BY THE TRENT. 
 
"A likerous thing is wine, and drunkenness 
 Is lull of striving and of wretchedness. 
 drunken man ! disfigured is thy face, 
 Sour is thy breath, foul art thou to embrace." 
 
 "But hearkeneth, lordings, one word I you pray, 
 That all the sovereign actes, dare I say 
 Of victories in the Olde Testament 
 Through very God that is omnipotent 
 Were done in abstinence, and in prayere. 
 Looketh the Bible, and there ye may it lere." 
 —Chaucer. 
 
 — " O thou invisible spirit of wine, if 
 thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil !" 
 
 "—0 that men 
 should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their 
 brains ! that we should with joy, pleasance, revel, and 
 applause, transform ourselves into beasts ! " 
 
 — Shakespere. 
 
 ' O madness, to think use of strongest wines, 
 And strongest drinks, our chief support of health, 
 When God with these forbidden, made choice to rear 
 His mighty champion, strong above compare 
 Whose drink was only from the liquid brook." 
 
BY THE TRENT. 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. E. S. OLDHAM. 
 
 SCOTTISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE, 
 
 LONDON: HOULSTON & WRIGHT, AND W. TWEEDIE; 
 
 1864; 
 
GLASGOW : 
 
 W. G. BLACKIE AXD CO., rRINTER3, 
 
 VILLAFIELD. 
 
is? 
 
 OH-f 
 
 h 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Directors of the Scottish Temperance League having 
 offered a First Prize of £250, and a Second Prize of £100, 
 for the best and second best Temperance Tales, ninety-nine 
 MSS. were received in reply. 
 
 The Rev. Alexander B. Grosart, Rev. George Hunter, 
 Rev. George M 'Arthur, M.A., Rev. James Stewart, M.A, 
 Rev. Norman L. Walker, kindly consented to act as adjudi- 
 cators, and the following is their decision : — 
 
 Glasgow, Novemher 1st, 1SG4. 
 
 Having been requested by the Directors of the Scottish 
 Temperance League to adjudicate on their offer of a First 
 Prize of £250, and a Second Prize of £100, for the best and 
 second best Temperance Tales, and having attentively 
 examined the whole manuscripts forwarded in answer to 
 the advertisements, being ninety-nine in number, we award 
 the First Prize to the Tale denominated 
 
 "BY THE TRENT," 
 and the Second Prize to the Tale entitled 
 
 "Round about the Bush." 
 
 108 Hope Street, 
 Glasgow, 28th Novemher, 1S6J. 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chapter I. -The Walk, 1 
 
 Chapter II.— Stephen Morris, ... ... ... ... 13 
 
 Chapter III.— The "Kinder Garten," ... ... ... 45 
 
 Chapter IV.— "The Lost Sheep," ... ... ... ... 64 
 
 Chapter V.— The "Painting Dressmaker," ... ... ... 88 
 
 Chapter VI.— The Sermon, ... ... ... ... ... 100 
 
 Chapter VI.— The Champagne Breakfast; or, First Wine then Water, 123 
 
 Chapter VII.— Death and his Doings, ... ... ... ... 135 
 
 Chapter VIII.— Comus, ... ... ... ... ... 142 
 
 Chapter IX.— The Blind Father 154 
 
 Chapter X. — Veronica's Adventures, ... ... ... 169 
 
 Chapter XL— Letitia, ... ... ... 186 
 
 Chapter XII.— The Minister and the Wine-cup, ... ... 196 
 
 Chapter XIII.— The Wedding Cards, 207 
 
 Chapter XIV.— Fire! Fire! 221 
 
 Chapter XV.— Changes and Secrets, ... ... ... ... 235 
 
 Chapter XVI. — A Letter from the Dead, ... ... ... 248 
 
 Chapter XVII. — The Snow-storm, ... ... ... ... 264 
 
 Chapter XVIIL— Jonas White, the Methodist Preacher, ... 274 
 
 Chapter XIX.— The Doctor and his Patients. ... ... ... 294 
 
 Chapter XX.— The Eescue, ... ... ... ... 313 
 
 Chapter XXL— The Sword of Damocles, ... ... ... 329 
 
 Chapter XXII. —The Minister's Martyrdom, ... ... 346 
 
 Chapter XXIIL— The Children's Party, 360 
 
 Chapter XXIV.— From St. Wilfrid's to Brunswick House, ... 374 
 
 Chapter XXV.— Death among the Breakers, ... ... ... 399 
 
 Chapter XXVI. — Sunshine after Bain. The Temperance Meeting, 403 
 
 Chapter XXVII. —John Broadbent's Letter, ... ... ... 421 
 
BY THE TRENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE WALK. 
 
 The old elms by the river were putting out tender 
 leaves, for the winds of March were past, and 
 April had touched their heads with her magical 
 sunshine. The morning was bright and warm, and 
 thousands of varnished leaf-cases lay upon the ground, 
 pushed off by impatient unfolding leaflets longing to be 
 fully born. Upon the river the wind rode, and with 
 playful hands turned back the ripples, and curved them 
 curiously, and whipped their edges softly into foam. The 
 willows by the shore were white with palm — the grass 
 was greening beneath lately fallen showers. In the air 
 was a fresh scent of growing vegetation, and in the pale 
 blue sky were the most delicate cirrous clouds — feathers 
 dropped from the wings of the great angel of spring. 
 
 John Broadbent had this morning walked bare- 
 headed in his garden, and from under the apple-boughs 
 had looked upon the swiftly-flowing river and the wide 
 meadows with a longing eye, desiring to walk still 
 further, and, like the wind that just now raised the 
 masses of his dark hair, to move quickly and gladly 
 over some small portion of the world. He called to his 
 sister, who was busy within doors talking to her young 
 
2 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 maid-servant about the dinner, " Clara, are you aware 
 that the sun is shining?" 
 
 There was no reply, and no sound but a murmur of 
 voices in the kitchen. Again he raised his voice. 
 
 " Clara, do you know that the sky is blue, and the 
 wind soft and fresh V 
 
 "And you ready for a walk? Is that what you 
 mean?" asked a pleasant voice inside. 
 
 " Yes, indeed! Get your bonnet, and let us see what 
 dreams the old earth had last night when she shut her 
 eyes." 
 
 In a few minutes the brother and sister had closed 
 behind them the small garden-gate that opened on the 
 river bank, and were walking underneath the broad- 
 spread arms of a long row of mighty elms that skirted 
 the shore, a living piazza of grooved pillars and inter- 
 minable boughs. It was a beautiful pictured world the 
 two gazed upon, and their eyes brightened, and their 
 steps became more elastic, as they proceeded. They 
 themselves were not unworthy to have a place in the 
 picture — John, with his tall well-moulded form and 
 broad shoulders, his full wide brow, dark deep-set eyes, 
 and intelligent glance; and Clara, equally tall and well 
 made, with the difference and added softness becoming 
 her sex; her pale, somewhat serious face and finely-cut 
 features, expressive of a mind at once noble and refined, 
 and her graceful motions, and the calmness of her out- 
 ward attitude to the world, speaking of a soul well 
 balanced and serene. 
 
 "The dreams have been good ones/' said Clara, as 
 her eye rested with quiet pleasure upon the sun-touched 
 meadows and the gliding stream. 
 
THE WALK. 3 
 
 " You think so? Then, of course, it must be so, for 
 you are a wise woman. I would put your judgment 
 against five hundred. Clara, I do not think there is a 
 woman like you in the three counties!" 
 
 "I hope not; it would be inconvenient. You would 
 not know which Clara to call sister." 
 
 "Now that is an absurd reply to my compliment. 
 You ought to have said, 'John, where is there sucli a 
 brother?' in a very tender and admiring tone." 
 
 Clara smiled. " If I think it, it will be enough. You 
 know I'm no rapturist." 
 
 " No, or else you would talk poetry by handful s, or 
 mouthfuls rather, to see this lovely April sky. What 
 clouds those are! And that delicious wind! Every 
 sweep of it sets my heart dancing." 
 
 " As for me," said Clara, stooping to gather a daisy 
 that with delicate pink-tipped leaves looked up into her 
 face, "here is sufficient for my delight." 
 
 "You could have gathered one like that at home. 
 Clara, your soul is hard and dead, a walk is nothing to 
 you ! Even when you get into Paradise you will not be 
 astonished; you will take out your knitting quite 
 calmly, and will say to the angels, 'Those stars are very 
 fine, but allow me, I nave just dropped a stitch!'" 
 
 "Who is talking absurdity now? But tell me seri- 
 ously, why should a few acres of vapour in the sky, 
 more or less, make such a wonderful difference to you? 
 On a cloudy morning }^ou are generally silent and 
 grave; a rain-storm sends you to Herbert and Thomas 
 a Kempis; but a lovely bright morning like this brings 
 light to your eyes, colour to your cheeks, and nonsense 
 to your tongue. Then away with your books and your 
 
4 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 meditations ! Your hat is put on, and I your walking- 
 stick of a sister am summoned out of my corner, my 
 easy-chair, or my kitchen hearth, or wherever it may be, 
 to accompany you." 
 
 " That is partly true, I cannot deny it. But to your 
 question, why? I cannot tell why, except by going into 
 a long speech on the doctrine of correspondences, which 
 I daresay you would find very tiresome. So let it seize 
 your unphilosophical mind that I have a philosophical 
 reason for loving sunshine, and hating, or rather just 
 enduring, acres of vapour." 
 
 "My unphilosophical mind!" 
 
 "Yes, certainly. No woman can be philosophical. 
 That belongs to the other sex. It is one of their 
 nobler attributes." 
 
 "Which I deny." 
 
 "Yes, I daresay. But, my sister, do not you see, 
 poor benighted creature as you are, that being a woman, 
 and only a woman, you are no judge? A man may say 
 what he pleases, and judge best what is noblest and 
 highest; a woman never. Her very sex disables her." 
 
 "In a man's eyes." 
 
 "Yes; in whose else's? No other eyes can see clearly. 
 Man is both judge and jury in this case; what chance 
 have you poor women?" 
 
 "We can appeal." 
 
 " From our sentence? But to what court would you 
 bring it? Now, don't come over me with your serious 
 face. Don't I know what you are going to say? You 
 and your daisy want to turn the tables upon me, but I 
 won't have it. Man is not only the judge, but the 
 ruler. To his sentence he brings the terrors of the law 
 
THE WALK. 5 
 
 — his law, mind you — and it is a strong one. Aren't 
 you very sorry you are a woman, Clara?" 
 
 "No, not at all. My time will come." 
 
 "Precisely. That grants my question. You'd like 
 to have such times as we men have, so you must be 
 sorry in the meantime that you can't, that you're not a 
 man, but only one of the poorer sex." 
 
 " You don't understand me. I do not wish to be less 
 a woman than I am, but more." 
 
 " That is because of your incapacity. An oyster 
 would be always an oyster; to him a mollusc is the 
 finest being in creation; — sea-slush is better to dwell in 
 than pure air, and walking on two legs is a ridiculous 
 operation." 
 
 " So it is. I am of the oyster's opinion just now. 
 What say }^ou to a rest on this log? With our faces 
 to your favourite river, and with the trees behind, you 
 can't desire a better resting-place, even you, great man 
 as you are." 
 
 "No laughter. It is truly provoking to see how 
 coolly you take it all. But I will grant you have 
 good taste, and know a soft log when you see one. 
 You're a very tolerable creature for a woman." 
 
 "That's rather humbler praise than you gave me just 
 now. You spoke of my judgment as more excellent 
 than that of five hundred." 
 
 "'Women.' And I say it still. But I see I cannot 
 bring you to an idea of the seriousness of your position, 
 so I may as well drop the subject. And now, look at 
 me, and tell me who I saw last night in Trcntham." 
 
 " Mary Plowden, perhaps." 
 
 "No; a greater stranger than Mary Plowden. What 
 should you say to Stephen Morris?" 
 
b BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "Stephen Morris!" repeated Clara in a surprised tone. 
 
 "I assure you it was no other. You may imagine 
 my astonishment. He is settled here as minister of an 
 Independent church, and as I have heard since is very 
 popular, draws a large congregation, and is very highly 
 thought of by a number of influential people in the 
 town. He looked much as usual, rather paler and 
 thinner I fancied; but accosted me with the old smile. 
 A very pleasant smile he has, Clara, as you know. We 
 had a little talk in the street, and then he invited me 
 to his home; but I told him I was pressed for time, and 
 so got off with a promise to call upon him before long. 
 I don't know, however, but he may come here first. 
 He seemed very glad to find we lived so near." 
 
 Clara remained silent, so her brother proceeded. 
 
 "He is a veiy good fellow, and so wondrously clever! 
 When we were at school together he carried away the 
 prize in most things, and he and I had at one time 
 quite a Damon and Pythias friendship of it. And do 
 you remember going with me to hear his first sermon? 
 In that queer little Welsh chapel? How he came to be 
 invited into the pulpit there I. don't know, but suppose 
 it was because he was a Welshman. Do you remember, 
 too, the old woman that cried, sitting in the corner close 
 to us, and how she blessed him and pressed his hands 
 when he came out of the pulpit? I shall never forget 
 it, I think." 
 
 "Yes, I remember." 
 
 "That must be a long time ago, now. Seven years 
 at least, isn't it? I remember you were just seventeen, 
 because of those verses he wrote for your birthday, and 
 sent up to our lodgings, with that odd little note. 
 How shv he was then! But there's not much of that 
 
THE WALK. 7 
 
 to be seen in him now. We met a bevy of fair ladies, 
 who smiled very graciously upon him, and whose smiles 
 he returned with the most courtly confidence. There 
 was such a shaking of hands, or rather of primrose-col- 
 oured gloves, and such a rustling of silks and satins, 
 and such a wafting of perfumes ! I had to stand aside, 
 and wonder at religion in her silver slippers." 
 
 "John!" 
 
 " Well, dear, was it not so? But we'll walk on again 
 now, if you're sufficiently rested. Hark ! was that the 
 cuckoo?" 
 
 They listened for another shout, and soon it came 
 from the heights above them, across the trees trembling 
 in the morning wind, the well-known, ever-welcome 
 shout. As they listened, they turned to each other 
 and smiled — with a smile that said, 'Yes, it is really 
 spring-time ! " And John repeated in a clear, ringing 
 
 voice, 
 
 " Brave cuckoo, call again, 
 Loud and louder still, 
 From the hedge-partitioned plain, 
 
 And the wood-topped hill ; 
 With thine unmistaken shout 
 Make the valley ring !" 
 
 He waited for response. But the cuckoo, not perhaps 
 liking to be thus invoked, was silent. 
 
 They were at the entrance to the Grove, a piece of 
 high ground by the river, planted with well -grown 
 trees, that climbed from the water's edge to high land; 
 where a broad grassy avenue, originally perhaps a car- 
 riage drive from the old Hall beyond, gave a beautiful 
 walk of a mile or more in length beneath the shade of 
 elms, and near to the river's everlasting flow. 
 
8 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 With quick steps they addressed themselves to climb 
 the broad gravelled path leading to this grassy avenue, 
 and before long were at the top. 
 
 " I like this old Grove/' said John, as they paused to 
 take breath. "This broad grassy glade, with these fine 
 trees oh either hand, how beautiful, how quiet it is ! 
 And when the sun glints across those distant elms, as 
 now it does, and lights up our pathway in advance, it 
 gladdens me like a prophecy for good. Here, too, the 
 river is hidden for a while; but, if we wish to see it, we 
 have but to go to yonder firs, whose dark tops I can 
 now just .discern, and below us we shall see its white 
 sheeny face clear and smiling. There is no river so 
 beautiful as this, to my thinking! Every day I stay 
 near it I gather healthful and loving thoughts." 
 
 "I, too, love the Trent," said Clara, "and have a 
 double joy in being near it, because it is so dear to 
 you." 
 
 "You good sister! And you do not then repent 
 coming with me?" 
 
 "Repent!" repeated Clara, "I rejoice in it every 
 day! Every day our cottage-home gets dearer to me, 
 and every day I feel this calm peaceful life by the river 
 to be the one best suited for me." 
 
 " Then we will thank God together. I did not think 
 this time last year ever to have felt so strong again as 
 now I do. And, perhaps, this feeling of fresh health 
 intoxicates me at times, and makes me say, what some 
 would call, foolish things. Yet there is a wisdom in 
 such folly." Here a smile curved his lips again. He 
 was silent a moment, and then said quickly, as touched 
 by some sudden thought — 
 
THE WALK. 9 
 
 "Clara, what shall we say to Stephen when he 
 comes?" 
 
 "What about, John?'' 
 
 "About our way of life here. For it will seem 
 strange to him to find me stranded in this way. . With 
 my prospects, such as he once knew them, come to 
 nought, my talents rusting, and I, just thrown aside 
 like that old boat we saw lower down among the 
 rushes. I am speaking, mind, as it will appear to him. 
 When he and I were at school I was the rich son of a 
 rich father, with grand expectations, and certainly with 
 no little ambition. I was a boaster, and let him know 
 a hundred times what a happy fellow I was, what a 
 great man I must perforce be. He, with all his talent- 
 was a good deal pitied by us in private, for it was well 
 known be was poor, and quite dependent upon strangers, 
 with no father living, no rich relative in the wide 
 world; his mother, it was even whispered in the school, 
 was only a poor washerwoman; and to talk of his rela- 
 tions to him brought up the ready blush, poor lad! 
 And now, see how the world goes! I am just seven 
 and twenty, and he twenty-six, and our positions are 
 almost reversed. A hundred a year is all I can call my 
 own, I live in a small cottage, and am a very small 
 unimportant individual, quite unfitted for public life. 
 He is pastor of a large chapel, with no doubt a good 
 income. Every Sunday hundreds of intelligent, educated 
 people listen to what he may please to tell them, hang 
 upon his words, idolize his face and figure no doubt, 
 and through his teachings may learn the way to the 
 divine life. The newspapers report his speeches and 
 praise his sermons. The young ladies of his congrega- 
 
10 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 tion are vieing witli one another for his preference, he 
 may choose from the fairest, and richest, and best. 
 Every year his path promises to become brighter and 
 brighter, his influence and popularity to increase. 
 Think what opportunities for usefulness he has, what 
 untold good his smallest words may produce. Every 
 pebble he drops in the still waters of social life forms 
 circles ever increasing, almost boundless. If he looks 
 but at the outside of things he will see all this, and the 
 contrast will strike him much as I say, much as it 
 would the rest of the world; and of course he will be 
 more than a man if he does not feel a certain pleasure 
 in the contrast, and less than a friend, if no pain for 
 me." 
 
 "But you will not be grieved at that!" 
 " No, certainly not. A year ago I should have been, 
 it is true. I should have shrunk from such words as 
 he ma} r use to express his sorrow, when he comes to 
 know my position, and proudly scorned to take his 
 pity, to whom I once gave so liberally to drink out of 
 the same cup. But now, dear, I have so much other 
 happiness that I can well afford this to be lost, and I 
 can smile from as full a heart as he. I believe it is 
 best for me to be here at the present, quiet and poor. 
 There is full compensation in all things; and it is not 
 good to long after honey when God sends chamomile. 
 Not that my lot is a bitter one. It is only a different 
 sweet to that which I had anticipated. 
 
 "But you, Clara, shall you not feel a little the change 
 of your position? Last time Stephen Morris saw you 
 you were a sort of high-born lady, far from the reach 
 of so humble a squire as he — at least, I am sure he 
 
THE WALK. I 1 
 
 thought so — travelling about a la princesse, with many 
 attendants and brave attire. And now, what are you, 
 my poor sister? — the housekeeper of a very poor man, 
 the sole brewer, and baker, and ginger-bread maker, 
 and with but one pair of hands between you and the 
 hard fate of being scrubber and scourer, washer and 
 wringer, cook and scullery -maid beside? Shall you 
 not be abashed?" 
 
 A merry light that rose up in Clara's eyes was her 
 only answer. 
 
 " I see you are insensible to your degradation, and 
 that is so much the worse ! A modern refined young 
 lady would be shocked immensely at your position. 
 But, my dear girl, only think \" 
 
 "I do think, and find I am just the same Clara 
 Broadbent as of old. I have lost nothing in reality." 
 
 "And you will be as stately with him as ever, I 
 have no doubt. Yes, Clara, I know you. He will 
 infallibly think there is some mine of wealth hidden 
 somewhere, of which you have the key; and that in 
 spite of your present apparent low estate, you will come 
 out some day glistering with diamonds. He will never 
 believe you poor." 
 
 " If poverty and wealth are to him what they are to 
 the greater part of the world, he will soon believe me 
 poor enough. But a minister should of all men put 
 money in its true place/' 
 
 " Should, dear; but how great are the temptations ! 
 However, I have no right to doubt Stephen Morris. 
 He may be the purest, truest-sighted of men. I only 
 looked at the natural result of being courted by, and 
 popular with, the rich and influential. Even a minister 
 
J 2 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 may insensibly be drawn in this way into the snare of 
 thinking much of, and trusting in riches. But am I 
 bringing you too far? Are you wanted at home? If 
 so, speak the word, and we will return." 
 
 Clara spoke the word, and the two returned home, 
 this time by the banks of the river the whole way. 
 A natural water -course formed an uninterrupted 
 though steep descent. It was dry, and with some 
 compulsory running and some laughter, the brother 
 and sister gained a narrow pathway formed among 
 weeds and tree roots at the foot of the Grove — a plea- 
 sant shelf of land, delightful to active feet from the 
 excitement of knowing that there was but a step be- 
 tween it and deep water. At their other side, nnd 
 almost drooping on to their shoulders, were ranks of 
 blue-bells, of the deepest tint and the freshest bloom, 
 swinging their cool dewy bells over head, with here and 
 there pink campion glowing among the green spathes 
 of the arum. While Clara gathered a large nosegay, 
 John's gaze was chiefly upon the open face of the 
 shining river. And when they reached the entrance 
 of the Grove, and left the shadow of the trees, his step 
 quickened ; and taking Clara's arm in his, he said, 
 "Now we are walking with the stream seawards. 
 Don't you feel the impetus? And to what ocean, dear 
 one, are we going? Ah, if we could always go as gladly 
 as does this river! How its ripples leap and dance! 
 Do you not see? By the shore it reflects the greens 
 and browns of earth, it cannot forget its present 
 home, its bed. But in the centre it takes the colour 
 of the great overhanging sky. What sky do we reflect; 
 and what breadth of surface does its image cover? 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 STEPHEN MORRIS. 
 
 A few days afterwards, in the afternoon, a young 
 man was making Lis way across the meadows that lie 
 between the laro;e manufacturing town of Trentham, 
 and the river from which it derives its name. In 
 the days of which we write, no factories or rows of 
 streets were built on these low-lying meadows, but 
 when an ancient wooden bridge was crossed, stretching 
 over the dusky waters of the canal, whose steep ascent 
 was reached on either side by steps much worn and 
 slippery, there remained only the green expanse of 
 the meadows, with a few well -beaten paths across 
 them, leading to the ferry and the village of St. Wil- 
 frid's on the other side of the river. Our traveller was 
 upon the broadest of these paths, a well-beaten level 
 way, but he did not make rapid progress. Now and 
 then, while proceeding slowly and thoughtfully, he 
 raised his eyes from the ground to watch the ascent of 
 the lark, and to listen to his far-off chant as he hung 
 quivering beneath a cloud — or to gaze at the glossy 
 backs of a family of rooks settled upon a near willow, 
 talking solemn talk of the weather and the crops — or to 
 address the little children that passed him with hands, 
 and pinafores, and baskets full of pale blue crocuses, 
 joyously burdened or bewildering^ overladen with their 
 spring treasures, not knowing which to keep or which 
 to throw away, and ever gathering more, till hands, 
 
14 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 and pinafores, and baskets ran over, and the ground 
 received the superabundance. He spoke in pleasant 
 accents to some of these, and the wondering children 
 replied to the kind gentleman in black with bows and 
 curtsies and shy smiles. One little girl presented him 
 with a full-blown bouquet of the enchanting blue 
 flowers, that had been kept in her warm hand till he 
 felt the heat strike through his glove on receiving them; 
 and a little boy pulled off his cap and politely offered 
 him the contents, a whole heap of crocuses, whose outer 
 ones fell about his shoulders, or lay upon his wind-blown 
 brown hair, but the traveller declined this last present, 
 with thanks. As he passed on, treading the flowers 
 under foot that the children had strewed so prodigally 
 on the path, the loveliness of the budding April after- 
 noon struck him suddenly with a great delight; all the 
 more perhaps that he seldom allowed himself to be 
 alone with nature. For a town life was his from choice. 
 He loved wide streets and close-set houses, and congre- 
 gations of human life, better than all the grandeurs or 
 sweetnesses of the open sky and the green spread of 
 fields and woods, and he seldom left the atmosphere of 
 smoke for the purer breathings of the country. His 
 pale face and slight figure spoke of the late riser and 
 the sedentary student, and his slow weak gait of one 
 who wears out the easy chair rather than the shoe, and 
 were in striking contrast to the free movements and 
 ruddy cheek of the man who loves to battle with wind 
 and storm, and to greet the sun in the east. Still this 
 calm, mild spring day, this great peace of earth and 
 sky, filled his soul with joy. He lifted his head, and 
 his gray eyes sparkled with pleasure. Above, he saw 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 15 
 
 a vast sea of the loveliest blue, broken here and there 
 by cloud-islands, with rivers and peaked hills glistening 
 in the sun, and beneath and around him a second sea 
 of pale blue flowers, the children's crocuses, a reflection 
 as it seemed of the blue above, while waves of the rich 
 springing meadow-grass rolled their green glistening 
 heads between him and the horizon. Before him the 
 river was yet hidden between its high banks; but the 
 first cottage at St. Wilfrid's, on its further side, stood 
 wondrously white in the sunshine, and like the face of 
 a friend, invited him on. His steps quickened, for he 
 had still long spaces of grass to pass over, and unused 
 as he was to much walking, by the time he reached the 
 river and the broad-bottomed ferry-boat, he was weary 
 enough to find the bench near the rudder an agreeable 
 resting-place. There were bat few passengers with 
 him, fine as the day had been, for work was abundant 
 at Trentham, and to-day was no holiday. Two women, 
 two young men with cigars, a black dog with which they 
 amused themselves by throwing it into the water, and 
 a dark-looking, middle-aged man, with his hat pulled 
 over his eyes, were all. While the red-faced ferryman 
 pushed the boat leisurely from the shore, and applied his 
 hook to the iron cable, propelling his freight across the 
 stream, our traveller had time to pursue a favourite 
 amusement and observe his companions. One of the 
 women beside him on the bench had a baby in her arms, 
 and the other a bundle, which by its size and shape he 
 imagined to be work she was carrying home, probably 
 lace. The young men were ordinary specimens enough 
 — the tailor had done his duty by them, and the jewel- 
 ler, perhaps rather more than was judicious; they had 
 
16 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 plenty of whisker, and at first plenty of talk between 
 themselves, and when that failed they " chaffed" the 
 boatman. The dark middle-a^ed man was a more 
 attractive study. With folded arms he gazed gloomily 
 upon the face of the water; no one spoke to him or 
 seemed to notice him, and he did not once lift his eyes 
 from their contemplation of the river — or apparent con- 
 templation of it — for it was more than possible that 
 what the retina reflected, the mind did not see, till the 
 ferryman, touching him on the shoulder, demanded his 
 fare. He dived his hand hastily into his pocket with 
 a peculiar smile, and as he gave the man the halfpenny, 
 a gold ring with a large brilliant shone on his finger. 
 He was dressed in a shabby green surtout, and a white 
 hat of an unusual, perhaps a foreign si ape. A dark 
 shadow lay upon him, or to speak more truly, came out 
 from him, and enveloped him so completely, that the 
 warm spring sunshine seemed to fall impotent near him. 
 It was not easy to get a glimpse of his face ; but for 
 one moment it was revealed to our wayfarer, and he 
 discovered upon its sallow features the traces of an ill- 
 spent and disappointed life. Cruel marks they were, 
 deep, and not to be concealed, though cross-hatched 
 with the lines of sarcasm and contempt, and varnished 
 over with the thick varnish of pride. It was no pleasant 
 face — repcllant, and haughty, and gloomy; it asked for 
 no sympathy, and utterly scorned pity, though suffer- 
 ing must have been long its near companion, and any 
 joy it might be capable of expressing would be the joy 
 of the avenger and the destroyer. Had it ever known 
 true sorrow? Could it weep? It seemed not — for the 
 eye had no latent softness, the mouth no gentle curves. 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 17 
 
 The only weak feature in the face was the lower lip, 
 that had once been inclined to fulness, but was now 
 dried by an inward fever, and bitten out of shape by 
 teeth that refused to open the doors for the voice of 
 pain and complaint. 
 
 There is a tower, we are told, in the wastes of 
 Assyria, still to be seen, a landmark amid many deso- 
 lations. The fire that burned it the sun saw blaze 
 thousands of years ago. What it once was we can 
 only conjecture; whether built story above story, a 
 wondrous whole of terraces and pillars, or one vast 
 temple, with one vast roof, springing upward like a 
 mighty palm. Now it is but a huge slag from the 
 furnace — a shapeless, vitrified, unyielding mass, with- 
 out symmetry or design — a perpetual enigma, insoluble 
 by man for evermore. 
 
 Not without a likeness to this burned tower stood this 
 strange, dark man, the traces of conflict and withering 
 but too plainly visible. What had he been ? Why had 
 he suffered? Who could tell? And he himself, perhaps, 
 would be the last to reveal it. 
 
 Absorbed in these thoughts, the traveller did not at 
 first perceive that the ferryman had done his duty, and 
 that the river was crossed. The rudder was turned, the 
 clank of the cable and the lap-lapping of the water by 
 the boat-side had ceased, and one passenger after another 
 took the few strides necessary over the plank to gain 
 the dry land. The dark stranger first, the rest follow- 
 ing his rapid strides as best they could towards the 
 white house among the elms, now close at hand, or to 
 the village behind. Asking his way of the women on 
 reaching the former, our traveller left it to the right, 
 
 B 
 
18 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 passed a few cottages and one or two larger houses, 
 and found himself quickly on the village green, with 
 its great broad-spreading sycamore in the midst, an 
 open space of land, half grass, half gravel, that might 
 have been made very beautiful, and was even then 
 pleasant in no ordinary degree, its low-roofed cottages 
 grouped around it like quiet children suddenly resting 
 from play. 
 
 Crossing this green, he approached a small house, 
 but little higher than its humble neighbours, opened a 
 low gate, took a few steps up a narrow path bordered 
 with thyme and lavender, and knocked at a door 
 arched over by trellised roses. The door opened, and 
 John Broadbent stood before him, tall and smiling 
 
 After a warm shake of the hand and a cordial srreet- 
 ing, he was led into a small parlour to the right, where 
 Clara sat at her knitting. She rose at his entrance, 
 and, putting out her hand, said, " I am glad to see you, 
 Mr. Morris;" and in a moment after, "Are you not 
 weary? You will find this sofa pleasant." He took 
 the offered seat, conscious of a sense of fatigue and a 
 sudden paleness that had overspread his face, while 
 John seated himself opposite, and, pushing back his 
 dark hair with a gesture Stephen remembered as a 
 familiar one in old school-days, gazed at his friend with 
 an unmistakable look of pleasure. 
 
 "You are come sooner than even I expected," he 
 said; "but you could not be more welcome at any 
 time. It is, indeed, a great pleasure to see you." 
 
 " The pleasure is most of it mine," he answered. "I 
 could not rest, after I had met you the other day, till 
 I could talk to vou more at leisure. It seemed almost 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 19 
 
 too good to be true that you should be living so near. 
 How long have you been here?" 
 
 "Nearly three months, is it not, Clara?'"' 
 Clara assented, and Stephen remarked, " How quiet 
 it is in this old-world village ! — so near the town, and 
 yet so far away in its stillness! The river and the 
 meadows divide you as effectually from the bustle of 
 Trentham as if you were twenty miles away." 
 " Have you never been here before, then?" 
 "Only once in the three years, for I am not like you in 
 your love for the country. I seldom walk out of town." 
 " Still the same brick and mortar lover?" 
 " Yes;" and with a smile, " I fear I am likely to be. 
 My pastoral duties lead me chiefly among my people, 
 and but few of them live out of Trentham. But this 
 is just the place for you. You have chosen a cosy nest, 
 and I suppose are come from some busy scenes of dissi- 
 pation, ' tired out and wearied with the riotous world,' 
 and find this contrast pleasant enough." 
 
 " We have certainly left the riotous world/' responded 
 John, "but not from choice only; necessity has had 
 something to do with the matter. Clara and I are 
 
 CD 
 
 quite poor people now, and are glad to live among our 
 neighbours, the poor. A small nest is better than none 
 at all/' 
 
 The young minister looked puzzled. " It is a nest 
 I could be very happy in, if only it were nearer, or, 
 better still, in the town;" and he glanced round at the 
 piano, the book-shelves, the flowers, and the two oppo- 
 site windows, through one of which a yellow jasmine 
 peeped; and last of all his gaze fell upon Clara, who 
 sat quietly knitting in the sunshine. 
 
20 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " When we cannot get swan's-down lining, we must 
 be content with hay and moss. Clara and I have tried 
 both. I don't know which we prefer — I almost think 
 the moss; at least we find it very wholesome and good. 
 Not that I want you to think us miracles of adapta- 
 bility, for we are not — at least, I am not; it is not fair 
 to bring Clara in here. But we have had the hay so 
 softly patted down and moulded for us, that as yet we 
 hardly know the difference. The truth is, our property 
 has gone the usual way of riches — taken to itself wings 
 and flown away — and I suppose we ought to be duly 
 astonished that we find ourselves after such a loss on 
 our feet, and that we can walk at all/' 
 
 " I am sorry indeed to hear it!" said Stephen; "but 
 it can scarcely be true; it cannot all be gone, surely ? 
 And your prospects?" 
 
 "Are nil, of course. But you must not give more 
 sympathy than is needful. We have not absolutely 
 lost every shilling. We have a hundred a year; we 
 have food and raiment, as you see, and this old 
 basket-weaver's cottage; and we really need so little 
 more! A walk now and then by the river, an 
 occasional visit to your Trentham hive, to see how 
 the honey gathers, a few books and flowers, and a 
 little music. These don't cost much, and we get them 
 as they're wanted, or as our purse lets us. 1 am half 
 afraid to tell you how content we are, lest you should 
 think us mean-spirited, but so it is." 
 
 "You don't look very unhappy, certainly. But, 
 my dear fellow, you do not mean at your age to shut 
 yourself up here for life, without a vocation, to bury 
 talents and strength, and moral influence in a napkin? 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 21 
 
 Think what you might accomplish, the good you 
 might do ! : ' 
 
 " No man can be without a vocation," replied John, 
 " who is earnest, and who looks round the world — there 
 is always plenty to be clone. The difficulty is only what 
 to do first. I have never felt the want of a vocation; 
 and I think I never shall feel it. I work at that which 
 is presented to me each day; that, in fact, which God 
 sends. And is it not possible to have a true calling 
 from God that may not be apparent to the outer 
 world?" 
 
 " Of course it is possible! And you must forgive my 
 plainness of speech; — I spoke to you as I would have 
 done to myself in your place/' 
 
 "You spoke from true friendship, and I thank you 
 for your earnest words; all the more that your friend- 
 ship has managed to survive for seven years without 
 speech or sign on either side. How astonished I felt 
 when I saw you the other day ! 1 had noticed bills 
 about the walls in the town, with the Rev. S. Morris's 
 name on them, but little thought who his reverence 
 could be ! " 
 
 Stephen smiled. "So you did not know I had 
 entered the ministry?" 
 
 "How should I? Though I might have expected it 
 too; you were studying for that purpose when we were 
 at school together, and I heard you preach one sermon, 
 if you remember; in that Welsh chapel among the 
 mountains. It was your first, a sort of trial sermon, 
 but I did not think so soon to find you located in a 
 large town like Trentham, the sole pastor of a chapel 
 that will hold two thousand people." 
 
99 
 
 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " It does not appear soon to me. Almost a lifetime 
 seems to have passed since I saw you last." 
 
 Ci A very momentous lifetime to you, no doubt. If 
 time were measured by thoughts, instead of moments, 
 some people would be centenarians in fact, before they 
 were thirty in ordinary computation. And even I, 
 who have not, perhaps, had more than the average 
 number of thoughts, am tempted when I look back, 
 sometimes, to feel myself ancient, and to wonder why 
 the gray hairs are delayed/' 
 
 "I can never imagine you old, John!" exclaimed 
 Clara. 
 
 " Old in heart, I hope I shall never be," he replied 
 gaily. "I can accept wrinkles and gray hairs, and 
 wasted muscles, and even imagine myself taking a sort 
 of satisfaction in them, as being honourable and belong- 
 ing to advanced wisdom, and to that penultimate state 
 before the great last that is to unfold the mystery, the 
 llower of immortality; but old in heart, withered, 
 affectionless, indifferent, without buoyancy, or love, 
 that I trust I shall never be ! — I have seen such too/' — 
 
 " If I am not mistaken I saw one in that state this 
 afternoon," interrupted Stephen. " In bodily years he- 
 could not be much more than forty, but in soul, a Very 
 old man indeed, he looked. I fancied it, or it was really 
 so, that he carried about with him a very perceivable 
 thick shadow, though no one seemed to notice it but 
 myself." 
 
 Clara and John looked at each other, and Clara asked, 
 
 "How was he dressed?" 
 
 (< In a green surtout, the worse for wear, and a hat 
 that had once been white." 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 23 
 
 "It is the same. We know him; lie haunts our 
 village, and more especially the Grove; yet no one 
 here seems to be aware of his name or history; but we 
 are convinced there is a history attached to him." 
 
 "And a strange one too, most likely! Does he live 
 hereabouts ? " 
 
 "No; but he is often wandering about very late at 
 night; he seems to prefer darkness, or at least twilight. 
 When the owls begin to hoot, and the bats to flit, then 
 he may be expected. He seldom lets himself be seen 
 in daylight, and if the children meet him in the street, 
 they run away frightened. He is a strange melancholy 
 beinor ail( j h as known some great trouble." 
 
 " His face tells it. I should like to speak to him." 
 
 "He would but insult you/' said John, "for he can 
 be very harsh and bitter." 
 
 Presently afterwards Clara left the room, to return, 
 however, quickly with her young servant and the tea- 
 tray. The meal was a pleasant one, enlivened by 
 cheerful talk. Reminiscences of the Welsh journey and 
 their last meeting, and of John's school-days, came up 
 plentifully. There was no fear of conversation flagging 
 with three such friends, and seldom had tea and home- 
 made cakes and fruit tasted so deliciously to Stephen. 
 His solitary student meals were generally affairs to be 
 got over as rapidly as possible — uninteresting and 
 pretty nearly tasteless; and his "company" teas among 
 the members of his congregation were too often grand 
 and formal, rather than simple and genial. An un- 
 usual feeling of home possessed him, the fair calm face 
 presiding at the table reminded him of long-hidden 
 but most familiar dreams, where that face hovered, ever 
 
24 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 near and dear. And it seemed to him the present 
 happy moments had been lived through before, in a 
 former Elysium. The tea ended, John proposed a walk 
 in the garden, "to see the primroses.'' It was not an 
 extensive garden he had to display, and at present 
 there were few flowers; but with a gardener's pride he 
 showed his double purple violets, his white primroses, 
 his crocuses of every possible crocus hue, his budding- 
 lilacs, his vegetables, and the bower at the end of the 
 centre walk, that promised in a while, when the traveller's- 
 joy should bud and blossom and put out leaves, to be 
 green and shady, and to be a truly respectable bower. 
 The young minister saw nothing very wonderful or at- 
 tractive; a few shelves of old divines in time-stained 
 musty "calf" would have been much more interesting ; 
 but he smiled to hear his friend talk enthusiastically of 
 his apple-trees, and the fruit he expected from them this 
 year. "And now/' said John merrily, " I beseech you 
 to put on a grave face for so grave a subject! The apple 
 is a truly ancient time-honoured tree. Was it not in 
 the garden of Eden? It is true, my apples will not be 
 so fatal as those Eve tasted, but I am trusting that my 
 Ribstons and Blenheim oranges will be very tempting, 
 and bring you many times before the year is gone, to 
 see their beauty, and to taste their juicy ripeness. And 
 don't think yourself too wise to be tempted by an apple !" 
 
 "I do not; for I am fond of apples." 
 
 "That is good! For in them is much fresh and 
 inspiriting wine, pure and unintoxicating, if taken as 
 nature prepares it. We can be merry over such wine, 
 with a merriment that brings no headache or repent- 
 ance." 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 2o 
 
 " Yes — ami yet you will not find many who would 
 prefer an apple to a glass of wine. ' 
 
 " Almost all the children in the world, a large part 
 of our population." 
 
 " I was thinking of adults." 
 
 " There, unhappily, I cannot contradict you. But 
 there are some, even in these days, who have good 
 taste, or good reason, or both, enough, to refuse the 
 wine and take the apple — of whom I am one." 
 
 " Is wine distasteful to you?'' 
 
 " Not at all! I am fond of wine, for I have had the 
 taste cultivated for it in former years; but I have seen 
 enough to convince me that it is perfectly unnecessary, 
 and very injurious. I never take it now, or give it to 
 my friends. I am a teetotaller." 
 
 " You surprise me; for you are one of the last men I 
 should have expected to listen to narrow statements, 
 and to my mind teetotalism is narrow enough, and 
 carries absurdity upon its very face. There is a proper 
 use and an abuse of all things. AVine is useful in so 
 many cases! I myself could not well do without it. 
 The excitement of the pulpit would often be too much 
 for me; nay, at times, I believe I could scarcely preach 
 without a little. And to how many others is not its 
 administration necessary? " 
 
 " There is a medicinal use for wine, I allow; though 
 it would be far better in every case to use a less dan- 
 gerous stimulant. But in your case, my dear fellow ! 
 Do you reflect it may become a habit with you, this of 
 wine-taking, and that a false unnatural thirst may be 
 created, that will recmire more and more to satisfy it 
 till it will be impossible to get free?" 
 
26 Hi' THE TKENT. 
 
 " Now you are using the well- worn temperance 
 argument that is grounded upon a fallacy. It takes 
 for granted that every man or woman who occasionally 
 or regularly takes wine must of necessity become a 
 drunkard. The facts are quite against it. Thousands 
 live to a good old age, whose habitual drink has been 
 of an intoxicating quality, and who have never passed 
 the bounds of sobriety; and many thousands more 
 who have found nothing but benefit from occasional 
 use. And because some are weak, why should the 
 strong refrain ? " 
 
 " Even to the so-called strong there is a serious 
 danger. Why play with fire?" 
 
 "That is a case in point. Fire is a dangerous thing, 
 abused. Used rightly it is most useful and indispens- 
 able. I put fire in my grate, and what an invaluable 
 servant it is to me! comforting by its warmth, cheering 
 by its light, cooking my food, and performing many 
 other good offices. But it is a dangerous servant. A 
 spark from it may set my house on fire. I may go too 
 near it with my clothes and be burned. Every night 
 there are fires throughout the country more or less 
 disastrous; houses, factories, churches, and chapels are 
 destroyed, and many lives sacrificed. But I do not 
 therefore say I will have no fire. I am wiser than that, 
 I increase the guards against accidents, and to keep 
 this invaluable servant in its proper place, I surround 
 it with iron and stone instead of wood and straw, and 
 I gladly encourage improvements in fire-engines. So 
 with wine. It is a valuable servant to me and many 
 others, and none the less valuable and to be prized, 
 bhoiigh at times it may become a snare to weak, ill- 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 27 
 
 conditioned souls and bodies. Some lives are lost by 
 its use; many, I will allow, for unhappily it is so. But 
 the rest of the world must not be without fire, and 
 starve with cold, because a child plays with fire and 
 scorches its pinafore, or a lady wears muslin, and gets 
 burned to death with the dangerous spread of her 
 dress; and all the world must not become teetotallers, 
 because some unhappy ones kill themselves, or ruin 
 their worldly prospects, by drink." 
 
 " If wine were but half as needful to man as fire, 
 your argument would be better worth. Show me 
 that it is so, and I will be content to see it used; 
 but I know you cannot. Chemists and physiologists 
 are against you. Liebig, Lees, Carpenter, and hosts of 
 other men of science, both foreign and English, will 
 tell }'ou that it is not only not necessary, but really 
 injurious, and that, according to the amount of alcohol 
 it may contain." 
 
 "And other chemists and physiologists assert the 
 contrary." 
 
 " A rapidly decreasing number. Believe me, science 
 is clear-headed, and a teetotaller, as she will demonstrate 
 to your satisfaction some day/' 
 
 " You have all the enthusiasm and one-sidedness of 
 your party ! I wish — you must forgive me for saying 
 this — the enthusiasm were better employed." 
 
 " It is not without reason that I speak warmly and 
 decidedly on this subject, for I have, in my own expe- 
 rience, known the ruinous bewitchment of intoxicating 
 drinks, and, if you like, I will tell you some little of 
 this history of mine," replied John. 
 
 " I shall be glad to hear it." 
 
28 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " Soon after I left school, my father sent me abroad 
 with a tutor. I shall not give you his real name, but 
 call him Horsley. He was about forty when I first 
 knew him, and was well qualified for his post, as it 
 seemed to my father, in every way. He had gradu- 
 ated at Cambridge, and came highly recommended for 
 his acquirements and moral character. He had been 
 abroad before, and spoke well several continental lan- 
 guages. fSo, as I say, I was sent out with him, and a 
 handsome allowance, and it was expected I should 
 return back from my tour, as my father expressed it, 
 'a finished gentleman.' He had no desire to make of 
 me a profound scholar, and in truth, as you well know, 
 toy talents did not lead that way at all. I was only 
 too glad to travel and see the world, and accepted the 
 tutor as one of the necessary means to that end. Hors- 
 ley soon found out how it was, and did not trouble me 
 with much study. He was exceedingly amiable and 
 indulgent, and before long I felt towards him much as 
 I should have done to a well-loved elder brother, had I 
 ever possessed one. We travelled through Holland, 
 Belgium, the Rhine countries, Switzerland, and Austria, 
 according to the route my father had laid out, like 
 two merry boys let loose from school. I was to keep 
 a diary, according to express parental wish. I have 
 it somewhere in my boxes up-stairs. Such a diary! 
 Hurried notes about Rotterdam, Brussels, St. Jean 
 d'Acre, Ehrenbreitstein, Mont Blanc — all in a flippant, 
 jocose style, without much thought or care. When we 
 reached a large town or city, its theatres and places 
 of amusement were first sought after, but I must say 
 quite as much through my companion's wish as my 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 20 
 
 own. One thing he taught me carefully to study, 
 
 however, the flavour of the different wines of the 
 
 countries we passed through, and I assure you I was 
 
 no unapt scholar. I liked wine, but — mind, I had 
 
 no taste for drunkenness, and when I saw excess in 
 
 others, made severe comments. For hitherto I had 
 
 been kept from temptation to this vice by careful 
 
 supervision. At home there was strict moderation; 
 
 and at Dr. C *s, if you remember, no excesses were 
 
 allowed. With a feeling of virtuous indignation I hi- 
 es o 
 
 veicjhed against the weakness that could be overcome 
 by such a trifle, and to hear me you might have thought 
 me a very strong-minded man indeed, who had met 
 with and conquered many temptations. How it was 
 I kept tolerably sober I can scarcely tell, but am now 
 quite inclined to think it was more through Horsley's 
 care than my own. In some respects he was a wonder 
 to me. I had never seen him intoxicated, and yet I 
 knew he drank much wine. The hotel bills had 
 enlightened me once or twice. I asked him one day 
 how it was, but he laughed and turned off the subject. 
 
 'We were at Vienna, and I had been at an ambas- 
 sador's ball. I had met and danced with a very beau- 
 tiful English girl, who completely fascinated me, and 
 who ended by stealing my heart. At least, I believed 
 it was so, and told her as much one evening soon after- 
 wards, and to my delight, she confessed for me a similar 
 feeling. 
 
 " c Congratulate me/ I said next morning to Horsley, 
 'it is only right to tell you, I am engaged/ 
 
 " 'I know it,' he replied, 'you are engaged to walk 
 with me on the bastions.' 
 
 Nonsense!' I replied, 'I am perfectly serious/ 
 
 a i 
 
80 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "He turned his laughing face to mine, but seeing me 
 
 © © > O 
 
 look as serious as my words, became grave also, and 
 asked, 'Who to?' 
 
 " 'To Miss D .' 
 
 " 'I hope you do but joke. You would never surely 
 do so foolish a thing !' 
 
 " 'It is quite true/ 
 
 " 'And she has accepted you?' 
 
 '"Yes, certainly.' 
 
 " 'Poor boy! Don't you know she's the greatest flirt 
 in Vienna?' 
 
 "'I will not have you speak a word against her, 
 Horsley. She is the most beautiful, the noblest of 
 women.' 
 
 "He laughed what I thought a derisive laugh, and I 
 
 turned from him with irritation, and refused to speak 
 
 to him for hours. 
 
 "In the evening he and I were walking in the Belvi- 
 © © 
 
 dere gardens. He became very grave, and talked with 
 me for some time on the impropriety of engaging 
 m}\self in marriage while still so young, and told me 
 that, standing in the place of a guardian to me, he 
 thought it his duty to protect me from all foolish 
 
 entanglements. In a while he spoke of Miss D , 
 
 and said he would convince me, if I liked, that she 
 was neither sincere in her professed attachment to me, 
 nor to any one. I dared him to it. I needn't go into 
 particulars, but he did convince me, in the course of 
 the next few days, and I was terribly indignant. I 
 wrote at once to her a bitter letter renouncing the 
 engagement, telling her of course the reason, and next 
 time we met we did not know each other. 
 
 "After the first excitement and anger were spent, I 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 31 
 
 felt a corresponding dejection. To flee to wine was a 
 relief. Here was my danger. I drank it greedily to 
 drown care, and as I sang and jested when under this 
 false exhilaration, I imagined I was conquering my 
 despondency. But it returned again and again, and 
 again and again I took the dangerous antidote, and 
 drank to excess. Horsley remonstrated, entreated, 
 took me away from Vienna, and into other society, but 
 it was of no use. My melancholy was ever ready to 
 return, and I sought, of course, for the cheerer, the 
 drowner of sorrow. My temper suffered, and I was 
 frequently hard and insolent in my speeches to Horsley. 
 He resented it, and a gradual estrangement grew up 
 between us. To his interference I secretly ascribed the 
 source of my trouble, and he on his part found my be- 
 haviour all but intolerable. We often passed the day 
 without speaking. 
 
 "One morning I had been even more unhappy than 
 usual. I had taken a o-ood deal of wine, but it had 
 failed to exhilarate; every glass I swallowed only made 
 me more and more sensible of my misery. Horsley 
 proposed a ride, and we set out on horseback, but, tired 
 of his slow paces, I left him and took a wild reckless 
 ride alone, my conscience upbraiding me the whole 
 way, and when I returned, my nerves were even more 
 irritable than before. We were at an hotel of course, 
 and I called for spirits. It was brought; the decanter 
 was just within grasp of my hand, when Horsley 
 entered the room. His eyes were bloodshot, but his 
 face was pale and stern. He advanced towards me, and 
 in the calmest and most decisive way put the spirits 
 away, saying, 
 
32 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "'I forbid that.' 
 
 " 'Forbid what you please/ I exclaimed with an affec- 
 tation of carelessness, ' I shall have it, nevertheless/ and 
 I put out my hand towards the bottle. 
 
 " His reply was to take it from the table, and put it 
 on the sideboard. I arose in Great answer. ' How dare 
 you?' I asked haughtily. '1 have ordered it, and I 
 will have it/ 
 
 "'Not to-day/ was his reply, in a cool voice, and 
 immediately he rang the bell for the waiter. ' Fritz/ 
 he said, ' I will thank you to remove that decanter.' 
 
 " Fritz obeyed. ' It is no matter/ was my sulky 
 speech when the man was gone, seating myself once 
 more in the chair. 'I can get more; it is only an affair 
 of time.' He looked at me for a moment with mingled 
 anger and sorrow, but with a firm determination also. 
 
 '"You and 1/ he said, in a low deep voice, 'have 
 at last come to try for the mastery, but I will prove to 
 you which is the strongest. I will save you against 
 your will.' 
 
 " I had never seen so much earnestness, so much of 
 the man in him before, and I was struck by his tone. 
 Hitherto he had contented himself with beiDff indulgent 
 and complying — with entreating rather than command- 
 ing; but to-day it was entirely different with him. He 
 took the role of the master, and I felt obliged to ac- 
 knowledge that it became him better than the softer 
 character. My indignation was, however, strong within 
 me, and I listened to the growl of the thunder much 
 as a child would who had inherited no nervousness, and 
 had never been taught to think of danger, — with more 
 curie si ty than fear. 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. S3 
 
 " 'I will save you against your will/ he repeated, 'for 
 you do not know where you stand; but I see the preci- 
 pice most clearly. From this day you will abjure both 
 wine and spirits, for you are no longer your own 
 master/ 
 
 " His decided words gave me no awe. I listened to 
 his speech as an absurdity, and he saw, I daresay, the 
 scornful curl of my lips. He was standing near the 
 table, with one hand leaning upon it. He had been 
 pale before, but became still paler, as he continued, 
 
 " 'I have not done my duty by you hitherto. Of that 
 I am quite aware; but the experience of these last few 
 weeks has impressed upon me the necessity for a change. 
 I have loved you as a younger brother, but very blindly, 
 and have idly suffered you to contract evil habits, per- 
 haps have led you into them. I fear indeed that I 
 have done so. Now I wish, if it be possible, to undo 
 what I have done, and to draw you away, while there 
 is yet time, from the fate that pursues me!' 
 
 " As he spoke these last words, a slight spasm passed 
 over his face, and a sudden faintness came upon him. 
 He leaned heavily on the table, and seemed about to 
 fall. 
 
 " Alarmed, I ran forward to support him. ' Are you 
 ill? what is the matter?' I asked, out of breath with 
 fear. In that moment of anxiety I felt how much I 
 still loved him. 
 
 '"It is over/ he answered, recovering himself, but 
 allowing me to lead him to a chair. ' There is no need 
 for alarm; it is only a faintness that I have been subject 
 
 to this last month. And however, I had better 
 
 tell you the whole truth. The doctors here tell me I 
 
34 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 have disease of the heart, and one of these attacks may 
 be fatal before long. Since I have known this, I have 
 thought more of my responsibilities, especially as they 
 regard you, and have felt anxious to raise my voice as 
 I have never yet raised it in warning. To do this 
 effectually it is necessary you should know more of me 
 than you have ever done; and to save you, I will do 
 what is most painful to me. I will make a confession 
 that I would fain have reserved for my death-bed ; nay, 
 have kept to myself for ever, if that might be possible. 
 You know I am fond of wine ; but you do not know 
 that to obtain it is with me a necessity of life. I am a 
 secret drunkard ! ' 
 
 " His face became flushed as he said these words. I 
 saw the pain the confession gave him, but could not 
 help looking both shocked and surprised. 
 
 "'I have carefully hidden this from you,' he con- 
 tinued, ' for I am proud, and could not bear to display 
 my weakness ; and, Broadbent, I have loved you ! But 
 night after night, when you have been sleeping soundly, 
 I have had wine in my chamber, and enjoyed the fierce 
 delight of intoxication. A hundred times you have 
 been on the verge of discovering my secret, but as 
 frequently I have managed to evade your suspicions ; 
 though, had you known more of the vice, you must 
 have found out the truth long ago. Do you wonder 
 why, as I am so ashamed to confess this, I do not talk 
 of releasing myself from the temptation, and that I 
 have not years ago broken the bad habit? I could not 
 do so then, and I cannot do so now. It is all over with 
 me. The slave has become the master, and, like Faust, 
 I have sold myself to the devil. Well do I remember 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 35 
 
 the time when, like you, I resorted to intoxicating drink 
 to stifle pain, or to pass away a weary hour, and found it 
 a pleasant kill-time — thinking, fool that I was, that I 
 could lay it aside at any time. It was at college that 
 I first learned to drink, to give wine-parties, and to 
 take it ad libitum. It is true, I did not do as many, 
 get into debt and difficulty through it. I respected 
 myself too much for that; but I was fond of it. Then 
 when darker days came, what so bright and cheery as 
 its ruddy glow ? What so fascinating as 'the beaded 
 bubbles winking at the brim?" Where could I find so 
 pleasant a companion as the wine-cup? In it I drowned 
 care, forgot my home, my country, and sought for a 
 livelihood, not that I cared to live — for life of itself 
 was a burden — but that I cared to drink ; and I dared 
 not think of death. 
 
 "'And now, what am 1? What have I done with 
 my life? I have had talents, attainments, friends, 
 opportunities for winning to myself a position and a 
 noble name, and I have thrown them all away to 
 gratify one vice. Do you think I feel happy, or look 
 calmly on the prospect before me V He smiled a bitter 
 smile. ' Do you envy me, Broadbent, or feel anxious 
 to do as I have done? You have made a beginning. 
 I have shuddered lately many times to see in you a 
 reflex of myself as I was fifteen years ago. Will you 
 go on with the resemblance, and end as I am doing? 
 for my present disease has been brought on by drink 
 and irregular hours. I am another victim to add to 
 the long, long list.' He paused to recover breath, and 
 then continued in an earnest, beseeching voice — 
 
 "'I have sin enough on my conscience, much to 
 
36 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 answer for. Will you add to it by persisting in the 
 fatal vice that has brought me so low? Will you not 
 rather comfort my last days by the thought that you 
 at least are safe?' 
 
 " I was much affected, and assured him many times 
 that he should not again be troubled by me. I did, 
 too, as he said I should; I abjured wine from that day, 
 though not against my will." 
 
 "Did he live long?" asked Stephen. 
 
 " A month or two. I nursed him for some weeks in 
 a quiet Pyrenean valley — a place recommended by the 
 physicians — for his lungs were then considerably 
 affected; and afterwards, hopeless of further improve- 
 ment, returned with him by slow stages to England. 
 He died soon after." 
 
 There was silence for a little while, broken at last 
 by Stephen — 
 
 " You could do no other than you did. You were 
 evidently in danger, and his dying wish was sacred to 
 you; but your case is a very peculiar one, and can be 
 only an example to those few similarly circumstanced." 
 
 " Of course my experience is in some respects peculiar; 
 but if you mean that only a few are tempted to excess 
 in drink, you must almost wilfully have shut your eyes 
 to what is going on around you in society." 
 
 " I have seen perhaps rather more than you give me 
 credit for," he replied; "and do not imagine that only 
 few are tempted. But to whom should the tempted 
 flee for help? There is one Friend ever near, ever ready 
 to succour; and there is no certain and perfect cure for 
 intemperance like the gospel cure — ' Believe on the 
 Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.'" 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 37 
 
 " True," said John, " I acknowledge it. But how is 
 it that with these words ringing in their ears, with 
 churches and chapels almost innumerable throughout 
 the land, so many die by inches or by sudden destruc- 
 tion through drink? The word is preached, it maybe, 
 to them; the spirit and meaning of the word escapes 
 their dull ears and sensualized intellect. While a man 
 is enslaved by intemperance, it is in vain you preach: 
 drink shuts the portals of the soul." 
 
 The young minister looked thoughtfully on the 
 ground. " It may be so with the confirmed drunkard 
 — though even to him God speaks at times in tones 
 that will be heard; and it seems to me that you limit 
 the Holy One of Israel when you speak that word, 'It 
 is in vain.' " 
 
 " Far be it from me to overlook the power and love 
 of God," said John. "I know that to Him nothing is 
 impossible. But he uses human instrumentality, and 
 it is our duty to be found co-workers with him. You 
 acknowledge it is right and necessary to bring your 
 hearers to the chapel, that they may hear the words 
 of salvation. But in vain — I use the word again, you 
 see — will you bring their bodies, while their souls are 
 stupified, their consciences deadened, t by the habitual 
 use of intoxicants. There may be — there are excep- 
 tions, some who are shaken as by an earthquake out of 
 their sins; but the rule is as I say." 
 
 " And you would therefore have ministers preach 
 total abstinence to all their congregations?" 
 
 " That is exactly what I would have them do." 
 
 " A very illogical conclusion. Because one sins, all 
 must abstain." 
 
38 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " There is true logic in it, which I could prove had I 
 opportunity. But there is more than logic. There is 
 true love in it; and here you and I cannot be at issue. 
 For the love of souls we should, if we can, remove the 
 cause of sin, that the effect may cease." 
 
 " I would remove it from the drunkard. I would 
 have him abstain. If I were likely to become one, I 
 would myself abstain. But because one man here and 
 there is lame, you would have all use crutches/' 
 
 " If I saw my neighbour hobbling, and I, by walking 
 by his side with a crutch like his own, could cure his 
 lameness, I would do it." 
 
 " How can the abstinence of a temperate man cure 
 the drunkard?" 
 
 " By example, by helping him to bear the brand, for 
 it is a brand in the eyes of society to carry 'teetotaller' 
 on your brow, as I have found/' 
 
 " You are a true enthusiast ! " 
 
 " I would you were one also, in the same cause ! " 
 
 The appearance of Clara put a stop to the conversa- 
 tion. She led the way into the house, mindful of 
 the long walk their friend had to take on returning 
 home. 
 
 " And now," said her brother, as they were all seated 
 once more in the parlour, " I have been speaking quite 
 a long time. Let us hear your voice a while, dear! 
 will you sing to us?" 
 
 Clara went to the piano with a smile, and chose 
 an ancient chant, a song by which the men and women 
 of old times raised their voices in words of praise to the 
 All-Father, a song that will ever be in divine accord 
 with grateful and loving hearts. Beneath the beams 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 39 
 
 of the low room her voice rose and fell, in sweet 
 and true harmony, while the setting sun sent his last 
 rays through the jasmine window, gilding the flowers 
 as they trembled gently between the influence of his 
 warm touch, and the vibrations of the song. Her 
 companions listened, outwardly very silent, but in- 
 wardly vocal; the music bore them upwards also, and 
 three hearts ascended on the wings of love and pra}^er. 
 
 At eight o'clock Stephen departed, John accompany- 
 ing him to the ferry. The two young men walked 
 thoughtfully side by side. This meeting, after a long 
 separation, was dimly felt by them to have something 
 momentous in it. Neither said so, but to both the 
 thought was present, as they shook hands and said adieu. 
 
 "You will come again before long?'' 
 
 " Yes," was Stephen's answer as he entered the boat. 
 
 The moon was up, and though daylight lingered 
 faintly at the west, her cool light filled the greater part 
 of the sky, and came softly to earth through the thin 
 misty clouds of which the heavens were full. John 
 trod over the dewy grass on his return, with a slow 
 quiet step. He chose the way by the river and the 
 churchyard. Entering the inclosure of the still "God's- 
 acre/' he paused a moment "listening to silence" and 
 noting the clear-cut shadows that fell from buttress 
 and tower and angle of the old church, and that lay 
 upon each grave from its upright headstone. Passing 
 the ancient tower silently, a moving shadow among the 
 still ones, he reached the low stone- wall to the right, 
 and leaning his arms upon it, stood some time within 
 sound of the ripple of the stream as it ran over the 
 pebbly shallows of the ford. While he stood, other 
 
40 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 noises attracted his attention; the shivering of the 
 night- wind among the elms overhead; the leap of a fish, 
 sending silvery dashes of light around for a moment; 
 the rustling of the grass near his feet, as some shy crea- 
 ture, whom man and daylight seldom sees, took furtive 
 wanderings ; the occasional muffled baying of a deep- 
 chested hound at the vicarage. Nor was hearing alone 
 engaged ; he watched the noiseless shifting of clouds, 
 the march of the solemn moon, the slow gliding of 
 shadows round each head-stone and tomb and buttress, 
 and to-night he watched them long. 
 
 A low shuffling noise, and a sound between a sigh 
 and a sob, not far from him, made him at length aware 
 he was not alone. Turning round, he perceived a figure 
 kneeling by a grave. It was a woman, but, in the 
 transfigurement of moonlight, he might well have sup- 
 posed he saw a statue, had she remained perfectly quiet. 
 Whether she were young or old he could not at first 
 tell, her face was shrouded by a closely-fitting bonnet 
 or hood, and some drapery of shawl or cloak lay loosely 
 from her shoulders, and fell about her in a few heavy 
 folds to the ground. He thought she looked poor, 
 sorrowful indeed she was, as her attitude and the sob 
 he had just heard confessed, and fearing to disturb her, 
 he remained at first quite still in the shadow of the 
 trees. Her head was a little bowed, and her folded 
 hands huddled beneath her chin, as though in a pause 
 from that writhing and wringing so expressive of the 
 deepest inward anguish. For some moments she was 
 quiet, then a low moan escaped from her, and her body 
 rocked to and fro. Presently her head sank lower, 
 and giving a deep-drawn breath between a sigh and 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 41 
 
 a sob, she sank upon the grave, burying her face in the 
 wet grass. 
 
 John approached her slowly, careful to herald his 
 coming by premonitory sounds, lest he should startle 
 her, and, when sufficiently near, asked gently, "What 
 is the matter? Why are you here? Can I do anything 
 for you, my poor woman?" She did not reply or raise 
 her head. It was one of those small, almost round 
 heaps of earth and grass, that we know at once to be a 
 baby's grave, on which her face was laid. Fearing she 
 might have swooned, he approached a step nearer, and 
 touched her shoulder as he said, "It is not fit for you 
 to lie here; let me help you home." 
 
 He felt that he need not have asked that foolish 
 question, "What is the matter?" Too truly he divined 
 her sorrow, but no other words would come at that 
 moment. And the little grave was very green; the 
 humble head-stone, a rough unsculptured piece from the 
 quarry, had been placed there some time. It was no 
 new sorrow, he thought, as he looked compassionately 
 down. 
 
 She raised her head; she lifted a face still very young 
 towards him, the moonlight showing distinctly her dry, 
 hollow eyes, and her thin, pale cheeks. She was not 
 startled at his presence, and her look seemed to go 
 through him, as if she saw something beyond. She 
 was one of those whom sorrow has so saturated and 
 absorbed that nothing else in the universe is real — ■ 
 men, women, nature, all are shadows; very distant, 
 very unsubstantial, very unimportant: nothing more 
 can harm them, nothing more can give them pleasure. 
 
 " Why stay here?" he went on in a still lower, softer 
 
42 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 tone. " It is of no use, my poor creature. There is 
 death here. — but there is a living, loving God, and there 
 is a better and happier world." 
 
 For a short space her eyes looked intelligent; she 
 had caught his meaning. In a dry, untuned voice, she 
 replied, looking round the while, " So he said. But it 
 has never come yet. It has never come yet. It will 
 never come." She muttered something more; then the 
 light left her eyes, her head sank. She clasped her 
 hands upon her breast, and began rocking monotonously 
 as before. 
 
 As he stood absorbed in pitiful contemplation of the 
 mourner, he did not at first notice a second figure, 
 another woman, coming swiftly across the churchyard, 
 dressed in a long cloak, and who now approached 
 the grave, lifted up the unresisting kneeler, put her 
 arm within her own, and conveyed her quickly and 
 silently away with the manner of one accustomed 
 to command. He watched them both go through the 
 gate, and down the dark avenue of elms that led to the 
 village, the black shadow of the trees concealing them, 
 save where the moon sprinkled their pathway and 
 their heads with drops of light falling down between 
 the trembling boughs. Two shadows among the 
 shadows, they might have been ghosts flitting so 
 silently and swiftly away. 
 
 " They are not spirits," said a voice at his elbow. 
 He started, turning, and by his side was a man in dark 
 clothes — or they seemed such — whom at first he did 
 not recognize. 
 
 The stranger looked up at him with a smile, half mock- 
 ing but wholly sad. " They are not spirits," he con- 
 
STEPHEN MORRIS. 43 
 
 tinued, "but genuine flesh and blood, of a very ordinary, 
 every-day kind, though they do haunt churchyards 
 like you and I. Why are you here? Why am I here? 
 We all have our secrets; that girl has hers. Why 
 should you meddle with her? Best leave her alone. 
 And yet it is a common enough tale she has to tell if 
 she could tell it, but she can't." 
 
 " I do not seek to know her secret," replied John. 
 " It is enough to me that she is unhappj 7 "." 
 
 "And yet you would like to hear it. I can tell it 
 you if you have ears sharp enough. Some secrets are 
 good to be told, and this is one. To begin at the 
 beginning, she has managed to lose her inheritance, 
 though that is nothing new, as you and I know! And 
 — I may as well confess it — she is a sister of mine." 
 
 John had already begun to walk towards home, 
 recognizing his companion; but the latter did not 
 intend to lose his company so soon, and followed him 
 closely. John felt inclined to be angry as he said, "Of 
 yours? And you can talk thus of her to strangers?" 
 
 " You are disgusted," said the other coolly, " because 
 I called her my sister. You ought instead to admire 
 me for owning the relationship. For it is no such 
 great honour, and her sisterhood goes back a good 
 many generations, perhaps to Adam, perhaps before 
 his time. You should know, for you are related to 
 her also." 
 
 John Broadbent was silent. The stranger laughed 
 an inward mocking laugh. "You don't like to own 
 the kinship it seems, either hers or mine. Few do. 
 And for myself I'm not surprised, Not many shake 
 me by the hand now-a-days; but I'm used to it, and 
 
4-i BY THE TRENT. 
 
 don't mind it at all, especially as most hands have 
 slime upon them somewhere. Clean hands! Where 
 will you find them? Mine, I confess, haven't been 
 clean a long time; but then I can put on gloves, and 
 thick ones too. I haven't seen the dirt upon your 
 hands yet, but I dare say it's there. Well, that 
 poor girl that is your sister and mine had to wear 
 gloves; they fitted her as comfortably as hot iron could 
 do. What can you expect? Society makes warm 
 gloves for such folk. And one day — it was an odd 
 thing — she put them to her brain by mistake, and 
 she is as you see." He ceased to speak, bowed 
 elaborately, turned on his heel, and went back to the 
 churchyard. 
 
 " An odd, miserable being," was John's observation 
 to Clara, after he had told her about the meeting with 
 him and the poor woman, u who fancies sarcasm and 
 contempt of mankind to be both wit and wisdom. His 
 boat, no doubt, has been shattered by some storm or 
 accident of his own bringing, and he has nailed painted 
 rags over the hole, and says to the newest and soundest, 
 ' I am as good as you; but mind, gentlemen, we are 
 all broken.' " 
 
 Clara listened with downcast eyes. 
 
 " Who is the woman? Do you know her, dear?" 
 
 "Yes, I know her; that is, I have seen her and have 
 heard something of her history/'' replied Clara. " She 
 lives not far from us, but never willingly goes out by 
 day. At night she is restless and unhappy in-doors; 
 and if she can, escapes from her sister, and goes to the 
 churchyard as you saw her. There she stays moaning 
 by one little grave. You may be sure what that con- 
 
THE "KINDER GARTEN." 45 
 
 tains — her child; and she is only eighteen, and is not 
 married!" 
 
 Clara's voice lowered towards the end of her speech. 
 John listened with bent head, close-set lips, and eyes 
 that looked gloomily and steadily into the fire, but he 
 said nothing. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE '-KINDER GARTEN." 
 
 Two days in the week Clara kept school for a num- 
 ber of little children whose parents were too poor 
 or too indifferent to send them regularly to the vil- 
 lage school, which was at some distance. They were 
 chiefly the children of neighbours; and their smiling 
 faces, as they appeared at the door on the appointed 
 mornings, told of the popularity of the school. I do 
 not think they called it "school" at all; they called their 
 teacher "Miss Clara/' or "the lady," and talked to one 
 another of "when they were going to see the lady," or 
 "the last time they were with Miss Clara;" and these 
 morning meetings between teacher and pupils were 
 joyous gatherings, pleasant visits, where fresh games of 
 wonderful interest to those little eyes and hands and 
 brains were taught each day. Flowers and sweets 
 were strewed so carefully and abundantly over and 
 around the steps of knowledge — those toilsome high- 
 stretched steps to little stumbling feet — that presently 
 the children were astonished to find themselves mount- 
 
46 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 ing high, while they thought they were but playing. 
 They had only pulled an enchanting rose from a stalk, 
 so it seemed to them, and smelt its perfume, and, lo ; 
 they had climbed one stair. They had caught hold of a 
 lily, and another step was gained. They had danced a 
 pleasant dance to a song, sung the while by their own 
 tiny voices, and the mystery of the transformation of 
 yellow wheat-grains growing in the wide corn-fields, 
 and not larger than sugar-plums, into great soft loaves 
 of bread for their eating, had been made known to 
 them. They had folded a little coloured paper, and 
 had had the great delight of cutting it with "real scis- 
 sors" in a way "the lady" showed, and beautiful tri- 
 angular and octangular and 'star-like shapes arose, their 
 first lesson in geometry. They had heaped up a little 
 white, damp clay, and moulded it by their fingers into 
 leaves, acorns, berries, flowers, and fruits, even into 
 faces like their own, and they had obtained their first 
 instruction in plastic art. 
 
 To learn to read was not a mournful poring over 
 strange black marks in an uninteresting dreary book, 
 puzzling and confounding, and trying to weak and in- 
 experienced eyes, but a playful gathering up and laying- 
 side by side of charming wooden blocks, each with its 
 own inviting hieroglyph upon it, half letter, half picture, 
 and spelling was taught by the same process. Clara 
 had been abroad, and in former years had become 
 acquainted with the system of Friedrich Froebel, in the 
 education of the young, and gladly now she brought 
 out her knowledge for the use of these little villagers 
 iii blue print and corduroy. 
 
 On these school mornings it was John's custom to pay 
 
THE "KINDER GARTEN." 47 
 
 a number of morning calls, if fine; and if wet, to repair 
 to the quiet of his bedroom, where books and a heap of 
 manuscript attested his industry, for the parlour was 
 needed as a school-room. 
 
 The particular morning of which we are now writing 
 was one of these set apart times. It was fine, and as 
 he stood brushing his hat in the passage, little feet went 
 pattering by him, and happy faces, with bunches of wild- 
 flowers, violets, primroses, and crocuses, for the teacher, 
 or buds of cuckoo-pint from the Grove, and branches of 
 palm from the osier beds, for the modelling lesson, went 
 smiling into the parlour. Clara was already there. The 
 piano was open, and when hats and bonnets were laid 
 neatly away, and the out-door spoils put in water, and 
 arranged with the tools and papers upon the table, the 
 key-note was struck, an air played over, and the dozen 
 childish voices began their morning's enjoyment with a 
 song. John stood leaning at the post of the open door, 
 listening and watching with glad eyes and well-pleased 
 ears, and now and then, to the children's amaze, put- 
 ting in a sonorous chime beneath their thin treble, and 
 thus carrying it victoriously out of the window half 
 across the green. 
 
 As the song ended, he went out, and taking great 
 strides, leaped over the low garden fence by the river. 
 
 He had already arranged his visiting programme, but 
 first for a few minutes he walked on the shore, for the 
 river was to him a dear friend not easily passed by. The 
 day though fine was cold; an uneasy west wind roamed 
 fitfully across the wide-spread meadows, and like an 
 unhappy spirit, wherever it touched, left behind some- 
 thing of its own discomfort. The river sped rapidly 
 
48 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 along beneath it, for both were travelling the same 
 way; it was a perpetual race, with the wind for victor, 
 and the rapid current rolling downward toward the sea 
 had something impatient in its movement — it had no 
 wish to stay, but it asked not to be compelled to hurry 
 forward, since it must ever be the last in the strife. 
 
 A few young lambs bleated beside their mothers; 
 May, with settled sunshine and genial warmth, was not 
 yet come, and they seemed to ask why it was delayed. 
 They stared pitifully towards but not at the stranger as 
 he passed, for they did not like this ever-returning wind, 
 cutting cold between their noses and the grass, and the 
 tall black-clothed apparition of a man brought them no 
 comfort. In the churchyard elms the rooks were busy 
 nesting, too absorbed in household matters to care for 
 a wild wind, that was indeed but a plaything for their 
 wide-spread wings to ride and manage. With cries and 
 noises loud and harsh, with occasional deeper and more 
 musical cawings from some prudent elder who gave 
 emphasis to his speech by a short wheeling flight around 
 the contested tree, or the seat of council; with stir and 
 pother, and if a human listener might venture to under- 
 stand with no little objurgation and vituperation, de- 
 risive cheers and ironical speeches, the bird-parliament, 
 council, or squabble, or whatever it might be, made 
 difficult progress. John smiled as he listened and 
 watched, but became more grave as he remembered that 
 even such ferment and quarrel, such screaming and 
 noise, over the temporary possession of a particular 
 bough or nest, was less absurd and foolish than man's 
 costly war armaments, bloodshed, and rapine, for the 
 gaining of a few miles of land, or the capturing of a city. 
 
THE "KINDER GARTEN." 49 
 
 With a thoughtful eye he stood awhile by the quick- 
 fleeting waters, and then retraced his steps to the 
 village. 
 
 His first visit was to a small white-faced cottage with 
 but three windows, — one of them in the roof, — and a 
 door, to break the bareness of the front elevation. It 
 was however much more picturesque, if not more com- 
 fortable, than such a dwelling would have been in the 
 town. The thatched roof, broken by its dormer- 
 window, stood out from the whitewashed walls with 
 that pleasant slightly-waved line peculiar to such roofs 
 when old, and was of twenty hues of green and gray 
 and brown; and a mighty houseleek had fixed itself 
 half-way up, like a royal personage, to be seen but not 
 approached by the multitude. This houseleek was a 
 picture in itself; fleshy and pointed and fat, firmly 
 fixed, of a juicy greenness, each leaf tipped with the 
 tenderest touch of burnt umber, and proving its like- 
 ness to royalty in another respect than elevation, or at 
 least to the royalty of the land of the white elephant, 
 Siam, by having no less than a hundred scions seated 
 snugly around it, royal princes and princesses all. 
 Mosses there were on this roof in abundance also, 
 green prosperous clumps, that fed upon the damps of 
 the old weather-worn straw, but the houseleek over- 
 topped them all, and was, as we said, fat and fair and 
 flourishing. I do not know that John Broadbent 
 noticed this morning either mosses or houseleek; he 
 was tall, and could easily have seen them without dis- 
 turbing the horizontality of the line of his hat-brim, but 
 I believe he was pre-occupied by pictures of Waterloo, 
 Bunker 's-hill, Austerlitz, Badajoz, and a few other such 
 
50 BY TPIE TRENT. 
 
 apparitions, and it was not till his hand was upon 
 the latch of the low door that he dismissed the dreary 
 visions. He opened the door familiarly, without other 
 ceremony than one slight rap, and lowering his tall 
 head, put his foot across the threshold. An old man 
 with thin white hair sat before a fire of smouldering 
 sticks, on one knee he held a child of about eight months 
 old with a hand and arm that occasionally trembled 
 with the weakness of palsy. He lifted his e} T es from 
 their contemplation of the fire, and his voice ceased a 
 rough broken son^ with which he was entertaining the 
 baby, as he heard the entrance of the visitor. 
 
 "Well, Roberts, how are you this morning?" said the 
 cheery voice of John, as he at once proceeded to lift 
 the child from its grandfather's knee, and to shake it 
 and toss it in an undignified, but apparently very agree- 
 able way to the baby, who laughed and crowed with 
 pleasure. 
 
 "Middlin, thank you, sir! I'd next to no pean last 
 night; I think the rheumatiz is gone by for a bit!" 
 
 " That's right. I'm glad to hear it. Shut the door 
 upon it, and keep well all the summer ! And where's 
 Nancy?" 
 
 " Pier's gone to wash to-day at the parson's, and her 
 won't be home till eight o'clock." 
 
 "And you've Billy to nurse all the time?" 
 
 "Aye, sir, I have. But hell sleep a bit may happen, 
 an' then I can do a bit i' the garden." 
 
 John looked at the withered palsied arm, and won- 
 dered what work it could possibly do in the garden. 
 This garden was but a small slip of land reclaimed 
 from the waste of the road, a corner that no man 
 
THE " KINDER GARTEN." 51 
 
 owned; but it grew a few pecks of potatoes, and a 
 dozen or two cabbages, and was therefore an important 
 estate to Roberts. 
 
 "What work do you want doing?" 
 
 "Only a bit of diggin, sir. It's time I begun, an' I 
 should ha' don't before if it hadn't been for the 
 rheumatiz." 
 
 "Don't be in a hurry. I'll come up to-day or to-mor- 
 row, and see if I can put the spade in a bit for you. 
 Well have the potatoes in in famous time this year!" 
 
 "God bless you, sir!" said the old man, with some- 
 thing like a smile on his wintry cheeks; "but I 
 shouldn't like to see you a diggin i' my garden ! " 
 
 "You're very ill-natured then," replied John, affect- 
 ing to be half offended. "Ask my sister, she'll tell you 
 what a good digger I am! And I w T on't spoil your 
 garden ! " 
 
 "Oh, dear, no sir, bless your life! I didn't mean 
 that at all! I only meant, as I shouldn't like to see a 
 gentleman like you a tiring hisself over my taturs." 
 
