i^ygm 
 
IT\\NA*1I, TO LAST ME ALL THESE MONTHS AKD 
 
I 
 
 HANNAH 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN," "A BRAVE LADY," "THE 
 OGILVIES," *' OLIVE," " AGATHA'S HUSBAND," &c. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 
 1877. 
 
f ft- 
 
'SHE STOPPED, LEANED HER ELBOW ON THE TA.BLE, AND HER HEAD 
 CrON llEU HAND." 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "A STEANGE, sad kind of letter," said Miss Thelluson to 
 herself, as she refolded and replaced it in its envelope. 
 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; leaned 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, afterward; since, not being a brilliantly 
 clever woman, it cost her some pains to keep up to the level 
 of accomplishments required 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 forgotten to bring it up until they brought 
 her supper. It did not matter, being only for the govern- 
 
 A2 
 
10^ c ; / HANXAH. 
 
 ess. Miss Thelluson was scarcely sorry. It was best read 
 when she was alone. For it was from her brother-in-law, 
 the husband of her lately dead sister. 
 
 "Poor Rosa!" she sighed, as her eyes fell on the big, 
 upright, rather peculiar handwriting which she had scarce- 
 ly seen since the time when she used to bring in Rosa's 
 daily love-letters — " and poor Mr. Rivers too !" 
 
 She had never learned to call him any thing 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's dignity in the eyes of Lady Rivers and the peo- 
 ple 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 whosover might grieve after poor Rosa, 
 it would not be her husband'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, in- 
 quiring 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 sympathy or consideration to her brother-in-law 
 or his relatives, and believed that henceforth the slight in- 
 tercourse she ever had with them was probably ended. 
 Therefore she was a good deal surprised to receive this let- 
 ter, which entreated of her the very last thing she would 
 have expected — that she would assume a sister's place to- 
 
HANNAH. 11 
 
 ward Mr. Rivers, and come and take charge of his house- 
 hold, 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 probably not in- 
 clined 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 
 w^hich bound her to his child. He pleaded, for his 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 simplicity 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. Satis- 
 fied of these two facts, she had left the young people to 
 their happiness, and gone back to her own quiet life, which 
 would have been a dreary life, had she herself been a less 
 self-dependent and unexacting woman. 
 
 And now the happiness which she might have envied, 
 had she seen more of it, was over and done. Bright, beau- 
 tiful Rosa had lain six months in her grave ; and here was 
 Rosa's husband asking the solitary sister to fulfill toward 
 him and his child all the duties of a near and dear relative. 
 For he addressed her as " my dear sister ;" and in his let- 
 ter, 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 Avrote. " It is these 
 
1 2 HANNAH. 
 
 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 crea- 
 ture 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 those who have nev- 
 er 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 fright- 
 ened — not of her, but of myself — lest I should be going 
 mad. Men do go mad w^ith 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 personali- 
 ties? No more." 
 
 And \hen he began to describe his baby ; saying sho 
 was a deav little thing, but that he did not understand her. 
 She seemed to be always crying, and nobody could man- 
 age her, thoagh 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 w^eakness 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 Rosa's motherless babe, but she 
 felt that she could not interfere with the grandmother and 
 father. Now the picture of it — transferred from nurse to 
 nurse, neglected 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 w^hat 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 
 
HANNAH. 13 
 
 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 Thellu- 
 son had not lived thirty years in this troublesome 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 
 toward 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 temporary. 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 school-fellows — who gener- 
 ally called her Aunt Hannah, and were very fond of her 
 while she was with them ; but, of course, soon forgot her 
 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 nat- 
 ural guardian. The first impulse of strangeness and 
 shrinking passed away, and as she read over again Mr. 
 Rivers's letter, and began clearly to comprehend what he 
 wished, there grew up a longing indescribable after that 
 duty w^hich was set before her in such a sudden and un- 
 expected 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 an- 
 
14 HANNAH. 
 
 swer the letter, knowing she would not have leisure to do 
 it next morning before post-time. Besides, 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 dislike doing things in a hurry, 
 but who, having once put their hands to the plow, never 
 Jook back. 
 
 She was fully aware that if she acceded to her brother- 
 in-law's request she must not look back ; however 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 labor stands 
 between her and the work-house — 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 honors 
 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 considerable sacrifices 
 as well. But women like her, though they dislike taking 
 a leap in the dark, will often take a most difficult and dan- 
 gerous one with their eyes open, fully counting the cost. 
 
 "Yes, I will venture it," she said, after a long pause of 
 thought. " The risk can not be much, and it is only my 
 own, after all." 
 
 So she sat down to write her letter. 
 
 While she does so, let us look at her, the solitary gov- 
 erness 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 gray. Her 
 hair was of no particular color — in fact, she had no special 
 attraction of any kind, except a well-proportioned figure, 
 which in motion had a willowy grace, that some tall wom- 
 en — not all — possess. And her smile was very winning. 
 
HANNAH. 15 
 
 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 learned 
 to do without it. In this, as in most other things — ex- 
 ternal as well as internal — she was utterly unlike her sister 
 Rosa. A certain family tone in their voices was the only 
 resemblance that was likely in any way to give the wid- 
 ower 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 affec- 
 tionate sister should toward a sorely-afflicted brother, unto 
 whom she was bound to show every possible 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 association ; and yet 
 one is expected to treat a strange man as one's brother, 
 just because one's sister has gone through the marriage 
 ceremony with him. If I had seen more of Mr. Rivers — 
 if I had lived actually in the house wuth him — But, no ; 
 that would not have done it; nothing would have pro- 
 duced what did not really exist, I can only hope the 
 right sisterly feeling 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 ; sug- 
 gesting plainly that one of his own sisters would be a 
 much better housekeeper 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, Han- 
 nah 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 herself about the 
 future. Hers was an essentially peaceful nature; when 
 
16 HANNAH. 
 
 she had done a thmg, 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 let- 
 ter 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 w^as a serious change, and 
 many times during the day her thoughts wandered pain- 
 fully from her duties in the school-room to her brother-in- 
 law and his child. 
 
 Nobody noticed her preoccupation, for it was one of the 
 essential and familiar facts of the governess's life that she 
 might be sick or sorry, troubled or glad, without any 
 body'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 every thing her own way, and was 
 treated by the countess with that stately consideration 
 w^hich so perfectly well-bred a woman could not fail to 
 show to the meanest member of her household. But, nec- 
 essarily, Miss Thelluson's life was one of complete isola- 
 tion ; so that but for her pupils, their naughtinesses and 
 goodnesses, she would have ceased to recognize herself 
 as one of the great human brotherhood, and felt like a soli- 
 tary nomad, of no use and no pleasure to any body. 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 re- 
 member that the kindest of friends love them only with a 
 tender benevolence, as adjuncts, but not essentials, of hap- 
 piness. They are useful to many — necessary to none ; and 
 the sooner they recognize this, the better. 
 
HANNAH. 1 7 
 
 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 sun- 
 shiny 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 sad and soothing after the cares of the day 
 — she began to fancy she had not half appreciated Mr. Riv- 
 ers's proposal, or 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 from being carried out. And she 
 waited with a nervous anxiety, for which she laughed at 
 herself, the return post by which she had requested him 
 to Avrite his final decision. 
 
 It came in six lines : 
 
 "I shall expect you as soon as you can make it practi- 
 cable. 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 sisters were 
 to him ; whether it was the close afiectionate 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 
 w^orld — 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 ex- 
 ist, 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 afiairs, and first 
 to give" warning" — as servants say — to Lady Dunsmore. 
 
1 8 HANNAH. 
 
 This was not exactly a pleasant task, for the countess 
 and her governess had always got on together remarkably 
 well ; the one lady recognizing calmly, and without either 
 false pride or false shame, that though a lady, she was also 
 a governess — a paid servant, discharging her duties like the 
 rest ; the other lady receiving and appreciating those serv- 
 ices 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 
 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 pu- 
 pils' mother, young and beautiful, happy and beloved, 
 spent the forenoon in the elegant employments 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, circumstances, 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 oc- 
 curred to her pupils' mamma to suppose she could have 
 any other interest beyond Lady Mary, Lady Georgina, 
 
"Nane ever feared that the truth should be heard, 
 But those whom the truth wad indite." 
 
 Burns. 
 
 ^•3S914 
 
HANNAH. 1 9 
 
 and Lady Blanche. That then' 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 pleasure ;" 
 and then with that sweet, courteous grace she had — it 
 might be only outside good-breeding, and yet, as it never 
 failed her, and all outside things do fail sometimes, I think 
 it must rather have been from her kindly heart — the count- 
 ess settled herself to listen. But first she cast a slight side- 
 long glance of observation and mquiry. 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 sis- 
 ter 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 confine- 
 ment, and the dear little baby also ?" 
 
 " N"o," returned Hannah, shortly, and then was vexed at 
 herself for being so foolishly sensitive. What possible 
 impression could Rosa's sad story have made, beyond 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 
 cudgeled her memory to recall the circumstances, was ex- 
 acting from Lady Dunsmore too much, more than human 
 nature was capable of. Hannah recognized this, and saved 
 lierself and the countess by plunging at once i7i 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 ?" . 
 
20 HANNAH. 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 "Then you come to tell me that you wish to relinquish 
 your position here. Oh, Miss Thelluson, I am so sorrj I 
 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 in one 
 for whom the wheels of life had always turned so smooth- 
 ly, that when there was the least jar she looked quite sur- 
 prised. 
 
 " I 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 little girls," continued the governess, 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 difiicult to get a sec- 
 ond 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 difiiculties — far more than 
 the countess suspected. For hapless countesses, who are 
 the centre of brilliant societies, have only too few hours 
 to spend in their nurseries and sch9ol-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 
 
HANNAH. 21 
 
 CO make them really " noble " women, and it was pleasant 
 to have her labor appreciated. 
 
 "And how soon do you wish to go ?" asked Lady Duns- 
 more, rather lugubriously, for she had had endless changes 
 of governesses before Miss Thelluson's time, and she fore* 
 saw 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 forget 
 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 Debrett had not betrayed 
 it, no one would ever have imagined that she was herself 
 
22 HANNAH. 
 
 fully that age. Tlien, as if struck with a sudden thought, 
 she eyed Miss Thelluson keenly — one of those acute, pene- 
 trating looks of hers, a mixture of the shrewd woman of 
 the world with the single-minded, warm-hearted woman 
 that she undoubtedly w^as, also. 
 
 " I am going to take a great liberty with you, Miss 
 Thelluson," she continued, after a pause ; " but I am a can- 
 did 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 imperative 
 gesture, and repeated — 
 
 " Yes ; a young unmarried woman, and I am a matron 
 and a mother. May I ask, have you w^ell 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 could not resist it — 
 
 " First — I know I may speak confidentially, Lady Duns- 
 more — 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 
 w^ife'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 w^ishing 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 Avere the clergy- 
 man's wife." 
 
 " He should take a wife as soon as he can." 
 
 Hannah winced a moment. " It is only six months 
 since her death ; and yet — and yet — Yes ! I feel, with 
 
HANNAH. 23 
 
 you, that the sooner he takes a wife the better ; his need 
 of help, he tells me, is very great ; but in the mean time 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 diffi- 
 culties I was foreseeing." 
 
 " About my poor little niece, perhaps ? You think an 
 old maid can not 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 overmuch 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 T, 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 contemplating ?" 
 
 " 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 color rose in her cheek: but 
 it soon died out. The idea of her marrying any body 
 seemed so supremely, ridiculously impossible — of her mar- 
 rying Rosa's husband painfully so. 
 
24 HANNAH. 
 
 " It certainly did not occur to me," she answered, gently, 
 " and if it had, it would have made no difference in my de- 
 cision. 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 mat- 
 ter well over, and it is, after all, purely your own affair." 
 
 " It is my own affair," replied Hannah, still gently, but 
 in a w^ay that would have closed the subject, had not the 
 countess, wdth her infinite tact and good-breeding, dis- 
 missed it at once herself, and begun consulting with Miss 
 Thelluson on the best way of replacing her, and the quick- 
 est, 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 Lon- 
 don that season. 
 
 " All Easterham is terra incognita to me. Lady Duns- 
 more ; but I shall try not to be afraid of any thing or any 
 body, and to do my best, whatever happens — a very com- 
 monplace sentiment ; but, you see, I was always a com- 
 monplace person," added Hannah, smiling. 
 
 " In which case you would never have found it out," re- 
 plied the countess, who had hitherto had few opportunities 
 of any long talk with her governess on other topics than 
 the children. Now, having both an aptitude and a love 
 
HANNAH. 25 
 
 for the study of character, she found herself interested un- 
 awares 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 gesture — for there 
 is a language of motion quite as plain as the language of 
 form, and of the two perhaps it is the most attractive. 
 
 She said to herself, this brilliant little lady, who had seen 
 so much of life — of aristocratic life especially, and of the ter- 
 rible 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 Colored 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 every 
 body laughed at as an excellent joke, until it grew into 
 earnest. Then Hannah's father, an eminent physician, in- 
 terfered. There was consumption in the family, and the 
 young man had already shown ominous symptoms of it. 
 His marrying any body was unwise; his marrying a first 
 cousin absolute insanity. Dr. Thelluson, much as he blamed 
 himself for allowing the young people every chance of fall- 
 ing 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 au- 
 thority to cruelty. He did not forbid the marriage, but 
 he remonstrated against it, both as a father and a physi- 
 cian, in the strongest manner, and worked so much upon 
 Hannah's feelings, that she consented to be separated en- 
 tirely from her cousin for three years, until she came 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. 
 
 B 
 
26 HAliNAH. 
 
 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 sor- 
 row 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 accel- 
 erated his fatal disease. Many a time when her father 
 looked at her he almost wished he had let the hapless 
 cousingf) marry — running all risks for themselves or their 
 possibJiG children. But all his life the physician had held 
 the doctrine that hereditary taint, physical or moral, con- 
 stitutes 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 liv- 
 ing ; but there were three sisters at first, then two, then 
 only one — her quiet, solitary self. For her great grief had 
 left upon her an ineffaceable impression — not exactly of 
 melancholy, but of exceeding quietness and settled loneli- 
 ness 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 public, 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-by now, and remember you have my best wishes 
 — ay, even if you marry your brother-in-law. It is not 
 nearly so bad as marrying your cousin. But I beg your 
 pardon ; my tongue runs away with me. All I mean to 
 say, seriously, is that, my husband being one of those who 
 uphold the bill for legalizing such marriages, I am well up 
 
HANNAH. 27 
 
 on the subject, and we both earnestly hope they will be le- 
 galized in time." 
 
 " Whether or not, it can not concern me," said Miss 
 Thelluson, gently. 
 
 " The remedying of a wrong concerns every body a little 
 — at least I think so. How society can forbid a man's marry- 
 ing his wife's sister, who is no blood-relation at all, and yet 
 allow him to marry his cousin — a proceeding generally un- 
 wise, and sometimes absolutely wicked — I can not imagine. 
 But forgive me again; I speak earnestly, for I feel earnestly." 
 
 " I am sure of it," said Miss Thelluson. 
 
 She w^as 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 any body ; 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 v>^ith * auntie.' But I shall 
 have her all to myself, nevertheless, and perhaps Mr. Rivera 
 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 me, a grown-u]3 daughter to com- 
 fort 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 fact 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 month*? old ! 
 
28 HANNAH, 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A HOUSE on a hill. It has its advantages, and its dis- 
 advantages. It is hard to climb to, and harder to descend 
 from. Everywhere round about you may see from it; 
 but then every body round about can see you. It is like 
 the city set on a hill, it can not be hid. Its light shines 
 far; but then the blacker is its darkness. However, one 
 need not carry out the metaphor, Avhich speaks for it- 
 self. 
 
 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 her and over 
 her: freedom to look abroad on the earth and 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 surmounting and looking 
 down upon difficulties, and in feeling that there was noth- 
 ing beyond her — nothing unconquered between herself and 
 the sky. At least, that is the nearest description of a sen- 
 timent that was quite indescribable, and yet as real as in- 
 tangible 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 Eastcrham 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 cot- 
 tage convalescent hospital he meant it to be — in memory 
 of his late wife. 
 
 " I had planned a marble monument," he wrote to Han- 
 nah, " a recumbent figure of herself, life-size, with two an- 
 gels Avatching at head and foot. But I found this would 
 
HANNAH. 29 
 
 cost nearly as much as the cottage, and it struck me that 
 Rosa would have liked something that was not only a me- 
 morial of the dead, but a blessing to the living." 
 
 Hannah agreed with him, and that little circumstance 
 gave her a favorable impression of her brother-in-law. She 
 was also touched by the minute arrangements 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 him- 
 self, being sent for suddenly to the Moat House — but the 
 thoughtful kindness remained, and Miss Thelluson w^as 
 grateful. 
 
 She wound slowly up the hill in her brother-in-law's com- 
 fortable carriage, and descended at his door, the door of a 
 much grander house than she expected — till she remem- 
 bered 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 ; perhaps, 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 three years, and very luxurious too. She won- 
 dered much whether she should feel at home here ; able to 
 be happy herself, or make the widower happy — the forlorn 
 man, who had every blessing in life except the crowning one 
 of all, a good wife: the "gift that cometh from the Lord." 
 Was this worse or better for him ? He had had it, and it 
 had been taken away. Hannah thought, with a compas- 
 sion 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 garden — Rosa 
 had so loved a garden — and back again to his silent room. 
 How he must miss his wife at every step, in every thing 
 about him. A loss sharper even than that one — the sharp- 
 ness 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 
 
80 HANNAH. 
 
 brother-in-law !" thought she to herself as she came into the 
 dreary house ; all the more dreary because 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 infinite- 
 ly 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 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 slat- 
 ternly 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 northeast, and was shaded by an 
 overhanging tree. It had in perfection 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 
 
HANNAH. 31 
 
 loved light and air, and would never, either physically or 
 mentally, willingly walk in gloom. 
 
 Miss Thelluson contemplated sadly that small pale ef- 
 figy of a child, which lay in the little crib, with the last 
 evening light slanting across it through a carelessly-drawn 
 curtain. It lay, not in the lovely attitudes 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 w^as neither round- 
 ness nor coloring 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-mor- 
 row." 
 
 And she stood and looked at it — this sole relic of poor 
 Rosa ; this tiny creature, which was all that was left of the 
 Thelluson race, notable and honorable in its day, though 
 long dw'indled down into poverty and obscurity. 
 
 As she looked there came into Hannah's heart that some- 
 thing — 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 protection, tenderness, patience, self- 
 denial — of giving every thing and expecting nothing back, 
 which constitutes 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. 
 
 ISTurse, who disliked her authority being set aside, ap- 
 proached again. " [N'ever mind touching it, miss; we 
 often do. 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 
 
32 HANNAH. 
 
 with the air of one who knew her own rights, and was de- 
 termined 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 weak- 
 est creatures are when the maternal instinct comes into 
 them. At the moment, and forever 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 nurs- 
 eries of friends and employers ; upon which her strong com- 
 mon-sense and quick observation had made many internal 
 comments. She detected at once here that mournful lack 
 of the mother's eye and hand ; the mother's care and de- 
 light in making all things orderly and beautiful for the 
 opening intelligence 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 mo- 
 ment's questioning, or considering how far the labor 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 bedtime," 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, 
 
HANNAH. 33 
 
 clay or night. Where is the key ?" She took it out of the 
 door and put it into her pocket, the nurse looking too ut- 
 terly 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 fight- 
 ing for ; and even her first half hour in the widower's house- 
 hold was sufiicient 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 nat- 
 ural : but it was not the less hard, and it did not make her 
 home-coming to the house on the hill more cheerful. 
 
 It was a new house comparatively, and every thing 
 about it was new. I^othing 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 any thing 
 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, 
 
 B2 
 
84 HANNAH. 
 
 and brightening all around her with her loving, lovesome 
 ways. And now, a mile distant, Rosa slept under the dai- 
 sies. How did her husband endure the thought ? 
 
 With one great sob Hannah smothered down these re- 
 membrances. They would make the approaching meet- 
 ing 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 assuredlly break down, al- 
 though over both had grown the outside composure of a 
 six-months-old sorrow. 
 
 He 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. 
 
 " I am late," he said. " I must apologize." 
 
 Then they shook hands. Mr. Rivers's hand was trem- 
 bling, 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, sting- 
 ing like poisoned arrows. There was one — Hannah re- 
 called it long afterward, and so did others — dwelling ma- 
 lignly 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 mis- 
 tress's chair. Struck with a sudden pang, she hesitated — 
 glanced toward 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 
 room 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 
 
HANNAH. 35 
 
 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. 
 
 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 afterward. 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 sym- 
 pathize with him, put up with all his moods and humors, 
 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 
 was altered. It behooved 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, perhaps — 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. Irri- 
 table, restless, gloomy, morbid, he seemed in that condi- 
 tion 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 every thing and every body 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, sometimes 
 sotto voce, sometimes barely restrained by his lingering 
 sense of right from breaking out into actual anger — he 
 
36 HANNAH. 
 
 who was, Rosa used to assert, the sweetest-tempered man, 
 the most perfect gentleman in all the world. Yet even 
 his crossness w^as pathetic — like the 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 those domestic delinquencies, and tell him she would 
 soon put all right; as she knew she could, having been her 
 father's housekeeper ever since she was a girl of sixteen. 
 
 She was bold enough faintly to hint this, when they got 
 into the drawing-room, where some trivial neglect had an- 
 noyed 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 every thing 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 have 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, not with such a passionate abandon- 
 ment ; it was against her nature, woman though she was. 
 Her own long-past sorrow, which, she fancied, most resem- 
 bled 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 never asked or received from any 
 human being — this sort of affliction could not be comfort- 
 ed. Therefore she scarcely understood, at first, how Ber- 
 
HANNAH. 37 
 
 nard 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 ill- 
 ness and death, and all he had suffered ; and then going 
 over and over again, with a morbid intensity, his brief,, 
 hapi^y married life ; apparently finding in this overflow of 
 heart the utmost relief, and even alleviation. 
 
 Hannah listened, somewhat surprised, but still she list- 
 ened. The man and the woman were as unlike as they 
 well could be ; yet, thus thrown together — bound togeth- 
 er, 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 made 
 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 prac- 
 tical 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 bf 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." 
 
 "Thank God for that!" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 Hannah tried to put into the heart-stricken man the be- 
 lief — essentially a woman's — that a perfect love, even 
 when lost, is still an eternal possession — a pain so sacred 
 
38 HANNAH. 
 
 that its deep peace often grows into absolute content. 
 But he did not seem to understand this at all. His pres- 
 ent loss — the continually aching want — the daily craving 
 for love and help and sympathy — these were all he felt, 
 and felt with a keenness indescribable. How could the 
 one ever be filled up and the other supplied ? 
 
 Hannah could not tell. She grew frightened at the re- 
 sponsibility she had undertaken. A kind of hopelessness 
 came over her ; she almost wished herself safe back again 
 in the quiet school-room with her little Ladies Dacre. 
 There, at least, she knew all her duties, and could fulfill 
 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 wild- 
 ness 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. 
 
 "Eosa 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' ab- 
 sence; she took out her watch, and told her brother-in- 
 law it was time to go up to the nursery. 
 
 "^NTurse does not like it ; I see that ; but still I must go. 
 Every night before t 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 can not take the interest I ouorht to take in that 
 
HANNAH. 39 
 
 poor child. I suppose men don't care for babies — not at 
 first — and then her birth cost me so much." 
 
 " It was God's will things should be thus," answered 
 Hannah, gravely. " It should not make you dislike your 
 child — Rosa's child." 
 
 " God forbid ! — only that I can not feel as I ought to 
 feel toward the poor little thing." 
 
 " You will in time." And Hannah tried to draw a pic- 
 ture 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, companion, 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 preaching to a 
 clergyman. But he was a man, too, with all a man's weak- 
 nesses, every one of which she was sure to find out ere 
 long. Even already she had found out a good many. Evi- 
 dently he was of a warm, impulsive, afiectionate nature, 
 sure to lay upon her all his burdens. She would have the 
 usual lot of sisters, to share most of the cares and responsi- 
 bilities of a wife, without a wife's blessings or a wife's love. 
 
 " I must go now. Good-night," she said. 
 
 " Good-night ? N'ay, surely you are coming back to me 
 again ? You don't know what a relief it has been to talk 
 to you. You can not tell how terrible to me are these 
 long, lonely evenings." 
 
 A moan, to Hannah incomprehensible. For her solitude 
 had no terror — had never 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 suf- 
 ficed 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 
 
40 HANNAH, 
 
 never craved after it, nor was it any necessity oi her ex. 
 istence. On such women, who themselves can stand alone, 
 others always come and lean — men especially. 
 
 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 forever. 
 
 " 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 understood, 
 and could endure, not only solitude but sorrow, took some 
 comfort to herself— a little more, also, in the hope of im- 
 parting 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 drift- 
 ing past us a few threads of that wonderful web — which, 
 in its entirety. He holds solely in His own hands. 
 
 Hannah Thelluson looked on this sleeper of six months 
 old with a feeling of not merely tenderness, but awe. She 
 listened to the soft breathing — which might have to draw 
 its last sigh — who knows ? — perhaps eighty years hence, 
 when she and all her generation were dead, buried, and 
 forgotten. The solemnity of the charge she had under- 
 taken came upon her tenfold. She stood in the empty 
 nursery, apparently left deserted for hours, for the fire was 
 out, and the candle flickered in its socket. Strange shad- 
 ows came and went ; among them one might almost im- 
 agine human shapes — perhaps the dead mother gliding in 
 to look at her lonely child. Even as in some old ballad 
 about a cruel step-mother — 
 
 *'The niclit was lang and the bairnies grat, 
 Their mither she under the mools heard that. 
 
 "She washed the tane and buskit her fair, 
 She karaed and plaited the tither's hair;" 
 
HANNAH. 41 
 
 and then reproached the new wife, saying — the words 
 came vividly back upon Hannah's mind — 
 **I left ye candles and groff wax- light — 
 My baimies sleep i' the mirk o' night, 
 
 **I left ye mony braw bolsters blae — 
 My bairnies ligg i' the bare strae." 
 
 A notion pathetic in its very extravagance. To Hannah 
 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 ? Any thing, 
 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 your 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. 
 
 " I could not rest. I thought I would come too. They 
 never let me look at baby." 
 
 " Look, then. Isn't she sweet ? See how her little fin- 
 gers 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 no- 
 tion 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 affection into the young fa- 
 ther's head. He was so completely a young man still, she 
 said to herself; and felt almost old enough, and experi- 
 enced enough, to be his mother. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mr. Rivers seemed much affected by the 
 sight of his child, evidently rather a rare occurrence. 
 
42 HANNAH, 
 
 " I think she is growing prettier," he said. " Anyhow, 
 she looks very jDeaceable 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 mascu- 
 line cowardice, disappeared at once. 
 
 But when Aunt Hannah — who accepted gladly the wel- 
 come 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 thought it so ex- 
 traordinary — my coming to look at my own child ? But 
 I do not mean to be a brute. I am only a miserable man, 
 indifferent to every thing 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 an- 
 other ? 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 — 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 clergyman, 
 lie 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 any 
 body ! But you will take care of my house and my child. 
 Do just as you fancy. Have every thing your own way." 
 
HANNAH. ^ 43 
 
 "In one thing I should like to have at once my own 
 way," said she, rushing desperately upon a subject which 
 she had been resolving on all the evening. "I want to 
 change rooms with baby." 
 
 "Why? Is not yours comfortable? Those horrid 
 servants of mine ! I desired them to give you the pleas- 
 antest 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, phys- 
 ically and morally, all day long. The nursery only catches 
 the sun for an hour in the day." 
 
 "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. Rivers smiled for the first time 
 that evening. Miss Thelluson smiled too. 
 
 " What would become of a governess if she were not sen- 
 sible ? Then I may have my way ?" 
 
 " Of course ! Only — what shall I say to grandmam- 
 ma? She chose the nursery, and was quite content 
 with it." 
 
