a secret?' 
 
 ' I should not keep it a secret at all. I would 
 tell everybody the whole truth, explaining that we 
 drew the line between guilt and innocence ; that you 
 refused to marry James Dixon to this new wife of 
 his, but that the poor creature whom he had made 
 believe she was his wife should stay under the shelter 
 of your roof as long as she liked. That, I am sure, 
 
HANNAH. 97 
 
 would be the just and right way to act. Shall it 
 be so?' 
 
 'You are a courageous woman, Hannah. But,' 
 added he, with a sad kind of smile, 'it is like the 
 courage of little boys venturing on our frozen pond 
 there : they do not know how deep it is. No, no ; I 
 cannot thus run counter to my own people and to all 
 the world. In truth, I dare not.' 
 
 ' Dare not ! ' Hannah blazed up in that sudden way 
 of hers, whenever she saw a wrong done doubly so 
 when any one she cared for did it. She had lived 
 with Mr. Rivers a long time, and whether she cared 
 for him or not, she had never seen anything in him 
 which made her cease to respect him, until now. 
 ' Dare not ! ' she repeated, almost doubting if she had 
 heard truly. * When there is a certain course of con- 
 duct open to him, be it right or wrong, I always 
 believed that the last reason an honest man gave for 
 declining it would be, " I dare not ! " 
 
 The moment she had made this bitter speech one 
 of the old sarcastic speeches of her girlhood Hannah 
 saw it was a mistake, that she was taking with 
 Mr. Rivers a liberty which even a flesh -and -blood 
 sister had no right to take, and she was certain he 
 felt it so. All the proud Xonnan blood rushed up co 
 his forehead. 
 
 'I never knew I was a coward, Miss Thelluson. 
 Since you think me one, I will relieve you of my 
 company.' 
 
 Opening the French window at once, he passed 
 out of it into the garden, and disappeared. 
 
 Hannah stood, overwhelmed. During all the 
 months they had lived under the same roof, and in 
 the close intimacy that was inevitable under the cir- 
 cumstances, she and her brother-in-law had never had 
 anything approaching to a quarrel. They had differed 
 widely sometimes, but always amicably and upon ab- 
 stract rather than personal grounds. Those ' sharp 
 
98 HANNAH. 
 
 words/ which even the dearest friends say one to 
 another sometimes, had never passed between them. 
 His extraordinary sweet temper oh, how keenly 
 Hannah now appreciated her sister's fond praise of the 
 blessing it was to have a sweet-tempered husband! 
 his utter absence of worldliness and self-conceit ; and 
 that warm good heart, which, as the cloud of misery 
 slowly passed away from him, shone out in everything 
 he did and said; all these things made quarrelling 
 with Bernard Rivers almost impossible. 
 
 'What have I done?' thought Hannah, half 
 laughing, half crying. * He must think me a perfect 
 virago. I will apologise the minute he comes back/ 
 
 13 ut he did not come back : not though she waited 
 an hour in the breakfast-room, putting off her house- 
 hold duties, and even that other, as painful as it 
 was inevitable, speaking to poor Grace : but he never 
 came. Then, going into the hall, she saw that his 
 hat and coat had vanished. She knew his appoint- 
 ments of the morning, and was sure now that he was 
 gone and would be away the whole day. 
 
 Then Hannah became more than perplexed 
 thoroughly unhappy. Even Grace's forlorn face, when 
 she told her she had not the heart to tell more 
 that Mr. Rivers could promise nothing, but that she 
 hoped he would prevent the marriage, if possible, 
 failed to affect her much ; and Rosie's little arms round 
 her neck, and the fond 'murmur of ' Tannie, Tannie/ 
 did not give nearly the comfort that they were wont 
 to do. 
 
 ' Tannie has been naughty/ said she, feeling a 
 strange relief in confessing her sins to the unconscious 
 child. ' Tannie has vexed papa. When Rosie grows 
 up she must never vex papa. She must try to be a 
 comfort to him : he has no one else.' 
 
 Poor Hannah ! She had done wrong, and she 
 knew it. When this was the case, nothing and nobody 
 could soothe Hannah Thelluson. 
 
HANNAH. 90 
 
 With a heavy heart, she got ready for the pic-nic 
 a family affair between this house and the Moat- 
 House, which was still full of visitors. The girls were 
 to fetch first their brother from the school-house, and 
 then herself, but when the carriage came round, Mr. 
 Rivers was not in it. 
 
 ' Bernard is thoroughly sulky to-day/ said the eldest 
 sister. ' He doesn't seem to know his own mind at 
 all, whether he will go or won't ; but perhaps he 
 may turn up by-and-bye. Don't let us bother about 
 him. Such a splendid day it is for a pic-nic, and 
 Langmead Wood at its loveliest time ! Do let us 
 enjoy ourselves/ 
 
 They did enjoy themselves, and certainly, Hannah 
 thought, were not much ' bothered ' by their brother's 
 sulkiness, or afflicted by his absence. The fraternal 
 bond is so free and easy that, except in cases of very 
 special affection, brothers and sisters can speedily con- 
 sole themselves with somebody else. 
 
 But with herself it was not so. She thought the 
 girls rather heartless in missing Bernard so little. 
 She missed him a good deal, and set down her regrets 
 as conscience-stings. They hindered half her enjoy- 
 ment of the lovely wood, just putting on its green 
 clothing, full of primroses and hyacinths, and nest- 
 building birds pouring out on all sides a rapture of 
 spring-time song. She scarcely heard it, or hearing 
 it only gave her pain. 
 
 ' I was unkind to him/ she thought ; ' unkind to 
 a man whose wife is dead, who goes lonely through 
 the world, and needs every allowance that can be made 
 for him, every comfort that can be given him. He, 
 too, who is always so considerate and kind to me ! 
 How ungrateful I have been ! ' 
 
 So absorbed was she in her contrition that she 
 did not notice for ever so long what otherwise would 
 have interested her much a very patent love-affair 
 now going on between Adeline Rivers and this same 
 
100 HANNAH. 
 
 Mr. Melville, the young squire whom Grace had men- 
 tioned. To bring him ' to the point/ as one of the 
 girls confidentially told her, this pic-nic had been 
 planned, hoping that the tender influence of the 
 woody glades of Langmead would open his heart, and 
 turn it from nebulous courtship to substantial marriage 
 a marriage evidently highly acceptable to the whole 
 family. Which Hannah thought rather odd, con- 
 sidering what she knew of the family opinions, and 
 that it was but the mere chance of a marriage hap- 
 pening before instead of after the year 1835, which 
 saved Herbert Melville from being in the same position 
 as poor Grace's son a 'base-born' child. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, Bernard appeared. They 
 were all sitting in a circle round the remnants of the 
 dinner. He shook hands with everybody, ending with 
 Miss Thelluson. Words were impossible there ; but 
 Hannah tried to make her eyes say, * Are we friends ? 
 I am so sorry.' The apology fell hopeless : he was 
 looking in another direction, and she shrank back 
 into herself, feeling more unhappy, in a foolish, cause- 
 less, childish sort of way, than she remembered to have 
 done for at least ten years. If 
 
 f To be wroth with one we love 
 Doth work like madness in the brain/ 
 
 to be wroth with ourselves for having wronged one 
 we love is pretty nearly as bad ; except that in such 
 a case we are able to punish ourselves unlimitedly, as 
 Hannah did, with the most laudable pertinacity, for 
 a full hour. She listened with patience to endless dis- 
 cussions, tete-d-tete, among Lady Rivers and her girls, 
 upon the chances and prospects of the young couple 
 for whose benefit the pic-nic was made who, poor 
 things, knew well what they were brought there for, 
 and what was expected of them before returning home. 
 At any other time she would have pitied, or smiled at, 
 this pair of lovers, who finally slipped aside among the 
 
HANNAH. 101 
 
 trees, out of sight, though not out of comment, of their 
 affectionate families; and she might have felt half 
 amused, half indignant, at the cool, public way in which 
 the whole matter was discussed. But now her heart 
 was too sore and sad ; she just listened politely to 
 everybody that wanted a listener, and meantime heard 
 painfully every word her brother-in-law said, and saw 
 every movement he made not one, however, in her 
 direction. She made a martyr of herself, did every- 
 thing she did not care to do, and omitted the only 
 thing she longed to do to go up straight to Mr. 
 Rivers and say, ' Are you angry with me still ? Do 
 you never mean to forgive me ? ' 
 
 Apparently not, for he kept sedulously out of the 
 way, and yet near her, though not a word between 
 them was possible. This behaviour at last tantalised 
 her so much, that she fairly ran away : stole quietly 
 out of the circle, and hid herself in a nut-wood dell, 
 filling her hands with blue hyacinths. 
 
 'Hannah, what are you doing?' 
 
 ' Gathering a nosoguy to take home to Rosie.' 
 
 A brief question and answer. Yet they seemed to 
 clear away the cloud. Mr. Rivers stood watching a 
 little while, and then began helping her to gather the 
 flowers. 
 
 'How continually you think of Rosie's pleasure. 
 But you do of everybody's. What a warm good heart 
 you have ! ' 
 
 ' Have I ? I doubt it,' answered Hannah, with a 
 faltering voice, for she was touched by his gentleness, 
 by that wonderfully sweet nature he had so rare in 
 a man, yet not unmanly, if men could only believe 
 this ! Hannah had long ceased to wonder why her 
 brother-in-law was so universally beloved. 
 
 * I think you and I rather quarrelled this morning, 
 Aunt Hannah ? We never did so before, did we ?' 
 
 No.' 
 
 ' Then don't let us do it again. Here is my hand.* 
 
102 HANNAH. 
 
 Hannah took it joyfully, tried to speak, and signally 
 failed. 
 
 'You don't mean to say you are crying?' 
 
 1 1 am afraid I am. It is very silly, but I can't 
 help it. I never was used to quarrelling, and I have 
 been quite unhappy all day. You see/ and she raised 
 her face with the innocent, child-like expression it 
 sometimes wore more child-like he once told her, 
 than any creature he ever saw over ten years old, 
 'you see, I had behaved so ill to you you that are 
 unfailingly kind to me.' 
 
 'Not kind say grateful. Oh, Hannah!' he said, 
 with great earnestness, ' I owe you more, much more, 
 than I can ever repay. I was sinking into a perfect 
 slough of despond, becoming a miserable, useless wretch, 
 a torment to myself and everybody about me, when it 
 came into my head to send for you. You roused me, 
 you made me feel that my life was not ended, that I 
 had still work to do, and strength to do it with. 
 Hannah, if any human being ever saved another, you 
 saved me.' 
 
 Hannah was much moved. Still more so when, 
 dropping his head and playing absently with a mass 
 of dead leaves from under which blue violets were 
 springing, he added 
 
 ' I sometimes think she must have sent you to me, 
 do you?' 
 
 'I think thus much that she would rejoice if I, 
 or any one, was able to do you any good. Any 
 generous woman would, after she had gone away, 
 and could do you good no more. She would wish 
 you to be happy even if it were with another 
 woman another wife.' 
 
 Hannah said this carefully, deliberately; she had 
 long waited for a chance of saying it, that he might 
 know exactly what was her feeling about second mar- 
 riages, did he contemplate anything of the sort. He 
 evidently caught her meaning, and was pained by it. 
 
HANNAH. 1 03 
 
 'Thank you. Rosa said much the same thing to 
 me, just before she died. But I have no intention 
 of marrying again. At least not now. 7 
 
 Hannah could not tell why, but she felt relieved 
 even glad. The incubus of several weeks was taken 
 off at once, as well as that other burden which she 
 had no idea would have weighed her down so much 
 the feeling of being at variance with her brother- 
 in-law. 
 
 He sat down beside her, on a felled log ; and they 
 began talking of all sorts of things the beauty of 
 the wood, the wonderfully delicious spring day ; and 
 how Rosie would have enjoyed it, how she would enjoy 
 it by-and-bye, when she was old enough to be brought 
 to picnics at Langmead. All trivial subjects, lightly 
 and gaily discussed ; but they were straws to show how 
 the wind blew, and Hannah was sure now that the 
 wind blew fair again that Mr. Rivers had forgiven 
 and forgotten everything. 
 
 Not everything ; for he asked suddenly if she had 
 told Grace the bitter truth, and how she bore it ? 
 
 ' Patiently, of course ; but she is nearly broken- 
 hearted.' 
 
 * Poor soul ! And you think, Hannah, that if she 
 Rosa had been here, she would have let Grace 
 stay?' 
 
 * I am sure she would. She was so just, so pure, so 
 large in all her judgments ; she would have seen at 
 once that Grace meant no harm that no real guilt 
 could attach to her, only misfortune ; and, therefore, 
 it was neither necessary nor right to send her away.' 
 
 ' Yery well. I came to tell you that she shall not 
 be sent away. I have reconsidered the question, and 
 am prepared to risk all the consequences of keeping 
 her, for my little girl's sake, and yours.' 
 
 Hannah burst into broken thanks, and then fairly 
 began to cry again. She could not tell what was the 
 matter with her. Her joy was as silly and weak- 
 
104 HANNAH. 
 
 minded as her sorrow. She was so ashamed of herself 
 as to be almost relieved when Mr. Rivers, laughing at 
 her in a kindly, pleasant way, rose up and rejoined 
 his sisters. 
 
 The rest of the day she had scarcely ten words with 
 him ; yet she felt as happy as possible. Peace was 
 restored between him and herself ; and G race's misery 
 was lightened a little, though, alas ! not much. Per- 
 haps, since even her master said she had done no 
 intentional wrong, the poor girl would get used to her 
 lot in time. It could not be a very dreary lot to take 
 care of Rosie. And Aunt Hannah longed for her little 
 darling, wished she had her in her arms, to show her 
 the heaps of spring flowers, and the rabbits with their 
 funny flashes of white tails, appearing and disappearing 
 beneath the tender ferns that were shooting up under 
 the dead leaves of last year, life out of death, joy out 
 of sorrow, as God meant it to be. 
 
 Nay, even the Rivers family and the rest seemed 
 to drop a little of their formal worldliness, and became 
 young men and maidens, rejoicing in the spring. 
 Especially the well- watched pair of lovers ; who had 
 evidently come to an understanding, as desired ; for 
 when, after a lengthy absence, they reappeared, bring- 
 ing two small sticks apiece, as their contributions to 
 the fire that was to boil the kettle, their shyness and 
 awkwardness were only equalled by their expression 
 of blushing content. 
 
 Why should not old-maid Hannah be content like- 
 wise ? though she was not in her teens, like Adeline, 
 and had no lover ! But she had a tender feeling 
 about lovers still ; and in this blithe and happy spring- 
 time it stirred afresh ; and her heart was moved in a 
 strange sort of way half pleasant, half sad. 
 
 Besides, this day happened to be an anniversary. 
 Not that Hannah was among those who keep anni- 
 versaries ; on the contrary, she carefully avoided them ; 
 but she never forgot them. Many a time, when nobody 
 
HANNAH. 105 
 
 knew, she was living over again, with an ineffaced and 
 ineffaceable vividness, certain days and certain hours, 
 burnt into her memory with the red-hot iron of afflic- 
 tion. The wounds had healed over, but the scars 
 remained. For years she had never seen yellow 
 November fogs without recalling the day when Arthur 
 sailed ; nor cowslips, but she remembered having a 
 bunch of them in her hand when she got the letter 
 telling her of his death just as he was 'getting up 
 May-hill ' as they often say of consumptive people. 
 And for years oh, how many years it seemed 
 after that day, spring days had given her cruel pain : 
 as if the world had all come alive again, and Arthur 
 was dead. 
 
 To-day, even though it was the very anniversary 
 of his death, she felt differently. There came back 
 into her heart that long -forgot ten sense of spring, 
 which always used to come with the primroses and 
 cowslips, when Arthur and she played together among 
 them. The world had come alive again, and 'Arthur 
 had come alive too ; but more as when he was a little 
 boy and her playfellow than her lover. A strange 
 kind of fancy entered her mind a wonder what he 
 was like now boy, or man, or angel : and what he 
 was doing in that land, which, try as we will, we can- 
 not realise, and are not meant to realise, in any way 
 that would narrow our duties here. Whether he still 
 remained the same, or had altered, as she was conscious 
 she had altered; grown as she had grown, and 
 suffered ; no, he could not suffer, as she had suffered 
 these ten, eleven years ? Did he want her ? or was he 
 happy without her ? Would they, when they met, 
 meet as betrothed lovers, or as the angels in heaven, 
 * who neither marry nor are given in marriage ? ' 
 
 All those thoughts, and many more, went flitting 
 across her mind as Miss Thelluson sat in a place she 
 often took it saved talking, and she liked it beside 
 the old coachman, on the Moat-House carriage, as 
 
106 
 
 tliey drove in the soft May twilight, through glade 
 and woodland, moor and down, to Easterham village. 
 And, when far off, she saw the light shining from a 
 window of the House on the Hill, her heart leaped 
 to it her heart, not her fancy for there was her 
 warm, happy human home. There under that peace- 
 ful roof, centred all her duties, all her delights ; 
 there, in the quiet nursery, little Rosie lay sleeping, 
 ready to wake up next morning fresh as the flowers, 
 merry as a young lambkin, developing more and more 
 in her opening child-life the most wonderful and 
 lovely sight God ever gives us, and He gives it us 
 every day a growing human soul. 
 
 ' Oh, if Rosa could only see her now the daughter 
 for whom she died ! ' sighed Hannah ; and then sup- 
 pressed the sigh, as irreligious, unjust. ' No. I think 
 if Rosa came back to us, and saw us now him and 
 her baby, and me she would not be unhappy. She 
 would say what I should say myself, if I died that 
 when God takes our dead from us, He means us not 
 to grieve for ever, only to remember/ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HANNAH was fond of the Moat-House ; in the way 
 that we are often fond of places or people thrown 
 temporarily in our way, thinking : ' I should like you 
 if I knew you/ but well aware that this will never 
 happen. Often, as in her walks she passed by the 
 grey old walls, she could quite understand Mr. Rivers's 
 strong clinging to the only home he ever knew, the 
 resting-place of his family for generations. She sym- 
 pathised keenly in his admiration for its quaint nooks 
 and corners within its quainter aspect without ; for 
 the moat had been drained, and turned into a terraced 
 garden, and the old drawbridge into a bridge leading 
 
HANNAH. 107 
 
 to it ; so that it was the most orginal and interesting 
 house possible. 
 
 Miss Thelluson would have gone there often, but 
 for a conviction that its inhabitants did not approve 
 of this. Wide as their circle was, and endless as were 
 their entertainments, it was not what Hannah called 
 a hospitable house. That is, it opened its doors wide 
 at stated times; gave the most splendid dinners and 
 balls ; but if you went in accidentally or uninvited, 
 vou were received both by the family and servants 
 with civil surprise. Hannah was once calling of an 
 evening after an early dinner ; when the effort to get 
 her an egg to her tea seemed to throw the whole 
 establishment, from the butler downwards, into such 
 dire confusion, that she never owned to being ' hungry* 
 at the Moat-House again. 
 
 Nor was it a place to bring a child to. Rosie, 
 always good at home, was sure to be naughty at the 
 Moat-House ; and then grandmamma and aunts always 
 told papa of it, and papa came back and complained 
 to Aunt Hannah ; and Aunt Hannah was sometimes 
 sorry, sometimes indignant. So the end was that she 
 and the child never went there unless specially in- 
 vited ; and that paradise of most little people 'grand- 
 mamma's house ' and * grandmamma's garden ' was 
 to Rosie Rivers a perfect blank. 
 
 Nevertheless, Aunt Hannah never looked at the 
 lovely old house, without a sense of tender regret; 
 for it was so very lovely, and might have been so 
 dear. Perhaps it would be, one day, when Rosie, its 
 heir's sole heiress, reigned as mistress there. A 
 change which another ten or fifteen years were likely 
 enough to bring about, as Sir Austin was an old man, 
 and young Austin, the hapless eldest son, would never 
 inherit anything. Everybody knew, though nobody 
 said it, that the Rev. Bernard Rivers would be in 
 reality his father's successor. Even Lady Rivers, who 
 was a rich young widow when she became Sir Austin's 
 
108 IIANXAII. 
 
 wife, and had a comfortable jointure house in another 
 county, openly referred to that time, and as openly 
 regretted that her step-son did not turn his thoughts 
 to a second marriage. 
 
 ' But he will soon, of course ; and you ought to 
 take every opportunity of suggesting it to him, 
 Miss Thelluson ; for, in his position, it is really his 
 duty, and he says one of the great advantages you 
 are to him is, that you always keep him up to his 
 duty/ 
 
 To these remarks Hannah seldom answered more 
 than a polite smile. She made a point of never dis- 
 cussing Mr. Bivers's marriage: first, because if his 
 family had no delicacy on the subject, she had ; and, 
 second, because every day convinced her more and 
 more that he was sincere when he told her he had no 
 present intention of the kind. 
 
 Yet he was perfectly cheerful now not exactly 
 in his old buoyant fashion, but in a contented, equable 
 way that Hannah, at least, liked much better. Theirs 
 was a cheerful house, too. ' Use hospitality without 
 grudging ' was Bernard's motto ; and he used it, as 
 she once suggested to him, principally to those ' who 
 cannot repay thee.' So the House on the Hill the 
 clergyman's house was seldom empty, but had 
 always bed and board at the service of any who 
 required it, or enjoyed it. Still, this kind of hospi- 
 tality, simple as it was, kept Hannah very busy 
 always. Not that she objected to it : nay, she rather 
 liked it ; it roused her dormant social qualities, made 
 her talk more and look brighter and better indeed 
 some people congratulated her on having grown ten 
 years younger since she came to Easterham. She felt 
 so herself, at any rate. 
 
 Besides this outside cheerfulness in their daily life, 
 she and her brother-in-law, since their quarrel and 
 its making-up, seemed to have got on together better 
 than ever. Her mind was settled on the marriage 
 
IIAXXAII. 109 
 
 question ; she dreaded no immediate changes, and 
 he seemed to respect her all the more for having 
 * shown fight' on the question of Grace Dixon alas, 
 Mrs. Dixon no longer now! she took off her wed- 
 ding-ring, and was called plain Grace; she had no 
 right to any other name. 
 
 ' And my boy has no name either/ she said once, 
 with a pale, patient face, when, the worst of her sorrow 
 having spent itself, she went about her duties, out- 
 wardly resigned. 
 
 ' Never mind ! ' Hannah replied, with a choke in 
 her throat. ' He must make himself one.' And then 
 they laid the subject aside, and discussed it no more. 
 
 Neither did she and her brother-in-law open it up 
 again. It was one of the sore inevitables, the painful 
 awkwardnesses, best not talked about. In truth in 
 the position in which she and Mr. Rivers stood to 
 one another how could they talk about it? 
 
 The Rivers's family did sometimes : they had a 
 genius for discussing unpleasant topics. But happily 
 the approaching marriage of Mr. Melville and Adeline 
 annihilated this one. 
 
 'Under the circumstances nobody could speak to 
 him about it, you know ; it might hurt his feelings/ 
 said the happy bride-elect. 'And pray keep Grace 
 out of his wa}% for he knows her well; she was 
 brought up in his family. A very nice family, are 
 they not?' 
 
 Hannah allowed they were. She sometimes 
 watched the dowager Mrs. Melville among her tribe 
 of step-daughters, whom she had brought up, and who 
 returned her care with unwonted tenderness, thought 
 of poor Grace, and sighed. 
 
 Adeline's marriage was carried out without delay. 
 It seemed a great satisfaction to everybody, and a re- 
 lief likewise. Young Mr. Melville, who was rather of 
 a butterfly temperament, had fluttered about this nose- 
 gay of pretty girls for the last ten years. He had, in 
 
110 HA NX AH. 
 
 fact, loved through the family beginning with the 
 eldest, when they were playfellows, then transferring 
 his affections to Helen, and being supposed to receive 
 a death-blow on her engagement ; which, however, he 
 speedily recovered, to carry on a long flirtation with 
 the handsome Bertha ; finally, to everybody's wonder, 
 he settled down to Adeline, who was the quietest, the 
 least pretty, and the only one out of the four who 
 really loved him. 
 
 Bertha was vexed at first, but soon took consola- 
 tion. ' After all, I only cared to flirt with him, and 
 I can do it just as well when he is my brother-in- 
 law. Brothers are so stupid; but a brother-in-law 
 of one's own age, will be so very convenient. Miss 
 Thelluson, don't you find it so?' 
 
 Hannah scarcely answered this one of the many 
 odd things which she often heard said at the Moat- 
 House. However, she did not consider it her pro- 
 vince to notice them. The Riverses were Bernard's 
 ' people/ as he affectionately called them, and his 
 loving eye saw all their faults very small, and their 
 virtues very large. Hannah tried, for his sake, to do 
 the same. Only the better she knew them the more 
 she determined on one thing to hold firmly to her 
 point, that she, and she alone, should have the 
 bringing- up of little Rosie. 
 
 ' I daresay you will think me very conceited/ she 
 said one night to Rosie's father the winter evenings 
 were drawing in again, and they were sitting together 
 talking, in that peaceful hour after ' the children are 
 asleep ' ' but I do believe that I, her mother's sister, 
 can bring up Rosie better than anybody else. First, 
 because I love her best, she being of 'my own blood ; 
 secondly, because not all women not even all mo- 
 thers have the real motherly heart. Shall I tell you 
 a story I heard to-day, and Lady Rivers instanced it 
 as "right discipline?" But it is only a baby- story ; 
 it may weary you.' 
 
HANNAH. Hi 
 
 'Nothing ever wearies me that concerns Rosie 
 
 and you/ 
 
 ' Well, then, there is an Easterham lady you 
 meet her often at dinner-parties young and pretty, 
 nnd capital at talking of maternal duties. She has" a 
 little girl of six, and the little girl did wrong in some 
 small way, and was told to say she was sorry. " I 
 have said it, mamma, seventy-times-seven to myself," 
 (A queer speech ; but children do say such queer things 
 sometimes ; Rosie does already.) " But you must say 
 it to me," said mamma. " I won't," said the child. 
 And then the mother stood, beating and shaking her, 
 at intervals, for nearly an hour. At last the little 
 thing fell into convulsions of sobbing. " Fetch me the 
 water- jug, and I will pour it over her." (Which she 
 did, wetting her through.) " This is the way I con- 
 quer my children." Now/ said Hannah Thelluson, 
 with flashing eyes, ' if any strange woman were to try 
 to "conquer" my child ' 
 
 'Keep yourself quiet, Hannah/ said Mr. Rivers, 
 half smiling, and gently patting her hand. 'No 
 " strange woman " shall ever interfere between you 
 and Rosie/ 
 
 ' And you will promise never to send her to school, 
 at Paris or anywhere else, as Lady Rivers proposed 
 the other day, when she is old enough. Oh, papa' 
 (she sometimes called him 'papa/ as a compromise 
 between ' Bernard/ which he wished, and ' Mr. Rivers') 
 ' I think I should go frantic if anybody were to take 
 my child away from me/ 
 
 ' Nobody ever shall/ said he, earnestly pressing her 
 hand, which he had not yet let go. Then after a pause, 
 and a troubled stirring of the tire his habit when he 
 was perplexed he added, 'Hannah, do you ever look 
 into the future at all ?' 
 
 ' Rosie's future ? Yes, often/ 
 
 ' No ; your own/ 
 
 *I think not much/ Hannah replied, after slight 
 
112 HANNAH. 
 
 hesitation, and trying to be as truthful as she could. 
 * When first I came here I was doubtful how our plan 
 would answer ; but it has answered admirably. I de- 
 sire no change. I am only too happy in my present 
 life.' 
 
 ' Perfectly happy ? Are you quite sure ?' 
 
 ' Quite sure.' 
 
 ' Then I suppose I ought to be.' 
 
 Yet he sighed, and very soon after he rose with 
 some excuse about a sermon he had to look over ; went 
 into his study, whence, contrary to his custom, he did 
 not emerge for the rest of the evening. 
 
 Hannah sat alone, and rather uncomfortable. Had 
 she vexed him in any way ? Was he not glad she de- 
 clared herself happy, since, of necessity, his kindness 
 helped to make her so ? For months now there had 
 never come a cloud between them. Their first quarrel 
 was also their last. By this time they had, of course, 
 grown perfectly used to one another's ways ; their life 
 flowed on in its even course a pleasant river, busy 
 as it was smooth. Upon its surface floated peacefully 
 that happy, childish life, developing into more beauty 
 every day. Hosie was not exactly a baby now ; and 
 often when she trotted along the broad garden walk, 
 holding tightly papa's hand on one side and auntie's 
 on the other, there came into Hannah's mind that lovely 
 picture of Tennyson's : 
 
 'And in their double love secure 
 The little maiden walked demure, 
 Pacing with downward eyelids pure.' 
 
 That was the picture which she saw in a vision, and 
 had referred to why had it vexed the father? Did 
 he think she ' spoiled ' Rosie ? But love never spoils 
 any child, and Aunt Hannah could be stern, too, if 
 necessary. She made as few laws as possible ; but 
 those she did make were irrevocable, and Rosie knew 
 this already. She never cried for a thing twice over 
 
HANNAH. 113 
 
 and oil how touching was her trust, how patient her 
 resigning ! 
 
 ' I don't know how far you will educate your little 
 niece/ wrote Lady Dunsnaore, in the early days of 
 Hannah's willing task ; * but I am quite certain she 
 will educate you.' 
 
 So she did ; and Hannah continually watched in 
 wonder the little new-born soul, growing as fast as the 
 body, and spreading out its wings daily in farther and 
 fairer flights, learning, she knew not how, more things 
 than she had taught it, or could teach. 
 
 Then Rosie comforted her aunt so with the same 
 sweet, dumb comfort that Hannah used to get from 
 flowers and birds and trees. But here was a living 
 flower, which God had given her to train up into 
 beauty, blessing her with twice the blessedness she 
 gave. In all her little household worries, Hosie's un- 
 conscious and perpetual well-spring of happiness 
 soothed Hannah indescribably, and never more so than 
 in some bitter days which followed that day, when Mr. 
 Rivers seemed to have suddenly returned to his old 
 miserable self, and to be dissatisfied with everything 
 and everybody. 
 
 Even herself. She could not guess why ; but some- 
 times her brother-in-law actually scolded her, or, what 
 was worse, he scolded Rosie ; quite needlessly, for the 
 child was an exceedingly good child. And then Aunt 
 Hannah's indignation was roused. More than once she 
 thought of giving him a severe lecture, as she had oc- 
 casionally done before, and he declared it did him good. 
 But a certain diffidence restrained her. What right 
 indeed had she to ' pitch into him/ as he had laugh- 
 ingly called it, when they were no blood relations ? 
 if blood gives the right of fault-finding, which some 
 people suppose. Good friends as she and Mr. Rivers 
 were, Hannah scrupled to claim more thau the rights 
 of friendship, which scarcely justify a lady in saying 
 to a gentleman in his own house, ' You are growing a 
 
 I 
 
1 14 HANNAH. 
 
 perfect bear, and I would much rather have your room 
 han your company.' 
 
 Which was the truth. Just now, if she had not 
 had Rosie's nursery to take refuge in, and Rosie's little 
 bosom to fly to, burying her head there oftentimes, 
 and drying her wet eyes upon the baby-pinafore, Aunt 
 Hannah would have had a sore time of it. 
 
 And yet she was so sorry for him so sorry ! If 
 the old cloud were permanently to return, what should 
 she do ? What possible influence had she over him ? 
 She was neither his mother nor sister, if indeed either 
 of those ties permanently affect a man who has once 
 been married, and known the closest sympathy, the 
 strongest influence a man can know. Many a time, 
 when he was very disagreeable, her heart sank down 
 like lead; she would carry Rosie sorrowfully out of 
 papa's way, lest she should vex him, or be made 
 naughty by him; conscious as she clasped the child 
 to her bosom, of that dangerous feeling which men 
 sometimes rouse in women even fathers in mothers 
 that their children are much pleasanter company 
 than themselves. 
 
 Poor Bernard ! poor Hannah ! Perhaps the former 
 should have been wiser, the latter more quick sighted. 
 But men are not always Solons ; and Hannah was a 
 rather peculiar sort of woman. She had so completely 
 taken her own measure and settled her voluntary des- 
 tiny, that it never occurred to her she was not quite 
 the old maid she thought herself, or that, like other 
 mortal creatures, her lot, as well as her individuality, 
 was liable to be modified by circumstances. When 
 Bernard once told her she was a well-liked person, 
 growing very popular at Easterham, she smiled, rather 
 pleased than not ; but when he hinted that an elderly 
 rector, a rich widower, who had lately taken to visiting 
 constantly at the House on the Hill, did not visit there 
 on his account, but hers, Miss Thelluson at first looked 
 innocently uncomprehending, then annoyed, as if her 
 
HANNAH. 115 
 
 brother-in-law had made an unseemly jest. He never 
 made it again. And soon afterwards, either from her 
 extreme coldness of manner, or some other cause, the 
 rector suddenly vanished, and was no more seen. 
 
 Presently, and just at the time when she would 
 have been most glad of visitors to cheer up her brother- 
 in-law, their house seemed to grow strangely empty. 
 Invitations ceased, even those at the Moat -House 
 being fewer and more formal. And in one of her rare 
 visits there, Lady Rivers had much annoyed her by 
 dragging in apropos of Adeline's marriage, and the 
 great advantage it was for girls to get early settled 
 in life a pointed allusion to the aforesaid rector, 
 and his persistent attentions. 
 
 'Which of course everybody noticed, my dear. 
 Everybody notices everything in Easterham. And 
 allow me to say that if lie does mean anything, you 
 may count on my best wishes. Indeed, I think, all 
 things considered, to marry him would be the best 
 thing you could do.' 
 
 ' Thank you ; but I have not the slightest intention 
 of doing it.' 
 
 4 Then, do you never mean to marry at all ?' 
 
 'Probably not/ replied Hannah, trying hard to 
 keep up that air of smiling politeness, which she had 
 hitherto found as repellent as a crystal wall against 
 impertinent intrusiveness. 'But, really, these things 
 cannot possibly interest any one but myself. Not 
 even benevolent Easterham.' 
 
 ' Pardon me. Benevolent Easterham is taking far 
 too much interest in the matter, and in yourself too, 
 I am sorry to say,' observed Lady Rivers, mysteriously. 
 ' But, of course, it is no business of mine.' 
 
 Ajid with a displeased look, the old lady disappeared 
 to other guests, giving Hannah unmistakably 'the cold 
 shoulder ' for the remainder of tho evening. 
 
 . This did not afflict her much, for she was used to 
 it. Of far greater consequence was it, when, a little 
 
116 IIANXAH. 
 
 while after, she saw by Bernard's looks that his spirits 
 had risen, and he was almost his old self again. It 
 always pleased him when his sister-in-law was invited 
 to the Moat-House, and made herself agreeable there, 
 as she resolutely did. The habit of accepting a man's 
 bread and salt, and then making oneself disagreeable 
 in the eating of it, or abusing it afterwards, was a 
 phase of fashionable morality not yet attained to by 
 Miss Thelluson. She did not care to visit much : 
 but when she did go out, she enjoyed herself as much 
 as possible. 
 
 ' Yes, it has been a very pleasant evening ; quite 
 lively for the Moat- House/ she would have added, 
 but checked herself. It was touching to see Bernard's 
 innocent admiration of everything at the Moat- House. 
 The only occasions when it vexed her was when they 
 showed so little appreciation of him. 
 
 ' Oh, why can he not always be as good as he is 
 to-night ! ' thought Hannah, when, as they walked 
 home together, which they did sometimes of fine 
 evenings instead of ordering the carriage, he talked 
 pleasantly and cheerfully the whole way. They passed 
 through the silent, shut-up village, and up the equally 
 silent hill-road, to the smooth ' down ' at its top. 
 There the extreme quietness and loneliness, and the 
 mysterious beauty of the frosty starlight, seemed to 
 soothe him into a more earnest mood, imparting some- 
 thing of the feeling which bright winter nights always 
 gave to Hannah that sense of nearness to the in- 
 visible, which levels all human griefs, and comforts all 
 mortal pain. 
 
 * Perhaps, after all/ said he, when they had been 
 speaking on this subject, 'it does not so very much 
 matter whether one is happy or miserable during one's 
 short life here ; or one is inclined to feel so on a night 
 like this, and talking together as you and I do now. 
 The only thing of moment seems to be to have pa- 
 tience and do one's duty.' 
 
HANNAH. 117 
 
 ' I think it does matter/ Hannah answered ; but 
 gently, so as not to frighten away the good angel 
 which she rejoiced to see returning. ' People do their 
 duty much better when they are happy. I cannot 
 imagine a God who could accept only the sacrifices of 
 the miserable. We must all suffer, less or more ; but 
 I never would suffer one whit more, or longer, than 
 I could help.' 
 
 'Would you not?' 
 
 ' No ; nor would I make others suffer. What do 
 you think the child said to me yesterday, when I was 
 removing her playthings at bed- time? I suppose I 
 looked grave, for she said, ' Poor Tannie ! Isn't 
 Tannie sorry to take away Rosie's toys ?' Tannie was 
 sorry, and would gladly have given them all back 
 ii^uin if she could. Don't you think,' and Hannah 
 lil'iod her soft, grey, truthful eyes to the winter sky, 
 'that if Tannie feels thus, so surely must God?' 
 
 Mr. Rivers said nothing ; but he pressed slightly 
 the arm within his, and they walked on, taking the 
 4 sweet counsel together,' which is the best privilege 
 of real friends. It was like old days come back again, 
 and Hannah felt so glad. 
 
 ' Now you may perceive,' Bernard said after a 
 little, apropos of nothing, 'why the charming young 
 ladies who come about my sisters, and whom they 
 think I don't admire half enough, do not attract me 
 as I suppose they ought to do. They might have done 
 so once, before I had known sorrow; but now they 
 seem to me so " young, shallow, and small." One half 
 of me the deepest half they never touch; nor do 
 my own people neither. For instance, the things we 
 have been talking of to-night I should never dream 
 of speaking about to anybody except you.' 
 
 1 Thank you,' replied Hannah, gratified. 
 
 Had she thought herself bound to tell the full 
 truth, she might have confessed that there was a time 
 when she, on her part, thought Mr. Rivers as he 
 
118 HANNAH. 
 
 thought these girls, ' young, shallow, and small.' She 
 did not now. Either he had altered very much, or 
 she had much misjudged him. Probably both was the 
 case. He had grown older, graver, more earnest. She 
 did not feel the least like his mother now ; he was 
 often much wiser than she, and she gladly owned 
 this. It would have relieved her honest mind to own 
 likewise a few other trifles on which she had been 
 egregiously mistaken. But in some things, and espe- 
 cially those which concerned herself and her own feel- 
 ings, Hannah was still a very shy woman. 
 
 1 Not that I have a word to say against those 
 charming girls/ continued he, relapsing into his guy 
 mood. 'No doubt they are very charming, the Miss 
 Melvilles and the rest. 
 
 ' " He that loves a rosy cheek, 
 And a coral lip admires," 
 
 may find enough to admire in them. Only only 
 you remember the last verse?' And he repeated 
 it ; with a tender intonation that rather surprised 
 Hannah 
 
 ' " But a true and constant mind 
 
 Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 
 Hearts in equal love combined, 
 Kindle never-dying fires." 
 
 That is my theory of loving is it yours ?' 
 
 * I should fancy it is most people's who have ever 
 deeply thought about the matter.' 
 
 ' Another theory I have, too/ he went on, apparently 
 half in earnest, half in jest, * that the passion comes to 
 different people, and at different times of their lives, 
 in very contrary ways. Some " fall " in love as I did, 
 at first sight, with my lost darling/ he paused, a full 
 minute. ' Others walk into love deliberately, with 
 their eyes open ; while a few creep into it blindfold, 
 and know not where they are going till the bandage 
 drops, and then ' 
 
HAXXAH. 119 
 
 ' And which of these do you suppose was the case 
 of Adeline and Mr. Melville?' 
 
 4 Good heavens ! I was not thinking of Adeline 
 and Mr. Melville at all.' 
 
 He spoke with such needless acerbity that Hannah 
 actually laughed, and then begged his pardon, which 
 seemed to offend him only the more. She did not know 
 how to take him, his moods were so various and un- 
 accountable. But whatever they were, or whatever he 
 was, she felt bound to put up with him ; nay, she was 
 happier with him in any mood than when far apart 
 from him, as when he had held himself aloof from her 
 of late. 
 
 ' You are very cross to me/ said she simply, ' but 
 I do not mind it. I know you have many things to 
 vex you, only do please try to be as good as you can. 
 And you might as well as not be good to me/ 
 
 ' Be good to you ! ' 
 
 ' Yes ; for though I may vex you sometimes as I 
 seem to have done lately, I do not really mean any 
 harm/ 
 
 * Harm ! Poor Hannah ! Why, you wouldn't 
 
 harm a fly. And yet ' he stopped suddenly, took 
 
 both her hands, and looked her hard in the face, 
 ' there are times when I feel as if I hated the very 
 sight of you/ 
 
 Hannah stood aghast. Such unkind, causelessly 
 unkind words! Hate her why? Because she re- 
 minded him of his wife! And yet, except for a 
 certain occasional ' family ' look, no two sisters could 
 be more unlike than she and Rosa. Even were it not 
 so, what a silly, nay, cruel reason for disliking her ! 
 And why had not the dislike shown itself months 
 ago, when he seemed to prize her all the more for 
 belonging to the departed one, whom he still fondly 
 called his 'lost darling.' 
 
 Miss Thelluson could not understand it at all. 
 She was first startled ; then inexpressibly pained. 
 
120 HANXAII. 
 
 The tears came, and choked her. She would have 
 run away if she could; but as she could not, she 
 walked on, saying nothing, for she literally had not 
 a word to say. 
 
 Mr. Rivers walked after her. * I beg your pardon. 
 I have spoken wildly, ridiculously. You must for- 
 give. You see, I am not such a calm, even tempera- 
 ment as you. Oh, Hannah, do forgive me. I did 
 not mean what I said I did not indeed!' 
 
 'What did you mean then?' 
 
 A question which some people, well versed in the 
 science which Mr. Rivers had just been so eloquently 
 discussing, may consider foolish in the extreme, show- 
 ing Hannah to have been, not merely the least self- 
 conscious, but the most purblind of her sex. She was 
 neither. But there are natures so exceedingly single- 
 minded and straightforward, that what seems to them 
 not a right or fitting thing to be done, they no more 
 think of doing themselves, or of suspecting others of 
 doing, than of performing that celebrated feat of 
 'jumping over the moon.' Besides, her idea of her- 
 self was, in many ways, as purely imaginary as her 
 idea of her brother-in-law. The known, notable 
 fact, that ' hate ' is often only the agonised expres- 
 sion of a very opposite feeling, never once suggested 
 itself to the innocent mind of Hannah Thelluson. 
 
 They had by this time reached their own gate. 
 Her hand was on the latch, not reluctantly. He 
 took it off. 
 
 'Don't go in not just this moment, when you 
 are displeased with me. The night is so fine, and 
 there is nobody about.' (What would that matter? 
 Hannah thought.) 'Just walk a few steps farther, 
 while I say to you something which I have had on 
 my mind to say for weeks past : a message, no, not 
 a message, but a sort of commission from a friend of 
 mine.' 
 
 By his hesitation, his extreme awkwardness and 
 
HAXXAH. 121 
 
 mcomfortableness of manner, Hannah guessed directly 
 what it was. ' Et tu, Brute ! ' .she could have bitterly 
 said, remembering the annoyance to which she had 
 been just subjected by Lady Rivers; whom she had 
 seen afterwards in close conclave with Bernard. Had 
 he, then, been enlisted on the same side of the 
 obnoxious rector ? Well, what matter ? She had 
 better hear all, and have done with it. 
 
 But there was delay, and for fiiTy ten minutes; 
 first by Bernard's silence, out of which she was de- 
 termined not to help him in the least ; and secondly, 
 by their encountering a couple out walking like them- 
 selves, the village apothecary and the village milliner, 
 known well to be lovers, who looked equally shy 
 at being met by, and astonished at meeting, their 
 clergyman and his sister-in-law out on the hill at 
 that late hour. Mr. Hivers himself looked much 
 vexed, and hastily proposed turning homeward, as 
 if forgetting altogether what he had to say, till they 
 once more reached the gate. 
 
 'Just one turn in the garden, Hannah I must 
 deliver my message, and do my duty, as Lady Rivers 
 says I ought. I beg your pardon/ he added formally, 
 1 it is trenching on delicate ground, but my friend, 
 Mr. Morecamb, has asked me confidentially to tell 
 him whether you have any objection to his visiting 
 our house/ 
 
 * Our house ? Certainly not/ 
 
 'But the house means you, visits paid to you, 
 with a certain definite end, in plain terms, he wishes 
 to marry you/ 
 
 'And has confided that intention to you, and to 
 all Easterham ! How very kind ! But would it not 
 have been kinder to put the question to me himself, 
 instead of making it public through a third party?' 
 
 ' If by the " third party " you mean me, I assure 
 you, I was no willing party ; and also, that I have 
 sedulously kept the secret forced upon me. Even 
 
122 IIAXXAH. 
 
 to-night, when Lady Rivers was questioning me on 
 the subject, I was careful not to let her suspect, in 
 the smallest degree, that there was any foundation for 
 the report beyond Easterham gossip at Morecamb's 
 frequent visits. I kept my own counsel, ay, and sub- 
 mitted to be rated roundly for my indifference to your 
 interests, and told that I was hindering you from 
 making a good marriage. Is it so?' 
 
 'You ought to have known me better than to 
 suppose I should ever make a " good " marriage ; 
 which means, in Lady River s's vocabulary, a marriage 
 of convenience. She is very kind, to take my affairs 
 so completely into her own hands. I am deeply in- 
 debted to her and to you.' 
 
 The tone was so bitter and satirical, so unlike her- 
 self, that Bernard turned to look at her in the starlight, 
 the pale pure face, neither young nor old, which, 
 he sometimes said, never would be either younger or 
 older, because no wear and tear of human passion 
 troubled its celestial peace. 
 
 'I have offended you, I see. Can it be possible 
 t ,hat ' 
 
 ' Nothing is impossible, apparently. But I should 
 have supposed that you yourself would have been the 
 first to put down all remarks of this kind ; aware that 
 it was, at least, highly improbable I could have any 
 feeling concerning Mr. Morecamb unless it was re- 
 sentment at his having made me a public talk in this 
 way/ 
 
 ' He could not help it, I suppose.' 
 
 'He ought to have helped it. Any man who 
 really loves a woman will hide her under a bushel, 
 so to speak, shelter her from the faintest breath of 
 gossip, take any trouble, any blame even, upon him- 
 self, rather than let her be talked about. At least, 
 that is how I should feel if I were a man and loved 
 a woman. But I don't understand you men less 
 and less the more I know of you. You seem to see 
 
HANNAH. 123 
 
 things in a different light, and live after a different 
 pattern, from what we women do.' 
 
 'That is only too true, the more the pity/ said 
 Mr. Rivers, sighing. 'But as to gossip: the man 
 might not be able to prevent it. There might be cir- 
 cumstances What do you think Morecamb ought 
 
 to have done?' 
 
 Hannah thought a moment. 'He should have 
 held his tongue till he knew his own mind fully, or 
 guessed mine. Then he should have put the question 
 to me direct, and I would have answered it the same, 
 und also held my tongue. Half the love-miseries in 
 the world arise, not from the love itself, but from 
 people's talking about it. I say to all my young 
 friends who fall in love, whether happily or un- 
 happily, "Keep it to yourself: whatever happens, 
 hold your tongue.'" 
 
 ' Oracular advice as if from a prophetess superior 
 to all these human weaknesses,' said Bernard bitterly. 
 ' A pity it was not given in time to poor Mr. More- 
 camb. What do you dislike in him his age?' 
 
 ' No ; it is generally a good thing for the man to 
 be older than the woman even much older.' 
 
 'His being a widower, then?' 
 
 'Not at all; but ' and Hannah stopped, as indig- 
 nant as if she had really loved Mr. Morecamb. That 
 her brother-in-law should be pleading the cause of a 
 gentleman who wanted to marry her, or that any 
 gentleman should be wanting to marry her, seemed 
 equally extraordinary. She could have laughed at the 
 whole matter, had she not felt so strangely, absurdly 
 angry. She stood twirling her hands in and out 
 of her muff, and patting with fierce little feet the 
 frosty ground, and waited for Mr. Rivers to speak 
 next. He did so at length, very formally. 
 
 'I have, then, to convey to my friend a simple 
 negative, and say that you desire his visits here to 
 cease?' 
 
- HANNAH. 
 
 ' Not if he is your friend, and you wish them to 
 continue. What right have I to shut the door upon 
 any of your guests ? My position is most awkward, 
 most uncomfortable. Why did not you spare me this 
 If you had tried, I think I think you might.' 
 
 It was a woman's involuntary outcry of pain, and 
 appeal for protection until she remembered she was 
 making it to a sham protector; a man who had no 
 legal rights towards her; who was neither husband, 
 father, nor brother ; who, though she was living 
 under his roof, could not shelter ner in the smallest 
 degree, except as an ordinary friend. He was that 
 anyhow, for he burst out in earnest and passionate 
 rejoinder. 
 
 'How could I have spared you only tell me! 
 You talk of rights what right had I to prevent the 
 man's seeking you to stand in the way of your 
 marrying, as they tell me I do ? Oh, Hannah ! if 
 you knew what misapprehension, what blame, I have 
 subjected myself to, in all these weeks of silence. 
 And yet now you even you turn round and accuse 
 me.' 
 
 ' I accuse you ! ' 
 
 ' Well, well, perhaps we are taking a too tragical 
 view of the whole matter. You do not quite hate 
 me?' 
 
 'No; on the contrary, it was you who said you 
 hated me.' 
 
 And that sudden change from pathos to bathos, 
 from the sublime to the ridiculous, which, in talk, 
 constantly takes place between people who are verj 
 familiar with one another, came now to soothe the 
 agitation of both. 
 
 'Let us make a paction, for it will never do to 
 have another quarrel, or even a coolness/ said Mr. 
 Rivers, with that bright, pleasant manner of his, 
 which always warmed Hannah through and through 
 like sunshine; she whose life, before she came to 
 
IIANXAII. 125 
 
 Easterham, had been, if placid, a little sunless, cold, 
 and pale. 'I know, whenever you tap your foot in 
 that way, it is a sign you are waxing wrath. Pre- 
 sently you will burst out, and tear me limb from limb, 
 as allegorical ly speaking you delight to do, you 
 being a " big lion," as Rosie says, and I as innocent 
 as a lamb the whole time.' 
 
 Hannah laughed, and * got down from her high 
 horse/ as he used to call it, immediately. She always 
 did when he appealed to her in that irresistibly win- 
 ning, good-humoured way. It is one of the greatest 
 of mysteries the influence one human being has over 
 another. Oftener than not, because of extreme dis- 
 similarity. Upon Hannah's grave and silent nature, 
 the very youthfulness, buoyantness, and frankness of 
 this young man came with a charm and freshness 
 which she never found in grave, silent, middle - aged 
 people. Even his face, which she had once called too 
 handsome uninterestingly handsome, she had come 
 to look at with a tender pride as his mother (so she 
 said to herself at least) might have done. 
 