 " Well, I won t tire myself. I'll have a bit of fun 
 with the spade, that's all ! And mind, you re not to do 
 a bit. I want some exercise, and if I don't have it I 
 shall be growing lazy, and your garden will just give 
 it me, so don't disappoint me." 
 
 The old man laughed an inward chuckling laugh. 
 He looked up at John with a half-admiring, half- 
 revering look. " I can see it !" he said at last. 
 
 "What can you see? Me or little Mat? He grows 
 uncommonly fast, and gets heavier every time I lay 
 hold of him." 
 
 "No, no, I didn't mean him. I mean I can see what 
 
52 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Nancy talks of, she says there's always a sunbeam on 
 your face, and that it lights up the house when you 
 come in. I never seed it so plain afore, but there it 
 is, sure enough, sir." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said John with mock gravity, going to a 
 piece of cracked looking-glass, hanging by the window, 
 that did duty as a mirror, the only one in the house, 
 and looking in it a moment, "Where is it? On my 
 nose, or across my eyes? Ah, I see! I must tell Clara 
 of it when I get home." 
 
 "Miss Clara knows all about it, sir, I'm sure. She's 
 sharper eyes than my Nancy; leastwa}<s they're a good 
 deal brighter. And how is Miss Clara this morninY' 
 
 "Rarely! " replied John. "Fresh as dew, and busy 
 as the rooks I saw just now in the churchyard, but not 
 quite so noisy." 
 
 Then lie gave the baby another shake up to the ceil- 
 ing, in winch process a little knitted shoe dropped from 
 one of the tiny feet. He picked it up; it was very 
 ragged, and as he put it on again, sitting upon the 
 ricketty table to perforin the operation, three small 
 red toes peeped out from a large hole. He looked at 
 the torn shoe, and baby looked also, with quite as grave 
 and knowing a face, transferring his gazes afterwards to 
 his wdiiskered nurse, with evident satisfaction and 
 admiration. 
 
 "Nancy's no time to sew much," said the grandfather 
 in apology. "She's home late at night, an' off i' the 
 morn early most da} 7 s; an' the little 'un does wear them 
 shoes so fast!" 
 
 "He's beginning to crawl, I suppose, the rogue ! But 
 never mind ! I think I know how to mend them. When 
 
THE "KINDER GARTEN." 53 
 
 I come again I'll show you. I know how to do it, 
 don't I, Mat?" 
 
 Mat replied by a vigorous kick of anticipatory 
 delight. He wanted and expected another toss. And 
 he obtained it. It was the final one, however; the 
 strong nurse had other calls to make, and the baby was 
 put down once more on the knee by the fire. 
 
 As John went away, on shaking hands with the old 
 man, a small piece of silver fell, as if by accident, from 
 one palm to the other. Roberts put his trembling 
 hand to his head, and attempted to pull one of the 
 gray forelocks there, meaning the action for a bow; but, 
 before he had concluded, the door was shut gently 
 between him and his visitor, and he and the baby were 
 once more left to themselves. 
 
 Three months ago four people instead of three had 
 resided in this cottage. The one now missing was the 
 husband of Nancy, and the father of little Mat. He 
 was also the old man's son, a strong hearty man of 
 thirty-five or so, and a day labourer at a farm not far 
 off. He was well respected in the village, for he was 
 industrious, honest, good-natured, and generally sober. 
 One day he was driving a loaded waggon with a team 
 of horses to Trentham. An old acquaintance met him 
 on the London-road, and invited him to a social cup at 
 the Plough, he went in with him; his friend in the 
 gladness of his heart standing treat. How large the 
 cup was that he emptied is not known, but he took 
 enough to make him glad, for he went away whistling 
 merrily. The carriage of Lord AnclifTe was passing by 
 swiftly, with its pair of cream-coloured ponies. He 
 cracked his whip, but the first horse of the team took 
 
04 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 fright, and instead of going from, went towards his 
 lordship's curricle. Matthew Roberts rushed forwards 
 to prevent an accident, but his foot slipped, and the 
 wheel of the waggon went over him. When he was 
 taken up he was so much injured that he was unable 
 to speak, and died in a few hours. The coroner 
 returned a verdict of " accidental death." His fellow- 
 servants talked much of his death, for he and his wain 
 were certainly on the wrong side the road when he fell. 
 Had he been on the other side the accident most likely 
 would not have occurred. And what could possess 
 him to be there, so careful a driver as he was? Shall 
 we tell you, fellow-servants? It was the cup of drink 
 at the Plough. 
 
 Nancy Roberts was then left a widow, with one 
 child, a baby in arms, and an old father to support. 
 Hitherto her husband had dug and planted their little 
 slip of potato-ground, and this with his wages and her 
 own occasional work made them comfortable. Now 
 she was the sole bread-winner, and very long laborious 
 hours of work were her lot. Not a harder lot on the 
 whole than many thousands of women have to endure, 
 and not so hard as that of many other thousands; but 
 it was not a joyful life, not a comfortable one, and on 
 Sundays, when she used formerly to go in decent shawl 
 and gown beside her husband to church or chapel, she 
 now rested, with such rest as she could get, with a baby 
 to look after, and a house to clean, and an old father to 
 talk to; for all these things would frequently fall upon 
 the Sunday to be done. 
 
 John Broadbent had no more calls in the village to 
 make this morning. His steps now went towards the 
 
THE "KINDER GARTEN. 00 
 
 town, first across the ferry, and then by a series of 
 quick strides over the well-beaten meadow-path. The 
 town did not look inviting as he neared it, for clouds 
 had arisen and threw over its face their dark shadows. 
 Leftward, upon its rocky cone, stood the dismantled 
 castle, appearing less a ruin than might be supposed; 
 and still high above all the clustering shapes of factories, 
 and churches, and houses, that rose gradually from the 
 level plain of the meadows upon stony terraces towards 
 its crowning summit, St. Mary's ancient and bulky 
 tower stood out dark and heavy under the cloud- 
 canopy. He glanced back a moment. Through a 
 parted cloud, a ragged chasm of an opening, miles 
 away, sunshine fell, and lay in a broad quivering beam 
 upon the westward Trent, and made clear and golden 
 a strip of the Grove, and lit up the heights of the Brand. 
 "While he gazed the cloudy chasm shut slowly, and 
 covered in again by gradual inches the sunny sky, 
 and again the landscape was gray and cold. He turned 
 round and entered the smoke of the town. 
 
 Upon the wooden bridge, as he crossed it, were tying 
 faded crocuses, the gatherings of former days, stamped 
 out of shape, or already half turned to clay, and in 
 the corners, a few that had been blown out of the w r ay 
 of passing feet and still kept something of the old 
 bloom; but the wind, unwilling that even these should 
 be preserved a few hours longer, whirled dust and 
 wandering ashes upon their heads, and lifted up their 
 flabby petals witli rough fingers. As he proceeded he 
 wondered, with a sigh, how many of the children who 
 had plucked these dying flowers from their green bed 
 would resemble them in their untimely fate. How 
 
56 BY THE TEENT. 
 
 many would be lifted out of their sphere for a moment's 
 pleasure, and then be thrown away as useless and 
 inconvenient? How many the wind would capriciously 
 toss into corners to die only more slowly? And how 
 many the careless iron-bound soles of society would 
 crush ruthlessly into clay? 
 
 There are many resemblances between children 
 and flowers, and these are some of the sad ones; he 
 could not augur the numbers, but he could predict 
 the fact. 
 
 About this entrance to the town lay narrow un- 
 healthy streets, badly paved, and dark, abounding in 
 close courts and small houses, many below the level 
 of the drainage. Public-houses were frequent, so were 
 pigstyes, open cess-pools, manure-tanks, productive all 
 of plagues and poverty. Here sanitary commissioners 
 had never trod, for they were yet unknown. Fevers, 
 of course, kept carnival here, and attacked almost 
 whom they would. We sow in our gardens annuals, 
 seeds of bright flowers, and we get each year lark- 
 spurs, mignonette, convolvuli, sweet- peas, marigolds, 
 and sun-flowers — as the seed so the flower; and each 
 year the town of Trentham sowed here a never-failing 
 crop of cholera, every variety of fever, and many other 
 diseases effective for children. Lest more bodies than 
 souls should be destroyed, the public-houses came, and 
 brought their strong allies to the army of evil passions, 
 and in this way the garden was filled. Fever-flowers 
 for the body, passion-flowers for the soul. 
 
 It was not a beautiful garden, but it was a very in- 
 structive one, and many lessons John had already 
 carried home to St. Wilfrid's from his various wander- 
 
THE "KINDER GAHTEN." 57 
 
 iiigs through it. Here and there he had tried to pull 
 up a baneful plant, but all were so fast rooted it seemed 
 almost impossible. Frequently he only sighed and 
 passed on; to-day he was in search of a soul that had 
 grown up in this land of henbane and aconite till it 
 scarcely knew that there were other flowers in the 
 w T orld tli an poison-flowers. 
 
 It was not in the worst and lowest of these streets 
 that he took his way; there were several of tolerably 
 clean aspect, whose houses had more glass and fresher 
 paint than the rest, while here and there amongst them 
 a taller dwelling of two or three stories, with neat 
 window-blinds and white door-step, showed the abode 
 of a man raised above a hand-to-mouth poverty. De- 
 scending some steps that led out of one of these streets 
 into a sort of paved court, he reached a low house, 
 No. 11, built exactly like the twenty others about it, 
 and knocked at the door. An elderly woman, with a 
 meagre yellow face, well wrinkled, and with her hair 
 arranged in a few cork-screw curls on each side of her 
 narrow brow, opened the door; she smiled when she 
 saw him, and admitted him without a word. John 
 entered a small low room, clean and tolerably furnished: 
 on a table at the farther end, seated cross-legged by 
 the window, was a bald-headed man at work, sewing 
 buttons on a coat. He was a tailor, and did not rise, 
 for it would have been inconvenient and a w r aste of 
 time, but nodding his head, and putting out his hand, 
 he greeted John respectfully. 
 
 As he seated himself on an old-fashioned print-covered 
 sofa, the visitor said, "You are busy as usual, I see, 
 Miller!" 
 
53 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "Yes sir, pretty well. Though it's poor work too, 
 not much pay." 
 
 "You've helped to clothe a good many people in your 
 day. Did you ever count the number of coats you've 
 made?" 
 
 "Not I! I've had something else to do than that, 
 Mr. Broadbent. A poor man hasn't much time to give 
 to counting what he isn't obliged to." 
 
 "Well, I suppose, you seldom have too much time, and 
 I must not stay long to interrupt you this morning." 
 
 "It's no interruption, sir," said the wife, who was 
 again seated and busy at the same kind of work as her 
 husband. "I'm sure we're very glad to see you, both 
 of us, and I hope you won't hurry yourself." 
 
 "Thank you," replied John, "I'm not sorry to rest 
 a few minutes by your warm fire, for I've had a rather 
 cold walk this morning.''' 
 
 "From St. Wilfrid's, sir?" 
 
 "Yes. The wind blows keen across the meadows, 
 and your room looks comfortable and cosy." 
 
 " It's well enough, sometimes," said the tailor, 
 "though there's wind enough to turn a mill round if 
 you sit against that door, when the wind's i' the north." 
 
 "Couldn't you get a screen?'' suggested John* 
 
 "A screen costs money, and money's a scarce article 
 with folks like me that has to work at tailoring by the 
 day/' 
 
 "But you might make one for next to nothing if 
 you'd a little contrivance." 
 
 " That's a thing I hav'n't got, is contrivance." 
 
 Simon Miller was evidently not in a good temper, 
 "but this was nothing uncommon. John was not 
 I 
 
THE "KINDER GARTEN. 59 
 
 daunted, and yet the question he was about to ask he 
 was quite aware would not improve matters. He ven- 
 tured upon it, however. 
 
 "And where's James? What's he about?" 
 
 The wife's face became full of trouble at this ques- 
 tion, and the tailor replied with an appearance of in- 
 difference, bending his head lower over his work — 
 
 "I neither know nor care! He and I's parted, and 
 'good shutness,' say I." 
 
 "Then you're much to blame," said John quietly. 
 "Who will care for hiru if his father does not?" 
 
 The tailor lifted up his head. He was not often 
 spoken to so plainly, for his temper was known to be 
 crusty by his neighbours, and few liked to contradict 
 him. 
 
 He laid down his work, pushed his spectacles up to 
 his brow, and looked rather sternly at his visitor as he 
 replied, in a louder voice, "Look you here, Mr. Broad- 
 bent, it's easy to say, 'You're to blame,' but you don't 
 know how we've been off and on with that lad! He's 
 nearly werritted his mother and me to death with 
 thinking of him and caring for him. We've told him 
 what's right, we've given him a good trade, we've 
 fended for him all these years, and it's all of no use ! 
 He lived here till I couldn't abide his ways no longer, 
 and then I told him to start. I hav'n't seen him since, 
 and I don't want to." 
 
 John was silent a moment, then he turned to the 
 mother and said, " But you don't mean to say, Mrs. 
 Miller, that you know nothing of him? The poor fel- 
 low will be ruined downright !" 
 
 The mother looked at him with an anxious expres- 
 
GO BY THE TRENT. 
 
 sion, and her voice shook a little as she replied, " I've 
 clone what I could, sir, but he takes no notice of me. 
 And I know no more where he is now than you do." 
 
 John mused a few moments while stroking the cat, 
 who had jumped upon his knee. Then he shook puss 
 off, saying, "My time is short this morning, Miller, but 
 if you like I'll read to you a few words while you 
 work." 
 
 " Thank yon, sir," said James Miller, and his wife 
 rose at once, took a great Bible from the side-table, 
 dusted it with her apron, more from habit than neces- 
 sity, and laying it on a round table covered with oil- 
 cloth, placed both book and table close to him. John 
 opened at the fifteenth chapter of Luke, and read the 
 parable of the lost sheep that the shepherd rejoiced to 
 find, " carrying it on his shoulders rejoicing;" and as 
 in an impressive voice he uttered the words, " I say 
 unto you that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one 
 sinner that repenteth more than over ninety and nine 
 just persons which need no repentance," the mother 
 listened with a half-concealed tear, but the father's face 
 was still stern and unyielding. He was a man loving 
 method and law: his own habits were regular, almost 
 severe, and his way and wishes had been the rule of 
 the house for more than twenty years, that is to say, 
 ever since he had been married. His broad bald brow, 
 with the one wrinkle in the centre cut deeply in a per- 
 pendicular line from the root of the nose upwards; his 
 stern eye, long upper jaw, with its thin close-shut lip, 
 and his large depth of chin — all spoke him to be a man 
 who would not give much room to other wills than his 
 own. His will must be law — must be strictly obeyed; 
 
THE "KINDER GARTEN." 61 
 
 not because it was good and right, but because it was 
 Jtis. His son, his only child, had broken through what 
 the father held most dear — his laws respecting regular 
 hours, steady industry, and sobriety. They were good 
 excellent laws, but enforced tyrannically as they were, 
 invited opposition and rebellion, and when the son 
 disobeyed, the father was less offended at the im- 
 morality than at the want of obedience to him. The 
 mother grieved, the maternal instinct was wounded, 
 love spoke in her, law only in the father. But her 
 intellect and courage were small; she longed to speak 
 words of reconciliation and kind advice, but her hus- 
 band forbade it; and so long had she been accustomed 
 to obey without a scruple, that she scarcely dared to 
 acknowledge even to herself her own wishes. 
 
 John's visit was a relief to her, and she inwardly re- 
 solved to let him know something of her feelings and 
 longings. 
 
 As his voice proceeded in its earnest reading, and the 
 story of the prodigal son became unfolded — no new 
 story to her ears, only seeming new now, and in a 
 wonderfulh^ fresh bright light, she mentally and almost 
 involuntarily drew the comparison between the father 
 who saw his son " yet a great way off, and ran and fell 
 on his neck and kissed him," with the father sitting so 
 stern and unmoved near her. Reproaching herself the 
 next moment with the disparaging comparison, she 
 thought, "My James has not yet said, 'I will arise and 
 go to my father;' he is too high-spirited for that, and, 
 thank God, as yet he is not so bad as the prodigal!" 
 
 The reading done, the book put by, John took up 
 his hat, and standing erect, till he seemed almost to 
 
G2 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 touch the low ceiling, he approached the old tailor with 
 outstretched hand and a smile. "Good bye, Miller; 
 I'm glad you're so well and busy, for I know you're 
 never happy without plenty to do. But you mustn't 
 be too hard on James ! Keep a soft corner in your 
 heart for him, poor lad! he's perhaps more sinned 
 against than sinning. If God were as hard with us as 
 we are with one another, where should we be?" 
 
 The tailor made no reply, and the visitor, turning 
 away, lowered his head once more as he went out — 
 the mother following him outside the door with a brush 
 in her hand, to brush some lint off his coat, "if he would 
 please to allow her." He did allow her, for he knew 
 she wanted to speak to him, and that the brush was an 
 innocent subterfuge. 
 
 "Then you haven't seen him at all lately, sir?" she 
 asked anxiously, as she brushed slowly at his sleeve. 
 
 "Not at all; I thought I should have heard of him 
 here." 
 
 " I wish I could tell you, sir. But he keeps away 
 quite obstinate ever since he and his father had those 
 words, and I daren't go out to look after him, he'd be 
 so angry if I did!" The "he" meant her husband, as 
 John well understood. 
 
 " Well," said he, " I shall employ this morning in 
 trying to find him; we must not let slip without a 
 rudder so likely a young fellow, and though your hus- 
 band is so stern, Mrs. Miller, he would be sorry enough 
 that any harm should happen to him." 
 
 "Sorry, sir? I don't know! He's so hard, though I 
 don't ought to say it of him, I don't think he'd be sorry 
 at anything. Jim used to tell me sometimes, when he 
 
THE "KINDER GARTEN." 63 
 
 was vexed, that he should enlist to get out of the way, 
 and I've told his father, but he didn't care no more than 
 this brush, at least he didn't seem to." 
 
 "Has he regular work, do you think?" 
 
 " I think not — for you see his father told them at 
 the shop where he worked how it was with him, and 
 they've given him nothing since. He gets work some- 
 times, I daresay, for he's clever; and so long as he can 
 get a bit of bread and the ale, he doesn't care. He's 
 pawned his best clothes and his shirts. That was the 
 last thino- I heard of him — six ^ood calico shirts as ever 
 were made, — I made 'em myself; and now he buttons 
 up his waistcoat, or his coat, if his waistcoat's gone, as 
 perhaps it is, so that folks can't see. But surely he 
 won't be so always! surely he'll alter!" 
 
 Her face became even more wrinkled and sallow 
 than was its wont, as she said these last words. John 
 looked upon her compassionately, and then as cheerfully 
 as he could, said, "Good-bye; I'll let you know any 
 good news," and was gone. 
 
 He did not expect to hear good news. A young man 
 who had gone the wrong way so perversely and deter- 
 minedly, and had made such rapid strides alread}^ 
 was not likely to afford much good news for the aching 
 ears of a mother or a friend. But he thought it his 
 duty to find him if possible, and to let him know that 
 at least one pair of friendly eyes was fixed upon him. 
 
G4 EY THE TRENT. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "THE LOST SHEEP." 
 
 On emerging from tlie court where the tailor lived, 
 John Broadbent at once left the comparatively re- 
 spectable streets to the right, and took his course 
 among some of the narrowest and noisiest. Here 
 were houses cut in the rock, merely faced with brick — 
 close, dirty dwellings, abounding in bad drainage and 
 bad smells; narrow alleys, with abominations of all 
 kinds reeking in front of the houses; beer-shops in 
 plenty, and public-houses with grand titles and brilliant 
 signboards placed aloft. He inquired at several of 
 these for James Miller, the shoemaker, but was for some 
 time unsuccessful in his search. No one knew such a 
 person, and it was probable he might have a nickname 
 by which he was better known; but how to learn i$ 
 was the difficulty. 
 
 He was coming out of one of these places, with a 
 disappointed air; he had inquired at the bar of a young 
 woman, with red hair, a dirty cap and pink ribbons, 
 and her ready answer had been, " There's no such a 
 man comes here," when a carter, who was propping up 
 the door-post with crossed legs, hands in his pockets, 
 and a short pipe in his mouth, looked at him rather 
 duly, and taking his pipe out, and giving a lazy spit 
 upon the pavement, said, "There's no James's here; 
 we're all Jacks, and Toms, and Jims ; that's what we 
 are, mester." 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 65 
 
 " Hah ! " said John, " I daresay. Do you know Jim 
 Miller, my man?" 
 
 " I cant say as I don'. Is he a little chap?" 
 
 "No; rather tall." 
 
 "Has red whiskers?" 
 
 " None at all," replied John. " But I see you don't 
 know him. Good morning/' 
 
 "Don't be in sich a hurry. A tall chap with no 
 whiskers? Hern!" Another spit. " Does he get lushy 
 pretty often?" 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Ha! ha! He doesn't know what I mean! Takes 
 a drop too much now and then? Does your young 
 fellow drink hardish? Because, if he does, I think 
 you'll hear of him yon'." And he pointed with his 
 thumb to a baker's shop in the vicinity. 
 
 John went to the shop, and asked once more after 
 James or Jim Miller, the shoemaker. 
 
 "Who told you he lived here, sir?" asked the white- 
 capped baker. 
 
 "I don't know that he lives here, but I am told } t ou 
 know something of him." 
 
 " Well, I do know him. He did live at my daughter's, 
 two doors off; but he was such an unregular chap, she 
 couldn't do with him, and he went away last week. He 
 was no credit to anybody; he was a deal too fond of 
 the Prince of Wales." 
 
 The baker did not intend any reflection upon the 
 heir-apparent, but meant to say that some public-house 
 of that name was a favourite haunt of his. 
 
 "And where is the Prince of Wales?" 
 
 " In the next street, round the corner, sir." 
 
GQ BY THE TKENT. 
 
 The Prince of Wales was a low pot-house, and its 
 customers seemed equally low. In the bar several dirty- 
 looking men were seated at " refreshment" at a deal 
 table, before a great fire; and at the other side of the 
 room, at another table, two or three were busy with a 
 pack of cards, with more "refreshment" beside them. 
 The atmosphere of this room was stifling and odious — 
 a mixture of evil scents, rank tobacco and stale ale; 
 boiled garbage for the landlord's pigs, which he was 
 just now busy compounding and heating; and bad 
 drainage, quite indescribable and almost insufferable. 
 
 The air he had lately breathed had not been of the 
 purest; but this was so bad that the new-comer who 
 now entered had some difficulty in refraining from 
 raising his handkerchief to protect his nose. He gave 
 a hasty glance round. All witliin seemed in perfect 
 ignorance of the evil odour. One or two of the first- 
 named refreshment-takers were talking with a satisfied 
 accent, and, to judge from the expression of their faces, 
 were as happy as perhaps their natures admitted. Their 
 unwashed, unshorn faces were greasy in the morning 
 light, as seen through spirals of smoke; their clothes 
 were dirty and worn; their homes, if they had any, 
 bare and miserable places, no doubt ; their lives without 
 dignity, nobleness, respect, or religion; in some degree 
 without humanity; and yet they were happy! A little 
 ale and smoke, and a companion like themselves — that 
 is, reckless, improvident, sensuous — with nothing but 
 slavery to vice, ill-health, and misery between them 
 and the workhouse or the grave, this was all that an 
 immortal soul demanded to make it content and happy ! 
 The atmosphere the bodily lungs inhaled with satis- 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 67 
 
 faction, corresponded most truly to that which the soul, 
 depraved and sensualized, loved "best to breathe. To 
 these bodies and souls fresh air was undesirable, sweet 
 odours indifferent, wholesome food insipid, fresh healing 
 water hateful; they called good evil, and evil good; 
 and heaven itself would have been to them a place of 
 torment. 
 
 The card-players were quieter and intent on their 
 game — an old man and two young ones. They were 
 much too absorbed to hear or notice anything or any- 
 one but themselves and the pieces of coloured paste- 
 board. One of these had his back to John Broadbent 
 when he entered ; but John went up to him at once, 
 put his hand on his shoulder, and said in a low but dis- 
 tinct voice, "Miller, you're wanted outside/' 
 
 The young man started, and a sudden flush came on 
 his pale cheeks, as he saw who stood beside him. The 
 cards fell from his hands, and with a confused face he 
 rose from the table, to the surprise of his companions. 
 
 "Get your hat," said John; and James Miller took 
 it from under a, chair in the corner, and followed him 
 out of doors. 
 
 "Who wants me?" he asked. 
 
 " I do," replied John, " I want you to walk out with 
 me. I have been seeking for you a long time. You've 
 no work, I suppose, and a walk will do you good." 
 
 The young shoemaker looked bewildered, and hesi- 
 tated for a moment, but he did not like to refuse. 
 
 "Where do you want me to go to, sir?" 
 
 " I want you to go across the meadows to my house, 
 and take dinner with me, if you will" 
 
 James glanced nervously at his dusty coat, buttoned 
 
68 EY THE TRENT. 
 
 close to the chin, shabby trowsers, and rusty boots; but 
 his companion only smiled assuringly. "Never mind 
 your dress. There's only my sister and myself, and 
 Clara will excuse your appearance this time. You look 
 as if you wanted fresh air. You sit in those close 
 houses till all the colour leaves your cheeks. But I 
 want also to have a little talk with you. Why don't 
 you go sometimes to see your mother? I have seen 
 her this morning, and she's very anxious about you." 
 
 James Miller looked foolish, but made some answer 
 about "nobody being glad to see him." 
 
 " They used to be glad to see you, James. I remember 
 when I was living in Trentham, years ago, what a 
 rejoicing there was when you came home from school 
 at night if you brought with you a mark for good 
 conduct. Your father sent you to a good school, I 
 think?'' 
 
 " Pretty well, sir. As good a one as he could pay 
 for, I suppose." 
 
 "Yes, so I understood. It seems only the other night 
 that I saw you standing in that room at No. 11 
 repeating some piece of poetry you'd learned during 
 the day to your father. He used to get you to show 
 me your copy-books, he was so proud of you and your 
 progress. I believe he thought no one had a son so 
 clever as his." 
 
 James was silent. 
 
 "And your mother, too. How often has she laboured, 
 and been in pain for you, and worked for you, and 
 kept you tidy and comfortable, and, if you were ill, 
 nursed and tended you. You've had a good father and 
 mother, James." 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 69 
 
 Still James was silent, as lie walked on b}' his com- 
 panion's side. 
 
 " What's the cause, {hen, of all this trouble between 
 you? What have you been doing? How have you 
 offended them? An only son like you should live with 
 his father and mother till he's married, and be a 
 comfort to them, instead of bein^ tossed about from 
 pillar to post as you seem to be. How is it?" 
 
 James had too much respect for his questioner not 
 to reply with an appearance of good humour, though 
 he would fain have answered in some wild, ill-tempered 
 fashion, about " folk minding their own business." His 
 conscience appealed to him with as earnest a voice as 
 did that of his companion, and he was secretly irritated 
 that he Could reply to neither well. All he said was, 
 "He didn't know/' 
 
 John looked more grave than before. " I had a very 
 pleasant memory of you when I went away as an 
 intelligent, obedient boy; and I used to fancy I saw 
 you the help and comfort of your parents, assisting 
 them out of trouble and sorrow if they had £Lny. You 
 rmoy, therefore, think how grieved I was, when I 
 returned, to find you almost strangers to each other; 
 and this morning, when I asked for James, the name 
 brought a frown upon your father's face and a tear on 
 your mother's. What has led you wrong, James?" 
 
 " I can t rightly tell, sir; I wish I could. — It's one 
 thing at the top of another. Father was all very well 
 when I was a boy, 'cause he could make me do as he 
 liked then; but when I got a man, and wouldn't stand 
 to be tied down, it was all different." 
 
 " Stand to be tied down! What do you mean?" 
 
70 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " "Why, to be lectured, and snubbed, and pushed in 
 a corner, if I didn't do everything as he did." 
 
 " What did you do different, James ?" 
 
 "Well, sir, I liked a bit of pleasure, as all young 
 folks do. I think if father and mother had had a few 
 more children, they wouldn't ha' been so particular 
 with me; but they watched me about like a cat watches 
 a mouse, and I couldn't stand it." 
 
 " And where did you go to when they watched you?" 
 
 "Oh! I went a cricketing first. Father grumbled 
 at that; but mother said she didn't mind it, because it 
 would do me good, but I must come home exact to the 
 minute. Well, I did that for a bit, till the lads all 
 laughed at me for running off as if I were shot. And 
 there was a rule we had, when the game was up, to go 
 to the public-house and get a glass together, just to 
 revive us and help us home; and when I left so early 
 I missed that. So one night I stayed an hour later, 
 and father was in an awful rage when I £ot home, and 
 tried to larrup me; but I fought with him, and took 
 the stick out of his hand, and broke it in two. He 
 never tried to beat me after, but he never forgave me, 
 I believe; he allers looked dark at me, and nothing I 
 did was right. Well, in a bit we'd a regular cricket 
 match between our fellows and another club, and our 
 side won. The stakes was a supper; and hadn't we a 
 jolly one at the ' Two Anglers?' There was a good bit 
 of drinking among the men; and as our side had nothing 
 to pay, we sucked in all we could. I stood it a good 
 while; but at last I was as fuddled as the rest, and 
 when they got me home father wouldn't take me in. 
 He'd locked the door and gone to bed, and he said he 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 71 
 
 wouldn't come down to let such a bad 'un as me in. 
 So I was took back to the ' Two Anglers/ and there I 
 stayed the night; and the next morning I was too ill 
 to do anything. But I wouldn't go back to father's. 
 Was I likely? He'd turned me out once, I said, and he 
 shouldn't do it again. I lodged at the ' Anglers ' for 
 better than a week, and then I turned soft, for mother 
 persuaded me to go home. But I never took kindly 
 to home after. Father and me never spoke about that 
 night's job, but we soon did about some more, for I 
 wasn't likely to stay at home allers. "Work, work, 
 work, from Monday morning till Saturday night, with- 
 out a stop at all except for meals and sleeping — that 
 was father's rule. I didn't see the fun of sitting to 
 work till ten at night, so I went out now and then; 
 and as I could dance and sing a bit, I was soon asked 
 to a good many places, and got acquainted with a girl 
 at a public-house— Sally Mayo — a nice-looking lass with 
 ringlets down to her shoulders. Well, that was just 
 what finished me. Father met us in the street one 
 day; he said she was no good, I said she was; and 
 we'd a grand blow-up. He pushed, me out of the 
 house that night, and — here I am." 
 
 He turned with almost a triumphant look to John, 
 as much as to say, "I'm not a man to be trifled with; 
 I'm an independent bold fellow, who doesn't care for 
 anything!" and John asked, 
 
 "Then you are quite happy now?" 
 
 This simple question rather puzzled him. "Well, 
 Mr. Broadbent, I can't quite say that ! It takes such a 
 deal to make a fellow happy." 
 
 <c I am dad of that," thought John, '"'glad at least 
 
72 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 that 3^011 are not content with mere ale, and liberty to 
 prowl about public-houses." 
 
 "What would it take to make you happy, quite 
 happy, mind?" he asked aloud. 
 
 " Plenty of money, and plenty of luck/' 
 
 "At the cards?" 
 
 " Yes, and at everything. I would have everything 
 and everybody just what I wanted them to be." 
 
 " What do you want them to be? Good and true?" 
 
 "No; I wasn't thinking of that! But, first and 
 foremost, I must have plenty of money." 
 
 "What would you do with it?" 
 
 "I think I'd take a public-house. I would have 
 good clothes, and a gold chain, and a watch, and a 
 carriage, and I would just ride over to my father some 
 fine morning, to show him how well I was off." 
 
 "And you think you would be quite happy then? 
 Suppose your health was gone, as it most likely would 
 be if you had plenty of money and a public-house — it 
 is going now, James — I can see it by your dull eye and 
 unsteady hand — and suppose you had lost a good 
 conscience — what would the money do for 3-011 ? No, 
 my poor fellow, 3 t ou don't know what 3 T ou are saying, 
 3 t ou don't know what happiness is." 
 
 " How can a fellow be happy that hasn't plenty of 
 money in his pocket ? I never had that, I wish I had. 
 Poor people, like me, are obliged to do as they can, and go 
 without so many things they want; when 3 t ou found me, 
 I was trying to get a few halfpence to make all square." 
 
 "By gambling?" 
 
 " Well, where's the harm? Rich folk gamble as well 
 as me, only it's for pounds instead of pence." 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 73 
 
 "But why need you gamble? why not work? Is it 
 not better to earn an honest penny, than win one by a 
 game at cards?" 
 
 "I know which is the easiest." 
 
 " But suppose you lose?" 
 
 " Ah, there's the rub ! If I could always win ; I 
 wouldn't ask for a better trade.". Here he laughed. 
 
 "And you don't care for the losers V* 
 
 " Why should I ? That's their look-out." 
 
 "But suppose a man were starving, and had lost his 
 last penny to you, would you let him starve? would 
 you take his penny?'"' 
 
 " Well, I don't think I should be quite as bad as that. 
 If it really were so, you know." 
 
 "Thank God!" 
 
 "What for, sir?" 
 
 "That you are not quite lost in selfishness. But I 
 think better of you than you seem to do of yourself. I 
 do think 3^011 would care for the losers, even if it were 
 not their last penny. I do not think, when you tried 
 it, you would like to live by the 'trade/ as you call it, 
 of cramblin^. It is a wicked trade, a trade in which 
 both sides lose, one so much money, the other so much 
 soul. Which would you like to lose best, your money 
 or your soul?" 
 
 " Neither, sir." 
 
 "Then you will never do for a gambler, for you must 
 lose one or the other, and most likely both, if you 
 gamble. And is it possible that you should for a 
 moment prefer that sort of life to one of honest, noble 
 work? Is it for the sake of a little present ease only? 
 For the sake of tasting a little beer, of sitting idle in a 
 
7-i BY THE TRENT. 
 
 tap-room, of lounging about? You have many times 
 read the history of Esau and Jacob, and have no doubt 
 thought as many times what a foolish young man Esau 
 was to sell his birthright, his inheritance, for a few 
 spoonfuls of soup; but }^ou are now like Esau, nay, you 
 are worse than he, you are selling youth and health 
 and strength, your intellect, your soul, your whole in- 
 heritance from God, for a few cans of ale, for a few idle 
 hours. Think what you are doing before it is too late ! 
 Stop while you can. Let me beg of you, my dear 
 fellow, to begin a new life from this day." 
 
 "I don't know how. I wish I could — but — " 
 
 " But what % Let me know your difficulties.'" 
 
 "Ah, difficulties ! that's j ust the word. There's a many 
 difficulties; you've no notion, sir, what a young chap 
 like me has to fight against." 
 
 " Then you really do fight ? That's good ! You've 
 only to go in in thorough earnest, and you will con- 
 quer/' 
 
 James looked abashed. He had some little honesty 
 in him, and did not like to take credit where it was 
 not due. 
 
 " I can't say I've tried very much yet; everything's 
 been contrary, mother and father, and even Sally." 
 
 "Has Sally forsaken you?" 
 
 " She says I'm not one of her sort, and her and me's 
 parted." 
 
 "Perhaps she has lost confidence in you?" 
 
 "When I first knew Sally," continued James, "I 
 thought I'd found what I wanted, somebody to love 
 me, who wouldn't always be snapping and snarling. 
 She was a merry laughing lass, fond of a joke and a 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP. 75 
 
 bit of fun as much as anybody, and she was very pretty 
 too. "Well, she and I made it up, she knew what I was, 
 and what I liked, and she said she was fond of me; 
 and she was quite a respectable girl too, though father 
 did abuse her ! She went out to service, and then in 
 a while she sent me word I wasn't good enough, and 
 that's what I call behaving shabby to a fellow, and so 
 I told her. Since that I haven't cared how things took." 
 
 "Perhaps Sally has been doing what I want you to 
 do, James, she has been thinking; — she sees life cannot 
 all be joke and idleness; that there is something serious 
 in it ; that it has many sorrows for the lazy and self- 
 indulgent, and there is no hope for a happy future for 
 her or for you, if drinking and idleness are to be the 
 rule. She is industrious and sober, I suppose ; and I 
 cannot imagine you would like her to be otherwise, and 
 she no doubt wants to see you doing your part. Has 
 she ever asked 3-011 to give up the drink?" 
 
 "Well, I can't deny as she hasn't. But it's alto- 
 gether unreasonable. I'll do what's fair, and I always 
 meant to work for her/' 
 
 " Yes, as you are doing now. A day or two at the 
 end of the week. All the rest spent at the Prince of 
 Wales over beer and cards. That would not be the 
 way to support her, or scarcely yourself. I daresay 
 you are in debt now? " 
 
 "Only a shilling or two. And I could work all round 
 in a month or so, and be as well off as anybody, but she 
 wouldn't believe it." 
 
 " Because she didn't see you make the attempt in 
 real earnest. Sally is quite right. But here we are at 
 the ferry. Nov/ for it." 
 
7 b BY THE TRENT. 
 
 They ran down the bank and leaped into the boat, 
 just as the ferryman was pushing off. He had waited 
 for the two passengers, and was impatient to be gone. 
 
 Clara had not expected any visitor. School had been 
 over half an hour, and the cloth was laid for two, but 
 another knife and fork and spoon were quickly placed, 
 and she gave the unexpected guest a thorough welcome. 
 James noticed, with some admiration, the cleanliness 
 and order of the room, the fair white cloth, shining 
 silver, glittering glasses, and the geometrically arranged 
 dinner- table. A warm fire glowed upon the heart)), 
 and though the day was cold and windy and cloudy 
 without, here was quiet and comfort and joy. John 
 put on his slippers, and then conducted his visitor to a 
 room where he could wash and brush his hair. As the 
 young shoemaker looked round the neatly appointed 
 chamber, he inwardly drew a comparison between this 
 house and the noisy untidy lodgings in which he had 
 lately been content to live. "But then," he thought, 
 ""Mr. Broadbent has plenty of money, and I have next 
 to none; that makes all the difference." "Did it make 
 all the difference?" asked another thought. "Might 
 not peace and order and cleanliness be insured in a 
 two-roomed, or even a one-roomed house, as in four or 
 six — with fourteen shillings a week as with forty? 
 But in neither, where was no industry, or sobriety, or 
 self-denial." 
 
 He descended the stairs slowly, half afraid to tread 
 with his unbrushed boots upon the flowered carpet; and 
 as he opened the room-door timidly, the dinner was 
 steaming upon the table. A chair was ready for him; 
 he placed himself upon it, awkwardly enough, but as 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 77 
 
 no one appeared to notice Lis rude attempts at good 
 manners, he was soon more at ease. 
 
 " Make a good dinner," said John, as he put upon his 
 plate a second heap, "the walk ought to have given you 
 a famous appetite/' 
 
 But James's appetite was not up to the healthy 
 mark; he had lately lounged and drank and smoked it 
 away, and he was compelled to say, "Enough," before 
 John had nearly finished his ample meal. Water to 
 drink — there was nothing else! It was untouched by 
 him, and it gave him a species of shudder to see his host 
 pour from the decanter a second glassful, and drink it 
 with evident pleasure. Miss Broadbent also took water, 
 and for a woman James thought it not so bad, but for 
 a man! Even his father took beer for dinner regularly, 
 and for supper, half a pint each time — he never exceeded; 
 and beer was always given to him at his father's table, 
 as soon as his childish 3-ears were gone. It w r as a 
 necessary of life. He began to fear Mr. Broadbent was 
 a teetotaller; if so, half his respect for him would be 
 o-one. He had heard teetotallers so laughed at, so 
 spoken against, so despised ! And where was a man's 
 liberty if he might not drink ale? 
 
 But though the young shoemaker noticed much, he 
 spoke little. His answers were chiefly in monosyllables, 
 soon ended. This was safest for him he felt, and then 
 he was not in good spirits, for notwithstanding his 
 friend's endeavours to make him comfortable, he did not 
 find himself in congenial society. He was dimly con- 
 scious that his present way of life w r as not right or good, 
 but he was not willing entirely to forsake it. Forsake 
 tobacco and ale and idleness? Dear Saint Monday, 
 
78 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 lounging card-playing Tuesday, sleepy Wednesday? 
 All his pleasant companions at the Prince of Wales — 
 "Tom and Dick and Harry" — and go on the jog-trot 
 ways of soberness and wisdom? His heart rebelled 
 from the thought of such a life as his father's — work, 
 work, work, "from early morn till dark," and no rest, 
 nothing that he called pleasure. Such a home as that 
 at No. 11? No; most certainly not. He could never 
 live and work merely to keep such a home as that 
 about him! 
 
 But such a home as, we will say, this. With plenty 
 of nice furniture, of light, of music — for he had noticed 
 the piano — and of leisure-time, with a garden. He 
 liked prize flowers, though his father thought them 
 nonsense, and their culture waste of time; and with a 
 companion, a sister like Miss Clara, so tall and fair, and 
 — no, she was by far too stately for him — with a wife, 
 perhaps, like Sally, with her ringlets and laughing 
 face; yes, he might be induced to give up ale and 
 tobacco for this! 
 
 But where was the money for all this? And he 
 sighed as he reflected how poor he was. This sight 
 that he was having just now was like a peep into 
 Paradise; and he felt himself at the bottom of an abyss, 
 from which it was all but impossible he should emerge. 
 He was poor and in debt, and he was half inclined to 
 feel morose and angry with the two pleasant faces near 
 him, for they had so much — he so little. Why had 
 he been brought here to look at their happiness? 
 
 "Do you read?" asked John, as, after dinner, they 
 were seated by themselves at the fire. 
 
 "Not much," said James faintly. And he was afraid 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 70 
 
 John would ask him next what sort of books he read, 
 for they were chiefly the lowest novels, of violently 
 sensational tendencies, in which intrigues, murders, and 
 the wildest improbabilities were mingled together in a 
 distracting manner, and which he read as he took his 
 early pipe in bed, before coming down to a late break- 
 fast. 
 
 " Because I was thinking if you did read, or wished 
 to read, I could lend you some books. Here are some." 
 And he laid before him on the table a few illustrated 
 works that he thought might prove interesting. James 
 opened them and looked into them mechanically, but 
 his eyes did not rest long on the pages, and John, who 
 noticed, without appearing to do so, saw that he had 
 not yet obtained what he wanted, the knowledge of a 
 motive. However, 'not so fast!' thought he, as an ex- 
 pression of interest dawned on the young man's face, 
 on opening one of the last books, a work on gardening, 
 with large gaily-coloured plates of florists' prize flowers. 
 A gigantic pansy, with a yellow ground, seemed especi- 
 ally to meet his approbation. It was a royal flower, or 
 at least had a royal name — Prince William — and he 
 read the pages descriptive of it and its triumphs at 
 various horticultural shows with a good deal of interest. 
 Then he seemed to recollect something, and put down 
 the book with a sigh. 
 
 "Can I help you?" asked John. 
 
 "No; thank you." But opening the book again, 
 "That's a fine pansy/' and he pointed to the picture. 
 
 "Very; and you are fond of flowers? I am glad of 
 that, for I have some pansies in my garden — only one 
 or two, very poor things compared with that one it is 
 
80 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 true ; but if you will come with me I will show you 
 them, and perhaps you can tell me their names." 
 
 They went out together, and looked at the pansies, 
 placed in pots in a sheltered corner, and in full flower, 
 but James did not know them. Still he admired them 
 greatly. 
 
 "You shall have them, and take them home with 
 you, if you like." 
 
 The young shoemaker's eyes brightened. He took up 
 two of the pots, but directly afterwards put them down 
 again, as if they had burned him. 
 
 "I have no room in which they could grow," he said 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 " Not a bedroom? Give them light and water and a 
 little fresh air, and they will do very well for a time." 
 
 " No. I'm leaving where I am to-morrow. I can't 
 take them." 
 
 "That's a pity. But why shouldn't you go where 
 you can keep plants? And why shouldn't you have a 
 garden ? It is not a dear pleasure, and might be made to 
 pay its own expenses, if you were very attentive to it." 
 
 "A garden?" asked James in a sort of astonishment. 
 He had never thought of such a thing. "How could I 
 pay the rent?" 
 
 " It would not cost so much as the ale. How much 
 can you earn a week if you are industrious?" 
 
 "I have earned a pound; but say fifteen shillings." 
 
 "And how many hours must you work to earn fifteen 
 shillings?" 
 
 "From nine to six; about" — 
 
 " Well, suppose you pay for lodgings and food eight 
 shillings a-week. I don't suppose you pay so much as 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 81 
 
 that now. You would then have seven left for 
 clothes and other expenses and your garden — five or 
 four for clothes and two or three for the garden. Two 
 shillings a week are five pounds four shillings a year. 
 You might have a splendid garden for that if you 
 worked in it entirely yourself; and you ought to be 
 strong enough to dig and do everything it needs. Only 
 you must give up the ale." 
 
 "I should get as weak as water without the ale." 
 
 "So you would. And water is not so w T eak after all. 
 Think of the number of mills it turns, the corn it 
 grinds, the cloth it weaves, the silk it winds; and if you 
 change it into steam, you know how immensely strong 
 and powerful it is ! I need not remind you of steam- 
 engines and steam- vessels that do the world's work and 
 perform the world's journeys with so much ease, be- 
 cause with so much strength. Water is very strong; 
 and if you are only as weak as water you will have no 
 reason to complain. But I see it is the water-drinkers 
 whom you fancy to be so weak. Look at me. Do I 
 look so very weak?" 
 
 And John laughingly displayed his well- formed 
 muscular arm up to the elbow, and invited James's 
 fingers to touch the ball of his thumb, and tell him if 
 it felt like wash-leather. 
 
 "I've been a water-drinker, I ain glad to say, for 
 nine years or more, and I am wasted away as you see ! 
 But I am by no means the only strong man who drinks 
 nothing more intoxicating than water. Do not go 
 away and think me a wonder. Many friends whom I 
 have known and still know have told me that they 
 were stronger and healthier after they had given up the 
 
82 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 use of ale and wine than before; arid I feel quite sure 
 if you were to give abstinence a fair trial you would 
 be able to say the same. 
 
 " I should like to see you with a garden ! You would 
 have plenty of time to attend to it in summer, when 
 it wants most attention. From six to nine are three 
 good hours, in which you might dig and plant at your 
 pleasure. A bed of prize pansies would look beautiful 
 in it. Cannot you fancy you see it? And how proud 
 you would be to take a prize! 'Then you might have 
 pleasant lodgings out in the country; why shouldn't 
 you? for }^ou work at home, I suppose, and could see 
 your garden growing beneath your eyes. With fifteen 
 shillings or a pound a week, good health and sobriety, 
 you might be more happy than I can tell you." 
 
 Clara came out at this moment. She had on her 
 shawl and her garden-hat, and a very pleasant smile, 
 like sunshine, about her eyes. James felt half dazzled 
 to look at her. 
 
 "Have you seen nry violets, Mr. Miller?" she asked; 
 and as she spoke the wind blew about the strings of her 
 hat, and brought a faint pink into her cheeks. " It is 
 quite a mistake that you have not shown my violets, 
 John ! " There was a little pretended indignation in 
 her tone. "Here they are, just at your feet, and no 
 notice taken of my darlings! See how double they 
 are; and so deliciously sweet. Will you have one?" 
 
 And she presented some to James, who accepted them 
 timidly; half afraid to bring his own dark-grained 
 fingers near her delicate white ones. 
 
 "Have you a garden?" she continued. "If you 
 have, I shall give you a root of these violets as a great 
 
"THE LOST SHEER'' S3 
 
 favour." James thought her smile very enchanting; 
 he longed for a root of her violets; but he was obliged 
 to say, "No! he had no garden." 
 
 "No garden! That is a pity. But why not have 
 one? I can see you are fond of flowers. Why shouldn't 
 you have a garden?" 
 
 " Thank you," he said; for he had forgotten till now 
 to thank her for her gift. " I think I will have a 
 garden." 
 
 " Now, that's sensible of you ! for you will have so 
 much enjoyment in it. And John and I will find you 
 some of every kind of flower we have to stock it. I 
 know John will give you some of his double primroses, 
 and a few tulips and hyacinths, and a shoot from his 
 yellow rose; and I will give my violets and some ger- 
 aniums. I have some fine ones in the house. And 
 when your garden is in order we'll come and look at 
 it, and congratulate you." 
 
 John stood, admiring Clara's new-found animation. 
 It was not often she showed so much to a stranger, and 
 he inwardly thanked her for its display just now. She 
 understood the case; and as she told him afterwards, 
 "seeing the flour before her required more yeast to 
 raise it than usual, she employed her barm liberally" — 
 a true housekeeper's simile. The garden decided on, it 
 was found on looking rouud that other floral treasures 
 might be dispensed, and quite a list was promised. 
 
 James was half bewildered by the prospect. And 
 where was the garden to be? About Trentham were 
 certainly many gardens within the reach of a poor man 
 — perhaps few towns had so many; but by this time, 
 even if one were to be let, they would all be stocked, 
 
84 EY THE TRENT. 
 
 and would require money beforehand to obtain them; 
 and while James was earning the money, the spring 
 would be advancing into summer. 
 
 John was thoughtful a few moments. Then he 
 looked up — and his bright earnest eye fixed itself with 
 some little anxiety upon the young man. James felt 
 himself growing very serious under this gaze. 
 
 " Are you in great earnest about this garden? Have 
 you reflected that if you arc to have it, you must give 
 up the drink entirely? If you have not, think well 
 before you answer me." 
 
 " I will try/' 
 
 "Don't deceive j^ourself. You will find it very hard 
 at first. You will have to be very resolute. You will 
 have to be self-denying and industrious. But you will 
 have great pleasures too. The pleasure of finding 
 yourself doing right — of living a more noble life — the 
 pleasure of pleasing all }"our true friends — and Clara 
 and myself will honour you for } r our trial, and help you 
 as well as we can. The pleasure of your garden, and 
 perhaps, in time, of a home of your own — comfortable 
 and happy."" 
 
 " But you must forsake your old habits, your old 
 friends — never enter a public-house, never taste ale, 
 never touch cards to gamble, never idle away Saint 
 Monday.'' 
 
 A lingering regretful look was in James's eye; a look 
 of indecision, almost of fear. The garden was a glorious 
 prospect — the approbation of these new-found friends 
 very pleasant; but, how could he pass the Prince of 
 Wales, and not go in? how could he sit steadily at 
 work for hours? The dreary monotony of work at 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 85 
 
 No. 11 returned to his remembrance; his face became 
 gloomy and dissatisfied in expression. John Broadbent 
 noticed the change, and understood its cause. 
 
 " You can't make up your mind to work as your 
 father does, day after day, in a dreary dark house? and 
 you are not quite sure that you could give up the 
 Prince of Wales ? Is that it ? " 
 
 " What should you say to living here at St. Wilfrid's, 
 near me, with a garden close to you, and a room all 
 your own 1 You would go to the town once or twice a 
 week with your work, and the rest of the time be in 
 the country. I should often see you then; for I am 
 hoping and expecting that you and I shall be good 
 friends for many long years. I w ould, as I told you 
 before, assist you in every way I could, to begin a new 
 life, and continue in it earnestly and manfully. You 
 would have many pleasures that you know nothing of 
 now; for the way of duty is not only the way of safety, 
 but the way of happiness. What do you say?" 
 
 A cloud passed away from the young shoemaker's face 
 as these last words were spoken. " It is just what I 
 should like, sir," was his reply. 
 
 " Then it is settled," said John; "that is, as soon as 
 I can find the lodgings, and I think I know where to 
 look for them." 
 
 Not long afterwards James went away. His heart 
 had been opened by the kindness of his friends, for he 
 had not had much experience of love. He was like a 
 plant growing in the shade, that had longed for light 
 and warmth, and knew not where to obtain it; and 
 suddenly a wall had been broken down, or a tree 
 removed, and at once around it lay open vistas of fields 
 
86 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 and greenest meadows — a revelation of a new world; 
 while upon its head fell the sweet life-bringing sunshine. 
 A sort of intoxication took possession of him as he 
 returned slowly homewards; not the dull sensuous 
 intoxication of alcohol, hut that fine ethereal mental 
 inebriation produced by rich unusual draughts of hope 
 and joy. His bright eyes and springing step were 'a 
 great contrast to the morning's glance and motions. 
 He felt that there was something more within him 
 than a sot or a drudge — the two points of the compass 
 between which his life had hitherto oscillated; and that 
 for him there was a future, bright, but attainable and 
 inspiring. Many more words had been spoken to him 
 than I have here recorded, wise, thoughtful words, 
 dictated by a loving care, and he had to some degree 
 appreciated their importance and meaning. An open- 
 ing had been made, through many thick folds of ignor- 
 ance, to the soul so long shrouded beneath them; a 
 small opening at present, that might so soon be reclosed; 
 but there was for the present freer breathing, and a 
 sight of the great sky, and the long-hidden soul rejoiced. 
 James had been permitted a few hours' association with 
 friends in a much higher sphere than his own, and by 
 the touch of love had been made to see something of the 
 excellence of this sphere; — at first he had envied, before 
 he left it he ceased to envy, and began to love. They 
 were happy, these kind friends of his, bat they wished 
 to raise him to happiness; they showed him something 
 of their joy, that they might induce him to seek for 
 the same — and themselves pointed out the way. How 
 could he envy or be indifferent? Again and again he 
 made the promise to himself, as he proceeded on bis 
 
"THE LOST SHEEP." 87 
 
 way, that he would begin a new life — flee from his great 
 temptation, drink; give up idleness, and make himself 
 worthy of their friendship. 
 
 " After all," said John, as he was seated once more 
 with his sister by the fire, "it was }^ou that won the 
 battle. What an amount of forces you brought to 
 bear ! Your charge was irresistible. I did not know 
 you had so large a reserve, Clara," 
 
 Clara laughed, and replied, " I hope the battle will 
 prove won; but I fear there will be some skirmishing 
 yet, and perhaps a formidable rally." 
 
 " Most likely; but forewarned is forearmed, and we 
 must be prepared. I think if we can get him here, and 
 he has a real love for the country, and for gardening, 
 with you to take an interest in him, and myself, and 
 Mary Plowden, for friends — for I mean to bring in 
 Mary to the rescue — we may get him in time to forget 
 the public-house. Poor fellow! he will need many 
 flowers laid in his path besides garden ones, if he is 
 to make progress. 'Prince William' must help to eclipse 
 the 'Prince of Wales/ and all other princes and poten- 
 tates whatever, that rule their subjects by drink, and 
 we shall have to look after him for some time to come, 
 lest the sheep we have brought back on our shoulders 
 rejoicing, should again go astray." 
 
88 EY THE TRENT, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER. 
 
 Mindful of his promise about the lodgings, John called 
 the next morning upon Mary Plowden, the basket- 
 weaver's daughter — the most likely person, as he 
 imagined, to help him in the business. Mary lived at 
 St. Wilfrid's with her father and mother. She was 
 little and stout, and sang with a voice clear as the 
 lark's. She was not at all pretty, but she was musical 
 and intelligent, and her creat forte or failing — which 
 
 0*0 o 
 
 shall we call it? — was, that she fancied she could paint. 
 Not little paltry pictures merely, in washy water- 
 colours, but real, large, oil paintings on mill-board or 
 canvas, portraits the size of life, and landscapes certainly 
 a little smaller than life, for field and sky and water- 
 nature is so large ! but good-sized bouncing landscapes 
 too. Mary was almost a universal genius, besides be- 
 ing a dressmaker by profession, turning out a print 
 or merino dress very creditably, though in St. Wilfrid's 
 she had not much of this work to do. On Saturdays 
 she generally accompanied her father to Trentham in 
 the light-cart, and waited upon basket-customers at his 
 stall; and on other days she helped her mother in the 
 house, or her father in the workshop, — she could make 
 the lighter kinds of baskets at a pinch, or sew band 
 and skirt and body, and when these were not needed 
 she painted. 
 
 A very enthusiastic energetic little body she was, 
 
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER. 80 
 
 with no lack of dignity either. The clergyman called 
 her "Miss Plowden," something put out perhaps from his 
 usual appellative rules by her talents and attainments. 
 As the daughter of a basket-weaver she could not have 
 been called "Miss" with propriety, he would have 
 acknowledged, but as a painter in oils, of much energy 
 and with some natural aptitude as an artist, he could not 
 well refuse her the title. She was his lusus naturce, 
 his pet village phenomenon, and many a stranger did 
 he brine: to Ebenezer Plowden's cottage, to look at 
 Mary's room-full of paintings, murmuring in their ear 
 as they passed out, amused or interested, "Quite self- 
 taught, you understand, quite self-taught!" Mary was 
 not perfectly easy under his well-meant patronage, but 
 how could she frown away the clergyman? She had 
 not many frowns in her composition, and those she had, 
 she reserved for more fitting occasions. He had been 
 very kind to her in many ways also, had lent her several 
 paintings to copy, from his drawing and dining room 
 walls, and had procured her the sight of more in the 
 houses of his friends. 
 
 Copying was not Mary's specialty, however. She loved 
 to create, and though some of those creations of hers 
 were ghastly, with too many cold grays, or were alarm- 
 ingly "foxy," with too liberal dashes of burnt sienna, still 
 no one could say they were not original, and totally 
 unlike received models. Some of her portraits were 
 certainly like the originals, but all were more or less 
 what artists call "out of drawing," and all wanted that 
 almost infinite series of graduated tints that nature 
 gives in every human face, and that is to an untaught 
 amateur so difficult and almost impossible to imitate. 
 
90 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 John and Clara had very soon become acquainted 
 with Mary. Some of her neighbours called her "the 
 painting dressmaker," a title which aroused curiosity; 
 and as the brother and sister were not above so humble 
 a vice or virtue as curiosity, their eyes often had been 
 attracted towards the basket- weaver's dwelling, as they 
 passed it on their walks to reach the churchyard. 
 
 One windy day in February John's hat was lifted by 
 a venturesome blast, carried away from him triumph- 
 antly, and rolled across the green, and so through 
 Ebenezer Plowden's open door into the kitchen. With 
 a laughing face, and hair blown roughly over his fore- 
 head, John entered the house with an apologetic knock 
 in search of his wandering " chimney-pot." Mary was 
 standing in the parlour doorway at the time, a few words 
 were spoken, John explaining how it was he had taken 
 the liberty to enter, and these few words were the 
 beginning of what was now become a true friendship. 
 Clara and Mary were frequently together, and lately 
 Mary had been taking gratuitous lessons on the piano 
 from her friend; she had a great reverence for both 
 brother and sister, had painted their portraits in her 
 best style, begging with so much earnestness the favour 
 to do it, that they could not well refuse, and had, we 
 are obliged to confess, considerably belied them on the 
 canvas. Clara's clear-cut profile especially charmed 
 her, and she was at odd moments frequently engaged 
 in sketching it from memory, on slips of paper, or waste 
 ends of millboard. "It possessed her," she said with a 
 smile, if friends noticed the perpetually recurring " nez 
 celeste," high forehead, and waved hair fallino- in natural 
 and heavy curls beside either cheek. 
 
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER. 91 
 
 Ebenezer Plowden was short and stout, Mary resem- 
 bling him in these particulars; he was a man of some 
 importance among his poor neighbours; the house he 
 lived in was his own, he rented several osier-beds and 
 two or three islands in the river, the Poet's Island 
 among them, of which we shall hereafter speak; and 
 the excellence of his baskets was acknowledged far 
 and wide. He was reckoned a man of substance. A 
 twinkle in the corner of his eye suggested a smile, it 
 was in fact the "at home card" of that article, the smile 
 always being ready to appear when called upon. Yet 
 he was a shrewd man, sturdy, and brown-skinned, 
 energetic, and capable of almost mythical feats of sus- 
 tained labour; and idolizing his daughter, to whom he 
 allowed many privileges seldom granted to her sex and 
 station. Her "works," as he called them, were perfect 
 in his eyes, the parlour where they were displayed he 
 spoke of as the "studrdio" though a little garret in the 
 roof, with one dormer-window, and with worm-eaten 
 floor and massive picturesque beams, sloped and crossed 
 like the letter A, did duty for that place. Here hung 
 what Mary called her "failures," safely hidden among the 
 black shadows of the beams, and here was her easel and 
 box of paints and models. The parlour was in fact but 
 the picture-gallery, the exposition of Mary's industry; 
 here guests were received, here strangers came to admire 
 or criticize; here the Sundays and gala-days were spent 
 by the family; and here Mary always sat or stood or 
 walked, with simple unpretending homeliness, unmoved 
 by sneers or praises, but with a hidden enthusiastic 
 light in her eyes, ready to shine forth, when with a 
 friend who understood or loved her and her art. It 
 
02 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 was this balance of hers that had attracted John, and 
 when he saw her with unflushed quiet face receiving 
 the praises of gaping admirers at her untaught genius, 
 or the covert sneers and haughty indifference of some 
 of the good clergyman's lady friends, replying to all 
 with the same calm unconscious look, he recognized in 
 her something worthy and extraordinary. Before, she 
 was simply an oddity, a freak of nature; now, she was 
 an interesting woman. 
 
 But we began this last paragraph intending to 
 describe Ebenezer himself, not his daughter, and we 
 have been carried away, as was John's hat, though not 
 certainly against our will, to Mary's feet, by a toss of 
 the prankish wind. We feel bound to confess that 
 Ebenezer was by no means a perfect specimen of 
 humanity. Shrewd as he was, he had yet one con- 
 spicuous weakness. He was a smoker, the pipe and he 
 were firmly wedded. Morning, noon, and night it was 
 in his hand or mouth, or close beside him, ready for 
 service. Not a short pipe, black and dirty, but a long 
 clean piece of baked clay, properly waxed at the end, 
 and fed with fragrant tobacco. No doubt this habit of 
 smoking accounted in some measure for his brown skin, 
 and for certain decayed black-looking teeth, that spoiled 
 the pleasantness of his smile; but he would not have 
 believed it had you told him so, and if he had believed, 
 he would still have smoked. This morning when John 
 called, Ebenezer was standing before his door smoking. 
 His coat was off, he was in working costume, in a well- 
 worn waistcoat, corduroy breeches, blue knitted stock- 
 ings and shoes, and was taking his preparatory whiff 
 before the morning's Weaving. He called this, "getting 
 
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER. do 
 
 a breath of fresh air," and it was indeed getting one 
 breath of fresh air to a dozen or so of smoke. 
 
 Between the puffs of smoke he looked contemplatively 
 along the road that stretched from his cottage corner 
 to the elm-covered walk by the river. A few gables 
 and chimneys, and a few doorsteps and lines of front 
 Avail retreating in perspective, were all he could see of 
 his neighbours' domiciles; but he liked to look at 
 these, with an eye that missed no single foot put out 
 of the doorway, and that noticed every cat and bird 
 hovering near. There was not much news in the 
 village that did not find its way to Ebenezer, and he 
 knew how to weave any one circumstance that came 
 under his notice into another, as deftly and swiftly as 
 he wove osiers into baskets; not more so, for he was no 
 idle man, and his baskets were renowned far and near, 
 as we have said before. 
 
 While he was thus looking, the tall figure of 
 John Broadbent came in sight. Ebenezer s eyes 
 brightened, and he took quick anticipatory puffs, the 
 twinkle of his eyes also spoke its "at home" more 
 clearly than ever, and he moved one foot a little fur- 
 ther forward. 
 
 "Good morning, Plowden. A fine day! How are 
 you all?" were John's first words of greeting. 
 
 Ebenezer took out his pipe and shook its contents on 
 the grass near the door-step, as he replied, "Pretty well, 
 sir; how's yourself?" 
 
 "Rarely. — Making more smoke I see? Still at the 
 old trade?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; clearing my head for the clay's work." 
 
 "And spoiling this sweet morning air. How is it 
 
94 BY THE THEKT. 
 
 possible you can prefer the scent of tobacco to that of 
 fresh-springing grass and violets?" 
 
 Ebenezer smiled. "That is one of your poetic 
 speeches, sir; nobody but a poet ever smelled the grass 
 growing." 
 
 "I have, when it has just begun to grow: a real, 
 fresh, truly delicious scent. But you lose that, and 
 many more sweet scents, for the sake of your pipe." 
 
 "Tobacco's a sweeter smell than violets, let alone the 
 grass, to my thinking, Mr. Broadbent." 
 
 John shook his head with a laugh. It was an old 
 quarrel between him and the basket-weaver. 
 
 " Can I see Mary? Is she at home?" 
 
 "Mary is at home," said Ebenezer sententiously. 
 "Will you walk this way, sir? I think she's in the 
 stud-dio." 
 
 He led the way into the parlour, and as John entered, 
 a half-completed picture stared him in the face, as it 
 stood upon the table, propped up by books and boxes. 
 Mary was not there, however, so while Ebenezer went 
 in search, John had time to examine the new w T ork. It 
 was a "Raising of Lazarus" that she was attempting 
 this time, a great undertaking, though not the first of 
 the kind the daring artist had endeavoured to depict. 
 The principal figures were drawn in, and one or two 
 were partly painted, but Mary and Martha still knelt 
 before the tomb in outline. There was nothing very 
 striking in the arrangement of the figures, and the 
 painter had neither knowledge of drawing nor of colour- 
 ing sufficient to make a pleasing picture. In several 
 artistic respects it was an enormity, but John admired 
 the enthusiasm and pluck of the young dressmaker. 
 
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER. 95 
 
 He lifted his head and found Mary standing beside 
 him. 
 
 " What do you think of it?" she asked. 
 
 " It is a daring thing for you to attempt." 
 
 "Then you mean it's a failure, even for me?" 
 
 " No, not a failure for you. It is a success in some 
 respects. This figure of Christ is drawn more correctly 
 than you generally get full-length figures. The right 
 arm is too long, and the feet are too large ; but as a 
 whole, it is tolerably true. Why don't you set yourself 
 to study the figure systematically before you begin such 
 ambitious pictures? And your notions of perspective 
 arc not at all true and clear. Those distant trees we 
 see through the opening of the cave are much too large." 
 
 "I wish I could study! Sometimes I think I will, 
 and I earnestly copy for a short while those anatomical 
 plates you lent me, but I am so soon weary, and in 
 truth have so little time for real hard study. Then 
 an idea seizes me which I must draw out, and it is such 
 a pleasure to see it grow up that I cannot tear myself 
 aw T ay from it. Besides, why need I study so much? 
 By practice and observation I shall improve, and my 
 pictures after all are only to please myself and my 
 father." 
 
 "There are several good reasons why you should 
 study more than you do, and I hope some day you will 
 see the necessity for it, though it is true you have not 
 much time, and good instruction is expensive." 
 
 " Very expensive," replied Mary emphatically. "And 
 those drawing masters only teach you to copy after all; 
 I should throw away my palette and brushes in disgust 
 if I must do nothing but copy. But can you tell me 
 
96 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 what colour is worn for mourning in the East? I know 
 I have read somewhere it is not black, but can't re- 
 member what it is." 
 
 "It is yellow, I believe. But I will look for you 
 when I get home, and let you know." 
 
 " Thank you, you are very kind." 
 
 "Am I? Well now, I wish you to be very kind, for 
 I have a favour to beg of you, Mary. I want you to 
 find me or tell me of some lodgings for a friend of mine 
 in St. Wilfrid's. He is poor, a journeyman shoemaker, 
 and will want a room to himself, that must serve for 
 workroom and bedroom for the present, I fear, till he 
 is richer/' 
 
 "A friend of yours?" and Mary reflected. — "I do not 
 know — though perhaps Mrs. Jones might have a room 
 to spare just now." 
 
 "Is that your next-door neighbour?" 
 
 "Yes; she has just lost her son, and is now quite 
 alone. Poor thing! she has fretted so about him, though 
 he has been ill two years, and was a constant burden. 
 To comfort her a little, I took his portrait the other 
 da}^ from memory, and she keeps it in her bedroom, 
 and I believe kisses it every night before she goes to 
 sleep. It does her good, she says. Will you go in 
 with me to see her? I think we might arrange it at 
 once. She has odd ways; but she's a kind-hearted 
 Woman, when you know her." 
 
 " Certainly I will. But there is another thing my 
 friend wants — a garden, or part of one, where he could 
 cultivate prize flowers." 
 
 " Mrs. Jones's garden will be the very thing. She 
 was asking me the other day what she must do with it, 
 
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER. 97 
 
 for the doctor and the funeral have made her very poor, 
 and she can't afford a gardener. It is quite a wilder- 
 ness, indeed, for last year it was entirely neglected, 
 though she kept it on, thinking and hoping poor Will 
 might get better/' 
 
 " Lead on then; w T e will hear what she says at once." 
 
 Mrs. Jones's door was quite close to Ebenezer's, so 
 tli ere was no need for Mary to put on bonnet or shawl. 
 When she tapped at it, a rather hoarse voice within 
 said, " Come in, Mary." The widow was seated close 
 to the fire, a round deal table was near her, on which 
 was laid a pile of clothes — a man's coat, waistcoat, and 
 trousers, several shirts, handkerchiefs, and stockings, 
 and on her arm was drawn one of these last that she 
 had just been darning. When she caught sight of the 
 stranger, she hastily pulled off the stocking and laid it 
 with a trembling hand upon the table. Then she rose 
 up, smoothed her apron, a blue checked one, in a nerv- 
 ous way, and waited till her visitors should explain 
 their coming. 
 
 "Don't put yourself about," began Mar}^ "This is 
 Mr. Broadbent, he has been to our house this morning 
 looking out for lodgings for a young man who is a friend 
 of his, and I ventured to tell him that I thought you 
 might want to let one of your rooms." 
 
 Mrs. Jones kept a bewildered silence, and still stood 
 smoothing her apron. 
 
 11 Do sit down again," Mary proceeded, " and we will 
 sit too for a minute or two, if you will let us. Mr. 
 Broadbent, will you take this chair? There now, we 
 shall be more comfortable! You told me how lonely 
 you were in the house now, and I'm quite sure you 
 
03 EY THE TKENT. 
 
 must be; a lodger would be company for you sometimes. 
 If you only heard him stirring about in his room, it 
 would be something. Have you ever thought of such a 
 thing as taking one?"' 
 
 " I can't say as I have/' 
 
 " But it would be a good thing for you; don't you 
 think it would? He would pay you something for the 
 room, and he would like to rent the garden too." 
 
 " The garding?" she passed her hand over her eyes 
 in a weary wa}^. " The garding is worth seven shillin', 
 so Job Simpson tou'd me, an' I wouldn't let it for no 
 less." 
 
 " Well, and I should think it's quite worth it, too," 
 replied Mary; " it's a nice piece, but it's sadly out of 
 order. And about the room ? couldn't you let that too V 
 
 "Is the young man steady?" asked the widow. 
 
 "He is Mr. Broadbent's friend," replied Mary; but 
 John now interrupted. 
 
 "Let me explain," he said, "he is a journeyman 
 shoemaker, quite a young man, about nineteen. But 
 he has not been so sober as he ought to have been, and 
 it is on account of his bad habits I am bringing him 
 away from the town. He promises he will be steady, 
 and go to no more public-houses, and I hope he will 
 keep his promise." 
 
 The widow reflected. "You need not decide just 
 now," said John; "I will bring him here for you to see, 
 and then if you think well, you and he can arrange 
 about money." And in this way it was left. 
 
 As Mary was following John out Mrs. Jones seized 
 her by the arm, and pointing to the heap of clothes on 
 the table, said hysterically, "Them's his clothes! Did 
 
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER. 99 
 
 you know 'em? I was mendin' his stockings. I'd 
 like to put 'em by all tidy ! " and she put her apron to 
 her eyes and began to sob. "Don't fret," said Mary 
 sympathizingly, "I'll come in again presently, and 
 help you to put them to rights," and she gave the poor 
 forlorn mother a compassionate kiss. 
 
 In a day or two all was settled. James Miller came 
 over, saw the room and the garden, and was much pleased 
 with both. The room was low, with a plaster floor, 
 but was clean and tolerably light, with a pleasant view 
 of the river seen between the boughs of drooping trees. 
 Mrs. Jones at once took a fancy to James's looks. He 
 was so like "her poor lad" she said. Mary could not 
 see the likeness, but that was no matter. The price she 
 asked for the room and for attendance upon him was 
 very small, but she would not hear of him carrying up 
 his shoemaker's tools into his bedroom. "He's welcome 
 to work i' the kitchen, an' I don't like my poor lad's 
 room to be stinkin' wi' leather," was her speech. No- 
 body of course objected to this arrangement. It was 
 healthier and better in every way, so James's tools and 
 bench were put in a light corner of the down-stairs 
 room, and his leather apron hung up behind the door 
 that very day, and James began his new life in the 
 country. John supplied him with a few shillings to 
 pay the debts he owed at Trentham, that he might 
 have no further need to approach old friends or haunts, 
 and this was to be paid back in instalments. 
 
100 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE SERMON. 
 
 At Trentham, upon the walls, had been seen for the 
 last week, large blue and yellow and white posters, 
 announcing that on Sunday, April 2Gth, anniversary 
 sermons would be preached, by the Rev. Stephen Morris, 
 in the chapel, High Street, for the benefit of the said 
 chapel; and upon the day named a great number of 
 people were gathered together in this place of worship 
 to listen to what the Rev. S. Morris had to say. 
 Amongst the rest were Clara and John Broadbent. 
 John had not seen Stephen since the visit we have 
 related; though he had twice called upon him, he was 
 not at home both times. 
 
 The brother and sister found themselves seated this 
 morning, with hundreds of other well-dressed people, 
 in a large and well-built chapel, lighted by tall Gothic 
 windows, and resembling in many details of its archi- 
 tecture a modern church. There was at first a subdued 
 rustling, and sort of universal settling down of these 
 many gaily-dressed atoms into their fit places, occa- 
 sional coughing and scraping of feet, varied by the 
 march of new comers up the well-matted aisles, and 
 the opening and shutting of pew doors. But when a 
 side door opened and the minister appeared, with black 
 gown and bowed head, and ascended the pulpit stairs, a 
 hush came upon all these breathing atoms, and woman, 
 and man, and child prepared themselves by silence for 
 
THE SERMON. 101 
 
 the introductory words of prayer about to be spoken. 
 The young minister looked more than usually pale as 
 he raised his head in the pulpit, and for a moment sur- 
 veyed the congregation. Then he lifted up his hands, 
 and all bowed themselves, while in a few solemn words 
 he prayed for a blessing upon the morning's services. 
 He ceased. A hymn was given out, the organ first 
 took up the song and went through the air, sweetly 
 and softly, w T ith its inimitable voice, and then the 
 whole congregation rose up and sang with it. Another 
 prayer, a chapter of the Bible read, another hymn 
 sung, and all settled themselves finally to the sermon. 
 
 In some respects John found it a wonderful sight, 
 this large congregation composed of various grades of 
 society of both sexes, and of almost all ages, from the 
 tiny child who can just be induced to sit sufficiently still 
 by the aid of papa's grave look, and mamma's occasional 
 half smile, through an hour's discourse, without too 
 much disturbing those near, to the man and woman of 
 mature life, and the white-haired grandfather or mother, 
 all looking up to, and listening with more or less fixed 
 attention, and not without much reverence, to the words 
 of a man still very young, placed before them in the 
 prominence of the pulpit, and allowing him to lead their 
 minds through the intricacies of a discourse founded 
 upon the inscrutable depths of divine providence. 
 
 With a slow, solemn, deep-reaching tone the young 
 pastor delivered the words of his text: "Verily thou 
 art a God that hidest thyself, God of Israel the 
 Saviour!" and as he looked round upon his congrega- 
 tion, after their utterance, with the air of a man deep 
 in thought, and about to launch forth upon some vast 
 
102 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 sea of revealed truth, his audience felt their expecta- 
 tions raised in no ordinary degree, and breathlessly 
 awaited what he should next declare. 
 
 The subject he had selected — full of mysterious mean- 
 ings, and needing, in truth, an angel rather than a man to 
 seek into it and to give it expression — was yet one that 
 suited his peculiar powers of mind, and drew forth some 
 of the highest, deepest thinkings of which he was capable. 
 Mystery is dear to the poetic faculty; for in its heights 
 and depths, illimitable and endless, the grandest aspira- 
 tions of the soul may be called out. Within it, what 
 wondrous worlds of splendour and beauty may not be 
 hidden — what paradises, what vast oceans of knowledge, 
 of life, of love! It is eminently dear to the strong- 
 winged and aspiring, for it is a perpetual excitement, 
 and has a voice that ever calls to explore its mazes, and 
 a hand that is always beckoning onward. As the 
 hammer is made for the nail, the spade for the soil, the 
 axe for the tree, so is the mind of the poet and the in- 
 tellectual aspirant made for the unravelling of mystery. 
 The one comes to it with the awe of a worshipper, the 
 other with the joy of a treasure-finder. The true poet 
 and divine pierces the veil and ever sees God behind, 
 trembling as he sees, not with fear, but with ecstasy 
 that is akin to the joy that flutters the wings of the 
 angels. Ever to him behind the mystery is that which 
 is more mysterious — the " God that hideth w himself. 
 
 Stephen Morris came to his subject with the gladness 
 of the poet and the minister. The mystery he had chosen 
 to talk about that morning to the child, the youth, the 
 man, the woman, the aged — impossible to be more than 
 hinted at, infinitely high, infinitely deep as it was, and 
 
THE SERMON. 103 
 
 therefore unreachable by a finite mind, and utterly 
 untenable by the poor speech of a man, yet invited him 
 forth, dared his utmost strength of wing, and, like a 
 young racer that would emulate the lightning, though 
 content to be left far behind, he exulted in the impotent 
 trial, and cut the air in all but impossible periods. 
 His hearers followed his quick, daring flight as best 
 they could, and admired, as they panted for breath 
 after him. 
 
 None but a young man, perhaps, would have treated 
 the subject as he attempted it. He was not, however, 
 the less applauded, though, of course, the applause was 
 silently bestowed. But he soon left the rare ether, and 
 came down to more breathable atmospheres, and, in the 
 aspect of the Divine One as the God of Israel, the 
 Saviour, was more at home, and nearer human sym- 
 pathies and human wants. Here he drew after him all 
 hearts, and carried them with his own, in adoration 
 and love, to the feet of the great Lover of humanity ; 
 and, by a wonderful gift of eloquence, and a subtle 
 sympathy of soul, entered all other human souls in that 
 large assembly, and, using them as instruments, ployed 
 upon each stop to perfection. They smiled or wept, 
 adored or shuddered, rejoiced or trembled, and gazed 
 into hell or heaven, as he bade them. When at length 
 the sermon was ended, and his deep voice ceased to 
 sound, men and women, released from the spell, took 
 deep breaths, looked into eacli other's faces, and asked 
 silently, with eyes glistening with mingled tears and 
 rapture, "Where have we been? What are we? Is it 
 really we ourselves? or, like him we have heard, are we 
 changed, and do we shine transfigured?" 
 
104 BY THE TEENT. 
 
 John and Clara felt the strange entrancing influence 
 with the rest. They walked home thoughtfully. Un- 
 known as they were, not one of all the crowd had 
 ventured to address them, nor did they wish to be 
 addressed. Greetings even from well-loved faces would 
 have been undesirable, so much had they been stirred 
 out of the spheres of wonted life and thought. 
 
 " What a wonderful power is this!" exclaimed John 
 at last, when they had walked some distance out of the 
 town, under the wide-spread sky of the open Trent- 
 valley, and found themselves again on earth, pulled 
 down by invisible strings from their elevation, nature 
 treating the soul as a tied Montgolfier, that she never 
 allows to ri se very far or for very long. ' ' W hat a wonder- 
 ful power is this which one human being has over 
 others by the aid of eloquent words, of out-breathed 
 soul! A preacher like Stephen touches all who hear 
 him on the divine side, and straightway they are aware 
 of new faculties, are raised for a time above their 
 ordinary selves, and feel themselves winged. What a 
 joy for him must be the possession of this gift!" 
 
 " The gift has something awful in it, too," was Clara's 
 low reply. 
 
 " Responsibilities are always awful, and great gifts 
 bring great responsibilities. Great trials also come 
 with them, but we cannot deny the joys. What a 
 glorious course is apparently before him ! What souls 
 he may be the means of saving from the 'beggarly 
 elements ! ' What purity and greatness of life he may 
 teach! What grand truths hold forth, and what num- 
 bers of lost and weary ones he may show the way to 
 the Giver of rest — the Saviour!" 
 
THE SERMON. 105 
 
 John and Clara were not the only ones who made 
 the young minister and his sermon the topics of con- 
 versation as they proceeded home this morning. 
 
 "A truly magnificent discourse/' said Mr. Gresham, the 
 mayor, as he rode away to his country villa, four miles 
 out of town, with his wife and family beside him in the 
 barouche. 
 
 "Yes; it ought to be printed," added Edward, the 
 only son. " The bishop's sermon we heard last Sunday 
 was nothing to be compared to it." 
 
 " I hope it may do good," was Mrs. Gresham 's obser- 
 vation, a little bashful woman, as she wiped away the 
 tears, not yet dry, from her face. 
 