 " Grandmamma is probably one of the old school, to 
 whom light and air were quite unnecessary luxuries — 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 errors of a prior generation ; or else 
 the strong ones only lived, the weakly were killed off pret- 
 ty fast. But I beg your pardon. You set me on my hob- 
 by — a governess's hobby — the bringing up of the new gen- 
 eration. Besides, you know the proverb about the perfect- 
 ness of old bachelors' wives and old maids' children." 
 
 " You are not like an old maid, and still less like a gov- 
 erness." He meant this for a compliment, but it was not 
 accepted as such. 
 
44 HANNAH. 
 
 " Nevertheless, I am both," answered Miss Thelluson, 
 gravely. " Nor am I ashamed of it either." 
 
 " Certainly not ; there is nothing to be ashamed of," said 
 Mr. Rivers, coloring. He could not bear in the smallest de- 
 gree 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 to sit opposite 
 to one another, evening after evening, through the long win- 
 ter's nights, thrown exclusively upon each other's society, 
 bound to be mutually agreeable, or, at any rate, not disa- 
 greeable, yet lacking the freedom that exists between hus- 
 band and wife, or brother and sister who have grown up 
 together, and been used to one another all their lives. It 
 was a position equally difficult and anomalous. She wished 
 she had known Mr. Rivers more intimately during Rosa's 
 lifetime ; yet this would have availed her little, for even 
 that intimacy would necessarily have been limited. A re- 
 ticent woman never, under any circumstances, cares to be 
 very familiar with another woman's husband, even though 
 he be the husband of her own sister. She may like him sin* 
 cerely, 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 extreme- 
 ly irksome — or, if she did not — God help her! Even under 
 the most innocent circumstances such an attraction 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 irapossible- 
 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 bewildered by 
 her new position to think much about any thing beyond 
 the moment, but she felt sufficiently awkward and uncom- 
 
HANNAH. 45 
 
 fortaLle to make ber 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 apologize" — and he looked more apologetic than 
 seemed even necessary — " I believe Lady Rivers 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 broth- 
 er-in-law and his family. But she cared not. She seemed 
 not to care much for any thing or any body now — excej^t 
 that little baby up stairs. 
 
 " One always makes allowances for old people," answered 
 she, gently. 
 
 "And for young people, too," continued Mr. Rivers, with 
 some anxiety. "My sisters are so gay — so careless-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 gray eyes which made Mr. Rivers start, and doubt if 
 his sister-in-law was such a very quiet woman after all. 
 " They must not interfere with me in my bringing up of 
 my sister's child. There, I fear, they might find me a little 
 —difficult." 
 
 "No. Yon will have no difficulty there," said he, hast- 
 ily. " In truth, my people live too much a life of society 
 to trouble themselves about domestic concerns, 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. Bat, please God, they may be mistaken." 
 
 " They shall," said Hannah, between her teeth, feeling 
 that, if she could so bargain with Providence, she would 
 
46 HANNAH. 
 
 gladly exchange ten or twenty years of her own pale life 
 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. 
 
 " 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 unbroken 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 look- 
 ed as if he did, a little ; and, standing by his fireside, tall 
 and handsome, Avith his regular Norman features, and 
 well-knit Norman frame, he was not an unworthy repre- 
 t^cntative 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 Whig- 
 gish myself; but Sir Austin is a Tory of the old school, 
 and has certain crotchets about keeping 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 Han- 
 nah's idol, I see. Don't spoil her, that is all. Grandmam- 
 ma 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 get 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 
 
HANNAH. 47 
 
 the point when they could talk calmly of ordinary things, 
 and consult together over the motherless child, who was 
 now first object to both. And though, whether the wid- 
 ower felt it or not, Hannah still felt poor Rosa's continual 
 presence, as it were; heard her merry voice in pauses of 
 conversation ; saw the shadow of her dainty little form 
 standing 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 some- 
 thing about sorrow, thought so too. 
 
 "Good -night," she said, rising, not regretfully, the in- 
 stant the clock struck ten. " I am an early bird, night 
 and morning. Shall you object to that ? Xo house goes 
 well unless the mistress is early in the morning." 
 
 The moment she had said the word she would have 
 given any thing 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 evi- 
 dent 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 smit- 
 ten with the heaviest sorrow, the sharpest loss, that a man 
 can know. What consofation could Hannah 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 that; but her lips, when she opened them, seemed par- 
 alyzed. Not yet, at any rate — not yet. Not till she 
 knew him better, and, perhaps, he her. 
 
48 HANNAH. 
 
 So she only took his hand, and again said, " Good-night,'* 
 adding softly, " God bless you and yours !" 
 
 "lie has blessed us, in sending Aunt Hannah to take 
 care of us." 
 
 And so that first evening, which she had looked for- 
 ward to with no small dread, was over and done. 
 
 But long after Hannah had retired she heard her broth- 
 er-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 sud- 
 den and complete for any thing like repose. 
 
 She sat at her window and looked out. It was a good- 
 ly night, and the moon made every thing bright as day. 
 All along the hill-top was a clear view, but the valley be- 
 low was filled with mist, under which its features, whether 
 beautiful or not, were utterly indistinguishable. That 
 great white sea of vapor 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 lit- 
 tle. She wondered vaguely how things would turn out, 
 just as she wondered how the valley, hid under that misty 
 sea, would look at six o'clock next morning. But soon 
 her mind went back, as it always did in the moonlight, to 
 lier 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 phant(5m-like and far away, but 
 whispering from some distant sphere words she had read 
 somewhere the other day — 
 
 *' Oil, maid most dear, I am not here, 
 I have no place, no part : 
 No dwelling more on sea or shore — 
 But only in thv heart." 
 
HANNAH. 49 
 
 " In my heart ! in my heart !" she repeated to herself, 
 and thought how impossible it was that any living love 
 could ever have supplanted — ever could supplant — the 
 dead. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 This is no sensational or exceptional history, but one that 
 might happen — does happen — continually. The persons 
 therein described are just ordinary people, neither ideally 
 good nor extraordinarily bad. Not so weak as to be the 
 mere sport of circumstances, yet human enough to be influ- 
 enced 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 it 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 mutual discovery — more espe- 
 cially 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. 
 
 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 
 
 C 
 
60 HANNAH. 
 
 another's exclusive society — at meal-times, and all other 
 times that politeness requires — striving in a hopeless man- 
 ner 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 broth- 
 er-in-law Hannah could not tell, but to her the first four 
 days seemed like fourteen. 
 
 It was not from the dullness, 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 ir- 
 ritability, and, above all, his indifference and carelessness 
 about every body 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 followed ; for his 
 craving after sympathy and his horror of solitude were 
 almost painful to witness : in short, trying to devote her- 
 self 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 aim- 
 less, useless life afflicted her conscience. A man, a father, 
 a clergyman — surely 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. 
 
HANNAH. 51 
 
 " Work !" he answered. " I have no work ; nothing that 
 I care to do. She always did every thing with me; we 
 w^ent 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 w^hat 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 par- 
 ish neglected, as you say it is. She w^ould 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 gen- 
 tle, 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 paralysis of grief — " Rise up and walk !" She 
 told him in plain words, that instead of sitting 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 usurp- 
 ing 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 — " 
 
62 HANNAH. 
 
 " Oh, I never mind mud or rain !" 
 
 " Nor trouble, nor fatigue, nor any thing else unpleasant, 
 so long as you can do a kindness. She 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 plainer, 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 Mr. Rivers a good deal — of 
 these she saw nothing. They did not call. 
 
 Little she cared. Every minute of her day was occu- 
 pied. 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. Be- 
 sides, 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 w^e women can fall in love with nothing 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 
 
HANNAH. 53 
 
 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 act- 
 ual, 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 con- 
 templated 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 plain as any words. Then, as if 
 satisfied with her investigation, she slowly dropped her 
 head on her aunt's shoulder, and Hannah pressed her pas- 
 sionately to her breast. 
 
 Thus they fell in love — the woman and the child — 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 any body 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 devotedness, 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 nurs- 
 ery 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 cozy and pretty as she could, and find 
 it a heaven of peace ; for the bright little face, the happy 
 
64 HANNAH. 
 
 little voice, were something nearer heaven than any thing 
 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 something grown-up peo- 
 ple could not see — seeking, perhaps, the mother she was 
 never to know. Yery soon Hannah learned to think that 
 tiny face unlike all the faces she had ever beheld. Not 
 that it was pretty — poor Kosie 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 unknown 
 world. 
 
 Such a companion Rosie was, too ! Miss Thelluson was 
 accustomed to big pupils ; and, fond as she was of chil- 
 dren, they sometimes worried her; but this soft silent 
 creature, with its pretty ways ; its speechless yet intelli- 
 gible wants, only soothed her, and that inexpressibly. She 
 would sit or lie for hours on the nursery floor with Rosie 
 crowing over her, investigating her watch, her keys, het 
 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 
 marvelous 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 draw- 
 ing-room guest for about a quarter of an hour. 
 
 "Fond of" — what an idle, unmeaning word! Why, 
 
HANNAH. 55 
 
 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 w^atched 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 shoul- 
 der, and patting auntie's cheek with that little dimpled 
 hand, Mr. Rivers, who had traveled half over Europe, and 
 knew every Madonna by heart, called her to look at her- 
 self, for she and the child were just the picture of a cer- 
 tain Holy Family he named. 
 
 The color came painfully into Hannah's cheek. She, 
 too, like Mary, could have sung her Magnificat ; all to her- 
 self — 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 Raffaelesque hamhino^ and for about the 
 space of ten minutes — she clasped the child passionately 
 to her heart. It had never beat so w^armly, so hopefully, 
 since her Arthur died. 
 
 This w^as on a Sunday morning, the first sunshiny Sun- 
 day since her arrival; and as Miss Thelluson and her 
 brother-in-law walked together through the bright-looking 
 village, all the neighbors turned out in their best clothes 
 to go to church and criticise the stranger. Easterham 
 was a sufficiently small place for every body to know ev- 
 ery body ; and Hannah was fully aware she was running 
 the gauntlet of innumerable 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 belonged 
 to her. It felt — not exactly uncomfortable, but — strange. 
 
66 HANNAH. 
 
 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 posi- 
 tion as heir-presumptive to one of the first families in the 
 county, was a strong contrast to a quiet, rather old-fash- 
 ioned 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 grate- 
 ful. . 
 
 It was only when he looked toward 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 Sundays." 
 
 " 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 fash- 
 ionable 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 subservient 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 humor, and even a slight turn for satire, in her 
 
HANNAH. 57 
 
 youth — was the comical suggestion, What would they be 
 without their clothes ? — that is, how would they look or 
 feel if dressed like work-house women, or laborers' 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 respectable square pew — that 
 to imagine them placed 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 im- 
 possible. 
 
 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, over- 
 night, that he felt not the slightest interest in his sermons, 
 and only did them mechanically, not believing them at all. 
 It looked like it ; and as Miss Thelluson listened — or rath- 
 er tried hard not to, for listening 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 sermons 
 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 fashionable clothes. 
 What were they to her ? Had she not her baby — her lit- 
 tle 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 
 
 C2 
 
58 HANNAH. 
 
 back down the yew avenue, and through the garden to the 
 beautiful old Moat House ; but nobody asked after baby. 
 Neither grandmamma nor aunt seemed to remember there 
 was such a creature in the world. Hannah hugged her- 
 self half indignantly, half exultingly, in the fact. Her 
 baby was all her own. 
 
 The Rivers family were perfectly polite to her. The in- 
 vitation to lunch w^as given, and — chiefly because 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 conversation 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 un- 
 derstand when th'ey are kept away for a good many hours 
 from the helpless creature that depends on them so en- 
 tirely. 
 
 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" — nod- 
 ding 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 pret- 
 ty 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 
 ^Jie foun(} herself completely at sea, and watching these 
 
HANNAH. 69 
 
 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,' and 'the mater- 
 nal 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 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 haye belonged to his father, and been made 
 naturally and wholly a Rivers ; but a girl — this little un- 
 welcome girl — was hers and Rosa's. Might baby not grow 
 up to be the foundress of a new family, the mother of many 
 sons ? This childish 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 Thellu- 
 son 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 discharged 
 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 my 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, Hannah never 
 gave it. 
 
60 HANNAH. 
 
 '^And who is your new nurse?" said grandmamma, in a 
 rather severe, grandmotherly tone. 
 
 " Grace Dixon, sister, I believe, to those Dixons of whom 
 the village is so full. It was Mrs. John Dixon, the black- 
 smith'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. 
 
 " ISTo ; 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 ram- 
 pant 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 him- 
 self; 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 Han- 
 nah'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 fam- 
 ily, and especially about the girl Grace, whom she had 
 taken chiefly upon instinct, because she had a kind, sweet. 
 
HANNAH. 61 
 
 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. E-ivers return. 
 His society was not lively, but it was less dull than that 
 of his sisters. Just to keep conversation going — for it had 
 reached a very low ebb — she explained to him the mat- 
 ter 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 Thellu- 
 son'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 any thing." 
 
 " But you ought to be consulted," broke in Lady Riv- 
 ers, " and in this matter especially. My dear Bernard, are 
 you aware that in your position you ought to be very cau- 
 tious ? Miss Thelluson, a stranger, 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 Riverses have 
 lived at the Moat House." 
 
 "It is the more pity," said Lady Rivers, drawing her- 
 self up. " My dear Bernard, you have surely forgotten ; 
 and the subject is a little awkward to speak of before 
 Miss Thelluson and the girls." 
 
 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 re- 
 
62 HANNAH. 
 
 spectable sisters had not seemed in the least ashamed of 
 her. 
 
 "I can not 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 patently 
 enough ; and another habit of saying, in the sweetest way, 
 the most unpleasant things. Her step-son had winced un- 
 der 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 can not be any 
 thing very bad, or I should have remembered it. Though 
 I do forget things often — often," he added, relapsing into 
 his usual dreary manner. 
 
 "If you will rouse yourself you surely will remember 
 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 scandal, 
 Miss Thelluson — though I must apologize 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 marriage, you understand, within the for- 
 bidden 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 re- 
 
HANNAH. 63 
 
 moved 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 
 colored 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 Rivers, sharply. 
 
 " That I did not argue ; it was no business of mine. I 
 w^as rather sorry for the man — he seemed to have no ill in- 
 tent; but the marriage was impossible. However, this 
 does not concern the rest of the Dixon family or the new 
 nurse-maid. What about her?" 
 
 But as often as he tried to slide away from the unpleas- 
 ant 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 connected with it. 
 How did it end, Bernard ?" 
 
 "I can not tell. Probably Dixon went to some other 
 and less scrupulous clergyman, or some distant parish, 
 w^here they could put up bans and be married without be- 
 ing known ; or, probably, he went back and they lived to- 
 gether 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 Avay of getting over an extremely awkward posi- 
 tion, which to avoid would have been more awkward still. 
 But Lady Rivers would not let him alone. 
 
64 HANNAH. 
 
 "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 confused 
 notions on this point, and I have always refused. The 
 law makes these people brothers and sisters; therefore 
 they can not possibly be married. But, my dear Lady 
 Rivers, let us leave a topic which really does not concern 
 us. The matter of moment now. Aunt Hannah," turning 
 toward 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 Riv- 
 ers 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 some- 
 thing; perhaps, also, of protecting something. He wrap- 
 ped his sister-in-law well up, and sustained her steps care- 
 fully 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 obstinately and 
 unpleasantly discussed in their presencie. 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 annoyances, which must, nevertheless, 
 be borne, and are best borne with complete indifference. 
 Hannah took her lesson from him — not without a cer- 
 tain respect, deeper than she had yet felt— and did the 
 same. 
 
HANNAEU 65 
 
 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 nursery door chattering 
 its utterly unintelligible English. Hannah's face brio-ht- 
 ened into something almost like beauty at the sound. Ilo- 
 sie'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 nursery, and un- 
 der incessant loving care — was looking through the bal- 
 usters, making a vain effort to say, " Peep !" at least so 
 Rosie's imaginative female worshipers 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 na- 
 ture of hers. I hope she may keep it always." 
 
 " 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 coloring a little — " I hope you will 
 not require me to send away Grace ?" 
 
 " No." Mr. Rivers paused a minute, and then said, 
 gravely : " I am sorry that any thing 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 uphold you in matters 
 
66 HANNAH. 
 
 concerning Rosie or the household, or any thing else that 
 you think right." 
 
 " Thank you," replied Hannah, warmly. She shook cor- 
 dially the hand he gave, and ran up stairs to " auntie's dar- 
 ling " with a light heart. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It is a mistake to take for granted, as in books and life 
 we perpetually do, that people must always remain the 
 same. On the contrary, most people are constantly chang- 
 ing — growing, let us hope, but still changing — in charac- 
 ter, feelings, opinions. If we took this into account we 
 should often be less harsh to judge ; less piteously mis- 
 judged ourselves. For instance, we resolve always to love 
 our friend and hate 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 w^e 
 can not. We must accept things as they stand, and act 
 accordingly. Or — and this is a common case — we may 
 ourselves once have had certain faults, which we after- 
 ward had sense to see and correct ; yet those who knew 
 us in our faulty days will never believe this, and go on con- 
 demning us forever — 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 
 afterward see cause to modify, or even to renounce entire- 
 ly. 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 re- 
 tract, in act or 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 be- 
 lieve 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. 
 
HANNAH. C7 
 
 When Hannah Thelluson consented to come to her 
 brother-in-law's house, and he thankfully opened to her 
 his 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 lat- 
 ter. Besides, they stood in that relation which of all oth- 
 ers 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 
 lightened, and the help increased, every day that they re- 
 sided together. 
 
 Their life was very equable, quiet, and, at first, rather 
 dull. Of course the widower did not visit, or receive vis- 
 itors. Occasional family dinners at the Moat House, and 
 a few morning calls received and paid, were all that Han- 
 nah saw of Easterham society. She had the large handsome 
 house entirely to herself often from morning to night ; for 
 gradually Mr. Rivers went back to his parish duties, which 
 he once used most creditably to fulfill. Consequently, in- 
 stead of hanging about the house all day, he was frequent- 
 ly absent till dinner-time. This was a great source of sat- 
 isfaction 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 herself, 
 w^hen 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 look- 
 ing ten years younger, and his listless manner gaining en- 
 ergy and decision. 
 
68 HANNAH. 
 
 " 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 suf- 
 fered one's self. I shall be a better parson now than I 
 used to be, I hope — on week-days, certainly, and perhaps 
 even on Sundays, if you will continue to look over my ser- 
 mons." 
 
 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 way of pass- 
 ing the evening — and after being out all day, he absolute- 
 ly refused to 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 listen- 
 ing to Mr. Rivers's pleasant voice, and thinking over, 
 quietly to herself, what he was reading. In this way, dur- 
 ing 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 
 arguments — quarreling fiercely at times — until either be- 
 came accustomed to the other's way of thinking, and 
 avoided warlike topics, or fought so honorably and well 
 that the battles 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 off — 
 Rosa, who was with the angels, smiling in the eternal smile 
 of God. These others, left behind to do their mortal work, 
 were not always miserable. Rosie began the change, by 
 growing every day more charming, more interesting, more 
 curious, in her funny little ways, every one of which aunt 
 
HANNAH. 69 
 
 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 any body know fully what 
 that is till he — no^ say 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 every thing in life — ev- 
 ery thing that could make it grow up to itself and the 
 world a blessing or a curse. A solemn way of viewing 
 things, perhaps ; but Hannah was a solemn-minded wom- 
 an. 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 re- 
 markable 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 any 
 thing 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 recover- 
 ing its healthy colors 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 every body, even at the Moat 
 House, now acknowledged this, to Miss Thelluson's great 
 glory and delight. Grace's also — unto whom much credit 
 was owing. 
 
 Hannah had taken her rather rashly perhaps — wise peo- 
 ple sometimes do, upon instinct, rather rash things. She 
 thought so herself when one day, accidentally asking Grace 
 some apparently trivial question, the girl burst into tears, 
 confessed that she was a married Avoman, and licr lius- 
 
10 HANNAH. 
 
 band had run away from her. " But I was married, in- 
 deed 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 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 can not 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 every 
 thing — answered decisively, "Let her stay." So Grace 
 staid. But Miss Thelluson insisted that she should no 
 longer pass under false colors, 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 in- 
 sisted upon her wearing it, saying, " She hated all deceits 
 of every kind." Upon which Grace looked up to her with 
 such grateful, innocent eyes, 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 hav- 
 ing thus acted. 
 
 This was the only incident of the winter ; and as week 
 after week passed by, and nothing ill came of it, no run- 
 away husband ever appeared, and poor Grace brightened 
 into the tenderest 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 any thing unpleasant, 
 so busy and contented 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, and she and Rosie be- 
 gan to gather primroses in the garden and daisies in the 
 
HANNAH. 71 
 
 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 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, intelli- 
 gence, and the mysterious way the baby-soul opened out 
 to the wonders and beauty of this our world, had taught 
 her aunt Hannah 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, laughing 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 herself 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. Han- 
 nah 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 babyhood, 
 often so touching, patted with her tiny soft hand her 
 aunt's cheek, saying, wooingly, " Nice Tannic, pitty 
 
Tannie" — which had been her first attempt at "Aunt 
 Hannah." 
 
 "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 no- 
 tice of his little girl, at least when Aunt Hannah was pres- 
 ent 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 feeling for 
 little Rosie w^as 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. Hannah said 
 to herself over and over again that it must have been pure- 
 ly accidental, and meant nothing ; yet it shot through her 
 like a bolt of ice. Was there a chance, the dimmest, re- 
 motest chance, that she and the child might be parted? 
 Did he, now that the twelvemonth of mourning had ex- 
 pired, contemplate marrying again — as Lady Dunsmore 
 had foretold he 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 Thclluson had only smiled. 
 
HANNAH. 73 
 
 Kow she did not smile. She felt actually uneasy. 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 something 
 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 sudden 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 endeavoring to tie. It 
 was Sunday night; and she always sent Grace to church, 
 and put the child to bed herself, of Sundays. Bitter, mis- 
 erable tears they were, too, but only on account of the 
 child. Nothing more. Afterward, 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, lurked there un- 
 easily, troubling often the happy hours she spent with her 
 darling; for the aunt, wholly engrossed with her charge, 
 had her with her more than most mothers, with whom 
 their children's father holds rightly the first place. "Nev- 
 ertheless Miss Thelluson did her duty most satisfactorily 
 by her brother-in-law ; whenever papa wanted auntie, lit- 
 tle Rosie was remorselessly sent away, even though auntie's 
 
 D 
 
74 HANNAH. 
 
 heart followed her longingly all the while. But she had 
 already learned 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 
 any thing, you may depend upon that," she said, one day, 
 gayly, to the second Miss Rivers, who was now about to 
 be married. 
 
 " Who taught you that ? — ray brother ? Well, you must 
 have had plenty of experience of him, faults and all ; al- 
 most as much as his wife had," said the sister, sarcastical- 
 ly ; which made Hannah rather sorry that she had unwit- 
 tingly 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 Han- 
 nah sometimes vaguely wished she did. 
 
 More especially when the approaching marriage forced 
 him out of his retirement, and he had to officiate in the fes- 
 tivities as eldest brother, instead of poor Austin, whom no- 
 body ever saw or spoke of Bernard had to act as head 
 of the house. Sir Austin being very frail now ; and he ac- 
 cepted his place and went through his duties with a cheer- 
 fulness that Hannah was surprised yet glad to see. If 
 only he could have 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 staid 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 com- 
 pany as she used to be, and found the evenings, after Ro- 
 sie's bedtime, rather long. Only the evenings: of morn- 
 ings, when Rosie was with her, she felt no want of any kind. 
 
HANNAH. 
 
 Following the wedding — to which Miss Thelluson was 
 of course asked and, somewhat unwillingly, went, seeing 
 Mr. Rivers wished it — came many bridal parties, 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 every- 
 where, she was at last obliged to confess. 
 
 " 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 indifference 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 gray silk which 
 had replaced her well-worn black one. 
 
 "Dreadful!" cried Mr. Rivers. "While you have been 
 doing every thing for me, I have left you like a pauper." 
 
 " Not exactly," and she laughed again at his vehement 
 contrition. " Indeed, I had as much money as I wanted, 
 for my w^ants are small. Remember, I have been for so 
 many years a poor governess." 
 
 " You shall never be poor again, nor a governess, either. 
 I can not tell you how much I owe you — how deeply I re- 
 spect 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 allowance, or 
 annuity, large enough to make her quite independent per- 
 sonally. 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. 
 
76 HANNAH. 
 
 " And, you understand, this is quite between ourselves. 
 My fortune is my own, independent of my family. No 
 one but us 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. " IsTor 
 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 can not 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 prac- 
 tical 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- 
 minded and pure-hearted ; and, like the lilies, you preach 
 me a silent sermon many a time." 
 
 " Not always silent," said she, yet was pleased at the 
 compliment. He had never made her a pretty speech be- 
 fore. 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 mar- 
 riage, at least not immediately. 
 
 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 pock- 
 et, 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 
 
HANNAH. 77 
 
 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 conversation at 
 once. 
 
 Next day Miss Thelluson found on her toilette-table, in 
 a blank envelope, a check 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 a half- 
 penny ; 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, ap- 
 pearing in toilettes so good and tasteful, though simple 
 still, that the Moat House girls wondered what in the 
 world had come over her to make her look so young. 
 
 We are always changing within and without, modified 
 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, w^onderfuUy 
 gay and light sometimes, which she carried about through 
 the day, and lay down to sleep with at night, marveling 
 what she had done that Heaven should make her life thus 
 content and glad. 
 
78 IIAXXAII. 
 
 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 honor 
 of the bride. 
 
 " I must give it, I suppose," said Mr. Kivers. " You w^ill 
 not mind ? I hope it will not trouble you very much." 
 
 " 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 honors 
 as lady of the house. At w^hich 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 daugh- 
 ters, 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 uncomfortable. Otherwise she 
 would have enjoyed the evening considerably. No woman 
 is indifferent to the pleasure of being mistress of an ele- 
 gant, 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. Kivers, who was much easier to please 
 than formerly. 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 
 
HANNAH. 79 
 
 ideal, certainly; but who are they that ever find their ideal? 
 And Hannah sighed, remembering her own — the loveliest 
 and most lovable 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 Ber- 
 nard Rivers. As he took his place again in society, a 
 young widower who had passed from under the black- 
 est shadow of his loss, though it had left in him an abid- 
 ing 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 conversation, yet never put- 
 ting himself obtrusively forward, 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 
 brightened as he came near, and mothers were extraordi- 
 narily 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 amuse- 
 ment, and a sort of afiectionate pleasure at thinking 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 speculating. 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. 
 
80 HANNAH. 
 
 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 kiss- 
 es, Hannah thought, rejoicingly, that there was one crea- 
 ture in the world to whom she was absolutely necessary, 
 and all in all. 
 
 His guests being at length gone, the host stood on his 
 hearth-rug meditative, even grave. 
 
 " Well, Hannah !" he said at last. 
 
 She looked up. 
 
 " So our dinner-party is safe over. It went off beauti- 
 fully, 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 Rivers 
 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 pleas- 
 ant too. But yet I think I like our quiet evenings best." 
 
 " So do I," Hannah was going to say, and then hesi- 
 tated, 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-by !" 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 en- 
 joy her halcyon days while they lasted. 
 
 So she sat down with him on the chair he placed for her, 
 
HANNAH. 81 
 
 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 discussing when they are 
 perfectly at home with each other, and have one common 
 interest running through their lives. All their associa- 
 tions now had the easy freedom of the fraternal relation, 
 mingled with a certain vague sentiment, such as people 
 feel who are not really 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 travel- 
 ing in a new country. 
 
 In the midst of it, when they were laughing together 
 over some wonderful infantine jest of little Rosie's, there 
 came a knock at the door, and a face looked stealthily in. 
 
 Hannah sprang up in terror. " Oh, Grace ! What is it ? 
 Any thing 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 hast- 
 ily 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 trou- 
 ble. 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 oh ! 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?" 
 
 " 1^0, 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 !" 
 