 ' Well, papa/ she replied, ' I don't know whether 
 you are a lamb or a lion, but you are without doubt 
 the sweetest-tempered man I ever knew. It is a bless- 
 ing to live with you, as Rosa once said.' 
 
 ' Did she say that ? poor darling ! And and do 
 you think it ? Oh, Hannah ! ' and he lifted up in 
 the starlight a suddenly grave, even solemn, face ; ' if 
 you knew everything if she were looking at us two 
 here would she not say I am sure she would ' 
 
 But the sentence was never ended ; for just as 
 they stood at the hall door, a scream resounded from 
 within an unmistakable woman's scream. 
 
 * That is Grace's voice. Oh, my baby, my baby ! ' 
 cried Hannah, and darted away, Mr. Rivers following 
 her. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 No harm had befallen baby. Hannah, flying up- stairs 
 on terror- winged feet, that carried her she hardly 
 knew how, found her treasure all safe, lying fast 
 asleep, as warm and soft as a little bird in its nest, 
 in the quiet nursery. 
 
 Grace was not there, and yet it was certainly 
 Grace's voice she had heard. What could have hap- 
 pened? The uneasy fear that some time or other 
 something uncomfortable might turn up concerning 
 Jem Dixon was seldom long absent from Hannah's 
 mind, though it was not strong enough to take away 
 the comfort she had in her intelligent and faithful 
 nurse. 
 
 Of course the whole household, as well as every 
 household at Easterham, knew Grace's story. In such 
 a small community concealment was impossible, even 
 had Miss Thelluson wished it, which she did not. She 
 had a great horror of secrets, and besides she felt that 
 in this painful matter perfect openness was the safest 
 course. Therefore, both to her servants and her neigh- 
 bours, she had never hesitated to mention the thing, 
 telling the plain story, accepting it as an inevitable 
 misfortune, and then protecting Grace to the utmost 
 by her influence the influence which any lady can 
 use, both with equals and inferiors, when she is, like 
 Hannah, quite firm in her own mind, and equally fear- 
 less in expressing it. Whatever people said behind 
 her back, before Hannah's face nobody breathed a word 
 against the poor nurse, who cowered gratefully under 
 the shelter of her mistress's kindness, and kept out of 
 other people's way as much as possible. 
 
 In her class broken hearts are rare ; working wo- 
 men have not time to die of grief. But though Grace 
 
II A XX A II. 127 
 
 said little or nothing, often when she sat sewing, with 
 Rosie playing at her feet, Hannah watched with pity 
 the poor sad face, and thought of the blighted life 
 which nothing could ever restore. For, as has been 
 said, Grace, brought up as little maid to the Miss Mel- 
 villes, had caught from them a higher tone of feeling, 
 and a purer morality, in great things and small, than, 
 alas ! is usually found among servants ; and she suf- 
 fered accordingly. Her shame, if shame it could be 
 called, seemed to gnaw into her very heart. So did 
 her separation from the children. How far she grieved 
 for their father could not be guessed ; she never named 
 him, and, Hannah was certain, saw and heard nothing 
 of him. But that scream, and a slight confusion 
 which was audible down-stairs, convinced her that 
 something probably the vague something she always 
 feared had happened ; James Dixon had re-appeared. 
 She went down- stairs and found it so. In the 
 servants' hall, the centre of an excited group some 
 frightened at him, some making game of him stood 
 a little, ugly-looking man, half -drunk, but not too 
 drunk to be incapable of taking care of himself, or 
 knowing quite well what he was about. He held Grace 
 tight round the waist with one hand, and brandished a 
 kitchen carving-knife with the other, daring every- 
 body to come near him ; which nobody did, until Mr. 
 Rivers walked quietly up and took the knife out of 
 his hand. 
 
 * James Dixon, what business have you in my house 
 at this time of night ?' 
 
 ' I want my missis. I'm come to fetch my missis/ 
 stammered the man drunkenly, still keeping hold of 
 Grace in spite of her violent struggles to get free. 
 
 * She isn't his missis,' cried some one from behind. 
 1 Please, sir, he married my cousin, Ann Bridges, only 
 two months ago. He's always a-marrying somebody.' 
 
 ' But I don't like Ann Bridges now I've got her. 
 She's for ever rating at me and beating the children ; 
 
- HANNAH. 
 
 and I'm a fond father as doesn't like to see his little 
 'uns ill-used/ added Jem, growing maudlin. * So I'd 
 rather get rid of Ann and take Grace back again.' 
 
 When he spoke of the children, Grace had given a 
 great sob ; but now, when he turned to her his red, 
 drunken face and wanted to kiss her, she shrank from 
 him in disgust, and making one struggle wrenched 
 herself free, and darted over to Mr. Rivers. 
 
 ' Oh, please save me ! I don't want to go back to 
 him. I can't, sir, you know.' And then she appealed 
 despairingly to her mistress. * Did you hear what he 
 said ? That woman beats the children ; I knew she 
 would ; and yet I can't go back. Miss Thelluson, you 
 don't think I ought to go back ?' 
 
 * Certainly not,' said Hannah, and then her brother- 
 in-law first noticed her presence. 
 
 ' Pray go away,' he whispered, * this is not a place 
 for you. See, the man is drunk.' 
 
 ' I do not mind,' she answered. ' Just look at poor 
 Grace ; we must save her from him.' 
 
 For Jem had again caught the young woman in 
 his arms, where she lay, half - fainting, not resisting at 
 all, evidently frightene*d to death. 
 
 ' This cannot be endured,' said Mr. Rivers angrily. 
 ' Dixon, be off with you ! Webb, Jacob, take him be- 
 tween you and see him clear out of the gate.' 
 
 ' Butler and footman advanced, but their task was 
 not easy. Dixon was a wiry little fellow, sharp as a 
 ferret, even in his cups. He wriggled out of the men's 
 grasp immediately, and tried again to snatch at the 
 kitchen-knife. 
 
 'Hands off, mates; I'll go fast enough. It isn't 
 much a fellow gets in this house. Grace wouldn't 
 even give me a drop o' beer. I'll be off, Mr. Rivers ; 
 but I'll not stir a step without my wife, that's the 
 young woman there. I married her in church, same 
 as I did t'other woman, and I like her the best o' the 
 two ; so do the little ones. I promised them I'd fetch 
 
HANNAH. 129 
 
 her back. You'll come, Grace, won't you? and I'll 
 be so kind to you/ 
 
 * Oh, Jem, Jem ! ' sobbed poor Grace, melted by the 
 coaxing tone ; but still she tried to get away, and cried 
 imploringly to her master to release her from Dixon' s 
 hold. Mr. Rivers grew angry. 
 
 'Let the woman go, I say. You have not the 
 smallest claim upon her, no more than she upon you. 
 If she chooses to stay here she shall. Begone, before 
 I set the police on you ! ' 
 
 'Do it if you dare, sir,' said Dixon, setting his 
 back against the door. ' I'll not stir a step without 
 Grace; she's a pretty girl, and a nice girl, and I 
 married her in church, too. I found a parson to do 
 it, though you wouldn't.' 
 
 ' Your marriage is worth nothing ; I told you so 
 at the time. It was against the law, and the law does 
 not recognise it. She is not your wife, and so, very 
 rightly, she refuses to go back to you, and I, as magis- 
 trate, will protect her in this refusal. Let her go.' 
 And Mr. Rivers, following words by action, again 
 shook off the fellow's grasp and left the young woman 
 free. ' Now, Grace, get away up-stairs, and let us put 
 an end to this nonsense.' 
 
 For, in spite of their respect for their master, the 
 other servants seemed rather amused than not at this 
 spectacle of a gentleman arguing with a drunken man 
 for the possession of his wife; or, perhaps, some of 
 them having as confused notions of the marriage laws 
 as James Dixon, had thought Jem was rather hardly 
 used, and ought to get Grace if he wanted. The but- 
 ler, an old servant, even ventured to hint this, and that 
 it was a pity to meddle between man and wife. 
 
 ' Did I not say plainly that she is not his wife ? ' 
 cried Mr. Rivers in much displeasure. ' A man cannot 
 marry his wife's sister. I am master here, and out of 
 my house she shall not stir against her will. Grace, go 
 up-stairs immediately with Miss Thelluson.' 
 
 K 
 
130 HANNAH. 
 
 Then Dixon's lingering civility and respect for the 
 clergy quite left him. He squared up at Mr. Rivers 
 in drunken rage. 
 
 'You're a nice parson, you are. Mind your own 
 business and I'll mind mine. Your own hands bean't 
 so very clean, I reckon. Some folk 'ud say mine were 
 the cleanest o' the two.' 
 
 ' What do you mean, you scoundrel ? Speak out, 
 or I'll take you by the neck and shake you like a 
 rat.' 
 
 For Mr. Rivers was a young man, and his passions 
 were up ; and Dixon looked so very like a rat, with 
 his glittering, hungry eyes, and a creeping way he had 
 till he showed his teeth and sprung upon you. Han- 
 nah wondered how on earth poor, pretty Grace could 
 ever have been persuaded to marry him. But no doubt 
 it was like so many marriages, the mere result of cir- 
 cumstances, and for the sake of the children. ' If ever 
 I could marry that man, it would be for the sake 
 of his children/ said once a very good woman ; and 
 though men are probably too vain to believe it, many 
 another good woman may have felt the same. 
 
 ' What do I mean, sir ?' said Dixon, with a laugh ; 
 ' oh, you knows well enough what I mean, and so do 
 your servants there, and so does all Easter ham. There 
 bean't much to choose betwixt you and me, Mr. Rivers, 
 if all tales be true.' 
 
 'What tales?' said Bernard slowly, turning white, 
 though he still held his ground and deliberately faced 
 the man. For all his servants were facing him, and 
 on more than one countenance was a horrid kind of 
 smile, the smile with which, in these modern days, 
 when the old feudal reverence seems so mournfully 
 wearing off, the kitchen often views the iniquities of 
 the parlour. 'What tales?' 
 
 ' Of course it isn't true, sir or else it doesn't 
 matter gentlefolks may do anything they likes. But 
 people do say, Mr. Rivers, that you and I row in the 
 
HANNAH. 131 
 
 same boat : only I was honest enough to marry my 
 wife's sister, and you wasn't. That's all!' 
 
 It was enough. Brief as the accusation was put, 
 there was no mistaking it, or Dixon's meaning in it. 
 Either Mr. Rivers had not believed the man's inso- 
 lence would go so far, or was unaware of the extent 
 to which the scandal had grown, but he stood, for a 
 moment, perfectly paralysed. He neither looked to 
 one side nor the other to Hannah, who had scarcely 
 taken it in, or to the servants, who had taken it in 
 only too plainly. Twice he opened his lips to speak, 
 and twice his voice failed. At last he said, in a voice so 
 hollow and so unlike his own that everybody started 
 ' It is a lie ! I declare, before God and all now 
 present, that what this man says against me is a foul, 
 damnable lie!' 
 
 He uttered the ugly words as strongly and solemnly 
 as he was accustomed to read such out of the Bible in 
 his pulpit at church. They sent a thrill through 
 every listener, and sobered even the drunken man. 
 But Jem soon saw his advantage, and took it. 
 
 * Lie or not, sir, it looks just the same, and folks 
 believe it all the same. When a poor man takes a 
 young woman into his house, and either marries her 
 or wants to, what an awful row you kick up about 
 it ! But when a gentleman does it oh, dear ! it's 
 quite another thing ! ' 
 
 Mr. Rivers ground his teeth together, but still no 
 words came except the repetition of those four, 'It 
 is a lie!' 
 
 ' Well, if it is, sir, it looks uncommon queer, any- 
 how. For a young lady and a young gentleman to 
 live together, and be a-going out and a-coming home 
 together ; and when we meets 'em, as I did a bit ago, 
 not exactly a-going straight home, but a-walking and 
 a-whispering together in the dark 'twas them, sure, 
 for the lady had got a red hood on, and she's got it 
 on still. 1 
 
132 HANNAH. 
 
 Hannah put her hand up to her head. "Until this 
 moment, confused and bewildered, and full of pity for 
 unfortunate Grace, she had scarcely understood the 
 scandal with regard to herself. Now she did. Plain 
 as light or, rather, black as darkness she saw all 
 that she was accused of, all that she had innocently 
 laid herself open to, and from which she must at once 
 defend herself. How ? 
 
 It was horrible ! To stand there and hear her good 
 nune taken away before her own servants, and with her 
 brother-in-law close by ! She cast a wild appealing 
 look to him, as if he could protect her ; but he took no 
 notice scarcely seemed to see her. Grace only poor, 
 miserable Grace stole up to her and caught her hand. 
 
 * It is a lie, miss and Jem knows it is ! You 
 mustn't mind what he says/ 
 
 And then another of the women servants an 
 under-housemaid to whom she had been specially 
 kind ran across to her, beginning to cry. Oh, the 
 humiliation of those tears ! 
 
 Somebody must speak. This dreadful scene must 
 be ended. 
 
 1 Sister Hannah/ said Mr. Rivers, at length re- 
 covering himself, and speaking in his natural manner, 
 but with grave and pointed respect, ' will you oblige 
 me by taking Grace up-stairs? Webb and Jacob, 
 remove this fellow from my house immediately ; or 
 else, as I said, we must fetch the police/ 
 
 Mr. Rivers had great influence when he chose to 
 exercise it, especially with his inferiors. His extra- 
 ordinarily sweet temper, his tender consideration for 
 other people's feelings, his habit of putting himself 
 in their place the lowest and most degraded of them, 
 and judging them mercifully, as the purest-hearted 
 always do judge these things stood him in good 
 stead both in his household and his parish. Besides 
 when a mild man once gets thoroughly angry, people 
 know he means it, and are frightened accordingly. 
 
HANNAH. 133 
 
 Either Dixon felt some slight remorse, or dreaded 
 the police, but he suffered himself to be conveyed 
 quietly outside, and the gate locked upon him, without 
 making more ado than a few harmless pullings of the 
 garden bell. These at last subsided, and the house- 
 hold became quiet. 
 
 Quiet, after such a scene ! As if it were possible ! 
 Retiring was a mere form. The servants sat up till 
 midnight, gossiping gloriously over the kitchen fire. 
 Hannah heard them where she, too, sat, wide awake, 
 in the dreadful silence and solitude of her own room. 
 
 She had gone up- stairs with Grace, as bidden ; 
 and they had separated, without exchanging a word, 
 at the nursery door. For the first time in her life 
 Hannah went to bed without taking one watchful, 
 comforting look, one kiss of her sleeping darling. She 
 went to bed in a mechanical, stunned way ; for though 
 it was still quite early, she never thought of rejoining 
 her brother-in-law. She heard him moving up and 
 down the house for an hour or more, even after that 
 cruel clamour of tongues in the kitchen was silent; 
 but to meet him again that night never struck her as 
 a possibility. What help, what comfort, could he be 
 to her? he who was joined with her in this infamous 
 slander ? Henceforth, instead of coming to him for 
 protection, she must avoid him as she would the 
 plague. 
 
 ' Oh, what have I done, and how have I erred, 
 that all this misery should full upon me?' moaned 
 poor Hannah, as bit by bit she realised her position 
 the misinterpretations that might be put upon her 
 daily conduct, even as upon to-night's walk across the 
 hill. Perhaps what Dixon said was true that all 
 Easterham was watching her and speaking evil of her ? 
 Was this the meaning of Lady Rivers's dark hints 
 of the eager desire to get her married to Mr. More- 
 carub of the falling-off of late in social civilities 
 a certain polite coldness in houses where her visits 
 
134 HANNAH. 
 
 used to be welcomed a gradual cessation of lady 
 visitors at the House on the Hill ? As all these facts 
 came back upon her mind, fitting into one another, 
 as unpleasant facts do, when one once fancies one has 
 got the key to them, Hannah groaned aloud, feeling 
 as if she could lay her down and die. It had all come 
 so suddenly. She had gone on her way in such happy 
 unsuspiciousness. Yes! now she recognised with 
 mingled wonder and was it terror also ? how very 
 happy she had been. There seemed nothing left for 
 her but to lay her down and die. 
 
 Everybody knows the story of the servant lament- 
 ing his master's dying innocent, to whom the master 
 said, * Would you have me die guilty ?' Nevertheless, 
 it is hard to die, even when innocent. No bitterer 
 hour ever came to Hannah, or was likely to come, 
 than that first hour after a bad man's wicked words 
 had forced from Mr, Rivers the declaration which, 
 in itself, and in his ever feeling it incumbent upon 
 himself to make it, was disgrace enough * It is a lie!' 
 
 Of course it was ; and any friend who really knew 
 them both would be sure of that. But what of the 
 world at large the careless world, that judges from 
 hearsay the evil world, which is always so quick to 
 discover, so ready to gloat over, anything wrong ? 
 And there must be something wrong, some false po- 
 sition, some oversight in conduct, some unfortunate 
 concatenation of circumstances, to make such a lie 
 possible. 
 
 ' Be thou chaste as ice, pure as snow, thou shalt 
 not escape calumny.' Most true ; but the calumny is 
 rarely altogether baseless some careless, passing hand 
 may have smutched the snow, or the ice have let itself 
 be carried too near the fire. Hannah remembered 
 now, wondering she could have forgotten it so long, 
 Lady Dunsmore's warning : * He is not your brother ; 
 it is only a social fiction that makes him so/ And 
 if Bernard Rivers and she were not brother and sister, 
 
HANNAH. 135 
 
 if there was no tie of blood between them, nothing 
 that, if he had not been Rosa's husband first, would 
 have prevented their marrying why, then, she ought 
 not to have gone and lived with him. The chain of 
 argument seemed so plain, that in thinking it out 
 Hannah suddenly began to tremble nay, she actually 
 shuddered ; but, strange contradiction ! it was not 
 altogether a shudder of pain. 
 
 Fictions, social and otherwise, may have their day, 
 when both the simple and the cunning accept them. 
 But it is not a day which lasts for ever. By-and- 
 by they tumble down, like all other shams ; and the 
 poor heart who had dwelt in them is cast out, bare and 
 shelterless, to face the bitter truth as best it may. 
 
 Hannah's was the most innocent heart possible 
 strangely so for a woman who had lived, not igno- 
 rantly, in the world for thirty years. Whatever mis- 
 take she had fallen into under whatever delusion she 
 had wrapped herself it was all done as unknowingly, 
 as foolishly, as if she had been a seven- years' old 
 child. But that did not hinder her from suffering 
 like a woman a woman who, after a long dream of 
 peace, wakes up to find she has been sleeping on the 
 edge of a precipice. 
 
 That pleasant fiction which had been torn down 
 by the rough hands of James Dixon, opened her eyes 
 to its corresponding truth, that nature herself sets 
 bounds to the association of men and women cer- 
 tainly of young men and young women and that, 
 save under very exceptional circumstances, all pseudo- 
 relationships are a mistake. Two people, who are 
 neither akin by blood nor bound in wedlock, can 
 seldom, almost never, live together in close and affec- 
 tionate friendship without this friendship growing to 
 be something less or something more. The thing is 
 abnormal, and against nature ; and nature avenges 
 herself by asserting her rights and exacting her 
 punishments. 
 
136 HANNAH. 
 
 The law says to people in such positions to 
 brothers and sisters-in-law especially ' You shall 
 not marry/ But it cannot say, ' You shall not love.' 
 It cannot prevent the gradual growth of that fond, 
 intimate affection which is the surest basis of married 
 happiness. Suppose Hannah put the question to 
 herself with frightened conscience suppose, instead 
 of that tender friendship which undoubtedly existed 
 between them, she and Bernard had really fallen in 
 love with one another? 
 
 That he was very fond of her, in a sort of way, 
 she never doubted. That she was fond of him yes, 
 that also was true. She could not help it. He was so 
 good ; he made her so happy. Many a man is deeply 
 attached to a woman wife or sister whom he yet 
 entirely fails in making happy. He thinks too much 
 of himself, too little of her. But Bernard was a 
 different kind of man. That sweet sunshininess of 
 nature, that generous self-forgetfulness, that constant 
 protecting tenderness more demonstrative in deeds 
 than words qualities so rare in men, and so precious 
 when found, were his to perfection. He was not bril- 
 liantly clever ; and he had many little faults ; rash- 
 nesses, bursts of wrath, sudden, childish, fantastic 
 humours, followed by pathetic contrition ; but he was 
 intensely lovable. Hannah had told him truly when 
 she said oh, how hot she grew when she recalled 
 it ! * that it was a blessing to live with him/ for 
 everybody whom he lived with he contrived to make 
 happy. 
 
 ' Oh, we have been so happy together/ Eosa had 
 sighed, almost with her last breath. And Rosa's 
 sister, in the bitter pang which seemed like death 
 for it must surely result in a parting as complete 
 could have said the same. 
 
 Yes, of course she must go away. There seemed 
 to her at first no other alternative. She must quit 
 the House on the Hill the very next day. This, not 
 
HANNAH. 137 
 
 alone for her own sake. It was, as Bernard had 
 once said, truly a house on a hill, exposed to every 
 comment, a beacon and example to every eye. !No 
 cloud of suspicion must be suffered to rest upon it 
 not for a day, an hour. She would run away at once. 
 
 And yet, was that the act of innocence did it 
 look like innocence ? Was it not much more like the 
 impulse of cowardly guilt ? And if she did go, could 
 she take Rosie with her? 
 
 Then, poor Hannah at once fell prone, crushed by 
 a weight of misery greater than she could bear. To 
 go away and leave her child behind ! All Easterham 
 might be howling at her, but she could never do that. 
 Life without Eosie the old, blank, sunless, child- 
 less life she could not endure it. It would kill 
 her at once. Better a thousand times stay on here, 
 strong in her innocence, and let Easterham do and 
 say its worst. For she had done no wrong, and, 
 come what would, she had been happy. This sense 
 of happiness, never stronger than a few hours ago, 
 when she and Bernard were taking together that 
 innocent-guilty walk and finding out more than ever 
 the doep, true harmony of soul, which, in spite of 
 their great differences of character, existed between 
 them, seemed to wrap her up, close and warm, her 
 only shelter against the bitter outside blast. 
 
 What would her brother-in-law say ? She could 
 not act for herself alone ; the position was as cruel 
 for him as for her. She must think of him too, and 
 wait for his opinion, whatever it might be. And 
 then she became conscious how completely she had 
 learned to look to Bernard's opinion, to lean upon 
 his judgment, to consult his tastes, to make him, in 
 short, for these many months, what no man who is 
 neither her relative nor her lover ought to be to any 
 woman the one primary object of her life. 
 
 Utterly bewildered, half- frightened, and unable to 
 come to the slightest conclusion, Hannah, after lying 
 
138 IIAXXAII. 
 
 awake half the night, fell heavily asleep, nor wakened 
 till the sound of little feet in her room, and the shrill, 
 joyous cry as sweet as the song of a lark spring- 
 ing up into the morning air over a clover field 
 ' Tannie, Tannie ! Wake up, Tannie ! ' dispersed in a 
 moment all the cloudy despairs of the night. 
 
 Tennyson knew human nature well when he made 
 the rejected lover say, 
 
 ' My latest rival brings thee rest : 
 Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast.' 
 
 That is, they press out every image unholy, or pain- 
 ful, or despairing. Such cannot long exist in any 
 heart that is filled with a child. Hannah had some- 
 times read in novels of women who were mothers 
 falling in love, and with other men than their own 
 husbands ; kissing their babies in their innocent 
 cradles, and then flying from lawful homes to homes 
 unlawful. All these stories seemed to her then very 
 dreadful, very tragical, but not quite impossible. 
 Now, since she had had Eosie, they almost did seem 
 impossible. How a woman once blessed with a child 
 could ever think of any man alive, she could not 
 comprehend. 
 
 Hannah had not held her little niece beside her 
 for five minutes feasting her eyes on the loving, 
 merry face, and playing all the funny little games 
 which Hosie and Tannie were so grand at when to- 
 gether before all the agony of last night became 
 as unreal as last night's dreams. This was the real 
 thing the young life entrusted to her care the 
 young soul growing up under the shelter of her love. 
 She rose and dressed for breakfast, feeling that with 
 the child in her arms she could face the whole world. 
 
 Ay, her brother-in-law included; though this was 
 a hard thing. She would not have been a woman 
 not to have found it hard. And if he decided that 
 
HANNAH. 139 
 
 she must stay that, strong in their innocence, they 
 must treat Dixon's malicious insolence as mere inso- 
 lence, no more, and make no change whatever in 
 their way of life still, how doubly difficult that 
 life would be ! To meet day after day at table and 
 fireside; to endure, not in cheerful ignorance, but 
 painful consciousness, the stare of all suspicious eyes, 
 especially of their own household, who had heard 
 them so wickedly accused, and seen they must 
 have seen ! how deep the wound had gone. It 
 would be dreadful almost unbearable. 
 
 And then with regard to their two selves ! 
 
 Bernard was Hannah knew it, felt it one of 
 the purest-hearted of men. Living in the house with 
 him was like living with a woman ; nay, not all 
 women had his delicacy of feeling. Frank and fa- 
 miliar as his manner was or had been till lately 
 he never was free with her never caressed her; 
 nothing but the ordinary shake of the hand had ever 
 passed between them, even though he was her brother- 
 in-law. Hannah liked this reserve ; she was not used 
 to kissing ; as people in large families are, as the 
 Moat-House girls were; it had rather surprised her 
 to see the way they all hung about young Mr. Mel- 
 ville. But, even though in their daily conduct to 
 one another, private and public, she and Bernard 
 could never be impeached, still the horrible possi- 
 bility of being watched watched and suspected 
 and that both knew it was so, was enough to make 
 the relations between them so painful, that she hardly 
 knew how she should bear it. 
 
 Even this morning her feet lingered on the stair, 
 and that bright breakfast- room, with its pleasant 
 morning greeting, seemed a sort of purgatory that 
 she would have escaped if she could. 
 
 She did escape it, for it was empty of everybody 
 but Webb, the butler, whom she saw hovering about ; 
 near, suspiciously near, to an open note, or rather a 
 
140 HANNAH, 
 
 scrap of paper, left on the table, open was it in- 
 tentionally open ? for anybody's perusal ? 
 
 ' Master has just gone off to the railway in the 
 dog-cart, Miss Thelluson. He left this bit of paper, 
 with an apology to you ; saying he was in a great 
 hurry, and hadn't time to write more, or he would 
 miss the London train.' 
 
 1 He has gone to London ? ' said Hannah, with a 
 great sense of relief, and yet of pain. 
 
 ' Yes, miss, I think so ; but the note says 
 
 Then Webb had gratified his curiosity by reading 
 the paper. 
 
 Anybody might have read it, certainly. It might 
 have been printed in the Times newspaper, or de- 
 claimed by the Easterham town-crier for the benefit 
 of the small public at the market-place. And yet 
 Hannah's eyes read it eagerly, and her heart beat as 
 she did so in a way that no sight of Bernard's 
 familiar handwriting had ever made it beat before. 
 
 'DEAR SISTER HANNAH, 
 
 'I am away to town to visit a sick friend, 
 and am obliged to start very early. I hope to be 
 back by Sunday, but do not expect me till you see 
 me. Give papa's love to his little Rosie, and believe 
 me, 
 
 'Your affectionate brother, 
 
 ' BERNARD RIVERS. 
 
 'Perhaps you will kindly call at the Moat-House 
 to-day, and tell them I am gone.' 
 
141 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HANXAH'S first feeling on discovering her brother- 
 in-law's absence was intense relief. Then, as she sat 
 over the solitary breakfast-table, there came unto her 
 an uneasiness akin to fear. He had done exactly what 
 she had not done ; what, in spi.te of her first instinc- 
 tive wish, she had decided was unwise and cowardly 
 to do he had run away. 
 
 From what ? From the scandal ? But since it 
 was all false, and they innocent, what did it matter? 
 Could they not live it down ? Dreadful as things 
 had appeared in the long watches of the night, in 
 that clear light of morning, and with the touch of her 
 darling's arms still lingering about her neck, Hannah 
 felt that she could live it down. Perhaps he could 
 not ; perhaps he was afraid and a cold shiver crept 
 over her a conviction that he was afraid. 
 
 In the sick friend she did not quite believe. She 
 knew all Bernard's affairs knew that though he had 
 an old college companion ill in London, it was no 
 friend close enough to take him suddenly and com- 
 pulsorily from all his duties he who so hated going 
 from home. Yes, he must have gone on her account, 
 and in consequence of what happened last night. Her 
 first impulse of relief and gratitude sank into another 
 sort of feeling. He had certainly run away, leaving 
 her to fight the battle alone. That is, if he meant 
 them to fight it out. If not, if he wished her to 
 leave him, in his absence he would perhaps take the 
 opportunity of telling her so. 
 
 For not yet not even yet did that other solu- 
 tion of the difficulty suggest itself to Hannah's mind. 
 Had she looked at the sweet, grave face reflected in 
 the mirror opposite, had she heard the patient, tender 
 
142 HANNAH. 
 
 voice which answered Rosie's infantile exactions for 
 she had gone and fetched the child, as usual, after 
 breakfast the truth would at once have occurred to 
 her concerning any other woman. But it did not 
 concerning herself; or only in that form a rather 
 sad, hut perfectly safe one not that her brother-in- 
 law was growing fond of her, but that she was grow- 
 ing fond of him ; fond enough to make his marriage, 
 or any other catastrophe which should part them, not 
 so indifferent to her as it once had been. 
 
 But still this was only affection. Hannah had 
 never had a brother, her nearest approach to the tie 
 having been her cousin Arthur, who from his extreme 
 gentleness and delicacy of health was less like a 
 brother than a sister ay, even after he changed 
 into a lover. Now, when not one spark of passion, 
 only sacred tenderness, was mixed up with the thought 
 of him, his memory was less that of a man than an 
 angel. In truth, only since she had lived with Mr. 
 Rivers had Hannah found out what it was to asso- 
 ciate with a real man, at once strong and tender, who 
 put a woman in her right place by conscientiously 
 taking his own with regard to her, and being to her 
 at once a shelter and a shield. 
 
 Poor Hannah ! she had grown so accustomed now 
 to be taken care of, that she felt if fate thrust her 
 out into the bitter world again, she should be as help- 
 less as one of those little fledglings about whom, in 
 the intervals of her meditations, she was telling Rosie 
 a pathetic story. And when Rosie said, ' Poor 'ittle 
 dicky-birds ! ' and looked quite sad, then, seeing Aunt 
 Hannah looking sad too alas! not about 'dicky- 
 birds' burst into the sympathetic sobbing of her 
 innocent age, Aunt Hannah's heart felt like to break. 
 
 It would have broken many a time that day, but 
 for the blessed necessity of keeping a bright face be- 
 fore the child. Ay, even though sometimes there 
 occurred to her, with a refined self-torture, the 
 
HANNAH. 143 
 
 thought of what she should do if Mr. Rivers sent 
 her away without Rosie. But she did not seriously 
 fear this he could not be capable of such cruelty. 
 If he were why, Aunt Hannah was quite capable 
 O f something else which he might not exactly like, 
 and which perhaps the unpleasant English law might 
 call child-stealing. And she remembered a story, a 
 true story, of an aunt who had once travelled from 
 England to America, and there fairly kidnapped from 
 some wicked relations her dead sister's child, pre- 
 tended to take it out for a walk, and fled over snow 
 and through forests, travelling by night and hiding 
 by day, till she caught the New York steamer, and 
 sailed, safe and triumphant, for English shores. 
 
 'As I would sail, for Australia or America, any 
 day, if he drives me to it. Oh, Rosie! you little 
 know what a desperate woman Tannie could be made ! ' 
 
 And Rosie laughed in her face, and stroked it, and 
 said, 'Good Tannie, pretty Tannie!' till the demon 
 sank down, and the pure angel that always seems to 
 look out of baby-eyes comforted Hannah in spite of 
 herself. No one can be altogether wretched, for long 
 together, who has the charge of a healthy, happy, 
 loving little child. 
 
 Sunday came, but Mr. Rivers did not return ; 
 pending as substitute in his pulpit an old college 
 chum, who reported that he had left London for 
 Cambridge, and was staying there in his old college ; 
 at which Lady Rivers expressed herself much pleased. 
 
 ' He shuts himself up far too much at home, which 
 would be natural enough if he had a wife ; but for a 
 man in Bernard's circumstances is perfectly ridiculous. 
 I hope he will now see his mistake, and correct it.' 
 
 Hannah answered nothing. She knew she was 
 being talked at, as was the habit of the Moat-House. 
 Her only protection was not to seem to hear. She 
 had, as he desired, taken Bernard's message to his 
 family, even showing the letter, and another letter 
 
144 HANNAH. 
 
 she got from him respecting Mr. Hewlett the clergy- 
 man, also evidently meant to be shown. Indeed, he 
 wrote almost daily to her ahout some parish business 
 or other, for Hannah had become to him like her lost 
 sister his 'curate in petticoats.' But every letter 
 was the briefest, most matter-of-fact possible, begin- 
 ning ' My dear sister/ and ending ' Your affectionate 
 brother.' Did he do this intentionally, or make the 
 epistles public intentionally ? She rather thought so. 
 A wise, kind precaution ; and yet there is something 
 painful and aggravating in any friendship which 
 requires precautions. 
 
 Day after day Hannah delivered her brother-in- 
 law's messages and transacted his business, speaking 
 and looking as calmly as if she were his mere locum 
 tenens, his faithful ' curate,' as if her throat were not 
 choking and her hands trembling, with that horrible 
 lie of Dixon's ever present to her mind. She tried 
 to find out whether it had ever reached others' minds, 
 whether there was any difference in the way people 
 glanced at her or addressed her ; but beyond a certain 
 carelessness, with which she was usually treated at the 
 Moat-House when Mr. Rivers was not present, and a 
 slight coldness in other houses, which might or might 
 not have been her own morbid fancy, she discovered 
 nothing. 
 
 The clergyman sent by Bernard being of no im- 
 posing personality, or high worldly standing, but only 
 j ust a poor ' coach ' at Cambridge, was not invited to 
 stay at the Moat-House ; so Miss Thelluson had to 
 entertain him herself till Monday. It was an easy 
 task enough ; he was very meek, very quiet, and very 
 full of admiration of Mr. Rivers, concerning whose 
 college life he told Hannah stories without end. She 
 listened with an interest strangely warm and tender. 
 For the tales were all to his credit, and proved him to 
 have been then as now a man who, even as a young 
 man, was neither afraid of being good nor ashamed of 
 
HAXXAH 145 
 
 being amiable. They made ber almost forgive herself 
 for another fact whicb bad alarmed and startled ber 
 that she missed him so mucb. 
 
 People of Hannah's character, accustomed of sad 
 necessity to stand alone, until self-dependent solitude 
 becomes second nature, do not often ' miss ' other peo- 
 ple. They like their friends well enough, are glad to 
 meet and sorry to part ; but still no ordinary parting 
 brings with it that intense sense of loss of which 
 Hannah was painfully conscious now her brother-in- 
 law was away. She had thought the child was enough 
 company, and so Rosie was in daylight hours; the 
 little imperious darling who ruled Aunt Hannah with 
 a rod of iron, except when Aunt Hannah saw it was 
 for the child's good to govern her, when she turned 
 the tables with a firm gentleness that Rosie never dis- 
 obeyed. But after Rosie had gone to bed, the blank 
 silence which seemed to fall upon the house was inde- 
 scribable. 
 
 Oh, the lonely tea-table! for she had abolished 
 bven-o'clock dinners ; oh, the empty drawing-room, 
 with its ghostly shadows and strange noises ! The 
 happy home felt as dreary as Bernard must have found 
 it after poor Rosa died. In the long hours of evening 
 solitude, Hannah's thoughts, beaten back by the never- 
 ceasing business of the day, returned in battalions, 
 attacking her on every weak side, often from totally 
 opposite sides, so that she retired worsted to her inner 
 self the little secret chambers which her soul had 
 dwelt in ever since she was a child ! Yet even there 
 was no peace now. Bernard had let himself into her 
 heart, with that wonderful key of sympathy which he 
 so well knew how to use, and even in her deepest and 
 most sacred self she was entirely her own no more. 
 Continually she wanted him to talk to, to argue with, 
 to laugh with, nay, even to laugh at sometimes. She 
 missed him everywhere, in everything, with the bitter 
 want of those who, having lived together for many 
 
146 HANNAH. 
 
 months, come inevitably, as was before said, either to 
 dislike one another excessively, or that other alter- 
 native which is sometimes the most fatal of the two 
 
 to love one another. Such love has a depth and 
 passion to which common feelings can no more be 
 compared than the rolling of a noisy brook to the 
 solemn flow of a silent river, which bears life or death 
 in its waveless but inexorable tide. 
 
 Ay, it was life or death. Call affection by what 
 name you will, when it becomes all-absorbing it can, 
 in the case of persons not akin by blood, lead but to 
 one result, the love whose right end is marriage. 
 When Hannah, as her brother-in-law's continued 
 absence gave her more time for solitary reflection 
 than she had had for many months, came face to 
 face with the plain fact, how close they had grown, 
 and how necessary they were to one another, she 
 began, startled, to ask herself, if this so-called sisterly 
 feeling were really sisterly ? What if it were not ? 
 What if she had deceived herself, and that sweet, 
 sad, morning dream which she had thought protected 
 her from all other dreams of love and marriage, had 
 been, after all, only a dream, and this the reality? 
 Or would it have grown into such, had she and 
 Bernard met as perfect strangers, free to fall in love 
 and marry as strangers do? 
 
 'Suppose we had suppose such a thing had been 
 possible/ thought she. And then came a second 
 thought. Why was it impossible? Who made it so 
 
 God or man ? 
 
 Hannah had hitherto never fairly considered the 
 matter, not even when Grace's misery brought it 
 home. With her natural dislike to what she called 
 'walking through muddy water/ she had avoided it, 
 as one does avoid any needlessly unpleasant thing. 
 Now, when she felt herself turning hot and cold at 
 every new idea which entered her mind, and begin- 
 ning to think of her brother-in-law not at all as 
 
HANNAH. 147 
 
 she was wont to think, the question came startlingly 
 was she right or wrong in so doing ? For she was 
 one of those women after the type of Jeanie in 'Auld 
 Robin Grey/ to whom the mere fact 
 
 'I daurna think of Jamie, for that wad be a sin/ 
 
 was the beginning and end of everything. 
 
 But was it a sin ? Could she find anything in 
 the Bible to prove it such ? She took down a 
 1 Concordance/ and searched out all the texts which 
 bore upon the subject, but found none, except that 
 prohibition adduced once by Mrs. Dixon ' Thou 
 shalt not take a wife to her sister in her lifetime' 
 of which the straightforward, natural interpretation 
 was that, consequently, it might be done after hep 
 death. 
 
 Right or wrong thus, as Mr. Rivers had more 
 than once half satirically told her, was, in all things, 
 the sole question in Hannah's mind. As for the social 
 and legal point lawful marriage that she knew, was 
 impossible; Bernard had said so himself. But was 
 the love which desired marriage absolute love, as 
 distinguished from mere affection also a sin? If it 
 should spring up in her heart of his she never 
 thought should she have to smother it down as a 
 wicked thing? 
 
 That was her terror, and that alone. The rest, and 
 whatever it must result in, was mere misery ; and 
 Hannah was not afraid of misery, only of sin. Yet, 
 when day after day Bernard's absence lengthened, 
 and except these constant business letters she had 
 no personal tidings whatever from him, there grew in 
 her mind a kind of fear. The house felt so empty 
 without him, that she sometimes caught herself won- 
 dering how he managed without her who brought 
 him his hat and gloves and arranged his daily memo- 
 randa for, like many other excellent men, h was a 
 little disorderly, and very dependent upon the women 
 
148 HANNAH. 
 
 about him. "Who would take care of him and see that 
 he had the food he liked, and the warm wraps he re- 
 quired? All these thoughts came continually back 
 upon Hannah, in a piteously human, tender shape, 
 quite different from that dim dream-love, that sainted 
 remembrance of her lost Arthur. He was not a man, 
 like Bernard, helpless even while helpful, requiring 
 one woman's whole thought and care he was an 
 angel among the angels. 
 
 That power which every good man has to turn all 
 his female ministrants into slaves, by being himself 
 the very opposite of a tyrant ; who can win from all 
 household hearts the most loyal devotion, because 
 exacting none this, the best prerogative and truest 
 test of real manhood, was Bernard's in a very great 
 degree. It was, as Hannah had once innocently told 
 him, a blessing to live with him, he made other peo- 
 ple's lives so bright. She had no idea how dark the 
 house could feel till he was gone till, day after day 
 slipping by, and he not returning, it settled itself for 
 the time into a house without a master, a solar system 
 without a sun. 
 
 When she recognised this, the sense of her fast- 
 coming fate darkened down upon Hannah. She was 
 not a young girl, to go on deceiving herself to the 
 end; nay, hers was the kind of nature that cannot 
 deceive itself if it would. During the first week of 
 Bernard's absence she would have almost gone wild 
 sometimes, but for the strong conviction like poor 
 Grace's, alas ! that she had done nothing wrong, and 
 the feeling, still stronger, that she could always bear 
 anything which only harmed herself. 
 
 Then she had the child. In all that dreadful 
 time, which afterwards she looked back upon as a sort 
 of nightmare, she kept Rosie always beside her. Look- 
 ing in her darling's face the little fragile flower 
 which had blossomed into strength under her care, the 
 piece of white paper upon which any careless hand 
 
HANNAH. 149 
 
 might have scribbled anything, to remain indelible 
 through life then Aunt Hannah took heart even in 
 her misery. She could have done no wrong, since, 
 whatever happened to herself, she had, by coming to 
 Easterham, saved the child. 
 
 On the second Saturday of Mr. River s's absence, 
 Hannah was sitting on the floor with Rosie in the 
 drawing-room, between the lights. It had been a 
 long, wet, winter day, and had begun with a perplex- 
 ing visit from the churchwarden, wanting to know if 
 the vicar had come home, and, if not, what must be 
 done for Sunday. Hannah had had no letter, and 
 could not tell ; could only suggest that a neighbouring 
 clergyman might probably have to be sent for, and 
 arrange who it should be. And the vexed look of 
 the old churchwarden a respectable farmer a cer- 
 tain wonder he showed at his principal's long absence 
 ' so very unlike our parson ' together with a slight 
 incivility to herself, which Hannah, so fearfully ob- 
 servant now, fancied she detected in his manner, 
 made her restless and unhappy for hours after. Not 
 till she had Rosie beside her, and drank of the divine 
 Lethe-cup which infant hands always bring, did the 
 painful impression subside. Now, in the peace of fire- 
 light within, and a last amber gleam of rainy sunset 
 without, she and Rosie had the world all to them- 
 selves; tiny fingers curled tightly round hers, with 
 the sweet, imperative ' Tannie, turn here ! ' and a little 
 blue and white fairy held out its mushroom-like frock, 
 with ' Rosie dance, Tannie sing ! ' And Tannie did 
 sing, with a clearness and cheerfulness long foreign to 
 her voice ; yet she had had a sweet voice when she 
 was a girl. When this, her daily business of delight, 
 came, the tempting spirits, half angel, half demon, 
 which had begun to play at hide-and-seek through 
 the empty chambers of poor Hannah's heart, fled 
 away, exorcised by that magic spell which Heaven 
 gives to every house that owns a child. 
 
150 HANNAH. 
 
 She was sitting there, going through ' Mary, Mary, 
 quite contrary/ 'Banbury Cross/ the history of the 
 young gentleman who ' put in his thumbs and pulled 
 out the plums/ with other noble nursery traditions, 
 all sung to tunes composed on the spot, in that sweet, 
 clear soprano which always made Rosie put her small 
 fingers up with a mysterious * Hark ! Tannie's sing- 
 ing !' when a ring came to the door -bell. 
 
 Hannah's heart almost stopped beating. Should 
 she fly ? Then there was a familiar voice in the hall, 
 and Rosie shrieked out in ecstasy, ' Papa come ! papa 
 come ! ' Should she hide ? Or should she stay, with 
 the child beside her, a barrier against evil eyes and 
 tongues without, and miserable thoughts within ? Yes 
 that was the best thing, and Hannah did it. 
 
 Mr. Rivers came in ; and, shaking hands with his 
 sister-in-law, took his little girl in his arms. Rosie 
 clung to him in an ecstasy of delight. She, too, had 
 not forgotten papa. 
 
 'I thought she would forget/ he said. 'Baby 
 memories are short enough/ 
 
 ' But Rosie is not a baby ; and papa has only been 
 away eleven days.' 
 
 Eleven days! then he would know she had 
 counted them. As soon as the words were uttered, 
 Hannah could have bitten her tongue out with shame. 
 
 But no ; he did not seem to notice them, or any- 
 thing but his little girl. He set Rosie on his lap, and 
 began playing with her, but fitfully and absently. He 
 looked cold, pale, ill. At last he said, in a pathetic 
 kind of way 
 
 'Hannah, I wish you would give me a glass of 
 wine. I am so tired/ 
 
 And the eyes which were lifted up to hers for a 
 minute, had in them a world of weariness and sadness. 
 They drove out of Hannah's mind all thoughts of how 
 and why she and he had parted, and what might 
 happen now they met, and threw her back into the 
 
HANXAH. 151 
 
 old domestic relationship between them. She took out 
 her keys, got him food and drink, and watched him 
 take both, and revive after them, with almost her old 
 pleasure. Nay, she scarcely missed the old affection- 
 ate ' Thank you, Hannah, you are so good/ which 
 never came. 
 
 Presently, when Rosie, growing too restless for 
 him, was dismissed with the customary ' Do take her, 
 Aunt Hannah, nobody can manage her but you/ 
 Hannah carried the little one to bed, and so disap- 
 peared, not a word or look having been exchanged 
 between them except about the child. Still, as she 
 left him sitting in his arm-chair by his own fireside, 
 which he said he found so ' cosie/ she, like little Kosie, 
 was conscious of but one feeling gladness that papa 
 was come home. 
 
 At dinner, too, how the whole table looked bright, 
 now that the master's place was no longer vacant ! 
 Hannah resumed hers ; and, in spite of the servants' 
 haunting eyes and greedy ears, on the watch for 
 every look and word that passed between these two 
 innocent sinners, there was a certain peace and content 
 in going back to the old ways once more. 
 
 When they were left alone together, over dessert, 
 Mr. Rivers looked round the cheerful room, saying, 
 half to himself, * How comfortable it is to be at 
 home ! ' and then smiled across the table to her, as 
 if saying mutely what he had said in words a hundred 
 times, that it was she who made his home so com- 
 fortable. And Hannah smiled in return, forgetting 
 everything except the pleasantness of having him back 
 again the pure delight and rest in one another's 
 society, which are at the root of all true friendship, 
 all deep love. They did not talk much, indeed talk- 
 ing seemed dangerous ; but they sat a long time in 
 their opposite seats as they had sat day after day for 
 BO many months, trying to think, feel, and speak the 
 same as heretofore. 
 
1-32 HANNAH, 
 
 But it was in vain. In this, as in all false po- 
 sitions, the light once admitted could never again be 
 hidden from ; the door once opened could never be 
 shut. 
 
 Mr. Rivers proposed going to the drawing-room 
 at once. ' I want to talk to you ; and here the ser- 
 vants might be coming in.' 
 
 Hannah blushed violently, and then hated herself 
 for doing so. Why should she be afraid of the servants 
 coming in ? Why tremble because he ' wanted to talk 
 to her?' such a common occurrence, a bit of their 
 every-day life ; which went on, and must go on, exter- 
 nally, just the same as before. 
 
 So she rose and they went into the drawing-room. 
 
 It was the prettiest room in the house ; full of every- 
 thing that a man of taste and refinement could desire, 
 in order to make and it does help to make a happy 
 home. Yet the master of it looked round with infinite 
 sadness in his eyes, as if it gave him no pleasure, as 
 if he hardly saw it. 
 
 * Hannah/ he said at last, when they had gone 
 through the form of tea, and she had taken her work 
 another empty form, for her hands shook so she could 
 hardly thread her needles ' Hannah, I had better not 
 put off my business with you my message to you, 
 rather. You must understand I fulfil it simply as a 
 matter of duty. I hope you will not be offended ? ' 
 
 ' I offended?' 
 
 * You ought not to be, I think, in any case. No 
 lady should take offence because an honest man pre- 
 sumes to love her. But I may as well speak out 
 plainly. My friend Morecamb 
 
 )h, is it that matter again ? I thought I was to 
 hear no more of it.' 
 
 'You never would have done from me, but cir- 
 cumstances have altered a little, and I have been 
 overborne by the opinion of others.' 
 
 'What others?' 
 
HANNAH. 153 
 
 ' Lady Rivers ' (Hannah started angrily). ' To her, 
 wisely or foolishly, Morecamb has appealed ; and, by 
 her advice, has again written to me. They both put 
 it to me that it is my duty, as your brother-in-law, 
 once more to lay the matter before you, and beg you 
 to reconsider your decision. His letter which I do 
 not offer to show you, for he might not like it, and, 
 besides, there are things said in it to myself which 
 none but a very old friend would venture to say 
 his letter is thoroughly straightforward, manly, and 
 generous. It makes me think, for the first time, that 
 he is almost worthy of you. In it he says may I 
 repeat to you what he says ? ' 
 
 Hannah bent her head. 
 
 ' That his conviction of your worth and his attach- 
 ment to yourself is such, that if you will only allow 
 him to love you he shall be satisfied, and trust to time 
 for the rest. He entreats you to marry him at once, 
 and let him take you from Easterham, and place you 
 in the position which, as his wife, you would of course 
 have, and which he knows we all know you would 
 so worthily fill.' 
 
 Bernard had said all this like a person speaking 
 by rote, repeating carefully and literally all that he 
 had before planned to say, and afraid of committing 
 himself by the alteration of a word. Now he paused, 
 and waited for an answer. It came not. 
 
 ' He desires me to tell you that, besides the rec- 
 tory, he has a good private income ; that his two 
 daughters are both married ; and that, in case of his 
 death, you will be well provided for. It is a pleasant 
 parish and a charming house. You would have a 
 peaceful home, away, and yet not very far away, from 
 Easterham. You might see Rosie every week ' 
 
 Here Hannah turned slowly round, and for the first 
 time Bernard saw her face. 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' he cried. ' What have I done ? 
 I meant no harm Morecamb meant no harm.' 
 
154 HAXXAH. 
 
 ' No,' she answered, in a hard, dry tone. ' He 
 meant I quite understand it, you see, and, since I 
 understand it, why should I not speak of it ? he 
 meant to stop the mouths of Easterham by marrying 
 me, and taking me away from your house. He is 
 exceedingly kind and you also.' 
 
 IP oh, Hannah! I?' 
 
