r 
 
 7 
 
 
 tit
 
 Capital Novels. 
 
 By tJte Author of this Volume. 
 
 All neat 12mos, handsomely bound in cloth. 
 
 PRICE, $1.75 EACH. 
 
 RutJedge, 
 
 The Siitherlands, 
 
 Frank Warrington, 
 
 St. Philip s, 
 
 Louie. 
 
 Single copies sent by mail, postage free, by 
 Carletoii, Publisher, 
 New York.
 
 ST. PHILIP S. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 " KUTLEDGE," " FRANK WARRING-TON," " THE SDTHERLANDS," ETC., ETC. 
 
 HAW, ,,* 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 Carle ton , Publisher , 4.13 Broadway. 
 
 M DCCC LXV.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S64, by 
 GEO. W. CAKLETON, 
 
 In the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York.
 
 To 
 Y D 1C A. E, Ml O T BE 
 
 I OFFER WHATEVER IN 
 
 REFLECTS HER PURE EXAMPLE AND UNWORLDLY COUNSELS; 
 WHATEVER HER JUST TASTE DOES NOT CONDEMN, 
 
 AND HER 
 CLEAR MIND REJECT AS WORTHLESS. 
 
 2051314
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 CHAPTER I. THE PARSONAGE, 9 
 
 CHAPTER II. A Vow, 14 
 
 CHAPTER III. A STRANGER, ....... 22 
 
 CHAPTER IV. THE HECTOR, 29 
 
 CHAPTER V. DR. CATHERWOOD, 38 
 
 CHAPTER VI. EARLY SUMMER, ...... 43 
 
 CHAPTER VII. IN THE NURSERY, 50 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT, . . 55 
 
 CHAPTER IX. THE CLTBOURNES, ...... 64 
 
 CHAPTER X. CHRISTINE S BENEFACTRESS, . . . .71 
 
 CHAPTER XI. THE MILLER S FAMILY, . ... 76 
 
 CHAPTER XII. THE RECTOR S RESIGNATION, .... 82 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. DR. UPHAM S SUCCESSOR, .... 86 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. ST. PHILIP S IN NEW HANDS, ... 91 
 CHAPTER XV. FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE Q-ARDEN 
 
 GATE, 98 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. THE FAIR, 104 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. THE END OF HARRY S HOLIDAY, . . 114 
 CHAPTER XVIII. MR. BROCKHULST FORGETS TO TELL HIS 
 
 BEADS, 119 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. VAI.SE A DEUX TEMPS, .... 124 
 
 CHAPTER XX. A VIGIL, 132 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN, 140 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. A DANGER AVERTED, .... 149 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION, . . . 161 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. A ROUGH EXPERIENCE, .... Io6 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. EAVESDROPPING, 181
 
 viii CONTESTS. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. No SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP S, . . .191 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. OLD HUNDRED, 19G 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE END OF THE SUMMER S CAMPAIGN, 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. ANOTHER CHANGE, 208 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. PHCEBE GIIMORE S REMORSE, . . . 214 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. THE ORDEAL, 227 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. HELENA S WORK, 240 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. ONLY A MONTH, 244 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. MADELINE AND CHRISTINE, . . . 251 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. " WOOED AND MARRIED AND A , " . . 262 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI SUSPICIONS, 268 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. HARRY DOES NOT COME HOME, . . 279 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. BY JULIAN S BEDSIDE, . . . 284 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. A ROBBERY, 289 
 
 CHAPTER XL. DE PROFUNDIS, 294 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS, . . . 298 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL Two YEARS LATER, 303 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. MIDNIGHT IN HARRY S OLD HOME, . . 313 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. A DEATH-BED, 319 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. DUST TO DUST, 325 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. A LETTER, 330 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. A JUNE TWILIGHT, 337
 
 ST. PHILIP S. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 " Somewhat back from the village street, 
 Stands the old-fashioned country seat ; 
 Across its antique portico 
 Tall poplar trees their shadows throw." 
 
 THE knocker was muffled on Dr. Upham s door ; the windows 
 of the second story were all closed tight against the light of 
 the dim and hazy autumn afternoon; the hall, the parlor, the 
 dining-room, the Doctor s study, were all vacant ; the servants, 
 in their end of the house, went through their work cautiously, 
 and talked in lowered tones ; occasionally, from the further end 
 of the garden, there came the shout of a child at play and 
 then the sharp, low reprimand of the attendant charged with 
 the business of keeping him as far away from the house and as 
 quiet as he could be kept. 
 
 He was a small, delicately-made child, with yellow curls 
 down to his waist ; and his nurse was a dull, discontented-look 
 ing German woman, who knit, and scolded, and scowled, at 
 one and the same time. The boy shouted, laughed, swung 
 himself from round to round of the arbor that supported the 
 old grape-vine, showered the dead leaves and the ripe fruit on 
 his nurse s head, gambolled with the dog, pelted and scared 
 the pigeons on the eaves quite careless of the fact that in the 
 house, in a very dark and silent room up stairs, his mother lay 
 dying agonizing with the thought of leaving him. 
 
 1*
 
 10 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 His grandfather, pacing slowly up and down the chamber 
 where his wife had died fourteen years before, on just such a 
 still, close autumn day as this, lifted the sash and looked out 
 once and again at the child with a thought of checking the 
 mirth that grated so upon him ; but each time, with a sigh, he 
 had turned away and left the boy to enjoy his little day, for 
 his heart was mellowed by sixty years of life forty years of 
 ministry among the suffering and dying experience of a thou 
 sand pains, and memories of a thousand lost delights. 
 
 Presently a young girl came out from the house, paused 
 half way down the path, called "Julian" almost in a whisper, 
 watched his wild play for a moment, and, with an expression of 
 acute pain upon her features, turned away, unable to tell him 
 what she thought he ought to know. 
 
 This was Christine, the clergyman s youngest daughter, sis 
 ter to her who lay dying in the house. These two were all 
 that were left to the old man of his many sons and daughters, 
 born to him in this very house; Helena, the eldest, whose 
 moments with him were now numbered, and Christina, the 
 youngest, whose coming had cost her mother s life. Between 
 " Helena" and " Christina," in the family bible, there was a list 
 of names with corresponding record on a row of little graves in 
 the churchyard that adjoined the garden. Christina had 
 grown up to fourteen years, a lonely, dreamy child, feeling that 
 her playmates were in heaven, and her mother somewhere in 
 the air about her. Her father always looked at her with a 
 sigh; she knew her mother went when she came, and she lived 
 an unreal, unchildlike life amid the vacant places of her vanished 
 comrades. 
 
 Dr. Upham loved his little daughter, but not as he had loved 
 the first who had come to bless his early happy home. Tha 
 was human love, eager and fond ; this was the calm tendernes 
 of spirit watching spirit. He loved her, perhaps, as her mother 
 somewhere in the air about her, loved her ; he had schooled
 
 THE PARSONAGE. 11 
 
 himself to feel she would soon go as all the rest had gone ; he 
 was a sad, almost an old man, incapable of strong new feeling, 
 when she came to him ; the strength and glory of his day were 
 gone, it would be henceforth 
 
 " The glimmer of twilight, 
 Never glad, confident morning again." 
 
 And so with all his tenderness and benevolence he was but a 
 poor companion to the little girl, hungry for a living sympathy 
 
 The eldest daughter, little Julian s mother, had been since 
 her marriage almost as dead to him as his sons and daughters 
 lying " under the long grass of years," in the calm churchyard 
 beyond the garden wall. Ten years before, when Christine was 
 almost a baby, this .sister, then in the early bloom of very 
 brilliant beauty, had married in a rash, inconsiderate way, and 
 gone abroad to live. She had always been her father s darling, 
 but was a wilful and unsatisfactory child, missing a mother s 
 guidance, and by no means fulfilling her duty to him or to her 
 little sister. She was very young, entirely uncontrolled, her 
 beauty was dazzling, her temper uncertain, her mind unform 
 ed ; many people said it was a thing for her family and the 
 parish to be thankful for, when she married respectably and 
 went away to live. 
 
 Little was heard of her for the first five years of her married 
 life ; then came dark rumors of domestic troubles, separation 
 from her husband, a lawsuit, contention for the guardianship 
 of the child, pecuniary difficulties ; and finally, total silence. 
 
 About a month before the hazy autumn afternoon on which 
 this story opens, there had arrived at the Parsonage a broken- 
 spirited, haggard-looking woman, bearing dim traces of former 
 beauty, a wild and petulant boy, and a strange-eyed foreign 
 nurse. Helena had come home to die ; she had helped to 
 break her father s heart, but it yearned over her with the fond 
 est love, and he paced up and down the room next hers, wait-
 
 12 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 ing with deep anguish for the tidings from within that he feared 
 each moment now would bring. 
 
 Christine, leaning against the half-open window in the hall, 
 looked at him timidly, but dared not go to him. She was ter 
 rified at the great mystery approaching ; she longed to have 
 some one speak to her, but she dared not speak to any one. 
 She was awed as much by the silence of the house, the grave 
 looks of those around, the newness of the thoughts suggested, 
 as by the fear of separation from one who had never been 
 much more than an idea to her. It was the chill of death in 
 the air, the grazing of the mysterious against the common 
 place, the known against the unknown, more than the thought 
 of parting from her sister, that was frightening her. 
 
 All day she had been in a kind of dream, afraid to think of 
 the dark room from which she was excluded, yet afraid to turn 
 her thoughts to ordinary things. She read long chapters in the 
 Bible, she said long prayers in a chilled and frightened whis 
 per, listening all the time with a dreadful choking in her throat 
 for a footstep or a word in the hall outside. She felt as if she 
 were in church where some solemn service in an unknown 
 tongue was being celebrated, of which she could see the awe in 
 the faces of those who understood. Her eyes were full of fear, 
 her thin cheeks were white, her hands cold and weak, but her 
 father did not see ; he had but one child in his heart then, and 
 she lay shivering in the grasp of death. 
 
 Presently the door of the sick room opened, and a grave- 
 looking man came out. He glanced up and down the hall, and 
 caught a glimpse of Christine, starting out of sight. He beckoned 
 to her, looking at his watch. 
 
 " Your sister has asked for you," he said. " You can 
 go in." She gave such a frightened start, that he added 
 kindly : 
 
 " There is no immediate danger ; the nurse will be within 
 call, though she wishes to see you alone. A word will bring
 
 THE PARSONAGE. I ? 
 
 her in if there should be any danger ; and I shall remain here 
 till the last." 
 
 The last ! A chill crept through the child s veins as she went 
 towards the door, stopping with her hand upon the latch, sick 
 and faint with terror.
 
 14 A VOW. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A VOW. 
 
 " Why should her fleeting day-dreams fade unspoken, 
 Like daffodils that die with sheaths unbroken ? 
 
 Had the world nothing she might live to care for, 
 No second self to say her evening prayer for ? 
 
 HOLME*. 
 
 THE room into which the little girl was admitted was so dim 
 that at first she could distinguish nothing but the tall bed from 
 which the white curtains were swept back, and the dark figure 
 of the nurse moving about in the obscurity. It was the spare- 
 room of the Parsonage, one in which she was not much at 
 home, but the arrangement of the furniture had been altered, and 
 everything seemed strange and unfamiliar. There was a table 
 with a white cover underneath the window, upon which medi 
 cines were set ; on another was a spirit lamp, some cordials, and 
 a bowl of ice ; everything had the rigid look of a sick-room 
 under the charge of a professional nurse. 
 
 At a sign from the dying woman the attendant admitted a 
 ray more of light, and then, with rather a reluctant step, with 
 drew into an adjoining chamber. 
 
 Christine heard her name called faintly from the bed ; she 
 went towards it, knowing nothing but that her heart was throb 
 bing with loud pulsations, and her throat was bursting with a 
 dreadful pain. There was such a blur before her eyes that she 
 could not see her sister s face, and she stood beside her for some 
 minutes before she really knew what it was she looked upon. 
 Helena was raised up with pillows ; she breathed with painful
 
 A VOW. 15 
 
 effort, bat she was fighting with the faintness produced by her 
 emotion, and struggling to command herself for some last words 
 that she hardly had the strength to utter. The unmistakable 
 lividness of death had settled on her features, but her eyes 
 burned with a restless glitter, and her lips moved with an eager 
 ness that was in pitiful contrast to their ghastly purple. 
 
 " They did not tell me," she said, gasping at every word for. 
 breath, " till half an hour ago, how little time there was. I 
 would have sent for you before, but I meant it should be the 
 last thing." 
 
 There was a pause. " I have sent for you, Christine, because 
 I have something that I wish to tell you. I want you to listen ; 
 you are not such a little girl ; you will be fourteen somewhere 
 about Christmas-time I know." 
 
 Christine tried to say " yes," and the dying woman went on : 
 " Come a little nearer to me. I want to look at you. I want 
 you to understand." 
 
 She came a step nearer to the bed, and pushing one thin 
 hand under the pillow to support herself, Helena turned her 
 head towards her, and fixing her strangely eager eyes upon her, 
 went on, excitement strengthening her voice as she proceeded. 
 
 " Fourteen years is not so young ; I took care of you when 
 I was only a little past fourteen. I was very good to you, 
 Christine, though you can t remember ; only I married and 
 had to go away. I have been very unhappy, and this is what 
 I want to tell you about now ; very unhappy, very, very misera 
 ble. They have wronged me and my boy ; there is no truth in 
 what they say ; the only thing about it was, I would not give 
 him up to them. But I ve got to give him up now. O my 
 poor child !" 
 
 A low eroan burst from her as she turned her face down 
 
 O 
 
 upon the pillow. 
 
 "I ve got to leave him, Christine, leave him alone without a 
 soul to take care of him the only thing I love in all the
 
 16 A VOW. 
 
 world. That I ve struggled and fought for, and hid myself 
 and led such a dreadful life to keep with me ! I m going to 
 die, and he has got to stay. Think of it, Christine ! Don t 
 you feel sorry for me ; all these years thrown away, and his 
 father will have him yet! His father, who has made me suffer 
 so; I would rather have him in the coffin by me. my 
 baby !" 
 
 There was a moment of silence, as the mother lay with her 
 convulsed face buried in the pillows ; then lifting it suddenly, 
 and with an effort, she fixed her eyes on the little girl and said 
 in a hurried low voice : 
 
 "Christine, I give my boy to you ; I make you his mother, 
 I charge you to keep him ; I have a right to, and I make him 
 yours. My father is worn down and old ; what does he know 
 of children ? Besides he will, die some day, and then Julian 
 is alone. But you you will grow up, you will take care of 
 him and watch him you will not let him from your sight! 
 Christine, you will live for him ! You will hurry to be a 
 woman ; he needs so much care, he is so delicate. There is 
 always that little cough, like mine I think ; but he will outgrow 
 it, he will be better in this air, I know. Don t leave him to 
 Crescens; she is a dull old crone, she is not fit to manage him. 
 Take care of him yourself; don t let anything come between 
 him and you !" 
 
 There was a pause ; the sufferer gasped for breath again, 
 raised herself higher in the bed, while her eyes searched her 
 sister s face with an eager, subtle look. When she spoke again 
 it was in a different voice : 
 
 " You say yes ; I know you will love him and be good 
 to him now, while there is nothing else but when there comes 
 a lover and a husband and babies of your own, you will forget 
 my little boy ! You will let him go if his father finds him out 
 and comes for him ; you will say Well, yes, he may as well have 
 him then. Oh, it breaks my heart ! My Julian is as good as
 
 A vow. 17 
 
 lost if he once falls into his hands ; or if he does not get him, 
 he will be a poor neglected child, pushed out of the way for 
 other children, nobody to pet him, nobody to go and look at 
 him after he gets asleep at night, nobody to see that his clothes 
 are pretty and that he is warm and comfortable. I see it all ! 
 I cannot talk about it ; if you had a heart you would be sorry 
 for me ; you would not let me die believing that." 
 
 " What is it that you want ?" said the younger one in a 
 hollow whisper, looking at her bewildereclly. 
 
 " This is what I want," said the other, catching her breath and 
 trying to raise herself up in her eagerness. " I want you to pro 
 mise me something ; it is not much, it is not unreasonable. I 
 would not ask it if it were not best for you as well as him. You 
 must not think that it is selfish ; why, how could I be selfish when 
 I I am dying, as they say ! I want Julian to be safe, and you, 
 you will be so much better off. Christine ! I have been so un 
 happy ! There is so much trouble in the world if you are 
 married. Men are brutes, Christine ; that is all about them. I 
 could tell you enough to make you loathe the very thought of 
 being married. A husband ! that is just a tyrant, a wretch 
 who only cares to break your will, a good fellow who goes out 
 into the world and leaves you biting at your chain at home. I 
 cannot bear to think you should be so unwise ; you, who have 
 a home and money, and everything that makes girls need to 
 marry. Besides you are not pretty, you are not the kind that 
 marries. I have watched you ; you are steady, straightfor 
 ward, you are not coquette. With some girls it would be 
 different, but you are like a nun. Ah ! the nuns ! How I envy 
 them with their sweet calm looks, Christine. They don t have 
 such rings about their eyes as these round mine ; their skins are 
 smooth and fair, they keep their beauty till they are old old, 
 women ; they are not haggard wretches while they are yet 
 young, like me ! 
 
 " Look at me, Christine ! I was a beauty once, a beauty not
 
 18 A VOW. 
 
 ten years ago. " The people looked after me in the street ; I 
 could have had as many lovers as I wanted. And now I have 
 the face of fifty ; I shudder when they bring the glass to me. 
 And that comes of being married ; that comes of having a 
 cruel wicked husband, who was, oh! like an angel of light at 
 first. They deceive you so, Christine ; it is main de fer sous 
 patte de veiours : always main de fer after the wedding glove 
 comes off. You cannot take your innocent little pleasure, you 
 must have the eyes always on the floor ; you must not look 
 pretty for any one but him. That is the beginning, Christine ! 
 That is the beginning that ends in hating, hating, hating ! Oh, 
 I cannot talk about it ; it takes away my minutes to remember 
 what I have gone through. 
 
 " Christina ! I want you to promise me you will not marry ! 
 I want you to swear to me you will not. You must believe 
 what I have said, you must remember it is all the worst of 
 misery. You will be saved from being what I am, you will 
 have a long and happy life ; you will have Julian ; I will give 
 him to you, and that is the only good in being married a child 
 to love and have about you always. I have suffered for him ; I 
 had all the pain, I give you all the pleasure : oh, it is the best 
 for you. How well I remember what sufferings those were ! 
 They thought that I would die ; there were days and days I lay 
 just between life and death. It was in Strasbourg; how the 
 bells kept ringing ; chime, chime, chime. I used to lie and 
 listen. Ah ! that is so long ago ! He was very kind to me 
 then ; he would have done anything, I believe. They told me 
 he never slept a moment, that he never left me all the time : it 
 seems he must have been fond of me after all. 
 
 " Well, what was I saying ! I got thinking of old times ; he 
 wanted a child so ; he always had loved children. It was not 
 me he cared for. Just as soon as I got well, it was the old 
 trouble back again ; jealous like a Turk. I could not stand it. 
 No woman can stand things like that, Christine."
 
 A VOW. 19 
 
 She sank back exhausted for a moment, though never taking 
 her anxious glittering eyes away from the young girl s face, and 
 struggling desperately for breath to speak again : 
 
 "You will have Julian, as I said : you can live such a happy, 
 easy life. You will have your little fortune, enough for you 
 and him : poor boy, he has not anything ; I had to use it all, 
 these five years that I have been hiding him and living in 
 strange cities ; to travel costs so much. He is a little pauper, 
 that is what he is, Christine. He is at your mercy. I don t 
 know what will be the end.. My father has not anything to 
 leave ; our poor mother little thought there would be only one 
 left to have all her fortune. No matter, Christina : you must do 
 as you will. I cannot ask it of you. But be kind to my poor 
 darling for a little while ! Do not turn him out just yet. He 
 has been so petted, he has had everything lavished on him; 
 it will be such a change. If you cannot promise what I ask, 
 promise at least to be kind to him just at first, for his poor mo 
 ther s sake, whom the good God takes away from him." 
 
 " I will promise anything you want," said the girl, in a low 
 tone, putting her hand up to her head, as if with an effort to 
 command her thoughts. 
 
 " I knew you had a good heart," murmured the dying woman, 
 catching at her hand and trying to draw her towards her. 
 " Heaven will reward you ; you will be good to Julian, and he 
 is an orphan ! Promise me this : you will not marry ; you 
 will live for Julian ; you will take care of him ; you will share 
 your fortune with him ; you will do your best to keep him from 
 his father ; you will never give him up to any one ! Promise 
 me this quick I I believe I am worse I want to hear you 
 speak " 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 The child s voice was low, but steady. 
 
 " You promise it before God, solemnly. I am dying ; we 
 keep faith with the dying ; Heaven curses those who trifle with
 
 20 A VOW. 
 
 the dead ; say this one thing to me ; kneel down as if you 
 said your prayers ; say this, / swear it? " 
 
 Christine sank trembling on her knees beside the bed, feeling 
 the convulsive grasp of her sister s cold and clammy hand and 
 the strange fascination of her excited eye ; but through it all, 
 knowing what she did. The words " before God, solemnly" had 
 waked her from her trance. The terrible weight of a vow 
 made to a dying woman in the name of Heaven, extinguished 
 all childish terror and amazement. She was a religious child, 
 morbidly conscientious, reverent to superstition. Helena had 
 not watched her for a month in vain. She knew with whom 
 she had to deal : she knew she could trust in this pale child if 
 she could once bring her to pledge herself to what in after years 
 she would still look upon as binding. 
 
 "Why need I swear?" she murmured, pressing her hands 
 before her face. "It is so awful ! I will do all you say without." 
 
 " my God !" cried the mother, in a shrill painful whisper, 
 "she does not mean that I shall die in peace. Forgive her, my 
 good Lord!" 
 
 " Hush, hush," murmured the child, putting up her hand to 
 stop her. " I / swear it." 
 
 "God \vill bless you," gasped her dying sister, sinking back 
 upon the pillow. " Kiss me, Christine." 
 
 She pulled her faintly towards her with the hand she had 
 retained, and the little girl stooping forward, their lips met ; 
 a touch that chilled her to her very soul. For months after she 
 never closed her eyes to sleep without the shuddering recollec 
 tion of those clammy lips on hers, that short hot breath upon 
 her cheek. 
 
 " You are a good child," she panted, holding her face down 
 to hers : " you must never forget this day : you you need not 
 tell my father what has passed between us remember it 
 would distress him : God is witness. Now go bring my boy 
 to me quick, Christine I I am faint "
 
 A VOW. 21 
 
 The nurse came back at a word from Christine. "Better 
 call her father," she said, in a low tone, after a glance at the 
 changed face on the pillow, as she hurried to the bed. 
 
 A few minutes later Christine led the child into the room. 
 The physician, the nurse, and her father, standing by the pillow, 
 gave way as she approached. The agonized eyest>f the dying 
 woman had been fixed upon the door by which she entered, and 
 with a low moan she faintly stretched out her arms. Christine 
 lifted the child up beside her. 
 
 " Julian, darling kiss me look at me," she gasped, in ac 
 cents that were heartrending. 
 
 This was a dreadful death-scene ; the agony of parting ; the 
 king of terrors dragging away his victim, who stretched her 
 arms back wildly to where " low on the earth, her heart and 
 treasure lay." There was no prayer ; who could pray ? The 
 grey-haired father turned his head away in anguish from the 
 sight ; even those other two, familiar with death-beds, felt awed 
 by this. 
 
 She caressed the boy with a passionate tenderness, pressed 
 his curls against her lips, laid his soft cheek on hers, held him 
 to her heart, called him a thousand loving names, cried out 
 against the cruelty of death. 
 
 The final moment of physical suffering was appalling. She 
 had combated death so long, that it shook her fiercely when 
 she had to sink into its grasp. The child, in terror, recoiled 
 from her; she groped for him with her empty arms, turned her 
 darkened eyes towards him, and murmuring his name in broken 
 accents, staggered out alone into the awful blackness the door 
 of life and hope for ever shut between her and her idol.
 
 22 A STRANGER. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A STRANGER. 
 
 " Underneath that face, like summer ocean s, 
 
 Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear ; 
 Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart s emotions, 
 Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow all save fear." 
 
 IT was more than two years since there had been crape on Dr. 
 Uphara s door ; the boy Julian was two years older, the girl 
 Christine was now sixteen. 
 
 It was December; a still clear evening; the little town of 
 
 was lying in a frozen, silent way under the stars and 
 
 moon. It was not yet seven, but the moon was so bright that 
 a traveller, just entering the town by the western turnpike, 
 slackening his horse s pace, took out his watch and read the 
 hour distinctly on its face. He put it back again, and then 
 rode forward on a walk. He looked about him thoughtfully, 
 and paused with a moment s hesitation when he came to a 
 point where the road forked. He chose the right hand way at 
 last, guided perhaps by the " twinkling stars of household light" 
 in the distance, and the glimmering of a sheet of ice beyond 
 the trees in front of him. 
 
 He came presently upon an old mill standing on the edge 
 of the pond, with long icicles hanging from its silent wheel, and 
 the moonshine playing upon its padlocked door and dangling 
 idle rope. The pond had been frozen over only since the night 
 before ; there were white cracks veining the clear ice, and along 
 the dam and by the bridge it had been broken in several places. 
 The pond lay in a sort of basin, with low hills surrounding it
 
 A STRANGER. 23 
 
 on three sides swamp-willows dipping down into its brink, and 
 dark pine trees rising above it against the sky. There was a 
 row of old poplars bordering the road along the dam, and the 
 bridge, with its gate now shut and frozen, was a favorite tryst- 
 ing place for the youth of on moonlight nights in sum 
 mer. 
 