 " 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 
 
 D2 
 
82 HANNAH. 
 
 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 any thing about your husband ?" 
 
 Hannah had not given him credit for remembering 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 wucked woman in the street. But I was mar- 
 ried, Mr. Rivers !" and the poor girl stood wringing her 
 hands, w^hile 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 every body 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 listened, 
 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. But 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 can not 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 w^as a sweet-looking little w^oman, usually reti- 
 cent and quiet enough, but now she seemed desperate 
 with her wrong. 
 
 " Dixon says. Sir — that's my husband ; he's James Dix- 
 on, of your parish — that I'm not his wife in law, and he 
 
HANNAH. 83 
 
 can get rid of me whenever he pleases, only he won't do 
 it if I'll come back and live with him, because he likes me, 
 he says, and all the poor children are crying out for me. 
 But that if I w^on't come back, he shall go and marry an- 
 other woman, Mary Bridges, of Easterham, that lived as 
 cook with Lady Rivers. He'll put up the banns here next 
 Sunday, he says." 
 
 " He can not. 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 
 to his deceased wife's sister ? And were you that person ?" 
 He spoke in a formal, uncomfortable voice; his cheek 
 reddened a little, and he 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 her- 
 self 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 neighbors. 
 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." 
 
84 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. Was that 
 wrong, Sir?" 
 
 " Yes ; it was against the law," said Mr. Rivers, in the 
 same cold tone, looking into the fire, and pushing back- 
 ward 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 vil- 
 lage 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 mar- 
 ried 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's 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 some- 
 body 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 attempt- 
 ed to decide the wrong or right of it ; only the whole case 
 seemed so very pitiful. And she had grown 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 care- 
 fully kept from meeting any other's eyes, was not com- 
 
HANNAU. 85 
 
 passion at all ; but perplexity, uneasiness, even irritation — 
 the annoyance of a man who finds himself in a difiicult po- 
 sition, 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 believe, 
 think as she does on this matter; but we Church people 
 can only hold to the prayer-book and the law. Both for- 
 bid such marriages as yours. You being brother and 
 sister — " 
 
 " But we weren't. Sir ; not even cousins. Indeed, I nev- 
 er 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 could not 
 possibly be married. Or if you were married, as you say, 
 it was wholly against the law. James Dixon 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 w^hiter. " Then what he say« 
 is really true ? I am not his wife ?" 
 
86 HANNAH. 
 
 " I can't help you ; I wish I could," said Mr. Rivers, at 
 last looking down ujDon the piteous face. " I am afraid it 
 is only too true." 
 
 "And my baby, my baby ! I don't care for myself 
 much ! but my baby I" 
 
 " 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 de- 
 ceiving the clergyman, as I suppose was done. Therefore 
 you are not his wife, and your baby is, of course, an illegit- 
 imate 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 reason upon. Miss Thellu- 
 son 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 arras. 
 
 " Please help me !" she said to Mr. Kivers, 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 immediately afterward 
 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 j^ersonal friend, and a lady 
 
• HANNAH. 8V 
 
 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 
 honor, 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 parlor was not always 
 the same. Still, in her nurse she had always comfort ; and 
 Grace, probably on account of this difference, or for other 
 reasons — now patent enough — had seemed to dislike mix- 
 ing 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 ^ar. 
 
 " I had 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 children, 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 l)y marrying her at 
 once, and making all right and comfortable ? For they're 
 not comfortable — 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 two 
 sisters, and had two families, one all girls, the other boys. 
 And the eldest son by the second marriage — young Mr. 
 Melville — came in for the property, and is the squire now. 
 And nobody ever said his mother wasn't lawfully mar- 
 ried, no more than, when I came home from London, the 
 neighbors said I wasn't married to Jim. Married in church, 
 too, though we were Methodists both ; and neither the par- 
 son 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 
 
83 HANNAH. 
 
 chance of his having been mistaken, or if he could not, 
 at least, prevent the marriage with Ann Bridges, Hannah 
 scarcely knew what to say. At last, just to soothe her — 
 for, out of consideration to her mistress, Grace had kept 
 her misery to herself for a day and a half, till it had al- 
 most 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 fellow, 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 ill-treat them, poor lambs ! 
 Jenny's poor little motherless lambs ! I must go back to 
 them directly." And she sat up in bed, in an agony of 
 distress. " Oh, 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 dead sister's 
 children, touched Hannah to the quick. She could under- 
 stand 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 every body. So she sat up, fastened back her di- 
 
HANNAH. 89 
 
 sheveled 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 be- 
 come 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 im- 
 agine ; but found afterward 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 in the old woman's hands. Now he re- 
 claimed 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 promised ; but when she went back to her 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 magistrate as well as a 
 clergyman, spoke so decidedly. Grace's arguments were 
 strong ; and the case of Mr. Melville, whom she had her- 
 self met at the Moat House, was, to say the least, curious. 
 She herself knew nothing of the law. If she could only 
 speak to any body who did know, instead of to her broth- 
 er-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 an- 
 other feeling which was neither the one nor the other, and 
 which she did not stay to analyze, except that it made her 
 feel more reluctant than ever to name the subject again to 
 Mr. Rivers. 
 
90 HANNAH. 
 
 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 sure- 
 ly would not sanction such a cruel thing, even if it be le- 
 gal. 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 stay 
 and play about on the floor. I dare say she will be good 
 — w^on't she, auntie's darling ?" 
 
 And auntie clasped fondly the little thing, who had tot- 
 tered 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 naughti- 
 nesses ; such as pulling down a silver fork, and a butter- 
 knife, with a great clatter; then creeping beneath the ta- 
 ble, 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 waller. 
 
 "This will never do," said papa, sternly. "Pray take 
 the child up stairs." 
 
 Which Hannah thankfully did, and staid away some 
 minutes ; feeling that, after all, the nursery was the safest, 
 the most peaceful, and the pleasantest room in the house. 
 
HANNAH, 91 
 
 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 temporary 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 won- 
 dered what kind of young creature the first Lady Rivers 
 had been. Apparently not like the second Lady Rivers 
 at all. 
 
 It w^as exactly his mother's smile with which Mr. Rivers 
 turned round now. 
 
 "So the little maid is comforted at last. What influ- 
 ence you w^omen have over babies, and what helpless be- 
 ings we men are with them ! Why, it is as much as papa 
 can do to keep Miss Rosie quiet for five minutes, and 
 Aunt Hannah has her the whole day. Do you never tire 
 of her?" 
 
 " JSTever. IN'o more does Grace, who has an instinctive 
 love for children — which all w^omen have not, I assure 
 you. This is what makes her so valuable as a nurse." 
 • Hannah said this intentionally ; for, not two minutes 
 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! Oh, 
 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 cour- 
 age, determined to discharge her unpleasant duty at 
 once. 
 
92 HANNAH. 
 
 " 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 gen- 
 tleman ought to speak to any lady; though men some- 
 times 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 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 mar- 
 ried 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. Never- 
 theless, those who risk them must take the consequences. 
 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 
 tliis 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 strong- 
 ly excited for the cruel position of poor Grace. She re- 
 called involuntarily an old argument of Lady Dunsmore 
 on this very subject — whether any wrong could be exact- 
 ly "nothing" to any honest-minded man or woman, even 
 though he or she were not personally 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 
 
HANNAH. 93 
 
 sure you are right as to the law ? It can not always have 
 been what you say, because Grace tells me of a certain 
 Mr. Melville who visits at the Moat House — " And Han^ 
 nah 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 1 835 the law was altered, or at least modi- 
 fied: all such marriages then existing were confirmed, 
 and all future ones declared illegal. Melville 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 extraordi- 
 nary form of justice." 
 
 Her brother-in-law regarded her inquiringly. Evident- 
 ly he was surprised ; did not at first take in the intense 
 single-minded ness 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 indifierence 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 can not help her — not in the least." 
 
 "And can not you ? Could you not, at least, prevent 
 the man's marrying another woman — as he means to do in 
 your very church next Sunday ?" 
 
 " Does he ? The brute !" cried Mr. Rivers, passionately. 
 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 Avas vexed 
 at his manner — it seemed so hard, so unlike his usual warm, 
 generous way of judging matters. "But," she argued, re- 
 solved to leave not a stone unturned for her poor servant's 
 
94 HANNAH. 
 
 sake, " if the marriage with Grace was unlawful, why can 
 not he be prosecuted for that, as for bigamy or similar of- 
 fenses ? 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 an- 
 grily. " When I, a man, have already argued the question 
 with myself in every possible way — " He stopped abrupt- 
 ly. "I mean that you women will only see two sides of a 
 subject — the right and the wrong." 
 
 " Yes, thank Heaven 1" 
 
 " Whereas there are many sides, and a man requires to 
 see them all. But we are slipping into ethical discussion, 
 which you and I are rather prone to, Aunt Hannah. Sup- 
 pose, instead, we go and look at our roses?" 
 
 Go and look at roses when a fellow-creature was hang- 
 ing on every breath of theirs for hope or despair ! Han- 
 nah had never thought her brother-in-law so hard-hearted. 
 
 " I can't go," she said. " I must first speak to poor 
 Gi-ace. 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 soon- 
 er 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 can not — you see noth- 
 ing 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 himself out of the slightest shadow 
 of evil comment ? I especially, both as rector of Easter- 
 ham and as Sir Austin's son, must expect to have my acts 
 and motives sharply criticised, and perhaps many a mo- 
 tive ascribed to me which does not exist. No ; I have 
 been thinking the matter over all the morning, and I see 
 no alternative. Grace ought to go. I believe Lady Riv- 
 ers and all at the Moat House would say the same." 
 
H ANN All. ' 95 
 
 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 happened seldom. She 
 bad found out that, like most 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 worldly — 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 affectionate, rela- 
 tions 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 honor 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 very 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 wickedness 
 
96 HANNAH. 
 
 of the world — the things " done in secret," as St. Paul 
 terras 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. Often- 
 times 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 toward 
 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 excitement, Mr. Rivers used such ex- 
 ceedingly 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 colorless, 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 medieval 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 her to have it noticed, or would 
 have done, had not her mind been full of other things. 
 
 " I was going to the picnic in Langmead Wood, you 
 know; but never mind that just now. Before I start I 
 
HANNAH. 97 
 
 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 ns." 
 
 Bernard was silent. 
 
 "I can not 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 Rosa !" 
 
 "Why do you name her?" said Mr. Rivers, 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 let- 
 ting Grace stay." 
 
 " But how can she stay? How can you keep her miser- 
 able story a secret?" 
 
 " I should not keep it a secret at all. I would tell every 
 body 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, 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 can not thus run counter 
 
 E 
 
98 HANNAH. 
 
 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. Riv- 
 ers nearly a year now, and, whether she cared for him or 
 not, she had never seen any thing in him which made her 
 cease to respect him. Until now. " Dare not !" she re- 
 peated, almost doubting if she had heard truly. " When 
 there is a certain course of conduct 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 Nor- 
 man blood rushed up to 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 in- 
 timacy that was inevitable under the circumstances, she 
 and her brother-in-law had never had any thing approach- 
 ing to a quarrel. They had differed widely sometimes, 
 but always amicably, and upon abstract rather than per- 
 sonal grounds. Those "sharp words," which even the 
 dearest friends say to one another sometimes, had never 
 passed between them. His extraordinarily sweet temper 
 — oh, how keenly Hannah now appreciated her sister's 
 fond praise of the blessing it was to have a sweet-tem- 
 pered 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 every 
 thing he did and said — all these things made quarreling 
 with Bernard Rivers almost impossible. 
 
HANNAH. 99 
 
 " What have I done ?" thought Hannah, half laughing, 
 half crying. " He must think me a perfect virago. I will 
 apologize the minute he comes back," 
 
 But he did not come back : not though she waited an 
 hour in the breakfast-room, putting off her household du- 
 ties, and even that other, as painful as it was inevitable — 
 speaking to poor Grace. But he never came. Then, go- 
 ing into the hall, she saw that his hat and coat had van- 
 ished. She knew his appointments of the morning, and 
 was sure now that he was gone, and w^ould 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 " Tan- 
 nic, Tannic," did not give nearly the comfort that they 
 were wont to do. 
 
 "Tannic has been naughty,'' said she, feeling a strange re- 
 lief in confessing her sins to the unconscious child. " Tan- 
 nic 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 w^as the case, nothing and nobody could soothe 
 Hannah Thelluson. 
 
 With a heavy heart she got ready for the picnic — a fam- 
 ily 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-by. Don't let us bother about him. Such a splen- 
 did day it is for a picnic, and Langmead Wood at its love- 
 liest time ! Do let us enjoy ourselves." 
 
100 HANNAH. 
 
 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 console them- 
 selves with somebody else. 
 
 But with herself it was not so. She thought the girls 
 rather heartless in missing Bernard so little. She missed 
 ]iim a good deal, and set down her regrets as conscience- 
 stings. They hindered half her enjoyment 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 I" 
 
 So absorbed was she in her contrition that she did not 
 notice for ever so long what otherwise would have inter- 
 ested her much — a very patent love-affair now going on 
 between Adeline Rivers and this same Mr. Melville, the 
 young squire whom Grace had mentioned. To bring him 
 "to the point," as one of the girls confidentially told her, 
 this picnic had been planned, hoping that the tender influ- 
 ence 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 happening before 
 instead of after the year 1835 which saved Herbert Mel- 
 ville 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 
 
HANKAH. 101 
 
 shook hands with every body, 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 direc- 
 tion ; and she shrank back into herself, feeling more un- 
 happy, in a foolish, causeless, childish sort of way, than 
 she remembered to have done for at least ten years. 
 
 If 
 
 **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 discussions, tete-d-tete^ 
 among Lady Rivers and her girls, upon the chances and 
 prospects of the young couple for whose benefit the picnic 
 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 pit- 
 ied or smiled at this pair of lovers, who finally slipped 
 aside among the 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 every body 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 direc- 
 tion. 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 her way, 
 and yet near her, though not a word between them was 
 possible. This behavior at last tantalized her so much 
 that she fairly ran away : stole quietly out of the circle, 
 
102 IIANNAU. 
 
 and hid herself in a nut-wood dell, filling her hands with 
 blue hyacinths. 
 
 " Hannah, what are you doing ?" 
 " Gathering a nosegay 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 every body's. What a warm, good heart you have !" 
 " Have I ? I doubt it," answered Hannah, with a falter- 
 ing 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 uni- 
 versally beloved. 
 
 " I think you and I rather quarreled this morning. Aunt 
 Hannah ? We never did' so before, did we ?" 
 "No." 
 
 " Then don't let us do it again. Here is my hand." 
 Hannah took it joyfully, tried to speak, and signally 
 failed. 
 
 " You don't mean to say you are crying ?" 
 " I am afraid I am. It is very silly, but I can't help it. 
 I never Avas used to quarreling, and I have been quite un- 
 happy all day. You see " — and she raised her face with 
 the innocent childlike expression it sometimes wore, more 
 childlike, 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 every body 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. 103 
 
 Hannah was much moved. Still more so when, droop- 
 ing 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 ex- 
 actly what was her feeling about second marriages, did 
 he contemplate any thing of the sort. He evidently 
 caught her meaning, and was pained by it. 
 
 "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." 
 
 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 Eosie would 
 have enjoyed it ; how she would enjoy it by-and-by, when 
 she was old enough to be brought to picnics at Langmead. 
 All trivial subjects, lightly and gayly 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 every thing. 
 
 N^ot every thing ; 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 ?" 
 
104 HANNAH. 
 
 "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 at- 
 tach to her, only misfortune ; and, therefore, it was neither 
 necessary nor right to send her away." 
 
 "Very well. I came to tell you that she shall not be 
 sent away. I have reconsidered the question, and am pre- 
 pared to risk all the consequences of keeping her — for my 
 little girl's sake and yours." 
 
 Hannah burst into broken thanks, and then fairly be- 
 gan to cry again. She could not tell what was the matter 
 with her. Her joy was as silly and weak-minded as her 
 sorrow. She was so ashamed of herself as to be almost re- 
 lieved when Mr. Rivers, laughing at her in a kindly, pleas- 
 ant 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 Grace's misery was lighten- 
 ed a little, though, alas ! not much. Perhaps, 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, appear- 
 ing 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 become young men 
 and maidens, rejoicing in the spring. Especially the well- 
 watched pair of lovers, who had evidently come to an un- 
 derstanding, as desired ; for when, after a lengthy absence, 
 they reappeared, bringing two small sticks apiece, as their 
 contributions to the fire that was to boil the kettle, their 
 shyness and awkwardness were only equaled by their ex- 
 pression of blushing content. 
 
 Why should not old maid Hannah be content likewise, 
 
HANNAH. 105 
 
 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 anniversaries; 
 on the contrary, she carefully avoided them ; but she nev- 
 er forgot them. Many a time, when nobody knew, she 
 was living over again, with an ineffaced and ineffaceable 
 vividness, certain days and certain hours burned into her 
 memory with the red-hot iron of affliction. 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 remem- 
 bered 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 a 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-forgotten 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 won- 
 der 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 realize, and are not meant to realize, in any way 
 that would narrow our duties here. Whether he still re- 
 mained 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 
 
 E2 
 
106 HANNAH. 
 
 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 coach- 
 man on the Moat House carriage, as they 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 
 peaceful 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 suppressed 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 forever, only to remember." 
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 Hannah was fond of the Moat House ; in the way that 
 we are often fond of 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 gray old walls, she could quite under- 
 stand Mr. Rivers's strong clinging to the only home he 
 ever knew, the resting-place of his family for generations. 
 She sympathized keenly in his admiration for its quaint 
 
HANNAH. 107 
 
 nooks and corners within — its quainter aspect without ; 
 for the moat had been drained, and turned into a terraced 
 garden, and the old draw-bridge into a bridge leading to 
 it ; so that it was the most original 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 enter- 
 tainments, 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, you 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 downward, 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 p^ipa of it, 
 and papa came back and complained to Aunt Hannah ; 
 and Aunt Hannah was sometimes sorry, sometimes indig- 
 nant. So the end was that she and the child never went 
 there unless specially invited ; and that paradise of most 
 little people — "grandmamma's house" and "grandmam- 
 ma'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 any thing. Every body 
 knew, though nobody said it, that the Reverend Bernard 
 Rivers would be in reality his father's successor. Even 
 Lady Rivers, who was a rich young widow wlien she be- 
 
108 HANNAH. 
 
 came Sir Austin's wife, and had a comfortaLle 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 Thellu- 
 son ; for, in his position, it is really his duty, and he says 
 one of the great advantages you are to him is that you al- 
 ways keep him up to his duty." 
 
 To these remarks Hannah seldom answered more than 
 a polite smile. She made a point of never discussing Mr. 
 Rivers's marriage ; first, because if his family had no deli- 
 cacy 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 cheer- 
 ful house, too. " Use hospitality without grudging " was 
 Bernard's motto ; and he used it, as she once suggested to 
 him, principally to those " who can not repay thee." So 
 the House on the Hill — the clergyman's house — was sel- 
 dom empty, but had always bed and board at the service 
 of any who required it or enjoyed it. Still this kind of 
 hospitality, simple as it was, kept Hannah very busy al- 
 ways. 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 the outside cheerfulness in their daily life, she 
 and her brother-in-law, since their quarrel and its mak- 
 ing-up, seemed to have got on together better than ever. 
 Her mind was settled on the marriage question; she 
 dreaded no immediate changes, and he seemed to respect 
 her all the more for having " shown fight " on the ques- 
 tion of Grace Dixon — alas ! Mrs. Dixon no longer now — 
 
HANNAH. 109 
 
 she took off her wedding-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, outwardly re- 
 signed. 
 
 "IN'ever 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 awkward- 
 nesses, 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 family did sometimes ; they had a genius for 
 discussing unpleasant topics. But happily the approach- 
 ing marriage of Mr. Melville and Adeline annihilated this 
 one. 
 
 "Under the circumstances nobody could speak to him 
 abaut it, you know ; it might hurt his feelings," said the 
 happy bride elect. " And pray keep Grace out of his way, 
 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-daugh- 
 ters, 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 every body, and a relief like- 
 wise. Young Mr. Melville, who was rather of a butterfly 
 temperament, had fluttered about this nosegay of pretty 
 girls for the last ten years. He had, in 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 engage- 
 ment ; which, however, he sjDeedily recovered, to carry on 
 a long flirtation with the handsome Bertha; finally, to 
 
110 HANNAH. 
 
 every body'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 consolation. 
 " 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 province to notice 
 them. The Ri verses were Bernard's " people,'^ as he af- 
 fectionately 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 dare say 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 any body else. First, because I love 
 her best, she being of my own blood ; secondly, because 
 not all women, not even all mothers, have the real moth- 
 erly 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." 
 
 "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, and 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 qu^er things sometimes; Rosie does already.) 
 
HANNAH. Ill 
 
 * But you must say it to me,' said mamma. ' I won't,' said 
 the child. And then the mother stood, beating and shak- 
 ing her, at intervals, for nearly an hour. At last the little 
 thing fell into convulsions of sobbing. 'Fetch me the 
 water-jug, and I'll pour it over her.' (Which she did, wet- 
 ting her through.) ' This is the way I conquer my chil- 
 dren.' Now," said Hannah Thelluson, with flashing eyes, 
 "if any strange woman were ever to try to conquer my 
 child—" 
 
 " Keep yourself quiet, Hannah," said Mr. Rivers, half 
 smiling, and gently patting her hand. " No ' strange wom- 
 an ' 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 oth- 
 er day, when she is old enough? Oh, papa" (she some- 
 times called him " papa," as a compromise between " Ber- 
 nard," which he wished, and "Mr. Rivers"), "I think I 
 should go frantic if any body 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 fire — 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 hesi- 
 tation, and trying to be as truthful as she could. " When 
 first I came here I was doubtful how our plan would an- 
 swer ; but it has answered admirably. I desire 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:. 
 
112 HANNAH. 
 
 Hannah sat alone, and rather uncomfortable. Had she 
 vexed him in any way ? Was he not glad she declared 
 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. Rosie 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 H^in- 
 nah'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 — and, oh, how touching was 
 her trust, how patient her resigning ! 
 
 "I don't know how far you will educate your little 
 niece," wrote Lady Dunsmore, in the early days of Han- 
 nah's willing task ; " but I am quite certain she will edu- 
 cate 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 
 
HANNAH. 113 
 
 had given her to train up into beauty, blessing her with 
 twice the blessedness she gave. In all her little household 
 worries, Rosie's unconscious 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 own 
 miserable self, and to be dissatisfied with every thing and 
 every body. 
 
 Even herself. She could not guess why; but sometimes 
 her brother-in-law actually scolded her, or, what was worse, 
 he scolded Rosie ; quite needlessly, for the child was an ex- 
 ceedingly good child. And then Aunt Hannah's indigna- 
 tion was roused. More than once she thought of giving 
 him a severe lecture, as she had occasionally 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 laughingly 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 than the 
 rights of friendship, which scarcely justify a lady in say- 
 ing to a gentleman in his own house, "You are growing 
 a perfect bear, and I would much rather have your room 
 than your company." 
 
 Which was the truth. Just now, if she had not had Ro- 
 sie'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 nei- 
 ther 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 sor- 
 rowfully out of papa's way, lest she should vex him, or be 
 
114 HANNAH. 
 
 made naughty by him ; conscious, as she clasped the child 
 to her bosom, of that dangerous feeling which men some- 
 times rouse in women — even fathers in mothers — that 
 their children are much pleasanter company than them- 
 * selves. 
 
 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 destiny, 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 circum- 
 stances. 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 el- 
 derly rector, a rich widower, who had lately taken to vis- 
 iting 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 brother-in-law had made an unseemly jest. He never 
 made it again. And soon afterward, either from her ex- 
 treme 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 Ade- 
 line's marriage, and the great advantage it was for girls 
 to get early settled in life — a pointed allusion to the afore- 
 said rector, and his persistent attentions. 
 
 " Which, of course, every body noticedj my dear. Ev- 
 ery body notices every thing in Easterham. And allow 
 me to say that if he does mean any thing, you may count 
 on my best wishes. Indeed,! think, all things considered, 
 to marry him would be the very best thing you could do." 
 
HANNAH. 115 
 
 " Thank you ; but I have not the slightest intention of 
 doing it." 
 
 " 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 in- 
 trusiveness. " But, really, these things can not possibly 
 interest any one but myself. Not even benevolent East- 
 erham." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 And with a displeased look the old lady disappeared 
 to other guests, giving Hannah unmistakably " the cold 
 shoulder " for the remainder of the evening. 
 
 This did not afflict her much, for she was used to it. 
 Of far greater consequence was it when, a little while af- 
 ter, 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 one's self disagreeable in the eating of it, or abus- 
 ing it afterward, 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 admi- 
 ration of every thing at the Moat House. The only occa- 
 sions 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 to- 
 gether, which they did sometimes of fine evenings instead 
 of ordering the carriage, he talked pleasantly and cheer- 
 
116 HANNAH. 
 
 fully 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 something of the feeling which bright winter 
 nights always gave to Hannah — that sense of nearness to 
 the invisible which levels all human griefs, and comforts 
 all mortal pain. 
 
 " Perhaps, after all," said he, when they had been speak- 
 ing 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 patience and do one's duty." 
 
 " I think it does matter," Hannah answered ; but gen- 
 tly, 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 can not 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 Tannic ! Isn't Tannic sorry to take 
 away Rosie's toys ?' Tannic was sorry, and would glad- 
 ly have given them all back again if she could. Don't 
 you think," and Hannah lifted her soft, gray, truthful eyes 
 to the winter sky, " that if Tannic feels thus, so surely must 
 God?" 
 
 Mr. Rivers said nothing ; but he pressed slightly the 
 arm within his, and they walked on, taking the " sweet 
 counsel together" which is the best privilege of real 
 friends. It was like old days come back again, and Han- 
 nah felt so glad. 
 
 " Now you may perceive," Bernard said, after a little, 
 
HANNAH. 117 
 
 apropos of nothing, " why the charming young ladies who 
 come about my sisters, and whom they think I don't ad- 
 mire half enough, do not attract me as I suppose they 
 ought to do. They might have don6 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 either. For in- 
 stance, the things we have been talking of to-night I should 
 never dream of speaking about to any body — except you." 
 
 " 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 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 es- 
 pecially those which concerned herself and her own feel- 
 ings, Hannah was still a very shy woman. 
 
 " I^ot that I have a word to say against those charm- 
 ing girls," continued he, relapsing into his gay mood. No 
 doubt they are very charming, the Misses Melville 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?" 
 
1 1 8 HANNAH. 
 
 " I should fancy it is most people's who have ever deep- 
 ly 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 — " 
 
 "And which of these do you suppose was the case of 
 Adeline and Mr. Melville ?" 
 
 " Good Heavens ! I was not thinking of Adeline and 
 Mr. Melville at all." 
 
 He spoke with such needless acerbity that Hannah actu- 
 ally 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 unaccountable. 
 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 reminded him of 
 his wife ? And yet, except for a certain occasional " fami- 
 ly" look, no two sisters could be more unlike than she and 
 
HANNAH. 119 
 
 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. 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 forgive. 
 You see I am not such a calm, even temperament 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 sci- 
 ence which Mr. Rivers had just been so eloquently discuss- 
 ing, may consider foolish in the extreme, showing 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 straight-for- 
 ward 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 cele- 
 brated feat of "jumping over the moon." Besides, her 
 idea of herself 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 agonized expression 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 further, while I say to 
 you something which I have had on my mind to say for 
 
120 U ANN All. 
 
 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 uncom- 
 fortableness of manner, Hannah guessed directly what it 
 was. "Et tu. Brute !" she could have bitterly said, re- 
 membering the annoyance to which she had been just sub- 
 jected by Lady Rivers, whom she had seen afterward 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 fully ten minutes ; first by 
 Bernard's silence, out of which she was determined not to 
 help him in the least ; and secondly, by their encountering 
 a couple out walking like themselves, the village apothe- 
 cary 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. Rivers himself looked 
 much vexed, and hastily proposed turning homeward, as 
 if forgetting altogether what they 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 ; " 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 mc. Even to-night, when 
 
HANNAH. 121 
 
 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 Easter- 
 ham gossip at Morecamb's frequent visits. I kept my own 
 counsel, ay, and submitted to be rated roundly for my in- 
 difference 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 Rivers's vocabulary, a marriage of convenience. 
 She is very kind to take my affairs so completely into 
 her own hands. I am deeply indebted to her — and to 
 you." 
 