 "It must do good!" exclaimed Charlotte, with the 
 decision of manner belonging to her father, whom she 
 in many things resembled. 
 
 Jane, the youngest daughter, had not yet spoken. 
 She was in truth looking earnestly in the direction of 
 the dispersing congregation, as if in search of some one 
 she knew, and had scarcely heard what was said. 
 When she at length turned her head, and brought her 
 face and her little pink satin bonnet into proper cligni- 
 liecl, lady-like position, her father surveyed her with a 
 smile upon his broad face. "Well, Jane?" 
 
 There was nothing very formidable or alarming in 
 the words; but Jane, nevertheless, coloured a deep 
 blushing red, paling her pink bonnet by contrast, and 
 still kept silence. 
 
 "And did you like the sermon, Jane?" 
 
 " Yes, papa. It was almost too beautiful!" 
 
 "You need not have asked her, papa/' was Char- 
 lotte's observation. " Everything Mr. Morris says is 
 
106 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 grand to Jane. I do not think she took her eyes from 
 his face the whole sermon." 
 
 "And where were your eyes, Charlotte?" asked the 
 father. " They would have been better fixed on Mr. 
 Morris than employed in watching your sister. I am 
 afraid, my dear, you forget the purpose for which you 
 go to chapel. — It was certainly a fine sermon — a won- 
 derful sermon! I shall get Morris to give me the 
 manuscript, and I will have it printed at my own 
 expense. Such a sermon as that deserves to live." 
 
 "I knew we should have one of his best," said 
 Edward, "he looked so pale when he began. He'll 
 study himself into a consumption if he doesn't mind. 
 Mrs. Grant says he buries himself in his books more 
 than half the day, and he's often up till midnight, 
 writing." 
 
 "A bad habit — a very bad habit. It is lighting the 
 candle at both ends. We must have him with us rather 
 oftener, my clear, and try to get him to be more 
 reasonable. You must talk to him about the danger to 
 his health, for we could not afford to lose him. I think 
 he does look thinner and paler than he did.'' 
 
 " I could cure him," interrupted Edward. " A few 
 hours' boating a clay on the river with our club, and 
 a little of your best Madeira, father, would soon give 
 him a colour." 
 
 "Boating!" repeated the mother in surprise. "You 
 forget it is not proper for a minister to spend his time 
 in boating, my dear!'"' 
 
 "And why not?" asked Edward. "I'm sure it's a 
 very healthy amusement. But ministers now-a-days 
 are kept up like a cat in mittens. There's nothing 
 
THE SEKMON. 107 
 
 manly or healthy about them when once they're out of 
 the pulpit. I'm sure Morris would preach even finer 
 sermons than he does if he took to boating now and 
 then, and he'd live a great deal longer." 
 
 " I will bring him home with me to dine to-morrow/' 
 said the mayor; " and if you can persuade him to take 
 healthy walks with you, Edward — but no boating with 
 your club, remember, it would not be proper, your 
 mother is right — you will be doing him a service, and 
 be a more useful member of society than you have 
 been of late." 
 
 Edward was silent. He knew what his father's 
 rebuke meant, and his conscience told him he deserved 
 it. The many idle, profitless hours he spent in company 
 with the dissipated and the gay fools of fashion, male 
 and female, often returned to his memory like a cloud, 
 dimming the day; for he was not quite ignoble and had 
 aspirations for higher things, but, like many others, 
 he put aside his better thoughts, and it was ever 
 to-morrow that the new life was to be begun. It was 
 a real misfortune for him that he had no profession or 
 calling, his father's wealth making this appear needless; 
 for with no serious employment to engage his time, he 
 was at the call of every idle companion, and the play- 
 thing of every whim belonging to himself or others. 
 He was not vicious, but so often near vice's mantle as 
 to be lost in its shadow; and though of a really ener- 
 getic temperament, made himself subject to the punish- 
 ment of idleness through the aimlessness and littleness 
 of his pursuits. 
 
 As to Stephen Morris himself, he returned home by 
 the least-frequented streets. It was understood by all 
 
103 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 that on Sundays no hand-shaking or conversation, either 
 before or after service, must disturb their minister. 
 Quietly, thoughtfully, he walked through the crowd, 
 some turning to look after him with admiring gaze, 
 some almost reverently making way- for him. He had 
 preached what was called a great sermon; but he was 
 not vain at his outward success. He was even humi- 
 liated. He had heard one speech not meant for him, 
 said all unaware of his presence, by an old woman, 
 whose withered, wrinkled face he had often seen just 
 beneath the pulpit, in what were called the "free seats:" 
 " It wer all very fine, all very fine; but I couldn't 
 reach it." Her tone was sorrowful as she said these 
 words, her head shaking between palsy and emphasis, 
 to a young Sunday-school teacher who stood with her 
 at the chapel door. Stephen had made his way past 
 with bent-down head; but the words and tone of bis 
 aged hearer followed him. There was one of his 
 "flock" — soonest perhaps to leave him, and to be 
 gathered into another fold (into which he knew not, 
 the fold of the Good Shepherd or the fold of the Evil 
 One) — whose time was so short on earth that, if she 
 still needed teaching or comforting, it should be done 
 at once — there was no time to spare; and he had let 
 her come humrerin^ and thirsting — he had invited her 
 to come, and had sent her empty away. " I couldn't 
 reach it" was all her sorrowful experience. To display 
 his own riches, he had brought out dishes of gold and 
 silver and high-spiced dainties; but no nourishing food 
 to support the soul about to set out on so long, so 
 wearisome a journey — the journey of death. 
 
 He reached home, and before he dined laid aside the 
 
THE SERMON. 109 
 
 sermon he had elaborately prepared the last week for 
 the evening — a deep and argumentative one — and chose 
 one of the simplest and clearest he could find, with the 
 determination that, for the future, he would speak with 
 words for the child and the aged, rather than for the 
 deep thinker and the highly educated. He sighed as 
 he put by the splendid oration; but it was a sigh of 
 relief. His conscience was now in some measure quieted, 
 and he could eat his dinner in peace, such as the dinner 
 was. On Sunday this meal was an anchorite's feast 
 with him — little beside bread and water, we were about 
 to sa}^; but it was in truth bread and wine. Wine 
 revived him after the exhaustion of preaching; it cleared 
 his brain, and aroused it gently to the work before it 
 in the afternoon and evening; and bread was all the 
 solid food he allowed himself at that period of the day. 
 
 On the following morning, Mr. Gresham called upon 
 him while he was still in his study. 
 
 " I've promised my wife to bring you to dine with 
 us to-day, Mr. Morris, and I hope you'll oblige me so 
 far. It is a splendid morning, and the ride will do 
 you good." 
 
 " Thank you," replied Stephen quietly. 
 
 "That is right. I shall call for you about three 
 o'clock. I've a little business to attend to meanwhile; 
 but I'll be up with the brougham about that time." 
 
 "Thank you," again said Stephen; "I'll be ready." 
 He was not a man who had much facility in conven- 
 tional phrases; but it was not expected of him, and he 
 knew it. 
 
 At three o'clock, true to the moment — for punctuality 
 was one of the mayor's cardinal virtues — the brougham 
 
110 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 drew up at Mrs. Grant's door, where were the minister's 
 lodgings, and the two were soon on their way to Swans- 
 ford House. 
 
 "I have another favour to beg of you, Mr. Morris/' 
 said the mayor, when he had placed himself in a per- 
 fectly comfortable attitude in the carriage, " which is, 
 that you will lend me the manuscript of your Sunday 
 morning's sermon. I wish to print it." 
 
 A slight, very slight flush rose to the young ministers 
 cheek as he made answer, " I have it only in the merest 
 skeleton, which would be of no use to you, I fear." 
 
 "You don't mean to say that that sermon was 
 delivered with only a few notes? You astonish me! 
 It is the most wonderful sermon I have heard for years. 
 I was so delighted that I brought Grantley to hear you 
 at night. He's a churchman, you know, high church, 
 and believes no one can preach well out of the Establish- 
 ment; and I wanted him for once to hear what we 
 dissenters listen to. But you disappointed me, I must 
 confess. You had lost your wings at night." 
 
 " I felt it necessary to preach more simply. There 
 are poor and aged in the church, and little ones, and 
 these must have their bread." 
 
 " True, true." The mayor mused. — " But still you 
 could write that sermon out, I hope. I want particu- 
 larly to send a copy of it to Grantley, and I shall make 
 a present of a handsomely got up one to each of the 
 aldermen and the town council." 
 
 " I can write a sermon, certainly, from the notes I 
 have, though it will not be exactly like the one you 
 heard; and I will do so if you really wish it very much." 
 
 "Thank you. I do wish it. I thought you would 
 
THE SERMOX. Ill 
 
 oblige me." And the mayor's usual smile hung radiant 
 upon his face. 
 
 The four miles' drive was a pleasant one, enlivened 
 by talk chiefly from Mr. Gresham on politics both of 
 church and state. The dinner was thoroughly good, 
 and the wine of the best vintages, for the host prided 
 himself on his cellar. After dinner over the walnuts 
 and the wine, conversation was abundant. Mr. Gresham 
 had been attending that morning with the other maods- 
 
 o o o 
 
 trates, as was his duty, at the police-office, hearing- 
 various cases of robberies and of disorderly conduct, 
 that were brought under the notice of the bench, and 
 he now detailed some of them. He complained much 
 of a certain Joseph Gutteridge, who had been before 
 the bench no less than thirty-six times, for disorderly 
 conduct, and who was again present this morning, for 
 usino; insulting lano*uao-e and assaulting the police while 
 drunk. "We committed him to prison for one month 
 with hard labour, and he would have had more, had I 
 not, with some other of the magistrates, been sorry for 
 his wife and six small children, who will have to starve 
 or go to the workhouse, while he's away. I can't 
 forget," continued Mr. Gresham, putting down his glass 
 and turning to his wife, "that that poor woman was ser- 
 vant with us when we were first married. A good girl 
 she was, better than many we have had, though we 
 have had some good ones too, my dear! Poor Fanny ! 
 she should have been content in service, and not married 
 a sot like Gutteridge. I told her so, when she came 
 crying to me a month ago to ask me to let her husband 
 off that once ; and all the poor silly woman said, was, 
 that her husband would be good enough, if it wasn't 
 
112 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 for the public-houses and the drink! Some women 
 will go through fire and water to defend their husbands, 
 and the worse they are, the more they cling to them." 
 
 " But wasn't it the drink, papa, that made him so 
 disorderly?" asked Jane. 
 
 " What ! you mean to defend Fanny, do you, my 
 dear? Well, I have no objection. Only mind, miss, 
 that you do not marry a drunkard, and have to come 
 to me, to defend your husband some day! 
 
 " Respectable people don't get drunk," said Charlotte, 
 with a slight toss of the head. 
 
 "And yet I had a young man that called himself 
 respectable, and would have been quite offended if he 
 had believed you had thought him otherwise, before the 
 bench this morning, who had been in the lock-up since 
 Saturday night, for disorderly conduct, while drunk. 
 He had a torn coat, a crushed hat, a black eye, and a 
 damaged character to bring into court, but I am sorry 
 to say he didn't look at all ashamed. He called it a 
 'lark,' and paid his fine with the air of a so-called 
 gentleman; that is, of one who didn't care how the 
 money went. It is astonishing the number of drunk 
 and disorderly cases that take up our time on the 
 magistrates' bench, more than one half of all the rest. 
 I might safely put it at two-thirds. How do you 
 account for it, Mr. Morris?" 
 
 And the mayor, as he asked this question, put out 
 his hand for the decanter, and filled his glass with 
 some fine old Madeira. 
 
 " The lamentable ignorance and spiritual destitution 
 of the people I consider to be the great cause/' replied 
 Stephen. 
 
THE SERMON. 113 
 
 " That may be so in many cases, perhaps in most, 
 but the young man I spoke of just now was what is 
 called well-educated. He went to school with my 
 Edward, and had a hundred a year paid down for his 
 instruction, as I happen to know." 
 
 "Who was it?" asked Edward surprised; "not James 
 Hope?" 
 
 "It was some one of that name," replied the father 
 drily. "Won't you take another glass, Mr. Morris?" 
 
 "Thank you. Perhaps the young man you name 
 may have had evil influences about him at home." 
 
 " His father was a steady honourable man, and I 
 believe he had a good home, and every Lord's-day, too, 
 he was taught to attend a place of worship. But every- 
 thing seems thrown away — good ancestry, good home, 
 good name, and religion itself — when drink gets pos- 
 session of a man. It is a most pitiable and awful 
 besetment." 
 
 '•What a shame!" exclaimed Charlotte; "so well 
 taught and brought up as he has been." 
 
 " Oh I there are many such shames as that," laughed 
 Edward. " Only look round a certain chapel I could 
 name. There's Mrs. Sharp" — 
 
 " Don't be censorious, Edward," interrupted Mrs. 
 Gresham, mildly. "You don't know — you've only 
 heard, and you've no right to speak." 
 
 " But I do know some cases, mother dear. Don't 
 you think I've eyes? Ah! I could tell some queer 
 tales if I might." 
 
 But the mayor now interposed with a frown. " I 
 will have no scandal at my table. Your mother has 
 spoken. Let that be sufficient." 
 
114 BY THE TKENT. 
 
 Edward said no more, but employed himself diligently 
 in peeling a walnut, and soaking it in his wine. 
 
 The mayor went on: — "I do not know whether 
 drunkenness is more prevalent than it used to be, but 
 certainly it comes before the public oftener, in one way 
 or another; and if drunkards are silent, temperance 
 people will not let you rest. I was called upon this 
 morning at my warehouse by a man who styled himself a 
 temperance lecturer, and who wanted me to subscribe, as 
 mayor of the town, to the temperance cause. He and I 
 had a little conversation. I asked him what he meant 
 by temperance, and I soon found out it was teetotalism, 
 which is anything but temperance, in my view of the 
 case, whereupon I told him I could not conscientiously 
 subscribe to what I thought a piece of fanaticism. Of 
 temperance, strict temperance, I approved, as what 
 right-thinking man, or Christian, does not? but teetotal- 
 ism was quite another affair. And, also, I told him 
 that the wild Utopian talk of himself and his brother- 
 teetotallers did more harm than good to the cause of 
 temperance, and aroused opposition in many minds 
 that would have gladly assisted in more reasonable 
 schemes. What think you, Mr. Morris?" 
 
 "Exactly with yourself. I consider wine to be one 
 of the good creatures of God, allowed for our benefit 
 and use. That there is abuse, and great abuse, we all 
 know; but what good thing is not abused? And it 
 seems to me, the greater possible good a thing may be 
 to us by its right use, the greater is the harm it may 
 inflict by its abuse. To ask me to refuse wine entirety, 
 because some have injured themselves through excess, 
 is like asking me to close the shutters and refuse day- 
 
THE SERMON. 115 
 
 light, because some have employed it in deeds of mur- 
 der and wrong." 
 
 " Exactly; and I should much like you and this Mr. 
 Bolt to meet on this question. He is going about the 
 country lecturing, and wants the use of any chapel he 
 can get, to speak in, on week evenings. I told him 
 candidly that I could nut give my consent to our chapel 
 being lent for such a purpose; conscientiously I could 
 not, and I think you and the deacons will think with 
 me." 
 
 " There is no doubt of it. You know my sentiments, 
 and I believe the deacons have the same, with the ex- 
 ception perhaps of Mr. Green." 
 
 " I had forgotten Green. Well, perhaps he may 
 think differently. I know he has teetotal tendencies; 
 and I fully excuse him (pity as it is that so sensible a 
 man should have a weak point !), because he has himself 
 suffered so much in his own family. A burned child 
 dreads the fire, you know." 
 
 There was no further allusion to Mr. Green, but all 
 at table knew that the mayor referred to a death that 
 had occurred in the deacon's family not long before 
 through the excess Mr. Morris so much deplored. 
 His brother, who had for some time been a secret 
 tippler, committed suicide when afflicted with delirium 
 tremens. 
 
 " The grace of God is sufficient to restrain all evil 
 passions," said the young minister solemnly; "this of 
 drink included. Let us pray for more of this grace for 
 ourselves and our fellowmen." 
 
 There was a silence for a moment. Then the mayor's 
 deep voice uttered " Amen ! " in a fervent tone. Mrs. 
 
116 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Gresliam's eyes looked towards Edward witli some 
 solicitude; she had not counted the number of glasses 
 he had taken, but she knew he had had more than 
 strict temperance would have allowed. 
 
 The mayor glanced round the table. Most of the 
 glasses were empty. 
 
 " Another glass, Mr. Morris?" 
 
 " No more at present, thank you." 
 
 Edward put out his hand for the decanter, but his 
 father quietly removed it — saying, 
 
 "I think you have had wine enough to-day, my 
 boy. Shall we withdraw?''' 
 
 There was a cheerful lire in the drawing-room, and 
 a ruddy glow on the varnished sides of Indian jars, 
 and screens, and polished couches, and easy chairs. 
 Everything was luxurious and comfortable, and through- 
 out the room were many tokens of the ease of wealth 
 that carelessly exchanges gold for the products of art, 
 no matter their price. Tables and cabinets were 
 covered and filled with toys from every country in 
 Europe, collected by the family in their many summer 
 Wanderings; carved wood from Switzerland, china from 
 Sevres and Dresden, vases from Florence, and amber 
 pipes and jewelled slippers from Constantinople. The 
 walls were covered with paintings of value, and the 
 windows made stately with curtains of flowered damask, 
 and gold lace. Through these windows, opening on to 
 an ancient lawn, Velvety with moss, might be seen 
 clusters of lovely spring flowers, arranged on beds laid 
 out with line and compass, with the clearness and pre- 
 cision of a geometric drawing or an architect's plan; 
 and around, but not too near, depths of shrubbery 
 
THE SERMON. 117 
 
 and woodland, just tinting with the tender green of 
 early spring. 
 
 Charlotte and Jane repaired to the windows, to talk 
 each to her pet canary, that hung in a gilded cage, 
 beneath the shade of heavy bullion fringe, in sight of 
 two pleasant worlds — the outer, white and green; the 
 inner, white and gold. The birds' eyes were perhaps 
 never weary of the former, for the green of trees and 
 grass must be inestimably lovely to a bird, and 
 amongst it, could they attain it, was the wide world of 
 liberty, constant change, and the delight of motion, so 
 dear and bewitching to wings; but from the latter 
 came many agreeable gifts, warmth and food, and caress- 
 ing words, though, alas ! tainted with slavery. 
 
 u Papa/' said Charlotte, with one hand lifted up to 
 her bird, as she held a grape for his eating, " Burton 
 says we shall have no cherries this year; the frost took 
 the bloom last nio-ht." 
 
 o 
 
 " I hope not, my clear. Perhaps Burton may be 
 mistaken." 
 
 " It will be very provoking if it is so. For I am so 
 fond of cherries. And so is Bob. Aren't you, my pet?" 
 
 Bob replied with a gurgling chirrup. 
 
 " Bob's tipsy," said Edward. " He's been eating- 
 grapes till he doesn't know what he's about." 
 
 "How absurd!" was Charlotte's reply. "I'm quite 
 tired of your talk about tipsy people; I hoped we were 
 going to hear something better. You'll talk about 
 them so long till you think all the world's going drunk 
 together. Do change the subject." 
 
 " Willingly; I shall be only too glad. What do you 
 girls say to a walk in the shrubbery before it gets dark?'' 
 
118 BY THE TEENT. 
 
 Mrs. Gresham heard the invitation, and mindful of 
 her husband's request about attending to the health of 
 their guest, proposed that all should go out for half an 
 hour, before the chill of evening came on, if agreeable 
 to Mr. Morris. The mayor had just subsided into his 
 large easy chair for a lounge and a fireside conversation, 
 but acquiesced at once with a good grace, and Stephen 
 agreed that a walk would be pleasant. Hats, and 
 bonnets, and shawls were obtained. Edward and his 
 sisters were soon in advance of the rest, and while the 
 elder ones loitered by the aviary, admiring the plumage 
 of the gold and silver pheasants, these made their way 
 to the lake, and fed the swans with biscuits from 
 Edward's pocket, amused to watch the birds soak and 
 macerate the hard pieces in the water before they at- 
 tempted to swallow them. When the biscuits were 
 exhausted, they stood some time admiring the graceful 
 motions of the male swan as he glided about with 
 thrown-back head and swelled chest, ever and anon 
 striking out impetuously, till the water, pushed into 
 rebellion, rose around him in tiny waves and ruffled his 
 snowy feathers. "What a prow the fellow has," said 
 Edward. "There's a model for a boat! I'll have one 
 made some day after his fashion, and we three will sail 
 in it up the Trent and astonish the folks." 
 
 " That would be beautiful! that would be delightful!" 
 said Jane and Charlotte; "to sail in a swan; only 
 think! You would paint it white, of course. What a 
 beautiful boat for a bridal!" 
 
 " Yes; that would have been a good idea, if I had 
 only thought of it a little sooner. By the by, have 
 your dresses come home yet, girls?'' 
 
THE SERMON. 119 
 
 " They came quite early this morning," replied Char- 
 lotte; " and we've had such a time of trying on before 
 dinner! But they are all a beautiful fit, and the bon- 
 nets are real loves." 
 
 "Pale blue and silver, aren't the dresses? The lace 
 will look splendid over the blue silk. There isn't any 
 more of the same pattern in all Trentham, and I'm glad 
 you asked me to help you to choose it. I saw cousin 
 Emmv's things this morning when I called. Her veil 
 will almost touch the ground, and has cost forty pounds. 
 They're in a pretty bustle, I can tell you; and aunt 
 said cook was in an awful temper, because some of the 
 ices were quite spoiled, and she'd fresh to make." 
 
 "Did Emmy look well?' asked Jane. 
 
 "0 3'es; gay as a lark! We'd a talk about the 
 breakfast, and I had to tell them how the table was set 
 out at the Star and Garter at Richmond when John 
 Oakes was married. But come, shall we walk on?" 
 
 He gave each of the girls an arm, and then proceeded 
 with his talk, as they roamed among the rhododen- 
 drons and laurels. " Emmy told me that at first uncle 
 had objected to champagne, but she coaxed him to 
 getting it. She said that Sarah Hooker had champagne 
 at her wedding breakfast, and that she wasn't going to 
 be behind Sarah Hooker. Emmy's rather spirity and 
 dashing in her notions. She asked me what I thought, 
 and whether she had done right to insist on it. Of 
 course I said, yes, champagne was the thing/' 
 
 " How old-fashioned uncle is/' remarked Charlotte; 
 "I believe he'll grudge the expense of the wedding 
 awfully. He wanted to have had just such a hum- 
 drum wedding as he and aunt had thirty years ago, 
 
J 20 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 with one cab and one bridemaid. Only think how 
 strange ! But aunt said she wouldn't hear of such a 
 thing, and that she was determined people should know 
 when one of her girls got married." 
 
 " And yet Grayson's only a banker's clerk. I wonder 
 Emmy didn't look a little higher. But that's no busi- 
 ness of ours; is it, girls? All we've got to do to-morrow 
 is to be as jolly as possible. And stay — I've something 
 for you to look at, in my pocket. Here it is, or rather 
 here they are." And he brought out two small mor- 
 occo cases, and opening one, disclosed a beautiful pear] 
 bracelet, laid luxuriously upon its crimson velvet bed. 
 " Will this thing fit either of you?" He put the box 
 into Charlotte's outstretched hand, and opening the 
 other, revealed a similar one, which he himself took out 
 and clasped upon Jane's arm. 
 
 "How lovely! how beautiful! Thank you! thank 
 you, you dear good brother!" said they both in a breath, 
 and Jane threw her arms round his neck and kissed 
 him repeatedly. " When did you buy them? and how 
 kind of you to think of us!" 
 
 "That will do; dont smother me!" said he laughing 
 and gently shaking her off. " I'm glad you like them. 
 I was passing by Hart's window this morning, and 
 saw Charlotte's just as the shopman was laying it out. 
 It looked pretty; and it struck me it would just do for 
 the wedding, so I went in and asked if they'd another 
 like it, for I couldn't forget my little Jane; and that's all 
 about it. And now put them by again, and say nothing 
 about them till to-morrow, and then we'll surprise 
 mamma." 
 
 By the time the bracelets were safely put by, Mr. 
 
THE SERMON. 121 
 
 and Mrs. Gresham and their guest came in sight. They 
 appeared to be deep in grave conversation, but began 
 other talk on the approach of the younger people. A 
 walk to the greenhouses and gardens was proposed. In 
 the first the camellias, azaleas, and cinerarias made a 
 splendid show, and Mrs. Gresham gathered with her 
 own hand flowers for the minister to carry home, when 
 the walk was ended. Then the drawing-room once 
 more received the party. Charlotte at the request of 
 her father played on the piano, and with dexterity and 
 ease performed several brilliant pieces of music, and 
 afterwards accompanied her sister as she sang with a low 
 but pleasant voice several simple melodies. Afterwards 
 came tea, and lights, and more conversation; and alto- 
 gether a cheerful bright evening, that the young min- 
 ister thought upon with pleasure as he rode home by 
 starlight in the ma}^or's carriage. Mrs. Gresham had 
 been almost motherly in her inquiries after his health, 
 and in her advice to take more open-air exercise and to 
 give up late studies; and at parting, as she stood well- 
 dressed and handsome in the light of the drawing-room 
 chandelier, she had pressed him to pay Swansford a 
 visit very frequently, assuring him of a thorough wel- 
 come at any time. " John shall always drive you 
 home/' she said, " and fetch you whenever you will let 
 us know you are coming, if you prefer riding to walk- 
 ing." And then when about to shake hands, "I will 
 tell you something of a secret, which will however be 
 none in the morning. We are to have a gala-day to- 
 morrow; or at least the young people expect one. 
 Their cousin Emily is to be married; and if you happen 
 to be near St. Mary's Church at eleven o'clock or so. 
 
122 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 you will see a gay procession. Edward especially in- 
 tends to enjoy himself. It is well you have come 
 to-day to see the greenhouses, for to-morrow they will 
 he stripped; he has ordered Burton to make up more 
 bouquets than I can tell." 
 
 "Now, mother dear, what fables are you telling 
 about me to Mr. Morris?" asked Edward with a smile, 
 as he came forward and put his hand affectionately on 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "No fables at all, dear, only — " 
 
 "I trust they are," interrupted the father's voice from 
 behind. " Edward must buy some of his bouquets if 
 he wants so many; I cannot have the greenhouses left 
 quite bare." 
 
 "There, mamma," in a lower voice; "you see what 
 you've brought upon me. I shall have to go off to- 
 morrow with shorn beams; and I had intended to have 
 not only been crowned, but buried in flowers, as I rode 
 to uncle's. You won't let me bury myself that way, 
 and yet you ought — it might save you some trouble 
 some day; and a coffin would cost }-ou a good deal 
 more than the flowers after all." 
 
 The words were very lightly said, and very lightly 
 taken; but to Stephen they returned with a solemn 
 meaning on that lonely drive homewards. For, thought 
 he, was not death far too solemn a subject to be jested 
 about? and ought he not perhaps to have spoken some 
 nttino: word at that moment? 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST; 0P M FIRST WINE, THEN 
 WATER. 
 
 Stephen Morris did not see the gay procession Mrs. 
 Gresham named; be remained at home, absorbed, as 
 was his custom at that hour of the day, in ministerial 
 studies. 
 
 There were, however, many of the inhabitants of 
 Trentham who on that Tuesday morning, bright and 
 sunny as it was, were glad to run out and watch the 
 young bride and bridegroom enter and leave the church; 
 who counted the number of carriages, noted the size of 
 the postilions' white rosettes, the length of the bride's 
 veil, the richness and colour of her dress, the number 
 and splendour of the bridemaids and their attire, and 
 the grandeur of the groom's waistcoat; and these 
 declared it was a "fine enough wedding for a lord." 
 The bride's mother, who was present in rich brocade 
 and lace trimmings, would have been gratified had she 
 heard this and other remarks made by the outstanding 
 crowd; and her pride was sensibly gladdened when 
 she saw among the spectators within the church the 
 mother and sister of the Sarah Hooker, whose wedding, 
 gay as it had been, was now fairly outrivalled and 
 outdone. Not in vain, then, had been her shaping and 
 trimming, and managing of her husband's temper, her 
 secret struo'o-les, her cares, her contrivances, the month's 
 bustle, the last week's hurry, the year's forethought, to 
 
124} BY THE TRENT. 
 
 this end, since Sarah Hooker's and all similar weddings 
 must now hide their diminished heads! She was a 
 proud and happy mother. 
 
 The old church — gray, as it had a right to be, with the 
 shadow of its five hundred years about it, with its monu- 
 ments of the dead upon its walls and the graves of its 
 dead about its feet, its water-worn, time-eaten buttresses 
 and porch, and its crumbling font, telling of the gene- 
 rations who had been born and baptized, and were now 
 passed away, since first its massive stones had been cat 
 from the quarry, and jointed and fitted, and carved 
 with grotesque adornment — was once more made glad 
 with the step of the bride and bridegroom over its 
 pavements, and echoed softly, as it had done so many 
 thousand times before, the whisper of the bride's "I 
 will." Hidden amongst its pillars and monuments there 
 might be perhaps a grim smile — the smile of the past, 
 of endurance, of stone, over the present, the quickly 
 perishing; over those human lilies and roses, so soft, and 
 fleshy, and fading, and those still more swiftly to change, 
 and die, and pass away, than the bride herself — the 
 flowers she held in her hand. And between spandrel 
 and arch and pillar a silent laughter might take its 
 way, as satins and silks and laces rustled by, and 
 flowers and perfumes for the moment overpowered the 
 scent of the charnel-house close by; but whatever smile 
 or laughter the old church had this morning, it kept 
 the secret well, as it had so often done before, as it will 
 ever know how to do. 
 
 It was a gay wedding, not only for its dresses and 
 decorations, but for the youth and merriment it had — 
 the last scarcely kept in check by the solemnity of the 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST. 125 
 
 marriage service, and breaking out afresh directly this 
 was over. The first to kiss the new-made wife was 
 Edward, and he did not forget to claim the pair of 
 gloves due to him for that pleasant feat. Charlotte and 
 Jane, as two of the briclemaids, were perfectly well- 
 dressed, and did not shame their trappings, as some- 
 times bridemaids are apt to do, by too great a contrast 
 between the freshness and youth of the dress and their 
 own faded faces. And the whole party were pronounced, 
 by those who eagerly scanned them over as they 
 re-entered the carriages, to be a "thoroughly handsome 
 lot." 
 
 The breakfast at the bride's home passed off much 
 as such breakfasts are accustomed to do. The table 
 was covered with delicate, rare food of all allowable 
 kinds — fruits, and creams, and ices, and cakes, and 
 luxurious provisions, with the bridecake in the midst, 
 large, and grand, and snow-white, and adorned with 
 a pyramid of figures and flowers clothed in frosted 
 silver. There was talk, and merriment, and jokes, and 
 smiles, and the daintiest of eating and drinking, as we 
 have said. There was youth, and health, and beauty, 
 the sparkle of jewels, of gold, of bright eyes, of happi- 
 ness — that finest sparkle of all — and there was cham- 
 pagne. How it danced, and foamed, and sparkled in 
 the glass! what an exuberance of joy seemed to lie in 
 its clear brightness! what an inviting taste in its deli- 
 cious freshness ! All drank, in honour of the bride, in 
 honour of the bridegroom, in honour of the bride's 
 father and mother, in honour of themselves. Speeches 
 were made, compliments and congratulations passed, 
 bottles were emptied, glasses filled, and tossed off, and 
 
126 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 re-filled. The gentlemen's talk became louder, the 
 ladies' cheeks redder, and in the midst of all the jollity 
 the bride went away with her companion, with the 
 kisses of her father and mother upon her cheeks. 
 
 Then when all was over, and the feast was ended — 
 for a marriage breakfast, like the marriage itself, must 
 come to an end some time — and the ladies were enjoy- 
 ing themselves in the drawing-room with their women's 
 chat about "Emmy and Mr. Grayson/' and the appoint- 
 ments and furniture of the new home, the young men 
 proposed a walk. 
 
 " What say you to a row up the river?" asked 
 Edward of his cousin William, Emily's brother, when 
 in a while they were left to themselves walking arm 
 in arm across the park. Below them — for the park 
 lies upon part of the high rocky terrace on which and 
 out of which the town is built and dug — stretched the 
 level of the meadows, and long miles of the lovely Trent- 
 valley lay full in sight; the shining river running 
 through it its now rapid waters, and suggesting, no 
 doubt, to Edward, the amusement he proposed. 
 
 "The very thing. It will be a glorious pull up 
 to-day; and I'll get a lad from the warehouse to take 
 care of the boat while we have a stroll up the Grove." 
 
 With rapid strides and bounding hearts the two 
 proceeded through the streets, calling for the boy as 
 proposed — a thoughtful-looking, large-headed boy, de- 
 signated a " warehouse lad," who was glad enough to 
 leave the perpetual folding-up of hose, and the monoto- 
 nous life of the warehouse, for an afternoon's pleasure 
 with his young master. 
 
 " Now, Ike ; you young dog, run on before and get 
 
TIIE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST. 127 
 
 the boat ready for us, will you?" was William's speech, 
 in a half-patronizing, half-authoritative tone; and the 
 " young dog," in dark, seedy cloth jacket and cap and 
 gray checked trowsers, ran gladly off in the direction 
 of the Trent bridge with a cheerful "Yes, sir." 
 
 Then the two young men walked more slowly, and 
 presently Edward said, "I came off from home without 
 my cigar-case, "Will. It wouldn't have been the thing, 
 you know, to bring out cigars at a wedding. Suppose 
 we go in to Shelton's and buy a couple?" 
 
 "All right," replied William, to whom a cigar was 
 also a desideratum, and who perhaps considered it a 
 necessary of life, in his benighted, fashionable young- 
 man condition. 
 
 A couple, therefore, were bought at the tobacconist's, 
 and a couple or two more "in case of need;" and both, 
 lighting a cigar a-piece in the shop, joked the while 
 with the young woman that waited upon them, who 
 was both pretty and bold. 
 
 " That girl's a stunner," said William admiringly, as 
 they went oat. "What a pair of eyes she has! and 
 what eye-lashes!" 
 
 "Mind she doesn't catch you with them," laughed Ed- 
 ward. "Tom Green laid a wager the other day with Sam 
 Wright that those eye-lashes of hers w r ere an inch long." 
 
 "And lost, of courseT 
 
 "Of course, my boy. If he hadn't been half-seas 
 over he wouldn't have been so soft." 
 
 "Did she let him measure them?" 
 
 " Yes, and professed to cry because Tom lost. She's 
 made one or two awful attempts to catch Tom; but I 
 don't think she'll get him; he's not so soft as that." 
 
"128 EY THE TEEXT. 
 
 This was not exactly the sort of language the two 
 young men had lately been using at the wedding, nor 
 was it the language they allowed their home friends 
 to hear. Slang is always ugly, it belongs to the jail 
 and the ale-house, and gives fitting expression to the 
 evil passions drink stimulates, whether it be "that poor 
 creature," small beer, or that drink of the more refined, 
 champagne. 
 
 There were some afterwards who remembered, or 
 fancied they did so, that Edward did not walk quite 
 "serenely balanced" on his way to the river; but of 
 this fact we are not quite certain. Only one thing we 
 know, that amongst the curious gray matter of his 
 Lrain was some degree of ferment — that vein and nerve 
 called to one another excitedly — and that along their 
 conduits and wires ran a subtle poison, a stimulator 
 of riots and insurrections! The red flag was up, the 
 cool judgment down; and combativeness, destructive- 
 ness, and obstinacy, with others of their followers, rode 
 uppermost, and were heard and listened to alone. 
 When the river steps were reached no boat was ready 
 launched, and they were indignant. Ike alone stood 
 waiting, with a look of mingled fear and vexation. 
 To the questions of his master he replied, "Bowlby 
 won't let me have the key, sir, and I can't get it out/' 
 
 " Why not? What's the matter now?" 
 
 " He say's the river's too high, and the boat's sure 
 to be swamped if you try to go up, sir." 
 
 " What confounded nonsense!" growled Edward. 
 
 William turned to the boy with an eye flaming with 
 anger. "You go and fetch that key, or I'll swamp both 
 you and Bowlby when you come back!" The boy 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST. 129 
 
 went away quickly, and returned presently with Bowlby, 
 a short bandy-legged man, with muscular brown arms 
 bare to the elbows, and short bristly hair surmounted 
 by an oilskin cap. 
 
 " How's this, Bowlby? Why can't you send the key 
 without all this bother?" 
 
 " Why, Mr. Gresham, beggin' }<our pardon, sir, it's 
 not safe to go on this here water to-day. Ike said you 
 meant to go up'ards through the bridge, and I toud 
 him it couldn't be done; that's all. But if you must, 
 you must; here's the key, sir. Only I say still, don't 
 blame me if you get a ducking." 
 
 The river washed muddy and restless by their feet, 
 and rushed by the boat-house and dashed against the 
 wall that bounded one of its sides; its current runniug 
 impetuously and swiftly onwards, like a strong untired 
 racer that sees the goal; and as the eye looked across 
 the yellow rolling waters, its impetus and strength 
 might be guessed by the flakes of foam that rose and 
 sank, and were tossed and drifted hither and thither in 
 the centre of the whirling mass. Bowlby glanced at 
 the whole with a cool knowing gaze; but the young 
 men knew no fear. Why should they? They were 
 members of the Trentham Bowing Club — well accus- 
 tomed to the river; they were young, and felt untold 
 strength in their limbs, their warm blood running 
 almost as quickly and fiercely as the river's cooler cur- 
 rent; they had put to sleep by that magic brew, the 
 sparkling champagne, the watcher by the telegraph 
 wires, and he put out no signal of danger. Why 
 should they fear? 
 
 Ike unlocked the boat, placed the oars in order, and 
 
130 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 the two jumped in, laughing at Bowlby, and bidding 
 him go home and "get his old woman to make some 
 gruel to put his nerves in order." Bowlby shook his 
 head as he turned on his heel to go away, muttering 
 to himself, " Them young chaps has had a drop or two 
 too much, or they wouldn't be after that game to-day. 
 But let 'em go and feel the stream, they'll soon tire 
 theirselves, an if they get a souse, it'll cool 'em and do 
 'em good." 
 
 Bowlby 's organ of benevolence was not large. He 
 had quieted what conscience a rough unthinking life 
 had left him, by refusing the key to the lad, and he 
 now went indoors, to smoke his pipe and grumble at 
 the world and the river collectively. To tell the truth, 
 however, he did not anticipate the young men would 
 really attempt to push through any one of the arches — 
 he imagined they would come back when fairly their 
 strength had been tried against the current; and he 
 was too well accustomed in his situation of boat-keeper 
 to the vagaries and hair-breadth escapes of young men 
 on the water, to feel at all nervous or anticipative of 
 danger. 
 
 When the boat was turned with its head against the 
 current, then came " the tug of war," as Edward laugh- 
 ingly observed; but it was a tug they liked; and their 
 muscles asked for labour to relieve the excitement of the 
 brain. Moreover, they felt some amount of exultation 
 in having opposed and "shut up" that old fellow Bowlby. 
 
 " He might think we didn't know what rowing up 
 stream was," said Edward boastfully; " but you and I, 
 Will, have been here times enough to know it, I should 
 think. Pull away, old fellow !" 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST. 131 
 
 But they made slow progress with all their exertions. 
 The muddy waters gurgled round the boat; the current 
 was rapid and strong, and for every two feet forwards 
 they took at least one backwards. Still they were by 
 no means daunted. " Once through the bridge and we 
 shall get on/' said William, and he began to sing — 
 
 " Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
 Will ye go, will ye go, — 
 Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
 
 To the birks of Aberf eldy ? 
 
 "The braes ascend like lofty wa's; 
 The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's; 
 O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
 The birks of Aberfeldy." 
 
 Edward joined him in the chorus, and their voices 
 sounded pleasantly as it reached the shore, while their 
 oars beat time to the music. But now the "pour" of 
 the impetuous stream under the arches could be seen 
 quite near; all thoughts of music and singing must be 
 abandoned, and they were aware they must apply all 
 their energies to the work before them. As they neared 
 the bridge, the current was still stronger, and they saw 
 how the waters whirled and tossed, and pushed about 
 and against the abutments, and ran madly through the 
 outlets, or dashed backward from the opposing stones 
 with foam and fury, and rush and roar. So far the 
 boat had been managed well. It had been a hard pull; 
 but their muscles were vigorous, and their nerves ex- 
 cited to the struggle. Now they hesitated a moment. 
 Through which of the arches should they attempt to 
 force the boat? which of all those foaming on pouring- 
 torrents should they attack and resist with their feeble 
 oars? William inclined to try one at the left side — 
 
132 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Edward proposed the centre arch. "I have been 
 through it before," he said confidently, "with as great 
 a swell as this." 
 
 " It will be dangerous; better try the other." 
 " Nonsense ! this is the best, I tell you." 
 "William gave a hasty glance. For a moment he was 
 sobered, as he saw through every arch the strong waters 
 running, overflowing the piers, and chafing at the 
 abutments, swirling, rushing, tumbling, racing, surging, 
 swelling. — In truth, all seemed equally fearful and im- 
 possible. 
 
 " Stay, Edward; let us go back — it can't be done." 
 " What? and not see the birks of Aberfeldy ? What 
 a coward you are, man! Pull hard. Here we go for 
 the middle arch." 
 
 William obeyed; he let the stronger will lead. 
 Ike sat at the end of the boat, with a pale face, but 
 an unfearing heart. Boys are not often timorous — and 
 his nerves were of iron. And then he was with his 
 young master, who was so strong, so clever, so knowing 
 an oarsman. The waters were stubborn and noisy, but 
 in imagination he had already passed through the 
 arches, and this afternoon's strain and turmoil was but 
 another tale to tell to the listening " stay at homes," 
 who would applaud his quiet courage. 
 
 A mighty strong pull with all their strength; with 
 close-shut teeth and lips; swollen veins on forehead 
 and arm, and perspiration starting from every pore. 
 Ike held his breath. The oars were rapidly lifted for 
 another pull, and already these touched the water, when 
 the boat turned rapidly, struck the abutment, and 
 received a blow that threw the boy out, and nearly 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST. 133 
 
 upset the rowers. All was confusion in a moment — 
 the current carried the boat back; the cousins grasped 
 their oars tightly, but their eyes sought the boy. He 
 rose close to them, and seized the oar held by William. 
 "Let one save him!" cried Edward, and leaned over the 
 boat-side to lift him in, in spite of William's entreaties 
 to sit still. The boat overbalanced, and they were all 
 in the water, and the two young men thoroughly 
 sobered in a moment. 
 
 Helplessly the overturned boat was tossed about, and 
 drifted down with the current as a half-submerged cork, 
 scarcely noticeable, to be caught perhaps in some bend 
 of the river, miles away; and still more the playthings 
 of the mad waters, the oars floated madly seawards. 
 The living prey of the river did not yield to their fate 
 so passively. With eyes straining towards the shore, 
 and arms and feet thrown with the impulse of self- 
 preservation into the attitude of the swimmer, the 
 cousins battled long with the cold, heavy, mercilessly 
 powerful water. But the boy had in his lifetime laid 
 aside more hose than waves; he could not swim, and 
 his efforts had no experience or judgment to second 
 them — he fought and paddled in the water like some 
 frightened animal, and sank repeatedly. Before he 
 sank the last time, he passed close by William, and 
 with a never-to-be-forgotten look, shrieked to him to 
 save him; but William let the lad pass by, his own life 
 was in jeopardy, and turning his eyes from him, scanned 
 the shore with an anxious, terribly anxious look, to see 
 if help were coming, for as yet the land seemed far 
 away from him, almost as far as ever, in spite of his 
 exertions. His clothes were heavy, thoroughly satu- 
 
J34 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 rated, and impeded his movements; he was getting 
 exhausted; his efforts relaxed; the river, the sky, the 
 shore mingled, became one vast blue; the sound of 
 rushing water filled his ears, he uttered a wild cry, and 
 sank beneath the foaming waters. 
 
 Bowlby heard the cry in his cabin — threw down his 
 pipe, overturned his chair, and ran down the steps to 
 look out. No boat was in siofht above or below the 
 bridge; but a long way down the river, was that small 
 black speck a human head? It must have been, though 
 now it was invisible; and that was a living hand that 
 his practised eye discerned, raised a moment above the 
 tumbling stream; and that was, good God! the over- 
 turned boat, drifting towards the sedges. 
 
 He understood it all in a moment — unlocked a boat, 
 took the oars in hand, and was quickly flying over the 
 water to the rescue. He had no need to row, he had but 
 to guide the boat ; the current bore him very swiftly 
 downwards, and he kept a sharp look-out as he pro- 
 ceeded for a sight of any of the unhappy party, though 
 long, as it seemed to him, he looked in vain. But what 
 does he at last see? A good way further down a head 
 again rises above the waves, and at the same moment a 
 tall figure, hidden by the trees till now, bounded from 
 the shore and plunged in. The stranger swam boldly 
 out, and with powerful arms made way across the stream, 
 reached the still visible head, and seized the rapidly 
 sinking body, held it up bravely with one arm, and 
 slowly bore it to the side. Bowlby gladly and swiftly 
 turned his boat to the help of the brave man; but he 
 shouted, " There is another lower down," and again the 
 boat swept on with the current. No second head 
 
DEATH AND HIS DOINGS. 135 
 
 emerged, however; and the boatman's keen eyes gazed 
 in vain. "It is of no use," he murmured; "they are 
 at the bottom, sure enough, by this time, if they haven't 
 got to shore!" 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DEATH AND HIS DOINGS. 
 
 Death has many costumes — quiet and sombre, often 
 sad and repulsive, almost always solemn, and but rarely 
 gay. Gaiety and death seem so opposite that we should 
 think them impossible to be joined did we not know 
 that all extremes are to be found in our little earth, 
 since man, the microcosm, is there. From the deepest, 
 blackest shadow to the palest ash-gray — to the thinnest, 
 tenderest, etherous white, death's garments are of 
 various tints and colours; and the whole rainbow is 
 exhausted in them, though the graver, colder tints pre- 
 dominate. Infinitely varied as are his costumes and 
 their colours, so are his exits and his entrances; and in 
 no two homes does he appear the same. 
 
 Invisible and soundless he draws near to some. His 
 tread is soft and gliding, his shoes are of velvet, his 
 drapery has no rustle. He enters the house, mounts 
 the stairs; none hear or see sound or form as he slides 
 past, through passage or corridor, to the chamber of 
 the doomed one. Not till perhaps the last moment is 
 he revealed. Not till the last sigh is ready to be 
 drawn do we perceive the attendant shadow, thin and 
 pale, and own the sad vision. 
 
136 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 With a grave smile he puts his hand upon the pen- 
 dulum of the heart, and arrests its feverish motion; 
 breathes upon the brain, dulling both sense and feeling 
 till they are lost in the stupor and catalepsy of the 
 grave; and, breaking gently the case that has for a 
 longer or shorter time shut in the mystery, lets out 
 the imprisoned soul. When, in our agony, we turn to 
 chide the destroyer, he is gone — he is no longer there. 
 Or if we see him, he has the face of an angel, and we 
 chide no more. 
 
 In other homes he has lon^ been seen and recocr- 
 nized. He has visited at morning, noon, and night; 
 appeared to the dull eyes of the waking sick; hovered 
 near their pillows as they sank to sleep; sung to them 
 lugubrious or blessed lullabies; shown them pictures 
 from his wonderful primer, that has the alphabet of 
 the next world within its pages; talked to them of 
 unutterable things. And this he has done for weeks, 
 and months, and years, till his step is no longer feared, 
 his form has lost its harshness, his face its gloom; he 
 is one of the household, necessary, almost unregarded. 
 When his last visit is paid, his office performed, his 
 mystery revealed, there are tears, or sighs, or sad looks; 
 but the long-expected blow has lost half its power. 
 The cutting through of bone, and muscle, and tendon, 
 has been done long ago; all the blood has been shed; 
 the wound has grown over; there is but a thin coating 
 of the cuticle to sever. It is cut, and is scarcely felt; 
 and we ask, Is this death, this gentle parting? 
 
 But quite otherwise is it in other homes. Here, 
 when he comes, his aspect and manner are terrible. His 
 clothing is of the storm, dark and double dark; his walk 
 
DEATH AND HIS DOINGS. 137 
 
 of the whirlwind, his motions harsh and rude. He rings 
 and shakes at both bell and knocker; and while the 
 alarum sounds and vibrates, he marches on with the 
 tread of thunder. Perhaps he has already done his chief 
 work, and comes but to terrify the living. Undis- 
 guised, no feature softened, no bone draped, no terrible 
 grimace absent, he looks into boudoir, and drawing- 
 room, and library, and chamber, and makes himself 
 known roughly and without introduction for what he 
 is. And then before him are stretched stricken forms, 
 anguished blood-weeping hearts; and he beholds wrung 
 hands, tearless eyes, hysterics, and delirium, or the 
 silent despair of those who, alas ! see only 
 
 " An ever-breaking shore, 
 That ' tumbles ' in the godless deep." 
 
 Yet even here a consolation may become apparent — a 
 great and lasting one to those who truly love. This 
 harsh appearance of that which we call sudden death 
 is most frequently more frightful to the survivors than 
 to the victims. To these last the short pang, the sharp 
 mortal agony, unstaying, irresistible, can be but for a 
 few moments; and we have yet to learn that the pain 
 of dying is even so great as it appears. To how many 
 souls has the lightning-stroke of sudden death been the 
 chariot of Elijah — built of fire, but mounting to heaven ! 
 to how man}'-, the quick shutting of the mortal book, 
 in which were inscribed only tear-stained words, best 
 to be closed! to how many the soft, glad voice of an 
 angel telling of the immortality that has so long been 
 thought upon with the trembling heart of Much-afraid! 
 But the survivors — those who had built their hopes 
 upon the future of the beloved one; those who loved 
 
188 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 with the passionate fondness of individual love; those 
 who, consciously or unconsciously, had let the dear ones 
 grow too near the heart-strings — to these the sudden 
 wrench is fearful; the heart seems torn out with the 
 removed object, and lies bleeding and cooling with it 
 on the earth. What can be said to these? 
 
 A dark, shadow had fallen upon Swansford. When 
 first the news came of Edward's death, it seemed too 
 terrible to be true; and a dumb, stubborn unbelief at 
 once rose up, refusing to accept such a catastrophe. 
 "He may yet be saved, as is his cousin William; possibly 
 some other friendly arm interposed for his life, and 
 drew him to land, and we shall hear of it before 
 long." This was their hidden thought. And this 
 unbelief held sway till early the next morning, when 
 his body was found some miles below the bridge, 
 caught in the roots of an old willow. The mavor 
 covered his face with his hands when he recognized 
 the pale, rigid face — with its open, eager eyes seeming 
 still to strain in death for a sight of the longed-for, 
 unattainable shore- 1 — as the face of his son. He covered 
 his face with his hands and wept, and all the spectators 
 in the inn-room kept silence, reverencing and pitying 
 a father's tears. "My boy I my Edward!" were the 
 words that alone burst from his agonized bosom; and 
 as he did not soon regain self-command and calmness, 
 he was gently led away, and persuaded to leave the 
 body to the care of other friends. 
 
 Can we speak of the mourning of the sisters in the 
 darkened home? Their abundance of tears, till no 
 more tears would rise; their low voices; their pale, 
 haggard faces; their slow steps? Better to leave all 
 
DEATH AND HIS DOINGS. 189 
 
 these to be imagined. Of the mother we must speak 
 presently. Death had visited this house with his 
 fiercest step, and the rooms yet trembled echoing his 
 tread. The inquest disclosed little more than we have 
 related. The friendly stranger who had saved William's 
 life at the risk of his own was said to be a Mr. Broad- 
 bent, residing at St. Wilfrid's, who happened to be 
 passing at the time. The boy Ike was yet unfound; 
 and for some weary nights living people lay awake in 
 the long dai*k hours, seeing with shuddering distinct- 
 ness a large-eyed, large-headed boy, with fair hair, 
 half-buried in sand, and mud, and weeds, with many 
 feet of heavy rolling waters above him, or carried 
 slowly, head foremost, by the current, to a burial in 
 the wide German Ocean. 
 
 But the body was spared that fate. In a week it 
 too was discovered, and buried in the churchyard of 
 St. 1 Mary's, one mourner only following — a young girl 
 dressed in rather forlorn black, whose large blue eyes 
 bore a certain resemblance to those of him she had 
 lately called brother. Stephen Morris visited the 
 mayor's family the day after their bereavement. He 
 went to endeavour to comfort, in the only possible way 
 left, by speaking of the great Comforter. He prayed 
 with them; he read to them words of Scripture best 
 suited, as he thought, to their state of mind; he incul- 
 cated submission to the will of God. 
 
 But Mrs. Greskam was in an excited state; the numb- 
 ness that first follows a heavy blow was gone, and the 
 smart was excessive; she refused to be comforted. A 
 mother's heart clings, we are told, most to a son; and 
 hers had loved with increasing fervour all these years — 
 
140 BY THE TEENT. 
 
 one who loved deeply in return, one who was the pride 
 of her eyes, the joy of her soul. She quarrelled with 
 his death in all aspects — its mode — its time of occur- 
 rence — its cause. 
 
 " It is God's will," solemnly and tenderly repeated 
 the minister. 
 
 " God's will to take him now, in his thoughtlessness, 
 and on that day of all others! No, never! God could 
 not will that! And you will tell me," she said, looking 
 almost fiercely round, she who usually was so timid and 
 gentle, " you will tell me next that it was His will he 
 should drink that wine till he did not know what he 
 did. But I will not believe it. I will not be resigned ! 
 I cannot be resigned ! Oh, my Edward! my Edward!" 
 
 " My dear," said the mayor, who had gained an out- 
 ward appearance of calm, and whose pale face and 
 sunken cheek turned towards hers, with an unusual 
 meekness, "these are wild words. Calm yourself; 
 remember, you are not the first mother who has lost a 
 son. God is good and kind even now/' 
 
 Her red tearless eyes looked upon him with scorn. 
 She was so changed from her old self that he feared her 
 as he gazed upon her. " She is deranged/' he said in a 
 low voice, while his lips blanched. 
 
 " If I remember right, sir, it was you that taught 
 him to drink wine; was it not? Look at your work!"' 
 
 She pointed towards the next room, where lay the 
 dead body, and then fell into convulsions. 
 
 And on this scene Stephen Morris thought sadly as 
 he returned home. 
 
 For a time no doubt Mrs. Gresham had been deranged, 
 and had used words such as in her normal state could 
 
DEATH AND HIS DOINGS. 141 
 
 never have passed her mouth; words of bitterness, and 
 rebellion, and upbraiding; they were the ravings of an 
 almost broken-hearted mother; but they pursued him 
 like a nightmare. 
 
 On his next visit, a few daj^s afterwards, she was 
 quiet and subdued, and had no relapse of what was 
 called her delirium. If his words of consolation did 
 not reach her wounded heart with healing power, at 
 least she did not oppose or refuse them, and her tears 
 had their way without hindrance, mingling with those 
 of her daughters. 
 
 A new vault was made for the only son of the mayor, 
 in the churchyard at Swansford — a quieter and less 
 crowded churchyard than those of the town. The 
 finest flannel, and oak, and broadcloth, were laid round 
 his remains; a silver-mounted plate recorded his name 
 and age, and the year of his death; and he was lowered 
 into the dark brick dwelling prepared for him with 
 holy words, and prayers, and tears, in the presence of a 
 multitude of people, attracted to the funeral by his sad 
 death, and his father's position. 
 
 In a fortnight people ceased to talk about him, and 
 in a few months even the terrible wounds in the 
 parents' hearts that his untimely death had made, were 
 slowly cicatrizing. 
 
 Cousin Emmy (Mrs. Grayson) shed many tears over 
 Edward's fate. She had loved him much in a cousinly 
 way; she deplored his " want of self-command about 
 the champagne that morning;" she called him "poor 
 dear Edward," and kept a miniature of him in a drawer 
 that she sometimes affectionately sighed over; and a 
 little of his hair in a rich gold mourning-ring adorned 
 
142 BY THE TBENT. 
 
 her finger for a twelvemonth; but at all convenient or 
 " proper " occasions the wine was on her table, for her 
 guests or herself, to try their self-command over; and 
 she did not cease to order champagne whenever Mr. 
 Grayson would allow it. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 COMUS. 
 
 Spring went by, and summer came. May had left her 
 moist buds for June to open, with warm electric fingers. 
 The river had long forgotten its time of flood, and 
 where sand and gravel, and mud, and wreck of weeds, 
 had lain on its banks, now grew herbs and grasses, and 
 beds of flowering rushes, tall and grand. With low 
 midsummer current the stream fled along, singing and 
 rippling over the stones of the shallows, that it had 
 rounded and polished industriously in the winter, and 
 the willows and alders drooped their full-leaved faces 
 admiringly over its clear mirror. The blue of the 
 forget-me-not, mingled with the gold of the trailing 
 money- wort and the green sedges by the shore, and 
 the rich crimson of the spired loose-strife shone above 
 tufts of foamy meadow-sweet. 
 
 The brother and sister at St. Wilfrid's still enjoyed 
 the freshness and charm of their by-river life — and a 
 great peace was with them. Mary Plowclen painted 
 early and late, views of the river, and the river-islands, 
 and was quite happy. James Miller, in the widow's 
 
1 1 o 
 
 1 enlivened her lonely 
 
 orked with tolerable 
 
 is yet, with tolerable 
 
 1Q } and was so much 
 
 in- doors for a whole 
 
 ?e the grave rebuke 
 
 His garden was not 
 
 irnt gardening in a 
 
 [ which he had now 
 
 food, and air, and 
 
 clothes were spun 
 
 hy of a monarch. 
 
 was not beautiful. 
 
 r, and worse still, 
 
 ed and dug — the 
 
 s however tried, 
 
 ;th, and patience, 
 
 tters — and John 
 
 lis efforts. — Old 
 
 sunshine every 
 
 shoes, and the 
 
 '.eerful preetino' 
 
 dener, who had 
 
 the digging of 
 
 >ol progressed; 
 
 nd looked into 
 
 h to them, with 
 
 i, and delight. 
 
 to his friends at 
 
 nth s. His close- 
 
 ; him, and he was 
 
 ig of books for the 
 
142 B 
 
 her finger for a tweli 
 " proper " occasions t 
 guests or herself, to 
 she did not cease t 
 Grayson would alio 11 
 
 Spring went by, i 
 moist buds for Ju 
 The river had 1< 
 where sand and g 
 had lain on its hi 
 beds of nowerin 
 midsummer curr 
 rippling over tl: 
 rounded and po] 
 the willows and 
 admiringly ove. 
 forget-me-not, : 
 mone}^-wort ai 
 the rich crimsof 
 tufts of foamy 
 The brother 
 the freshness an 
 great peace was 
 early and late, v. 
 and was quite h 
 
 p'°^°^*olp fj^ sa4BUJ ^ 
 
 ou - ,ss3jd **■ SWSfi; 
 
 |«0 asn M i0 -aqm ^W U 1 ^ .^„ 0, , p ' ' 
 
 Sui|pueu Banc ■ . * ' n< * * sn «U 
 
 PUB 'J03UB p^B *i n „^ U8SSSWd 
 A1NO |l UIOjrDUB 'n.S P '°H 
 
 »iif J ^ mi HX 'M 3VOT 
 
 3HX J ° dW NO M07°g H aw 
 
 
COMUS. I-iS 
 
 kitchen, made women's shoes, and enlivened her lonely 
 moments by his presence. He worked with tolerable 
 industry, and pleasant to relate, as yet, with tolerable 
 sobriety. He had only fallen once, and was so much 
 ashamed of his fall as to remain in-doors for a whole 
 week afterwards, lest he should see the grave rebuke 
 of John Broadbent's kindly eyes. His garden was not 
 quite a success; but who ever learnt gardening in a 
 day? It is true his prize pansies, of which he had now 
 at least twenty, did well; proper food, and air, and 
 water, were allowed — and brilliant clothes were spun 
 for them by invisible fairies, worthy of a monarch. 
 But the general effect of the garden was not beautiful. 
 The walks were weedy and irregular, and worse still, 
 the beds were weedy, and badly raked and dug — the 
 whole appearance was weedy. James however tried, 
 and was every day getting more strength, and patience, 
 and knowledge about horticultural matters — and John 
 did all he could to encourage him in his efforts. — Old 
 Eoberts and the baby basked in the sunshine every 
 fine day, for the baby had comfortable shoes, and the 
 potatoes were thriving; and many a cheerful greeting 
 passed between them and the strong gardener, who had 
 one morning before breakfast completed the digging of 
 the small plot of ground. Clara's school progressed; 
 the children sano- with sweeter voices, and looked into 
 the world that was still so new and fresh to them, with 
 more and more of wonder, appreciation, and delight. 
 
 Stephen Morris paid frequent visits to his friends at 
 St. Wilfrid's during these two months. His close- 
 sitting student habits seemed leaving him, and he was 
 more willing to put aside the teaching of books for the 
 
144 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 teaching of nature, and to get into a broader region of 
 thought through the wide ever-changing symbols of the 
 sky and outspread earth, with all their multitudes and 
 varieties of life. The "Fathers" for awhile were laid 
 aside for the contemplation of older manifestations of 
 God than they — the sun, and moon, and stars; and 
 modern divines slept peaceably on their shelves, while 
 their late companion and scholar wandered among 
 fields, and listened to the speech of birds and flowers. 
 His sermons did not lose by this change in his mental 
 diet, but rather gained in vigour, truth, and felicity of 
 speech and thought; and the silent communion he 
 frequently held with God among the more beautiful of 
 His works, nourished both the body and the soul. 
 
 As warm days came on, and " midsummer heats" 
 were frequent, the cool enchantment of the river grew 
 upon our friends. A boat was obtained, and John 
 many times rowed Clara upwards to the Grove, past 
 the long rank of elms, by the Grove, and the gray old 
 Hall half-hidden in its thick-boughed ancestral trees, 
 underneath the Brand, where the old Bel-fires were 
 lighted, and so on to the weir beyond. Then return- 
 ing, they would float gently down the stream, and 
 enjoy the mingled earth, and sky, and water-prospect, 
 singing sometimes as they proceeded an old-world chant, 
 or song of later days, in praise of summer and the 
 river; or lingering beside the "Poet's Island," a narrow 
 green pleasaunce, bounded by river-rooted trees, and 
 surrounded by alders, and willows, and osier-beds, they 
 talked of the poet to whom it owed its name, whose 
 memory still haunts the neighbourhood; and of other 
 poets who have here passed pleasant days, as their books 
 
COMUS. 145 
 
 testify. Now and then, Mary Plowden would sail with 
 them to some favourite scene or other, with her paints 
 and brushes — and they would deposit her where she 
 wished, and call again for her on their return; and 
 once or twice James Miller had tried the oars with 
 John, and helped them to boil their kettle in the woods. 
 
 Stephen Morris especially enjoyed these water-parties, 
 and whenever he neared the cottage, looked with some 
 solicitude towards the river to see if the boat were 
 lying close at hand by the shore — a signal that that 
 day there would be a sail. A book was always taken 
 on these excursions, selected alternately by John or 
 Clara, and Stephen also would produce one from his 
 pocket — Herbert, or Philip Quarles, or Jeremy Taylor, 
 or Sir Thomas Browne — to give theirs what he called 
 " due seasoning;" and the Poet's Island, or the wooded 
 flats beneath the cliff, being favourite resting-places, 
 were generally chosen for the readings. Stephen read 
 well, and his voice, at once deep and melodious, har- 
 monized with the soft liquid noises of the near river 
 and the rustling trees. His two friends, leaning each 
 by his or her tree, listened to him with thoughts near 
 or far away, as the subject or the sound of his voice led 
 them. 
 
 One evening they had been thus engaged; the boat 
 was moored among the alders, and the three friends 
 were seated upon the island. Stephen had brought with 
 him Milton, and had been reading Comus to quiet and 
 attentive hearers. With hat drawn over his brows, 
 and arms folded across his breast, John listened, his lips 
 curved to a half smile, and Clara near him, with her 
 head propped by one hand, looked dreamily upon the 
 
146 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 river, her long curls lying, darkened by the contrast, 
 upon the whiteness of her neck. As the reader pro- 
 nounced the invocation to the goddess of the Severn — 
 
 " Sabrina fair, 
 
 Listen where thou art sitting; 
 Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 
 
 In twisted braids of lilies knitting, 
 The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; 
 Listen for dear honour's sake, 
 Goddess of the silver lake, 
 
 Listen and save;" — 
 
 he lifted his head towards his hearers, and his eyes 
 rested upon Clara a moment witli an almost startled 
 expression, as, quite unconscious of his glance, she con- 
 tinued looking through green boughs upon the surface 
 of the restless water. The next moment he had with- 
 drawn his eyes, but his pulses beat more quickly, and 
 with deepened colour and richer voice he proceeded with 
 the poem — while for him Sabrina was turned into 
 Clara, and Clara into Sabrina, in strange confusion, 
 and new meanings found their way into the poet's 
 words not originally contemplated. 
 
 With the slightest perceptible tremble in the intona- 
 tion, Sabrina's song was concluding — 
 
 " O'er the cowslip's velvet head, 
 That bends not as I tread; 
 Gentle Swain, at thy request 
 I am here;" — 
 
 when John rose up with a half- troubled, half- comic 
 look. " If Sabrina were here, indeed, I would employ 
 her just now! — It is a shame to think of it, but I would 
 send her after my pocket-book. Do you remember my 
 pulling it out when we were sitting by the mullein a 
 
coMua 117 
 
 mile higher up? I must have forgotten to take it up 
 when we came away, for I haven't it now." — And as 
 he spoke he put his hands first into one pocket then 
 into another, and brought out various " belongings," 
 but no pocket-book. 
 
 " There is no help for it; I must go at once! Don't 
 read any more till I return, for I wish to hear all." 
 And he untied the boat, swung himself into it, and was 
 gone before the others had thoroughly comprehended 
 the cause of his departure. 
 
 A silence fell upon Stephen and Clara for a few 
 moments, and their ears caught the gradually decreas- 
 ing sound of John's more and more distant oars, till 
 the river's song was again all that was audible. The 
 book was still in Stephen's hands, but as he was for- 
 bidden to read aloud at present, he laid it on the grass 
 beside him, and thought with a perplexing mixture of 
 joy and trepidation, "I am alone with her at last." 
 
 "It is very beautiful!" said Clara at last, thinking of 
 the poem. 
 
 "Very. Of course you know it almost by heart; 
 but I thought this place so appropriate to it that I 
 could not resist the temptation of bringing it." 
 
 " It is years since I last looked into it, and it has 
 come upon me quite as a new delight. With what dif- 
 ferent ears we may hear a poem, or indeed any book; 
 — not half the beauty of Comas was understood by me 
 when I read it with Madame Schwartz at Heidelberg. 
 The mind seems to me like a cup at the potter's wheel, 
 that gradually rises as the lathe turns, and so is capable 
 of holding more and more; and perhaps for every turn 
 we may allow a year of life, but that varies. I have 
 
148 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 had many turns since I read Comas" — this was said 
 with a smile, — "and can now therefore hold much 
 more of its meaning/' 
 
 " And may we not say also that the heart expands 
 with years?" asked Stephen with sudden fervour. "To 
 me it seems that it must be so ; nay, I am conscious 
 that mine has done so." He paused a moment. "When 
 it was smaller than now, it was full; and now the cup 
 is enlarged, it is again full. — Clara/' and his voice 
 trembled with emotion, "do you not understand me? 
 Seven years ago I asked you a question — a very im- 
 portant, vital one to me — and you said, 'No/ Our 
 hearts have both grown since then, and mine overflows, 
 and I must ask you again — Can you love me?" 
 
 Clara was startled. She had not expected such 
 words, for she had long since ceased to think upon the 
 young minister as a lover. To her imagination the 
 lover had entirely been extinguished in the friend. 
 Deep hidden within her own breast had been the know- 
 ledge that he had ever spoken to her of love; the 
 very recollection of it seemed buried; and now it was 
 all painfully renewed and revived, and her heart 
 shrank with great sorrow from again inflicting pain. 
 Yet it must be done. 
 
 She rose from the grass with a look of surprise and 
 sorrow in her dark eyes, and said firmly and gently, 
 " I have but the same answer — the ' No/ And believe 
 me, I am grieved at heart that I must again pain you \" 
 Quick tears sprang into her eyes as she uttered these 
 words; but she turned slowly away to hide them. 
 
 For a short time Stephen remained alone, inexpres- 
 sibly dejected. A very dear and beautiful dream had 
 
COMUS. 119 
 
 suddenly faded away. The river, and the woods, and 
 the green of the island, became sensibly darker. A 
 great cloud passed over his vision, the symbol of the 
 thick one that enveloped his heart in its damp, cold 
 folds. 
 
 Then he rose slowly and approached Clara. " For- 
 give me," he exclaimed; " I have done wrong to trouble 
 you ! I know I am not worthy of you, and I can only 
 promise never to so annoy you again. But let me be 
 your friend still, if it be possible. Let me know I am 
 forgiven!" 
 
 He put out his hand to clasp hers in token of amity 
 and forgiveness. She gave it him frankly. "It is 
 best so, believe me/' she said; "we will be friends:' 
 The hands met and parted; but the warm midsummer 
 wind fell cold on Stephen's cheek as from an iceberg. 
 
 "How grave you both look," was John's smiling 
 remark, as he brought the boat to shore soon after- 
 wards. " Did you think I had vanished, and had left 
 you to wade ashore as you best could?" 
 
 Clara asked after his pocket-book. 
 
 "■ It was just where I thought, close to the mullein. 
 Very fortunate I remembered it in time ! And now, 
 Morris, let us have the conclusion, if you please, of 
 Sabrina Fair." 
 
 He placed himself cheerfully and expectantly upon 
 the green mound he had so lately left, and Clara and 
 the young minister seated themselves near him. Stephen, 
 with pale, serious face, finished the " Mask of Coinus." 
 
 " "We can never say there has been no grand poem 
 written upon temperance while this is before as," John 
 exclaimed enthusiastically. "I honour you, Morris, 
 
150 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 for selecting it. You must iu some way have come 
 round to the right way of thinking. Confess; you are 
 become a teetotaller!" 
 
 "I cannot claim that title at present," said Stephen. 
 
 "You will do some day, I trust. But have you 
 marked throughout the poem how finely is handled the 
 subject of total abstinence, and not of temperance 
 merely? Milton had thought deeply and truly on the 
 matter. How he speaks of 'the pleasing poison/ as 
 
 Comus's 
 
 " ' Orient liquor in a crystal glass, 
 To quench the drought of Phoebus, which as they taste 
 (For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst), 
 Soon as the potion works, their human countenance, 
 The express resemblance of the gods, is changed 
 Into some "brutish form of wolf, or bear, 
 Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat — 
 All other parts remaining as they were; 
 And they, so perfect is their misery, 
 Not once perceive their foul disfigurement, 
 But boast themselves more comely than before.' 
 
 "Believe me, there are many like Comus now-a-days, 
 sons of Bacchus and Circe, whom we meet in the wild 
 wood of this world, who attract, and delude, and 
 ensnare their victims by that ' orient liquor in a crystal 
 glass/ And when these have partaken, how truly does 
 it change them internally into brutish form of ' wolf, 
 or bear, or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat ! ' 
 
 — " The crisis of the poem hangs upon the lady tast- 
 ing only once the 'orient liquor.' She refuses; she is a 
 true teetotaller, unpoetical as the word sounds (when 
 shall we get a better?), and she preserves her purity 
 and human shape. Her release is effected by the river 
 goddess, Sabrina. Pure, fresh, water dissolves the spell. 
 
COMUS. 151 
 
 " ' Thus I sprinkle on thy breast, 
 Drops that from my fountain pure, 
 I have kept of precious cure.' 
 
 " Did you note Comus's argument, too? How like it 
 is to a very usual one now: — 
 
 " ' Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forth, 
 With such a full and unwithdrawing hand — 
 
 But all to please, and sate the curious taste ? ' 
 
 " And again — 
 
 "< If all the world 
 
 Should in a pet of temperance feed on pulse, 
 Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, 
 The All-giver would be unthanked, would be unpraised, 
 Not half his riches known.' — 
 
 " A very specious argument, but, after all, a very low 
 one, that regards only the employment of the bodily 
 senses, and of taste especially, as a means of praise to 
 the All-giver, and disregards that which truly completes 
 the man — the intellect and the soul. We must take of 
 all that God sends, says this sensuous argument, in the 
 way of food and drink (though the drink here meant is 
 intoxicating, and does not come from God's brew-house, 
 but man's), even to repletion, so that God's gifts be not 
 despised and he not unthanked. How, then, about his 
 other gifts, his higher ones — those belonging to the 
 mind and soul? 
 
 " 'When the wine is in, the wit is out,' is so true a 
 saying that nobody contradicts it. And with intoxica- 
 tion comes demoralization. When the body is surfeited, 
 the soul is starved. 
 
 " ' That which, is not good, is not delicious 
 To a well-governed and wise appetite,' 
 
152 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 said the lady; and her appetite refused to taste the 
 drink of enchantment." 
 
 John paused, and Stephen could not forbear an an- 
 swer. 
 
 " I expected something of this speech," he said, "as 
 I was reading. And I could go with you entirely, if 
 you would put the word temperance, instead of total 
 abstinence. To enjoy the gifts of God to the body 
 temperately, does not hinder our enjoyment of his gifts 
 to the soul, but the contrary. A wise appetite would 
 not take too much/' 
 
 " I am speaking now," said John, " of Milton's view 
 of the case. The lady's wise appetite, as I said before, 
 did not wish for that which was not good : she would 
 not taste at all." 
 
 "Because in her case the cup held enchanted liquor." 
 
 "Precisely. And that is why I will not taste at all! 
 With Milton I see that intoxicating drink is deeply 
 enchanted. You may not see it, but to me it is appar- 
 ent that every man and woman who habitually drinks, 
 even what is called temperately, loses so much soul; and 
 the divine image is surely, however slowly, imbruted." 
 
 "You exaggerate for the sake of your argument, 
 which is not fair." 
 
 " I think not. To me it seems as I say. — But, — is 
 that the moon between the trees? It is time we set 
 sail, or we shall have the evening mists about us; and 
 they are like cold-hearted friends, sometimes dan- 
 gerous, and always depressing and chilling. Now 
 Clara, like the goddess of the Severn, you may say — 
 
 " ' By the rushy-f ringed bank, 
 
 Where grows the willow and the osier dank, 
 
 My sliding chariot stays !' 
 
COMUS. 153 
 
 " It is true it lias no agate, or turkis blue, or emerald 
 green about it. It is but a poor brown thing; but it 
 will take you safely home, I hope/' 
 
 The boat glided eastwards, obedient to John's oars. 
 The sun was setting, and threw up, on broad-spread 
 clouds towards the zenith, golden lights. Over the now 
 silent party these clouds hovered with wide orange- 
 tinted wings, deepening into pale red, A clear, trans- 
 parent sea of gold lay at the horizon, and from this 
 sea rose up small rocky clouds of pale gray and purple 
 — clouds which grew slowly till they were topped 
 with castles and towers, from one of which floated a 
 banner, distinct and sharp against the paler atmosphere. 
 These mounting towers seemed to overlook silently a 
 silent dream-world. Clara o-azed at them lonsr with 
 her deep earnest eyes, and watched them as they 
 changed or renewed, while flowed or faded the en- 
 vironing sea; and noted how the dark skyward trees 
 of the distant Grove stood looking over the verge of 
 the horizon, awe-struck, like mortals to whom is opened 
 a strange spiritual world. 
 
 In the river the reflection of all this variety of colour 
 and form appeared in waving, moving bands of gold, 
 and crimson, and purple. The whole sky scene, a 
 thousand times repeated, flowed and mingled with the 
 flowing ripples in lovely, formless confusion — a palette 
 of mingled colours, a prism in motion — and carried the 
 glory and beauty to the feet of our voyagers. At each 
 stroke, John dipped his oars into a rainbow. Laugh- 
 ingly he tossed some drops of the painted water upon 
 Clara. 
 
 " It is a present," he said, " from the goddess of the 
 
154 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Trent. She no doubt heard my lament about the ab- 
 sence of precious gems in your boat. And she sends 
 you rubies and pearls, emeralds, and diamonds, and 
 gold, that you may know she is no less rich than 
 Sabrina. Do you not see how she has sown your path 
 with jewels?" 
 
 Clara smiled. "I have been looking at her trea- 
 sures some time. But she is a thief: she has taken 
 them from the sky." 
 
 "Taken or accepted, which? For my part, I will 
 believe no evil of my river. The sky has poured them 
 upon her, has made her rich, and she gives you gener- 
 ously some of her wealth. Why don't you thank her 
 with a son^?" 
 
 But Clara could not sing while Stephen's serious face 
 was beside her; which was, however, no longer pale. 
 The jewels of the Trent glittered among his hair, and 
 reflected themselves in his cheeks. Like the rest of the 
 party he was tinted with rose and amethyst. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE BLIND FATHER. 
 
 "Veronica, put on your bonnet. We will take a walk." 
 " Yes, father." And the speaker, a young girl about 
 thirteen years of age, rose from a low chair near the 
 window, where she had been mending lace. The lace 
 was black, and the light had been rapidly decreasing; 
 and as she lifted her large blue eyes from the work, 
 
THE BLIND FATHER. 155 
 
 they looked weary and dim. Her face was pale and 
 thin, and her light unbrushed hair hung in some con- 
 fusion about her cheeks. She had been working dili- 
 gently for hours, anxious to finish her piece of net; 
 but there was still a good breadth to be done; and she 
 remembered with a sigh that it must be finished by 
 candle-light — a trying light for black work. Taking 
 her shawl from a peg, she pinned it quickly on; and 
 pushing her rough locks behind her ears, slipped over 
 them a worn black bonnet, tied it securely, gave a 
 doubtful glance at her slippers that were wearing down 
 at the sides, put into her father's right hand an old 
 white hat, with a band of crape round it; and taking 
 hold of his left, led him to the door. 
 
 Led him; for he was blind, though the fact could 
 scarcely have been guessed by the appearance of his 
 eyes. A stranger would have supposed them to be good 
 as his own, since their clearness and lustre were scarcely, 
 if at all, diminished. Still large, and of a deep gray, 
 they were but little dimmed by years. The world was 
 in them mirrored as distinctly as ever; but the picture 
 on the retina no longer reached the shut-up, darkened 
 brain; the optic nerves were paralyzed; the wires of 
 the visual telegraph were useless. 
 
 We have heard it said that the blind are habitually 
 serene, and that their privation is less productive of 
 unhappiness than that of total deafness. Bat we have 
 seen some very sorrowful blind faces, and the loss of 
 sight seems to be an immeasurably greater privation 
 than that of hearing. Mark Lee's face was one of these 
 sorrowful ones. As he stood, while waiting for his 
 daughter's hand, pale and somewhat sallow-faced from 
 
156 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 long confinement within doors, with that slightly one- 
 sided bearing of the head peculiar to the blind, pro- 
 duced half from a feeling of uncertainty, and half from 
 the habit of listening attentively to what is passing 
 around, he seemed to be about fifty-five or six years 
 old, though he might be, and probably was, younger, 
 for it was not difficult to see that grief and illness 
 had marred and withered whatever might have been 
 left of manly freshness, or comparative youth of out- 
 line. A dejection that was seldom absent was apparent 
 in his air, his motions, his spiritless walk, and in the 
 melancholy sound of his voice. 
 
 He clasped his daughter's hand with limp, cold 
 touch. " It must be sunset," he said as if to himself. 
 "It is time to be gone." 
 
 "We are going, father! Mind the step. There, now 
 we are on the landing, and now the stone steps begin, 
 twelve of them, remember. And now, we have reached 
 the bottom/' 
 
 It was not by any means necessary for Veronica to 
 tell her father all these particulars, he knew these steps 
 well ; they were his only means of reaching the street. 
 The six-roomed house under whose roof he dwelt had 
 been divided into three habitations, two of which were 
 reached by this open-air staircase, and he could have 
 found his way down it, and across the boulder-paved 
 yard at its foot without a guide, but Veronica was 
 proud of her office of leader, and he liked to feel her 
 warm fingers in his. The street in which they lived, 
 though in the heart of Trentham, was a quiet one, 
 having no thoroughfare. The chancel window of the 
 ancient church of St. Mary's overlooked it, however, and 
 
THE BLIND FATHER. lo/ 
 
 the music of its bells occasionally filled it with pleasant 
 sounds. On reaching the street, Veronica did not hesi- 
 tate, but at once turned towards the churchyard. 
 Every day for the last month her father had visited it; 
 he was restless till he had been, and he was often 
 more restless on his return, but he said it did him good 
 to see it, and she had no wish to prevent him : in her 
 eyes the walk was the very best that could be taken. 
 Here was her brother Ike's grave, and here was a 
 green open space. To her it looked green, though in 
 truth there were more grave -stones than grass — for 
 she seldom had the opportunity of seeing open fields 
 and gardens. Houses and pavements, and the dingy 
 brownness of her home, black and white lace, and her 
 father's pale cheeks, with occasional peeps at a dim 
 sky, supplied the sober tints that most frequently met 
 her eyes — a very meagre palette did destiny lay out 
 for her. 
 