 As the horseman reached this point, he suddenly drew rein and 
 turned his head towards the pond with the air of one who lis 
 tens. He fancied he had heard something like a faint cry of 
 distress coming from across the ice ; but the moonlight was so 
 clear, he could see the whole extent of its surface quite distinctly, 
 except in the deep shadow of the trees bordering its eastern 
 edge. He stood still for some minutes ; called in a clear voice ; 
 waited, listening keenly for an answer called again ; there was 
 complete silence, and he rode slowly forward. He had passed 
 the dam and left the pond some distance behind him, when he 
 abruptly turned his horse s head and retraced his steps thought 
 fully. He could not get that faint cry out of his ears ; it could 
 not have been fancy ; he was not given to that sort of thing. 
 He descended from his horse, leading him along the dam, re 
 connoitring the surroundings of the mill and the edges of the 
 pond, and sending many keen and anxious glances into the 
 shadow thrown upon the ice by the dark trees on his left. 
 
 It was a lonely spot, though so near the town. The miller s 
 house was not far distant, but it was out of sight ; he looked 
 around in vain for some one to consult with on the sound that 
 had disturbed him. After all, it may have been the distant 
 echo of some schoolboy s shout in the woods beyond the 
 swamp ; it must have been more distant than the pond, or his 
 own calls would have elicited some answer. He turned away 
 again, only half satisfied, however, and had reached the end of 
 the dam, still leading his horse and looking back with an anxiety 
 for which he ridiculed himself, when he heard a voice, and turn 
 ing his head, saw a dark shadow lying across the moonlight in
 
 24 A STRANGER. 
 
 his path. A young girl was standing before him wrapped in a 
 long cloak, the hood of which had been drawn hurriedly over 
 her head. 
 
 " Have you," she said, speaking quickly but without a shade 
 of hesitation, " have you seen a little boy anywhere upon the 
 dam or turnpike ?" 
 
 " No," he returned, hesitating as he spoke ; " no, I have seen 
 no one." 
 
 "Thank you," she said, half-inaudibly, without looking at 
 him again as she ran on. He paused and watched her ; she 
 stopped at the edge of the pond and called eagerly : " Julian ! 
 Julian !" 
 
 At this moment a boy crept through the bars near where 
 the stranger stood, and was darting across the road, when the 
 girl turned suddenly and saw him : 
 
 " Harry, Harry Gilmore !" she called, springing towards him, 
 " where s Julian ? Tell me, quick you ve been on the pond ; 
 you ve had him with you." 
 
 " What business is it of mine where he is?" muttered the 
 boy, plunging down the bank and striking into a path across the 
 field. " Look after him yourself." 
 
 His face had a white, frightened look, and the haste he was 
 making to get away struck the stranger as suspicious. He 
 approached the girl, who stood pale and silent, looking across 
 the ice. 
 
 " Is there any path around towards the east side of the 
 pond ?" he asked. " That is the only quarter of it we cannot 
 see distinctly." 
 
 She caught his meaning, and with a quick movement said 
 " yes," and sprang towards a barred gate just below which Har 
 ry Gilmore had come out. She pushed it open, and he followed 
 her, throwing the bridle of his horse around the post. A nar 
 row path led through a thicket of swamp-willow and alder- 
 bnshes, through which his guide led the way so fast he scarcely
 
 A STRANGER. 25 
 
 could keep up with her. It grew narrower and more tangled, 
 till, turning abruptly, it led down to the water s edge. They 
 saw that the bushes had been broken down along the path, and 
 that the frozen, marshy ground had tracks of wet and muddy 
 feet. A pair of skates lay in the path. The girl reached the 
 water s edge before her companion ; she uttered a low cry that 
 thrilled him painfully. There was a great break in the ice some 
 twenty or thirty feet out from the bank, against which the 
 water was gurgling with a low sound ; a boy s cap floated on it. 
 
 " Stand back, my girl," he said quickly, as she made a step 
 forward on the ice. " It will not bear us both. Run back and 
 get the halter round my horse s neck. Quick ! Don t lose a 
 moment." 
 
 She gave him a bewildered look and minded him. He tore 
 his way through the thicket to a fence bordering the marsh, 
 and pulling off two heavy rails, dragged them back to the ice. 
 Ilis companion was there almost as soon as he ; taking the 
 rope and throwing his heavy coat into her arms, he bade her 
 keep it and not move till he came back or called for her. 
 Moving cautiously upon the ice, which bent beneath him, he 
 pushed the rails before him till he approached the crevice, and 
 then lay down, guiding himself by his hands alone. It was a 
 dangerous experiment, and one in which he had very little 
 hope. The current no doubt had sucked the body far out of 
 reach by this time, and there was little chance that life could 
 still exist in it, wherever it might be. Probably that faint cry 
 he had heard had been the last. A moment more and he had 
 reached the crevice ; another, and the rope was round a little 
 arm, caught by its sleeve in a projecting point of ice. 
 
 When he approached the bank with his dripping burden in 
 his arms the girl covered her eyes and turned her head 
 away. 
 
 " Put my coat around him," he said ; " I think we may 
 revive him. Now, run to my saddle-bag for a flask of brandy. 
 
 2
 
 26 A STRANGER. 
 
 She was out of sight down the tangled path almost before 
 the words left his lips. When he emerged from the thicket 
 and reached the gate, she stood holding it open, with the flask 
 of brandy in her hand. He laid his burden down upon the 
 ground, turned the coat back from the face, while the girl again 
 turned away. He took the brandy from her and bent over 
 the child anxiously with one hand on his heart. 
 
 " How far to the village ?" he said, wetting his lips with 
 brandy and chafing his lifeless hands. 
 
 " Not half a mile," she said, in a steady voice though low. 
 " But there is a short path through a lane to the church, and our 
 house is next to it." 
 
 " That is the Parsonage ?" he said, glancing up at her. 
 " Yes, Dr. Upham s," she returned. He stooped over the 
 boy again, pushed back the yellow curls plastered on his 
 temples as the moonlight fell upon his face, then wrapped the 
 coat closely round him and stood up. 
 
 " You will have to lead my horse," he said, " and show me the 
 way to the lane." 
 
 "That is the shortest way," she said, disentangling the bridle 
 with quick movements and hurrying forward. " But if we go 
 by the road we pass the doctor s." 
 
 " No matter for the doctor ; I am one," he said. " All we 
 want is to get him home." 
 
 "This way," she said, turning abruptly down into a lane that 
 crossed the road. " Mind the path ; it is full of ruts and is 
 very rough." 
 
 That it certainly was ; the stranger with difficulty saved 
 himself from falling again and again as he plunged along the 
 dark, uneven road. 
 
 " You had better let me carry him," she added after a while 
 in a smothered voice, in which for the first time there was 
 a tremble. Its intonation recalled her to her companion s 
 thoughts ; he seemed almost to have forgotten her.
 
 A STRANGER. 27 
 
 " He is very safe with me," he said, speaking with an effort. 
 " Your arms would not be strong enough for such a weight." 
 
 " I have often carried him." 
 
 " He is your brother ?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, hesitatingly, "he is my brother; yes." 
 
 " You must not be discouraged," he said, as they plodded 
 on hurriedly and silently. " He may not have been long in the 
 water. I have seen many cases of wonderful resuscitation." 
 
 She tried to answer, but her voice was choked. 
 
 They came presently into a broad flood of moonshine ; she 
 was some yards in advance, with her hand upon the horse s 
 bridle, and she paused and looked back, saying, "We are almost 
 there," as the church porch became visible through an opening 
 in the trees ; " we must go through the churchyard ; it is the 
 shortest way." 
 
 " Leave the horse here," said her companion, as they reached 
 the unused gate that opened on the lower side of the church 
 yard. She hastily twisted the bridle round the low branch of 
 a cedar-tree that stood by the wall, and pushing open the gate, 
 went on before him, picking her way over the irregular, un 
 marked graves that filled this corner of the yard. There was 
 no path ; the whole ground was braided over with briers, and 
 brown with long dead tufts of grass. Twisted old cedars and 
 dark pines grew about the stone wall, and low shoots of the 
 same trees had thrust themselves up through many of the ne 
 glected mounds. " La plus morte mort" to be buried in such 
 a spot as this. 
 
 As they came out of this briery desolation into the wider, 
 better tended plats of those who slept nearer to the church, 
 Christine turned to wait for her companion. 
 
 " You had better go on into the house before me," he said. 
 " It may save those within a shock. I will follow you." 
 
 " There is no one but my father," she said. " Follow me as 
 quickly as you can. I only need a moment to tell him."
 
 28 A STRANGER." 
 
 She disappeared through the side gate that led into the Par 
 sonage enclosure. Drawing a long breath, the stranger shifted 
 his heavy burden to the other arm and paused an instant. The 
 spot where he stood was between the garden wall of the Par 
 sonage and the west transept of the church. A long row of 
 little graves lay in the deep shadow that the building threw ; 
 "but a broad stream of moonlight fell upon the white marble 
 that terminated them a higher, fresher mound, with more 
 than one dead wreath upon it. The stranger looked down and 
 read " Helena" on it, as he moved away and went through the 
 gate and along the path that led up to the house. Christine 
 was hurrying down the steps to meet him, and a tall man with 
 bent figure and grey hair stood in the doorway with a bewildered 
 and alarmed expression. 
 
 "Let me take him now," she whispered, putting out her 
 arms. 
 
 " Yes, I believe you may," he answered, huskily. " I confess 
 I am a little shaken." 
 
 He leaned for a moment against a pillar that supported the 
 piazza roof, then followed them into the house.
 
 THE RECTOR. 29 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE RECTOR. 
 
 " A lore benignant he hath lived and taught ; 
 To draw mankind to heaven by gentleness 
 And good example, is his business." 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 AT eleven o clock that evening Dr. Upham sat with his guest 
 by the dining-room fire. Julian, on Christine s bed up-stairs, 
 was lying quietly out of all danger now, they thought. The 
 Rector was talking more than usual, as people generally do 
 after passing safely through a great and sudden peril. More 
 than once he left his chair and walked about the room, talking 
 as he walked. 
 
 His companion was not a nervous man ; he sat perfectly still 
 and only answered questions ; he might have been tired with 
 his long journey and subsequent exertions, but he had not the 
 air at all of being weary. On the contrary, his quiet, observant 
 eyes moved thoughtfully from one thing to another in the 
 room, while he did not seem to lose a word of what Dr. Up 
 ham said, and appeared to listen continually for the slightest 
 movemeiic in the room above. 
 
 He was a well-made man, in stature a little above middle 
 size ; in age, anywhere between twenty-eight and forty ; of 
 any country you pleased, and no one guessed the one to which 
 he actually belonged; he was blonde, that might have been 
 German ; he was admirably well bred, that looked like French ; 
 he was dressed in good style, but with a certain heaviness and 
 roughness that seemed extremely English. There was an in-
 
 30 THE KECTOB. 
 
 dcscribable peculiarity in his literal, close-shaven language, that 
 showed him to have learned it as a foreigner, or to have been 
 long out of the habit of using it familiarly. He seemed a good 
 physician and to have perfect confidence in himself, since, in the 
 present case, which seemed to interest him, he had desired no 
 assistance from the family attendant, and had even said he 
 thought it was unnecessary to have him called ; and such was 
 the reliance that his cool, prompt ways inspired, that Dr. Up- 
 ham countermanded the order he had issued to send for Dr. 
 Thurston, before he had been ten minutes in the house. 
 
 " The fact is," he said, walking restlessly up and down past 
 his guest s arm-chair by the fire, " the fact is, my confidence 
 in Dr. Thurston is not entirely established yet ; he is but a 
 young man, and has only been practising eighteen months or 
 so. He may do very well, but we miss our old physician sadly. 
 He has been dead almost two years ; he attended my eldest 
 daughter during her last illness ; this house was about the last 
 he visited. Poor Johnson ! it will be long before we can sup 
 ply bis place. This brisk young fellow makes a strange and 
 uncomfortable contrast to him. Where are you practising, Dr. 
 Catherwood ?" 
 
 The question was abrupt ; the stranger gave a little start, 
 perhaps because he was not prepared for anything abrupt from 
 his benevolent, mild-eyed host ; but recovering his easy manner 
 almost instantly, he returned : 
 
 " Nowhere at present ; in fact, I have never practised regu 
 larly at any time. I filled a professorship a year or two in 
 D , but my experience has been principally confined to hos 
 pital practice and desultory attendance upon cases that have 
 come particularly to my notice in the neighborhood where I 
 have happened to be staying. I have never desired the confine 
 ment of an established professional life. My habits of travel 
 and desire for change unfit me for it ; I should find it very irk- 
 Bome."
 
 THE EECTOE. 81 
 
 " That I can understand in early life ; but at your age, my dear 
 sir, a man finds his happiness best secured in a settled home." 
 
 The good Rector was a little frightened after he found he had 
 said "at your age," and looked with a slight anxiety at his 
 guest ; but his guest was beyond the point where people wince 
 at being told what their faces make no secret of; he reassured 
 Dr. Upham by a little smile, and Dr. Upham, who had an idea 
 in his mind that for the moment drove everything else out of it, 
 went on with some animation. 
 
 " The world, it is a,^ very good school ; I would send a boy 
 into it as I would send him off with his hornbook to the near 
 est dame a little earlier ; but, my dear sir, a man doesn t want 
 to go to school through his whole life. The cream of existence 
 never rises till he settles into quiet ; he s not worth much to 
 the world or to himself till he brings his knowledge, his expe 
 rience into port ; he might drift about till doomsday, with the 
 wealth of the Indies all aboard, and nobody be any better for 
 it. The hardest, dullest bit of stone, without a spray of moss 
 upon it ; believe me, Dr. Catherwood, repose is as necessary to 
 the last half of a man s life as action is to the first. You under 
 stand what I mean by repose no relation in the world to indo 
 lence. One cannot extend himself, his influence and energy, 
 over the surface of the globe ; he has wasted himself till he has 
 brought it all to bear upon one spot ; the smaller, sometimes it 
 seems, the better chance he has of doing work that can be seen 
 without the microscope." 
 
 His listener s eyes were fixed steadily on the burning coals 
 upon the hearth ; there was a shade of bitterness about his 
 mouth a shade so delicate that sometimes it seemed like sad 
 ness only ; he did not reply when his host paused, nor change 
 his attitude or expression when he resumed his theme. It was 
 not till Dr. Upham, following out the thought upon which ho 
 had been enlarging, said : " I infer you are not a man of family ?" 
 that he raised his eyes and answered :
 
 32 THE RECTOK. 
 
 " There are few men as free from ties as I am, sir. It is 
 years since I have known anything of family relations ; the 
 pleasure of giving protection and of being protected are alike 
 among the memories of my earlier life. At this moment I stand 
 that point of isolation my fate is necessarily of consequence 
 to no one living but myself." 
 
 There was a pause ; Dr. Upham began to see he had been 
 almost rude, and his guest began to feel he owed it to his 
 entertainer to tell him something of himself. It cost him 
 an effort, though, to do it ; he spoke after a moment without 
 hesitation, but with a precision that showed he was measuring 
 his words. 
 
 " I have been so long away from my country, I shall hardly 
 find myself at home even in my native State. I landed at New 
 York last week after an absence from America of thirteen 
 years, and am wandering about now, almost aimlessly, putting off 
 the evil day of a return to Virginia, where there awaits me 
 nothing but the vacant home of my early boyhood. Not one 
 member of the narrow family circle has survived my exile ; 
 I cannot hurry back where there is no fireside only a grave 
 yard. Who breaks, pays ; my wanderings have cost me 
 dear." 
 
 " Then let me counsel yon," said the clergyman, " to pay off 
 quickly and begin upon another score. There is a great deal 
 of time lost often in bickering about charges, and showing 
 why things were not different : avoid that like a wise man ; 
 confess you have been an ungrateful wretch, and have cheated 
 your country of your best years ; go down to Virginia, pass a 
 
 few weeks in penitence, and then come back to , take poor 
 
 Johnson s pretty cottage there below the mill, step into a hand 
 some practice instantly, assume your place among your country 
 men, take hold of the work for which you are so fitted, and 
 lead the quietest, safest, honestest life a man can live. You are 
 too well seasoned to grow rusty ; there is never any danger of
 
 THE RECTOR. 33 
 
 rust where there is activity of body with time enough for men 
 tal exercise and contact with minds above and below medio 
 crity, as in such a place as this, within easy reach of the stir 
 ring influences of town. Sir, I cannot picture to myself a life 
 more profitable, more comfortable. At your age, and in your 
 position, it would have been seducing to me. I want you to 
 come here ; I am ready to acknowledge, the society of a scholar, 
 and the desire of having again a reliable physician for my 
 family, make me somewhat selfish in my counsel, but I am cer 
 tain it will be for your own good. I know the place thorough 
 ly ; forty years, forty years, sir, in this very Parsonage. I came 
 here in deacon s orders ; it was a young parish then ; they 
 gave me the Parsonage and three hundred dollars. That was 
 a good deal more than the Parsonage and three hundred dollars 
 would be to-day ! 
 
 " I built up the parish. I suppose I feel as if they were my 
 children, all of them. I taught a class of boys at first, and 
 stretched out the three hundred in that way. Then I married ; 
 my wife was rich ; we let the little boys go home, you may be 
 sure ! We enlarged the Parsonage, gave the three hundred 
 to the poor, and so it has gone on. I take nothing from my 
 parish but the Parsonage, and that accounts for it that they are 
 not tired of their old minister ; or if they are, that they consent 
 to smother their discontent. Sometimes I think it is a little hard 
 upon them ; I am afraid they have outgrown me ; I have a 
 great mind to let them send for Saul. But then that would 
 almost be suicide ; it would break me up entirely, and it would 
 not be for their good either, that I can really see. Alaking 
 haste to be rich is the error of our time, Dr. Catherwood, just as 
 much in spiritual as in worldly matters. People are getting 
 impatient of the time required for healthy growth ; they stimu 
 late, they resort to strong devices to improve themselves ; and 
 so a fast religion has come into fashion, and I am out of date. 
 I have thought it over a great deal ; sometimes I decide in favor 
 
 2*
 
 34 THE KECTOR. 
 
 of the son of Kish, and sometimes I conclude they need me 
 most when they desire me least. 
 
 " But this is neither here nor there : they want a new physi 
 cian, Dr. Catherwood, whatever we may think about their need 
 of a new clergyman. I was going to tell you it is a sound and 
 well built sort of place, this ; I do not know where you would go 
 to find a better set of people in the main. There are several 
 families where you can feel yourself among companionable 
 minds a small society of refined and well-bred persons, mixing 
 part of the year in the outside world, and bringing back a good 
 deal of its vigor with them. Then the larger class among whom 
 your labors would call you are of a good, substantial sort ; better, I 
 believe impartially, than the average population of small towns. 
 
 " It is not what it was fifty years ago ; we are brought within 
 four hours of the city; education has been greatly cared for; 
 those two unsightly factories on the river above the town have 
 sent a great deal of fresh blood through its veins ; they have 
 brought in a less desirable element, it is true, but they have 
 also given a fresh impetus to those of the townspeople who 
 without them would be idle, or who would be forced to go 
 abroad for work. I am old fogy, but I do not care to have the 
 world stand still for all that. I liked it better as it was in my 
 young days ; but I do not desire to put it back to what it was 
 then, knowing that seeing it through young eyes gave it its 
 charm, perhaps ; and there are plenty of young eyes looking at 
 it now. 
 
 "Well, was a village when I came into it; it is a town 
 
 now, and they begin to light the streets with gas. It has had 
 the grace to grow up a little out of my sight, however, and 
 leave me and my church almost rural yet ; but it has trebled 
 the value of some acres of mine in the village, and has added 
 a good many thousands to my little Christine s inheritance. 
 That, they might tell you, has reconciled me to the progress 
 we are making ; but I think not
 
 THE RECTOR. ifo 
 
 "You are reflecting upon my proposal, I can see, Dr. Gather- 
 wood. I will not press it upon you further, but I shall not 
 cease to hope you will think well of it. There is no need of a 
 decision for the present; look about you for a few months, 
 only bearing this in mind. If you decide favorably upon it, 
 remember my influence will be exerted to the utmost to make 
 your position here all that you could wish immediately, and 
 that the Parsonage will always hold a most grateful welcome 
 for you." 
 
 " Your kindness touches me very much, sir," said the guest, 
 rising and holding out his hand to Dr. Upham with a mingled 
 expression of pain and gratitude. " Your confidence in me 
 while still a stranger makes me honor you, and distrust myself 
 and my own ability to meet your generous expectations of me." 
 
 " You can never be a stranger in the house that owes you 
 what this does, Dr. Catherwood ; and for the rest, I trust to my 
 own instincts. I have not studied men for sixty years in vain, 
 I think. I do not ask any more of you than you choose to tell 
 me ; your past history may be a sealed book for ever if you 
 please. All I ask is some assurance of your professional 
 ability, some evidence of your standing among physicians, 
 to build the faith of other men upon, and the matter of forma 
 lities is past. You will begin a new score with time, as I have 
 
 said ; and date from the little town of in the year one 
 
 of grace. A stranger ! no no, my dear sir. If you had been 
 my bitterest enemy, you would have earned my friendship by 
 your work this night; being but a stranger, you have made 
 yourself my friend for ever, no matter what the future may 
 bring forth. 
 
 " When I think," he added, dropping his hand and pacing the 
 floor in agitation, " what a scene this house would have pre 
 sented at this moment but for you, I cannot control myself; 
 I forget my grey hairs and my many sorrows. I forget the many 
 scenes of dismay and anguish it has presented ! I could find
 
 36 THE EECTOE. 
 
 it in my heart to say this would have been a sorrow I could 
 not have borne, used as I am to sorrows of all sizes. Towards 
 old age, my friend, there is a lack of strength ; my heart is 
 weak towards poor Helena s boy ; he is the last link that 
 binds me to the beloved past. My little girl is the child of my 
 sad old age ; Julian is the souvenir of ray happy prime. I love 
 his mother in him his mother, the first-born in this old house, 
 the beauty, the darling of my home! The law of primogeniture 
 has its seat beyond the reach of legislation. Poor, poor Helena ! 
 A blighted, strange career ! She was but little comfort to me ; 
 rather a constant pain ; but I hold her memory dearer than a 
 world of comfort and prosperity ; I love her boy, inheritor of 
 her many faults, as I have loved nothing since my youth. She 
 worshipped him. ; I say it with a sigh ; the mother, in her, swal 
 lowed up all other feelings ; she would have died, I almost 
 think she did die for him ; and to have lost him so, to have had 
 him perish so soon after she had left him with us, would have 
 broken my old heart, shattered my old brain. God has made 
 you the instrument of this great mercy to our family, and it is 
 not possible we ever should forget it." 
 
 There was a long silence ; the clergyman paced up and down 
 the room ; the stranger sat by the fireside, his face shaded by 
 his hand. The lamp was growing dim, the wood had fallen into 
 ashes on the hearth ; presently the clock struck twelve. 
 
 The clergyman started and glanced up at it. 
 
 " You must forgive me," he said, as he took a candle from the 
 sideboard and lighted it at the fire. " Your room is the right 
 hand front-room on the floor above, opposite the one where the 
 boy lies. Perhaps you will look in at him as you go up." 
 
 Julian was in a quiet sleep ; his young aunt was sitting 
 motionless beside the bed. 
 
 Indeed she sat so nearly all the night. She watched the 
 new-comer go into that dark chamber with a shiver, wondering 
 if he did not feel as he entered it that death had been- a guest
 
 THE RECTOR. 37 
 
 there once. The great canopied bed and silent walls told 
 nothing to him, perhaps, of what they said to her ; but as the 
 night wore on, she sat and watched in a sort of fascination the 
 bright streak of light under the door that for hours and hours 
 did not disappear.
 
 38 DE. CATHERWOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DR. CATHERWOOD. 
 
 " Who rides his sure and easy trot, 
 While the world now rides by, now lags behind." 
 
 HERB1KT, 
 
 IN the early part of May there was a reign of carpenters, 
 painters, and house-cleaners at the little cottage beyond the 
 mill ; in the latter part of the same month there was a restora 
 tion of order and tranquillity, following the arrival of a middle- 
 aged, energetic woman, who made herself the terror of the 
 dilatory artists, and had the happiness of welcoming her master 
 to a habitable house. 
 
 There was soon a name upon the long-closed door that the 
 boys spelled over on their way to school, and the villagers mis 
 called in every imaginable manner : 
 
 DR. EDWARD CATHERWOOD. 
 
 The stable had been put in better order than the house, and in 
 it was installed a fine, high-stepping horse, that the doctor drove 
 before his buggy, and a light-built, pretty mare, which he rode 
 more frequently in his errands out into the country. 
 
 For the doctor had errands in many different directions, not 
 withstanding the predictions of little Dr. Thurston, who was, 
 in a measure, beside himself, at the intrusion. He gave up 
 his pew in the church at the first receipt of the news, and 
 took a "sitting" in the Baptist edifice, by way of stabbing 
 Dr. Upham in his tenderest vein ; he canvassed the country 
 zealously, and blackened the new-comer s character with too visi-
 
 DB. CATHEEWOOD. 39 
 
 ble a spleen ; he worked himself quite lean and yellow during 
 the early spring, and was laid up with a bilious fever before the 
 new doctor actually took possession of his quarters. All of 
 which militated very much against him. He had aroused pub 
 lic curiosity to a high point ; and before he was in the field 
 again the whole town had taken occasion to have an illness, and 
 had sent for Dr. Catherwood to see what he was like. 
 
 He was like something so very easy and pleasant, that they 
 all wanted an excuse to employ him constantly ; and the yellow 
 little practitioner met so small a degree of enthusiasm on his 
 first round of visits, that it threw him back a whole fortnight 
 in his convalescence. 
 
 Besides his pleasant and easy manner, and the prestige of 
 being a bad fellow, the new doctor had in his favor the patron 
 age of those few families who constituted the polite society of 
 
 , and that made him much desired by those who were 
 
 outside of that society. He became, in fact, a greater favorite 
 than suited him exactly ; it was not altogether the high virtue 
 that it seemed, when he praised Dr. Thurston s practice among 
 his temporary patients, and turned them back to his care the 
 very moment he was able to ride out. 
 