 The tone was so bitter and satirical, so unlike herself, 
 that Bernard turned to look at her in the starlight — the 
 pale, pure face, neither young nor old, which, he some- 
 times said, never would be either younger or older, be- 
 cause no wear and tear of human passion troubled its ce- 
 lestial peace. 
 
 " I have offended you, I see. Can it be possible that — " 
 
 " ISTothing 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 con- 
 cerning Mr. Morecamb — unless it was resentment 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 himself, 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 things in a different light, and live after a dif- 
 ferent 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 
 
 F 
 
122 HANNAH. 
 
 be able to prevent it. There might be circumstances — 
 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, and 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 unhap- 
 pily, * 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. Morecamb. 
 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 indignant 
 as if she had really loved Mr. Morecamb. That her broth- 
 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 nega- 
 tive, and say that you desire his visits here to cease ?" 
 
 " Not if he is your friend, and you wish them to con- 
 tinue. What right have I to shut the door upon any of 
 your guests ? My position is most awkward, most uncom- 
 fortable. 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, an appeal 
 for protection — until she remembered she was making it 
 to a sham protector ; a man who had no legal rights to- 
 
HANNAH. 123 
 
 ward het ; who was neither husband, father, nor brother ; 
 who, though she was living under his roof, could not shel- 
 ter her in the smallest degree, except as an ordinary friend. 
 He was that, anyhow, for he burst out in earnest and pas- 
 sionate 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 mis- 
 apprehension, 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 ?" 
 
 " N'o ; 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 very familiar with 
 one another, came now to soothe the agitation of both. 
 
 " Let us make a paction, for it will never do to have an- 
 other 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 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 wroth. 
 Presently you will burst out, and tear me limb from limb, 
 as — allegorically 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 winning, good-hu- 
 mored way. It is one of the greatest of mysteries — the 
 influence one human being has over another. Oftener than 
 not because of extreme dissimilarity. Upon Hannah's 
 
124 han:j^ah. 
 
 grave and silent nature the very youthfulness, buoyant- 
 ness, and frankness of this young man came with a charm 
 and freshness which she never found in grave, silent, mid- 
 dle-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 sweet- 
 est-tempered man I ever knew. It is a blessing 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 star- 
 light a suddenly grave, even solemn face — " if you knew 
 every thing — 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 un- 
 mistakable woman's scream. 
 
 " That is Grace's voice. Oh, my baby ! my baby !" cried 
 Hannah, and darted away, Mr. Rivers following her. 
 
 CHAPTER YH. 
 
 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 happened ? The 
 uneasy fear that some time or other something uncomfort- 
 able 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 intelli- 
 gent and faithful nurse. 
 
HANNAH. , 12i> 
 
 Of course the whole household, as well as every house- 
 hold 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 neighbors, she had never hesi- 
 tated to mention the thing, telling the plain story, accept- 
 ing 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 
 fearless 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-women 
 have not time to die of grief. But though Grace said lit- 
 tle or nothing, often when she sat sewing, with Rosie play- 
 ing 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 Misses Melville, had caught from them 
 a higher tone of feeling and a purer morality, in great 
 things and small, than, alas ! is usually found among serv- 
 ants ; and she suffered 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 noth- 
 ing 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 reappeared. 
 
 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-look- 
 
120 HANNAH. 
 
 ing 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. Kivers 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," stam- 
 mered 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. 
 " 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 
 forever rating at me and beating the children ; 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 dart- 
 ed 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 despair- 
 ingly 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 
 
HANNAH. 127 
 
 arms, where she lay half fainting, not resisting at all, evi- 
 dently frightened to death. 
 
 " This can not be endured," said Mr. Rivers, angrily. 
 " Dixon, be off v^^ith 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 im- 
 mediately, 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 w^ithout 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 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 recog- 
 nize it. She is not your wife, and so, very rightly, she re- 
 fuses to go back to you ; and I, as magistrate, will protect 
 her in this refusal. Let her go." And Mr. Rivers, follow- 
 ing words by action, again shook off the fellow's grasp, 
 and let the young woman free. " Now, Grace, get away 
 up stairs, and let us put an end to this nonsense." 
 
128 nANNAII. 
 
 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 pos- 
 session 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. John, the butler, an old servant, even 
 ventured to hint this, and that it was a pity to meddle be- 
 tween man and wife. 
 
 " Did I not say plainly that she is not his wife ?" cried 
 Mr. Rivers, in much displeasure. "A man can not 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 im- 
 mediately with Miss Thelluson." 
 
 Then Dixon's lingering civility and respect for the 
 clergy quite left him. He squared uj) at Mr. Rivers in 
 drunken rage. 
 
 "You're a nice parson, you are! Mind your own busi- 
 ness, 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 glit- 
 tering, hungry eyes, and a creeping way he had till he 
 showed his teeth and sprung upon you. Hannah won- 
 dered how on earth poor, pretty Grace could ever have 
 been persuaded to marry him. But no doubt it w^as like 
 so many marriages, the mere result of circumstances, 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 serv- 
 ants there, and so does all Easterham. There bean't much 
 
HANNAH. 129 
 
 to choose betwixt you and me, Mr. Rivers, if all tales be 
 true." 
 
 "What tales?" said Bernard, slowly, turning w^hite, 
 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 parlor. " What tales?" 
 
 " Of course it isn't true. Sir — or else it doesn't matter — - 
 gentlefolks may do any thing they likes. But people do 
 say, Mr. Rivers, that you and I row in the 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 insolence would go so 
 far, or was unaware of the extent to which the scandal 
 had grown ; but he stood, for the moment, perfectly para- 
 lyzed. 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 ev- 
 ery body 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 listen- 
 er, 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 !" 
 
 F2 
 
130 HANNAH. 
 
 Mr. Rivers almost 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, anyhow. 
 For a young lady and a young gentleman to live togeth- 
 er, 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." 
 
 Hannah put up her hand to her head. Until this mo- 
 ment, confused and bewildered, and full of pity for unfor- 
 tunate 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 ac- 
 cused 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 
 name 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, miser- 
 able Grace — stole up to her and caught her hand. 
 
 " It is a lie, miss — and Jem knows it is ! You musn't 
 mind what he says." 
 
 And then another of the women-servants — an under 
 house-maid 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. 
 
 " Sister Hannah," said Mr. Rivers, at length recovering 
 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 exer- 
 
HANNAH. 131 
 
 else it, especially with his inferiors. His extraordinarily 
 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 thorough- 
 ly angry, people know he means it, and are frightened ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 Either Dixon felt some slight remorse, or dreaded the 
 police, for 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 household became quiet. 
 
 Quiet, after such a scene ! As if it were possible ! Re- 
 tiring was a mere form. The servants sat up till mid- 
 night, gossiping gloriously over the kitchen fire. Hannah 
 heard them where she, too, sat, wide awake, in the dread- 
 ful 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 clamor of tongues in the kitchen was si- 
 lent ; 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 slan- 
 der ? 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 fall upon me ?" moaned poor Hannah, 
 as bit by bit she realized her position — the misinterpreta- 
 tions that might be put upon her daily conduct, even as 
 upon to-night's walk across the hill. Perhaps what Dixon 
 
132 HANNAH. 
 
 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 mar- 
 ried to Mr. Morecamb — of the falling off of late in social 
 civilities — a certain polite coldness in houses where her 
 visits 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 unpleas- 
 ant 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 w^ay in such happy unsuspiciousness. Yes ! 
 now she recognized, with mingled wonder and — was it ter- 
 ror also ? — how very happy she had been. There seemed 
 nothing left for her but to lay her down and die. 
 
 Every body knows the story of the servant lamenting 
 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 in- 
 cumbent 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 any thing wrong ? And there must be some- 
 thing wrong, some false position, some oversight in con- 
 duct, some unfortunate concatenation of circumstances, to 
 make such a lie possible. 
 
 " Be thou chaste as ice, pure as snow, thou shalt not es- 
 cape calumny." Most true ; but the calumny is rarely al- 
 together 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 warn- 
 
HANXAII. 133 
 
 ing: "He is not your brother; it is only a social fiction 
 that makes him so." And if Bernard Kivers and she were 
 not brother and sister, 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 begun to tremble — nay, she actually 
 shuddered ; but, strange contradiction ! it v»^as not alto- 
 gether 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 forever. 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 — strange- 
 ly so for a w^oman who had lived, not ignorantly, in the 
 world for thirty years. Whatever mistake 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 hin- 
 der her from sufiering like a woman — a woman who, after 
 a long dream of peace, wakes up to find she has been sleep- 
 ing 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 corre- 
 sponding truth, that nature herself sets bounds to the as- 
 sociation of men and women — certainly of young men and 
 young women — and that, save under very exceptional cir- 
 cumstances, all pseudo-relationships are a mistake. Two 
 people, who are neither akin by blood nor bound in wed- 
 lock, can seldom, almost never, live together in close and 
 afiectionate friendship without this friendship growing to 
 be something less or something more. The thing is ab- 
 normal, and against nature; and l^ature avenges herself 
 by asserting her rights and exacting her punishments. 
 
 The law says to people in such positions — to brothers 
 
134 HANNAH. 
 
 and sisters in law especially — " you shall not marry." But 
 it can not say, " You shall not love." It can not prevent 
 the gradual growth of that fond, intimate affection which 
 is the surest basis of married happiness. Suppose — Han- 
 nah put the question to herself with frightened conscience 
 — suppose, instead of that tender friendship which un- 
 doubtedly 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 hap- 
 py. He thinks too much of himself, too little of her. But 
 Bernard was a different kind of man. That sweet sun- 
 shininess 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 brilliantly 
 clever ; and he had many little faults ; rashnesses, bursts 
 of wrath, sudden, childish, fantastic humors, followed by 
 pathetic contrition; but he was intensely lovable. Han- 
 nah 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 every body whom he lived with he 
 contrived to make happy. 
 
 " Oh, we have been so happy together," Rosa had sighed, 
 almost with her last breath. And Rosa's sister, in the bit- 
 ter pang which seemed like death — for it must surely re- 
 sult 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 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 
 aw^y at once. 
 
HANNAH, 135 
 
 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 run, 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 with- 
 out Rosie — the old, blank, sunless, childless life — she could 
 not endure it. It would kill her at once. Better a thou- 
 sand 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 deep, 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 Ber- 
 nard'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 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 the lark springing up into the morn- 
 ing air over a clover-field — " Tannic, Tannic ! Wake up. 
 Tannic !" dispersed in a moment all the cloudy despairs of 
 the nisrht. 
 
136 HANXAn. 
 
 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 painful, or 
 despairing. Such can not long exist in any heart that is 
 filled with a child. Hannah had sometimes 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 Rosie, they almost did seem im- 
 possible. 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 Rosie and Tannic 
 were so grand at when together — before all the agony of 
 last night became as unreal as last night's dreams. This 
 was the real thing — the young life intrusted 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 she must stay — 
 that, strong in their innocence, they must treat Dixon's 
 malicious insolence as mere insolence, no more, and make 
 no change whatever in their way of life — still, how doubly 
 difiicult 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 rcsrard to their two selves ! 
 
HANNAH. 137 
 
 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 familiar as his manner was — or had 
 been till lately — he never was free w^ith her — never ca- 
 ressed 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. Melville. But, 
 even though in their daily conduct to one another, private 
 and public, she and Bernard could never be impeached, 
 still the horrible possibility 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 foot 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 every body but 
 Webb, the butler, w^iom she saw hovering about, near, sus- 
 piciously near, to an open note, or rather a scrap of paper, 
 left on the table, open — was it intentionally open ? — for 
 any body's perusal. 
 
 "Master has just gone off to the railway in the dog-cart, 
 Miss Thelluson. He left me 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." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 Any body might have read it, certainly. It might have 
 been printed in the Times newspaper, or declaimed by the 
 Easterham town-crier for the benefit of the small public at 
 
138 HANNAH. 
 
 the market-place. And yet Hannah's eyes read it eager- 
 ly, 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 
 1)6 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." 
 
 CHAPTER VIH. 
 
 Hannah's lirst feeling on discovering her brother-in- 
 law's absence was intense relief Then, as she sat aver the 
 solitary breakfast -table, there came unto her an uneasi- 
 ness akin to fear. He had done exactly wiiat she had 
 not done ; what, in spite of her first instinctive 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 col- 
 lege companion ill in London, it was no friend close enough 
 to take him suddenly and compulsorily from all his duties 
 — he who so hated going from home. Yes, he must have 
 
HAi^NAH. 139 
 
 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—rdid that other solution of 
 the difficulty suggest itself to Hannah's mind. Had she 
 looked at the sweet, grave face reflected in the mirror op- 
 posite, had she heard the patient, tender voice which an- 
 swered 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 but perfectly safe one — not th;it 
 her brother-in-law was growing fond of her, but that she 
 was growing fond of him ; fond enough to make his mar- 
 riage, or any other catastrophe which should part them, 
 not so indifierent 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 as- 
 sociate 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 helpless as one of those 
 little fledgelings about whom, in the intervals of her med- 
 itations, she was telling Rosie a pathetic story. And when 
 
140 HANNAH. 
 
 Kosie said, " Poor little dicky-birds !" and looked quite 
 sad, then, seeing Aunt Hannah look 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 before the child 
 — ay, even though sometimes there occurred to her, with a 
 refined self-torture, the 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 cru- 
 elty. If he were, why. Aunt Hannah was quite capable 
 of—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 sto- 
 ry, of an aunt who had once traveled from England to 
 America, and there fairly kidnapped from some wicked re- 
 lations her dead sister's child; pretended to take it out 
 for a walk, and fled over snow and through forests, trav- 
 eling 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 des- 
 perate woman Tannic could be made !" 
 
 And Rosie laughed in her face, and stroked it, and said, 
 " Good Tannic, pretty Tannic !" 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, sending 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 enoucrh if he had a wife, but for a man in Ber- 
 
HAi^NAH, 141 
 
 nard'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 de- 
 sired, taken Bernard's message to his family, even showing 
 the letter, and another letter she got from him respecting 
 Mr. Hewlett, the clergyman, also evidently meant to be 
 shown. Indeed, he wrote almost daily to her about some 
 parish business or other, for Hannah had become to him 
 like her lost sister — his "curate in petticoats." But ev- 
 ery letter was the briefest, most matter-of-fact possible, 
 beginning " My dear sister," and ending " your affection- 
 ate 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 precau- 
 tions. 
 
 Day after day Hannah delivered her brother-in-law's 
 messages, and transacted his business, speaking and look- 
 ing 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 differ- 
 ence in the way people glanced at or addressed her ; but 
 beyond a certain carelessness with which she was usually 
 treated at the Moat House when Mr. Rivers was not pres- 
 ent, and a slight coldness in other houses— which might or 
 might not have been her own morbid fancy — she discov- 
 ered nothing. 
 
 The clergyman sent by Bernard, being of no imposing 
 personality or high worldly standing, but only just a poor 
 " coach " at Cambridge, was not invited to stay at the 
 Moat House ; so Miss Thelluson had to entertain him her- 
 self 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 sto- 
 
142 HANNAH. 
 
 ries 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 being amiable. They made her almost for- 
 give herself for another fact w^hich had alarmed and 
 startled her — that she missed him so much. 
 
 People of Hannah's character, accustomed of sad neces- 
 sity to stand alone until self-dependent solitude becomes 
 second nature, do not often "miss" other people. 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 Hannali was painfully con- 
 scious now her brother-in-law was away. She had thought 
 the child was company enough ; and so Rosie was in day- 
 light 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 
 disobeyed — but after Rosie had gone to bed the blank si- 
 lence which seemed to fall upon the house was indescrib- 
 able. 
 
 Oh, the lonely tea-table ! — for she had abolished seven 
 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 Han- 
 nah'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 re- 
 tired, 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 him- 
 self into her heart with that wonderful key of sympathy 
 which he so well knew how to use, and even in her deep- 
 est 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 
 
HANNAH. 143 
 
 him everywhere, in every thing, with the bitter want of 
 those who, having lived together for many months, come 
 inevitably, as was before said, either to dislike one another 
 excessively, or — that other alternative, 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 mat- 
 ter — not even when Grace's misery had 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 beginning to think of her brother- 
 in-law — not at all as she was wont to think — the question 
 came, startlingly, was she right or wrong in so doing ? 
 
144 HANNAH. 
 
 For she was one of those women after the type of Jeanie 
 * in " Auld Robin Gray," to whom the mere fact, 
 
 *'I daurna think of Jamie, for that wad be a sin,'* 
 
 was the beginning and end of every thing. 
 
 But was it a sin? Could she find any thing in the Bible 
 to prove it such ? She took down a " 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 m 
 her life-time " — of which the straightforward, natural in- 
 terpretation was that, consequently, it might be done af- 
 ter her death. 
 
 Hight or wrong. That, 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 
 ])()int — 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 Han- 
 nah 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 wondering how he managed without her — 
 who brought him his hat and gloves, and arranged his 
 daily memoranda — for, like most other excellent men, he 
 was a little disorderly, and very dependent upon the wom- 
 en about him. Who would take care of him, and see that 
 he had the food he liked, and the warm wraps he required? 
 All these thoughts came continually back npon Hannah, 
 in a piteously human, tender shape, quite different from 
 that dim dream-love, that sainted remembrance, of her 
 
HANNAH. 145 
 
 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 people'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 it- 
 self for the time into a house without a master,- a solar 
 system without a sun. 
 
 When she recognized 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 can not 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 al- 
 ways bear any thing which only harmed herself 
 
 Then she had the child. In all that dreadful time, 
 which afterward she looked back upon as a sort of night- 
 mare, she kept Rosie always beside her. Looking in her 
 darling's face — the little fragile flower which had blos- 
 somed into strength under her care, the piece of white 
 paper upon which any careless hand might have scribbled 
 any thing, 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 saved, by coming to Easterham, the child. 
 
 On the second Saturday of Mr. Rivers'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 perplexing visit fi'om tlie church- 
 
 G 
 
146 HANNAH. 
 
 warden, 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 neighboring clergyman might probably have to be sent 
 for, and arrange who it should be. And the vexed look 
 of the old church-warden, a respectable farmer; a certain 
 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 observant now, fan- 
 cied she detected in his manner, made her restless and un- 
 happy for hours after. N^ot till she had Rosie beside her, 
 and drank of the divine lethe-cup which infant hands al- 
 ways bring, did the painful impression subside. Now, in 
 the peace of firelight within, and a last amber gleam of 
 rainy sunset without, she and Rosie had the world all to 
 themselves ; tiny fingers curled tightly round hers, with 
 the sweet, imperative "Tannic, tum here!" and a little 
 blue and white fairy held out its mushroom-like frock, 
 with " Rosie dance. Tannic sing !" And Tannic 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 tempt- 
 ing 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. 
 
 She was sitting there, going through " Mary, Mary, quite 
 contrary," " Banbury Cross," the history of the young gen- 
 tleman who "put in his thumbs and pulled out the plums," 
 with other noble nursery traditions— all sung to tunes com- 
 posed on the spot, in that sweet, clear soprano which al- 
 ways made Rosie put up her small fingers with a mysteri- 
 ous " Hark ! Tannie's singing !" 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 Ro- 
 eie ^lJrickcd out in an ecstasy, "Papa come! papa come!" 
 
HANNAH. 147 
 
 Should she hide ? Or should she stay, with the child be- 
 side 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 memo- 
 ries 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 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 affectionate "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 lit- 
 tle one to bed, and so disappeared, not a word or look hav- 
 ing 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 " cozy," she, like little 
 
148 UANNAU. 
 
 Rosie, 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 servant's 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 comfortable. And Hannah smiled in 
 return, forgetting every thing except the pleasantness of 
 having him back again — the pure delight and rest in one 
 another's society which is at the root of all true friend- 
 ship, 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 so many 
 months, trying to think, feel, and speak the same as here- 
 tofore. 
 
 But it was in vain. In this, as in all false positions, the 
 light once admitted could never again be hidden from ; the 
 door once open could never be shut. 
 
 Mr. Rivers proposed going to the drawing-room at once. 
 "I want to talk to you; and here the servants might be 
 coming in." 
 
 Hannah blushed violently, and then hated herself for do- 
 ing 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, externally, 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 tliat a man of taste and refinement could desire, in 
 
HANNAH. 149 
 
 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 busi- 
 ness with you — my message to you, rather. You must un- 
 derstand I fulfill 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 offense because an honest man presumes to 
 love her. But I may as well speak out plainly. My friend 
 Morecamb — " 
 
 " Oh, is it that matter again ? I thought I was to hear 
 no more of it." 
 
 " You never would have done so from me, but circum- 
 stances have altered a little, and I have been overborne by 
 the opinion of others." 
 
 "What others?" 
 
 "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 w^orth and his attachment 
 to yourself are such, that if you will only allow him to 
 love you he shall be satisfied, and trust to time for the rest. 
 
150 HANNAH. 
 
 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 Rectory, 
 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." 
 
 " No," she answered, m 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." 
 
 "I?— oh, Hannah!— I?" 
 
 " Why distress yourself? Do I not say you are exceed- 
 ingly 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 unwill- 
 ingly 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 innocence. I 
 knew nothing. You, a man, ought to have known." 
 
HANNAH. 151 
 
 He turned deadly pale. 
 
 " You mean to say I ought to have known that, although 
 the law considers you my sister, you are not ray sister, and 
 our living together as w^e do would expose us to remarks 
 such as James Dixon made the other night. Most true; 
 1 ought to have known. Was that all ? or did you mean 
 any thing more than that ?" 
 
 " IN'othing more. Is not that enough ? Oh, it is dread- 
 ful — 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 remained motionless 
 in his seat — attempting no consolation. What consolation 
 could he give ? It was he himself who had brought this 
 slander upon her — how cruel and how wide-spread 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 helpless, and 
 you know it. Lady Rivers knows it too ; and so, doubt- 
 less, 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 
 
152 HANNAH. 
 
 am I to give to Morecamb? Am I to tell him to come 
 here and speak for himself?" 
 
 " No !" Hannah burst out vehemently. " JSTo — a thou- 
 sand 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 every body pointed the finger at — as per- 
 haps 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 !" 
 
 He spoke with his old, affectionate, boyish impulsiveness; 
 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 can not 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 
 w^ould fall on her heart like a drop of burning lead, she 
 would have pronounced it impossible — ridiculously impos- 
 sible. 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- 
 
HANNAH. 153 
 
 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." 
 
 " Your decision is quite irrevocable ?" 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 " 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 ask — 
 I have 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 toward 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, Hannah's 
 words were all but inaudible. 
 
 G2 
 
154 HANNAH. 
 
 "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 — 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 pain- 
 fully 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 refusing him ? Was 
 this what you referred to when you once said to me, or 
 implied, that you would never marry any body ? Is all 
 your heart, your warm, true, womanly heart, buried in 
 your cousin's grave ?" 
 
 There may be circumstances in which people are justi- 
 fied 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 — encompassed 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, delib- 
 erately, " No !" 
 
 But the eflTort 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 ef- 
 fort to detain her. 
 
 " Good-night !" she said, as she passed him. He, with- 
 out even an ofiered hand, said " Good-night " too ; and so 
 they parted. 
 
155 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Hanistah's waking up in the morning after her brother- 
 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 
 immediately ; for there are times when the brain, worn out 
 by long tension, collapses the instant we lie down — I^ature 
 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 du- 
 ties ; and how she should ever fulfill them as heretofore 
 she could not tell. 
 
 First, how should she again meet Mr. Rivers ? What 
 position should she hold toward 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 fic- 
 tion, which he had himself recognized 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 become her 
 lover. Her husband he could never be ; and yet she had 
 to go on living with him in an anomalous relationship 
 which was a compound of all these three ties, with the dif- 
 
153 HANNAH. 
 
 ficulties of all and the comfort of none. Her friend lie 
 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 gentleman living together in 
 those Platonic relations which are possible certainly, but 
 which the wicked world never believes to be possible, and 
 which Nature herself rejects as being out of the ordinary 
 course of things, and therefore very unadvisable. A life 
 difficult enough to carry on even if the parties were calmly 
 indifferent to one another ; but what if they were not indif- 
 ferent ? 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 monopolize 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 appropria- 
 tion — 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, then 
 even the noblest and most unselfish woman living will feel 
 for a time a slight pang, a blank in her life, a soreness at 
 her heart. It is Nature's revenge upon all shams, how- 
 ever innocent those shams may be. 
 
 And poor Hannah was reaping Nature's revenge now. 
 Whether he did or did not love her in a brotherly way, 
 she was cruelly conscious that to go on living with her 
 brother-in-law as heretofore would be a very severe trial. 
 
HANXAII. 157 
 
 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 a half at East- 
 erham as if it had never been. 
 
 For a moment the temptation was strong. She felt 
 hunted down, like the Israelites, with the Egyptians be- 
 hind and the Red Sea before — the dreadful, surging sea of 
 the future, over which there seemed no pathway, no possi- 
 ble 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 pleas- 
 ant, which she had tried to make a sort of home-beacon to 
 all the parish; and now all the parish leveled at it their 
 cruel stares, their malignant 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 pres- 
 ence, 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 trot- 
 ting over the carpet, and the burst of joyous child-laugh- 
 ter at her bedside. And when she hardly noticed it, for 
 it pierced her like a sword, there came a loud wail. " Tan- 
 nic, take her ! Take Rosie in Tannie's arms." Poor Tan- 
 nic 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. 
 
 Our lives, like the year, go through a succession of sea- 
 sons, which riiay come early or late, but come in regular 
 order. We do not find fruit in March or primroses in Au- 
 gust. Thus, though Hannah's heart now, strangely stirred 
 as it was, had a primrose breath of spring quivering through 
 it, it was not exactly the heart of a girl. She was a wom- 
 an of thirty, and though she loved — alas, she knew it now 
 only too well ! — she did not love romantically, absorbingly. 
 
158 HANNAH. 
 
 Besides, coexistent with this love had come to her that 
 other sentiment, usually of much later growth — the mater- 
 nal 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 ter- 
 rors, 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 English, 
 and her irresistible bursts of laughter smoothed over diffi- 
 culties 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 relation- 
 ship, that while Rosie was her own flesh and blood, closer 
 to her than any child not her very own could possibly be, 
 with Rosie's father there was no tie of blood at all. 
 
 Then 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 paleness of Bernard's features 
 and his nervous, excited manner only too much revealed. 
 
 " I 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 were 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 
 
HANNAH. 159 
 
 and preach, conscious that all eyes were watching him, all 
 tongues gossiping concerning him. For in Easterham 
 nothing was hid ; rich and poor alike chattered of their 
 neighbors' 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 breakfast- 
 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 " no ;" 
 till, looking down on the bright little face beside 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 fearless- 
 ly at Rosie's father. 
 
 "Yes, since Lady Rivers asks me, I will certainly go." 
 