 So to her the greenness of the churchyard, thin as it 
 was, was refreshing, and the graves charming, with their 
 variety of upright, and leaning, and flat, carved and 
 plain, small and massive stones, with here one grown 
 up wonderfully since yesterday, like a new fungus, the 
 growth of a night, and there one removed, to make way 
 for the sexton's spade and another sleeper. She had 
 wandered in this churchyard more years than she 
 could remember, and every corner of it was familiar* 
 It was her play-ground, her arboretum, her gymnasium, 
 her promenade, her school-room — to spell out the 
 epitaphs had been an old delight — and it was also her 
 garden. A wandering daisy, a tuft of green moss, a 
 spike of flowering grass, a circle of plantain leaves, and, 
 
158 BY THE TKENT. 
 
 greatest treasure of all, a bunch of crimson yarrow, 
 were plants to be cared for and protected, wonderful 
 apparitions, pearls of price. It was not always she 
 could obtain admittance, but this only made the enjoy- 
 ment the more when with the grave-digger she entered 
 its inclosure. He was good-natured, and did not 
 frighten away the large-eyed little girl who was so 
 quiet in his presence, and whose reverence for him 
 was so great. For he was the lord of this soil, the 
 planter of this delightful garden, and his spade revealed 
 sometimes strange antiquities. She did not quite like 
 to touch them, but those curious necklace-bones, that 
 might be threaded at once — the long bones of the arm 
 or thigh — and, most interesting and awful of all, the 
 round eyeless skull, with its naked teeth, were irresist- 
 ibly attractive to look at. The last year or two she 
 had not had so much play-time here, for she had had 
 to work, to earn money, to mend lace, it was true; 
 but the place was as dear as ever. A great sorrow had 
 been laid in it, within the last two months her brother 
 had been buried here — her only brother. She had 
 seen him placed below its soil, had wept many tears 
 over the grave, but now — the first rush of grief passed, 
 this grave was but an additional attraction, sorrowful, 
 but not painful. And, too, there seemed so little con- 
 nection between that mound of coming grass, and the 
 bright cheerful brother Isaac who had walked out with 
 her on Sundays, and read to her at nights from Robin- 
 son Crusoe and Paul and Virginia, and had kissed her 
 each morning when he went away to work, that she 
 had almost ceased to mourn for him there. That he 
 should lie beneath all that heap of light-brown loam 
 
THE BLIND FATHER. 159 
 
 was, after all, an unrealizable fact, too strange to be 
 believed even now, except at intervals. 
 
 The iron gates were reached, and the two, with slow 
 steps, walked for a little distance up the flagged pathway, 
 and then crossed the grass, over half-a-dozen mounds, 
 and by a dozen or two more, till they came to the grave. 
 Mark let fall his daughter's hand, and stood quite still, 
 as was his wont, when he reached this place. Veronica 
 seated herself upon the grave, and looked up at her 
 father. She had never known him other than blind; 
 but it had for several days been a wonder to her, why, 
 when he came here, he should so steadfastly fix his 
 eyes upon one point in the sky. Now and then a tear 
 would roll down his cheeks, and fall on her hand, or be 
 lost in the grass — but he never moved his head from its 
 first position, unless she spoke to him, which she was 
 careful not to do. His eyes to-night looked so bright, 
 reflecting the warm tints in the western sky, that she 
 felt almost sure he must see something, and what was 
 it that he saw? Why did he always appear to be 
 looking at that patch of sky between the two tall 
 chimneys? 
 
 Veronica turned her head that she mio-ht see this 
 patch of sky better. There was a crimson flush across 
 it, and floating above, in the palest green sky con- 
 ceivable, was a small rose-coloured cloud hovering, with 
 delicatest purple edges. It was a very beautiful cloud 
 — not only for its colour, but for its form, resembling 
 a dove with outspread wings. But she decided that 
 it was most like one of the stone cherubim, carved 
 on a very old grave -stone near the gate. She was 
 not childish enough to think it had flown from 
 
160 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 this stone, as she might have done seven or eight 
 years ago; but she watched it so long and so intently 
 that her strained sight at length gave it motion — the 
 wings trembled, if they did not flutter, and the head 
 stirred very gently. No doubt some rising vapour, or 
 thin smoke-cloud, between her eyes and it, helped the 
 delusion, but this she did not stay to consider. The 
 lovely rose-tinted cherub, for a moment or two, was in 
 her imagination a real living creature, flying alone in 
 the wide, pale heavens. But like other creatures of the 
 imagination, it was thin, and without stability, and 
 while she looked it broke, and changed, and fell away 
 piecemeal — one wing drooped — parted — sailed off; the 
 other vanished feather by feather, while the round 
 perfectly formed angel-head became a shapeless blur, 
 that also broke up into nothing. It was a grievous 
 disappointment, and the young girl uttered a deep 
 sigh. 
 
 "What is the matter, Veronica?" asked her father, 
 suddenly lowering his head towards her. His quick 
 hearing was sensitive to the slightest differences of 
 sound, and the sigh he heard was a joeculiar one. 
 
 " I thought it was a cherubim/' said Veronica, simply 
 and sorrowfully, " and it was only a cloud/' 
 
 He listened intently a moment, as if to catch all the 
 meaning of her words. Then a shudder passed through 
 him, and with an indescribably mournful voice he 
 exclaimed — "Ah. yes; it was only a cloud, only a 
 cloud !" He was still a moment — then he said abruptly, 
 " Let us go." 
 
 The summons to go came much earlier than usual, 
 and the young girl was puzzled. "Why was he tired so 
 
THE BLIND FATHER 161 
 
 soon? And had he really seen the cloud? But what 
 else could he mean?" 
 
 More silently than usual she led him home. His 
 step was even more spiritless than before. Veronica 
 unlocked the door, and he entered the room with a 
 heavy sigh. She led him to his great arm-chair; he 
 sank into it, and the deepest dejection was expressed 
 on his face. 
 
 Tea was prepared at once. It was well to employ 
 the last half-hour of twilight in this meal, and thus 
 save the expense of burning a candle, and Veronica 
 saw that her father needed refreshment. Since that 
 sad day on which Ike was drowned, he had had a 
 month's illness, and was still very weak, and easily 
 exhausted. With the quick hands of love, tea-cups and 
 saucers were soon set upon the tray, tea made from the 
 kettle that had been singing by the hob, bread and 
 butter cut, and sugar and milk brought from a closet 
 by the door, and the table placed close to her father's 
 chair. 
 
 " Now, father dear, all is ready. You look so tired, 
 but tea will do }*ou good/' 
 
 A cupful was poured out, and set before him. He 
 took it with a trembling hand. "You are a good 
 child/' he said, but in a mournful depressed tone that 
 made her feel more sorrowful than glad. And then the 
 meal was taken almost in unbroken silence. Once she 
 spoke to him, but he answered absently; his thoughts 
 were so far away, she did not like to call them back. 
 
 After tea he folded his hands upon his knees, and 
 seemed to gaze upon the ground, the firelight playing 
 about his thin hah", and among the many wrinkles on 
 
1G2 BY THE TKENT. 
 
 his high forehead. In a while, Veronica lit the candle, 
 and seated herself by the table to her work. Generally, 
 he liked her to talk after tea; the sound of her voice 
 broke the loneliness of his dark life. So she began her 
 talk with a question, her mind still dwelling on the 
 illusive cloudlet. 
 
 " Did you really see the cloud, father V 
 " What do you mean? What cloud, child?" 
 "The cloud above the chimneys, over the church 
 yard, that I thought looked like a cherubim." 
 
 " I saw nothing, not even your face. Why do you ask ?" 
 " But you said you did, at least I thought so ! I 
 said I thought the cloud had been an angel, and you 
 said ' so did you,' or something of that sort." 
 
 " You did not understand me. I have not seen one 
 of your clouds for ten years or more, though I have 
 seen many of my own. Very dark, heavy clouds, too/' 
 and he sighed. 
 
 " You mean inside clouds. Oh yes ; I understand 
 now ! But how could you mistake one of your inside 
 clouds for an angel?" 
 
 "Very easily. Though I can't make you quite 
 understand it now. You will be doing it yourself 
 some day, perhaps; and then you will know, with me, 
 that there are no angels, no real angels; but in their 
 stead cold, wet clouds." 
 
 Veronica's blue eyes opened widely. She gazed 
 upon her father with an eager expression; her soul 
 seemed struggling to find suitable words with which to 
 reply to him; but she shook her head the moment 
 after, as if she felt the impossibility of being able to 
 do so. 
 
THE BLIND FATHER. 163 
 
 Her father did not seem inclined to let the subject 
 drop. He sat upright in his chair. " So it was a very 
 beautiful cloud you saw?" 
 
 "Very. "With rose-coloured wings and a smiling face, 
 and once I really did think I saw the wings moving!" 
 
 " Very likely ! You should have imagined a little 
 further, and it would no doubt have come flying 
 towards you. Nay, it might even have placed itself 
 beside you." 
 
 The young girl gave her piece of lace a slight twitch 
 of impatience; she did not like her father to be sar- 
 castic. 
 
 "I am not quite so foolish as that, father. You 
 might think I was a baby yet;" and her lips took a 
 decided pout. 
 
 " Not so; I know you for a very wise little woman. 
 But in truth, Veronica, it would not have been wonder- 
 ful at all if you, a young girl of thirteen, had been so 
 deceived, since your blind old father has been so often 
 the same. A year ago there was something very like 
 one of your cherubim in this house, and I believed I 
 saw a real living angel. "Well, only two months ago 
 the angel lost its rose-colour and its wings, and changed 
 to a cloud, a nothing." — His voice faltered, and he could 
 say no more. 
 
 Veronica rose and put her arms round his neck, "But 
 you have me, dear father ! You love me a little, don't 
 you? I am no cloud!" 
 
 He allowed her to embrace him passively. Even 
 her tenderness could not at this moment cheer him. 
 " You will be in a while, or I shall be, which is the 
 same thing," he said bitterly. 
 
164 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "Never!" was Veronica's reply, standing up, while a 
 strange brightness lit np her eyes. "God did not make 
 me a cloud. ! father, I wish you could feel as I do." 
 
 "And have all the disappointment to encounter again ? 
 No, my child; I would rather know myself to be what 
 I am, a little piece of thin chilly vapour, that will soon 
 be dissolved into the nothing from which it came." 
 
 "And I will never believe myself that!" exclaimed 
 the girl, shutting her lips close, with a look of deter- 
 mination. 
 
 The father laughed an inward mocking laugh — "And 
 you think, my poor child, that your will, will decide it? 
 But even you must bow to the great inevitable fate." 
 
 Veronica had contracted a hatred of the word fate; 
 for whenever her father used it, he became gloomy and 
 austere. She looked defiant therefore, and it was well 
 perhaps he could not see her. 
 
 A wind had arisen since sunset, and was blowing 
 wildly down the quiet street, roaring in the chimney, 
 and rattling the panes in the casement. To the girl it 
 sounded very mournful, and voices seemed borne on it 
 from the churchyard — voices that uttered sad words by 
 the window behind her. Her father listened to it also, 
 and presently he arose and began walking a few paces 
 backward and forward in the room, a customary habit 
 with him when restless. He called it his "hyaena 
 walk." 
 
 The weird wailing of the wind at evening brings up 
 to sad hearts dead memories, and the dead themselves 
 rise, as to the sound of bells at midnight. — To the blind 
 man's inner sight the graves opened, and the roaring of 
 the atmospheric billows called up many a buried grief. 
 
THE LLIXD FATHER 165 
 
 Hastily and shudderingly he tasted again of the cup of 
 his past life, that had at first contained such sweet 
 liquor, but afterwards so much aloes and wormwood. 
 
 He had not been born to poverty, but had known by 
 experience in early life the advantages of a good edu- 
 cation, indulgent relatives, and a wealthy home. He 
 had possessed good talents, and had been praised, and 
 flattered, and sought after, as was to be expected. Too 
 early he had been left his own master, and like many 
 other human flowers, exposed to too much sun, had 
 withered early. Flattering friends and idle acquaint- 
 ance enticed him into evil company, where first he lost 
 a good part of his wealth, and afterwards his health, 
 by dissipation. At length, willing to begin a new life, 
 he married a rich woman, cold, and stern, and proud. 
 He expected a companion and a friend; he found a 
 critic and an enemy. Dissension arose between them 
 early; she was disappointed, and let him know it with 
 bitter words; and he, conscious of his faults, but proud 
 also, and unwilling to amend, retorted, and used the 
 power the law puts into the hands of every husband, to 
 revenge himself. Their home was soon a hell, where 
 disdain and bitterness and outrage were served up with 
 every meal — a perpetual dish of evil mixtures, unsav- 
 oury and poisonous. In a while they parted by mutual 
 consent, the separation being the only thing they had 
 mutually agreed to for a long time. 
 
 Then Mark Lee's old habits returned upon him with 
 double power — he drank and gambled in all ways and 
 at all seasons. He lost his remaining property, and 
 sickness overtook him in very humble lodgings, where 
 he had been compelled latterly through poverty to reside. 
 
166 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 A young woman, poor and homely-looking, but rich in 
 patience, and love, and gentleness, nursed him, the daugh- 
 ter of the widow who let him his rooms. She knew 
 well his poverty, asking for and expecting no reward. 
 When he recovered they were already attached to each 
 other, and were soon after married. His first wife was 
 still alive and undivorced, but this he never told to the 
 mother of Isaac and Veronica. It was a secret of his 
 own, a guilty secret that clung to him, and persecuted 
 him more than the remembrance of all his former sins. 
 The children he had by Jessy Lee were ver} r dear to 
 him, dear as the mother; but when Veronica was three 
 years old, Jessy sickened and died. The loss was sud- 
 den and unexpected; he was lightning-struck; he shed 
 no tears, uttered no complaints, but when he had seen 
 her laid in the grave, was carried home insensible, and 
 awoke from a dangerous illness, — blind. 
 
 In the early days of his last marriage he had learned 
 to bind books, inferior ones, for he was too young in 
 the art to get the skill requisite for the best work, but 
 it had brought him and his family a bare maintenance. 
 When, however, he could no longer see, his binding 
 craft was useless, or nearly so. By the aid of a kind 
 friend he now learned to make the finer kinds of bas- 
 kets, and this work, with the manufacture of fishing- 
 floats and flies, procured him his daily bread. With 
 great exertion he had managed to put Ike into a ware- 
 house, working often far into the night, that the boy 
 might be clothed well enough for his place. Ike was 
 growing up, was sixteen last birth-day, and was already 
 earning his own livelihood. Soon the father thought 
 he would be able to help his sister, for himself he 
 
THE BLIND FATHER 167 
 
 scarcely cared. But that fatal day upon the river had 
 destroyed all his hopes, and now all seemed dark again. 
 
 Yes, for more than five-and-twenty years he had had 
 a series of troubles. — "Would that wailing wind never 
 be still? It brought up recollections that harrowed his 
 heart. Why was it — when he was beginning to feel 
 the blessedness of love, of living for another — that that 
 patient, loving face was taken from him? Why did 
 his blindness come? And why did this last, and as it 
 seemed to him this greatest misery of all, fall upon 
 him, the loss of his only son ? though, indeed, there was 
 another, a constant running sore, that could never be 
 healed. — But he should go mad if he thought long upon 
 that. — He must hide it — he must leave it. Wearily he 
 exclaimed, " I am fated to be unhappy; I must suffer; 
 I must endure as I can." And thus the wretched man 
 folded round him the thickest, wettest cloud that 
 adversity has to give — the most sorrowful companion 
 a man can take to his breast — an unbelief in good, in 
 God. He beheld himself alternately as the plaything 
 of chance, or the victim of an unbending, uncaring, 
 pitiless law. 
 
 Veronica heard his last words; they were spoken 
 louder than he was aware. She dimly comprehended 
 his trouble. This fate — which he believed in so tena- 
 ciously, which his head acknowledged as lord of all, 
 and which his bleeding heart refused to harbour, 
 and so perpetually rose against in rebellion — was a 
 bugbear to her, chiefly because she saw it was a source 
 of disquiet to him. The word " fate " was a trouble- 
 some visitor, whom it was her duty to drive away, 
 whom it was her instinct to push out. She could not 
 
168 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 reason upon or understand it; but she rejected it utterly. 
 She had a strong will, and those blue eyes of hers 
 could flash with intense energy, and those small hands 
 could clench with sovereign determination when she 
 had to oppose. The milder plan, the persuasive, was, 
 however, more accordant with her nature. She did 
 not " stoop to conquer," since there is nothing lowering 
 in tenderness. Love is a more regal weapon than 
 force; and when she took it up she rejected the iron 
 for the gold, and ruled from the higher sphere; not 
 knowingly, for she was an undeveloped child, but 
 instinctively and from inmost nature. 
 
 So, when her voice took one of its sweetest tones, 
 and her hand let fall its work, and clasped that of her 
 father as he passed close by on his restless hyaena walk, 
 she cheered as does the sun that shines and warms, 
 obedient to internal law. 
 
 "Father, we won't have fate; we will have love! 
 Let me love you!" And she kissed his hand and 
 stroked it tenderly. 
 
 This second appeal softened him. "My darling" he 
 murmured, laying his other hand affectionately on her 
 head. Then with a smile, the innocent smile of the 
 conqueror, she drew down his head to hers, and kissed 
 his lips. 
 
 He let her lead him to his chair after this; and when 
 he was seated, with a happier look and something like 
 a smile upon his face, he turned his eyes towards her, 
 and waited for her voice to sound again. 
 
veronica's adventures. 1G9 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 VERONICA'S ADVENTURES. 
 
 A KNOCK at the door startled them both. Veronica 
 rose and admitted a young man, who asked to see 
 Mr. Lee. It was William Gresham. He had been 
 several times before on the same errand — an endeavour 
 to benefit in a pecuniary sense the father of the poor 
 boy Ike, whose death he felt in some degree answer- 
 able for. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Lee; I hope you are better 
 to-night," was his greeting, in as kind a voice as he 
 could command. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Gresham," was Mark's reply. 
 "Won't you be seated, sir?" 
 
 William threw himself into a chair. He always felt 
 very awkward when he paid these fortnightly visits. 
 It was something of a "bore " to come, and yet his con* 
 science told him that he ought to come, and it was his 
 father's particular wish that he should do so also. The 
 " old blind fellow," as he called him, kept him at arm's 
 length and treated him with distant respect. A certain 
 aggrieved accent was perceptible in the sound of his 
 voice, and William felt conscious that he was no wel- 
 come visitor. 
 
 " I've come on the same errand as usual," was his 
 rather blunt beginning of a negotiation his father 
 intended and expected should be very delicately con- 
 ducted. " My father has sent you a present as a token 
 
170 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 of his good-will and sympathy, and I hope you'll let 
 me leave it this time." And as he spoke, he laid upon 
 the table from his purse five sovereigns, which he took 
 good care to jingle a little ere he put them down. 
 
 Mark's face flushed, and his hand moved nervously 
 with a gesture of refusal, and as though he were push- 
 ing something away. " I can't take it, Mr. "William, 
 and so I've told you before. It seems to me like 
 blood-money! My poor boy was all I had." (Oh, 
 Veronica, had he then forgotten you?) — " And you've 
 lost him for me, that's all. But no money can make 
 it good — not all your father has in the world." 
 
 "I know that; — I know that, my good man; and 
 sorry I am to know it. Haven't I told you so twenty 
 times? And you are quite mistaken in thinking this 
 little bit of gold is meant to pay you for his loss. It's 
 no such thing. It's only a little conscience-money my 
 father and I would like to give you to help you out of 
 your distress. You must be badly off enough here." 
 And William looked round at the dingy room, his eye 
 resting a moment upon Veronica, who sat busy again 
 with her lace. "And," he added, as he thought of 
 another plea, "your daughter needn't bore her eyes out 
 over that black work any more, if you'd only be rea- 
 sonable and let us provide for you — at all events for a 
 little time till something better turns up." 
 
 "Nothing better will ever turn up for me in this 
 world," replied Mark dejectedly; "but, if I go to the 
 workhouse, Mr. Gresham, I couldn't take a shilling of 
 your money. I've never received alms yet, though I've 
 been sore pressed; but if I ever must take them — for 
 even that fate may be in store for me; who knows?" — 
 
veronica's adventures. 171 
 
 bis voice here had a bitter tone—" I can never receive 
 them from my son's murderer." 
 
 William rose up suddenly. " If those are your feel- 
 ings, it's of no use my staying any longer. And, sorry 
 as I am for you, let me tell you, Lee, that I think you 
 have used words for which you have no warrant. 
 Neither I or my father are murderers. Didn't I run 
 the same risk of losing my life as Ike did? And if it 
 hadn't been for the bravery and humanity of a stranger, 
 a man I shall ever respect and be grateful to, I shouldn't 
 have been here now to say bad or good words to you. 
 But your mind's soured, and you can't see things in 
 their true light." 
 
 " Perhaps I see them in a truer light than you do," 
 retorted Mark, the veins swelling on his forehead with 
 anger. " If you'd lost the boy in a common accident, 
 such as happens without any forethought of ours being 
 of avail, I shouldn't have blamed you, much as I should 
 have grieved at my own bereavement. But what 
 business had you young men to take a boat up the 
 river, and my son in it, when the flood was raging as 
 it did that day?— -when it was almost certain death for 
 him to go? You could swim, you were full of strength 
 and ability; but he, poor lad, never swam a stroke in 
 his life ! It was clear murder; as clear as ever murder 
 was." 
 
 "I assure you, Mr. Lee," replied William, in an 
 apologetic manner, " we shouldn't have taken him, or 
 ourselves either, if we'd known what we were about. 
 We'd had a drop too much; everybody knows that, 
 and I thought you knew it/' 
 
 " I do know it, Mr. Gresham, and to my mind it 
 
172 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 makes no better of it. What business had you with a 
 drop too much? You were your own masters, I sup- 
 pose? Nobody poured it down your throat against 
 your will. But, however " — and he sank back exhausted 
 in his chair — " it's of no use talking to you in this way." 
 
 "No, indeed; there you're right! And I don't think 
 you're such a simpleton as not to know that when good 
 wine comes in the way of a young man, he hasn't the 
 heart to measure how much he can carry away. You 
 were young yourself once, I'll be bound/' 
 
 Mark was dumb. Yes, he had been young himself 
 in the way William meant, and bitter knowledge he 
 had gained from his wild youth. What could he say? 
 
 "So you really won't have the money?" asked 
 William, taking it up. 
 
 "No; I cannot take it." 
 
 " Very well, then." And he replaced the gold in his 
 purse, dropping it in deliberately and with an indifferent 
 air. " I've done my duty in offering it to you; and I 
 intend never to trouble you again on the matter. I'm 
 very sorry, but so it seems it must be. Good evening, 
 Lee;" and he went out. 
 
 When he was gone and his footsteps had died away 
 in the distance, Mark became calmer again. He called 
 Veronica to him. "Are you sorry I have sent the 
 money away, Veronica?" 
 
 "I wish you could have kept it," said Veronica, 
 truthfully. 
 
 " But I couldn't, dear ! Don't regret it. That money 
 would only have choked us both with the bread it 
 brought. They buried the boy, and that was enough — 
 too much; but I couldn't help it then. To-morrow I 
 
VERONICAS ADVENTURES. 173 
 
 will work, and we will have money of our own earning 
 — not theirs." 
 
 Veronica sighed. Her father had said so many times, 
 " To-morrow I will work," and when the morrow came 
 he was unable as ever to do it. It was now a month 
 since he declared himself well from the illness that 
 came upon him at her brother's death; but a weakness 
 still remained both of mind and body, and his nerves 
 seemed unable to master the shock. Some osiers and 
 an unfinished basket lay in the corner, where they had 
 been for the last two months, the dust collecting about 
 them; and his trembling hands still wanted strength 
 to weave them into shape. 
 
 " And now, father, I must go with my work. I've 
 finished it; and Mrs. Bartlett said she must have it 
 home to-night, as she's got to take it to the warehouse 
 the first thing in the morning." 
 
 " To-night? Must you go to-night?" 
 
 " Yes, I must. — But I shall soon be back. I'll go 
 very quick all the way — that is, if I can;" for she 
 remembered that the lace was bulky, and the night 
 windy. " And I might as well bring your beer back 
 with me. I shall have the money, you know." 
 
 "Make haste, then; and never mind the beer to- 
 night." 
 
 o 
 
 " Oh, I'd better bring it ! You know you never sleep 
 well if you don't have it, and it won't take me two 
 minutes longer." 
 
 The old bonnet and shawl were put on quickly; the 
 lace tied up in a square cloth; and giving her father a 
 kiss, Veronica set out on her travels. Mrs. Bartlett 
 lived some distance off Half a dozen streets and the 
 
174 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 long market-place had to be traversed before her door 
 was in sight. But Veronica was used to the walk, and 
 did not generally mind it, even at night. Now, how- 
 ever, it was not a very pleasant journey. The wind 
 was abroad, and, besides persecuting her and her bundle 
 in a wholesale way along the streets, met her at every 
 corner and crossing with a fresh and riotous gust, and 
 made her pant, and strain, and stagger, and clutch her 
 lace with all her strength. She carried too much sail 
 for the relentless blusterer; and very hard did he try 
 to overturn her weak bark, but fortunately did not 
 quite succeed. Out of breath, but victorious, she 
 ascended the steps at Mrs. Bartlett's green door; and 
 after a preliminary knock, entered the house. A busy 
 sight met her dazzled gaze. About twenty young 
 women and girls, seated in groups and in various atti- 
 tudes round three or four candles, were employed with 
 large bundles of black and white net; some " drawing" 
 or pulling out the threads that united in one large piece 
 many breadths of narrow lace for bordering and inser- 
 tion, and some mending holes and imperfections that 
 might have been left by the machine, in other large 
 bundles of lace. Mrs. Bartlett, a dark-complexioned, 
 pock-marked woman of about fifty, in a black-lace cap, 
 black gown, and almost universally black dress in other 
 respects, sat in the midst, superintending and "drawing" 
 also. She was Veronica's mistress, who had taught 
 her the mystery of lace-mending; and allowed her, as a 
 great favour, and in consideration of her blind father, 
 to take her work home, instead of doing it at her house 
 with the rest. She was a sort of middlewoman, em- 
 ploying a number of apprentices or hands, and paying 
 
veronica's adventures. 175 
 
 them at reduced rates; making herself responsible for 
 the lace, and receiving it at first-hand from the ware- 
 houses; thus gaining a tolerable income out of her 
 responsibility and supervision. 
 
 " I've brought the lace, ma'am," said Veronica, shut- 
 ting the door, and taking her bundle to the mistress. 
 Mrs. Bartlett received it silently, looked it over very 
 carefully, and gave the girl eighteen-pence — her reward 
 for two days' close work, telling her to come for more 
 to-morrow, and wished her Good-night. She was a 
 hard-working, methodical woman, who had no time to 
 spare for gossip, and but little inclination; reckoned 
 rather hard in her bargains with her work-people, but 
 keeping her word honourably as regarded the payment. 
 
 Veronica was quickly on her way home again. It 
 was much easier to return now she had no bundle to 
 carry; and, according to promise, she walked as fast as 
 possible. And yet there was much to tempt her to 
 stay — brilliantly lighted shops, full of gay-looking 
 shawls, and dresses, and ribbons, and bonnets, which 
 she would much have liked to have surveyed at leisure; 
 curious toys, pictures in the booksellers' windows, and 
 heaps of tempting provisions. Every little apple and 
 walnut stall in the market-place had also charms for 
 her eyes; but resolutely, like Christian and Hopeful in 
 Vanity Fair, she kept on her way, and refused to linger. 
 There were sights not so pleasant — flaunting, ill-dressed 
 women laughing loudly, of whom Veronica felt afraid, 
 she scarcely knew why; — tipsy men shouting and swear- 
 ing; — and poor miserable-looking old men and women 
 tottering in and out of gin-shops. One drunken man 
 trundling a wheelbarrow beside the causeway, full of 
 
176 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 fishmongers' refuse and other offiil that he was trying 
 to sell for cat's-meat, or even for human beings, if they 
 so pleased, at a very low price indeed, had a crowd of 
 boys and youths after him laughing and jeering at his 
 attempts to trundle straightly. One of these had just 
 treated him to another pint of ale, seeing he was not 
 quite ripe enough for the practical joke he intended; and 
 was now encouraging him on with ironical speeches of 
 — "That's a good 'un! Wheel straight, old fellar. At 
 it again! You know what's what, don't yer? Sell 'em 
 yer fresh fish." The boys laughed as they saw the 
 poor wretch plunge about and stagger, while he still 
 went on, since to stop abruptly would be fatal to his 
 further progress, by upsetting him altogether. Some 
 shouted "Puss, puss!" and mewed in imitation of the 
 animal his barrow-load was destined for; and the noise 
 and the hubbub attracted still more persecutors, press- 
 ing round him like flies around carrion. At length a 
 wild yell of exultation arose fiom the crowd, as the 
 wheelbarrow was brought to a dead stop by a large 
 stone placed purposely in the way; and the man, un- 
 able to resist the shock, fell heavily forward on to his 
 load; crushing the whole into a mass of putrid jelly. 
 This was the grand crisis the ale friend had purposed; 
 and I suppose he thought his threepence well laid out, 
 to produce so delightful a spectacle. The poor drunk- 
 ard might have been suffocated — for he was quite 
 unable to raise himself — had not a humane passer-by 
 interfered, and raised him out of the defilement into 
 which he had been so basely thrown by the aid of that 
 potent ally of all evil — drink. As he stood up, blinded, 
 and gasping, and bewildered, a spectacle of horror and 
 
VERONICAS ADVENTURES. 177 
 
 abomination, another great laugh greeted him. " Are 
 not you ashamed of yourselves," asked the one who 
 had acted the part of good Samaritan, " to laugh at a 
 fellow-creature in such a state as this? I'm disgusted 
 at you! I'm ashamed for you! And I suppose if I 
 were to give you money enough, you'd all go and make 
 yourselves just as drunk as he is !" 
 
 Veronica heard the last words of this speech; she 
 was passing quickly at the time, and looked for a 
 moment with amaze at it all. " Could it be true that 
 all those men and boys would really like to drink them- 
 selves drunk? and to make themselves liable to fall 
 into just such a state as that poor half-senseless dirty 
 wretch?" She could scarcely believe it, though the 
 gentleman, and he looked like one, said it so earnestly; 
 he knew much better than she did, no doubt about it, 
 and she ought to believe it. And how was it they 
 could like drink so much? — she had tasted her father's 
 beer, and did not like it at all. It was a strange thing 
 to believe ! Full of such thoughts as these, she made 
 her way along several streets. The wind still blew 
 wildly, and pulled and tugged at her raiment. Down 
 every alley and cross street it poured out upon her. 
 It seemed so very senseless and foolish and wild in its 
 motions, that the thought was forced upon her that the 
 wind also must have taken what Mr. Gresham had 
 called a drop too much, and be tipsy. Laughing to 
 herself the next moment at the fancy, she turned the 
 corner of the street abruptly, and fell, oh horror! into 
 the arms of something far worse than the tipsy wind — 
 a tipsy man. He seized hold of her at once, and at- 
 tempted to kiss her. His breath gave out a noxious 
 
178 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 disgusting odour; he called her " my dear," and alarmed 
 her very much. She struggled and tried to escape, but 
 his grasp only became the firmer. In the struggle her 
 bonnet was crushed, pulled off her head, and thrown 
 upon the ground, and her wrists were hurt by the 
 pressure of his hard hands. " Let me go ! let me go !" 
 she cried out, and looked round to see if no one were 
 near to help. A woman was coming slowly along not 
 far off, " Help me! let me go!" she shrieked again. 
 
 The man only laughed. " Don't sh-truggle so, my 
 dear, but give me a kiss, like a woman!" In another 
 moment, the woman whom she had seen coming was at 
 her side; she gave the man a dexterous push, that 
 sent him reeling to the other side the street, and pick- 
 ing up Veronica's bonnet, straitened it, and put it on 
 her head. "Thank you! thank you!" gasped the girl, 
 and looked up at her deliverer gratefully. The flicker- 
 ing lamp-light showed a dark tall figure of a woman — 
 a face still young, with large dark eyes, though somewhat 
 hollow, whose strange brightness lit up the whole coun- 
 tenance, an abundance of dark ringlets, and cheeks of a 
 vivid red. Her attire was smart and fashionable — a 
 flounced silk dress, a satin spenser, a richly-embroidered 
 collar, and a gaily-trimmed bonnet, while her well- 
 gloved hands were small and lady-like. Veronica gazed 
 at first with some awe at the well-dressed stranger, but 
 immediately afterwards retreated a step from her, say- 
 ing, "O, it's you, Letitia!" 
 
 " You needn't go away if it is Letitia/' replied the 
 other sharply; "I shan't bite you!" 
 
 "No; I know," said Veronica hurriedly; "but I can't 
 stop; I've got to get father's beer/' She paused sud- 
 
veronica's adventures. 179 
 
 denly, remembering her money. Where was it? It 
 had been in her hand a few minutes ago, just before she 
 had met the drunkard, who was now staofcrerinsr alono- 
 and swearing loudly in the distance; but it was not 
 there now. How had she lost it? It must have 
 dropped in the struggle. Bewildered and distressed, 
 she exclaimed, "I've lost my money! what shall I do? 
 IVe lost my money!" "How? where?" asked Letitia. 
 Veronica explained, and the finely-dressed lady helped 
 her to seek for the missing silver. Veronica wept and 
 sobbed, for she was only a child, and knelt down upon 
 the stones to see better the small coins. What should 
 she do if they were really gone? How get her father's 
 beer? How buy the loaf for breakfast, the cheese for 
 dinner, and to-morrow's tea and butter? where was it 
 to come from? But it was in vain she looked; after a 
 quarter of an hour's fruitless search she was obliged to 
 come reluctantly to the conclusion that she must go 
 home without it, that it was lost. 
 
 " Don't cry, dear," said the sympathizing lady; "I'd 
 give it you myself, but I haven't got it by me. You 
 shall have it though before the morning, if I've any 
 luck. Don't cry." 
 
 But Veronica did not look the less sorrowful. " No, 
 no; I mustn't take your money; I can't have your 
 money ! I must go to father, he'll want me, and I pro- 
 mised to be so quick. O that horrid drunken man !" 
 And she was turning away, when Letitia took hold of 
 her arm, " One moment," she said hurriedly; "tell me, 
 how is father?" " He is very poorly }^et, Letitia; but — 
 leave go, — I must be gone/' Letitia took her hand 
 away, "You needn't be so frightened at my touch; I 
 
ISO BY THE TRENT. 
 
 shan't hurt you." "No; but I must go — good-night;" 
 and Veronica ran of! 
 
 Letitia looked after her a moment and gave a deep 
 sisrh? What was it for? or whom? For Veronica or 
 for herself? Who can tell? A few minutes afterwards 
 she might be seen in the next street, laughing and 
 talking loudly with a companion dressed very much 
 like herself, and with the gayest of smiles on her pink 
 cheeks. 
 
 Veronica reached home breathless, with but half- 
 wiped tears lying round her eyes. With a palpitating 
 heart she opened the door; what was she to say to her 
 father? As she entered he lifted his head and turned 
 it towards her with a smile. 
 
 "So you're back, my bird? That's right. Come 
 here and look what good fortune has come to us." 
 
 He held out his hand and opened it; in the palm 
 were lying four half-crowns. Veronica gazed aston- 
 ished. He continued, "You may well be surprised; 
 but while you have been gone I have had a visitor, a 
 Mr. Broadbent, who has spoken very kindly indeed, 
 and who asked for you; he had heard of you, my child. 
 He has lent me this money till I can pay him back; so 
 you shall have a holiday to-morrow from that terrible 
 black net that tries your eyes so, and I will work. I 
 really think I could almost work to-night. Bring me 
 the twigs and let me try." 
 
 "No, father; indeed I will not. You are to rest 
 to-night. But how glad I am ! how very glad I am ! 
 For what do you think? A drunken man met me and 
 frightened me so that I lost the eighteenpence Mrs. 
 Bartlett gave me for the work — I did, indeed!" and a 
 
veronica's adventures. 181 
 
 little sob escaped against her will as she recalled her 
 trouble. 
 
 "Don't fret! Come to me and let me kiss you. 
 Never mind the money, we are rich for the present. 
 And you must not go out again at night; no, never 
 again at night." 
 
 "Indeed I must, though, and I must go to-night; 
 but I shan't meet any more drunken men, I daresay. 
 I must fetch your beer, father." 
 
 Mark hung down his head. Yes, it was true, he let 
 her go every night to fetch his beer, for he had no one 
 else to send. This beer was but half-a-pint, but he felt 
 so lost without it, and had such wretched nights, that 
 he had not the courage to give it up. It was a habit 
 remaining from his former indulgences, and he did not 
 know how to break it. A very poor pitiful habit, but 
 persisted in so many years, that he could not overcome 
 it, or fancied he could not. 
 
 "Be quick then, and go to the 'George.'" The 
 "George" was the nearest public-house. Veronica took 
 a small jug and one of the half-crowns, and was soon at 
 the " George." 
 
 There was a great fire roaring in the bar chimney, 
 and there was plenty of company, and a jingle of 
 glasses and cups, and there was tobacco smoke curling 
 in and out of the rooms, and merry songs and talk, and 
 laughter and oaths; plenty of light and warmth and 
 bustle, and the landlord and landlady were in the best 
 of tempers accordingly. It was a gay scene, Veronica 
 thought, while she stood waiting for her jug to be filled, 
 and getting occasional glimpses of the interior of the 
 drinking-room, as the door opened every now and then 
 
182 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 to admit a fresh visitor. But then for those men to sit 
 there and drink till they were as silly, and helpless, 
 and horrible, and tyrannizing as those two tipplers she 
 had seen just now! Child as she was, the folly and 
 enormity were tolerably clear to her of the drink-selling, 
 drink-imbibing world around her; but no wonder, since 
 she had just now so feelingly experienced it. 
 
 A young man with a cigar in his mouth was standing 
 in the passage speaking soft words to the pretty bar- 
 maid who simpered and tossed her blue-ribboned cap 
 behind the counter. "Now, my girl, half-a-pint for 
 you?" asked the pretty barmaid, taking the jug without 
 waiting for an answer — she knew Veronica and her 
 usual evening's errand. 
 
 The young man looked superciliously down at the 
 pale face and large blue eyes; a stray curl had escaped 
 from under her bonnet, and lay across her cheek. He 
 took out his cigar, holding it in the air between two 
 fingers. " Where did you get those big eyes from, my 
 lass?" he asked, rudely. "My! you'll be killing some 
 fellow's heart with 'em some day!" Veronica felt her 
 cheeks flushing, and turned her head away, a little 
 offended, from the bold questioner. " You won't speak, 
 little 'un? Not up to snuff* yet? Let's look at those 
 peepers again !" But Veronica kept her face steadfastly 
 away. He laughed. " Give me a kiss, then," he said, 
 in a tone of mock entreaty. " Come now, do." He 
 stooped his head as if he were about to suit the action 
 to the word; but the girl only drew back. " Here's 
 your half-pint," said the barmaid, returning with the 
 jug. To get at it Veronica would have to go nearer 
 the young man, a thing she dreaded. But she advanced 
 
veronica's ADVENTURES. "183 
 
 one step, and put out her hand. " Not till I've had 
 my kiss," said the tormenter, putting himself between 
 her and the counter. " Do let me have my beer, 
 please!" And a look of real distress was on her face. 
 " No; not without the kiss." He saw his importunity 
 teazed her, and it pleased him to teaze her. He had 
 been drinking and smoking till he was ready for 
 a " lark," to use his own expression. 
 
 "Don't be so soft," said the barmaid, not over- 
 pleased to find anybody sharing his notice with herself. 
 
 " You be hanged !" was his polite reply. 
 
 " Thank you," said the barmaid, tossing her head. 
 
 Veronica was much troubled. How was she ever to 
 get the beer? She gave a sudden dart for it, hoping to 
 reach it before he could see, and get away; but he was 
 too quick for her, and caught hold of her hand just as 
 she had seized the jug, and with the shock the beer 
 was spilt, partly into her bosom, and partly on the 
 ground — while the young man burst into a loud horse- 
 laugh. Veronica looked at the empty jug with 
 dismay — the colour mounted to her cheeks. She stood 
 still a moment, indignant and angry. Then, in a 
 sudden spirt of passion, she lifted her small hand, and 
 seized hold firmly of one of her tormenter 's cigar- 
 scented curly whiskers, and gave it a tug that must 
 have brought blood. He roared out with the pain, 
 and the noise brought the landlord from the bar to see 
 what was the matter. 
 
 "A little vixen her!" exclaimed the barmaid. 
 
 "A confounded scratching monkey!" shrieked the 
 young man, getting out his handkerchief to wipe the 
 cheek. 
 
184* BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " What's the game now?" asked the landlord. 
 
 Veronica attempted to explain; but her voice was 
 drowned in the swearing and objurgations of the young 
 man, and the shriller notes of the barmaid. 
 
 11 What ! scratch a young gentleman's face, you hussy V 
 asked the landlord, looking severely at the poor girl. 
 
 " He spilt my beer; he wouldn't let me have it," 
 responded Veronica, almost crying. 
 
 " Nonsense. Tell none of your lies here. Be off with 
 you! Cut! — be quick!" 
 
 "But I want my beer; he ought to give me my 
 beer." 
 
 "Be off, I say. You and your jug, be off." 
 
 But the landlady now appeared. She had been 
 listening to the whole in the adjacent room. "Don't 
 be a fool, Jones/' was her lofty speech, as she swept 
 past him with her portly form; " the girl comes here 
 reg'lar; I know who she is. Give her the 'alf-pint, 
 Mary/' and she herself put the empty jug into Mary's 
 hands. Rather sulkily Mary refilled it, and Veronica, 
 taking it, and thanking Mrs. Jones, withdrew, only too 
 glad to get away. " You'd soon lose all your customers 
 if it wasn't for me," said Mrs. Jones to her husband, 
 with a scornful glance, and then retreated to her private 
 room again, majestically. Twice in one night Veronica 
 had been alarmed and annoyed by drunken men. She 
 had come off without bodily injury — happier therein 
 than so many thousands of her fellow-creatures who 
 daily and nightly suffer from the blows and tortures 
 inflicted by husbands, and fathers, and mothers, when 
 full of maddening intoxicating liquor, by whatever 
 name called. But she had been aggrieved and insulted; 
 
veronica's adventures. 185 
 
 her modesty had been offended, and an inj ury had been 
 done to her soul. The public-house is not a school of 
 virtue for young girls any more than for grown-up 
 people; like the fabulous upas-tree, it blasts whom it 
 shades, and the fruit it produces is wholesome food for 
 neither man or beast. But our statesmen and rulers, 
 however, are fond of this public-house upas; they do 
 not cut down the deadly tree, root and branch, but 
 regulate its planting, and sell its baneful shadow at so 
 much the square-yard — satisfied to get enormous 
 revenue from the mildew and destruction of the people. 
 Revenue they must have for expensive wars, and costly 
 vice-producing armaments in times of peace, and if not 
 from the food, they will get it from the poison of the 
 nation, and they shut their eyes very willingly to the fact 
 that two-thirds of the poverty, and misery, and crime 
 of the country may be traced to this one cause, the free 
 diffusion and enticement of intoxicating drink. Or is 
 it unwillingly that they shut their eyes? 
 
 With, we fear, rather revengeful feelings towards 
 drinking mankind, and with also a dim sense of humi- 
 liation and sorrow at her own want of temper, Veronica 
 returned to her father. 
 
 She did not tell him of this last trouble, for she did 
 not like to distress him, but at nip-kt tears were on her 
 pillow, and her sleep was restless. A miserable dream 
 visited her in the early morning; the distorted shadow 
 of the night's experience — a dream of a drunken man, 
 who with fiery eyes, and hot scorching breath, and long 
 clasping arms, pursued her in a dark place, while she, 
 fixed by terror, could not lift one foot to escape. A 
 scream of hers awoke her father in the room below. 
 
18G BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " What is the matter, Veronica?" he shouted. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," replied she, when fully awake, 
 " it was only a bad dream." Satisfied, he went to sleep 
 again. 
 
 Would that such bad dreams were not sometimes bad 
 realities ! 
 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 LETITIA. 
 
 Veronica did not so soon compose herself to sleep. 
 She lay wakeful for an hour or more : by that time the 
 wind had nearly ceased its raving, and sounds from the 
 street below became audible. Once or twice she thought 
 she heard footsteps on the pavement, and once her 
 name was called quite distinctly. But when she rose 
 and went to the window, there was no one to be seen. 
 The stars were very bright, and the lamps were still 
 alight, but it was too dusk to distinguish objects 
 clearly, and the cold warned her back to bed : shivering 
 she drew the blankets round her, and endeavoured 
 to sleep once more. In a while her weary eyes closed, 
 and the early dawning found her lying in quiet rest. 
 Later than usual she awoke, and hastily dressing pre- 
 pared to go down-stairs. As she lifted up the window- 
 sash to admit the fresh morning air, a small brown 
 paper parcel met her eyes lying on the window-ledge. 
 It was tied round with string, and seemed to have been 
 thrown up from the street: " Veronica Lee" was written 
 in large letters upon it. On opening it, she found a 
 
LETITIA. 187 
 
 note from which two or three shillings dropped to the 
 ground. The note ran thus — it was a very short one — 
 
 " I have sent you some money as I promised, and if 
 you want it you shall have more. Don't say who sent 
 it ; and it will be all right. You'll find me in the same 
 street every night. Letitia." 
 
 Veronica looked troubled: she gathered up the shil- 
 lings, there were five of them in all, folded them again 
 in paper, and put away the note and parcel in a box 
 very carefully, as if she feared prying eyes, a very 
 needless precaution, and murmured to herself as she 
 did so, "I wish she hadn't sent it! What shall I 
 do with it? I must give it back to her again some 
 way! Father would be so angry!" — For a week she 
 had no opportunity to do so. But one evening at night- 
 fall found her in the street Letitia indicated, and before 
 long the same smartly flounced gown, and lace-trimmed 
 bonnet made their appearance round the corner. 
 
 "So you're here at last! I thought you'd never 
 come again," said Letitia eagerly as she looked into 
 her sister's pale face. "Do you want some more money? 
 If you do, I've got it for you." 
 
 " No, Letitia, I've come this once, but I must never 
 do so again ! Here's your five shillings. You're very 
 kind, but father wouldn't let me keep the money if he 
 knew, and so I've brought it back as soon as I could." 
 She held out the money-parcel, but Letitia did not 
 offer to take it. " Throw it on the ground if you like !" 
 she said angrily. "J'm not going to take it. What! 
 my money's dirt, I suppose, and will spoil your fine 
 hands to take?" 
 
188 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "No, it isn't, Letitia! You know that," and Vero- 
 nica still held out the parcel with her gloveless hand. 
 " It was very kind of you, and I'm so sorry to say 
 so, but I can't have it!" 
 
 "Throw it in the kennel then!" 
 
 " Do take it! We're not poor, and father's begun to 
 work again ; not so poor as to want your money. In- 
 deed we don't need it." 
 
 " My money; yes, my money you despise, you little 
 proud thing ! It isn't as good as other people's money, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 "It isn't honest money, is it, Letitia?" asked Veronica, 
 driven to say clearly the reason. 
 
 "And who told you that, pray?" 
 
 " Father told me. I don't know what he means, I 
 don't want to know, and I'll never ask him, if you 
 don't like. I only told you what he said himself once. 
 Why are you so cross with me? Do take it, that I 
 may go, for I know I oughtn't to be with you now, 
 father would be so angry, if he knew!" 
 
 Letitia's eyes had flamed with anger, but they sud- 
 denly softened, not so much perhaps at Veronica's 
 words, as at some inward thought. She spoke now in 
 a soft and entreating tone. " Oh Veronica, I nursed 
 you when you were a baby, and you used to throw 
 your arms round my neck then, and kiss me. I think 
 you loved me in those old days ; won't you love me 
 ever so little now? I know I'm not good enough to 
 touch the soles of your shoes ; I know I am very wicked, 
 but I can't help it! Would you give me just one kiss, 
 and say you love me? I shan't live long, I know I 
 shan't," and a tear appeared in each eye; "but it 
 
LET1TIA. ] 89 
 
 would make me better, for everybody else despises me, 
 and that's why my heart feels so hard sometimes. Only 
 one kiss, dear? I'll never ask you again, for when you 
 know what I am, I shall blush to ask you, and you — 
 you'll hate me !" 
 
 Veronica gave her the kiss as if half afraid. It was 
 a very innocent kiss, and yet she felt as if she had done 
 some guilty thing. Letitia took the money with a 
 sigh. "And now, good bye, Letitia!" 
 
 "Good bye! Won't you ever let me talk to you 
 again? But no, — no! What am I asking? Good bye!" 
 
 And the wearer of the silk dress and satin spenser 
 parted from the poorly clad and almost shoeless Vero- 
 nica with a pang, and a wild regret that she was not as 
 poor, and as innocent. 
 
 And how was it she had so fallen? How is it that 
 so many of our sisters fall? From innocence and purity 
 and respect of friends and the world, and the prospect 
 of perhaps a long and honoured life, to degradation and 
 vice, and contempt alas ! when most frequently there 
 should only be pit} 7 — pity, angel-eyed and hearted, 
 that strives to raise and nourish the latent good, 
 where scorn only withers and blights, and utterly 
 destroys what faint budding green there might be on 
 the cankered tree. — Letitia was left motherless early. 
 She had a blind father. She was good-looking and 
 headstrong and vain, fond of dressing above her station. 
 Those bright eyes, and long ringlets, and delicately- 
 flushed oval cheeks, were surely meant only for silk 
 bonnets and rich lace to environ, and those white arms 
 and taper fingers for bracelets and kid-gloves. So one 
 or two young men whispered to her, and so she be- 
 
190 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 lieved, too willing to "believe. But she had a more dan- 
 gerous enemy to her virtue than even this of vanity, 
 and. consequent love for expensive dress. 
 
 Old nurses and mothers of families, wise in their 
 generation, will shake their heads and talk knowingly 
 of Mary Jane's or Thomas's weakness of bod} 7- , and 
 paleness, and want of stamina generally, coming from 
 the delicacy of the mother's health previous to marriage. 
 " The first child takes it," we have heard them say, and 
 they will give many examples to prove the truth of 
 their words. And physiologists and physicians are of 
 a similar opinion, expressed in a different way, and 
 refer peculiarities of constitution generally to parental 
 antecedents of both sexes. Mental and moral charac- 
 teristics are as liable to be transmitted from parent to 
 offspring as physical ones. And is it not true that 
 " the first child," and in some cases not a few of the 
 others in a large family, inherit the father's or mother's 
 physical tastes, and moral or immoral propensities? 
 — the propensity to excesses of all kinds, and the love 
 for intoxicating drinks? — a certain moral weakness 
 that succumbs before the power of the passions, and a 
 longing for forbidden food, both physical and mental? 
 
 Mark Lee's propensities in early life we have noticed 
 briefly. He was now what would be called a reformed 
 character; he was neither drunkard or profligate, and 
 bore his own punishment for former misdeeds — injured 
 health, melancholy, and blindness — as quietly as he 
 could, and, as he would have said, "he submitted to 
 the inevitable;" though his submission, we fear, was 
 too much akin to that of the slave, fearful and fretful. 
 
 But his eldest born, his daughter Letitia, with her 
 
LETITIA. 191 
 
 beauty and high spirits, carried off like the scape-goat 
 of old, heavy sins into the wilderness. An indisposition 
 for honest labour, a desire for unlawful amusements, 
 and a real, innate longing and craving for intoxicating 
 drinks, these were some of her besetments — the last one 
 much the most dangerous of the three. These beset- 
 ments were her inheritance, and she received them from 
 her father as directly and clearly as she did her fine 
 eyes, and straight, lissom form, and arched forehead. 
 Truly an awful inheritance to give! Did her father 
 ever think of his own share in the iniquity, as he de- 
 plored her faults and follies, and fall? Do parents ever 
 think of the future sin and misery they may thus bring 
 upon their offspring when indulging in evil habits, 
 when yielding to temptation, and when committing 
 known sins? 
 
 A dancing-room was kept at a public-house not far 
 from Letitia's home. The powder was dry and ready 
 prepared, and it needed only the spark to set it on fire. 
 To the dancing parties here assembled she insisted upon 
 going, and became acquainted with wild, ill-taught 
 companions, of her own age and of the other sex, 
 who flattered her beauty and gave her maxims of 
 disobedience and plenty of immoral advice. They 
 treated her to spirits and wine — a piece of gallantry 
 thought becoming and necessary to dancing partners 
 at these public-house reunions. Of course at such 
 parties, in such a place, there was more than a 
 sprinkling of the dissipated and depraved — young 
 women who had lost modesty and virtue — and young 
 men seeking for fresh victims to their evil lusts, 
 and she soon became a prey to one of the latter — the 
 
192 BY THE TBENT. 
 
 way made easy by the excitement of drink — an excite- 
 ment he knew how to use effectually to attain his pur- 
 pose. Repentance and terror seized upon her in the 
 morning when perfectly sober; but it came too late. 
 Her seducer threatened to expose her if she would not 
 conform to his wishes for the future; and partly by his 
 threats, partly by flattery and cajolery, but mostly by 
 the aid of drink, from thenceforth her life became a 
 series of sorrowful downfalls. Cast out from home 
 with indignation and scorn by a father who saw re- 
 peated in her the sins of his }^outh, she had no home to 
 flee to but one too dreadful to name (shame that they 
 should be permitted in our land!), no means of liveli- 
 hood but the streets; and here, accordingly, we find 
 her, not yet the lowest of the low in outward appear- 
 ance, since she has still fine clothing, and some remains 
 of beauty, to attract and ensnare to ruin, as she has 
 been ensnared and ruined herself; one victim thus 
 dragging after her numberless others — a species of re- 
 tributive justice, befitting the pandemonium into which 
 she has fallen. As drink led to her ruin, and was the 
 chief instrument before which her virtue fell, so drink 
 keeps up the game of loss. In the day, drink and sleep; 
 in the night, drink and prostitution; so runs the round 
 of her rapidly shortening life. 
 
 The moth caught in the blaze of the candle is an old 
 simile, but an " over- true " one, representing her condi- 
 tion. The light — the evil, baneful light of drink — 
 attracts; she must near it; it is death, ruin, and agony, 
 to one like her, if she touches it; but no matter; touch it 
 she thinks she must, again and again ! How the wings 
 scorch and blister and shrivel up! how the nerves leap 
 
LETITIA- 193 
 
 and twist, and throb with excess of pain! How the 
 whole body suffers with them! Useless wings now, 
 that might have carried her away from the destroyers; 
 worse than useless, since they agonize and struggle in 
 the melted grease, and fix there like anchors, grounded 
 and buried, and hold her to roast and frizzle slowly in 
 that heated, burning atmosphere. And thus the moth 
 consumes away, till a tiny black speck, till not even 
 that, is left to tell of what was once a creature of grace 
 and beauty, fitted for quiet Sittings to and fro at sum- 
 mer's twilight, among cool shrubs and sleeping flowers; 
 — of a woman endowed with capacities for virtue, and 
 happiness and love. 
 
 The red light of a gin-shop lamp standing out of the 
 darkness of the street at night; the ruddy blaze of 
 the publican's fire; the bright twinkle of the smart 
 barmaid's eyes; the cheery glitter of the publicans 
 welcoming smile — are not these so many moth- 
 candles, set alight, and placed to attract and burn? 
 And there is much moth-nature in humanity — so much, 
 that we fear to think of the numbers that lie every 
 year scorched and wingless in the scalding tallow-grave. 
 Letitia has been in the blaze again and again. Her 
 wings are scorched, her beauty rapidly fading away 
 and vanishing. The moth-candle set for her has been a 
 large one with two flames. Between them both she lies 
 helpless and consuming, and no one seeks to save her. 
 
 " Correct" society ignores the fallen woman. It is too 
 usual to look upon her as utterly virtueless and worth- 
 less — since her one peculiar virtue, chastity, is gone — 
 and to place her almost out of the pale of humanity; 
 to consider her as lost, utterly lost, and utterly un- 
 
194 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 worthy of a name and a place on this vast motherly 
 earth of ours. But not so thought the great Moralist, 
 the divine Lover of the race, who said to the adulteress, 
 pityingly — " Neither do I condemn thee; go and sin 
 no more ;" and of the Magdalene, " Her sins, which 
 are many, are forgiven, for she loved much" 
 
 But society is not yet brave enough, not holy enough, 
 to do this. It starts hack prudishly afraid lest pity 
 should be construed into sanction, and loving forgive- 
 ness should lead to laxity and increase of crime. It is 
 afraid to follow the Saviour's example. 
 
 Shall we say Christ set a dangerous precedent, when 
 he led the way to the ready reception of the repentant 
 — the free forgiveness and reinstatement of the fallen 
 ones? that he did wrong to teach us the prayer, "For- 
 give us our sins, as we forgive those that sin against 
 us;" since these are some of the sinners that sin against 
 us, when they sin, as we all confess they do, against 
 society? 
 
 What rejoicing will there not be in heaven over, 
 some of these poor scattered, fleeced, and worried wil- 
 derness sheep, when they have been brought back by 
 the good Shepherd! More, I say unto you, "than over 
 ninety-and-nine just men that need no repentance!" 
 
 And when we shut our hearts and doors upon these 
 lost ones, and refuse to help them to return, refuse to 
 induce them to return to the fold — we refuse to partake 
 of the joy of heaven, we shut out the hallelujahs of the 
 angels with a shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 Letitia was what was called a lost woman; but she 
 was not virtueless. The locusts brought by the east 
 wind had not yet eaten all the verdure away. A few 
 
LETITIA. 195 
 
 green ears stood still erect in her blackened cornfield, 
 and the sun and the rain did not refuse to do their 
 work of blessing and refreshment upon them. A linger- 
 ing love for her younger sister, and a wish to benefit 
 her; a desire to be loved again by some pure innocent 
 soul ; perhaps a faint tremulous desire to leave the 
 ignominy and impurity of her life for a better; perhaps 
 a passionate, longing desire. Who knows? Many in 
 her position have this; but despair and human apathy 
 come gradually like deadly frost upon them, and burst 
 the life- vessels, and they rot only a little the sooner 
 for it. 
 
 Her case is no uncommon one, as we all know well. 
 Many thousands like her, walk our streets and lanes 
 every night, and live more or less openly by the wages 
 of shame. And intoxicating liquors help fearfully to 
 produce this social gangrene. They are the chief cause 
 of it, if we may give credence to prison inspectors, 
 ministers, physicians, and moralists who have made it 
 their special study, anxious to meliorate and cure. It 
 is drink that first smooths the path to ruin, and that 
 helps the ruin on to its fulfilment. Drink is the fruit- 
 ful mother of this vice, as of so many, many others ! 
 
198 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP. 
 
 Time flew on. The Trent flowed on its way, with 
 alternations of flood and fall, very much as it had done 
 for some thousands of years, with a wise admixture of 
 work and play — ever the same river, yet ever renewed 
 from cloud and fountain, lake and stream; carrying on 
 its beneficent mission of draining, and cleansing, and 
 purifying, and, like the life of a good man, softening, 
 and harmonizing, and blessing all around. The great 
 temperance missionary, as John Broadbent called the 
 river, preached its perpetual sermon, and lay bright 
 and clear among the low lands and green meadow- 
 swathes, reflecting both heaven and earth, but chiefly 
 heaven, as a good man or woman ought to do. The 
 sun brightened it; the moon put silver touches on its 
 sable waves; trees and flowers, beasts and birds, drank 
 and dipped in its shallows; and man waded, and 
 forded, and swam, and fished, and boated in and over 
 its incessantly moving waters, and sometimes drowned 
 in them, his unwilling body carried seawards with the 
 rest of things that the river pushed thither; while the 
 great placid stream sang the same requiem for him as 
 for the grass and pebbles, and gave him the same 
 burial. 
 
 During this time, Stephen Morris's visits to St. Wil- 
 frid's had not been frequent. After his last recorded 
 visit he went twice or thrice, and had other walks and 
 sails up and by the Trent; but the zest of the whole 
 
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP. 107 
 
 was over for him, and gradually he sank back into his 
 old student quiet, his long porings over books, his mid- 
 night studies. His church, too, required more of his 
 attention — so he told his friends — his sick, and his 
 poor. He had never been a haunter of the houses of 
 the richer part of his congregation, and he was in 
 reality but ill fitted in some respects for social life. It 
 had been much lamented that the young pastor was so 
 seldom seen out of the pulpit by most of his admirers, 
 and a few had even been offended at his shyness; but 
 time softened the peculiarity to some of them, and they 
 remembered charitably that such sermons as he gave 
 needed quiet of body and mind for preparation and 
 that all desirable qualifications could not meet in one 
 individual. The last pastor had been an adept in the 
 art of " shepherding his flock," visiting, as some thought, 
 "in season and out of season." Visiting was his gift; 
 he delighted in it, he shone in the warm parlour and 
 drawing-room; but in the pulpit his words were common- 
 place, his thoughts tedious, and he had none of that 
 earnestness of zeal that more than makes amends for 
 want of eloquence. Stephen was the reverse of this; 
 but he did not neglect the poor and dying, and hundreds 
 of sad, trembling hearts were cheered by the prayers 
 and teachings of their young minister, and acknow- 
 ledged him, if not in words, in thoughts, to be a true 
 bishop of souls. 
 
 If we say he was idolized by the greater part of his 
 people, shall we say wrong? We think not, for there 
 are many unconscious idolatries; and not a few pious 
 hearts, who would start back in terror from the word 
 "idolatry" as applied to themselves, nevertheless do 
 
198 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 commit the sin sometimes in a dim, unthinking way. 
 By some, his every feature and motion, as seen in the 
 pulpit, were inwardly reverenced; and a very high 
 pedestal indeed did they accord him in their hearts' 
 adytum. The very retiredness of his nature helped 
 to keep up this reverential feeling. His soul was to 
 them a strange secret sanctuary, lighted only by rays 
 from the heavenly world. " He was too good for this 
 world " was often said by the poorer and older mem- 
 bers; and they shook their heads sorrowfully when 
 they talked of his pale, worn face, and his thin and 
 already slightly stooping form. It was but the student's 
 stoop; but they fancied they saw in it a proof that 
 their beloved young pastor would soon leave them. 
 
 His growing popularity had attracted so many 
 strangers to his chapel, and finally so many pew- 
 holders and new members, that a larger place of worship 
 was needed. A site was selected in the most fashion- 
 able quarter of the town, and a large, handsome chapel 
 erected by subscriptions that flowed in as from a foun- 
 tain, needing only the labour of gathering. An un- 
 common enthusiasm influenced all; the chapel was the 
 largest and finest dissenting place of worship in the 
 town, the minister the most popular and beloved. 
 Almost all the pews were at once taken, leaving the 
 deacons still in the pleasing difficulty entailed by a 
 straitened place. They smiled and shook their heads 
 at the same time. Magistrates and dignitaries forsook 
 their accustomed Sunday pews in church or chapel, and 
 flocked to hear the sermons of the Rev. Stephen Morris, 
 the new attractive light of the ministry. Even the 
 neighbouring villages caught the contagion, and car- 
 
 CD O O O O ' 
 
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP. 199 
 
 riages, gigs, omnibuses, and light carts frequently filled 
 the stables of the town on the day of rest. 
 
 Yet a deep religious humility did not forsake the 
 young man; he was not made vain by his popularity, 
 he remembered that he was only clay in the hands of 
 the great Potter, and that to him no laudation was due 
 in that he had been made a vessel of honour. " Of 
 him to whom much is given, much shall be required/' 
 was a saying he never forgot; and at times he was 
 almost overwhelmed, instead of being elated, by his 
 increasing popularity. 
 
 Was there no deterioration, then? Was his path 
 indeed that of the just, that shines brighter and 
 brighter unto the perfect day? 
 
 It is painful to the sight to search for spots in so 
 brilliant a sun; very painful and revolting to seek for 
 and find stains upon the otherwise pure, white gar- 
 ments of a saint; very sad and humiliating to discover 
 any fungus growth of vice in the set-apart holy land 
 of a Christian minister's heart. But already the evil 
 spore had been sown there, and, though hidden deep, 
 was growing, not with usual fungus rapidity, but 
 slowly, as meeting with but imperfect food in that 
 quiet heart-garden for its sustenance and development. 
 
 What was this fungus? It was not vanity of mental 
 gifts and attainments, as we have seen; it was not love 
 of sway, or of money, or of impure society. What 
 love was it that was beginning to oppose itself to the 
 pure love of God? The love of that which comes in the 
 guise of an angel, a helper to the satisfactory perform- 
 ance of pulpit duties, a reviver from its exhaustion, a 
 cheerer in moments of depression; — comes in the dress 
 
200 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 of food, and is but poison — a carnal, sensuous love, that 
 seemed at first so innocent, so lawful, so necessary. 
 We need scarcely name it; our readers must have seen 
 it exhibited so many times, at the rich man's feast and 
 the poor man's dinner, at the fireside, and the table, 
 and the shop, and abroad in the streets most of all; 
 happy if he or she has not seen it in the chamber of 
 the sick and the dying. This demon with the angel's 
 face has practised his delusions upon man almost ever 
 since his creation. The "preacher of righteousness," 
 Noah, fell before him, and hundreds of thousands, nay 
 millions, have fallen since; rich have been his harvests, 
 overflowing his garners. — A consumptive patient is 
 frequently not aware of his danger, and thinks lightly 
 of sjanptoms that make the physician hopeless. A 
 bright eye, a clear transparent complexion, a brilliant 
 colour, do not seem to the ignorant, fatal prognostica- 
 tions, but the reverse. So much added beauty and 
 health of appearance cannot be harmful, he thinks; all 
 must be well with such pleasant outward manifesta- 
 tions. The insidious love for drink attacks its victim 
 much in the same way, and deludes equally. The flow 
 of spirits, the agreeable excitement, temporary improve- 
 ment of health it may be, and the intellectual activity 
 induced by the first mild use of alcohol, cannot be 
 injurious, must be good. The labourer does more 
 ploughing and digging, the mechanic gets through 
 more work, the artist paints more easily, the author's 
 thoughts flow more genially and brilliantly, the minis- 
 ter's sermon has an added force and glow about it. 
 Dangerous and unholy, when the minister seeks other 
 force and glow than that which he may gain by com- 
 
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP. 201 
 
 mimion with God, or wants other strength to deliver 
 his message than that which the obeying of Gods 
 physical laws gives him ! It is putting false fire upon 
 the altar. 
 
 But the wise physician sees this temporary benefit, 
 and gives it its right name — unnatural excitement. 
 He asserts, " This is not health, but disease. Check it 
 in the first stages, or you are lost. Do not laugh at me 
 because I look serious; or, if you will laugh, do it at 
 your peril! I have seen your symptoms too frequently 
 not to know them and their danger." 
 
 Stephen Morris had no such physician close at hand. 
 He lived much alone, and his landlady — a kind-hearted, 
 but in many respects an ignorant woman, respectably 
 connected, and what was called " educated," but follow- 
 ing old custom and routine, and thoroughly conven- 
 tional. By her grandfather, grandmother, father and 
 mother, uncles and aunts, sisters and brothers, wine or 
 alcoholic drink had always been considered a necessary 
 of life; and the whole of her respectable acquaintance 
 took it daily, as she did herself whenever she could 
 afford it — therefore it must be good. This was the 
 sole argument which she understood — the argument of 
 precedence and usage. She was called a good motherly 
 woman by her friends; and many of the church, who 
 felt solicitous about the welfare of their much respected, 
 much loved young minister, congratulated themselves 
 and one another that he would be well cared for with 
 so kind and careful a person as Mrs. Sollory, It was 
 with true motherly solicitude that she looked after 
 Mr. Morris's wardrobe, attended to the comfort of his 
 rooms, and saw his food prepared in a wholesome, 
 
202 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 cleanly manner, and regulated her buyings-in to his 
 appetite and state of health. 
 
 The same solicitude of hers placed the wine regularly 
 upon the table; " sherry was a good digester," and port 
 also, highly medicinal and useful, " her poor dear Mr. 
 Sollory had always been fond of port;" and such a thin 
 spare habit of body as the minister tolerated required 
 wine to nourish and strengthen it. The small glass of 
 sherry after dinner in a while became two, but Mrs. 
 Sollory only rejoiced. Then supper must be heralded 
 by wine, and what so comforting as a tumbler of hot 
 negus, or better still, rum and water, for a nightcap? 
 Stephen had an attack of illness, and restless wakeful 
 nights succeeded; he had refused the rum and water 
 till then, but induced to try it once, found it bring 
 sleep and quiet rest, like a charm, and he took it again 
 and again. Once or twice a gleam of dissatisfaction 
 with the habit crossed his mind, and he refused for 
 some nights the pleasant draught; but Mrs. Sollory 
 became so solicitous for his health, had such a persuasive 
 smile as she poured out the mixture, and foretold so 
 much good from its use, that what could he do but take 
 it, and set her anxious mind at rest? Still he was per- 
 fectly temperate; he was but using the good things a 
 kind providence sends for our benefit, and he certainly 
 was becoming a little stouter, and a trifle less pale, 
 under the regimen. Mrs. Sollory was beginning to 
 think he did her credit, and smiled when any allusion 
 was made in her hearing to the minister's improved 
 looks. 
 
 This gradual advance from bread and wine for the 
 Sunday's dinner, and an occasional glass or two in the 
 
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP. 203 
 
 week, to wine as the rule after every dinner, and wine 
 or spirits at night, had come on slowly, so slowly, 
 so almost imperceptibly, that Stephen himself was 
 scarcely aware when the change had commenced. 
 He was aware, however, of a very pleasing fact, that 
 after the glass of wine that was now considerately 
 provided for him in the vestry, his sermons had more 
 vigour, his intellect for the time seemed clearer, his 
 imagination took higher flights. Who would dare to 
 tell him wine was injurious when such results followed 
 its use? 
 
 He was still unmarried, as we see, and this one cir- 
 cumstance gave rise to immense talk and speculation 
 among his congregation. Some thought he would 
 never marry, he was nearly thirty it was said, and 
 never had he been noticed to "pay attentions" to any 
 young lady whatever. But others boldly asserted that 
 from thirty to forty was the golden age for a minister 
 as regarded matrimony. He had studied, had attained 
 a position, obtained a good income, and was therefore 
 then, and then only, prepared for so solemn an under- 
 taking as marriage. Before that period of life it would 
 not have been proper or discreet to take to himself a 
 wife; now, no doubt, he would think of doing so. Let 
 the young ladies beware ! 
 
 For he was an acknowledged prize in the matrimo- 
 nial lottery. Chapel-going mothers and fathers thought 
 with a longing sigh how much they should delight to 
 see Sarah or Matilda hanging on that slender student- 
 like arm, as the wife of the minister who had gained so 
 notable and honoured a position in the town, or sitting 
 with meek pride, if there be such a paradoxical state of 
 
20 k BY THE TRENT. 
 
 mind, and we believe there is, in the green-curtained 
 ministerial pew, listening to her husband's deep voice 
 as he delivered his soul-entrancing sermons; and young 
 women, with hearts newly touched and glowing, re- 
 sponsive to the Saviour's love, let at times their affec- 
 tions wander in a lower channel, and imagined the 
 happiness that would fall to the lot of the one who 
 should be chosen as bride to this holy messenger of 
 God. Even those in a very humble station dared to 
 raise their eyes to the phoenix, and sensible of their 
 own outward or inward attractions, or remembering 
 the caprices of love, revelled occasionally in the heart- 
 beating thought or supposition, " If he should choose 
 me?" 
 
 But common-sense people, and those who had no 
 eligible daughters or nieces, had long given him to one 
 of the Miss Greshams. The eldest from her age, and 
 because she was the eldest, and of course ought first to 
 find a husband, was generally awarded to him. Some 
 said timidly, "Perhaps Miss Jane;" but this was scouted 
 by most. She was too girlish, too unformed — a min- 
 ister's wife should be a woman of some force of char- 
 acter, with considerable womanly dignity, worthy of 
 being in a while, if God permit, a true mother in Israel. 
 The ex-mayor was a deacon of the church, a man of 
 wealth and influence, and was, it was well known, 
 most kindly affected towards the minister; Mr. Morris 
 had only to ask, and have, should he fortunately fix 
 his eyes upon Miss Gresham. And why did he not? 
 
 This question remained unanswered a long time. 
 Mrs. Sollory was privately interrogated on the subject. 
 Did she know? Had she ever seen or heard? What 
 
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP. 205 
 
 correspondence did Mr. Morris keep ? Were there ever 
 notes addressed to him in a lady's handwriting? 
 
 To all of which questions Mrs. Sollory said, "No, she 
 knew nothing." 
 
 So this delightful mystery remained one still, and 
 every young lady in the chapel might yet indulge 
 her day-dreams, and whisper to herself, with her 
 humbler neighbours, "If he should choose me? who 
 knows?" At length, however, since all suspense, espe- 
 cially on such a subject, must have an end some time, 
 more definite light arose. Was it, or was it not true, 
 that Mr. Morris had of late visited Swansford at least 
 twice a week? and, suspicious fact, had he not been 
 seen by some very prying eyes indeed, walking by the 
 river banks with Miss Gresham, and with no other 
 friend, male or female, near? A very strong and de- 
 cided "yes" was given as answer to these questions, by 
 some who "had reason to know," who had had it " from 
 good authority," &c; and very softly and timidly at 
 first it began to be generally talked of among the 
 chapel-frequenters that there certainly was an engage- 
 ment between Mr. Morris and Miss Gresham. Mrs. 
 Sollory was again called upon; this time she did not say 
 " no," but she was mysterious, and evidently inclined 
 to put the delicate inquirers on a false trail. " Miss 
 Gresham ! not ab all likely ; a young girl of nineteen ! 
 What did people think of? What should they say to 
 Miss Angus? Mind, she didn't mean to compromise 
 herself or Mr. Morris; she only told them to have their 
 eyes open, that was all." 
 
 Now Miss Angus was an old maid, highly respect- 
 able, with an independent fortune, who made herself 
 
206 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 very active and useful at Dorcas-meetings, Bible-col- 
 lectings, and missionary and other tea-parties; but 
 there was no denying she was old, past forty, rather 
 plain-looking, and though a very good woman (her 
 non-admirers could not refuse her that praise), was inad- 
 missible as the wife of, in their eyes, their still young 
 and interesting pastor. The gossips retreated, inclined 
 to be offended with Mrs. Sollory. 
 
 Triumphantly they returned to the scent; for was it 
 not a perfect truth, a thing that could not be gainsaid, 
 that last Friday, unattended by sister or footman, 
 father or mother, Miss Gresham and Mr. Morris had 
 driven out in the pony carriage, through the village of 
 Raven's-nest, and by Sheepland Park, in sight of Mr. 
 Stevenson, the deacon, and his wife, who met them 
 twice on their route? 
 
 And for once gossip was right. The minister was 
 really engaged, and to one of the Miss Greshams; but 
 not to the one that had been given him so certainly. 
 His choice had fallen upon Jane the youngest sister, 
 young as she was — barely eighteen, and Jane, who, to 
 tell the truth, had given her girlish heart away to him 
 some time before, made no opposition to his choice. 
 With a trembling joy she accepted, what she felt to be 
 the great gift of the love of a noble and intelligent man, 
 of one whose life was dedicated to that which, in her 
 eyes, was the highest mission that can be bestowed on 
 a human being. 
 
THE WEDDING CARDS. 207 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE WEDDING CARDS. 
 
 Clara Broadbent was picking gooseberries in the 
 kitchen. It was a warm July morning, the windows 
 were open, and the bees' hum among the flowers could 
 be heard very plainly, for she was silently engaged 
 about her work, seated placidly in her print morning- 
 dress and white apron near the dresser. Rather further 
 away than the hum of the bees another hum was dis- 
 tinguishable. It was John's voice singing low, as he 
 propped dahlias, or transplanted annuals. His thoughts 
 were otherwhere than among his flowers, she knew, by 
 the sound of his undersong, and she wondered whether 
 Mary Plowden's last picture, or James Miller's brobdig- 
 nagian strawberries were the subject of his thoughts, 
 or whether it was something less agreeable than these, 
 which she half feared from the tone. 
 
 A knock at the door startled her, and a letter. The 
 postman was late this morning, and the rather dainty- 
 looking letter he left behind was addressed to Mr. J. 
 Broadbent. It lay on the table therefore, till John 
 entered, which he was not long in doing. "A letter? 
 Ah, I thought I saw the postman go by!" and he pro- 
 ceeded to open it, but not very quickly. No closely 
 written sheet of paper was within, but in its stead 
 another envelope and two enamelled cards. On one 
 was engraved a well-known name, the " Rev. Stephen 
 Morris" On the other and larger one, an entirely un- 
 
208 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 known one, "Mrs. Morris." They were tied together, 
 after the fashion of those days, with a bow of white 
 satin ribbon. "Wedding cards! do you see, Clara?" 
 he asked, as he held them towards Ins sister. Clara 
 lifted her eyes from her gooseberries. " A wedding!" 
 she exclaimed with some surprise. "Whose cards are 
 they?" "Read." She read slowly and quietly. 
 
 "I am very glad!" was her remark, with bright 
 cheerful smile. " I suppose it is to Miss Gresham." 
 
 "I suppose so. Morris has been very sly too! How 
 quietly he has kept it all!" 
 
 "People don't generally talk very loudly of their own 
 marriage before the event." 
 
 "No; but in this case! However, I have no right 
 to complain. Only I had fancied he would have 
 brought us his intended bride, and made us acquainted 
 with her a little. Now, I suppose, we shall just be 
 expected to call when they return from the wedding 
 journey, as any other strangers would. It is very 
 strange!" 
 
 To Clara it was not quite so strange as to John. 
 Ever since that day on the island Stephen had been 
 reserved to her. He had asked for friendship, and she 
 had gladly granted his wish; and yet a gradual coolness 
 had arisen between them. She thought it his fault, 
 for she had tried to be in all things the same as before; 
 perhaps she had not succeeded well in her attempts; 
 perhaps he had not properly understood her and them; 
 perhaps — perhaps, she could not tell how it was! If 
 it were indeed her fault she was exceedingly sorry! 
 During the last year or so John and she had been fre- 
 quently away from St. Wilfrid's, at London on business, 
 
THE WEDDING CARDS. 209 
 
 and elsewhere, and consequently they had not seen so 
 much of Trentham friends. They had only recently 
 returned from one of these journeys; but Stephen Morris 
 was quite aware they had returned, John having called 
 upon him more than once, but not a word had been 
 said about an intended marriage. 
 
 John seated himself near Clara, and looked thought- 
 fully out of the window for a minute or two. Then he 
 said, "I knew of this last night when I was in the town, 
 I heard of it quite by accident in a shop, but did not tell 
 you, dear, just at first. I thought with me you would 
 feel the coolness a little, and, somehow or other, I didn't 
 like to talk about it. There was an unfriendliness in 
 it, to leave us in the dark so entirely. Don't you think 
 so?" 
 
 "Perhaps so," replied Clara. "But on the other hand 
 you must remember how shy Mr. Morris is on personal 
 matters, and I do not believe he meant it unfriendlily." 
 
 "Well, dear, you shall 'hold your belief, and I will 
 try to have the same. But, I saw him only last 
 Thursday, and he said not a word! In his place I 
 could not have kept such a secret from a friend." 
 
 " It might be the lady's wish." 
 
 John laughed. "You're quite a pleader for him, and 
 he doesn't deserve it. I thought once, Clara, he loved 
 you." 
 
 "Did you?" And Clara went on diligently with her 
 gooseberries. 
 
 "He had not sufficient good sense, however, for that! 
 That was a long time ago, however, so long that I had 
 almost forgotten it, till this brought it to my memory." 
 
 "Miss Gresham is a very lovely amiable girl, I sup- 
 
210 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 pose, and very well connected. Indeed, John, I think 
 you ought to be rejoicing for his sake! What could he 
 have done better?" 
 
 "Nothing, I daresay; for, Clara, I should not have 
 thought it better if he had carried you away, or so well ! 
 I am too selfish a brother for that. It is most fortunate 
 he has not thought of it! I will rejoice therefore, and 
 put away my grumbling. And it is high time I left 
 you to your puddings and pies, and finished my dahlias. 
 Adieu, then, fair lady!" And he strode out of the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Once more out among his flowers the slight ruffle in 
 his temper was soon smoothed down, and the accus- 
 tomed cheery light returned to his eyes. Clouds never 
 stayed long in his sun-loving sky, and once again he 
 sang among the bees, outri vailing their "breezy bass;" 
 himself the most industrious, j oiliest bee among them 
 all, as he was so decidedly the largest. 
 