 Dr. Upham s advice appeared, on the whole, to have been 
 judicious ; there seemed every reason to believe that Dr. Ca 
 therwood had done well to come to anchor in the little town of 
 
 . The slight shade of bitterness that, on that first visit, 
 
 Dr. Upham had fancied he noticed on his face, had now quite 
 passed away. The good old man began to doubt whether it 
 ever had been there ; whether his guest had a history, after all ; 
 and whether he had not been mistaken in fancying him a dis 
 appointed and world-weary man. He talked very freely of his 
 travels, his foreign education, the shortness of the period he 
 had spent in his own country between boyhood and manhood ; 
 but he was of that rare order of talkers who interest with 
 out ever being personal. He seldom talked of people, even the
 
 40 DR. CATHERWOOD. 
 
 people among whom he practised every day, although he acted 
 always upon a most accurate knowledge of their characters. 
 
 The Parsonage became his second home ; no companion 
 seemed to suit Dr. Upham half as well. A day seldom passed 
 when he did not take some meal with the family, or spend an 
 hour or two on the piazza smoking with the Rector ; while 
 Christine worked or read in one of the windows, and Julian 
 played about the garden, now in the full bloom of summer. If 
 he ever failed to come, Julian was certain to be sent down to 
 the cottage with a note, saying that that box of books had 
 come from town ; or, there was a fine saddle of mutton for din 
 ner ; or, Dr. Upham was out of tobacco, and begged he would 
 bring some up for him in the evening. 
 
 The Parsonage certainly was a pleasant house to be at home 
 in ; few men could have resisted its attractions, coming from 
 however comfortable a bachelor establishment. The ways 
 were old-fashioned, but they were of the best fashion of a very 
 sensible day. The table was always admirable and well or 
 dered. If the house had been gloomy a few years ago, that 
 was wearing off. No house can be gloomy long with a fresh 
 young girl and a noisy little boy among its articles of furni 
 ture. Christine had companions of her own age now who 
 came sometimes to see her ; Julian was hand-in-glove with 
 every rascal in the neighborhood, and Dr. Catherwood s pre 
 sence always had an invigorating effect upon the Rector. 
 
 But beyond the matter of hospitality, Julian s illnesses were 
 continually calling him to the house ; Dr. Upham would have 
 considered half his income well laid out in securing such a 
 medical attendant for the boy. He was a child requiring the 
 most constant care ; he did not seem at all to outgrow his early 
 delicacy ; any over-excitement or imprudence was invariably 
 succeeded by convulsive attacks of a most alarming nature. 
 His nervous system seemed always in the same excited state ; 
 his wildness and restlessness were beyond control ; a whole
 
 DE. CATIIERWOOD. 41 
 
 nursery full of ordinary children would have been an easy 
 charge compared with that of this elfish, untamed boy. If, as 
 it is said, the real education of a child is accomplished within 
 the first three years of his existence, Julian s strange, wilful 
 temper was not to be wondered at; but upon merely physical 
 grounds, his grandfather accounted for all, and excused all ten 
 derly. Such a sensitive organization as his could not be sub 
 jected to ordinary discipline ; he must not be thwarted ; as his 
 strength increased, and he outgrew his present difficulties, he 
 would learn to govern himself and be like other children. 
 
 To all of which Christine assented silently. 
 
 Julian, though looking scarcely eight, was now eleven. He 
 was very delicately made, exquisitely little, with the fairest skin 
 and very large blue eyes. He still wore his yellow curls down 
 to his waist, and was yet dressed in very childish style, in the 
 rich clothes his poor mother had brought with her from abroad. 
 There was a trunk full of embroideries not yet made up, velvets 
 and cashmeres still to be braided and cut out ; plumes, buckles, 
 and mosaics, fit for the wardrobe of a little prince. Christine 
 had charming taste, and worked her pretty fingers weary on his 
 clothes ; and the result was, the disedification of the critical por 
 tion of the congregation, and the clamorous condemnation of 
 the extravagant ways of the parson s family by the town at 
 large. SQ little is the popular judgment worth ; this work was 
 a religious duty with Christine, and the Rector could not have 
 told whether his little grandson wore linsey-woolsey or Lyons 
 velvet. 
 
 Master Julian never thought of attending to what his grand 
 father advised ; he scouted the influence of Christine ; he bullied 
 openly his bonne ; he carried fire and sword into the kitchen ; 
 only of Dr. Catherwood did he stand in any awe. The Doctor 
 alone could induce him to take his medicines ; he never dared 
 to disobey the Doctor s injunction to lie still and to stay in the 
 house. And though he never showed the least affection for
 
 42 DB. CATHERWOOD. 
 
 any liring thing, his interest in this new member of the family 
 circle bore more resemblance to that sentiment than any other 
 he ever had exhibited. He was willing to come into the house 
 when Dr. Catherwood was there ; and though he never expressed 
 any pleasure when he came, or any regret when he went, and 
 generally refused to kiss him, and often pouted when he spoke 
 to him, it was assented to by all, Dr. Catherwood was the only 
 person who could do anything with Julian.
 
 EARLY SUMMER. 
 
 43 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 EARLY SUMMER. 
 
 " Heaven s soft azure In her eye Is seen ; 
 Bhe seems a rose-bud when It first receives 
 The genial sun in its expanding leaves." 
 
 IT was about half an hour before tea-time, a fine July after 
 noon. Dr. Catherwood came in at the gate of the Parsonage 
 and walked slowly up the boxwooded path to the piazza. 
 There was no one on the piazza ; Julian s hoop and a muddy 
 little pair of overshoes lay at one end, but no Julian was in 
 sight. Dr. TJpham s hat and cane were gone from the hall 
 table, and there was no one in the parlor. 
 
 So, thought the new-comer, I am here alone till tea-time. 
 The wind was waving slightly the white muslin curtain at the 
 western window, and on the stiff, high-backed, mahogany chair 
 beside it lay a work-basket and a book, the reader s place 
 marked by a handful of mignonette. He lifted up the piece of 
 muslin that lay in the pretty little basket, a half finished em 
 broidered shirt of Julian s, and looked at it thoughtfully for a 
 moment, then turned over the pages of the book. It was 
 " Evangeline ;" he put it in his pocket and walked towards the 
 door, stopping on his way to take a cigar out of a box upon the 
 bookcase in the corner, and a match from the safe beside it. The 
 back and front hall-doors stood open ; he lit his cigar as he passed 
 out upon the back porch and down the steps into the garden. 
 
 There was a long walk passing under a grape-vine arbor 
 down the centre of the garden ; on one side were flowerbeds 
 full of old-fashioned, sweet-smelling flowers; on the other, a 
 grass-plat planted with trees and shrubs, extending to another
 
 44 EARLY SUMMER. 
 
 walk, bordered by a hedge of box that ran along the whole 
 side of the enclosure, next the churchyard wall. Below the 
 garden and the shrubbery, at the termination of the covered 
 walk, there was an orchard, not separated from the garden by 
 a fence, but extending back for about an acre to the stone wall 
 that enclosed the whole of the Parsonage grounds. The trees 
 were old, but most of them were full of fruit. The grass was 
 short and even ; and around the centre of one tree, just at the 
 termination of the vine-covered walk, there was a circular 
 bench to which the smoker made his way. An opening had 
 been cut in the branches facing the walk ; on all other sides the 
 boughs drooped quite down upon the ground. 
 
 It was a favorite after-dinner lounge of his ; he threw him 
 self upon the bench, resting his elbow on the little table by it, 
 and drew the book out from his pocket. He had not read 
 many minutes, however, before he looked up, distracted by a 
 flutter of white garments down the path. It was Christine 
 coming towards him with an open note in her hand. She 
 paused at the entrance of his retreat, and looked in at him 
 smiling. 
 
 " I missed my book," she said, " and was certain you had gone 
 off with it." 
 
 " Well, you can have it," he said, making room for her on the 
 bench beside him, and taking the cigar out of his mouth. 
 
 " Oh, I have no doubt, if I wanted it," she answered ; " but I 
 don t." 
 
 " There is an excitement," he said, looking at her as he laid 
 down his book. " What has arrived ? Tell me all about it ?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing of moment," she answered, with a little laugh, 
 pushing aside the branches and coming to the seat beside him. 
 
 She was dressed in white, with a pale-green bow of ribbon at 
 her throat ; her shoulders, which were beautifully formed and 
 white, showed through the transparent muslin of her dress ; and 
 her full, thin sleeves did not hide the roundness and fairness of 
 her arms. Her skin was ordinarily pale, but was tinged now
 
 EARLY SUMMER. 45 
 
 with a faint pink, and her dark-brown eyes had an unusual 
 brightness in them. Her forehead was low, and her bright 
 auburn hair, showing a gleam of reddish gold in every wave, 
 was fastened in a heavy knot at the back of her well shaped 
 head. This last year had developed more beauty in her than 
 her childhood promised. People were beginning to say, Why, 
 that little Upham girl is going to be pretty, after all. 
 
 Dr. Cathcrwood did not look at her again as she sat down 
 beside him, but said, knocking the ashes from his cigar and 
 putting a card in the book where he had left off reading : 
 
 " Pale-green is your color ; did you know it ?" 
 
 " Is it ? Well I think you have forgotten what you asked 
 me to tell you." 
 
 " Oh, no ; I have not. Who is the note from ?" 
 
 " Why," she said, " it is from the Hill from Mrs. Roger Sher 
 man, who has just come from abroad, you know. She has been 
 away for three years and more ; the house has been shut up ; 
 and she is going to give a party now. She is always giving 
 parties, I believe. And she has invited me. I wonder how 
 she came to think of it ; she is very kind." 
 
 " Very kind," repeated Dr. Catherwood, with a little smile. 
 
 " Why, you see, she never used to invite me ; and I don t 
 believe she ever spoke to me in her life." 
 
 " But you are a young lady now, you know," said Dr. Ca 
 therwood. 
 
 " Seventeen, next December," she answered, thoughtfully. 
 " Yes, that is grown up, almost." 
 
 " And you will be invited to parties often, now, of course," 
 he continued. " It is time you began to think about it." 
 
 She gave a nervous little laugh. 
 
 " Do you know, I never was invited to a party before in my 
 life. I don t know whether I am pleased or not." 
 
 " Oh, you are pleased, take my word for it," said her compa 
 nion. " It has almost turned your head."
 
 46 TCARLY SUMMER. 
 
 u But I don t know what to do about it had I better go ? 
 And must I write an answer to the note ? I haven t an idea 
 what to say. And I really don t know what to wear, if I 
 should go. You see there is nobody to tell me about any 
 thing. 
 
 Her companion dropped his light tone when she said this, 
 and taking the note, glanced over it, saying, Let us see. Yes, 
 it requires an answer, either way : we will write it when we go 
 into the house. About accepting I cannot see any reason 
 why you should not accept. Your father will say yes, no doubt, 
 and I think you will enjoy it." 
 
 " But then there is nobody to take me ! I hadn t thought 
 of that ! 
 
 " True, you could hardly go alone ; how about your black-eyed 
 friend, the young Miss I saw here with you last week ? Will she 
 not be going, and cannot her mother chaperone you, too ?" 
 
 " Maddy s mother, Mrs. Clybourne, you mean ? Do you 
 think she would object?" 
 
 " I cannot see on what ground. And then you might ask 
 her what you had better wear, perhaps." 
 
 " Why," she said, looking uneasy, " I don t know her well 
 enough for that. I should not like to talk about such things to 
 her." 
 
 Dr. Catherwood repressed a smile at the innocence that 
 feared to obtrude the subject of dress on a lady of Mrs. Cly- 
 bourne s established worldliness ; he was sorry she ever had to 
 learn that its discussion filled the nights and days of at least 
 one-half of her own sex. 
 
 " You have another dress like this," he said, touching the 
 sleeve that lay beside him on the table. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I have a muslin yes thinner than this, low neck. 
 Why, perhaps, it will be just the thing. I ought to wear low 
 neck, ought I not ?" 
 
 " I suppose so," he said, biting his lip and drumming for a
 
 EABLY SUMMER. 47 
 
 moment on the table. " All young girls do, I believe, though 
 the dress you have on is prettier, to my fancy." 
 
 " Oh, this is not nice enough. You will see how much bet 
 ter the other one will look ; and you like light green. I have 
 thought of something charming. I have it all. It will be very 
 pretty ! I should like to know whether Maddy is going to wear 
 white. Will they dance, do you suppose, Dr. Catherwood ? 
 It is such a pity that I don t know how. I wonder if any one 
 will ask me ?" 
 
 " What shall you say if any one should, by any chance ?" 
 he said, looking at her with a smile. 
 
 " Why, that I was very sorry, but that I never had learned 
 how, I suppose. I have no doubt they will think I am very 
 stupid. Do you know, I am always afraid of young ladies from 
 the city ? Even Maddy, I believe, is very soon tired of talking 
 to me. Perhaps she will think more of me when she finds I am 
 going to Mrs. Sherman s. We shall have something to talk 
 about afterwards, too ; and the trouble always has been, we did 
 not have anything that we both cared about." 
 
 " Yes ; and the more you have in common with Miss Made 
 line, the less you will have in common with me ; Miss Made 
 line s gain will be my loss ; do you see that ?" 
 
 " Why no, I do not see it. I don t understand, exactly." 
 " It is not necessary that you should. I believe I was think 
 ing aloud just then. By the way, what has become of Julian ? 
 I haven t seen him all the afternoon." 
 
 "Julian? I don t know. In the barn with Crescens, I believe," 
 she answered, in a changed voice, subsiding presently in silence. 
 " Well, what is it ?" said her companion, watching her quietly 
 for a few moments. The color kad left her cheek, the anima 
 tion was gone from her eyes ; she sat twisting the note between 
 her fingers with a thoughtful, troubled look. " Nothing," she 
 said, rising. " I must go and look for him ; I believe I had for 
 gotten all about him."
 
 48 EARLY SUMMER. 
 
 " You must not go," he said, " till you have told me why you 
 look so serious." 
 
 " Why I do not know," she said. " Only, on the whole, I 
 think I had better not go to the party. Julian might be ill ; I 
 have never been away from him a whole evening yet. I should 
 not be home till one or two o clock, perhaps ; and Crescens is 
 good for nothing. She never knows what to do in one of his 
 attacks. She is a perfect stupid ; I never should forgive my 
 self, you see." 
 
 " That is all very foolish," he said, firmly. " The sky might 
 fall, you know. I shall not think much of your common sense 
 if you speak in that way again. Julian is perfectly safe with his 
 grandfather and a house full of servants good as servants ordi 
 narily are. You must not take such care upon you ; it is an 
 absurd thing at your age. I have been wanting to speak to you 
 about it, and this has brought me to it. You take too much the 
 care of that boy. It has injured your elasticity already. You 
 are an incongruous mixture of child and woman. There is no 
 justice in your being sacrificed. If Crescens is not capable of 
 taking charge of him, some one else must be engaged who is, and 
 you must cease to feel the constant care of him. I intend to 
 speak to Dr. Upham immediately about it." 
 
 " That you must not do," she said, earnestly. " I shall never 
 forgive you if you say anything to my father. Crescens cannot 
 be sent away ; there are reasons for it, and I cannot speak of 
 them. Understand, Dr. Catherwood, you will make me very 
 unhappy almost angry, if you speak about it. I choose to 
 take care of Julian; it is my choice, if there were nothing 
 more." 
 
 " Understand, Miss Upham, I shall speak about it if you give 
 me any more occasion. Let there be no more nonsense about 
 staying away from Mrs. Sherman s, not trusting to Crescens, 
 sitting up all night, stooping over sewing all day, on account of 
 this boy Julian. You will be sent away to boarding-school
 
 EARLY SUMMER. 49 
 
 some fine day ; you are putting on the airs of a young woman 
 quite too soon !" 
 
 There was a flash and flutter among the branches ; Christine 
 had darted away, a flush of indignation on her cheek ; and Dr. 
 Catherwood, watching her disappear through the trees, said to 
 himself with a low laugh as he resumed his book : " The pretty 
 
 little innocent !" 
 
 3
 
 60 IN THE NUJRSERY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN THE NURSERY. 
 
 " The green 
 
 And growing leaves of seventeen 
 
 Are round her ; and half hid, half seen, 
 
 A violet flower ; 
 
 Nursed by the virtues she hath heen 
 From childhood s hour." 
 
 HALLECK. 
 
 DR. CATHERWOOD was smoking a solitary cigar in the porch of 
 his solitary little cottage ; the mill-stream which ran below the 
 garden was whispering to itself in the twilight, and the water 
 rushing over the dam was throwing abroad a lulling music. It 
 was the evening of the entertainment at the Hill ; Dr. Gather- 
 wood had taken dinner at the Parsonage, had assured himself 
 of the success of his plans for his young favorite, and was at that 
 very moment thinking of her innocent excitement with a smile 
 of pleasure. He had negotiated with Mrs. Clybourne for her 
 protection, had made her happy with the present of a beautiful 
 bouquet, dictated the little note of ceremony, and had repre 
 sented to her father that he must encourage her in every way. 
 
 He almost thought he would go to the Hill himself a little 
 while and see how she enjoyed it, and make sure also that the 
 city-bred young ladies did not throw her in the shade. He 
 appeared to debate the question for some time ; it required a 
 good deal of effort to bring him to the point of getting up and 
 throwing his cigar away, for he was rather an indolent man, it 
 was considered, and he had had a day of hard riding too in a 
 dozen different ways about the country. He leaned for a few
 
 IN THE NUESERY. 51 
 
 moments against the vine-covered pillar of the porch after he 
 had thrown away his cigar, listened to the rushing of the water 
 over the dam, said heigho ! with a sort of sigh as he turned into 
 the house and hunted about the hall to find a light. He was 
 just entering his bedchamber, an apartment on the ground-floor 
 opposite his office, when the little gate opened and some one 
 came running down the path. 
 
 It was the pretty waitress from the Parsonage. 
 
 " Well, what is it, Ann ?" he said, meeting her at the door. 
 
 " Master Julian " she began, and then stopped quite out of 
 oreath. 
 
 " He is ill ? Very well ; I will go up immediately." 
 
 Dr. Catherwood evidently was not an indolent man when 
 there was anything to be done. He did not wait for his horse, 
 but striking into the lane below the mill, took the short path to 
 the Parsonage, reaching it some time before Ann the waitress did. 
 
 He went directly in, and up the stairs to the room where 
 Julian slept. It was a large, airy room that opened out of 
 Christine s, which had always been " the nursery " when there 
 were children in the family to inhabit it. One way of enter 
 ing it was from the hall, behind the stairs ; the shortest was 
 through Christine s room. Dr. Catherwood went in this way, 
 not stopping to think till he was in the room, where a couple 
 of tall candles were burning below the glass, and a white dress 
 lay upon the bed, with a little pair of slippers by them. The 
 bouquet stood on the window-sill ; two or three white skirts 
 were flung upon a chair. 
 
 He pushed open the nursery door. Crescens, with her usual 
 dull and stolid face, was carrying away a bath-tub, while Julian 
 was lying wrapped in blankets on Christine s lap beside the 
 bed. Christine s face expressed relief as she caught sight of 
 the new-comer, who approached without any undue haste, and 
 taking the child s wrist, said in a commonplace tone as he sat 
 down upon the bed :
 
 52 IN THE NURSERY. 
 
 " Well, Julian, my boy, what s the matter this time ?" 
 
 Julian fretted and turned his face away, but did not attempt 
 to take away his hand. 
 
 " You d better let me put him on the bed," said the Doctor, 
 rising and lifting him into his place. " You have given him 
 one of those powders ?" 
 
 " Two ; he has just taken the second one." 
 
 " That s all right. When did it come on ?" 
 
 " Half an hour ago. I saw before tea he was not well, he 
 was so very fretful ; he had been off somewhere with Harry 
 Gilmore. I had begun to dress, when Crescens called me " 
 
 " It is a trifle," said the Doctor, looking at him attentively. 
 " But you may go and mix that other powder for me, in case 
 he is not quieted." 
 
 The medicine was in another room, and Christine was 
 absent several minutes. When she came back, the Doctor 
 said, taking out his watch : 
 
 " Now you had better go and finish dressing ; you will not 
 be ready." 
 
 She started. " You do not suppose I would go away ?" she 
 said, half reproachfully, half incredulously. 
 
 " Of course. Why not ? Julian is well enough. There is 
 not the least danger of a return at present. He needs you 
 no more to-night than always, and you know we have agreed 
 he does not need you always. Remember our conversation the 
 other evening in the garden. I shall certainly have, to inter 
 fere " 
 
 "You are unreasonable," she began, with flashing eyes, but 
 her companion rising and taking her by the hand led her to 
 the door of her own room. 
 
 "Why take things au tragique, Christine?" he said, half 
 closing the door between them and the nursery. " You know 
 I am as careful of the boy as you are. If he needed you, I should 
 let you stay. To pacify you, I will stay myself and watch him."
 
 IN THE NURSERY. 53 
 
 Christine bit her lips to keep back the tears, and resolutely 
 said she would not leave him. 
 
 "Well, then, I have had all my trouble for nothing," he 
 said. " I have been pleasing myself with thinking how pretty 
 you were going to look, and how much you would enjoy your 
 self." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " You will be sorry to-morrow. You will think, what a 
 silly girl I was. Come ! I will make a compromise with you. 
 You get yourself ready and go with Mrs. Clybourne, who 
 comes for you at half-past nine. I will stay by Julian till 
 twelve, and then come for you myself; for I suppose Mrs. Cly 
 bourne will not be ready to come away before two or three. 
 That will make you absent less than three hours in all. Does 
 not that please you ? You are ungrateful if it does not, and 
 there can be no possibility of pleasing you." 
 
 Christine shook her head, but it was finally agreed? upon, 
 and Dr. Catherwood shut the door and went back to Julian s 
 bed, learing her nothing but to comply. 
 
 At half-past nine a carriage rolled up to the gate. Chris 
 tine knocked at the nursery door and whispered good-night 
 faintly. Dr. Catherwood, who was dropping some medicine 
 into a glass, only answered au revoir in the same tone, and did 
 not open it. It was at the door leading into the hall at which.- 
 the had knocked; after a few moments there came another 
 little tap. 
 
 " Well " said the medical attendant. 
 
 " Can t I come in ?" she asked in a whisper. 
 
 " Why, no," he said, in a low tone, going towards the door 
 but not opening it. " Julian is lying very quietly, and it is 
 not worth while to rouse him." 
 
 There was a little pause of hesitation, and then with a sigh 
 she moved away. He motioned Crescens to take his place by 
 the bed.
 
 54 IN THE NCRSEKY. 
 
 " Ob, I see what it is," he said, opening the door and following 
 her down the hall. "You want to know whether you look 
 pretty. Come under the light and let me see." 
 
 "I was not thinking about that at all," she said, coloring. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood had taken her hand to bring her to where 
 the light fell upon her, but as they reached it he dropped her 
 hand suddenly and drew back. 
 
 Was he disappointed ? She was lovely. Her dress was 
 beautifully fine and white, graceful and full in its sweep about 
 her slight, well rounded figure ; her hair was classically simple ; 
 her eyes and cheeks bright with excitement ; on her white 
 arms and neck she wore bracelets and a necklace of carved 
 malachite in Etruscan setting. 
 
 She had not expected him to admire her, but she felt vague 
 ly pained at his look of disappointment. "He had forgotten 
 that my hair was red, perhaps," she thought, instinctively 
 drawing back from the light. Her companion noticed her 
 movement and tried to recover his usual tone, as he said : 
 
 " Your dress is very pretty. Mrs. Clybourne will not have 
 cause to be ashamed of yon." 
 
 But the tone was not a natural one ; the manner was a mark 
 of something she did not understand, and Christine went down 
 the stairs perplexed and heavy-hearted.
 
 A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT. 
 
 " Ne in her speech, ne In her haviour 
 Is lightnesse seene, or looser vanitie ; 
 But gracious womanhood and gravitie, 
 Above the reason of her youthly yeares." 
 
 SPESSER. 
 
 DR. CATHERWOOD walked up and down the hall with a steady, 
 even tread for a long time after Christine left him and went 
 down to Mrs. Clybourne. He heard, or perhaps he did not hear, 
 the gate close and the carriage drive away ; he did- not seem to 
 notice Crescens glowering at him from the door of- Julian s 
 room ; it was only a fretful cry from the boy himself at last 
 that roused him, and with a slight start, throwing off his revery, 
 he entered the room and went up to the bed with even more 
 than his usual kindness and good-humor. But when the child 
 slept the revery returned ; he sat beside him like a statue, with 
 eyes of stone fixed upon the ground. The servant had to speak 
 twice who came to announce, at half-past eleven, that his horse 
 was at the door. 
 
 The moon was just rising as he drove within sight of the 
 house on the Hill ; the lights from it were all shining through 
 the trees, and the music came out from all its open doors and 
 windows. Upon the east piazza, where the moon was already 
 shining, there were plenty of imprudent dancers walking ; the 
 western one, deeply in the shade, was vacant. Calling a ser 
 vant to his horse, Dr. Catherwood went up these steps, glanced 
 into the hall, and then, through an open window, looked into 
 the parlor. It was a perfect " rose-bud garden of girls."
 
 56 A. SOUND OF EEVELKY BY NIGHT. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood said to himself: " There are at least twenty 
 pretty women in those two rooms, but the minister s little 
 daughter is the prettiest of all." 
 
 The minister s little daughter seemed to have forgotten the 
 heartache of two hours ago ; her face was radiant with pleasure ; 
 her youth and light-heartedness spoke in every movement ; she 
 was enjoying a rare, beautiful, brief moment that could not, 
 from its nature, come again. Pride, envy, and ambition had 
 not yet crept in ; admiration only meant kindness, pleasure 
 only excited an unconscious gratitude. 
 