 It was Hannah's custom to get ready for church quite 
 early, that she might walk with Bernard thither: he dis- 
 liked 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 that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves," 
 -etc., 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 sweetest, 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 moth- 
 
160 HANNAH. 
 
 er, 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 
 and natural, and they three would have been so happy. 
 Could it be a sin now? Could any possible interpreta- 
 tion, 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 conduct 
 was how things were, not in the sight of man, but of God. 
 That love, which was either a righteous affection or a dead- 
 ly sin, could she once assure herself that He did not forbid 
 it, little she cared whether man forbade 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, soli- 
 tary 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 thoughts 
 grew clearer. Rosa's very spirit, which now and then 
 looked strangely out of her daughter's eyes, seemed to 
 say to her that the dead view all things with larger vis- 
 ion 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 away your joys ! I 
 have only tried to fulfill your duties toward this little one 
 and toward 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 Tannic ? 
 Yet they say it is all unnatural and wrong: that any 
 strange woman would be a better mother to you than I ! 
 But that is false, altogether false. When your own moth- 
 er comes to 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 
 
HANNAH. 161 
 
 had been said out loud, must have brought a correspond- 
 ing expression to Hannah's face, for the child caught it, 
 and fixing on her aunt that deep, wise, almost supernatu- 
 ral gaze she sometimes had, answered, deliberately, " Yes." 
 For "No" — given with a sweet decisiveness, as if she al- 
 ready knew her own mind, the baby ! — and a gentle, satis- 
 fied " Yes," were among the earliest accomplishments of 
 that two-year-old 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 darkened down again 
 upon poor Aunt Hannah. She went to dress for the Moat 
 House dinner, and prepare to join the family circle, where 
 she, always an uncomfortable excrescence, was now re- 
 garded — How and in what 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 purpose 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 — Han- 
 nah — 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 toward that desirable end. 
 Could there be a plan formed for lecturing her on this 
 point ? 
 
 But no. Bernard would never have allowed it. And 
 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 darkness through 
 Easterham 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 charming, well- 
 dressed women, whose conversation suddenly paused at 
 
162 HANNAH. 
 
 her entrance, as if they had been talking her over, femi- 
 nine fashion, which no doubt they had. Hannah was sure 
 of it. She knew the way they used to talk over other peo- 
 ple — 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 straight forward. 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 — " 
 
 The question was stopped by Bernard's entrance — ten 
 minutes after the dinner-hour, of which Sir Austin bitterly 
 complained to his son ; and then offered his arm to Han- 
 nah, who stood, silent and painfully conscious, under the 
 battery of four pairs of feminine family eyes. 
 
 "I have been home to fetch Miss Thelluson," said Ber- 
 nard. — "Hannah, you should not have walked here alone." 
 
 And he would have taken a seat beside her, but Lady 
 Rivers 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 afterward. Miss Thelluson would 
 have been amused, if she had not been a little vexed and 
 annoyed, to see herself thus protected, like an heiress in 
 her teens, from every approach of the obnoxious party. 
 Mother and daughters mounted guard successively, keep- 
 ing her always engaged in conversation, 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 every- 
 where, and was conscious that he saw her, and listened to 
 every word she was saying. Yet she made no effort to 
 
HANNAH. 1G3 
 
 get near him, not even when she noticed him surreptitious- 
 ly take out his watch and look at it wearily, as if entreat- 
 ing, " Do let us go home." Every simple word and act 
 of a month ago had a meaning, 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-end- 
 ing endurance. But then they loved him in their own 
 way, and they were his " people," and he bore from them 
 what he w^ould never have borne from strangers. So 
 must she. 
 
 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 discount among 
 the Rivers girls, who were as strong as elephants, Adeline 
 lay rather neglected, watching her husband laughing and 
 talking with her sisters — flirting 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. Never- 
 theless, 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," returned 
 Adeline, and changed the conversation : but through it all 
 the pale, vexed face, the anxious eyes, heavy with an un- 
 spoken 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." 
 
164 HANNAH. 
 
 " 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 pat- 
 ronizing 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 po- 
 lite conversation ; yet she was fully aware that though, 
 with that convenient plastering over of sore or ugly places 
 peculiar 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 — apiece of condescension so great that there was 
 surely some purpose in it. Lady Rivers seldom took trou- 
 ble without a purpose. 
 
 Yet for a moment she hesitated, sat pulling her rings 
 off and on, and eying 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 even- 
 ing had worn Hannah out, and she was in doubt whether 
 Bernard would like her stealing off thus — whether, since 
 Lady Rivers thought it "wise," it really was not most un- 
 wise, thus to condense the cloudy scandal into shape by 
 paying it the respect of acceptance. As she tied her bon- 
 net 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. 
 
HANNAH. 165 
 
 " I 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 an- 
 swer I could give — Xo." 
 
 Lady Rivers sprang from her chair. " Good Heavens ! 
 Are you mad? My dear Miss Thelluson, I beg your 
 pardon; but really — to refuse such an offer! If Mr. 
 Morecamb had come and asked me for one of my own 
 daughters, I would at least have considered the mat- 
 ter. To one in your position, and under present circum- 
 stances — " 
 
 "Excuse me. Lady Rivers; but I am myself the best 
 judge of my own position and circumstances." 
 
 " So gentlemanly of him, too — so honorable — when he 
 knew, as every body knows, the way you are being talked 
 about !" 
 
 "He did know, then — " and Hannah checked herself. 
 " 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 traveler who walks up to face a supposed 
 ghost by a church-yard 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, except 
 in a covert way. " It is a most awkward matter to speak 
 about, and I have kept it from the girls as long as possi- 
 ble ; but people say in Easterham that it was not for noth- 
 ing you took part with that unfortunate 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. ISTeithcr docs Mr, 
 
1G6 HANNAH. 
 
 Morecamb. Still it is generally believed at Easterham — 
 and worse things, too." 
 
 " What worse things ? Tell me. I insist upon hearing." 
 
 Hannah spoke, as she had listened, with a desperate 
 calmness ; for she felt that at all costs she must 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 ; 
 every body knows every thing in Easterham. They say, 
 these wicked neighbors, 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 unlawful relations with that sis- 
 ter's husband. Lady Rivers, I do not wonder that you 
 shrink from repeating such an atrocious lie." 
 
 The other was a little confounded. She had been so 
 very patronizing, 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 gray eyes, the dig- 
 nity of the figure, made Hannah for the moment even a 
 handsome woman, handsome 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 school-room — where, how- 
 ever, your experience must chiefly have lain. This is what 
 made me resolve to speak to you. You can not be ex- 
 pected 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. 167 
 
 Hannah started. " Does he ? Did he tell you so?" 
 
 " IS'ot exactly ; he is a very reserved person, as we all 
 know ; but he looks thoroughly wretched. We, his family, 
 see that, though you, a stranger, may not. The fact is, he 
 has placed himself, quite against our advice, in a most dif- 
 ficult 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 anoth- 
 er woman has been tempted, into marriage without love. 
 But immediately her honest soul recoiled. 
 
 " Lady Kivers, 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 con- 
 versation 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 protection. 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 her- 
 self, keep up her own dignity, and carry out, if ever so 
 humbly, her own independent life. ISTov/ this was lost, 
 
1G3 HANNAH. 
 
 and the other not gained. As she walked on toward the 
 House on the Hill, that cruel "home" where she and Ber- 
 nard must live henceforward, as if in a house of glass, ex- 
 posed to every malicious eye, Hannah felt that somehow 
 or other she had made a terrible mistake. Almost as great 
 a one as that of the poor girl who walked silently by her 
 side, asking no questions — Grace never did ask any — but 
 simply following her mistress with tender, observant, un- 
 ceasing 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 any body?" 
 
 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 Thel- 
 luson, there he is." 
 
 Not Jem Dixon, but Mr. Rivers ; yet Hannah instinct- 
 ively shrank back under the shadow of a high wall, and let 
 him pass her by. She made no explanation to her serv- 
 ant 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 imagin- 
 ary wickedness, her sinless shame, she almost felt as if she 
 could understand 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 realize. 
 Once no power of will could put her in the place of these 
 
HANNAH. 169 
 
 miserable sinners ; now, perhaps, she was as miserable a 
 sinner as any one of them all. 
 
 When reaching the gate she saw Mr. Kivers standing 
 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 evi- 
 dently 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 recognized 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 Riv- 
 ers, either in his pulpit, as that morning, or among his lit- 
 tle household congregation, as now, without an instinctive 
 certainty that he was one of the " pure in heart," who are 
 forever " 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, Han- 
 nah had tottered away out of the room, she and her broth- 
 er-in-law had never been one minute alone together, nor 
 had exchanged any but the briefest and most common- 
 place 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 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 phys- 
 
 H 
 
1*70 HANNAH. 
 
 ical 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 meridian, 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 — re- 
 spect, tenderness, habit, familiarity — with no law, natural 
 or divine, forbidding that love, in case it should arise be- 
 tween them, had to stand there, man and woman, brother 
 and sister, so called, and ignore and suppress it all. 
 
 That there was something to be suppressed showed 
 plainly enough. In neither was the free-hearted uncon- 
 sciousness which, when an accusation is wholly untrue, 
 laughs at it, and passes it by. Neither looked toward the 
 other; they stood both gazing wistfully into the fire until 
 the silence became intolerable. Then Hannah, but with- 
 out extending her hand as usual, bade him " Good-night," 
 
 "Good-night? Why so?" 
 
 " 1 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.' " 
 
 That 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 perfect bear 
 to you. Come down stairs again and talk to me. For we 
 must speak out. We can not go on like this ; it will drive 
 me wild. We must come to some conclusion or other. 
 Make haste back, and we will speak together, just as 
 friends, and decide what it shall be." 
 
 Alas ! Avhat could it be ? Every side she looked, Han- 
 nah saw no path out of the maze. 'Not even when, see- 
 ing that Grace sat reading her Bible by the nursery fire 
 a^Grace was a gentle, earnest Methodist, very religious 
 
HANNAH. 171 
 
 in her own fashion — she sat down beside her living Bi- 
 ble, 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 — " Han- 
 nah, 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 w^omen — especially those who have 
 the motherly instinct strongly developed — will find no dif- 
 ficulty in answering the question. 
 
 How peaceful the nursery was — so warm and safe and 
 still ! Not a sound but the clock ticking on the chimney- 
 piece, and the wind murmuring outside, and the soft breath- 
 ing out of that darkened corner, where, snuggled down un- 
 der the bedclothes, with the round little head and its cir- 
 cle of bright hair just peeping above, "Tannie's wee dor- 
 mouse," as she sometimes called her, slept her sound, in- 
 nocent sleep. 
 
 Aunt Hannah bent over her darling with a wild con- 
 striction 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. 
 
 "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 com- 
 pose 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 
 
172 HANNAH. 
 
 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 Kosie from you. I promised you she should 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 to- 
 gether, which was to have — who knew what end ? 
 
 The beginning was not easy, though Bernard did begin 
 at once. 
 
 "I shall not detain you long, though it is still early. 
 But I must have a few words with you. First, to apolo- 
 gize 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 truthfulness — 
 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 your 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 delay. 
 
 " Is it your possible marriage ?" 
 
 " It is. Not my love, understand ; only my marriage." 
 
 They were silent — he watching her keenly. Hannah 
 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 ; ful- 
 fills all conditions they desire for mc, not one of which I 
 
HANNAH. 173 
 
 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 questions 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. 
 
 " I 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 to the 
 last; if unhappy, we dread renewing our unhappiness. 
 Besides, children so fill up a 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 hap- 
 py — 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 " wear- 
 
174 HANNAH. 
 
 ing a mask." Her heart yearned over him. Alas ! she 
 had spoken truly when she said it was not buried in Ar- 
 thur's grave. It was quick and living — full of all human 
 affections and human longings still. 
 
 "Then, sister Hannah, I have your full consent to my 
 marriage? A mere manage de convenance^ as I told you. 
 Not like my first one-^ah, my poor Rosa, she loved me ! 
 !N'o woman will ever love me so well." 
 
 Hannah was silent. 
 
 " Do you think it would be a wrong to Rosa, my marry- 
 ing again ?" 
 
 "Not if you loved again. Men do." 
 
 " And not women ? Do you mean that ?" 
 
 " I hardly know what I mean or what I say," cried Han- 
 nah, 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 
 other feeling than one. Hannah began to tremble vio- 
 lently. 
 
 " 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 de- 
 parted souls looking out of Paradise at ourselves — our own 
 selves — as our Rosa may be looking now." 
 
 Our Rosa ! It went to Hannah's heart. The tenderness 
 of the man, the unforgetfulness — ah, if men knew how 
 
HANNAH. 1 75 
 
 ■women prize a man who does not forget ! " Yes," she re- 
 peated, softly, "our Rosa." 
 
 " Oh that it were she who was judging us, not these !" 
 
 "Not who?" 
 
 "The Moat House — the village — every body. It is 
 vain for us to shut our eyes, or our lips either. Hannah, 
 this is a cruel crisis, for you and me. People 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 
 can not 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 make some change. Oh, Hannah ! what 
 have I said, what have I done ?" 
 
 For she had risen up, the drooping softness of her atti- 
 tude 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. I will have 
 the child," she continued, in a low, desperate 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 Han- 
 nah seen on Bernard's countenance such an expression of 
 utter despair. 
 
 " You shall settle it all," he said ; " you who are so pru- 
 dent 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 ?" 
 
116 HANNAH. 
 
 " What I would loish ! Oh, Hannah ! is it possible you 
 do not guess ?" 
 
 She must have been deaf and blind not to have guessed. 
 Dumb she was — dumb as death — while Bernard went on, 
 speaking :jvith excited rapidity : 
 
 " When a man's wish is as hopeless and unattainable 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 an- 
 other world. She knew Bernard loved her, though they 
 could never be married, no more than the angels. Still he 
 loved her. She was content. " Is it impossible ?" she re- 
 peated, in her grave, 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 talk- 
 ing to you, Hannah, as if you were not yourself, but some 
 other person — what do you think my step-mother said to 
 me to-night? That unless you married Mr. Morecamb, or 
 I Ellen 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, for- 
 give me, forgive me, Hannah; I am forgetting all you 
 
HANNAH. 177 
 
 must feel. I am speaking to you as if you were my con- 
 science — my very own soul — which you are." 
 
 The love tliat glowed in his eyes, the emotion that trem- 
 bled in his voice ! Hannah was not a young woman, 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 Han- 
 nah'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 faults, and I 
 have been harsh to you often — only too often ! — but, Han- 
 nah, 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 mar- 
 ried, 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 broth- 
 er-in-law's presence into her own room, and tried to realize 
 what had happened. Something which would forever pre- 
 vent their two lives from going on together 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 refused him. 
 
 This confession on her part had been unintentional, 
 WTung from her by the emotion of the time, and by the 
 
 H2 
 
178 HANNAH. 
 
 direct question which had been put to her, and Hannah 
 was the kind of woman who never thought of compromis- 
 ing 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 offense 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. 
 
 For it had crept into her heart unawares, and not 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 considered 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 recognized 
 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 those sort of people with whom to be " off with the 
 old love and on with the new" was a thing not needing ar- 
 gument, 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 invisi- 
 ble ; 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, 
 
HANNAH. 179 
 
 SO many lasting loves: people become necessary to one 
 another before they are aware. Propinquity, circumstan- 
 ces, 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 by step, may be 
 slow of advancing, but never retrogrades. Whether such 
 a love be as perfect as the real passion, " first-born and 
 heir to all " — the lovely dream of youth and maidenhood, 
 which if man or woman ever realizes and possesses 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 
 refreshment 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 appropriation 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 included 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 individuality for life. 
 
 It was a change so sudden, total, and overwhelming that 
 beyond it she could at first see nothing, did not recognize 
 the future as a real thing at all. She went asleep like a 
 person half bewildered, and woke up in the morning con- 
 fused still, until Rosie came in as usual, while Tannic was 
 dressing, requiring all sorts of "pitty sings to play wid" in 
 her usual sweet exactingness. Then slowly, slowly, Han- 
 nah realized all. 
 
 " My darling, my darling ! my own forever !" cried she, 
 snatching up Rosie 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 Han- 
 nah's heart more than the embrace of the child. 
 
180 HANNAH. 
 
 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 radi- 
 ance almost, in his countenance which she had never seen 
 before, and his voice whenever he addressed her had a rev- 
 erential affectionateness which gave meaning to his light- 
 est words. Also he called her " Hannah," never "Aunt 
 Hannah," again. 
 
 There is a pathos in all love ; what must there be, then, 
 in a love such as this, conceived in spite of fate, carried on 
 through all hinderances, at last betrayed rather than con- 
 fessed, and when confessed having to meet the dark fu- 
 ture, in which its sole reward must be the mere act of lov- 
 ing ? These two, forbidden by destiny to woo and marry 
 like ordinary people, were nevertheless not a melancholy 
 pair of lovers. No outward eye would have recognized 
 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 confessed 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 every body, could have suspected any thing or betrayed 
 any thing 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 Tan- 
 nie'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 for- 
 ward, "our" Rosa; and though he was so quiet, he went 
 about cheerfully, as he had not done for long, like a man 
 
HAKNAH. 181 
 
 who has recovered his own self-respect 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 
 commonplace, 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 begun 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 set- 
 tle than ever. 
 
 "What should I do without you?" said Bernard. 
 " Such a wise, sensible, practical woman as you are ! al- 
 ways busy, and yet forgetting nothing. Stay — have you 
 forgotten we were to dine at the Grange to-night ?" 
 
 The invitation had come a w^eek 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 night? 
 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 Melville 
 Grange. My sister is mistress in her own house, and Mel- 
 ville, 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 inten- 
 tion of telling any body. It is our own afiair entirely till 
 we see our way clear to — to the rightful end ; for, Han- 
 
182 HANNAH. 
 
 nah, I need not say that must come about, if it be possi- 
 ble. I can not 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 color coming and going. Is it only for young 
 lovers, passionate, selfish, uncontrolled, 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 any thing 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 sum- 
 mer days might yet come. 
 
 It warmed Hannah's heart with a quiet, serious joy as 
 she went through her household duties, especially those 
 which concerned the child. She had her darling with her 
 almost all day, and never had Rosie's innocent companion- 
 ship 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 Tannic and 
 Rosie indulged happened to be an illustrated fairy-tale 
 book, wherein the usual cruel step-mother figured in great 
 force. And she herself should be a step-mother, perhaps, 
 one day ! In the glee of her heart Hannah laughed — act- 
 ually laughed — to think how different fiction often was 
 from reality. 
 
IIAXNAII. 183 
 
 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-by 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." 
 
 "Then they are unlawful now ?" said Hannah, feeling si- 
 lence worse than speech. 
 
 "IsTobody 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 several 
 times passed a bill legalizing such marriages, and the moth- 
 er 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 them- 
 selves alone." 
 
 Hannah drew back into her dark corner, glad of the 
 darkness. It was a strange and sore position for any wom- 
 an to be placed in. Betrothed, yet having none of the 
 honors and happinesses of an affianced bride ; sitting be- 
 side her lover, yet treated by him in no lover-like fashion, 
 and feeling nothing of the shy frankness which makes the 
 new tie so sweet; obliged to talk with him about their 
 marriage and its possibilities with a mournful candor 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 recognized 
 
184 HAl^NAH. 
 
 how well he deserved her love, as when, after their long, 
 dark drive, he said, tenderly, " IN'ow, Hannah, we will for- 
 get for the time all these bitternesses — except the love, ex- 
 cept 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 cus- 
 tom 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 refinement 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 ei- 
 ther one of the contre-teynps in which the unlucky victims 
 can only submit and make the best of things, or done on 
 purpose ; but in either case there was no remedy. 
 
 Bernard had been placed far down the table ; but, wheth- 
 er 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 afterward, she kept her eyes fixed so steadily on 
 the ground that Bertha asked, satirically, " if she and Ber- 
 nard had been quarreling ?" 
 
 During dinner she had been comparatively safe, even 
 with Mr. Morecamb beside her ; afterward there gathered 
 over her the vague coldness which women always know 
 how to show toward another woman who is somehow 
 " under a cloud." The Rivers family indicated it most of 
 all. Scarcely any one of them addressed her except Ade- 
 line. 
 
 " Don't mind it," whispered the latter, following Han- 
 nah 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 every body's eyes by giving you at dinner 
 
UANJS^An. 185 
 
 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 offense at silly little Adeline, who never meant any 
 harm. 
 
 She sat down, turning over the leaves of a photograph 
 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 Avhy 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 sis- 
 ters-in-law are not real sisters ; never ought to be. If the 
 law made this quite clear, a man wouldn't dare go philan- 
 dering with them in his wife's lifetime. 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 dare say it is at times a little vexing. But I 
 am afraid I do not understand jealousy. I can not com- 
 prehend how, after people are once married, they feel the 
 smallest interest in any body else. And the conjugal fidel- 
 ity which has only the law to secure it must be a very 
 shallow thing." 
 
 " 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, 
 
186 HANNAH. 
 
 pitying tlie young wife, whose skeleton in the house had 
 been so unconsciously betrayed. She was more than sor- 
 ry, 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, especially to Bertha ; who, a born co- 
 quette, 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 obtrusively kind ; but 
 there the coldness was, and Hannah felt it. Such a new 
 thing, too ; for, in her quiet way, she had been rather pop- 
 ular than not in society ; she had such gentle tact in fish- 
 ing out all the shy, or grim, or stupid people, and warm- 
 ing 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 once 
 how many more of the like she should have to bear, and if 
 she could bear them. Did Bernard see it or feel it ? She 
 could not tell. He came in late. She saw him talking to 
 Mrs. Melville, and afterward to Lady Rivers ; then trying 
 his utmost to be pleasant to every body. 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 conversation 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 with pins and needles Hannah 
 would not have complained. The very fact of complaint 
 seemed a certain 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 every thing. 
 
HANNAH. 187 
 
 " 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 re- 
 grets, 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, what- 
 ever bitterness 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. 
 
 Women — good women, too — have sometimes married a 
 man purely for the sake of his children ; and Hannah never 
 clasped Rosie in her arms without understanding some- 
 thing 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 unlimited. 
 Father and aunt were accustomed to delight together 
 over the little opening soul, especially on a Sunday morn- 
 ing. They did so still. They talked scarcely at all, nei- 
 ther of the future nor the past ; but simply accepted the 
 
188 HANNAH. 
 
 present, as eliildhood accepts it, never looking beyond. 
 Until, in the midst of their frolic — while papa was carry- 
 ing his little girl on his back round and round the table, 
 and Tannic was jumping out after them at intervals in the 
 character of an imaginary wolf, Rosie screaming with ec- 
 stasy, 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 burned, 
 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. 
 
 " My dear Bernard, — Your father wishes particularly 
 to talk with you to-day, as poor Austin, we hear, is rather 
 w^orse 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 ? 
 
 " I wish you were more amenable to the reasonings of 
 your family, but remain, nevertheless, your afiiectionate 
 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 Tannic. 
 
 " It is but what I expected — what she before declared 
 her intention of doing." 
 
 " But do you recognize all it implies — all it will result in ?" 
 
 " Whatever it be, I am prepared." 
 
HANNAH. 189 
 
 " 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 cour- 
 age 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." 
 
 Hannah carried away little Rosie, who clung frantically 
 to her fond paradise in Tannie's arms, and was heard wail- 
 ing dolorously overhead for a good while. 
 
 " See ! even that baby can not bear to part with you. 
 How, then, shall I?" cried Bernard, passionately; and 
 then, bidding her sit down, began giving her in words ex- 
 act and brief the result of his inquiries. 
 
 These confirmed all he had said himself once before in 
 the case of Grace and James Dixon. Of the law, as it 
 now stood, there could be no possible doubt. No mar- 
 riage with a deceased wife's sister, whether celebrated here 
 or abroad, would be held valid in England. 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, whole estates have been known to lapse to the 
 Crown ; but then the Crown, with a curious recognition 
 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 otherwise would have been 
 the undisputed heirs. 
 
 "Heirship — money! it seems all to hinge upon that," 
 said Hannah, a little bitterly. 
 
190 HANNAH. 
 
 " 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 recognize 
 such marriages as ours. Some countries — France and Ger- 
 many, 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 ourselves." 
 
 " Would it affect Rosie ?" 
 
 " 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 ?" 
 
 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 any thing. 
 She saw clearly, that never, according to the law of En- 
 gland, 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 England, and he was the last of his 
 line. 
 
 " I perceive," she faltered. " No need to explain further. 
 You must not think of mo 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 nev- 
 er 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 before there ever dawned upon 
 
HANNAH. 191 
 
 him the possibility of marrying her struck Hannah with a 
 conviction of the depth of his love, the strength of his en- 
 durance, 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." 
 
 "Part!" and he made as if he would have embraced 
 her, but restrained himself. " We will discuss that ques- 
 tion by-and-by. At present, hear the rest which I have 
 to tell." 
 
 He then explained, with a calmness which in so impul- 
 sive 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 efiect was brought into 
 the House of Commons, fiercely discussed there, passed by 
 large majorities, and then carried to the Upper House, 
 Avhere the Peers invariably threw it out. Still in the mi- 
 nority 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 every 
 thing!" and Bernard put his hand wearily to his 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 inquisitively. 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. There 
 ought to be, as I once overheard Lord Dunsmore say, no 
 bar whatsoever to marriage except consanguinity. Even 
 if I had no personal concern in the matter, it is a wrong, 
 and I would fioht asfainst it as such." 
 
192 HANNAH. 
 
 " The Riverses were ever fighters, you know," said Han- 
 nah, watching him with a sad, tender smile, and more than 
 ever there darkened down upon her all that he was giving 
 up for her sake. 
 
 "But to come to the point, Hannah. 1 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 passionately. 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 pas- 
 sion 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 com- 
 plete ; and Hannah knew it. For a moment, sad, pale, 
 white-lily-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 necessarily harm you, my 
 poor love, simply because you are my love. But mine you 
 must and shall be. 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 ?" 
 
HANNAH. 193 
 
 "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 any thing wrong, 
 and we ought not to act as if we had. Then — will you 
 come with me ?" 
 
 " No ; I had rather go alone," said Hannah, gently. " I 
 will bear every thing alone, so far as I can." 
 
 "What do you mean? What do you wish?" 
 
 "That you should in all things do your duty without 
 considering me. Go to the Moat House, as they desire. 
 If they do not mention me, do not you. What does it 
 matter ? they can not 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-by, and God bless you, Ber- 
 nard." 
 
 " God bless you, my Hannah !" 
 
 And with that mutual blessing they parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The climaxes of life come only occasionally. When 
 borne upon the height of them we think we can endure 
 any thing ; all beside them seem so small. But when they 
 are over, and we have sunk back in 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 can 
 not help it. 
 
 At first Hannah thought she could. After that Sunday 
 morning she and Bernard talked no more together — 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 
 
 I 
 
194 HANNAH. 
 
 separation almost equally so, they spoke of neither again, 
 but tacitly determined to go on living together 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. 
 
 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 mean time it was no Tvorse than a long 
 engagement; better, perhaps, 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 w^as to be exercised 
 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, 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, ex- 
 cept on Sundays, with the distance of a dozen pews be- 
 tween them. Young Mrs. Melville still called, punctilious- 
 ly and pointedly, leaving her pair of grays standing out- 
 side the gate ; but she excused herself from asking Han- 
 nah to the Grange, because if the girls were there it would 
 be so very awkward. 
 
 " And the girls are always there," added she, querulous- 
 ly. "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 noth- 
 ing. It was best so. 
 
HANNAH. 195 
 
 As Aveeks passed another chaoge gradually came. Invi- 
 tations — the fear of which had sometimes perplexed her, 
 for how should she meet the Moat House family even 
 upon neutral ground? — almost totally ceased. Her neigh- 
 bors left off calling — that is, her grand neighbors; the 
 humbler ones still sought her ; but she fancied she read in 
 their eyes a painful curiosity, a still more painful compas- 
 sion, 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 be- 
 tween them, save for the constant mindfulness, the contin- 
 ual 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 honor that what- 
 ever 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 village, it 
 rose to no open scandal. Every body came to church as 
 usual, and no one applied to Mr. Rivers's bishop to restrain 
 him from preaching because he retained as his housekeeper 
 a lady whom the law persisted in regarding as his sister. 
 But the contradiction was that in spite of her being count- 
 ed 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 serv- 
 ant in the house, every family in the parish, kept an eye 
 upon her, observing, condemning, sympathizing, defending 
 — all by turns — but never leaving her alone, till she felt 
 like the poor camel in the desert, whose dying gaze sees in 
 
196 HANNAH. 
 
 the horizon that faint black line coming nearer and nearer 
 — the vultures which are to pick her bones. She would 
 have gone frantic sometimes, brave woman as she was, in 
 the utter impossibility of fighting against the intangible 
 wrong, had it not been for the child. 
 