 When he had finished his gardening he put on his 
 hat, and walked to Ebenezer Plowdens, to see Mary. 
 
 As he passed Mrs. Jones's door the widow stood before 
 it. There was a care-worn look in her eyes, which 
 cleared away a little on seeing John. "Mr. Broadbent, 
 sir, would you mind stepping in a minute?" 
 
 "Certainly not, Mrs. Jones." And John entered her 
 low room, where he generally at this time of day saw 
 James Miller at his bench, busy at work. But he was 
 not there now. 
 
 "Where's Miller?" he asked. 
 
 "That's just what it is, Mr. Broadbent, sir! I called 
 you in to tell you he's not been here since yesterday 
 
THE WEDDING CAEDS. 211 
 
 "Did he tell you he was going to stay away?" 
 
 "No sir, or I shouldn't ha' minded so much. He 
 just started off after breakfast y ester morn without a 
 word, as he does sometimes when he goes to fetch work, 
 an' I thought sure he'd be home by dinner. An' I'd 
 his bit o' bacon just ready to frizzle, an' his 'taturs 
 boiled at about the usil time, but he never came. I 
 got quite wonderin' by night, an' sat up till after 
 midnight, but he ne'er came." 
 
 "Has he ever been away all night before." 
 
 "Well, sir" — and here Mrs. Jones hesitated, and 
 lowered her voice, as if afraid of listeners — "I don't 
 like to tell tales of nobody. But the truth's the truth, 
 an' perhaps you ought to be knowin'. He hasn't been 
 ne'er so reg'lar lately, as he'd used." 
 
 "I was afraid not, from several things I have noticed 
 about him. Poor lad ! He's tried hard sometimes, but 
 he can't forget old habits. I wish I could get him to 
 sign the pledge." 
 
 "There's where it is, sir! He's so conceited like, he 
 thinks he's no need to sign, an' that he can allers do as 
 he wants to do when he's at home. No ale nor bacca 
 never comes across my doorstep, I wouldn't fetch it him 
 on no account whatsumever, an' to give him his due, 
 he never asks me to. He's very good at home. I've 
 no fault to find with him, but now, when he gets out 
 i' the town, he can't stand again it, as he'd used. If he 
 would but sign the pledge, he'd surely never be tempted 
 no more." 
 
 "I can't say he would never be tempted, Mrs. Jones! 
 But it would be a great help to him to remember a 
 solemn promise he had made in black and white. Even 
 
212 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 tli en he might fall, but I hope he would not, I trust 
 he would not! But have you no idea where he is? 
 
 " He's i' Trentham, I expect, somewhere, but where 
 I dunnot know, an' I can't be certain of that. Perhaps 
 you could find him, sir!" 
 
 "Does he never talk to you of who he sees in Trent- 
 ham?" 
 
 "Not he! He's close enough about his company. 
 Won't you sit down a bit, sir?" 
 
 "No, thank you. And he works as much as usual?" 
 
 "I can't say as he does, sir. He's be'n, as I say, 
 unregular for some time. He hasn't paid me his last 
 half }^ear for the garding; but then, I'm not complainin' 
 of him, I can wait a bit." 
 
 John left the cottage with some anxious forebodings: 
 James Miller was evidently going the downward way. 
 "What could he do for him? How arouse him to a sense 
 of his danger? He had been tolerably steady for the 
 last threeyears, though he had passed through one serious 
 time of trial. The young woman he had been attached 
 to had married from her place of service, and the hope 
 which poor James had always clung to, that he should 
 one day persuade her to look favourably upon him, was 
 therefore quite gone. Depressed and wretched, he had 
 at one time threatened to commit suicide; then to go 
 back and live at Trentham, which his friend combated, 
 knowing it would result in his ruin; and he had been 
 intoxicated one whole day, but by a mixture of kind- 
 ness and entreaty and command — for John Broadbent 
 could at times exert over the young man the power of 
 a strong character over a weak one, and enforce a com- 
 mand without appearing to do so — he had passed 
 
THE WEDDING CARDS. 213 
 
 through the danger, and forgetting or burying his un- 
 fortunate love, had taken furiously to the culture of 
 strawberries. 
 
 Every encouragement was given him. Mary Plow- 
 den took a sisterly interest in him, and brought him 
 her pictures to criticize or admire; and even painted 
 for him a group of his prize strawberries, arranged on 
 a green plate of their own leaves, though fruit- painting 
 she secretly despised; Mary's ambitious painter-soul 
 listening willingly only to the claims of "high art" and 
 landscape. And John Broadbent had endeavoured to 
 interest him in the proceedings of a kind of "labourer's 
 institute" he had established at St. Wilfrid's, where of 
 evenings in a hired room could be had books and news- 
 papers to read, a cup of coffee, and a seat by a good fire, 
 for the small sum of a penny; lectures also being occa- 
 sionally given by John and other gentlemen, and musical 
 performances by amateurs in the village, for the instruc- 
 tion and amusement of the poor, both men and women. 
 James had at first been tolerably earnest in his attend- 
 ance, and had even undertaken one of the reading- 
 classes for adults that were held in John's kitchen on 
 winter evenings; but in a while he had cooled. One 
 of his pupils had offended him in some way; and he 
 voted the whole affair "slow and seedy," and retired 
 to his garden again in his leisure hours. He seemed 
 to be one of those weak-minded individuals who require 
 every help and encouragement for themselves, but will 
 grant little or none to other people, and the seeds of 
 true philanthropy were not yet sown in his bosom. He 
 was in truth a discouraging pupil, and his master's 
 patience had been frequently tried not a little by him. 
 
214 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Mary Plowden was not at home. " She's gone up 
 the Grove a-painting," said her mother with a curtsey, 
 which she always persisted in bestowing on Mr. Broad- 
 bent. So John turned his steps towards the river and 
 the town; intending, as he had an hour or two to 
 spare, once more to go in search of the strayed sheep. 
 
 He found him sooner than he expected, coming across 
 the meadows with a bundle of leather on one arm; but 
 his step was slow and unwilling, and he did not meet 
 John with his usual smile. He looked confused and 
 ashamed, his eyes were bloodshot, and he appeared as 
 if he had been drinking. 
 
 "Well, James, you've chosen a fine day to be out! 
 I was just looking for you, and I'm glad to find you so 
 soon." 
 
 James murmured something about "not knowing 
 he was wanted," and said he'd just been to Trentham. 
 
 "So I see. Your leather proclaims the fact. I hope 
 you have brought a good order with you. Have you 
 been to see your father?" 
 
 James's reply was in the negative, and an angry 
 flush came to his brow. "Why was he asked that 
 question?" he demanded. 
 
 " I did not ask it to offend you, my dear fellow ! 
 But last time I was at No. 11 your mother told me 
 he had not been well for some days. I was hoping you 
 had been to see him, for you perhaps may not have him 
 long. I thought him a good deal altered when I saw 
 him last. But you visit him every now and then, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " No, I don't. And I tell you what it is, Mr. Broad- 
 bent" — and James lifted up his head, and raised his 
 
THE WEDDING CARDS. 215 
 
 voice — " I'm a man now, and I won't be questioned 
 and dogged about as if I was a child. What business 
 have you to come after me in this way?" 
 
 John knew that if James had been perfectly sober 
 he would not have used such language to him, or have 
 so misunderstood his motives. He knew also that 
 though he boasted to be a man, he was in many respects 
 but a child, and failed decidedly in one manly attribute 
 — self-government. He replied in a gentle tone — 
 
 " Do you ask me what business? The business of a 
 friend who sees you going wrong — of one who sincerely 
 loves you, and would do much to prove it. I can't let 
 my sheep wander away into the wilderness. I must 
 seek after you. If you were in the fire, and I came to 
 pluck you out, would you ask me my business? And 
 if not in the fire now, you are very near it — much too 
 near it for safety; and I am bold enough to say to you, 
 ' Keep out of the reach of the flames.' I know your 
 danger; for, as I have told you before, I have been in 
 it myself; and was only rescued from it by the hand of 
 a friend and by God's good providence. Don't you 
 think I should be very wicked if, seeing your peril, I 
 did not endeavour to save you?" 
 
 James made no answer to this appeal. He pulled his 
 hat over his eyes, hugged his leather more closely, and 
 walked on in sullen silence. 
 
 When John had seen him safely over the ferry, he 
 said, "I'll trouble you no more, Miller. Good bye! I 
 see you're not exactly able to hear me to-day. To- 
 morrow you and I will talk." And he left him, taking 
 the river-ward way, while James proceeded through 
 the village. 
 
216 BY THE TBJENT. 
 
 James's thoughts were not very pleasant ones, as he 
 walked on alone, his best friend having left him in 
 sorrow. At first, it is true, he felt glad to be relieved 
 of his presence; but in a minute or two, when a little 
 of his anger was gone, he was ashamed and troubled. 
 He had been drinking hard the previous day and 
 night; but was now tolerably sober, quite sober enough 
 to understand what was said to him, and to know 
 what he was about. But his nerves were irritable and 
 his temper morose — the consequences of his debauch — 
 and he muttered to himself, "What right had he to 
 bother me? I hate such prying and spying. Can't a 
 fellow do as he likes?" and other similar expressions 
 indicative of his state of mind. He made up his mind 
 he was a very ill-used person, and he half determined 
 to leave St. Wilfrid's altogether, and go to live in the 
 town, where he could do more as he liked. 
 
 Conscience interposed once or twice, asking him 
 where he would have been by this time, most probably, 
 if this same troublesome friend of his had let him alone. 
 Perhaps in the workhouse, perhaps in a prison for debt, 
 or in a lunatic asylum, or perhaps underneath the damp 
 gray soil. For a drunkard so many places of punish- 
 ment are open, so many unhappy compulsory homes 
 prepared; and he needs them all at times! 
 
 When he reached his lodgings, he did not deign to 
 reply to Mrs. Jones's kind inquiries whether he would 
 have dinner, but went at once up-stairs carrying the 
 bundle of leather with him, at which the good widow 
 was surprised, for he usually left it on his bench. 
 "He's not quite hisself!" she said to herself with a 
 shake of the head, "or he wouldn't be after taking 
 
THE WEDDING CARDS. 217 
 
 that littlier with him." She listened awhile anxiously 
 at the foot of the stairs for any sound that should en- 
 lighten her as to his proceedings ; but he was still, quite 
 still, and at last she seated herself in the old arm- 
 chair by the fire, and went on with her sewing. 
 
 When James reached his room, he first carefully 
 closed the door, and fastened it with the wooden button 
 that did duty for a bolt. Then he looked cautiously 
 around, as though he feared some lookers-on might be 
 seated on its one chair, or reclining on its bed, or hidden 
 in one of its whitewashed corners — rather an unlikely 
 thing in broad daylight, and in a room so bare of 
 drapery or curtains as this. He next put the bundle 
 of leather on the top of the box that contained his 
 clothes, and began to untie and unroll it. From its centre 
 he drew out a something wrapped carefully in paper, 
 and placed it also on the box. Then with his hand 
 upon this last parcel, he once more glanced arouud 
 and listened. There seemed to be perfect solitude and 
 silence, except that a fly noisily buzzed about the little 
 room, and hit his head insanely against the window- 
 panes. But the fly was not to be feared, he told no 
 tales but in his own occult language, and his small 
 wings, while they perpetually said, "Listen, listen !" could 
 make no further progress towards a speech in English. 
 Not quite at ease, however, he remembered that the 
 door was old, and that there were cracks in it of various 
 sizes. If any prying eye should now be at one of these 
 cracks? Mrs. Jones's for instance, she was suspiciously 
 silent j ust now : a direful supposition ! He rose up from 
 his kneeling posture beside the box, and taking the 
 counterpane from the bed, covered the inside of the 
 
218 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 door entirely with it, fastening it to the wall by large 
 pins. The cracks were not large, he found on looking, 
 but it was best to be secure. 
 
 Again he went to his box, this time with a feeling 
 of thorough safety. He lifted the paper parcel cau- 
 tiously, and unrolled the paper slowly; but suddenly a 
 shock went through him — a terrible shock; the parcel 
 almost dropped out of his hand, for a voice called him close 
 to his ear, and a touch, soft but frightfully startling, came 
 upon his shoulder. With wide starting eyes, and trem- 
 bling hands, he turned his head. Psha! The voice he 
 heard so alarmingly close was only the plaintive "mew" 
 of the cat, who had perhaps been hidden under the 
 bed, and now came to let him know of her presence, 
 climbing on the chair close beside him to get upon his 
 shoulder. How could he think her harmless cry to be the 
 voice of a human being? Why did he not recognize it 
 at once? He almost smiled at his own foolishness. 
 The cat is no tell-tale any more than the fly, so he may 
 proceed with his business. He unwrapped the parcel 
 resolutely that had caused him so much trouble. What 
 could it be? Had he discovered in some field or lane 
 a bag of sovereigns that he was now afraid to lose? 
 Had he gained by some mysterious means a wonderful 
 treasure of art, the knowledge of which he was wish- 
 ful to keep entirely to himself? Was it some love- 
 token ? Some gift from a beloved one ? Or more likely, 
 some perfection of a shoe, that he was allowed to bring 
 home for careful reverent study; a shoe equal to any 
 St. Crispin could manufacture? No, it was certainly 
 not a shoe, for he had laid away the noisy rustling 
 paper, and lifted the inclosure in his hand, holding it 
 
THE WEDDING CARDS. 219 
 
 between bis eyes and the light. Not a work of art 
 even, not of fine art at least; and surely that ugly glass 
 cylinder was no love-token, no gift a loving woman would 
 bestow on one she cared for ! An eager greedy light 
 was in his eyes as he gazed, his lips parted with some- 
 thing like a smile, his hands trembled, but not with 
 fear now, with excitement; he drew a long breath. 
 
 And could that ominous-looking bottle with its liquid 
 contents — something stronger than Trent water w r e fear 
 — touch him with a greater joy than the sight of his 
 friend ? Were there no stirrings of remorse within him ? 
 Kemorse at the deception he was practising — the 
 hopes he was intending to blast — the friend he was 
 ready to grieve and alienate — the soul within him he 
 was about to ruin? For he stood now on ground where 
 life or death, fair fame or infamy, happiness or misery, 
 oscillated in the balance fearfully for him. He was 
 possibly at the most momentous turning-point of his 
 life. Perhaps at this very moment an angel w 7 ith ten- 
 der pleading looks and words of celestial entreaty might 
 be uttering her last warnings in his ear, and another 
 of dark aspect be whispering seductive speeches, that 
 could lead to but one result for him, if he listened 
 and obeyed — destruction. Which will he attend to? 
 
 He put the bottle once more on the box; he remem- 
 bered he had better not uncork it at present, but he 
 could not persuade himself to leave it just yet. He 
 stroked puss, who had climbed on his knee, for he was 
 now in a good temper with her and all the world. 
 Had he not brought a treasure home with him ? Was he 
 not now a man who could do as he pleased? That bright 
 sheeny liquor — he shook the bottle to see it sparkle in 
 
220 BY THE TKENT. 
 
 the sunlight — contained joy, contained comfort, con- 
 tained blessed oblivion of all trouble for him ! When 
 he should take it, adieu to thoughts of work, to mono- 
 tonous shoe-stitching and hammering, to thread-wax- 
 ing, and awl-boring, to long dull hours of labour; for 
 awhile he should be in a bright jubilant state that 
 would refuse to listen to care, he should be too happy 
 to envy the king on his throne ! With a sigh, and a 
 trembling hand, he put the bottle in the box, closed 
 the lid, and heard the lock click above it. For the pre- 
 sent he must leave it. 
 
 At tea-time he went down into the kitchen. The 
 widow spoke to him mildly behind her tea-cups. She 
 had patience with the faults and shortcomings of young 
 men, for her heart was tender to them, remembering 
 her poor William; and, moreover, she had often proved 
 that a "soft answer turneth away wrath," and James's 
 face had been cross-looking enough when he went 
 up-stairs. His ill-temper was gone now, however; his 
 eyes shone brightly, and he laughed more than once 
 or twice over the tea-table. Still he was restless, and 
 complained of headache when he came to sit down to 
 work after tea, and before long retreated to his room, 
 saying he should go soon to bed, as he intended to be 
 at work in his garden very early in the morning. 
 
fire! fire! 221 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FIRE! FIRE! 
 
 At St. Wilfrid's, night was generally a very quiet 
 time. The only public-house was on the outskirts, the 
 same white cottage we have named before that over- 
 looked the ferry; and the " Labourers' Institute " had 
 done much to check the evil habit of evening-tippling, 
 so common among the farming-men and work-people 
 at almost all towns and villages. During the midnight 
 hours the villagers slept quietly, undisturbed by sounds 
 of drunken merriment or brawling, and to the healthy 
 and good came dreams of peace, while the river, that 
 had no time to sleep, slipped softly past, as time did. 
 John and Clara generally retired early to rest, and on 
 the night of the loth of July, were fast asleep long 
 before midnight. 
 
 An hour later, a bright red light shot up into the 
 sky from the midst of the quiet houses; and soon after, 
 that cry that is so alarming in the dead of the night to 
 the newly awakened, the cry of ''Fire! fire!" was 
 heard by all the inhabitants with uncontrollable terror 
 or excitement, and all, who could, arose in haste, and 
 prepared to go out. Hurrying feet were soon on their 
 way to the burning dwelling, and noise and bustle and 
 terror reigned where half an hour before was the most 
 profound silence. 
 
 John Broadbent was one of the first out, and was 
 quickly at the scene of destruction, which he found to 
 
222 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 be, to his great concern, Mrs. Jones's cottage. Flames 
 were coming out of one of the tipper windows, and the 
 thatch had already caught the blaze. It was thoroughly 
 dry, after the late hot weather, and blazed furiously. 
 Already a crowd was collected in front of the burning 
 building, and confused shouts and contradictory orders 
 were given, the alarmed humans not seeming at first 
 much more sensible or methodical in their way of acting 
 in the emergency, than did the crows, that, wakened by 
 the glare and the noise, cawed and flip-flapped about 
 the elms and the old church tower, seen now so plainly 
 and ruddily in the glow of the red, high-reaching blaze. 
 "It's of no use," one shouted. "Nothing'll stop that! 
 It's gone too for; the thatch burns like tinder." "Water! 
 water! Buckets! buckets!" cried others; while others, 
 more helpful and wise, went to fetch the necessary 
 articles. John appeared among them; his tall form, 
 head higher than the rest, conspicuous and well known. 
 Under his direction a chain of living links was formed 
 between the cottage and the river (beneficent river! 
 always willing to give of its cooling, quenching waters!) 
 and buckets were passed from hand to hand quickly 
 with their precious burden to stay the devouring 
 flames. But what had become of the inmates of the 
 burning cottage? Mrs. Jones's sleeping room was at 
 the back of the house. Had any one seen her? John 
 inquired. No one replied. " She couldn't get out this 
 way, mester, the flames is too bad," said a labouring 
 man at length. " True; most true," thought John; and 
 giving up his bucket to one of the standers-by, ran at 
 full speed round the block of buildings, and made his 
 way to the back of the cottage. Here he met Ebenezer 
 
fire! fire! 223 
 
 Plowden and Mary, with the poor widow's half-fainting 
 form between them. They had dragged her out with 
 some difficulty. "Where is James?'' asked John, 
 breathless with haste. "He's inside!'' said Mary, with 
 horror-stricken face; "we couldn't persuade him to 
 come out; he seemed quite stupid and bewildered." 
 John endeavoured to enter at the back-door; but 
 volumes of smoke, mingled with flames, came out now 
 so fast, that it was impossible to get in that way. The 
 stairs were on fire also. "A ladder!" he shouted; and 
 almost as he said the words, a ladder was brought. He 
 placed it at the bedroom window, mounted, and entered 
 the cottage, the lookers-on watching in silent terror his 
 disappearance in the blazing building. One pair of 
 lips, especially, were blanched with fear, and one pair 
 of straining eyes gazed horror-struck at the blank 
 window that had swallowed up his beloved form. 
 When would he return? Would he ever? Ah! if the 
 building should fall upon him! — if that blazing roof 
 should drop down ! — if those walls should give way and 
 bury him ! — a living man amongst all that destroying 
 fire and smoke ! If he should be suffocated, or burned 
 to death before he could reach the window once more ! 
 If — but now, thank God ! oh thank God ! — that is his face 
 at the window once more — he is black and smoky — his 
 hair is on fire — but in his arms he has the senseless 
 form of James Miller, which he drags through the 
 window, and with difficulty brings down the ladder! 
 The men below helped as they could, but it was at the 
 peril of their lives and limbs, for sticks and blazing 
 thatch fell down thick amongst them. And now a pair 
 of white hands at the foot of the ladder, the only white 
 
224 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 hands in that dangerous neighbourhood — for no other 
 female dared venture near — threw over John's head a 
 thick shawl, taken from the shoulders of the same form 
 to which the hands belonged, and put out the blaze on 
 his head and arm by this means. It was Clara's hands 
 that did this; she had followed him out of doors, and 
 had watched his exploit with a beating heart. Two of 
 the neighbours at once carried off James to a place 
 of safety, and Clara at the same moment seized her 
 brother's arm with an exclamation of terror, and dragged 
 him away. It was but just in time, for now came 
 crashing down, with volumes of smoke and sparks and 
 burning splinters, thrown far and wide, the blazing 
 roof, and with it part of the cottage wall, and on the 
 spot where John had stood the moment before was a 
 heap of bricks and beams and smouldering thatch higher 
 than himself. 
 
 "Thank God!" exclaimed Clara, gratefully, once 
 more, as they walked away from so dangerous a place. 
 "Are you hurt much?" 
 
 "Not at all, dear! I should have been but for you ! 
 You have saved my life," and he looked down into her 
 face with inexpressible affection, as he replaced the 
 shawl upon her shoulders. "But it is time you went 
 home. There is no danger for me now." 
 
 "Not yet; not at present," she said firmly. They 
 returned to the front of the cottage, where an ominous 
 cry was being raised. " Plowden's thatch has caught; 
 all hands to the buckets!" — Which cry was unhappily 
 too true. 
 
 Ebenezer Plowden's cottage and that inhabited by 
 Mrs. Jones adjoined; the older part of it was unfor- 
 
fire! fire! 225 
 
 tunately thatched, and had caught fire at a corner that 
 was not at first observed. Great exertions were made 
 to subdue the flames, for by this time the whole village 
 was astir, and every man and boy, and not a few 
 women, worked to the uttermost. Ebenezer was much 
 respected, and all were doubly inclined to help him, 
 and to save his dwelling, if that were possible. Even 
 the clergyman did not disdain to use the buckets with 
 the rest — a fire-engine was not at this time attainable 
 — and the squire was present with every able servant 
 on his establishment. The fire was at last quenched, 
 but not before more than one-half of Ebenezer's house 
 was a heap of smouldering ruins, and the rest much 
 injured. The workshop, with its store of osiers and 
 baskets was burned down, and the "studdio" with 
 Mary's paintings was utterly destroyed. 
 
 Clara returned home early to prepare beds for those 
 who might need them; and soon Mary Plowden, with 
 her mother and Mrs. Jones, were located in the cottage, 
 Ebenezer remaining on his own premises, with some 
 friends, to guard what remained. John Broadbent 
 came home soon afterwards, and the villagers returned 
 to their different places of abode, all but a few, who 
 kept watch, lest any fresh outbreak of fire should 
 occur, so that when the sun rose, all was again tolerably 
 quiet. It was found that James Miller was not much 
 burned, though he was suffering from the effects of the 
 smoke he had inhaled; and the doctor said he must not 
 be moved at present from the house of the neighbour 
 where he had been at first taken. 
 
 A severe pain in his right hand and arm reminded 
 John, when the excitement was over, that he had not 
 
226 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 escaped without hurt; and his hair presented a sad 
 appearance — his thick rich locks being burned away 
 almost entirely. For two months afterwards he felt the 
 effects of the fire, and the scars remained upon his arm 
 through life; but they were honourable scars of which 
 he had no reason to feel ashamed — more honourable 
 than those gained in the heat and smoke of battle, that 
 the world so much delights to laud. 
 
 But how had it all occurred? How was it that the 
 cottage had been set on fire? Rumours varied for a 
 while. It was accident; it had been set on fire by 
 malicious persons; it was done by a mouse carrying a 
 lucifer match into a hole too near the thatch; Mrs. 
 Jones herself had done it, by setting clothes to dry too 
 near the fire; James Miller had done it by smoking in 
 bed. The real truth of the case was for some time 
 unknown. Circumstantial evidence revealed it at first, 
 and confession made all clear. James Miller had retired 
 to his room early, as we said, and to a dangerous com- 
 panion. The bottle he had shut up, and locked so 
 carefully in his box, was a bottle of gin, and when he 
 had gone to rest, as it was supposed, he indulged 
 himself with drinking part of its contents. It was a 
 great enjoyment, one for which he had been longing 
 some time, and he made the most of it. When almost 
 senseless, he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon the 
 bed , leaving a lighted candle close to his open box of 
 clothes. Some spark from the candle, it was supposed, 
 must have fallen upon the linen. It smouldered, no 
 doubt, for awhile, and then burst into a blaze; but James 
 was too heavily asleep to know anything about it, and 
 even after the bed and roof had caught fire, was insensible 
 
fire! tire! 227 
 
 to his danger. When Ebenezer awoke him with great 
 difficulty, his senses were still too much obscured to be 
 of real service to him; he refused to follow him down- 
 stairs, and in the meantime, while those below were 
 calling for him, the stairs caught fire. At length he 
 was awake to his danger, but it was too late — the 
 smoke overpowered him, and he sank down upon 
 the landing to perish, had not John Broadbent, at 
 the risk of his own life, entered by the window and 
 rescued him. 
 
 John visited him the next day. His own arm was 
 in a sling, and a black mark upon his temple showed 
 traces of the fire. James was dressed, and sitting below 
 stairs, his elbows on the table, resting his head in his 
 hands when his friend entered. He lifted his head as 
 he heard some one approaching; his face was very pale, 
 and he became so ghastly, and trembled so much, that 
 John, in a few minutes, finding him quite unable to 
 talk, retired, nor did he attempt to see him again. 
 
 In a few days, however, James was better, and 
 himself called upon John. By this time it was known 
 how the fire had occurred, and the village was loud and 
 deep in its condemnation of the " gin-drinking, good- 
 for-nothing shoemaker," and those who took many a 
 sly drop themselves were loud and condemnatory as 
 the rest — perhaps a little more so. 
 
 John Broadbent was lying on the sofa. A slow fever 
 had attacked him, the result of his burns; his face was 
 pale, and it was apparent that he was suffering. James 
 threw himself on his knees before him. "Oh! Mr. 
 Broadbent, I'm not fit you should ever speak to me 
 again, but I cannot help coming, to ask you to forgive 
 
228 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 me — then I will go away, and you shall never be 
 troubled with me any more." 
 
 " No, Miller, that will never do. I cannot spare you. 
 Rise up, my man, why do you kueel to me? Kneel to 
 God, arid thank him for sparing your life." 
 
 "I do; I do; though I don't deserve to have it 
 spared. And it was you that saved me, too. I should 
 have been a dead man if it hadn't been for you." He 
 rose up slowly, and took John's left hand, the other 
 was bound up. " Tell me how I can serve you; how I 
 can prove my gratitude; how I can repay you in any 
 way for what you have suffered, for what you still 
 suffer, then I can consent to live." 
 
 " I will tell you," said John, solemnly. " There is 
 only one way by which you can repay me. Promise 
 me faithfully, before God, that while you live, you will 
 never again taste intoxicating drinks — and keep your 
 promise. Then I shall be abundantly repaid." 
 
 The tears rose in James's eyes, as he said, fervently 
 and slowly, "I promise before God!" 
 
 " Amen !" added John, with a full heart. " Now sit 
 down and tell me how it all occurred." 
 
 James made a full confession — he did not strive to 
 hide his guilt in the least, he even seemed, in the excess 
 of his contrition, to wish to throw every possible blame 
 upon himself. 
 
 But he was terribly agitated and dejected, as indeed 
 he might well be. How could he ever make good again 
 the damage and loss he had caused? One thing seemed 
 clear to him, and he repeated it frequently, that he 
 must leave St. Wilfrid's, for how could he bear to meet 
 those he had so deeply injured? 
 
fire! fire! 229 
 
 " Will that make the injury less? It seems to me 
 that it will increase it. Besides, it is cowardly to run 
 away from the punishment that is so much your due : 
 bear it and make the best of it. If you cannot rebuild 
 your friends' houses, or refurnish them, you can surely 
 do something, if ever so little, to assist. You can sell 
 the produce of your garden for their benefit, and though 
 Mrs. Jones may most likely hesitate to live with you 
 again, you owe her at least all you can spare from your 
 own maintenance, and every kind attention you can 
 bestow. By going away you make much of this im- 
 possible. Show yourself a man at last! You have 
 never yet had any one dependent on you. Begin a 
 fresh life from to-day, and live not only for yourself 
 but for others. You owe a serious debt, more than you 
 can ever fully repay, but be determined to pay what 
 you can and redeem your character." 
 
 This was the advice his friend gave him. He lis- 
 tened humbly, he promised to do his best, and he left 
 the house with a less heavy step than when he entered 
 it. Sad as life was become, there was still much left to 
 live for, and the necessity for exertion was strong upon 
 him; his tools, his clothes, all his worldly possessions, 
 had been destroyed; he must work to regain them, to 
 get his daily bread, to help those he had so seriously 
 injured. 
 
 Money was collected for the benefit of the widow, 
 and in a short time she was placed in a small cottage 
 that had long stood empty, but was now repaired for 
 her use, with a new stock of goods about her, and 
 James once more went to reside with her. When she 
 knew he had taken the pledge she was afraid of him 
 
230 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 no more, and two years' companionship in the same 
 house had given to her lonely heart a sort of motherly 
 affection for him. " Somehow she didn't like to part 
 wi' him/' was her speech to Clara, and Clara gladly 
 encouraged the kindly feeling. 
 
 Ebenezer Plowden's house was soon rebuilt. "With 
 his usual vigour the basket-maker set about clearing 
 away the rubbish, and with John and Mary's help 
 drew out on paper a plan for a new and better build- 
 ing. He had been wise enough to insure, so that he 
 had but little loss, and indeed the loss in the end 
 brought a positive enjoyment to him. To watch the 
 progress of the new house, pipe in mouth, in the ripe 
 autumn evenings, to contemplate the satisfactory ap- 
 pearance of the "front elevation," and reckon the num- 
 ber of days that would elapse before it could be roofed 
 in, was a great delight. He was something of a trouble 
 to the workmen — he would allow no Saint Mondays or 
 idle hours, and no surreptitious cans of ale to be brought 
 in while they should be at work. " It should be raised 
 by teetotalism," he said, " as the last was burned down 
 by gin;" for he had been sensible enough to see the 
 advantages of strict temperance for many years, and 
 now more than ever was he earnest in publishing his 
 opinion of the folly and wrong entailed by drink. 
 
 One morning as John passed, he found him busy 
 dealing out steaming coffee at eleven o'clock to the men, 
 and preaching the while to them in rather a loud voice 
 on the disadvantages of intemperance. His pipe lay in 
 a corner ready at hand, when it should next be wanted. 
 It was seldom far away from Ebenezer. 
 
 " If you men had half sense, you'd never drink again 
 
fire! fire! 231 
 
 for your own sakes, let alone your wives and children. 
 It is a nasty, dirty, degrading habit, that of swilling 
 down ale; makes you fools one-half your time, and 
 knaves the other half; for when you should be at work, 
 instead of doing the best you can for your master, which 
 is your bounden duty, you're only thinking how much 
 drink you can crib from them at home out of your 
 wages ! Aye, drink that coffee now, and tell me if it 
 isn't as good as ale ! Which of you says it isn't?" " I 
 do, mester," replied Sandy Peach, a long red-nosed 
 bricklayer, who was reckoned very quick and clever 
 at work, but a great drunkard. "You do, do you?" 
 Sandy laughed; he rather enjoyed what he called 
 "setting the old fellow's monkey up," for there was 
 ever a feud going on between Sandy and "the mester." 
 "Good morniug, Mr. Broadbent; a fine morning, sir," 
 and Ebenezer touched his hat; — returning then to the 
 fight with Sandy, "You do, do you?" and there was 
 some contempt in the tone of his voice; " well, I'm not 
 surprised at you, for you've lost the good wholesome 
 nateral taste your Maker gave you long ago, and you're 
 no judge therefore; but any man in his right senses 
 would say different — would say that coffee's a better 
 drink than ale — better for the head, and the stomach, 
 and the purse. Do you think if I'd gone tippling in 
 your public-houses in my young days, and now, that I 
 •should ever have possessed a house of my own, or had 
 the good sense to insure it, so that when the fire came 
 I'd no need to pipe my eye, but only to send for a lot 
 of chaps like you to put it up again for me? Don't you 
 think I'm a good deal happier this day than I should 
 have been if I'd done like you fellows, and spent most 
 
232 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 of my earnings at the public? I was but a poor basket- 
 weaver when I was a young man, with not a ha'penny 
 to bless myself with but what I earned, and with less 
 wages than many of you get; but I've taken better care 
 of them than to throw them all down my throat, and 
 that puts me in mind that the Scripture says, ' Cast 
 thy bread upon the waters, and it shall be seen after 
 many days;' but it never says, ' Cast thy bread, that's 
 thy money, you understand, upon the ale,' for then 
 you'd never see it again at all!" 
 
 John, who still stood by, could not help smiling at 
 this new and perhaps not very allowable use of the 
 text; and Sandy Pearce, who rightly judged that the 
 greater part of this exordium was intended for him, 
 and who was reckoned rather " 'cute " by some of his 
 compeers, replied drily to the latter end of the speech, 
 "And it doesn't say, either, 'Cast thy bread into the 
 baccy-pipe,' does it, mester?" 
 
 Ebenezer was nonplussed for the moment at the 
 question. He glanced uneasily down towards the well- 
 beloved " clay idol." But he returned manfully to his 
 argument. " Baccur doesn't make a man tipsy till he 
 doesn't know the gutter from his bed nor the lamp-post 
 from his friend; it doesn't make a man abuse his wife 
 and little ones, nor half-murder them; it doesn't bring 
 up bad passions as you know ale does; and it doesn't 
 call the blue devils about you. No, my boys. If it 
 had done any of these things, I should never stand up 
 for it nor use it." 
 
 Sandy finished his cup of coffee as Ebenezer con- 
 cluded, and, giving his mouth a wipe with the back of 
 his hand, stood looking at the burly basket-maker with 
 
fire! fire! 233 
 
 an air of comic defiance. He was bullet-proof against 
 all arguments opposed to the use of his well-beloved 
 alcohol; he rather enjoyed the battle, indeed. It set 
 flowing the quicksilver in his brain, of which quick- 
 silver he had decidedly too much for his own well- 
 being; and it brought the ready, saucy words to his 
 lips, " Baccy's done me quite as much harm as ale ever 
 did, Mester Plowden." 
 
 " Prove it, Sandy, and I'll make you a present of my 
 pipe, and you shall break it into as many pieces as you 
 like." 
 
 " Thank you! One piece will do for me, mester. I 
 wouldn't break it into more on no account whatsom- 
 ever." The rest of the labourers laughed. " Well," he 
 continued, "I shan't have fur to go to prove it, for it 
 was smoking as first made me fond of the ale. Smok- 
 ing's thirsty work, and water didn't taste right wi' it, 
 so the more baccy I had the more ale I took, that's all 
 about it." 
 
 " I'm- not obliged to drink ale because i" smoke," 
 retorted Ebenezer. 
 
 " No, mester, may be not. But you're an exception, 
 an' exceptions only prove the rule, as fur's Fve ever 
 heard. You ask all these chaps if they don't say as I 
 say, that them as smokes has to drink. Here, — Phil, 
 Joe, Jim, what do you say?" 
 
 All the men upheld Sandy's theory of smoking. 
 
 Ebenezer looked thoughtful. " What do you say, 
 Mr. Broadbent?" 
 
 " That Sandy's very much in the right. To you it 
 may be no temptation; but to the greater number of 
 men, I believe, it is a serious one. Smoking induces 
 
234} BY THE TRENT. 
 
 drinking. The two are not quite like Siamese twins, 
 indivisible; but they are often twins, and go very much 
 together. Aren't they, my men?" 
 
 "Aye, aye, sir, sure enough." 
 
 Ebenezer went slowly to the corner, where his pipe 
 lay in modest security. He lifted it up tenderly. He 
 looked at it wistfully. If he had been a man given to 
 sighing, he would have sighed. But he held it out 
 firmly, and presented it to John, and resolve was in 
 his eye as he said, " There, sir, take it and break it to 
 atoms ! And bear witness for me, that I say I will 
 never smoke tobacco again while I live. Or, — stop, — 
 I promised Sandy he should break it." 
 
 But Sandy, who saw there was no hope of saving 
 the victim for himself, signified his wish that Mr. Broad- 
 bent should be the officiating priest, and offer the 
 sacrifice. 
 
 With a smile, John took the offending piece of clay, 
 and broke it, not to atoms as he was requested, but 
 into sufficiently small pieces, and threw them on the 
 ground. " I am witness," he said in a loud voice. 
 
 The men stood staring in some surprise at what 
 must have appeared to them a very strange act. 
 
 " Which of you will do the same by your mugs and 
 glasses?" asked Ebenezer, wishful to improve the occa- 
 sion. " You'll never repent it! Lay by drink, as I've 
 laid by smoking, from this hour. Come, my good 
 fellows; you won't let me be alone, will you ?" 
 
 After a little hesitation one man came forward, and 
 said he didn't mind promising; he'd long thought it 
 would be best to give it up. " I've no glass to break," 
 he continued, " but one in my mind's eye, an' it's been 
 
CHANGES AND SECRETS. zbo 
 
 a very deep, big 'un, an' '11 take some breaking. But 
 here it goes!" And he lifted his hands in the attitude 
 of throwing away. 
 
 Ebenezer shouted, " That's right, that's right !" and 
 enthusiastic, mercurial Sandy patted him on the back. 
 " Brayvo ! old fellow ! Bray vo ! Phil !" Phil took him 
 by the hand, and said in a beseeching tone, "Join me, 
 Sandy. You'll always be glad of it." " Not I," replied 
 the incorrigible Sandy. "What's the use? I couldn't 
 keep to it if I did." — A momentary solemnity came 
 over his mobile features. " I only wish I could, old 
 fellow; it 'ud be the better for me." And then the old 
 careless smile resumed its place. No more proselytes 
 followed Phil's example, and all were soon again at 
 work — perhaps, however, to think seriously on the 
 advisability of eschewing ale for coffee. At all events, 
 let us hope so. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CHANGES AND SECRETS. 
 
 With the bride and bridegroom at Trentham, all settled 
 down very much as is usual with such interesting per- 
 sonages for the time being. The new minister's home 
 was still necessarily in the town, for Stephen must be 
 near his people, ready to be consulted, to be seen and 
 called for in emergency. A minister s work is generally 
 of more importance out of the pulpit than in, and in 
 the week-day he has many engagements. Meetings of 
 
236 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 the church, Bible-meetings, prayer-meetings, classes for 
 young men and women, and one week- evening service, 
 at least, take up much of his time. It is only astonish- 
 ing that he can visit at all, when he has so many calls 
 upon his exertions, and yet, as we have seen before, 
 visiting was considered one of the minister's duties. 
 Stephen had hitherto done as little of this as was pos- 
 sible, restricting it, wherever he could, to visits to the 
 sick and poor. Now he was married, however, the 
 supposed duty could no longer be avoided, at least not 
 for a time, and visits to one house after another, be- 
 longing to his numerous and wealthy congregation, 
 were considered perfectly indispensable. The bride 
 bore her part in it womanfully, if we may use the term, 
 and for awhile, when the first shyness belonging to her 
 position was overcome, she enjoyed the excitement. 
 She was loving wife enough to be proud of her husband, 
 and of the praises overt or implied that were so liberally 
 given him. 
 
 But Jane, though so young and inexperienced, and 
 well pleased at first with the outside enjoyments of her 
 lot, was not satisfied to remain absorbed in them. She 
 had upon her a strong sense of the importance of the 
 sphere into which her husband had introduced her, and 
 though entering it with some trembling, remembering 
 her own deficiencies and liability to errors, she accepted 
 her place in it with satisfaction. Was it not an honour- 
 able, holy calling? She thanked God for it daily, with 
 a tender thankful heart, and long and ardently did she 
 pray that she might be no stumbling-block in the way 
 of so good, so exalted, so all-perfect a character, as her 
 husband appeared to her in their first married days. 
 
CHANGES AND SECRETS. 237 
 
 They were indeed smiling, hopeful days, perhaps almost 
 more so than fall to the lot of most young brides, for 
 two worlds seemed to her to smile upon their union — 
 the earthly and the heavenly. Her parents, thoroughly 
 satisfied and content, looked upon their youngest 
 daughter's settlement in life as all that could be desired, 
 and no misgivings or dull doubt-clouds of any kind 
 came across them as to the happiness of her future. 
 The "church" accepted her cordially and lovingly at 
 once, as the wife of their honoured pastor, and the 
 daughter of their wealthiest and most influential, if not 
 most respected deacon; and were ready to look favour- 
 ably upon all that she said or did. And the conscious- 
 ness of God's protecting loving guidance, the perfect 
 confidence she felt in her husband, made her new duties 
 appear no burden. 
 
 John and Clara visited the new-married couple. 
 They found them located in a well-furnished, handsome 
 house in the Park, the "west-end" of Trentham, with 
 an abundance of this life's good about them. Their 
 abode seemed one of "music and light/' and the view 
 from the lofty windows was one of the finest that 
 Trentham could produce; the broad extent of the Park, 
 a plateau of undulating green, overlooking the Trent- 
 valley far below, with its winding river and trees and 
 villages, and its blue-gray distance softening into the 
 horizon tints of the sky. Stephen showed his friends 
 the view with some pleasure. 
 
 "Our home. r said Clara with a smile, and a tender 
 light in her eyes, as she looked down at St. Wilfrid's, 
 seated among the shadow of its trees on the banks of 
 the shining Trent, and more beautiful to her than even 
 
238 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 the butomus then so richly in flower on the rushy 
 borders of the river. 
 
 "Is that your home?" asked Jane interested, endea- 
 vouring to distinguish the dark mass of the church 
 tower. "I shall like to look at it for your sake. But 
 are you not damp by the river?" 
 
 "Not at all, though we look so low to eyes up 
 here," replied John, anxious for the honour of his 
 favourite St. Wilfrid's. "You overlook us entirely, but 
 I do not think you are much nearer heaven." This last 
 speech was addressed to Stephen, who made answer by 
 a smile, and a roguish "Possibly not, though we shall 
 be obliged to call you our low-lived friends \" 
 
 Clara was much pleased with Jane. A sisterly feeling 
 sprang up in her heart for her, and Jane on her part 
 admired the calm grace of her visitor, and felt inclined 
 to love the pleasant, affectionate glance of her eyes. 
 "We must know more of each other," she said, as she 
 clasped Clara's hand at parting, "for you will come 
 again? And I shall be sure to visit you!" 
 
 And thus a new link united the two houses speedily, 
 and across the ferry friends came and went from either 
 side, and the golden autumn days became still richer 
 from their mutual enjoyment. The joy was the more 
 perfect, because for these friends three worlds met and 
 embraced — the religious, the intellectual, and the 
 physical. Winter, however, brought a temporary cessa- 
 tion of these pleasures, and in the spring new duties 
 commenced. Jane promised to become a mother, and 
 her father suffered from an attack resembling apoplexy. 
 The doctors feared it might presage it indeed, and re- 
 commended spare diet and less wine. 
 
CHANGES AND SECRETS. 239 
 
 John and Clara too had other duties. Books that 
 John had written began to attract attention in other 
 countries, and a call to Germany came for him. Clara 
 accompanied him, with the hope and expectation that 
 in a year or less they should be able to return to their 
 quiet nest. But the year became two, and in the 
 meantime changes had taken place, that they could note 
 and appreciate among the friends they had left behind. 
 
 Clara had received letters from Jane during her stay 
 abroad, acquainting her with some of these changes. 
 Her letters had not been so cheerful of late; but Clara 
 did not wonder at this. Her father had died very 
 suddenly. The " less wine" order was not effectual to 
 restore health. It came much too late, and his plethoric 
 habit of body could not be reduced quickly enough. 
 "No wine at all" might possibly have saved him — with 
 consistent diet; but the family surgeon and the two 
 physicians who attended him, did not dare to give so 
 stringent a command, or did not know its necessity. 
 Mrs. Gresham was still residing at Swansford; but was 
 lonely amid all her riches, her eldest daughter Char- 
 lotte having married a retired merchant, whose home 
 was some miles away. Jane was therefore frequently 
 required at Swansford to relieve the tedium of her 
 mother's solitude, and went over to spend every spare 
 evening she could command from more pressing duties. 
 These were not small or slight; for she had now a baby, 
 a boy of some eighteen months, whose delicate health 
 called forth her motherly solicitude; and the needful 
 attention she had to bestow upon him, sadly interfered 
 with the time she wished to mve to her husband indi- 
 vidually. 
 
240 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 At the first meeting of the long-parted friends, Jane's 
 eyes looked sweet and good as ever, though there was 
 a shade of care came across them at intervals, even in 
 that short morning call. She looked almost as young 
 and well as before, however, apart from the paleness 
 that mourning confers upon fair complexions. Stephen 
 was more altered in outward appearance. He had 
 grown stouter, and the hair that used to be so abundant 
 grew thinly upon the top of his head — indeed there 
 was a bald spot that no dexterous brushing or combing 
 could quite conceal. There was a restless glance in his 
 eyes, and an increased fulness of the lower lip; but his 
 manner was friendly and courteous; and if he did not 
 shake John's hand with the old cordiality, still there 
 was no real or apparent coldness to complain of. 
 
 He inquired after Germany and German friends, of 
 whom he had several that were mutual acquaintances; 
 and then said, with a sigh, how much he should like 
 to rest a while from his numerous duties and engage- 
 ments. " I find/' he said, " my pulpit duties press upon 
 me as they never did before," and he put his hand to 
 his head in a weary way. "The constant strain for 
 the fresh sermon every Sabbath is very trying; for I 
 need not tell you that ordinary fare does not suit my 
 congregation/' and a faint smile came to his pale 
 feverish-looking lips. 
 
 "It must indeed be a great strain," answered John, 
 sympathetically. " But why not give them something 
 simpler? Nothing that you could say would be trite 
 and meaningless, and the plain brown bread might 
 occasionally taste sweeter than spiced cake." 
 
 " So they tell me sometimes. But if the wheat is 
 
CHANGES AND SECRETS. 241 
 
 failing, how am I to give them either cake or brown 
 bread? I sometimes fear" — and he passed his hand 
 over his brow again, while Jane regarded him anxiously 
 — "that my brain will fail me." 
 
 John and Clara looked shocked and alarmed. " Why 
 not send for advice at once? — Or if you think that is 
 what you require, why not take a year's holiday, and 
 travel abroad?" asked John. 
 
 "No," he replied in a hopeless manner. "I have 
 had advice; but the doctors do me no good. And I do 
 not know really that it is a holiday I want." 
 
 rt It might be just the thing for you," said Clara, 
 earnestly. " You are depressed now, and cannot ima- 
 gine anything will do you good; but once get away, 
 and breathe the fresh clear air of the Continent, and 
 your hypochondriacal fancies will fly away." 
 
 "I wish you could persuade him! I am sure he 
 needs rest and an entire change," was the young wife's 
 remark. 
 
 But he still said, "No," and changed the subject. 
 
 The baby was brought in, and duly nursed and 
 kissed, and presently highly delighted with some Swiss 
 toys "aunt Clara" brought him in her pocket and reti- 
 cule. John and Stephen walked round the garden, that 
 was laid out in terraces and slopes in front of the house, 
 while the two ladies had their own talk in the green- 
 curtained drawing-room. There was much to say on 
 both sides. The death of Mr. Gresham and the lonely 
 life of Jane's mother came first; and then more cheer- 
 ful subjects — motherly cares and pleasures, the good a 
 minister's wife might do amongst the poor, Jane's 
 evening school for young girls, her Bible-class, her 
 
 Q 
 
242 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Sunday-school class— all of which Clara heard about 
 with great interest. Her turn came next, to relate 
 some of her more striking travelling experiences, the 
 success of John's last book, and their future prospects. 
 " We shall live, I expect, at St. Wilfrid's for some time 
 again. The dear old cottage is to let once more; so 
 that we shall have the pleasure of being near you, and 
 hearing all about you at once, without the necessity 
 for those tedious but delightful letters/' was her con- 
 cluding speech. 
 
 Jane's eyes glistened with pleasure at the thought. 
 But quickly a dim cloud found its way beneath her 
 long eyelashes. "We shall need yon, dear, oh, so 
 much ! I know we shall, and God has sent you back 
 for that!" 
 
 "You do not anticipate any misfortune?" asked 
 Clara, concerned at her manner. 
 
 "I ought not; but sometimes a very sad thought 
 comes over me. And yet I cannot tell it }^ou at pre- 
 sent. However" — and she lifted her head from its 
 mournful gaze at the baby on her knee — "I may be 
 mistaken. Brighter days will come. Isn't it that you 
 wish me to say? And God knows how it all is." 
 Clara could ask no more questions; bnt she was glad 
 to see her look more cheerful again. Presently, as she 
 took her over the house, to show her the alterations 
 that had been made in several rooms — the nursery and 
 its pretty little swing-cot, "a present from poor dear 
 papa;" and her collection of baby's hoods and dresses; 
 detailing which amongst the magnificent store had been 
 embroidered, and made up, and presented to her, by the 
 ladies of the congregation, and which she had worked 
 
CHANGES AND SECRETS. 243 
 
 herself, &c A collector amongst his gems and curio- 
 sities could not have displayed his favourites with more 
 zest. And baby, as he looked down upon them also, 
 snatching at first one and then another with his fat 
 tiny hands, evidently thought with mamma and her 
 guest that they were all very beautiful. 
 
 On their return to the drawing-room, Jane opened 
 the piano, and solicited a song, or at least a little music. 
 Clara sat down and played a symphony of Beethoven's 
 — an old friend of hers, that had cheered many a lonely 
 moment in the foreign land, and played it with pathos 
 and sweetness; her touch was like her voice, both sweet 
 and strong, and she had too much feeling for the music 
 to obtrude its execution. It was not the instrument 
 that spoke so much as the soul. When she had finished, 
 she found the number of her auditory increased — John 
 and Stephen had entered unperceived by her. Upon 
 John's face she saw still shining that which the music 
 had awoke within him — a something inexpressibly 
 grand and solemn and sweet; but over Stephen's 
 brow a cloud still rested. Even Beethoven could not 
 lift it. 
 
 Mary Plowden was delighted to regain her friends. 
 Ebenezer's new house they found lightsome and cheer- 
 ful-looking, with its taller windows and improved 
 elevation. It was now, and had been some time, 
 thoroughly finished and refurnished. Still it was only 
 a cottage, and had no higher pretensions, for Ebenezer 
 hated what he called finery. A "studdio" had not 
 been forgotten — a real one, and not a parlour, or yet 
 an attic with an imperfect light, but a room entirely 
 dedicated to the works finished and unfinished of the 
 
244 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 artist for whom it was built. It had a window facing 
 the north, " the right studdio light, you see, sir," said 
 Ebenezer, as he accompanied John and Clara and Mary 
 up-stairs to see it. Mary drew back a little as the 
 others entered. To their amaze the walls were already 
 nearly covered; works of art of alarming size and colour 
 once more decorated the basket-weaver's home. A 
 survey was taken pretty leisurely. "And now," said 
 John with a smile, addressing Mary, "you must have a 
 phoenix painted over your door, with a proper motto, 
 for certainly from the ashes of the old these new ones 
 have arisen. I only wish they had been less like the 
 originals — we want a fresh inspiration here; — but I 
 remembered you when we were away, and have brought 
 one with me." He produced a large parcel he had 
 hitherto held under one arm, and revealed a beautiful 
 painting, which he placed upon Mary's easel. It was a 
 skilful copy of Ary SchefTer's "St. Augustine and his 
 Mother." Mary uttered a cry of j oy. " O my dream !" she 
 exclaimed, and then a moment after, drawing a long 
 breath, " How beautiful ! and this is for me?" "For 
 you, — on one condition, that you study it, and endeavour 
 to rind out the difference, the essential difference, be- 
 tween this painting and yours. I don't mean as regards 
 colour and drawing merely, for of course you see at 
 once how superior this is in both respects to yours. 
 When you have studied it really, perhaps you will be 
 ready to make a new beginning, and put some of these 
 away." 
 
 "I will put them all away at once!" 
 
 "No; not till you really feel they should be hidden. 
 Better let them stay till you have found out the differ^ 
 
CHANGES AND SECRETS. 245 
 
 ence, the whole difference, between this and them, 
 though that is too much to expect, perhaps." 
 
 Ebenezer Plowden's brow cleared up a little. "We have 
 said he hated finery, but we find we must make one reser- 
 vation. Mary's pictures he admired from his heart, and 
 they were fine enough. He had stared disrespectfully at 
 the small painting just introduced, small in comparison 
 with the gigantic labours around, and he now sniffed a 
 dissatisfied opinion. To his eyes it was far inferior to 
 any of Mary's, so colourless and insignificant, and want- 
 ing in effect. Bold untamed reds and blues, in violent 
 contrast, and in considerable masses, were alone worthy 
 to be called colour. It was absurd to suppose that 
 Mary's clever eyes and hands needed to be taught any- 
 thing more, and from such a poor bit of a thing as that! 
 Mr. Broadbent, we fear, sank in Ebenezer's estimation 
 very much. " Hadn't the rector said that Mary's pic- 
 tures were very clever? and didn't almost every visitor 
 who came to see them say the same? Mr. Broadbent 
 had been so long among them furreners, poor ignorant 
 creatures, till he didn't know a good thing when he 
 saw it!" This was his final conclusion; and he looked 
 with a feeling of pity upon the bold critic. " And that 
 they should be taken away? these great beauties for 
 that poor pale-faced thing?" — Mary continued looking 
 at the pale rapt face of St. Monica, with those deep 
 heavenly meanings in her tender eyes that you feel 
 have wept many tears, but never impatient ones, till 
 her own were full of blinding mist. Then she turned 
 to her father, " Is it not very beautiful, father?" 
 
 Ebenezer could not understand her emotion. "It 
 may be all very grand, my dear," — he conceded this to 
 
246 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 bis daughter's weakness, "but to my eyes yours are 
 much better. There's no colour about it, and I can't tell 
 what the man and woman are looking at, for my part!" 
 
 Mary turned disappointed away. She and her father 
 had hitherto thought alike on matters of art; now she 
 had leapt suddenly out of his sphere, and must go on 
 her way alone. With a sigh she accepted the lonely 
 gift, and with a great rejoicing also. When a new 
 sense is opened we cannot but be glad, though all 
 around us may be mocking and incredulous at what to 
 them is an unknown or unvalued possession. 
 
 James Miller was waiting for them at the lodgings 
 they had taken till the old cottage could be ready for 
 them. They were much struck with his altered appear- 
 ance. He looked much older — but this was an improve- 
 ment rather than otherwise, as formerly a certain want 
 of decision and thought was apparent in the expression 
 of his face. Now both were to be seen, and they con- 
 ferred upon him an air of manliness and resolution. 
 He was, too, more refined in his manners, and his dress 
 was improved. There was a very warm hand-shaking. 
 "This is a happy day, indeed! How glad I am you 
 are returned." 
 
 "And I am very glad to find you here still, and in 
 so honourable a position. Let me congratulate you!" 
 said John heartily. 
 
 Let not my readers suppose that any sudden wind- 
 fall of wealth or what are called honours had fallen 
 upon the village shoemaker by this observation of 
 John's. To be honest, and industrious, and sober, are 
 honourable attributes, and to these I think we shall 
 find he referred. 
 
CHANGES AND SECRETS. 247 
 
 The colour mounted into James's dark brow. " It 
 is all owing to you, sir! But I am so attached to 
 St. Wilfrid's now that I don't think I could ever 
 leave it." 
 
 " And you are quite a large gardener now, I under- 
 stand?" 
 
 " Yes, I have this week given up shoemaking entirely. 
 I have nearly an acre laid down in strawberries, and 
 have just taken the nursery gardens close by." 
 
 " Capital ! I wish you every success. What does 
 your father say to it?" 
 
 James smiled. "He was here the other day, sir, 
 looking over the grounds with me. He is very well 
 satisfied, I believe." 
 
 "And you work very hard now, I hear. — Indeed, 
 you must, or you could not have got on so well in this 
 short time.'" 
 
 " I am always up before six, frequently at four and 
 five, and on Saturdays I attend market." 
 
 "Early to bed and early to rise. Yes, yes, you 
 deserve your good fortune. You will let me see your 
 new home, James?" 
 
 " If you please, sir. And — I have brought you these, 
 if you will please to accept them/' He opened a basket 
 that stood beside him, and showed some splendid peaches 
 and grapes, the first-fruits of the season. John lifted 
 them out admiringly. "Accept them? Yes, indeed! 
 How could I refuse? Did you ever see finer, Clara? 
 They are splendid— much too good to be said ' no ' to. 
 Thank you, my dear fellow. You could not have 
 brought me a better present." 
 
 James stayed a short time longer, talking of the 
 
248 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 widow Jones, who was now his lodger, or rather house- 
 keeper, keeping house for him in the larger cottage he 
 had taken, and of the three men he employed in his 
 gardens and strawberry ground. May we tell a little 
 secret here, which is, that James could not have got on 
 so rapidly — not even with teetotalism, and early rising, 
 and industry combined — if a little money, by the help 
 of which he was enabled to make the first advantageous 
 start in the world, had not been lent him by a kind 
 friend, who was so like John Broadbent that we might 
 almost say it was himself, did we not fear our secret 
 would be made known and might reach his ears? But 
 if he had not been a teetotaller this money most cer- 
 tainly would not have been forthcoming, for who could 
 trust a drunkard, or one who might become so any 
 day? Another secret remains. Must we unfold it at 
 present? We think not; we will be silent about this 
 secret for the present, for neither John or Clara Broad- 
 bent are as yet acquainted with it. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI, 
 
 A LETTER FROM THE DEAD. 
 
 It is three years since we left Veronica and her father 
 — an important three years for both. Veronica had 
 unfolded from a girl to a woman, tall and slight, with 
 the same large blue eyes that had first, when a baby, 
 led her father to give her the name she bore; but they 
 were now much more beautiful than then, as it is right 
 
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD. 249 
 
 the perfected flower should be than the bud, however 
 lovely. Poverty still clung round the blind man and 
 his daughter, though honest labour had always hitherto 
 been sufficient for their wants. Basket-weaving and 
 lace-mending — these were the arts that supplied the 
 daily bread and the necessaries of life; and they had 
 been diligently pursued. Yeronica had lately obtained 
 work direct from the warehouses, and this had been a 
 great help, for she now gained much more remunera- 
 tion for her labour than before; and the young girl was 
 able to make some little improvement in her scanty 
 wardrobe, and "to seem more like the rest of the 
 world/' to use her own expression. With the hopeful- 
 ness belonging to her time of life she had just begun 
 to anticipate a somewhat easier life. Ebenezer Plow- 
 den, who now bought her father's baskets, paid him 
 better than his late employer, and the little room in 
 which they lived had a more cheerful and better fur- 
 nished look than of old. She almost felt they were 
 getting rich, as she looked round on her father's newly- 
 covered chair, on a small square of carpet at the hearth, 
 on a new shiny tea-tray, and on the pots of flowering 
 geraniums in the windows; and her voice was heard 
 singing about the small room, in rivalry with that of the 
 pet canary that had been given her, which hung in a cage 
 near the window. Dicky had neither a splendid prospect 
 outside or inside — very differently situated in that 
 respect from the aristocratic birds we saw at Swansford. 
 A narrow dingy street, and a small, poorly-furnished 
 apartment, were all the glimpses into paradise he ever 
 obtained; but he evidently made paradise of them, and 
 sang, and carolled, and flirted his wings as merrily as 
 
250 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 did those in gilded cages and varnished drawing-rooms. 
 A few seeds, a little water, a bunch of groundsel or 
 plantain, or a tuft of grass — these were his necessaries 
 and luxuries, his lawns, his groves, his fountains, or 
 rather were in place of these delights, and he was 
 satisfied. Like Veronica, he had never known other 
 and more exciting joys than were to be found in this 
 confined town- world of his; and his song was full of 
 joy as hers. 
 
 But for the last week the song had been mute on 
 Veronica's lips, and Dicky had been fain to follow suit; 
 he took his moods very much from his young mistress. 
 Mark Lee had been taken seriously ill; suddenly the 
 powers of life were failing him. A stroke of paralysis 
 had seized him one night on getting into bed, and he 
 was now, the doctor said, without hope of recovery. 
 Mournful news, indeed, for poor Veronica. A foretaste 
 of the loneliness, the bitterness of this great seething 
 world was already stealing to her lips. When her 
 father should be gone, what was there left for her? — 
 What friend, what lover, male or female, on this wide 
 earth? An orphan indeed, she would be left to wander 
 through long, weary years, with no one left to guide, 
 and console, and shield. As she sat by the side of the 
 dying father's bed while he slept, these thoughts came 
 across her at intervals, filling up the mournful moments 
 sadly enough. He, too, seemed to be remembering 
 this; for, when awake and conscious, he would lie with 
 his face turned towards hers with an anxious expression 
 not to be described, and the tears would roll down his 
 cheeks slowly. Then he would say, " Veronica, come 
 closer; let me feel your hand, dear;" and she would clasp 
 
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD. 251 
 
 his hand, that looked so pale and thin on the sheet and 
 was so all but powerless, and sit thus for half-an-hour or 
 an hour at a time. "It is hard, very hard," he would 
 murmur; "but what can I do?" And then suddenly, 
 "You have that paper, Veronica? Promise me again 
 you will go." And she would say, " It is quite safe, 
 dear father, and I will go." The paper was a letter 
 written by him, and the promise Veronica had made 
 was, that when her father was dead, she would take it 
 and deliver it with her own hands to the lady it was 
 addressed to, and wait for an answer. " She will surely 
 do something; yes, she will surely do something when 
 I am gone," he would say. He had written the letter 
 some time ago anticipatory of this illness, when brood- 
 ing over the unprotected, friendless condition in which 
 he should leave his daughter; and he trusted it might 
 reach her heart as well as her hand, and that she might 
 stretch out a kindly, fostering arm over the young 
 destitute girl He had written it himself, blind as he 
 was, for he could not bear to reveal to Veronica the 
 wronor he had done to her and her mother. " When I 
 am gone," he thought, " she will then discover it; but 
 she will then forgive me, and I shall not have to blush 
 before her." And this poor letter was the sole worldly 
 provision Mark Lee could now make for his only child 
 — he who had once possessed broad estates and thou- 
 sands of pounds, and who might still have so possessed 
 them but for the enticement of the wine-cup, that had 
 led the way to his ruin. 
 
 The days he had lain upon what he felt to be his 
 death-bed had brought still more vividly than ever to 
 his mind the scenes of his past ill-spent life. A book 
 
252 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 out of which he was always reading, more or less, was 
 this book of his past life, and very ugly were its pages 
 become to him. But gradually was dawning upon his 
 dark mind a sense of something more than chance, or 
 mere order in the arrangements of this world, both 
 physical and moral, and a faint hope and expectation 
 that in the vast universe was somewhere a creating, 
 controlling God, before whose clear vision all the con- 
 tradictions and seeming accidents of this life, stand out 
 in order and brightness, and are only as He wills them. 
 And with this idea or sense dawned also a sense of his 
 own weaknesses and sins, and of the purity and holiness 
 of this great controlling God. He saw imperfectly 
 " men as trees walking," as yet; but it was the com- 
 mencement, let us hope, of a truer, purer vision. 
 
 " I have had a dream, Veronica," he said one morn- 
 ing, as she came as usual after breakfast, to sit by his 
 side, and to put her hand in his. " A dream of your mother 
 and your brother. You remember the rose-coloured 
 cloud you once saw over Ike's grave, when you and I 
 were there, that you thought looked like an angel?" 
 Veronica pressed his hand in token of assent. " I saw 
 in my dream last night two such clouds in the sky, 
 that were very beautiful, and that came nearer and 
 nearer as I gazed. Larger and larger, too, they grew; 
 and in a while, one was your mother, and one was Ike. 
 They looked solemnly at me, very solemnly, and a 
 voice seemed to come from them; they didn't speak it, 
 but I heard it. ' Blessed are they who have not seen, 
 and yet have believed!' I was down-hearted at the 
 words, for I had not believed, because I had not seen, 
 and there was no blessing for me. It seemed to over- 
 
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD. 253 
 
 whelm Hie at last, the thought that there was no 
 blessing for me. I sank down before those two, and 
 dared not look at them. In a while, when I lifted up 
 my eyes, they were gone, and I awoke. But it is all as 
 clear before me as ever, and the words still sound in 
 my ears. ' Blessed are they that have not seen, and 
 yet have believed.' Those words are in the Testament, 
 find them for me, Veronica, and read them." 
 
 Veronica found them, and read of Thomas, who could 
 not believe in the risen Saviour, and was convinced, 
 and forgiven, though forgiven with those words of 
 gentle reproof Mark had heard in his dream. 
 
 When she had finished, he lay for some time as in 
 thought. He lay so still at last that she supposed 
 he was asleep. But he was only exhausted after his 
 long talk — long for him in his weak state — and was 
 recovering, by perfect rest, a little strength before the 
 final exhaustion, from which there is no rally. 
 
 A gentle tap came to the door as he lay thus. 
 Veronica said "Come in," thinking it was Mrs. Christy, 
 the neighbour who helped her to nurse and attend to 
 her father, but there entered an elderly white-haired 
 man instead, of middle height, with fair complexion, 
 and deep gray eyes, whose expression was peculiarly 
 benevolent and penetrating, and attired in black coat, 
 cut square, and collarless, white neckerchief, and broad- 
 brimmed hat, which he pulled off at once, as his foot 
 crossed the threshold, saying, in a deep peculiar voice, 
 " Peace be to this house." 
 
 Veronica was awed by the entrance of a stranger 
 with such words upon his lips, and looked at him 
 wonderingly with her large eyes, a gaze which he 
 
254? BY THE TRENT. 
 
 returned with a pleasant glance, and words explanatory 
 of his appearance. 
 
 " I have come to speak a few words to your father, 
 and to pray beside him, if he will allow me, or is able 
 to attend to me, for I have heard of his state from your 
 neighbour below. I am Jonas White, my dear, the 
 Methodist preacher. — Can he understand me?" and he 
 drew gently near the bed, and looked upon the sick 
 man. 
 
 " Thank you!" said Mark Lee, feebly. " Thank you, 
 Mr. White; God has sent you." 
 
 " Of that I am assured," answered the white-haired 
 stranger, reverently. He has laid your case on my 
 mind all the night, and obedient to Him I am come to 
 give you his divine message — ' Believe, and thou shalt 
 be saved.' " 
 
 Heralding his teaching and prayers by these words, 
 the preacher sat by the dying man for half-an-honr, and 
 spoke to him as he was at the time impressed to do. 
 He saw he was exhausted, so praying fervently a short 
 solemn prayer, and commending him to God, he left 
 him early, promising to call again on the morrow. 
 
 But before the morrow came, a light had shone on 
 the spirit-eyes of the blind man, that was not of this 
 world, and over his body the partial paralysis of disease 
 had been succeeded by the total one of death. He had 
 now neither hand or ear left for Veronica. 
 
 It was a very small, pauper-like funeral. It is true, 
 it might have been otherwise. Young Gresham again 
 made his appearance, with offer of aid to Veronica in 
 the burial; but after thanking him, she refused his 
 money, believing her father would not have wished her 
 
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD. 255 
 
 to accept it. Sorrowfully she made a sale of his bed, 
 and arm-chair, and whatever else she could spare, to 
 defray the expense of the coffin and grave, and of a 
 very humble suit of mourning for herself; and then, 
 when all was over, and he was put in the ground with 
 her mother and brother, she took the letter in her hand, 
 read once more its address, and prepared herself for a 
 journey to the place it spoke of. It was to " Mrs. Lee, 
 Brunswick House, Aldborough." Who Mrs. Lee was, 
 she did not know; some relative of her ^ father's, no 
 doubt; perhaps an aunt of hers; a rich lady, she fancied, 
 from the way in which he had spoken of her. But 
 whoever it was, it was her duty to go to her, letter in 
 hand, and she felt no hesitation about it. Aldborough 
 she found was twelve miles away. How was she to 
 get there? It was winter time, and the snow was on 
 the ground; but the morning after the funeral was fine, 
 and she was young and tolerably strong. She had 
 never walked so far as twelve miles in her life before; 
 but she thought she might accomplish it. She would 
 walk, therefore; and by starting early in the morning, 
 she hoped to reach the place before dinner. An hour, 
 she calculated, would be long enough to wait for an 
 answer, then she might return home; perhaps some one 
 would give her a lift in a cart; she had heard of such 
 things; and with two shillings in her pocket, all her 
 present wealth, she could buy food at dinner-time; and 
 the lady might do something for her — make her a pre- 
 sent, or ask her to stay with her a few days; who could 
 tell? Her father had evidently expected some benefit 
 would accrue to her from the visit, and it might be so. 
 At the worst, however, it would only be a long walk! 
 
2oii BY THE TKENT. 
 
 These were her thoughts as she put on her new mourn- 
 ing, and arranged her clothes as neatly as possible. It 
 was necessary she should look tidy and respectable; and 
 though the tears would come while dressing, and made 
 her eyes red, she remembered the fresh morning air 
 would soon blow the redness away. Locking the door 
 of her rooms; alas ! they were desolate now; no father 
 was there within to think of or care for! and taking 
 Dick's cage in her hand, she left him and the key with 
 Mrs. Christy. 
 
 " I shall be home to-night, perhaps, Mrs, Christy, or 
 perhaps I may stay a day or two, I don't know; but 
 at all events you will hear from me or see me in less 
 than a week." Mrs. Christy knew of the letter, and 
 whither she was bound, and wished her success on her 
 errand. 
 
 " Wipe thy tears away, lass," she said kindly, " before 
 thou goes in to the lady; great folk don't like to 
 see 'em." 
 
 "That's if I can, Mrs. Christy," replied Veronica. 
 And the tears poured down afresh at the thought. 
 
 Why did she look lingeringly at the well-known 
 window ere she turned the corner of the street that 
 would hide it from her? She could surely leave it for 
 a few days without regret. A few days, did we say? 
 Perhaps it would only be one. " Most likely, only one," 
 said Veronica to herself, as she went on, with a swh. 
 And yet there was at her heart a strange feeling, as if 
 now, for the first time in her life, the anchor-cable had 
 been cut, and the pathless ocean was alone before her. 
 
 Brunswick House, Aldborough — how shall we de- 
 scribe it? — was a tall, grand house, among taller trees. 
 
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD. 257 
 
 It was grand; but it had been grander years ago — when, 
 in George I.'s time — newly built of brick and stone — it 
 had its first maidenly complexion upon it — pure, clear, 
 white and red. Now, the sun and the wind had faded 
 and dulled it, and had left behind them visible marks, 
 as the sun and wind of many summers and winters will 
 fade and muddy all other clear complexions. Moss had 
 grown between its stones, and among the carved gar- 
 lands on the flanking urns above the pillars of the 
 entrance gates, and on the scallop-shells and other 
 devices that adorned its front, and moss lay in round 
 little cushions at the widening joints of the great stone 
 steps that led to its wide hall doorways. Ancient yews 
 stood on each side of the long sloping lawn in front, and 
 immense elms shielded it with their high broad shoulders 
 from the cold north and east. 
 
 It was an interesting old place. We wish it had had 
 a more interesting and a better inhabitant than was 
 now its mistress. She was elderly and stately and 
 proud; and duly she aired it and herself with guests, 
 and made it as lively as her austere nature permitted 
 it should be; but it was not a gay, merry house, and 
 the " eld " of age and weariness and dulness were all 
 upon it, and were perceptible even from the road, that 
 wound at a respectful distance among the rising ground 
 at its side. 
 
 Little did its mistress think— as she sat on the parti- 
 cular morning of which we write, at work, upon a piece 
 of embroidery, representing a doll-like shepherdess 
 amongst her lambs, with a vividly green distance be- 
 hind her and a very deep blue sky above her — of the 
 visitor who was now on her way, painfully toiling along 
 
258 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 the icy roads, where every third step was a retrogres- 
 sion, instead of an advance, and of a certain letter this 
 coming visitor carried in her "bosom, from a husband 
 she had tried so much to forget, and wished never again 
 to see, though she was at present quite as ignorant of 
 his death, as she had been for years of his place of abode. 
 
 It was a cold day, and the lady was dressed in the 
 warmest and softest of woollens and silks, and had her 
 embroidery-stand placed quite close to the high-piled 
 fire, that filled the wide antique fire-grate, with its 
 comforting blaze. She had no guests in the house at 
 present; but not far from her was a parlour-maid, busy 
 " filling in" a similar piece of embroidery to that upon 
 which she was engaged. The parlour-maid looked 
 timid and unhappy; and as her dexterous fingers carried 
 the worsted or silk out and in, she stole an occasional 
 furtive glance at her mistress, who was now with grim 
 determination planting her needle through and through 
 the eye and cheeks of the rosy-faced sheep maiden. 
 Breakfast had been over about an hour only, for the 
 lady always rose late at this time of the year, when a 
 footman appeared at the door, with the announcement 
 that a young woman wished to see her. 
 
 "Who is she?" tartly demanded the lady. 
 
 " I don't know, mum. She says she must not give 
 her name till she sees you; she has a letter to deliver, 
 very partikler, she says, mum." 
 
 "Has Mrs. Thompson seen her?" Mrs. Thompson 
 was the housekeeper. 
 
 " Yes, mum; and can t make nothing out about her 
 at all." 
 
 " Send the woman here," said Mrs. Lee, crosslv, while 
 
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD. 259 
 
 she pushed her embroidery-frame impatiently away, 
 and arranged her spectacles. 
 
 In a minute afterwards, Veronica entered the room. 
 She glanced timidly round at the lofty apartment, and 
 at what seemed to her its gorgeous furniture; but she 
 did not curtsey on her entrance, as Mrs. Lee was accus- 
 tomed to expect all mere "young women" to do. She 
 was tired, and her boots were sodden with the snow; 
 but a deep colour was in her cheeks from her exertion 
 in the fresh air, and her large blue eyes shone brightly, 
 with a subdued radiance however, half timid, half 
 expectant. Mrs. Lee might possibly have been mollified 
 had she taken time to examine her sweet countenance, 
 and note its expression; but she only saw before her a 
 young girl in scanty raiment, " poor, flimsy, housemaid- 
 sort of mourning," she would have called it, who had 
 not curtseyed to her; and she asked, angrily, " What's 
 your will, young woman T 
 
 " May I speak to you alone, ma'am V asked Veronica, 
 with a slight tremble in her voice, she could not quite 
 control. 
 
 "What do you mean?" said the lady haughtily; and 
 then, bethinking herself, " Gardner, you may go to the 
 next room!" Gardner, the parlour-maid, was glad 
 enough to get away from her mistress's presence gene- 
 rally, but she was just now rather curious to see a little 
 more of the pretty girl who had come with so mysterious 
 a communication; however, she dared do no other than 
 obey at once, and vanished behind a side-door opening 
 into a closet, called her work-room. 
 
 When the maid was gone, Veronica came a few steps 
 forward with the letter in her hand. 
 
260 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " My father is dead, ma'am," was her not very lumi- 
 nous introduction to her mission, "but he made me 
 promise to deliver this letter to you, yourself, and to let 
 no one else see it but you." 
 
 " Some begging letter," thought the lady, and did 
 not deign to inquire who the "father" was. She took 
 the letter from Veronica with an air of scorn. " Really, 
 young woman," was her observation, "your forward- 
 ness is beyond conception ! Why could you not have 
 delivered this to Thompson in the proper way?" And 
 she handled it as if she thought some plague might be 
 hidden in its folds. "Where do you come from, pray?" 
 
 "From Trentham, ma'am! My father was Mark 
 Lee, who said you knew him well, and would read 
 that letter at once. I should not have brought it you 
 but for his wish." Veronica regained confidence under 
 the lady's scornful words. 
 
 " Mark Lee ! Mark Lee !" repeated the lady. " What 
 Mark Lee?" And then added severely, " I'll have jon 
 taken up for an impostor, if you don't mind what 
 you're saying." 
 
 "I am no impostor, ma'am! I am his daughter, his 
 only child living ; he was blind, and a basket-weaver, 
 and was buried only yesterday ! Surely, ma'am, you 
 know who he is !" 
 
 The lady opened the letter with an air of disgust. 
 "Why did such low people trouble her?" It was writ- 
 ten very indistinctly, words here and there only half 
 formed and the lines sadly interfering with one another. 
 She had to read again and again to make sense of the 
 words. Still, as she read, she understood so far that it 
 was indeed from her husband, and was asking for 
 
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD. 261 
 
 pardon for himself, and for protection and assistance 
 for his daughter, " his dear Veronica/' It prayed for 
 forgiveness, humbly, and especially forgiveness for the 
 last sin committed against her, his marriage with an- 
 other, but " trusting to her womanly nature, to her 
 charity, to her memory of the days when she had loved 
 him, he had faith to think, to hope, to believe she 
 would take his only child to her bosom, and provide 
 for her." It was a forlorn hope truly, and perhaps 
 only a man like Mark Lee, cut off for years from com- 
 munication with his fellows, blind and poor and sick, 
 would have dreamt for a moment that such a letter would 
 reach the hard heart of the woman he had so wronged, 
 or that if it did, the result would have been desirable 
 for Veronica. In finding her a home, he might only 
 have provided her with a prison, and with a tyrant for a 
 jailer. 
 
 Veronica, as we see, did not know the contents of 
 the letter, or what it asked for her. She remained 
 standing near the bilious-looking, repulsive face of the 
 so-called lady before her, whose " charity" had not yet led 
 her to provide her with a seat. She saw there was no 
 gracious look or word to be expected from that face, 
 and now, weary as she felt, all she desired was that 
 she might go away at once to some poor cottage, 
 where she could buy bread and get an hour's rest before 
 she must return to Trentham. 
 
 The lady was shocked by the letter. It came upon 
 her at last as a thunderclap. " When you receive this, 
 I shall be under the mould," it began. "Was then that 
 hated husband dead? The man she had vowed never 
 to forgive gone at last? Was she really free?" Her 
 
262 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 heart did give a throb at this thought, a throb of re- 
 joicing, such as she could feel. — But this daughter! 
 That he should have dared to give her name to another 
 woman! (Strange, though she had no love, she could 
 feel jealousy, and of the sharpest, bitterest sort !) Some 
 low creature, no doubt ! Out of the streets, most likely! 
 and to beget children, chits like this before her, who 
 perhaps had the presumption to take the name of Lee 
 also. No, this was an onty child. — There were no more. 
 So much the better then. But what was this one to 
 her? It was profound, unmitigated impudence in that 
 man, impudence that she had not expected even he 
 possessed, to send to her house such a child of shame. 
 "Take her to her bosom," indeed ! Alow, bitter laugh 
 escaped her lips as she read this again. Presently she 
 looked up. Veronica had laid her hand upon the back 
 of a chair, to give her a moment's change of posture. 
 Tall for her years, and graceful, with those deep beau- 
 tiful eyes, and that abundant waved hair flowing in 
 and out in golden curves underneath and from out the 
 crape, her beauty of form the more conspicuous from 
 the fewness of the folds of her scanty drapery, the pro- 
 duct of so slender a purse, she might have called forth 
 a momentary admiration and pity even in the selfish 
 woman before her, had she been less proud and less 
 irritated. But to admire a poor girl was inadmissible 
 to her pride, to pity the daughter of "that man," impos- 
 sible. 
 
 She remembered, however, it would be well not to 
 demean herself by angry words. Cold sarcasm was 
 more befitting from one in her station to one so low, and 
 so utterly mean. 
 
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD. 263 
 
 " Your father," and she laid stress on the words, 
 " imagined I should forgive and forget all his sins im- 
 mediately I saw your pink cheeks. He asks me to 
 take you to my' house and home, which no doubt you 
 are aware of. If, however, you have had any such ex- 
 pectations, I advise you to give them up at once. Your 
 disreputable origin is enough for me. I will have no 
 bastards in my house." She paused a moment to note 
 the effect of her words, and then waving her hand 
 loftily, added, " Now, you may go!" 
 