 A great many eyes were on her ; Mrs. Sherman, who had no 
 children of her own, and was always trying to fill the void by 
 petting other people s, was praising her to every one, and bring 
 ing a great deal of notice on her. The city-bred young ladies 
 were looking at her with no affection, and the city-bred young 
 gentlemen were looking at her with a great deal. She was not 
 dancing, for that excellent reason she had given Dr. Cather 
 wood ; but every good-looking man in the room had asked her 
 to, and more than one had given up the pleasure of that exercise 
 for the gratification of talking to her and doing his part towards 
 spoiling the innocence that charmed him. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood watched her for some time with a curious, 
 half-uneasy look ; she was walking up and down the long apart 
 ment with an admirer on each side ; his fine bouquet was irre 
 verently handled by the more nervous talker of the two ; one 
 was babbling flattery, the other was looking it ; more than once 
 in their walk they were interrupted by some new introduction, 
 petition for a dance, or officious offer of civility. 
 
 " Pshaw !" said Dr. Catherwood half aloud, " they ll spoil the 
 child by all this nonsense ;" and with an involuntary impatience 
 he pulled the curtain aside and stepped in upon the light and 
 pleasant scene. The three he had been watching with so little 
 approbation were approaching at the moment that he made his 
 entree ; Christine dropped the arm of her companion and
 
 A SOUND OF KEVELKT BY NIGHT. 57 
 
 started forward, saying, " Oh, there is Dr. Catherwood !" in a 
 nai ve, earnest tone, while a shade came over her face with the 
 memory of the sick room at home which the sight of him 
 recalled. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood bit his lip ; it seemed a little hard, with all 
 the pains he had taken for her pleasure, that he must be the 
 skeleton at the feast, and bring the first shade over her happy face. 
 
 " Julian is no worse ?" she said, hurriedly and anxiously. 
 
 " No worse," he said, with a smile ; " I came to tell you you 
 had better stay and come back with Mrs. Clybourne." 
 
 " No," said Christine, with a visible effort. " I am quite ready 
 to go now, only I did not think it could be twelve o clock 1" 
 
 " Of course not, Cinderella ; but it is, and after." 
 
 " Where is Mrs. Sherman ? I want to say good-night." 
 
 "To say good-night!" exclaimed the forgotten holder of the 
 fine bouquet in a tone of deep reproach, while the other start 
 ing forward, said, " Miss Upham ! You are not in earnest ! 
 Has anything occurred ? 
 
 He looked towards Dr. Catherwood, gave a start, and ex 
 claimed in a tone of great astonishment : 
 
 " Is it possible, Ned 
 
 The sentence was not finished ; a quick look from Dr. Cather 
 wood checked him ; he extended his hand with an inquiring 
 look. " I should as soon have thought of meeting the Khan of 
 Tartary here as you," he said, recovering himself. 
 
 "You cannot be more surprised than I am," returned the 
 Doctor. " I had no idea you were in this country." 
 
 " We are old fellow-travellers, Miss Upham," said Colonel 
 Steele, in an explanatory manner, turning to Christine. " Two 
 such wandering spirits, we ought not to be surprised at meeting 
 anywhere while we are confined to the same planet." 
 
 " If this encounter is to be as brief as our last one was, I 
 must improve it," said Dr. Catherwood. " Miss Upham will 
 excuse us, I am sure, for a few moments." 
 
 3*
 
 58 A SOUND OP KEVELRY BY NIGHT. 
 
 
 
 He took Colonel Steele s arm, and they walked half a dozen 
 times up and down the hall, talking in low voices ; then came 
 back to the window where Christine stood waiting for them, 
 their places well supplied by some fresh flatterers. 
 
 " I am quite ready to go," she said, the moment they ap 
 proached. She was quite sobered, quite unradiant. She was 
 not hearing half that her admirers said. " I assure you it is 
 unnecessary," he returned, looking at her critically. 
 
 " I want to go," she said, simply. 
 
 "Principally because you wish to stay, I suppose," he 
 answered. 
 
 " Oughtn t I to go and tell Mrs. Clybourne ?" she asked. 
 
 " Why, yes, if you mean to go with me." 
 
 " Then won t you take me to her ?" 
 
 The manner in which the young belle left her admirers was 
 quite a study ; they felt themselves thrown to an immeasurable 
 distance ; even the most assured of them lacked the confidence 
 to follow her and remonstrate with her on her going. They 
 felt the chill of her preoccupied, simple manner more than any 
 haughtiness. 
 
 Mrs. Clybourne smiled good-humoredly when she told her 
 why she went; she was a woman of the world from her youth, 
 and she evidently thought Dr. Catherwood very willing to get 
 the young d&butartte away from her admirers. 
 
 Maddy said, " What ! going now ?" from over her partner s 
 shoulder as she was whirled past her down the room ; while 
 Mrs. Sherman left a group of dowagers to remonstrate openly 
 against her leaving. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman was the dread of all timid and easily embar 
 rassed people ; she had not much tact, but a very strong will, 
 and a great desire that everybody should be pleased and enter 
 tained exactly as she wanted them to be. She spent her life in 
 trying to amuse herself, and she seized greedily upon any one 
 that promised her the least excitement. She always had some
 
 A SOUND OF REVELEY BY NIGHT. 5y 
 
 one to protect and patronize, somebody about her to make her 
 feel as if she were doing good an artist with long hair, a poet, 
 or an unremunerated author of poor prose. She always had 
 one or more young girls staying with her, which made her 
 house attractive ; and if the young girls did not mind being 
 praised, petted, and patronized in the most public manner 
 schemed about, made conspicuous, and finally married off to 
 some of her proteges, it was all very well. 
 
 Mrs. Clybourne being a widow, and living on a stated in 
 come, the statement of which was very brief, was prepared to 
 welcome very gladly Mrs. Sherman s protection and favor for 
 Madeline, now just ready for society. Madeline, consequently, 
 had been sent up to the Hill continually on amiable errands 
 since Mrs. Sherman had returned, and had succeeded in making 
 herself quite a favorite with her. Therefore it was with very 
 great regret she saw the impression that the little girl from the 
 Parsonage was making. Mrs. Sherman certainly was taking 
 her up violently ; everything conspired to make her enthusiasti 
 cally eprise. She had not seen anything so fresh and innocent 
 in years she declared ; she always had doated on hair of just 
 that shade ; she liked nothing so much as a girl without a 
 mother; and she was, at just that period, intemperately high- 
 church. Dr. Upham had baptized her, or married her, or some 
 thing of that sort ; he was associated with the happiest days of 
 her life ; she should lose no time in renewing her old friendship 
 for him. Besides, Christine was an heiress, she soon learned ; 
 and though that took a little from the merit of the act, it would 
 make bringing her out a much more interesting task. She 
 would save the girl from being sacrificed to some clownish fel 
 low, and would give her a thousand advantages which she could 
 not otherwise have hoped for. " Ma petite violette /" she ex 
 claimed from underneath her muslin roses ; " tu. ne sera pas 
 toujours caches dans la campagne /" 
 
 Dr. Catherwood saw the situation instantly ; he felt he should
 
 60 A SOUND OF KEVELRY BY NIGHT. 
 
 have done better to have dictated " Miss Upham regrets ex 
 tremely," when this mighty huntress s invitation came. There 
 was an end of pristine simplicity and content in the old ways at 
 the Parsonage. "Just as all other women are," insipid beyond 
 expression, when she learned all that Madeline Clybourne and 
 the rest could teach her. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood was almost brusque when he replied to Mrs. 
 Sherman s protests about taking Christine away ; he thought it 
 in very bad taste on her part to say so much about it, and won 
 dered that Christine could endure so many caresses and such 
 open adulation from her. 
 
 " I shall certainly come to-morrow morning, dear, and see if 
 your father really sent this hard-hearted gentleman after you. I 
 can t see how he could have been so cruel ! " 
 
 When they were out in the moonlight fairly on their way 
 home, Dr. Catherwood recovered his good temper, or at least 
 the appearance of it ; but Christine was very silent, absorbed in 
 her own thoughts. 
 
 " So you have had a pleasant evening ? " he said by and by, 
 stooping forward to pull her white dress from the wheel. " Did 
 any one ask you to dance ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course ; a great many." 
 
 " Why of course ? You thought they might not, you know." 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Sherman told them to, I believe. I never met 
 any one exactly like Mrs. Sherman." 
 
 "No? Why, I know a dozen people like her. You propose 
 to be very fond of her, no doubt." 
 
 " No, I had not thought of it." 
 
 " Still, you like her, I am sure." 
 
 " She s extremely kind to me," said Christine, relapsing into 
 silence. 
 
 " Then there s my friend Colonel Steele ; what did you think 
 of him ? " resumed her companion, after a pause. 
 
 " Oh, he was very pleasant," she answered, brightening. " I
 
 A SOUND OF KEVELRY BY NIGHT. 61 
 
 think I liked him better than any one ; though, to tell you the 
 truth, I believe I liked them all. I never had so much pleasure 
 in my life before. I wish I could go to a party every night. 
 The music, Dr. Catherwood, was it not delightful ? I would 
 give anything to dance. And the dresses were so pretty ! 
 Why, I could hardly speak when I first came down into the 
 parlors, everything was so new and strange. Don t you think 
 that is a beautiful house ? It is the finest one I ever saw ; the 
 piazza is so broad. Oh, how little the one at home seems after 
 it ! I wonder Mrs. Sherman can go away to live. By the way, 
 Mrs. Sherman says she used to know my mother, and and 
 Helena my sister." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " She saw Helena once, at some great ball in Paris, the 
 winter she was married. She says she was so beautiful, every 
 one was talking of her. And what was very strange, she wore 
 white, and these same ornaments I have on to-night. Mrs. 
 Sherman says they were so striking she never had forgotten 
 them. Helena gave them to me when she first came home; 
 I think she did not like them. She packed all her other jew 
 elry away for Julian. I would give anything to have seen her 
 when she was beautiful. We have no picture of her any 
 where. It is so dreadful to die and leave no shadow, no mate 
 rial souvenir of the body we inhabited ; it is very treacherous to 
 trust only to the memories of those who have once loved us 
 people will forget it is such a short time to live " 
 
 There was a long silence. It was these thoughts that had 
 sobered the young girl so suddenly ; she hardly realized that 
 she had given them utterance, or mentioned her sister s name 
 for the first time to her companion. 
 
 " I am not in the least like her, they say ; not a look of her 
 about my face, nor Julian s, either. It is as if she were gone for 
 ever ; he has almost forgotten her, I sometimes think ; and I 
 find myself forgetting, though I try so hard to keep her in my
 
 62 A SOUND OF EEVELltY BY NIGHT. 
 
 mind. My father is the only one that has her clear and con 
 stant picture in his thoughts. Don t you think him changed 
 and older lately ? But I forgot ; you never knew him before 
 she died." 
 
 "I do not think him changed since I came here to live. 
 What makes you fear he is ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; I had not thought of it ; but Mrs. Sherman says 
 she passed him the other day upon the road, and never would 
 have known him if Madeline had not told her. She had heard 
 all about Helena, and she says so much trouble has almost 
 killed him, she is sure. She asked me all about all about 
 Julian and our family matters, exactly as if she had known me 
 all her life. I suppose it is because I have seen so few strangers, 
 but it made me very uncomfortable. I shall get used to it, 
 however, I suppose." 
 
 " Let me advise you never to feel comfortable in the discus 
 sion of family matters with a stranger. Mrs. Sherman is a 
 stranger to you ; her catechism was ill bred. I do not want to 
 know that you ever are used to such things, Christine. I do 
 not want you to be intimate with Mrs. Sherman. I should be 
 sorry that Madeline even were your confidant. Promise me to 
 tell nothing to her, and to Mrs. Sherman, and to the hundred 
 others who may soon surround you, but what you might tell 
 out in the hearing of the world. Nothing of your home rela 
 tions, nothing of your feelings, nothing of your heart, Christine. 
 Can t you make me your friend, as far as such a friend is neces 
 sary? There is no one who cares more for your happiness than 
 I do, no one who is more interested in all the trifles that con 
 cern you ; and if you will be contented with my sympathy, and 
 accept sometimes of my advice, it may save you from a good 
 deal of trouble and regret for indiscretions." 
 
 " It is not much of a compliment to say I like you better 
 than I like them ; but all the idea I have of a friend comes from 
 you, and I never shall talk to any one but you. Why should
 
 A SOUND OF EEVELBY BY NIGHT. 63 
 
 it ever be different ? There are three people that I never want 
 to be away from, you and my father and Julian. The others 
 are all very well, but I can do without them." 
 
 There was a little silence as they drove under the shade of 
 the elm-trees and turned into the broad street on which the 
 church and the Parsonage were built. 
 
 " I shall not forget," said Dr. Catherwood, as he took her 
 hand to lift her to the ground at the Parsonage gate. 
 
 " Nor I," said Christine. " So good-night."
 
 64 THE CLYBOURNES. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE CLYBOURNES. 
 
 " Proud Maisie la in the wood 
 
 Walking so early ; 
 Sweet Robin sits on the bush 
 Singing so rarely. 
 
 " Tell me, thou bonny bird, 
 When shall I marry me ?" 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 " JULIAN is much better this morning," said Christine, rising 
 to meet Dr. Catherwood as he came in. 
 
 " I am very glad of it," he returned, professionally, standing 
 still at the parlor door with his hat in his hand, having 
 made his salutations to the party in the parlor. " I suppose I 
 may go up ?" 
 
 " If you please," said Christine, sitting down. 
 
 She was environed by more visitors than she had ever had to 
 entertain in her life before at one time. There was Mrs. Sher 
 man, talking with the peculiar enthusiasm of a pious woman of 
 fashion to the old Rector ; Madeline Clybourne, playing with 
 the feather of her round hat and sparkling with wit and vivacity ; 
 Colonel Steele, looking very handsome and using his fine eyes 
 dangerously ; and the chattering bouquet-holder of last night, 
 who named himself Leslie, and who was by trade an author. 
 Both these gentlemen were staying at the Hill, and had come 
 with Mrs. Sherman and Madeline in the fine open carriage 
 which now stood at the door. 
 
 Christine looked rather pale, and not nearly so pretty as she 
 had looked the night before ; but neither of the gentlemen seem-
 
 THE CLYBOTTENES. 65 
 
 ed disillusionized. " All is fine that is fit." The droop of the 
 lily is one of its charms. 
 
 There was not a trace of languor or weariness about Made 
 line ; her eyes were merry, her cheeks glowed with color. Of 
 course she knew that she looked well ; she had put on her white 
 picquet dress that morning, knowing that she looked her very 
 best in it, and had put her coral earrings in, with the strong 
 conviction that the Hill carriage would drive up to the gate 
 some time in the course of the morning. 
 
 She had heard so much of beauty all her life, she felt a thrill 
 of satisfaction every time she looked into the glass ; the strong 
 rush of youthful happiness was carrying away with it the 
 unlovely vice of vanity that bubbled up occasionally into sight ; 
 rather a pretty sparkle now, but a deadly taint, " a woe for 
 future years," when the current should be slower and the 
 fountain low. 
 
 Madeline was not a foolish child ; she had great talent, great 
 beauty, and a soul fit for very noble things. Neither was Ma 
 deline s mother a foolish woman, as the world counts foolishness ; 
 she had great energy, wonderful administrative ability, strong 
 affection for her children, and very correct ideas of her duty on 
 most questions. She was almost a religious woman ; she was 
 not far from being what she ought to be. She had brought 
 up her children with the greatest care ; she had not spared 
 herself, had worked day and night to make up the stinginess 
 of fate to them, and give them the advantages they would have 
 had if their father had lived and prospered. A miracle of 
 cleverness she had appeared to those who knew the slenderness 
 of her resources ; her boy had had the best education that the 
 country could afford him ; her eldest girl had been brought 
 before the world with a flourish of trumpets that might have 
 heralded the entrance of a beauty and an heiress. 
 
 How the Clybournes kept such a brave front to the world, 
 however, was a wonder only to those who did not understand
 
 66 THE CLYBOURNES. 
 
 the oneness of purpose, the strong ambition of the mother. 
 Indeed, she had little assistance from those for whom she 
 worked. The son proved a lazy, unstable fellow, as most men 
 prove who are born with thin purses and educated as if they 
 were entitled to stout ones. He was not a credit to his mo 
 ther, nor any ornament to society. He rarely went into any 
 dashing dissipation, but was always behindhand in money mat 
 ters, and terribly discontented with his lot, so that poor Mrs. 
 Clybourne was continually finessing to keep him out of debt 
 and to get him some employment which did not necessitate 
 manual or mental labor, to both of which he had a fixed dis 
 taste. He had had several secretary- and aitacAe-ships, which 
 he would have disgraced if anything had been required of him ; 
 and was now filling a starving Consulate in Italy, where his 
 mother flattered herself he was safe at least for two or three 
 years to come. 
 
 And as Mrs. Clybourne s ambition had been disappointed in 
 the advancement of her son, so had it been thwarted in the 
 marriage of her eldest girl. The eldest Miss Clybourne had 
 proved neither a beauty nor a genius, and all her mother s 
 clever management failed to make her anything but common 
 place. She was always well dressed ; there were desperate 
 pinchings at home to let her appear properly abroad ; but season 
 after season in town passed by, summer after summer spent at 
 desirable places of resort, and she was still unprovided for. It 
 seemed incredible that such well laid plans should fail, such 
 excellent tact go unrewarded, when so many weaker people 
 succeeded every day ; but, indeed, Susie Clybourne was a heavy 
 boat to steer, a Dutch lugger of the fourteenth century, and 
 her pilot was unable to bring her into port by any of the rules 
 of modern navigation. 
 
 At last, just trembling on the verge of twenty-seven, a happy 
 chance averted the disgrace impending a happy chance, 
 aided by her mother s faithful and ingenious endeavors.
 
 THE CLYBOUBNES. 67 
 
 A dull old widower came home from South America with a 
 respectable little fortune, and was soon made to see he needed 
 a new wife. Susie Clybourne was put in his way, and he mar 
 ried her. But he was rather a poor bargain, even for her ; he 
 was almost a fool, and had no talent for taking care of himself 
 or his money, much less of his wife and children ; he lost half 
 his property before he had been married a year, and would 
 probably have lost the other half before they had been married 
 two, if his mother-in-law had not interposed and looked into 
 his affairs herself. So that the poor lady had now not only 
 her son but her son-in-law and his stupid wife and increasing 
 babies on her mind ; and no one could deny she carried weight 
 in life. 
 
 It was no wonder, then, that upon Madeline, the youngest of 
 the three, her hopes should have been centred. She felt she 
 had a trump now in her hand, which was to repay her for 
 her long-continued run of ill-success. Madeline was a beauty, 
 and clever enough to have shone if she had not been a 
 beauty ; and the prudent mother gave her nights and days to 
 the study of plans for her campaign. 
 
 Her campaign was just opening; everthing looked favorable. 
 To be sure, she was rather younger than Mrs. Clybourne s 
 good sense would have recommended, but then there were 
 reasons to set over against that. Susie s waning had taught 
 her the shortness and high price of youth ; and as for Ma 
 deline s character, it was more formed now than Susie s had 
 been at twenty -five. Passion, imprudence; well, she meant 
 never to have her out of her own sight; if she were watch 
 ful, there would be no trouble from those dangerous things 
 the feelings. Seventeen was early to confront the world, 
 but Madeline was clever beyond her years, and would not fail 
 to fight the battle well. 
 
 She had known, ever since she came to be capable of 
 thinking for herself, what she was intended to accomplish ;
 
 68 THE CLYBOUKN ES. 
 
 what was expected of her by her mother and by all who 
 were interested in her. She was to do with her good looks 
 what her brother had failed to do with his indifferent brains, 
 and what her sister had not had the force to do and that 
 was, to better, in some decided way, the fortunes of the 
 family. She was to marry, that was understood ; tacitly, of 
 course ; for refinement and good taste ruled at home, and such 
 plans are not to be talked about. She looked to no other 
 future, prepared herself for no other contingency. She had 
 no idea of being mercenary, of marrying other than " as her 
 heart inclined ;" she was full of enthusiasm and of innocence ; 
 she dreamed the happiest dreams, wherein walked the master 
 of her heart, crowning her days with the prosperity and 
 plenty that her childhood had felt the absence of. Young 
 heiresses dream of cottages, young cottagers of palaces. Ma 
 deline had felt the pinching of poverty at times too sharply 
 to be enamored of its romantic features. She basked in 
 golden dreams, no less pure and innocent than other chil 
 dren s are, for being golden. That lord of her fancy whom 
 any day might bring, was to give her everything she had 
 not everything that made life warm and beautiful ; he was 
 to satisfy her soul, to gratify her ambition, to give her the 
 thousand pleasures she had so long sighed to have. 
 
 She had been pretty well educated as well as her mother 
 could afford; and had been brought up in many ways sen 
 sibly and thriftily. Mrs. Clybournc s cottage was a model 
 of taste and refinement^ and the family ways were regular 
 and well arranged. Madeline had always had her household 
 duties, and had performed them wonderfully well till the 
 opening of the campaign. Then her mother had relaxed in 
 her requirements and had absolved her from many of her 
 duties, though offering no reason for the change. But Ma 
 deline knew what it meant ; she was ready for the market now, 
 and she must be kept in the finest possible condition.
 
 THE CLYBOUKNES. 69 
 
 These were ugly words, and she did not say them even 
 to herself. She respected her mother, and had been brought 
 up to believe that everything she did was right ; she never 
 dreamed of doubting that this was right, and exactly " as every 
 body" did. For at seventeen it is hard to realize that " every 
 body" can be in the wrong. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman s return to her country place was a very 
 happy event to Mrs. Clybourne. She foresaw great advantages 
 to Madeline if her favor could be secured ; and though she 
 wished very well to the little girl at the Parsonage, she was 
 disturbed by the good impression she had seemed to make on 
 the evening of her debut at the Hill, and she wished, a little 
 selfishly, that she could have been kept in the background for 
 a year or two at least. 
 
 Of Dr. Catherwood she was somewhat distrustful, too ; she 
 admired him a good deal, as everybody else did, but dreaded 
 having Madeline see too much of him. Young girls, she 
 knew, were very apt to fancy men of just his age and manner; 
 and in a country town like that, where people were so much 
 thrown upon each other for amusement, she foresaw great dan 
 ger to her daughter s peace of mind if he should be at all 
 attracted by her, as he evidently was not a marrying man, or 
 at least the kind of a marrying man that it would do for 
 Madeline to think about at all. 
 
 Then this Colonel Steele whom Mrs. Sherman had at pre 
 sent at the Hill, it would be necessary to warn Madeline 
 against him, for he was in pursuit of a fortune for himself, and 
 could not think of marrying her, however much he might 
 admire her. The other one, the holder of Christine s bouquet, 
 was nothing but a miserable literary creature ; Madeline had 
 too much good sense to listen at all to him ; but she was only 
 seventeen, and the man had such a manner of devotion with 
 every woman whom he met. 
 
 Mrs. Clybourne s troubles had begun, she thought with a
 
 70 THE CLYBOUKXES. 
 
 sigh, as she stole in. to look at her pretty daughter as she slept. 
 She wished sincerely she were in pantalettes and short frocks 
 still, and that all this wear and tear of mind had not come 
 upon her. It was a heavy cross ; really her path in life, she 
 thought, had been marked out by a very rigid hand. 
 
 But she was still resolved to sacrifice herself to her duty, 
 come what might ; she had as magnificent a feeling of its 
 sacredness as if her labor had been to provide for eternity 
 instead of this short and uncertain state.
 
 CHRISTINE S BENEFACTRESS. 71 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CHRISTINE S BENEFACTRESS. 
 
 " She bears a purse ; she Is a region hi Guiana, all gold and bounty." 
 
 MEBRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 DR. CATHERWOOD went into the parlor when he came down 
 from Julian s room ; he took a place beside Madeline and made 
 himself very fascinating to her. Mrs. Sherman began imme 
 diately to flagellate him ; now, had Dr. Upham sent him to 
 bring away Christine at twelve lasl night ? 
 
 No, Dr. Upham said in a bewildered way, he did not remem 
 ber having done it ; no, he thought not. 
 
 There ! and there was a great clamor, and Dr. Catherwood 
 found himself au bout de sa patience and then Mrs. Sherman 
 wanted to know, apropos, why Colonel Steele had been so 
 negligent as not to tell her that he knew Dr. Catherwood. 
 They were old friends, she heard through Leslie, and yet, 
 though he had been three days at the Hill, and had heard her 
 speak of Dr. Catherwood twenty times, he had not said he 
 knew him. She did not think he deserved to have him asked 
 to dinner, but nevertheless she would do it. How was it, 
 would he come to-day ? 
 
 Dr. Catherwood was not many minutes in showing her it 
 was impossible for him to do himself that pleasure, having an 
 appointment some ten miles distant for the very hour she 
 dined. 
 
 Christine felt a conviction that he would have had an 
 appointment at a great distance for any hour she could have 
 named.
 
 72 CHEISTINE S BENEFACTRESS. 
 
 Well, then, tant pis pour lui ; lie would miss the society of 
 
 the two prettiest girls in , for she was going to take 
 
 Madeline and Christine home with her, bonyre malyre, and 
 Messrs. Steele and Leslie might congratulate themselves that 
 they would have no rival. 
 
 Christine looked frightened and pleaded Julian, but her father 
 said, " Why not, my dear ?" and left her no resource but Dr. 
 Catherwood, who was not in the mood to help her. She 
 looked at him, and he looked away and talked to Madeline. 
 Her father reiterated his advice, Mrs. Sherman was vehement, 
 the gentlemen were urgent, and poor Christine went miserably 
 up-stairs to dress herself. 
 
 When she left the room, Mrs. Sherman said to the Rector in 
 a tone of much apparent feeling : " Lovely young creature ! 
 Doctor, do you not feel weighed down with the responsibility 
 of providing for her suitably ?" 
 
 Dr. Upham raised his eyes in thoughtful surprise, and said : 
 " How, Madam ?" 
 
 He had never doubted he was providing for her suitably, and 
 this was something of a shock to him. 
 