 Bosie 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 to 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 conversa- 
 tions 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 not yet 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, Tannic so sorry !" 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, swim- 
 ming 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 grays, and out of it stepped a little, 
 bright, active, pretty woman — the Countess of Dunsmore. 
 
 " I knew I should surprise you," cried she, kissing Han- 
 nah on both cheeks, and telling her how well she was 
 
HANNAH. 197 
 
 looking; which she was, in the sudden pleasure of the 
 meeting. " But I wanted to surprise you. We are visit- 
 ing at Highwood 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 every thing and saw through every thing, 
 whether or not the lady mentioned the result of that ob- 
 servation. 
 
 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 happened 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 
 in 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 w^as 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 ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And what shall you do about that invitation she brought 
 you, to go with my sisters to dine at Highwood Park?" 
 
 " What can I do except not go ? To explain is impos- 
 sible." 
 
198 HANNAH. 
 
 "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 ex- 
 pected 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 satis- 
 fied ; 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 can not marry 
 you?" 
 
 His agitation was so extreme that Hannah was fright- 
 ened, both for his sake and lest any servant should come 
 in and find them thus. Oh, the misery of that false life 
 tliey led ! oh, the humiliation of concealment ! 
 
 "Why should all the world be happy but me? Why 
 should that foolish old Morecamb — But I forget ; I never 
 told you he was going to be married. I tell you nothing ; 
 I never have a chance of an hour's quiet talk with you." 
 
 " Why not? It would ma^e 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 you I 
 would not answer for myself. I might " — he laughed — 
 " I might even horrify you by asking you to go abroad 
 
HANNAH, 199 
 
 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 monument as Hannah Thelluson after she had once 
 said no." 
 
 His manner was so rough, so reckless, that it pained her 
 almost more than any thing 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 now not the rule, but the rare exception, his 
 staying with her of evenings — " then we will have one of 
 our old talks together, and perhaps we may settle some- 
 thing ; or feel, when we look them calmly in the face, that 
 things are not so dreadful 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 tantalizingly 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 warningly 
 through Hannah's heart. This could not last — it was 
 against human nature. So much, yet so little as they 
 were to one another. They ynust 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 some- 
 times wore, for comfort, counsel. How could she give ei- 
 ther ? 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 Rosie died — life seemed to 
 Hannah so hard, so hard ! 
 
200 HANNAH. 
 
 She gave him his tea almost in silence, and then he pro- 
 posed 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 en- 
 tering the gate the last apparition they expected to see — 
 Lady Rivers. For months she had not crossed their thresh- 
 old. But then — Hannah would have been more than mor- 
 tal 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, amoimted to absolute 
 genius. Not being thin-skinned herself, she never looked 
 for that weakness in others; so had under all circum- 
 stances the most enviable coolness and self-possession. 
 The graceful air with which she entered by the French 
 window, kissed Bernard in motherly greeting, 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 pleasure 
 to see you. May I ask for a cup of tea? your tea used al- 
 ways to be so good, Miss Thelluson. And you had a visit 
 from Lady Dunsmore? So had we afterward. What a 
 charming person she is ; and a great friend of yours, I un- 
 derstand." 
 
 Hannah assented. 
 
 " I must congratulate you ; for a lady, especially a sin- 
 gle lady, is always judged by her choice of friends." 
 
 " I did not choose Lady Dunsmore for my friend ; I was 
 her governess." 
 
 " Indeed ! Anyhow, she has evidently a great regard 
 for you. By-the-bye, does she know any thing 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 
 
HANNAH. 201 
 
 meant for you. I came over to tell Miss Thelluson of 
 something which — as Mr. Morecamb was the cause of dif- 
 ference between her and me" (Hannah opened her eyes) — 
 " will, I trust, heal it. He is engaged 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 by-gones be by-gones. 
 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 every thing that it was 
 advisable to ignore, for the sake of convenience. And 
 many a woman, prudent and worldly wise, would have ac- 
 cepted it as such. But, unfortunately, Hannah was not a 
 prudent woman. Against certain meannesses her spirit re- 
 volted with a fierceness that slipped all self-control. 
 
 She glanced toward 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 whispered that she 
 must act as if she w^ere alone — as if his love were all a 
 dream, and she once more the solitary, independent Han- 
 nah 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 invitation 
 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 Ber- 
 nard. 
 
 " Pray assure Miss Thelluson that she need not hesitate. 
 I have watched her narrowly of late, and have quite got 
 
 12 
 
202 HANNAH. 
 
 over 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 de- 
 cide 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 real- 
 ly the vile thing that some people thought her. 
 
 " Mr. Rivers is right," she said ; " I must decide for my- 
 self. You wished my visits to you to cease ; I acquiesced. 
 It will be not quite so easy to resume them. As Mr. Riv- 
 er's sister-in-law and housekeeper I shall always be happy 
 to see you in his house ; but I 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 Rivers, she 
 colored, even beneath her delicate rouge; but she was too 
 prudent to take offense. 
 
 " Thank you. Your tea, as I said, is always excellent ; 
 and perhaps when we have more attractions to offer you 
 we may yet see you at the Moat House. In the mean 
 time 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 possible, 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 ? Irreso- 
 lute, he looked from one to the other, excessively uncom- 
 fortable, when Hannah came to the rescue. 
 
 " Of course my brother-in-law will go without me : we 
 
HANNAH. 203 
 
 are quite independent in our proceedings. And he will 
 explain to Lady Dansmore — the utmost it is necessary to 
 explain, as I never talk of my private affairs to any body 
 — 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 any body's. She loves me." 
 
 Bernard started up, and then, fearful of having com- 
 mitted himself, sat down again. Lady Rivers, though ev- 
 idently 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 un- 
 derstood, 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 dis- 
 cussion, and conversed in the 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 any thing 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 accompany his step-mother 
 home, that he would be back immediately. Was he dis- 
 pleased Avith her ? Did he think she had acted ill ? Had 
 she done so ? Was it her duty to submit to every thing 
 for his sake ? Surely not. He had no right to expect it. 
 Was it because she loved him that she felt so bitterly an- 
 gry with him ? 
 
 Yet when, sooner than she had expected, he returned, 
 and threw himself into his chair, pale and dejected, like a 
 man tied and bound by fate, who sees no way to free him- 
 self, the anger melted, the pity revived. He too suffered 
 — they suffered alike. Why should they reproach one an- 
 other? 
 
204 HANNAH. 
 
 " 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," said Bernard, pull- 
 ing violently at the bell. " You know I hate the dark." 
 
 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 suffer- 
 ance, 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. Oh, 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 sharpness of 
 
HANNAH. 205 
 
 their words — at the bitterness of these mutual recrimina- 
 tions. 
 
 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, decide. Don't look at me in that dead si- 
 lence. Speak out, for I can bear it no longer. Shall we 
 part ? Or — will you marry me at once ?" 
 
 He could have hardly known what he was saying, or 
 else, in his despair, any thing 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 recognize the insult he was unwittingly offer- 
 ing her. She only answ^ered, sorrowfully, yet without the 
 slightest indecision, " We will part." 
 
 Three little words — but they brought Bernard to his 
 senses immediately. He fell on his knees before her, and 
 passionately begged her forgiveness. 
 
 "But you do not know what I suffer. Inwardly, out- 
 wardly — 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 w^e are safe so long as they 
 know nothing. God help me ! I talk as if we were com- 
 mitting 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 — ex- 
 cept ourselves." 
 
 " A commonplace truth !" and Bernard laughed bitterly. 
 
 " It is God's truth, though ; His right and wrong are 
 much simpler than man's." 
 
208 HANNAH. 
 
 " What is right and what is wrong ? for I am growing 
 so mad 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." 
 
 " None — oh, 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 leaned 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 can not break it. I could not twist 
 my conscience in any possible way so as to persuade my- 
 self 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 came back to England, what 
 should I be ? And if, in the years to come — Oh, Ber- 
 nard, 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, 
 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 marry- 
 ing. 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 cold- 
 ness, Bernard rose, and began walking about the room. 
 
HANNAH. 207 
 
 "You must decide — as I said; for my own judgment al- 
 together fails me. We can not go on living as we do: 
 some change must be thought of; but I can not tell what 
 it should be." 
 
 " 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 so terrified 
 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 inno- 
 cent hearts." 
 
 And as she sat, her hands folded on her lap, pale and sad 
 as she looked, there was such a sweet 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 wretch- 
 ed 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 Ladj^ Dunsmore had earnestly washed, 
 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 rath- 
 er proud answer. Alas ! how quick they were growing to 
 take ofiense, even at one another. Yes, it was best to part. 
 " I mean," Hannah added, " that, even if she guessed any 
 thing, it would not signify. I shall confess nothing ; and 
 I have often heard her say that a secret accidentally dis- 
 covered ought to be held just as if it had never been dis- 
 covered 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 
 
208 HANNAH. 
 
 more such as absence discovered to both their mutual 
 worth. It would be a relief after the long strain to rest 
 upon this genial feminine companionship — 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. Rivers's sister-in-law and Rosie's aunt. I am 
 to go about with her everywhere — she made me quite un- 
 derstand 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 coun- 
 tenance — not merely because she happened to be a mar- 
 quis's daughter and an earl's wife, but because in any so- 
 ciety she was the sort of person whose friendship was 
 valued and valuable. Was it human nature, or only mas- 
 culine 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 ? 
 
 "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 eagerness 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 me." 
 
 "Oh, Hannah 1" 
 
 They stood side by side, these two lovers, between 
 
HANNAH. 209 
 
 whom was a barrier slight and invisible as glass, yet as im- 
 possible 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, al- 
 most 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 — " 
 
 " I can not 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 suffer- 
 ing ; 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, burning with the intensi- 
 ty of a smothered fire — all the more for being suppressed. 
 The strength which one, at least, of them must have, she 
 only cried to Heaven for — and gained. 
 
 "Good-by," she said; "for we shall not talk thus to- 
 gether 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-by," 
 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 Tannie " being to the little maid the crown 
 of all human felicity. She kept pulling at her papa's hand, 
 and telling him over and over again of her bliss ; and ev- 
 ery 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 
 
210 HAJN^NAH. 
 
 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 every body, 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 Xn. 
 
 As we walk along, staggering under some heavy bur- 
 den, 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 re- 
 lief and half of bitter loss, was conscious, too, of a ridicu- 
 lously small thing which had not occurred to her till now, 
 and which she would never have cared for on her own ac- 
 count, but she did on Bernard's. This was. How would 
 Lady Dunsmore manage to receive back in her household, 
 as an equal and familiar friend, her ci-devant 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 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 suita- 
 bly hold. As the cab drove up to the old family mansion 
 in Mayfair which she knew so well, Hannah felt a sense of 
 uncomfortableness for which she was almost angry with 
 herself. 
 
 But it was needless. Lady Dunsmore had that true no- 
 bility which, discovering the same in others, recognizes it 
 
HANNAH. 211 
 
 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 patroniz- 
 ing air. "And see that every thing 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." 
 
 " Certainly, my lady." And the wise old woman slip- 
 ped quietly behind her back the hand she was extending 
 to Miss Thelluson, till Miss Thelluson took and shook it 
 cordially, then, courtesying, Mrs. Rhodes followed her re- 
 spectfully to the blue rooms, which, as every body knew, 
 being in communication with the countess's, were never 
 assigned but to her favorite guests. 
 
 Thus domestically, the critical point was settled at once. 
 Socially, too, with equal decision. 
 
 " My friend. Miss Thelluson," said Lady Dunsmore, in- 
 troducing her at once to two ladies, aunts of Lord Duns- 
 more, 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 Mary 
 came in leading little Rosie between them, and clung lov- 
 ingly round their old governess's neck, Hannah felt perfect- 
 ly 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 per- 
 plexity to peace, from suspicion to tender respect, from in- 
 difference 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 fu- 
 
212 HANNAH. 
 
 ture relation in which they were to stand, came into her 
 room before dinner, and sitting down in her white dress- 
 ing-gown before the hearth — where aunt and niece were 
 arranging together a beautiful Noah's ark — put her hand 
 on Miss Thelluson's shoulder, saying, " 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. ISToah, 
 their sons and sons' wives, and arranging them in a digni- 
 fied procession across the rug. 
 
 "What a happy-looking little woman she is — this Ro- 
 sie ! 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 tor- 
 ment, 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, affec- 
 tionate 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 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 herself 
 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. 
 
HANNAH. 213 
 
 Therefore she looked steadily tip 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 al- 
 most forgotten I am not Rosie's mother." 
 
 And then, aware of a keen inquisitiveness in Lady Duns- 
 more'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 ; and 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 sister died." 
 
 " Rosie's age tells it — nearly three years." 
 
 "That is a long time for a man to mourn nowadays. 
 But " — checking herself — " I always thought Mr. Rivers 
 very faithful-hearted, constant in his friendships, and, there- 
 fore, in his loves ; and knowing how forlorn a man is who 
 has once been married, I, for one, should never blame him 
 if he made a second choice." 
 
 Hannah was silent ; then seeing Lady Dunsraore paused 
 for some acquiescence, she gave it in one or two meaning- 
 less words. 
 
 "And meantime, I conclude, you remain at Easterham. 
 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 beg your 
 pardon ; I really have no right to be curious about Mr. 
 Ilivers's domestic arrangements — I know him too slightly ; 
 but yet I can not help taking an interest in him, for his 
 own sake as well as for yours." 
 
214 HANNAH. 
 
 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 oftener 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 si- 
 lent, mutual trust — was henceforward established between 
 the two. The moment Lady Dunsmore 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 wives' 
 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 secrecy and bound by the 
 honor of all the Dacres and Dunsmores. 
 
 With a sense of self-respect and self-contentedness great- 
 er than she had known for some time, Hannah dressed for 
 dinner. Carefully, too ; for Bernard's sake ; since, if the 
 countess guessed any thing, 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 honored guest 
 — glad to be met cordially, and talked to with courteous 
 attention at dinner-time by a man like the Earl of Duns- 
 more, who, though rumor said his wife had made him all 
 that he was — had roused him from the dolcefar 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 re- 
 gard. 
 
 This w^as sweet to her ; and equally sweet was the un- 
 conscious contrast of coming back to her old haunts under 
 new conditions and circumstances. Often, during some 
 
HANNAH. 215 
 
 pause of silence, she secretly counted up her blessings — 
 how rich she was, Avho 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 be- 
 wilderedness, caught sight of one known face, and ran and 
 hid her own lovingly in Tannie's lap, Tannie's heart leaped 
 with joy. The child — her own child ! — nothing and no- 
 body 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 honor — he would always leave her the child. 
 
 "Rosie does you the greatest credit," said Lord Duns- 
 more, smiling at the little woman, and trying to win her 
 — but vainly — from Tannie's arms. "She is a charming 
 child." 
 
 Hannah laughed. " Then you will indorse 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 bear- 
 ing about with her a secret, which, sinless as she felt it 
 was, every body 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 at- 
 tracting attention. At length, perhaps out of wise kind- 
 ness, they ceased trying to repress it ; and Hannah heard 
 the whole question of whether a man might or might not 
 marry his deceased w^ife's sister argued out logically and 
 theologically 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 eJBTort, her countenance as still 
 
216 HANNAH. 
 
 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 
 armor that, in all probability, 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 ev- 
 ery man to marry his deceased wife's sister, as some peo- 
 ple seem to think I do ; I am sure I have not the slightest 
 wish ever to marry mine ! But I consider all restrictions 
 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 nat- 
 ural 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 pretenses 
 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 contradictory 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 every body must put up with it in this house ; 
 for when my husband 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 w^ept. 
 
 The subject ended with the closing of the dining-room 
 
HANNAH. 217 
 
 door ; no one suspected for a moment that one guest pres- 
 ent 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 wath gentlemen, 
 began talking gayly 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 even- 
 ing — 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 days when she 
 sat aloof in her attic parlor, and spent her lonely evenings, 
 empty of love, and feeling that love would never revisit 
 her more. Now, when she saw Lord Dunsmore speak ca- 
 ressingly to his wife, and watched one young couple slip 
 away into the inner parlor — Lady Dunsmore had a pro- 
 verbial faculty of allowing 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 past. 
 
 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, sol- 
 emnly and tenderly rather than passionately, she thought 
 of this — in the very house and among the very people 
 where she had once been so lonely, yet not unblest or dis- 
 contented in her loneliness — 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 breath- 
 ing of "auntie's darling," who always slept beside 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 
 
 K 
 
218 HANNAH. 
 
 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 al- 
 most enough to make her happy. Not so with Bernard. 
 As she sat over her pleasant fire she could have blamed her- 
 self 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 saw 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 w^as she to 
 write to him — as her brother, her friend, her betrothed? 
 He was all three, and yet neither; and he might never be 
 any thing else. 
 
 She dropped her pen, and fell into deep thought. Put- 
 ting herself entirely aside, w^as 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 tor- 
 ture, 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 
 w^ould ever make her Bernard's wife — the passing of the 
 Bill they had talked about. Yain speculation, as hundreds 
 in this land know only too well. The result was, that in- 
 stead of the letter she had meant to write, she sat down 
 and wrote another : such a one as many a woman has writ- 
 ten, too, Avith bleeding heart and streaming eyes, though 
 
HANNAH. 219 
 
 the words may have been calm and cold. She implored 
 him for his own sake to consider whether he could not con- 
 quer 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, and be happy. 
 
 " 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, common-sense 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 ostensible 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 Han- 
 nah's mind — the sweetness of being loved, the tenfold 
 sweetness of loving. 
 
 " Oh, my Bernard, my Bernard !" she sobbed, ancf 
 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 thoughtlessly 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 a3 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 wej^t over it very much — so much that 
 her child heard her. 
 
 A little white ghost witli rosy cheeks peeped over the 
 
220 HANNAH. 
 
 crib side, and stared, half-frightened, round the unfamiliar 
 room. 
 
 " Rosie wake up ! Tannie tying ! Then Rosie ty too." 
 Then came a little wail — " Tannie take her, in Tannie own 
 
 arms 
 
 t" 
 
 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 he 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 different 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 writ- 
 ten 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 pleasantness of her life — her long idle mornings 
 with her darling, her afternoons with Lady Dunsmore, 
 shopping, visiting, or enjoying that charming companion- 
 ship 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, not as a joy, as 
 at first, but an actual pain. 
 
 For his silence continued: nay, seemed to be intention- 
 ally maintained. He forwarded her letters in blank enve- 
 lopes, without a single word. Was he offended ? Had she, 
 in her very love, struck him so hard that he could not for- 
 give the blow ? 
 
 " I hope your brother-in-law is well," Lady Dunsmore 
 would say, courteously looking away while Hannah opened 
 the daily letter, at first Avith a trembling anxiety, afterward 
 
HANNAH. 221 
 
 with a stolid patience that expected 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." 
 
 " Ohj 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 in 
 utter tenderness. 
 
 By-and-by the fear or the hope — it seemed a strange 
 mixture of both — came true. One day, returning 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 dilapidated 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 piti- 
 ful face, he added, " Never mind, my little woman ; papa 
 will try. Go with Grace, and I will come and see Rosie 
 presently." 
 
 And so he shut the door upon nurse and child, in a way 
 that made Hannah see clearly he was determined to speak 
 with her alone. But his first words were haughty and 
 cold. 
 
222 HANNAH. 
 
 "I suppose it is scarcely necessary for me to apologize 
 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 every 
 body in the world — except me! How could you write 
 me that letter ? As if my fate were not hard enough be- 
 fore, 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 you 
 go to ? I can not be parted from my daughter. liosie 
 can not 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 in- 
 dependent of external charms, and deepened by every in- 
 fluence that daily intimacy can exercise. She fully be- 
 lieved 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 unlioly 
 
HANNAH. 223 
 
 love, when it trenched upon no natural rights, when no 
 living liioul 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 she let him see 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 declining, no- 
 body 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 own 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 w^hat use was it to open 
 the family eyes to an impossible and therefore imaginary 
 w^'ong? What good would it do? probably much harm. 
 Yet her heart ached for unfortunate 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 fasliionablc physicians living in streets hard by. 
 
224 HANNAH. 
 
 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 choosy. 
 
 "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 Ber- 
 nard 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 passion that she per- 
 ceived 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 w^alking with him in 
 the safe loneliness of Regent Street crowds, Hannah was 
 not unhappy. Her long want of him had made him terri- 
 bly dear. He, too, appeared to snatch at the present mo- 
 ment 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 compared 
 to which all young people's love — young people who 
 can woo and marry like the rest of the world — was pale 
 and colorless. Theirs resistance had but strengthened, 
 because it was only a struggle against circumstance : un- 
 mingled with any conscience stings, like as 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 reached the 
 gloomy house where Bernard's sister lay. Then they for- 
 got themselves and thought only of her. 
 
 Adeline was greatly changed. Never very pretty, now 
 she was actually plain. There was a sickly ghastliness 
 about her, a nervous, fretful look, which might be either 
 mental or physical — probably was a combination of both. 
 
HANNAH. 225 
 
 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 take their husbands, for better for 
 worse. 
 
 "I am very ill, you see. Miss Thelluson," said the inva- 
 lid, stretching out a weary hand. "It was very kind of 
 Bernard to take all this trouble to bring me up to a Lon- 
 don 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 any body 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 
 any body !" 
 
 " I think you are mistaken, dear," said Bernard, sooth- 
 ingly. " Hannah, what do you say ? Ought not her sis- 
 ter to be with her ?" 
 
 Hannah dropped her eyes; and yet she felt the miser- 
 able 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 efibrt at self-control. "I know her better than 
 
 K2 
 
226 HANNAH. 
 
 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 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. 
 
HANNAH. 227 
 
 "You might as well ask how would it have been be- 
 tween me and any other woman's husband in w^hose house 
 I happened to stay. Of course he would have been noth- 
 ing to me — nothing whatever. I am not married," she 
 added, smiling, " and I can not 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 any 
 body 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 deg- 
 radation in my lifetime, could be his blessing afterward, 
 let him take it and be blessed !" 
 
 Adeline looked astounded. But the hidden sore had 
 been opened, the cleansing healing touch had been ap- 
 plied. There was a reasonableness in her expression as 
 she replied : 
 
 " That is altogether a new notion of love. You might 
 not feel so if you were married, or if you were really fond 
 of any body. N'o w I was very fond of Herbert, even when 
 I knew he liked Bertha. But when he liked me, and mar- 
 ried me — seeing that it made him safe never to marry my 
 sister — I 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, affectionate 
 soul, who yet had not the power to win or command af- 
 fection. 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 
 
228 HANNAH. 
 
 forbids that, you know. After I am dead he must choose 
 somebody else, and she too, and nobody will blame them 
 for any thing ; 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 any thing 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 strange 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. Gay, 
 blooming, excited with her journey. 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 ?" 
 
 Rosy she was ; for her cheeks burned 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 wel- 
 come — 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 Ade- 
 line's earnest request, had staid. Mrs. Melville scarcely 
 spoke a word. Their plans were discussed, sometimes in- 
 cluding 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 con- 
 scious approach of death could have given to so weak a 
 nature, Adeline never betrayed, by look or word, the se- 
 
HANNAH. 229 
 
 cret 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-by. " I'll try and remem- 
 ber what you said; but please forget every thing 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 per- 
 haps be worse to bear than one's own. 
 
 CHAPTER XHI. 
 
 Lady Dunsmore 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 gayeties for her 
 and Hannah, from which the Rivers family might plainly 
 see — and she meant them to see — 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. Ad- 
 eline 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 w^ay — as, however 
 far off they died, it had always been the custom to cany 
 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, 
 afterward, 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 
 
230 HANNAH. 
 
 them all that I was not sorry to die — I did not mind it — I 
 felt so tired !" 
 Nevertheless 
 
 *'0n 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 im- 
 patience — perhaps feeling instinctively that it was given 
 more out of duty than love — that gradually both Mr. Mel- 
 ville 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 bedroom, Adeline was never 
 moved. 
 
 " Do stay with her as much as you can," entreated Ber- 
 nard, 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 to a 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 peo- 
 ple : 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 uncer- 
 tainty 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 were 
 glad or sorry to see him. But every body else — even to 
 the Dunsmores — seemed heartily glad. And no one seem- 
 ed to have the slightest suspicion of any bond between 
 Rosie's aunt and Rosie's father except little Rosie. Some- 
 times this was to her a relief — sometimes an inexpressible 
 pain. 
 
 " Good-by, and God bless you for all your goodness to 
 
HANNAH. 231 
 
 my sister," said Bernard one Saturday as he was going 
 back to Easterham. " They will 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. Opportu- 
 nities were so difficult to make ; and when made, the fear 
 of being broken in upon in their tete-d-tetes caused them to 
 feel awkward and uncomfortable — at least Hannah did. 
 
 " Good-by," 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 de- 
 ferred had drained their hearts dry of all but the merest 
 dregs of love. And the picture of the woman who might 
 have been Bernard's wife, happy and honored, accepted by 
 his family, welcomed by his neighbors, reigning joyfully 
 at the House on the Hill, and finally succeeding to 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-by." 
 
 But when she had said it and returned to Adeline's bed- 
 side, 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. 
 T/ie]/ do not, and therefore I don't want to have 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 use- 
 less to argue against what had grown almost into a mon- 
 omania, though the poor sick girl had still self-control 
 enough not to betray herself, except in incidental, half-in- 
 telligible 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. 
 
232 HANNAH. 
 
 At length, just in the middle of the London season, when, 
 one summer morning, Mayfair lay in the passing lull be- 
 tween the closing of operas and theatres, and the breaking 
 up of late balls, a cab thundered up to the Earl of Duns- 
 more's door. It was Mr. Melville coming to fetch Miss 
 Thelhison to his wife. She was dying. 
 
 And then Hannah found out that the young man had 
 some feeling. Full of strength and health himself, he had 
 never really believed in Adeline's illness, still less her ap- 
 proaching death, till now, and it came upon him with a 
 shock indescribable. Overwhelmed with grief, and some- 
 thing not unlike remorse, during the twelve hours she still 
 lingered he never 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 w^as 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 mis- 
 take on both sides, which had ended in letting a poor 
 heart first starve for love, and then grow poisoned with 
 a nameless jealousy, until between the hunger and the 
 poison 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 whispered to 
 Hannah in one of Herbert's momentary absences. " It 
 was very foolish of me to be so jealous of Bertha. Per- 
 haps I should not, had it been a thing I could have spoken 
 about. And don't speak of it now, please. Only, if he 
 
HANNAH. 233 
 
 ever wants to do as his father did, and the law will allow 
 it, tell him he may as well marry Bertha as any body : I 
 shall not mind." 
 
 But to Bertha herself, although she kissed her in token 
 of amity and farewell, Adeline said not a word. The se- 
 cret wound, vainly plastered 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 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 deej)- 
 ly ; it made her love him better, and honor him more ; and 
 yet it frightened her. For there might come a time when 
 he had to choose, deliberately 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 w^as going on in the outside 
 world. Even "the bill" — the constant subject of discus- 
 sion 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 un- 
 derstand. She did understand so far as to learn that there 
 was every probability 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 biased one way or other by party motives, and a pro- 
 portion voting quite carelessly, without any strong feeling 
 at all in the matter, would decide her happiness and Ber- 
 nard's for life. 
 
 It w^as a crisis so hard, a suspense so terrible, that per- 
 haps it was as well this grief came to dull it a little. I^ot 
 entirely. Even amidst his sorrow for his sister, Hannah 
 
234 HANNAH. 
 
 could detect a nervous restlessness in Mr. Rivers's every 
 movement ; and 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 no- 
 tices. 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. Melville 
 begged that Hannah would accompany Bertha, and take 
 her place, with his wife's sisters and his own, at the fu- 
 neral. 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 
 though 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, sup- 
 pressed 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 peo- 
 ple so well, or been drawn to them so much, as during 
 that quiet evening when poor Adeline's coffin rested a 
 
HANNAH. 235 
 
 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 be, she was not without 
 a painful feeling of deception, that jarred terribly upon 
 her proud and candid spirit. She scarcely said a word to 
 Bernard, until he whispered, " 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 yearn- 
 ed 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, sud- 
 denly 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, decor- 
 ous affliction which was all that could be expected of them 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 They begged her to stay a little longer, and she staid. 
 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 expressed for it at 
 Easterham, and for many miles round. "You are such a 
 comfort to us," they said ; and Bernard, whom his father's 
 death seemed to affect more deeply than Hannah had ex- 
 pected, said, in his entreating eyes, "You are such a com- 
 fort 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 lamented confi- 
 dentially 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 
 
236 HANNAH. 
 
 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 incumbrance longer. 
 