 'Why distress yourself? Do I not say you are 
 exceedingly kind ? ' 
 
 But she seemed hardly to know what she was 
 saying Her horrible, humiliating position between 
 her brother-in-law and her brother-in-law's friend, the 
 one having unwillingly affixed the stain upon her name, 
 which the other was generously trying to remove, burst 
 upon her with an agony untold. 
 
 ' Why did I ever come here ? Why were you so 
 cruel as to ask me to come here ? I came in all inno- 
 cence. I knew nothing. You, a man, ought to have 
 known.' 
 
 He turned deadly pale. 
 
 'You mean to say I ought to have known that, 
 although the law considers you my sister, you are not 
 my sister, and our living together as we do would ex- 
 pose us to remarks such as James Dixon made the 
 other night. Most true ; I ought to have known. 
 Was that all ? or did you mean anything more than 
 that?' 
 
 ' Nothing more. Is not that enough ? Oh, it is 
 dreadful dreadful for an innocent woman to have to 
 bear ! ' 
 
 And her self-control quite gone, Hannah rocked 
 herself to and fro in such a passion of grief as she had 
 never let any one witness in her since she was a child. 
 For, indeed, woman as she was, she felt weak as a 
 child. 
 
 But the man was weaker still. Once twice, he 
 made a movement as if he would dart across the 
 hearth to where she sat; but restrained himself, and 
 
HANNAH. 155 
 
 remained motionless in his seat attempting no con- 
 solation. What consolation could he give? It was 
 he himself who had brought this slander upon her 
 how cruel and how widespread it was he by this time 
 knew, even better than she. 
 
 ' Hannah/ he said, after a little, ' we are neither 
 of us young people, to take fright at shadows. Let us 
 speak openly together, as if we were two strangers, 
 viewing the case of two other strangers, placed in the 
 same relation together as ourselves/ 
 
 ' Speak ? how can I speak ? I am utterly help- 
 less, and you know it. Lady Rivers knows it too ; 
 and so doubtless does Mr. Morecamb. Perhaps, after 
 all, I should be wisest to accept his generous offer and 
 marry him.' 
 
 Bernard started, and then composed himself into 
 the same formal manner with which he had conducted 
 the whole conversation. 
 
 ' Yes, in a worldly point of view, it would be wise ; 
 I, speaking as your brother-in-law, am bound to tell 
 you so. I wish to do my duty by you ; I have no 
 right to allow my own or my child's interest to stand 
 in the way of your happiness.' He paused. ' I wish 
 you to be happy God knows I do ! ' He paused again. 
 ' Then what answer am I to give to Morecamb ? Am 
 I to tell him to come here and speak for himself?' 
 
 'No!' Hannah burst out vehemently. 'No a 
 thousand times no ! My heart is my own, and he has 
 not got it. If I were a beggar starving in the streets, 
 or a poor wretch whom everybody pointed the finger 
 at as perhaps they do I would not marry Mr. 
 Morecamb.' 
 
 A strange light came into Bernard's eyes. 
 
 ' That's Hannah ' There speaks my good, true 
 Hannah ! I thought she had gone away, and some 
 other woman come in her place. Forgive me ! I did 
 my duty ; but oh ! it was hard ! I am so glad, so 
 glad!' ' 
 
156 HAXNAH. 
 
 He spoke with his old, affectionate, boyish impul- 
 siveness ; he was still exceedingly boyish in some 
 things, and perhaps Hannah liked him the better for 
 it who knows? Even now a faint smile passed over 
 her lips. 
 
 ' You ought to have known me better. You ought 
 to have been sure that I would not marry any man 
 without loving him. And I told you long ago that 
 I did not love Mr. Morecamb.' 
 
 ' You did ; but people sometimes change their 
 minds. And love comes, we know not how. It begins 
 just a little seed, as it were and grows, and grows, 
 till all of a sudden we find it a full-grown plant, and 
 we cannot root it up, however we try/ 
 
 He spoke dreamily, and as if he had forgotten all 
 about Mr. Morecamb, then sat down and began gazing 
 into the fire with that dull, apathetic look so familiar 
 to Hannah during the early time of her residence there, 
 when she knew him little, and cared for him less ; 
 when, if any one had told her there would come to 
 her such a day as this day, when every word of the 
 sentence he had just uttered would fall on her heart 
 like a drop of burning lead, she would have pronounced 
 it impossible ridiculously impossible. Yet she was 
 true then true now to herself and to all others; 
 perfectly candid and sincere. But would the world 
 ever believe it ? Does the world, so ready to find 
 out double or interested motives, ever believe in con- 
 scientious turncoats, righteous renegades ? Yet there 
 are such things. 
 
 After a while Mr. Rivers suddenly aroused himself. 
 
 ' I am thinking of other matters, and forgetting 
 my friend. I had better put the good man out of 
 his pain by telling him the truth at once ; had I not, 
 Hannah?' 
 
 * Certainly.' 
 
 1 Your decision is quite irrevocable ?' 
 
 'Quite/ 
 
HANNAH. 157 
 
 ' Then we need say no more. I will write the letter 
 at once/ 
 
 But that seemed not so easily done as said. After 
 half-an-hour or more he came back with it unfinished 
 in his hand. 
 
 ' I hardly know how to say what you wish me to 
 say. A mere blank No, without any reasons given. 
 Are there none which could make the blow fall lighter ? 
 Remember, the man loves you, Hannah, and love is a 
 precious thing/ 
 
 ' I know it is, when one has love to give back ; 
 but I have none. Not an atom/ 
 
 'Why not? I beg your pardon I ought not to 
 as k -I } ia ve not the slightest right to ask. Still, as 
 I have sometimes thought, a woman seldom lives thirty 
 years without without some sort of attachment/ 
 
 Hannah became much agitated. Rosa, then, had 
 kept sisterly faith, even towards her own husband. 
 Mr. Rivers evidently knew nothing about Arthur ; had 
 been all along quite unaware of that sad but sacred 
 story, which Hannah thought sheltered her just as 
 much as widow's weeds might have done. 
 
 She hesitated, and then, in her misery, she clung 
 to the past as a kind of refuge from the present. 
 
 ' I thought you knew it/ she answered very slowly 
 and quickly ; * I thought Rosa had told you. If it 
 will lessen his pain, you may tell Mr. Morecamb that 
 once I was engaged to be married to a cousin of 
 mine. He was ill ; they sent him away to Madeira, 
 and there he died/ 
 
 ' He I did not quite hear/ For, indeed, Han- 
 nah's words were all but inaudible. 
 < He died ! ' 
 
 She had said it out now, and Bernard knew the 
 whole. Those two silent ghosts, of his dead wife and 
 her own dead lover, seemed to come and stand near 
 them in the quiet room. Was it with looks of sorrow 
 or anger? if the dead can feel either. Arthur 
 
158 HANNAH. 
 
 Rosa in their lives both so loving, unselfish, and 
 dear. Was it of them that the living needed to be 
 afraid ? 
 
 Mr. Rivers seemed not afraid, only exceedingly and 
 painfully surprised. 
 
 ' I had no idea of such a thing, or I would never 
 have urged Mr. Morecamb's plea. And yet, tell me, 
 Hannah, is this lost love the only cause of your re- 
 fusing him ? Was this what you referred to when you 
 once said to me, or implied, that you would never marry 
 anybody? Is all your heart, your warm, true, wo- 
 manly heart, buried in your cousin's grave?' 
 
 There may be circumstances in which people are 
 justified in telling a noble lie ; but Hannah was not 
 the woman to do it. Not though it would at once 
 have placed her beyond the reach of misconstruction, 
 saved her from all others, and from herself encom- 
 passed her henceforward with a permanent shield. 
 Though one little 'Yes/ would have accomplished 
 all this, she could not say it, for she felt it would have 
 been a lie a lie to heaven and to her own soul. She 
 looked down on the floor, and answered deliberately 
 <No!' 
 
 But the effort took all her strength, and when it 
 was over she rose up totteringly, and tried to feel her 
 way to the door. Mr. Rivers opened it, not making 
 the least effort to detain her. 
 
 'Good night!' she said, as she passed him. He, 
 without even an offered hand, said ' Good night/ too ; 
 and so they parted. 
 
159 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HANNAH'S waking-up on the morning after her bro- 
 ther-in-law's return was one of the most painful 
 sensations she had ever known, the more so as it 
 was so unusual. To her healthy temperament the 
 morning hour was generally the best of the day. 
 Not Rosie herself, who always woke up as lively as 
 a young linnet in a thorn-bush, enjoyed it more than 
 Aunt Hannah did. But now things seemed changed. 
 She had gone to bed at once, and fallen asleep im- 
 mediately; for there are times when the brain, worn 
 out by long tension, collapses the instant we lie down 
 Nature forcing upon it the temporary stupefaction 
 which is its only preservative. 
 
 Now even she could not shake off weariness, nor 
 rise as usual to look at one of those glorious winter 
 sunrises which only active people see. She dreaded 
 the dawn she shrank from the sun. For he brought 
 her her daily duties, and how she should ever fulfil 
 them as heretofore she could not tell. 
 
 First, how should she again meet Mr. Rivers ? 
 What position should she hold towards him ? Had 
 her sister lived, he would have been to her nothing 
 at all; regarded with the sacred indifference with 
 which every pure-minded woman regards every other 
 woman's husband. Now what was he? Not her 
 brother except by a legal fiction, which he had 
 himself recognised as a fiction. Not her lover; and 
 yet when she recalled his looks and tones, and a 
 certain indescribable agitation which had been upon 
 him all the evening, some feminine instinct told her 
 that, under other circumstances, he might have be- 
 come her lover. Her husband he could never be ; 
 and yet she had to go on living with him in an 
 
160 HANNAH. 
 
 anomalous relationship, which was a compound of all 
 these three ties, with the difficulties of all and the 
 comfort of none. Her friend he was; that bond 
 seemed clear and plain ; but then is it customary for 
 a lady to go and keep the house of a male ' friend/ 
 be he ever so tried and trusted ? Society, to say 
 nothing of her own feelings, would never allow it ; 
 and for once society is in the right. 
 
 Hannah felt it so felt that, stripping off the 
 imaginary brother- and- sister bond, Bernard and she 
 were exactly in the position of a lady and gentle- 
 man living together in those Platonic relations which 
 are possible certainly, but which the wicked world 
 never believes to be possible, and which Nature her- 
 self rejects as being out of the ordinary course of 
 things, and therefore very unadvisable. A life diffi- 
 cult enough to carry on even if the parties were 
 calmly indifferent to one another ; but what if they 
 were not indifferent? Though he had never 'made 
 love' to her in the smallest degree, never caressed 
 her, even in the harmless salutations which brothers 
 and sisters-in-law so commonly indulge in, still 
 Hannah must have been dull indeed not to have 
 long since found out that in some way or other 
 Bernard was very fond of her; and a young man 
 is not usually ' very fond/ of a woman, not his own 
 born sister, without, sooner or later, wishing to mo- 
 nopolise her, to have her all to himself in plain 
 terms, to marry her. And though women have 
 much less of this exclusive feeling though many a 
 woman will go on innocently adoring a man for 
 years without the slightest wish of personal appro- 
 priation still, when somebody else appropriates him 
 marries him, in short and the relations are 
 changed, and she drops into a common friend, or 
 less than a friend, even the noblest and most un- 
 selfish woman living will feel, for a time, a slight 
 pang, a blank in her life, a soreness at her heart. It 
 
HANNAH. 161 
 
 is Nature's revenge upon all shams, however innocent 
 those shams may be. 
 
 And poor Hannah was reaping Nature's revenge 
 now. Whether he did or did not love her in a bro- 
 therly way, she was cruelly conscious that to go on 
 living with her brother-in-law as heretofore would be 
 a very severe trial. Should she fly from it ? The way 
 was open. She could write to Lady Dunsmore, who 
 she knew was again in search of a governess, and 
 would gladly welcome her back. Two days, or one 
 day even, and she might resume her old life, her old 
 duties, and forget this year and half at Easterham as 
 if it had never been. 
 
 For a moment the temptation was strong. She 
 felt hunted down ; like the Israelites, with the Egyp- 
 tians behind and the Red Sea before, the dreadful 
 surging sea of the future, over which there seemed no 
 pathway, no possible way of crossing it to any safe 
 shore. If she could but escape, with her reputation clear, 
 out of her brother-in-law's house ! that House on the 
 Hill which had been so pleasant, which she had tried to 
 make a sort of home-beacon to all the parish ; and now 
 all the parish levelled at it their cruel stares, their malig- 
 nant comments, for it was exposed to all. For Bernard's 
 sake, as well as her own, she ought to save him from 
 this free him from her blighting presence and go. 
 
 As she lay thinking, turning over in her mind 
 how best to accomplish this when she should write 
 and what she should say to Lady Dunsmore there 
 came the usual little knock at her door, the usual 
 sound of tiny bare feet trotting over the carpet, and 
 the burst of joyous child-laughter at her bedside. And 
 when she hardly noticed it, for it pierced her like a 
 sword, there came a loud wail. 'Tannie, take her! 
 Take Rosie in Tannie arms.' Poor Tannie sprang up, 
 and felt that all her well-woven plans were torn down 
 like spider-webs. To go away and leave her child! 
 The thing was impossible. 
 
 M 
 
162 HANNAH. 
 
 Our lives, like the year, go through a succession 
 of seasons, which may come early or late, but come in 
 regular order. We do not find fruit in March or 
 primroses in August. Thus, though Hannah's heart 
 now, strangely stirred as it was, had a primrose 
 breath of Spring quivering through it, it was not ex- 
 actly the heart of a girl. She was a woman of thirty, 
 and though she loved alas, she knew it now only too 
 well ! she did not love romantically, absorbingly. 
 Besides, co-existent with this love had come to her 
 that other sentiment, usually of much later growth 
 the maternal instinct, which in her was a passion too. 
 Bernard's one rival, and no small one, was his own 
 little child. 
 
 As Hannah pressed Rosie to her bosom, all her, 
 vague terrors, her equally dreadful delights, faded 
 away into quiet realities, and by the time she had had 
 the child with her for an hour, she felt quite herself 
 again, and was able to carry Rosie down to the Sunday 
 breakfast- table, where the small woman had lately 
 begun to appear, conducting herself like a little 
 princess. 
 
 Oh, what a blessing she was ! the pretty little maid ! 
 How her funny ways, her wonderful attempts at Eng- 
 lish, and her irresistible bursts of laughter, smoothed 
 over difficulties untold, and helped them through that 
 painful hour those two, who stood to the little one 
 like father and mother, and yet to one another were 
 nothing, and never could be. This was the strange 
 anomaly of their relationship : that while Rosie was 
 her own flesh and blood, closer to her than any child 
 not her very own could possibly be, between herself 
 and Rosie's father there was no tie of blood at all. 
 
 The usual Sunday morning routine went on 
 prayers, breakfast, after breakfast play with Rosie 
 yet neither Hannah nor Bernard ventured once to 
 look at each other, lest they should betray the piteous 
 secret which, whether or not hers did, the deadly pale- 
 
HANNAH. 163 
 
 ness of Bernard's features, and his nervous, excited 
 manner, only too much revealed. 
 
 1 1 scarcely slept an hour/ he said. ' I had to sit 
 up and write my sermon. And I found so much to 
 do among my papers. I must never leave home again.' 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 Then he asked her if she was going to church 
 an idle question for one who never missed church in 
 any weather. Perhaps he did not want her to go ? 
 And she would have been angry, but for the strange 
 compassion she always had for him the feeling that, 
 if any trouble came to him, she should always like to 
 bear it herself. And now he had more to bear than 
 she. He must go up into his pulpit and preach, con- 
 scious that all eyes were watching him, all tongues gos- 
 siping concerning him ! For in Easterham nothing 
 was hid ; rich and poor alike chattered of their neigh- 
 bours' affairs, and James Dixon's visit to the House on 
 the Hill, in all its particulars, was likely to be as fully 
 known as Mr. Morecamb's interview with Lady Rivers, 
 and its purport as regarded Hannah herself. 
 
 The Moat-House, too, must be faced, for at break- 
 fast-time a note had come asking them to dine there, 
 though it was Sunday, as young Mrs. Melville had 
 come over for the day, and particularly wished to see 
 Miss Thelluson. 
 
 ' You will go ?' Bernard had said, passing the note 
 over to her. Her first instinct had been a decided 
 * 2s T o ; ' till, looking down on the bright little face be- 
 ide her, Aunt Hannah felt that, at whatever cost, she 
 must boldly show her own at church, at the Moat- 
 House, anywhere and everywhere. There were just 
 two courses open to her to succumb to the lie, or to 
 meet it and trample it down. So, again taking Rosie 
 in her arms, she looked up fearlessly at Rosie' s father. 
 
 ' Yes, since Lady Rivers asks me, I will certainly 
 go. 1 
 
 It was Hannah's custom to get ready for church 
 
164 HANNAH. 
 
 quite early, that she might walk with Bernard thither 
 he disliked walking alone. Never was there a man 
 who clung more affectionately to companionship, or to 
 whom it was more necessary. But this Sunday he 
 never summoned her, so she did not come. Indeed, 
 she had determined not. She watched him start off 
 alone, and then followed, going a longer way round, so 
 that she only reached her pew when he reached his 
 reading-desk. Then the sad tone of his voice as he 
 read, evidently with an effort, the sentence, ' If we say 
 we have no sin, we deceive ourselves/ &c., went to 
 her heart. 
 
 Were they sinners? Was it a crime for her to 
 look now at her dead sister's husband, her living 
 Rosie's father, and think that his was one of the sweet- 
 est, noblest faces she had ever seen ; that had she met 
 him by chance, and he had cared for her, she could 
 have tended him like a mother, served him like a 
 slave nay, have forgotten for his sake that sacred 
 dream of so many years, the lost love of her girlhood, 
 and become an ordinary human wife and mother 
 Rosie's mother ? And it would all have seemed so 
 right arid natural, and they three would have been so 
 happy. Could it be a sin now ? Could any possible 
 interpretation, secular or religious, construe it into 
 a sin? 
 
 Poor Hannah ! Even in God's house these thoughts 
 pursued her ; for, as before said, her only law of con- 
 duct was how things were, not in the sight of man, but 
 of God. That love which was either a righteous affec- 
 tion or a deadly sin, could she once assure herself that 
 He did not forbid it, little she cared whether man for- 
 bade it or not. Nor, if it were holy, whether it were 
 a happy love or not. 
 
 Thus, during her solitary walk home, and a long 
 solitary afternoon that she spent with Rosie earning 
 that wonderful rest of mind and fatigue of body which 
 the companionship of a child always brings her 
 
HANXAH. 165 
 
 thoughts grew clearer. Rosa's very spirit, which now 
 and then looked strangely out of her daughter's eyes, 
 seemed to say that the dead view all things with larger 
 vision than ours, that in their passing away they have 
 left all small jealousies behind them, and remember 
 only the good of their beloved, not themselves at all. 
 
 ' Oh, Rosa, Rosa ! ' Hannah thought to herself 
 'surely you are not angry with me, not even now! 
 I am not stepping into your place and stealing awa> 
 your joys ; I have only trie'' to fulfil your duties 
 towards this little one and towards him. You know 
 how helpless he is alone ! And his pretty lamb 
 I have to take care of them both. Rosie, my darling, 
 who could ever love you like Tannie ? Yet they say 
 it is all unnatural and wrong that any strange wo- 
 man would be a better mother to you than I ! But 
 that is false, altogether false. When your own mother 
 comes tc look at you, as she may do every night, I 
 would, if I were a happy ghost and God would let me, 
 Rosie, look at her and tell her so !' 
 
 These wild and wandering thoughts, the last of 
 which had been said out loud, must have brought a 
 corresponding expression to Hannah's face, for the 
 child caught it, and fixing on her that deep, wise, 
 almost supernatural gaze she sometimes had, answered 
 deliberately, ' Yes.' For * No ' given with a sweet 
 decisiveness, as if she already knew her own mind 
 the baby ! and a gentle satisfied ' Yes ' were among 
 the earliest accomplishments of auntie's darling. 
 
 But when Rosie was put to bed, and left wide 
 awake in her little crib, fearless of darkness or any- 
 thing under Tannie's ' lots of tisses,' left to curl round 
 and fall asleep in the blessed peace of infancy, innocent 
 of all earthly cares then this world's bitterness dark- 
 ened down again upon poor Aunt Hannah. She went 
 to dress for the Moat-House dinner, and prepare to 
 in the family circle, where she, always an uncomfort- 
 1 e excrescence, was now regarded how and in what 
 
166 HAXXAH. 
 
 light did they regard her ? Hannah could not tell ; 
 she was going there in order to find out. 
 
 Of one thing she was sure, the invitation was not 
 given out of pure kindness. Kindness was not the 
 habit of the Rivers family ; they generally had a pur- 
 pose in all they did. More than once lately, Lady 
 Rivers had told her, in as plain terms as so polite a 
 person could, that she Hannah stood in the way 
 of her brother-in-law's marriage; that his family 
 wished him married, and she ought to aid them in 
 every possible way towards that desirable end. Could 
 there be a plan formed for lecturing heron this point ? 
 
 But no. Bernard would never have allowed it. 
 Yet if he had, Hannah would not have turned back ; 
 she had always faced her fate, this solitary woman, 
 and as she now walked alone in the early winter dark- 
 ness through Easterhnm village, she braced up her 
 courage and faced it still. 
 
 Externally, there seemed nothing to face ; only a 
 bright, pleasant drawing-room, and a circle of charm- 
 ing, well-dressed women, whose conversation suddenly 
 paused at her entrance, as if they had been talking 
 her over, feminine fashion, which no doubt they had. 
 Hannah was sure of it. She knew the way they used 
 to talk over other people the Melville family above 
 all, till Adeline belonged to it with that sweet 
 acerbity and smooth maliciousness which only women 
 understand. A man's weapons smite keen, but they 
 generally smite straightforwards. Women only give 
 the underhand thrusts, of which Hannah that night 
 had not a few. 
 
 '"What a long, dark walk, Miss Thelluson! only 
 you never mind dark walks. Were you really quite 
 alone ? And what has become of Bernard ? for you 
 generally know all his proceedings. We thought him 
 looking so well so much the better for going from 
 home. But what can he have done with himself since 
 church- time ? Are you quite sure that ' 
 
HANNAH. 167 
 
 The question was stopped by Bernard's entrance 
 ten minutes after the dinner hour, of which unpunctu- 
 ality Sir Austin bitterly complained ; and then offered 
 his arm to Hannah, who stood silent and painfully 
 conscious, under the battery of four pair of feminine 
 family eyes. 
 
 1 1 have been home to fetch Miss Thelluson,' said 
 Bernard. * Hannah, you should not have walked here 
 alone/ 
 
 And he would have taken a seat beside her, but 
 Lady Eivers signed for Bertha to occupy it. Fenced 
 in by a sister on each side, he had not a chance of a 
 word with Hannah all dinner-time. 
 
 It was the same thing afterwards. Miss Thelluson 
 would have been amused, if she had not been a little 
 vexed and ann< .!, to see herself thus protected, like 
 an heiress in h. r teens, from every approach of the 
 obnoxious party. Mot her and daughters mounted guard 
 successively, keeping her always engaged in conversa- 
 tion, and subjecting Bernard to a sort of affectionate 
 imprisonment, whence, once or twice, he vainly tried to 
 escape. She saw it, for somehow, without intending it, 
 she always saw him everywhere, and was conscious that 
 he saw her, and listened to every word she was saying. 
 Yet she made no effort to get near him, not even when 
 she noticed him surreptitiously take out his watch and 
 look at it wearily, as if entreating ' Do let us go home/ 
 Every simple word and act of a month ago had a mean- 
 ing, a dreadful meaning, now. 
 
 Hannah was not exactly a proud woman, but she 
 had a quiet dignity of her own, and it was sorely tried 
 this night. Twenty times she would have started up 
 from the smooth, polite circle, feeling that she could 
 support it no longer, save for Bernard's sad, appealing 
 face and his never-ending endurance. But then they 
 loved him in their own' way, and they were his 
 * people/ and he bore from them what he would never 
 have borne from strangers. So must she. 
 
168 HANNAH. 
 
 So she took refuge beside Adeline's sofa. Young 
 Mrs. Melville had never been well since her marriage ; 
 they said the low situation of Melville Grange did not 
 agree with her. And ill -health being quite at a dis- 
 count among the Rivers gi is, who were as strong as 
 elephants, Adeline lay iLth >r neglected, watching her 
 husband laughing and talking with her sisters flirt- 
 ing with them, people might have said, almost as much 
 as before he was married ; only, being a brother now, 
 of course it did not matter. Nevertheless, there was 
 at times a slight contraction of the young wife's brow, 
 as if she did not altogether like it. But she laughed it 
 off at once. 
 
 * Herbert is so merry, and so fond of coming here. 
 Our girls amuse him much more than his own sisters, 
 he says. Just listen how they are all laughing together 
 now' 
 
 * It is good to laugh,' said Hannah quietly. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; I am glad they enjoy themselves,' re- 
 turned Adeline, and changed the conversation ; but 
 through it all, the pale, vexed face, the anxious eyes, 
 heavy with an unspoken anger, an annoyance that 
 could not be complained of, struck Hannah with pity. 
 Here, she thought, was a false position too. 
 
 At nine the butler came in, announcing formally, 
 * Miss Thelluson's servant.' 
 
 1 It is Grace. I told her to call for me on her way 
 from chapel. I wished to go home early/ 
 
 ( And without Bernard ? I understand. Very 
 right ; very nice/ whispered Lady Rivers, in a tone 
 of such patronising approval that Hannah repented 
 herself of having thus planned, and was half inclined 
 to call Mr. Rivers out of the dining-room, and tell 
 him she was going. But she did not. She only rose, 
 and bade them all good night. Not one rough word 
 had broken the smooth surface of polite conversation ; 
 yet she was fully aware that, though with that con- 
 venient plastering over of sore or ugly places peculiar 
 
IIAXXATI. 1G9 
 
 to the Rivers family, they said nothing, they all knew 
 well, and knew that she knew they knew, why she was 
 going, and the instant her back was turned would talk 
 her over to their hearts' content. Yet she walked out 
 of the room slowly, calmly, with that dignified, lady- 
 like presence she had, almost better than beauty. Yes, 
 even though she saw Lady Rivers rise to accompany 
 her up-stairs a piece of condescension So great that 
 there was surely some purpose in it Lady Rivers 
 seldom took trouble without a purpose. 
 
 Yet for a moment she hesitated, sat pulling her 
 rings off and on, and eyeing with her critical woman- 
 of-the-world gaze this other woman, who fulfilled the 
 apostolic law of being in the world, not of it. The 
 long strain of the evening had worn Hannah out, and 
 she was in doubt whether Bernard would like her steal- 
 ing off thus whether, since Lady Rivers thought it 
 * wise,' it really was not most unwise thus to condense 
 the cloudy scandal into shape by paying it the respect 
 of acceptance. As she tied her bonnet, her hands 
 trembled a little 
 
 ' Are you ready ? Then, Miss Thelluson, may I 
 say just one word before you go? As a married lady 
 and the mother of a family, speaking to a young no, 
 not exactly a young, but an unmarried person, may 
 I ask, is it true what I hear, that you have had a 
 definite offer of marriage from Mr. Morecamb?' 
 
 Hannah started indignantly, and then composed 
 herself. 
 
 4 1 do not quite see that the matter concerns any 
 one but myself and Mr. Morecamb. But since you 
 have heard this, I conclude he has told you. Yes, it 
 is true/ 
 
 'And what answer did you give? You may as 
 well tell me, for he will ; he is coming here to-morrow/ 
 
 Hannah waited a moment. ' I have given the only 
 answer I could give No.' 
 
 Lady Rivers sprang from her chair. ' Good hea* 
 
170 HANNAH. 
 
 vens ! Are you mad ? My dear Miss Thelluson, I beg 
 your pardon ; but really to refuse such an offer ! If 
 Mr. Morecarab had come and asked me for one of my 
 own daughters, I would at least have considered the 
 matter. To one in your position, and under present 
 circumstances ' 
 
 1 Excuse me, Lady Rivers ; but I am myself the 
 best judge of my own position and circumstances.' 
 
 * So gentlemanly of him, too so honourable when 
 he knew, as everybody knows, the way you are being 
 talked about!' 
 
 ' He did know, then ' and Hannah checked her- 
 self. 'Will you oblige me by telling me what he 
 knew? How am I being talked about?' And she 
 turned her face, white as that of a traveller who walks 
 up to face a supposed ghost by a churchyard wall ; 
 shuddering, but still facing it. It may be only a dead 
 tree, after all. 
 
 ' I am very sorry,' said Lady Rivers ; and no doubt 
 she was, for she disliked saying unpleasant things, ex- 
 cept in a covert way. ' It is a most awkward matter 
 to speak about, and I have kept it from the girls as 
 long as possible ; but people say in Easterham that it 
 was not for nothing you took part with that unfortu- 
 nate Grace Dixon I can't call her, as she has no right 
 to the name. In fact I have heard it suggested plainly 
 enough that the reason of Bernard's not marrying is 
 because, were it not for the law, he would like to 
 marry you.' 
 
 Hannah stood silent. All the blood in her heart 
 seemed to stand still too. 
 
 'We do not believe it, of course. Neither does 
 Mr. Morecamb. Still it is generally believed at Easter- 
 ham, and worse things, too.' 
 
 'What worse things? Tell me. I insist upon 
 hearing.' 
 
 Hannah spoke, as she had listened, with a despe- 
 rate calmness ; for she felt that at all costs she must 
 
HANNAH. 171 
 
 get to the bottom of the scandal must know exactly 
 how much she had to fight against, and whom. 
 
 ' Miss Thelluson, you are the very oddest person I 
 
 ever knew. "Well, they say that that Excuse 
 
 me, but I really don't know how to tell you.' 
 
 * Then I will tell you ; for I heard James Dixon 
 say it, and before my own servants as of course you 
 know ; everybody knows everything in Easterham. 
 They say, these wicked neighbours, that I, a woman 
 not young, not pretty, not attractive in any way, with 
 her dead sister's memory yet fresh in her heart, and 
 her dead sister's child in her arms, am living in un- 
 lawful relations with that sister's husband. Lady 
 Rivers, I do not wonder that you shrink from repeat- 
 ing such an atrocious lie.' 
 
 The other was a little confounded. She had been 
 so very patronising, so condescendingly kind in her 
 manner, to this poor Miss Thelluson, who now stood 
 and looked at her face to face, as much a lady as 
 herself, and ten times more of a woman. Nay, the fire 
 in the grey eyes, the dignity of the figure, made Han- 
 nah for the moment even a handsome woman, hand- 
 some enough to be admired by many a man. 
 
 ' Pray don't talk of lies, Miss Thelluson. We object 
 to such an ugly word out of the schoolroom where, 
 however, your experience must chiefly have lain. This 
 is what made me resolve to speak to you. You cannot 
 be expected to know the world, nor how important it 
 is for Bernard, as a gentleman and a clergyman, that 
 this gossip should be stopped at once. Of course, I 
 only refer to the nonsense about his wishing to marry 
 you. For the rest, his own character the character 
 of the family is enough denial. Still the thing is 
 unpleasant, very unpleasant, and I don't wonder that 
 Bernard feels it acutely/ 
 
 Hannah started. ' l)oes he ? Did he tell you so ?' 
 
 ' Not exactly ; he is a very reserved person, as we 
 all know; but he looks thoroughly wretched. We, 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 his family, see that ; though you, a stranger, may not. 
 The fact is, he has placed himself, quite against our 
 advice, in a most difficult and painful position, and does 
 not know how to get out of it. You ought to help 
 him ; as, most providentially, you have now the means 
 of doing ' 
 
 Hannah looked up. She was being pricked to 
 death with needles ; but still she looked firmly in 
 the face of her adversary, and asked, 'How?' 
 
 'Do you not see, my dear Miss Thelluson, that 
 every bit of gossip and scandal would necessarily die 
 out if you married Mr. Morecamb ? ' 
 
 Hannah was but human. For a moment the 
 thought of escape of flying out of this maze of 
 misery into a quiet home, where a good man's love 
 would at least be hers presented itself to her mind, 
 tempting her, as many another woman has been 
 tempted, into marriage without love. But immedi- 
 ately her honest soul recoiled. 
 
 ' Lady Rivers, I would do a great deal for my 
 brother-in-law, who has been very kind to me ; but 
 not even for his sake since you put it so can I 
 marry Mr. Morecamb. And now' turning round with 
 sudden heat 'since you have said all you wanted to 
 say, and I have answered it, will you let me go home ?' 
 
 Home ! As she uttered the word, ending thus the 
 conversation as quietly, to all appearance, as it had 
 begun though she knew it had been all a planned 
 attack, and that the ladies down -stairs were all waiting 
 eagerly to hear the result of it as she spoke of 
 home, Hannah felt what a farce it was. Had it been 
 a real brother's home, there at least was external pro- 
 tection. So likewise was there in that other home 
 which, when she had saved enough, she had one day 
 meant to have some tiny cottage where by her own 
 conduct a single woman can always protect herself 
 keep up her own dignity, and carry out, if ever so 
 humbly, her own independent life. Now, this was lost, 
 
HANNAH. 173 
 
 and the other not gained. As she walked on towards 
 the House on the Hill that cruel 'home' where she 
 and Bernard must live henceforward, as if in a house 
 of glass, exposed to every malicious eye, Hannah felt 
 that somehow or other she had made a terrible mis- 
 take. Almost as great a one as that of the poor girl 
 who walked silently by her side, asking no questions 
 Grace neve' did ask any but simply following her 
 mistress with tender, observant, unceasing care. 
 
 'Don't let us go through the village/ whispered 
 she. ' I'll take you round a nearer way, where there 
 are not half so many folk about.' 
 
 ' Very well, Grace ; only let us get home quickly. 
 You are not afraid of meeting anybody ?' 
 
 For Jem Dixon was still at Easterham, she knew, 
 though nothing had been seen of him since that night. 
 
 ' No, no/ sighed Grace ; ' nobody will trouble me. 
 The master frightened him, I think. My sister told 
 me the master did really speak to the police about 
 him in case he should trouble us while he was away. 
 Look, Miss Thelluson, there he is/ 
 
 Not Jem Dixon, but Mr. Rivers ; yet Hannah in- 
 stinctively shrank back under the shadow of a high 
 wall, and let him pass her by. She made no explana- 
 tion to her servant for this ; what could she say ? And 
 Grace seemed to guess it all without her telling. 
 
 It was a bitter humiliation, to say nothing of the 
 pain. As she bade Grace keep close to her, while they 
 hurried along by narrow alleys and cross-cuts, the . 
 thought of that happy walk home under the stars, 
 scarcely a fortnight ago, came back to Hannah's mind. 
 Alas ! such could never be again. Their halcyon 
 days were done. In her imaginary wickedness, her 
 sinless shame, she almost felt as if she could under- 
 stand the agony of a real sin of a woman who loves 
 some other woman's husband, or some man besides 
 her own husband any of those dreadful stories which 
 she had heard of afar off, but had never seemed to 
 
174 HANNAH. 
 
 realise. Once no power of will could put her in the 
 place of these miserable sinners. Now, perhaps, she 
 was as miserable a sinner as any one of them all. 
 
 When reaching the gate she saw Mr. Rivers stand- 
 ing there waiting. She drew back as if it were really 
 so as if it were a sin for him to be watching for 
 her, as he evidently was, with the kindly tenderness 
 of old. 
 
 ' Hannah, how could you think of starting off 
 alone? You make me miserable by such vagaries.' 
 
 He spoke angrily that fond anger which betrays 
 so much ; and when he found he had betrayed it to 
 more than herself, he, too, started. 
 
 ' I did not know Grace was with you ; that alters 
 the case a little. Grace, take Miss Thelluson's wet 
 cloak off, and tell the servants to come at once to 
 prayers/ 
 
 He was wise and kind. Hannah recognised that, 
 in spite of the bitter feeling that it should be necessary 
 for him to be wise and kind. She came into his study 
 after all the servants were assembled there ; and as she 
 knelt near him, listening to the short service customary 
 on Sunday nights, her spirit grew calmer. No one 
 could hear Bernard Rivers, either in his pulpit, as that 
 morning, or among his little household congregation, 
 as now, without an instinctive certainty that he was 
 one of the 'pure in heart/ who are for ever 'blessed.' 
 
 The servants gone, he and she stood by the fire 
 alone. There was a strange look upon both their faces, 
 as if of a storm past or a storm brooding. Since this 
 time last night, when, after her sore confession was 
 wrung from her, Hannah had tottered away out of 
 the room, she and her brother-in-law had never been 
 one minute alone together, nor had exchanged any but 
 the briefest and most commonplace words. They did 
 not now. They just stood one on either side the fire 
 so near yet so apart. 
 
 A couple that any outside observer would have 
 
HANNAH. 175 
 
 judged well suited. Both in the prime of life ; yet, 
 though he was a little the younger, he did not seem 
 so, more especially of late, since he had grown so worn 
 and anxious looking. Both pleasant to behold, though 
 he had more of actual physical beauty than she ; but 
 Hannah had a spiritual charm about her such as few 
 handsome women possess. And both were at that 
 season of life when, though boy-and-girl fancies are 
 over, the calm, deep love of mature years is at its me- 
 ridian, and a passion conceived then usually lasts for 
 life. And these two, with every compulsion to love, 
 from within and without, pressing hard upon them 
 respect, tenderness, habit, familiarity with no law, 
 natural or divine, forbidding that love, in case it should 
 arise between them, had to stand there, man and wo- 
 man, brother and sister so called, and ignore and 
 suppress it all. 
 
 That there was something to be suppressed appeared 
 plainly enough. In neither was the free-hearted un- 
 consciousness which, when an accusation is wholly 
 untrue, laughs at it and passes it by. Neither looked 
 towards the other; they stood both gazing wistfully 
 into the fire, until the silence became intolerable. 
 Then Hannah, but without extending her hand as 
 usual, bade him ' Good night.' 
 
 'Good night? Why so?' 
 
 ' I am going up- stairs to look at Rosie.' 
 
 ' I believe if the world were coming to an end in 
 half-an-hour, you would still be " going up-stairs to 
 look at Rosie." ; 
 
 The excessive irritability which always came when 
 he was mentally disturbed, and had been heavy upon 
 him in the early time of his sorrow, seemed revived 
 again. He could not help it ; and then he was so 
 mournfully contrite for it. 
 
 ' Oh, forgive me, Hannah ! I am growing a per- 
 fect bear to you. Come down-stairs again and talk to 
 me. For we must speak out. We cannot go on like 
 
176 HANNAH. 
 
 this ; it will drive me wild. We must come to some con- 
 clusion or other. Make haste back, and we will speak 
 together, just as friends, and decide what it shall be.' 
 
 Alas! what could it be ? Every side she looked, 
 Hannah saw no path out of the maze. Not even when, 
 seeing that Grace sat reading her Bible by the nursery 
 fire Grace was a gentle, earnest Methodist) very re- 
 ligious in her own fashion she sat down beside her 
 living Bible, her visible revelation of Him who was 
 once, like Rosie, a Christmas child, and tried to think 
 the matter quietly out, to prepare herself humbly for 
 being led, not in her own way, but in God's way. 
 The more as it was not her own happiness she sought, 
 but that of those two committed to her charge in so 
 strange a manner the man being almost as helpless 
 and as dependent upon her as the child. For she had 
 not lived with Bernard thus long without discovering 
 all his weaknesses, which were the very points upon 
 which she knew herself most strong. When he called, 
 as he did twenty times a-day, ' Hannah, help me ! ' she 
 was fully conscious that she did and could help him 
 better than any one else. Did she like him the less 
 for this? Most women especially those who have 
 the motherly instinct strongly developed will find no 
 difficulty in answering the question. 
 
 How peaceful the nursery was so warm, and safe, 
 and still. Not a sound but the clock ticking on the 
 chimneypiece, and the wind murmuring outside, and 
 the soft breathing out of that darkened corner where, 
 smuggled down under the bed-clothes, with the round 
 little head and its circle of bright hair just peeping 
 above, ' Tannie's wee dormouse/ as she sometimes 
 called her, slept her sound, innocent sleep. 
 
 Aunt Hannah bent over her darling with a wild 
 constriction of the heart. What if the ' conclusion ' 
 to which Mr. Rivers said they must come to-night 
 implied her going away leaving Rosie behind? The 
 thought was too much to bear. 
 
HANNAH. 177 
 
 * I will not I will not ! God gave me the child, 
 God only shall take her from me ! ' 
 
 And rushing to her own room, she vainly tried to 
 compose herself before appearing in Rosie's father's 
 sight. In vain. His quick eye detected at once that 
 she had been crying; he said so, and then her tears 
 burst out afresh. 
 
 *I am so miserable so miserable! Don't send 
 me away don't take Rosie from me. I can bear any- 
 thing but that. It would break my heart if I had to 
 part from my child ! ' 
 
 He answered calmly was it also a little coldly? 
 
 * Don't distress yourself, Hannah ; I had no thought 
 of taking Rosie from you. I promised you she shoulc 1 
 be all your own, and I mean to keep my word.' 
 
 ' Thank you/ 
 
 She dried her tears, though she was, indeed, 
 strangely excited still ; and they sat down for that 
 serious talk together which was to have who knew 
 what end ? 
 
 The beginning was not easy, though Bernard did 
 begin at once. 
 
 1 1 shall not detain you long, though it is still 
 early ; but I must have a few words with you. First, 
 to apologise for a question I put to you last night, 
 which I now feel was intrusive and wrong.' 
 
 Which question that about Mr. Morecamb, or the 
 final one, which she had answered with such sore truth- 
 fulness he did not say, and she did not inquire. 
 
 Bernard continued 
 
 * Let us put that matter aside, and speak only of 
 our own present affairs. I want you to give me ydur 
 advice on a point in which a woman is a better judge 
 than any man ; especially as it concerns a woman/ 
 
 A woman ? Hannah leaped at once to the heart 
 of the mystery, if mystery it were. Her only course 
 was to solve it without dela^. 
 
 'Is it your possible marriage?' 
 
 N 
 
178 HAN N All. 
 
 ' It is. Not my love, understand ; only my mar- 
 riage.' 
 
 They were silent he watching her keenly. Han- 
 nah felt it, and set her face like a stone. She seemed, 
 indeed, growing into stone. 
 
 ' My family as they may have told you, for they 
 tell it to all Easterham are most anxious I should 
 marry. They have even been so kind as to name to 
 me the lady, whom, as we both know her, I will not 
 name, except to say that she is very young, very pretty, 
 very rich ; fulfils all conditions they desire for me, not 
 one of which I desire for myself. Also, they tell me 
 though I scarcely believe this that, if I asked her, 
 she would not refuse me.' 
 
 * You have not asked her, then ? ' 
 
 ' If I had, there would be little need for the ques- 
 tions I wished to put to you. First, what is your 
 feeling about second marriages?' 
 
 ' I thought you knew it. I must surely have said 
 it to you some time ? ' 
 
 ' You never have ; say it, then ' 
 
 Why should she not? Nothing tied her tongue 
 now. The end she had once hoped for, then doubted, 
 then feared, was evidently at hand. He was, after all, 
 going to marry. In a totally unexpected way, her 
 path was being made plain. 
 
 Hannah was not a girl, and her self-control was 
 great. Besides, she had suffered so much of late, 
 that even the very fact of an end to the suffering was 
 relief. So she spoke out as if she were not herself, 
 but somebody else, standing quite apart from poor 
 Hannah Thelluson to whom it had been the will of 
 God that no love-bliss should ever come. 
 
 1 1 think, with women, second marriages are a 
 doubtful good. If the first one has been happy, we 
 desire no other we can cherish a memory and sit 
 beside a grave for ever ; if unhappy, we dread renew- 
 ing our unhappiness. Besides, children so fill up a 
 
HANNAH. 179 
 
 woman's heart, that the idea of giving her little ones 
 a second father would be to most women very painful, 
 nay, intolerable. But with men it is quite different. 
 I have said to Lady Rivers many a time, that from 
 the first day I came it was my most earnest wish you 
 should find some suitable wife, marry her, and be happy 
 as happy as you were with my sister.' 
 
 ' Thank you/ 
 
 That dreadful formality of his formality and 
 bitterness combined ! And Hannah knew his manner 
 so well ; knew every change in his face a very tell- 
 tale face ; Bernard was none of your reserved heroes 
 who are always wearing a mask/ Her heart yearned 
 over him. Alas ! she had spoken truly when she said 
 it was not buried in Arthur's grave. It was quick 
 and living full of all human affections and human 
 Jongings still. 
 
 ' Then, sister Hannah, I have your full consent to 
 my marriage ? A mere mariaye de convenance, as I 
 told you. Not like my first one ah, my poor Rosa, 
 she loved me ! No woman will ever love me so well.' 
 
 Hannah was silent. 
 
 * Do you think it would be wrong to Rosa, my 
 marrying again ? ' 
 
 * Not if you loved again. Men often do.' 
 
 ' And women never ? Did you mean that ?' 
 
 ' I hardly know what I mean, or what I say,' 
 cried Hannah piteously. * It is all so strange, so 
 bewildering. Tell me exactly how the thing stands 
 in plain words, and let me go.' 
 
 ' I will let you go ; I will trouble you no more 
 about myself or my affairs. You do not care for me, 
 Hannah, you only care for the child. But that is 
 natural quite natural. I was a fool to expect any 
 more.' 
 
 Strange words for a man to say to a woman, under 
 any feeling but one. Hannah began to tremble 
 violently. 
 
180 HANNAH. 
 
 ' What could you expect more ?' she faltered. 
 ' Have I not done my duty to you my sisterly duty ?' 
 
 'We are not brother and sister, and we lie we 
 lie to our own souls in calling ourselves so/ 
 
 He spoke passionately ; he seized her hand, then 
 begged her pardon ; suddenly went back to his own 
 place, and continued the conversation. 
 
 ' We are neither of us young, Hannah not boy 
 and girl anyhow and we have been close friends for 
 a long time. Let us speak openly together, just as if 
 we were two departed souls looking out of Paradise at 
 ourselves, our old selves as our Rosa may be look- 
 ing now.' 
 
 Our Rosa ! It went to Hannah's heart. The ten- 
 derness of the man, the unforgetfulness ! Ah, if men 
 knew how women prize a man who does not forget ! 
 
 ' Yes,' she repeated softly, ' our Rosa.' 
 
 'Oh, that it were she who was judging us, not 
 these ! ' 
 
 'Not who?' 
 
 'The Moat-House the village everybody. It 
 is vain for us to shut our eyes, or our lips either. 
 Hannah, this is a cruel crisis for you and me. Peo- 
 ple are talking of us on every hand ; taking away 
 our good name even. James Dixon's is not the only 
 wicked tongue in the world. It is terrible, is it not ? ' 
 
 'No,' she said, after a moment's hesitation. 'At 
 least, not so terrible but that I can bear it.' 
 
 ' Can you ? Then I ought too. And yet I feel so 
 weak. You have no idea what I have suffered of late. 
 Within and without, nothing but suffering, till I have 
 thought the only thing to do was to obey my family's 
 wish, and marry. But whether I marry or not, the 
 thing seems plain we cannot go on living as we 
 have done. For your sake as well as my own for 
 they tell me I am compromising you cruelly we 
 must have some change. Oh, Hannah ; what have 
 I said, what have I done?' 
 
HAXXAH. 181 
 
 For she had risen up, the drooping softness of her 
 attitude and face quite gone. 
 
 ' I understand you. You need not explain further. 
 You wish me to leave you. So I will ; to-morrow 
 if you choose ; only I must take the child with me. 
 1 will have the child!' she continued in a low des- 
 perate voice 'Do what you like, marry whom you 
 like, but the child is mine. Her own father shall not 
 take her from me/ 
 
 ' He has no wish. Her unfortunate father !' 
 
 And never since his first days of desolation had 
 Hannah seen on Bernard's countenance such an ex- 
 pression of utter despair. 
 
 ' You shall settle it all/ he said ; ' you who are 
 so prudent, and wise, and calm. Think for me, and 
 decide/ 
 
 ' What am I to think or decide ? ' And Hannah 
 vainly struggled after the calmness he imputed to 
 her. ' How can I put myself in your place, and know 
 what you would wish ? ' 
 
 ' What I would wish ! Oh, Hannah ! is it possible 
 you do not guess ? ' 
 
 She must have been dea? and blind not to have 
 guessed. Dumb she was dumb as death while 
 Bernard went on, speaking with excited rapidity. 
 
 ' When a man's wish is as hopeless and unattain- 
 able as a child's for the moon, he had better not utter 
 it. I have long thought this. I think so still. Happy 
 in this world I can never be ; but what would make 
 me least unhappy would be to go on living as we do, 
 you and Rosie and I, if such a thing were possible/ 
 
 * Is it impossible ? ' For with this dumbness of 
 death had come over Hannah also the peace of death 
 as if the struggle of living were over, and she had 
 passed into another world. She knew Bernard loved 
 her, though they could never be married, no more 
 than the angels. Still, he loved her. She was con- 
 tent. 'Is it impossible?' she repeated in her grave, 
 
182 HANNAH. 
 
 tender, soothing voice, 'Evil tongues would die out 
 in time the innocent are always stronger than the 
 wicked. And our great safeguard against them is such 
 a life as yours has been. You can have almost no 
 enemies/ 
 
 ' Ah ! ' replied he mournfully, ' but in this case a 
 man's foes are they of his own household. My people 
 there is no fighting against them. What do you 
 think I am talking to you, Hannah, as if you were 
 not yourself, but some other person what do you 
 think my stepmother said to me to-night ? That unless 
 you married Mr. Morecamb, or I Alice Melville (there, 
 her name is out, but no matter) unless either of these 
 two things happened, or I did the other wicked, heart- 
 breaking thing of turning you out of my doors, she 
 would never admit you again into hers that, in fact, 
 to-night is the last time you will be received at the 
 Moat-House/ 
 
 Hannah's pride rose. ' So be it. I am not aware 
 that that would be such a terrible misfortune/ 
 
 * You unworldly woman, you do not know ! Oh, 
 forgive me, forgive me, Hannah ; I am forgetting all 
 you must feel. I am speaking to you as if you were 
 my conscience my very own soul which you are.' 
 
 The love that glowed in his eyes, the emotion that 
 trembled in his voice ! Hannah was not a young wo- 
 man, nor, naturally, a passionate woman, but she would 
 have been a stone not to be moved now. She sat 
 down, hiding her face in her hands. 
 
 ' Oh, it is hard, hard ! ' she sobbed. ' When we 
 might have been so happy we and our child ! ' 
 
 Bernard left his seat, and came closer to hers. 
 His breath was loud and fast, and his hands as he 
 took Hannah's grasping them so tight that she could 
 not unloose them, though she faintly tried were 
 shaking much. 
 