 " Why," said Mrs. Sherman, hesitatingly, " I mean as regards 
 her future. Just at her age, you know, one must look forward, 
 one must be cautious. Young girls make such rash choices ; it 
 is so necessary that they should be guided. Marriage, you see, 
 is such a lasting good or evil to them." 
 
 The bewilderment went from Dr. Upham s face, and a deep 
 sadness settled on it ; his eyes sought the ground, and for some 
 moments he did not speak. 
 
 " Christine is a mere child," he said, at length. " I have never 
 thought of the possibility of her marrying for years to come ; 
 I do not think I need be disturbed about it yet ; she seems 
 almost a baby to me now." 
 
 " Ah ! seventeen is not a baby, my dear sir. Seventeen is a 
 woman ; seventeen falls in love and marries. Why, poor Helena
 
 CHRISTINE S BENEFACTRESS. 73 
 
 was not so old, you know not so old by a year, when she threw 
 herself away so sadly." 
 
 There was a moment s pause ; if the speaker had been of or 
 dinary make, she could not have resumed in the face of the 
 father s pained expression. Madeline and Dr. Catherwood had 
 ceased talking and were listening half involuntarily, as she went 
 on in an earnest tone, bent simply on carrying through some 
 favorite plan : 
 
 " We cannot blame poor Helena for her choice, nor you, my 
 dear sir, for not preventing such a sacrifice ; you could not, no 
 father can, no man indeed. It needs a mother s care, a woman s 
 tact, to guide and influence, not openly control, a young girl s 
 fancies ; and pardon me, I long to see our dear Christine safe 
 out of the reach of such ruin as her elder sister s. I love the 
 child already. She is a gem ; she must shine, my dear sir ; you 
 cannot hide her. Do not try to, only be cautious and act ad 
 visedly. She must see the world ; let her see it with a friend 
 beside her experienced and faithful ; let her have a woman s 
 care in those temptations and trials of the heart that none but 
 women know. Think what it would have been to your poor 
 lost Helena to have had such guidance and such companion 
 ship." 
 
 The clergyman pressed his hand hastily before his eyes as if 
 it gave him too much pain to listen, and yet as if he dared not 
 bid her to desist. She began to apprehend that she had gone 
 as far as it was decorous to go, and she hastily concluded : 
 
 " You know, my dear sir, I am too blunt and honest to go 
 smoothly in the world. I am not a diplomat ; I speak from my 
 heart. I am all impulse. As far as you will trust your little 
 daughter to me, I am her friend, I am your friend. I will 
 make every effort to shield and protect her as I would shield 
 and protect my own daughter, if I had one. My house is her 
 second home if she will accept it; all the pleasures and ad 
 vantages I can command are at her service. Do not say yes or 
 
 4
 
 74 CHRISTINE S BENEFACTRESS. 
 
 no to me : only remember my offer and the earnestness with 
 which I make it; and whenever you can in any point accept it, 
 reflect that you are doing me the greatest kindness you could 
 have it in your power to do." 
 
 The woman of impulse got up, for Christine, with her bonnet 
 on, was coming down the stairs. She gave both her hands to 
 the Rector and looked at him through eyes that swam with 
 tears. She had talked herself into the belief that she loved 
 Christine, and was going to save her ; she was quite melted 
 with her own eloquence ; besides, she always cried extremely 
 easy, particularly after she had been up late, and was more than 
 ordinarily nervous from any cause whatever. 
 
 Dr. Uphara did not attempt to answer her, but he took her 
 hand in evident agitation, and looked away from Christine, who 
 entered as if the new thoughts connected with her were quite 
 unbearable. 
 
 And when she had been swept away by the gay party, and 
 Dr. Catherwood, throwing himself upon his horse, had gallopped 
 off in an opposite direction, the Rector sank back in his study- 
 chair, and lived over again in bitter thought the remorse and 
 anguish of his first deceived hope. 
 
 Christine, then, had come to years of womanhood ; his pale 
 blossom was flushing into bloom ; his little nun was attracting 
 the glances of the world; his motherless child had come to the 
 same point of danger that had proved fatal to her sister. He 
 almost wished she were lying with the others in the quiet 
 churchyard, " under the long grass of years," her soul safe with 
 her mother s in the paradise of God her place vacant at his 
 side, but her companionship insured to him through the long 
 eternity of heaven. The bitter thought of what might be in 
 store for her in life, took away his faith and strength ; the re 
 membrance of that dark death-bed palsied his powers of hope. 
 
 He had lost one child, lost her he faced it then in all its 
 blackness ; how should he live to see the mortal peril of
 
 CHRISTINE S BENEFACTRESS. 75 
 
 another ? How could he shield her ? Where hide her from 
 the danger that advanced upon her ? They said rightly he was 
 no fit guardian for her ; having let one perish, how should he 
 presume still to keep the other in his charge ? It was true he 
 was unfit ; but to whom give her up ? To this new friend of 
 whom he knew so little ? Could she be better to her than her 
 father? She was a woman, he was a man, sad and old as well ; 
 he was so far removed from her in every way, he hardly under 
 stood her, he could not hope to guide her heart. 
 
 But why need she marry ? Why was it inevitable she should 
 leave ever her quiet home, her safe humility ? Ah ! why had 
 they found her out ? 
 
 He would speak to her, would warn her. 
 
 What ! take all her childish innocence away ? Turn her 
 simple youth to careful womanhood ? No, no, my little girl ; 
 the years full soon 
 
 " will bring the inevitable yoke." 
 
 " Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as lifel" 
 
 Let her be simple still ; let the dark day be unanticipated 
 the evil, evil hour of danger unprovoked. She might have 
 this friendship, but he could not give her up to it; he would 
 watch her as well as he knew how, and keep her from the 
 world as long as possible. 
 
 Then, when she went into it, he would sanctify the air about 
 her with his prayers.
 
 76 THE MILLER S FAMILY. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE MILLER S FAMILY. 
 
 " Qul est bien, qu il s y tienne." 
 
 HARRY GILMORE was the bete noire among the boys of ; 
 
 he was the wickedest and wildest of them all, and he had been 
 little Julian Upham s chosen comrade for the past two years. 
 It was a great scandal to the critical people that the minister 
 should let his grandson keep such company ; but, indeed, the 
 minister did not have much to say about it. It was a law of 
 ancient date that Julian should never, under any circumstances, 
 have anything to do with that young outlaw ; but it had long 
 since gone into oblivion, and was an idle record on the statute- 
 book. Julian was an exceptional child, and could not be bound 
 by laws. " Nae will he minded but his ane," and that led him 
 straight into the society of the miller s boy, and into the wildest 
 kind of brawls with him also. They quarrelled like cata 
 mounts ; they gave each other " bloody noses and cracked 
 crowns," and yet they seemed unable to live out of each other s 
 sight. 
 
 They were both bad boys, but public opinion was divided as 
 to which was worst. Harry, with all his wildness, had not 
 much talent for deceit, and so came oftenest to grief; while 
 Julian was much fonder of telling lies than of doing anything 
 else, and generally came out of scrapes much cleaner than his 
 comrade. One was wicked with the wickedness of a child, the 
 other was vicious with the vice of a matured mind. 
 
 They were very near the same age ; but Harry, brown and
 
 THE MILLER S FAMILY. 77 
 
 ruddy, was a head and shoulders taller than his companion, and 
 looked a well grown lad, while the other seemed still only a 
 curled darling of the nursery. It was in vain Crescens and the 
 household servants counselled him to fight with gentlemen s 
 sons, if he must fight with anybody ; and it was in vain every 
 obstacle was placed in the way of his intercourse with Harry ; 
 Harry haunted the Parsonage garden day and night, and Julian 
 was as much at home in the miller s house as Harry was 
 himself. 
 
 The miller s house was a very good one to have the entree 
 of; it must be confessed ; there were always the very best 
 imaginable cookies in the pantry, and pickles that beggared all 
 description, besides cider in the cellar and an unlimited store 
 of nuts. 
 
 The miller was a mild, easy man, from whom Harry got his 
 blue eyes and his forgiving disposition ; and his wife was a stir 
 ring, energetic, high-tempered woman, from whom the boy 
 inherited the spirit that was always plunging him into trouble 
 and making him restless under authority and rebellious under 
 chastisement. He was the only inheritor of these incongruous 
 qualities ; the hope and ambition of his slow-thinking father 
 and of his vigorous-minded mother, notwithstanding the trouble 
 he had given them. His father stroked his chin mildly and 
 prophesied he d come all right by and by ; but his mother fret 
 ted terribly under the disgrace of his continual misdoings, 
 though she always took his part when he was punished, and 
 encouraged in him the fatal idea that he was not justly dealt 
 with. She felt a continual distrust of her superiors, and 
 brought Harry up to feel that rich people were his natural ene 
 mies, and that he had the same right they had to be of conse 
 quence. 
 
 The fact was, the misfortune of the miller s wife was, that she 
 was the miller s wife. She was a tall, handsome, black-eyed 
 woman, with a will and temper that needed a stronger hand
 
 78 THE MILLER S FAMILY. . 
 
 than Richard Gilmore s to keep down, and she went through life 
 bearing the burden of her great mistake, fretting at her lot, try 
 ing to make up for his short-comings, and corroding the peace of 
 their home by the suggestions of her ambition. Ambition is a 
 very high-bred vice to get into a miller s family, but it is well 
 known to be a very insidious one, and not at all particular as to 
 the company it keeps. Phoebe Gilmore loved her husband, but 
 she was stronger and more developed than he was in every 
 point, and went beyond him, and was unsatisfied, and wore her 
 self out in fretting at his deficiencies. If she had been born in 
 a different station, she might have been a great woman, for she 
 had great qualities ; if she had married another man in the 
 same station in which she was, she might have been a happy 
 woman, for she had strong affections. 
 
 Her restless energy had some good effects, however ; it stimu 
 lated her husband to exertions he would never have made with 
 out it ; she gave him no peace till he had paid off his old debts 
 and begun to lay up something for his boy. The mill and house 
 belonged to the Sherman estate, and the agent being well dis 
 posed towards Richard, it had been let to him on easy terms, so 
 that he was, all things considered, doing well for himself, and 
 his wife ought to have been satisfied. 
 
 Mrs. Gilmore looked with a doubtful eye upon Harry s inti 
 macy with Julian ; sometimes she fancied it would be a good 
 thing for him, and help him to rise a little when they were both 
 grown up ; but more times she condemned it in her stubborn 
 pride as a misfortune to the boy in every way, an intercourse 
 only destined to last while they were children, and to be repu 
 diated when Julian was old enough to discriminate high friends 
 from low ones. She had played when she was a school-girl with 
 Julian s mother, and had been treated with contempt by the fine 
 young lady when she was grown up. Therefore she knew what 
 was in store for Harry, unless she managed to get him a good 
 education and start him in the world respectably and early.
 
 THE MILLER S FAMILY. 79 
 
 She was always suspecting a prejudice against Harry at the Par 
 sonage, and could not believe that the objections entertained 
 there against their intercourse had foundation in anything but 
 the difference of their station. 
 
 It was in vain that Dr. Upham repeatedly explained to her 
 that the boys had a bad influence upon each other ; that Julian 
 was as much, if not more at fault than Harry ; and that if they 
 were differently disposed regarding mischief, there was no one s 
 child whom he would have welcomed as a playmate for his 
 grandson more cordially than hers. But she could not be con 
 vinced, or rather could not stay convinced, two hours after she 
 was out of the good Doctor s presence. She treated Julian with 
 severity when he came to the mill, and forbade Harry to go 
 near the Parsonage ; but she might have saved herself the 
 trouble, for all she said and did went for nothing with the boys. 
 They robbed birds nests in company, they filched apples, they 
 scrawled on walls, they unhinged gates, they plundered melon 
 patches, they murdered cats, always antagonistic and only held 
 together by a common propensity for doing wrong. The Rector 
 was grieved by his grandson s lawless ways, but he looked upon 
 them with something of the miller s mild philosophy ; while 
 Christine, though in a very different way, took them almost as 
 much to heart as Harry s mother did. She was terribly dis 
 turbed at the first symptoms of his perverse inclinations, and as 
 they developed themselves more strongly, she was frightened 
 and sore at heart. Her sensitive conscience was in an agony 
 for his sins continually ; she felt she did not understand him, 
 that she had no influence upon him, that she was not doing her 
 duty to him, while her father s composure made her feel she 
 must exaggerate the danger, and that she was in fault in some 
 way not to be as hopeful as he was. 
 
 From Dr. Catherwood, when at last she had brought herself 
 to speak to him of faults that, with the true mother instinct, she 
 bad tried to hide from all the world, she had received a great
 
 80 THE MILLER S FAMILY. 
 
 deal of comfort. He had told her not to try to understand boy- 
 nature, not to be horrified at the enormities it displayed ; to take 
 it as a certain truth that boys are judged by a different measure 
 from their softer-hearted sisters, and do not come to years of 
 responsibility half as soon. He assured her he had spent years 
 of his life robbing birds nests, unhinging gates, plundering 
 melon patches, and had had no warnings from his conscience of 
 its sinfalness ; boys consciences were so curiously constructed, 
 no woman could ever possibly hope to understand their work 
 ings. Christine had been very much relieved by this confession 
 of his early wickedness, but had asked doubtfully if he had told 
 falsehoods, too, without any provocation or occasion, and been 
 vicious and disrespectful and unloving? He had answered 
 rather evasively, but had managed to satisfy her, and she had 
 felt, after that, as if half the burden were removed. 
 
 He did not manage to satisfy himself, however; he saw in 
 the boy Julian indications of a spirit he understood, from per 
 sonal experience, almost as little as his young aunt did. There 
 was a warp somewhere in him, a distortion that time was not 
 correcting, an elfin nature growing up stealthily beside the 
 boy-nature and whispering evil to it night and day, twisting 
 and dwarfing and marring it. The poison of his early child 
 hood had entered every vein ; half he had inherited in his 
 mother s blood, half she had engrafted upon his impressionable 
 infancy. In body as in mind he was strange and complicated ; 
 needing the tenderest care, the firmest control, the coolest 
 judgment ; he absorbed insensibly the time and thought of all 
 around him ; ungrateful and unloving, he yet bound all to him 
 with the strongest ties. His delicacy, his helplessness during 
 his frequent illnesses, his great beauty, his inexplicable vagaries, 
 his very elfishness, made him fascinating to every one who 
 was brought in contact with him. The townspeople called 
 him "little Prince," the schoolboys jeered him for his fine 
 clothes and yellow curls, the old gossips shook their heads
 
 THE MILLER S FAMILY. 81 
 
 and said hard things about his future ; but one and all looked 
 after him with involuntary admiration, and with few excep 
 tions bent before his will when it came in contact with their 
 
 own. 
 
 4*
 
 82 THE RECTOR S RESIGNATION. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE RECTOR S RESIGNATION. 
 
 " Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become, 
 As they draw near to their eternal home ; 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
 That stand upon the threshold of the new." 
 
 WALLER. 
 . x 
 
 " CATHERWOOD," said the Rector, dropping absently a second 
 lump of sugar in his cup of cafe noir and drawing it towards 
 him as he leaned back in his chair, " I have concluded it is 
 right ; you will not doubt me when I say I had a hard fight 
 to come to it." 
 
 "To come to what, my dear sir?" asked Dr. Catherwood, 
 looking up with a little wonder. 
 
 They were all alone, and Dr. Catherwood could not quite 
 decide from his companion s tone whether some after-dinner 
 confidence was coming, or merely the statement of some newly 
 defined principle in ecclesiastical polity. Christine was away, 
 taking dinner at the Hill ; it was only a fortnight since the 
 first one, and this was the fourth or fifth ; by which it will 
 be seen that Mrs. Sherman had had good success in her nego 
 tiations with the Rector. Julian had slid out of the room with 
 his pockets full of desirable plunder from the table soon after 
 the dessert came in ; the maid-servant having brought in the 
 coffee, had at last retired, and the two gentlemen were left alone 
 in the pleasant dining-room. The windows opened upon the 
 garden, now in all the beauty of the midsummer ; the furniture 
 of the room was old-fashioned and clumsy ; so was the service
 
 THE RECTOR S RESIGNATION . ed 
 
 of the table, but rich and elegant in an old-fashioned way. 
 There was but one decanter of wine before them, but its odor 
 and its color showed it had " grown fat on Lusitanian summers." 
 There was fruit in a heavy silver dish, and the coffee was 
 served in dainty little cups of India china. And the waitress 
 had put a stand of cigars on the table, and there was every 
 thing propitious for an undisturbed luxurious hour of quiet. 
 
 "A hard fight to come to what, my dear sir?" said the 
 guest, with interest and perhaps a little shade of apprehen 
 sion. 
 
 " To come to the decision that it is my duty to give up and 
 let them send for Saul. Nay more, to go and fetch him to 
 them, and pour the oil upon his head with my own hands. 
 I begin to distrust myself sadly, Catherwood ; perhaps I have held 
 out too long ; but up to the present time I have felt I really 
 was not selfish. Now I see we must not be Providence for 
 people ; we have no right to say they shall be saved our way ; 
 who knows, there may be something new will touch them ; 
 there is a great deal I have left unsaid ; perhaps some younger 
 man can say it better. At all events, he shall have the chance ; 
 I am not any longer to be in the way of those who ask a newer 
 and more stirring method ; I have sent for my vestry ; in half 
 an hour I must go and meet them, and leave you to your cigar 
 alone." 
 
 " But, my dear sir," said his companion earnestly, " are you 
 sure this is well digested? Are you not doing this because it is 
 a sacrifice, and because you feel you would rather err on the 
 safe side to yourself? Make yourself quite sure of that, I beg 
 of you, before you publish this resolution. One is so apt, my 
 good sir, to be in a hurry to clear one s self of a temptation, 
 even at the risk of giving a wrong judgment for the benefit of 
 others. Consider you are dealing with minds that are as 
 children s in comparison with your own ; do not let their impor 
 tunity or their vacillation influence you unduly. This is a most
 
 84 THE RECTOR S RESIGNATION. 
 
 important step. Have you been able to look at it, putting 
 yourself entirely out of mind ?" 
 
 " It is my belief I have done so ; I believe that I am doing 
 right. The strongest of us can ask no more than light enough 
 to do that faithfully. You know it is not a new thought with 
 me. I have been looking at it from a thousand points of view. 
 I have been studying it every day since I first began to see I 
 did not satisfy the younger and more unstable of my flock, and 
 now I can no longer feel doubt enough to permit me to remain 
 their pastor. There is a great deal of talent and earnestness in 
 the Church, Catherwood, and there is no reason that we should 
 not get a man who can do them all good ; they need a stimu 
 lant, perhaps. I myself may be better for a change." 
 
 "But, my dear sir," said his companion, in an anxious tone, 
 " you are too old for such a change as this you will not under 
 take another charge you cannot bear this transplanting at your 
 age. You cannot mean to leave this house the comforts you 
 have gathered round you your daughter s home the home of 
 all who have gone before you. It is not right ; believe me, it 
 is not." 
 
 A shade of agitation crossed the Rector s face, but presently 
 gave way again to the calm of his habitual look. 
 
 "It will depend upon my successor, somewhat, whether I am 
 compelled to leave my home. I shall not undertake another 
 charge ; I feel myself unequal to it, and I would fain stay in this 
 house, if any arrangement can be made to do it. No doubt I 
 have a right to ; it is virtually Christine s, but it ought to be the 
 Parsonage if a man of family comes to keep it up. I shall tell 
 them so. I mean to give it up to the Church. There is no 
 other suitable residence in the place. It is useless to talk about 
 it. Christine is a brave little girl; she will not make it any 
 harder for me. No doubt it is well to crucify this cowardice 
 this tenderness for the past this living on the memories of 
 what God has taken. I doubt if it is healthy ; perhaps it haa
 
 THE RECTOR S RESIGNATION. 85 
 
 been bad for Christine. I am afraid she is not like other 
 children of her age ; she needs life ; she has had only shadows 
 heretofore. Perhaps it will be better for her to be taken away 
 from here ; perhaps it will be as well for me. The Lord that 
 has been wise in the past will be merciful in the future." 
 
 There was a long silence. Dr. Catherwood sat looking fix 
 edly before him, his glass of wine untasted at his side. The 
 Rector remained motionless for a long while ; at last raised hia 
 coffee to his lips and drank it off; then rising, said, "Shall I 
 find you here when I come back ?" while he glanced towards the 
 clock. 
 
 He was not very attentive to his guest s answer ; it was half- 
 past three, the hour for the vestry meeting, and, taking up his 
 hat, he went out of the room. Dr. Catherwood pressed his 
 hand before his eyes for a moment with an impatient, gloomy 
 look ; then rising, walked over to the window, and watched his 
 host slowly following the path that led across the garden to the 
 churchyard gate. His step was heavy and unwilling, his face 
 sad beyond expression. He looked down the sunny walks, and 
 seemed to hear again the voices of his lost children playing 
 there. He pushed aside the honeysuckle that drooped across 
 the gateway the honeysuckle that his young wife s hand had 
 planted ; and then his eye fell on the grass-grown mounds 
 within, sleeping in the shadow of the church dear beyond 
 belief to him, sacred as no other earth could be. 
 
 Ah ! the children of strangers would soon be playing among 
 the garden walks ; the eyes of those who had no tender memo 
 ries to soften them, would daily fall upon those grassy graves ; 
 the feet that had trod that churchyard path for forty faithful 
 years, must turn into new and unaccustomed ways. But, 
 patience ! This land of shadows will soon be past ; the abiding 
 City, the better country, is not far off; an earthly home that 
 is, an inn ; a heavenly one that is, Love s blessed rest and 
 sanctuary.
 
 86 DK. UPHAM S SUCCESSOE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 DR. UPHAM S SUCCESSOR. 
 
 " Le roi ett mort Dive le roi I" 
 
 IT was the third Sunday after Trinity, a beautiful July day, and 
 the new minister was to make his debut ; consequently the 
 church was very full. Mrs. Sherman was in a flutter of enthu 
 siasm, for the new minister was a proteye of hers, and she 
 arrived earlier than she had ever been known to arrive at 
 church before. 
 
 The Clybourne pew was full, Susie and her husband and two 
 of the little girls having driven over from their country home at 
 
 B to hear the young minister s first sermon. This was a 
 
 proof of the importance of the occasion, for it was a long drive 
 in warm weather, and Susie had not often force enough to get 
 herself ready in time. Her husband had very much the features 
 and expression of an old sheep ; Madeline despised him too 
 much to sit in the pew with him, and was impolite enough to go 
 over to Mrs. Sherman s the moment he came in, shaking herself 
 clear of the two children, who grabbed her unceremoniously, 
 and passing Susie with a little nod. She was at the age that 
 cannot understand that stupid people have any right to live. 
 Her mother watched her with a grave face ; she rather admired 
 her self-will and high spirit, it seemed so young, and from her 
 point of view was almost picturesque ; but still she dreaded its 
 effects. 
 
 Madeline was not only very perverse about her brother-in-law, 
 but she had a very well developed contempt for many of the
 
 DR. UPHAM S SUCCESSOR. 87 
 
 decencies of modern life ; among others, for that of going to 
 church on week days, teaching in parish schools, and visiting 
 sick old women. She did not take kindly to the refined semi- 
 religious fashionable young-lady life that was held up to her, 
 and Mrs. Clybourne had ceased to insist upon her following it. 
 She generally came to church on Sunday morning, and spent 
 the afternoon in writing letters. She laughed at the old women 
 and the Dorcas work-basket, and did not make it a point of 
 conscience to conceal the fact that Dr. Upham s sermons made 
 her very sleepy, and that she thought the service was into 
 lerably long. 
 
 It must be confessed she had not very prepossessing forms of 
 religious character about her. Susie had always been orthodox 
 about the old women and the parish school, and her brother-in- 
 law was a vestryman, warden, or something of that sort. Mrs. 
 Sherman was a sentimental, emotional, high-church woman ; 
 and as for her mother Maddy respected and loved her mother, 
 but her practice did not inspire her with much enthusiasm for 
 her religious faith. 
 
 She had always had, though, a vague, groping hope strug 
 gling upwards through the vanities and follies of her soul, that 
 there was something beautiful and good in religion after all, and 
 that she should some time reach to the knowledge of it. But 
 something very different from the religion that she saw about 
 her. 
 
 She wondered what the young clergyman would be like ; she 
 was prepared to ridicule him very much and to make him ter 
 ribly afraid of her ; she had given Mrs. Sherman warning that 
 she meant to make his life a burden to him ; nevertheless she 
 thought with satisfaction that her toilette was very happy, and 
 that the Sherman pew was more prominent than any in the 
 church except the Rector s. 
 
 In the* Rector s pew sat Dr. Upham himself; the painful 
 nightmare of exile had passed, and he still found himself undis-
 
 88 DR. UPHAM S SUCCESSOR. 
 
 turbed in his old home. His resignation had. surprised all the 
 disaffected out of their plottings against him, and had roused all 
 the loyal into enthusiasm, and they had unanimously refused to 
 accept it. This had not shaken his resolution, however ; he 
 only yielded to their solicitation far enough to agree to keep the 
 parsonage, and to consider himself as resting temporarily from 
 the duties of his charge while his successor occupied the pulpit 
 for a year or two on trial. 
 