 "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 im- 
 mediately. Indeed, he owes it to his family." 
 
 Hannah listened, as she was now learning to listen^ — ■ 
 teaching her poor, mobile, conscious face the hardness 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 sometimes 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 liv- 
 ing, 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 extin- 
 guished. 
 
 " Go, my dear. I dare say 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 not 
 
HANNAH. 237 
 
 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 of 
 help, and sat down to fulfill 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 stii 
 within him. 
 
 " Hannah," he cried, seizing her hand, " are you happy, 
 or miserable — as I am ? or, which seems most likely, havci 
 you no feeling at all ?" 
 
 She 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?" 
 
 "N"o — nor I. We are both of us victims — tied and 
 bound victims in the hands of fate. Sometimes I thinls 
 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 al 
 ways beside me, I should not go down. It is being alonv 
 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 oi 
 Commons ; that Lord Dunsmore and other peers, a rather 
 strong party, hoped even in the House of Lords, whicK 
 had hitherto always thrown it out, to get this year a suffi- 
 cient majority to carry it through and make it the law ol 
 the land. 
 
 "And then, Hannah, we can be married — married imme. 
 diatelv." 
 
238 HANNAH. 
 
 He gasped rather than uttered the words. Passion re- 
 sisted 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 consequence 
 of that appreciation.) "Besides, whether or not, they 
 must consent. They can not go against me. My father 
 has left every thing 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 shall 
 pass !" he cried, impetuously, "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 herself, 
 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 ques- 
 tion or mistake. 
 
 " You are not quite colorless, 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 nake 
 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 toward 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 door opened, and Lady 
 Rivers stood right in front of them. 
 
 " Good Heavens !" she exclaimed, and started back as if 
 she had trod on a snake. 
 
 They started back too — these guilty-innocent lovers. 
 
HANNAH. 239 
 
 Instinctively they separated from one another; and then 
 Bernard recovered himself. 
 
 Vexatious as the crisis was — though he looked as if he 
 would have cut off his hand rather than have had it hap- 
 pen — 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 any thing 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. It is now many months since she prom- 
 ised to be my wife as soon as our marriage can be lawful- 
 ly carried out. In the mean time we are friends — close 
 friends ; and, as you may have observed, we also consider 
 ourselves engaged lovers. — ^Hannah, do not distress your- 
 self; 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 slight- 
 est 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. 
 
 " I never knew any thing 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 sobbed out 
 her bitter humiliation upon Bernard's breast. 
 
 He comforted her as well as he could, saying that this 
 
240 HANNAH. 
 
 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 an- 
 noyed. 
 
 " Of course it increases our perplexities much ; for our 
 secret is no longer our own. In her wrath and indigna- 
 tion she will blab it out to the whole community, unless, 
 indeed, family pride ties her tongue. But, anyhow, we 
 can not help ourselves; we must brave it out. Come 
 with me, Hannah." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Into the next room, to face them all and tell the ex- 
 act truth. Otherwise we may be overburdened with any 
 quantity of lies. Come, my dear one. You are not afraid ?" 
 
 " Xo." 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 plowshares, like some slandered wom- 
 an of the Middle Ages, if only she might find at the end of 
 her terrible march Bernard's face looking at her as it look- 
 ed now. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I will come with you at once ; for 
 what is told must be told quickly. I can not stay another 
 night in this house." 
 
 " You must, I fear," answered Bernard, gently. " Where 
 ^rould you go to ? Not to mine ?" 
 
 " Oh no, no ; I can never go to your house any more." 
 
 And the cruel penalties of their position, the chains 
 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 
 plowshares, 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. 
 
HANNAH. 241 
 
 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 dread, and 
 prudence the principal characteristic, of the Riverses, they 
 were obliged to restrain their wrath within the natural 
 limits of an offended family which has just discovered that 
 one of its members has made a matrimonial engagement 
 without telling them any thing about it. Even Lady Riv- 
 ers, w^ith her widowed son-in-law standing by, was forced 
 more than once to pause and alter her form of speech, di- 
 lating more on the wicked secrecy with which Bernard 
 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 Ber- 
 nard — some angry, some in tears — asking 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 shuddered at the thought of such a mar- 
 riage. 
 
 It was a hard strait for a man to be in. That lie felt it 
 as acutely as so tender a heart could possibly feel was 
 plain. He turned deadly pale ; but still he 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 de- 
 termination, since he had chosen her, to stand by him to 
 the last. By her child, too, for one implied both. Think- 
 ing of little Rosie, 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 
 
 L 
 
242 HANNAH. 
 
 holding him fast by the hand ; the only being she had to 
 hold to in the wide world now. 
 
 " Sisters," said he at last, sj^eaking 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 w^ould 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 same 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 forever. What I do, I beg you 
 all to understand, is done not hastily, but deliberately. 
 Long before I ever said a word otherwise than brotherly 
 to Miss Thelluson, or she had any suspicion of what my 
 feelings 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." 
 
 " 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 any thing so shock- 
 ing — so improper ?" 
 
 " The law did not hold it improper," answered Bernard, 
 in extreme irritation. "And, as I tell you, at first we had 
 no idea of such a thing. It came upon me unawares. 
 The law should not have placed me in such a position. 
 But it will be broken soon, I trust. And until then you 
 may all rest satisfied ; Miss Thelluson will never again 
 enter my house until she enters it as my wife. Then, sis- 
 ters, whether you like her or not, you must pay her the re- 
 spect due to a brother's wife, or else I am your brother no 
 lonofer." 
 
HANNAH. 243 
 
 He had taken a high tone — it was wisest ; but now he 
 broke down a little. In that familiar home, with the fa- 
 miliar faces round him, two out of them just missing, and 
 forever, it was hard to go against them all. And when — 
 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 can not 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 afterward, 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 Thelluson will excuse your omitting the cere- 
 mony altogether." 
 
 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 out how a man feels 
 who sees the woman he loves insulted, even by his own 
 relations. Sisters !" — he turned to them, almost entreat- 
 ingly, as if in his natural 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, how- 
 ever 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 concerning Hannah, which Hannah 
 heard, and lifted up reproachful eyes to the women whom 
 she had been helping and comforting, and feeling aflec- 
 tionately to, all the week, but who now held themselves 
 apart from her, as if she had been the wickedest creature 
 living. 
 
244 HANNAH. 
 
 " You know that is untrue. Bertha. I was perfectly sin- 
 cere in every word I uttered ; but, as Mr. Rivers says, peo- 
 ple's feelings change. I did not care for him in the least 
 then — but I do now. And 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 con- 
 fession 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 w^ere. It seemed hardly credible that 
 this was the same family who, only a few 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 tenderness had departed, and 
 it became a house full of rancor, 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 be- 
 tween the joints of the armor, and inflict wounds from be- 
 hind ; 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 traves- 
 ties of truth; such alterations of facts and misinterpreta- 
 tions of motives that she sometimes stood aghast and won- 
 dered 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 vic- 
 tim 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, seeing the 
 
HANNAH. 245 
 
 whole drift of their 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. ISTow this must end. I have heard all you 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-humor which 
 used to make them say Bernard could do any thing with 
 any body. "After that you must stop. Every man's pa- 
 tience has its limits. I am the head of the house, and can 
 marry whomsoever 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 sen- 
 timental side was the safest to take them on; perhaps, 
 also, he felt that a smile was better than a furious word 
 or a tear — and both were not far off, for his heart was ten- 
 der as well as wroth ; but the pla'n 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 in- 
 convenient to leave us to-morrow. Until that desirable 
 event, w^hich Bernard seems so sure of, does take place, 
 you will see at once that, with my unmarried daughters 
 still under my charge — " 
 
 " It will be impossible for you to keep up any acquaint- 
 ance with me," continued Hannah, calmly. " I quite un- 
 derstand. This good-night will be a permanent good-by 
 to you all." 
 
 Lady Rivers bowed. But she was a prudent woman. 
 It was a perfectly polite bow — as of a lady who was act- 
 
246 HANNAH. 
 
 ing 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 disgrace was 
 not there — how could it be, with her conscience 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 still tried to be- 
 lieve 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. 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, whom 
 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-night, 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 chivalric tenderness worthy of his old crusading 
 ancestors — those good knights, pledged to Heaven to suc- 
 cor the distressed — he took Hannah by 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, 
 
HANNAH. 247 
 
 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 suffering woman. For that 
 Hannah did suffer, was plain. To rise in the dull dawn 
 of the morning, to breakfast alone, and steal away, unno- 
 ticed and uncared-for by any member of the family, was 
 outward humiliation enough: but it was nothing to the 
 inward pain. No 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 recognized 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 traveled 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 Easterham — of them 
 too. And now I shall never see the Moat House or them 
 again." 
 
 "Do not be too sure of that," said Bernard, passionate- 
 ly. " 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. 
 
 "The critical night. Lord Dunsmore has been expect- 
 ing it for long. There will be a debate ; still, I know, he 
 
248 HANNAH. 
 
 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." 
 
 He laughed; hut 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 a ' city 
 set on a hill' — like my house, as you used to say to me. 
 A clergyman, contemplating an act which is directly con- 
 trary to the canon law, and in which my very bishop, I 
 understand, is dead against me. I shall be excommunica- 
 ted, of course — ^that is, suspended — except, by-the-bye, if 
 my marriage ever takes place, it will be according to law ; 
 and, then, whatever he thinks, the bishop can not suspend 
 me. Oh, we care quite as much for the law as the gospel, 
 we clergymen !" 
 
 And he laughed again, and still continued rapidly talk- 
 ing 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. Suffering, they say, often 
 changes a woman into an angel ; but it is not so with men 
 — generally quite the contrary. Hannah was so grieved 
 that she hardly answered a word till they reached their 
 destination. 
 
 " Stop a minute !" Bernard said. " I had meant to 
 leave you here — and go — " 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Any where ; it does Jiot matter. But I can not 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. 
 
HANNAH. 249 
 
 "The child — always the child!" he cried. "You care 
 for nobody else. I do believe you are marrying me — if 
 ever we are married — solely for the sake of the child." 
 
 Hannah paused a minute before she answered. His 
 conversation 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 resignation — he learned 
 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 any thing, do you suppose?" 
 
 "Every thing, I believe," said Hannah. "But she has 
 never breathed one syllable to me, and nev^er will." 
 
 " Good, w^se, 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 sunless 
 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. Desperately 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 
 
 L2 
 
250 HANNAH. 
 
 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 mutual love of the 
 child. 
 
 Lady Dunsraore 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 condo- 
 lence to Mr. Rivers. 
 
 " I did not wonder that Miss Thelluson was kept at the 
 Moat House, she is such a help to every body 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 ? We have 
 no guests, for Lord Dunsmore will be at the House. He 
 speaks to-night, if the Marriage Bill comes on for the sec- 
 ond reading, as we expect it will." 
 
 Bernard made some brief assent. 
 
 " See what it is to be a politician's wife," said the count- 
 ess, 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 congratulate my husband if he wins — to 
 condole if he fails. But as I said to my thane this morn- 
 ing, when I counseled 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 and 
 delicate kindliness^ chattsring gayly on, and not waiting 
 for any bodjT- to answer. And all day she kept them up 
 with her gay, witty, continuous talk — a perpetual fountain 
 
HANNAH. 251 
 
 of prettiness — never by word or look betraying that she 
 guessed any thing, that any body had any anxiety except 
 herself, for the result which this day must bring. 
 
 At dinner they were only three ; but in the evening 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 poll- 
 ticians 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 dislike to be pitied and sympathized 
 with in his ailments, 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 combina- 
 
252 HANNAH. 
 
 tions 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 carriage 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. 
 
 " 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. " No need to be down-hearted. 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. 
 
 Hannah stood motionless. She had expected nothing, 
 and was scarcely disappointed ; but Bernard stepped for- 
 ward excitedly. 
 
 "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 
 
HANJtTAH. 253 
 
 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. "Pie could not 
 bear it — the suspense, I mean ; and now — You under- 
 stand ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have understood it all along," said Lady Duns- 
 more, 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. "Oh, 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 freer, 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 count- 
 ess could not resist it ; but after that she said no more — 
 only helped Hannah, in the kindest and tenderest way, 
 to restore the still half-conscious man. Bernard's illness, 
 however, seemed rather more than an ordinary fainting-fit. 
 When he recovered he wandered in his talk, and scarcely 
 seemed to know where he was. 
 
 Then Hannah took at once the motherly part which 
 seems natural to almost all women in case 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 quiet- 
 ing voice, he seemed satisfied and submitted patiently. 
 
 But she had to submit to harder things. When, hearing 
 him call her, she mechanically rose to follow him, Lady 
 Dunsmore detained her. 
 
254 HANNAH. 
 
 "Not you; my old housekeeper must be his nurse. 
 Not you." 
 
 " But he wants me. He called me." 
 
 " Never mind. You can not go. What would the world 
 say?" 
 
 Hamiah blushed horribly, then answered, in a low, des- 
 perate voice, " I care nothing for the world. He is mine. 
 You forget we are engaged; we were to have been mar- 
 ried as soon as ever the law allowed. Nobody under- 
 stands him as I do. Let me go." 
 
 " No," said her friend, firmly. " He will be taken every 
 care of; but your care he can not 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 what 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 ac- 
 cept 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 
 agonizing anxiety of both. 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. 
 
 " Csesar's wife," she said, " must not even be suspected. 
 You are under my protection, and I will protect you to 
 the utmost of my power; but you must also protect your- 
 self. 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 peo- 
 ple 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 
 
IIAXNAH. 255 
 
 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 be- 
 lieve 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 cir- 
 cumstances were chiefly in fault, not individuals. But 
 Lady Dunsmore was very angry, especially when, the ill- 
 tidings about Bernard being necessarily sent to Easter- 
 ham, Bertha and Mrs. Morecamb rushed up and bemoaned 
 him, and exacted a promise from him that he 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 al- 
 most nobody except the child. She was painfully aware 
 that every person in the house, servants included, guessed 
 her exact position with regard to Mr. Kivers, 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 can not 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 draw- 
 ing-room, Celestine, the countess's maid, ran into Miss Thel- 
 luson's room, with the substance of half a dozen French 
 novels written in her face, to communicate the event ; as- 
 
253 HANNAH. 
 
 suring mademoiselle that monsieur was looking so much 
 better than any body expected, and she had heard him 
 asking for her ; and should she arrange mademoiselle's toi- 
 let 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 ea- 
 gerness 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?" 
 
 "Ko,no!" 
 
 "And you love me still ? You will not give me up even 
 after what has befallen us ? You understand ? For an- 
 other year, at least, there is no hope of our being married." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Isn't it sad and strange — sad and strange," he contin- 
 ued, wistfully, as he lay on the sofa, she holding 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 can not 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 Duns- 
 more 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 I 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 joy- 
 less, empty life that he was going back to. He was so 
 helpless, too — the kind of man who always wants a wom- 
 an to take care of him — to whom marriaore is, domestical- 
 
HANNAH. 257 
 
 ly, not merely a comfort but a necessity ; and all his little 
 weaknesses she knew — all his innocent wants she was ac- 
 customed 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 any thing for me, or, when they did it, they did it 
 wrong. Nobody like Hannah. When shall I have you 
 back again ?" 
 
 "When, indeed?" 
 
 "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" — ^lie lifted himself np and 
 clutched her hand tight — "promise faithfully that, if I am 
 really dying, you will come to me, whatever the world says?" 
 
 " I 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 Rosie's 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 ourselves 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?" 
 
258 HANNAH. 
 
 His eyes were so sad, his looks so wan. Even this com- 
 paratively 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 
 was 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 contemplated 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 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 van- 
 ishing 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 wom- 
 an 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 can not plead 
 and say, " Father, mother, why did you do this ? why en- 
 tail this misery upon us also ?" 
 
 Whether, noble and pure woman as she was, the moth- 
 erly 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 remarked in 
 him, the faint reflex of what was so strong in the rest of 
 his family : 
 
HANNAH. 259 
 
 " 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 Aus- 
 tin 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 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 afterward walked into love, deeply, deliber- 
 ately, with such a woman as Hannah Thelluson ? 
 
 Hannah left her passionate words unsaid, and continued 
 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 Dunsmore 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 
 chaperone them, taking with her Rosie and Grace. This 
 would be a quiet life, and yet not a life quite shut out of 
 the world. ISTo 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, for the thing is sure to ooze out." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Oh, though my people pledged me to secrecy ' for the 
 honor 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 
 
260 HANNAH. 
 
 the curiosity of the world about you, that it was not grati- 
 fied, 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." 
 
 " Oh, Hannah, have I said any thing 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-by 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 ; noth- 
 ing 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 Rosie — 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. 
 
 " Tannic too. Tannic too ! Papa and Tannic kiss Rosie. 
 Both together !" 
 
 It was going back to the old ways ; childhood and age 
 are alike in clinging to old ways and resisting the small- 
 est change. 
 
 " You see," said Bernard, with a smile, " Rosie herself 
 insists upon things being as they used to be — as they ought 
 to be. Rosie herself delights in us ' both together.' " 
 
 Hannah said nothing ; but, clasping her darling, she laid 
 
HANNAH. 261 
 
 her weight of secret pain upon the unconscious, childish 
 bosom which was already the receptacle and the comfort 
 of half her woes. 
 
 " I will go any where, and do any thing 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 ring of silky hair — baby hair 
 which had never been cut, and which netted in its dainty 
 meshes all her motherly heart. " Who loves poor Tannic ? 
 Who's Tannie's darling ?" 
 
 "Ko — 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 for- 
 gotten ever having said to her, only she often murmured 
 her soul out over the little crib at night ; and Rosie's ob- 
 servation was growing so sharp, and her memory so clear. 
 " 'No — papa's darling ; Tannie's blessing !" Then with a 
 little silvery, mischievous laugh, " Blessed tild ! Rosie 
 blessed tild !" 
 
 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 vi- 
 cissitudes of Hannah's life, was her position now. Acci- 
 dentally, rather than intentionally, for Lady Dunsmore 
 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 con- 
 currence, 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 
 
262 HANNAH. 
 
 — since, though the Moat House had entirely " cut " her, 
 some of the other houses did not, but continued by letter 
 a patronizing kindness most irritating — above all, suffering 
 a painful inner warfare as to how far she was right in al- 
 lowing Bernard 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 toward the summer's end she came to take her young 
 folks home. " This can not last. You must do as I once 
 suggested — go quite away." 
 
 " I can not !" 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 pas- 
 sion 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 ty- 
 rants, you know. Very well. Then you must run away." 
 
 " He will follow me — as he once said he should — wher- 
 ever I went." 
 
 " Indeed ! Quite right of him. Still, as I object to tyr- 
 anny, 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 desper- 
 ately 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 every thing for you." 
 
 Hannah obeyed, for she had come to that pass when her 
 energies, and even her volition, seemed to have left her. 
 She submitted tacitly to the countess's plan, which was to 
 send her quite out of England — to a distant French town, 
 Avranches, not easily reached, being beyond the limits of 
 
HANNAH. 263 
 
 railways — where resided a dear old friend of Lady Duiis- 
 more's, of whom she had often talked to Hannah — one Ma- 
 dame 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 every thing. 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-by now, and God bless you !" 
 
 The good countess, as she made this hurried farewell 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 Kosie and Grace. Lady 
 Dunsmore did not say what deeper reason she had for thus 
 effecting a temporary separation, sudden and complete, 
 between the lovers, even though it involved what she call- 
 ed 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 Riv- 
 ers 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 passion- 
 ate lover might well hesitate. While, under these, or any 
 circumstances, for him to doom himself 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 — as most 
 women did — but her liking did not blind her to a convic- 
 tion, founded on a certain Scotch proverb: "As the auld 
 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 Bernard. Therefore, on all accounts, 
 
264 HANNAH. 
 
 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 
 Madame 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 stu- 
 por: the strange peace of those who have cut the cable 
 between themselves and home, left all their burdens be- 
 hind, and drifted away into what seems like " another and 
 a better world." During her few days of traveling she 
 had been conscious only of a sunshiny sky and smiling 
 earth, of people moving about her with lively tongues and 
 cheerful faces. Every thing 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, al- 
 most 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 Han- 
 nah heard, 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 npon them, and kept 
 other intruders away, in a manner which, though not ob- 
 noxiously shown, occasionally touched, sometimes vexed, 
 but always humiliated, Hannah. Still, in her sad circum- 
 stances, 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 be- 
 tween them and England. " It would take a good bit of 
 time and trouble for any body to come after us here," said 
 
HANNAH. 265 
 
 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 Ma- 
 dame 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 Norman- 
 dy pears. There were masses of brilliant autumn flowers, 
 French and African marigolds, zinnias, and so on — treas- 
 ures that the child kept innocently begging for, w^ith a pre- 
 cocious enjoyment of the jingle of rhyme. " Give me pret- 
 ty posie, to stick in Rosie '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 content with a stray daisy or two, for she never 
 exacted blind obedience where she could find a reason in- 
 telligible to the little awakening soul. But when, after a 
 tear or two, Rosie submitted to fate, and entreated Tannic 
 to " come with Rosie find daisies — lots of daisies !" Aunt 
 Hannah also succumbed. 
 
 " Tannic can't come ; she must go to her bed, my dar- 
 ling. Poor Tannic is so tired." 
 
 M 
 
266 . HANNAH. 
 
 And for the first time in her life she went to bed before 
 the child, laying her head down on the pillow with a feel- 
 ing 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 afterward. She lay in a nerv- 
 ous 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-servants — good, simple Frenchwom- 
 en, with the true womanly nature which is the same all 
 the world over — things would have gone hard with Han- 
 nah Thelluson. 
 
 More than once, vague and wandering as her thoughts 
 were, she bitterly repented having " run away ;" thereby 
 snatching Kosie from her natural protector, and carrying 
 her off into these strange lands, whence, perhaps, 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-curtains and the pat- 
 tern 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, 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 ac- 
 cepted 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 which France may 
 boast so many, as unlike our English notion of a French- 
 woman as the caricatures of John Bull who strut about on 
 the French stage are like a real Briton. Feminine, do- 
 
HANNAH. 267 
 
 mcstic — 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 
 complimelit. But she was a noble type of the noblest bit 
 of womanly nature, which is the same, or nearly the same, 
 in all countries. IsTo wonder Lady Dunsmore loved her, 
 or that, as she prophesied, Hannah loved her too — in a 
 shorter time than she could have throught it possible to 
 love any stranger, and a foreigner likewise. 
 
 " Strangers and foreigners, so w^e each are to one anoth- 
 er," said the French lady early one morning, after she had 
 sat up all night with Hannah — to give Grace a rest. "And 
 yet we do not feel so ; do we ? I think it is because we 
 iDelong to the same kingdom — the kingdom of God." 
 
 For underneath all her gayety and lightness of heart, 
 Madame Arthenay was a very religious woman — as, she 
 told Hannah, " we Protestants " generally were ; thorough- 
 ly 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 conve- 
 nance^ 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 every thing, this was the first 
 
268 HANNAH. 
 
 time Madame Arthenay had made any allusion to Miss 
 Thelluson's future or her own past. Besides, 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 ac- 
 cept the good offices of the tender, skillful, useful hands. 
 Years afterward, when all its bitterness, and pain, and ter- 
 ror 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 es- 
 pecially of Madame Arthenay. 
 
 But w^hen 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 w^as turning into U7i^ 
 petite Frang^aise as fast as possible. Above all, she craved 
 for news from home': it was a fortnight now since she had 
 had one word — 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, w^hether he was angry with her, and w^hether he 
 missed his child. But no tidings came, and she did not 
 w^ant to write till she was better. Besides, Madame Ar- 
 thenay took all the writing things away. 
 
 " You are my slave, my captive. Madame la Comtesse 
 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 Hosie ? 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 im- 
 prisonment — she who had never before been confined to 
 her room for a Avhole week. It was a lovely day; she 
 
HANNAH. 2G9 
 
 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 cas- 
 tle, dedicated to her favorite 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 an- 
 gel 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 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 amusement, as to whether, 
 if Grace met her, she would not take her for a ghost — Han- 
 nah stole down through the quiet hotel, and out into the 
 street — that picturesque street of Avranches which leads 
 toward the public gardens, and the spot where, within six 
 square feet, is piled up the poor remnant of its once splen' 
 did cathedral. 
 
 Madame Arthenay had described it, and the various 
 features of the town, during the gentle, flowing, unexcit- 
 ing conversation which she pertinaciously kept up by the 
 invalid's bedside ; so Hannah easily found her way thith- 
 er, 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 groveling pleasures of this mor- 
 tal life. Even now, weak as she was, she was conscious 
 of a sensation of pleasure, as if her life were not all done. 
 
270 HANNAH. 
 
 She wandered about, losing her way, and finding it again ; 
 or amusing herself by asking it of those kindly, courte- 
 ous French folk, who, whenever they looked in 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 raadame would find easy benches to repose herself 
 upon, and a sea-view, with Mont St. Michel in it, that was 
 truly " magnifique." Madarae's own beautiful island could 
 furnish nothing finer. Hannah smiled, amused at the im- 
 possibility of passing for any thing but an Englishwoman, 
 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 medi- 
 tated, 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 
 favorite St. Michael of her girlhood, with his head bent for- 
 ward 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 
 
HANNAH. 271 
 
 his messengers to fight against wrong ; not merely to suc- 
 cor, 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 might find rest. But still I will 
 not die : they shall not kill me. They may take my char- 
 acter away — they may make him forsake me, as I dare say 
 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. Oh, 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 can not. 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 sit- 
 ting. 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 home- 
 ward ; 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 toward her, walk- 
 ing rapidly, and looking round as if searching for some 
 one. Had it been possible — or, rather, had not the ex- 
 treme improbability of such a thing made her stop a min- 
 ute, and draw her hand across her eyes, to make sure that 
 imagination was not playing her false — she should have 
 said it was Bernard. 
 
272 n ANN AH. 
 
 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 ! oh, 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 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 can not 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 honored 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 pursuing them. 
 
 " How did I find you ? Why, I tracked you like a Red 
 Indian. Of course I should — 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 en- 
 tirely. 
 
 In the course of the day she grew so rapidly better that, 
 
HANNAH. 273 
 
 when Bernard proposed going, for an Lour 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 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 supe- 
 rior to any thing Saxon, and that the great William had 
 done us Britons the greatest possible honor in condescend- 
 ing to conquer us. But Hannah would not smile at the 
 dear old lady, whom, she saw, Bernard liked extremely. 
 
 Soon they settled, amicably and gayly, to the most de- 
 licious of coffee and the feeblest of tea, in Madame Arthe- 
 nay's cottage — a series of rooms all on the ground-floor, 
 and all opening into one another and into the garden — sa- 
 lon, 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 any thing 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 suit- 
 able. 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 Arca- 
 dia. Mr. Rivers said so. 
 
 "Ah, you should come and live among us," said Ma- 
 dame Arthenay. " In this our Normandy, though we may 
 be a century behind you in civilization, I sometimes think 
 we are a century nearer than you are to the long-past 
 Golden Age. We lead simpler lives, we honor 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. 
 M2 
 
214 HANNAH. 
 
 "Ah, yes; poor Grace! she one day told me her story." 
 And then, turning suddenly to Bernard, " I assure you, we 
 are very good people here in Normandy. You might like 
 us if you knew us. Monsieur Rivers, why not come among 
 us and resume the old name, and be Monsieur de la Ri- 
 viere?" 
 