 'Tell me I never believed it possible till now, I 
 thought you so calm and cold, and you knew all my 
 
HAXXAH. 183 
 
 faults, and I have been harsh to you often only 
 too often ! but, Hannah, if such a thing could be, if 
 the law allowed it man's law, for God's is on our 
 side if we could have been married, would you have 
 married me?' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, putting both her hands on his 
 shoulders, and looking at him with a sad solemnity, as 
 of those who take farewell for life ; * yes, I would ! ' 
 
 Then, before he had time to answer, Hannah was 
 gone. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FOR the second time Hannah fled away from her 
 brother-in-law's presence into her own room, and tried 
 to realise what had happened. Something which would 
 for ever prevent their two lives from going on to- 
 gether as before a distinct mutual acknowledgment 
 that they did not love one another like brother and 
 sister, that he would have married her if he could, 
 and that if he had asked her she would not have re- 
 fused him. 
 
 This confession on her part had been uninten- 
 tional, wrung from her by the emotion of the time and 
 by the direct question which had been put to her, and 
 Hannah was the kind of woman who never thought 
 of compromising or playing with the truth. Still, 
 when it was made, and henceforth irrevocable, it startled 
 her. Not that she felt it in the least wrong. The 
 idea that to love or marry her sister's husband was a 
 moral offence had now entirely left her mind ; but it 
 was such an absolute ignoring of her own past her 
 dear, cherished, sacred past that it at first almost 
 overwhelmed her. She sighed as if it had been an 
 unrequited instead of a fondly-sought attachment which 
 she had confessed. 
 
184 HANNAH. 
 
 For it had crept into her heart unawares, and no 
 in the ordinary guise of love at all. Pity, affection, 
 the tender habit of household happiness, had drawn 
 her day by day to Rosie's father, chiefly because he 
 was a father and a widower, scarcely a young man 
 in any sense regarding her; supposing she had con- 
 sidered herself still a young woman, which she did 
 not. It was only when her youth forced itself up like 
 an imprisoned stream, when the great outcry for love 
 arose and would be heard, that Hannah recognised 
 how painfully, piteously young she was still. 
 
 And yet in one sense this love was as different from 
 the love of her girlhood as Autumn is from Spring. It 
 did not seem in the least to interfere with the memory 
 of Arthur. True, she had been only eighteen when 
 she last saw his dear face, scarcely twenty when he 
 died; but Hannah was one of that sort of people 
 with whom to be ' off with the old love and on with 
 the new' was a thing not needing argument, it was 
 simply impossible. She had never dropped willingly 
 a single thread of love in her life ; the threads which 
 God had broken here were only temporarily invisible ; 
 she could follow them still, in spirit, to the unseen land. 
 Yet to her intensely constant nature any change was 
 at first a kind of pain. 
 
 ' Arthur ! Arthur ! ' she sighed, and kept turning 
 his ring round and round upon her finger. ' You are 
 not angry with me ? I could not help it. He needed 
 me so ! ' 
 
 Yes, there was the secret, as it is of so many 
 marriages, so many lasting loves : people become neces- 
 sary to one another before they are aware. Propinquity, 
 circumstances, do a great deal ; but more is done by 
 the strong, gradual, inner want the sympathy which 
 grows day by day, the trust which, feeling its way step 
 to step, may be slow of advancing, but never retro- 
 grades. Whether such a love be as perfect as the real 
 passion, 'first-born and heir to all ' the lovely dream 
 
HANNAH. 185 
 
 of youth and maidenhood, which, when man or woman 
 ever realises and possesses it, must be the crown of 
 existence I do not say. But such as it is, it is a 
 pure, noble, and blessed affection, the comfort and re- 
 freshment of many lives that is, if they accept it as 
 it is, and do not try to make it what it never can be, 
 nor seek to find among the August roses the violets 
 of the Spring. 
 
 ' Arthur ! Arthur ! ' Hannah sighed once again, 
 and then said to herself in a solemn, steadfast, resolute 
 tenderness, the name she had never yet uttered, even 
 in thought, for it seemed like an unconscious appro- 
 priation of him ' My Bernard ! ' 
 
 And the word was a vow. Not exactly a love- vow, 
 implying and expecting unlimited happiness she 
 scarcely thought of happiness at all but a vow that 
 ind.ided all duties, all tendernesses, all patience; a 
 pledge such as a woman makes to the man unto whom 
 she is prepared to resign herself and her own indi- 
 viduality, for life. 
 
 It was a change so sudden, total, and overwhelm- 
 ing that beyond it she could at first see nothing, did 
 not recognise the future as a real thing at all. She 
 went to sleep like a person half-bewildered, and woke 
 up in the morning confused still, until Rosie came in 
 as usual, while Tannie was dressing, requiring all sorts 
 of 'pitty sings to play wid' in her usual sweet ex- 
 actingness. Then slowly, slowly, Hannah realised all. 
 
 ' My darling ! my darling ! my own for ever ! ' cried 
 she, snatching up llosie in a passion of tenderness. 
 And not even Bernard's fond look of last night, as he 
 put to her and she answered that solemn question, 
 thrilled to Hannah's heart more than the embrace of 
 the child. 
 
 Carrying the little one in her arms, she went down- 
 stairs and met him in the hall. A meeting just the 
 same as on all mornings, except that there was a glow, 
 a radiance almost in his countenance which she had 
 
186 ITAXXAII. 
 
 never seen before, and his voice, whenever he addressed 
 her, had a reverential affectionateness which gave 
 meaning to his lightest words. Also he called her 
 ' Hannah ' never ' Aunt Hannah ' again. 
 
 There is a pathos in all love. What must there 
 then, in a love such as this, conceived in spite of 
 I'M to, carried on through all hindrances, at last betrayed 
 rather than confessed, and when confessed having to 
 meet the dark future, in which its sole reward must 
 be the mere act of loving ? These two, forbidden by 
 destiny to woo and marry like ordinary people, were 
 nevertheless not a melancholy pair of lovers. No out- 
 ward eye would have recognised them as lovers at all. 
 By no word or act did Bernard claim his rights, the 
 happy rights of a man to whom a woman has con- 
 fessed her affection; he neither kissed her nor said 
 one fond word to her. No servant coming in and out, 
 nor even the innocent little tell-tale who was just at 
 that age when she was sure to communicate every- 
 thing to everybody, could have suspected anything, 
 or betrayed anything, concerning these two, who 
 knew they were henceforward not two, but one till 
 death. 
 
 They were neither afraid nor ashamed. At the 
 first sight of Bernard every lurking feeling of shame 
 went out of Hannah's heart. Every thought, too, as 
 if her loving the living were a wrong to the dead. 
 Arthur's ring was still on her finger, Rosa's sweet 
 face still smiled from over the mantel-piece upon the 
 two whom in life she had loved best in the world, and 
 Rosa's child clung fondly unto Tannie's faithful breast. 
 Hannah shrank from none of these things, nor did 
 Bernard. More than once that morning he had 
 named, incidentally but unhesitatingly, his child's 
 mother, calling her, as he always did from this day 
 forward, ' our ' Rosa ; and though he was so quiet he 
 went about cheerfully as he had not done for long, 
 like a man who has recovered his own self-respect 
 
HAXXAH. 187 
 
 and his interest in life ; to whom the past brings no 
 pain, and the future no dread. 
 
 Passion is a weak thing, but love, pure love, is the 
 strongest thing on earth, and these lovers felt it to 
 be so. Though neither said a word beyond the merest 
 domestic common-place, there was a peace, a restfulness 
 about them both, which each saw in the other, and 
 rejoiced to see. It was like calm after storm ease 
 after pain. No matter how soon the storm arose, the 
 pain began again ; the lull had been real while it 
 lasted. 
 
 They began arranging their day's work as usual, 
 work never very light; this Monday there seemed 
 more to settle than ever. 
 
 'What should I do without you?' said Bernard. 
 ' Such a wise, sensible, practical woman as you are ! 
 always busy, and yet forgetting nothing. Stay, have 
 you forgotten we were to dine at the Grange to-night ? ' 
 
 The invitation had come a week ago, and Adeline 
 had repeated it last evening. Still Hannah hesitated. 
 
 ' Must we go ? Nay, ought we ?' 
 
 ' Why not ? Because of of what we said last 
 xiight ? That is a stronger reason than ever why we 
 should go. We should not shrink from society. I 
 am not ashamed of myself. Are you ? ' 
 
 ' No.' She dropped her head, faintly blushing ; 
 but when she saw that Bernard held his erect, she 
 took courage. 
 
 ' What Lady Rivers says does not apply to Mel- 
 ville Grange. My sister is mistress in her own house, 
 and Melville, though he is fond enough of his sisters- 
 in-law, is not really so likely to be influenced by his 
 mother-in-law as by his own mother. She is a very 
 good and wise woman, Mrs. Melville. I wanted to 
 have a little talk with her to-night.' 
 
 Hannah looked uneasy. ' Oh, be careful ! I would 
 much rather not a word were said to any one.' 
 
 'About ourselves? No; I have not the slightest 
 
188 HANNAH. 
 
 intention of telling anybody. It is our own affair 
 entirely, till we see our way clear to to the rightful 
 end ; for Hannah, I need not say that must come about 
 if it be possible. I cannot live without you ' 
 
 He spoke in a low tone, grasping her hand. He 
 was not nearly so calm as she ; yet even Hannah 
 felt her heart beating, her colour coming and going. 
 Is it only for young lovers, passionate, selfish, un- 
 controlled, that society must legislate ? or criminal 
 lovers, who exact an excited pity, and are interesting 
 just because they are criminal? Is there no justice, 
 no tenderness, for those who suffer and are silent, 
 doing no wrong ? 
 
 * We will never do anything wrong/ said he. 
 ' We will neither fly in the face of the law nor offend 
 my own people, if possible ; but we will be married 
 if we can. I must take legal advice on the subject. 
 Till then, let all go on as usual. Is it not better so ? ' 
 
 ' Yes/ 
 
 They stood at the hall-door, Rosie sitting queen- 
 like on Tannie's arm, to watch papa away. He 
 kissed his little girl, and then just touched with his 
 lips the hand that held her. No more. No love- 
 embrace no thought of such a thing ; but there was 
 a gleam in his eyes, like the January sun through the 
 winter trees, showing that Summer days might yet 
 come. 
 
 It warmed Hannah's heart with a quiet, serious 
 joy, as she went through her household duties, espe- 
 cially those which concerned the child. She had her 
 darling with her almost all day, and never had Rosie's 
 innocent companionship been so satisfying and so 
 sweet. 
 
 'So for the father's sake the child was dear, 
 And dearer was the father for the child.' 
 
 Among the magnificent literature in which Tannie 
 and Rosie indulged happened to be an illustrated fairy- 
 tale book, wherein the usual cruel stepmother figured 
 
HANNAH. 189 
 
 in great force. And she herself should be a step- 
 mother, perhaps, one day ! In the glee of her heart 
 Hannah laughed actually laughed to think how 
 different fiction often was from reality. 
 
 Bernard came home only just in time to dress, 
 and they did not meet till he put her into the carriage. 
 Half their drive passed almost in silence, but by-and- 
 bye Bernard spoke in a business-like way, saying he 
 meant to go up to London, and take counsel's opinion 
 there. It would not do to consult any one here. 
 On what subject he did not say, but it was easy to 
 guess. 
 
 * Mrs. Melville might give me information only, 
 of course, I could not ask her direct. I can only find 
 it out in a quiet way, as I have already found out a 
 good deal. It seems till 1835 these marriages were 
 legal at any rate not illegal, unless an ecclesiastical 
 suit should find them so which it never did. It was 
 in 1835 that was passed the ridiculous bill confirming 
 all marriages prior to 31st August, and making those 
 unlawful which happened on or after the 1st September.' 
 
 4 Then they are unlawful now ? ' said Hannah, feel- 
 ing silence worse than speech. 
 
 * Nobody seems quite to understand whether they 
 are or not. On the Continent, nay, in every country 
 except ours, they are certainly legal. Our colonies 
 have again and again passed a bill legalising such 
 marriages, and the mother country has thrown it out. 
 Many persons go abroad to be married, come back 
 again and live unblamed ; but they risk a good deal, 
 and' he hesitated 'it is not for themselves alone/ 
 
 Hannah drew back into her dark corner, glad of 
 the darkness. It was a strange and sore position for 
 any woman to be placed in. Betrothed, yet having 
 none of the honours and happinesses of an afiiance4 
 bride ; sitting beside her lover, yet treated by him in 
 no loverlike fashion, and feeling nothing of the shy 
 frankness which makes the new tie so sweet ; obliged 
 
190 HANNAH. 
 
 to talk with him about their marriage and its possi- 
 bilities with a mournful candour that would have been 
 most painful to bear, save for her own strong, innocent 
 heart and Bernard's exceeding delicacy : she found 
 her lot as humiliating as it was hard. 
 
 Yet she had never loved him so dearly, never re- 
 cognised how well he deserved her love, as when, 
 after their long, dark drive, he said tenderly, * Now, 
 Hannah, we will forget for the time all these bitter- 
 nesses except the love, except the love/ handed her 
 out into the bright hall at the Grange, and entered the 
 drawing-room with her on his arm, as at Easterham 
 dinner-parties had been their custom always. 
 
 This was a state dinner. All the Moat-House 
 people were there, and Mr. Morecamb too. Hannah 
 did not know whether it was pure accident or refine- 
 ment of ill-nature, but Mr. Morecamb was assigned 
 to her at dinner, and she had no resource but to obey. 
 The poor man evidently knew his fate, and was 
 bearing it like a man. It was 'either one of the 
 contretemps in which the unlucky victims can only 
 submit and make the best of things, or done on pur- 
 pose ; but in either case there was no remedy. 
 
 Bernard had been placed far down the table ; but 
 whether or not, Hannah knew he could be no shield 
 to her rather the contrary. She must keep up her 
 own dignity trust for protection solely to herself. 
 And a nervous consciousness made her look sedulously 
 away from him all dinner-time. Nay, as she passed 
 him in the procession of ladies afterwards, she kept 
 her eyes fixed so steadily on the ground, that Bertha 
 asked satirically ' if she and Bernard had been quar- 
 relling?' 
 
 During dinner she had been comparatively safe, 
 even with Mr. Morecamb beside her ; afterwards there 
 gathered over her the vague coldness which women 
 always know how to show towards another woman who 
 is somehow 'under a cloud/ The Rivers family in- 
 
HANNAH. 191 
 
 dicated it most of all. Scarcely any one of them 
 addressed her except Adeline. 
 
 ' Don't mind it/ whispered the latter, following- 
 Hannah into a corner. 'We'll stand by you, and 
 people will see you here. Of course it is awkward, 
 very awkward. Easterham is talking about you so 
 much, and my family, of all things, dislike being 
 talked about. But I have thrown dust in everybody's 
 eyes by giving you at dinner to Mr. Morecamb. 
 Couldn't you like him ? Such a nice old fellow, and 
 so fond of you ! ' 
 
 Hannah shook her head, smiling drearily. It was 
 idle to take offence at silly little Adeline, who ne\vr 
 meant any harm. 
 
 She sat down, turning over the leaves of a pho- 
 tograph-book, and bade her young hostess go back to 
 her other guests. 
 
 ' No, no, I mean to stay with you. I don't feel as 
 my family do. I can't see why they should make 
 such a fuss even if Bernard did want to marry you. 
 People used to do it my respected mother-in-law, for 
 instance. And sisters-in-law are not real sisters ; never 
 ought to be. If the law made this quite clear, a man 
 wouldn't dare go philandering with them in his wife's 
 life-time. Now oh, dear! it's so convenient. He 
 can't marry them, so he may flirt with them as 
 much as ever he likes. It's all right, and the wife 
 can't say a word. But she may feel for all that.' 
 
 Adeline spoke bitterly; having evidently quite 
 slidden away from the case in point, not thinking of 
 Hannah at all ; so there was no need to answer her 
 except in a general way. 
 
 ' Yes, I daresay it is at times a little vexing. But 
 I am afraid I do not understand jealousy. I cannot 
 comprehend how, after people are once married, they 
 feel the smallest interest in anybody else. And the 
 conjugal fidelity which has only the law to secure it 
 must be a very shallow thing/ 
 
192 HANNAH. 
 
 ' You ridiculously simple woman ! "Well, perhaps 
 you are right. Jealousy is silly. We can't stop every 
 young lady out of our house because our husband may 
 one day have the chance of marrying her. Let him! 
 When we are dead and gone we shall not care. Only 
 don't let her come and steal him from us while we are 
 alive. It's all a sham, this nonsense about sisters/ 
 added she, stamping with her white satin shoes, and 
 tearing to pieces her hot-house roses. 'And, like you, 
 I am beginning to hate shams. Hannah Thelluson, 
 let us be friends.' 
 
 * We always were friends, I hope,' said Hannah 
 gently, pitying the young wife, whose skeleton in 
 the house had been so unconsciously betrayed. She 
 was more than sorry, rather angry, when, as the 
 evening wore on, and the gentlemen came in, Herbert 
 Melville scarcely noticing his sickly, unlovely Adeline, 
 devoted himself entirely to her blooming sisters, espe- 
 cially to Bertha ; who, a born coquette, seemed to 
 enjoy the triumph amazingly. The law which barred 
 some people from happiness, did not seem to furnish 
 any security for the happiness of others. Hannah 
 almost forgot herself in her pity for Adeline. 
 
 And yet she could have pitied herself too a little. 
 It was hard to sit there, tabooed, as it were, by that 
 silent ignoring which women understand so well, and 
 hear the others talking pleasantly round her. No one 
 was actually uncivil ; the Melvilles were almost obtru- 
 sively kind ; but there the coldness was, and Hannah 
 felt it. Such a new thing, too ; for, in her quiet way, 
 she had been rather popular than not in society ; she 
 had such gentle tact in fishing out all the shy, or 
 grim, or stupid people, and warming them up into 
 cheerfulness. But now even they quietly slipped away, 
 and left her alone. 
 
 It was a heavy night. She asked herself more than 
 oncj how many more of the like she should have to 
 bear, and if she could bear them ? Did Bernard see 
 
HANNAH. 193 
 
 it or feel it ? She could not tell. He came in late. 
 She saw him talking to Mrs. Melville, and afterwards 
 to Lady Rivers ; then trying his utmost to be pleasant 
 to everybody. She was so proud always of the sweet 
 nature he had, and the simple unconscious charm 
 of his manner in society. But in the pauses of con- 
 versation he looked inexpressibly sad ; and when 
 they got into the carriage, and were alone together, 
 she heard him sigh so heavily that, if his people 
 had been all night long pricking her to death with 
 pins and needles, Hannah would not have com- 
 plained. The very fact of complaint seemed a cer- 
 tain humiliation. 
 
 They scarcely exchanged a word all the drive 
 home ; but he took and held fast her hand. There 
 was something in the warm clasp that comforted her 
 for everything. 
 
 ' Dear/ he whispered, as he lit her candle and bade 
 her good night, which he did as soon as possible, ' it 
 is a hard lot for both of us. Can you bear it ?' 
 
 'I think I can.' 
 
 And so for some days she thought she could. She 
 had that best balm for sorrow a busy life ; each hour 
 was as full of work as it would hold; no time for 
 dreaming or regrets, scarcely even for love except in 
 the form wherein fate had brought love to her 
 calm, domestic, habitual scarcely distinguishable from 
 friendship even yet. She and Bernard did all their 
 customary business together day by day. They had 
 become so completely one in their work that it would 
 have been difficult to do otherwise. Nor did she wish 
 it. She was happy only to be near him, to help him, 
 to watch him fulfilling all his duties, whatever bitter- 
 ness lay underneath them. That pure joy which a 
 woman feels in a man's worthiness of love, keener than 
 even her sense of the love he gives her, was Hannah's 
 to the core. And then she had her other permanent 
 bliss the child. 
 
194 HANNAH. 
 
 Women good women, too have sometimes mar- 
 ried a man purely for the sake of his children ; and 
 Hannah never clasped Rosie in her arms without 
 understanding something of that feeling. Especially 
 on the first Sunday after the change had come the 
 great change, of which not an atom showed in their 
 outward lives, but of which she and Bernard were 
 growing more and more conscious, every day. This 
 bright morning, when the sun was shining, and the 
 crocuses all aflame across the garden, and a breath of 
 Spring stirring through the half-budded lilac tree, it 
 might perhaps have been hard for them to keep up 
 that gentle reticence of manner to one another except 
 for the child. 
 
 Rosie was a darling child. Even strangers said so. 
 The trouble she gave was infinitesimal, the joy un- 
 limited. Father and aunt were accustomed to delight 
 together over the little opening soul, especially on a 
 Sunday morning. They did so still. They talked 
 scarcely at all, neither of the future nor the past ; but 
 simply accepted the present, as childhood accepts it, 
 never looking beyond. Until, in the midst of their 
 frolic while papa was carrying his little girl on his 
 back round and round the table, and Tannie was jump- 
 ing out after them at intervals in the character of an 
 imaginary wolf, Rosie screaming with ecstasy, and the 
 elders laughing almost as heartily as the child there 
 came a note from the Moat-House. 
 
 Mr. Rivers read it, crushed it furiously in his hand, 
 and threw it on the back of the fire. Then, before it 
 burnt, he snatched it out again. 
 
 ' My poor Hannah ! But you ought to read it. It 
 will hurt you still you ought to read it. There must 
 never be any concealments between us two/ 
 
 'No/ 
 
 Hannah took the letter, but did not grow furious 
 rather calmer than before. She knew it was only the 
 beginning of the end. 
 
II AN X AH. 195 
 
 'MY DEAR BERNARD, 
 
 ' Your father wishes particularly to talk with 
 you to-day, as poor Austin, we hear, is rather worse 
 than usual. You will of course come in to lunch, and 
 remain to dinner. 
 
 * I perceive that, in spite of my earnest advice, Miss 
 Thelluson is still an inmate of your household. Will 
 you suggest to her that I am sorry our pew will be 
 full, and our dinner-table also, to-day ? 
 
 ' 1 wish you were more amenable to the reasonings 
 of your family, but remain, nevertheless, 
 
 'Your affectionate mother, 
 
 ' A. RIVERS/ 
 
 * Well?' Bernard said, watching her. 
 
 Hannah drooped her head over Rosie's hair; the 
 child had crept to her knees, and was looking with 
 wide blue eyes up at Tannie. 
 
 'It is but what I expected what she before de- 
 clared her intention of doing/ 
 
 * But do you recognise all it implies all it will 
 result in ? ' 
 
 ' Whatever it be, I am prepared ' 
 
 ' You do not know the worst/ Bernard said, after 
 a pause. ' I found it out yesterday by getting counsel's 
 opinion on the strict law of the case ; but I had not 
 courage to tell you/ 
 
 ' Why not ? I thought we were to have no secrets/ 
 
 'Oh, we men are such cowards; I am, anyhow. 
 But will you hear it now? It will be such a relief 
 to talk to you/ 
 
 ' Talk then/ said Hannah, with a pale smile. 
 ' Stop ; shall we have time ? It will be twenty minutes 
 yet before the church bells begin ringing/ 
 
 For she knew that the wheels of life must go on, 
 though both their hearts were crushed on the way. 
 
 ' Five minutes will be enough for all I have to tell 
 you. Only take the child away/ 
 
196 HANNAH. 
 
 Hannah carried away little Rosie, who clung franti- 
 cally to her fond paradise in Tannie's arms, and was 
 heard wailing dolorously overhead for a good while. 
 
 'See! even that baby cannot bear to part with 
 you. How then shall I ?' cried Bernard passionately ; 
 'and then, bidding her sit down, began giving her in 
 words exact and brief the result of his inquiries. 
 
 These confirmed all he had said himself once be- 
 fore, in the case of Grace and James Dixon. Of the 
 law, as it now stood, there could be no possible doubt. 
 No marriage with a deceased wife's sister, whether 
 celebrated here or abroad, would be held valid in Eng- 
 land. No woman so married had any legal rights, no 
 children could inherit. Thus even in cases where the 
 marriage was known to have existed, and the wife 
 had borne the husband's name for years, he, dying 
 intestate, his estates had been known to lapse to the 
 Crown; but then the Crown, with a curious recog- 
 nition of the difference between law and equity, had 
 been usually advised to return them piecemeal, under 
 the guise of a free gift, to the children, who other- 
 wise would have been the undisputed heirs. 
 
 ' Heirship money ! it seems all to hinge upon 
 that,' said Hannah, a little bitterly. 
 
 * Yes ; because property is the test upon which the 
 whole legal question turns. If I had been without 
 ties say a poor clerk upon a hundred and fifty a-year 
 (I wish I had) we might have set sail by the next 
 steamer to America, and lived there happy to the end 
 of our days ; for England is the only country which 
 does not recognise such marriages as ours. Some coun- 
 tries France and Germany, for instance require a 
 special permission to marry ; but this gained, society 
 accepts the union at once. Now, with us oh, Hannah, 
 how am I to put it to you? this would do no good. 
 As I said before, the misery would not end with our- 
 selves/ 
 
 'Would it affect Rosie?' 
 
HANNAH. 197 
 
 ' Your heart is full of Rosie. No ; but she is only 
 a girl, and the Moat-House is entailed in the male 
 line. Austin is slowly dying. I am the last of my 
 race. Do you understand? 1 
 
 She did at last. Her face and neck turned scarlet, 
 but she did not shrink. It was one of the terrible 
 necessities of her position that she must not shrink 
 from anything. She saw clearly that never, according 
 to the law of England, could she be Bernard's wife. 
 And if not, what would she be ? If she had children, 
 what would they be? And his estates lay in Eng- 
 land, and he was the last of his line. 
 
 * I perceive/ she faltered. ' No need to explain 
 further. You must not think of me any more. To 
 marry me would ruin you.' 
 
 Wild and miserable as his eyes were fierce with 
 misery the tears rushed into them. 
 
 * My poor Hannah, my own unselfish Hannah, you 
 never think for a moment that it would also ruin 
 you.' 
 
 It was true, she had not thought of herself; only 
 of him. A clergyman, prepared to break the canon 
 law; a man of family and position, running counter 
 to all social prejudices; a son, dutiful and fondly 
 attached, opposing his father's dearest wishes. The 
 mental struggle that he must have gone through be- 
 fore there ever dawned upon him the possibility of 
 marrying her, struck Hannah with a conviction of the 
 depth of his love, the strength of his endurance, such 
 as she had never believed in before. 
 
 ' Oh, Bernard ! ' she cried, calling him by his name 
 for the first time, and feeling was it also for the first 
 time? how entirely she loved him * Bernard, you 
 must never think of marrying me ; we must part.' 
 
 1 Part ! ' and he made as if he would have embraced 
 her, but restrained himself. 'We will discuss that 
 question by-and-bye. At present, hear the rest which 
 I have to tell.' 
 
198 HANNAH. 
 
 He then explained, with a calmness which in so 
 impulsive a man showed how strong was the self- 
 control he was learning to exercise, that since 1835 
 many dissentients from the law then passed had tried 
 to set it aside ; that almost every session a Bill to this 
 effect was brought into the House of Commons, fiercely 
 discussed there, passed by large majorities, and then 
 carried to the Upper House, where the Peers invariably 
 threw it out. Still in the minority were a few very 
 earnest in the cause. 
 
 * I know ; Lord Dunsmore is one of them/ 
 ' Yes ; I had forgotten ; I seem to be forgetting 
 everything ! ' and Bernard put his hand wearily to his 
 
 'i 
 
 head. 'I met Lady Dunsmore in London, and she 
 asked me no end of questions about you. She is very 
 fond of you, I think/ 
 
 'Is she?' 
 
 ' She wanted to know if you would come and stay 
 with her and bring Rosie ; but I said I could not 
 spare either of you. And then she looked at me in- 
 quisitively. She is a very shrewd, clever, good woman, 
 and a strong ally on our side. For it must be our 
 side, Hannah, whatever my people say, whatever I 
 might have said myself once. Any law that creates 
 a crime is mischievous and cruel. Even if I had no 
 personal concern in the matter, it is a wrong, and I 
 would fight against it as such.' 
 
 ' The Riverses were ever fighters, you know/ said 
 Hannah, watching him with a sad, tender smile ; and 
 more than ever there darkened down upon her all he 
 was giving up for her sake. 
 
 'But to come to the point, Hannah. I have 
 told you all the ill, now hear the good. Every year 
 public feeling is advancing; this year the Bill is to 
 be brought in again. Its adherents are ready for a 
 good hard fight, as usual ; but this time they hope 
 to win. And if they win then then ' 
 
 He seized her hands, and clasped them passion- 
 
HANNAH. 199 
 
 ately. It was not the dreamy love-making of a boy 
 in his teens of her lost Arthur, for instance, over 
 whose utmost happiness hung the shadow of early 
 death it was the strong passion of a man in the 
 midst of life, with all his future before him a future 
 that needed a wife's help to make it complete ; and 
 Hannah knew it. For a moment, sad, pale, white- 
 Hly-like as she was, there came a flush, rose-red, into 
 her cheeks, and to her heart an eager response to 
 the new duties, the new joys ; then she shrank back 
 within herself. It all seemed so hopeless, or with 
 such a slender thread of hope to cling to; yet he 
 clung to it. 
 
 'I will never give in/ he said, 'if I have to wait 
 for years. I will marry you if I possibly can ; I will 
 never marry any other woman. You shall not be 
 troubled or harmed not more than I must neces- 
 sarily harm you, my poor love! simply because you 
 are my love. But mine you must and shall be some 
 day. You hear me, Hannah ? ' 
 
 For she stood passive and bewildered any one 
 might have thought she did not care, until she lifted 
 up her eyes to him. Then he had no doubt at all. 
 
 ' Oh, give me one kiss, Hannah, to last me all 
 these months and years. It will not hurt you it 
 is not wrong/ 
 
 ' No/ and she gave it ; then with a great sigh they 
 both sat down. 
 
 The church bells began to ring. 'I must go/ 
 Bernard said. ' But first what are we to do ? Will 
 you go to church to-day ? ' 
 
 ' I must. If I sit in the free-seats or in the aisle, 
 I must go to church. It is God's house ; He will not 
 drive me from it; He knows I have done nothing 
 wrong.' And she wept a little, but not much. 
 
 ' You are right ; we have not done anything wrong, 
 and we ought not to act as if we had. Then will 
 you come with me ? ' 
 
200 HANNAH. 
 
 ' No ; I had rather go alone/ said Hannah gently 
 * I will bear everything alone, so far as I can.' 
 
 * What do you mean ? What do you wish ?' 
 
 ' That you should in all things do your duty with- 
 out considering me. Go to the Moat-House> as they 
 desire. If they do not mention me, do not you. What 
 does it matter? They cannot harm me not much. 
 And to break with them would be terrible for you. 
 Keep friends with your own people to the last.' 
 
 'You truly wish that?' 
 
 'I do. Now go. Good-bye, and God bless you, 
 Bernard ! ' 
 
 ' God bless you, my Hannah !' 
 
 And with that mutual blessing they parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE climaxes of life come only occasionally. When 
 borne upon the height of them we think we can en- 
 dure anything ; all beside them seem so small. But 
 when they are over, and we have sunk back into the 
 level of every-day life, it is different. The sword- 
 stroke we hardly felt ; the daily pin-pricks drive us 
 wild. It is sure to be so ; we cannot help it. 
 
 At first Hannah thought she could. After that 
 Sunday morning she and Bernard talked no more to- 
 gether why should they ? Their minds were quite 
 made up that both love and marriage were lawful to 
 them if attainable. But seeing that an immediate 
 union was impossible, and a separation almost equally 
 so, on account of the child, they spoke of neither 
 again, but tacitly determined to go on living toge- 
 ther as before in no way like lovers but as like 
 brother and sister as was practicable ; both for their 
 own sakes, and for the sake of outward eyes. 
 
HANNAH. 201 
 
 This decided, Hannah thought her way would be 
 clear. It was only a question of time and patient 
 waiting. Any year the Bill might be passed, and 
 their marriage made possible. In the meantime it 
 was no worse than a long engagement ; better, per- 
 haps, since they had the daily comfort of one another's 
 society. At least Hannah felt it so, and was cheerful 
 and content. What Bernard felt he did not say but 
 he was not always content ; often very dull, irritable, 
 and desponding. At such times Hannah had great 
 patience with him the patience which had now the 
 additional strength of knowing that it was to be ex- 
 ercised for life. 
 
 It was most needed, she found, after he had been 
 to the Moat-House whither, according to her wish, 
 he steadily went, and went alone. Had she been his 
 wife or even openly his betrothed she might, in 
 spite of all she had said, have resented this ; but, now, 
 what could she resent ? She had no rights to urge. 
 So she submitted. As to what passed on these visits, 
 she asked no questions, and he gave no information. 
 She never saw Bernard's people now ; except on Sun- 
 days, with a distance of a dozen pews between them. 
 Young Mrs. Melville still called punctiliously and 
 pointedly leaving her pair of greys standing outside 
 the gate ; but she excused herself from asking Hannah 
 to the Grange, because if the girls were there it would 
 be so very awkward. 
 
 'And the girls are always there/ added she, 
 querulously. ' I can't call my house my own or my 
 husband's either. Hannah, when you marry, you'll 
 be thankful that you've got no sisters.' 
 
 Hannah smiled. She saw that of the real truth 
 of her position with regard to Mr. Rivers Adeline 
 guessed nothing. It was best so. 
 
 As weeks passed another change gradually came. 
 
 Invitations the fear of which had sometimes per- 
 plexed her ; for how should she meet the Moat-House 
 
202 HANNAH. 
 
 family, even upon neutral ground? almost totally 
 ceased. Her neighbours left off calling that is, her 
 grand neighbours ; the humbler ones still sought her ; 
 but she fancied she read in their eyes a painful curi- 
 osity a still more painful compassion, especially when 
 they met her and Bernard together a chance which 
 occurred but seldom now. For he, too, seemed to 
 have a nervous dread of being seen with her, and 
 avoided her so much that she would often have thought 
 he had forgotten every word that had passed between 
 them, save for the constant mindfulness, the continual 
 watchful care, which a man never shows except to 
 the one woman he loves best in the world. 
 
 Yet sometimes, even having so much, made the 
 weak heart crave for a little a very little more; 
 just a word or two of love ; an evening now and then 
 of their old frank intercourse so safe and free : but 
 neither ever came. Bernard seemed to make it a 
 point of honour that, whatever people chose to say, 
 they should be given no data upon which to come to 
 the smallest conclusion. "Within, as without the 
 house, all the world might have heard every word 
 he said to Miss Thelluson. 
 
 Whatever suspicion was whispered about the vil- 
 lage, it rose to no open scandal. Everybody came to 
 church as usual, and no one applied to Mr. Bivers's 
 bishop to restrain him from preaching because he 
 retained as his housekeeper a lady whom the law per- 
 sisted in regarding as his sister. But the contradiction 
 was that, in spite of her being counted his ' sister/ 
 people did talk, and would talk ; and, of course, the 
 sharpest lash of their tongues fell, not upon the man, 
 but upon the woman. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, Hannah became aware that every 
 servant in the house, every family in the parish, kept 
 an eye upon her, observing, condemning, sympathising, 
 defending all by turns but never leaving her alone, 
 till she felt like the poor camel in the desert, whose 
 
II ANNA TT. 203 
 
 flying gaze sees in the horizon that faint black line 
 coming nearer and nearer the vultures which are 
 to pick her bones. She would have gone frantic some- 
 times brave woman as she was in the utter impossi- 
 bility of fighting against the intangible wrong, had it 
 not been for the child. 
 
 Rosie became not only her darling, but her friend. 
 She had now almost no other companion, and wanted 
 none. All grown-up people seemed worldly and 
 shallow, dull and cold, compared with the pure little 
 soul fresh out of heaven which Heaven itself had 
 sent to comfort her. As Rosie's English increased 
 they two held long conversations together very 
 monosyllabic certainly, and upon the simplest of 
 topics 'bow-wows/ ' gee-gees,' and so on yet 
 quite comprehensible, and equally interesting to both. 
 For is not a growing soul the most interesting and 
 lovely, as well as most solemn sight, in all this world ? 
 Hannah sometimes stood in awe and wonder at the 
 intelligence of the . little woman of three years old. 
 
 They two understood one another perfectly, and 
 loved one another as even real mother and child do 
 not always love. For never in all her little life had 
 Rosie heard a harsher word than, * Oh, Rosie Tannie 
 so sorry ! J which sufficed to melt her at once into the 
 most contrite tears. Pure contrition with no fear 
 of punishment for she had never been punished. 
 To her innocent, happy heart, no harmless joy had 
 ever been denied, no promise ever broken. She knew 
 that, and rested in her little ark of love as content 
 and safe as a nautilus in its shell, swimming over 
 the troubled waters of poor Tannie's lot like a visible 
 angel of consolation. 
 
 Day by day that lot was growing more hard to 
 bear, until at last chance brought it to a climax. 
 
 One forenoon, just before Mr. Rivers was going 
 out, there drove up to the House on the Hill a pretty 
 pony carriage and pair of greys, and out of it stepped 
 
204 HANNAH. 
 
 a little, bright, active, pretty woman the Countess of 
 Dunsmore. 
 
 ' I knew I should surprise you,' cried she, kissing 
 Hannah on both cheeks, and telling her how well she 
 was looking ; which she was, in the sudden pleasure 
 of the meeting. ' But I wanted to surprise you. We 
 are visiting at High wood Park, Mr. Rivers, and I met 
 your sisters there at dinner, you know, and promised 
 to come and see them ; but of course I came to see 
 Miss Thelluson first. Well, my dear, and how are 
 you ? And how is your pet Rosie ? ' 
 
 The little Rosie answered for herself, being so 
 greatly attracted by Lady Dunsmore's ermine tails, 
 and, perhaps, by her sweet motherly face, that she 
 made friends with her immediately. But Hannah was 
 nervous agitated. She knew exactly the expression 
 of that quick dark eye which saw everything, and saw 
 through everything, whether or not the lady mentioned 
 the result of that observation. 
 
 Bernard, too, was a little constrained. He knew 
 Lady Dunsmore slightly, and evidently was not aware 
 that Hannah knew her so well ; for Hannah was not 
 apt to boast of her friends, especially when they hap- 
 pened to have titles. Yet the sight of her warmed 
 her heart, and she had hundreds of questions to ask 
 about her old pupils, and endless reminiscences of her 
 old life with them so peaceful and contented. Yet 
 would she have had it back, rather than the life now ? 
 No ! unhesitatingly no ! 
 
 She felt this when, having put the blithe little 
 countess into her carriage, Bernard returned. He 
 walked heavily down the garden, in deep thought. 
 
 * A charming person, Lady Dunsmore ; and a 
 warm, steady friend of yours, Hannah.' 
 
 ' Yes, she was always kind to me.' 
 
 'Kinder than others have been since,' said Mr. 
 Rivers, sighing. ' Would you like to go and pay her 
 the long visit she asks for?' 
 
HANXAII. 205 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' And what shall you do about that invitation she 
 brought you, to go with my sisters to dine at High- 
 wood Lodge ? ' 
 
 1 What can I do, except not go ? To explain is 
 impossible.' 
 
 * Yes.' After a moment's thought Mr. Rivers went 
 on 'Hannah, may I say a word? Evidently my 
 people have been quite silent to Lady Dunsmore about 
 you; she expected to meet you at the Moat-House. 
 They perhaps are sorry, and would be glad of an 
 opportunity to atone. May I speak to them ?' 
 
 ' Stop a minute. What shall you say ? For I will 
 have nothing said that would humiliate me.' 
 
 Bernard looked tenderly at the flushed face. ' My 
 love, any man humiliates himself who for a moment 
 allows the woman he has chosen to be lightly esteemed. 
 Be satisfied ; I shall keep up your dignity as if it were 
 my own ; for it is my own.' 
 
 'Thank you.' But there was only pride no 
 sweetness in the words. They made him turn back 
 at once. 
 
 ' Oh, Hannah, how long is this state of things to 
 last ? How can we bear it if it lasts very long ? ' 
 
 She replied nothing. 
 
 ' Sometimes I ask myself, why should we bear it ? 
 when our consciences are satisfied, when the merest 
 legal form stands between us and our happiness. You 
 do not feel the suspense as I do ; I see that ; but do 
 you know it sometimes almost drives me mad that I 
 cannot marry you?' 
 
 His agitation was so extreme that Hannah was 
 frightened, both for his sake and lest any servant 
 should come in and find them thus. Oh, the misery 
 of that false life they led ! oh, the humiliation of con- 
 cealment ! 
 
 'Why should all the world be happy but me? 
 Why should that foolish old Morecamb but I for- 
 
206 HANNAH. 
 
 get, I never told you he is going to be married. I 
 tell you nothing ; I never have a chance of an hour's 
 quiet talk with you.' 
 
 4 Why not ? It would make me much happier/ 
 
 Those pure, sad, beseeching eyes he turned away 
 from them; he could not bear them. 
 
 * Don't ask me. I dare not. If I saw much of 
 veil I would not answer for myself. I might' he 
 laughed 'I might even horrify you by asking you 
 to go abroad and get married, as old Mr. Melville 
 did. But I will not ; no, I will not. And if I 
 would, you would not consent?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' I was sure of it. One might as well attempt to 
 move the pyramids as Hannah Thelluson after she had 
 once said No.' 
 
 His manner was so rough, so reckless, that it 
 pained her almost more than anything she had yet 
 experienced. Was their forced unnatural kind of life 
 injuring him ? And if so, ought it to continue ? 
 And if it must be ended, was not she the one to do 
 it? 
 
 ' Bernard,' she said, ' will you come home to- 
 night?' for it was not the rule, but the rare 
 exception, his staying with her of evenings. ' Then 
 we will have one of our old talks together, and per- 
 haps we may settle something ; or feel, when we look 
 things calmly in the face, that they are not so dread- 
 ful as they seem. Now go. Hark ! there is Rosie 
 calling over the staircase for papa.' 
 
 He had a real fatherly heart now ; this young 
 man, from whom, in his full flush of youth, life's 
 best blessing, a wife's love, was first taken, and then 
 tantalisingly denied. He snatched at the joys still 
 left to him, and clasping his little girl in his arms, 
 pressed his hot forehead upon Rosie's breast. 
 
 But all that day his words and tones rang warn- 
 ingly through Hannah's heart. This could not last 
 
HANNAH. 207 
 
 it was against human nature. So much, yet so little 
 as they were to one another. They must be more 
 or less. Should she leave him; for a time perhaps? 
 or should she go quite away ? She knew not what to 
 do. Nor what to say, when he should come home 
 to her to-night, and appeal to her, with the innocent 
 half- childlike expression his face sometimes wore, for 
 comfort, counsel. How could she give either? She 
 needed both herself. 
 
 And when their formal dinner was over, and they 
 sat together in their pleasant drawing-room, with the 
 yellow twilight glimmering outside for summer was 
 coming back again, the third summer since Rosa died, 
 life seemed to Hannah so hard, so hard ! 
 
 She gave him his tea almost in silence, and then he 
 proposed a stroll in the garden, up and down the front 
 walk, which was in full view of the house. Into the 
 sheltered green alley the ' Lovers' Walk ' these two 
 poor lovers never went ; never dared to go. 
 
 But such happiness as they could get they took, 
 and Hannah had risen to fetch her shawl, when they 
 saw entering the gate the last apparition they expected 
 to see Lady Rivers. For mouths she had not crossed 
 their threshold. But then Hannah would have been 
 more than mortal not to have remembered this it 
 had been crossed that morning by the Countess of 
 Dunsmore. 
 
 Lady Rivers was by no means a stupid woman. 
 Her faculty for discovering which way the wind blew, 
 and trimming her sails accordingly, amounted to abso- 
 lute genius. Not being thin-skinned herself she never 
 looked for that weakness in others ; so had under all 
 circumstances the most enviable coolness and self-pos- 
 session. The graceful air with which she entered by 
 the French window, kissed Bernard in motherly greet- 
 ing, and shook hands with Miss Thelluson as if she had 
 seen her only the day before, was most inimitable. 
 
 ' How comfortable you look here ! It is quite a 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 pleasure to see you. May I ask for a cup of tea? 
 Your tea always used to be so good, Miss Thelluson. 
 And you had a visit from Lady Dunsmore ? So had 
 we afterwards What a charming person she is ; and 
 a great friend of yours, I understand.' 
 
 Hannah assented. 
 
 * I must congratulate you ; for a lady, especially 
 a single lady, is always judged by her choice of 
 friends.' 
 
 'I did not choose Lady Dunsmore for my friend; 
 I was only her children's governess.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Anyhow, she has evidently a great regard 
 for you. By-the-bye, does she know anything of the 
 the little uncomfortableness between us lately, which, 
 as I came to say to-night, is, I trust, entirely a thing 
 of the past ? Don't speak, Bernard In fact this visit 
 is not meant for you. I came over to tell Miss Thellu- 
 son of something which as Mr. Morecamb was the 
 cause of difference between her and me ' (Hannah 
 opened her eyes) ' will, I trust, heal it. He is en- 
 gaged to be married to my eldest daughter.' 
 
 Hannah offered the customary good wishes. 
 
 ' It is indeed a most suitable marriage, and we are 
 quite pleased at it. So now, my dear, let bygones be 
 bygones. Will you come with Bernard to meet Lady 
 Dunsmore at dinner on Friday ?' 
 
 Never was there a more composed putting of the 
 saddle upon the wrong horse, ignoring everything that 
 it was advisable to ignore, for the sake of convenience. 
 And many a woman, prudent and worldly-wise, would 
 have accepted it as such. But, unfortunately, Hannah 
 was not a prudent woman. Against certain meannesses 
 her spirit revolted with a fierceness that slipped all self- 
 control. 
 
 She glanced towards Bernard, but his eyes were 
 turned away ; he had the moody, uncomfortable look 
 of a man dragged unwillingly into women's wars. 
 Thrown back upon herself, alone, quite alone, pride 
 
HANNAH. 209 
 
 whispered that she must act as if she were alone, as if 
 his love were all a dream, and she once more the 
 solitary, independent Hannah Thelluson, who, forlorn 
 as she was, had always been able till now to hold her 
 own, had never yet experienced an insult or submitted 
 tamely to an injury. She would not now. 
 
 ' I thank you, Lady Rivers, for the trouble you 
 have taken, but it will be quite impossible for me to 
 accept your invitation.' 
 
 Lady Rivers looked amazed. That any concession 
 she made should not be joyfully received, that any in- 
 vitation to the Moat-House should not be accepted with 
 avidity ; the thing was ridiculous. She paused a 
 moment as if doubting she had heard aright, and then 
 appealed to Bernard. 
 
 * Pray assure Miss Thelluson that she need not 
 hesitate. I have watched her narrowly of late, and 
 am quite sure I was mistaken in any little prejudices 
 I might have had. I and the girls will be delighted 
 to see her. Do persuade her to come with you/ 
 
 ' Excuse me, but I always leave Miss Thelluson to 
 decide for herself.' 
 
 The cold voice, the indifferent manner, though she 
 knew both were advisable and inevitable, smote Hannah 
 to the core. That bitter position of love and no love, 
 ties and no ties, seemed to degrade her almost as if 
 she had been really the vile thing that some people 
 thought her. 
 
 ' Mr. Rivers is right/ she said. ' I must decide for 
 myself. You wished my visits to you to cease; I 
 acquiesced; it will not be quite so easy to resume 
 them. As Mr. Rivers's sister-in-law and housekeeper 
 I shall always be happy to see you in his house, but 
 ] fear you must excuse my coming to yours. Let 
 us dismiss the subject. Shall I offer you a cup of 
 tea?' 
 
 Her manner, gentle as it was, implied a resolution 
 strong enough to surprise even Bernard. For Lady 
 
 p 
 
'210 HANNAH. 
 
 Rivers, she coloured, even beneath her delicate rouge 
 but she was too prudent to take offence. 
 
 * Thank you. Your tea, as I said, is always excel- 
 lent; and perhaps when we have more attractions to 
 offer you, we may yet see you at the Moat-House. In 
 the meantime, I hope, Bernard, that Miss Thelluson's 
 absence will not necessitate yours/ 
 
 And she looked hard at him, determined to find 
 out how he felt in the matter, and to penetrate, if pos- 
 sible, the exact relations between the two. 
 
 It was a critical moment. Most men, even the 
 best of them, are, morally, very great cowards, and 
 Bernard was no exception to the rule. Besides, Hannah 
 was not his wife, or his betrothed she had not even 
 called herself his friend : she had given him no rights 
 over her asked no protection from him. What could 
 he do or say ? Irresolute, he looked from one to the 
 other excessively uncomfortable when Hannah came 
 to the rescue. 
 
 ' Of course my brother-in-law will go without me : 
 we are quite independent in our proceedings. And 
 he will explain to Lady Dunsmore the utmost it is 
 necessary to explain, as I never talk of my private 
 affairs to anybody that I do not pay many visits; I 
 had rather stay at home with my little girl. That 
 will be perfectly true/ she added, her lips slightly 
 quivering. 'I prefer Rosie's company to anybody's. 
 She loves me.' 
 
 Bernard started up, and then, fearful of having 
 committed himself, sat down again. Lady Rivers, 
 though evidently vexed, was equal to the situation, and 
 met it with a dignified indifference. 
 
 ' Pray, please yourself, Miss Thelluson ; no doubt 
 you act upon your own good reasons. You are, I 
 always understood, a lady who never changes her 
 mind ; but if you should do so, we shall be glad to see 
 you.' And then she passed over the matter, as too 
 trivial to bear further discussion, and conv^sed in the 
 
HANNAH. 211 
 
 most amiable manner for another half-hour. Finally, 
 with a benign ' Good evening, Miss Thelluson ; I am 
 sure Lady Dunsmore will be much disappointed at not 
 seeing you/ she terminated the visit as if it had been 
 any ordinary call. 
 
 Hannah was not surprised : it was the fashion of 
 the Rivers family not to see anything they did not 
 wish to see : the only thing that vexed her was about 
 Bernard. He had said nothing absolutely nothing 
 except telling her, when he took his hat to accom- 
 pany his step-mother home, that he would be back 
 immediately. Was he displeased with her ? Did he 
 think she had acted ill ? Had she done so ? Was it 
 her duty to submit to everything for his sake ? Surely 
 not. He had no right to expect it. Was it because 
 she loved him that she felt so bitterly angry with 
 him? 
 
 Yet, when, sooner than she had expected, he re- 
 turned, and threw himself into his chair, pale and 
 dejected, like a man tied and bound by fate, who sees 
 no way to free himself the anger melted, the pity 
 revived. He too suffered they suffered alike why 
 should they reproach one another? 
 
 * So you have had your way, Hannah/ Yes, there 
 was reproach in the tone. ' Are you quite sure you 
 were right in what you have done?' 
 
 'Quite sure; at least, that unless I were some 
 other than myself, I could not have done differently.' 
 
 And then they sat, silent, in stiff coldness, until 
 the last ray of amber twilight had faded out of the 
 room. What a pretty room it was just the place to 
 be happy in for friends, or lovers, or husband and 
 wife, to sit and dream together in the quiet gloaming, 
 which all happy people love which is so dreadful to 
 the restless or the miserable. 
 