 The Rector acceded with his benevolent mild smile to this 
 view of the case ; but he knew his day was over, and that his 
 work was ended there. Indeed the animation with which they 
 set about finding a suitable successor did not look very much as 
 if he were meant to be only temporary. There was plotting 
 and counter-plotting, and wire-pulling and intriguing, among the 
 friends of the opposing candidates, for the charge of St. Philip s 
 was considered a very comfortable and altogether a desira 
 ble charge in clerical circles, and ever since the news of Dr. Up- 
 ham s resignation had been afloat, there had been many disen 
 gaged eyes turned affectionately towards it. Two weeks had 
 been spent in wrangling over generalities, two weeks more in a 
 close race between a first-class high-church elocutionist and a 
 popular evangelical revolutionist. Both these, however, were 
 thrown over by the sudden and unexpected withdrawal of the 
 Sherman influence, which was fixed upon a new and undis- 
 cussed candidate a "youth to fortune and to fame unknown," 
 new-fledged from the seminary, just trying his wings on a short 
 flight. Before any one knew exactly what was under discussion 
 he was called, had accepted, and was expected to arrive among 
 them. It was all done in a masterly way ; the lancet was so 
 sharp the defrauded majority had not felt any pain till every 
 thing was over, and they found they had been cheated out of 
 any voice in the affair. Owing to this fermentation, the young 
 divine was not destined to step into a very peaceful parish ; but 
 of the disturbed state of feeling among his parishioners he was
 
 DR. UPHAM S SUCCESSOR. 89 
 
 kept in happy ignorance till he became intimate enough with 
 them to hear the story from each one with embellishments, and to 
 be warned against every person with whom he had anything to do. 
 
 But this was the awakening ; on the morning of his first com 
 ing into the old church, with its well filled pews, its venerable 
 altar, its open sunshiny windows, and its green embowering shade 
 around, the Reverend Mr. Brockhulst felt as if the lines had 
 fallen to him in pleasant places, and as if he had, indeed, a 
 goodly heritage. He had about as clear an idea of the duties 
 and trials of a parish priest, as a young bride has of the duties 
 and trials of housekeeping before she enters on them. The 
 young bride has a general idea of a bright fire, cheerful lamp, 
 flowers upon the table, pink curtains in her dressing-room, and 
 company to dinner every day ; the young clergyman had a 
 vague picture in his mind of an ivied porch, a rustic flock, 
 sweet babies to be christened, hoary-headed pilgrims to be laid 
 in churchyard ground, Christmas feasts at which his presence 
 would be the crowning joy, Lenten services in which pastor and 
 people both would go down upon their knees in penitence and 
 chant the Miserere in a minor key. He was but twenty-three 
 years old, ordained only a month before, a student up to the 
 very moment of his ordination ; of an enthusiastic poetic mind, 
 and as ignorant of human nature as if he had been Robinson 
 Crusoe s eldest son. 
 
 Everything was new to him but study, life, action, the face 
 of nature ; everything wore the glory and the freshness of a 
 dream. He had a good deal of talent^ and in the seminary 
 was looked upon as very promising ; he had been religious and 
 pure-minded from his childhood, and had never had a thought 
 of any other career than the one for which he had been brought 
 up. He was unpractical, which was not his fault, considering 
 he had never had to do with anything but theories ; he had an 
 ideal, which was natural, but he was wedded to it, which was 
 unfortunate.
 
 90 DR. UPHAM S SUCCESSOR. 
 
 His voice was perfect, lie read to the admiration of his listen 
 ers; his manner was earnest, nai ve, and touching ; his face was 
 boyish, delicate, and beautiful. What he had to say was very 
 well, rather young and a good deal decorated, but the voice 
 and the manner and the face made it like the message of an 
 angel, and the congregation went home enchanted. With 
 some few exceptions ; there were several tiresomely critical 
 people who brushed aside the graceful drapery of manner, and 
 looked at the bare thought, and said " Well ?" in an interroga 
 tive and doubtful tone. There were other practical ones who 
 said they had not heard any news, and some, again, who had 
 grown so used to the old Rector s quiet, thoughtful, suggestive 
 sermons, that they could not get in love at once with anything 
 so different. Still, all felt the influence of the new minister s 
 earnestness, all yielded more or less to the magnetism of his 
 warm enthusiasm, and all went home with strong though 
 diverse impressions of his character.
 
 ST. PHILIP S IX NEW HAXDS. 91 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ST. PHILIP S IN NEW HANDS. 
 
 " More belongs to riding than a pair of boots." 
 
 REFORMS began ; Mrs. Sherman was inspired .with new life 
 by the tide of excitement rushing into the recent vacuum in 
 the church ; she found herself full of occupation, and conse 
 quently much happier than she ordinarily was. She felt that 
 the whole church rested on her shoulders ; she wondered how 
 it had ever existed before she took it up. She always spoke of 
 Dr. TJpham as her poor dear old friend, and of the present 
 incumbent as her beloved pastor. 
 
 She aimed to make herself popular with the people of the 
 town, and visited those whom she had never visited before. 
 She played the gracious lady right and left, and made herself 
 conspicuous in all charitable matters. She reorganized the 
 Sunday-school, remodelled the Dorcas enterprise, and made a 
 complete bouleversement in the matter of the choir. She also 
 instituted great changes in the hours of service ; the old bell, 
 which for forty years had rung its daily summons at the com 
 fortable and common sensical hour of nine, now yawned out a 
 call to prayers at six ; the Sunday evening service was changed 
 from four to five, to accommodate the Hill ; while most of the 
 humbler worshippers of St. Philip s had to stay at home to boil 
 the kettle for the evening meal. She swept the besom of de 
 struction through the chancel, and gave the vestry no rest day 
 or night till they consented to allow her to remodel it and she 
 did everything with the air and manner of a pioneer and as if
 
 92 ST. PHILIP S IN NEW HANDS. 
 
 nobody had ever done anything before her, and made the peo 
 ple who had been in the church for years feel exceedingly irate 
 and uncomfortable. 
 
 Still, only one dared openly to oppose her ; one who would 
 have had the moral courage to have opposed a locomotive under 
 a full head of steam if she had conceived it to be getting in her 
 way at all. This lady, who had long been a leader in the af 
 fairs secular and spiritual of St. Philip s, named herself Van 
 Kiper. She was a widow, without any children, with very lit 
 tle money, and with as few inducements to continue a residence 
 in the flesh as can be imagined. Nobody entertained the least 
 affection for her, and she seemed quite free from any tender 
 nesses of that sort herself. Still, she did a great deal of good in 
 her own hard way, and was considered generally a very excel 
 lent person. She was as strong as a horse, and could stand 
 from morning till night cutting out work for the Dorcas, or 
 measuring school children for their clothes. Her mind was as 
 tough as her body ; she was secretary and treasurer of every 
 thing, and carried the most intricate accounts in her head 
 without the least confusion. She was tall and sallow, had a 
 heavy energetic tread, and always wore a black bonnet and a 
 broche shawl. The young people in the parish, who did not 
 like her at all, were in the habit of calling her " the Bishop." 
 When the little sarcasm reached her ears (which were so keen 
 nothing ever escaped them long), it seemed to gratify her, if 
 one could presume to say anything ever gratified her. For 
 years she had done a full half of all the lay work that was done 
 in the parish. Dr. Upham had great confidence in her judg 
 ment and ability, and a certain sort of respect for her unflinch 
 ing independence ; and a good deal of the regret that he felt at 
 the dissolution of his cabinet came from the thought that she 
 must go out with him. 
 
 For that she must go out no one could for a moment doubt. 
 Mrs. Sherman had early taken a violent dislike to her, and she
 
 ST. PHILIP S IN NEW HANDS. 93 
 
 had early set her face sternly against Mrs. Sherman s inter 
 ference. The two were incongruous, to say it in the softest 
 way. When they came in contact there was an explosion, an 
 explosion that shook the parish to its foundation, and all the 
 peaceable-minded turned their attention to keeping them apart 
 as much as might be. Mrs. Sherman, of course, triumphed ; 
 she had all the young people on her side, and all the people 
 that were ambitious of being invited to the Hill, and she had 
 the new minister s approval also, and the conservative voice 
 was drowned. 
 
 It may seem a little weak on the part of the new minister 
 that he let Mrs. Sherman rule him so completely ; but there 
 are a good many things to be considered. In the first place, 
 he had no idea that she was ruling him ; he thought he was 
 having everything entirely as he wanted it himself. In the 
 second place, he sympathized in a thousand ways with Mrs. 
 Sherman, and he found himself terribly chilled and discon 
 certed by the old cabinet, with Mrs. Van Riper at their head. 
 He was quite unused to the society of ladies, and so was per 
 fectly intoxicated with his first draught of it at the Hill. Mrs. 
 Sherman was a miracle of goodness, generosity, and enthusiasm. 
 Christine, Madeline, the young girls that he met there ah, 
 there were no words for them ; they all wore yet, indeed, the 
 glory and the freshness of a dream. He felt as if he were in 
 fairy land, and Mrs. Sherman his good genius. There never 
 was a young deacon, surely, with such magical surroundings. 
 
 There was no wish that was not gratified, no fancy that was 
 not carried out for him. Money, that comes so hard at the 
 bidding of most young clergymen, flowed into his hands at the 
 mere opening of his lips. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman always expected to pay high for the indul 
 gence of her taste, and this ecclesiastical mania was certainly an 
 expensive one ; but she did not mind, and the Judge, her hus 
 band, was glad of anything that kept her quietly at home. It
 
 94 ST. PHILIP S IN NEW HANDS. 
 
 was as easy for him to be paying for school-room decorations, 
 strawberry festivals, fonts, altar cloths, and organs, as for coup&s, 
 saddle-horses, works of art, or boxes at the opera ; and certainly 
 it had this advantage, that it allowed him a little rest, and pro 
 mised to give him at least six months in one place, a luxury to 
 which he had long been unaccustomed. 
 
 Perhaps it was a weak thing for Mr. Brockhulst to be so 
 much under the influence of such a woman ; but how was he 
 to know, pray, that she was such a woman ? How is pure- 
 minded, cloistered twenty-three to judge correctly of worldly- 
 wise, strong-willed, scheming forty -five ? It would have been 
 better for the parish if he had understood and withstood ; but 
 the age of miracles is past, they say, and Mr. Brockhulst only 
 did what every man, lay or clerical, of his years, would have 
 done namely, walked straight into the trap, and thought him 
 self in paradise till he began to see he could not get out. Dr. 
 Upham should have warned him, perhaps. But then Dr. 
 Upham was a little blinded by Mrs. Sherman s blandishments 
 himself, and only saw half her faults, and regretted, most of 
 all, her want of judgment and discretion. Of these, he did try 
 delicately to hint to his young successor ; but he, alas ! had 
 heard so much of the dear old Rector s inefficiency and want of 
 zeal, that his mir.d was not quite in a state to be benefited by 
 his moderate counsels; and soon the Doctor began to think it 
 was no longer his part to make suggestions ; that no young man 
 could be expected patiently to receive the counsels of one not 
 legally placed over him ; and so, by degrees, he withdrew him 
 self more and more from parish affairs, and only used his influ- 
 ejice to soothe and keep peace among those who had not 
 benefited by the change in the administration ; and as time 
 went on, the necessity for this exertion did not decrease. 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst s salary was small ; the Rector s having lived 
 on his own property had given the parish a much better look 
 than it would otherwise have had. So that it had been con-
 
 ST. PHILIP S IK NEW HANDS. 95 
 
 eluded by the vestry that, for the first year or two, till the 
 parish was built up a little, it would be expedient for any young 
 man assuming the charge of it, to assume also a class of boys 
 for a few hours in the day, to eke out the salary by the compen 
 sation he would receive. There was no good boys school in 
 
 , and most of the vestrymen had boys, so that it is possible 
 
 they were not altogether disinterested in the matter. Mr. 
 Brockhulst willingly assumed the duty ; he would have will 
 ingly assumed the care of six schools, and as many hospitals 
 and almshouses, if it had been proposed to him, and would 
 have died in consequence with pleasure. He did not value his 
 life at all in comparison with his duty, and had no idea but to 
 spend and be spent in the service of his Lord. He rose at day 
 break, and went to bed long after midnight ; he taught the class 
 of boys from nine to one ; he looked after the parish-school and 
 the Sunday-school, and visited the poor and sick most faithfully ; 
 he had two services every day, and preached twice on Sunday, 
 and yet he felt that he was by no means coming up to his ideal. 
 With these views, it was no wonder that the Doctor s mode 
 rate counsels fell coldly on his ear, and that as time passed on, 
 he came less and less frequently to him for direction and advice. 
 It was very natural, the Doctor said to himself, trying to reason 
 away the pain he felt ; it was very natural ; at his age he would 
 no doubt have done the same ; newly wedded people should be 
 left to themselves, and so should newly wedded flock and pastor. 
 What was youth without self-confidence ? as unnatural as age 
 without caution and timidity. 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst was a very good teacher, the paternal vestry 
 men soon found ; the boys were pushed forward very rapidly, 
 and were quite enraptured with their studies. All but Julian, 
 who was for ever in difficulties, and about whom the young 
 clergyman was very much perplexed. It was a delicate thing 
 to send the Rector s grandson home every week with a bad 
 report, and to have to keep him in four days out of five ; but
 
 96 ST. PHILIP S IN NEW HANDS. 
 
 still it was something that must be done, and the Rector had 
 given him to understand lie wished no difference made in any way. 
 
 Upon this he had acted strictly at first, but by-and-by it 
 came to lean a little to the other side of justice, and he did 
 make a difference in his treatment of Julian ; but it was not a 
 difference in favor of Julian or in deference to his grand 
 father s high station in the church. Julian was the worst 
 child in the world, by great odds, but that was no reason why 
 his occasional lucid intervals should be overclouded with injus 
 tice and something that had a little the look of persecution. 
 He was unbearably exasperating about little things, but all 
 his crimes were not capital, and it was not calculated to 
 improve him to have them treated as if they were ; it rather 
 mixed things up in his mind. The good and pure-minded 
 young parson was as much bewildered and horror-stricken 
 as was Christine at the boy s depravity ; but he did not feel 
 himself at liberty, for example s sake, to treat it as tenderly 
 as she did, and so he got into the way of treating it with 
 greater severity than the occasion required, and making an ex 
 ample of him ; and being made an example of, is about as 
 unprofitable a course as any child can be subjected to. 
 
 But soon a partner came to share the honors of iniquity 
 with Julian : Harry Gilmore was taken from the district school, 
 where he was not doing anything but tearing his trowsers and 
 scratching names on his desk, to become a member of Mr. 
 Brockhulst s class of boys, and to be educated like a gentleman. 
 The miller shook his head ; he had been shaking it steadily 
 ever since the class had been formed, and the idea had entered 
 his wife s brain ; he had been firmer about it than about any 
 thing else he had ever attempted to oppose her in ; but in the 
 nature of things heads cannot shake for ever, and sieges must be 
 raised some time. At the end of a month the miller gave in, 
 but with a gloomy and unsatisfied demeanor. 
 
 " Phoebe, it s the first wrong step," he said ; but he said no
 
 ST. PHILIP S IN NEW HANDS. 97 
 
 more, and never reproached her with it afterwards. He made 
 no demur about the money, although the mill had not done 
 very well that year, and it would have been better to have re 
 trenched than expanded at just that point. 
 
 Dr. Upham, when he had heard of the arrangement, put on 
 his hat and walked down to the miller s house to see if it were 
 too late to remonstrate against it. But it was ; it would have 
 been too late a month ago ; and all Mrs. Gilmore s pride flamed 
 up to resent the interference, if anything so delicate and pastoral 
 could be called an interference. 
 
 And Harry became a member of Mr. Brockhulst s class of 
 boys, and partner in especial of Julian Upham and the enemy 
 of peace.
 
 98 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 
 
 " Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 
 
 Old Time Is still a-flying : 
 And this same flower that smiles to-day, 
 To-morrow will be dying." 
 
 HEBBIOK. 
 
 " WHAT shall you wear, do you think ?" asked Madeline, 
 sauntering through the Parsonage garden late in the afternoon 
 with her now dear friend Christine. 
 
 " Oh, I have not thought," said Christine, stooping to pick 
 some heliotrope that grew beside the path. "At the fair, you 
 mean ?" 
 
 "Why, yes, of course I mean that; what else should I mean, 
 when I haven t been talking of anything else for the last hour? 
 Though, in truth, I believe you haven t been hearing a word 
 I ve said." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I have," said Christine, faintly though in truth she 
 had been very absent, and her face had a slight shade on it. 
 
 " I never saw a girl who thought so little of such things," 
 went on Madeline, with some warmth. " I sometimes conclude 
 we haven t anything in common. What is it makes you dif 
 ferent ! Do you think it s wrong to care about your clothes ?" 
 
 "Why no, I do care about them. I always notice what 
 other people wear, and want to look as well myself; you know 
 that, I m sure," she said, making an effort to be interested. 
 "Now tell me what dress you mean to have for the fair you 
 wear your bonnet, don t you ?" 
 
 " Pourquoi done ? To rumple my hair for the evening ? No,
 
 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 99 
 
 indeed Mrs. Sherman is going to let her maid dress my hair, 
 and I shall wear my claret-colored organdie and the garnet set 
 that Raymond sent last month. I tell you in confidence, I 
 mean to make an end of little Brockhulst ; I mean to put him 
 out of his misery ; he will die when he sees me in those garnets." 
 
 " You ought to be ashamed," said Christine, with a little 
 laugh, tying the heliotrope together. 
 
 " Oh, ought I? Well, I m not; seriously, Christine, don t you 
 think that garnets are becoming, to people of my tint, you 
 know ? Then I ve an idea that I shall take Susie s thread lace 
 shawl (where s the use of a married sister if you can t use her 
 things ?), and that lovely parasol she had when she was married ; 
 she hasn t had a chance to use it half-a-dozen times. It s well 
 to have the parasol at hand, though we shan t need it in the 
 tent ; but I don t mean to stay in the tent all the time, I can 
 assure you. I mean to walk with Colonel Steele and all the 
 others through the grounds, and make Brockhulst go quite 
 insane with jealousy. Poor fellow ! Christine, ought I to be 
 ashamed ?" 
 
 I shall not tell you ; you like to be scolded about him, and 
 it only seems to make you worse." 
 
 " Oh, you clever creature," cried Maddy, with a coquettish 
 laugh ; " I absolutely am afraid of you, you see through people 
 so. It s a pity we are to have the same table at the fair ; 
 it will make me uneasy all the time to think you have your 
 eyes upon me. But, honestly, don t you think my dress will 
 be enchanting ? I have not settled on the color of my gloves ; 
 that s the worst feature of claret for a dress, it is so hard to 
 find a pretty shade of kid to go with it. Pearl would have 
 been my choice, pearl worked with claret, but I doubt if I can 
 find it ; ah, Christine, if I could have my gloves from Paris 
 always ! That s my dream, you know." 
 
 "Well, it s evident you won t realize it if you marry Mr. 
 Brockhulst."
 
 100 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 
 
 " Marry Mr. Brockhnlst ! Ob, you are too innocent to live. 
 Fancy me the parson s wife, presiding at the Dorcas in pearl- 
 colored kid gloves and garnets. There ! there s the six o clock 
 bell for prayers. Run in and get your bonnet, and we ll go 
 through the garden way. I ll wait for you here at the gate." 
 
 And while Christine went in for her bonnet, Madeline waited 
 for her at the gate that separated the churchyard from the 
 Parsonage garden. The honeysuckle that was trained above it 
 was now in full bloom, and the gate was low and rather of the 
 order that we see in pictures ; so that, as the young minister 
 came slowly and thoughtfully through the churchyard towards 
 the vestry-room door, he caught sight of something that 
 "struck a bliss on all the day," that made him forget the 
 schoolboys and the forfeit lessons and the unwritten ser 
 mon on his study-table. Madeline met his eye half timidly, 
 half brightly. She was so beautiful, she would have turned 
 any man s head ; and, despite her saucy raillery, she had a little 
 sentiment about the young divine which gave her a softness 
 that she lacked with others. 
 
 He came towards her quickly and took her hand, the hand 
 that had rested on the gate ; the other was occupied with hold 
 ing her fringed parasol between her and just one stray gleam of 
 sunshine that was finding its way down through the honey 
 suckle. 
 
 " You are coming in to prayers ?" he said, not knowing ex 
 actly what he said though, as he touched her ungloved hand. 
 
 " In a moment," she said, caring very little what he talked 
 about, as long as he stayed there at the gate till Christine 
 came. 
 
 In fact they were just where words are only useful to con 
 ceal thoughts, not to expound them. 
 
 " you were not at prayers this morning." 
 
 " Oh, no. It rained, you know, and mamma would not let me 
 come. Mamma is such a tyrant."
 
 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 101 
 
 The bell began to toll ; in a moment more he would have to 
 go, and Madeline resolved he should not, till Christine came 
 back; she was very jealous of her power to please him; besides, 
 the minutes she passed with him were sweeter than ordinary 
 minutes, there was not any doubt, so she profited by a happy 
 accident and exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Brockhulst ! look at my parasol how shall I get 
 it out ?" For she had been rather trifling with her parasol 
 since Mr. Brockhulst came up, and the interests of the fringe 
 had suffered. There was a sweetbrier growing in the hedge 
 and mixing itself up with the honeysuckle by the latch, and in 
 this the fringe had caught. Mr. Brockhulst leaned over it ; so 
 did Madeline. Mr. Brockhulst s hands shook a little ; Made 
 line s finger got pricked with a brier and bled a drop of crim 
 son blood, at sight of which Mr. Brockhulst forgot the parasol 
 and the fringe, and wrapped the delicate hand in his own deli 
 cate cambric handkerchief, and bent down agitatedly over it, 
 and then the bell stopped. 
 
 Madeline heard it, but he did not ; and with a wicked feeling 
 of triumph she went on talking foolishly and prettily about her 
 finger, and admitting that it hurt her, when it did not in 
 the least, and telling him not to mind, it would be better in a 
 minute. 
 
 " There, there, my parasol oh, look after that !" she said, a 
 little frightened, as Christine came running down the path, and 
 as she caught sight of Mrs. Van Riper standing immovable on 
 the church steps and watching them. 
 
 " Why," said Christine, " why do you wait for me, Maddy ? 
 Julian kept me. It is five minutes past the hour ; the bell 
 has stopped so long oh, Mr. Brockhulst ! I did not see you." 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst at her words had started up the color left 
 his face ; he looked like a person who had received some sud 
 den intelligence of evil. With a hurried bow he left them 
 and went directly to the vestry-room door.
 
 102 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEX GATE. 
 
 Madeline, though she did not understand the full extent of 
 the self-reproach he felt, understood enough to feel uncom 
 fortable, and to wish she had not kept him. But after all, 
 what was it ? Five minutes, that was all, and not a dozen 
 people waiting for him in the church. No one would have 
 ever known if that horrid woman had not seen them at the 
 gate. 
 
 Yes, it was only five minutes ; but the young minister felt, as 
 he walked into the chancel with a hurried step, that months of 
 penance could not make up for it ; in his eyes it seemed the 
 blackest sin he ever had been guilty of; a neglect of duty, a 
 carelessness in God s service, a desecration of holy hours, an 
 indulgence in unholy thoughts perfectly monstrous and appall 
 ing. His face was bloodless ; his voice shook as he turned to 
 address his people. That little vanity of Madeline s cost him 
 bitter misery of spirit. 
 
 "Oh, Christine !" she whispered, clutching Christine s arm 
 as they hurried into church, " what do you think the Bishop 
 will do about it? How long do you suppose she had been 
 glaring at us from the steps ? I vow I am terrified to death. I 
 shouldn t wonder if she got them to depose him." 
 
 The Bishop read her responses in a terribly severe tone that 
 evening, and her eyes had a very stony, unprepossessing look, 
 as she fixed them on the minister during the reading of the 
 lessons. He faltered as he met them more than once, and all 
 the congregation could not fail to see that for some cause he 
 was in a state of agitation. Madeline really was uncomfortable ; 
 she lingered at the church door with Christine for some minutes 
 after service, hoping for a word with him in passing out a word 
 that would make him feel the insignificance of the Bishop s 
 wrath compared with the potency of her smiles; but she was 
 disappointed. 
 
 He passed them quickly with the stiffest bow ; and for ten 
 days she was denied the chance of exchanging a look, much less
 
 FIVE MINUTES TOO LONG AT THE GARDEN GATE. 103 
 
 a word with him. He never came near their cottage, and at the 
 Hill avoided her with a most practical perseverance. At church 
 his eye never fell by any chance upon her, and in the street he 
 did not see her. Madeline came to the Parsonage every day and 
 talked with Christine about it, laughing at him, bemoaning the 
 withdrawal of his favor, and wondering what it meant. 
 
 In truth she was rather restless and petulant at home just 
 then, and might as well be talking nonsense with Christine 
 about her lovers as trying to do anything sensible for her mother, 
 for she did not, or could not, persevere in any work above an 
 hour, and invariably spoiled everything she undertook. 
 
 " In truth, Madeline," said her mother sternly, " I do not 
 think this getting up for prayers at six o clock agrees with 
 you." 
 
 " It isn t that," said Madeline, " at all ; it s this horrid August 
 weather ; it makes me good for nothing." 
 
 It was the middle of August, and the weather certainly was 
 very warm.
 
 104 THE FAIR. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE FAIR. 
 
 " Her only labour is to kill the time ; 
 And labour dire it is, and weary wo." 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 THE fair bad for its remote object, tbe purchase of an organ ; 
 for its immediate intention, the gratification of Mrs. Sherman s 
 energy, and the amusement of the young ladies of the congre 
 gation. It was not to be a commonplace, unambitious affair, 
 held in a public hall or vacant house or Sunday-school, presided 
 over by spinsters and superintendents ; but was to be more on 
 the order of a fete champetre, a full-dress entertainment, only 
 enduring the length of one summer afternoon, and to be termi 
 nated by a little party for the young ladies interested, at the 
 Hill in the evening. 
 
 The tent was erected in a beautiful though distant part of the 
 Sherman grounds ; the Sherman servants were in attendance ; the 
 Sherman carriage had been driving about the town all day for 
 the convenience of everybody concerned in it; the Sherman 
 cuisine furnished the greater part of the refreshments, and 
 Sherman money paid for most of the articles made and sold ; 
 it was pretty clear, upon reflection, that the Sherman pocket 
 would have suffered less if the orgjin to be purchased had beeu 
 a Sherman present out and out only Mrs. Sherman would 
 have missed the occupation. 
 