 Veronica was stunned by such strange words. What 
 did this proud, insulting lady mean? Bastards? — did 
 she talk of bastards to her who was none? Her eyes 
 flashed with sudden fire, and lifting her head proudly 
 (ah, poor Veronica!), replied — "You are no lady, or 
 you would not speak so! I am not the name you say, 
 but as honourable and well-born as yourself, though so 
 poor, ma'am; and you do me wrong to say so, and my 
 father wrong too. I do not know who you are, or why 
 you use such cruel words, but I know you have no 
 right to use them ! I am Veronica Lee, and not all the 
 water in the Trent can wash my name away. My 
 mother — " 
 
 The lady put up one hand to her ear, with a gesture 
 she would hear no more, and with the other rang the 
 bell. The parlour-maid came back in a trice. 
 
 "Show this young woman the hall-door, Gardner, 
 immediately/' 
 
 "You shall hear me to the end, ma'am '."said Veronica, 
 passionately. "I am here, and will speak my mind. 
 You have insulted me without a cause; you have been 
 proud and haughty, and insulted my father's name also, 
 
2G4 EY THE TRENT. 
 
 and let me tell you once more, that my mother, Jessy 
 Lee, was as good and honest a wife and mother as ever 
 you may have been, and perhaps a good deal more so !" 
 She had fired her ineffectual gun, and at once retired, 
 following the maid with quick excited steps, and flushed 
 cheeks, to the hall-door. It opened, and let in upon 
 her the cold raw air of January. Snow was beginning 
 to fall in small infrequent flakes at present, but the 
 sky was gray and lowering; the fine morning had been 
 deceitful, as are so many other fine mornings, both of 
 nature and life. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 The parlour-maid bid her good morning with indiffer- 
 ence. She had sorrows and troubles of her own, and of 
 course knew little or nothing of those of Veronica, who 
 was in her eyes merely a good-looking young woman, 
 with uppish airs, who had managed in five minutes to 
 make her mistress "awful savage;" a thing, by the 
 way, not uncommon for the parlour-maid herself to do 
 in less time. But then, some people's tempers are like 
 bottled ginger-beer — you have but to touch the cork, 
 and out they fly at once. 
 
 The door was closed behind her, the great heavy 
 oaken door, that had let out and in generations of happy 
 and unhappy ones, of young and old, of living and 
 dead — of those who could move gracefully and joyously 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 265 
 
 by its massive hinges, full of life and vigour, and of those 
 who went by, oh so passively! on the shoulders of 
 others, heavy and lumpish as clay. 
 
 But Veronica was too much absorbed in her own 
 thoughts to notice the young woman's indifference, or 
 to think of the gay or silent ones who might have 
 passed, as she did now, from out the portals of the great 
 old house. She walked on dreamily through the 
 stately avenue leading to the outer gates, her feet leav- 
 ing tracks on the new-fallen snow, and neither heard 
 the great elms shivering their bare shoulders in the 
 blast above her head, or saw the half-frozen robin who 
 hopped some paces before her, as if to solicit charity. 
 His pitiful look was disregarded; she had no crumbs 
 to bestow, and she was too much herself like the robin 
 at this moment, without food or shelter. But the 
 village was near at hand, and one cottage that had 
 taken her attention in coming, she determined should 
 be the one to apply to, to procure some bread, and half- 
 an-hour's rest. 
 
 Aldborough was a very small in significant place; twenty 
 cottages or so, straggled hither and thither among little 
 plots of garden ground, and a few farmers' houses, con- 
 tained all its inhabitants. In very old times it had 
 been an important town, but it was now dwindled 
 down to what we see. Every year its inhabitants 
 decreased — the 3 r oung people going to more flourishing 
 localities for work, and settling there, and the old 
 d} r ing away. The owners of the large estates near did 
 not encourage new buildings, or repair the old that 
 belonged to them; their object was to drive away the 
 whole population in time, for the place was an eyesore 
 
266 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 to them, and its pauper population came inconveniently 
 upon the rates. But small and poor as it was, there 
 was , a public-house in the village; nay, Veronica even 
 noticed two, as she passed on. She shrank from 
 entering either of these places — for full well she knew 
 they would be no fit resting-places for a wayfarer like 
 herself, alone and friendless. Rude observation, staring, 
 and perhaps insult, from some of the rough men who 
 haunt such places, was what she must expect. As a 
 child, we have seen, she could go for her father on the 
 nightly errand for beer, but still smarted in her memory 
 the rough encounters she had endured, and the scenes 
 of riot she had witnessed on these compulsory visits. A 
 public-house was to her anything but a refuge or a place 
 of entertainment. So, as we have said, she passed them 
 by, with almost a shudder, and made her way to the cot- 
 tage that stood alone, by the road-side, with a half- open 
 door, and two ruddy children playing in the snow in front. 
 
 A woman clothed in blue bedgown and linsey petti- 
 coat was at the wash-tub just within, the white suds 
 rising above her red rough elbows, and the steam of the 
 hot water enveloping her face and neck. She lifted up 
 her head at Veronica's approach with surprise. " Who 
 could this strange body be? Some new servant may- 
 hap coming to th' Ha," as Brunswick House was called 
 by the villagers. 
 
 "Could you let me sit down a bit by your fire?" 
 asked Veronica, timidly. 
 
 " aye! miss, sure. Come in!" and she scraped the 
 suds from her dark-skinned arms, and wiped her 
 sodden hands on her apron, to place a chair for the 
 stranger near the chimney-corner. 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 2G7 
 
 Veronica thanked her, and sat down, and then, and 
 not till then, did she find how wearied and exhausted 
 she was. She had come away from home with but a 
 slender breakfast, and a sudden faintness and sickness 
 overpowered her for a few moments. The good woman 
 looked at her increasingly pale face with some concern. 
 
 " Why, sure; bless my life! Art ter ill?'' 
 
 "No, no," gasped Veronica; "I shall be better 
 directly, but I believe I'm very tired — " and hungry, 
 she would like to have said, but the words someway 
 would not come. 
 
 "Maybe you'd like a bit of summat?" said the woman 
 considerately. " It 'ud do you good, and cheer you up 
 a bit." 
 
 And at once she fetched out a loaf and a piece of 
 cheese, and with a knife and plate laid them on the 
 round table near her. 
 
 " A cup of water, please," murmured Veronica; and 
 the cup of water was brought, with some apologies that 
 she'd no milk. But the water was more grateful and 
 reviving to the wearied stranger than milk could have 
 been. When the cordial (more worthy of the name 
 than many so called) was drunk, she was better, and 
 could look up and thank her kind entertainer, and 
 begin to eat with good will. The woman looked better 
 satisfied now, and went on with her washing, every 
 now and then asking a question of her guest, to feed a 
 curiosity she saw no harm in gratifying. 
 
 u An' how fur may you have walked, miss?" was her 
 first query. 
 
 "From Trentham;— twelve miles I think it is," re- 
 plied Veronica. 
 
268 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "Twelve mile! A longisli step for such as you. I 
 reckon you don't often walk twelve mile?" 
 
 "No; I never walked so far before." 
 
 " H m ! it's a baddish day too for walkin'. An' are 
 you a goin' any furder?" 
 
 "No; I'm going back again as soon as I can." 
 
 "Back again! to-neet? Nay, that you shanna! an' 
 the snow a fallin' down as it does!"' 
 
 " yes, I must though. I shall get on quicker going 
 back; it'll be more downhill." 
 
 "But it'll be dark afore you get to Trentham. I 
 reckon you've bin to the Ha' for a place, an' she woudna' 
 give it } r ou?" 
 
 "No," replied Veronica; "I didn't look out for a 
 place there. I mean," she added, "I didn't ask for 
 service." 
 
 " O aye !" doubtfully. " Well, her's a glum 'un, an' 
 no mistake. Her wouldn't give much if her hadn't a 
 mind. An let me tell you, miss, you wouldn't ha' done 
 for her at all. You're a sight too good-lookin'; she'll 
 ha' none but frouzy things about her; her doesn't like 
 to be outdone, you see;" and the washerwoman laughed 
 merrily. Mrs. Lee was evidently no favourite of hers. 
 
 When Veronica had finished her bread and cheese, 
 and felt tolerably rested, she took a shilling; and would 
 fain have paid the poor woman for her meal. But she 
 wouldn't hear of it. " Not she; she niver took nout o' 
 that sort. Her husband wor a temperance man, he 
 wor, an' niver went into a public-house from wick's 
 end to wick's end. He wasna so poor as them poor 
 creeturs who stay all the neets a drinkin' an' a fuddlin' 
 at th' ( Unicorn;' an' she'd a bit an' a sup for them as 
 
the snow-stohm. 269 
 
 needed it, and wor none the poorer. You're none too 
 rich, miss," she added, in a gentler voice; "keep your 
 money for summat else;" and she pushed Veronica's 
 hand back towards her pocket, with a smile. 
 
 " But dunna go to-neet. You shall have a bit of a 
 shake- down somewhere, if you can put up wi' it, an' 
 to-morrow youll be fresh-like. It's not fit to go to- 
 neet/' 
 
 Veronica however would go. She was unwilling to 
 be any further trouble and expense to the good-natured 
 cottager, and she felt so much revived that the walk 
 did not seem to her too formidable. Besides, she longed 
 once more to be at home — the clay's excitement and 
 disappointment (for now it was all over, she found she 
 had counted a little on the good offices of her father's 
 friend — friend? she recalled the word in a moment, 
 and had been disappointed) seemed too much for her, 
 and a quiet rest in her own little room — her father's 
 room — appeared doubly to be desired. 
 
 So she bid good-bye, with many thanks, and started 
 out — the woman looking after her down the road till 
 she was out of sight. " I should like to be a knowin 
 what that poor young miss is about/' she said to her- 
 self, "her's a look, in her eye as if herd cry every 
 minnit, that her has. Ah, well! I hope there'll be no 
 more snow. It doesn't come much yet, an' maybe it 
 wunna; but hers a stout 'un to think o' walkin' home 
 to-neet." 
 
 The snow did not behave well, and agree with her 
 hope. It came steadily down, and presently faster and 
 thicker, and by the time Veronica was on the high-road, 
 two miles from Aldborough, the fall of snow might be 
 
270 BY THE TKENT. 
 
 called a storm. The wind, however, was just now at 
 her back, and helped her on, and the road was for the 
 present a little downhill. It was not quite three o'clock 
 yet, and she was getting on fast, and even after the sun 
 should be set it would not be dark, for there was a 
 young moon, and the snow would make it light. These 
 were the thoughts with which she cheered herself. 
 
 But in another hour her steps were slower, and she 
 found herself fighting with the wind that was now in 
 her face — for the road had turned, and with an 
 increase of snow, and a greater increase of weari- 
 ness. The snow was most troublesome of all, for it 
 came in her eyes, and prevented her seeing clearly 
 the way she took. She was now, too, on that por- 
 tion of the road that was carried over the great un- 
 inclosed lands of an ancient forest, a wide dreary-look- 
 ing space of uniform appearance, excepting where here 
 and there a drift had accumulated by some hollow, or 
 by a group of tree stumps, and the road was covered and 
 hidden by the falling snow. Not a track was now 
 visible; the further she went on the less did she seem 
 to know her right way, and the more bewildered she 
 became. There was no cottage or farmhouse in sight, 
 no human being, no living creature. What must she 
 do? She stood still a moment to consider, and with a 
 forlorn, half- despairing gaze, surveyed the vast white 
 wilderness. Before, behind, and around her on all 
 sides was one undistinguishable blank of snow — no 
 road, no track, no sun or moon visible to guide, but a 
 gray, uniform, perpetually-moving shower of fast-falling 
 flakes, that above seemed black, and below white. 
 Dazed, confounded, weary, almost hopeless, half-blinded 
 
THE SXOW-STOEJI. 27 1 
 
 and utterly bewildered, she again went on, not know- 
 ing whither, but with the fast-fading hope that she 
 might happen to be right, or might get in sight of some 
 house or human being. And now she bitterly repented 
 she had not stayed at Aldborough, and thought with 
 dismay, what would become of her if she must pass the 
 night on so bleak a bed. It was getting rapidly darker, 
 there became less and less probability of any one pass- 
 ing, and with the light gradually faded her hope. It 
 would be better, said her wearied limbs at length, to 
 stay and rest at once, to give all up and die, if so it 
 must be, among the snow. And, after a little more 
 weary tramping and struggling, she did so. Sinking 
 beside a drift-heap with a moan of mingled pain and 
 despair, she lay down for the blinding snow to bury 
 her — to die alone. Many thoughts were with her 
 before she became insensible, chiefly of her father — Did 
 he know where she was now? Could he see her situa- 
 tion ? or was he in that dim, mysterious, far-away region 
 of the dead, that has no cognizance of earthly weal or 
 woe, no remembrance of the loved and left behind? 
 She thought not, she hoped not, and yet how dark and 
 blank all seemed now that related to him. If he were 
 happy, his happiness took no note of her misery; if he 
 were not — but of this she dared not think. 
 
 There was one living Friend who alone could help 
 her, and to him she prayed a few trembling words — to 
 him she lifted up her heart. Then as she lay still a 
 moment, a voice seemed suddenly to sound in her ears, 
 and with distinctness she heard repeated the saluta- 
 tion of the Methodist preacher, "Peace be to this 
 house/' Was it a delusion — a memory merely that 
 
272 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 was haunting her on this open waste? Or did some 
 voice really utter those words, "Peace be to this house?" 
 Again! — How clear it sounded this time! She lifted 
 her head, expecting to see the face of a deliverer near 
 her; but all was blank and dark, and there was a great 
 silence. It was a delusion, then! She shuddered; a 
 horror fell upon her; God himself seemed absent. F.or 
 a moment a few whirling thoughts snatched her hither 
 and thither, and then she remembered no more. 
 
 But close at hand was deliverance, though she knew 
 it not. A horse and gig were coming slowly along, 
 covered with snow. In the gig an upright form, a sort 
 of snow-mountain of a man, held the reins, and cheered 
 on the horse. Had there been more daylight, and had 
 there been less snow, we should have seen that this 
 man was dark and sinister-looking, wliile'before him and 
 around him sat and clung a distinct shadow. We should 
 perhaps, too, have seen a diamond ring on his ringer. 
 Suddenly the horse to whom he had for sometime trusted 
 to discover the way, stopped, stood quite still, and 
 refused all solicitations from the driver to move a step 
 further. The whip and the oath were unavailing to 
 make him proceed, and equally futile were soft and 
 coaxing words. Swearing loudly the traveller dis- 
 mounted to see what could be amiss, and found what 
 appeared a wreath of snow lying before the horse's 
 feet. Indignant and angry, he kicked the snow away 
 with one foot, but encountered something solid and 
 soft. "Hi! what have we here?"' Another and gentler 
 kick revealed a woman's black bonnet, part of a face, 
 and a hand. The mystery was made known: the in- 
 telligent horse had refused to step over a human body, 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 273 
 
 though hidden in the snow, and had thus been the 
 means of discovering the wayfarer. For we need 
 scarcely say it was Veronica, who had lain down here, as 
 she supposed, to die, and who was in this strange manner 
 discovered. A few vigorous pulls released her from the 
 snow. The dark stranger felt if her heart still beat; 
 and finding it did, lifted her in his arms, rolled round 
 her as well as he was able — for she was still senseless 
 — his cloak and plaid, and placed her in the gig beside 
 him. 
 
 Then "Hi! ho!" crack went the whip, and the obe- 
 dient animal now moved willingly forward. He had 
 a double burden up the hills; but his cheerful snort 
 told only of satisfaction at having done his duty. 
 
 At a large house on the outskirts of Trentham, the 
 traveller stopped, dismounted, and brought out his 
 burden. Veronica was carried indoors immediately, 
 undressed, and placed carefully in bed by female hands. 
 "When she awoke from her stupor, she found herself 
 lying in a lofty bed with handsome curtains, placed in 
 the centre of a large apartment lighted by the blaze of 
 a ruddy fire, and a lady bending over her with a doubt- 
 ful smile. As Veronica opened her eyes in wonder, the 
 lady said musingly : " She is coming round. We shall 
 see! we shall see!" 
 
274 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST TREACHER, 
 
 Trentham possessed many chapels besides the some- 
 what aristocratic one at which Stephen Morris was 
 minister. Independents, Baptists, and Methodists, 
 with several of the smaller sects, had their distinct 
 places of worship, larger or smaller; and the inhabi- 
 tants had full opportunity from these numerous streams, 
 to taste and discover that one which best suited their 
 palates, or which best agreed with their ideas of reli- 
 gious truth or church government. Almost from the 
 locality of these various chapels, } ? ou could determine 
 the character of the congregation as regarded, their 
 position in society; for great is the distinction of rank 
 even among tradespeople and workmen; and though 
 caste has no irreversible laws amongst such constantly 
 fluctuating members, distinctions are drawn and recosf- 
 nized, and maintained, just as jealously as amongst what 
 are called the higher classes. 
 
 The several sects of Methodists had each its separate 
 chapel. One of these, standing in what might be 
 called the back of the town, in the thickest of the 
 smoke, and among poor, unevenly paved, overpopulated 
 streets, had the Hebrew name "Bethesda" affixed to it. 
 It was a square gaunt erection, with many windows, 
 and a closely-pared roof,— a roof that gives the same 
 kind of character to a building that a shabby, narrow- 
 brimmed hat does to its wearer. A house at its 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER. 275 
 
 side, a sort of diminutive wing, was the "preacher's 
 house," whose unadorned exterior, short white muslin 
 blinds, thoroughly clean but badly painted windows 
 and door, and gardenless front looking on to the 
 street over a few flagstones and iron railings, had 
 an equally cheerless look with the chapel. Within, 
 the chapel was as bare and unadorned as its exterior. 
 A swallow's-nest pulpit, singing gallery immediately 
 below, and a series of high-backed square pews, chiefly 
 without lining or cushions, were the principal furniture 
 of the place. A gallery on three sides, supported by 
 meagre-looking pillars, increased the space for the con- 
 gregation; and a clock conspicuously placed in front of 
 this gallery, and immediately opposite the preacher, 
 gave him silent notice of the progress of time — a re- 
 minder frequently needed, when, warmed up and carried 
 away by the vehemence of his feelings and the import- 
 ance of that which he was enunciating, he was tempted 
 to exceed the limited hour. For the men who spoke 
 in this place were thoroughly in earnest, "sons of 
 thunder" chiefly, who wielded the spiritual hammer, 
 and smote with the spiritual sword with all their 
 strength, till from the hard hearts about them . sparks 
 flew and blood flowed, and sleepy, sense-lost souls woke 
 up in terror. No wonder, if at times, time and all else 
 was forgotten, except the excitement of their mission 
 — the salvation of souls. No wonder if even that clock, 
 large-figured and prominently placed, did not suffice 
 frequently to check the flow of tongues, whose owners, 
 set on fire by the love of God and the love for souls, 
 poured out from the volcano of the heart words of per- 
 suasion and melting tenderness—words burning from 
 
276 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 the intensity of the passionate heat within. — Still the 
 clock was there and did its duty, telling the hour by 
 its warning hand, and let him who exceeded be satisfied 
 in his own conscience why he did so ! 
 
 The community who worshipped here were chiefly from 
 the poorer classes — mechanics of the lower grade, and 
 small shopkeepers, with a sprinkling of some who had 
 risen from the same low station, by industry, sobriety, 
 and native talent, to a position of what is styled respect- 
 ability. Their preachers were men of the same class; — 
 the circuit or itinerant preachers who were set apart for 
 the ministry being those who, possessing the requisite 
 talent and a moderate education, generally gained by 
 their own unaided exertions, were wishful to devote 
 themselves to the work, forsaking all other means of 
 livelihood, and therefore supported entirely by their 
 people; and the "local brethren," who, pursuing their 
 various trades and avocations during the week, with a 
 Bible in their pocket and a small sheet of notes, or 
 sometimes without either, walked every Sunday hither 
 and thither into villages far or near, to preach such 
 sermon as they could, or to hold camp-meetings on moor^ 
 land and common and road-side. These last formed the 
 unpaid class of preachers, and from their ranks most 
 frequently the circuit preachers were drafted. 
 
 It was not certainly with the wisdom of this world, or 
 of the schools, that these men could speak, not with the 
 refinement of the gentleman, or the aptness of the scholar, 
 or the precision of the logician. Their only books of 
 study very frequently had been the Bible and Wesley's 
 Sermons, Bunyan's Pilgrim, or Doddridge's Rise and 
 Progress, and a few similar works; but they were 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER, 2/7 
 
 admirably fitted to speak to the classes who came in 
 Sunday-best to hear them. In fishing for souls, as for 
 fishes, different baits and flies are needed. So these 
 men, full of untaught, uncurbed zeal, praying and 
 preaching with loud stentorian voices, in rough unhewn 
 speech and imperfect grammar, were suited to their 
 hearers far better than if they had come from Oxford 
 or Cambridge, fresh from Greek and Hebrew studies, 
 with the Fathers and fine manners to back them. 
 
 They were not steel penknives, and smooth-edged 
 razors, for their work was not to cut quills or hairs; but 
 mallets and pick-axes and hammers, strong hardy iron 
 and oak, having to deal with quartz, and limestone, and 
 grit, fresh from the wild mountains. Amongst them, 
 however, now and then, came spirits of greater gentle- 
 ness, men who, while touched with the same "hallowed 
 fire," sought to win souls by persuasion and love, by 
 the sweetness and fitness of the gospel, rather than the 
 terrors of the law. Amongst this number was the pre- 
 sent inhabitant of the chapel-house, the Rev. Jonas White, 
 or Mr. White, as he was generally called by his people. 
 He was, as we have seen, an elderly man, with white 
 grandfatherly hair lying in thin locks upon his Metho- 
 dist collarless coat, with a gray keen eye, and a fair 
 wholesome complexion. Elderly as he was, he was still 
 very active, and was to be seen in all parts of Trent- 
 ham on the week-day, walking along somewhat quickly, 
 in a broad-brimmed Quaker hat, with most generally an 
 umbrella or stick under one arm, and his rather promi- 
 nent nose lifted up, as though pointing out the way. 
 If met or accosted by any of the " friends," there was a 
 warm grasp of the hand, and a smiling eye turned to 
 
278 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 the greeter, at once penetrative and kindly. He had 
 the utmost simplicity of manners, the refinement and 
 gentleness that was in him being genuine and arising 
 from the law of love, and in no way from the law of 
 etiquette. Of conventional societary laws he knew 
 little and cared less. The laws of Christ, as he under- 
 stood them, were with him paramount and final. 
 
 He had only been two years in Trentham, but was 
 already well-known, not only by his own community, 
 but by all others. His congregation knew him for his 
 simple effective sermons, short and racy and sweet, 
 and for the purity and activity of his life : the book- 
 sellers knew him, and the printers, for he was constantly 
 having printed and on sale, books and pamphlets of 
 his own wiiting on various subjects, chiefly sermons 
 however, which he carried about with him in his large 
 coat-pockets, and sold after service-time to his hearers; 
 announcing to them ere they dispersed that he had now 
 by him a number of discourses to young persons, or a 
 memoir of some pious young man or woman, lately 
 deceased, or a book of hymns for revivals, for a small 
 sum of money, and that "Brothers" Saunders, or Smith, 
 or Jones, could also supply them. 
 
 The other town-ministers knew him, for at this time 
 were established by some liberal unity-loving Christians, 
 meetings for the various ministers of the evangelical 
 denominations, held each week in their own houses by 
 rotation, at which they could converse on the best means 
 for promoting the spread of religion in the town, and 
 Jonas White was soon an important member at these 
 meetings; he was thoroughly in earnest, and he could 
 work, and no plans were put forward, or schemes pro- 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER. 2^9 
 
 posed, but he was ready if he approved and his appro- 
 val was by no means hard to gain, to help in the same 
 with heart and soul. 
 
 The poor knew him; for he visited then- houses daily 
 and nightly, he prayed and exhorted and read with 
 them and to them; he had not much money to give, 
 for a Methodist preacher in those days had but a 
 bare maintenance, but he gave sympathy, good ad- 
 vice, and his prayers, freely and liberally, and frequently 
 parted among them his raiment and his last loaf. 
 
 But there was still another class that knew hin 
 well — the drunkards, — and with these we may also 
 place the drink-sellers and publicans. Only a year or 
 two before the time of which we are writing he had 
 been in Ireland, and had stood near Father Mathew at 
 Limerick, on that memorable occasion when so many 
 thousands took the pledge of total abstinence. The 
 scenes he saw at that time were not forgotten by him, 
 and from that date the subject of temperance was dear 
 to him. A poor maudlin drunkard tottering along the 
 street, or shouting in wild insanity to passers-by, at once 
 attracted the sympathy of Jonas AVhite, and if it were 
 possible, he would accompany the man home, or discover 
 that home's whereabouts, that he might at a more 
 fitting season visit the man, and endeavour to brin^ 
 about a reform, by persuasion, by prayer, by entreaties, 
 by any and every means that he had at command, or 
 that he thought right to use. He himself was a rigid 
 abstainer, and had signed the pledge of abstinence, and 
 to these poor men he could say, while he offered them 
 the same teetotal promise, "I also have signed it! Do 
 not be afraid." For at this time considerable ridicule 
 
280 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 attached to those who were bold enough, or wise enough, 
 or were possessed of sufficient love to their neighbours, 
 to affix their names to such a document. 
 
 His white reverend hairs, — the glow of love from a 
 higher sphere, that love to God which embraces neces- 
 sarily, and leads to, the love to the neighbour, shining 
 through his face from the soul within; — the earnest 
 pious words, all had their effect, and many a man and 
 woman were induced to leave the delusive pleasures 
 of the tap-room, and the lowering love of drink, to 
 hear Jonas White preach, and not a few to sign the 
 pledge ultimately, or to become regular attendants at 
 his place of worship, " clothed and in their right mind/' 
 Temperance lecturers and missionaries, of course, found 
 a welcome at the house of the Methodist preacher, and 
 to them his chapel was always open on week evenings. 
 
 Most of his "brethren in the ministry" smiled at the 
 enthusiasm of the old man on this subject of temper- 
 ance, which was only partially recognized among them, 
 for ministers like other people were fond of wine, and 
 talked largely of moderation, and but little, if at all, 
 in praise of total abstinence. The teetotal movement 
 was at present but young, and though the great apostle 
 of temperance, Father Mathew, had brought it into 
 public notice in an unmistakable manner, it was by 
 many looked upon with a degree of jealousy and 
 dislike, as affecting to remove evils religion only could 
 radically cure. They did not see, or would not see, 
 that a powerful handmaid to religion had arisen in this 
 movement, and the chapels and churches in the town 
 were almost universally refused to advocates of its 
 cause. 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER 231 
 
 So in Silver Street, in the plain brick building we 
 have named, was the only place almost in which tem- 
 perance could lift its head and proclaim its mission to 
 the drink-lost thousands of Trentham, and men in 
 plain garb, and often in plainer speech, rose up and 
 held out the despised ark of safety to the drowning 
 drunkard, and on a square deal table placed beneath the 
 singing seat, many a struggling soul was saved from 
 the flood of destruction by signing his name or cross, 
 with trembling hand, beneath the teetotal pledge. 
 " These are my jewels," said Jonas White, as he added 
 the names to his own private list, thinking perhaps of 
 the parson's case of jewels he had read of, that lay in the 
 churchyard, awaiting the resurrection. His were living 
 jewels, however, and he did not forget to examine 
 them, and see if any flaw or dimness was spoiling 
 their brightness; and if he could put them in a gold 
 setting as members of his church, so much the better, 
 that was an added security, and they might thus 
 become, he trusted, jewels belonging to a richer owner 
 than he was. For ourselves, we will not say whether 
 we think him right or wrong in giving them the name. 
 All human souls must be, indeed, inestimable jewels in 
 God's sight, and the souls of drunkards, reformed or 
 otherwise, are no doubt dear to Him; though like 
 Cleopatra, they may have thrown their pearls into the 
 corroding acid of drink, He never loses sight of them, 
 who alone fully knows their value. 
 
 But to our thinking, this loving appreciation of 
 the worth of his fellowman, whether drunkard or re- 
 formed, this tender sympathy with him amid his beset- 
 ments and temptations, is a far higher and more 
 
282 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Christian trait than the indifference that passes the 
 helpless drink-slave by with a shrug of the shoulders, 
 and an implied, if not a spoken, "I am holier than 
 thou;" or with, perhaps, the futile question, "Why 
 cannot you do as I do ? Take wine or spirits or what- 
 ever it may be, in moderation, and put away the third 
 glass, or the fourth, or whichever number makes you 
 to offend?" Not that we would for a moment assert 
 that his fellow-ministers had such indifference. Their 
 avowed mission was the salvation of souls, and if some 
 were not so successful in this mission as others, it could 
 be surely from no want of willingness on their part, no 
 want of sympathy with the spiritually dying and desti- 
 tute. It was rather, we will hope, from a want of light 
 than of love, that they were led to disregard the drunkard. 
 He was an outcast, his very condition made him blind 
 and deaf to gospel light and sounds as proclaimed by 
 these ministers ; he was lying far away on the verge 
 of a precipice, they all acknowledged with a sigh. But 
 why, since their own pastoral staff was too short, did 
 they scout the use of the longer wand that temperance 
 supplied, which might drag the poor wretch further 
 from the abyss and nearer the sheepfold? 
 
 Jonas White had no conscientious objection to teeto- 
 talism. With the pledge in one hand and the Bible in 
 the other, he could go abroad " into the highways and 
 hedges and compel them to come in." He was no 
 physiologist, and had not studied how much alcohol 
 the human frame could bear without decided injury, or 
 whether it was nutritive or a mere stimulant; such 
 studies had not been in his way; but he recognized its 
 baneful influence upon the morals of its victims, and 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER 283 
 
 the thorough degradation it brought to both soul and 
 body when taken freely. He saw in it an enemy to 
 the soul, and he combated it with all the weapons God 
 gave him. 
 
 Amongst his own people he had the subject often 
 brought under his notice. Now and again, a member 
 whose conduct had for a long period been blameless, 
 and whose deportment showed that he was sincerely 
 endeavouring to live a new life, according to the pure 
 precepts of the Saviour, fell away from his vocation and 
 became a backslider. On inquiry it was most frequently 
 found that the temptation of drink had been the first 
 cause of this backsliding; his daily business had led 
 him into the company of the ungodly, who spread this 
 snare for his feet as for their own, and induced him 
 to transgress. Sometimes the shame of the first fall 
 was known at once, and sufficed to expel him from 
 the society; sometimes he practised the indulgence 
 secretly for a long time, till it could no longer be con- 
 cealed, or till it led him into other vices and open profli- 
 gacy, and then the scandal went through the community 
 like a sharp sword, wounding each person in it. 
 
 A recent case of this kind made our preacher pensive 
 and sad, when at the w T eekly ministers' meeting, held 
 this time at the house of Stephen Morris. His usual 
 benevolent smile was wanting at the feast, and he 
 replied to many of the observations of his brethren 
 absently. Drunkenness was sad enough when among 
 the world's outcasts, and the unbelievers; but when it 
 entered the house of God, it was an agony to this man. 
 He felt, too, that the world, always so ready to find a 
 stain upon the garments of professors, would this time 
 
284) CY THE TKENT. 
 
 have a more flagrant case than usual for its sneer to 
 feed upon, and he shrank from the speech he antici- 
 pated, and which he already seemed to hear, " See how 
 these Christians drink!" 
 
 "Are you not well, Mr. White?" asked Stephen of 
 the silent old man, as after tea all were seated at their 
 ease on the luxurious chairs and couches of the large 
 apartment — a very different room to Jonas White's 
 own foursquare, barely-carpeted sitting-room. 
 
 « Yery well, I thank you," was his reply, in a mourn- 
 ful tone. 
 
 "Nothing amiss, I hope, at home, brother?" inquired 
 the Rev. James Aldershaw, the Baptist minister, sym- 
 pathizingly. 
 
 " No. — My complaint is not of the body, brother, but 
 the mind," he said, as he gave a slight and only half- 
 audible groan. 
 
 No more questions were asked. It was understood 
 that he did not wish to speak just then of his trouble, 
 and the conversation and business of the meeting 
 proceeded. 
 
 Two or three were talking upon the subject of singers. 
 There were but few organs in those days in dissenting 
 places of worship; and the singers, as leaders of the 
 voices of the congregation, and almost indispensable 
 adj uncts, as it was thought, to the due performance of 
 public worship, were apt to imagine themselves of too 
 much importance, and to take airs in consequence. In 
 some chapels a perpetual change was occurring in the 
 members of the singing gallery, especially if the leader 
 were a man of insufficient energy and tact; and occa- 
 sionally the whole of the singers would migrate in a 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER. 285 
 
 body, and place themselves in front of the gallery over- 
 looking their accustomed seat, leaving their leader alone 
 to get through the service as he could. This was "but 
 rarely the case, however; but when it did occur, an 
 unseemly staring and whispering was the consequence 
 among the younger part of the congregation, to the 
 annoyance of the minister, and the mortification of the 
 deacons. Such an outbreak had lately happened — the 
 result of a quarrel — and there was some consultation 
 now upon the subject. To have none but church 
 members in the singing-pew — to do without singers at 
 all, or with only one leading voice to set the tunes — 
 were schemes proposed as fit cures. But opinions were 
 divided as to the possibility of such schemes. The 
 Eev. John Jones openly complained of the singing- 
 leader at his chapel. "We have never had a good 
 leader since Evans went away/' was his concluding 
 remark. 
 
 "Ah! what has become of Evans?" asked Mr. Grant, 
 the Wesleyan minister. 
 
 " He is now in the workhouse, and dying, I fear/' 
 replied Mr. Jones. "I visited him yesterday, for he 
 has been ill some time, and sent for me to pray with 
 him." 
 
 "No relation, I suppose, of Evans the composer?" 
 asked one of the younger ministers. 
 
 " He is the same man — an uncommonly clever fellow ! 
 He led our choir admirably for twenty years, and had 
 really a fine musical talent. What pieces he composed ! 
 And some of his Christmas anthems are universal 
 favourites yet. Poor Evans! how little I thought I 
 should ever visit him as a pauper, at one time. But 
 
28G BY THE TRENT. 
 
 never man looked more changed. I should not have 
 known him, had I not been told/' 
 
 "How did he get into the workhouse?" Mr. Grant 
 inquired. 
 
 "In the way so many others get there. He had 
 been a fearful drunkard for the last four or five years, 
 and had literally spent in drink every penny he could 
 lay his hands upon. He pawn'ed everything of any 
 value about his home and person; and before he was 
 taken to the workhouse, was lying upon the bare floor, 
 and subsisting upon bread and gin, chiefly the latter, 
 if there is any subsistence in it, and was looking more 
 like a wild beast, they tell me, than a man. When I 
 saw him he seemed very repentant, but said he feared he 
 should go to the gin again if he were to get well. His 
 is a lamentable case indeed! He told me he obtained 
 his first love for drink when he became a member of 
 a glee club. He had a fine voice, and a fine knowledge 
 of music, as we all know, and was enticed by promise 
 of pay and hope of gain to join the club, which met 
 at a public-house. Then, his way was all downward; 
 drink became his master, and he found that ' the wa^es 
 of sin is death,' to use his own words to me yesterday." 
 
 "Yes, death; eternal death!" said a solemn voice 
 near. "And he is not the first singer that has found 
 drink to bring death." 
 
 The speaker rose up and faced the assembly. It was 
 Jonas White. All looked at him, wonderingly. 
 
 " My dear brethren," he continued, " I can no longer 
 keep silence on this subject. It is one that presses on 
 my mind very much at this present time. I mean, as 
 you must all know, the subject of drunkenness. And 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER. 287 
 
 I feel it the more important for me to speak now, 
 because I have long been guilty in the matter. I have 
 not raised my voice as I ought to have done in these 
 our weekly meetings. I have refrained from a weak 
 fear of offending man, when I ought only to have con- 
 sidered what was well-pleasing to God. Circumstances, 
 almost too painful for me to name, have this week 
 impressed it on rny mind, that I must speak out as I 
 have never yet done; for 'if the trumpet gives an uncer- 
 tain sound, who shall prepare himself for the battle?'" 
 He paused a moment; while all regarded him question- 
 ingly; what could lie mean by being guilty? — he, who 
 had always done so much for the cause of temperance, 
 and who carried his precepts of abstinence out so faith- 
 fully in his life? 
 
 "I have considered this matter well, and I find that 
 drink fills our workhouses, our asylums, our houses of 
 correction and jails, and helps largely to fill our graves. 
 It takes away members from our churches, and it 
 plenishes hell. It brings scandal upon the house of 
 God, it brings misery to the house of man, strife to the 
 fireside, want to the mother and the child, despair to 
 the wife, destruction to the husband. It brings the 
 young man's name to be a reproach, the young woman's 
 to be a scorn and a hissing. Shall the souls for whom 
 Christ died be so lost? Shall the wolf in sheep's cloth- 
 ing, the publican with his accursed drink, be allowed 
 on every hand to tempt and ensnare and destroy his 
 victims, to tear and rend the sheep, and we, shepherds 
 of the flock, under Christ the great and good Shepherd, 
 utter no protest against him, or strive to remove one 
 tooth from his bloody jaws? 
 
288 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " I speak strongly, my brethren, but I have strong 
 cause ! We as ministers are verily guilty in this matter. 
 We do not as we ought, set our faces like a flint against 
 this traffic in souls; for drink, as we are well aware, 
 destroys the soul with the body, and the drink-seller, 
 for the sake of gain, trades away the souls of his cus- 
 tomers. Why do we not publicly protest against this 
 open sale of demoralizing, soul-killing poison — a sale 
 conducted even on the Lord's day?" Jonas here looked 
 round upon his brethren with eyes of searching inquiry; 
 he waited for an answer, but none came; most of his 
 hearers, with averted eyes or downcast heads, were 
 listening with some impatience to his earnest words, 
 while upon the lips of one or two was a smile of pity, 
 coupled with the thought perhaps that second childish- 
 ness was coming upon the old man. 
 
 He continued, " Why do we not, I say? and here, 
 when I give the answer, I will class myself with you, 
 for, as I said before, I also am to blame in this matter, 
 and have not been thoroughly true to my convictions, 
 It is because we ourselves are helping at the same un- 
 holy work, not by selling, it is true, but by accepting 
 the drink-sellers as members of our churches — by allow- 
 ing them to put into the Lord's treasury their unhoty 
 offerings. Truly, when I think of it, I am reminded of 
 Christ's words when he drove out the changers of 
 money from the temple, ' My house shall be called a 
 house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of thieves.' 
 But by God's help this shall no longer be so at Beth- 
 esda! 
 
 "Do we not also offer the unclean thing to our 
 people? Do we not, some of us, even partake of the 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER. 280 
 
 same in our houses, and share it among our friends and 
 children, thereby setting an evil example, and. giving 
 encouragement to evil-doers? But, my dear friends, I 
 will confess my own sins. Last Sunday evening I pre- 
 sented to my people, more than sixty of them, old and 
 young, male and female, some of this same strong drink, 
 the sacramental wine, and I have so presented it hun- 
 dreds of times before; but never more can I so give it, 
 except in an unintoxicating form; my conscience will 
 no longer permit me. I have also, and you must for- 
 give me here if I seem to speak hardly of you, sat here 
 in silence night after night, in these weekly meetings, 
 while you, my dear brethren, have been passing round 
 the cup, not of life, but of death, I mean the wine-glass, 
 and have not warned you as I ought to have done, 
 or told you of the evil you were committing, and the 
 awful danger you might be the occasion of bringing 
 other souls into by so doing. But I now do it, and tell 
 you in the name of the Lord I can no longer sit by and 
 see it f ' 
 
 Here one of the ministers interrupted by saying, " I 
 think, brother White, you are going much too far, and 
 had better say no more. You seem to forget that we 
 also are capable of looking into this subject, as well as 
 yourself, and that the interests of the Lord's kingdom 
 are as dear to us as to you. We have long known 
 that your opinions on this temperance question are 
 excessive, but we have had respect to v.;-, if not to 
 them, and have let you alone; and now we only ask 
 that you should do the same. Give us equal liberty of 
 conscience with yourself, and do not condemn what you 
 do not seem able to understand — our moderation." 
 
 T 
 
290 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 ".Hear, hear!" was said approvingly by one or two, 
 with confirmatory raps on the table. 
 
 But Jonas White did not yet sit down. 
 
 " Allow me a few words further," he said in a firm 
 and gentle tone; " I will not trouble you long. If the 
 interests of our Lord's kingdom are dear to you, as ye 
 say, I ask you to look with me at a picture or two I 
 shall show }^ou. In my chapel in Silver Street, about 
 two years ago, and when I first came to this town, I 
 saw every Sunday, sitting in her father's pew, a 
 young girl, a young woman I may call her, seventeen 
 years of age, comely of features, nay, beautiful; but 
 that which made her interesting in my eyes was that I 
 hoped and trusted she was, like Solomon's spouse, c all 
 glorious within.' And it seemed so, truly it seemed so ! 
 She was a member with us, and young as she was, 
 adorned her profession by many works of faith and 
 labours of love, and by the purity of her life. She was 
 poor — all her friends were poor — but she had gained a 
 better education than falls to the lot of many in her 
 station, by the kindness of a friend; and she was very 
 active amongst us as Sunday-school teacher and visitor 
 to the sick, and in other ways in which women can be 
 useful in the church. Many much older than herself 
 took example from her, and were not ashamed to follow 
 after her. In our prayer-meetings, and class-meetings, 
 and band-meetings, her voice arose like a song of praise, 
 and by the side of the dying I have heard her pray as 
 few could, with so much freedom and power, and yet 
 with so much humbleness. Truly many times, when I 
 have thus seen and heard her, I have said inwardly, 
 ' This is a tree of the Lord's right-hand planting,' and 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER. 291 
 
 have thanked God. Do you see her, my dear brethren? 
 Can you picture her sitting before me in her pew every 
 Sunday, with a face almost like an angel's? 
 
 " And now I ask you to leave my chapel, and go 
 down with me into another part of the town — into an 
 alley near our greatest thoroughfare. There are plenty 
 of wretched houses in this alley — tumble- down, decayed- 
 looking places — and there are some of smarter appear- 
 ance. If you walk down this place in the day-time, 
 and have no female with you, most likely you will be 
 shocked and insulted; but if you go at night, you will 
 be sure to be so. But there is a poor creature in one 
 of these houses who is very ill; and as our commission 
 is to preach the gospel to every creature, and especially 
 to the outcasts, we will enter this house and ask to see 
 her. "We are shown up some narrow dirty stairs to fche 
 first story, but we have another and narrower night 
 still to ascend; and we at last enter a three-cornered, 
 plaster-floored bed-room just under the roof, with a 
 stump bed in it, a worn rush-bottomed chair or two, 
 and some bits of dirty finery hanging about. There is 
 no carpet but dust and dirt, and that is pretty thick; 
 and the whole room looks wretched, and is full of an 
 evil scent. But we forget all that, at least for a time, 
 when we look at a heap of skin and bones, with roll- 
 ing eyes and wasted cheek, that lies tossing beneath 
 a ragged blanket or two; and that we find to be the 
 sick woman we are in search of. There is not much of 
 what has been called ' the human face divine ' left about 
 her, except perhaps that pair of bright sunken eyes 
 that look sometimes with awful earnestness into our 
 eyes, or rather into mine, for she has seen me and 
 
292 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 known me before. She has been very ill, has had a 
 fever that, together with distress of mind, has reduced 
 her to this state; but she doesn't ask me what I think 
 of her body; she asks about her soul. 'I am dying, I 
 know it,' she says; ' but where will my soul go to? I 
 have been a sinner above every other; oh! what will 
 become of my soul? I have put Christ to open shame, 
 I have trodden on the blood of the covenant, and I am 
 lost; I cannot, dare not ask for mercy.' I speak to 
 her as Christ commands me. I tell her there is mercy 
 and forgiveness for even her; I tell her of the words of 
 our blessed Saviour, ' Him that cometh unto me I will 
 in nowise cast out/ I remind her of the Magdalen 
 who found grace in our Lord's eyes. I speak to her of 
 the infinite love and mercy of God to the repentant 
 sinner; but while I am speaking, a change passes over 
 her face. She gazes at me a moment in unspeakable 
 terror, she shudders, she tries to utter the word 'Pray;' 
 and while I am kneeling down, and am offering up peti- 
 tions for her at the throne of mercy, the body collapses, 
 the death-rattle is in her throat, and she dies! — Death 
 is no new acquaintance to us, dear friends; we have 
 necessarily seen it in many guises; but this death-bed 
 has some peculiar horrors. The sunken face before us, 
 with the terror-stricken eyes, out of which the light has 
 departed, while the horror remains; the poor corpse of 
 skin and bone, underneath the dingy woollen, is only 
 nineteen years old, and last year was full of beauty, 
 and youth, and health; and the poor soul that has just 
 now fled to its account, its awful account, in despair 
 and fright, was a few months ago rejoicing in the light 
 of God's countenance. It is the same bodv and soul 
 
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER. 293 
 
 that I saw so lately sitting before me in chapel, full of 
 radiant life and loveliness — the same who was a member 
 of my church, active and blessed in her work, an 
 example to all about her. Now her body lies there 
 before you, blasted, disfigured, a loathsome heap of 
 corruption, in a brothel; and her soul — ah! who can 
 tell what has become of her soul? 
 
 "Do you ask what has brought the change? "What it 
 is that produced this terrible falling away — this miser- 
 able life and miserable death? Do you ask what fatal 
 bridge conducted from the home of peace, of purity, of 
 love to God and man, to this abyss? I reply — and 
 note my reply — it is the bridge of strong drink : that 
 bridge that has led so many thousands to ruin from 
 our chapels and churches; that bridge, my dear brethren, 
 upon which you walk whenever you put the glass of 
 wine to your lips, and thereby encourage the young 
 and weak to do the same to their destruction. Oh, 
 think what you are doing! Remember the frightful 
 risk there is to some from its use; and refrain for 
 their sakes, if not for your own. Put it away — this 
 accursed strong drink — from your homes, your wives, 
 your children, your servants; from your communion- 
 table, your members, your flock, young and old, 
 and walk before God with clean hands and a pure 
 heart." 
 
 He ceased, wiped his brow, and then sat down, with 
 his face buried in his hands, praying silently. 
 
 All were affected by his earnest, solemn words, and 
 silence reigned for some time; till Jonas White rose up, 
 and in a meek and hurried manner, bade them good 
 evening. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke; 
 
29 4 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 and they shook hands with him without a word, but 
 with much silent respect of manner. 
 
 Still it was a relief when he was gone, as was evinced 
 by the gradual clearing up of faces, and the less re- 
 strained conversation that speedily ensued. Stephen 
 Morris alone of the company remained silent, and the 
 cloud did not once remove from his brow that had 
 settled upon it during Jonas White's speech. When 
 the servant at the usual hour brought wine, as was 
 customary, he left the room, and did not press his 
 visitors to partake; and it was observable that no one 
 had the hardihood to fill his glass with the rich-col- 
 oured liquids in the decanters, One of the party rang 
 for water, to the silent amazement of the young woman, 
 who had never heard that order given before, except 
 by Jonas White. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 
 
 Mr. Wilbraham the doctor was on his morning round. 
 A gray horse and a species of hooded chaise conducted 
 him every day to the homes of his patients, far or near, 
 and he was now seated beside the servant-man who 
 was driving, with a heap of books and papers in the 
 ample recesses of the hooded seat; for he liked occa- 
 sionally to read on his longer journeys, and he had that 
 morning called at the library and news-office. He was 
 not a physician, though styled Doctor Wilbraham by 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 295 
 
 the poor; but he had a large practice as surgeon and 
 family medical attendant, and had been settled many 
 years in Trentham. 
 
 He was therefore well known, and his carriage and 
 gray horse were well known likewise. As he proceeded 
 through the principal streets and the wide market- 
 place, he encountered bows and greetings from persons 
 of both sexes, from friends and ex-patients not a few. 
 Bowing benign an tly over his spectacles, the doctor 
 drove on: he had no time to spare of course. Several 
 important cases were just now under treatment at his 
 hands; and he must, if possible, have visited and at- 
 tended to all before two o'clock, his usual dinner hour. 
 It was now ten, and he had this morning a good many 
 miles to travel. If we take wings and fly beside him, 
 we also must hasten, but we shall not enter all the sick 
 chambers that are on his day's list to be visited — one 
 or two will be sufficient for our purpose. — Occasionally 
 as the doctor proceeded on his way, a look of care came 
 across his ample brow. He had just now special cause 
 to look full of care, and to consider what would be the 
 consequence if he continued to do as he had done the 
 last three months — to deny alcoholic stimulants of all 
 kinds to his patients, and what would be its effect upon 
 his popularity and practice. 
 
 More and more he had become convinced that these 
 stimulants were needless, and every day's experience 
 convinced him also that they were harmful. He had 
 been an abstainer himself for some time, and now was 
 beginning to introduce abstinence into his practice — 
 not partial, but total abstinence; a perilous experiment, 
 as he was well aware, for he should gain no new patients 
 
296 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 by it, and might lose many old ones. He would be 
 looked upon as that very objectionable person to lovers 
 of routine and precedent, " the man with the bee in his 
 bonnet;" and he would be despised and avoided by 
 lovers of self-indulgence — so large a majority in every 
 medical man's number of patients — as a rigid, and, 
 awfullest of all awful words to self-indulgent lovers of 
 the table, as a teetotal doctor. 
 
 Yet his conscience — and our doctor had a large supply 
 of that article, an inconveniently large supply, as he 
 was beginning to find — would not allow him to do 
 otherwise; let his practice rise or fall, he must still do 
 his duty, and refuse poison when he knew it to be so, 
 though all the rest of the medical world should see no 
 harm in it, and administer it almost ad libitum. 
 
 His first visit this morning was to a lady possessed 
 of ample means, and in the decline of life. She was 
 nervous, and had several imaginary ailments, and one 
 or two real ones. He had attended her in his capacity 
 of medical man for more than twenty years; she had 
 always hitherto professed the greatest confidence in 
 his skill and judgment, but now, that he forbade her 
 her daily stimulant, and endeavoured to convince her 
 that it was not only unnecessary, but really injurious, 
 she looked coldty upon him, and complained of his pre- 
 scriptions. " They did not suit her; he did not under- 
 stand her constitution," &c. 
 
 As he entered her thickly-carpeted chamber, fresh 
 from the open air, he perceived a distinct odour of 
 spirits, and the nearer he approached the patient, the 
 stronger became the scent. She was seated near the 
 fire, having just risen and dressed, and looked smil- 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 297 
 
 ingly into his face, as she pointed to a rich velvet- 
 covered easy chair, and begged him to be seated, with 
 the fascinating grace of manner she knew how to com- 
 mand, when she pleased. 
 
 To his question about her health, her answer was — 
 
 " I am much better this morning, doctor. Wonder- 
 fully relieved ! I do not feel like the same being I did 
 yesterday." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," was his grave reply. "Do 
 you attribute it to the medicine I sent you?" 
 
 " Well, no — not exactly. The fact is, your medicine 
 has not done me much good lately. I told you so, if 
 you remember, last visit." 
 
 "You did, ma'am. And I changed the medicine, 
 hoping to be more successful." 
 
 " It had no more effect than the former. It might 
 have been so much clear water/' 
 
 "That is strange indeed! May I see the medicine, 
 to know if my dispenser prepared it rightly?" 
 
 "Certainly! Charlotte, bring Mr. Wilbraham the 
 last medicine." 
 
 Charlotte, the dark-haired, primly-dressed maid-in- 
 waiting, brought a bottle in her hand for the doctor's 
 inspection. 
 
 He took it from her, and regarded it curiously. Then 
 he opened it, and strong was the perfume that met his 
 nose. 
 
 He tasted it, he made a wry face. " This is not 
 medicine," he said. — " This is not my medicine, my 
 dear lady! this is gin!" 
 
 The lady coloured to her temples, and gave Charlotte 
 a glance of wrath — such a concentration of anger and 
 
298 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 mortification as is not often seen on a fine lady's face. 
 Her husband had, at the doctor's special request, 
 denied all strong drinks to the sick-room, and some 
 had therefore been put in a medicine bottle to avoid 
 detection; but Charlotte had unwittingly betrayed her 
 mistress. 
 
 However, the lady quickly recovered herself. " The 
 fact is, doctor, I could not do without a little, and I 
 came to the conclusion to take it, as you see. Now, do 
 not be such a hard-hearted man as to say ' No ' to it, 
 for I assure you I shall die without it/' 
 
 She smiled, she looked beseeching; she had deigned 
 to entreat, but the doctor was unmoved, and invulner- 
 able to her smiles. 
 
 " My dear madam," he replied, "it cannot be. Gin 
 is neither good for food or medicine, and in your com- 
 plaint I should be a fool if I allowed you it. It is a 
 rank poison, and I should be cruel indeed if I prescribed 
 it for you. You must therefore allow me to take this 
 bottle away with me, or to let me see its contents 
 thrown away. Which shall it be?" 
 
 " Whichever you please," said the lady, with some 
 hauteur, throwing herself back in her chair with an 
 indifference real or affected, which made the doctor 
 suspect other bottles of gin might be concealed in the 
 convenient closet. The doctor quietly emptied the 
 bottle into the toilet-basin, taking care to mix a large 
 proportion of water with it, and the consents of a small 
 paper packet from his pocket, that contained a nause- 
 ous medicinal powder, giving it to Charlotte to remove 
 from the room. 
 
 " Now," said he, " I can understand why my medicine 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 299 
 
 had not due effect. But I trust you will allow it fair 
 play for the future, or my visits here are really useless 
 — worse than useless/' He spoke firmly, but gently, 
 and with as much kindness in his tone as possible; but 
 he saw very clearly the lady was offended. 
 
 When the pulse had been felt, and the customary 
 and necessary medical questions asked, during which 
 she turned her face in cold dislike a little away from 
 the obnoxious doctor, he ventured to say, — 
 
 " My dear madam ! I am truly sorry to disoblige you 
 in this matter; but my conscience so clearly "opposes the 
 admission of alcohol in any form as a medicine, that I 
 cannot do otherwise than refuse it. I have had, as you 
 know, an extensive practice for many years, and ought 
 therefore to be capable of judging. I have found it in 
 every case injurious, and in yours especially, as I said 
 before, it is inadmissible/' 
 
 " Yet you used to order me wine, doctor!" 
 
 " I did. But that was in my days of ignorance. I 
 intend never to order it to any patient of mine again." 
 
 " There is no other medical man in the town but 
 allows wine or brandy occasionally, as a strengthener 
 and a tonic; and one or two of those medical men are 
 exceedingly clever. I am sure I require a tonic — my 
 digestion is so awfully bad — and — the fact is — I must 
 have one." 
 
 " You shall; but there are plenty of tonics without 
 having recourse to wine or spirits — tonics infinitely 
 less dangerous. You ask me for poison, because it is 
 pleasant to your taste, but should I be worthy of my 
 profession if I gave it you?'' 
 
 "I, at least, will absolve you from any harm that 
 
300 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 may happen in my case," said the lady lightly, "if you 
 will allow it." 
 
 " But I should still be answerable to my conscience, 
 and to Him who gave it me," he replied. " No, no; 
 my dear lady; I again repeat — it cannot, must not be." 
 
 Soon afterwards he departed, with a foreboding on 
 his mind that he should be discarded, for some more 
 flexible medical rival — a foreboding that proved too 
 
 true; the lady the next day sending for Dr. C , who 
 
 allowed alcohol in his pharmacopoeia, and did not 
 quarrel with patients taking a little ° innocent " gin or 
 brand}'. 
 
 His next place of call was where a little patient was 
 recovering from scarlet-fever. She was a thin delicate 
 child, and her recovery was slow. A smile came upon 
 her pale face when she saw her friend — for the doctor 
 was a great favourite with most of his little ones. 
 
 " And how are yon, my dear, this morning? You 
 have not yet been to buy those roses for your cheeks, I 
 see! but we must get them before long!" 
 
 The mamma looked anxious. "Emma does not gain 
 strength as she should do, doctor. She wants more 
 nourishment; but she has no appetite. I can get her 
 to eat so little, so very little." 
 
 " Does she get her half-hour's walk in the sunshine?" 
 
 "Not always; it has been such weather! and she is 
 so soon tired/' 
 
 " Yes, the weather has been unfortunate for us — it 
 has kept her back no doubt. But we shall be having 
 finer days in a while; in the meantime she must be 
 encouraged to play about in-doors, and to go out 
 whenever the day will permit. It is not my medicine 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 301 
 
 she requires now, but good kitchen physic, and exer- 
 cise." 
 
 " But, — doctor, — papa and I have both been thinking 
 a little wine would strengthen her. She really needs 
 good nourishment.'" 
 
 "All the good nourishment you can give her, let her 
 have. But no wine; there is no food to be obtained 
 out of wine. It is quite a fallacy to suppose otherwise/' 
 
 "You are prejudiced, doctor! Excuse me for saying 
 it ; but I know wine to be really strengthening. I 
 have tried it myself; it once saved my life." 
 
 "Wine, madam?" 
 
 "Yes; port wine. I am ashamed to tell you how 
 much I was ordered to drink each day; eight or nine 
 glasses, I think, by a very clever physician at Dundee, 
 and I firmly believe if it had not been for that wine 
 I should not now be alive." The lady closed her lips 
 and looked very decided indeed. She seemed to wish 
 to impress it on him that she was a very wise woman, 
 and was not easily to be put down. 
 
 " Whether you recovered by the aid of the wine, or 
 in spite of the wine, though I rather suppose the latter, 
 is not for me to say. But you are quite mistaken if 
 you imagine it was in consequence of any nutritive 
 qualities the port wine might possess. It might act, it 
 no doubt did act, upon you as a stimulant. But there 
 are other stimulants to be had, far better and safer 
 than port wine or any alcoholic mixture whatever. 
 Alcohol, ma'am, is poison ; pleasant tasted most fre- 
 quently, and there is its danger, for people like it, and 
 because they like it, will take it. But beware how 
 you give it to your daughter; I give you my word 
 
302 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 it is not needed, that it would be injurious. — In fact, I 
 forbid it entirely." The lady could say no more after 
 so decided a refusal, but in her heart she thought the 
 doctor a sort of monomaniac, and scarcely to be trusted. 
 
 "It is astonishing," thought the doctor, as he once 
 more seated himself in his carriage, and took up a 
 pamphlet that had just been published on the subject 
 of intoxicants, by a medical man of his acquaintance, to 
 read as he went alon^. — "It is astonishing what a hold 
 alcoholic drinks have on the affections of the respec- 
 table portion of society! "We talk of the poor man 
 being infatuated with his glass of ale and his public- 
 house, but there is equal infatuation if we look higher. 
 Well, well ! this pamphlet I hope will do good," and he 
 read with satisfaction from its pages. "Alcohol is a 
 most dangerous luxury ; it is neither adapted for food 
 or medicine. The ancients called it 'a delightsome 
 poison/ I have been long convinced that I should be 
 criminal, were I to give it or prescribe it, either in 
 health or disease. Alcohol is given to gratifv an 
 unnatural and depraved appetite, not having anatomy, 
 physiology, philosophy, science, or common sense, to 
 sanction its use ; in fact, as a medicine, it is the most 
 dangerous quackery of the present day." 
 
 The next visit was to the house of the Rev. Stephen 
 Morris. One of the maid-servants was ill. She was 
 feverish and sick, and moaned pitifully as the doctor, 
 with Mrs. Morris, entered her room. A } r oung girl 
 about seventeen, who had only lately been engaged as 
 under-housemaid, was standing over her, and said some- 
 thing about "Martha having taken poison/' "True 
 enough, she is poisoned," said the doctor, after a few 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 303 
 
 moments' examination and a few questions. The 
 minister's wife turned pale, as did also the young 
 housemaid. " And I suspect," he continued, " she has 
 poisoned herself. She has had too much drink. Young 
 woman," he added sternly, addressing the patient, "how 
 dare you disgrace yourself in this manner in a respect- 
 able family? Were it not for your mistress, I would take 
 no further notice of you, but leave you to get well as 
 you could, and remember what drink does; this is not 
 the first time, I believe, that you have taken too 
 much.'' He wrote a prescription quickly, sent it to his 
 surgery to be made up, and then went with Mrs. Morris 
 a moment into the breakfast-room. 
 
 He asked if she knew how Martha had obtained the 
 drink? Jane said she could not tell, unless it was, 
 that she had made too free with the barrel of beer in 
 the cellar. 
 
 " Will you take the advice of a doctor, and an older 
 housekeeper than yourself, my dear lady?" he asked 
 kindly. " I know it is very difficult to make a stand 
 with servants on this subject ; but you will save your- 
 self much trouble, and do them an immense service, if 
 you give up the beer-barrel entirely, and allow of no 
 drink in the kitchen that can intoxicate. Who knows 
 the temptation that beer-barrel has been to Martha, or 
 the evils it may bring upon her? Many a girl has 
 been ruined for life in places where the beer or porter- 
 barrel, or perhaps the gin and brandy bottle, have 
 been close at hand." 
 
 Jane looked thoughtful. She thanked the doctor for 
 his kind and well-meant advice, but did not seem 
 hopeful. For the question came " How could she deny 
 
304- BY THE TRENT. 
 
 drink to the kitchen, when it was taken in the parlour? 
 How could she tell her servants it was wrong and 
 unwise to drink beer, when the master, and that 
 master a minister, who should be an example in all 
 self-denial, and sobriety of life, to his household, took 
 wine and spirits so freely?" It was a perplexing 
 question. Mr. Wilbrabam saw her hesitation and her 
 despondent look, and perhaps guessed the cause ; but 
 he could not speak openly unless she gave him the cue. 
 It was a delicate subject. When the doctor's carriage 
 had rolled away, Jane still remained in the breakfast- 
 room, deep in thought, her head resting on her hand. 
 The doctor's advice was very good, and suggested the 
 right thing to do, but how could it be done? She was 
 not, in such a matter, afraid of her servants, for Jane 
 was courageous, and in a cause she felt to be entirely 
 right, could be heroic. Heroism may seem too lofty a 
 virtue to bring to the help of a mistress who differs 
 from her dependants in so apparently trifling a matter, 
 and yet it may be needed, for it is far from a trifling 
 matter in the eyes of most servants, as many have 
 proved, and, we may say, is also far from trifling in 
 the eyes of a philanthropist. It is a serious matter, 
 a servant thinks, to be debarred from beer and ale 
 and porter; a very serious matter to have to live in 
 a teetotal family, and never to have the chance of 
 finishing a glass of wine, or drinking the dregs of a 
 bottle from upstairs, or wishing the master's or mis- 
 tress's good health, in sherry or home-made, on festive 
 occasions. Servants have appetites, and often unruly 
 ones, quite as unruly as those possessed by master or 
 mistress, or more so, and they have not had the superior 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 305 
 
 education that should teach them to repress them. And 
 Jane knew this well, and that, most probably, she 
 would have to lose her well -trained servants, and 
 endure the annoyance, many times repeated, of young, 
 ignorant, and perhaps turbulent domestics, who would 
 waste and destroy her substance, and jar on all the 
 refined ears of the household. For servants who had 
 learned their business had also learned to consider strong 
 drink of some kind an indispensable perquisite, nay, a 
 necessary of life. She knew, too, that she would be 
 called stingy, a title a kind, open-hearted mistress does 
 not like any the better because she knows she has not 
 deserved it ; and that, though higher wages might be 
 given to recompense for the lost indulgence, they would 
 not be considered sufficient compensation. All this, 
 however, she could and would bravely face, glad to do 
 so, for the minister's young wife had, for some time, 
 thoughtfully considered the question. But — and what 
 a powerful but this was ; — how could she take away 
 the beer from the kitchen, and retain the wine, and 
 gin> and brandy, for the parlour? 
 
 If her husband only would help her in this, gladly 
 would she herself give up all such indulgences ; but he, 
 she feared greatly, never would. For, ah ! was it not 
 true? and the thought that now arose made the blood 
 rise up over neck and brow, into a burning shame- 
 blush, "he was already too fond of these things, he 
 liked them only too well/' She sighed heavily. — A 
 kiss upon her forehead from behind, made her start. 
 
 " So thoughtful, dear?" It was Stephen who spoke, 
 and he looked tenderly into her eyes. " What is the 
 matter?" 
 
 u 
 
306 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "I have been thinking about Martha," answered 
 Jane, confusedly. She felt, in some way, as if she had 
 wronged him by her last thought. 
 
 " Well ; isn't she better? Mr. Wilbraham has been 
 here, I see." 
 
 "Yes; he says — What do you think he says, Ste- 
 phen? — that she has been drinking, and that that is 
 the sole cause of her illness." 
 
 "Drinking? — You must get rid of her at once, my 
 love. It will never do to have a drunken servant in 
 the house." 
 
 " I would, — and I fear I shall have to do; — but what 
 would become of her? And — I have been thinking that 
 it may in some way be my fault." 
 
 "Your fault? That is an absurd thought. You 
 would never encourage her to drink, I am sure. Of 
 course you only allow her a daily pint." 
 
 "No. I only allow a pint. But that is enough to give 
 her the desire for more, and the barrel is always at hand." 
 
 "You must keep the key of it, then; though you 
 ought to have a servant you can trust to take charge of 
 such things." 
 
 " Wouldn't it be better to have no barrel at all?" 
 
 "Why better, my dear? I cannot see it. If you do 
 not give the maids beer in the house, they will only be 
 tempted to go out for it. But do as you please. If you 
 think it better, try the experiment." 
 
 And he walked to the window, as if he thought the 
 whole matter was settled. 
 
 "I would do so at once," proceeded Jane boldly; 
 " but I cannot see how I can ask them to give up beer, 
 while we take wine." 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 307 
 
 " Well, then/' replied Stephen, facing her again, and 
 looking the least in the world annoyed, "I suppose you 
 must leave the matter just as it is. And I believe that 
 is the only sensible way." 
 
 " Couldn't we, for their sakes and our own, give up 
 the wine? Don't you think it is our duty? — You know, 
 Stephen, Martha is not the only servant I have had to 
 dismiss for drinking. Hannah Green said she had first 
 learned to drink here, and you remember what became 
 of her. I would send Martha away to-morrow, and 
 must, indeed, unless she will promise to amend, or 
 unless I can send away the beer; but my heart won't 
 let me turn her on the streets. And you know it might, 
 and most probably would, come to that. It is shocking 
 for any servants, and especially for your servants, to 
 leave this house for the gin-shop and the jail, or per- 
 haps worse." 
 
 And Jane's face expressed the utmost distress as she 
 said this. 
 
 " But there is no need that Martha should go to 
 either. Calm yourself, my love, and do not let imagin- 
 ary fears trouble you ! Martha will learn by the things 
 she suffers. She will lose a good place through over- 
 indulgence, and will take care for the future not to do 
 so again/' 
 
 " But I cannot give her a sober character, Stephen/' 
 
 " Of course not. But she will get a very fair place 
 nevertheless, and have another opportunity of redeem- 
 ing her character. Do not fall into John Broadbent's 
 error; he's a fine fellow, and much do I respect him, 
 but he is rabid on the subject of temperance, and has, 
 I fear, bitten you — he or Clara, Over every one who 
 
308 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 tastes a drop of wine or beer he puts a turpentine gar- 
 ment, and applies his torch, and forthwith they are in 
 flames, while he cries, ' See what drink does!' Martha 
 will get on very well/' 
 
 "I will give her another trial, for she is a good ser- 
 vant in other respects, and I have not been sufficiently 
 careful with her. How I wish intoxicating drinks had 
 never been made!" 
 
 So has wished many another mistress of a household, 
 when troubled by intemperate servants or children, or 
 a drink-loving husband; and yet too often she has been 
 the first to recommend its use in any sudden illness, 
 forgetting how "delightsome" was the poison, and how 
 subtle its tempting influence, and that she was probably 
 laying the foundation for, or building up the very 
 troubles she so much deplored. 
 
 Did Stephen feel the confidence he had expressed to 
 his wife about Martha's future well~bcin<x and doinct? 
 or was it that he would not see her danger? For it 
 would have been inconsistent indeed to have allowed 
 conscience to cry out in her case, and to have pursued 
 the same path himself. He was certainly not willing 
 to give up his own self-indulgent habits; therefore, per- 
 haps, he shut his eyes to their consequences, and there- 
 fore he said, " Peace, peace, when there was no peace." 
 
 A few years ago he would have started with dismay 
 if you had told him he would ever show such apathy 
 with regard to the bodily and spiritual welfare of any 
 human being, and more especially of one of his own 
 household. A Christian's conscience should be 
 
 " Quick as the apple of the eye, 
 The first approach of sin to feel." 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS, 309 
 
 But so long now had his conscience lain under the 
 effects of the stupefying draught of expediency and 
 self-indulgence, that it rarely opened its eyes to the 
 light, and pulsated feebly under what would once have 
 startled every nerve, and sent the blood in quick 
 courses through furthermost vein and artery. 
 
 He retired, however, to his study that morning with 
 an uncomfortable feeling. Conscience still lived, though 
 enfeebled, and reminded him dully, and as it were from 
 afar off, that somewhere across her filmed eyes a pin 
 had pricked for a moment. As he sat down to think 
 out and prepare his next Sunday's discourse, he found 
 himself inconveniently recurring to his wife's words, 
 " Couldn't we, for their sakes and our own, give up the 
 wine?" and though he could not assent to her proposi- 
 tion, it gave him a secret displeasure that he could not. 
 
 His text had been chosen the day before for the 
 sermon he was about to write; but the heads of his 
 discourse did not come kindly to the birth, and their 
 coming at all was long delayed. A perplexity, not 
 unusual of late, had settled on his brain, and placed 
 impediments there with wild entangling fingers. He 
 put the sermon aside with a sigh, and opened a book. 
 But reading did not suit him, and in a little while he 
 found himself seated before the study table, with his head 
 resting upon his hand, in the same attitude in which 
 he had recently found his wife. Thus he remained for 
 half-an-hour or more, a dull melancholy oppressing him. 
 Yfas it because it was a cloudy morning, or that he 
 was clouded within? Life was often now a drag and 
 a weariness ; this morning, almost more so than usual. 
 What should he do ? He looked listlessly round the 
 
310 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 room, lined with well-filled book-shelves, with books 
 written by men upon the highest subjects that can 
 employ the human mind. These seemed to reproach 
 his idleness. " Up, sluggard, to thy work! Life is 
 short, time is fleeting, death is near! Work while it is 
 called to-day, for the night cometh when no man can 
 work." These voices had often called to him before, 
 and he had obeyed; but the capacity for work appeared 
 departing from him now, unless — and he glanced 
 instinctively towards a small cupboard in a dark corner. 
 He rose, felt in his pocket for a key — a very familiar, 
 often-wanted key — and, grasping it between thumb 
 and finger with a nervous grasp, was about to apply it 
 to the lock of this dark corner cupboard. Did no 
 humiliating and confounding reflections seize him — no 
 remembrance of the great divine souls who had left for 
 him as for others the record of their Godward thoughts, 
 of those who "had all £one into a world of light," — and 
 that these had needed no fire but that from heaven to 
 illume their intellects and warm their hearts when 
 writing on the theme of God's salvation? By prayer 
 and fasting, by watchings and tears, they had gained 
 their insight into the spiritual world — by self-denial 
 and supplication, the gifts of the Spirit. Did no breath, 
 no vibrating chord sounding from them to him touch 
 his heart? 
 
 Apparently not. Between his soul and theirs he had 
 suffered to fall a thick cloudy curtain, and his weak 
 eyes no longer thought of piercing the veil; his heart 
 no longer desired communion with theirs; and no 
 electrical touches stirred him now from their pure 
 sphere. 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS. 311 
 
 He gave the key a vigorous turn, the bolt withdrew, 
 the door flew open. Before him on the shelf stood an 
 inviting bottle and a wine-glass. He laid them both 
 upon the table, and seated himself once more. A 
 strange content was in his eye; the expression of weari- 
 ness had left his face. Near him, within his grasp, 
 was the false magician's rod, with which he was about 
 to do such wonders; the rod of Moses — prayer, and 
 fasting, and self-denial — was neglected. A few taps at 
 the window-pane made him turn round suddenly. Who 
 was it about to intrude ? Could it be Jane ? Not likely ! 
 for the window of this room looked on to a piece of 
 garden-ground seldom trodden, a plot of grass and shrubs 
 shut in by a high brick wall from the road. As he 
 looked, he saw that at the middle pane a little bird was 
 fluttering, anxious perhaps to get in on this cold day, 
 attracted by the shut-in, quiet, warm room. "Tap, tap, 
 tap," went its small beak at the window-pane, and 
 the bird's wings fluttered with impatience and desire. 
 
 By God's smallest creatures, if we will open our souls 
 to listen, may divinest truths be taught. No "sparrow 
 is forgotten before God;'' and this little, gray, God- 
 remembered sparrow might have had a mission to the 
 minister — one more warning intrusted to it for him — 
 which it endeavoured to make known, by the efforts of 
 its feeble beak to penetrate the hard, mysterious crystal 
 of the window. " Pray, beseech ! do as I do S" and at 
 the window of God's mercy and love he has said you 
 shall not pray in vain. For to you a promise is given 
 — " Knock, and it shall be opened; ask, and it shall be 
 given you; seek, and ye shall find;" and "If ye shall 
 ask anything in my name, I will do it.'' 
 
SI 2 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Did lie understand the sparrow's mystic speech? did 
 he go at once upon his knees, bending low before the 
 throne of God's love? or did he lift one earnest prayer, 
 seated beside the table, for help from on high to resist 
 temptation? No; the sparrow flew away unheeded — 
 its message delivered in vain. Prayer's fountain was 
 sealed; a hard, dry frost was upon his heart. It was 
 but half-a-minute's more dela}% and then the glass was 
 filled and drained, again and again; and as each glass 
 emptied, his eye became brighter, his lip ruddier, his 
 heart lighter, his brain clearer. Then the paper was 
 once more brought out and placed before the willing 
 hand; for, touched by the unholy wand of drink, the 
 dead men in the brain-city rose to galvanic semblance 
 of life, and ideas and words came at command, almost 
 faster than he could write them. With a look of 
 triumph he at length put the finished sermon away; 
 his task was accomplished once more. 
 
 He threw himself back in his easy chair, and was 
 sensible of a slight headache, a slight confusion, now 
 all was over. Reaction began, and with it came speedily 
 renewed languor and depression. Again more wine 
 was necessary. Before evening he was sunk in deep 
 lethargic slumber upon the couch in the drawing-room, 
 and Jane sorrowfully threw over his flushed, swollen 
 countenance her delicate embroidered handkerchief as 
 a veil. 
 
 Was it not become a hopeless matter to think of 
 preaching sobriety and self-denial to the kitchen, with 
 such an example from the sacred study of the minister 
 before its eyes? 
 
THE RESCUE. 813 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE RESCUE. 
 
 The week went by, and Mrs. Christy heard nothing of 
 Veronica, at which she began to wonder. At first, 
 however, she was inclined to suppose the girl had 
 forgotten her promise about writing, or was so pleased 
 with her new situation as not to notice how quickly 
 the days sped by. For Mrs. Christy made no doubt 
 from the little she had gathered about the letter, that 
 it was to some rich relative, who would amply provide 
 for and perhaps adopt Veronica. 
 
 About the middle of the second week, however, a 
 little alarm came upon her. What if Veronica had 
 lost her way, or been ill treated, or had perished in the 
 snow that first winterly stormy night of her absence? 
 But she was a woman not given to anticipations of evil 
 and to forebodings, and she speedily put such fears to 
 flight: it was not wise to fret and trouble; and, be- 
 sides, what good could it do? Infirm as she was, and 
 ignorant of Veronica's whereabouts, she could not seek 
 her up; she must wait patiently for time to reveal the 
 secret. Still, however, she had her moments of won- 
 derment. "The girl surely would send," she thought to 
 herself, as she went about her work; "for there was the 
 rent going on, and who was to pay it? And the bird 
 — poor Dick, Veronica's pet — had already cost her two- 
 pence in seeds; though she didn't mean to say she 
 grudged it; and Dick she always would keep, no matter 
 
314 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 what happened, unless Veronica came back to claim 
 him." 
 
 Mrs. Christy lived in the lower house. It had a 
 window facing the street, with a shutter that each 
 night had to be closed from without. At this closing 
 time the old woman generally took the opportunity to 
 look up the street, and down the street, the shutter in 
 her hand, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the well- 
 known form of the young lace-mender. One night that 
 she stood thus she remembered it was now ten days since 
 she had seen her. She had opened the rooms up-stairs 
 once, and looked round at everything, and could find 
 no clue there to the mystery of the young girl's absence. 
 Everything was just where it should be: Veronica's faded 
 work-a-day bonnet and shawl hanging up in the old 
 place behind the door; her dress, though only a washed- 
 out cotton, put away carefully in the box; the fireplace 
 neatly arranged, and the coal laid in the grate ready 
 to light. The geraniums in the window wanted water, 
 and she watered them; but all else was as if the tidy 
 mistress had only just left it, except perhaps that a 
 little dust had collected in the window-seat. 
 
 The old woman shook her head somewhat despond- 
 ingly, as she stood with the shutter in her hand, 
 slowly closing it, thinking of these things. "I'd give 
 summat to know where that poor lass is!" was her ejacu- 
 lation, or rather speech. Before she had done speaking- 
 some one touched her familiarly on the shoulder. She 
 "amost screeted," as she said afterwards, relating the 
 occurrence to Mrs. Scrubbins, her neighbour and gossip, 
 "for I thought it were the lass herself; but it was some 
 one taller than Veronica, and darker.'' It was nearly 
 
THE RESCUE. 315 
 
 dusk, and Mrs. Christy's eyes were not very good, so 
 she curtsied low to the gentility of the apparition that 
 met her clouded gaze, a lady in fashionable dress, and 
 waited respectfully for her to speak first. 
 
 "Is Veronica at home, Mrs. Christy?" Mrs. Christy's 
 complaisance and humility were gone in a moment; she 
 recognized the voice, and raised her stooping back as 
 much towards the perpendicular as was possible to her 
 ere she replied. "Don't Mrs. Christy me, you baggage! 
 I won't be spoken to by none on you; I won't! An' 
 keep away for shame from this house!" 
 
 The fine lady did not resent this rough speech, or look 
 in the least surprised, but only moved a little forwards, 
 so as to stand in the way between the old woman and 
 her door-step, and thus holding her, as it were, at bay, 
 continued — 
 
 "Now, don't be so hard, Mrs. Christy! I've heard 
 father's dead, and I want to know if it's true or not. 
 Do tell me it's not! and let me speak to Veronica a 
 moment, I won't keep her longer!" 
 
 "Your father's dead, sure enough," replied the old 
 woman impatiently, holding her hand to the side of her 
 head, as if to shield it from the cold wind, for she had 
 come out without a bonnet; "if that's any comfort for 
 such as you to know. Like it is ! Go to the church- 
 yard, and speak to him there; there's nobody here to 
 talk to." 
 
 "Then it is true!" murmured Letitia, in a deep hollow 
 voice, as if talking to herself. "0 my father! I didn't 
 think it would be so soon ! I hoped I should have gone 
 first/' — Then louder — " But Veronica ! where's she? I 
 must know. I will know ! " 
 
316 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "You shan't know from me!" said Mrs. Christy 
 angrily. "Such as you's no business wi' such as her." 
 
 "I will know, I tell you!" And Letitia seized the 
 old woman by the arm. "You shan't go into your 
 house again till you tell me, not if you stay here all 
 night." 
 
 Mrs. Christy lived alone, she had no one to shout to 
 for help, and she began to reflect what she must do 
 with so obstinate and determined an assailant. She 
 was, too, half inclined to be frightened at the glare of 
 Letitia's eyes; they looked fierce and determined; and 
 what if she should really keep her standing here, a poor 
 old rheumatic body like her, in the cold January night 
 air! — And so bring on another illness like the one' she 
 endured last winter? It was not to be thought of! With 
 a shudder she at once signed a capitulation. Besides, 
 under the circumstances, there could be no great harm 
 in telling. Veronica, poor girl, was far enough away 
 no doubt. 
 
 "She's not here, I tell you; she's gone away." 
 
 "Gone away? Where to?" 
 
 "I don't know, not I! How should I know?" 
 
 Letitia's eyes flashed. She thought the old woman 
 was deceiving her. Her grasp became tighter, as she 
 hissed into her ear, threateningly, " If you don't tell me 
 true, old woman, I'll half murder you! Where is she? 
 Where is Veronica?" 
 
 Poor Mrs. Christy was completely frightened now. 
 She looked round helplessly, no living being was in 
 sight in that quiet no-thoroughfare. The gas-lamps 
 only revealed their own blurred shadows. Tremblingly 
 she told her imperious jailer that Veronica had gone 
 
THE RESCUE. 317 
 
 away ten days ago with a letter to an aunt, and 
 had not since been seen or heard of. That she didn't 
 know what had come to the lass, she only wished she 
 did; some harm, she was afraid! 
 