 ' We should have rung for lights/ cried Bernard, 
 pulling violently at the bell. ' You know I hate the 
 dark/ 
 
212 
 
 HANNAH. 
 
 And when lights came, they saw one another's faces 
 his burning crimson, hers pale and in tears. 
 
 ' Oh, Hannah, Hannah, how miserable we are ! As 
 I said, if this goes on much longer, how shall we bear 
 it?' 
 
 'I do not know.' Then, steeling herself against 
 both anger and pain, 'Bernard/ she said, 'what did 
 you wish me to do ? Your family have no claim upon 
 me, nor I upon them. We are, as things stand, mere 
 strangers. Are they to throw me off and pick me up 
 again when and how they choose ? Am I to submit to 
 it?' 
 
 ' I did not ask you.' 
 
 'No, but you looked it. You would have liked 
 me to go to the Moat-House.' 
 
 'Yes. I wish you to be friends with them. I 
 want them to love you.' 
 
 'They do not love me they only receive me on 
 sufferance, and I will go nowhere on sufferance. I can 
 live alone. I want no society ; but where I do go I 
 want to be loved, I want to be respected. Bernard ! ' 
 and she looked piteously in his face, ' sometimes I am 
 tempted to say with you, if this lasts long, how shall 
 I ever bear it?' 
 
 ' How shall I bear it ? It is harder for me than 
 you.' 
 
 ' Perhaps. But you forget it was your doing, not 
 mine.' 
 
 And then both drew back, appalled at the sharp- 
 ness of their words at the bitterness of these mutual 
 recriminations. 
 
 Bernard held out his hand. 'Forgive me. You 
 are right. It was I who brought all this trouble upon 
 you, and now I have not strength to meet it either 
 for you or for myself I am so miserable that it makes 
 me wicked. Something must be done. "What shall it 
 be?' 
 
 'What indeed?' 
 
HANNAH. 213 
 
 * Hannah, decide. Don't look at me in that dead 
 silence. Speak out. for I can bear it no longer. Shall 
 we part ? Or will you marry me at once ?' 
 
 He could hardly have known what he was saying, 
 or else, in his despair, anything seemed possible to 
 him. Not to her. She was very gentle. She did 
 not even draw away her hands, which he had grasped : 
 she scarcely seemed to recognise the insult he was un- 
 wittingly offering her. She only answered, sorrowfully, 
 yet without the slightest indecision, ' We will part/ 
 
 Three little words but they brought Bernard to 
 his senses immediately. He foil on his knees before 
 her, and passionately begged her forgiveness. 
 
 'But you do not know what I suffer. Inwardly, 
 outwardly life is one long torment. At the Moat- 
 House I have no peace. They talk at me and at 
 you ; they try every means of worming out my secret 
 from me. But they shall not. I will hide it at all 
 costs. People may guess what they like but we are 
 safe so long as they know nothing. God help me ! 
 I talk as if we were committing a deadly sin, when 
 my love of you is the best thing the only good 
 thing in me. He looked up at Hannah, and ground 
 his teeth. 'It is an accursed law/ he said. 'A law 
 made only for fools, or sinners ; and yet it may suffice 
 to blast both our lives/ 
 
 ' No/ Hannah answered, ' nothing could do that 
 except ourselves/ 
 
 ' A common-place truth ! ' and Bernard laughed 
 bitterly. 
 
 'It is God's truth though; His right and wrong 
 are much simpler than man's/ 
 
 'What is right and what is wrong? for I am 
 growing so road I hardly know. Show me preach to 
 me I used to tell you you could preach better than 
 the clergyman. Only love me, Hannah if there is 
 any love in that pale, pure face of yours. Sometimes 
 I think there is none/ 
 
214 HANNAH. 
 
 ' None Bernard, none ?' 
 
 For a minute she stooped over him ; for a minute 
 he felt that she had not a stone for a heart. And then 
 the strong, firm, righteous will of the woman who, 
 however deeply loving, could die, but would not do 
 wrong, forced itself upon him, lulling passion itself into 
 a temporary calm. He leant his head against her ; he 
 sobbed upon her arm like a child ; and she soothed him 
 almost as if he had been a child. 
 
 * Listen to me/ she said. ' We must endure there 
 is no help for it. It is a cruel, unjust law, but it is 
 the law, and while it exists we cannot break it. I 
 could not twist my conscience in any possible way so 
 as to persuade myself to break it. No form of marriage 
 could ever make me legally your wife/ 
 
 ' Not in England. Out of England it could.' 
 
 ' But then as soon as we come back to England, 
 
 what should I be ? And if, in the years to come 
 
 Bernard, it is impossible, impossible/ 
 
 She said no more than that how could she? But 
 she felt it so intensely that, had it been necessary, 
 she would have smothered down all natural shame, and 
 said out to him as solemnly as if it had been a vow 
 before God her determination never, for any personal 
 happiness of her own or his, to entail upon innocent 
 children the curse of a tainted name. 
 
 ' I understand/ Bernard replied humbly. ' Forgive 
 me ; I ought never to have said a word about our 
 marrying. It must not be. I must go on my way 
 alone to the end.' 
 
 'Not quite alone oh, not quite alone/ 
 But, as if more afraid of her tenderness than of her 
 coldness, Bernard rose, and began walking about the 
 room. 
 
 * You must decide as I said; for my own judg- 
 ment altogether fails me. We cannot go on living 
 as we do : some change must be thought of; but I 
 cannot tell what it should be/ 
 
HANNAH. 215 
 
 'Why need it be?' said Hannah, timidly. 'Can 
 we not continue as we are?' 
 
 ' No ! ' A fierce, abrupt, undeniable No. 
 
 ' Then I had better go away/ He looked tso terri- 
 fied that she hastily added, ' Only for a time, of course 
 till the bitterness between you and your people 
 softens till we can see our way a little. It must be 
 made plain to us some day ; I believe it always is to 
 those who have innocent hearts/ 
 
 And as she sat, her hands folded on her lap, 
 pale and sad as she looked, there was such a swivt 
 composure in her aspect, that Bernard stopped and 
 gazed gazed till the peace was reflected on his 
 own. 
 
 ' You are a saint, and I am only a man. A very 
 wretched man sometimes. Think for me tell me what 
 I ought to do.' 
 
 Hannah paused a little, and then suggested that 
 he should, for a few weeks or so, part with Rosie and 
 herself, and let them go, as Lady Dunsmore had ear- 
 nestly wished, to pay her a visit in London. 
 
 'Did she say so?' said Bernard, with sensitive 
 fear. ' Do you think she said it with any meaning 
 that she has any idea concerning us?' 
 
 ' You need not be afraid even if she had,' was the 
 rather proud answer. Alas ! how quick they were 
 growing to take offence, even at one another ! Yes, 
 it was best to part. ' I mean,' Hannah added, ' that, 
 even if she guessed anything, it would not signify. I 
 shall confess nothing ; and I have often heard her say 
 that a secret accidentally discovered ought to be held 
 just as if it had never been discovered at all. Be 
 satisfied neither Lady Dunsmore nor I shall betray 
 you, even to one another.' 
 
 And for a moment Hannah thought with comfort 
 that this good woman was her friend had grown 
 more and more such, as absence discovered to both 
 their common worth. It would be a relief after the 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 long strain to rest upon this genial feminine companion- 
 ship this warm and kindly heart. 
 
 * She will treat me like* a friend too not like her 
 old governess, if you are uneasy about that. Or, if 
 you like it better, I shall be received less as poor 
 Hannah Thelluson than as Mr. Kivers's sister-in-law 
 and Rosie's aunt. I am to go about with her every- 
 where she made me quite understand that. A 
 strange, changed life for me ; but my life is all so 
 strange.' 
 
 And Hannah sighed. She felt as if she had let her 
 oars go, and were drifted about involuntarily, she knew 
 not whither, hardly caring whether she should ever 
 touch land ; and if she did, whether it would be as a 
 living woman, or a creature so broken down and 
 battered that she could neither enjoy nor suffer any 
 more ? Who could tell ? Fate must decide. 
 
 Mr. Rivers listened to her silently, but full of 
 thought thoughts which, perhaps, she could not have 
 followed had she tried. He was a very good man, 
 but he was also a man of the world : he would not 
 have been a Rivers else. He saw at once the advantage 
 of Lady Dunsmore's countenance not merely because 
 she happened to be a marquis's daughter and an earl's 
 wife, but because in any society she was the sort of 
 person whose friendship was valued and valuable. "Was 
 it human nature, or only masculine nature, that, dearly 
 as he loved Hannah, Bernard unconsciously prized her 
 the more because she was prized by such a woman 
 as the Countess of Dunsmore ? 
 
 1 Go, then/ he said. ' I will not hinder you. Pay 
 your visit ; you will be happy ; and it will in many 
 ways be a good thing.' Then with a nervous eager- 
 ness that, in spite of her reason, pained Hannah 
 acutely ' When does she want you ? How soon can 
 you start?' 
 
 'Any day, since you are so glad to get rid of 
 
HANNAH. 217 
 
 '0 Hannah!' 
 
 They stood side by side, these two lovers, between 
 whom was a barrier slight and invisible as glass, yet 
 as impossible to be broken through without sore 
 danger and pain. They could not break it ; they 
 dared not. 
 
 ' Things are hard for us very hard/ said Bernard, 
 almost in a groan. * We shall be better apart at 
 least for a time. I meant to have gone away myself 
 to-morrow; but if you will go instead ' 
 
 1 1 cannot to-morrow. I will as soon as I can.' 
 
 ' Thank you/ 
 
 She did not sob, though her throat was choking; 
 she only prayed. Dimly she understood what he was 
 suffering ; but she knew he suffered very much. She 
 knew, too, that however strangely it came out, in 
 bitterness, anger, neglect, still the love was there, burn- 
 ing with the intensity of a smothered fire all the 
 more for being suppressed. The strength which one, 
 at least, of them must have, she inly cried to heaven 
 for and gained. 
 
 * Good-bye/ she said ; ' for we shall not talk thus 
 together again. It is better not.' 
 
 'I know it is. But you love me: I need not 
 doubt that?' 
 
 ' Yes, I love you,' she whispered. ' Whatever 
 happens, remember that ; and oh ! keep me in your 
 heart till death.' 
 
 'I will,' he said; and snatching her close, held 
 her there, tight and fast. For one minute only ; then 
 letting her go, he bade her once more ' good night and 
 good-bye,' and went away. 
 
 Three days after, Miss Thelluson, the child, and the 
 nurse started for London together, Mr. Rivers himself 
 seeing them off from the railway. 
 
 Rosie was in an ecstasy of delight to be 'going 
 in a puff- puff with Tuimie' being to the little maid 
 the crown of all human felicity. She kept pulling at 
 
218 HANNAH. 
 
 her papa's hand, and telling him over and over again 
 of her bliss ; and every time he stopped and listened, 
 but scarcely answered a word. Grace, too, looked glad 
 to go. Easterham, with James Dixon still hovering 
 about, was a cruel place for her to live in. Hannah 
 only looked grave and pale ; but she smiled whenever 
 her little girl smiled ; and to the one or two persons 
 who spoke to her at the railway station, where of course 
 they were known to everybody, she spoke also in her 
 usual gentle way. 
 
 Only when Mr. Rivers kissed Rosie, saying, ' Papa 
 will miss his little girl/ and then turning, shook hands 
 with her silently, Hannah grew deadly pale for a minute. 
 That was all. The train moved off, and she saw him 
 walking back, solitary, to his empty house. 
 
 Life has many anguishes : but perhaps the sharpest 
 of all is an anguish of which nobody knows. 
 
 CHAPTER XTI. 
 
 As we walk along, staggering under some heavy burden, 
 or bleeding with some unseen wound, how often do the 
 small perplexities of life catch at us unawares, like 
 briers, and vex us sore ! Hannah, as she felt herself 
 borne fast away from Easterham, conscious of a sense, 
 half of relief, and half of bitter loss, was conscious, too, 
 of a ridiculously small tMng which had not occurred 
 to her till now, and which she would never have cared 
 for on her own account, but she did on Bernard's. This 
 was How would Lady Dunsmore manage to receive 
 back into her household, as an equal and familiar friend, 
 her ci-devanl governess ? Not that Miss Thelluson had 
 ever been treated in the way governesses are said to be 
 treated, though it is usually their own fault ; but she 
 had of course taken her position, both with guests and 
 
HANNAH. 219 
 
 servants, simply as the governess, and never sought to 
 alter it. But this position Rosie's aunt and Mr. Rivers's 
 sister-in-law could no longer suitably hold. As the cab 
 drove up to the old family mansion in May fair which 
 she knew so well, Hannah felt a sense of uncomforta- 
 bleness for which she was almost angry with herself, 
 
 But it was needless. Lady Dunsmore had that true 
 nobility which, discovering the same in others, recog- 
 nises it at once, and acts accordingly. The slight 
 difficulty which an inferior woman might have bungled 
 over, she, with her gracious, graceful frankness, solved 
 at once. 
 
 ' You will establish Miss Thelluson and her niece 
 in the blue rooms/ said she to the housekeeper, who, 
 seeing who the arrival was, came forward with a pleased 
 but patronising air. * And see that everything is made 
 comfortable for the child and nurse, and that my friend 
 here shall feel as much at home as if she were in her 
 own house.' 
 
 4 Certainly, my lady.' And the wise old woman 
 slipped quietly behind her back the hand she was 
 extending to Miss Thelluson, till Miss Thelluson took 
 and shook it cordially, then curtseying, Mrs. Rhodes 
 followed her respectfully to the blue rooms, which, as 
 everybody knew, being in communication with the 
 countess's, were never assigned but to her favourite 
 guests. 
 
 Thus, domestically, the critical point was settled 
 at once. Socially, too, with equal decision. 
 
 ' My friend, Miss Thelluson/ said Lady Dunsmore, 
 introducing her at once to two ladies, aunts of Lord 
 Dunsmore, who were in the drawing-room, and whom 
 Hannah knew well enough, as they her, by sight. ' We 
 are so glad to have her back among us, with her little 
 niece. She will be such a welcome visitor, and my 
 little girls will perfectly spoil the child, if only for 
 her sake ; they were so fond of Miss Thelluson/ 
 
 And when, to prove this, Lady Blanche and Lady 
 
220 HANNAH. 
 
 Mary came in leading little Rosie between them, and 
 clung lovingly round their old governess's neck, Hannah 
 felt perfectly happy ay, even though Bernard was far 
 away ; and the remembrance of him striding forlornly 
 to his deserted home came across her like a painful, 
 reproachful vision. And yet it was not unnatural. The 
 transition from perplexity to peace, from suspicion to 
 tender respect, from indifference or coldness to warm 
 welcoming love, was very sweet. Not until the strain 
 was taken off her, did Hannah feel how terrible it 
 had been. 
 
 When Lady Dunsmore, as if to prove decisively 
 the future relation in which they were to stand, came 
 into her room before dinner, and sitting down in her 
 white dressing-gown before the hearth where aunt 
 and niece were arranging together a beautiful Noah's 
 ark put her hand on Miss Thelluson's shoulder, say- 
 ing, ' My dear, I hope you will make yourself quite 
 happy with us/ Hannah very nearly broke down. 
 
 The countess stooped and began caressing the child, 
 making solemn inquiries of her as to Noah and Mrs. 
 Noah, their sons and sons' wives, and arranging them 
 in a dignified procession across the rug. 
 
 1 What a happy-looking little woman she is this 
 Rosie ! And I hope her auntie is happy too ? As 
 happy as she expected to be?' 
 
 Hannah's self-control was sorely tested. This year 
 past she had lived in an atmosphere of mingled bliss 
 and torment, of passionate love and equally passionate 
 coldness : been exposed to alternations of calm civility 
 and rudeness almost approaching unkindness ; but it 
 was long since any one any woman had spoken to 
 her in that frank, affectionate tone. She felt that Lady 
 Dunsmore understood her ; and when two good women 
 once do this, they have a key to one another's hearts, 
 such as no man, be he ever so dear, can quite get 
 hold of. 
 
 As Hannah laid her cheek against the pretty soft 
 
HANNAH. 221 
 
 hand none the less soft that its grasp was firm, and 
 none the less pretty that it sparkled with diamonds 
 the tears came stealing down, and with them was near 
 stealing out that secret which all the taunts in the 
 world would never have forced from her. 
 
 But it must not be. It would compromise not her- 
 self alone. She knew well she had long made up 
 her mind to the fact that, unless Bernard and she 
 could be legally married, the relations between them 
 must be kept strictly between their two selves. The 
 world might guess as it chose accuse as it chose, but 
 not one confirmatory word must it get out of either of 
 them. Out of her, certainly, it never should. 
 
 Therefore, she looked steadily up into her friend's 
 face. * Yes ; my little girl makes me very happy. You 
 were right in once saying that a woman is only half a 
 woman till she has a child. Of her own, you meant ; 
 but it is true even if not her own. I have found it 
 to be so. I have almost forgotten I am not Rosie's 
 real mother.' 
 
 And then, aware of a keen inquisitiveness in Lady 
 Dunsmore's look, Hannah blushed violently. 
 
 The countess dropped down again beside Noah's 
 ark, and occupied herself, to Rosie's intense delight, 
 in making a bridge over which all the animals could 
 pass out, till the child and her new playfellow became 
 the best of friends. 
 
 'Rosie is not much like her father, I think; PTV! 
 yet she has a look of him his bright, merry look, 
 such as he had before his trouble came. Is he getting 
 over it at all ? It is now a good while since your poor 
 sisteVdied.' 
 
 * Rosie's age tells it nearly three years/ 
 
 'That is a long time for a man to mourn now-a- 
 
 days. But 'checking herself, 'I always thought 
 
 Mr. Rivers very faithful-hearted, constant in his friend- 
 ships, and therefore in his loves ; and knowing how 
 forlorn a man is who has once been married, I, for 
 
222 HANNAH. 
 
 one, should never blame him if he made a second 
 choice.' 
 
 Hannah was silent ; then seeing Lady Dunsmore 
 paused for some acquiescence, she gave it in one or 
 two meaningless words. 
 
 ' And, meantime, I conclude, you remain at Easter- 
 ham. Your brother-in-law evidently appreciates your 
 society, and the blessing you are to his little girl. He 
 said as much to me. He told me he did not know 
 what Rosie would have done without you, and that 
 you and she are never to be parted. Is it so ?' 
 
 ' He has promised me that I shall have her 
 always/ 
 
 * Even in case of his second marriage ? But I 
 oeg your pardon, I really have no right to be curious 
 about Mr. Bi vers's domestic arrangements I know 
 him too slightly ; but yet I cannot help taking an 
 interest in him, for his own sake as well as for yours.' 
 
 She pressed the hand she held, but asked no further 
 questions made no attempt whatever to find out what 
 Hannah did not choose to tell. That noble confidence 
 which exists among women often er than they are given 
 credit for, when each knows quite well the other's 
 secret, but never betrays either to her friend or a 
 stranger the silent, mutual trust was henceforward 
 established between the two. The moment Lady Duns- 
 more had closed the door, after talking a good while 
 of Dunsmore topics, of her daughters, her husband, 
 and a journey she wanted to take, only was hindered 
 by Lord Dunsmore's determination to wait and vote 
 for a bill that he greatly desired to see pass the House 
 of Lords 'the Bill concerning deceased wife's sisters, 
 in which you know he was always so interested' 
 Hannah felt certain that this sharp-witted little lady 
 guessed her whole position as well as if she had told 
 it. Also that she would keep the discovery herself, 
 and aid in defending it from the outside world, as 
 sacredly as if she had been pledged to inviolable 
 
HANNAH. 223 
 
 secresy, and bound by the honour of all the Dacres 
 and Dimsmores. 
 
 With a sense of self-respect and self-contentedness, 
 greater than she had known for some time, Hannah 
 dressed for dinner. Carefully too ; for Bernard's sake ; 
 since if the countess guessed anything, she would 
 have liked her to feel that it was not so unnatural, 
 Bernard's loving her. On his account she was glad 
 to be held an honoured guest ; glad to be met cordially, 
 and talked to with courteous attention at dinner-time 
 by a man like the Earl of Dunsmore, who, though 
 rumour said his wife had made him all that he was 
 had roused him from the doke far niente life of an 
 idle young nobleman into a hard-working man, was a 
 person who in any rank of life would have been useful 
 and esteemed. And he spoke of Bernard whom he 
 said he had met several times when in London with 
 warm regard. 
 
 This was sweet to her ; and equally sweet was the 
 unconscious contrast of coming back to her old haunt > 
 under new conditions and circumstances. Often, during 
 some pause of silence, she secretly counted up her bl 86- 
 ings how rich she was who had once been so poor. 
 And when, at dessert, there stole in, hand in hand with 
 little Lady Isabel, who had grown from a baby into 
 a big girl since Miss Thelluson left, a certain white 
 fairy in blue ribbons, who, looking round the dazzling 
 room with a pretty bewilderedness, caught sight of 
 one known face, and ran and hid her own lovingly 
 in Tannie's lap, Tannie's heart leaped for joy. Tin 
 child^her own child ! nothing and nobody could 
 take that treasure from her. She and Bernard might 
 never be married; weary of long waiting, he might 
 give up loving her, and marry some one else; but 
 he was a man of honour he would always leave her 
 the child. 
 
 ' Rosie does you the greatest credit/ said Lord 
 Dunsmore, smiling at the little woman, and trying to 
 
224 HANNAH. 
 
 win her but vainly from Tannie's arms. 'She is 
 a charming child.' 
 
 Hannah laughed. ' Then you will endorse the 
 proverb about old maids' children ? ' said she. 
 
 Was it because he looked at her, or because of her 
 own conscious heart, that one of those horrible sudden 
 blushes came, and with it the sense of hypocrisy of 
 always bearing about with her a secret, which, sinless 
 as she felt it was, everybody might not consider so. 
 For even this night, though the dinner circle was small 
 Lord Dunsmore's known advocacy of the Bill caused 
 it to be discussed on all sides argued pro and con by 
 friends and enemies, in a way that neither host nor 
 hostess could repress without attracting attention. At 
 length, perhaps out of wise kindness, they ceased trying 
 to repress it, and Hannah heard the whole question 
 of whether a man might or might not marry his 
 deceased wife's sister argued out logically and theolo- 
 gically, as she had never heard it before, together with 
 all the legal chances for and against the Bill. She 
 could not shut her ears she dared not: for what to 
 all these others was a mere question of social or political 
 opinion, was to her a matter of life and death. So 
 she sat quiet, keeping, by a strong effort, her counte- 
 nance as still as a stone, and her voice, when she had 
 to speak, just like that of any other dinner-table guest 
 who joined placidly, or carelessly, or combatively, in 
 the conversation that was going on. It was best so ; 
 best to buckle on at once the armour that, in all pro- 
 bability, she would have to wear through life. 
 
 Lord Dunsmore seemed hopeful of his cause. He 
 had entered into it, unlike many others, from purely 
 impersonal motives from a simple sense of right and 
 justice; and he had a strong faith, he said, that the 
 right would conquer at last. 
 
 ' Not/ he added, laughing, ' that I want to compel 
 every man to marry his sister-in-law, as some people 
 seem to think I do ; I am sure I have not the slightest 
 
HANNAH. 225 
 
 wish ever to marry mine ! But I consider all restric- 
 tions upon marriage made by neither God nor nature, 
 a mistake and a wrong. And any law which creates 
 a false and unnatural position between man and woman 
 is an equal wrong. Let there be no shams. Let a man 
 have his natural mother, sister, wife, but no anomalous 
 relationships which, pretending to all, are in reality 
 none of the three. 
 
 ' And/ said Lady Dunsmore, mischievously, ' such 
 is the nature of man, that when all these pretty pre- 
 tences were broken down, and a man must either marry 
 a lady or have nothing to say to her, I believe he 
 would choose the latter course. You are such contra- 
 dictory creatures, you men, that I suspect, as soon as 
 all of you might marry your wives' sisters, you would 
 none of you desire to do it ! But, come, we ladies have 
 had enough of the Marriages Bill, though everybody 
 must put up with it in this house ; for when my hus- 
 band gets a hobby he rides it to death. I ride with 
 him, too, on this one/ she added, as stepping aside to 
 let her matron guests pass into the drawing-room, she 
 quietly, and without any apparent intention, took hold 
 of Miss Thelluson's hand. There was something in 
 the warm, firm clasp so sympathetic that for very 
 gratitude Hannah could have wept. 
 
 The subject ended with the closing of the dining- 
 room door, no one suspecting for a moment that one 
 guest present had a vital interest therein. The ladies 
 gathered round the fire, and the countess, who was as 
 popular and agreeable with her own sex as she was 
 with gentlemen, began talking gaily of other things. 
 And so Hannah's ordeal, from which no one could 
 save her, from which it would have been dangerous to 
 attempt to save her, passed by for the time being. 
 
 It was a very happy evening ; not exactly a family 
 evening the public life the Dunsmores led precluded 
 that but with a great deal of familiness about it; 
 more than Hannah had ever imagined could be, in the 
 
 Q 
 
226 HANNAH. 
 
 days when she sat aloof in her attic parlour at Duns- 
 more Park, and spent her lonely evenings, empty of 
 love, and feeling that love would never revisit her 
 more. Now, when she saw Lord Dunsmore speak 
 caressingly to his wife, and watched one young couple 
 slip away into the inner parlour Lady Dunsmore had 
 a proverbial gift for helping young people to fall in 
 love at her house ; not make a marriage, but really 
 fall in love Hannah remembered, with a strange 
 leap of the heart, that her love-days, too, were to come 
 not petst. 
 
 Yes, she had been loved she was loved even 
 like these. She had felt once just once Bernard's 
 arms close around her, and his kiss upon her mouth : 
 and when, solemnly and tenderly rather than passion- 
 ately, she thought of this in the very house and 
 among the very people where she had once been so 
 lonely, yet not unblest or discontented in her loneli- 
 ness it seemed as if she could never be lonely any 
 more. 
 
 When she quitted the drawing-room coming out 
 of the glitter and the show, yet not unreal or painful 
 show, for there was heart- warmth beneath it all and 
 went back into her own room, Hannah was happy too. 
 
 For there, from a crib in the corner, came the soft 
 breathing of * auntie's darling/ who always slept be- 
 side her now. She had taken her during some slight 
 illness of Grace's, and could not again relinquish the 
 fond charge. It gave her such a sense of rest, and 
 peace, and content the mere consciousness of little 
 Rosie asleep beside her it seemed to drive away all 
 the evil angels that sometimes haunted her, the regrets 
 and despondencies over a lot that such a little more 
 would have made quite perfect ; and yet that little 
 could not be. Regrets all the sharper that they were 
 not altogether for herself. For she had Rosie; and 
 she was secretly, almost contritely, aware that Rosie 
 was almost enough to make her happy. No so with 
 
HANNAH. 227 
 
 Bernard. As she sat over her pleasant fire, she could 
 have blamed herself for that peace of heart in which 
 he could not share. 
 
 He had begged her to write to him regularly, and 
 she had agreed ; for she knew no reason why both 
 should not take every comfort that fate allowed them. 
 Yet when she sat down she knew not what to say. 
 How was she to write to him as her brother, her 
 friend, her betrothed? He was all three, and yet 
 neither ; and he might never be anything else. 
 
 She dropped her pen, and fell into deep thought. 
 Putting herself entirely aside, was it right to allow 
 Bernard, a young man in the prime of his days, to 
 bind himself by an uncertain bond, which debarred 
 him from the natural joys of life, and exposed him to 
 the continual torment of hope deferred, which to a 
 woman would be hard enough, but to a man was all 
 but unendurable ? 
 
 Now that she was away from Easterham escaped 
 from the nightmare-like influence of the -life, half bliss, 
 half torture, which she had led there she tried to feel 
 in this new place like a new person, and to judge her 
 own position calmly, as if it had been that of some one 
 else. She thought over, deliberately, every word she 
 had heard from Lord Dunsmore and others that night, 
 and tried to count what reasonable chances there were 
 of the only thing which could ever make her Bernard's 
 wife the passing of the Bill they had talked about. 
 The result was that, instead of the letter she had meant 
 ^o write, she sat down and wrote another. Such a one 
 as many a woman has written, too, with bleeding 
 heart and streaming eyes, though the words may have 
 been calm and cold. She implored him for his own 
 sake to consider whether he could not conquer his 
 ill-fated love for herself, and find,, among the many 
 charming girls he was always meeting, some one whom 
 he could love and marry. In short, she bade him 
 forget ner and be happy. 
 
228 HANNAH. 
 
 'I only want you to be happy,' she wrote. 'I 
 shall never blame you never tell any human being 
 you once cared for me. And you will think of me 
 tenderly still as you do of my sister Rosa. And you 
 will leave me Rosa's child ? ' 
 
 Then she planned, in her clear, commonsense way, 
 how this was to be managed ; how he was to pay her 
 a yearly sum she would refuse nothing for the 
 maintenance of her niece whom she would herself 
 educate, perhaps abroad, which would make an osten- 
 sible reason for the separation. 
 
 * She will comfort me for all I lose, more than you 
 think. She will be a bit of her mother and of you, 
 always beside me ; and your letting me take care of 
 her will be almost equivalent to your taking care of 
 me, as you wanted to do, but my hard fate would 
 not allow it.' 
 
 And then all she was resigning rushed back upon 
 Hannah's mind; the sweetness of being loved, the 
 tenfold sweetness of loving. 
 
 ' Oh, my Bernard, my Bernard ! ' she sobbed, and 
 thought if she could once again, for only one minute, 
 have her arms round his neck, and her head on his 
 shoulder, the giving him up would be less hard. And 
 she wondered how she could have been so thought- 
 lessly happy an hour ago, when things were in exactly 
 the same position as now, only she saw them in a 
 different light. Hers was one of those bitter destinies, 
 in which the aspect of circumstances, often even of 
 duties, changed every hour. 
 
 Still, re-reading her letter, she felt it must go, just 
 as it was. It was right he should know her exact 
 mind, and be set free to act as was best for himself. 
 She finished and sealed it ; but she wept over it very 
 much, so much that her child heard her. 
 
 A little white ghost with rosy cheeks peeped over 
 the crib-side, and stared, half-frightened, round the 
 unfamiliar room. 
 
HANNAH. 229 
 
 ' Rosie wake up ! Tannie tying ! ' Then Rosie ty 
 too.' Then came a little wail ' Tannie take her, in 
 Tannie own arras ! ' 
 
 No resisting that. All love-anguish, love-yearning, 
 fled far away, and Hannah half forgot Bernard in her 
 innocent passion for Bernard's child. 
 
 The letter went, but it brought no answer back. 
 At first Hannah scarcely expected one. He would 
 naturally take time to consider his decision, and she 
 had put it to him as an absolute decision, proposing 
 that, after this event, neither she nor Rosie should go 
 back to Easterham. If he was to be free, the sooner Ke 
 was free the better. Suspense was sore, as she knew. 
 
 A letter of his had crossed hers, written at the 
 very hour she wrote, but in oh ! such a ^ifferent tone, 
 a real love-letter, out of the deepest heart of an 
 impulsive man, to whom nothing seems impossible. 
 How hard, how cruel must hers have seemed ! Still, 
 she was glad she had written it. More and more, the 
 misery of a woman who feels that her love is not a 
 blessing, but a misfortune, to her lover forced itself 
 upon Hannah's mind. Through all the present plea- 
 santness of her life, her long idle mornings with her 
 darling, her afternoons with Lady Dunsmore, shopping, 
 visiting, or enjoying that charming companionship 
 which was fast growing into the deliberate friendship 
 of middle age, often firmer than that of youth, 
 through all this came the remembrance of Bernard, 
 ^ot as a joy, as at first, but an actual pain. 
 
 For his silence continued : nay, seemed to be in- 
 tentionally maintained. He forwarded her letters in 
 blank envelopes, without a single word. Was he 
 offended ? Had she, in her very love, struck him so 
 hard that he could not forgive the blow? 
 
 ' I hope your brother-in-law is well/ Lady Duns- 
 more would say, courteously looking away while Han- 
 nah opened the daily letter, at first with a trembling 
 anxiety, afterwards with a stolid patience that expected 
 
230 HANNAH. 
 
 nothing. '"We shall be delighted to see him here. 
 And, tell him, he ought to come soon, or his little 
 girl will forget him. Three weeks is a long trial of 
 memory at her age/ 
 
 ' Oh, Rosie will not forget papa. And he is busy 
 very busy in his parish/ For Hannah could not 
 bear he should be thought to neglect his child. 
 
 Yet how explain that she could not deliver the 
 message, could not write to him, or ask him to come ? 
 His possible coming was the greatest dread she had. 
 Apart from him she could be stern and prudent ; but 
 she knew if he stood before her, with his winning 
 looks and ways his sisters sometimes declared that 
 from babyhood nobody ever could say no to Bernard 
 all her wisdom would melt away. 
 
 By-and-by, the fear, or the hope it seemed a 
 strange mixture of both came true. One day, re- 
 turning from a drive, leaving Lady Dunsmore behind 
 somewhere, she was told there was a gentleman waiting 
 for her. 
 
 ' Papa ! papa ! Dat papa's stick ! ' shrieked Rosie 
 in an ecstasy, as her sharp young eyes caught sight 
 of it in the hall. 
 
 Hannah's heart stood still ; but she must go on, 
 the child dragged her. And Rosie, springing into 
 papa's arms, was a shield to her aunt greater than 
 she knew. 
 
 Mr. Rivers kissed his little girl fondly. Then, 
 wasting no time in sentiment, the butterfly creature 
 struggled down from him, and offered him a di- 
 lapidated toy. 
 
 'Rosie's horse broken papa mend it/ 
 
 ' Papa wishes he could mend it, with a few other 
 broken things!' said Mr. Rivers bitterly, till, seeing 
 Rosie's pitiful face, he added, ' Never mind, my little 
 woman; papa will try. Go with Grace now, and I 
 will come and see Rosie presently/ 
 
 And so he shut the door upon nurse and child, in 
 
HANNAH. 231 
 
 a way that made Hannah see clearly he was determined 
 to speak with her alone. But his first words were 
 haughty and cold. 
 
 4 1 suppose it is scarcely necessary for me to 
 apologise for coming to see my daughter? I had 
 likewise another errand in London Adeline is here 
 consulting a doctor. She has been worse of late/ 
 
 ' I am very sorry/ 
 
 Then he burst out : ' You seem to be sorry for 
 everybody in the world except me ! How could you 
 write me that letter? As if my fate were not hard 
 enough before, but you must go and make it harder.' 
 
 * I wished to lighten it.' 
 
 * How ? By telling me to go and marry some one 
 else? What sort of creature do you think a man 
 must be more, what sort of creature is he likely to 
 grow to who loves one woman and marries another? 
 For I love you. You may not be young, or beautiful, 
 or clever. I sometimes wonder what there is about 
 you that makes me love you. I fight against my 
 love with every argument in my power. But there 
 it is, and it will not be beaten down. I will marry 
 you, Hannah, if I can. If not, I will have as much 
 of you your help, your companionship as ever I 
 can. When are you coming home?' 
 
 'Home?' 
 
 ' I say it is home : it must be. Where else should 
 jrou go to? I cannot be parted from my daughter. 
 Hftosie cannot be parted from you. For Rosie's sake, 
 my house must be your home/ 
 
 'What shall I do ?' said Hannah, wringing her 
 hands. 'What shall I do?' 
 
 She thought she had made her meaning plain 
 enough : but here was the work all to do over again. 
 If she had ever doubted Bernard's loving her, she had 
 no doubt of it now. It was one of those mysterious 
 attractions, quite independent of external charms, and 
 deepened by every influence that daily intimacy can 
 
232 HANNAH. 
 
 exercise. She fully believed him when he said, as he 
 kept saying over and over again, that if he did not 
 marry her he would never marry any other woman. 
 And was she to bid him go away, and never see her 
 more ? This when their love was no unholy love, 
 when it trenched upon no natural rights, when no 
 living soul could be harmed by it, and many benefited, 
 as well as they themselves ? 
 
 Hannah could not do it. All her resolutions melted 
 into air, and alas he saw that it was so. Anyhow, 
 he saw his power, and used it. With a hungry heart 
 he clasped and kissed her. 
 
 'Now we are friends again. I have been hating 
 you for days, but I'll forgive you now. You will not 
 write me any more such letters ? We will try not to 
 quarrel again/ 
 
 ' Quarrel ! oh, Bernard ! ' and then she made him 
 let her go, insisting that they must be friends, and 
 only friends, just now. 
 
 ' Perhaps you are right. I beg your pardon. Only 
 let me hold your hand.' 
 
 And so they sat together, silent, for ever so long, 
 till both had recovered from their agitation. Hannah 
 made him tell her about Adeline, who was fast de- 
 clining, nobody quite saw why ; but they thought some 
 London doctor might find it out. And Adeline herself 
 was eager to come. 
 
 ' Chiefly, I think, because you are here. She wants 
 you, she says. She will not have any of her o^n 
 sisters to nurse her ; to Bertha especially she has taken 
 a violent dislike, only we don't mind the fancies of an 
 invalid. I brought Adeline up to town myself. Her 
 husband had some business to attend to ; but he comes 
 up with Bertha to-morrow.' 
 
 ' He should have come with his wife to-day/ and 
 then Hannah stopped herself. Of what use was it to 
 open the family eyes to an impossible and therefore 
 imaginary wrong ? What good would it do ? Pro- 
 
HANNAH. 233 
 
 bably much harm. Yet her heart ached for unfortu- 
 nate Adeline. 
 
 She suggested going at once to see her, for Bernard 
 had left her close at hand, in one of those dreary 
 lodgings which seem chiefly occupied by invalids, the 
 most of London fashionable physicians living in streets 
 hard by. Their patients come to be near them, settling 
 down for a few weeks in these sad rooms to recover or 
 to die, as fate might choose. 
 
 * Yes, do let me go/ repeated Hannah. ' Shall I 
 fetch Rosie to play with papa while I leave a message 
 for Lady Dunsmore ? ' 
 
 When she came back with the child in her arms 
 Bernard told her she looked quite her old self again. 
 So did he. And she was glad to throw the shield of 
 their former peaceful, simple life over the strong pas- 
 sion that she perceived in him, and felt more and more 
 in herself the smothered, silent tragedy which might 
 embitter all their coming days. 
 
 And yet when she found herself walking with him 
 in the safe loneliness of Regent Street crowds, Hannah 
 was not unhappy. Her long want of him had made 
 him terribly dear. He, too, appeared to snatch at the 
 present moment with a wild avidity. 
 
 'Only to be together together,' said he, as he 
 drew her arm through his and kept it there. And the 
 love thus cruelly suppressed seemed to both a thing 
 xQompared with which all young people's love young 
 people who can woo and marry like the rest of the 
 world was pale and colourless. Theirs resistance 
 had but strengthened, because it was only a struggle 
 against circumstance : unmingled with any conscience- 
 stings, like that of those who fight against some sinful 
 passion. But their passion, though legally forbidden, 
 was morally pure and free from blame. 
 
 So they walked on together ; content, accepting 
 the joy of the hour, making gay remarks, and peeping 
 into shop-windows, in a childish sort of way, till they 
 
234 HANNAH. 
 
 reached the gloomy house where Bernard's sister lay. 
 Then they forgot themselves, and thought only of her. 
 
 Adeline was greatly changed. Never very pretty, 
 now she was actually plain. There was a sickly ghast- 
 liness about her ; a nervous, fretful look, which might 
 be either mental or physical, probably was a combina- 
 tion of both. Not a pleasant wife for a man to come 
 home to ; and young Mr. Melville, who was a mere 
 ordinary country squire, without any tastes beyond 
 hunting, shooting, and fishing, was a little to be pitied 
 too. Still men must take their wives, as women their 
 husbands, for better for worse. 
 
 'I am very ill, you see, Miss Thelluson,' said 
 the invalid, stretching out 3, weary hand. 'It was 
 very kind of Bernard to take all this trouble to bring 
 me up to a London doctor, but I don't think it will do 
 any good.' 
 
 Hannah uttered some meaningless hope, but faintly, 
 for she saw death in the girl's face. She was only a 
 girl still, and yet in some ways it was the face of an 
 old woman. The smothered pangs of half a lifetime 
 seemed written there. 
 
 ' I bring good news/ said Bernard, cheerfully. ' I 
 found a letter in the hall saying that Herbert will 
 be here to-morrow, possibly even to-night.' 
 
 Adeline looked up eagerly. 
 
 ' To-night ! And anybody with him ?' 
 
 ' Bertha, I believe. Her mother insisted she should 
 come.' 
 
 A miserable fire flashed in the poor sunken eyes. 
 
 ' She shall not come ! I will not have her ! I want 
 no sisters ; my maid is nurse enough. Besides, it is all 
 a sham, a wretched sham. Bertha has no notion of 
 nursing anybody ! ' 
 
 ' I think you are mistaken, dear,' said Bernard, 
 soothingly. ' Hannah, what do you say ? Ought not 
 her sister to be with her?' 
 
 Hannah dropped her eyes ; and yet she felt the 
 
HANXAII. 235 
 
 miserable girl was watching her with an eagerness 
 actually painful, as if trying to find out how much 
 she guessed of her dreary secret ; which, weak and 
 silly as she was in most things, poor Adeline had 
 evidently kept with a bravery worthy of a better 
 cause. 
 
 ' I see no use in Bertha's coming/ said she again, 
 with a great effort at self-control. * I know her better 
 than Hannah does. She is no companion to an invalid ; 
 she hates sickness. She will be always with Herbert, 
 not with me. I heard them planning Rotten Row 
 in the morning, and theatres every night. They are 
 strong, and healthy, and lively, while I ' 
 
 The poor young wife burst into tears. 
 
 * I will stay beside her/ whispered Hannah to 
 Bernard. ' Go you away.' 
 
 After he was gone Adeline burst out hysterically : 
 * Keep her away from me ! the sight of her will drive 
 me wild. Keep them all away from me, or I shall 
 betray myself, I know I shall. And then they will 
 all laugh at me, and say it is ridiculous nonsense ; as 
 perhaps it is. You see* clutching Hannah's hand 
 ' she is by law his sister too. He couldn't marry her, 
 not if I were dead twenty times over. Sometimes I 
 wish he could, and then they dared not go on as they 
 do. I could turn her out of the house, like any other 
 \strange woman who was stealing my husband's heart 
 from me/ 
 
 Hannah made no answer ; tried to seem as if she 
 did not hear. Incurable griefs are sometimes best let 
 alone ; but this of Adeline's, having once burst its 
 bonds, would not be let alone. 
 
 * Tell me/ she said, grasping Hannah's hand 'you 
 are a good woman you will tell me true is it all 
 nonsense my feeling this as I do? How would you 
 feel if you were in my place ? And if you were Bertha 
 would you do as she does ? "Would you try to make 
 your sister's husband fond of you, as he ought not to 
 
236 HANNAH. 
 
 be of any woman except his wife, and then say, " Oh, 
 it's all right, we're brother and sister?" But is it 
 right? Hannah Thelluson, is it right? Suppose your 
 sister had been living how would it have been between 
 you and Bernard?' 
 
 A startling way of putting the question, far more 
 so than the questioner dreamed of. For a moment 
 Hannah winced, and then her strong, clear, common 
 sense, as well as her sense of justice, came to the rescue 
 and righted her at once. 
 
 ' You might as well ask how would it have been 
 between me and any other woman's husband in whose 
 house I happened to stay. Of course he would have 
 been nothing to me nothing whatever. I am not 
 married/ she added, smiling, 'and I cannot quite judge 
 of married people's feelings. But I think if I ever 
 loved a man well enough to be his wife, I should not 
 be a jealous wife at all. Sister or friend might come 
 about the house as much as he chose. I could trust 
 him, for I could trust myself. I would be so much 
 to him that he would never care for anybody but me. 
 That is, while living. When I was dead ' there 
 Hannah paused, and tried solemnly to put herself in 
 the place of a dead wife of Bernard's dead wife view- 
 ing him tenderly from the celestial sphere * if the 
 same love for my sister or my friend, which would be 
 his degradation in my lifetime, could be his blessing 
 afterwards, let him take it, and be blessed ! ' 
 
 Adeline looked astounded. But the hidden sore 
 had been opened, the cleansing, healing touch had 
 been applied. There was a reasonableness in her 
 expression, as she replied 
 
 1 That is altogether a new notion of love. You 
 might not feel so if you were married, or if you were 
 really fond of anybody. Now I was very fond of 
 Herbert, even when I knew he liked Bertha. But 
 when he came to like me, and married me seeing 
 that it made him safe never to marry my sister I 
 
HANNAH. 237 
 
 thought I could not possibly be jealous again. No 
 more I am, in one sense. They will never do any- 
 thing wrong. But there's a great deal short of doing 
 wrong that breaks a wife's heart ; and they have 
 broken mine they have broken mine ! ' 
 
 Again rose up the feeble wail of the weak, affec- 
 tionate soul, who yet had not the power to win or 
 command affection. From sheer pity, Hannah forbore 
 to blame. 
 
 * Why not speak to them plainly ?' suggested she 
 at last. ' Why not tell them they are making you 
 unhappy ?' 
 
 ' And be laughed at for my pains, as a sickly, 
 jealous-minded fool ! Because he can't ever marry her 
 the law forbids that, you know. After I am dead 
 he must choose somebody else, and she too, and nobody 
 will blame them for anything ; and yet they have 
 killed me.' 
 
 'Hush hush !' said Hannah ; 'that is not true 
 not right. You yourself allowed they meant no harm, 
 and will never do anything wrong/ 
 
 'What is wrong?' cried poor Adeline, piteously. 
 ' I want my husband his company, his care, his love ; 
 and I don't get him. He turns to somebody else. 
 And I hate that somebody even if she is my own 
 sister. And I wish I could drive her out of the house 
 that I do ! or shame her openly, as if she were any 
 Grange girl who dared come flirting with my husband. 
 They're wicked women all of them, and they break the 
 hearts of us poor wives.' 
 
 There was a certain bitter truth under Adeline's 
 frenzied fancies ; but Hannah had no time to reply to 
 either. For, while they were talking, there was a 
 bustle outside. Gray, blooming, excited with her jour- 
 ney, Bertha Rivers burst in, Mr. Melville following her. 
 
 'So I am come, Addy dear, though you didn't 
 want me. But you'll be glad of me, I know. Why, 
 you're looking quite rosy again; isn't she, Herbert?' 
 
238 HANNAH. 
 
 Rosy she was ; for her cheeks burnt like coals. 
 But the husband, as he carelessly kissed her, never 
 found it out : and Bertha, in her redundant health 
 and exuberant spirits, never noticed the dead silence 
 of her sister's welcome the sullen way in which she 
 turned her face to the wall, and left them to their 
 chatter and their mirth. 
 
 It was the same all the evening ; for Hannah, at 
 Adeline's earnest request, had stayed. Mrs. Melville 
 scarcely spoke a word. Their plans were discussed, 
 sometimes including her, sometimes not ; but all were 
 talked of freely before her. It never seemed to occur 
 to any one not even to Bernard that Adeline was 
 dying. And with that wonderful self-command, which 
 perhaps only the conscious approach of death could 
 have given to so weak a nature, Adeline never be- 
 trayed, by look or word, the secret jealousy that at any 
 rate had helped to sap her frail life away. 
 
 * Come and see me every day/ she whispered when 
 Miss Thelluson wished her good-bye. ' I'll try and 
 remember what you said ; but please forget everything 
 I said. Let nobody guess at it. I shall not trouble 
 any of them very long.' 
 
 Hannah walked home, strangely silent and sad, 
 even though she was beside Bernard ; and feeling, as 
 one often is forced to feel, that other people's miseries 
 would perhaps be worse to bear than one's own. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LADY DUKSMORE was a shrewd and far-seeing woman. 
 She responded with the utmost civility to all Miss 
 Bertha Rivers's advances, and planned no end of 
 gaieties for her and Hannah, from which the Rivers 
 family might plainly see and she meant them to see 
 
HANNAH. 29 
 
 that she desired her friend Miss Thelluson's visit to 
 be made as pleasant as possible. 
 
 But fate and Hannah's own will stood in the way. 
 Adeline declined more rapidly than any one expected ; 
 and it soon became evident that she was never likely 
 to quit those dull lodgings in Harley Street, except 
 to be taken back to Easterham in the one peaceful 
 way ; as, however far off they died, it had always 
 been the custom to carry home all the Riverses. Even 
 Adeline herself seemed to understand this. 
 
 *I don't want to stir from here it is too much 
 trouble,' she said one day to Hannah, now daily beside 
 her. ' But, afterwards, tell them they may take me 
 home. Not to the Grange that never was home 
 but to the Moat- House. Let them have me one night 
 in the drawing-room there, before they put me under 
 the daisies. And let Bernard read the service over me. 
 And you may tell him and them all, that I was not 
 sorry to die I did not mind it I felt so tired !' 
 
 Nevertheless 
 
 ' On some fond breast the parting soul relies.' 
 
 And that breast was for Adeline, not her husband's, 
 but Hannah's. Of any one else's nursing she testified 
 such impatience perhaps feeling instinctively that it 
 was given more out of duty than love that gradually 
 ^both Mr. Melville and Bertha let her have her own 
 way. Things ended in Miss Thelluson's spending most 
 of her time, not in the Dunsmores' lively mansion, but 
 in that dull drawing-room from whence, except to her 
 bed-room, Adeline was never moved. 
 
 ' Do stay with her as much as you can/ entreated 
 Bernard, who ran up for a day to London as often 
 as he could, but who still saw no more than brothers 
 usually see, the mere outside of his sister's life. He 
 knew she was doomed; but, then, the doctors had 
 said Adeline was consumptive, and not likely to live 
 to be old. ' And she has had a happy life, married 
 
240 HANK AH. 
 
 to the good fellow whom she was always fond of. 
 Poor Adeline ! And she has grown so much attached 
 to you, Hannah. She says you are such a comfort 
 to her.' 
 
 'I think I have rather a faculty for comforting 
 sick people : perhaps because doing so comforts me/ 
 
 But Hannah did not say where was the use of 
 saying ? that this comfort was to her not unneeded. 
 The uncertainty of her present position; the daily 
 self-suppression it entailed ; nay, the daily hypocrisy, 
 or what to her honest nature felt like such, were 
 so painful that sometimes, when Bernard appeared, 
 she did not know whether she was glad or sorry to 
 see him. But everybody else even the Dunsmores 
 seemed heartily glad. And no one appeared to 
 have the slightest suspicion of any bond between 
 Rosie's aunt and Rosie's father except little Rosie. 
 Sometimes this was tc her a relief sometimes an 
 inexpressible pain. 
 
 ' Good-bye, and God bless you for all your good- 
 ness to my sister/ said Bernard one Saturday as he 
 was going back to Easterham. * They will all bless 
 you one of these days/ added he tenderly, all he 
 could say, for he and she were not alone. They seldom 
 were alone now. Opportunities were so difficult to 
 make, and, when made, the fear of being broken in 
 upon in their tete-a-tetes caused them to feel awkward 
 and uncomfortable at least, Hannah did. 
 