 It is a pretty well established fact that the young men of this 
 generation are averse to fairs, that they turn their backs upon 
 them to a man, that they will resort to dishonorable stratagems
 
 THE PAIR. 105 
 
 to avoid attending them. But it so happened that Mrs. Sher 
 man had a number of young men at call who did not dare to 
 refuse her invitation, who were indebted to her for so much 
 hospitality that they could not with any decency be engaged 
 in any other way when the day for her fair came round. So it 
 happened that the three o clock train brought up half-a-dozen 
 " men in uniform," and three or four black coats ; and that at 
 four o clock, when dined, refreshed, and dressed, they walked 
 down from the house to the picturesque and decorated tent, 
 there was tumultuous fluttering in the hearts of the young ladies 
 in it. 
 
 There were a good many pretty faces in ; the tent 
 
 just then, indeed, was a perfect rosebud garden of girls, but of 
 them all the minister s little daughter was again the prettiest. 
 Madeline, indeed, had realized her dream in the matter of her 
 toilette ; she was faultlessly dressed, and strikingly beautiful in 
 face and figure. But Christine s was something more pic 
 turesque than good style, something more touching than mere 
 beauty. She wore a dress and mantilla of white barege, a very 
 fresh and light and pure material, and a round hat of the 
 whitest straw, bound with light-green velvet, and with a long 
 green feather drooping over her waving auburn hair, smoothed 
 and braided low on her neck behind. She wore the malachite 
 ornaments, heavy earrings, and bracelets that one might fancy 
 of the sort Isaac sent to Rebecca by the hands of his faithful 
 steward. Her mantilla was fastened low on her shoulders by 
 pins to match, and her shoulders were exquisite through the 
 transparent texture of her dress. The faint pink was deepening 
 gradually on her cheeks, but it never grew too deep for the 
 delicate character of her beauty. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman had done well to place these young girls 
 together ; a sight of the two side by side was quite worth the 
 admittance-fee and all the subsequent extortions. The table of 
 which they had charge was the most prominent and best 
 
 5*
 
 106 THE PAIE. 
 
 situated in the tent. Christine had flowers and bon-bons to 
 dispose of, and Madeline told fortunes and kept a sort of post- 
 office. Flowers and bon-bons consequently were in high de 
 mand, and the post-office was besieged by gentlemen. Madeline s 
 eyes were gleaming with triumph ; she had taken in more 
 money than any one else in the tent, and the other young 
 ladies were throwing envious glances at her from behind their 
 unbesieged tables. 
 
 At about five o clock Dr. Catherwood came in ; Christine 
 saw him enter, and watched him as well as she could from the 
 demands upon her attention, as he made his way up towards 
 them. Very slowly, however. He went to every other stall 
 first, and then Mrs. Sherman seized upon him, and for half an 
 hour at least she walked about leaning on his arm and making 
 him buy everything that seemed to hang fire at all. She could 
 not have found an easier victim, nor one who submitted with a 
 better grace. She released him at last, however, and then he 
 made his way up to the table where the flowers and bon-bons 
 were dispensed. 
 
 At the moment that he reached it, Colonel Steele, at Christine s 
 right hand, was helping her to make change for a young officer 
 who had been buying bon-bons and bouquets the whole after 
 noon ; and a little below them, before the table, Mr. Leslie was 
 trying to make up his mind between two boxes of confectionery 
 and particularly anxious for Miss Upham s judgment and advice. 
 
 " Oh, how late you are ! I thought you were not coming," 
 she said, as Dr. Catherwood came up beside her. Her face had 
 a radiance of welcome on it, too, and Colonel Steele looked on 
 perplexed. She seemed so innocently relieved and happy at the 
 sight of him, one would have said she was welcoming a brother 
 or a father. Yet Dr. Catherwood was not exactly the sort of 
 man for a pretty girl to. welcome as a father or a brother. The 
 doctor looked handsome that day, remarkably handsome, even 
 among the younger and more dashing men about him ; and ho
 
 THE FAIR. 107 
 
 had that even, thoughtful mariner, that Colonel Steele was well 
 aware all women most admire. Christine evidently was much 
 better pleased to have him by her, quiet as he was, than any of 
 the others, devoted as they had been, and yet her manner was 
 anything but that of a coquette, though her words and tone 
 had been those of one. 
 
 Madeline would have said exactly what sh did : " Oh, how 
 late you are; I thought you were not coming!" but she would 
 have said it with a flash of her eyes, and in a tone so low no 
 one else could possibly have heard. Christine said it in a low 
 tone, too, because her voice was naturally low, but so that 
 Colonel Steele heard it distinctly, and with a simplicity of expres 
 sion that all the world could have seen if they had wanted to. 
 
 "There is a bouquet I have been saving for you all the 
 afternoon," she said, giving him one. "Everybody has been 
 wanting it, though it is so little." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Upham ! when I made you such an unheard-of 
 offer for it ! That is what I call simony ; you have defrauded 
 the Church, let me tell you ; Catherwood will not give you half 
 as much," said Colonel Steele. 
 
 " Oh, you will, Dr. Catherwood, won t you ? Just as much 
 as ever I ask you ?" 
 
 " Just as much as ever you ask me, Miss Christine," he said, 
 taking out his purse with a smile. 
 
 " Well, I don t want you to pay me now," she said laughing. 
 " You must help me count up all my gains to-night, and if I 
 come out very much below Madeline, you shall pay a whole 
 fortune for the flowers. Madeline will outdo me, though, I am 
 very much afraid." 
 
 " Miss Clybourne is more enterprising." 
 
 " Yes, I know she is. There, Dr. Catherwood, see, she is 
 beckoning to you. That s just the way she does. She has a 
 letter for you, I suppose. Do not stay though ; it isn t fair in 
 her."
 
 108 THE FAIR. 
 
 " No, I assure you I will not stay," he said, moving away 
 slowly towards the other end of the table. 
 
 Colonel Steele looked after him with some curiosity. Here was 
 a man in demand among young ladies, evidently, and yet what 
 had he done to make them like him? He did not pay them 
 compliments ; he did not have the appearance of any special 
 devotion to theifl ; he only looked handsome and thoughtful, 
 and as if he understood them through and through. 
 
 " It takes very little to please the pretty creatures," thought 
 the Colonel, with a shrug ; yet he thought gloomily, that little 
 was a natural gift, and all men could not gain it, however 
 strongly they might ambition it. He called Dr. Catherwood his 
 old friend, and yet in truth they knew each other very slightly. 
 They had travelled together at different times, had done each 
 other various favors in various little ways, but had never got 
 beyond an easy cordial acquaintance. Perhaps the reserve 
 was more on Dr. Catherwood s part than on his, but he had 
 never had any object in penetrating it, and had been content 
 to remain just where he was till now. 
 
 The fact was, Colonel Steele was a good deal taken with the 
 Minister s daughter, and everything and every one of interest to 
 her now became of interest to him ; and he resolved to know 
 how much she liked Dr. Catherwood, and in what way she 
 liked him. To which end he said, sitting down beside her 
 behind the table during a few moments of quiet : 
 
 " So you are going to take Dr. Catherwood as your account 
 ant, and not me ? I own I had hoped you placed confidence 
 enough in me to have allowed me the pleasure of settling your 
 accounts for you, and bringing you out superior to Miss Cly- 
 bourne. But I see my friend the Doctor has inspired you 
 with more faith. What can the reason be, I wonder ?" 
 
 " Oh, but I have known Dr. Catherwood so much longer, 
 you see," said Christine, lightly, snapping backward and for 
 ward the key in the little box which contained the money.
 
 THE FAIR. 109 
 
 " So much longer ?" repeated Colonel Steele ; " how much 
 longer, pray ?" 
 
 " Oh, I have known Dr. Catherwood since since last Decem 
 ber yes the twelfth of last December." 
 
 " And me since June last June but you don t remember 
 the date, of course." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do. It was the eighteenth, at Mrs. Sherman s 
 party I remember the date perfectly I have it written on 
 the bouquet I carried that night. It was my first party and 
 my first bouquet, and I could not throw it away." 
 
 Colonel Steele happened to know who had given her the 
 bouquet, and he did not feel particularly encouraged at the 
 keenness of her recollection. 
 
 " And yet Dr. Catherwood was away all last winter. He has 
 told me he stayed till May at his plantation. Now, I don t see 
 that he has much the advantage of me, in point of time at least. 
 You really have not seen so much more of him after all. What 
 can you possibly know of his character, now, Miss Upham ? I 
 am in earnest, I think he is almost a stranger to you." 
 
 "Dr. Catherwood began by doing me the greatest kindness 
 any one could possibly haye done me," said Christine, in an 
 earnest voice " and he is papa s friend, and Julian s, and I 
 should be most ungrateful if I did not consider him my best 
 friend, too." 
 
 Colonel Steele bit his lip. It is so hard to know how to get 
 along with a girl in society who will persist in speaking sin 
 cerity and truth. Badinage and nonsense are in so much bet 
 ter taste. But somehow it suited this young person ; it was 
 quite becoming to her, though it made her awkward to deal 
 with sometimes ; one did not expect her to be coquettish or to 
 say extravagant and unreal things, as one expects others of her 
 age to do ; though her laughter was as merry and her sense of 
 humor quite as keen as that of any other person. It was this 
 very difference from others that had fascinated the worldly-
 
 110 THE FAIR. 
 
 wise Colonel, though he felt so much like complaining of it 
 now. 
 
 People are very apt to be unjust when they are in love, and 
 the worldly-wise Colonel was a good deal in love ; enough so to 
 walk away with a very jealous coldness when Dr. Catherwood 
 came back from his little flirtation with Miss Clybourne. 
 
 " Well," said Christine, with a very pretty look of interest in 
 her face as he sat down beside her, " did she tell your fortune 
 for you?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, and gave me three or four letters, too. In fact, she 
 made a great deal of money out of me. I shall have to buy 
 up all that is left upon your table to make it even ; all your 
 bon-bons are not gone ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don t know," said Christine, with an ennuye look ; 
 " I am so tired of money I have talked of it all the afternoon. 
 I m very glad I m not a man, to have to talk of it all day." 
 
 " I don t believe you have much financial ability," said her 
 companion, taking the box of money from her ; " and I see you 
 are beginning to look pale. I am going to take you out of this 
 noisy tent for sanitary reasons, and install little Miss Richfield 
 here instead, at least for half an hour ; Mrs. Sherman cannot 
 object to that." 
 
 "I am afraid she will," said Christine, with a longing look 
 out into the grounds. "The whole affair ends a little before 
 eight, and it is almost seven now ; it will not do for me to go." 
 
 " It will not do for you to stay," said Dr. Catherwood, getting 
 up. " What s the younger Miss Richfield s name Caroline ?" 
 
 " Oh, Dr. Catherwood stay I am afraid she will not like 
 it she may be tired, too." 
 
 " Nothing will give her greater pleasure, I am positive," said 
 he, sedately, going towards the Richfield table. 
 
 Christine looked after him rather nervously ; he went up to 
 the little Miss Richfield and said something that made her 
 blush and look very bright, go towards her elder sister, hold
 
 THE FAIR. Ill 
 
 an explanatory whisper with her, and then follow Dr. Gather- 
 wood towards the bon-bon table. 
 
 The fact was, little Miss Caroline had been standing behind 
 her pincushions, socks, sacks, and baby-bait all the afternoon, 
 and had not had a nibble, and she was delighted to leave them 
 in charge of her older sister, and go off towards a more distin 
 guished quarter of the tent, where were officers and city gentle 
 men and a general look of high life and conviviality. 
 
 The Richfields were pillars of the Church, but extremely 
 plain and humdrum in their manner of life, and the younger 
 members of the family were perfectly dazzled by the glories of 
 the Hill. Dr. Catherwood installed Miss Caroline in Chris 
 tine s place, having laid hands, in passing, on an unemployed 
 young officer, and done him the favor to introduce him to Miss 
 Caroline, and commit the care of the money-box to him ; all of 
 which made Miss Caroline feel that the world was a most intoxi 
 cating place, and that the crisis of her life had come. 
 
 " How well you managed it," said Christine, as she followed 
 Dr. Catherwood through the crowd to the entrance of the tent ; 
 " I think you always do as you want to do with people, though 
 you are so very quiet." 
 
 " And yet you never are willing to trust to me to accomplish 
 anything ; do you know that, my dear Miss Upham ?" 
 
 " Miss Upham ! Oh, does not that sound droll ! I could al 
 most fancy I had Colonel Steele s arm instead of Dr. Gather- 
 wood s." 
 
 " If the fancy pleases you, I could easily manage to make it 
 a reality. You have only to say so, you know," said Dr. Ca 
 therwood, pausing as they were turning into a diverging 
 path. 
 
 " Oh, je vous en prie" cried Christine, with a little shudder, 
 clasping her left hand in her right one on his arm, and moving 
 forward. 
 
 " Oh, then, I will do as well for the moment," said Dr.
 
 112 TUB FAIR. 
 
 Catherwood, with a satisfied little smile, as they went on into 
 the path. 
 
 " Yes, for the moment, and the hour, and the day, and the 
 always," said the childish beauty, forgetting to unclasp her 
 hands, which looked exquisitely white upon his sleeve. " Oh, 
 Dr. Catherwood, how tired I do get of strangers. How do you 
 manage to be so pleasant to everybody ? Sometimes I think 
 it does not make much difference to you, really, who is talking 
 to you. Do you know, if it were not you, I should think it 
 was something a little like hypocrisy ?" 
 
 " Let me explain," said he, with a half-serious smile. " What 
 would become of me, do you think, if I went through the world 
 with my soul in my eyes, as you go ? It is a questionable e x- 
 periment for a woman ; but for a man, believe me, it would be 
 an unwise and dangerous business. Why, think of all that 
 meets a man ; the deceit, the folly, the enmity, and the flat 
 tery; his only protection is to see without seeming to see; to 
 feel without evincing feeling. He need not be a hypocrite, 
 Christine, because he keeps his visor down. You know you 
 would not think him wise if he went into the fight without it." 
 
 " But it need not be a visor of smiles smiles for everybody." 
 
 " I pity the man who would go through the world with stern 
 looks for everybody. His heart would not be in the right 
 place, Christine, I think. Little children, women, sufferers, and 
 even men who are trying to get the better of him all are ob 
 jects of benevolence to a man who has a Christian soul within 
 him. I do not see the necessity for stern looks." 
 
 " Oh, that is not what I mean : benevolence is all very well ; 
 but I don t see why you need look just alike for everybody 
 why you need look just the same when you talk to little Miss 
 Richfield, who isn t your friend, as when you talk to me, who am." 
 
 " Now, I leave it to to the acacias that are above us both, if 
 I looked anything as I look now when I talked to the little 
 Richfield."
 
 THE PAIR. 113 
 
 They had been walking through a winding, well-kept path 
 that led through a grove of acacias at the extreme border of the 
 Sherman grounds ; a little knoll rising at the right was 
 crowned with a rustic summer-house ; just as they paused be 
 fore it, Christine turned, laughing, and looked up in his face. 
 
 " No," she said, " truth compels me to state, I do not think 
 you did." 
 
 Her companion s eyes were blue ; eyes that grew tender and 
 full of light only rarely. Christine had never before seen them 
 wear exactly that expression. 
 
 At that moment there was a sudden rustle in the shrubbery 
 beside them ; some one darted across the path and disappeared 
 into the bushes opposite. It was Julian Upham, with Harry 
 Gilmore in hot chase. 
 
 " Oh, there will be some trouble !" exclaimed Christine, let 
 ting go her companion s arm, and starting a step forward 
 "What shall I do !" 
 
 " I will go after them," said Dr. Catherwood, with a contrac 
 tion of the brow, " and bring him back. Don t be anxious at 
 all. I will send Harry home, and bring Julian here with me, 
 if you wish it." 
 
 " I wish you d let me go with you," she said, earnestly ; " I 
 don t want to go back to the tent yet, and they haven t proba 
 bly gone beyond the mill." 
 
 " Very well," he said, " if you are not afraid of injuring your 
 dress, come with me ;" and he led the way across the shrub 
 bery into the fields that led directly to the mill.
 
 114 THE END OF IIAEEY s HOLIDAY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE END OF HARRY S HOLIDAY. 
 
 " It Is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 
 The holy time is quiet as a nun 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity." 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE evening was lovely, and perhaps the transition from the 
 gay and noisy scene they had just left made the quiet more 
 beautiful and noticeable than ordinary to Christine and her 
 companion. The sun had been gone about fifteen minutes from 
 the sky, which it had left all of a clear, golden color in the 
 west, and all a pale-blue in the south, growing faintly pink in 
 the distant east. There was not a breath of wind ; the mill- 
 wheel was silent, and the mill-stream along which they were 
 walking was fair and tranquil " as the river of a dream." 
 
 They had come to look for Julian, to be sure, but they were 
 not walking very fast. Occasionally Dr. Catherwood stopped 
 and listened for the boys voices, but he could hear nothing ; 
 and occasionally Christine called Julian s name, but elicited no 
 response. 
 
 "They may have gone down to the miller s house," he said, 
 looking that way. "You had better wait here by the dam 
 while I go and see." 
 
 The miller s house lay down in a sort of meadow, below the 
 level of the mill-pond, and Christine sat down upon the bridge, 
 while her companion went off in the direction of it. He 
 walked a good deal quicker after he left her, but it was some 
 minutes before he reached the gate ; and when he was out of
 
 THE END OF H AERY S HOLIDAY. 115 
 
 sight she turned and looked at the old mill, with its great wheel 
 and open doors, and thought of the night when she had looked 
 at them in a trance of terror, calling Julian s name across the 
 ice. How long ago that night seemed ! what changes and 
 trials in her care of Julian ! Sometimes she reproached her 
 self for feeling the burden so much less than formerly, though 
 4t was still the occupation and duty of her life ; she did not 
 ^understand how it had come to pass that so much of it had 
 gone on Dr. Catherwood ; that he in her place was bearing now 
 so much the heavier part of the responsibility. She could not 
 have had it otherwise if she had chosen ; it was Dr. Gather- 
 wood s way to do as he thought fit. But how could she have 
 lived without him how have sustained this weight upon her 
 conscience, if he had not helped her to see things right, with 
 his clear man s sense, and made her willing to come to him in 
 all the thousand little troubles out of which she could not find 
 her way alone. 
 
 With her father it would have been almost impossible to have 
 done so ; he could not quite have understood her, and could not 
 probably have made her understand him ; she would have 
 known she was distressing him by her scruples and alarms, and 
 would soon have learned to keep them to herself. But with 
 Doctor Catherwood it was so different ; she had hardly to tell 
 him what she was feeling ; he understood it all before she had 
 found the words for it ; if it were only a conscientious scruple, 
 an alarm lest she had neglected some duty towards the boy, he 
 had no contempt for it, no impatience with the weakness, but 
 he made her see it was a weakness, and gave her, while he 
 soothed her, steadiness and strength to combat such feelings in 
 the future. If it were some trouble that was tangible, some one 
 of the thousand mischiefs and misfortunes into which the boy 
 was continually dragging himself and her, he only heard it 
 quietly, without showing a shade of annoyance or surprise, and 
 said :
 
 116 THB END OF HARBY S HOLIDAY. 
 
 " Leave it to rae, there is no need of saying anything to Dr. 
 Uphain ; I will see to it, and talk to Julian." 
 
 The tie between them in that way had become a very close 
 one ; confidences about Julian naturally led to confidences in 
 which he was but little mingled ; and Dr. Catherwood had read 
 every ^page of the girl s pure heart, and measured the daily 
 growth of her young mind, before he had been her constant 
 companion for a month. He never allowed her to feel it was 
 unnatural and strange for them to be upon the terms they were ; 
 he never made the relations between them so apparent to the 
 world, that the world would catechize her in regard to them. 
 He dreaded jealously the first words that should wake a mis 
 giving in her mind, and for that reason he felt Mrs. Sherman to 
 be his greatest foe. 
 
 The companionship of this young girl, just now, was worth 
 more to him than the friendship, and honor, and adulation of 
 all the world ; the mind requires such different medicine at 
 different times ; and as to Christine, though but a moment ago 
 she had talked earnestly to Colonel Steele about her gratitude 
 to Dr. Catherwood, she rarely felt the burden of it ; rarely 
 realized that he was giving up time, and thought, and comfort 
 for her constantly; and never reflected that he was in truth 
 standing to her in an attitude of protection and surveillance 
 that only the tie of family can render wise and safe. 
 
 He knew every page of her heart every page, that is, but 
 one and that was one that she never turned back to herself; 
 it was the initial page of her life s history, and was reflected in 
 every succeeding one ; she knew it word for word, but she 
 never dared to dwell upon it, never opened it and re-read and 
 reflected on it. Her sister s death-bed scene was still most 
 vivid and most painful in her recollection ; the consequences of 
 it she had not as yet thought very deeply of; her vow she felt 
 separated her from others of her age, and made her different 
 from them ; but she had not, from her very innocence and sim-
 
 THE END OF HARRY S HOLIDAY. 117 
 
 plicity, and from the satisfaction of her heart in its friendship 
 and in her domestic ties, felt its strength and cruelty. She had 
 within a year outgrown the morbid sensitiveness of her child 
 hood the spring of youth animated her spirits, and a healthier 
 tone had taken possession of her mind. The frightful, sleepless 
 nights, or equally frightful and exhausting dreams in which she 
 had lived over and over again the hour that preceded Helena s 
 death, were of very rare occurrence now ; natural vigor was 
 returning to her nerves, and was throwing off these unhealthy 
 visitations. How much of this change was owing to the influ 
 ence of Dr. Catherwood s determined and judicious treatment 
 of her delicate physique, and equally delicately organized mind, 
 it was impossible to judge ; certain it was, however, that from the 
 time of his first coming among them, she had seemed an altered 
 and more natural child, and grew each day healthier and happier. 
 
 This evening, as she sat waiting on the bridge watching for 
 the return of her companion, some thoughts of the difference 
 he had made in her life came over her, and a truer estimate of 
 their relations suggested itself to her mind for the moment. 
 But she thought still only as a child thinks, and the veil was 
 upon her heart. 
 
 She was sitting in a dreamy, listless attitude upon the bridge, 
 listening idly to the soft rush of the water over the dam, when 
 a sound of voices met her ear angry voices smothered instantly, 
 then breaking out again after a moment in involuntary vehe 
 mence. Christine knew them instantly Julian s shrill tone 
 and Harry s angry muttering. She sprang up and Jan forward j 
 the mill door stood open ; and at the further extremity of the 
 building another door stood open a door that looked down 
 over the water some thirty feet below. The sight of this door 
 always gave Christine a shiver ; she had watched it in fascination 
 as a child, when the miller and his man lowered barrels down 
 from it to the boats below, and had felt certain, if she went 
 near enough to it to look over she should throw herself down
 
 118 THE END OF HARRY S HOLIDAY. 
 
 into the blue and rippling surface underneath. The surface was 
 not blue and rippling as she caught sight of it now; it was 
 smooth and glassy, and gilded with the color of the sky and 
 immediately before it, in bold relief against this open space in 
 the dark building, were the two boys they had come to seek, in 
 a close wrestle with each other, fierce angry faces, limbs grap 
 pling each other with eager vehemence of purpose, eyes and 
 voices both emitting sudden and threatening flames of anger. 
 They were not three feet from the open door ; and blinded with 
 rage and intent only on one thing, it was not strange that at 
 one moment they were at its very brink, at another had stag 
 gered several feet away from it. 
 
 Christine s blood ran cold ; she started forward, uttered a 
 scream, and leaned against a post beside her for support. The 
 scream did not reach or penetrate the ears of the passionate and 
 reckless children. The time that passed seemed long to Chris 
 tine, but it was in fact not more than twenty seconds, during 
 which the boys reeled forward a second time to the very brink 
 of the door-sill, disputing desperately every inch of the floor, 
 which was smooth, and worn, and slippery with the fine white 
 powder that covered everything within the mill. Harry, with 
 a sudden effort of his great strength, threw himself on his 
 slight antagonist and pressed him down upon his knees ; it was 
 the first sign who might be the conqueror ; a dreadful expression 
 of rage lighted Julian s face for an instant as he felt himself 
 losing ground. He made a sudden movement as of giving way, 
 which relaxed his adversary s grasp, then a sudden spring and 
 regained his feet, and with his one free hand aimed a quick 
 blow between the other s eyes. 
 
 A howl of pain, a relaxing of his hold upon his foe, one mis 
 step, a clutch towards the door-post which he could not see, a 
 reeling movement, a heavy plunge in the water below, and 
 Harry Gilmore s holiday was over, and the dark waves were 
 settling themselves into calm above his senseless body.
 
 ME. BKOCKHULST FORGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 119 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MR. BROCKHULST FORGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 
 
 " Pleasures night and day are hovering 
 
 Round their prey of weary hours, 
 Weakness and unrest discovering 
 In the best of human powers." 
 
 MILMES. 
 