 "An aunt?" asked Letitia. "We've no aunt or uncle, 
 that I know of, in the world. What's her name, and 
 where does she live?" 
 
 "Her name's Lee. Mrs. Lee, that I'm sure of! And 
 she lives at Aldborough; yes, Aldborough, that's the 
 name. I remember it, 'cause my husband toud me he 
 lived at Aldborough, afore he knowed me; but what 
 house it is, I've clean forgotten. It had a grandish 
 sound with it/' 
 
 "Mrs. Lee, Aldborough," repeated Letitia slowly; "and 
 how far's Aldborough from here." 
 
 "Twelve mile, if it's a step." 
 
 "And she walked there, you say?" 
 
 "Aye, sure she did! Do you think she'd a coach an' 
 four to ride in?" 
 
 "Twelve miles on a snowy day! Ten days ago — that 
 Was — ah, that was just before that great snow! She's 
 lost, she's lost ! Mrs. Christy, lost in the snow ! " And 
 Letitia wrung her hands. 
 
 "God preserve us!" said the old woman. "I hope 
 not!" 
 
 But Letitia went away murmuring, "She's lost ! she's 
 lost!" 
 
 Two nights afterwards a low knock was heard at 
 the door of John Broadbent's cottage at St. Wilfrid's. 
 It was a dark windy night, about nine o'clock, and the 
 rain came in gusts driven by the wind. The young 
 servant, as she opened the door in answer to the knock, 
 
318 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 felt the rain-drops pelting through the bare rose and 
 woodbine boughs at the trellised porch upon her head 
 and smart cap, and somewhat impatiently asked, "Who's 
 there V " Can I see Mr. Broadbent V demanded a female 
 whose voice she did not recognize. " Yes, ma'am; come 
 in, please.'"' To her surprise, a young woman, without 
 umbrella or shawl or cloak, but dressed in silk and 
 satin and lace, whose faded grandeur the rain had helped 
 to spoil and the mud to defile, entered. She had very 
 bright, dark eyes, and, as the unsophisticated girl 
 thought, fine blooming pink cheeks, though her hair 
 was tossed about and disordered by the wind, and gave 
 her a forlorn look. Standing now in the kitchen, with 
 the fire-light full upon her, she looked, spite of her wet 
 shabby garments, so much a lady, that the girl, curtsey- 
 ing, asked what name she should give, and prepared to 
 open the parlour door to admit her. 
 
 " Your master will not know my name. Ask him if 
 he w T ill see me here for a moment," said the bright-eyed 
 lady. The girl felt someway uncomfortable under the 
 glow of those large eyes. 
 
 "You'd better walk in the parlour, ma'am, I'm sure." 
 
 "No, no; I will stay here." And the wondering girl 
 went forthwith to acquaint her master with the advent 
 of the new-comer. 
 
 John came out with some curiosity depicted on his 
 face. "A strange lady, wet through," the girl had said 
 hurriedly. Who could she be? It was Letitia, but 
 John Broadbent did not know her; he had never seen 
 her; and bowing reservedly — his wonder increasing each 
 moment at the aspect of the strange lady, he asked her 
 business. 
 
THE RESCUE. 319 
 
 "May I speak to you alone? or," she added, "with 
 only your sister ? " 
 
 "Certainly. Come in to the parlour, my sister is 
 there." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "Yes." She no longer hesitated, but followed him 
 into the small but well-lighted and warm apartment, 
 where Clara was tranquilly engaged with her sewing. 
 John had been reading to her aloud, no doubt, as an 
 open book lay beside his arm-chair on the table. Clara 
 looked at the stranger with equal surprise to that which 
 her brother had felt; for a moment only, however; then 
 she moved her head with her customary gentle and 
 graceful acknowledgment of a visitor, but the stranger, 
 not heeding the chair John placed courteously for her 
 near the fire, and still standing in the middle of the 
 room, exclaimed abruptly, "Don't bow to me, madam! 
 I'm not worth a bow from any one. I belong to the 
 dirt of the streets, that you would not like to touch 
 with the hem of your dress. And forgive me for com- 
 ing here; I would rather have been put in your outhouse 
 than your parlour, but I couldn't help it, indeed I 
 couldn't. But I have a sister, Mr. Broadbent." Here 
 she turned the glance of her large dark eyes upon John 
 — there was witchery in them still — and John's sank 
 from their gaze, with a troubled, pained expression. 
 "You know her, I think — Veronica Lee, the daughter 
 of the blind basket-maker, a good, pure girl — innocent 
 and good, as I am guilty and desperate — and I want 
 you to save her ! You only, perhaps, can do it. I have 
 heard of you, sir, and of the good and noble things you 
 have done for the poor. You know her, for I have seen 
 
320 DY THE TRENT. 
 
 you walking by her side in the streets, and you knew 
 her father. He's dead, they say, and she, she's lost if 
 you won't save her." She uttered these words in a 
 beseeching plaintive voice, much in the way some 
 wounded wild animal would make known its trouble 
 could it speak. 
 
 It was true what she had said. John had once or 
 twice met Veronica in the streets, and had spoken to 
 her there. He had seen her at home several times on 
 his visits to her father, though lately he had, of course, 
 lost sight of her, through his absence abroad. It pained 
 him to hear of Mark Lee's death, but almost more to 
 know that his daughter was in trouble. "What was 
 the matter? how was it that she was lost? and how 
 could he help her?" he inquired. 
 
 Letitia related all that she had extracted from Mrs. 
 Christy first, and then that she had herself been to 
 Aldborough in search of her sister; that she had heard 
 of her there, but had lost trace of her on her return, 
 and that for some time she had feared she must have 
 perished in the snow. 
 
 But to-day a new discovery had been made. A friend 
 of hers had heard of her being at a certain house in the 
 outskirts of Trentham very ill, and, as it was supposed, 
 in a fever, a house whose character Letitia knew only 
 too well. 
 
 "How she got there, Mr. Broadbent, I can't tell! I 
 only know one thing, it hasn't been by her own will. 
 She's been carried there by force, or by guile, and if she 
 is not soon brought away, she's lost. Ah !" said Letitia 
 bitterly, "I don't want anymore to be in my place, 
 least of all my sister! She's beautiful and good and 
 
THE EESCUE. 321 
 
 pure. But you'll save her, will you not? — 111 take 
 you there. Don't be afraid of nie, I'll do you no harm. 
 You believe me, do you not?" she asked as John kept 
 silence, her hands clasped, and in an agonizing voice. 
 
 "But I have no authority, no right," said John. 
 " Your sister must have other friends, who should in- 
 terfere." 
 
 "None in the world; none but you. Oh, Mr. Broad- 
 bent, will you refuse?" 
 
 " Give me the address of the house, and if it be as you 
 say, if your sister is really detained there against her 
 will, I will get the aid of the magistrates. I will see 
 to it: she shall be saved. But you must stay here; let 
 your clothes be dried. My sister will care for you." 
 
 "No," replied Letitia, "I cannot stay. Do you think 
 I mind a little rain? "What do I care to preserve my 
 body? It is best to go, and I will, and must, go with 
 you. But I will not trouble you ; no one shall see me 
 near you." 
 
 "But how do you know it is your sister that is 
 there? — Suppose you are mistaken, or have been mis- 
 led? Yv'e cannot enter the house on a supposition 
 merely." 
 
 " It is no supposition ! See here. This was written 
 eight days ago, and has only reached me this morning." 
 
 She showed a slip of paper on which was written a 
 few words in pencil. It was dirty, and had evidently 
 been in the mud, but still could be read with some 
 difficulty. 
 
 "I am a prisoner here, in this house; I don't know its 
 name. Oh, some one save me, will you? — Veronica 
 Lee." 
 
322 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "This was picked up by a friend of mine, who gave 
 it me this morning, and told me where she found it. 
 I've been searching this day all about the neighbour- 
 hood, and have got to know that she is certainly there, 
 and very ill." 
 
 " And this is really her writing?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; I know it well." 
 
 John reflected a few moments. Then, after consult- 
 ing with Clara, he decided to go at once to the help of 
 Veronica. He dressed for the storm, and insisted that 
 Letitia should do the same, and, with Clara's help, 
 succeeded in persuading her to do so. Throwing over 
 her a large cloak, and providing her with thick boots 
 and an umbrella, all the change of dress she would 
 allow, they both set out, Letitia leading the way with 
 nervous haste. 
 
 "Why do you turn towards the ferry?" John asked, 
 "the ferryman will be long since gone away. We must 
 walk the long way by the road, there is no help for it." 
 
 "It is not quite ten o'clock," replied Letitia, "and 
 the man promised to wait till then; I paid him to wait." 
 
 Inwardly admiring her forethought — for by it their 
 way was shortened by at least one-third — John followed 
 quickly, and soon reached the river. The man was 
 inside the boat-house waiting. He proceeded at once 
 to the boat, looking at his watch by the aid of a lan- 
 tern. "You're but just in time," he remarked; "in 
 another five minutes I should have gone away/' 
 Silently they passed over the water, and as silently 
 went on their way across the long flat of the wet plashy 
 meadows. It was eleven o'clock when the town was 
 gained. John at once proceeded to the office of the 
 
THE EESCUE. 323 
 
 chief-constable, and stated to him the cause of his visit. 
 A search-warrant and a constable were obtained, and 
 with these he and Letitia quickly gained the house of 
 Veronica's detention. It was a lonely house, surrounded 
 by a high wall, and Letitia said was the resort of 
 gamblers and of persons of bad character. 
 
 Here, however, they were not long detained. 
 Veronica was found, changed indeed, and ill, but not so 
 ill now as to be incapable of being removed. With a 
 joyful cry she recognized John Broadbent and her sister. 
 "Take me away" was all she could utter at first; and 
 when fairly placed in the cab, and they were driving 
 away, she fainted, overcome by her emotions of joy. 
 By early dawn St. Wilfrid's was gained. Clara was still 
 up, waiting for her brother. She received the released 
 prisoner tenderly, and preparing her a bed in her own 
 room, at once undertook the office of nurse. Letitia 
 stole away unseen, it was believed, as soon as Veronica 
 was removed from the cab, leaving behind her, however, 
 the cloak and boots and umbrella, 
 
 Veronica's account of her imprisonment was soon 
 told. When she was able to sit up, she related the 
 whole to Clara, as it had occurred — her journey to 
 AMborough, her bewilderment in the snow on her 
 return, her despair of help, and her lying down to die, 
 and then her awakening with the strange smiling 
 woman bending over her, in the large well-furnished 
 room. Her own words perhaps will tell the tale best, a 
 tale we should not tell but for its bearing on the subject 
 of drink. Shortly as we can we will relate her words. 
 "I was fascinated with that strange smile, though it 
 was not a pleasant fascination. I can't describe it. 
 
324 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 But she was kind, or at least seemed so ; brought me 
 tea and bread and butter to revive me, and sat down by 
 me gently, asking me of my adventures. I told her I 
 had been lost in the snow, that I had been walking 
 from Aldborough to Trentham, that my name was 
 Veronica Lee, and that I lived at Trentham, and gained 
 my living by mending lace, and that my father was 
 just dead. I don't think I told her these things all at 
 once ; she got them out of me, you understand, by a 
 smile and a question, one by one, before I was well 
 aware. 
 
 "Then I asked her in return where I was? She 
 answered, with kind friends who would take care of 
 me. But I could not get from her either their names 
 or the name of the house at which I was staying. 'Am 
 I at Aldborough, at Mrs. Lee's?' I inquired, for I fan- 
 cied, I don't know why, once or twice, that I might 
 have been found by some of Mrs. Lee's people, and 
 taken back, and that she might have had pity on me 
 after all. But the lady would not say; she only smiled, 
 with a ' Never mind, my dear; you're in a good home, 
 so be content.' 
 
 " Content I was not, but what could f do? I think 
 she must have put something stupifying in my tea, for 
 soon after taking it I slept very heavily indeed, and did 
 not wake till next morning long after daylight. The 
 room did not look so grand by daylight. I got up and 
 dressed, and looked out of the window, anxious to see 
 where I was, but to my great disappointment there was 
 nothing visible but a great high brick wall, some heaps 
 of dirty snow, and a piece of gray sky. I tried to open 
 the bedroom door, but found it locked. Then I became 
 
THE RESCUE. 325 
 
 alarmed, and looked round for any other door or con- 
 cealed closet, but could not see any; and yet I know 
 there must have been one somewhere, for afterwards 
 people would come in and go out of the room — strange 
 horrible men and women — without opening the other 
 door, and talk over me and laugh. That was when I 
 was ill (Clara judged this to be the fancy of a sick and 
 delirious person only). — But, however, in a while the 
 lady came again. I was sitting crying beside the bed; 
 I felt ill, my head ached, and I fancied it might have 
 been caused by the medicine in the tea, so I was angry 
 with her, and would not speak to her at first." 
 
 " But how do you know there was medicine in the 
 tea?" 
 
 " I don't know. I only fancied it must have been so. 
 She asked me why I cried. I said I wanted to go 
 home. She replied smoothly, 'Presently, presently, my 
 dear;' but I could see by the look of her eyes that she 
 did not mean what she said. I distrusted her as I 
 watched her about, slivins: here and there like a cat, 
 without making any noise. In a while she dusted the 
 looking-glass — it was a very large one — and asked me 
 to come and look at myself, telling me I was very 
 pretty, and didn't I know it? And she assured me she 
 had some very handsome clothes that I should look 
 well in. She brought out some pearl bracelets, and a 
 grand necklace, and wanted me to put them on, but I 
 tossed them away; I didn't want any of her finery I 
 told her. Then she asked me whether I liked to mend 
 lace, and wouldn't it be well if I could give up all that 
 tiresome work, and live like a lady, in fine clothes, and 
 ride in my carriage? She knew some one, she said, 
 
326 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 who would make a lady of me — a real grand lady, if I 
 would but say 'Yes/ and be his daughter, for he had 
 lately lost a daughter, just as I had lately lost my 
 father. That it was he who had saved my life in the 
 snow; and because I looked so much like his dear 
 Herminia, and reminded him so strongly of her, he 
 had got the idea of adopting me. Would I let him 
 come to speak to me for half-an-hour about it? I said 
 no; I didn't want to speak to any one, and she needn't 
 ask me. All I wanted was to get home; and then the 
 gentleman, if it was really true what she said, could 
 tell me himself what he wanted, there. She replied 
 that wouldn't do; that he was by far too great a gentle- 
 man to consent to be seen in my poor lodgings. But 
 why should I tell you all her lies? I knew they were 
 lies at the time, for her eyes and her mouth went dif- 
 ferent ways when she spoke. 
 
 "I was sick and ill, too, and began to be really 
 frightened. Where was I? Where could I be? I 
 shuddered to imagine where. 
 
 " She went away in a while, and then I knelt down 
 and prayed for deliverance from that house, whatever 
 it might be. 
 
 " I tried the window, and opened it a little, but it 
 was too far from the ground; then I wrote that little 
 note on a scrap of paper with a pencil I had in my 
 pocket, and managed to make it float away clear of 
 the window, and great was my relief to see the wind 
 carry it over the wall. The door I had heard her lock 
 as she went out. 
 
 " At dinner she came again, and at tea, bringing me 
 food, but I would only take a little bread and water. 
 
THE KESCUE. 327 
 
 Once she brought me a glass of spirits and water, and 
 begged me to take it, that it would do my cold and 
 headache good; but if I had been inclined I would not 
 have drunk it, for I remembered what your brother once 
 said to father about the danger of drink. I told her I 
 never drank such things, and that it was poison; but 
 she didn't understand me, and asked how could I think 
 of such a thing ; no one would poison me in that house, 
 that I was much too beautiful to be poisoned. — 0, I 
 cannot tell you all the vile flatteries she tried to make 
 me believe ! And again she wanted me to see my deli- 
 verer, as she called him, and said I was ungrateful not 
 to wish to thank him, when I still refused. She still 
 smiled, with her false, smooth smile, and called me 
 obstinate, with the same air with which she would have 
 chid a kitten; and therefore, she assured me, I should 
 be sent home without delay, but that it was necessary 
 lie should come to release me, and take me away. 
 
 " I can't tell you more," added Veronica, laying her 
 head on her friend's neck, " only that I still wouldn't 
 see him; and at night I was taken ill, so ill that they 
 put me to bed, and sent for a doctor. I think, perhaps, 
 the strange woman became frightened, and thought my 
 fever infectious, for I saw no more of her. But I didn't 
 like the doctor at all; he was so dark, so frightfully 
 dark, and had a black shadow round him; and there 
 were more black shadows, a little old woman amongst 
 them, who was my nurse I suppose, with a hump-back, 
 and one tooth hanging from her jaw in front, very 
 ugly. And yet she was kind to me, and really good, I 
 think; at least, she never told me any lies. — And I was 
 delirious some days, they said; but a day or two before 
 
328 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 your brother came was better, though my hair was all 
 gone, and my face as pale as a sheet. Ah, how much I 
 owe you both ! and poor, poor Letitia, too I" she added 
 thoughtfully, "I wonder where she is!" 
 
 " One thing I am thankful for/' she exclaimed ener- 
 getically, a day or so afterwards, " that I did not take 
 that drink, that spirits ; who knows what would have 
 become of me if I had?" She shuddered, and clung to 
 Clara, while Clara thought, "Who knows, indeed?" and 
 thanked God with her, that she had escaped that snare. 
 
 Veronica recovered her health and good looks, and as 
 soon as possible went to assure Mrs. Christy of her 
 welfare, and to give up possession of the rooms. Her 
 heart ached as she did so, for the memory of her father 
 clung about them, but she could not resist the entrea- 
 ties of Clara and John, to take up her abode with them 
 for the present, at St. Wilfrid's. They proposed for 
 her, that she should have a year's earnest study in 
 various branches of knowledge, and so prepare herself 
 for a teacher ; to tell the truth, she did not need much 
 persuasion to induce her to accede to this scheme, lace- 
 mending had very few charms, as may be imagined, and 
 most thankfully she accepted the kindness of her friends. 
 Her ambition stretched no further than to be able to 
 teach the very young, and we may picture her there- 
 fore, for the present, cutting stars, and folding papers, 
 modelling lilies and king-cups; mastering pentagon and 
 hexagon and octagon, and going through numerous 
 preparatory exercises on the piano, while the little ones 
 about her look lovingly into her deep sweet blue eyes, 
 or talk admiringly of the little curls that are just be- 
 ginning to replace those heavy tresses lost in the fever. 
 
TIIE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 329 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 
 
 Time like a good horse speeds along with its rider, 
 man. Now galloping swiftly over the level, breezy 
 uplands ; now trotting complacently along the valleys, 
 or walking occasionally by the side of 
 
 " Shallow rivers by whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals," 
 
 that the traveller may listen both to the rivers and 
 the birds, and some little also to the pleasure-beatings 
 of his own heart; and now, breathing deeply up the 
 steep ascent, or gently descending from the craggy 
 edge, to the sleeping town at the base. 
 
 An untiring horse is the time-horse ; he asks for no 
 " hostel, barn, or grange/' at which to rest his tired 
 limbs ; night and day, sunlight or moonlight, or pitch 
 darkness, are alike to him; rain or fair, snow or sun- 
 shine, wild wind, or the sleep of the summer's noon. 
 His rider may burden him as he will ; he goes but the 
 faster, the more he has to carry; he may put nothing 
 upon his back, he only trots the harder. But he never 
 stays or rests, and his feet are like Lear's horses, shod 
 with felt, instead of ringing iron. Chaucer's wondrous 
 horse of brass, that could 
 
 " Bearen your body into every place 
 To which your hearte willeth for to pace," 
 
 w T as less wonderful, by far, than he is. How little do 
 we know, sitting by our quiet firesides, it may be at 
 
330 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 this present, where, in a few months, or years, or even 
 days, he will carry us, or what strange, or sad expe- 
 riences he will give us, before we have done with him ! 
 
 Jane did not dream when she married Stephen 
 Morris the much-admired and popular minister, of the 
 thorny path that lay before her. Few brides, we 
 suppose, anticipate sorrow. Could the future be re- 
 vealed and opened to the gaze of some, when at the 
 marriage altar, there would be sorrowing and silence 
 instead of blushes and smiles, and the momentous, " I 
 will." Jane had a brave heart, and she loved deeply, 
 but I do not know that she would have sealed her 
 betrothal kiss, with the ring and the marriage vow, 
 had she seen her future husband, as we saw him a 
 while ago, and as we shall see him presently, trans- 
 formed by the potent Circcan liquor in the cup of 
 Comus, from the figure of a man, of almost an angel, 
 as he seemed once to her, to the near likeness of a 
 grovelling animal. Perhaps, indeed, she might have 
 thought, with the elastic hope of a young and loving 
 woman, that her arms would be strong enough to save 
 him from such a fate, and that her mission was to be 
 his deliverer and earthly stay, and she might thus have 
 accepted it with a mixture of joy and trembling. 
 
 But she had entered on her path in complete ignor- 
 ance of the gloomy turn its course so soon would take, 
 and she found herself now in a wilderness of sorrow. 
 Where did it terminate? From which brier could she 
 gather fruit? Many a hero, in the garb of a woman, 
 walks on the shady side of the path that is generally 
 allotted to the sex. And many a female "Great Heart" 
 pursues her way through "the valley of the shadow of 
 
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 331 
 
 death," God-sustained and strong, on whom no lan- 
 terns of this world's fame are ever turned. And thus 
 she pursued her way, drawing her strength, not from 
 man, but God, and in the midst of deep sorrow and 
 humiliation, found comfort and peace in Him. 
 
 Stephen's frequent fits of despondency she strove to 
 cheer and remove, if it were possible, by -the utmost 
 kindness and love. His increasing desire for stimu- 
 lants, though not fully known to her, alarmed her, and 
 she endeavoured by direct and indirect means to check 
 it. Jonas White's solemn appeal came to her know- 
 ledge, and she hoped and prayed it might produce 
 blessed fruit in her husband's mind, and lead him to 
 reconsider his ways and be wise. It had a temporary 
 good effect ; — the study cupboard was not looked into 
 for a week, and the decanters were left unopened on 
 the dinner-table for about the same period of time. 
 But he was gloomy and abstracted during this interval, 
 and complained that his brain w r as dull, and his mental 
 powers were leaving him. The constant pulpit gla- 
 diatorship, to which he seemed condemned, was a great 
 strain upon his powers; he must always come off victo- 
 rious, or he must die; his popularity would be gone, his 
 church decline, his best friends go about mourning, if 
 he ceased to be the bright, particular star of Trentham, 
 — if he became content to deliver stale bread and plati- 
 tudes to his congregation. So he thought. He must 
 therefore w^ork, and keep thews and sinews in order, 
 — and to do this he must drink. 
 
 We shall not stay here to show the false ground 
 upon which he now stood, and how this gangrene of 
 self-indulgence had eaten into his marrow. When 
 
332 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 man leaves God, the rock of strength, the giver of all 
 power and wisdom, and takes to rushes and feeble 
 staves of his own contriving, to support him, and to 
 his own wisdom for enlightenment, then he must needs 
 sink and fall prone. When he leaves the Fountain of 
 living water, the sand of the desert soon absorbs the 
 little he has with him, and he is left athirst and perish- 
 ing; he must die if he find not again the spring. 
 Though, let us thank God! prayer and repentance can 
 always discover it. 
 
 But Stephen was not aware he had lost it. Sur- 
 rounded by the arid wilderness of his own lust, a per- 
 petual mirage led him onwards, he saw wells and pools 
 of water ever near, and his cheated eye mistook them 
 for the pure waters of life. He talked of the living 
 waters to his people, but he himself was far from them, 
 and though at present they did not know it, a faint 
 wonder was beginning to dawn upon them, and a loss 
 of something in their minister, they knew not how to 
 describe, was perceptible to them. His discourses 
 became unequal — alternately lethargic and of luxuriant 
 energy, and from his countenance had passed away a 
 beautiful something that had once both awed and 
 charmed. When the human has been face to face with 
 the divine, even for a short time, there remains a 
 glimmer of that sweet and awful light that in old times 
 shone from Moses' countenance, and more or less it 
 perceptibly illumes the man, as he walks again among 
 his fellows. It beams from his eyes, and they behold 
 it, though they know not what name to give it, — it lies 
 tremblingly upon his every feature, and when he speaks 
 they find his " hallowed lips have been touched with 
 
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. S33 
 
 fire," and they are conscious of its nearness in the 
 electrical, soul- touching accents with which he greets 
 them. The aura round the head of a saint is no myth, 
 no pictorial exaggeration put in for effect, but very 
 faintly is it to be seen in the dull ordinary atmosphere 
 of this world, and not at all by eyes profane. 
 
 He still had eloquent words, and glowing imagery, 
 logical sequences and deductions, clear illustrations and 
 expositions, he still charmed and surprised, but could 
 his hearers have seen within, they would have found 
 the true glory had departed — the shrine vacant, the 
 ark stolen. He had been able as yet to hide the 
 emptiness, but a terror seized him at times, lest some 
 penetrating eye should pierce the veil, or lest he 
 himself in a moment of madness should tear it asunder, 
 and expose the nakedness of the sanctuary. 
 
 And he did not fear without a cause. Premonitions 
 were not wanting that the balance of the brain was 
 being disturbed ; that the constant and unnatural 
 stimulus of wine was wearing and fretting its deli- 
 cate fibres and cells, that a slow disease was progres- 
 sing and sapping its soundness. A decreased power of 
 attention, a loss of concentrative energy was beginning 
 to be painfully felt, and at times, the unsolicited and 
 pertinacious recurrence of one train of ideas. 
 
 Terrible dreams made the night hideous and the 
 day languid. But when his wife pleaded for change of 
 air and scene, he refused to listen to her, — when she 
 hinted gently, and at length openly accused the 
 "delightsome poison" as the cause of his decreasing 
 health, he called her prejudiced and childish; and when 
 she proposed a doctor, he shook his head with a decided 
 
334 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "No."" He knew he was ill; ill in body, and ill in 
 mind, ill at heart, and ill at ease, but he still loved the 
 disease that preyed upon him, and he could not resolve 
 to be divorced from it. 
 
 His week-evening duties were now sometimes entirely 
 neglected, and sometimes only half performed; the 
 young men's class for increase of biblical learning, 
 about which he had once been so enthusiastic, was 
 frequently left without his presence, and a zealous, but 
 not too wise, deacon filled his place, to the disappoint- 
 ment of the young students, whose decreasing numbers 
 soon testified to their dissatisfaction at the change, and 
 want of interest; the Thursday night's sermon was 
 often languidly given; but the prayer-meetings perhaps 
 suffered most of all, and they were at last allowed to 
 die away. 
 
 Want of health was pleaded as the cause of this 
 decline in energy, and his people indulgently listened 
 to the plea, and fearful lest they should lose his valued 
 services altogether, wished to release him from some of 
 his pulpit labour, or even to grant him a lengthened 
 holiday. Urged from without and within, he at last 
 took the holiday for six months, and visited some of 
 the loveliest and healthiest places and scenes on the 
 Continent. He came back stronger, and his health was 
 for a time recruited, and those who saw his brighter 
 eye and firmer step, said he was recovered, and con- 
 gratulated him on his permanent improvement. Jane 
 did not feel very hopeful, however. The black cloud was 
 not removed, though a break of sunshine had occurred 
 for a while, and while that cloud was in the heavens, how 
 could she do other than expect rain, sooner or later? 
 
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 335 
 
 The wine-merchant's bill was not reduced on his 
 return, and frequently more potent liquors than port 
 or Madeira were now needed. The servants began to 
 remark the frequent importation of strong drinks into 
 " master's " house, and of course had much more than a 
 guess as to who required them. "Master" himself 
 became less circumspect — and once or twice the servants' 
 parlour had its ominous whisper about his "queer 
 laughs," and "red eyes," and rolling walk. The 
 sword of Damocles hung over the head of the minister 
 and his wife, and any inadvertent broom, or mouse, or 
 infinitesimally increased force of gravity, might at any 
 moment break the hair that held it. With terror 
 Jane saw it, and her white face almost betrayed the 
 expected doom to ignorant friends; but Stephen 
 became more and more lethargic and indifferent to con- 
 sequences, and professed not to see the sword when it 
 was pointed out to him. 
 
 Not always, however, was lie thus apathetic. There 
 were moments of keenest vision, of torturous excite- 
 ment, of intense horror at what was so surely coming, 
 and then so acute were his sufferings, so helplessly did 
 he feel himself bound down to them, that his wife almost 
 preferred for him the state of somnolency. 
 
 Do my readers think she ought to have exerted her- 
 self more freely and wisely to avert or remove the evil? 
 It may be so; I do not claim for her the greatest wisdom 
 in the world. But her path was no easy one. A hus- 
 band whom she loved intensely, and at one time 
 reverenced so much, had contracted an evil, dangerous 
 habit; a habit which, indulged in to a certain extent, 
 was one the world and the church approved of, but 
 
336 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 which led to fatal consequences, if persevered in beyond 
 that dim, ever-shifting circle of so-called temperance. 
 His first wanderings beyond this circle were viewed by 
 her with wonder and concern, but not with actual 
 alarm. So far angelic was he in her eyes, so superior 
 to the ordinary, every-day humanity, that she unfear- 
 ingly saw his footsteps tread where others would be sure 
 to slip. His feet were shod for ice, it was almost im- 
 possible he should fall; and when at last she did see him 
 too visibly slip and stumble, she was half inclined to 
 believe it was her eyes that were at fault, not his feet. 
 And now, that it was become her duty to uphold him, 
 and shield him from all possible danger, his passion for 
 stimulants was much too strong for her weak arm to 
 withstand; she warned and entreated and forbade, to 
 little or no effect. When he was opposed he obtained 
 by cunning what he was determined to have, and this 
 cut her to the heart even more than the open refusal to 
 attend to her entreaties. 
 
 On different characters and constitutions the mania 
 for intoxicants has different phases and different rates 
 of progress. On some it comes gently, and gains power 
 and breadth only in the course of many years, like a 
 stream that has had no rocky oppositions, and no impetu- 
 ous freshets and numerous feeders to widen its banks 
 and deepen its waters; but by a constant flow and slow 
 increase has wound lazily through meadows and swamps. 
 
 On some its progress is rapid and alarming from the 
 first outset. But frequently this deceitful passion 
 accumulates power and strength, in secresy and silence, 
 like a hidden reservoir, long held up and kept in bounds 
 by the rock and clay and sand of conscience, or societary 
 
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 337 
 
 proprieties and decorums. At last, — it is only a child 
 perhaps, who perceives it, — a tiny hole through the em- 
 bankment lets out a small driblet of water; then a jet, 
 and then a runnel finds its way from the enlarging 
 orifice. The child laughs and claps its hands, and 
 throws upon the small streamlet boats of paper or 
 walnut-shells, and in a while, tired of play, and lulled by 
 the sound of its flow over the stones, goes to sleep by 
 its side. But suddenly the embankment above gives 
 way, a wild rush of waters leaps across the plain, deso- 
 lating the valleys, carrying before it men and cattle, 
 rocks and debris, hay-stacks and human habitations, as 
 so many pebbles; and the next day where the child 
 played and slept, is a wide lake, spread above corpses 
 and destruction, engendering miasma and disease. 
 
 A few vague rumours began to float about the con- 
 gregation at the chapel, that peculiarities had appeared 
 in the conduct of the Rev. Mr. Morris — -very gentle 
 rumours at first. By and by, a tale came that he had 
 been seen one night without a hat, and with his hair 
 and dress in some disorder, walking backward and for- 
 ward before his house with an unsteady step. In the 
 pulpit it was remembered he had once burst into tears, 
 and had been unable to proceed in his discourse, though 
 there seemed no special call for the tears; and it was 
 noticed that while preaching he frequently appeared 
 bewildered, and put his hand to his brow, with an air 
 of perplexity and distraction. Was it possible that his 
 mind was giving way? Genius and madness, some say, 
 are so nearly allied, that it only requires a little 
 more phosphorus in the brain to conduct from one to 
 the other, and it did really seem as if in his case the 
 
338 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 excess of chemical substance had been given. There 
 was certainly something unusual and occasionally 
 startling in his manner in public, and a wild roll of the 
 eye had not passed without observation. 
 
 He had hitherto been so far fortunate, that his fits of 
 abstraction, to use a very mild term, had been unseen, 
 except in the one case previously named, by any but 
 those of his own household. Jane deprived herself of 
 necessary rest and out-of-door exercise, to perform the 
 office of dragon and motherly guardian in one, for him. 
 And when he was unfit to be seen or heard, she closed 
 the door jealously upon all visitors. The last two 
 years' strain of mind and body had worn her more than 
 ten }^ears of quiet could have done, and her eyes were 
 getting hollow and dim with frequent tears and watch- 
 ing, while amongst her bands of bright hair not a few 
 gray ones showed their tell-tale whiteness. Her mother 
 became alarmed for her health, and attributed her ill- 
 looks to town air, wishing her to spend more of her 
 time at Swansford; but that was impossible now, and 
 she managed on all possible occasions to smile away her 
 mother's fears. Clara, too, looked anxiously at the 
 worn face of the young wife, but though she might 
 sadly surmise the reason, she could not name it to her. 
 
 One afternoon John called upon his friend. — He was 
 in the study the servant said, " Would Mr. Broadbent 
 see him there?" Jane was out, and John replied, 
 " Yes," and followed the young woman to the door of 
 the room. A knock admitted him. Stephen was 
 seated before a heap of books and papers. He looked 
 at his visitor with a troubled expression ; lately indeed 
 he had avoided John, and no wonder, for he dreaded the 
 
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 339 
 
 keen encounter of the eyes of such a friend. He shook 
 him by the hand, and they conversed on the usual topics 
 of the hour or day, but the minister could not look his 
 visitor fully in the face, and averted his eyes whenever 
 it was possible. His seat had its back to the light, and 
 his face was therefore in shadow, but John noticed his 
 efforts at concealment, and felt pained to think of the 
 estrangement that made them appear necessary. Why 
 was it his friend was now so uneasy in his pre- 
 sence? Why did he of late avoid him? Why did he 
 seem depressed and at times perplexed? 
 
 " I was preparing my sermon when you came," he 
 said after a short pause in the talk. 
 
 " I have interrupted you," replied John, " and per- 
 haps had better take my departure. Your time is of 
 great value, no doubt." 
 
 " No, no, nothing of the kind. I wish it were ! The 
 fact is, I was going to tell you of how little use it was 
 to me this morning, I can't get along at all with my 
 writing." 
 
 " Take a walk then. Go with me, this fine day with 
 its fresh invigorating air will do you good. You will 
 come back fresh and vigorous." 
 
 " No, thank you. I walked yesterday, and it did me 
 no good. The air does not seem to reach me now as it 
 used to do. I seem cased in hot plates." 
 
 " You are feverish and require medicine. Let me send 
 Wilbraham to you." 
 
 " How fond you are of doctors, Broadbent ! No, I 
 want no doctor. It is no new thing; I am always 
 feverish now, but I shouldn't mind that at all if it 
 weren't for one thing," and he paused. 
 
340 LY THE TRENT. 
 
 " Well ?" inquired John, expectantly — 
 
 "You won't name it to any one, of course! But 
 the fact is, when I sit down to write, I can't put down 
 what I want, some other word comes uppermost. Are 
 you ever plagued in that way?" John averred he was 
 not, but advised his friend again to give up writing, and 
 to take a walk with him. " You have been overwork- 
 ing yourself, perhaps?" 
 
 "I don't know. I can't tell! I wonder whether 
 other ministers are teazed in the same way. One word 
 has been particularly troublesome. And it is not 
 only when I write. — I see it everywhere, on the ceil- 
 ing, the floor, the table, the desk. — And if I take a 
 walk it is on the sky and the grass just the same. I 
 cannot get away from it. Look here!" he exclaimed 
 with a sort of desperate energy, as he seized one of the 
 sheets of manuscript lying on the table, and held it 
 before John, shudderingly pointing out the obnoxious 
 word. 
 
 It was not a pleasant word to find mixed up fre- 
 quently in a sermon, yet it was written not only freely 
 in passages not admitting such a word with propriety, 
 but impertinently introduced, at random, in almost 
 every line. The word was "devil," and was often brought 
 out with a flourish and in larger letters than the rest. 
 Stephen gazed with feverish eye at his friend to watch 
 the effect the strange word might have upon him, but 
 John kept his countenance unmoved, and after look- 
 ing quietly at the paper a minute, laid it upon the 
 table again with an indifferent air. Then he put his 
 hand affectionately on Stephen's shoulder. "My dear 
 fellow, you need rest, and rest you must have ! Will 
 
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 3-41 
 
 you let rue advise you?" Stephen had been trembling 
 with feverish excitement just before, he had quite ex- 
 pected an alarmed speech or a frightened look from 
 his friend, but the coolness and calmness of this latter 
 had a sedative effect upon him. He put his hands in 
 his pockets, leaned back in his chair, and said lan- 
 guidly, "Yes, certainly." 
 
 "Will you first answer me a question truly?"' 
 
 There was an earnestness apparent in John's voice 
 now that commanded attention, and the minister's 
 heart beat audibly as he replied more faintly than 
 before — " Yes." 
 
 " Have you not been exciting your brain lately by 
 strong drink?" And as John asked this direct question 
 he looked directly at him. 
 
 Stephen's pale lips, from which all colour fled in a 
 moment, uttered " I have," in almost indistinct tones; 
 and then putting his hands before his face, he burst 
 into tears. 
 
 For some moments there was an almost perfect 
 silence in the room, the sobs of the nerve-shaken man 
 only audible at intervals. In a while he lifted up his 
 head, and said in humble, almost abject tones, " I have 
 sinned deeply, I know it ! but have a little charity ! 
 Ah, if you knew my wretchedness !" 
 
 " I am not here to condemn you," replied John sor- 
 rowfully; "but no doubt God has sent me here to 
 advise you. I have no heart to condemn you, and I 
 could not do it if I would, for I have been in the same 
 gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity with you, though 
 my feet have been mercifully kept from falling quite so 
 far. But, Stephen, my friend, my dear brother, let me 
 
342 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 advise you once more, for your soul and body's good! 
 Look at yourself, and see what you are! Think of 
 yourself, and see what you were, a few years ago — only 
 a few years ago ! What has brought about the differ- 
 ence? What has shorn you of your strength? — The 
 Delilah of alcohol, the snare of the evil one. You 
 thought it an innocent, weak thing, that could do no 
 harm; you almost braved it to try its worst. You 
 dandled it upon your knees, and called it your heart's 
 delight, your bosom's comforter; and it has played you 
 the same trick it has done before to so many others, so 
 many thousand times. But put it away from you, now 
 and for ever, and you shall still be saved. Let no drop 
 ever again cross your lips, and banish it entirely from 
 your house. I have no better advice to give you. And 
 let me tell you, my dear friend, that this is the only 
 way of redemption left for you — the only one. What- 
 ever it costs you, in God's name and strength, take it!" 
 
 He was silent again; but he laid his hand once more 
 beseechingly upon his friend's arm, and his eyes beamed 
 with love and entreaty. Stephen looked at him with 
 a touching expression of longing and despair. Such a 
 look a shipwrecked man might cast at the rope thrown 
 out for his deliverance, which his benumbed fingers 
 have no power to hold. 
 
 "I cannot, I cannot!" was all he could say. 
 
 " You think so now, for the way seems difficult and 
 impossible, while you are so weak and unnerved. But 
 try only once, and you will get strength for another 
 trial. Do not throw away this, it may be, your last 
 chance. I know not what will become of you if you 
 do! Will you let me make a beginning for you? Will 
 
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 343 
 
 you let me tell your wife to put away all the drink? 
 Will you — " 
 
 " No; I could not do that. — It is impossible!" and a 
 burning blush arose upon his cheeks. 
 
 "Kesolve then yourself, my dear fellow. Possibly 
 your life depends upon the resolution you make to-day.'" 
 
 " I know it; I believe it ! I feel that my brain is 
 affected; all is very strange here sometimes!" and he 
 put his hand to his forehead, " and you cannot think 
 how that horrible word pursues me." 
 
 "A nervous fancy which must be got rid of as 
 speedily as possible. Will you come and stay a week 
 or two with me at St. Wilfrid's? It would be a good 
 place to make a good beginning. We will do all we 
 can to amuse, and interest, and comfort you, and I am 
 a capital doctor, I assure you ! Clara, also, is a most 
 excellent nurse." 
 
 At the mention of Clara, Stephen's face lengthened. 
 He had nearly come to the conclusion that a week at 
 St. Wilfrid's would do him good; but how could he 
 bear to be humiliated before Clara? 
 
 " No; I am indeed grateful for your kindness, but I 
 cannot come." 
 
 "What can I do for you?" asked John with a look 
 of distress. " Stephen, I would give my life to save 
 you!" 
 
 "I believe it!" and Stephen pressed his hand con- 
 vulsively. " But you are too good. I am not worthy. 
 My life is not worth saving!" 
 
 " Let one rate its value, Morris. I should put it at a 
 very high figure. Your talents, which are so great, 
 and might do such immense benefit to the world; your 
 
344 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 youth, your influence; 0, Stephen, what a glorious 
 worthy future is before you if you do your duty ! Is it 
 possible you can forget this? "Will you throw it all 
 away and become a reproach, a castaway, an apostate, 
 for the sake of one low passion? Have you indeed no 
 love left for souls — for God?" A burning blush again 
 rose to Stephen's cheek. He tried to speak, but his 
 lips refused utterance to the words. 
 
 " Think of the ruin that must come upon you and 
 your beloved ones — your wife, your child, if you do 
 not from this hour resolve to forsake, and be<nn a new 
 life. Think of the souls that may through your apos- 
 tasy be lost; of the terrible havoc that will come among 
 your people; of the reproach that you will bring upon 
 the name of Christian !" 
 
 " Spare me, spare me ! I am not worthy you should 
 talk to me any more. I would alter if I could; but I 
 know my own weakness. What will you say to me 
 when I tell you that I know I cannot refrain, not 
 though all the woe and misery should come upon me 
 you mention?" 
 
 " Then let others lead you, let others constrain, you 
 for a while to be perfectly sober and truly temperate — 
 truly abstinent, I mean, and strength will come. Ask, 
 too, for strength where it is never denied, and you will 
 get it." 
 
 " Yes; I am well aware. But do you suppose I have 
 never prayed? — thousands of times? I used to quote 
 that text, ' The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous 
 man availeth much' — only of a righteous man, you 
 see — when I spoke to my people. Now it upsets me. 
 Of what use are my prayers?" 
 
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. o±o 
 
 " There is another prayer, ' God be merciful to me a 
 sinner.' " 
 
 Stephen rose up agitated, and walked quickly about 
 the room. He then approached John, took hold of his 
 hand, and grasped it with a force that would have 
 pained any less robust member, "Leave me; I will 
 think upon what you have said; but — leave me!" 
 
 "I would rather have stayed with you, and had your 
 promise of abstinence before I went. Then you and I 
 would have made a bonfire of that manuscript, and 
 gone out a walk together. But I leave you in God's 
 keeping. May He guide and preserve you I" 
 
 He met Jane upon the stairs. Her face was flushed, 
 as if she had been hurrying. A look of content how- 
 ever came over it when she saw John. " You have 
 been with Stephen? I am so glad!" 
 
 " Yes; I have been talking to him, and now I want 
 to talk to you/' 
 
 She led the way into the drawing-room, and John 
 told her his fears about Stephen's health. "He must 
 not be left alone for the present, and I strongly advise 
 that you send for the advice of Mr. Wilbraham." 
 
 " But Stephen is not willing to see a doctor. I have 
 wished to send for one some time, but he will not hear 
 of it." 
 
 " It must be done, however. If I have your permis- 
 sion I will call upon the doctor this morning, and get 
 him to come up in the course of the day." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Broadbent! You are a true, kind 
 friend." 
 
 " And I may send him?" 
 
 " yes; it will be a great relief to me if you will." 
 
346 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Fervently hoping Mr. Wilbraliam might be at home, 
 John rang the bell of the surgery. An old servant 
 quickly answered it, and telling him the doctor was 
 within, led him into a sombre, but well-furnished 
 reception-room. In a few minutes the doctor appeared, 
 and looked grave indeed, after John had as lucidly as 
 he could explained his errand. "Serious symptoms! 
 Must be taken in time. — Some derangement of the 
 nervous system generally," he said, as if to himself; 
 and then louder, "You did well to come, Mr. Broad- 
 bent — quite right; and I will go as soon as possible." 
 
 "But," added John, "I have yet another thing to 
 tell you; that he does not know you are sent for, and 
 has, moreover, a great objection to any medical attend- 
 ance." 
 
 "Mrs. Morris is at home, I presume?" 
 
 "Yes; and it is at her wish that I came here for 
 you." 
 
 " Then we can manage it. I must make an after- 
 noon call, and be invited to tea." 
 
 And so it was agreed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM. 
 
 The vigorous measures the doctor thought fit to take 
 averted for this time any more serious symptoms. He 
 saw well, however, that Stephen Morris was on the 
 verge of an abyss, into which any sudden fright, or excess 
 
THE MINISTERS MARTYRDOM. 347 
 
 in diet, or mental strain of any kind, might precipitate 
 him. With double stress, if that were possible, he 
 forbade the use of alcoholic stimulants; and gladly Jane 
 obeyed him, and banished from the house, at this period 
 of strict regimen, everything that might tempt either 
 herself, or her husband, or the servants, to break the 
 ^ood rule of the doctor, and which in truth he imagined 
 would only be observed by Iris patient. 
 
 Of course, all attempts at preaching were forbidden; 
 the utmost quiet of the brain, or at least of those powers 
 that had been of late so much overtaxed, was prescribed; 
 and a temporary arrangement was made with another 
 minister in the neighbourhood to undertake his pulpit 
 duties. 
 
 Mrs. Gresham offered Swansford, and all the comforts 
 and luxuries of her house, for the recreation and reco- 
 very of her son-in-law; and in a while he was removed 
 thither. But in the meantime many other pleasant 
 and beautiful country mansions were offered to him for 
 places of temporary abode, whose inhabitants would 
 have deemed it an honour to wait upon him in every 
 possible way and provide for his comfort. The poorer 
 members gave their prayers for the recovery of their 
 pastor, and their affectionate thoughts ; the richer, 
 delicacies from green-house and farm-house, and all 
 procurable luxuries for an invalid. Supplies of various 
 kinds poured into the house, almost as if a siege had 
 been expected; even wine was sent in abundance — 
 wine of the delicatest and rarest — to recover the lost 
 strength of the overwrought preacher. Jane dared not 
 refuse this last present, lest remarks should arise from 
 its rejection; but she privately had it removed to 
 
348 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Swansford, where the old gardener, a rigid teetotaller, 
 took a grim delight in pouring it out upon the ground 
 — at a safe distance, however, from the roots of his 
 favourite plants. 
 
 General nervous debility and a threatened attack of 
 brain fever were stated to be the causes of the minister's 
 illness. Few, if any, suspected the real truth. The 
 servants in the house were faithful, and kept the secret 
 well; and, though a rumour now and then found its 
 way, and oozed out among some of the scandal-lovers 
 in the town, of want of sobriet}', &a, it was almost 
 universally rejected as soon as heard, with indignation, 
 and with a warm protest against backbiters and the 
 well-known spite of unbelievers. 
 
 At present, therefore, the sword of Damocles had not 
 fallen, though that it really hung in such nearness to 
 the minister's head was become plain to his most inti- 
 mate friends and his doctor. 
 
 It was still there, and not once had it been re- 
 moved, as was only too apparent to the sickening gaze 
 of Jane. The drink had been taken out of Stephen's 
 way, but the love for it was unbroken; and by some 
 strange means he obtained it, notwithstanding the 
 vigilance of his wife. On their removal to Swans- 
 ford, she thought with almost exultation that there it 
 would be impossible to bribe servants, since they 
 would not be his servants, and he would not dare to 
 make known his weakness to such comparative 
 strangers. The gaidener was grimly virtuous, as we 
 have shown before, and would not consent to be made 
 a link of communication with the outer- world bottles 
 and barrels. Mrs. Gresham herself had never tasted 
 
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM. 349 
 
 wine since her son's death; and now that she was 
 sole mistress of Swansford, enforced the same rule 
 of total abstinence upon her servants. There seemed 
 to be no opening for the enemy in such a castle — every 
 window was barred; and with so vigilant a sentinel as 
 herself, she expected, not unreasonably, to hold her 
 own. But she was deceived. Gin and wine certainly 
 must have wings, and come by aerial passages, for they 
 found their way even into Swansford House; and their 
 private sitting-room and bed-room were its favourite 
 places of resort, and port wine, to her dismay, left its 
 stain upon her husband's handkerchiefs. 
 
 Still his health gradually improved, for these indul- 
 gences were of necessity much more rare than formerly, 
 and the regular out-of-door exercise told upon him also. 
 His hypochondriac fancies and torments left him, and 
 he was able to laugh at what a few months back would 
 have filled him with a hundred fears. In two months 
 he was at home again and at work. 
 
 But he was not the same man as before. "His 
 powers are leaving him/' said his people, sorrowfully, 
 as they sat listening for an hour on Sunday to a dis- 
 course delivered in a vapid, monotonous strain, evidently 
 without pleasure or interest to himself, and as evidently 
 without pleasure to them. His dull and frequently 
 blood-shot eyes never lightened up now under the 
 influence of holy aspiration or contemplation of the 
 highest love; he seemed to have no heart-beatings for 
 humanity, no enthusiasm. With a sort of mill-wheel 
 round he went through his duties, and praise or blame 
 appeared to him indifferent. A settled, stolid stare 
 became habitual to his face; and when he conversed 
 
350 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 with his people or his deacons he could seldom be stirred 
 to a smile. 
 
 Gradually he lost his admirers; his sermons were now 
 often careless in their composition, and commonplace 
 in thought. "Poor Morris" was the title he most fre- 
 quently got from the outer court and the world, who 
 began also to understand he was a falling star, while 
 his people deplored aloud the illness that had brought 
 about all this change. Mr. Wilbraham looked unusually 
 thoughtful whenever he met him, or heard him spoken 
 of, and over John Broadbent's brow a shadow came at 
 the mention of his name. 
 
 One morning, as this last was correcting the proofs of 
 a work of his shortly to appear in print, he received a 
 note from Jane. 
 
 "You are Stephen's only real true friend," it began, 
 "whom I can ask, and I do ask that you will come 
 over here and see him as soon as possible. I dare not 
 leave him. Yours, Jane Morris." 
 
 A hurried little note, with but little in it, and yet it 
 said much to John. He showed it to Clara. "Don't 
 expect me at home again at present," he said, as he put 
 on his coat and hat. "If I need you I shall send for 
 you, dear !" and he was gone. 
 
 Clara and Veronica watched him out of sight, from 
 the porch, now full of the pale green leaves of spring, 
 while purple lilac blossoms filled the air about them 
 with sweet scents. But the beauty of the day had no 
 pleasure for Clara, and she sighed as she thought upon 
 the trouble of her friends. 
 
 When John arrived at the well-known door, and was 
 
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM. 351 
 
 admitted, he found Jane in the hall waiting for him. 
 She was in a state of nervous agitation, and her eyes 
 were red and heavy with weeping. Silently she con- 
 ducted him into the breakfast-room. "I knew I might 
 depend upon you," she exclaimed. "You are always 
 kind and thoughtful. How glad I am to see you, I can 
 scarcely say!" 
 
 "Where is Stephen?" asked John. 
 
 "That is what I want to tell you. He is in the study; 
 has been there for hours, ever since last night in fact, 
 and I cannot persuade him to come out and get break- 
 fast, or to let me go in. He has locked the door, and I 
 know he is drinking, or has been. I have tried to keep 
 calm and quiet lest the servants should talk about it, 
 but you cannot imagine the dreadful fears I have had; 
 I can hear him moving about at times, and lately he 
 has been talking a ^ood deal to himself, that is all I 
 know, but what can he be doing? Do you think, Mr. 
 Broadbent, he would admit you f 
 
 " I will try, but I fear it very much, since he has 
 refused your presence." — He went to the study door, 
 and rapped. 
 
 Stephen seemed to discover it was not his wife's rap, 
 and asked after a moment, "Who's there?" 
 
 "John Broadbent." 
 
 There was a pause, and a shuffling. And then 
 Stephen said, "I'm busy, I can't admit you." 
 
 "But I wish much to speak to you." 
 
 There was no answer for a minute. Then a low and 
 quite a different voice said, "It can't be done, old 
 boy!" 
 
 "Was that his voice?" asked John, in surprise, of Jane. 
 
352 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "I think so; he talks in that way sometimes, now." 
 
 "Is there any other entrance?" 
 
 "None, but by the window." 
 
 "Then I must try the window." All this was in a 
 whisper. 
 
 She led the way out of the house to the little back 
 garden, with its shrubs and grass. Pushing through a 
 laurustinus, John found himself just beneath the win- 
 dow. Fortunately it was open. It was not unusual for 
 Stephen to sit with it open in fine weather, and he had 
 done so this morning. Bidding Jane return to the 
 house, he at once clambered up, and was soon upon the 
 window-sill and in the room. Here a strange sisdit 
 greeted him. The table was littered over with manu- 
 scripts and books; books were removed from the shelves 
 by the dozen, and were piled up near the fire, their 
 covers starting and blistering and cracking with the 
 heat, while in the chimney a heap of papers were 
 smouldering, and within the fender lay quantities more, 
 half or wholly burned. Stephen was standing without 
 his coat in the middle of the room, his face turned 
 towards the door, and did not therefore at first observe 
 John, the crackling of the paper on the fire, no doubt, 
 having diverted his attention from any other noise. 
 But he soon became aware of the presence of another, 
 and turned round, quick as lightning, facing the intruder. 
 
 His eyes flashed, his nostrils dilated, his mouth foamed, 
 and John saw at once that he had to deal with a mad- 
 man. He stood at once firm and erect, however, and 
 after giving one cool glance around, fixed his eye 
 steadily upon Stephen, as he said with a half smile, 
 "Your window was open and invited me in, jou see! 
 
THE MINISTERS MARTYRDOM. 353 
 
 It was not good manners, but I know you'll excuse it. 
 You're very busy here, what are you about?" 
 
 Stephen's face expressed bewilderment, but he still 
 looked fiercely at John, and exclaimed, "Be off! You're 
 not wanted here !" 
 
 "Yes, I'll go in a minute or so. I don't want to 
 bother you. But you'll let me sit down a little first, 
 won't you?" And he took hold of a chair. 
 
 Stephen gravely brought out a watch. " In a minute," 
 he said, looking down at the minute hand, "in a 
 minute you go !" 
 
 John seemed not to notice this. He sat down, with 
 his face, however, to his companion, and said, "What 
 a bonfire you're making! I suppose you thought it 
 cold." 
 
 "Very cold!" replied Stephen more mildly, and his 
 teeth chattered as if he really felt chilled. "But you 
 see those papers are rubbish, and won't make a good 
 blaze." 
 
 "Perhaps they're damp," suggested John. 
 
 "No; I know how it is. They've a queer name on 
 them, all of them. So have all these," and he brushed 
 a number on to the floor as he spoke. "They must all 
 burn, burn, burn! How long will they burn, do you 
 think? How long shall I burn? We must all burn 
 together! That will purify us." And he fixed his eyes 
 upon the fire. 
 
 "True," replied John, "but we won't burn just at 
 present. It would be better to wait till night, for in- 
 stance, the blaze would be seen better then." 
 
 Stephen had put back his watch. He had forgotten 
 about John's minute. He came and seated himself by 
 
S54j BY THE TRENT. 
 
 his friend, and fixed upon him his eager restless eyes. 
 "You really think it would?''' 
 
 "Decidedly. Isn't all fire seen best at night? And 
 if I were you I'd make a great heap now, in prepara- 
 tion, in the middle of the floor. Let me show you how 
 to begin, shall I?" 
 
 Stephen made no opposition. He seemed pleased 
 with the thought of a crand bonfire at night, and John 
 arose and went towards the chimney-piece, for the 
 apparent purpose of collecting the books, but really to 
 take possession of an open clasp-knife he saw there. 
 He grasped and concealed it dexterously. Then he 
 stooped for the books, and brought a heap to Stephen's 
 feet. 
 
 "More, more!" exclaimed Stephen, and John fetched 
 more, the madman helping, till a great heap was piled, 
 John contriving his movements so as to pass and repass 
 the door, and at one opportune moment to unlock it. 
 Then he pleaded they had enough, and might well wait 
 till night. 
 
 Meantime Jane, who had been listening painfully at 
 the door, had heard it unlock, and thinking she might 
 now enter, opened it, and came in. Her husband, who 
 had been kneeling before the pile, sprang to his feet, 
 and rushing towards her in a sudden access of fury, 
 seized her by the throat, exclaiming, "Begone, Satan!" 
 and would no doubt soon have strangled her, had not 
 John come to the rescue. There was a violent struggle, 
 the madman releasing his wife to attack John. He 
 was strong, as are all the insane in their paroxysms, 
 and with grinding teeth and flashing eyes and wonder- 
 ful dexterity of movement, making himself now slippery 
 
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM. 355 
 
 to hold as a fish, and now strong to attack as a tiger, 
 he proved for some time more than a match for his op- 
 ponent. 
 
 We called it a violent struggle, but it was a succes- 
 sion of struggles, Stephen alternately suffering himself 
 to be held fast, both arms bound down, and then 
 suddenly, with an almost superhuman effort, getting 
 loose and renewing the attack. 
 
 John's strength began to fail. His right arm had 
 received a powerful wrench, and was rapidly becoming 
 useless. The female servants, collected about the door, 
 were attending to their mistress, who was still gasping 
 and all but insensible, but the coachman, whom they 
 had called in to help, stood apart, irresolute and afraid. 
 "Will no one help?" shouted John, giving a hasty glance 
 at the crowd. No one stirred, all were too paralyzed 
 by fear to come forward; but at that moment a tall 
 figure advanced from behind, and pushing the women 
 gently away right and left, entered the room, and with 
 powerful hand collared the maniac. 
 
 It was Dr. Wilbraham, who had been passing in his 
 carriage, on his way to a patient, and was " impressed," 
 as he said afterwards, to call. He found the front door 
 open, and came in unobserved, just in time to effect the 
 capture. 
 
 Resisting violently, Stephen was hurried away up 
 stairs to his chamber and there secured, his cries and 
 screams being heard through the house with terrible 
 distinctness for a long time. 
 
 What a night was the one succeeding! John did not 
 once leave his friend, though other help was procured, 
 to be available in case of need. It was an attack of 
 
356 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 delirium tremens, the doctor said, and might have very 
 lamentable consequences. Alternations of frenzy and 
 cowering fright, that imagined devils in every corner of 
 the room, and one especially frightful one upon his bed, 
 that would crawl about him, and that kept him in con- 
 stant fear, — with stupor and partial sensibility, passed 
 over several days. 
 
 Clara came from St. Wilfrid's, at Jane's wish, and 
 helped her to pass over these sad days. Jane was much 
 shaken by her fright, and quite unable to leave her 
 room for a week, but Clara's presence was like moon- 
 light penetrating through clouds. 
 
 John was untiring in his attentions to his friend — 
 his hand gave the medicine, and his ear listened patiently 
 to the maunderings and delirium of the goaded, over- 
 wearied brain, and his firm one-handed grasp — for his 
 right arm was still weak — held down the sufferer in his 
 ravings, or rang for help if it were required. 
 
 When the distemper had been conquered, and reason 
 sat once more on her throne, though mourning and 
 disconsolate at the wreck around her, and when the 
 body had a little recruited its exhausted forces, when, 
 pale and weary, Stephen lay upon the couch in his bed- 
 room, his soul sank within him humiliated, he could 
 scarcely bear to meet the friendly eyes that had watched 
 over him so many hours. He had long fits of silence, 
 during which John left him to his own sorrowful mu- 
 sings, but he had also some periods when talking seemed 
 a relief. 
 
 At one of these times — it was twilight, and the fire 
 burned languidly, throwing an occasional dull gleam 
 across the room — he said, " If it were but possible to 
 
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM. 357 
 
 begin again one's life! How different all should be with 
 
 mei 
 
 "It is possible," John replied. "A new era may be- 
 gin for yon, if you will. You have only to will it. To 
 let your will be one with the divine will, which calls 
 upon all men to love holiness and purity of life. — To 
 die to sin, to be born again to new life and holiness; 
 how blessed that would be for you ! And it may be." 
 
 Tears came in Stephen's eyes. "I am the chief of 
 sinners, John/' 
 
 "There is a Friend of sinners, do not forget that." 
 
 "I cannot, or I should die at once of shame and grief. 
 But I am utterly unworthy to have a friend of any 
 kind, and especially such a friend." 
 
 There was a silence of some minutes, then Stephen 
 partially raised himself from the couch. " I have de- 
 termined," he said, as he looked at John. 
 
 "What have you determined?" 
 
 "To give up my church; to leave the ministry; I 
 have long contemplated it, now I am determined." 
 
 " It will be right to do so/' said John. "And indeed, 
 I do not suppose you could have kept it." 
 
 "All is known then?" asked Stephen, feverishly. 
 
 " I fear so, though everything has been done that 
 could be done to conceal it." 
 
 Stephen hid his face in his hands. John heard him 
 breathing deeply as in pain. The sword had fallen at 
 length. 
 
 "Tell me all!" he said at last, in a suffocated voice. 
 
 " I do not know all. But I will tell you what I 
 know, if you think you can bear it." 
 
 Stephen moved his hand in token of assent. 
 
358 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "Yesterday one of the deacons called here, Mr. 
 Strange, I think, and asked to see me. He said there 
 had been a church meeting about your illness, and that 
 several resolutions had been passed, one especially, it 
 would be well for you to know as soon as you were 
 able." 
 
 " I understand, — they have dismissed me, or asked 
 me to resign, the same thing!" 
 
 " They have." John did not tell him that he had 
 heard further that the whole town was full of the 
 scandal, and that it had spread far and wide that Mr. 
 Morris was a drunkard. 
 
 " Does Jane know?" 
 
 " Not at present ; it is not necessary. Clara will tell 
 her before long, when she can bear it." 
 
 " Ah, Jane had better never have married such a 
 castaway as myself. What harm I have done her, 
 poor girl!" 
 
 "Yet you m&y still be happy, and make her so, if 
 you will. In some other place you may begin life 
 anew. All is not lost yet ! Only determine to give up 
 that which has caused all this mischief." 
 
 Stephen turned his head away, and listened wearily 
 to the rain, which splashed upon the window-pane. 
 Then he said in an inexpressibly despondent tone, " I 
 had better die; I think I had better die!" 
 
 His friend said no more on the subject, he waited for 
 a better opportunity. " Strange !" he thought, "that he 
 should be so remorseful, so apparently repentant, and 
 yet not be able to determine to give up the fatal indul- 
 gence. Alas! of what good is such remorse?" He 
 sighed. Stephen heard the sigh. "I have grieved 
 
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM. 359 
 
 you again," he said, " and I know it, but you cannot 
 tell how weak I feel, how little able to promise any- 
 thing. If I thought I could keep my promise, then 
 there would be less difficulty; but the fact is, I am 
 utterly lost. — Oh John, leave me, give me up ! I am 
 not worth your care and love; I shall shame your 
 friendship again — I shall dishonour you — leave me \" 
 
 " I cannot ; I will not leave you a prey to the temp- 
 ter, while I can hold out a hand to save you. But 
 what am I saying? It is God only that can deliver 
 you. My hand is impotent, unless He gives it strength. 
 I will pray for you, but I will not give you up." 
 
 A grateful look passed over Stephen's face, then he 
 shut his eyes, and lay for some time perfectly quiet. 
 Presently he passed into an uneasy slumber. He seemed 
 to dream and to struggle for something. " Only a 
 taste!" he muttered, "just one glass, and I shall be 
 satisfied — only one glass!" He awoke uttering the 
 last words. 
 
 John beheld him with concern. Then, as he shook 
 off the evil dream with a deep sigh of deliverance, he 
 said, 
 
 " It pursues me even in my dreams. How do you 
 think I am ever to be free?" 
 
 "You are not yet well. In a while all this will pass 
 away, never fear." 
 
 "In the meantime I am wretched, and believe I 
 shall ever be so. You do not know how I long after 
 the drink. You cannot tell the horrible feelings I have 
 to endure." 
 
 "Take courage! They will soon pass away, and 
 then 3^0 u will have conquered. This is part of your 
 
360 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 punishment, your martyrdom; you must endure it. In 
 awhile it will be gone." 
 
 ''•Martyrdom," Stephen repeated with bitterness of 
 tone. " How I once used to long to be a martyr ; what 
 a dream it was ! A Christian martyr ! And now, I am 
 martyrized in this way. Truly the devil has martj^rs 
 as well as God. What a martyrdom I have chosen ! — 
 Oh John, is there need of any other hell than this?" 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S PARTY. 
 
 If again we let loose the reins of our Time-horse, and 
 suffer him to march on with us, past brake and brier, 
 and dreary wildernesses of sorrow and shame, of which 
 our moral earth is, alas! so full; being in this respect 
 perhaps, ages behind the physical earth, abounding still 
 in saurians, and sea and land monsters not yet extinct, 
 and in chasms, and arid volcano-lands, that are to be in 
 the happier future closed, and fertilized, — we must ask 
 pardon of the reader. Not willingly do we stay beside 
 the bed of what may appear to our defective vision, 
 almost hopeless anguish, for we confess scenes of horror 
 are to us as repugnant to record as they would prove 
 to some to witness. 
 
 With a deep, deep sigh of relief we turn our gaze 
 from man in torment, to man in hope and joy; from 
 the Inferno to the Paradiso, or at least to that which 
 
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY. 361 
 
 most nearly approaches it in this world. Not to the 
 city shall we go for our Paracliso, nor to any of the 
 dusty, humming hives of men, those builders of combs 
 which are not always stored with honey; nor yet shall 
 we take our course to the hills, though upon their heads 
 rainbows repose, or arch them in gloriously, a grand 
 frame to a grand picture, and though upon their thy my 
 sides our feet love to linger, among the purples and the 
 gold of broom and heather, the last the "ling" that per- 
 haps suggested the word linger to some poetic heath- 
 lover of old times, whose ankles loved the rustling touch 
 of its purple bells, and lengthened out the parting with 
 " sweet, reluctant, amorous delay." 
 
 By the river is our present paradise. There were 
 four such round Eden, a quaternion of delights, but 
 to find one lovely stream at once, is all we can now 
 expect in these latter days of dimness, in any of our 
 far-away western Edens — all we desire, it may be. 
 
 The brother and sister at St. Wilfrid's, at least, asked 
 for no more. To them its pure flowing waters were 
 endlessly suggestive of deep peace and progress com- 
 bined, a combination at once symbolic of, and springing 
 alone from, the union of the human soul with the divine. 
 Its morning changes of tint from deepest gray to clearest, 
 softest white and blue, and its evening splendours of 
 gold and crimson, preached ever to them what man's 
 life should be, a gradual putting on of light and beauty, 
 and the richnesses of love; and when night absorbed 
 the colour for another morning to reveal, and hid the 
 flow of the current with the shadow of her hand, they 
 saw in this shadow an emblem of death, that hides, but 
 does not take away or destroy. 
 
362 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Veronica grew increasingly lovely by the river. 
 That last storm that had swept across her sky, and 
 had threatened to wash her away by its violence, left 
 the heavens bare for the sun to shine out without 
 stint. Her whole life till now had been gray as an 
 overcast morning; all the more did she now enjoy the 
 free unclouded brightness; she unfolded like a flower 
 after rain. Clara's face, sometimes too thoughtful 
 in its womanliness, became younger and gayer near 
 hers, and when John was absent on some of his many 
 engagements, with Jonas White, or some other friend 
 of temperance, seeing to his school for drunkards' 
 children, or arranging the classes and library for his 
 Labourers' Institute, or preparing, it may be, a lecture 
 for the same, the two friends at times wandered, without 
 his welcome company, it is true, but very happily, up 
 the Grove, and among the cornfields beyond. 
 
 They were walking out one summer's evening in this 
 way. Gathering, as they proceeded slowly, handfuls 
 of forget-me-nots and way-side grasses, with wild roses 
 and meadow-sweet, money-wort, and convolvuli, to 
 adorn the room at the cottage on the coming children's 
 festival, and Veronica had laughingly placed in Clara's 
 hat a grand trail of bryony, and in her own a single 
 wild rose, fragrant and white, when a fallen tree 
 irresistibly suggested their need of a rest, and they sat 
 a while upon its rough but convenient trunk to talk 
 and overlook their flower treasures. 
 
 " It is a shame," said Veronica, as she gazed upon her 
 group of beauties. — " I have said many times I would 
 never gather this again, and yet I have broken my 
 word to-day. — My poor veronica ! why will you always 
 
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY. 363 
 
 fade so?" — and as she spoke she drew out a withered 
 branch of her namesake, the lovely germander speed- 
 well, whose delicate blue flowers had dropped away in 
 dying. " You are only good for the open meadow or 
 bank, and no water now will revive you ! — Clara, it is 
 like what / should soon have been in the town, a poor 
 withered good-for-nothing. — How much, how very 
 much, I owe to you and John ! "Where should I have 
 been now but for you? Working in that gloomy room 
 at black lace. — How happy I ought to be ! how very 
 happy I am! And yet," here she paused, her eye rest- 
 ing on the tree-shadowed stream at her feet, " I some- 
 times feel I have no right to my happiness while I do 
 nothing for Letitia. How could I save her, Clara? 
 What can I do for poor Letitia? I am so useless — not 
 able yet to earn my own living; if it were not for your 
 goodness I should perhaps have no bread to eat, so it 
 seems absurd to talk of it; and yet to get her away 
 from that horrid life is the one great wish of my heart? 
 I would do anything to save her !" 
 
 " John has thought of it," replied Clara, "though I 
 am telling you a secret. He has taken her away from 
 that house." 
 
 Veronica clasped Clara's hand. 
 
 — "A month ago," continued Clara, " though he did 
 not mean to tell you just yet; and — she is now abroad." 
 
 "Abroad?" 
 
 " With old friends of ours in Germany, a benevolent 
 old doctor and his wife, who are devoting their lives 
 to the reformation of people like her. John meant to 
 tell you in a day or two, for he has had a letter from 
 the Hermanns, that is their name, — and I am a very 
 
364 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 naughty sister indeed to have spoiled the surprise he 
 intended for you. I begin to feel quite repentant 
 already \" Happy tears were in Veronica's eyes, and it 
 might be that on this account she did not see at first 
 the approach of a man, who, with downcast head, as 
 immersed in thought, was nearing them. He, however, 
 lifted his head before he quite approached, and seeing 
 her, stood still. 
 
 It was the dark stranger, whom some years ago 
 Stephen Morris met at the ferry, but looking much 
 older and thinner; and where once dark hair lay about 
 his temples, were now locks of iron gray. His eyes 
 were sunk, and his whole aspect dejected. 
 
 When Veronica saw him he was leaning half-hidden 
 by the trunk of an elm, but with his eyes fixed steadily 
 and sorrowfully upon h er. She changed colour suddenly, 
 and with difficulty suppressed a scream. Gathering 
 her flowers from the tree beside her, with trembling 
 hands, she said to Clara in a scarcely audible voice, 
 "Let us go, Clara, at once! The man of my dreams is 
 there!" 
 
 Clara turned round amazed, but the tree hid the 
 stranger from her sight, and she hesitated, "What is 
 the matter, dear? what man?" 
 
 Pulling her by the sleeve, Veronica whispered hur- 
 riedly, "He is there, by that elm ! — Come away ! — Don't 
 you see him?" 
 
 Clara obeyed, and with her change of position gained 
 a sight of the dark stranger. But he had by this time 
 left the side of the elm, and was advancing towards 
 them. He was so near that it was of no use to attempt 
 to flee. They must face him now. 
 
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY. 863 
 
 Veronica clung to her friend, but Clara stood up 
 erect and fearless, with that calm sweet dignity that 
 became her so well, and as her eyes met those of the in- 
 truder, his fell with a look of abasement and humiliation. 
 
 "Forgive me!" he murmured. "I am not here to 
 alarm. — I have no wish to annoy. — I have but come to 
 ask forgiveness of one I have wronged, and to whom I 
 wish to speak a few words of explanation. You will 
 surely allow me to do this? Then I will go away and 
 never trouble you again." 
 
 "Speak," said Clara's clear ringing voice. "What do 
 you wish to say?" 
 
 "It is to your friend I wish to speak. I have no right 
 indeed to claim a hearing from her. I saved her life, 
 perhaps, from the snow-storm, but I conducted her to 
 that which she would, no doubt, rather have died than 
 met. And though she was saved not entirely against 
 my will, I cannot rest till I have told her how much I 
 have suffered for, how bitterly I repent, the alarm and 
 anguish I caused her!" 
 
 He paused, and seemed to await Veronica's reply, but 
 she was unable to speak. She still trembled so much 
 that the words died soundless upon her tongue. 
 
 "Call me the vilest names you will," continued he, 
 "they will not be too vile for me! My life has been a 
 series of crimes, one vast crime, I ought to call it. — From 
 boyhood I have been a profligate and a companion of 
 the wicked. I ought not to expect you to forgive such 
 as I am, I am not worthy to approach you, and no 
 doubt you think I ask too much. I acknowledge 
 it. — And yet, remember, even an angel can pity and 
 forgive !" 
 
3G6 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "I do pity and forgive you," murmured Veronica. 
 But her eyes were still unable to look upon him. 
 
 " It is enough !" he said. "Thanks for your pity also! 
 And now I must go my way amongst my fellows;" he 
 uttered these last words bitterly, "and from them I have 
 no favour to ask; wolves and sharks can only bite and 
 rend!" 
 
 "But," said Clara, impelled to speak to this forlorn 
 soul by some supreme sentiment of compassion. tt Why 
 return to the company of the wicked? You were born 
 for higher things, higher society. You have better 
 desires, why not follow them ?" 
 
 He listened to the music of her voice attentively, as 
 to words from a higher sphere; but he shook his head. 
 
 "No, madam; the die was cast many years ago! Had 
 I power to begin a new life, your presence and encour- 
 aging words would be sufficient to induce me to try it, 
 but it is too late ! I must go again to my captivity, the 
 life I have chosen. And yet, I have seen lately its 
 odiousness, — the depth to which I have fallen has been 
 revealed to me. — I once had a mother;''' here his voice 
 trembled a little. " But this is weakness! I have been 
 ill, and, as I thought, near death; and at that solemn 
 time my whole life has passed before me. It is that 
 illness which has caused the change in me, for I feel I 
 am not as I was. Formerly I existed for the sake of 
 revenue on those whom I thought had wronged me; I 
 worried, because I had been preyed upon myself, and I 
 thought I had a right to do so. But now I see that it 
 is myself alone who has been to blame. I live for 
 remorse and punishment, that is all that is left to me 
 now. — I must drink the dregs of the cup I have mixed 
 
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY. 367 
 
 for myself. — It is bitter enough, but bitters, they say, 
 are wholesome!" 
 
 "At least let my brother speak to you," pleaded 
 Clara. "He is good and noble, and would, I am sure, 
 help you." 
 
 " I want no help from man ! I say again, it is too 
 late!" 
 
 "There is help in God ! Go to him, and sin no more !" 
 
 He made no reply, but lingered a moment, regarding 
 her with a strange despairing expression, bowed, and 
 withdrew. They heard his feet crack the dry twigs 
 that a late wind-storm had brought down, and then 
 gradually the sound of his footsteps ceased. A minute 
 afterwards they were standing once more by themselves. 
 
 Veronica raised her head. " I am Mad he has been," 
 she said with a sigh of relief, "though I was so terribly 
 frightened. Clara, do you think we shall ever meet 
 him again?" 
 
 "I think not," answered Clara thoughtfully; "he said 
 not, if you remember." 
 
 " That is right. I hope he will never come near me 
 any more. I could never walk up this Grove again with 
 an}' comfort if I thought he would meet me here again. 
 He brings back all that fearful time to my memory; 
 and yet how sad he seems ! I feel half- wicked that I 
 cannot pity him more than I do." 
 
 Thoughtfully they returned home. As they reached 
 the village, however, happy little faces, that peeped 
 from window and doorway, and smiled upon the flower- 
 bearers, lightened up theirs with answering smiles. 
 "To-morrow, to-morrow!" shouted the children, and 
 clapped their hands, anticipative of delight. And "to- 
 
368 BY THE TEENT. 
 
 morrow, to-morrow!" remembered the two friends, and 
 hastened home to prepare. They threw off hats and 
 shawls in haste, for there were wreaths to make of 
 forget-me-nots and grasses, of bryony and convolvuli, 
 bouquets of roses, and other flowers, both from the 
 garden and the field — garlands for the little ones, and 
 garlands for the pictures also — Veronica's quick fingers 
 weaving, and Clara's placing and arranging. 
 
 They were busy in this way when John arrived from 
 the town, laden with picture-books, puzzles, boxes of 
 toys, and a magic lantern. "Some oats for the pack- 
 horse, ladies!" he said laughingly, as he laid upon the 
 kitchen- table his load. " He's fearfully hungry, for he 
 has been working very hard." 
 
 " He shall have oats and hay both if he will come 
 here," replied Clara from within the parlour, and as he 
 entered obediently, she met him at the door, and threw 
 over the masses of his brown hair a garland of her 
 choicest wild flowers. " Now you are ready for the 
 feast! Sit down; tea shall be here in one minute." 
 
 The table was spread out, everything was ready but 
 the tea-pot, and John seated himself at once before a 
 pile of bread and butter, bidding Veronica do the same. 
 He was still adorned with the garland. 
 
 " You are a magnificent pack-horse," exclaimed 
 Veronica admiringly when they were half through the 
 meal, and when the "noble rage of hunger" was some- 
 what appeased. 
 
 "Indeed I am! I don't know what you would do 
 without me. Three weary miles I travelled with those 
 gimcracks in the heat and dust, and if I hadn't remem- 
 bered the oats at the end of my journey, should perhaps 
 
the children's party. 369 
 
 have fainted. I hope to-morrow you will teach your 
 little ones to sing my praises. But, — however, — I must 
 not take more than is my clue; I had better tell you the 
 whole truth. I met Plowden's cart, with Mary and 
 Ebenezer, and they gave me a lift. Ebenezer was 
 sin<iin£ his song of ' Old Grumbo/ with his nose in the 
 air, quite unaware of my presence, but Mary's eyes were 
 brighter. She seized the reins and stopped the horse, 
 to take in me and my load." 
 
 "Good creature!" exclaimed Clara. 
 
 " Very good ! I thought so I can assure you. There 
 are not many like Mary. I learned a little secret too, but 
 as they say ladies cannot keep secrets, I had better not 
 tell it you at present, I think. If, however, you think 
 you are good secret-keepers, I will confide it to you/' — 
 
 Clara and Veronica looked at each other with a 
 peculiar smile: Clara perhaps let her guilt appear in her 
 face. John noticed the glance. "You don t say Yes, 
 and therefore," with comic gravity, "I will not tell it 
 you to-night. It shall be what the boys call 'a jolly 
 cracker' to startle you to-morrow/' 
 
 After tea, Mary Plowden came in, with perhaps a 
 tinsre of colour more than usual in her cheeks. 
 
 " I am come to see if I can help you/' she said to 
 Clara, "I understood how busy you were likely to be, 
 and you know how clever I am at flowers. But/' — in 
 a tone of disappointment, "I am too late, I see! You 
 will not need me this year." 
 
 "Thank you," said Clara, "but Veronica has been so 
 industrious and clever that we have nearly done all 
 that is wanted in this room. What do you think of 
 John's garland?" 
 
870 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 "It is splendid, it is magnificent! May I take a 
 sketch, just a little one? you look so well, Mr. Broad- 
 bent!" 
 
 " That is not fair of you, Mary! You are trying to 
 wheedle me into compliance, — but as a man I am not 
 to be wheedled! To support my dignity it is necessary 
 I should say 'No.'" 
 
 As however he did not remove the garland but sat 
 still, looking at her with very laughing eyes, Mary's 
 ever-present sketch-book came from her pocket, and 
 she began to work at once with the utmost self- 
 possession. 
 
 Meantime Clara retreated into the kitchen to superin- 
 tend the unpacking of various baskets of fruit, cherries, 
 and strawberries, and sweet June-eating apples, and to 
 place them upon plates and dishes, while Veronica 
 hovered near, and assisted as far as was possible, carry- 
 ing them afterwards into the cool pantry, where they 
 were to remain over night in company with cakes and 
 confectionary of various kinds, of Claras making. 
 Long after the children who were to enjoy the feast 
 were in bed and asleep, dreaming perhaps of the happy 
 "to-morrow," these preparations and others were going- 
 forward. 
 
 Ebenezer Plowden had lent one of his fields, just 
 cleared of the hay, for the children's games; but after 
 tea all were to be gathered in the well-known cottage 
 school-room to see the wonderful entertainment that 
 had been provided there for them. 
 