 ' Good-bye/ she responded, with a sad, inward 
 smile at the phrase, 'one of these days/ Did it 
 mean when they should be married ? But that day 
 might never come, or come when they were quite 
 elderly people, and hope deferred had drained their 
 hearts dry of all but the merest dregs of love. And 
 the picture of the woman who might have been Ber- 
 nard's wife, happy and honoured, accepted by his 
 family, welcomed by his neighbours, reigning joyfully 
 at the House on the Hill, and finally succeeding to 
 
IIAXXAH. 24 L 
 
 the Moat-House, to be there all that a Lady Rivers 
 should be presented itself bitterly to Hannah's 
 imagination. She had taken from him the chance of 
 all this, and more, and given him in return what ? 
 A poor, weary heart, which, though it was bursting 
 with love, could not utter more than that cold ' good- 
 bye.' 
 
 But when she had said it and returned to Adeline's 
 bed-sid^ Hannah forgot the troubles of life in the 
 solemnity of fast-advancing death. 
 . 'It is hard Bernard is obliged to go/ the sick girl 
 said pitifully. * He likes to sit with me a little. I 
 can see that. They do not ; and therefore I don't want 
 to Lave them. Besides, I can't have one of them 
 without having both ; and I won't have both. Nobody 
 could expect it.' 
 
 'No,' said Hannah, feeling sorrowfully that it was 
 uselesc to argue against what had grown almost into 
 a monomania, though the poor sick girl had still self- 
 control enough not to betray herself, except in inci- 
 dental, half-intelligible words like these. Better leave 
 it thus, and let her sorrow die with her one of the 
 heart-wounds which nobody avenges ; one of the 
 thefts for which nobody is punished. 
 
 At length, just in the middle of the London season, 
 when, one summer morning, Mayfair lay in the pass- 
 ing lull between the closing of opera and theatres, and 
 the breaking up of late balls, a cab thundered up to 
 the Earl of Dunsmore's door. It was Mr. Melville 
 coming to fetch Miss Thelluson to his wife. She was 
 dying. 
 
 And then Hannah found out that the young man 
 had some feeling. Full of strength and health him- 
 self, he had never really believed in Adeline's illness, 
 still less her approaching death, till now ; and it 
 came upon him with a shock indescribable. Over- 
 whelmed with grief, and something not unlike remorse, 
 during the twelve hours she still lingered he never 
 
242 HANNAH. 
 
 quitted her side. Careless as he had been to his living 
 wife, to a wife really dying he was the tenderest 
 husband in the world. So much so that she once 
 turned to Hannah with a piteous face, 
 
 ' Oh, if this could only last ! Couldn't you make 
 me well again ? ' 
 
 But she could not be made well again; and it 
 might not have lasted this late happiness which gave 
 her peace in dying. Poor Adeline ! it was better to 
 die. And when Hannah watched the big fellow, now 
 utterly subdued by the emotion of the hour, insist 
 upon feeding his wife with every mouthful of her last 
 food, as tenderly as if she were a baby, sit supporting 
 her on the bed, motionless for hours, till his limbs 
 were all cramped and stiff sadder than ever seemed 
 the blind folly, perhaps begun in a mistake on both 
 sides, which had ended in letting a poor heart first 
 starve for love, and then grow poisoned with a name- 
 less jealousy, until between the hunger and the poLon 
 it died. 
 
 For Adeline did die : but her death was peaceful, 
 and it was in her husband's arms. 
 
 'He is fond of me, after all, you see/ she vhis- 
 pered to Hannah in one of Herbert's momentary 
 absences. ' It was very foolish of me to be so jealous 
 of Bertha. Perhaps I should not, had it been a thing 
 I could have spoken about. And don't speak of it 
 now, please. Only if he ever wants to do as his father 
 did, and the law will allow it, tell him he may as well 
 marry Bertha as anybody; I shall not mind.' 
 
 But to Bertha herself, although she kissed her iu 
 token of amity and farewell, Adeline said not a word- 
 The secret wound, vainly plaistered over, seemed to 
 bleed even though she was dying. 
 
 Her end had come so suddenly at last, that no one 
 from Easterham had been sent for, and when Bernard 
 arrived next morning at his accustomed hour, it was to 
 find a shut-up house and his sister ' away.' Then, in 
 
HANNAH. 243 
 
 the shock of his first grief, Hannah found out, as she 
 had never done before, how close, even with all their 
 faults, was the tie which bound him to his own people. 
 It touched her deeply it made her love him better, 
 and honour him more ; and yet it frightened her. For 
 there might come a time when he had to choose, de- 
 liberately and decisively, between the love of kindred 
 and the love of her ; and she foresaw, now more 
 clearly than ever, how hard the struggle would be. 
 
 In the absorption of her close attendance upon 
 Adeline, she had heard little of what was going on in 
 the outside world. Even 'the Bill' the constant sub- 
 ject of discussion at Dunsmore House had faded out 
 of her mind ; till such phrases as ' read the first time,' 
 'read the second time/ 'very satisfactory majority/ 
 and so on, met her ear. Once they would have been 
 mere meaningless forms of speech, now she listened 
 intently, and tried hard to understand. She did un- 
 derstand so far as to learn that there was every pro- 
 bability this session of the Bill's passing the Commons, 
 and being carried up to the House of Lords, where, 
 upon a certain night, a certain number of noblemen, 
 some biassed one way or other by party motives, and a 
 proportion voting quite carelessly, without any strong 
 feeling at all in the matter, would decide her happiness 
 and Bernard's for life. 
 
 It was a crisis so hard, a suspense so terrible, that 
 perhaps it was as well this grief came to dull it a 
 little. Not entirely. Even amidst his sorrow for his 
 sister, Hannah could detect a nervous restlessness in 
 Mr. Rivers's every movement. Every day, too, he 
 sought eagerly for the newspaper, and often his hands 
 actually trembled as he took it up and turned at once 
 to the parliamentary notices. But he never said one 
 word to Hannah, nor she to him ; indeed, this time, 
 they were never alone at all. 
 
 Adeline was to be buried at home, and Mr. Mel- 
 ville begged that Hannah would accompany Bertha, 
 
244 HANNAH. 
 
 and take her place, with his wife's sisters and his own, 
 at the funeral. Lady Rivers, in a note, asked the 
 same ; adding a cordial invitation that she should stay 
 at the Moat-House. Hannah looked at Bernard. 
 
 * Yes, go/ he said : ' I wish it. They are very 
 grateful to you for your goodness to her. And I want 
 you/ he continued in a low tone, ' to try to be one of 
 us which you may be before very long.' 
 
 This was all ; but Hannah felt forced to obey, even 
 Chough it cost her the first parting from her child. 
 Only a three days' parting, however ; and Bernard 
 seemed so glad that she should go. 
 
 She, too, as she sat with the other three mourners 
 one in each corner of the silent railway carriage and 
 watched the soft rain falling on the fields and reddening 
 hedges, under which, here and there, appeared a dot of 
 yellow an early primrose she was conscious in her 
 heart of a throb of hope responding to the pulses of the 
 spring ; and, once suddenly looking up at Bernard, she 
 fancied he felt it too. It was nature, human nature, 
 and human passion, suppressed but never crushed, 
 waking out of its long sleep, and crying unto God to 
 bless it with a little happiness even as He blesses the 
 reviving earth with the beauty of the spring. 
 
 Miss Thelluson's welcome at the Moat - House, 
 mournful as it was, was kind ; for they had all been 
 touched by her kindness to the dead, and sorrow strikes 
 the tenderest chord in every heart. She had never 
 liked Bernard's people so well, or been drawn to them 
 so much, as during that quiet evening when poor Ade- 
 line's coffin rested a night under the Moat-House roof; 
 or the day after, when with all the family she followed 
 it to its last resting-place. 
 
 It was a curious sensation. To stand as one of 
 them these Riverses whom she loved not, at best 
 merely liked well aware how little they had ever 
 liked her, and how ignorant they were of the tie which 
 bound her to them. Guiltless as she knew herself to 
 
HANNAH. 245 
 
 be, she was not without a painful feeling of deception, 
 that jarred terribly upon her proud and candid spirit. 
 She scarcely said a w^rd to Bernard, until he whis- 
 pered, 'Do speak to me now and then, or they will 
 think it so strange/ But even then her words were 
 formal and few. 
 
 She had meant to leave on the third day, for she 
 yearned to be back with her darling; but fate came 
 between. Sir Austin, long an invalid, and almost a 
 nonentity in the family, passed, the night after his 
 daughter's funeral, suddenly and unawares, into the 
 silent dignity of death. When Hannah came down 
 next morning, it was to find the Moat-House plunged 
 once more into that decent, decorous affliction which 
 was all that could be expected of them under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 They begged her to stay a little longer, and she 
 stayed. There was a good deal to be done, and the 
 ladies soon found out how well Miss Thelluson could do 
 it. Also not being a relative, she could see the visitors, 
 and retail to the family the wide-spread sympathy ex- 
 pressed for it at Easterham, and for many miles round. 
 ' You are such a comfort to us/ they said ; and Ber- 
 nard, whom his father's death seemed to affect more 
 deeply than Hannah had expected, said, in his entreat- 
 ing eyes, ' You are such a comfort to me/ So, what 
 could she do but stay ? 
 
 A few days more, and the Rivers' vault was again 
 opened ; and Miss Thelluson stood beside it, with all 
 the Rivers family, except the new Sir Austin, of whom 
 nobody spoke, except the Easterham lawyer, who la- 
 mented confidentially to Hannah that Mr. Rivers should 
 be kept out of his title, though it could not be for 
 more than a few years. The hapless elder brother, 
 whose mind grew weaker and weaker every day, 
 though his body was strong enough, might at any time 
 have some fit that would carry him off", and prevent his 
 being an encumbrance longer. 
 
246 HANNAH. 
 
 ' And then/ whispered the lawyer, ' Mr. Rivers will 
 be Sir Bernard ; and what a fine position he will hold ! 
 one of the finest in the county. What a pity he has 
 no heir only an heiress ! But of course he will now 
 marry immediately. Indeed he owes it to his family.' 
 
 Hannah listened, as she was now learning to listen 
 teaching her poor, mobile, conscious face the hard- 
 ness of marble. Her heart, too, if possible ; for these 
 torments, so far from lessening, would increase day by 
 day. How should she ever bear them? She some- 
 times did not know. 
 
 The family had just come out of the study, where 
 the will had been read, and were settling down to that 
 strange quiet evening known in most households, when 
 the dead having been taken away and buried out of 
 sight, the living, with an awful sense of relief as well 
 as of loss, try to return to their old ways eat, drink, 
 and talk as usual. But it was in vain ; and after a 
 silent dinner, Bernard went back to the examination 
 of papers in the study. Thence he presently sent a 
 message for help. 
 
 ' I suppose that means Miss Thelluson,' said Bertha, 
 with a half laugh, which Lady Rivers gravely ex- 
 tinguished. 
 
 * Go, my dear. I daresay your brother-in-law finds 
 you more useful to him than any one else.' So Hannah 
 went. 
 
 Bernard was sitting his head in his hands. It 
 was a white, woe-begone face that he lifted up to 
 Hannah. 
 
 ' Thank you for coming. I thought perhaps you 
 might. I wanted comfort.' 
 
 Hannah said a few commonplace but gentle words. 
 
 ' Oh no, it is not that. I am not sorry my poor old 
 father is away. It was his time to go. And for me 
 there will be one less to fight against, one less to 
 wound.' 
 
 He said the latter words half inaudibly evidently 
 
HANNAH. 247 
 
 not meaning her to hear, but she did, at least some 
 of them. A wild, bitter answer came to her lips, but 
 this was not the time to utter it. She merely replied 
 by an offer to help, and sat down to fulfil it. He 
 showed her what to do, and they went on working 
 silently together for nearly half-an-hour. 
 
 But the extremes of human emotion are not so far 
 apart as they seem. Keen and real as the young man's 
 grief was, he was a young man still, and when the 
 woman he loved sat beside him, with her sweet grave 
 look, and her calm, still manner, another passion than 
 grief began to stir within him. 
 
 ' Hannah/ he cried, seizing her hand, ' are you 
 happy, or miserable as I am ? or, which seems most 
 likely, have you no feeling at all?' 
 
 JShe looked up. It was not a face of stone. 
 - Put your work away what does it matter ? Talk 
 to me, Hannah. Think how long it is since you and 
 I have had a quiet word together.' 
 'Can I help that?' 
 
 'No, nor I. We are both of us victims tied 
 and bound victims in the hands of Fate. Sometimes 
 I think she will get the better of us, and we shall 
 both perish miserably.' 
 
 ' That is a very melancholy view to take of things,' 
 said Hannah, half smiling. ' Let us hope it is not 
 quite true.' 
 
 ' My bright, brave-hearted woman ! If I had you 
 always beside me, I should not go down. It is being 
 alone that sinks a man to despair. Still, suspense is 
 very hard.' 
 
 And then he told her what she had not been before 
 aware of, that the Bill had safely passed the House 
 of Commons ; that Lord Dunsmore and other peers, a 
 rather strong party, hoped even in the House of Lords, 
 which had hitherto always thrown it out, to get this 
 year a sufficient majority to carry it through and make 
 it the law of the land. 
 
248 HANNAH. 
 
 ' And then, Hannah, we can be married married 
 immediately/ 
 
 He gasped rather than uttered the words. Passion 
 resisted had conquered him with double force. 
 
 * But your own people ?' 
 
 ' They like you now -appreciate you, even as Lady 
 Dunsmore does/ (He did not see, and Hannah had 
 not the heart to suggest, that perhaps it was in con- 
 sequence of that appreciation.) ' Besides, whether or 
 not, they must consent. They cannot go against me. 
 My father has left everything in my hands. I am, 
 to all intents and purposes, the head of the family. 
 It is that which makes me so anxious. Should the 
 Bill not pass But it will pass ! ' he cried, im- 
 petuously, ' and then no power on earth shall prevent 
 me from marrying the woman I choose and that is 
 you !' 
 
 * Strange, strange ! ' murmured Hannah, half to her- 
 self, and dropped her conscious face, and felt more like 
 a girl than she had done for many years. For she had 
 no duties to think of ; her child was away, there was 
 only her lover beside her. Her lover, wooing her with 
 a reality of love, a persistent earnestness, that no woman 
 could either question or mistake. 
 
 * You are not quite colourless, I see, my white lily. 
 You will not always shrink back when I want to take 
 you to my heart ? You will creep in there some day, 
 and make it feel warm again, instead of cold, and empty, 
 and lonely, as it is now. Hannah, how soon, supposing 
 the Bill passes this month, how soon will you let me 
 marry you ? ' 
 
 They were standing together by the fire, and Bernard 
 had just put his arm round her. She turned towards 
 him, she could not help it ; it was so sweet to be thus 
 loved. Hand in hand, and eye to eye, they stood for 
 the moment, yielding to present joy and future hope, 
 absorbed in one another, thinking of nothing beyond 
 themselves, seeing and hearing: nothing, when the 
 
HANNAH. 249 
 
 door opened, and Lady Rivers stood right in front 
 of them. 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' she exclaimed, and started as if 
 she had trodden on a snake. 
 
 They started too these guilty - innocent lovers. 
 Instinctively they drew back from one another; and 
 then Bernard recovered himself. 
 
 Vexatious as the crisis was though he looked as 
 if he would have given anything rather than have 
 had it happen still, now that it had happened, he 
 was too much of a man not to meet it too much of a 
 gentleman not to know how to meet it decorously. He 
 moved back again to Hannah's side and took her hand. 
 
 'Well, Lady Rivers, had you anything to say 
 to me?' 
 
 ' "Well, Bernard Rivers, and what have you to say 
 for yourself? And what has this this young woman 
 to say for herself, I should like to know ?' 
 
 ' If you mean Miss Thelluson, her answer is as brief 
 as my own must be. She has promised to be my wife 
 as soon as our marriage can be lawfully carried out. 
 In the meantime we are friends, close friends ; and, 
 as you may have observed, we also consider ourselves 
 engaged lovers. Hannah, do not distress yourself; 
 there is no need.' 
 
 And, in the face of his step -mother, he put his 
 protecting arm round her she was trembling violently 
 and drew her head on his shoulder. 
 
 There are some people whom to master you must 
 take by storm. Hold your own, and they will let you 
 have it ; perhaps even respect you the more ; but 
 show the slightest symptom of weakness, and they will 
 trample you into the dust. Bernard knew perfectly 
 well with whom he had to deal, and took his measures 
 accordingly. 
 
 Lady Rivers utterly astounded, less perhaps by 
 the fact itself than by the cool way in which Bernard 
 had taken its discovery simply stood and stared. 
 
250 HANNAH. 
 
 ' I never knew anything so dreadful ; never in all 
 my life. Excuse my intrusion. The only thing I can 
 do is to leave you immediately.' 
 
 She turned and quitted the room, shutting the door 
 after her. Then, left alone with him, Hannah sohbed 
 out her bitter humiliation upon Bernard's breast. 
 
 He comforted her as well as he could, saying that 
 this must have happened some day ; perhaps it was 
 as well it should happen now ; and that he did not 
 much care. Still it was evident he did care ; that he 
 was considerably annoyed. 
 
 * Of course, it increases our perplexities much ; for 
 our secret is no longer our own. In her wrath and 
 indignation, she will blab it out to the whole com- 
 munity ; unless indeed family pride ties her tongue. 
 But, anyhow, we cannot help ourselves ; we must brave 
 it out. Come with me, Hannah.' 
 
 'Where?' 
 
 ' Into the next room, to face them all and tell the 
 exact truth. Otherwise we may be overburdened with 
 any quantity of lies. Come, my dear one. You are 
 not afraid?' 
 
 ' No.' She had had all along a vague doubt that 
 when it came to the point he would be ashamed of her 
 and of his love for her. To find that he was not, gave 
 Hannah such comfort that she felt as if she could 
 have walked barefoot over red-hot ploughshares, like 
 some slandered woman of the Middle Ages, if only 
 she might find at the end of her terrible march Ber- 
 nard's face looking at her as it looked now. 
 
 * Yes,' she said, ' I will come with you at once ; 
 for what is told must be told quickly, I cannot stay 
 another night in this house.' 
 
 'You must, I fear,' answered Bernard, gently 
 ' Where would you go to ? To mine ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, no, no, I can never go to your house any 
 more.' 
 
 And the cruel penalties of their position, the chains 
 
HANNAH. 251 
 
 which bound them on all sides began to be felt by 
 both, in a manner neither had ever felt before. To 
 Hannah it seemed as if she were actually treading 
 between those fiery ploughshares, and she could not 
 have steadied her steps, but for Bernard's supporting 
 hand. 
 
 She held to him, literally with the clinging grasp 
 of a child, as they passed across the hall to where, in 
 the fine old drawing-room, like a conclave of the 
 Inquisition, the whole family were assembled. 
 
 Lady Rivers had evidently been explaining what 
 she had just heard and seen. Astonishment was upon 
 every face, and but for one accidental circumstance, 
 the presence of Herbert Melville, there might have 
 been a stronger feeling yet. But indecorum being the 
 greatest cL*ead, and prudence the principal character- 
 istic, of the Riverses, they were obliged to restrain 
 their wrath within the natural limits of an offended 
 family wuich has just discovered that one of its mem- 
 bers has made a matrimonial engagement without 
 telling them anything about it. Even Lady Rivers, 
 with her widowed son-in-law standing by, was forced 
 more than once to pause and alter her form of speech, 
 diluting more on the wicked secresy with which Ber- 
 nard had planned his marriage than the sort of 
 marriage he was about to make. 
 
 When the two culprits walked in, looking agitated 
 enough, but still not exactly like culprits, she stopped 
 
 ' Let them speak for themselves, if they have the 
 face to do it/ cried she, dropping down in her chair 
 exhausted with vituperation. And then his sisters 
 rushed to Bernard some angry, some in tears ask- 
 ing him how he could ever think of doing such a 
 dreadful thing ; with his father not yet cold in his 
 grave their poor, poor father, who would have shud- 
 dered at the thought of such a marriage. 
 
 It was a hard strait for a man to be in. That he 
 felt it as acutely as so tender a heart could possibly 
 
252 HANNAH. 
 
 feel, was plain. He turned deadly pale ; but still lie 
 never let go of Hannah's hand. She for a moment 
 she thought of breaking from him and flying out of 
 the house anywhere to the world's end that she 
 might save him from her and her fatal love. Then 
 a wise resolution came the determination, since lie 
 had chosen her, to stand by him to the last. By her 
 child, too, for one implied both. Thinking of little 
 Kosie, she was strong again ; for no sense of guilt 
 enfeebled her ; all she was conscious of was misery 
 pure misery; and that was at least bearable. She 
 sat down in the chair where Bernard had placed her, 
 still holding him fast by the hand ; the only being 
 she had to hold to in the wide world now. 
 
 ' Sisters/ said he at last, speaking very quietly, 
 but as firmly as he could, ' what your mother has just 
 found out I intended to have kept back from you till 
 the law made my marriage possible. I knew how you 
 would feel about it as I felt myself once ; but people's 
 minds change.' 
 
 'So it appears/ said Lady Rivers, with a loud 
 sneer. ' Especially after living in the ?.me house 
 together for months and months/ 
 
 ' Especially after living in the same house together 
 as you say/ repeated Bernard, deliberately, though 
 his cheek flamed furiously. ' Living in a relation close 
 enough to give us every opportunity of finding out 
 one another's character, and of wishing the tie should 
 be made closer still. I did not love her at first ; not 
 for a long time ; but once loving her, I love her for 
 ever. What I do I beg you all to understand 
 is not done hastily, but deliberately. Long before I 
 ever said a word otherwise than brotherly to Miss 
 Thelluson, or she had any suspicion of what my feel- 
 ings were, my mind was made up. I shall marry 
 her if I can, believing that, both for my own sake 
 and my child's, it is the wisest second marriage I 
 could make and the most natural/ 
 
HANNAH. 253 
 
 ' Marry her ! after living together as brother and 
 sister or whatever you choose to call it/ cried Mrs. 
 Morecamb. * Thomas, dear, did you ever hear of 
 anything so shocking so improper?' 
 
 * The law did not hold it improper/ answered Ber- 
 nard, in extreme irritation. 'And as I tell you at 
 first we had no idea of such a thing. It came upon 
 us unawares. The law should not have placed us in 
 such a position. But it will be broken soon, I trust. 
 And until then you may all rest satisfied ; Miss Thellu- 
 son will never again enter my house until she enters 
 it as my wife. Then, sisters, whether you like her or 
 not, you must pay her the respect due to a brother's 
 wife, or els* 1 I am your brother no longer.' 
 
 He had taken a high tone it was wisest ; but now 
 he broke c'own a little. In that familiar home, with 
 the familiar faces round him two out of them just 
 missing, and for ever it was hard to go against them 
 all. And whtJ. the gentlemen having prudently 
 stepped out of the room the women began sobbing 
 and crying, lamenting over the terrible misfortune 
 which had fallen on the family, things went very sore 
 against Bernard. 
 
 ' And supposing the Bill you talk of does not pass, 
 and you cannot carry out this most unnatural, most 
 indecent marriage/ said Lady Rivers ; ' may I ask 
 what you mean to do ? To go abroad, and get married 
 there ? as I hear some people do ; though afterwards, 
 of course, they are never received in society again ? 
 Or, since ladies who can do such unlady-like things 
 must have very easy consciences, perhaps Miss Thel- 
 luson will excuse your omitting the ceremony alto- 
 gether.' 
 
 Bernard sprang up furious. ' If you had not been 
 my father's wife, and my father only this day buried, 
 you and I should never have exchanged another word 
 as long as I lived. As it is, Lady Rivers, say one 
 word more one word against her and you will find 
 
254 HANNAH. 
 
 out how a man feels who sees the woman he loves 
 insulted even by his own relations. Sisters!' he 
 turned to them, almost entreatingly, as if in his na- 
 tural flesh and blood he might hope to find some 
 sympathy. ' Sisters, just hear me.' 
 
 But they all turned away, including Bertha, whom 
 poor Adeline had judged rightly as a mere coquette ; 
 and who evidently was not at all anxious that brothers- 
 in-law, however convenient to flirt with, should be 
 allowed to marry their deceased wives' sisters. She 
 stood aloof, a pattern of propriety, beside the rest ; 
 and even made some sharp, ill-natured remark con- 
 cerning Hannah, which Hannah heard, and lifted up 
 reproachful eyes to the women whom she had been 
 helping and comforting, and feeling affectionately to, 
 all the week, but who now held themselves apart 
 from her, as if she had been the wickedest creature 
 living. 
 
 'You know that is untrue, Bertha. I was '<;hen 
 perfectly sincere in every word I uttered ; but, as Mr. 
 Rivers says, people's feelings change. I did not care 
 for him in the least once but I do now. >jid if 
 he holds fast by me, I will hold fast by him, in. spite 
 of you all.' 
 
 Slowly, even mournfully, she said this; less like 
 a confession of love than a confession of faith the 
 troth-plight which, being a righteous one, no human 
 being has a right to break. They stood together 
 these two, terribly sad and painfully agitated, but 
 still firm in their united strength stood and faced 
 their enemies. 
 
 For enemies, the bitterest any man can have, 
 those of his own household undoubtedly Bernard's 
 sisters and their mother now were. It seemed hardly 
 :redible that this was the same family who, only a 
 *ew hours ago, had wept together over the same open 
 grave, and comforted one another in the same house of 
 mourning. Now, out of that house, all solemnity, all 
 
HANNAH. 255 
 
 tenderness, had departed ; and it became a house full 
 of rancour, heart-burning, and strife. 
 
 Long the battle raged, and it was a very sore one. 
 A family fight always must be. The combatants know 
 so well each other's weak points. They can plant 
 arrows between the joints of the armour, and inflict 
 wounds from behind ; wounds which take years to heal 
 if ever healed at all. Hannah could hardly have 
 believed that any persons really attached to one another, 
 as these were, could have said to one another so many 
 bitter things within so short a time. Such untrue 
 things also, or such startling travesties of truth ; such 
 alterations of facts and misinterpretations of motives, 
 that she sometimes stood aghast and wondered if she 
 had not altogether deceived herself as to right and 
 wrong ; and whether she were not the erring wretch 
 they made her out to be. Only her not him ; they 
 loved him ; evidently they looked upon him as the 
 innocent victim to her arts the fly in the spider's 
 web, glad of any generous kindred hand that would 
 come and tear it down, and set him free. Unfortunate 
 Bernard ! 
 
 He bore it all for a good while not perhaps, see- 
 ing the whole drift of the arguments till some chance 
 speech opened his eyes. Then his man's pride rose up 
 at once. He walked across the hearth, and once more 
 took hold of Hannah's hand. 
 
 * You may say what you like about me ; but if you 
 say one word against her here, you shall repent it all 
 your lives. Now, this must end. I have heard all 
 vou have to say, and answered it. Sisters, look here. 
 You may talk as much as you like, seeing you are my 
 sisters, for ten minutes more,' and he laid his watch 
 on the table, with that curious mixture of authority 
 and good-humour which used to make them say Ber- 
 nard could do anything with anybody. ' After that 
 >ou must stop. Every man's patience has its limits, 
 am the head of the house, and can marry whomsoever 
 
 I 
 
256 HANNAH. 
 
 I choose ; and I choose to marry Miss Thelluson, if I 
 have to wait years and years. So, girls, you may as 
 well make up your minds to it. Otherwise, when she 
 is Lady Rivers as one day she may be you would 
 find it a little awkward.' 
 
 He half smiled as he spoke ; perhaps he knew them 
 well enough to feel sure that the practical, rather than 
 the sentimental, side was the safest to take them on ; 
 perhaps, also, he felt that a smile was better than a 
 furious word or tear and both were not far off, for 
 his heart was tender as well as wroth ; but the plan 
 answered. 
 
 Lady Rivers gave the signal to retire. ' For this 
 night, Miss Thelluson, I suppose you will be glad to 
 accept the shelter of our roof; but perhaps you may 
 find it not inconvenient to leave us to-morrow. Until 
 that desirable event, which Bernard seems so sure of, 
 does take place, you will see at once that with my un- 
 married daughter still under my charge ' 
 
 ' It will be impossible for you to keep up any ac- 
 quaintance with me/ continued Hannah, calmly. ' I 
 quite understand. This good night will be a per- 
 manent good-bye to you all.' 
 
 Lady Rivers bowed. But she was a prudent woman. 
 It was a perfectly polite bow as of a lady who was 
 acting not so much of her own volition as from the 
 painful pressure of circumstances. 
 
 Hannah rose, and tried to stand without shaking. 
 Her heart was very full. The sense of shame or dis- 
 grace was not there; how could it be, with her con- 
 science clear, and Bernard beside her? but bitter 
 regret was. She had been with his people so much 
 of late, that sorrow had drawn them closer to her than 
 she had ever believed possible. Likewise, they were 
 his people, and she tried still to believe in the proverb 
 that ' blood is thicker than water/ 
 
 'I have done you no harm not one of you/ she 
 said, almost appealingly. ' Nor your brother either. 
 
HANNAH. 257 
 
 I only loved him. If we are ever married, I shall 
 devote my life to him ; if not, it is I that shall suffer. 
 In any case, my life is sad enough. Do not be hard 
 upon me, you that are all so happy.' 
 
 And she half extended her hand. 
 
 But no one took it. Neither mother nor sisters 
 gave one kind word to this motherless, sisterless woman, 
 who they knew perfectly well had done nothing wrong 
 only something foolish. But the foolishness of this 
 world is sometimes higher than its wisdom. 
 
 * Good night/ said Bernard ; ' good ni^ht, my 
 dearest. You will find me waiting at the railway at 
 eight o'clock to-morrow morning, to take you direct 
 to Lady Dunsmore's.' 
 
 With a chivalrous tenderness worthy of his old 
 crusading ancestors those good knights pledged to 
 heaven to succour the distressed he took Hannah bv 
 the rejected hand, kissed it before them all, led her to 
 the door, and, closing it upon her, went back to his 
 mother and sisters. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IT was the dreariest of wet March mornings, more like 
 Winter than Spring when they met at the station 
 those two whom, if all the eyes of Easterham had been 
 on them, no one would ever have taken for lovers, so 
 grave, so sad, so silent were they. The only attention 
 Bernard paid to her was the common courtesy of any 
 gentleman to a lady any kind-hearted man to a suffer- 
 ing woman. For that Hannah did suffer, was plain. 
 To rise in the dull dawn of the morning, to breakfast 
 alone, and steal away, unnoticed and uncared for by 
 any member of the family, was outward humiliation 
 enough ; but it was nothing to the inward pain. No 
 
258 HANNAH. 
 
 wonder that her eyes were heavy and sleepless, her 
 face deadly white, and that even the village doctor, 
 whom they met on the platform, noticed how very ill 
 Miss Thelluson was looking. 
 
 ' Yes, she was my sister's constant nurse, and has 
 been helping us here through all our trouble/ said 
 Bernard, hastily. ' She is very much worn out ; and I 
 am glad to be taking her back at once to her friend 
 Lady Dunsmore.' 
 
 Hannah recognised the prudence, and was grateful. 
 Yet still that there should be this vital need for pru- 
 dence, for circumspection, for worldly wisdom, was itself 
 a kind of mute disgrace. 
 
 The doctor travelled up with them to London ; so 
 they had not one word together ; Bernard and she 
 till they found themselves alone in the cab. Then he 
 seized her hand. 
 
 ' We have but five minutes, my love. Always my 
 love ! Remember that ; and for my sake forgive all.' 
 
 ' I have nothing to forgive. Thinking as they do, 
 they could scarcely act otherwise than as they do. 
 But, oh, it is hard. I was growing so fond of Easter- 
 ham of them too. And now I shall never see the 
 Moat-House or them again.' 
 
 ' Do not be too sure of that,' said Bernard, passion- 
 ately. 'You may be back again ere many weeks. 
 Back in a character in which they must receive you.' 
 And then he explained how he had seen in the 
 day's newspapers that the Bill was to be brought up 
 to the House of Lords for the second reading that 
 very night. 
 
 1 The critical night. Lord Dunsmore has been ex- 
 pecting it for long. There will be a debate; still, I 
 know, he hoped for a majority small, indeed, but 
 enough to carry it through enough to save us. Oh, 
 Hannah, if it were right to pray for such a thing 
 such a common secular thing as a few votes more or 
 less in Parliament I, a clergyman too.' 
 
HANNAH. 259 
 
 He laughed ; but his eye glittered with excitement. 
 Hannah was almost frightened when she looked at 
 him* 
 
 'I am glad the suspense will be ended to-night/ 
 he continued. ' You see, the trial is harder for me 
 than for most though I believe, by Lord Dunsmore's 
 account, that there are hundreds of men in England 
 in my position waiting till the Bill shall pass. But 
 then I am like a " city set on a hill " like my house, 
 as you used to say to me. A clergyman, contem- 
 plating an act which is directly contrary to the canon 
 law, and in which my very bishop I understand 
 is dead against me. I shall be excommunicated, of 
 course that is, suspended unless, by-the-by, if my 
 marriage ever takes place, it be according to law ; and, 
 then, whatever he thinks, the bishop cannot suspend 
 me. Oh, we care quite as much for the law as the 
 gospel, we clergymen!' 
 
 And he laughed again, and still continued rapidly 
 talking in a way very unusual with him. Evidently 
 the trial was becoming past his endurance; and now 
 that there was added the home- warfare to which he 
 never referred things would be worse still. Suffer- 
 ing, they say, often changes a woman into an angel ; 
 but it is not so with men generally quite the con- 
 trary. Hannah was so grieved that she hardly an- 
 swered a word till they reached their destination. 
 
 ' Stop a minute ! ' Bernard said. ' I had meant to 
 leave you here and go ' 
 
 'Where?' 
 
 ' Anywhere ; it does not matter. But I cannot do 
 it. Oh, Hannah, keep me beside you ! I am good 
 then. Could you not invent some nice little falsehood 
 for my staying?' 
 
 ' Does it need a falsehood to excuse a father's 
 coming to see his own child?' said Hannah, gravely. 
 
 'The child always the child!' he cried. 'You 
 care for nobody else. I do believe you are marrying 
 
260 HANNAH. 
 
 me if ever we are married solely for the sake of 
 the child.' 
 
 Hannah paused a minute before she answered. His 
 remark was not exactly true, yet there was some truth 
 in it ; and to deny truth is always dangerous. She 
 laid her hand on his very tenderly the tenderness 
 of a love so baptized in sorrow that almost all earthly 
 passion had been washed out of it. 
 
 'Bernard, if what you say were true I do not 
 allow that it is but if it were, would it be a wicked 
 thing ? Would Rosie's mother, or need Rosie's father, 
 be angry with me for it ?' 
 
 ' No, no ! ' And for the hundredth time, looking 
 at the saintly patience of her face a face in which, 
 besides love, were written grief, and loss, and resigna- 
 tion he learnt patience too. 
 
 Lady Dunsmore had gone out, and might not be 
 home till dinner-time ; but had left a note for Miss 
 Thelluson in case she returned to-day, which the 
 countess seemed to have expected. 
 
 'Why? Does she guess anything, do you suppose ?' 
 
 4 Everything, I believe/ said Hannah. ' But she 
 has never breathed one syllable to me, and never will.' 
 
 1 Good, wise, generous woman ! We must tell her 
 all to-morrow.' 
 
 But Hannah only sighed. She had little faith in 
 ' to-morrow.' People whose lives have been very sun- 
 less gradually cease to believe in the sun. 
 
 It was a long, long day. They could hardly have 
 got through it but for the child, who with her little 
 imperative queenliness put aside both past and future, 
 and compelled them to live in the present. Despe- 
 rately in love as he was, Mr. Rivers had a father's 
 heart, and the mother-heart in Hannah kept it alive. 
 Also after the domestic storms of the Moat-House 
 there was something in the innocent peace of the 
 baby-life so absorbed in little things which soothed 
 them both. Men might have laughed, but angels 
 
HANNAH. 261 
 
 would have smiled, to see these two forlorn lovers, 
 who dared not show their love, to whom one another's 
 presence was always a painful restraint often an 
 actual dread comforting one another a little in their 
 common love of the child. 
 
 Lady Dunsmore smiled, too, when she saw them 
 building houses of cards for Rosie on the nursery 
 floor, and then blowing them down with the solemnest 
 of faces ; but after the smile she turned away with a 
 tear. She had a heart this brilliant little woman of 
 the world. 
 
 Kissing Hannah, she said a few words of gentle 
 condolence to Mr. Rivers. 
 
 'I did not wonder that Miss Thelluson was kept 
 at the Moat -House, she is such a help to everybody 
 in trouble ; but I am glad you have brought her 
 back now, and glad you have come to see your little 
 girl. She would have forgotten papa soon. You will 
 stay and dine ? "VVe have no guests, for Lord Duns- 
 more will be at the House. He speaks to-night, if the 
 Marriages' Bill comes on for the second reading, as 
 we expect it will.' 
 
 Bernard made some brief assent. 
 
 ' See what it is to be a politician's wife/ said the 
 countess, turning to Hannah. ' All this forenoon I 
 have been acting as amateur whipper-in to get votes 
 for our side. Lord Dunsmore is desperately anxious 
 about it, but very hopeful of the result. He will 
 come straight home with the news ; so I shall be 
 most grateful of your company, Mr. Rivers, to con- 
 gratulate my husband, if he wins to condole if he 
 fails. But as I said to my thane this morning, when 
 I counselled him to go and murder, not King Law, 
 but the tyrant Injustice 
 
 "Screw your courage to the sticking-place, 
 And we'll not fail." ' 
 
 She put the matter thus, with her consummate tact 
 
262 HANNAH. 
 
 and delicate kindliness, chattering gaily on, and not 
 waiting for anybody to answer. And all day she kept 
 them up with her gay, witty, continuous talk a per- 
 petual fountain of prettiness never by word or look 
 betraying that she guessed anything, or that anybody 
 except herself had any anxiety for the result which 
 this day must bring. 
 
 At dinner they were only three ; but in the even- 
 ing one or two people dropped in. Lord Dunsmore's 
 house was always a sort of rendezvous to discuss what 
 was going on in the House, especially when there 
 was pending such a question as this, in which he was 
 known to be strongly interested. His wife, too, her 
 enemies called her a female politician ; but even they 
 acknowledged that she pursued her unfeminine metier 
 in a most womanly way, and that it was chiefly for 
 her lord's sake, in whose projects she joined heart and 
 soul. 
 
 ' No/ she said, when all the comers and goers had 
 left, and she sat waiting for Lord Dunsmore's return, 
 trying in every way to make the time slip by for 
 those other two to whom she talked fast, but scarcely 
 looked at them. ' No ; I hate the word party ; I 
 despise heartily those politicians who dare not think 
 for themselves, but must vote as their leader bids 
 them, just as much as I despise those feeble legislators 
 who, as in this case, are afraid to do good, lest evil 
 might come to break a bad law, lest good laws might 
 some day be broken. If I were a man, the only 
 question I should ever ask myself would be is this 
 right or wrong ? That once clear, I would risk the 
 rest/ 
 
 * Would you?' cried Bernard, leaning forward, 
 strongly excited. He had looked very ill all day 
 indeed he had owned to Hannah that he was not 
 well, and that before he went home he meant to 
 consult a doctor; but he had the true masculine dis- 
 like to be pitied and sympathised with in his ailments, 
 
HANNAH. 263 
 
 so she asked no more ; only she watched him his 
 changing cheek, his nervous start at every opening 
 of the door, with an anxiety she could not control. 
 
 And, as during a pause in his conversation with 
 Lady Dunsmore he turned and asked Hannah rather 
 irritably 'why she was so silent?' he little knew what 
 a desperate resolve was forming in her mind, should 
 certain combinations of circumstances force her to it 
 drive her into the carrying out of that principle, ' All 
 for love, and the world well lost.' A resolve which 
 no one would have expected possible for such a quiet 
 woman as she. 
 
 Ten o'clock struck eleven; it was near midnight. 
 * They are having a long debate ; that looks well 
 for our cause,' said Lady Dunsmore ; and then a car- 
 riage was heard to drive up, and Lord Dunsmore' s 
 foot he was a large, heavy, ponderous man, not easily 
 moved, physically or mentally, but firm as a rock after 
 he did move was distinctly audible coming up-stairs. 
 His little bright wife flew to him. ' Oh, tell us I 
 
 mean, tell me in two words ' 
 
 But he had caught sight of the other two, and 
 looked for the moment as if he wished himself miles 
 and miles away. Still he went up and shook hands 
 with them with a noble affectation of carelessness. 
 
 1 Pardon. Lady Dunsmore is so anxious about me 
 and my affairs. Well, my dear, there is, unluckily, 
 no news. We have failed this time beaten : but by 
 the smallest majority yet Hope on, hope ever ! Next 
 session we shall have converted those heretics, and be 
 sure to get our Bill through. If we fight on steadily 
 we shall carry our point at last.' 
 
 ' Of course we shall,' cried the countess, with a 
 choke in her throat. ' ]S"o need to be downhearted. 
 The right always wins. Cheer up, Dunsmore!' 
 
 And she patted him on the shoulder, never once 
 turning her eyes they glittered with tears, in spite of 
 her gay tone to the two behind her. 
 
264 HANNAH. 
 
 Hannah stood motionless. She had expected no- 
 thing, and was scarcely disappointed ; but Bernard 
 stepped forward excitedly. 
 
 1 Yes, yes, the right always wins. And you made 
 a brilliant speech, Lord Dunsmore. I I con 
 grat ' 
 
 An uncomfortable sound rose in his throat, as if 
 he were struggling to articulate, and could not. Then 
 he dropped down, and there was the piteous sight of a 
 strong man swooning dead away. Hannah, as she fell 
 on her knees beside him, and lifted his head, thought 
 for the instant it was real death. 
 
 ' It has killed him/ she said piteously. ' He could 
 not bear it the suspense, I mean ; and now you 
 understand ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I have understood it all along/ said Lady 
 Dunsmore gently, and bade her husband lock the door, 
 so as to prevent any one entering for a minute or two. 
 'We will see after him ourselves. Look, he is reviving 
 a little already ! ' 
 
 Bernard sighed. ' Hannah ! ' he murmured, 
 and stretched out his arms. She opened hers and took 
 him into them, resting his head against her shoulder, 
 so that he could breathe more freely, then looked up to 
 her two friends. 
 
 * You see how it is ? We could not help it. And 
 you do not think us wrong, I know/ 
 
 ' Wrong ! Quite the contrary. And I always 
 knew it would happen. Didn't I tell you so?' 
 
 That one little triumph 'I told you so!' The 
 countess could not resist it ; but after that she said no 
 more only helped Hannah, in the kindest and ten- 
 derest way, to restore the still half-conscious man. 
 Bernard's illness, however, seemed rather more than 
 an ordinary fainting-fit. When he recovered he wan- 
 dered in his talk, and scarcely seemed to know where 
 he was. 
 
 Then Hannah took at once the motherly part 
 
HANNAH. 265 
 
 which seems natural to almost all women in cases of 
 sickness soothing him, tending him, and accepting 
 for him all the arrangements which Lady Dunsmore 
 immediately made, that he should remain in the house. 
 Soon he was able to be half led, half carried, to his 
 room. 
 
 ' Is it all right, Hannah ? You will see that it is 
 all right?' said he helplessly, and when she answered 
 him in her quieting voice he seemed satisfied, and sub- 
 mitted patiently. 
 
 But she had to submit to harder things. When, 
 hearing him call her, she mechanically rose to follow 
 him, Lady Dunsmore detained her. 
 
 ' Not you ; my old housekeeper must be his nurse. 
 Not you/ 
 
 'But he wants me. He called me.' 
 
 ' Never mind. You cannot go. What would the 
 world say?' 
 
 Hannah blushed horribly, then answered in a low, 
 desperate voice, ' I care nothing for the world. He is 
 mine. You forget we are engaged ; we were to have 
 been married as soon as ever the law allowed. Nobody 
 understands him as I do. Let me go. 1 
 
 ' No/ said her friend firmly. ' He will be taken 
 every care of; but your care he cannot have. For 
 both your sakes, I will not allow it ; the world is too 
 wicked. And yet/ she added, ' the world has common 
 sense on its side. No man or woman, not related, 
 ought to have been to one another such close friends 
 as you and he have been, unless they could be married. 
 You must accept things as they are. I am not cruel 
 to you, but kind/ 
 
 Hannah knew that. "With a stolid patience she 
 did accept her lot, submitting day after day, for a 
 whole week, to the miserable suspense of only hearing 
 second-hand tidings of Bernard's state, of having 
 rights and no rights, of being neither wife nor sister, 
 yet having to endure the agonising anxiety of both. 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 Not alone, either, in her pain for Bernard continually 
 sent messages for her to come to him, and Lady 
 Dunsmore would not let her go. 
 
 ' Caesar's wife/ she said, ' must not even be sus- 
 pected. You are under my protection, and I will 
 protect you to the utmost of my power ; but you must 
 also protect yourself. You must give no handle to 
 the bitter tongues which are already beginning to wag 
 about you.' 
 
 What tongues she did not state ; but Hannah 
 knew. By the manner in which she had often heard 
 other people talked of at the Moat- House, she guessed 
 well enough how the Moat-House would now be talking 
 of her. And the plan which, in the wretchedness of 
 being parted from him, she had already matured, and 
 intended to propose to Bernard as soon as he got well 
 namely, that, adhering to the letter of the law, and 
 risking all misinterpretation, she should go back with 
 him to Easterham, and resume her place as his sister 
 and housekeeper faded into thin air. 
 
 ' You are right,' said the countess, when they dis 
 cussed, as they did openly now, the actual position of 
 things, and what was the best course to take next. 
 ' Such a scheme would never do. The world would 
 never believe in you or him. I can quite understand 
 a woman, conscious of her own innocence, doing the 
 most daring things; but there are things which she 
 has no right to dare. No, my poor Hannah, if ever 
 you are married, you must bring to your husband a 
 spotless name ; not a soul must be able to throw a 
 stone at you. And there are those who would stone 
 you to death if they could.' 
 
 ' I know that,' said Hannah, sadly ; ' but perhaps 
 they do not mean it. Don't tell him ; he loves them.' 
 
 So spoke she, and tried to believe the best that 
 circumstances were chiefly in fault, not individuals. 
 But Lady Dunsmore was very angry, especially when, 
 the ill-tidings about Bernard being necessarily sent to 
 
HANNAH. 267 
 
 Easterham, Bertha and Mrs. Morecamb rushed up, and 
 bemoaned him, and exacted a promise from him that 
 lie would come home directly, and let himself be nursed 
 at the Moat-House by his own people. That day he 
 did not ask for Hannah not once. 
 
 She sat in her room, and saw nothing of him 
 saw almost nobody, except the child. She was painfully 
 aware that every person in the house, servants included, 
 guessed her exact position with regard to Mr. Rivers, 
 and watched her with the eager curiosity with which 
 almost all people, good and bad alike, follow a domestic 
 tragedy of this sort a something which cannot be 
 talked of openly, which has all the delightfulness of 
 sin without its dangerous elements. 
 
 Thus, when Mr. Rivers at last came down to the 
 drawing-room, Celestine, the countess's maid, ran into 
 Miss Thelluson's room with the substance of half-a- 
 dozen French novels written in her face, to commu- 
 nicate the event ; assuring mademoiselle that monsieur 
 was looking so much better than anybody expected, 
 and she had heard him asking for her ; and should 
 she arrange mademoiselle's toilette to the best advantage 
 before she went down-stairs ? 
 
 But, when really summoned, Hannah crept rather 
 than walked to her lover's presence. There was no 
 joy, no eagerness in her face only a kind of dreamy 
 thankfulness until they were alone together, and then 
 he called her to his side. 
 
 'Hannah, it was not of your own will that you 
 forsook me?' 
 
 'No, no!' 
 
 ' And you love me still ? You will not give me up 
 even after what has befallen us ? You understand ? 
 For another year, at least, there is no hope of our 
 being married.' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 'Isn't it sad and strange sad and strange?' he 
 continued wistfully, as he lay on the sofa, she holding 
 
268 HANNAH. 
 
 his hand, for he was very feeble still. ' Here are we 
 two, with every blessing under heaven youth, health, 
 freedom, money nothing in the world to prevent our 
 being happy ; and yet, happy we cannot be. I see no 
 way out of it. Do you ?' 
 
 For a minute he looked as if he thought she might ; 
 but she shook her head, and kept her eyes down on 
 the ground. 
 
 * Then the question is, What are we to do ? I must 
 go home directly, but it must be without you. Lady 
 Dunsmore tells me so, and I think she is right/ 
 
 'I think so, too.' 
 
 ' And parting from you, I must also part from my 
 child. You know I promised you I would never. claim 
 the child, and I shall keep my word, though I shall 
 miss her sorely. Pretty little Rosie ! Still I will give 
 her up to you.' 
 
 ' Thank you/ 
 
 And then, looking at him, the thanks seemed 
 cruel he was so worn, so weak, so joyless; and it 
 was such a joyless, empty life that he was going back 
 to. He was so helpless, too the kind of man 
 who always wants a woman to take care of him to 
 whom marriage is, domestically, not merely a com- 
 fort, but a necessity ; and all his little weaknesses 
 she knew all his innocent wants she was accustomed 
 to supply. 
 
 ' Oh, you don't know how I have missed you ! ' 
 said he, with an almost child-like complaining. ' Home 
 has not been like home since you went away. There 
 was nobody to do anything for me, or when they did 
 it, they did it wrong. Nobody like Hannah. When 
 shall I have you back again?' 
 
 'When, indeed?' 
 
 1 And now, when I was ill when, once or twice, 
 I thought I was dying, and could not get at you it 
 was so hard. Will you promise ' he lifted himself 
 up, and clutched her hand tight 'promise faithfully 
 
HANNAH. 269 
 
 that, if I am really dying, you will come to me, 
 whatever the world says?' 
 
 4 1 will ; ' and he saw by her face that she would. 
 ' But you must not die/ she added desperately ; ' you 
 must get well as fast as ever you can. You must take 
 the utmost possible care of yourself, for Hosiers sake 
 and mine. Oh, Bernard! once I told you to part 
 from me and go and marry another woman, but I 
 could not do it now/ 
 
 He smiled, and tried to draw her closer to him ; 
 but she glanced at the door, and shrank away. 
 
 * You don't care for me you are afraid of caring 
 for me/ Bernard said angrily. 
 
 ' I ! not care for you ! ' 
 
 She wept ; and, overcome by the weakness of illness, 
 he wept too. It was cruelly hard for them both as 
 hard as that most pathetic line in the ballad 
 
 'We took but ae kiss, and we tore oursels away.' 
 
 But that *ae kiss* of theirs had no sin in it nothing 
 but sorrow. 
 
 ' Hannah,' implored he, ' do not forsake me again. 
 If you knew what a lost creature I am without you 
 to die without you, or to live without you, is equally 
 dreadful. Can nothing be done ? Oh, my dearest ! can 
 nothing be done ?' 
 