 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 conversation 
 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 coincidence, 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 her- 
 self, felt the influence of the sunshiny atmosphere, within 
 and without, in this pleasant nook of pleasant France— the 
 distance from home sorrows, the ease and freedom of in- 
 tercourse with Madame Arthenay, who knew every thing 
 and blamed nothing. When, next day, they all met, and 
 drove together across the smiling country, amusing them- 
 selves with the big blue-bloused ISTorman peasant, who 
 kept cracking his long whip and conversing with his 
 horses in shrill patois that resounded even above the jin- 
 gle of their bells, Hannah thought she had seldom, in all 
 the time they had known one another, seen him looking 
 60 gay. 
 
 Saint Roque was one of those chateaux of which there 
 are many in Normandy, built about the time of the Cru- 
 sades — half mansion, half fortress. It was situated in a 
 
HANNAH. 275 
 
 little valley, almost English in its character, 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 hon- 
 eysuckle, sweet as English honeysuckle, perfuming every 
 step of the road. Suddenly they came upon this minia- 
 ture 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 Ly- 
 ons merchant's wife, whom Madame Arthenay knew, and 
 who, with her black-eyed boy clinging to her gown, po- 
 litely showed her every thing. 
 
 "Did you mean what you said?" whispered Bernard, 
 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 moonlight. 
 
 " 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 sor- 
 row, very different from boy and girl lovers, still love was 
 very sweet — implying deep content, thankful rest. 
 
 "Hannah," he said at last, "I have never yet scolded 
 you properly for your running away — with Lady Duns- 
 
276 HANNAH. 
 
 more aiding and abetting you. She would scarcely tell 
 me where you were, until I hinted that, as a father, I 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 anger or contrition. 
 
 " Dearest," he whispered, " we must be married. I 
 shall never have any rest till you are wholly and lawfully 
 mine." 
 
 " Oh, 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. Every body 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 ; lov- 
 ing, 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 re- 
 siding three years in France, he would become a natural- 
 ized French citizen, enjoying all the benefits of French 
 laws, including that which, by obtaining a "dispensation" 
 — seldom or never refused — legalizes marriage with a de- 
 ceased wife's sister. And such a marriage, Madame Ar- 
 thenay believed, being contracted by them in the charac- 
 ter of French subjects, would be held legal any where, as 
 her own had been. 
 
HANNAH. 211 
 
 A future, the bare chance of which made Hannah feel 
 like a new creature. To be Bernard's happy, honored 
 wife, Rosie's rightful mother; to enter joyfully 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 'naturalization ' mean? Becoming a French- 
 man?" 
 
 " Yes ; also, that I must ' change my domicile,' as law- 
 yers 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 ?" 
 
 " Every thing !" 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 ten- 
 derly 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 wom- 
 an to the best and truest man ? How far can she replace 
 to him every thing, supply every thing ? 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 any thing else. Loving him, she loved him open-eyed, 
 seeing all his weak as well as his strong points as clearly 
 as he saw hers. 
 
 Hannah was neither an over-conceited nor an over-hum- 
 ble 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 
 
278 HANNAH. 
 
 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 impossible ?" 
 
 " You are right," he answered in a low voice, and turn- 
 ing his head away ; " I fear it would be impossible." 
 
 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 a while. Then Bernard, assuming a 
 cheerful tone, continued — 
 
 "But, my dearest, there is a medium course. Why 
 should w^e not, without being absolutely naturalized, take 
 up our abode in France, where such marriages as ours are 
 universally recognized ? We might live here the greater 
 part of the year, and only go to England occasionally. 
 Even then we need not mingle in English society. 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," said Hannah, slowly, " that you could 
 never take me to Easterham. Our marriage, after all, 
 would be like the other foreign marriages of w^hich 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. 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, w^hy can not 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 nothing, accomplish nothing. My 
 life is wasting away. I am growing a Avorse man every 
 day; more unworthy of you, of my child, of" — here he 
 
HANNAH. 279 
 
 stopped and looked upward solemnly — " of her whom I 
 never forget, my child's mother. Oh, Hannah, listen to 
 me this once, this last time. Here, where it can so easily 
 be done, marry me. For God's sake marry me — 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 difierence. For the mar- 
 riage with her cousin would have risked only physical 
 evils, but no moral suffering or social disgrace to any hu- 
 man being ; while this marriage, which the law would nev- 
 er recognize 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 cruel- 
 ty of entailing upon them the penalty of our joy, if that 
 can be true joy which is so dearly bought — seemed to re- 
 turn word by word, and burn themselves into her brain. 
 With Rosie, even, it might one day be a difficulty — when 
 the young grown-up girl came to discover that her father's 
 wife was not really his wife, but only regarded as such out 
 of courtesy or pity. And — what if Rosie should not al- 
 ways 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 living life. 
 
 " You are agitated, my own love !" Bernard whispered. 
 "Take time; do not answer me quickly. Think it well 
 over before you answer at all." 
 
 " I have thought it over," said she, looking mournfully 
 in his face, and clinging to his hands, as those cling who 
 know they are putting away from them every happiness 
 
280 nANNAH. 
 
 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 afterward 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 forgotten afterward — 
 words which are heard afterward 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, af- 
 ter great anguish, would have been bliss itself to the feel- 
 ing 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, pas- 
 sionately, and she had answered with an icy conviction 
 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 min- 
 ute, 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, remembered 
 nothing, except you, Hannah. And this is how you have 
 requited me," 
 
 " Hush, and read your letter." 
 
HANNAH. 281 
 
 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 cold- 
 ly, as coldly as if she had been any stranger lady, to whom 
 he gave the merest courtesy which ladyhood demanded 
 from a gentleman — no more. 
 
 " I must beg you to make my excuses to Madame Ar- 
 thenay, and tell her that I am summoned home — I can 
 hardly say unexpectedly, and yet it feels so. Death al- 
 ways feels sudden at last." 
 
 He put his hand over his eyes, as if he were trying to 
 realize 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 every thing for me, and for Kosie, 
 Poor Austin is gone — I am Sir Bernard Rivers." 
 
 Was there pride in his tone — that hard, bitter 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 shak- 
 ing hands like common acquaintances, she felt that it was 
 really a parting, such an one as they had never had be- 
 fore ; 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 realized 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 wea- 
 rily by ; and no letter came — he who was always so punc- 
 
282 HANNAH. 
 
 tual in writing. Evidently, then, lie meant the parting to 
 be final. He had thrust her entirely out of his new life, 
 in which she could henceforward 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 rela- 
 tion — 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 sor- 
 row. 
 
 Not for long, however; women with children can not 
 afford to grieve for long. The very first morning, when 
 she had to explain to Rosie that papa was gone away 
 home, and would not come back again for a good while 
 (she did it in Grace's presence, who opened 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, whis- 
 pering, "Tannic not going away and leave Rosie — ^Tan- 
 nic never leave Rosie," she clasped her to her breast in a 
 passion of tenderness, which was only checked by Rosie's 
 distressed discovery of "Tannic tying." 
 
 Of course Tannic immediately dried her eyes, and cried 
 no more — in the child's sight, at any rate. 
 
 Nor in any body'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 "impossible;" and, knowing him as she did, Hannah 
 
HANNAH. 283 
 
 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 plaster it over — hide it until it was healed. 
 
 Therefore, when Madame Arthenay came as usual, she 
 delivered, in carefully-planned phrases, the message Sir Ber- 
 nard had left; and though the good old lady looked sur- 
 prised, and evidently guessed — no woman 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 
 sympathy that even old friends can give sometimes — the 
 sympathy of silence. 
 
 They fell back into their old ways, 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. Some- 
 times, in the midst of her innocent play, little Rosie 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. Evident- 
 ly, not even for his child's sake would Sir Bernard write 
 to her or have any thing to do with her. He had pushed 
 out of his new and prosperous life not only her, but poor 
 Rosie, whom he had left without asking for one good- 
 by 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 bet- 
 ter, even for that, that the end had come — that there could 
 be no doubt as to their future relations 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. 
 
 " My dear Hannah, — I send the usual monthly check 
 doubled, that you and my daughter may have every lux- 
 
284 HANNAH. 
 
 ury that Avranches affords, and which, indeed, my new 
 circumstances make desirable and necessary. 
 
 " If you do not dislike the place, I should like you to 
 winter there ; and, with the friendship and protection 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 dis- 
 close, but of which I do not wish to speak till they are 
 more matured. In the mean time I remain always your 
 sincere friend, Beenakd Rivers." 
 
 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 per- 
 sonal feeling seemed obliterated. It often happens so 
 with men — at least Hannah had heard of such things — 
 when thwarted passion suddenly 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 af- 
 ter retains. This is the only way of accounting for many 
 things — especially for one thing which women can not 
 understand — 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 incumbrance and a reproach. 
 
 Well, so it must be. Hannah wondered how she ever 
 could have expected any thing 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 coiTespondence was as regu- 
 
HANNAH. 285 
 
 lar 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 every 
 thing 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. 
 
 But their greatest comfort was the child. Rosie flour- 
 ished 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 some- 
 times she became almost reconciled to her pain. It was 
 not the sharp agony of youth — she was accustomed to 
 sorrow — but this sorrow 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-spring time — after which nothing can be 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 farther plans for Ro- 
 sie'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 any thing. In what 
 manner he might wish his daughter — an important per- 
 sonage 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 
 
286 HANNAH. 
 
 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, making Rosie clap 
 her hands in delight, the little woman herself settled that 
 question. 
 
 " Lots of apples ! Rosie likes apples. Rosie stay here 
 always, and get lots of apples." 
 
 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 hap- 
 piness 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 mean time, would it be good for Rosie to re- 
 main in France, ignorant of her English ties — - ignorant, 
 above all, of her father, whom already, with the easy for- 
 getfulness of her age, she seldom spoke 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 be 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 tenderly she 
 had loved her own father; how after her mother's death 
 Bhe 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 
 
HANNAH. 287 
 
 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 ! — be- 
 loved by all the country-side, bringing to it in due time a 
 new Lady Rivers, fair and sweet as his first wife had been, 
 and perhaps raising up in honor and happiness a numer- 
 ous 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 pre- 
 vision, as the inevitable result of things, Hannah, even 
 while she clasped her darling to her bosom, sometimes 
 doubted whether hers were not a fatal love, which might 
 one day overcloud, instead of brightening, the future of 
 this her " sunshiny child." 
 
 " I may have to do it some time," she said to herself, 
 not daring even in thought to particularize what "it" 
 meant. " But I can't do it yet — not yet. My one bless- 
 ing — the only bit of blessedness left me in this world !" 
 
 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 defense from every ill that 
 the innocent young life could know, Hannah wetted her 
 pillow w^ith her tears. 
 
 "I can not do it; even if I ought, I can not," 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 yet fallen, or were near be- 
 ing laid down — the old lady and the child. With them, 
 
288 HANNAH. 
 
 and Grace, she wandered every where near Avranches, 
 and made herself familiar with 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 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 dai- 
 ly life one of those sudden blasts of fate — like the equi- 
 noctial wind in which the St. Martin's summer ended — a 
 storm noted in this neighborhood for years by the destruc- 
 tion which it had spread. Hannah never heard it spoken 
 of afterward 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 deso- 
 lation that a few hours had made — tall poplars, snapped 
 like straws, lying prone at the roadside ; apple-orchards, 
 in which there was scarcely a tree not mutilated, and many 
 were torn up completely by the roots — she ceased to de- 
 light 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, ex- 
 hausted, in the first sheltered corner she could find. 
 
 " How weak I must be growing !" said poor Hannah to 
 herself; and, catching sight of her favorite Mont St. Mi- 
 chel, the solitary rock, with its castled crown, looking sea- 
 ward over its long stretch of sandy bay, the tears sprang to 
 her eyes. Alas! there was no St. Michael to fight for her 
 —no strong archangel ^to unsheathe his glittering sword 
 
HANNAH. 289 
 
 in defense 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 power- 
 less to defend herself; she knew — she felt — that her fight- 
 ing days were all gone. 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 
 w^ould 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 Easterham 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 ex- 
 clamation, 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, be- 
 cause 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 chil- 
 dren, for whom she had had so strong an affection. 
 
 " No, ma'am," she said, looking at Miss Thelluson half 
 inquisitively, half compassionately, "it's no harm, so to 
 speak, come to any body. It's only a Avedding that they 
 
 N 
 
290 HANNAH. 
 
 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 Han- 
 nah was often very absent now. Life and its interests 
 seemed fading daily from her, as from people who are go- 
 ing to die, and from whom, mercifully perhaps, all the out- 
 er world gradually recedes, growing indistinct and color- 
 less, as at twilight-time ; but also calm — very calm. She 
 could not rouse herself even into her old quick sympathy 
 with other people's troubles, 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 con- 
 cluded their day. For Rosie was the drollest little wom- 
 an 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 
 laughing. But to-night it was different, and the sharp lit- 
 tle eyes soon detected that. 
 
 "Look, Tannic," 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 haven't hurt myself, and it isn't myself I'm cry- 
 ing 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 knelt. 
 " You shall tell me all about it presently. In the mean 
 time, don't vex yourself more than you can help. Noth- 
 ing in life is worth grieving for very much — at least, I oft- 
 en think so." And Hannah sighed. " We have but to do 
 our duty, and be as content as we can. Every thing is 
 passing away — soon passing away." 
 
HANNAH. 291 
 
 Grace's tears fell only the faster, "It isn't myself, 
 ma'am— oh, please don't think that ! I am not unhappy 
 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 Han- 
 nah, listlessly, rocking her little one in her arms, and feel- 
 ing that love and lovers and weddings were things belong- 
 ing to a phase of existence as far back as the world be- 
 fore the flood. " Who may the people be ? Any body 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 know ?" 
 
 " 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 enforced, she might 
 have fainted ; but her strong will conquered. She did not 
 " give way," as women call it, by any outward sign. 
 
 "Is Sir Bernard married? There must be some mis- 
 take. He would, as you say, certainly have told me." 
 
 " Ko ; I didn't mean that he was exactly married, but 
 that he is going to be. All the village says it. 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 with 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 in- 
 
292 HANNAH. 
 
 elude her, who at this hour especially was always their 
 sole object of attention, she curled sleepily down in Tan- 
 nie's arms, a round little ball, with the pink toes sticking 
 out from under the white night-gown — begging earnestly 
 for " ' Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,' just ' 
 once, once more." 
 
 And Hannah sang it without a mistake, which the small 
 listener would have detected immediately — without a 
 break in her voice either. For Grace also was listening 
 — Grace, who might go back to Easterham any day, and 
 tell Easterham any thing. Not that she thought Grace 
 would, but she might. And now, above all, whatever 
 Easterham guessed, it must never be given the slightest 
 certainty that Sir Bernard had ever been aught to her ex- 
 cept a brother-in-law. 
 
 Therefore Hannah laid Rosie 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. Thank- 
 fully would she have fled away, and hidden herself any 
 where 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 Ber- 
 nard." 
 
 It was a very natural and probable one, as reports go, 
 and seeip.ed to have been generally accepted at Easter- 
 ham. The two were continually seen together at the 
 Grange and the Moat House, and it was said they only 
 waited for their mutual mourning to end, in order to ^x 
 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 x^retty cither; only she is 
 
HANNAH. 293 
 
 very, very good — capital about parish things, and so on ; 
 and the kindest heart in the world to poor folks's chil- 
 dren. She was so kind to mine," added Grace, with a 
 sob. 
 
 Hannah again laid her hands soothingly oh her servant's 
 shoulder, but with a strangely absent look. 
 
 " Not young — not pretty — only very good. 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 your- 
 self. *Sir Bernard's servant has no right to discuss his fu- 
 ture 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 servants 
 have no right, I suppose, to be sorry for our 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 again as soon as 
 he chooses. And he could hardly marry a better person 
 than Miss Melville. I am — very glad." 
 
 "Are you ?" said Grace, looking at her very earnestly. 
 And then Hannah, driven to bay, and feeling the fierce 
 necessity of the moment, looked back at Grace and, al- 
 most 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 in 
 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 
 
294 HANNAH. 
 
 was ; nay, she had even succeeded in concealing the fact 
 that it had come upon her unawares. Poor innocent hyp- 
 ocrite ! 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 paralyzed. 
 
 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, despairing, desperate 
 lover ; furious because she would not sacrifice every thing 
 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 
 jviTectionateness and corresponding need of afiection, made 
 a hasty marriage like this, to one whom he knew well, 
 and who had always been fond of him, not incomprehen- 
 sible even to her. And yet — and yet — 
 
 "He might have waited — just a little while; have 
 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 thresh- 
 old for two whole weeks. The doctor said she ought not 
 
HANNAH. 295 
 
 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 Thel- 
 lusoii 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 w^hen 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 forerunner of long 
 and serious illness — perhaps the consumption 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 Tannic for having stolen you and kept 
 you away from all those who might have loved you ! If 
 ever Tannic should die !" 
 
 " Tannic die ? What's dat ? Rosie 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 conversations 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 Rosie could not comprehend 
 at all. But, baby as she was, she comprehended the anx- 
 
296 HANNAH. 
 
 ious face, the tremulous voice, and repeated, with that pa- 
 thetic droop of tlie lips that always foreboded tears, " Ro- 
 sie don't like it." 
 
 Hannah changed her tone immediately. " Come here, 
 my pet ; Tannic 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 any thing. 
 " Rosie will go and see papa — soon, very soon. Tannic 
 come too." 
 
 Hannah turned away, and could not answer at first. 
 Then she said, " But perhaps Tannic might not come too. 
 Rosie would he content with papa ?" 
 
 "No" — there was entire decision in this likewise — 
 "Rosie not go to papa unless Tannic come too. Rosie 
 don't want papa. Rosie will stop with Tannic." 
 
 And the little woman, squatting down on Tannie's pil- 
 low 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 awakened and been silenced : the fear 
 that, as time went on, this complete severance would pro- 
 duce its natural result ; the child would become indiffer- 
 ent to the father, and the father to the child. For, let 
 people talk as they will about the ties of blood, it is asso- 
 ciation 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 law- 
 fully and righteously hers? 
 
 There is a story, I believe a true one — most women will 
 
HANNAH. 297 
 
 feel that it might have been true — of a Highland mother, 
 who, traveling 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 every 
 thing 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 could 
 sleep better if they did so — was not unlike that poor High- 
 land woman. 
 
 ^N'ext morning she said, in a quiet, almost cheerful tone, 
 " Grace, do you think you could pack up all our things in . 
 a day ? For I want, if possible, to go back 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 blind- 
 ed them, turning away, and contenting herself with feeling 
 the soft cheeks and the rings of silky hair — as that High- 
 land 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. Rosie take dolly to papa. Papa will 
 mend it !" 
 
 In a week from that time, traveling as fast as her 
 strength allowed, yet haunted by a vague dread that it 
 would not last her till she reached England, Hannah ar- 
 rived in London. 
 
 Only in London, at a hotel; for she had no house to go 
 to— no friend. Lady Dunsmore happened to be at a coun- 
 try 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 
 
 N2 
 
298 HANNAH. 
 
 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 exhausted, 
 and was obliged to leave to Grace the whole charge of 
 every thing, including the child, and lie, listening to the 
 roll of endless wheels below the hotel-window — as cease- 
 less as the roar of the sea, and as melancholy — " I was 
 quite right ! It is best to resign every thing. I can not 
 trust myself any more." 
 
 The first minute that her hands ceased from shaking, 
 she wrote the decisive letter. 
 
 "Dear Feiend" (she first put " Bernard," then "broth- 
 er," finally " friend." He was that still ; at least she had 
 never given him cause to be the contrary), — "I have, 
 against your wish, returned to England, though only for a 
 few days' stay, in consequence of having accidentally dis- 
 covered the matter to which I suppose your last letter re- 
 ferred ; though, as you have never plainly told me, I will 
 not refer to it here. But I think it ought to modify our 
 future arrangements, 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 possi- 
 ble. He must at once have taken a night train from East- 
 ^rham, which he owned he had ; but, though he looked 
 
HANNAH. 299 
 
 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, Han- 
 nah?" was all he said, on entering ; then, perceiving 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! 
 Papa's darling ! Papa's lamb !" 
 
 Of one thing Hannah was certain. Sir Bernard was un- 
 feignedly 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 mother- 
 less 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 of Rosie. And as she clung about Sir Ber- 
 nard, remembering all his old tricks with her, as if they 
 had only parted last week, the two seemed perfectly hap- 
 py together, and even like one another — with that strange 
 family likeness which comes and goes in little faces, but 
 which Hannah saw now as she had never seen before. 
 Yes, Rosie 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 
 
300 HANNAH. 
 
 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 sight ; but it was too late to 
 tell you so. Forgive me. You will have no need to for- 
 give me any thing again." 
 
 " I know that," said Hannah, slowly, and waited for the 
 next words he would say — words w^hich would 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 hus- 
 band. Still, something in her manner- seemed to startle 
 him. 
 
 " Know ? What can you know ? Not, surely, any thing 
 about these future plans of mine, which, for both our sakes, 
 I have carried out, unknown to you, until now ?" 
 
 "Nevertheless,! have found them out," said Hannah, 
 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 it all ? Who could have told you ? And what ?'' 
 
 " That you are going to be married." 
 
 Sir Bernard started ; then half smiled. But he ofiered 
 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 every body. That is the reason 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 fright- 
 ens me about Rosie's future. She ought to have safer 
 protection than mine. She ought to have a brighter life 
 
HANNAH. 301 
 
 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 Hannah's 
 cold hand, against which Rosie laid her cheek, in a caress- 
 ing way she had. It was too much — the strong heart al- 
 together gave way, and she sat down sobbing. 
 
 Sir Bernard had listened, quite confounded at first, then 
 silently watched her. 
 
 " Oh 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 inevita- 
 ble. 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 any 
 thing he had to say — any final arrangements they might 
 require to make. There was a chair opposite, 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 bet- 
 ter say them now. It is quite true I am going to be mar- 
 ried, and as soon as I possibly can. I am not fitted for a 
 lonely life. Mine will be worthless to myself, my fellow- 
 creatures, my God, unless I accept the blessing He offers 
 me, and marry the woman 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 
 
302 HANNAH. 
 
 believe it ?" and he smiled — his old, winning, half-mischiev- 
 ous smile. "As Rosie would say — by-the-bye, how she 
 has grown, that dear little 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, fail- 
 ing that, to smile, but it was in vain. She sank, quite in- 
 sensible, 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 suggested 
 — of naturalizing 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 consulting the Dunsmores on the 
 subject, they also had seen the matter in the same light. 
 Though session after session Lord Dunsmore determined 
 to bring forward his favorite 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 Ber- 
 nard. 
 
 " You mustn't ask it, or desire it," said Lady Dunsmore, 
 ignorant — and she always remained ignorant — that he 
 ever had asked it. " A woman like her would never con- 
 sent. And she is right. To break your country's laws, 
 however unjust they may be, and then expect its protec- 
 tion, 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 Rosie had been for her — and give up England forever. 
 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 so 
 at the Moat House," said he, faintly smiling. That smile 
 
HANNAH. 303 
 
 and his worn looks alone betrayed to Hannah the suffer- 
 ings he must have gone through in making up his plans — 
 now all decided, and set in train. In fact he had already- 
 renounced every thing, and prepared himself to begin a 
 new career 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. Roque, 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 tow- 
 ers looking at themselves in the water, and the green up- 
 land 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, Ma- 
 dame 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 replanting 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 re- 
 nunciations, 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 up new paths for him- 
 self, and carry them out nobly; to live in content and die 
 in honor, even though it was far away from the dear En- 
 gland where he was born. 
 
304 HANNAH. 
 
 " 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 weal|h, 
 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 any thing — except a few graves in Easter- 
 ham church-yard." 
 
 He stopped, and that last bitterness of exile — the cling- 
 ing to the very sod of one's own land, the sod which cov- 
 ers 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 sel- 
 dom spoke of her now — Hannah knew he had no more for- 
 gotten than she had forgotten her lost Arthur. Time had 
 healed all wounds: life and its duties had strengthened 
 them both — strengthened 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 there weep 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 neighborhood whom she had refused 
 several times, but accepted at last. He was very rich, if 
 not very clever or very wise. 
 
 " Still, she might have done worse. He is a good fel- 
 low, 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 ^pite of 
 brothers-in-law." 
 
HANNAH. 305 
 
 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 jeal- 
 ousy of her sister, from which all the restrictions of the 
 law could not save her, no more than the terror of the Di- 
 vorce Court can save poor miserable souls to whom vice is 
 pleasanter than virtue. But to this right-minded, honest 
 man, intrenched within the sacredness of a happy mar- 
 riage, 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 honorable, 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 Bernard, " I must say good-by. 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 re- 
 main with Madame Arthenay until he came to marry her, 
 which, if possible, should be in the 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 Rosie's. I 
 used to say, you know, there was no telling which was 
 most of a baby, Tannic or Rosie. By-the-bye, she must 
 cease to say ' Tannic ' 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 fe- 
 licity. " I know I shall be a good mother to your child. 
 
306 HANNAH. 
 
 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 ; while I — look 
 here, Bernard." 
 
 She lifted up her hair, and showed him the long stripes 
 of gray already 'coming — faster than ever since the trou- 
 ble of the last two years ; but he only kissed the place, re- 
 peating Cowper's lines, w^hich 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, companionship, would be theirs with- 
 out alloy — companionship, which even in friendship alone, 
 without marriage, had been so sweet : 
 
 *'Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 Are still as lovely to my 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, sympathizes 
 with him, is able to make 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." 
 
 He put his arms about her, and stood looking deep down 
 into her eyes. He was much handsomer than she, bright- 
 er, and younger-looking ; yet there was something in Han- 
 nah's face which, with all its handsomeness, his had not — 
 a certain spiritual charm, which, when a man once recog- 
 nizes it 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 every thing in order to win her, and, 
 having won her, love her to the last with a passion that 
 
HANNAH. 307 
 
 survives all change, all decay. What this charm was, prob- 
 ably Bernard himself could not have told ; but Lady Duns- 
 more, speaking of Hannah, once characterized it as being 
 " a combination of the ansjel and the child." 
 
 CHAPTER XVH. 
 
 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 emi- 
 grant ships such as are constantly seen at Liverpool, or 
 other ports whence they sail — with its long rows of dang- 
 ling cabbages, and its utter confusion of cargo and passen- 
 gers. 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 forever. 
 The man is quite broken down ; but the woman, sad as she 
 looks, has hope and courage in her face. Why not ? Li 
 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, cer- 
 tainly, but the woman is exceedingly like Hannah — in ex- 
 pression 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 moonlight — fainter and faint- 
 er 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 
 
308 HANNAH, 
 
 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 continu- 
 ously 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, she could have rested happily in that of the child and 
 the child's father. 
 
 It happened to be a most beautiful night for crossing — 
 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 baby 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 as r/arm 
 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 were considered honorable, 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 hap- 
 py. 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 un- 
 changeable peace ; so much so, that when Hannah dropped 
 at last into a confused doze, she dreamed 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 day- 
 
HANNAH. .309 
 
 light — at least day-break; for she could discern the dark 
 outline of the man at the wheel, the only person 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 m 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 never saw 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 widening, 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 wiiole heaven blazed with color 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 dis- 
 tance, the line of the French shore. 
 
 It was her welcome to her new country and new life — 
 the life which was truly like being born again into anoth- 
 er world. She accepted the omen, and, clasping 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 honored 
 far and wide in the land of their adoption, and finding, af- 
 ter all, that the human heart beats much alike, whether 
 with French blood or English, and that there is something 
 wonderfully noble and lovable about that fine old Norman 
 race which (as Madame Arthenay long delighted in im- 
 pressing upon her dear neighbors, and upon the many En- 
 glish friends who visited them in their pleasant foreign 
 home) once came over and conquered, and civilized, us 
 rude Saxons and Britons. 
 
310 HANNAH. 
 
 Whether the master and mistress of Saint Roque will 
 ever return to England, or whether little Austin, the eld- 
 est 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 Avhat they felt 
 to be right. But they are happy — and what more can 
 they or any one desire ? 
 
 TM£ END. 
 
By the Auth or of "Jo hn Halifax." 
 
 From the North British Review^ 
 
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 of a wider economy than that generally admitted into a tale. 
 
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