 We will not describe this children's party, because 
 we have another and more important one to speak of 
 presently, and we might weary our readers with so 
 
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY. 371 
 
 much dissipation. Strawberries and cream even, will 
 pall upon the taste if too often repeated. Also, two 
 parties occurring so near together are quite too much 
 for our humble pen to describe. It will be sufficient to 
 say, that no lambs in a sunny May-meadow skipped 
 and played and exercised their limbs better, or to 
 greater hearts-content, than did the little ones of 
 Clara's school, on this holiday ; and no lambs cropped 
 the grass or nibbled the hedge to more purpose than did 
 these innocents, the cakes and fruits, the tea and bread 
 and butter, that were so liberally put in the afternoon's 
 pasture for them, disappeared swiftly. The magic lantern 
 charmed all eyes, and its "Tom Toddy's" and grotesquery 
 lived long, in the little boys' memories especially, while 
 the magician who showed it was an universally plea- 
 sant personage; the toys were accepted with shouts 
 of delight, they were the crowning pleasure of the 
 evening, and as the little voices joined in a circle of 
 song at the close, the piano ought to have felt, if it did 
 not, that it had never accompanied happier trillings 
 from young throats. 
 
 The news that was to resemble a "cracker" for its 
 startling power, and that John announced with due 
 emphasis to Clara and Veronica, was not told till all 
 the little ones were gone away, and the three were 
 left sitting together in the parlour, wearied but well 
 content. We who can travel about whither we will, 
 need not wait for his communication, but may see and 
 hear for ourselves, and at once be transported to an 
 orchard near the house of Ebenezer Plowden, the 
 basket-weaver. It is an old orchard, with mossy- 
 rooted, crooked-trunked apple-trees, but the old trees 
 
372 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 have not yet lost the knack of bearing good fruit, and 
 Ebenezer will not have them cut down to make way 
 for younger growths, as James Miller has advised. He 
 has pleasant remembrances about all the trees. One 
 grandmotherly "ribston" used to solace his boyish 
 appetite, how many years ago, he is almost afraid to 
 think, with its delicious crimson russets, the very 
 queens and moss-roses of apples; and under another, 
 he once sat a whole summers afternoon, when Sarah 
 Hawthorn had rejected him — sat in dudgeon dire, and 
 with not the most amiable feeling towards the thorn 
 he had touched only to prick himself. Now he laughs 
 as he shows the very spot where his jacket rubbed the 
 trunk of the old tree — old now, young and vigorous 
 then — till his back was screen from the moss, and his 
 
 CD ' 
 
 mother suspecting, perhaps, his ailment, dusted it off 
 with a joke, a very bad one he thought it at the time, 
 about his " greenness." 
 
 He has more memories, in fact, than we have time 
 to record. Evening is closing in, though there are long 
 
 o 0*0 o 
 
 days now, and St. John's day has not long slipped by, 
 and even our eyes will not be able to see presently two 
 figures walking in this old apple-garden if we do not 
 make haste — a man and a woman, walking and convers- 
 ing as once in very old times two walked and talked 
 and admired in the garden of Eden. They look per- 
 haps quite as affectionate as these last, though not so 
 noble or beautiful, and though both just now are near 
 a dangerous tree, an apple bowing down with its early 
 fruit, and thus the resemblance is more complete, it is 
 not Eve but Adam, who plucks the fruit and hands it 
 to his companion. For Adam is the taller, and can 
 
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY. 373 
 
 more readily grasp the tempting apple. He is speaking, 
 and we will listen. 
 
 " That is the finest ' June-eating ' in the neiffhbour- 
 hood, Mary! I shall get your father to let me have 
 some grafts next year." 
 
 "What trees will you graft?" asks Mary. "I 
 thought all yours were in full bearing." 
 
 " Yes, but I must have constantly young trees ready 
 to sell. You shall read some gardening books that I 
 have, that you may learn all about it, for you will have 
 to be very clever in that way ! By next spring your 
 education must be finished/'' Mary does not reply, so 
 his arm winds round her waist, and he leads her on 
 under the trees, over the soft green grass. — "In March, 
 what do you think of March — ?" 
 
 We can hear no more, for they are now the distance 
 of at least six trees from us, but two things we notice 
 before they are out of sight. One, that March must 
 be a very delightful month in Mary's eyes, if we may 
 judge by the expression now in her face, — very different 
 to the blustering, bellowing wintry month we often 
 find it, neither winter or spring, but with some of the 
 least amiable features of both in it; and the other, 
 that the Adam who has just given an apple to his Eve, 
 and talks so wisely about her horticultural education, 
 looks exceedingly like our old acquaintance, James 
 Miller. 
 
374 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE. 
 
 The next morning John and Clara and Veronica were 
 seated at breakfast, when by post came a letter for 
 Veronica, to her great surprise, and almost dismay, as 
 she knew of no correspondents. Opening it with some 
 trepidation, and no little curiosity, she read — 
 
 " Aldborough, June 30, 18 — . 
 "Dear Madam, — I am instructed by Mrs. Lee, of 
 Brunswick House, to request your attendance upon her. 
 She has business of importance to communicate, and as 
 she is at this present time extremely ill, she will be 
 glad if you will make arrangements to visit Aldborough 
 the same morning you receive this. Mrs. Lee will send 
 her carriage for your use. — I am, Madam, yours respect- 
 fully, Richard Gale." 
 
 "How strange, how very strange!" exclaimed Ver- 
 onica, as she passed the letter to John for his perusal. 
 
 "Strange, indeed!" he replied, after reading it twice 
 over. " But I suppose you will be obliged to go." 
 
 " Shall I? I wish though Mrs. Lee had not sent." 
 
 "You shall not go alone. Clara or myself will ac- 
 company you; do not fear. But it seems of importance 
 you should go. — Richard Gale? — Richard Gale? who 
 can he be? Is he a solicitor? There is one of that 
 name, I think, in the town." 
 
 " Most probably," said Clara; " but we shall perhaps 
 hear when the carriage comes." 
 
FROM ST. WILFRIDS TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE. 37") 
 
 In the course of an hour a close carriage and pair 
 drove up to the cottage, and out of it came a short, 
 middle-aged gentleman, who asked for Miss Lee, and 
 was shown at once into the parlour. 
 
 " Miss Lee, I presume?"' and he bowed elaborately to 
 Clara; but Veronica came forward and announced her- 
 self as Miss Lee. 
 
 " My name is Gale," he continued, introducing him- 
 self, " of the firm of John and Richard Gale, solicitors, 
 King Street, Trentham. You may possibly have heard 
 the name. I am come this morning, by the express 
 desire of Mrs. Lee, of Brunswick House, Aldborough — 
 a lady 3^011 are acquainted with — and I may say, a 
 relative of yours, and who I regret to say is in a dying- 
 condition, to ask you to accompany me to her house. 
 You have received a letter, I believe, informing you of 
 this." 
 
 " I have," replied Veronica. " But first let me in- 
 troduce my friends to you — Miss and Mr. Broadbent." 
 
 "Most happy to make your acquaintance, madam! 
 Glad to see you, Mr. Broadbent!" and the little lawyer 
 bowed with some grimace. 
 
 "Miss Lee is for the present under my guardianship," 
 said John; "and of course I shall not object to her 
 visiting Aldborough, as the business is of the import- 
 ance you say, but you must allow me also to accompany 
 her. The last time she was at Brunswick House she 
 was not well treated by Mrs. Lee, and, moreover, nearly 
 lost her life on her return, alone." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it — very sorry to hear it," re- 
 plied Mr. Gale; "but, let me assure you, Mrs. Lee is 
 much altered — the young lady need fear no abuse now. 
 
376 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Of course, far from having any objection, I shall only 
 be too happy to bear you company on the journey also." 
 
 In a short time all were ready to depart, and with 
 loving adieus to Clara, Veronica and John started in 
 company with Mr. Gale. It was summer, and the 
 weather was warm, and even close, and Veronica soon 
 persuaded Mr. Gale to have the carriage-top let down 
 for air. Memory was busy; and she looked out at the 
 highroad, and noticed how beautiful all things appeared 
 on this midsummer morning, how the birds fluttered 
 and hovered joyfully over fields rich with grass and 
 clover, and with corn in the ear, and how the hedgerows 
 were filled with leaf and bud and flower, of thousand 
 hues and shapes, and she drew the comparison between 
 this pleasant morning's journey and the one she had six 
 months ago — only six months ago — taken, when toiling 
 friendless and desolate over the snow, all things around 
 her had appeared so bleak and barren and inhospitable. 
 With eyes wet with thankful tears, and with awe- 
 stricken face, she looked across the uninclosed forest-land 
 through which the road wound, teeming now with life 
 and beauty, a lovely wild of heather and broom and 
 gorse, on whose million flowers the sun looked down 
 with brilliant effect — for every tree had been shorn away 
 years ago from its wide expanse — and pointed out to 
 John the spot she imagined must be the one where she 
 had lain doAvn so despairingly to die. 
 
 "You do not mean to say, my dear young lady/' 
 interrupted Mr. Gale, who had heard the conversation 
 between the friends on this subject with undisguised 
 astonishment, " that you lay there, on that piece of 
 road, lost and dying, last winter!" 
 
FROM ST. WILFRIDS TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE. 377 
 
 " I do, indeed !" replied Veronica; " and if it had not 
 been for a stranger who was passing in his gig I must 
 have died." 
 
 He looked wonderingly at her blooming countenance, 
 so lovely with health and beauty, and at the golden 
 ripples of her hair, falling from beneath her bonnet 
 upon her rounded shoulders, and muttered, " Impos- 
 sible !" But she shook her head at him, and said it had 
 been too possible, as she had experienced to her sorrow. 
 
 "But God preserved me," she added reverently; 
 "and here I am!" 
 
 It was a great contrast, certainly, that despairing 
 forlorn time, and this, with its harvest of content and 
 happiness. It is true, she was on her way to see one 
 who was ill, perhaps dying, but no slightest tie of affec- 
 tion united them, and though there might be pity, there 
 could be no grief. 
 
 "And Mrs. Lee?" she asked at length of Mr. Gale, 
 remembering the cause of this sudden journey. 
 
 " She is much altered, as I said," replied he. " You 
 will scarcely know her; she is not the same woman, 
 either outwardly or inwardly. There is a most amaz- 
 ing change, to be sure." He paused a moment, and 
 then he added, "I have heard lately, quite lately, the 
 particulars of your last visit to her." 
 
 " My last and first," interrupted Veronica. 
 
 " Last and first, of course. — And I find from her ac- 
 count that you have never been absent from her mind 
 since. You made a strange impression on her. Though 
 if you were half as beautiful then as now, my dear 
 young lady, I can quite understand it," he said, with a 
 little bow, while Veronica coloured under the ill-timed 
 
378 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 compliment, to her vexation. — "But it seems she re- 
 membered you with uneasiness and dread. Or was it 
 her conduct to you on that visit that gave her concern? 
 for 1 understand she was haughty enough, to say the 
 least of it. — Ah, well! I can scarcely tell. — She is a 
 proud woman, odd and reserved too, at times, though 
 none can be more agreeable when she chooses. You 
 brought her a letter from your father, and her husband, 
 I think?" 
 
 " Was Mrs. Lee my father's wife ? How could that 
 be?" inquired the amazed girl. 
 
 "Yes, certainly; did you not know it? She was 
 your father's lawful wife. Your father married her at 
 Stukely, December 22, 1802, and he also married your 
 mother, at St. Mary's, Trentham, in April, 1812, or 
 thereabouts. I have the dates all perfect among my 
 papers." 
 
 Veronica was silent, not from stupor, however, but 
 from abundance of painful thoughts. 
 
 " That letter, I need scarcely tell you, was a great 
 shock to her; you cannot wonder it should be ! Her 
 first intention was to burn it, but she thought better of 
 that. She sent for me, showed it me, and asked my 
 opinion of it. Of course I sent immediately to ascertain 
 how far the facts it stated were true or false. I found 
 your father was really dead, and that }^ou, Veronica Lee, 
 were the offspring of a marriage he had contracted with 
 one Jessy Hammond." 
 
 "An unlawful marriage then?" 
 
 " Yes, I grieve to say it, it tvas illegal. But facts 
 are facts ! The law does not recognize a second marriage 
 when the first wife or husband is still living. " 
 
from st. wilfpjd's to Brunswick house. 379 
 
 "And my father knew that ?" She asked the question 
 with a pain-drawn, half-suppressed breath. 
 
 "Your father, Miss Veronica, was a well-educated 
 man. He must have known it, as well as I did. There 
 were also two other children, a boy and a girl? — Your 
 brother Isaac's death I found recorded, not your sister's. 
 Where is she? She is living, I presume?" 
 
 "Yes, she is living, and she is — " And Veronica 
 hesitated. 
 
 " Abroad," answered John, in a firm, assuring voice. 
 
 "Letitia, yes, I think her name was Letitia. Abroad, 
 you say? Well, it is not with her I have to deal, 
 fortunately." He said the last word thoughtfully, 
 Veronica imagined emphatically, and she shrunk within 
 herself with shame and abasement, as she wondered 
 how much he knew of Letitia's history. 
 
 " Ah, if he should know all?" And the colour mounted 
 over face and brow, and to the tips of her fingers. 
 
 But he did not seem to notice her, and continued 
 with business nonchalance, as if what he was saying 
 was of the most commonplace import. "There were 
 no more, I think?" 
 
 " None," answered Veronica in a low voice. 
 
 "Well, these things I made out, and acquainted 
 Mrs. Lee, to order. For some days she raved and raged 
 about the house, very much, I am bound to say, like a 
 caged lioness. She was so outrageous at last, and forgot 
 herself so much, that I was forced to quarrel with her 
 in self-defence. Then she came to. And presently I 
 found to my astonishment that the cause of all this 
 uproar, or at least the greater part of it was, that in 
 spite of herself she had a soft corner in her heart for 
 
380 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 you; aye, and even for your father, now that he was 
 really gone. I don't believe in magic, that you may be 
 sure, but if I did, I should be thinking that that piece 
 of paper you left with her, just six months ago, had 
 been magically prepared, and had wrought all this other- 
 wise unaccountable change. She has no children of her 
 own, no near relatives that she will own; there is one, 
 it is true, but he has been long disowned, very much as 
 your father was, and it has been a great question 
 with her how she was to dispose of her property, for 
 the greater part of it is at her own disposal absolutely. 
 The knowledge of your existence has brought about a 
 revolution in this respect. I may venture to tell you 
 so far. But do not anticipate too much. 'There's 
 many a slip' — you know the proverb? and to my mind 
 there's no proverb truer. And though she has sent me 
 on purpose to acquaint you with all this, she may 
 recover, and revoke what she has done. I don't think 
 she will ! She seems to be dying, I must confess." 
 
 And in this way the little law} r er talked on, varying 
 his sentences with an occasional pinch of snuff, while 
 John and Veronica listened in silence. 
 
 They reached Brunswick House early: twelve miles 
 are soon accomplished by the aid of two good horses on 
 a good road, when there is not too heavy a burden, 
 which there was not in this instance. 
 
 The old place looked pleasant, with its leafy, broad- 
 stretching elm-avenue and its wide sloping lawn, and the 
 sunshine picked out clearly every cut of the chisel upon 
 the stone work of the front, and threw a shadow, well 
 defined, as a lady's train, over the laurels and rhododen- 
 drons at the side. A couple of peacocks strutted with 
 
from st. Wilfrid's to brijnswick house. 3Si 
 
 sweeping feathers on the gravel, and surveyed the new 
 comers with stately indifference; and the lake in the 
 front distance shone brilliant as a metal disc, between 
 the yews that guarded, but did not shade. 
 
 As the carriage drove up to the front, the great hall- 
 door swung open, and a footman made his appearance 
 to usher in the expected visitors. Gardner the parlour- 
 maid, stood obsequious at the foot of the stairs, and 
 curtsied low to Veronica, as she asked, "Would you 
 please to come up at once, ma'am? Mrs. Lee is asking 
 for you every minute." Mr. Gale and John Broadbent 
 remained below in the dining-room. 
 
 Veronica ascended the softly carpeted stairs with a 
 beating heart, and had not recovered herself when she 
 entered the sick-room. A voice came from the gloom of 
 the apartment, the blinds were drawn down, and thick 
 curtains obscured the light of day, as the door opened 
 to admit her. 
 
 ''Where is she ? Is she come ?" — A voice that sounded 
 almost as from the grave, so hollow and dim and strange 
 it was. 
 
 "She is here, ma'am," said the nurse in a very audible 
 Whisper. 
 
 "Here? Where? I don't see her!" And the sick 
 woman raised her head feebly, and turned her eyes 
 towards the door, seeking for the longed-for face. 
 Veronica advanced, and stood beside the bed silently. 
 Looking down, she saw that Mr. Gale had spoken 
 the truth. Mrs. Lee was certainly much altered, 
 her face lessened, her eyes sunk, her nose pinched, 
 and a sickly yellow hue spread over her whole 
 countenance. She looked sharply and searchingly at 
 
382 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Veronica. "Take off your bonnet/' she uttered in her 
 low hollow voice; and then turning to the nurse, 
 " Graves, draw up that blind." Veronica took off her 
 bonnet obediently, and the sunlight, now admitted 
 through the window, fell upon her hair, and lit up her 
 sweet face and glistened in her large blue e} T es. The 
 dying woman gazed long without a word. At length 
 she muttered, "His eyes! and yet they say he was 
 blind. Didn't they say he was blind, Graves?" she 
 asked querulously. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, sure!" And then Graves whispered to 
 Veronica, " Speak to her, miss." 
 
 "What can I do for you?" asked Veronica gently. 
 
 " You? do for me, indeed!" replied Mrs. Lee, sharply, 
 some of the old fierceness returning to her eyes. 
 
 " I mean," — and Veronica hesitated. What was she 
 to say? How talk to this strange dying relative of hers? 
 "Do you know me, ma'am? Do you really want me?" 
 
 "Yes, I want you. Your name's Veronica Ham- 
 mond, isn't it? though I daresay you call yourself 
 Veronica Lee. Well, you're his daughter certainly, 
 though I little thought to live to see the day. But what 
 was I going to say? Oh, Graves, Graves!" 
 
 And the sick woman clutched the nurse's arm, while 
 her face became convulsed and pule as death, and her 
 head sunk back. 
 
 Veronica was much alarmed, thinking she was dying; 
 but the nurse reached out a restorative and gave it her, 
 saying coolly, "She's only in a faint. She's often these 
 fits. Don't be frighted, miss." 
 
 In a few minutes she revived. But she was some 
 time before she remembered who was with her, and 
 
from st. Wilfrid's to Brunswick house. 383 
 
 what she had wished to say. When she did, Veronica was 
 still standing near her, her head bowed down, while pity 
 and concern at her sufferings were expressed visibly in 
 her eyes. In a softer accent Mrs. Lee now murmured, 
 "Sit down, sit down, Veronica! I want to speak to you 
 before I go. There" — and she gasped for breath as she 
 spoke on. "I've no relations but you. — I want to let you 
 know that I thought of you; didn't despise you after 
 all. I'm going to my account, and don't w T ant that sin 
 on my conscience. Take hold of my hand, child ! There, 
 — you're like your father about the eyes. He was a 
 wicked man to me, though I loved him once. — I really 
 did, and of course he didn't believe it. — Well, all I have 
 is yours. When I'm gone you'll find it so. — Gale has the 
 will, and knows it. Your father spent his money on 
 drink and gambling. I spent it on pride and vanity — 
 vanity all ! Do you spend it better. Do some good 
 with it. And God bless you !" Her voice became weaker 
 as she proceeded, and the pauses for breath more fre- 
 quent. — She glanced round the room anxiously. Soon 
 a spasm seized her, and her mouth became convulsed. 
 "Send for Gale!" she gasped, "send for Med — ." She 
 could not finish the word; she meant Medhurst, the 
 doctor, who had visited her that morning, and thinking 
 her no worse than usual, had gone to other patients. 
 He was sent for immediately, but when he arrived his 
 presence was needless — she was dead. 
 
 Mr. Gale was with her a few moments, but she had 
 not strength to speak to him. She pointed to Veronica, 
 as if to call his attention to her, then she closed her 
 eyes on all earthly things. 
 
 And thus her death at last was sudden, for though 
 
384 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 supposed to be on her death-bed, the end was not thought 
 quite so near. 
 
 Veronica remained in the house, the virtual mistress 
 of it, and John Broadbent returned to St. Wilfrid's, to 
 bring back with him the next day Clara, as companion 
 and support for the new-made heiress. 
 
 With all due pomp Mrs. Lee was buried at Aldborough, 
 according to her wish, and Miss Lee (Hammond, in law) 
 remained in Brunswick House for awhile, till Mr. Gale 
 should settle all legal matters. She was not of age, and 
 he was therefore left in trust for her till that time, but 
 the house and a settled income were entirely at her own 
 disposal at once. Afterwards, — but perhaps we shall tell 
 best of what was proposed for afterwards, by recording 
 a conversation that took place one evening in the lofty, 
 well-arranged drawing-room, with its great pictures of 
 Mrs. Lee's relatives, the old members of the Symington 
 family, surrounding them. 
 
 " Yes, it is a fine old house," responded Veronica, to 
 something Clara had been saying — Clara who sat witli her 
 delicate fancy knitting as calmly here as in the St. Wil- 
 frid's cottage. "But it is not so cheerful here as by the 
 river, and I miss my little scholars so much! Those 
 gloomy yews on the lawn oppress me, and these great 
 high rooms are half ghostly of evenings, with the old 
 occupants still hovering about them, as I verily believe/' 
 
 "That will never do, Veronica," remarked John, as 
 he lifted his eyes from a curious antique manuscript lie 
 had discovered in the library, a Latin diary of an old 
 monk of the twelfth century. "You must not have 
 such fanciful notions, or how will you be able to live 
 here when we are gone?" 
 
"And you are really going? Yes; I knew you would 
 be saying so ! I dreamt it the other night. But why 
 should you go?" 
 
 John smiled. "Do you forget my Trentham engage- 
 ments — my schools, my lecture-nights, my drunkards' 
 home? and Clara too has her duties. Then, too, we 
 have to prepare for the fete of the Labourers' Institute. 
 We must be back to our cottage before many days are 
 gone/' 
 
 " The carriage could take you every day to Trentham 
 and back, and Clara the same, only not quite so often. 
 I could not spare Clara ! I know I must not keep you 
 from your duties, but do oblige me, dear, dear friends, 
 and come to live with me, share home and purse and all 
 I have, for it is owing to you I have it at all, at least so 
 it seems to me. Be still my guides, my best loving 
 friends !" 
 
 "Your loving friends we shall ever be/' responded 
 Clara, "but we cannot live with you entirely. Our 
 home is at St. Wilfrid's/' 
 
 " And why cannot you live with me? Did you not 
 share your house with me when I was poor and friend- 
 less? You are not just or generous; you will not allow 
 me to have the same pleasure with yourselves." 
 
 " Not so, dear. If we were poor and friendless you 
 should help us, but — " 
 
 "And then/' continued Veronica eagerly, "how am 
 I to dispose of all this wealth? You will not even stay 
 with me to help me to bestow it properly. I am under 
 promise to use it well, and it is a matter of great con- 
 cern with me how to get rid of it rightly. For I will 
 be a poor woman with you since you will not let me be 
 
 2 a 
 
386 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 a rich one ; and the bulk of the money I want your 
 advice about. I thought we should all have lived to- 
 gether, and together distributed it as we saw best. 
 But now since you won't join me, I must do it alone, 
 and how am I to do it well?" 
 
 "And what have been your thoughts, Veronica, about 
 its disposition?" asked John seriously. 
 
 "There are three things I wish to do especially. To 
 provide for women like poor Letitia— I mean, for those 
 who would leave that horrid life if they could. To give 
 work and proper instruction to young destitute girls, 
 so that they should not be so tempted to go wrong. 
 And to do something to put down the ale-houses." 
 
 "Three noble works, on which you might spend 
 twenty fortunes such as yours, and yet do very little 
 good." 
 
 " That is j ust it. I want advice, help, assistance — and 
 you are leaving me." 
 
 "No, we are not leaving you, Veronica. We are but 
 going back to the place and home God has given us, 
 and where he has sent us so much to do. Advice and 
 assistance you shall have, as far as we can give it. But 
 have you first well considered that you may possibly 
 repent in after years so disposing of your fortune? A 
 suitor may come whom you may love, and to whom 
 this money would be a great gift. You may get covet- 
 ous as you grow older. You may have ambitious 
 desires, and grieve that you have cut the rope that might 
 have pulled you to the top of the tree. You may — " 
 
 "Enough! You only make me more desirous to put 
 it out of my power to repent. To be the prize of a 
 fortune-hunter, to get old and covetous, to want outside 
 
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE. 387 
 
 pomp and splendour — these are all hateful things ! You 
 have taught me how much better things there are than 
 these. No, I will do good with this money if I can. — 
 Besides, have I not promised that I will? How can I 
 withdraw?" 
 
 No more opposition was given to her. John remem- 
 bered that there were four years of reflection before her, 
 during which she could not touch the principal; this lay 
 safe in the hands of Mr. Gale, as we said, for the pre- 
 sent. How the amount of her income in the meantime 
 was to be disposed of was the only question remaining. 
 
 "I shall leave this place, of course, and Mr. Gale may 
 let it for me, and if you will not give me back my own 
 little room at the cottage, I must take another, as near 
 you as possible. But it seems to me strange that you 
 should turn me out of your home now, as if I were 
 grown too big, or too wicked to get into it!" 
 
 "Not at all. Miss Lee, the owner of, let me see, how 
 much a year — a thousand or twelve hundred, which is 
 it? or perhaps more — can scarcely sleep under so humble 
 a roof as ours." 
 
 " Clara, give your brother the most severe chastise- 
 ment, you know how ! He is abominable ! Perfectly 
 hateful! But, however, I will soon be even with him, 
 when I have endowed a few alms-houses, and have but 
 a single hundred left, I will come upon you with a 
 vengeance." 
 
 John laughed. "Try us," he said. 
 
 "I will! Mark my words; and you know I have a 
 hot temper when provoked." 
 
 "As for instance, when you pulled that poor young 
 man's whiskers at the ale-house!" 
 
888 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " Yes, certainly. I advise you to take care of yours ! " 
 
 John moved his chair a yard further off, as if afraid 
 of her propinquity, and put his hand to his cheek 
 doubtingly. 
 
 "I really think, Clara, we should take care what we 
 do ! — We must make her take rooms, or, — I beg her 
 pardon, a mansion of her own." 
 
 "But in the meantime, the Reformatory," asked 
 Clara seriously, "and the drunkard's, or rather the 
 sober man's 'Rest,' what about them?" 
 
 " I have a plan drawn out for the last," said John, 
 "that I have had by me for some time, but have failed 
 to carry out for want of funds, though I have been 
 hoping when my next book comes out — however, 
 Veronica shall have the benefit of it if she likes." 
 
 "Thank you!" And Veronica's eyes glistened with 
 satisfaction, "I knew you were the right person to 
 apply to." 
 
 "The ground-plan of the scheme I can give you now; 
 the ground-plan of the houses you can see at St. Wil- 
 frid's." 
 
 " Let me hear, then, your scheme, if you please. For 
 though I cannot till I am of age build much, as you 
 know, 1 can lay out each year a thousand pounds or 
 so in this way, or in some better way, if there be a 
 better." 
 
 " Try one scheme first, Veronica. What do you say 
 to what Clara calls the 'Sober Man's Rest' to begin 
 with ? For when you provide sober temperate places of 
 entertainment for the poor, you cut at the root of many 
 terrible evils. One gin-palace or public-house less, and 
 one good, cheerful, cleanly, tempting 'Rest' more, and 
 
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE. 389 
 
 you sow good seed that shall bring a hundred-fold 
 harvest. Show that it is possible for such a thing to be, 
 as a public-house, or whatever other name you like to 
 give it, tuithout intoxicating drink, where poor men 
 shall go of their own free will, sure of a good fire, a 
 clean house, plenty of light, and music if they wish it, 
 books, newspapers, and good wholesome provisions; not 
 cold sloppy coffee, half dregs, with stale buns, on a dirty 
 plate, such as I saw the other day presented to a 
 traveller in a so-called temperance house, with miser- 
 able accommodation otherwise for him who can only 
 afford to lay out a few pence, — but with all the advan- 
 tages and cleanliness and cheerfulness of a good public- 
 house, and none of its drawbacks. Show that this is 
 possible, I say, and others of the same class will gradu- 
 ally spring up, and replace the abominations now to be 
 found in every street of a large town, where the publican 
 leagues with the worst of society to get more unholy 
 gains, and panders to all the bad passions of his victims 
 at once. Money spent in this way will bring more 
 than cent, per cent., for it will bring the blessings of 
 the widow and orphan, and of him that was ready to 
 perish, through the besetment of intemperance — the 
 blessings of the wife and the child, and of the parents 
 and relatives of young girls who are now enticed to sin 
 and brought to ruin by strong drink more than by any 
 other cause. — But to my plan." — 
 
 The announcement and entrance of Mr. Gale, how- 
 ever, interrupted for the present the bringing out of 
 tills plan. 
 
 " Happy to see you, ladies! Happy to see you, 
 Mr. Broadbent ! I have ventured to intrude upon you, 
 
390 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 as I have some rather important news to communicate 
 to Miss Lee." 
 
 Veronica bowed, and put herself in the attitude of 
 attention. He seated himself opposite to her, beside 
 John Broadbent. 
 
 " You may remember," he began, after a little pre- 
 liminary and rather fussy arrangement of his person, 
 " the first morning I had the pleasure of your acquaint- 
 ance, that I named to you there was one relative of 
 the late Mrs. Lee's left in the world — rather a near one, 
 did I not say? I think I did. Well, no matter! — But in 
 short, this relative was her brother, Mr. Hart Symington. 
 He is living still, and is, of course, much astonished to 
 find how matters are left here. Astonished is scarcely 
 the word — angry, I suppose, is nearer the mark. He has 
 been out of the way, but is now returned; and, finding 
 his sister dead, claims her property as heir-at-law, 
 wishing to make out that the will by which you claim 
 has been executed at a time when his sister was incap- 
 able — mentally, you understand — of seeing to her own 
 affairs, and is, therefore, null and void. Now, my dear 
 young lady, there is no need to be alarmed at all this — 
 none at all — we can make good our own; but what I 
 wish to say is this, that he is an unpleasant man to 
 deal with, and will put us to all the expense possible, 
 and all the worry also. His men of business, Grinders 
 and Grubb, have written me to-day, and I have come 
 on to acquaint you with the case. But be assured that 
 I shall do all that is necessary at once." And Mr. Gale 
 took a pinch of snuff, and looked remarkably com- 
 fortable. 
 
 Veronica's heart sank within her as she remembered 
 
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE. 391 
 
 her "girls' school" and the ''Sober Man's Rest," now, 
 perhaps, only to be dreams, never to be realized by her; 
 but she replied as quietly as she could, 
 
 " Of course, it must all be left with you, Mr. Gale." 
 
 " Yes, yes; and I think I may say we shall be his 
 match !" His eyes were remarkably bright, he seemed 
 unusually animated, and evidently enjoyed the prospect 
 of the legal battle impending. 
 
 No ardent lover of gymnastics, in the fulness of con- 
 scious vigour and strength, ever went to his bar and 
 pole with more zest than did the lawyer to a wrestle 
 at law with an opponent; and the natural shrinking or 
 fears of his client, on whom the fall, if such there should 
 be, might come with overwhelming and fatal effect, he 
 viewed with a kind of pitying contempt, which he took 
 care, however, to gild over by his professional smile, or 
 with a patronizing pat on the back, as in Veronica's 
 case. 
 
 Another thought had, however, come to Veronica. 
 
 "Perhaps," — she said hesitatingly, for she felt her 
 speech would not be palatable to her trustee, " Mr. Sy- 
 mington ought to have the property, and I have no 
 right:" 
 
 Mr. Gale looked amazed. " I do not understand you, 
 ma'am." 
 
 "I mean, — that perhaps really and truly it should be 
 his; that Mrs. Lee might not, as he says, have been 
 quite sensible; or that, if she had been well, she might 
 not have given it to me." 
 
 " If she had not left it you, she most certainly would 
 not have bequeathed it to Mr. Symington, that I may 
 say positively, that I know! But it is quite out of the 
 
392 VA THE TllENT. 
 
 question — it is yours as clear as noonday, nothing can 
 be clearer, and that Mrs. Lee was in her right senses, 
 I can vouch. Why, madam, do you suppose then I am 
 a rogue?" And a decided frown settled upon his brow. 
 
 "Oh no, indeed! You quite misunderstand me, 
 Mr. Gale ! I throw no reflection upon you, not the most 
 distant." 
 
 And she looked to John appealingly to help her out 
 of her difficulty. " We must leave it to Mr. Gale to settle 
 this affair, I think, Veronica. Till we know more 
 about it, it is impossible to see where the right lies.''' 
 He turned to Mr. Gale, "Is Mr. Symington a poor man?" 
 Mr. Gale shrugged his shoulders. " I suppose so ! I 
 expect so! He is a spendthrift, has had very large 
 estates, very near your residence they were, Mr. Broad- 
 bent. The house at Scarsville belonged to him, and the 
 land about for many miles, but he drank and gambled 
 it away; he is a bad one, and I may now make no 
 secret of it, Miss Veronica, was one who did your 
 father no good in his young days, for they were very 
 intimate at one time. — The estates were sold to a 
 stranger, and he went to the dogs. He was abroad for 
 many years. I believe he got a living at the card- 
 table, and made himself pretty notorious at Baden 
 Baden, and such like places, till he was forced to 
 come back. I have been told he has been hovering 
 about the old place of late, but chiefly at night, and in 
 a sort of disguise, though he need scarcely do that, he 
 is so altered, few would know him. And now he turns 
 up in this unpleasant manner. Ah, well, such is life ! 
 But," continued the lawyer, musingly, " the estates I 
 have seen change hands in my lifetime is something 
 
FROM ST. WILFIIID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE. 303 
 
 astonishing, chiefly, I may say, through bad practices, — 
 drinking and such like. I must say, Miss Veronica, I 
 miss my glass of wine when I come up to Brunswick 
 House now, habit's habit, you know ! and Mrs. Lee kept 
 a good cellar, but I would rather see families doing as 
 you are here, than as I've seen them in some places. 
 Young Symington, I call him so yet sometimes, for he 
 was young when I was, had every inducement given 
 him to contract the habit of drinking, when with his 
 father, a fox-hunter of the old school, who could drink 
 and swear — begging your pardon, ladies! — and hunt with 
 the best, I mean the worst; and the clergyman at Scars- 
 ville was a similar character, not quite so bad, you under- 
 stand, for he did not swear, but he was a great drinker; 
 port he drank, a bottle or two a day was only common 
 practice. And when a young fellow sits at such a table 
 as that every day, with the squire, or the baronet his 
 lather, and the clergyman his spiritual adviser, to set 
 him the example and back him, what can you expect? 
 Hart got into bad company speedily, he was ripe for 
 it — betting at the ring and the horse-race when half- 
 seas-over they told me before he was sixteen, and — you 
 know the sequel of such doings. I understand now he's 
 a ruin, a complete ruin, a black-leg and a vile character 
 indeed! And yet, my dear young lady, you would 
 make a present of all this money to such a man as that, 
 or let him come and take it quietly, which is just the 
 same thing!" He looked triumphantly at Veronica, 
 with the air of a man who knows he has established his 
 point. 
 
 " On the contrary," said Veronica, " I shall I fear be 
 only too glad to think that the money is rightfully mine." 
 
6\)± BY THE TRENT. 
 
 " The question of right is fairly settled, I think," 
 said John, " now we are sure Mrs. Lee was fully aware 
 of what she was doing, and that Mr. Symington has 
 no other claim upon the property." 
 
 Mr. Gale did not stay much longer, he had to drive 
 back to Trentham that night, and after partaking of 
 supper bid the inmates of Brunswick House farewell. 
 
 It was a brilliant moonlight night, and when the 
 lawyer was gone Clara suggested a walk. Veronica 
 agreed with alacrity. A moonlight walk was to her 
 a great enticement. John had again become absorbed 
 in the crabbed old Latin of his manuscript, and pro- 
 posed to join them on their return. 
 
 The two friends walked slowly across the broad 
 gravel walk, and so down by the row of yews to the 
 left, the moon lighting up their path till they trod 
 among half-hidden gems, the drops of dew hanging from 
 the grass bents, the night breeze softly touching their 
 cheeks the while as with delicatest brush of down. 
 
 " How cooling it is, how lovely!" whispered Veronica. 
 
 " Lovely indeed, dear! And what broad sharp sha- 
 dows those yews cast! Is it possible that }-ou really 
 dislike yews ? To me they have many pleasant sugges- 
 tions." 
 
 "I dislike them because they are heavy and gloomy 
 even in the brightest sunshine; a perpetual shadow is 
 about them, as if they knew of some mystery or crime 
 that made them unhappy. They are like faces I have 
 seen, that no amount of laughter can cheer. They put 
 me in mind of — can you not guess who ? The man with 
 the shadow, as John calls him." 
 
 " Yes, they have their resemblance to him certainly. 
 
FROM ST. WILFRIDS TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE. 395 
 
 But even he is not so bad as he seems. To you his heart 
 has melted." 
 
 " It is wonderful such a heart as his can melt! But 
 am I not ungrateful, Clara? He saved my life, I must 
 not forget that! It seems to me I never do him 
 justice." 
 
 " Perhaps," replied Clara thoughtfully, " if we really 
 knew more of those we disesteem, and view with dis- 
 like, we should see not a little to admire, and even 
 a something to love. I do not mean," and here she 
 smiled sorrowfully, "that your dark friend could be 
 loved as he is, but we know that he has human kindly 
 feelings. Even the wickedest and most abandoned have 
 
 o 
 
 some spark of good, could our eyes but discern it." 
 
 "Mr. Hart Symington for instance," added Veronica. 
 " Yes, I have no doubt there is good about him, though 
 Mr. Gale painted him in such dark repulsive colours. 
 Yews are dark and disagreeable, and poisonous to cattle, 
 but they bear berries for the birds to eat with pleasure, 
 and they give shade from the sun and rain; and so, no 
 doubt, Mr. Symington has his crop of annual berries, and 
 does some good in the world, we will hope, somewhere. 
 Have I not learned my lesson well?" And she turned 
 the merry light of her eyes — a light that could be dis- 
 cerned even by the moonbeams — towards Clara, and 
 was about to utter some smiling speech further, when 
 Clara put up her finger and said suddenly and mysteri- 
 ously, " Hush \" Veronica's heart seemed to stop beating 
 while she listened, but she could catch no sound. "What 
 is it?" she whispered. 
 
 "Did you not hear footsteps at our right? There! 
 Look beneath that yew — ah — he is gone !" And Clara's 
 
o9(3 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 eyes followed some invisible object, invisible to Veronica, 
 at least, who could discern nothing. 
 
 " I see nothing. What did you see?" 
 
 Clara stood a moment longer in the attitude of an 
 intent observer, then unbending, but with a disap- 
 pointed air, she said, "A man was here just now, quite 
 close to us — he stole out of the shadow of that yew, 
 and disappeared a little higher up the walk — who 
 could it be?" 
 
 " Perhaps your brother, to play us a trick." 
 
 " No, John never played me a trick of that kind in 
 his life ; besides, it was a less man than John." 
 
 " Who could it be then ? It is very mysterious." 
 
 " It seems so to me. And I think we had better go 
 in, and let John know." 
 
 They retraced their steps, but had not proceeded far, 
 before they were aware of footsteps near them. Vero- 
 nica also heard them distinctly this time. And now, a 
 little alarmed, they made greater haste, and were soon, 
 to their satisfaction, in sight of the house. As they 
 approached it they beheld John coming out to meet 
 them. '* Clara — Veronica, is that you? Why do you 
 run? what is the matter?" They explained to him the 
 cause of their fright. 
 
 "It is some follower of one of your servants, no 
 doubt," he said. 
 
 "How could that be? He would have avoided us, 
 but this man was evidently watching us, and listening 
 to us." 
 
 John mused. " It is certainly mysterious, as you 
 say, but there is no cause for fear. I will take a walk 
 round, and try to find it out." 
 
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE. 397 
 
 "You must take me with you if you go," said 
 Clara. 
 
 "And me also," added Veronica. 
 
 " If it must be so it must." And he gave an arm to 
 each. They walked by the yews, even to the lake, 
 and home again by the other side the lawn, but heard 
 and saw nothing of any other human being than 
 themselves. 
 
 " You will think we have been silly sheep," said 
 Veronica, as they entered the house, " frightened at 
 nothing!" 
 
 " No, I know Clara at least is no silly sheep ; and I 
 have full faith that she really saw what she said. Some 
 day the mystery may be discovered." 
 
 And the next morning it was all made clear to them. 
 
 A letter lay waiting for Veronica on the breakfast 
 table, the address in a strange handwriting. Veronica 
 
 opened it and read. 
 
 " Aldborough, July — , 18 — . 
 " Madam. — That I annoyed and perhaps alarmed 
 you and your friend last night, is a matter of regret 
 with me, but I had no other means of obtaining the 
 knowledge I sought. Finding now that Miss Lee and 
 the young lady I had the happiness to release from a 
 snow-drift, are one and the same, I at once give up 
 further law-proceedings, and wish you far more enjoy- 
 ment of my late sister s property than it has ever yet 
 given to its possessors. — I am, Madam, yours most 
 respectfully, Hart Symington." 
 
 "Another mysterious letter?'"' exclaimed John, as 
 Veronica put it into his hands ; but when he had read 
 it, he looked quite as much amazed as herself. " But 
 
oyy BY THE TRENT. 
 
 what is this? Here is more yet." And he turned 
 over the page that Veronica had omitted to examine. 
 "To your friend who spoke so kindly of the 'dark 
 stranger/ I venture to present my most grateful thanks. 
 Would that I were more worthy of her benevolent 
 thoughts." 
 
 " There, Clara, he heard us as you thought ! Heard 
 you, you dear loving sister, and appreciates you, as all 
 the world must!" said Veronica enthusiastically. 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Clara, who had not 
 yet seen the letter. 
 
 "At all events he has one virtue left," was her 
 remark, " generosit}'. And who knows but the scale 
 may yet be turned, even for him?" 
 
 In the course of the day Mr. Gale appeared, his face 
 expressive of, and " written all over," as Veronica said, 
 " with important news." 
 
 " I have good news to communicate," he said hur- 
 riedly. " I have heard officially, that Symington will 
 give us no further trouble. Let me congratulate you, 
 Miss Lee! You are born under a fortunate star, I 
 perceive." 
 
 Veronica thanked him for his congratulations. 
 
 "It is strange, too! I cannot understand it, I con- 
 fess. — Not the least in the world. — A desperate devil- 
 may-care fellow like that, to give up so quietly, a 
 chance of worrying us ! We have only to be thankful, 
 however." 
 
 Mr. Gale did not look particularly thankful. Clara 
 even fancied he was a little disappointed that the 
 excitement of the promised battle was not to be. 
 
DEATH AMONG THE BREAKERS. 399 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 DEATH AMONG THE BREAKERS. 
 
 Some months have passed by since we left Stephen 
 Morris recovering from his attack of delirium. It was 
 a slow recovery, if recovery it may be called, retarded 
 by feverish fears and anguish of mind, by almost all 
 that could make a sick-room intolerable and painful, 
 pain of body, shame and trouble of mind. He craved 
 for alcoholic drink, and it was denied him; and part of 
 the wearisome day he would spend in lamentation, and 
 in fits of ill-temper that exhausted themselves on all 
 around him. He became in a great degree regardless 
 of the suffering he caused, and, lost in selfishness, would 
 demand from all, wearying and harassing service. So 
 changed was he in this respect from his usual self, that 
 the doctor shrewdly argued from it some latent disease 
 of the brain, and enjoined the strictest watching of 
 symptoms, and constant surveillance. 
 
 It became necessary he should leave his present 
 abode, and ever recurred the questions, Where was he 
 to go? — How hide himself from the world? With an 
 enfeebled mind as well as body, he shrank from the 
 trouble and fancied dangers of a long journey; he was 
 querulous and childish, and found difficulties where 
 there would have been none to a stronger and healthier 
 individual. 
 
 However, under the protecting shadow of a warm 
 night in April, he was conveyed from his home at 
 
400 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Trentham, to Swansford. Short as the journey was, 
 it annoyed and tried his nerves excessively, and Jane, 
 who had intended to seek out some retired dwelling in 
 the country, many miles further away, gave up this 
 scheme at once. It was, no doubt, well she did, for 
 her mother's presence and advice were a great comfort 
 and support to her in her now worse than widowed 
 position. Every day her husband seemed less and less 
 able to converse rationally, and, alarmed at his con- 
 tinued and increasing mental imbecility, she once more 
 sent for Mr. Wilbraham. He called in to consult with 
 him an eminent physician, and both agreed that 
 softening of the brain had commenced, and that the 
 complaint was incurable. " Give him what he asks for 
 that is not positively injurious; contradict him in 
 nothing" — this was their advice. 
 
 And thus he passed into the condition of a child, 
 his memory, judgment, power of concentrated thought, 
 gone, or going rapidly; a mournful wreck. He was 
 humoured and indulged as far as was possible, and 
 the sad, hollow-eyed wife saw him sitting for hours 
 together without change of posture, or spoken word, 
 gazing at the fire or on the floor, not in the reverie of 
 the philosopher, but in the apathy of the imbecile. 
 "We talked of the condition of a child, but there is not 
 more difference between the fresh budding foliage of 
 spring, so full of promise and joy, and the decaying, 
 clay-trodden leaves of autumn, suggestive of death 
 and ruin, than between his dull, worn-out, dying brain, 
 and the rich swell and development of the faculties of 
 a child. 
 
 Jane bore with his fretfulness and whimsical changes 
 
DEATH AMONG THE BREAKERS. 401 
 
 of mood — for it was not all apathy with him ; he had 
 his hours of animal excitement and irritation — with 
 patience and love; but it was a sad sight for the young 
 wife and mother to come into the nursery and find 
 him seated on the ground playing with his son's toys, 
 or opening a book wistfully, and declaring he knew 
 nothing of its contents. In a while, as the disease pro- 
 gressed, he forgot his friends also, both their names 
 and persons, and evinced no interest in their presence. 
 Every week, he required less and less mental pabulum, 
 could digest less, and before long his little boy exceeded 
 him in knowledge, and triumphantly pointed out to 
 papa the difference between great A and little a. He 
 lost memory of times and seasons, wife and child, and 
 the sight of his nearest and dearest brought no recog- 
 nition. 
 
 John Broadbent saw him once or twice at Swansford, 
 but Stephen had no recollection of his old friend, gazing 
 vaguely at his broad dark brow, following little Charley's 
 example, indeed, by putting out his hand to be shaken, 
 but with no slightest idea of him who had done so 
 much for him. John came away melancholy and 
 stricken at heart. "It is but the death-parting," he 
 said to himself, as he proceeded on his way home, with 
 bent-down head, " the soul being put to sleep before 
 the body ; but, alas ! what will be its state when it 
 awakes in the other world V 
 
 The sleep, however, was not for very long. He died 
 before the year was spent, and the unholy passion for 
 drink finished the immolation of its victim in this 
 world. 
 
 He had called himself a martyr — a witness; but he 
 
402 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 liad been a witness for error, not truth; for sin, not 
 holiness; and the flames of his martyrdom did not rise 
 towards heaven. What sort of a martyr's crown was 
 his? 
 
 The grave-stone erected over his body by his mourn- 
 ing wife had little besides his name and age upon it. 
 What else could be said? Tears best expressed the 
 almost hopeless feeling of loss his death occasioned. 
 There could be no words of commendation, and the 
 outspoken or implied praise that is found on most 
 monuments was withheld in his case. 
 
 Among his late congregation his name was seldom 
 mentioned after the first tidings of his death had passed 
 by, or with speech of his brilliant talent and former use- 
 fulness, followed by a sigh or an abrupt silence. Similar 
 was the impression left on their minds to that which 
 remains to a spectator on shore, after having beheld a 
 gallant vessel coming into port, with colours flying, 
 music playing, and general exultation, that manages, 
 through the incapacity of the pilot or captain, to get 
 stranded and wrecked utterly before one voyager 
 touches the beach. Where was majesty, and strength, 
 and apparent safety, is now only a few disjointed planks 
 and the rolling breakers; and the eye vainly attempts 
 to penetrate their white foaming deeps for sight of the 
 living and dead treasure concealed below. 
 
 The same rocks that were so fatal to Stephen Morris 
 yet remain, and many a fair vessel breaks to pieces upon 
 them. Lighthouses are erected, and charts prepared, 
 but the list of shipwrecks is still fearfully large. Heroes 
 of the moral world, nothing daunted b} r the immense 
 difficulties in the way, the labour and the skill required, 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 403 
 
 propose to remove some of these rocks, and themselves 
 are ready to give a helping hand. "It can be done," 
 say they, " and with God's strength assisting us, it shall ! 
 And for the poor man at least we will take away those 
 enemies to his peace and safety — the houses licensed 
 for the sale of intoxicating drinks, that now stand ever 
 ready for his ruin. There shall be no breakers near 
 our quiet haven of temperance, but treasure-ships of 
 countless price shall come and go with safety, on their 
 appointed journe}'s, and no wrecks or bodies of the 
 drowned shall strew our shores!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.— THE TEMPERANCE MEETING. 
 
 The fete John had named to Veronica when at Bruns- 
 wick House, for which it was necessary he should pre- 
 pare, was the anniversary festival of the Labourers' 
 Institute, established by him some years ago at St. 
 Wilfrid's. Each year the institute, with its induce- 
 ments to the formation of temperate habits, became 
 more popular, attracting more notice among the inhabi- 
 tants, and enlarging the number of its members, and 
 this particular celebration made an unusual stir in the 
 village. There was indeed a grand gathering, not only 
 of members and friends, but of people from far and 
 near, usually indifferent to the temperance cause, who 
 were not unwilling to partake of the jollity of their 
 wiser neighbours. 
 
40 ■* BY THE TRENT. 
 
 Preparations were made for days beforehand, and 
 Ebenezer Plowden and James Miller, as right and left 
 hands, with John Broadbent as head, were busy from 
 morning till night, on them chieffy falling the arrange- 
 ments and conduct of the whole affair. 
 
 When the villagers rose on the important morning, 
 they found put up, as by fairies' hands, invisibly and 
 silently, long wreaths of laurels and evergreens, from 
 the sycamore in the centre of the green to John Broad- 
 bent's cottage, and to Ebenezer Plowden's, and indeed to 
 all the dwellings around, the sycamore itself standing 
 in the midst, adorned like a gigantic maypole, with 
 streamers and ribbons, and garlands of immense paper 
 roses. And a triumphal arch, made gay with similar 
 materials, and with coloured banners and printed 
 mottoes, suggestive of the health and wealth to be 
 found in temperance, and the rejoicings of its followers, 
 rose grandly before the entrance to the field, where a 
 huge marquee was erected for the accommodation of 
 the visitors. 
 
 It was a splendid day; the sun shone out as if ap- 
 proving fully of the festivit} r , and looked down upon 
 the merry faces and gay preparations with a genial eye; 
 and lest his unshorn beams should be too hot for the 
 pleasure- seekers, a gentle breeze rolled across the Trent- 
 valley in soft waves, and floated with the coming boats 
 up the Trent. 
 
 At two o'clock the fete began at the village, and long 
 before this time boat-loads of people started on their 
 pleasure voyage up the broad current of the Trent from 
 the town, and brought an overflowing multitude of 
 friends, and well-wishers, and strangers, to the anniver- 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 405 
 
 saiy gala. Boats also were in readiness at St. Wilfrid's, 
 gay with streamers and flags and banners, and adorned 
 with garlands, to conduct all who pleased up the river 
 to the fields beyond Scarsville, and when the Trentham 
 boats approached, these started, taking the lead as 
 became them. 
 
 John and Clara and Veronica were in one of the fore- 
 most boats, and near them were Mary Plowden and 
 her father and mother, with James Miller and others 
 of their friends; and when a Trentham boat came along- 
 side, bearing at the prow Jonas "White, with members 
 of his congelation, or Mr. Wilbraham, who had also 
 honoured the fete by his presence, there were many 
 congratulatory speeches passed backwards and forwards, 
 with jokes about the Invincible Temperance Armada, 
 that it was hoped and believed would be more formid- 
 able to the enemies of temperance than the Spanish one 
 of ill-renown had proved to its foes. 
 
 A song full of allusions to the river, with the joys 
 and blessings of temperance for its burden, was given 
 out and sung to a pleasant melody, also composed for 
 the occasion, and a band of instrumentalists cheered 
 and amused the intervals of talk and sono- bv their 
 aerial music. Merrily the oars pushed back the water; 
 merrily the company talked and laughed; merrily the 
 flute and hautboy and trumpet played; and merrily 
 over all and upon all the sun sent down his sparkles of 
 light and joy, while the sunbeams danced upon the 
 ripples, as the hearts danced in those thousand bosoms. 
 
 For there were no regretful drawbacks, or fears, that 
 Nathaniel, or Job, or Jonathan, would be getting to 
 hidden bottles of ale or porter. Hannah, the wife^ did 
 
406 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 not fear for Robert, the husband, — or Lydia, that her 
 lover, Matthew, would be half-seas-over by night, with 
 potent stupifying drinks; and no mother with half-a- 
 dozen young children anticipated having to lead her 
 husband home after the gala, remembering with a sigh 
 how much more troublesome lie would be to drao* 
 
 o 
 
 townward, than her four-year-old Sammy or Jemima. 
 
 Glasses of water were drunk, — many of them, — by 
 far too many for us to count, fresh from the great, clear, 
 abundant, cheap river, who made no charge for the 
 gallons that were consumed, or shouted out greedily 
 " threepence a pint! " and still the people drank more 
 and more, for it was a warm day, and joy is generally 
 of a thirsty temperament; also, the water cooled, and 
 revived, and cheered, without injury, as never wine 
 did. The glasses descended and ascended rapidly from 
 the boat sides, amid much laughter, and some roguish 
 sprinkling (never mind! pure water does not stain), 
 and little children drank joyously with the rest, and let 
 the fresh clear elemental liquid gurgle approvingly 
 down their tiny throats. The tall elms of the Grove 
 that stood erect and full-feathered on their height, 
 seemed to survey the glad passers-by with satisfaction. 
 They too drank of the pure water that falls from the 
 skies, and their lowermost roots sucked up from hidden 
 water-veins and rills, the same life-bestowing fluid, 
 and from among their multitude of boughs the echo of 
 the mingled laughter and song, and cheerful talk, was 
 sent back with pleasant repeatings. 
 
 Arrived at the field, the temperance friends landed, 
 and passed an hour or so in quiet wanderings among 
 them, gathering wild flowers; or seated themselves to 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 407 
 
 enjoy the view of the winding river and the trees, and 
 to watch their more active companions; or joined in 
 some of the various games that were at once commenced 
 with vigour and alacrity by the younger part of the 
 pleasure-takers ; or paid a respectful visit to the old 
 church lying beneath the shadow of the bold hill, where, 
 loner agjo, Bel- fires were lighted in honour of the Sun- 
 god, and cruel ceremonies and offerings gone through 
 and presented. Many generations of the dead lay 
 calmly around the old church, and made the place 
 solemn, but not sad, to these strangers. 
 
 Then once more the boats were laden with their 
 precious freight, and rapidly with the current they 
 slid homewards, anticipating now with some of the 
 zest of hunger, the meal prepared for them in the mar- 
 quee. Here a surprise awaited all. At one end of the 
 erection, duly surrounded by appropriate drapery and 
 flower-wreaths, were placed two of Mary Plowden's 
 pictures, lately completed, the one representing a 
 drunkard s home and its inhabitants, in all its bareness 
 and squalor and misery; not overdrawn, however — it 
 would be difficult indeed to overdraw such a subject; 
 and the other, the home of an industrious teetotaller, 
 with wife and children about him, smiling and happy, 
 himself in the midst, sane and proud, and more than 
 content. The denizens of the first home miserable 
 and half-naked, and crushed as they appear, were yet, 
 it was apparent, the same personages beheld in the 
 second, when changed and cheered, and blest, under the 
 genial influences of temperance and industry. 
 
 Under one picture, was placed in large letters, on a 
 printed label, "Want, misery, degradation, are the 
 
40S BY THE TRENT. 
 
 fruits of the evil tree of drink ;" and under the other, 
 " Plenty, happiness, elevation, are the fruits of the good 
 tree, temperance." ' The paintings were no master- 
 pieces, as may be imagined, when we have named the 
 artist, but they were effective, and told their tale well, 
 and a large crowd was soon standing before them, for- 
 getful of the tea-tables, spread out with tempting pro- 
 visions, commenting, admiring, and explaining. 
 
 " Look at that, Sandy!" said a meagre-looking, ill- 
 dressed wife, who had with her husband, an individual 
 not quite unknown to us, joined the festive party 
 through the kindness of a neighbour bestowing upon 
 them tickets of admission. ' ' Dost see ? Which is the hap- 
 piest house? Look at that poor little chilt's face, it 
 looks for a' the world like our little Ned afore he was 
 took; he'd just such a pinched wizened look as that; 
 an i' that other picter, he's there on his mother's knees 
 just as he was afore, but a sight deal fatter an' prettier 
 lookin'! That father doesn't drink, you see, an* the 
 baby's a goin' to live. But our Ned, poor little 'un, 
 had no chance! Oh dear! I wish you'd be teetotal, 
 that I do." Sandy, with his long red nose over his 
 wife's shoulder, looked uncomfortable; he stood with his 
 hands in his breeches pockets, staring hard with the rest. 
 Something of the old merry hardness had vanished 
 from his eye, for he had been ill since we saw him 
 last; and his wife's tongue, like the constant drop, had 
 worn the stone, though scarcely in the right direction. 
 
 "Why, mother," shouted a little wonder-stricken 
 girl, held up in her father's arms, that she might see 
 above the people's heads, u that's like you an' me, an' 
 that's like father, isn't it? Father's just had his ale, 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 409 
 
 an' he's goin' to give you a punch !" The father turned 
 reel in the face, and put down the inconvenient com- 
 mentator at once. 
 
 " You don't mean to say that, now?" asked a young 
 man, of his smart-looking well-ribboned sweetheart, 
 who took hold of his arm a little proudly. 
 
 "I do, Joe! I mean you to sign the pledge to-night 
 afore we go away, or you'll be getting like that ugly 
 fellow in the picture some day perhaps/' 
 
 " You must sign it too, then, Sally." 
 
 " That I will, and welcome ! You first, me after." 
 
 " You're quite hard upon a poor feller, you are," was 
 his response. Nevertheless, he looked smilingly down 
 upon the pretty face near him. It was plain he could 
 deny her nothing then. And here we would whisper a 
 word into the young women's ears. " Strike while the 
 iron is hot." If you want to insure sober husbands, 
 see to it that they are sober lovers, and get them to 
 sign the pledge as early as possible, like Sally. 
 
 But Sandy's wife is talking again. "There now, 
 Sandy, them picters is afore you, an' if ever man's had 
 warnin' you have! Look at one an' look at t'other! 
 One's our house, t'other's Phil's. Since Phil's been 
 teetotal, he's put nine poimd ten shillin' i' the savin's- 
 bank, his missis toud me; he's gotten a good houseful 
 o' things about him, an' his wife an' childer goes about 
 wi' shoes to their feet an' decent clothes to their backs, 
 a thing yourn never does, except they borrows. Look 
 at 'em, I say. It a'most makes my heart burst." 
 
 "Well, well, woman, hold your tongue, can't yer? 
 or I'll be off. I don't want to be preached to ! I'm 
 quite ashamed o' your noise." 
 
410 BY THE TEENT. 
 
 "An' I'm ashamed o' you as can say so. My noise, 
 indeed ! I should like you to hear your own when you 
 come home fuddled !" 
 
 " Tea's ready; tea's ready, don't yer see?" said Sandy, 
 as he left her side diplomatically, and seated himself at 
 one of the tables. 
 
 As it happened, he had placed himself next Phil and 
 his wife. In his anxiety to get away from his wife's 
 rebuke he forgot to look who he was about to get for 
 neighbours; and to his dismay Phil, with a smart 
 bouquet in his button-hole, and in a suit of, for him, 
 stylish clothes, saluted him with — "Eh, Sandy, my 
 boy, who ever thought of seeing you here? I'm glad 
 to catch sight of yer!" 
 
 Sandy's clothes were seedy, and these, with his rather 
 untidy, seldom-combed hair, and ominous red nose, 
 contrasted ill-favouredly with the spruce, jaunty dress 
 and carefully cut and brushed whiskers and hair of his 
 fellow-workman. He knew this, and felt, spite of 
 himself, the least in the world humiliated. We say the 
 least, for Sandy was obtuse where he chose, and gene- 
 rally presented for the arrows of society, and especially 
 temperance society, a thorough rhinoceros skin of 
 indifference and self-assurance. Perhaps, however, his 
 wife's severe strictures had penetrated his tough hide, 
 and so prepared the way this time for Phil's bow. 
 
 He answered his comrade sheepishly. Phil saw his 
 advantage. " Now or never," he whispered to himself. 
 And then aloud, " This is my Bess; don't yer see her ? 
 She's lookin' uncommon young, isn't she? I've just 
 been telling her so." " DontT said Phil's better half, 
 who did not at first understand the affair. Sandy 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 411 
 
 glanced at her with an attempt at a smile. She was, 
 in truth, looking bonny and blooming, with a face 
 almost like a peony, partly the result of health, partly 
 of shamefacedness at finding herself in so much fine 
 company; and her dress — a smart mousseline de laine — 
 a trifle too warm in colour for so hot a day, with her 
 cap full of pink roses and pink ribbons, while it helped 
 the general effect of pinkiness (to speak moderately) 
 that there was about her, also helped to dazzle Sandy's 
 eyes, much as the sun would. He turned them away 
 as if they had been hurt. But we beg to say in expla- 
 nation, he did not do so because of any artistic delicacy 
 in his visual organs, but because so much splendour 
 was a mortifying contrast to the appearance presented 
 by his own dowdily-dressed wife. 
 
 " She's blushin' like a } r oung one, isn't she?" went on 
 Phil, still speaking of his wife. " An', do you know? — 
 I must tell yer, for I can't help it, since I've been 
 teetotal she's got younger every month, an' prettier, to 
 my thinkm, because she's happier! — We've begun 
 sweetheartin' again, haven't we, Bess? An' I've never 
 bin so jolly in my life!" 
 
 " Reason for why," exclaimed Mrs. Sandy, who had 
 now placed herself on the other side her husband, as 
 much in a corner as possible, not wishing for any too 
 dama^ino- nearness to Mrs. Phil's smart clothes. " You'' ve 
 common sense, you have, Phil, I'll say that of you ! An' 
 what's the use of havin' a man as has all sense but 
 common sense? Here's Sandy now's as clivver as ony 
 on ye — ay, an' a good bit clivverer than some — right's 
 right, an I'll say that of him! but he's no common sense. 
 He can't see through a cdass winder, let alone a brick 
 
412 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 wall. If he'd look i' your house, he'd see summut 
 different to his own; but, bless your life, he nivver 
 does wi' any eyes but a simpleton's. Them picters now! 
 I've bin a showm* him them picters " — 
 
 " Picters be hanged," exclaimed Sandy fiercely. " I'm 
 not a-goin' to swaller them picters ! I want some tea, 
 woman." 
 
 " I toud yer!" said his wife, giving her head a solemn 
 shake, and looking at Phil. " I knew he wouldn't let 
 me speak/' 
 
 "Aye, aye, lad/' smiled Phil at Sandy, perhaps 
 remembering the fable of the sun and the wind; "it's 
 right down comfortable to be here! I do enjoy my tea 
 some, now-a-days, I can tell you. I'd used to think it 
 poor washy stuff; but it's quite another thing now, 
 specially as we can afford to get it pretty good. None 
 o' your penn'orths for me, that's half hedge-leaves, or 
 three-parts, may happen; but a quarter of a pound of 
 right down good at a time! I'm a judge o* tea now, I 
 am." And he seemed as if he were, smacking his lips 
 in poor Sandy's sight and hearing, we are bound to 
 confess, all unpolite as it was, after each imbibition. 
 
 Sandy swallowed his with some internal grimace. 
 He had quite lost the relish for tea with his strong 
 potations, and of course, in one afternoon, under how- 
 ever favourable auspices, could not regain it. Still 
 Phil's hilarity and commendations influenced and had 
 their weight with him, and he began to wonder whether, 
 after all, tea and sobriety and a happy comfortable 
 home might not be better than the most enchanting 
 liquor the publican ever brewed, with poverty and 
 seediness and self-contempt. 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 413 
 
 He saw plenty of people about him smiling and happy, 
 far more truly happy, he could not help thinking, than 
 he had ever seen drinkers to be in an ale-house — he 
 heard merry talk and laughter, and not a little joking 
 of the sort that does not make one wince for the jeers 
 of the rest, but that makes all gleeful alike; and he 
 noticed several well-dressed friends of his, not far from 
 him, who had not such large earnings as himself, from 
 which to provide for wife and family, but who were 
 temperance men, and could therefore, like Phil, find the 
 wherewithal for good food and respectable clothing, and 
 he felt ashamed, thoroughly ashamed at last. He had 
 not so many children as Phil, and yet how much poorer 
 he was ! He had quite as good wages, and could get 
 through his work with more ease, for he was, as his 
 wife said, "clivver," and had been intended for better 
 things than to pass through life as a drunken good-for- 
 little bricklayer. But ah ! the ale was so tempting, and 
 how could he ever resist the temptation, now he had 
 given way to it so many years? How find courage to 
 pass the ever-open door of the Seven Stars, and the Dog 
 and Doublet? That Dog and Doublet had been a dear 
 place to him. How many doublets had he not found 
 for the dog, and how very few for himself, and fewer 
 still, latterly, for his wife and children? For the dog 
 was a greedy animal, and every } T ear wanted more and 
 more, while the family had less and less. " Why can't 
 I do as Phil does?" he asked himself, and the food stuck 
 in his throat, even the plum-cake, very good as it was, 
 and little as he was used to anything very good, would 
 not go down. 
 
 "I think I'll cro to the door," he said at last, as he 
 
41 4 BY TIIE TRENT. 
 
 found the tea and cake getting more indigestible and 
 difficult to swallow. " I want a bit o' fresh air." And 
 he left his place, and with some difficulty, for the tent 
 was very full indeed, made his way out. As he was 
 going Ebenezer Plowden's eye caught sight of him. 
 
 " Why, Sandy, my man, are you here?" And Ebenezer, 
 the master basket-maker, owner of house and field, and 
 who knows how much beside? put out his hand and 
 warmly shook that of the poor red-nosed seedy brick- 
 layer. 
 
 "I'm very glad to see you! Hope you've enjoyed 
 yourself! Had a good tea, eh?" 
 
 "Pretty well, master," replied Sandy, a little " flab- 
 bergasted," as he told his wife afterwards, at people's 
 eyes being fixed upon him. " Several grand ladies. 
 Miss Broadbent and Miss Lee, her as has come into so 
 much money lately, they say, and the vicar's lady, for 
 the vicar was there anion g the rest, let alone Miss 
 Plowden and lots more." 
 
 He went to the door, feeling that all the people's 
 e}'es in the place were upon him, not that Sandy was 
 bashful, far from it, but he felt uncomfortable and un- 
 like himself just now. He stood at the door of the 
 marquee till he found himself in the way, the waiters 
 passing and repassing with kettles full of steaming tea, 
 and plates of bread and butter, and then he stood in 
 the field not far off, looking at, but scarcely seeing, the 
 youngsters who were amusing themselves by various 
 games, till they could be admitted into the marquee for 
 tea, there being far too large a company for all to par- 
 take at once. 
 
 The fresh air blew on his face, the river rippled and 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIX. 415 
 
 rolled not far away. Did it sing him a song that 
 stirred in his heart a resolve lon^ needed there, or how 
 was it? 
 
 When his wife came to him soon after, afraid of 
 losing sio-ht of him too loner, lest he should shirk away 
 to the "public," he turned round to her with a quick 
 decisive motion, and astonished her by saying, "Grizzy, 
 lass, I've made up my mind, I'll sign the pledge!" She 
 did not go into hysterics or faint, for she was a woman 
 of wire and bend-leather, and could bear veiy hard 
 blows indeed, both physical and emotional, as he had 
 proved many times, but she lifted up her hands and 
 exclaimed in a joyful tone, " Oh, Sandy, you don't say 
 so !" by which apparent denial she only meant to imply 
 astonishment and gladness, not disbelief. 
 
 After tea the tables were cleared away, and in front 
 of the pictures a platform rose for a dozen speakers or 
 so, and the people prepared themselves by sitting upon 
 the recently arranged forms, to listen to the orators of 
 the temperance meeting. 
 
 The vicar of St. Wilfrid's was in the chair, and well 
 he looked there, with his benevolent countenance lit up 
 by a genuine smile of satisfaction as he surveyed the 
 well-dressed, happy, sober company spread out before 
 him. Mary Plowden, as she saw him, thought he had 
 never appeared more like the kind good gentleman he 
 was, and the good Christian too, not even in his own 
 church on the Sunday, or when praising her industry 
 and skill in the "studdio;" and that was much for Mary 
 to think. 
 
 Near him sat Jonas White, with whom the vicar 
 shook hands very heartily, John Broadbent, Mr. Wil* 
 
41G BY THE TRENT. 
 
 braham, and a young man quite unknown at St. 
 Wilfrid's, a Mr. Sylvester Reece, who was stated to be 
 very rich, and a friend of Mr. Broadbent's; and a little 
 behind the rest, but still on the same platform, Ebenezer 
 Plowden, James Miller, and a middle-aged man of 
 much muscle and sinew, a blacksmith of the neighbour- 
 hood, called "Gike Adams," a recent convert to teetotal- 
 ism. These were to be the speakers, and all expected 
 a treat. 
 
 After the vicar had introduced the business of the 
 meeting to the people, and given a very short but 
 pleasing account of the St. Wilfrid's Labourers' Insti- 
 tute, and the good it was effecting among that class of 
 men, at present so lamentably neglected and ill paid, he 
 named, with much praise, the labours of his much- 
 esteemed friend Mr. Broadbent in the temperance cause, 
 and his disinterested desires for the advancement and 
 happiness of the working-classes. 
 
 Then he called upon Mr. Wilbraham to make the 
 opening speech. The good doctor spoke fluently and 
 happily for half-an-hour almost, detailing incidents in 
 his professional career, with anecdotes from his own 
 manifold experiences, causing considerable interest and 
 some laughter, and sat down with much applause from 
 his hearers. 
 
 The Rev. Jonas White, who had come over from a 
 neighbouring town to attend this meeting, having left 
 Trentham, gave an account of his first meeting with 
 Father Mathew, his own conversion to teetotalism, and 
 his labours and trials among the drunkards of Trentham. 
 He showed a long list of teetotal pledges, which he 
 brought out from his pocket, gained in this neighbour- 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 417 
 
 hood, and he said he hoped to add to them to-night, 
 whereat Sandy's wife gave him a nudge with her elbow, 
 not of the gentlest; and Sandy looked grimly resolute. 
 The white-haired old minister ended by an earnest and 
 touching appeal to all present, to come out from the 
 city of destruction, and to seek after the things which 
 pertained to their peace, one of which he said, a most 
 important one, was temperance. He besought them to 
 become truly temperate, not "moderation men," with 
 their one or two glasses, that might so readily be made 
 into three or four, or five or six, before they were aware; 
 but to put by firmly, once and for ever, the cup that 
 inebriates, and so frequently ruins. We cannot do 
 justice to his speech, or indeed to any that were deli- 
 vered, neither have we time; we cannot even give a 
 faint abstract of it at all worthily; but few who listened 
 to him, and saw the earnest pleading of his eyes, and 
 heard the entreating accents in which he endeavoured 
 to persuade, were not affected almost to tears. 
 
 John Broadbent rose next, his dark eyes glistening, 
 his whole countenance glowing with delight and en- 
 thusiasm; but his speech was short, he knew there were 
 others to succeed him, who also wished to say what 
 was in them, and the time was limited. And first, an 
 allusion he made to "their glorious river" pleased all 
 present, both Trenthamites and those of the village. 
 But he soon left the side of the sparkling water, to 
 appeal to the sparkling eyes and glowing hearts before 
 him, and called upon the women, as well as the men, to 
 join hand and heart in the endeavour to put down in- 
 temperance. "First, by your own good example. I 
 
 speak here to both women and men, for unhappily both 
 
 2d 
 
418 BY THE TEENT. 
 
 have sinned in this respect, both have yielded to the 
 seductive temptation. Show by your own noble, un- 
 stained lives how temperance men and women should 
 live. Then each may say, not proudly or exultingly, 
 but thankfully to God, the giver of all good — 
 
 "'My strength is as the strength of ten, 
 Because my heart is pure.'' 
 
 "Band together for holiness, for truth, for temperance, 
 which is the handmaid of these, without which, indeed, 
 holiness cannot be, true temperance, that does not dally 
 with, but conquers the tempter, strong drink! How 
 much you may accomplish, working men and women, 
 if you will ! Be determined never to rest till you see 
 around you neither drunkards nor the licensed houses 
 which too often make the drunkard, and which most 
 certainly push him forward on the road to destruction; 
 and in all fit places utter your testimony to the blessings 
 and benefits of temperance; above all, preach this every 
 da}' and hour by your lives!" 
 
 Ebenezer Plowden then came forward. His speech, 
 he told them, would be very much like his basket- 
 weaving, " in and out and round about," and before he 
 sat down he made his assertion good. He did not forget 
 ere he concluded to detail the particulars of his divorce 
 from the pipe, and he told them with some humour, 
 bringing many a laugh upon the faces of his audience. 
 "And," he added, "the man whom I converted by my 
 no pipe, to no drink, is here, just before you all, and all 
 the better for it. I see his eyes twinkle with joy, and 
 at this distance I can tell that his broadcloth is a good 
 deal more nappy than when lie made himself so, and 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN. 410 
 
 his wife's dress a fine deal handsomer than when he 
 helped the landlady to her silks and satins." Phil and 
 his wife laughed with the rest of the laughers, and these 
 were not a few; they did not at all mind being made 
 public characters in this, to them, flattering way. 
 
 "But," continued Ebenezer, after he had waited like 
 a practised orator for the laugh to subside, "the man 
 that converted me to 'no pipe' by his 'drink' is here 
 too, and I think he will never repent coming here. I 
 can only thank him again and again for the good he did 
 me that morning, and ask him to let me return the 
 compliment, I was going to say, but I'll say instead, 
 return the blessing, and get him to throw away his 
 glass, as I did my pipe, now and for ever!" Ebenezer 
 sat down, but Sandy, who was an excitable subject, and 
 was worked up by the basket-weaver's speech to con- 
 siderable heat, rose up, forgetful of all but himself and 
 the speaker, whirled his cap in the air, and shouted at 
 the top of his voice, "Now and for ever!" "Hurrah! 
 that's it. — Come forward, Sandy!" exclaimed Ebenezer, 
 rising up again a moment amid much confusion and 
 cheering and laughter. The vicar good-humouredly 
 allowed the enthusiasm to find vent in this way for a 
 minute or two, he knew the advantage of opening the 
 safety-valve, and then called to order. 
 
 James Miller spoke a few words, and was listened to 
 with some attention, though we cannot declare his 
 speech was eloquent; but many knew him, and the 
 beneficial change temperance had wrought in him. He 
 told his " experience," the best thing he could tell, and 
 certainly one pair of e}^es were wet with joyful tears 
 when he had concluded, his mother's, while the feelings 
 
420 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 of his father and Mary Plowden may be supposed as 
 not very sorrowful. 
 
 Mr. Reece next lifted his tall slender form upon the 
 platform, and delivered a few sensible, well-spoken 
 words, chiefly evincing his own interest as a landed 
 proprietor in the cause of temperance, and declaring his 
 determination to build upon his estates schools and 
 temperance-halls; and, before all things, to put down 
 the public-houses wherever his property or influence 
 extended. 
 
 Lastly, the blacksmith hammered out his sentences, 
 and brought sparks from many a piece of heated iron 
 among the assembly; and, we will hope, welded some 
 to thoughts of higher purpose than they had before 
 known. With much applause lie laid down his hammer. 
 
 We do not know how many signed the pledge at 
 Jonas White's table that niffht, but the first to do so 
 was Sandy. In long sprawling letters he affixed his 
 signature, " Alexander Peach," ending with a nourish. 
 Sandy liked to do all things with an air. " Now Grizzy, 
 thine with mine," and Grizzy with much labour and 
 twisting of the finders, made a crabbed crooked stroke 
 or two that she firmly believed represented her two 
 names. Rather against the rules Sandy took the pen 
 again, not content till he had given hers also a martial 
 nourish. And then with a long approving gaze he sur- 
 veyed the two names, and made way for others. 
 
 By the soft lengthened twilight, the happy but tired 
 company made their way back to their respective 
 homes. Little eyes were sleepy, and little legs and feet 
 very quiet, as the boats glided with them down the 
 stream, and mothers and fathers looked up at the fast- 
 
JOHN BROADBENT'S LETTER. 421 
 
 coming stars, with, perhaps, some dim perception of 
 the stars of moral light and beauty that were dawning 
 as these, upon the earth, dawning and rising to fulness 
 and glory, till the time should come when there " shall 
 be no need of sun" or moon or stars, — when God shall 
 be the sole light and life and love of this universe. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 JOHN BEOADBENT'S LETTER. 
 
 And here we would close, but we have yet a word or 
 two more to say of John Broadbent and some other of 
 our friends. 
 
 The events we have related took place thirty years 
 ago, and John Broadbent is now therefore an elderly 
 man of sixty or thereabouts. 
 
 His tall manly form stoops a little, his dark hair 
 is streaked with gray, but still remains the old genial 
 light in his dark eyes, the pleasant smile, the cheerful 
 voice. He is not in England now, St. Wilfrid's and 
 the Trent have long lost his pleasant apparition, but 
 lives abroad with Clara, who is to him dear and true 
 as ever, sister and wife in one. Their lives are calm 
 and blessed, for they are spent in doing good and being 
 good, and the people among whom they dwell revere 
 and love them equally. 
 
 James Miller and Mary Plowden have been married 
 this many a year; about them are tall grown-up sons 
 
422 BY THE TRENT. 
 
 and daughters, one of whom, a son, inherits his mother's 
 painting faculty and more, or rather it is developed to 
 better purpose. The schools of art established now, 
 are an advantage not known in earlier days to budding 
 talent, and Aaron Miller, the painter of landscapes and 
 still life, proves how much he has been indebted to one 
 of them. 
 
 A letter lately received by James Miller from his old 
 friend John Broadbent, he has allowed us to tran- 
 scribe, — 
 
 "II , September, 1863. 
 
 " My Dear James, — The news you send me of your- 
 self and Mary and your children is very charming and 
 pleasant. Clara and I have talked much of you all 
 since we received it. Our hearts have gone out towards 
 St. Wilfrid's and you, and we have again wandered by 
 the green-pastured Trent as of old. Whether we shall 
 ever see you and it again, of course we cannot tell. 
 God has placed our home here for the present, and till 
 he guides us away, we do not really wish to move. 
 But if he should ever send us to you, it would be a great 
 joy, be assured of that, my dear fellow! What you 
 say about the work I did at St. Wilfrid's, the good I 
 accomplished, &c, I cannot receive. It is not I that 
 can do anything, it is God that accomplishes every- 
 thing. He seeks suitable instruments to effect his own 
 wise ends; we have but to submit ourselves to be used 
 by him, and He will employ us in the work he sees us 
 best fitted to do. 
 
 " You ask me about Mrs. Sylvester Reece (late Vero- 
 nica Lee). She is perfectly well and happy. God has 
 given to herself and husband great wealth, and they 
 
JOHN BROADBENTS LETTER. 423 
 
 employ it as his stewards for good and benevolent pur- 
 poses. You will be glad to hear that on all their large 
 estates, no public-houses rear their heads, but in the 
 place of these, are rest and refreshment houses in abun- 
 dance, with the best of entertainment both for body and 
 mind; and most of these houses charge at a rate cheap 
 and low enough for the poorest labourer. Their people 
 are happy and sober and industrious, and to ride 
 through their lands is a delight to all, even the intern- 
 perate and careless are obliged to acknowledge it. As 
 for Clara and myself, we also are well. Evening 
 shadows are about us, but a light comes through the 
 shadow that shall grow brighter and brighter to the 
 pure and perfect day. Another river than your Trent 
 is near us too, sometimes we think we see it flowing 
 towards our feet — the river of death, not so beautiful 
 and cheering outwardly, but we shall not hesitate to 
 cross rt when God calls. — For beyond it then will be 
 our home! — With much love to you and Mary from 
 Clara and myself, Your affectionate friend, 
 
 " John Bkoadbent." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 GLASGOW: W. G. BLACKIE A>D CO., PfUNTEBS, VILLAFir.LX:. 
 
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