 His eyes were so sad, his looks so wan. Even this 
 comparatively trifling illness, following the long mental 
 strain which he must have undergone, had broken him 
 down so completely that Hannah was terrified. There 
 came upon her that mortal dread which comes upon all 
 who love, and most natural in her who had lived to see 
 the grave close over all her nearest and dearest. What 
 if, among all their cares, the one care they never con- 
 templated were to happen ? What if Bernard were to 
 fall into ill-health, to sicken and die, and she still 
 parted from him ? What if, instead of the long lonely 
 years which both had feared so much, there should be 
 
270 HANNAH. 
 
 allotted to one of them only a brief space of earthly 
 life ; was that space to be spent in separation ? Would 
 it not be better to clutch at the vanishing joy to risk 
 all things, and gain one another ? 
 
 Under the agony of this fear Hannah was near 
 giving way, and whispering a word or two offering 
 that fatal sacrifice which, however he needs it and 
 craves it, no woman has a right to make to any 
 man, not even though it may be one which, as in 
 this case, involves no moral guilt, and concerning which 
 her own conscience may be at ease entirely. For the 
 sacrifice is not hers alone. He, too, is involved in it. 
 Nor he only ; but the solemn rights of creatures yet 
 unborn innocent beings who cannot plead and say, 
 'Father, mother, why did you do this? why entail 
 this misery upon us also?' 
 
 Whether, noble and pure woman as she was, the 
 motherly heart in Hannah made her faintly hear those 
 voices with a solemn prevision that no woman ought 
 ever to blush for or to set aside who knows? but 
 she hesitated. She could not be the first to propose 
 that marriage abroad which secured nothing at home. 
 Besides, so long as the law was the law, it ought not 
 to be broken. 
 
 While she hesitated, Bernard, who had lain silent 
 and thoughtful, said suddenly in a rather changed tone 
 the ' worldly ' tone which she had sometimes re- 
 marked in him, the faint reflex of what was so strong 
 in the rest of his family : 
 
 'Perhaps, after all, my going back to my parish 
 work alone will be the most prudent course ; for I 
 may soon have to make some change in it, and indeed 
 in all my outward surroundings. The girls told me 
 that poor Austin has had another series of fits, worse 
 than ever before. Most likely I shall be Sir Bernard 
 before very long/ 
 
 He sighed but it was not a heart-deep sigh ; one 
 could not expect it to be; and there was something 
 
HANNAH. 271 
 
 in his look which corresponded to that tone which 
 always jarred upon Hannah. No, ' all for love, and 
 the world well lost/ was not the creed of any Rivers ; 
 if Bernard tried it, the loss would not be by him quite 
 unfelt. Would it by any man brought up as he had 
 been, and with the nobler half of him never developed 
 at all, till he fell in love with poor Rosa till he after- 
 wards walked into love deeply, deliberately, with such 
 a woman as Hannah Thelluson ? 
 
 Hannah left her passionate words unsaid, and con- 
 tinued their grave and anxious talk listening to all 
 the plans he made for her and Rosie, in which he 
 showed the utmost thoughtfulness and tenderness. 
 The most likely scheme, and one which Lady Duns- 
 more had herself suggested, was that, as the young 
 Ladies Dacre were going to the sea-side for a little, 
 Hannah should accompany them, or rather chaperon 
 them, taking with her Rosie and Grace. This would 
 be a quiet life, and yet not a life quite shut out from 
 the world. No one could say she was 'hiding/ 
 
 'For you must not hide/ Bernard argued; 'we 
 must not look as if we were ashamed of ourselves. 
 And you must be somewhere where I can get at you 
 run down to see my child, of course, whenever it is 
 practicable. Still you are best a little out of the way 
 too, and not going much into society, fc r the thing is 
 sure to ooze out.' 
 
 'How?' 
 
 ' Oh, though my people pledged me to secresy " for 
 the honour of the family," I know what women's tongues 
 are/ said Bernard, bitterly. ' Still, they dare not say 
 or do much, seeing I shall be Sir Bernard some time ! 
 and then But however things end, I had rather, 
 whatever may be the curiosity of the world about you, 
 that it was not gratified, but that you lived a rather 
 secluded life. It is best, especially considering how 
 you stand with respect to my family.' 
 
 ' I comprehend you. Yes.' 
 
'272 HANNAH. 
 
 ' Oil, Hannah, have I said anything to wound you ? 
 But I am placed as it were between two fires. What 
 can I do ?' 
 
 'Nothing. Nor I. Fate is too much for us; we 
 had better say good-bye for a time. Give me the child 
 and let me go/ 
 
 And at the moment she felt as if she did not care 
 where she went, or what was done to her. It was all 
 pain ; nothing but pain In her sad life all its natural 
 delights seemed turned into bitterness. 
 
 Bernard seized her hands 'Tell me the whole 
 truth. Tell me all that is in your mind about me, or 
 against me, which is it?' 
 
 Another minute and she might have said, not at 
 all the tender words that a while ago she had meant 
 to say, but others quite opposite, words which might 
 have placed an eternal barrier between her and the 
 man she loved ; who after all was only looking upon 
 their position with a man's eyes always harder and 
 more worldly than a woman's. 
 
 But to save her the door opened, and there burst in, 
 with a cry of delight, her Eosie her 'sunshiny child,' 
 as she often called her. The little thing, who had been 
 with her papa every day for the last week, climbed 
 upon him in an ecstasy, then turned to Hannah. 
 
 ' Tannie too, Tannie too ! Papa and Tannie kiss 
 Eosie. Both together ! ' 
 
 It was going back to the old ways ; childhood and 
 age are alike in clinging to old ways and resisting the 
 smallest change. 
 
 ' You see,' said Bernard, with a smile, ' Eosie her- 
 self insists upon things being as they used to be as 
 they ought to be. Eosie herself delights in us " both 
 together." ' 
 
 Hannah said nothing; but, clasping her darling, 
 she laid her weight of secret pain upon the unconscious 
 childish bosom which was already the receptacle and 
 the comfort of half her woes. 
 
HANNAH. 273 
 
 ' I will go anywhere, and do anything that you and 
 Lady Dunsmore think best, if I may only have Rosie 
 with me. She'll come, I know ? ' And Hannah curled 
 round her fingers the soft little rings of silky hair 
 baby hair which had never been cut, and which netted 
 in its dainty meshes all her motherly heart. 'Who 
 loves poor Tannie ? Who's Tannie's darling ? ' 
 
 ' No ; papa's darling/ said the child with a pretty 
 waywardness, and then relenting, came and laid her 
 head in her aunt's lap, repeating words which Hannah 
 had forgotten ever having said to her, only she often 
 murmured her soul out over the little crib at night ; 
 and Rosie 's observation was growing so sharp, and her 
 memory so clear. * No, papa's darling ; Tannie's bless- 
 ing!' Then with a little silvery mischievous laugh, 
 ' Blessed tild ! Rosie blessed tild I' 
 
 Ay, she was a blessed child- 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ALONE, in a foreign land with only a child for com- 
 pany and a servant for protection, this, in the strange 
 vicissitudes of Hannah's life, was her position now. 
 Accidentally, rather than intentionally, for Lady Duns- 
 more had taken all care of her, and meant her to be 
 met at Paris by Madame Arthenay, the lady to whom 
 she sent her, and who, with herself, was the accomplice 
 of Hannah's running away. 
 
 For she had literally 'run away' by not only the 
 concurrence, but the compulsion of her faithful friend, 
 who saw that the strain was growing too hard to bear. 
 Living within reach of Bernard's visits, which were 
 half a joy and half a dread, exposed to the continual 
 gossip of Easterham since, though the Moat-House 
 had entirely * cut ' her, some of the other houses did 
 
 T 
 
274 HANNAII. 
 
 not, but continued by letter a patronising kindness 
 most irritating above all, suffering a painful inner 
 warfare as to how far she was right in allowing Ber- 
 nard to come and see her, since every time he came 
 the cruel life of suspense he led seemed more and more 
 to be making him not merely wretched, but some- 
 thing worse : all these trials, in course of time, did 
 their work upon even the strong heart and healthy 
 frame of Hannah Thelluson. 
 
 ' You are breaking down/ said the countess, when 
 one day towards the Summer's end she came to take 
 her young folks home. ' This cannot last. You must 
 do as I once suggested go quite away. J 
 
 'I cannot!' said Hannah, faintly smiling. 'He 
 would not let me.' For she felt herself gradually 
 succumbing to Bernard's impetuous will, and to the 
 strength of a passion unto which impediments seemed 
 to have given a force and persistency that had changed 
 his whole character. 
 
 ' Not let you go away ? The tyrant ! Men are all 
 tyrants, you know. Yery weil. Then you must run 
 away.' 
 
 ' He would follow me as he once said he should 
 wherever I went.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Quite right of him. Still, as I object 
 to tyranny, and as you will just now be much better 
 without him than with him, I mean to help you to 
 run away.' 
 
 'But the child! he will miss her so. And I 
 must have the child with me ! ' 
 
 ' Of course. But do you think when a man is 
 desperately in love he troubles himself much about a 
 child? Hannah my dear old goose! you will be a 
 goose to the end of your days. Go and cackle over 
 your little gosling, and leave me to manage everything 
 for you.' 
 
 Hannah obeyed, for she had come to that pass when 
 her energies, and even her volition, seemed to have 
 
HANNAH. 275 
 
 left her. She submitted tacitly to the countess's plan, 
 which was to send her quite out of England to a far- 
 away French town, Avranches, not easily reached, 
 being beyond the limits of railways where resided a 
 dear old friend of Lady Dunsmore's, of whom she had 
 often talked to Hannah one Madame Arthenay. 
 
 * She will be the best protection you could have, 
 for she herself married her sister's husband ; as is 
 constantly done in France, so no need of concealment, 
 my dear. I shall just tell her everything. And you 
 need not mind, even if Mr. Rivers does swoop down 
 upon you some day after his fashion. But he can't 
 Avranches is too far off. Nor will I let him, if I 
 can help it. I shall tell him he must leave you in 
 peace, to regain your strength and quiet your nerves. 
 Good-bye now, and God bless you ! ' 
 
 The good countess, as she made this hurried fare- 
 well on board the French steamboat, left them. Almost 
 before Hannah knew where she was, or what she had 
 consented to, she found herself alone with Rosie and 
 Grace. Lady Dunsmore did not say what deeper rea- 
 son she had for thus effecting a temporary separation, 
 sudden and complete, between the lovers, even though 
 it involved what she called the ' kidnapping ' of little 
 Rosie. Knowing the world, and the men therein, a 
 good deal better than her friend did, she foreboded for 
 Hannah a blow heavier than any yet. That hapless 
 elder brother, the present Sir Austin, was said to be 
 in a dying state ; and for Sir Bernard Rivers of the 
 Moat- House, the last representative of so long a line, 
 to contract an illegal marriage, in which his wife 
 would be shut out of society, and his children held 
 by law as illegitimate, was a sacrifice at which the 
 most passionate lover might well hesitate. While, 
 under these or any circumstances, for him to doom him- 
 self for life to celibacy, was scarcely to be expected. 
 
 Lady Dunsmore had come to know Mr. Rivers 
 pretty well by this time. She liked him extremely 
 
276 HANNAH. 
 
 as most women did but her liking did not blind her 
 to a conviction founded on a certain Scotch proverb : 
 f As the an 1 d cock craws, the young cock learns ' 
 that, when he was put to the crucial test, the world 
 and his own family might be too strong for Sir Ber- 
 nard. Therefore, on all accounts, she was glad at this 
 time to get Hannah out of the way. But her plans, 
 too hastily formed, somehow miscarried ; for at Paris 
 her two friends contrived to miss one another. When 
 Miss Thelluson reached Avranches it was to find Ma- 
 dame Arthenay away, and herself quite alone in that 
 far-away place, with only Grace and the child. 
 
 At first this loneliness was almost pleasant. Ever 
 since crossing the Channel she had felt lulled into a 
 kind of stupor : the strange peace of those who have 
 cut the cable between themselves and home, left all 
 their burdens behind, and drifted away into what 
 seems like ' another and a better world.' During her 
 few days of travelling she had been conscious only of 
 a sunshiny sky and smiling earth, of people moving 
 about her with lively tongues and cheerful faces. 
 Everything was entirely new, for she had never been 
 abroad before, and whether the land was France or 
 Paradise did not much matter. She had her child 
 beside her, and that was enough. 
 
 She had Grace too. Many a servant is, in trouble, 
 almost better than a friend ; because a servant is silent 
 Grace was, even to a fault. Trouble had hardened 
 her sorely. Even when, a few months before, the last 
 blow had fallen, the last tie was broken between her 
 and Jem Dixon for their child had died poor Grace 
 had said only, * It is best. My boy might have grown 
 up to blame his mother for his existence/ Words 
 which, when Hannah heard them, made her shiver 
 in her inmost soul. 
 
 That the girl knew perfectly well her mistress's 
 position with respect to Mr. Rivers, was evident. 
 When he came, the nurse abstained from intruding 
 
HANNAH. 277 
 
 upon them, and kept other intruders away, in a 
 manner which, though, not obnoxiously shown, occa- 
 sionally touched, sometimes vexed, but always hu- 
 miliated Hannah. Still, in her sad circumstances, she 
 was glad to have the protection of even this dumb 
 watch- dog of a faithful servant. 
 
 Grace seemed greatly relieved when the sea rolled 
 between them and England. ' It would take a good 
 bit of time and trouble for anybody to come after us 
 here/ said she, as they climbed the steep hill on the 
 top of which sits the lovely tower of Avranches, and 
 looked back on the long line of straight road, miles 
 upon miles, visible through the green, woody country, 
 which they had traversed in driving from Granville. 
 'It feels quite at the world's end; and, unless folk 
 knew where we were, they might as well seek after a 
 needle in a hay-rick. A good job too ! ' muttered she, 
 with a glance at the worn face of her dear mistress, 
 who faintly smiled. 
 
 ' Nobody does know our whereabouts exactly, Grace. 
 We have certainly done what I often in my youth 
 used to long to do run away, and left no address.' 
 
 ' I'm glad of it, ma'am. Then you'll have a good 
 long rest.' 
 
 She had, but in an unexpected way. They found 
 Madame Arthenay absent, and her little house shut up. 
 
 * We must take refuge in the hotel,' said Hannah, 
 with a weary look. * It seems a pleasant place to lie 
 down and rest in.' 
 
 It was; and for a few hours she lingered about 
 with Rosie in the inn-garden ; a green, shady, shut-in 
 nook, with only a stray tourist or two sitting reading 
 on its benches ; full of long, low espaliers, heavy with 
 Normandy pears. There were masses of brilliant Au- 
 tumn flowers, French and African marigolds, zinnias, 
 and so on treasures that the child kept innocently 
 begging for, with a precocious enjoyment of the jingle 
 of rhyme. ' Give me pretty posie, to stick in Rosie 
 
278 HANNAH. 
 
 'ittle bosie!' Hannah roused herself, once or twice, 
 to answer her little girl, and explain that the flowers 
 were not hers to gather, and that Rosie must be con- 
 tent with a stray daisy or two, for she never exacted 
 blind obedience where she could find a reason intel- 
 ligible to the little wakening soul. But when, after 
 a tear or two, Rosie submitted to fate, and entreated 
 Tannie to 'come with Rosie find daisies lots of 
 daisies,' Aunt Hannah also succumbed. 
 
 1 Tannie can't come ; she must go to her bed, 
 my darling. Poor Tannie is so tired/ 
 
 And for the first time in her life she went to bed 
 before the child, laying her head down on the pillow 
 with a feeling as if it would be a comfort never to 
 lift it up any more. 
 
 After these ensued days three or four of which 
 she never liked to speak much afterwards. She lay 
 in a nervous fever, utterly helpless; and when, had 
 it not been for the few words of French which Grace 
 was able to recall the Misses Melville having amused 
 themselves once with teaching her and the quickness, 
 intelligence, and tender-heartedness of the inn ser- 
 vants good, simple Frenchwomen, with the true 
 womanly nature which is the same all the world 
 over things would have gone hard with Hannah 
 Thelluson. 
 
 More than once, vague and wandering as her 
 thoughts were, she bitterly repented having 'run 
 away ; ' thereby snatching Rosie from her natural 
 protector, and carrying her off into these strange lands, 
 whence, perhapr,, she might never be able to bring her 
 back, but herself lie down to rise up no more. But 
 by-and-by even this vain remorse vanished, and she 
 was conscious of thinking about nothing beyond the 
 roses on the chintz bed- cur tains, and the pattern of 
 the paper-hangings birds of paradise, with their 
 sweeping tails; the angle which the opposite house 
 made against the sky, the curious shape of its tiling, 
 
HANNAH. 279 
 
 and the name of the boutiquier inscribed thereon, the 
 first few letters of which were cut off by her window- 
 ledge. So childish had her mind grown, so calmly 
 receptive of all that happened, however extraordinary , 
 that when one day a kind-looking elderly lady came 
 into her room, and began talking in broken English 
 to Grace and the child, and to herself in the sweetest 
 French she ever heard, Hannah accepted the fact at 
 once, and took scarcely more than half a day to get 
 quite accustomed to Madame Arthenay. 
 
 She was one of those women, of whom France 
 may boast so many, as unlike our English notion 
 of a Frenchwoman as the caricatures of John Bull 
 who strut about on the French stage are like a real 
 Briton. Feminine, domestic, though, after having 
 brought up two families, her sister's and her own, she 
 now lived solitary in her pretty little nest of a house ; 
 a strict, almost stern Protestant ; pure alike in act, 
 and thoughts, and words, you would hardly have 
 believed she was born in the same land or came of 
 the same race as the women who figure in modern 
 French novels, or who are met only too often in modern 
 Parisian society. As Grace said of her after she had 
 gone, ' Ma'am, I don't care how often she comes to see 
 you, or how long she stays. She doesn't bother me 
 one bit. She's just like an Englishwoman/ 
 
 Which Madame Arthenay certainly was not, and 
 would have smiled at the narrow-judging, left-handed 
 compliment. But she was a noble type of the noblest 
 bit of womanly nature, which is the same, or nearly 
 the same, in all countries. No wonder Lady Duns- 
 more loved her, or that, as she had prophesied, Hannah 
 loved her too ; in a shorter time than she could have 
 thought it possible to love any stranger, and a foreigner 
 likewise. 
 
 ' Strangers and foreigners, so we each are to one 
 another,' said the French lady early one morning, 
 after she had sat up all night with Hannah to give 
 
280 JLANXAIi. 
 
 Grace a rest. ' And yet we do not feel so ; do we ? 
 I think it is because we both belong to the same 
 kingdom the kingdom of God/ 
 
 For underneath all her gaiety and lightness of 
 heart, Madame Arthenay was a very religious woman 
 as, she told Hannah, 'we Protestants' generally 
 were : thoroughly domestic and home-loving likewise. 
 
 'It is a mistake to suppose that we French all 
 fall in love with one another's wives and husbands, 
 or that we compel our children to make cruel manages 
 de convcnance, as you English fancy we do. My sister's 
 was a love-marriage, like mine, and all my children's 
 were. You would find us not so very different from 
 yourselves if you once came and settled among us. 
 Suppose you were to try.' 
 
 So said she, looking kindly at her ; but though, 
 as both knew, she had been told everything, this was, 
 the first time Madame Arthenay had made any allu- 
 sion to Miss Thelluson's future or her own past. Be- 
 sides, they did not talk very much, she speaking chiefly 
 in French, which Hannah found it an effort to follow. 
 But she loved to read the cosmopolitan language of 
 the sweet eyes, to accept the good offices of the tender, 
 skilful, useful hands. Years afterwards, when all its 
 bitterness, and pain, and terror had died out, the only 
 thing she remembered about that forlorn illness in a 
 far-away French town, was the kindness of all the 
 good French people about her, and especially of 
 Madame Arthenay. 
 
 But when she was convalescent, Hannah's heart 
 woke up from the stupor into which it had fallen. 
 She wanted to get well all in a minute, that she 
 might have back her little Rosie, who had been spirited 
 away from her by those compassionate French mothers, 
 and was turning into une petite Frangaise as fast as 
 possible. Above all, she craved for news from home : 
 it was a fortnight now since she had had one word 
 
HANNAH. 281 
 
 one line. She did not wish nay, she dreaded to 
 have a letter from Bernard ; but she would have liked 
 to hear of him how he took the news of her flight, 
 whether he was angry with her, and whether he missed 
 his child. But no tidings came, and she did not want 
 to write till she was better. Besides, Madame Arthenay 
 took all the writing things away. 
 
 ' You are my slave, my captive ; Madame la Com- 
 tesse exacts it/ said she in her pretty French. ' You 
 are not to do a single thing, nor to stir out of your 
 room until I give you leave, which will likely be to- 
 morrow. And now I must bid you adieu, as I have 
 a friend coming who will stay the whole day. Could 
 you rest here quiet, do you think, and spare me an 
 hour of Grace and Rosie ? I should like to show my 
 friend the little English rose/ 
 
 Hannah promised vaguely, and was left alone ; to 
 study as heretofore the flowers on the chintz and the 
 long -tailed birds on the wall. She was getting very 
 weary of her imprisonment she who had never before 
 been confined to her room for a whole week. It was a 
 lovely day ; she knew that by the bit of intensely blue 
 sky behind the house-tiles opposite, and the soft, sweet 
 air that, together with the cheerful street noises of a 
 foreign town, entered in at the open window. A 
 longing to 'rise up and walk ' came over her to go 
 out and see what could be seen ; above all, to catch a 
 glimpse of that glorious view which she had noticed in 
 coming up the hill the sea -view, with Mont St. 
 Michel in the distance ; that wonderful rock castle, 
 dedicated to her favourite angel (in the days when she 
 was a poetical young lady she always had a statue of 
 him in her room), St. Michael, the angel of high 
 places, the angel who fights against wrong. 
 
 It was a vagary, more like a school- girl than a 
 grown woman; but Hannah could not help it. She 
 felt she must go out must feel the fresh air and 
 
IIAXNAH. 
 
 sunshine, and try if she could walk, if there was any 
 remnant of health and strength left in her ; for she 
 would need both so much. 
 
 She was already dressed, for she had insisted upon 
 it. Searching for her bonnet and shawl, and smiling 
 with a pathetic pleasure to find she really could walk 
 pretty well also wondering, with childish amuse- 
 ment, as to whether, if Grace met her, she would not 
 take her for a ghost Hannah stole down through the 
 quiet hotel, and out into the street that picturesque 
 street of Avranches which leads towards the public 
 gardens, and the spot where, within six square feet, 
 is piled up the poor remnant of its once splendid 
 cathedral. 
 
 Madame Arthenay had described it, and the various 
 features of the town, during the gentle, flowing, unex- 
 citing conversation which she pertinaciously kept up 
 by the invalid's bedside, so Hannah easily found her 
 way thither; tottering a little at first, but soon 
 drinking in the life-giving stimulus of that freshest, 
 purest air blowing on a hill -top from over the sea. 
 All her life, Hannah had loved high places ; they feel 
 nearer heaven somehow, and lift one above the petty 
 pains and grovelling pleasures of this mortal life. 
 Even now, weak as she was, she was conscious of a 
 sensation of pleasure, as if her life were not all done. 
 She wandered about, losing her way, and finding it 
 again ; or amusing herself by asking it of those kindly, 
 courteous French folk who, whenever they looked into 
 her face, stopped and softened their voices, as if they 
 knew she had been ill and in trouble. One of them 
 a benign -looking old gentleman, taking the air with 
 his old wife, just like an English Darby and Joan 
 civilly pointed out to her the Jardin des Plantes as 
 being a charming place to walk in, where madame 
 would find easy benches to repose herself upon, and a 
 sea- view, with Mont St. Michel in it, that was truly 
 1 magnifique : ' Madame's own beautiful island could 
 
IIANXAII. 283 
 
 furnish nothing finer. Hannah smiled, amused at the 
 impossibility of passing for anything but an English- 
 woman, in spite of her careful French, and went 
 thither. 
 
 It was a beautiful spot. Sick souls and weary 
 bodies might well repose themselves there, after the 
 advice of the good little fat Frenchman how fat 
 Frenchmen do grow sometimes ! The fine air was 
 soft as cream and strong as wine, and the cloudless 
 sunshine lay round about like a flood; over land and 
 sea the undulating sweep of forest country on the 
 right hand, and on the left the bay, with its solitary 
 rock fortress, prison, monastery about which Madame 
 Arthenay, in her charming small-talk, so fitted for a 
 sick-room, had told stories without end. 
 
 Involuntarily, Hannah sat and thought of them 
 now, and not of her own troubles ; these seemed to 
 have slipped away, as they often do in a short, sharp 
 illness, and she woke refreshed, as after a night's sleep, 
 able to assume again the burden of the day. Only she 
 lay and meditated,, as one does before rising, in a dreamy 
 sort of way ; in which her old dreams came back to 
 her. Looking at that lonely rock, she called up the 
 figure of her saint the favourite St. Michael of her 
 girlhood, with his head bent forward and his sweet 
 mouth firmly set; his hands leaning on his sword, 
 ready to fight, able even to avenge, but yet an angel 
 always ; and there came into her that saving strength of 
 all beaten-down, broken-hearted creatures the belief, 
 alas! often so faint that God does sometimes send 
 His messengers to fight against wrong ; not merely to 
 succour, but absolutely to fight. 
 
 ' No, I will not die not quite yet/ she said to 
 herself, as in this far distant nook of God's earth, 
 which seemed to have His smile perpetually upon it, 
 she thought of her own England, made homeless to her 
 through trouble and bitter with persecution. 'Oh, 
 that I had the wings of a dove ! Here, perhaps, I 
 
284 HANNAH. 
 
 might find rest. But still I will not die. They shall 
 not kill me. They may take my character away 
 they may make him forsake me, as I daresay he will ; 
 but I have strength in my soul, nevertheless. And I 
 will fight against their cruelty I will protest to the 
 last that I had a right to love him, a right to marry 
 him ; that it would have been the best thing for him, 
 for me, and the child. my Bernard ! there is a deal 
 of the angel in you ; but if there were more of the 
 St. Michael if, instead of submitting to wrong, you 
 
 could take up your sword and hew it down But 
 
 you cannot. I know, when the time comes, you will 
 forsake me. But still still I shall have the child.' 
 
 Thus sighed she ; and then, determined to sigh no 
 more, to complain no more, to any living creature, but 
 to do her best to get health and strength of body and 
 mind, Hannah rose up from the heap of stones where 
 she had been sitting. With one fond look at that 
 glorious picture which lay below her earth, sea, and 
 sky, equally beautiful, and blending together in the 
 harmony which soothes one's soul into harmony too 
 she turned her steps homewards; that is, 'chez elle,' 
 for to poor Hannah Thelluson there was not would 
 there ever be ? such a thing as home. 
 
 As she went she saw a figure coming towards her, 
 walking rapidly, and looking round, as if searching for 
 some one. Had it been possible or, rather, had not 
 the extreme improbability of such a thing made her 
 stop a minute, and draw her hand across her eyes, to 
 make sure that imagination was not playing her false 
 she would have said it was Bernard. 
 
 He saw her likewise ; and the two ghosts for 
 strangely ghostly they both looked to one another's 
 eyes met. 
 
 ' Hannah ! how could you ' 
 
 'Bernard! Bernard!' 
 
 She was so glad to see him he could not help 
 finding it out ; nor did she try to hide it she was too 
 
HANNAH. 285 
 
 weak. She clung to his arm, her voice choking, her 
 tears falling fast tears of pure helplessness, and of 
 joy also. He had not forsaken her. 
 
 ' How could you run away in this manner ? We 
 have been searching for you Madame Arthenay, Grace, 
 and I for hours/ 
 
 'Not quite hours/ said she, smiling at last. 'It 
 was fully one o'clock when I left my room. Was 
 that what you meant by my running away?' For 
 she was half afraid of him, gentle as he seemed, and 
 wished to have the worst over at once. 
 
 Bernard shook his head. 
 
 ' I cannot scold you now. I am only too happy 
 to see you once again, my darling.' 
 
 He had never called her so before ; indeed, she was 
 the sort of woman more to be honoured and loved in 
 a quiet, silent way than fondled over with caressing 
 words. Still the tenderness was very sweet to have 
 sweeter because she felt so miserably weak. 
 
 ' How did you find me out ? ' she said, as they 
 walked up the town. And it seemed as if now, for 
 the first time, they were free to walk together, with 
 no cruel eyes upon them, no backbiting tongues pur- 
 suing them. 
 
 ' How did I find you ? Why, I tracked you like 
 a Red Indian. Of course I did I would to the 
 world's end ! What else did you expect, I wonder ? ' 
 
 Hannah hardly knew what she had expected what 
 feared. In truth, she was content to bask in the 
 present, with a passionate eagerness of enjoyment 
 which those only know who have given up the future 
 hopelessly and entirely. 
 
 In the course of the day she grew so rapidly better 
 that, when Bernard proposed going for an hour or two 
 to the house of Madame Arthenay, she assented. He 
 seemed quite at home there ' flirted' with the sweet 
 old French lady in the most charming manner. He 
 had been with her since yesterday, she said ; and was 
 
286 HANNAH. 
 
 indeed the ' friend ' to whom she wished to show the 
 little English Rose. 
 
 ' Monsieur speaks French like a Frenchman, as he 
 ought, having been at school at Caen, he tells me, for 
 two years. He does credit to his Norman blood/ 
 
 Which Madame Arthenay evidently thought far 
 superior to anything Saxon, and that the great William 
 had done us Britons the greatest possible honour in 
 condescending to conquer us. But Hannah would not 
 smile at the dear old lady, whom, she saw, Bernard 
 liked extremely. 
 
 Soon they settled amicably and gaily to the most 
 delicious of coffee, and the feeblest of tea, in Madame 
 Arthenay 's cottage a series of rooms all on the 
 ground-floor, and all opening into one another and 
 into the garden salon, salle-a-manger, two bed- 
 chambers, and a kitchen ; half of which was covered 
 by a sort of loft, up which the one servant a faithful 
 old soul, who could do anything and put up with any- 
 thing mounted of nights to her bed. A menage 
 essentially French, with not a fragment of wealth or 
 show about it ; but all was so pretty, so tasteful, 
 so suitable. It felt like living in a bird's nest, with 
 green leaves outside and moss within a nest one 
 could live in like the birds, as innocently and merrily 
 a veritable bit of Arcadia. Mr. Rivers said so. 
 
 ' Ah, you should come and live among us/ said 
 Madame Arthenay. * In this our Normandy, though 
 we may be a century behind you in civilisation, I 
 sometimes think we are a century nearer than you are 
 to the long-past golden age. We lead simpler lives, 
 we honour our fathers and mothers, and look after our 
 children ourselves. Then, too, our servants are not 
 held so wide apart from us as you hold yours. Old 
 Jeanne, for instance, is quite a friend of mine.' 
 
 ' So is Grace/ Hannah said. 
 
 ' Ah, yes ; poor Grace ! she one day told me her 
 story.' And then turning suddenly to Bernard, 'I 
 
HANNAH. 287 
 
 nssure you we are very good people here in Normandy. 
 You might like us if you knew us. Monsieur Rivers, 
 why not come and settle among us, and resume the 
 old name, and be Monsieur de la Riviere?' 
 
 Bernard started, looked earnestly at her, to see if 
 any deeper meaning lurked under her pleasantry. 
 
 * Take care/ he said ; ' many a true word is spoken 
 in jest/ And then he suddenly changed the conversa- 
 tion, and asked about an old Chateau de Saint Roque, 
 which some one had told him was well worth seeing, 
 and might be seen easily, as it was on sale. 
 
 ' I know the present owner, a Lyons merchant, 
 finds it dull. He bought it from the last proprietaire, 
 to whom it had descended in a direct line, people say, 
 ever since the Crusades ; and such a curious coin- 
 cidence, Monsieur the family were named de la 
 Riviere. Who knows but you may be revisiting the 
 cradle of your ancestors ? If Miss Thelluson is able, 
 you ought certainly to go and see it.' 
 
 Bernard assented, and all was soon arranged. He 
 was in one of his happiest moods, Hannah saw. He, 
 like herself, felt the influence of the sunshiny atmos- 
 phere, within and without, in this pleasant nook of 
 pleasant France the distance from home-sorrows, the 
 ease and freedom of intercourse with Madame Arthenay, 
 who knew everything and blamed nothing. When, 
 next day, they all met, and drove together across the 
 smiling country, amusing themselves with the big, 
 blue-bloused Norman peasant, who kept cracking his 
 long whip and conversing with his horses in shrill 
 patois that resounded even above the jingle of their 
 bells, Hannah thought she had seldom, in all the time 
 they had known one another, seen him looking so 
 
 gay- 
 Saint Roque was one of those chateaux of which 
 there are many in Normandy, built about the time of 
 the Crusades half mansion, half fortress. It was 
 situated in a little valley, almost English in its cha- 
 
288 HANNAH. 
 
 racter, with sleepy cows basking in the meadows, and 
 blackberries such blackberries as little Rosie screamed 
 at with delight, they were so large and fine hanging 
 on the hedges, and honeysuckle, sweet as English 
 honeysuckle, perfuming every step of the road. Sud- 
 denly they came upon this miniature mediaeval castle, 
 with its four towers reflected in the deep clear water 
 of the moat which they crossed by a draw-bridge 
 and then were all at once carried from old romance to 
 modern comfort, but picturesque still. 
 
 Hannah thought she had never seen a sweeter 
 place. 'I only wish I were rich and could buy it. 
 I think I could live content here all my days/ said 
 she to the Lyons merchant's wife, whom Madame 
 Arthenay knew, and who, with her black-eyed boy 
 clinging to her gown, politely showed them every- 
 thing. 
 
 'Did you mean what you said?' whispered Ber- 
 nard, eagerly. And then he drew back, and without 
 waiting for her answer, began talking to Madame 
 Arthenay. 
 
 That night when he took them safe to the hotel 
 door, he detained Hannah, and asked her if she would 
 not come round the garden with him in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 'The air is soft as a Summer night; it will do 
 you no harm. We may have no better chance of 
 talk, and I want to speak to you.' 
 
 Yet for many minutes he said nothing. The night 
 was so still, the garden so entirely deserted, that they 
 seemed to have for once the world to themselves. In 
 this far-away spot it felt as if they had left all the 
 bitterness of their life behind them as if they had a 
 right to be lovers, and to treat one another as such. 
 Bernard put his arm round her as they sat, and though 
 there was a solemnity in his caresses, and a tender 
 sadness in her reception of them, which marked them 
 as people who had known sorrow, very different from 
 
HANNAH. 289 
 
 hoy and girl lovers, still love was very sweet imply- 
 ing deep content, thankful rest. 
 
 * Hannah/ he said at last, ' I have never yet scolded 
 you properly for your running away with Lady Duns- 
 more aiding and abetting you. She would scarcely 
 tell me where you were, until I hinted that, as a father, 
 [ had a right to get possession of my child. Why 
 did you do such a thing ? You must never do it 
 again.' 
 
 She laughed, but said nothing. In truth, they 
 were both too happy for either auger or contrition. 
 
 * Dearest/ he whispered, 'we must be married. I 
 shall never have any rest till you are wholly and law- 
 fully mine/ 
 
 * Bernard ! if that could ever be/ 
 
 ' It shall be. I have been talking to Madame 
 Arthenay about it, as Lady Dunsmore charged me to 
 do. She loves you well, Hannah ; and the dear old 
 French lady loves you too already. Everybody loves 
 you, and would like to see you happy/ 
 
 ' Happy ! ' And it seemed as if happiness would 
 never come any nearer to her than now, when she sat 
 as if in a dream, and watched the moon sailing over 
 the sky, just as she had done in her girlhood and ever 
 since, only now she was lonely no more, but deeply 
 and faithfully loved: loving, too, as she never thought 
 it was in her to love any man. ' Happy ! I am so 
 happy now that I almost wish I could die/ 
 
 ' Hush ! ' Bernard said, with a shiver. ' Come down 
 from the clouds, my love, and listen to me to my 
 plain, rough, common sense, for two minutes/ 
 
 Then he explained that the jest about his becoming 
 Monsieur de la Riviere was not entirely a jest that 
 in talking with Madame Arthenay she had told him 
 how, upon giving notice to the French Government 
 and residing three years in France, he would become 
 a naturalised French citizen, enjoying all the benefits 
 of French laws, including that which, by obtaining a 
 
290 HAXNAH. 
 
 'dispensation* seldom or never refused legalises 
 marriage with a deceased wife's sister. And such, a 
 marriage, Madame Arthenay believed, being contracted 
 by them in the character of French subjects, would be 
 held legal anywhere, as her own had been. 
 
 A future the bare chance of which made Hannah 
 feel like a new creature. To be Bernard's happy, 
 honoured wife, Rosie's rightful mother; to enter joy- 
 fully upon that life which to every home-loving woman 
 is the utmost craving of her nature : she could hardly 
 believe it true, or that, if possible, it had not been thought 
 of before. Until a sadder thought occurred to her. 
 
 ' What does " naturalisation " mean ? Becoming a, 
 Frenchman ?' 
 
 ' Yes. Also that I must " change my domicile/' as 
 lawyers call it, publicly and permanently ; let it be 
 clearly known that I never mean to live in England 
 again.' 
 
 'Never again? That would involve giving up 
 much. How much?' 
 
 'Everything!' he answered bitterly. 'Home, 
 friends, profession, position ; all the ambitions I ever 
 had in my life, and I have had some. Still,' added 
 he was it tenderly or only kindly? as if he feared 
 he had hurt her, ' still, Hannah, I should have you/ 
 
 ' Yes/ said Hannah, and fell into deep thought. 
 
 How much is a woman to a man say, the noblest 
 woman to the best and truest man ? How far can she 
 replace to him everything, supply everything? A 
 great deal, no doubt ; and men in love say she can do 
 all. But is it true ? Does after-experience prove it 
 true ? And, it must be remembered, that in this case 
 the woman's experience of the man was close, domestic: 
 more like that which comes after marriage than before. 
 She knew Mr. Rivers perfectly well, as a brother, before 
 she ever thought of him as anything else. Loving 
 hint, she loved him open-eyed, seeing all his weak as 
 well as his strong points as clearly as he saw hers. 
 
HANNAH. 291 
 
 Hannah was neither an over-conceited nor an over- 
 humble person. She knew perfectly well her own 
 deserts and requirements Bernard's too. She was 
 well aware that the ties of home, of kindred, of old 
 associations, were with him passionately strong. Also, 
 that he was, as he said, an ambitious man ; that the 
 world had a larger place in his heart than it had ever 
 had in hers. She began to tremble. 
 
 ' Tell me/ said she, ' tell me the exact truth. 
 Do you think you could do this? Would it not be 
 a sacrifice so painful, so difficult, as to be almost im- 
 possible?' 
 
 ' You are right/ he answered, in a low voice and 
 turning his head away; 'I fear it would be im- 
 possible/ 
 
 Hannah knew it, and yet she wished he had not 
 said it. To her, with her ideal of love, nothing, except 
 sin, would ever have been found impossible. 
 
 They sat silent awhile. Then Bernard, assuming 
 a cheerful tone, continued 
 
 ' But, my dearest, there is a medium course. Why 
 should we not, without being absolutely naturalised, 
 take up our abode in France, where such marriages as 
 ours are universally recognised ? We might live here 
 the greater part of the year, and only go to England 
 occasionally. Even then we need not mingle in Eng- 
 lish society. We would live in London, or anywhere. 
 The curate I have lately taken would be left in charge 
 of my parish, so that I need scarcely ever go to 
 Easterham/ 
 
 ' That means/ Hannah said slowly, ' that you could 
 never take me to Easterham. Our marriage, after all, 
 would be like the other foreign marriages of which we 
 have spoken, which at home are no marriages at all. 
 Abroad I might be held as your wife ; in England I 
 should be only ' 
 
 ' No, no, no ! ' broke in Bernard impetuously ; ' do 
 not wound me by the cruel word. It is not true. 
 
292 HANNAH. 
 
 People could not be so harsh, so wicked. And if they 
 were, why need we care, when our own consciences are 
 satisfied? Oh, my love, my love, why cannot we be 
 happy ? Is it not right to be happy in this short, sad 
 life of ours, which may end at any time ? Besides/ 
 and his voice altered so that Hannah scarcely knew it, 
 * you are not aware what harm you are doing me. This 
 suspense drives me nearly wild. I can settle to no- 
 thing, accomplish nothing. My life is wasting away. 
 I am growing a worse man every day ; more unworthy 
 of you, of my child, of 7 here he stopped and looked 
 upwards solemnly * of her whom I never forget, my 
 child's mother. Oh, Hannah, listen to me this once, 
 this last time. Let us do what hundreds have done 
 before us marry abroad, and take all risks at home. 
 For God's sake marry me here, and at once!' 
 
 It was an awful struggle. Worse even than that 
 which she had gone through when he was ill, and of 
 which he never knew. The questions she had put to 
 herself then, she repeated now arguing them over 
 and over with a resolute will, that tried to judge every- 
 thing impartially, and not with relation to herself at 
 all. Other arguments, too, came back upon her mind, 
 arguments belonging to the great conflict of her youth, 
 of which this one seemed to be such a cruel repetition 
 with a difference. For the marriage with her cousin 
 would have risked only physical evils, but no moral 
 suffering or social disgrace to any human being ; while 
 this marriage, which the law would never recognise as 
 such, risked much more. All her father had then said 
 to her, her dear dead father, so tender and wise, of 
 the rights of the unborn generation, of the cruelty of 
 entailing upon them the penalty of our joy, if that can 
 be true joy which is so dearly bought seemed to 
 return word by word, and burn themselves into her 
 brain. With Rosie even, it might one day be a diffi- 
 culty when the young grown-up girl came to discover 
 that her father's wife was not really his wife, but only 
 
HANNAH. 293 
 
 regarded as such out of courtesy or pity. And what, 
 if Rosie should not always be the only child ? 
 
 Sitting there, Hannah shuddered like a person in 
 an ague ; and then all feeling seemed to leave her, as 
 if she were a dead woman, unconscious of the living 
 arms that were trying to warm her into life. 
 
 ' You are agitated, my own love ! ' Bernard whis- 
 pered. ' Take time ; do not answer me quickly. Think 
 it well over before you answer at all.' 
 
 ' I have thought it over/ said she, looking mourn- 
 fully in his face, and clinging to his hands, as those 
 cling who know they are putting away from them 
 every happiness of this world. 'Not now only, but 
 many a time before, I have asked myself the same 
 question, and found the same answer. No, Bernard, 
 for God's sake, as you say, which includes all other 
 sakes, I will not marry you.' 
 
 Perhaps they ought to have parted then and there, 
 Hannah thought afterwards it had been better if 
 they had ; kinder to him and to herself if she had fled 
 away on the spot, nor remained to have to endure and 
 to remember those bitter words which miserable people 
 speak in haste, and which are so very hard to be for- 
 gotten afterwards words which are heard afterwards 
 like ghostly voices in the silence of separation, making 
 one feel that a parting, if it must be, had better be like 
 an execution one blow, severing soul and body ; then, 
 nothingness. 
 
 That nothingness, that quiet death, that absence of 
 all sensation, which she had felt more than once in her 
 life after great anguish, would have been bliss itself to 
 the feeling which came over her when having pleaded 
 his utmost, and reproached her his worst, Bernard rose 
 up, to part from her in the soft moonlight of that 
 pleasant garden, as those part who never mean to meet 
 again. 
 
 'My wife you must be or nothing,' he had said 
 passionately, and she had answered with an icy con- 
 
294 HANNAH. 
 
 viction that it must be so that it had best be so. 
 * Yes, that is true ; a wife or nothing/ And then the 
 lurking * devil/ which we all have in us, liable to be 
 roused on occasion, was roused, and she said a few 
 words which, the next minute, she would have given 
 worlds to have left unsaid. For the same minute there 
 came to him, put into his hands by Madame Arthenay's 
 Jeanne, a letter, an English letter, with a broad black 
 edge. 
 
 Bernard took it with a start not of sorrow exactly, 
 but of shocked surprise. 
 
 ' I must go home at once. In truth, I ought never 
 to have left home, but I thought of nothing, remem- 
 bered nothing, except you, Hannah. And this is how 
 you have requited me/ 
 
 * Hush, and read your letter.' 
 
 She dared not look over his shoulder and read it 
 with him dared not even inquire what the sorrow 
 was which she had now no right to share. 
 
 Nor did he tell it ; but, folding up the letter, stood 
 in deep thought for a minute or two, then turned to 
 her coldly, as coldly as if she had been any stranger 
 lady, to whom he gave the merest courtesy which lady- 
 hood demanded from a gentleman, no more. 
 
 * I must beg you to make my excuses to Madame 
 Arthenay, and tell her that I am summoned home I 
 can hardly say unexpectedly, and yet it feels so. Death 
 always feels sudden at last/ 
 
 He put his hand over his eyes, as if he were trying 
 to realise something, to collect himself after some great 
 shock. Hannah said a broken word or two of regret, 
 but he repelled them at once. 
 
 ' No ; this death needs no condolence. It is no 
 sorrow if death ever is a sorrow so bitter as life, 
 which I begin to doubt. But it alters everything for 
 me, and for Rosie. Poor Austin is gone I ain Sir 
 Bernard Rivers/ 
 
 Was there pride in his tone that hard, bitter 
 
HANNAH. 295 
 
 pride which so often creeps into a heart from which 
 love has been ruthlessly driven ? Hannah could not 
 tell ; but when they ^parted, as they did a few minutes 
 after, coldly shaking hands like common acquaintances, 
 she felt that it was really a parting, such a one as they 
 had never had before ; a separation of souls which in 
 all this world might never be united again. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ' THIS is the end the end of all.' 
 
 So Hannah said to herself when Bernard had left, 
 and she realised that they had truly parted parted in 
 anger and coldness, after many bitter words spoken on 
 both sides. She repeated it, morning after morning, 
 as days went wearily by ; and no letter came he who 
 was always so punctual in writing. Evidently then he 
 meant the parting to be final. He had thrust her en- 
 tirely out of his new life, in which she could hencefor- 
 ward have no part or lot. 
 
 This, under the circumstances, was so inevitable 
 that at first she scarcely blamed him. She only blamed 
 herself for not having long ago foreseen that out of 
 their utterly false position no good end could come ; 
 no end but that, indeed, which had come. She had 
 lost him in every relation as lover as brother 
 even as friend. It was sure to be sooner or later; 
 and yet when the blow did fall, it was a very heavy 
 one, and many times a-day she bent under the weight 
 of it in complete abandonment of sorrow. 
 
 Not for long, however ; women with children can- 
 not afford to grieve for long. The very first morning, 
 when she had to explain to Bosie that papa was gone 
 away home, and would not coma back again for a 
 good while (she did it in Grace's presence, who opened 
 
296 HANNAH. 
 
 wide eyes, but said nothing), there was something in 
 the bright face of her ' sunshiny child ' which soothed 
 her pain. And when, in the strange way that children 
 say the most opportune as well as inopportune things, 
 Rosie sidled up to her, whispering, * Tannie not going 
 away and leave Rosie. Tannie never leave Rosie '- 
 she clasped her to her breast in a passion of tender- 
 ness, which was only checked by Rosie's distressed 
 discovery of * Tannie tying/ 
 
 Of course Tannie immediately dried her eyes, and 
 cried no more in the child's sight, at any rate. 
 
 Nor in anybody's sight, for she was one of those 
 who find it not only best, but easiest, to ' die and 
 make no sign.' Uncovering her wounds would only 
 have made them bleed the more. Besides, what good 
 would it have done ? What help could come ? Unless 
 the law was altered, the only possibility of marriage 
 for her and Bernard lay in that course which 
 Madame Arthenay had suggested, and which he, 
 with his strong English feeling, and the intensity of 
 all his home affections and associations, had at once 
 set aside as l impossible ; ' and knowing him as she 
 did, Hannah agreed that it was impossible. But she 
 would not have him judged or criticised by others 
 who knew him less than she. If there was one little 
 sore place in her heart, she would plaister it over 
 hide it until it was healed. 
 
 Therefore, when Madame Arthenay came as usual, 
 she delivered, in carefully -planned phrases, the mes- 
 sage Sir Bernard had left ; and though the good old 
 lady looked surprised, and evidently guessed no wo- 
 man with common womanly penetration could help 
 guessing that something painful had happened ; still, 
 as Hannah said nothing, she inquired nothing, but 
 gave, with a tact and delicacy that won her new 
 friend's love for her whole future life, the best sym- 
 pathy that even old friends can give sometimes the 
 sympathy of silence. 
 
HAXXAH. 297 
 
 They fell back into their old waj^s, and after a 
 few days this brief, bright visit of Sir Bernard's might 
 never have been, so completely did it cease to be 
 spoken of. Sometimes in the midst of her innocent 
 play, little Eosie would make a passing reference to 
 ' papa/ which Aunt Hannah answered with a heart 
 that first leaped wildly, and then sank down, aching 
 with a dull, continual pain. Evidently, not even for 
 his child's sake, would Sir Bernard write to her or have 
 anything to do with her. He had pushed out of his 
 new and prosperous life not only her, but poor Kosie, 
 whom he had left without asking for one good-bye 
 kiss. Even the father in him was destroyed by his 
 wretched position with regard to herself, and would 
 be more and more so as time went on. Perhaps it 
 was better, even for that, that the end had come 
 that there could be no doubt as to their future rela- 
 tions any more. She thought so she forced herself to 
 think so when at last the long-expected letter arrived. 
 It was very brief ; and he used to write whole sheets 
 to her every week ! And upon its courteously formal 
 tone could be put but one interpretation. 
 
 4 MY DEAR HANNAH, 
 
 ' I send the usual monthly cheque doubled, that 
 you and my daughter may have every luxury that 
 Avranches affords, and which, indeed, my new cir- 
 cumstances make desirable and necessary. 
 
 * If you do not dislike the place, I should like you 
 to winter there ; and, with the friendship and protec- 
 tion of good Madame Arthenay, to try and make it 
 your home as much home as you can. 
 
 ' I will say no more at present, being fully occupied 
 
 with family affairs, and with others which time will 
 
 disclose, but of which I do not wish to speak till they 
 
 are more matured. In the meantime I remain always 
 
 'Your sincere friend, 
 
 'BERNARD RIVERS.' 
 
208 HANNAH. 
 
 That was all. No anger, no reproaches, no love. 
 No, not a particle of either lover's love or brother's 
 love of all that she had become so used to, gradually 
 growing and growing, that how she should live on 
 without it she did not know. Kind he was, kind and 
 thoughtful still it was his nature, he could not be 
 otherwise but all personal feeling seemed obliterated. 
 It often happens so with men at least Hannah had 
 heard of such things when thwarted passion sud- 
 denly cools down, like red-hot iron under a stream 
 of water, and hardens into something totally unlike 
 its old self ; the impress of which it ever after retains. 
 This is the only way of accounting for many things 
 especially for one thing which women cannot under- 
 stand, that sudden marriage after a disappointed love, 
 which is so common and so fatal. 
 
 Evidently he could not forgive her ; could not 
 restore her to even her old sisterly place with him. 
 He had dropped her as completely out of his life as a 
 weed out of his garden, now only an encumbrance and 
 a reproach. 
 
 Well, so it must be. Hannah wondered how she 
 ever could have expected anything else. She felt just 
 a little sorry for herself in a vague, abstract way 
 and fancied other people might be too, if they knew 
 it all. Madame Arthenay, unto whom to save all 
 explanations she gave Sir Bernard's letter alas, all 
 the world might have read it ! Lady Dunsmore, whose 
 correspondence was as regular and affectionate as ever, 
 but who now never mentioned the name of Rivers; 
 and, lastly, poor faithful Grace, who followed her 
 mistress with yearning eyes, doing everything that 
 humble devotion could do to give her pleasure or 
 to save her pain, but never saying one single word. 
 These two Pariahs of society as Hannah sometimes 
 in her heart bitterly called herself and her servant 
 clung to one another with a silent trust which was a 
 comfort to both. 
 
HANXAH. 299 
 
 But their greatest comfort was the child. Rosie 
 flourished like a flower. Every day in her young life 
 brought some new and wonderful development. That 
 miraculous study of a growing human soul lay patent 
 before Hannah every day, soothing, calming, and 
 interesting her, till sometimes she became almost re- 
 conciled to her pain. It was not the sharp agony of 
 youth she was accustomed to sorrow but this sor- 
 row had come too late to be cured. She knew it 
 would not kill her : but she also knew that it would 
 last her life. She had been a long time in loving 
 Bernard ; but now that she did love him it was with 
 a depth and intensity which those only know to whom, 
 love is the last remnant of that dolce primavera that 
 sweet heart-springtime after which nothing can bo 
 looked for but winter and old age. 
 
 She wondered how her years would pass the 
 years which would make little Rosie into a woman. 
 And she wondered very much about the child, how 
 she should be educated, and where. Sir Bernard only 
 spoke of their wintering at Avranches having no 
 further plans for Rosie's future ; nor had he ever had 
 any that Hannah knew of. He had seemed to take it 
 for granted that they three she, himself, and the 
 child would always be together, and that there was 
 no need to decide anything. In what manner he might 
 wish his daughter an important personage now, as 
 Miss Rivers of the Moat-House to be brought up, 
 Hannah had not the slightest idea. 
 
 However, one day, when they were driving through 
 this smiling Norman country, where the long lines of 
 poplars had not yet dropped a single leaf, and the 
 quaint old trees of the endless apple-orchards stood 
 each with a glowing heap of dropped fruit round its 
 feet, made Rosie clap her hands in delight, the little 
 woman herself settled that question. 
 
 * Lots of apples ! Rosie like apples. Rosie stay here 
 always, and get lots of apples/ 
 
300 HANNAH. 
 
 A sentence which startled Hannah into deeper and 
 more anxious thought than she had yet expended on 
 her child's future. Truly her child's; she had now 
 none of her own. She never for a moment deceived 
 herself that to her happiness would ever come ; that 
 happiness which had fled from her all her life like a 
 beautiful mirage. Only by the mercy of God, she had 
 been made, as she sometimes thought, with that bitter 
 laugh that is akin to tears, a rugged old camel, who 
 could bear endless burdens, endure weariness and hunger 
 and thirst. The desert would be crossed some day, and 
 she should lie down and rest. 
 
 But in the meantime would it be good for Rosie 
 to remain in France, ignorant of her English ties ; 
 ignorant, above all, of her father, whom already, with 
 the easy forgetfulness of ner age, she had ceased to 
 speak about? What seemed at first a relief became 
 to Hannah by-and-by a serious care. 
 
 Would she be quite right in binding Sir Bernard 
 to the promise which she knew he himself would 
 never break that Rosie should stay with her always ? 
 In the years to come might not this deprive both 
 father and daughter of the greatest blessing of their 
 lives ? 
 
 Hannah remembered in the utter blotting out of 
 hope it was now doubly sweet to remember how ten- 
 derly she had loved her own father; how after her 
 mother's death she had been his constant companion 
 and friend, with a tie so close that even his disapproval 
 of the attachment between her and Arthur could not 
 break it. This tie the love between father and eldest 
 daughter Rosie would in all human probability never 
 know. 
 
 Then, too, around Bernard, so young a man still, 
 would soon spring up not only new interests, but new 
 ties. She tried to fancy him Sir Bernard Rivers, master 
 of the Moat-House and what a noble master he would 
 make! beloved by all the country -side, bringing to 
 
HANXAH. oOl 
 
 it in due time a new Lady Rivers, fair and sweet as 
 his first wife had been, and perhaps raising up in honour 
 and happiness a numerous family Rosie's brothers and 
 sisters to whom poor Rosie would be even less than 
 she was to her father a stranger, an interloper, unto 
 whom the dear associations of kindred blood were only 
 a name. 
 
 Forecasting all this, seeing it, with a cruelly clear 
 prevision, as the inevitable result of things, Hannah, 
 even while she clasped her darling to her bosom, some- 
 times doubted whether hers was not a fatal love, which 
 jnight one day overcloud, instead of brightening, the 
 future of tuis her 'sunshiny child.' 
 
 ' I may have to do it some time/ she said to herself, 
 not daring even in thought to particularise what ' it ' 
 meant. 'But I can't do it yet not yet. My one 
 blessing the only bit of blessedness left me in this 
 world I' 
 
 And night after night, when she lay listening to the 
 soft breathing, thanking God that her treasure was still 
 hers, close beside her, looking to her, and her alone, 
 for the providing of every pleasure, the defence from 
 every ill that the innocent young life could know, 
 Hannah wetted her pillow with her tears. 
 
 ' I cannot do it ; even if I ought, I cannot/ she 
 moaned : and then let the struggle cease. She was not 
 strong enough to struggle now. She rather let herself 
 drift, without oar or sail, just where the waters carried 
 her. Bitter waters they were, but she knew they were 
 carrying her slowly and surely home. 
 
 In this dreamy state she remained during the whole 
 of the brief, bright lull of the St. Martin's summer, 
 which lasted longer than usual in Normandy this year, 
 busying herself chiefly in planning pleasures for the 
 two on whom life's burdens had either not ypt fallen, 
 or were near being laid down, the old lady and the 
 child. With them, and Grace, she wandered every- 
 where near Avranches, and made herself familiar with 
 
302 HANNAH. 
 
 every nook of this pleasant country, which Bernard 
 in his letter had suggested she should try to substitute 
 for ' home/ Well, what did it matter ? It was of 
 little consequence where she and Rosie lived, so that 
 they were far away from him. This must have been 
 what he meant, and she accepted it as such. 
 
 With her usual habit of what he had sometimes 
 called 'horrid resignation* she had almost grown 
 fond of the place, and even, in a sense, was happy 
 in it, when one day there arose upon the strange, 
 stupor-like peace of her daily life one of those sudden 
 blasts of fate like the equinoctial wind in which the 
 St. Martin's summer ended a storm noted in this 
 neighbourhood for years, by the destruction which it 
 had spread. Hannah never heard it spoken of after- 
 wards without recalling that particular day, and all 
 that happened thereon. 
 
 The hurricane had lasted for twenty-four hours, and 
 was still unabated, when, restless with staying in-doors, 
 she went out. Alone, of course which was unusual ; 
 but any danger there might be must not happen to 
 the child. For herself, she used once rather to enjoy 
 danger, to exult in a high wind, as being something 
 to fight against ; but now, when she passed out of 
 the town, and saw the desolation that a few hours had 
 made tall poplars, snapped like straws, lying prone 
 at the road-side, apple -orchards in which there was 
 scarcely a tree not mutilated, and many were torn up 
 completely by the roots she ceased to delight in the 
 storm. She battled with it, however, as long as she 
 could, though it was almost like beating against a stone 
 wall, and then, unable to fight more, she sank, exhausted, 
 in the first sheltered corner she could find. 
 
 ' How weak I must be growing ! ' said poor Hannah 
 to herself; and, catching sight of her favourite Mont 
 St. Michel, the solitary rock, with its castled crown, 
 looking seaward over its long stretch of sandy bay, 
 the tears sprang to her eyes. Alas ! there was no St. 
 
HAXXAH. 303 
 
 Michael to fight for her no strong archangel to un- 
 sheathe his glittering sword in defence of right or in 
 destruction of wrong. She was a lonely woman, with 
 not a creature to defend her neither father, brother, 
 husband, nor lover. Also, she was powerless to defend 
 herself; she knew she felt that her fighting days 
 were all done. That ghostly gleam of love and hope 
 which had brightened her life, had passed away even 
 like this St. Martin's summer, in storm and tempest, 
 and would never come back any more. 
 
 Tired so tired that she could scarcely crawl 
 Hannah retraced her steps, hastening them a little, as 
 she found it was near post-time, and then smiling sadly 
 at herself for so doing. What could the post bring her? 
 Nothing, of course. Her last letter to Sir Bernard, a 
 mere imitation of his own, acknowledging his money 
 which she had no conscience-stings about taking, for she 
 spent it all upon Rosie and agreeing to his proposal 
 of their wintering at Avranches, had remained now three 
 weeks unanswered. Better so, perhaps. Total silence 
 was far less painful than such a correspondence. 
 
 There was one English letter for Grace which, 
 as it bore the Easterhum post-mark, she took to her 
 herself, and lingered half involuntarily while it was 
 opened and read. 
 
 * No bad news, I trust ?' for Grace had uttered 
 an exclamation, and seemed a good deal disturbed. ' No 
 harm happened to to any one belonging to you?' 
 
 For though Grace now seldom mentioned Jem 
 Dixon's name, they both knew that he was still at 
 Easterham, slowly drinking himself to death partly, 
 he declared, because, since Grace left him, he had such 
 a wretched home. Continually there was the chance 
 of hearing that he had come to some ill end, and 
 Hannah was uncertain how much Grace might feel it, 
 or whether, in that case, she would not desire to go 
 back at once to her sister's children, for whom she 
 had had so strong an affection. 
 
304 HANNAH. 
 
 ' No, ma'am,' she said, looking at Miss Thelluson, 
 half inquisitively, half compassionately, ' it's no harm, 
 so to speak, come to anybody. It's only a wedding 
 that they tell me of, a wedding I didn't expect, and 
 I'm very sorry for it.' 
 
 ' Of some friend or relation of yours ? and you 
 don't quite like it, I see ? Never mind, it may turn 
 out better than you think ; marriages sometimes do, 
 I suppose.' 
 
 A commonplace, absently-uttered sentiment ; but 
 Hannah was often very absent now. Life and its in- 
 terests seemed fading daily from her, as from people 
 who are going to die, and from whom, mercifully per- 
 haps, all the outer world gradually recedes, growing 
 indistinct and colourless as at twilight time ; but also 
 calm very calm. She could not rouse herself even 
 into her old quick sympathy with other people's trou- 
 bles, though she saw that Grace was very much troubled 
 about this letter, and continued so all day. Once upon 
 a time the kind mistress would have questioned her 
 about it, but now she took no notice, not till the two 
 were together in the nursery, sharing the little bit of 
 innocent fun with which Rosie always concluded their 
 day. For Rosie was the drollest little woman at her 
 bed-time, playing such antics in her bath, and carrying 
 on the most amusing conversation while she ate her 
 supper, that neither aunt nor nurse could forbear laugh- 
 ing. But to-night it was different, and the sharp little 
 eyes soon detected that. 
 
 ' Look, Tannie,' she whispered mysteriously, ' Dacie 
 tying. Dacie hurt herself p'raps. Poor Dacie tying.' 
 
 And in truth Grace, who stood behind her mistress 
 and the child, had just wiped her eyes upon the towel 
 she held. 
 
 ' No ; I'm not hurt, dear, and it isn't myself I'm 
 crying for. Never mind me, Miss Rosie.' 
 
 ' But we do mind, don't we?' and Miss Thelluson 
 put her hand kindly on the nurse's shoulder as she 
 
HANNAH. 305 
 
 knelt. * You shall tell me all about it presently. In 
 the meantime, don't vex yourself more than you can 
 help. Nothing in life is worth grieving for very much 
 at least, I often think so.' And Hannah sighed. 
 ' We have but to do our duty, and be as content as 
 we can. Everything is passing away soon passing 
 away.' 
 
 Grace's tears fell only the faster. ' It isn't myself, 
 ma'am oh, please don't think that I am not happy 
 now. You are so kind to me, and then I have Miss 
 Rosie ; but what vexes me is this wedding I've heard 
 about, and how people will take it, and ' 
 
 ' Oh, I dare say it will all come right soon,' said 
 Hannah listlessly, rocking her little one in her arms, 
 and feeling that love and lovers and weddings were 
 things belonging to a phase of existence as far back 
 as the world before the flood. ' Who may the couple 
 be? Anybody I know?' 
 
 Grace stopped a minute before she answered, and 
 then said, dropping her eyes, ' Is it possible, ma'am, 
 that you don't know?' 
 
 'How should I?' 
 
 'I thought I have been thinking all day, surely 
 he must have told you.' 
 
 'Who told me?' 
 
 ' Master Sir Bernard. It's his wedding that my 
 sister tells me about. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! ' 
 
 All the blood in Hannah's heart stood still. Had 
 it not been for the unmistakable meaning of Grace's 
 sorrow, and the necessity of self-command that it en- 
 forced, she might have fainted ; but her strong will 
 conquered. She did not ' give way,' as women call it, 
 by any outward sign. 
 
 ' Sir Bernard married ? There must be some 
 mistake. He would, as you say, certainly have told 
 me.' 
 
 ' No ; I didn't mean that he was exactly married ; 
 but that he is going to be. All the village says it. 
 
306 HANNAH. 
 
 And to the last person I'd ever have thought he would 
 marry Miss Alice Melville/ 
 
 'Hush!' said Hannah, glancing at the child, for 
 Rosie, already growing a dangerous little person to 
 speak before, was listening v/ith all her eyes and ears. 
 Happily, in the silence into which his name had fallen, 
 she had not yet learned to identify 'papa' with 'Sir 
 Bernard/ so that as soon as she had got over her 
 natural indignation at seeing aunt and nurse speaking 
 of something which did not include her, who at this 
 hour especially was always their sole object of atten- 
 tion, she curled sleepily down in Tannie's arms, a 
 round little ball, with the pink toes sticking out from 
 under the white nightgown begging earnestly for 
 ' " Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie," just 
 onc3, once more/ 
 
 And Hannah sang it, without a mistake, which the 
 small listener would have detected immediately ; with- 
 out a break in her voice either. For Grace also was 
 listening Grace who might go back to Easterham 
 any day, and tell Easterham anything. Not that she 
 thought Grace would ; but she might. Arid now, 
 above all, whatever Easterham guessed, it must never 
 be given the slightest certainty that Sir Bernard had 
 ever been aught to her except a brother-in-law. 
 
 Therefore Hannah laid E/osie peacefully in her 
 crib, going through all the little ceremonies of tucking 
 in and smoothing down, the ' one, one more 'ittle song/ 
 and the 'two tisses/ which had been their mutual 
 nightly delight for so long. Then she left her darling 
 happy and at rest, and walked slowly down-stairs, 
 Grace following. Thankfully would she have fled 
 away, and hidden herself anywhere out of sight, but 
 this could not be. So she looked steadily in her 
 servant's face. 
 
 ' Now, tell me all about this report concerning Sir 
 Bernard.' 
 
 It was a very natural and probable one, as reports 
 
HANNAH. 307 
 
 go, and seemed to have been generally accepted at 
 Easterham. The two were continually seen together 
 at the Grange and the Moat-House, and it was said 
 they only waited for their common mourning to end, 
 in order to fix their wedding-day. More especially as 
 many years ago, when they were mere boy and girl, 
 they were supposed to have been fond of one another. 
 
 ' She was fond of him at any rate/ Grace declared. 
 'We servants all thought so when I lived at the 
 Grange. She was a nice, pretty young lady, too. But 
 she isn't young now, of course ; not pretty either ; 
 only she is very very good capital about parish things 
 and so on ; and the kindest heart in the world to poor 
 folks' children. She was so kind to mine/ added Grace 
 with a sob. 
 
 Hannah again laid her hands soothingly on her 
 servant's shoulder, but with a strangely absent look. 
 
 'Not young not pretty only very good. I 
 know that. She would make a good wife to him, no 
 doubt/ 
 
 ' Yes/ said Grace, hesitating. ' Only who'd ever 
 have thought of master's wanting her ? I didn't, I'm 
 sure. Why, nice as she is, she isn't fit to hold a candle 
 to ' 
 
 Hannah stopped her, terrified. ' Hush, you forget 
 yourself. Sir Bernard's servant has no right to discuss 
 his future wife. You will displease me exceedingly if 
 you say another word on the subject.' 
 
 Had there been the slightest betrayal on Hannah's 
 part, the poor nurse's heart would have overflowed. As 
 it was, she was simply bewildered. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Miss Thelluson. Us poor ser- 
 vants have no right, I suppose, to be sorry for oui 
 betters. But I was sorry, many a time, because I 
 thought ' 
 
 ' Think nothing at all, say nothing at all, either to 
 me or to any one. My sister has been dead three 
 years; her husband is at perfect liberty to marry 
 
308 HANNAH. 
 
 again as soon as lie chooses. And he could hardly 
 marry a better person than Miss Melville. I am 
 very glad/ 
 
 'Are you?' said Grace, looking at her very ear- 
 nestly. And then Hannah, driven to bay, and feeling 
 the fierce necessity of the moment, looked back at Grace 
 and, almost for the first time in her life, acted a lie. 
 
 'Certainly. Why should I not be glad of my 
 brother-in-law's marriage?' 
 
 There was no answer, of course. Grace, completely 
 puzzled, ventured no more ; but putting the letter into 
 her pocket, begged pardon once again, and, sighing, 
 went away. 
 
 So far, then, Hannah was safe. She had borne 
 the blow nor allowed her servant to suspect what a 
 death-blow it was; nay, she had even succeeded in 
 concealing the fact that it had come upon her unawares. 
 Poor innocent hypocrite ! the lessons taught by the last 
 bitter year and a half had not been lost upon her. But 
 when Grace was gone she sat utterly paralysed. 
 
 Over and over again she had repeated to herself 
 that all was at an end between her and Bernard ; but 
 she had never contemplated such an end as this. So 
 sudden too scarcely six weeks from the time she had 
 parted from him when he had been her ardent, de- 
 spairing, desperate lover; furious because she would 
 not sacrifice everything for him, as he said he was 
 ready to do for her. And now he was quite ready to 
 marry another woman. Could it be true? Was it 
 probable possible ? 
 
 Something in Hannah's secret heart whispered that 
 it was : that his impulsiveness of temperament, his 
 extreme affectionateness and corresponding need of 
 affection, made a hasty marriage like this, to one whom 
 he knew well, and who had always been fond of him, 
 not incomprehensible even to her. And yet and 
 yet 
 
 ' He might have waited just a little while; have 
 
HANNAH. 309 
 
 mourned for me just for a few weeks a few months 
 as he did for my poor Rosa.' 
 
 And her tears dropped fast fast ; not the scalding 
 tears of youth, but very bitter tears nevertheless. She 
 had loved him so well, had endured so much for him, 
 had had such a bright dream of what she was to him. 
 Could it have been only a dream ? Would any other 
 woman be just as dear to him as she? And though 
 she did not faint, or shriek, or moan, or do any of those 
 desperate things which tragic heroines are supposed 
 to indulge in upon hearing of the marriage of their 
 lovers ; though she went to bed, and slept, and rose 
 next morning just as if nothing had happened, still 
 Hannah felt that something had happened something 
 which would make the world look never quite the same 
 as it looked yesterday. 
 
 That yesterday was the last day she crossed the 
 threshold for two whole weeks. The doctor said she 
 ought not to have gone out in the high wind ; that, 
 out of health as she was before, it had caught her in 
 some way, affected her breathing, smitten her at her 
 heart. At which Miss Thelluson smiled. She knew 
 she was * smitten to the heart.' 
 
 But it was very convenient this illness. It 
 saved her from all need of physical exertion, even of 
 talking. She could just turn her face to the wall, and 
 lie quiet, and do nothing. She felt for the first time 
 in her life not the slightest inclination to do any- 
 thing. Even when she rose from her bed the same 
 incapacity continued, till sometimes Rosie's innocent 
 prattle was almost too much for her, and she felt 
 herself turning sick and faint ; and saw, with a dread 
 indescribable, Madame Arthenay or Grace carry the 
 child away from her, and keep her out of her sight 
 for hours at a time. 
 
 What if, by-and-by, this were to be constantly 
 the case ? What if this condition of hers was the fore- 
 runner of long and serious illness perhaps the con- 
 
310 HANNAH. 
 
 sumption which was said to be in the family, though 
 in this generation her cousin Arthur had been its only 
 victim ? Suppose she were to fall sick and die ? She 
 began to have a feeling was it sweet or sad ? that 
 she could die, and that of mere sorrow. And, then, 
 what would become of the child ? 
 
 ' Oh, my Rosie, if ever there should come a time 
 when you were left forlorn with nobody to love you, 
 when you might blame poor Tannie for having stolen 
 you and kept you away from all those who might have 
 loved you ! If ever Tannie should die ! ' 
 
 ' Tannie die ? What's dat ? Eosie don't like it ! ' 
 said the little thing, to whom she had been talking. 
 She had two ways of talking to her darling. One 
 which Rosie could perfectly comprehend : long con- 
 versations about flowers, and beasts, and people, and 
 things, and all sorts of subjects in which the child's 
 intelligence was receptive to a degree that sometimes 
 utterly amazed the grown woman. The other was a 
 trick she had of speaking simply for her own relief, 
 in a fashion that Kosie could not comprehend at all. 
 But, baby as she was, she comprehended the anxious 
 face, the tremulous voice ; and repeated, with that 
 pathetic droop of the lips that always foreboded tears, 
 'Rosie don't like it.' 
 
 Hannah changed her tone immediately. ' Come 
 here, my pet, Tannie won't die then. She couldn't 
 afford it just yet. But listen a minute. Would Rosie 
 like to go and see papa ? Be papa's girl again, and 
 play about in the pretty garden, and the greenhouse, 
 and the nursery? Rosie remembers them all?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the little decisive voice Rosie never 
 had the slightest doubt in her own baby mind about 
 anything. ' Rosie will go and see papa soon, very 
 soon. Tannie come too.' 
 
 Hannah turned away, and could not answer at first. 
 Then she said, ' But perhaps Tannie might not come 
 too. Rosie would be content with papa ? ' 
 
HANNAH. 311 
 
 ' No/ there was entire decision in this likewise 
 ' Rosie not go to papa unless Tannie come too. Rosie 
 don't want papa. Rosie will stop with Tannie/ 
 
 And the little woman, squatting down on Tannie's 
 pillow with an air of having quite settled the whole 
 affair, turned her whole undivided attention to a 
 doll whose eyes would open and shut, and who was 
 much more interesting to her than any papa in the 
 world. 
 
 But Rosie' s unconscious words aroused in her aunt 
 a dread that had once awoke and been silenced : the 
 fear that as time went on this complete severance 
 would produce its natural result ; the child would be- 
 come indifferent to the father, and the father to the 
 child. For, let people talk as they will about the ties 
 of blood, it is association which really produces the 
 feeling which is termed ' natural affection/ Deprived 
 of this, and then deprived of herself, Rosie might in 
 a few years be left as lonely a creature, save for 
 money, as her Aunt Hannah once had been ay, and 
 was now, save for this one darling, the sole treasure 
 saved out of her wrecked life. But was it lawfully 
 and righteously hers ? 
 
 There is a story, I believe a true one most 
 women will feel that it might have been true of a 
 Highland mother who, travelling from one glen to 
 another, was caught in a snow-storm, and lost for 
 twenty- four hours. When found that is, her body 
 was found she had stripped off everything but her 
 shift to cover the child. It was alive still, just alive ; 
 but the mother, of course, was dead. 
 
 Hannah Thelluson, as she lay awake all through 
 this night, the first night that they brought back 
 Rosie's crib to its old place by her bedside for she 
 insisted she should sleep better if they did so was 
 not unlike that poor Highland woman. 
 
 Next morning she said, in a quiet, almost cheerful 
 tone, ' Grace, do you think you could pack up all our 
 
312 HANNAH. 
 
 things in a day? For I want, if possible, to go 
 buck to England to-morrow.' 
 
 'Go back to England!' 
 
 ' Yes. What do you say to that, Rosie ? ' fixing 
 her eyes on the child's face ; and then, as a sudden 
 gush blinded them, turning away, and contenting 
 herself with feeling the soft cheeks and the rings 
 of silky hair as that Highland mother might have 
 done when the death-mists were gathering over her 
 eyes. ' Will Rosie go back, and see papa ? and be 
 papa's own little girl again ? Papa will be so fond 
 of her.' 
 
 'Yes/ assented the little oracle, and immediately 
 proved her recollection of her father, and her lively 
 appreciation of his paternal duties, by breaking her 
 doll's head against the bed-post, and then saying in 
 a satisfied tone, ' Never mind. All right. Eosie take 
 dolly to papa. Papa will mend it.' 
 
 In a week from that time, travelling as fast as her 
 strength allowed, yet haunted by a vague dread that it 
 would not last her till she reached England, Hannah 
 arrived in London. 
 
 Only in London, at an hotel ; for she had no house 
 to go to no friend. Lady Dunsmore happened to be 
 at a country seat ; but, even if not, it would have 
 been all the same. What she had to do no one could 
 help her in no one could advise her upon : it must 
 be solely between herself and Bernard. And the sooner 
 it was done the better. She felt this ; more and more 
 every hour. The struggle was growing frightful. 
 
 ' I was right,' she said to herself, when, as soon as 
 the need for exertion was over, she sank, utterly ex- 
 hausted, and was obliged to leave to Grace the whole 
 charge of everything, including the child, and lie, 
 listening to the roll of endless wheels below the hotel 
 window as ceaseless as the roar of the sea, and as 
 melancholy ' I was quite right ! It is best to resign 
 everything. I cannot trust myself any more.' 
 
HANNAH. ol<3 
 
 The first minute that her hands ceased from shaking, 
 she wrote the decisive letter : 
 
 1 DEAR FRIEND ' (she first put ' Bernard/ then 
 ' Brother/ finally ' Friend/ He was that still ; at 
 least she had never given him cause to be the con- 
 trary), ' I have, against your wish, returned to Eng- 
 land, though only for a few days' stay, in consequence 
 of having accidentally discovered the matter to which 
 I suppose your last letter referred ; though, as you 
 have never plainly told me, I will not refer to it here. 
 But I think it ought to modify our future arrange- 
 ments, which I should like to talk over with you. If 
 you will come and see me here, me and Rosie, half-an- 
 hour would, I think, suffice to decide all, and I could 
 go back to France at once. 
 
 * I remain, with every wish for your 
 
 * happiness in your new life, 
 ' Your affectionate friend, 
 
 * HANNAH THELLUSON.' 
 
 After that she had nothing more to do but to wait, 
 and watch day darken into night, and night brighten 
 back into day the dreary London day, all loneliness 
 and noise till Sir Bernard came. 
 
 He came earlier than she could have believed it 
 
 Csible. He must at once have taken a night train 
 m Easterham, which he owned he had ; but, though 
 he looked very tired, he was neither so agitated nor 
 so confused as he might naturally have been under 
 the circumstances. 
 
 'Why in the world did you take such a journey, 
 Hannah?' was all he said, on entering; then, per- 
 ceiving Grace and the child, he stepped back, and 
 caught his little daughter in his arms. 
 
 ' My pretty one ! Run away, nurse, and leave her 
 to me. I want to have her all to myself. What, 
 Rosie ! Has she forgotten papa ? Two tisses ! lots 
 of tisses I Papa's darling ! Papa's lamb ! ' 
 
314 HANNAH. 
 
 Of one thing Hannah was certain, Sir Bernard was 
 unfeignedly glad to see his child. No lack of fatherly 
 love, even though he was going to be married. It 
 gave that poor heart which he had forsaken, a thrill 
 of joy to see how tenderly he caressed his little ' lamb ' 
 the motherless lamb that might have perished but 
 for her, and which her care had now nurtured into a 
 creature that, among any number of children, would 
 be always the flower of the flock, so pretty had she 
 grown, so winning, so clever, and, withal, such a good 
 and loving child. Any father might be proud ^f Rosie. 
 And as she clung about Sir Bernard, rememberng all 
 his old tricks with her, as if they had only puned last 
 week, the two seemed perfectly happy together, and 
 even like one another with that strange family like- 
 ness which comes and goes in little faces, but which 
 Hannah saw now as she had never seen before. Yes, 
 Eosie was decidedly like him, and they would grow 
 up to be a true father and daughter one of the dearest 
 and sweetest bonds that human nature can know. 
 
 She had quite forgotten herself a trick she had, 
 poor Hannah ! in watching them and speculating upon 
 them and their future when she felt both her hands 
 taken, one by her child's soft little fingers, the other 
 by the strong clasp of a man. 
 
 ' Hannah ! can you forgive me ? I have sometimes 
 feared you never would.' 
 
 'What for?' 
 
 ' For my unreasoning anger my frantic love ; 
 above all, for having asked of you a sacrifice which 
 no man should ask or accept from any woman. I 
 knew this, felt it, the instant I came to my right 
 senses, which was as soon as ever you were out of my 
 
 sight ; but it was too late to tell you so . Forgive 
 
 me. You will have no need to forgive me anything 
 again/ 
 
 ' I know that/ said Hannah, slowly, and waited 
 for the next words he would say words which would 
 
HANNAH. 315 
 
 surely be confirmation of all she had heard. So sure 
 was she of it, that she did not withdraw her hand ; she 
 even, seeing that his manner was not agitated, but 
 even cheerful, began to think whether now it would 
 not be possible to go back, in degree, to their old 
 cordial relations ; whether he could not be again her 
 brother-in-law and Alice Melville's husband. Still 
 something in her manner seemed to starile him. 
 
 'Know? What can you know? Not, surely, 
 anything about these future plans of mine which, 
 for both our sakes, I have carried out, unknown to 
 you, until now?' 
 
 ' Nevertheless, I have found them out/ said Han- 
 nah, with a faint smile. ' In these things, you see, a 
 bird of the air often carries the matter. I am aware 
 of it all.' 
 
 * Of all ? Who could have told you ? And what ? ' 
 
 'That you are going to be married.' 
 
 Sir Bernard started ; then half smiled. But he 
 offered not the slightest contradiction. 
 
 Hannah, perfectly convinced, conscious of only 
 one wild impulse to get through what she had to say, 
 that it might be all over and done, went on speaking. 
 
 ' Married, as I hear, to Alice Melville, which is a 
 choice that must satisfy everybody. That is the rea- 
 son I came back to England. She is a good woman, 
 who would be a good mother to my child. And I feel 
 very weak and ill. I have been ill ' 
 
 ' My poor Hannah ! And you never told me ?' 
 
 ' Why should I ? I only tell you now because it 
 frightens me about Bosie's future. She ought to have 
 safer protection than mine. She ought to have a 
 brighter life than any I can give her. So I came to 
 say' Hannah drew her breath hard and fast 'if 
 you want her back, I will give her up to you and 
 Alice. Only, first I must speak to Alice must 
 make her promise ' 
 
 Just then tiny fingers ringed themselves round 
 
316 HANNAH. 
 
 Hannah's cold hand, against which Rosie laid her 
 cheek, in a caressing way she had. It was too much 
 the strong heart altogether gave way, and she sat 
 down sobbing. 
 
 Sir Bernard had listened, quite confounded at first, 
 then silently watched her. 
 
 ' Hannah, you good, good woman ! ' was all he 
 said, and taking out of her arms little Rosie, now 
 sobbing as piteously as she, disappeared from the room 
 with the child. 
 
 Then it was really true, this marriage : he did not 
 deny it. And he accepted her sacrifice of her darling. 
 Well, once made, she could not retract it, even had 
 she desired to do so. But she did not desire. She 
 only wished to see Rosie safe, and then go away and 
 die. This once, once more, for the last time in her 
 life, she accepted the inevitable. It was God's will, 
 and it must be. 
 
 Long before Sir Bernard came back she had dried 
 her eyes, and waited, as she thought she ought to wait, 
 for anything he had to say any final arrangements 
 they might require to make. Theie was a chair oppo- 
 site, but he sat down beside her, and took her hand. 
 
 ' Hannah, I want to speak half-a-dozen quiet words 
 to you, which I should not have said till Spring ; but 
 I had better say them now. It is quite true I am 
 
 fing to be married, and as soon as I possibly can. 
 am not fitted for a lonely life. Mine will be worth- 
 less to myself, my fellow-creatures, my God, unless 
 I accept the blessing He offers me, and marry the wo- 
 man I love. But that woman is not Alice Melville ' 
 ' Not Alice Melville ! ' 
 
 ' How could you ever think it was ? She is very 
 good, and we are fast friends indeed, she has advised 
 with me in all my plans, and we have been very much 
 together of late, which may account for this report. 
 How could you believe it?' and he smiled his old, 
 winning, half-mischievous smile. * As Rosie would say 
 
HANNAH. 317 
 
 by-the-by, how she has grown, that dear girl of ours ; 
 "papa don't like it."' 
 
 Hannah had borne sorrow but she could not bear 
 joy ; she was too weak for it. Her lips tried to speak, 
 and failing that, to smile ; but it was in vain. She 
 sank, quite insensible, in Bernard's arms. 
 
 It was a good many hours before she was able to 
 hear those 'half-a-dozen quiet words' which were to 
 change the whole current of her life of both their 
 lives. 
 
 The plan which Madame Arthenay had first sug- 
 gested, of naturalising himself in France, changing his 
 domicile, and marrying as a French citizen, according 
 to French law had, immediately after his parting, 
 from Hannah, recurred again and again to Sir Bernard's 
 mind as the only solution of their difficulty. On con- 
 sulting the Dunsmores on the subject, they also had 
 seen the matter in the same light. Though session 
 after session Lord Dunsmore determined to bring for- 
 ward his favourite Bill, still years might elapse before 
 it was passed and became law, and until then there 
 was no hope of marriage in England for Hannah and 
 Bernard. 
 
 ' You must not ask it/ said Lady Dunsmore, igno- 
 rant and she always remained ignorant that he ever 
 had asked it. ' A woman like her would never consent. 
 And she is right. To break your country's laws, how- 
 ever unjust they may be, and then expect its protection, 
 is like disobeying one's father. We must do it if 
 compelled by his unjust exactions but we ought to 
 quit his house first.' 
 
 So there was no alternative but for Sir Bernard 
 to make the sacrifice as hard for him as Hannah's 
 renunciation of Kosie had been for her and give up 
 England for ever. His profession likewise since no 
 man with a conscience could break the canon law, and 
 yet remain a clergyman. 
 
 ' And I have a conscience, though they do not think 
 
318 HAXXAH. 
 
 so at the Moat-House,' said he, faintly smiling. That 
 smile and his worn looks alone betrayed to Hannah 
 the sufferings he must have gone through in making 
 up his plans now all decided and set in train. In 
 fact, he had already renounced everything, and pre- 
 pared himself to begin a new career, to make a new 
 home, and spend the remainder of his days in a foreign 
 land. 
 
 ' I can do it in one sense/ he continued, ' easier 
 than most men because of my large private fortune. 
 I mean to buy the Chateau St. Eoque, which you liked 
 so much. Did you not say you could cheerfully spend 
 your whole life there ? Perhaps you may.' 
 
 Hannah smiled ; and there came across her memory 
 a trembling flash of that pleasant place with the four 
 towers looking at themselves in the water, and the 
 green upland-gardens and meadows on either hand. 
 
 ' Yes/ she whispered, ' we could be very happy 
 there. It would not be so very dreadful to live in 
 France, would it?' 
 
 * At least, we must not say so to our good friend, 
 Madame Arthenay, or to our new compatriots. And 
 I hope I am not so very insular as to see charms in 
 no country except my own. Besides, am I not re- 
 planting my family tree where its old roots came from? 
 Who knows ? Years hence I may revive the glory of 
 my Norman ancestors by making a speech, in my very 
 best French, before the Chamber of Deputies. What 
 say you, Hannah ? Shall we shake British dust entirely 
 off our feet, and start afresh as Monsieur and Madame 
 de la Riviere ? Great fun that ! ' 
 
 The boyish phrase and the almost boyish laugh 
 that accompanied it comforted Hannah more than he 
 knew. Heavy as his heart was now, and sore with his 
 hard renunciations, there was in him that elastic nature 
 which, grief once overpast, refuses to dwell upon it 
 but lives in the present and enjoys the future. And 
 he was still young enough to have a future to open 
 
HA XX AH. 319 
 
 up new paths for himself, and carry them out nobly; to 
 live in content and die in honour, even though it was 
 far away from the dear England where he was born. 
 
 'But it costs you so much ah, so much!' said 
 Hannah, mournfully. 
 
 ' Yes, but I have counted the cost ; and if you 
 will not scold me for saying so I think you worth 
 it all. Many men become voluntary exiles for the sake 
 of wealth, convenience, or whim : why should not I for 
 love? Love which is duty also, when one is loved 
 back again/ 
 
 Hannah smiled, knowing he was one of those whom 
 it makes, not conceited or tyrannical, but strong and 
 happy, to be loved back again. 
 
 * Besides/ he continued, ' I have not much love to 
 leave behind: my sisters are all married Bertha will 
 be next spring. No one will miss me; nor perhaps 
 shall I soon come to miss anything except a few 
 graves in Easterham Churchyard/ 
 
 He stopped, and that last bitterness of exile the 
 clinging to the very sod of one's own land, the sod 
 which covers our dead came over him, sad and sore. 
 Those graves buried in them lay all his childhood, 
 his youth, his brief happy married life with the wife, 
 whom though he seldom spoke of her now Hannah 
 knew he had no more forgotten than she had forgotten 
 her lost Arthur. Time had healed all wounds; life, 
 and its duties, had strengthened them both strength- 
 ened them into that calm happiness which sometimes, 
 after much sorrow, God sees fit to send, and which 
 it is good to accept and be thankful for. But as for 
 forgetting! She said nothing, only drew Bernard's 
 head softly to her shoulder, and let him weep there 
 the tears of which no man need be ashamed. 
 
 By -and -by she asked about Bertha's marriage, 
 which was to a gentleman in the neighbourhood whom 
 she had refused several times, but accepted at last. He 
 was very rich, if not very clever or very wise. 
 
320 HANNAH. 
 
 ' Stfll she might have done worse. He is a good 
 fellow, and we all like the match, except perhaps 
 Melville, who speaks sharply about it sometimes ; but 
 Bertha only laughs at him, and says she shall please 
 herself in spite of brothers-in-law.' 
 
 Hannah looked keenly at Bernard while he spoke ; 
 but he did so in utter unsuspiciousness. Evidently he 
 had never guessed, in the smallest degree, the secret 
 grief of his sister Adeline, the canker of her married 
 life, that jealousy of her sister, from which all the re- 
 strictions of the law could not save her, no more than 
 the terror of the Divorce Court can save poor miserable 
 souls to whom vice is pleasanter than virtue. But to 
 this right-minded, honest man, entrenched within the 
 sacredness of a happy marriage, the one idea would 
 have been almost as untenable as the other. Hannah 
 was certain that, dearly as Bernard loved her now, 
 had Rosa lived she might have come about their house 
 continually, and he would have had no sort of feeling 
 for her beyond the affectionate interest that a man may 
 justly take in his wife's sister, or cousin, or friend 
 the honourable chivalric tenderness for all women, 
 which only proves how deeply the one woman he has 
 chosen is enshrined in his heart. 
 
 So what he had never once suspected she never 
 told him and no one else was ever likely to do so. 
 Adeline's sufferings were buried with her. So best. 
 
 'And now, 'said Sir Bernard, ' I must say good-bye. 
 And I shall not see you again till we meet on board 
 the Havre steamer to-morrow.' 
 
 For he had arranged already that she should go 
 back at once avoiding the very appearance of evil 
 and remain with Madame Arthenay until he came 
 to marry her, which, if possible, should be in Spring. 
 
 ' I shall come, like Napoleon, with the violets, and 
 by then we must have these thin cheeks rounded, 
 and these grave eyes looking as bright and merry as 
 Bosie's. I used to say, you know, there was no tell- 
 
HANNAH. 321 
 
 ing which was most of a baby, Tannie or Rosie. By- 
 the-by, she must cease to say " Tannie " and learn to 
 say " Mamma. '" 
 
 Hannah burst into tears. 
 
 'Yes, there is one thing I am not afraid of/ said 
 she, when her full heart had a little relieved itself of 
 its felicity. * I know I shall be a good mother to your 
 child. What I am afraid of is whether I shall be a 
 sufficiently good wife to you. You might have married 
 almost any woman you liked young, rich, pretty; 
 whilst I look here, Bernard/ 
 
 She lifted up her hair, and showed him the long 
 stripes of grey already coming faster than ever since 
 the trouble of the last few years ; but he only kissed 
 the place, repeating Cowper's lines, which he reminded 
 her they had often read together in those long quiet 
 evenings which would all come back again, when the 
 one deep and lasting bliss of married life, companion- 
 ship, would be theirs without alloy companionship, 
 which even in friendship alone, without marriage, had 
 been so sweet: 
 
 'Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 Are still as lovely to iny sight 
 As golden beams of orient light 
 
 My Mary.' 
 
 ' No, Hannah/ he said, ' I am not afraid neither 
 of our new life nor of ourselves. I know what a man 
 marries a woman for not for this beauty or that, this 
 quality or that peculiarity ; but because she suits him, 
 sympathises with him, is able to make of him a better 
 man than he ever was before as you have made me. 
 If I had let you go, I should have been not only a 
 coward, but a fool. I take you just as you are, " with 
 all your imperfections on your head," as I hope you 
 will take me?' 
 
 'Yes/ she said, laughing, though the tears were 
 in her eyes. 
 
 'Very well, then. Let us be content.' 
 
 Y 
 
322 HANNAH. 
 
 He put his arms about her, and stood looking deep 
 down into her eyes. He was much handsomer than 
 she, brighter and younger-looking ; yet there was 
 something in Hannah's face which, with all its hand- 
 someness, his had not a certain spiritual charm 
 which, when a man once recognises in a woman, is 
 an attraction as mysterious as it is irresistible makes 
 him crave for her, as the one necessity of his existence, 
 risk everything in order to win her, and, having won 
 her, love her to the last with a passion that survives 
 all change, all decay. What this charm was, probably 
 Bernard himself could not have told ; but Lady Duns"- 
 more, speaking of Hannah, once characterised it as 
 being 'a combination of the angel and the child.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THERE is a picture familiar to many, for it was in 
 the Great Exhibition of 1851, and few stopped to look 
 at it without tears ' The Last Look of Home/ by Ford 
 Madox Browne. Merely a bit of a ship's side one 
 of those emigrant ships such as are constantly seen at 
 Liverpool, or other ports whence they sail with its 
 long rows of dangling cabbages, and its utter con- 
 fusion of cargo and passengers. There, indifferent to 
 all, and intently gazing on the receding shore, sit two 
 persons undoubtedly a man and his wife emigrants 
 and bidding adieu to home for ever. The man is 
 quite broken-down ; but the woman, sad as she looks, 
 has hope and courage in her face. Why not ? In one 
 hand she firmly clasps her husband's the other sup- 
 ports her sleeping babe. She is not disconsolate, for 
 she carries her 'home' with her. 
 
 In the picture the man is not at all like Bernard, 
 certainly ; but the woman is exceedingly like Hannah 
 
HANNAH. 323 
 
 in expression at least as she sat on the deck of 
 the French steamer, taking her last look of dear Old 
 England, with its white cliffs glimmering in the moon- 
 light fainter and fainter every minute across the 
 long reach of Southampton Water. 
 
 Bernard sat beside her but he too was very silent. 
 He meant to go back again as soon as he had seen 
 her and Rosie and Grace safely landed at Havre ; but 
 he knew that to Hannah this farewell of her native 
 land was, in all human probability, a farewell 'for 
 good/ 
 
 Ay, for good in the fullest sense ; and she believed 
 it ; believed that they were both doing right, and that 
 God's blessing would follow them wherever they went ; 
 yet she could not choose but be a little sad, until she 
 felt the touch of the small, soft hand which, now as 
 ever, was continuously creeping into Tannie's. Then 
 she was content. If it had been God's will to give her 
 no future of her own at all, shs could have rested 
 happily in that of the child and the child's father. 
 
 It happened to be a most beautiful night for cross- 
 ing the sea calm as glass, and the air mild as summer, 
 though it was in the beginning of November. Hannah 
 could not bear to go below, but with Rosie and Grace 
 occupied one of those pleasant cabins upon deck 
 sheltered on three sides, open on the fourth. There, 
 wrapped in countless rugs and shawls, Rosie being in 
 an ecstasy at the idea of going to bed in her clothes, 
 'all under the tars,' ('s' was still an impossible first 
 consonant to the b^.by tongue), she settled down for 
 the night, with her child in her arms, and her faithful 
 servant at her feet. 
 
 Sir Bernard made them all as comfortable and warm 
 as he could kissed his child, and Hannah too, in 
 Grace's presence. For he had himself informed the 
 nurse how matters stood, and told her that in his house 
 she should have a home for life, in a country where 
 marriages such as hers and theirs were considered 
 
324 HANNAH. 
 
 honourable, natural, and right. Then he bade them 
 all good night, and went to the cabin below. 
 
 Hannah could not sleep ; but she rested, quiet and 
 happy. Even happiness could not make her physically 
 strong ; but she left all her days to come in God's 
 hands to be many or few, as He thought best. The 
 others fell sound asleep, one at her bosom, the other at 
 her feet ; but she lay wide awake, listening to the lap- 
 lap of the water against the boat, and watching the 
 night sky, so thick with stars. At length the moon 
 came too, and looked in upon them like a sweet calm 
 face, resembling a dead face in its unchangeable peace ; 
 so much so that, when Hannah dropped at last into a 
 confused doze, she dreamt it was the face of her sister 
 Rosa smiling down out of heaven upon them all. 
 
 When she woke it was no longer moonlight, but 
 daylight, at least daybreak ; for she could discern the 
 dark outline of the man at the wheel, the only person she 
 saw on deck. The boat seemed to be passing swiftly and 
 silently as a phantom ship through a phantom ocean ; 
 she hardly knew whether she was awake or asleep, dead 
 or alive, till she felt the soft breathing of the child in 
 her arms, and with a passion of joy remembered all. 
 
 A few minutes after, Hannah, raising her head as 
 high as she could without disturbing Rosie saw a sight 
 which she had never seen before, and never in all her life 
 may see again, but will remember to the end of her days. 
 
 Just where sea and sky met, was a long, broad line 
 of most brilliant amber, gradually widening and widen- 
 ing as the sun lifted himself out of the water and shot 
 his rays, in the form of a crown, right up into the still 
 dark zenith. Then, as he climbed higher, every floating 
 cloud and the horizon seemed full of them became 
 of a brilliant rose-hue, until the whole heaven blazed 
 with colour and light. In the midst of it all, dim as a 
 dream, but with all these lovely tints flitting over it, 
 Hannah saw, far in the distance, the line of the French 
 shore. 
 
HANNAH. 325 
 
 It was her welcome to her new country and new 
 life the life which was truly like being born again 
 into another world. She accepted the omen ; and, clasp- 
 ing her child to her bosom, closed her eyes and praised 
 
 God. 
 
 ****** 
 
 All this happened long ago, and Monsieur and 
 Madame de la Riviere have never returned to England. 
 They still inhabit the Chateau de Saint Roque, beloved 
 and honoured far and wide in the land of their adop- 
 tion ; and finding, after all, that the human heart beats 
 much alike, whether with French blood or English, and 
 that there is something wonderfully noble and loveabie 
 about that fine old Norman race which (as Madame 
 Arthenay long delighted in impressing upon her dear 
 neighbours, and upon the many English friends who 
 visited them in their pleasant foreign home) once came 
 over and conquered and civilised us rude Saxons and 
 Britons. 
 
 Whether the master and mistress of Saint Roque 
 will ever return to England, or whether little Austin, 
 the eldest of their three sons, Rosie is still the only 
 daughter will ever become not only the heir of their 
 French estates and name, but one day Sir Austin Rivers 
 of the Moat-House, remains to be proved. At any 
 rate, they mourn little after that old home, being so 
 thoroughly happy in their new one as those deserve 
 to be who have sacrificed for one another almost every- 
 thing except what they felt to be right. But they are 
 happy, and what more can they or any one desire ? 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 44. SAM SLICK'S AMERICANS AT HOME. 
 
 "This is one of the most amusing books that we ever read." Standard. 
 
 45. THE UNKIND WORD. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." 
 "The author of 'John Halifax 'has written many fascinating stories, but we can 
 call to mind nothing from her pen that has a more enduring charm than the graceful 
 sketches in this work." United Service Magazine, 
 
 46. A ROSE IN JUNE. By MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 
 " * A Rose in June ' is as pretty as its title. The story is one of the best and most 
 touching which we owe to the industry and talent of Mrs. Oliphant, and may hold its 
 own with even ' The Chronicles of Carlingford.' " Times. 
 
 47. MY LITTLE LADY. By E. F. POYNTER. 
 
 " There is a great deal of fascination about this book. The author writes in a clear, 
 unaffected style; she has a decided gift for depicting character, while the descriptions 
 of scenery convey a distinct pictorial impression to the reader." Times. 
 
 48. PHCEBE, JUNIOR. By MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 
 "This novel shows great knowledge of human nature. The interest goes on 
 growing to the end. Phoebe is excellently drawn." Times. 
 
 49. LIFE OF MARIE ANTOINETTE. 
 
 BY PROFESSOR CHARLES DUKE YONGE. 
 
 "A work of remarkable merit and interest, which will, we doubt not, become the 
 most popular English history of Marie Antoinette." Spectator. 
 "This book is well written, and of thrilling interest" Academy, 
 
 50. SIR GIBBIE. By GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. 
 
 " ' Sir Gibbie ' is a book of genius." Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " This book has power, pathos, and humour. There is not a character which is not 
 lifelike." Atftenceum. 
 
 51. YOUNG MRS. JARDINE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." 
 " 'Young Mrs. Jardine ' is a pretty story, written in pure English." The Times. 
 " There is much good feeling in this book. It is pleasant and wholesome." Athenaeum, 
 
 52. LORD BRACKENBURY. By AMELIA B. EDWARDS. 
 
 " A 7ery readable story. The author has well conceived the purpose of high-class 
 novel-writing, and succeeded in no small measure in attaining it. There is plenty of 
 variety, cheerful dialogue, and general 'verve' in the book." Athenseum. 
 
 '"Lord Brackenbury' is pleasant reading from beginning to end." Academy. 
 
tJM 
 
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