 CHRISTINK did not appear again at the Hill that night, neither 
 did Dr. Catherwood. Colonel Steele watched for them with jea 
 lous eyes and flirted very desperately with Madeline, to show the 
 world he had no interest in the auburn-haired girl from the 
 Parsonage, about whose absence every one was wondering. He 
 did not say he had seen her go away with Dr. Catherwood, foi 
 the reason that he wished to keep that little piece of intelli 
 gence in his own hands for his own use by-and-by, and no one 
 else seemed to have noticed their departure. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman was very much exercised and made quite a 
 bruit about it, but fortunately she had too many strings to her 
 bow that night to harp with her usual pertinacity upon Chris 
 tine. She was busy beyond all precedent. The Fair so far had 
 been a complete success, and it only remained for her to render 
 the evening at her house satisfactory and delightful, and the 
 Bishop was deposed for ever. The Bishop, though in open hos 
 tility to the whole affair, had with great hardihood and malice 
 come to the tent for a little while during the afternoon strictly en 
 spectatenr, and had been obviously chagrined at the success and 
 the brilliancy of the affair. Of course she had not appeared to 
 give in at all, had criticized the work, sneered at the clap-trap 
 character of the institution called the post-office, put down her
 
 120 ME. BROCKHULST FORGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 
 
 ice-cream -with an expression of face that could not be mistaken, 
 shaken her head decidedly at the offer of plum-cake, and smother 
 ed a derisive smile at the sight of the decorations. But still it 
 was unanimously decided she had been chagrined and much sur 
 prised, and Mrs. Sherman felt completely satisfied so far. She 
 had charged Madeline with the rather questionable duty of 
 sending her through the post-office a spiteful little letter, but 
 she got the better of Madeline by declining to take it out, saying 
 she had no correspondent who wrote such an unsightly hand. 
 After that Madeline felt herself at liberty to be very saucy to 
 her, and to set all her admirers to the task of quizzing her ; but 
 with all their combined cleverness they did not make much 
 headway. One point, certainly, the Bishop made. Madeline, 
 with all the glories of the day upon her, the envied of all the 
 neglected young saleswomen, the admired of all the jaunty 
 young gentlemen from town, had a restless, unsatisfied ambition 
 in her heart. Mr. Brockhulst had not been near her, nor, as far 
 as she knew, looked at her for one moment. She knew it was 
 doubtful whether he would go to the Hill in the evening ; she 
 had resolved he should speak to her before he went away, 
 which, as it was seven o clock, he might do any moment. She 
 had determined he should be fascinated with her that night, and 
 restore her to her former position with him, and had acted over 
 and over again in mind the little scene of reconciliation, or rein 
 statement, or whatever it might be called. But here were the 
 precious moments slipping away, and she was no nearer it than 
 she had been at the beginning of the afternoon. She was 
 growing so uneasy and restless, she scarcely could talk to her 
 admirers as became an accomplished belle, and her eyes follow 
 ed the young clergyman rather imprudently about the tent. 
 For Madeline, though very clever, and a coquette by nature, 
 was an indifferent actress when she found her feelings much 
 enlisted. The Bishop, sitting down to rest herself near Made 
 line s table, rose at last, and said as she passed her :
 
 ME. BROCKHULST FOEGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 121 
 
 " Well, Miss Madeline, I think you ll have to give up count 
 ing change if Mr. Brockhulst stays in sight much longer. Why 
 don t you send for him and done with it ? I m on my way out ; 
 what shall I tell him for you ?" 
 
 That was the point the Bishop made ; the blood rushed to 
 Madeline s face, her eyes fell she could not command her 
 voice for several seconds. 
 
 " Tell him ?" she said, at last, rallying and looking up from the 
 change she had been bending over in confusion. " Tell him 
 there is a letter for him in the office." 
 
 "Very well, I will. I have no doubt it is an interesting 
 one." 
 
 So, while she strode across the room towards the young min 
 ister, Madeline sank down into a chair and drew a sheet of 
 paper towards her hurriedly what should she write ? This 
 was a flagrant piece of coquetry, considering the terms he had 
 placed her on. She should not have dreamed of doing it if it 
 had not been for this wicked and impertinent enemy s attack. 
 She wished she had only kept her self-possession and not sent 
 her on such a foolish embassy. She should be disgraced when 
 he came up if she had not a letter ready, and her fingers shook 
 so she could not have written a line, even if she had thought of 
 any line to write, and she could not keep her eyes from stray 
 ing over in the direction in which the Bishop went on her most 
 unhappy errand. 
 
 How would he take it? She saw him start a little, bow 
 stiffly, and turn slowly to approach the table where she sat. 
 Her eyes dropped on the paper oh, what should she write ! 
 he would be here even before she could fold up and direct a 
 blank sheet of paper. He must be looking at her now. 
 
 He might have been, but he was not. The young clergy 
 man s face was quite a study as he came up and stood before 
 the table at which Madeline was sitting, looking down in con 
 fusion at her paper. He was perfectly pale, and his eyes were 
 
 6
 
 122 ME. BROCKHUL6T FORGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 
 
 turned away from her. He looked like a young monk, telling 
 his beads with averted face, while Folly and her giddy troop 
 passed by. Madeline, with crimson cheeks, agitated move 
 ments, and softened eyes, bent her beautiful head before him. 
 
 A moment passed of painful silence, another and then she- 
 lifted her eyes timidly, and met his turned towards her for the 
 first time. Ah, fatal glance, that undid all the rigid work of 
 the past three weeks of penance! She was so beautiful ; and 
 her eyes had such an imploring, deprecating, almost frightened 
 look. She forgot the jaunty young gentlemen with their straw 
 hats and lilac gloves ; she forgot she was a coquette, and a 
 beauty, and all that ; for the moment she only thought of the 
 Parsonage gate over which the honeysuckle grew, and the pale 
 face in the dim church afterwards. She was wholly swayed by 
 the little bit of sentiment that she had allowed to creep into 
 her heart latterly, and when she raised her eyes they were full 
 of dangerous feeling. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Brockhulst," she said, speaking confusedly and 
 quickly, " I am so sorry Mrs. Van Kiper sent you, for there is 
 no letter for you it was only her idea. I hope you re not dis 
 pleased." 
 
 There was a moment more of question and reply made with 
 out much reference to common-sense and intelligent interchange 
 of thought, and then Mr. Brockhulst turned to go away a little 
 paler than when he had come up. 
 
 All the coquette in Madeline s heart sprang out of ambush 
 then ; he should not go in that manner, he should not escape 
 her so. 
 
 "You are coming to the Hill this evening, Mr. Brockhulst?" 
 she said, with a half-veiled brightness in her eyes as she lifted 
 them to his. " It is so long since you have been there I 
 mean to stay for more than a few minutes. Mrs. Sherman 
 will be disappointed." 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst forgot to count his beads that minute; he
 
 MK. BKOCKHULST FOKGETS TO TELL HIS BEADS. 123 
 
 looked into Folly s beautiful eyes, and pledged himself to come 
 that evening to the Hill, and then he went away to another 
 stall in the fair, with a miserable consciousness that he had lost 
 a terrible amount of ground.
 
 124 VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 
 
 " Hera was the subtlest spell by far 
 
 Of all that sets young hearts romancing ; 
 She was the queen, the rose, the star, 
 
 And when she danced oh, heaven, her dancing 1" 
 
 PRAED. 
 
 " I WONDER where Christine can be !" said Madeline to Colo 
 nel Steele about half-past nine o clock that evening, as she 
 rested a moment with him on the western balcony, after one of 
 those prolonged and breathless waltzes for which he was so fa 
 mous. " It is just like her to have gone home to read the 
 paper to her father, or make jelly for some of Dr. Catherwood s 
 poor patients." 
 
 " Ah !" said the Colonel, carelessly, " Dr. Catherwood ha3 
 then a benevolent turn of mind ?" 
 
 " Oh, not extraordinarily so, I think ; only a physician has so 
 many calls upon his charity, and I believe he turns them all 
 over to the Parsonage. I really think he imposes on Christine ; 
 no other girl would stand it, but then she is like no other girl. 
 For instance, he is always there, just as much at home as if it 
 were his own house, and yet he never thinks of paying Chris 
 tine any of the attentions which their hospitality deserves. He 
 treats her in a way that cannot flatter her as if she were a 
 child or a near relative ; or, in fact, sometimes as if she were 
 not in existence or a perfect stranger to him. Now that s not 
 flattering, Colonel Steele; do you think it is?" 
 
 "Well, but Miss Clybourne, think of the difference in their 
 ages ; Miss Christine is so very young."
 
 VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 125 
 
 " Why, yes, if you call seventeen so very young. But Dr. 
 Catherwood is not so very old, Colonel Steele ; I do not call 
 thirty-five or thirty-seven old ; do you ? And I call Dr. Gather- 
 wood a very handsome and a very fascinating man, and if 
 Christine were not like a little nun, she would not have her 
 heart in her own keeping now, seeing him so often." 
 
 " Miss Clybourne, that is an admission. How often do you 
 see him, may I ask ?" 
 
 " Not every day, by any means. But I do acknowledge, 
 when Dr. Catherwood talks to me, I think he is perfection, and 
 I wish he thought it was his duty to come to see mamma as 
 often as he goes to see the Rector ; and I am sure of one thing, 
 I would make better use of my advantages than Christine 
 makes of hers, the silly child. Why, she is a study, that 
 Christine, I do assure you, Colonel Steele." 
 
 Colonel Steele smiled sublimely and indifferently, as if the 
 only study that had any interest for him was endorsed Cly 
 bourne, M., for Colonel Steele had been a lady s man too long 
 to talk with admiration of one woman to another. 
 
 He was very willing to keep Madeline on the subject on 
 which she had begun, however, and tried to draw her out upon 
 it ; but she was by far too restless to be long upon one thing, 
 and could not be contented unless she was being nattered or 
 excited in some way. She liked Colonel Steele very well while 
 he was flattering her, or dancing with her, or making her walk 
 up and down the parlors with him, while everybody s eyes fol 
 lowed them with admiration. She had said, truly too, while 
 Dr. Catherwood talked to her she thought he was perfection, 
 and wished very much that she could make it worth his while 
 to fall in love with her. Even Mr. Leslie s triple extract of 
 devotion pleased her for the moment, and set her to dreaming 
 of what true love might be. It was all excitement and uncer 
 tainty in her immature and undisciplined heart as yet ; a thou 
 sand contradictory impulses emanated from it a thousand
 
 126 VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 
 
 delnsive and uncertain rays gleamed out of it a thousand 
 unformed thoughts and wishes struggled in it ; it was harsh to 
 blame her for deluding others, when she was as much bewil 
 dered as she bewildered them. What place the young minis 
 ter had in reality in this half-grown, ignorant, and fitful heart, 
 she could not have told herself; her mother watching her night 
 and day could not have told, the world with its sharpest lorg 
 nette at its eye could not have told correctly. 
 
 She seemed ambitious, because she was high-spirited and full 
 of an eager hopefulness~that had formed no worthier aim than 
 had been placed before her. She seemed vain, because she was 
 overflowing with the happiness that comes from winning love 
 and homage, and because she had not the discretion to conceal 
 
 O 
 
 the source from whence her pleasure came. She seemed 
 deceitful and coquettish, because her eyes and her lips both 
 spoke feeling that they did not long retain ; both uttered that 
 which was only truth for the moment that which was called 
 up by what she saw in others, and which faded before she 
 recognised its shape herself. The true heart, the true love, 
 were struggling into birth ; it was all chaos now. A miserable 
 man he, whose happiness, hung upon what he could gather of 
 her heart from what he saw upon the surface. 
 
 " Another waltz, Miss Clybourne ? That music is delicious," 
 half whispered Colonel Steele as he caught the strains within. 
 Madeline said yes; with a beaming look of pleasure as she 
 caught them too, for music set her pulses beating always. 
 
 In a moment they were in the room, her hand in his, his arm 
 upon her waist, just ready to move down the room in the lovely 
 deux temps motion, when her eye fell upon something that 
 made her start and pause, and withdraw her hand suddenly 
 from his. 
 
 " Oh, I don t think I ll dance," she said, drawing back. 
 
 He gave her a look of surprise that made her falter and 
 color.
 
 VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 127 
 
 " I that is you had better ask somebody else. I do not 
 think I can dance any more ; I wish you would excuse me." 
 
 She had caught sight of Mr. Brockhulst entering the room, 
 and her impulse had been to get out of the position the was in, 
 and not to let him see her dancing. She did not put this into 
 words. She did not define to herself the feeling that made her 
 shrink from being seen by him with Colonel Steele s arm upon 
 her waist, and with the eyes of all the room upon her as she 
 floated through it to that most bewitching music. She had 
 never felt before that it was wrong to dance. She had never 
 felt before that there was anything to blush about in that arm 
 upon her waist. These thoughts flashed through her mind for 
 the first time as she caught sight of Mr. Brockhulst s face, 
 though he had not seen her, though he had looked no reproach. 
 She felt, though she did not know she felt it, the true test of 
 purity and womanliness at that moment ; there was but one 
 who had a right to what she was giving to every one that 
 asked it. She passed through a trial at that short instant that 
 gave its color to her whole future life. That sudden doubt, 
 that strong conviction how could she have put them aside ? 
 
 But she did ; she listened a moment too long to her com 
 panion s pleading whisper a moment too long to the alluring 
 music; she subjected her feelings to too material and common 
 place a criticism ; she vowed to herself she could not see the 
 wrong. She only did what all the world was doing ; she 
 would not listen to such scruples ; she did not care enough 
 what Mr. Brockhulst thought to make her lose her pleasure ; 
 after all, he might not care ; and if he did, did she f And so 
 she yielded to the embrace that a moment before she had 
 shrunk from in alarm, and floated down the room with as per 
 fect a grace as ever, but with less perfect innocence. 
 
 And Mr. Brockhulst, making his way across the room, caught 
 suddenly the beautiful and hateful vision, and felt as if his life 
 were worthless to him after he had seen it. He was new to all
 
 128 VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 
 
 this the world was the world to him as yet, and one of his three 
 enemies. His face must have shown his dismay and pain, for 
 Madeline, pausing at last, glanced at him and felt her heart 
 sink involuntarily. His eyes were averted and he was near the 
 door, looking as if he felt himself most miserably out of place, 
 and as if he cared for nothing so much as to escape from the 
 scene in which he found himself. Madeline would have given 
 worlds to have undone the work of the last ten minutes ; the 
 music had ceased, the thrill of excitement was over ; she was 
 weary and disenchanted, and Colonel Steele, looking heated and 
 commonplace, seemed almost impertinent in his care of her, 
 urging her to go into the hall for the fresh air, to let him get 
 her an ice, to sit down by the window, to do anything, in fact, 
 to allow him to show his right and his desire to be devoted. 
 
 How she hated herself! If she only had been firm ! She 
 wished she were Christine reading the paper to her father in 
 the quiet old Parsonage parlor, or the little Richfield sitting in 
 dull propriety between her mother and her elder sister near the 
 folding doors. She looked discontented and weary, and when 
 some gentleman came up to ask her to dance with him again, 
 she refused haughtily and ungently, and then felt disgraced a 
 moment after, and the next comer found her more gracious and 
 less dignified than she had ever,been before. She consented to 
 let Colonel Steele get her an ice, and she walked up and down 
 the hall with two or three of his military confreres while he 
 went for it, they keeping up a laughing rivalry for her favor, 
 and making that open and extravagant show of devotion which 
 may be amusing, but is never flattering to a woman. 
 
 Madeline felt this ; she felt these officers would not have 
 talked so to Christine; she felt that in some way she was low 
 ered by her belleship. 
 
 The fact was, she was too high-toned for the role she had 
 undertaken to play ; she was too finely made to be the popular 
 beauty she aspired to be ; she could not be an indiscriminate
 
 VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 129 
 
 favorite without damage to her delicacy of feeling. These men 
 did not understand her, because she was not commonplace ; her 
 beauty was striking and brilliant, and it attracted them ; but a 
 soulless and less refined beauty would have attracted them as 
 much. Madeline was refined, she had soul, but they could not 
 understand the difference between her and the other girls they 
 danced with in society, except that she was handsomer and 
 fresher. Her manners had the abandon and gaiety of youth, 
 sometimes the daring and impetuosity of talent and wit that 
 she had not learned to smother ; they could not detect that 
 freedom of thought and levity of character were very different 
 things. And by their treatment of her they were leading her 
 fast to what they supposed her to be ; or rather, to more than 
 they supposed her to be, for commonplace was impossible to 
 her, and satisfaction in such homage as they could pay her 
 could not last long. 
 
 She passed and repassed Mr. Brockhulst standing near the 
 door talking with ill-concealed want of interest to a group of 
 three or four ; she tried to catch his eye, to loiter long enough 
 in passing to give him an opportunity of joining her but it 
 was in vain. He never glanced towards her, never gave the 
 least indication that he knew of her vicinity. At length im 
 patient of this treatment, and lacking the self-control to conceal 
 her chagrin, she declined continuing her promenade any further, 
 and sat down on a sofa near the group in which her interest 
 centred. She was too abstracted to be agreeable long to her 
 admirers ; her eagerness to catch the voices of her neighbors 
 interfered extremely with listening to what the admirers had to 
 say to her, and soon she was left with only one, who stayed 
 more from good manners than great interest. 
 
 The sofa on which they were sitting was near the front door ; 
 the group of gentlemen around Mr. Brockhulst stood just 
 beyond them, beside the first parlor door. Madeline presently 
 saw a man come up the steps of the piazza and look anxiously 
 
 6*
 
 130 VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 
 
 and awkwardly around him for some one to whom to make his 
 errand known. He was a roughly dressed man, in dusty mil 
 ler s clothes, and his anxious face and working-day apparel con 
 trasted strongly with the festival scene which he was approach 
 ing. He looked at the knocker and at the bell, and seemed 
 rather afraid of both, hesitating awkwardly and glancing up 
 and down the piazza and the hall. 
 
 " What does that man want ?" said Madeline, getting up and 
 going to the door, followed by Mr. Leslie. 
 
 The man responded to her inquiry by saying : " The minis 
 ter, Miss ; they say he s here." 
 
 " Oh yes," said Madeline, starting forward. " I ll tell him." 
 
 But before she had said the words, he had turned quickly 
 and was coming to the door, showing he had been listening 
 though he had not been looking. 
 
 " What is it, Tom ?" he said, laying his hand upon the door 
 post, the man standing just outside the sill, Madeline and her 
 companion just inside it. " Any trouble at the mill ?" 
 
 " Bad enough, sir," said the man. " The miller s boy is 
 drowned, and the miller s wife, she s in a dreadful way ; and 
 the boss himself, he says to me : Tom, run, ask the minister to 
 come down ; maybe he ll think o something he can say to her ; 
 and so they told me at your place you was here, and so I come 
 here for you if you can spare the time." 
 
 " Drowned !" repeated the minister, with an expression of the 
 deepest feeling. " Tom, are you quite sure there is no hope 
 that there isn t some mistake ?" 
 
 Tom shook his head. "You wouldn t think so if you d 
 been with me and Dr. Catherwood when we drew him up from 
 under that big wheel, as dead and cold as if he d been there for 
 a week and heavy ! You never felt nothing like the weight 
 of that poor boy. It was horrid business takin him down to 
 his mother though the Doctor kept tellin her there was a 
 good many chances he might be revived. But they ve been
 
 VALSE A DEUX TEMPS. 131 
 
 workin over him these two hours and more, and there isn t 
 many chances left, you see if ever there was any at the start." 
 
 The minister, during this recital, had gone to the table near 
 him for his hat, and without a look or word to any one, had 
 hurried down the steps accompanied by the man. 
 
 " That s where Christine is, I suppose," said Madeline, 
 thoughtfully, looking after them. " Harry Gilmore was at the 
 Fair this afternoon with Julian. It seems frightful. Mr. Leslie, 
 go ask mamma if she is not almost ready to go home."
 
 132 A VIGIL. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A VIGIL. 
 
 " The Saints will aid, if men will call, 
 For the blue sky bends over all." 
 
 " CHRISTINE, go home," said Dr. Catherwood in a low tone, 
 taking her by the hand and leading her out into the little porch 
 before the miller s house. " I have desired you to go before ; 
 now I must command it see," he added, taking out his watch 
 and leaning back to look at it by the light from the room they 
 had just left. " See, it is past twelve, and I did not ask you to 
 go till the boy revived now there is no excuse. You can do 
 nothing I shall stay here all night, though I assure you I 
 feel safe about him, and there are Mr. Brockhulst and Tom, and 
 twenty others if I wanted them, to help me in watching over 
 him. You cannot be of any comfort to the mother ; I believe 
 her to be half insane, and your presence only has the effect of 
 exciting her just now. Where is your bonnet? There, put it 
 on and go home ; it is very dark, but I know you do not mind 
 I will send Tom, the miller s man, with you for protection." 
 
 " But I wish you would let me stay," faltered Christine, im 
 ploringly. "If any change should happen." 
 
 " But no change will happen," said the Doctor firmly, " except 
 the change we all desire to see; my dear child, this is very foolish !" 
 
 For Christine, sinking down upon the bench outside the door, 
 had covered her face with her hands and given way to a burst 
 of tears. He drew the door shut, so that no one within should 
 hear her, and sat down at her side. He did not very much 
 wonder that she had given way at last. He had been watching
 
 A VIGIL. 133 
 
 her anxiously for several hours, expecting every moment the 
 failure of endurance that had come. He had not had the heart 
 to send her away before he had any hope to give her, though 
 he had felt regret for the injury that the dreadful scene was 
 doing her. The sight of the raving mother, the dumb stricken 
 father, the white, deathlike face of the boy upon the bed, with 
 the deep, black bruise between his eyes, would have been 
 severely trying to such sensitive nerves and such a tender heart 
 as hers, if the dreadful thought that it was all Julian s work, 
 and so all in a manner her responsibility, had not for ever been 
 present in her mind, till she felt, and spoke, and looked like one 
 in a frightful trance. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood had, at present, no desire so strong as to get 
 her home and in a way of resting, quieted by the thought that 
 the danger was almost over, and yet he did not dare to leave 
 the house long enough to take her to the Parsonage. He 
 longed to soothe her, but he did not dare to enter on the sub 
 ject that was now the only thought she had, fearing it would 
 bring up too much to be controlled at present, and yet he must 
 try to quiet her in some way. It was hard not to show her any 
 sympathy, nor allow her to see how his heart had ached for 
 her, and how thoroughly he understood her. So he said 
 quietly, drawing away her hand from her face : 
 
 " Don t let them hear you, my dear Christine. It is very 
 natural you should be unnerved after such a long and exciting 
 day. You need rest very much. Let us see ! You were busy 
 all the morning getting things ready for the Fair, and from ten 
 o clock till seven you were standing in the tent, busy and excit 
 ed all the time. I doubt if you have had a half hour of quiet 
 since breakfast time this morning." 
 
 Christine raised her head and articulated through her sobs : 
 " Do not talk about my resting ; you know it is not that." 
 
 " I know it is just that," he said. " I know your nerves are 
 perfectly unstrung by excitement, alarm, and over-fatigue."
 
 134 A VIGIL. 
 
 "Then why do you reproach me for crying?" she said, sink 
 ing back again and covering her face. " Oh ! I wish you would 
 tell me if there is really any hope, and not try to pacify me as 
 you do !" 
 
 "Do you suppose I would deceive you ?" he said, seriously. 
 
 " No, oh no ! not deceive me, exactly ; but you are so sorry 
 for me you want to believe so yourself, whatever the truth may 
 be. You know it would kill me if this boy should die, and 
 you try to convince yourself and me that he will live. But he 
 will not ! I know before the night is over that little spark is 
 going out. I know it and you fear it, and yet you tell me to 
 go home and rest ! Home ! How can I get rest at home ? 
 That is the last place I do not ever want to go home again 
 I wish I could die this moment I shall die with all this load 
 upon me." 
 
 " Christine," said her companion, standing beside her and 
 speaking in a firm and serious voice, " I tried to spare you this, 
 and you would have been wiser to have submitted to me and 
 controlled yourself. But since it has expressed itself, let us talk 
 calmly of what I fear you to be incapable of thinking calmly 
 now. It is wiser to strangle doubts and fears than to give 
 them words and make them real ; but you have done it and it is 
 too late. In the first place, you cannot fully trust me ; you do 
 not think I believe what I have told you in regard to the boy s 
 state. That is unjust, for you cannot recall a single instance in 
 which you can say I have deceived you. I have told you the 
 truth about the boy ; I believe he will recover ; I did not think 
 of telling you to go away until I was convinced the danger had 
 passed over ; and now about the dread of meeting your father 
 and of seeing Julian. You need not tell your father any 
 thing unless you choose. I will tell him all to-morrow. And 
 for Julian, would you have had any such feeling about him if 
 he had thrown his companion on the green turf instead of off 
 into the deep water ? The fault on his part would have been
 
 A VIGIL. 135 
 
 the same. __ He had no intention of doing anything more in this 
 case than he would have had in that. You must judge of sins 
 by their actual intentions, not their accidental results. Harry s 
 design was no more innocent than Julian s ; if he had had the 
 strength and skill to do what Julian, aided by accident, has done, 
 Julian would have been lying now where Harry is. Be thank 
 ful that things are no worse, and do not think of possibilities, 
 for that is always folly. I ask you not to exaggerate Julian s 
 fault, while I do not attempt to excuse it n^self ; I shall treat 
 it to him as seriously as if it had had the worst result, and I sin 
 cerely hope the alarm he has gone through will have a good 
 effect upon him. This may be the happiest thing for him. I 
 certainly am not without hope that it was for that purpose that 
 it was allowed to happen. Do not endeavor to speak to him 
 yourself about it. Leave that to me ; I think I begin to under 
 stand him better, and a man always has more authority. If 
 you are willing to be guided by me, do this ; go home, satisfied 
 with what I have told you of the boy s condition ; do not allow 
 yourself to think, or reason, or look back. You can do none 
 of these things calmly now. You must only try to divert 
 yourself from thought. See no one to-night. Sleep if possi 
 ble ; lie still at all events ; I will bring you the earliest reports 
 from here ; if I am not at the Parsonage before the family are 
 down, act as if nothing had occurred ; meet Julian seriously 
 but simply. Do not give him the impression you are horrified 
 at him, and yet do not be affectionate. Are you willing to do 
 all this and to trust that this once I know best ?" 
 
 Christine made some sign of assent and rose, taking her bon 
 net from her companion s hand and going towards the steps 
 without a word. 
 
 " Wait till I call Tom," he said ; " and now, good-night." 
 Perhaps he ought not to have been disappointed that her 
 good-night was so languid and docile as she passed out of the 
 gate, followed by Tom, leaving him looking after them, or
 
 136 A VIGIL. 
 
 rather listening after them, for the night was dense and black, 
 and Christine s white dress was swallowed up by the darkness 
 half a minute after he had parted from her. He only waited 
 for a moment listening for her receding steps along the gravel 
 path, and then laid his hand upon the latch and went back into 
 the room where Harry Gilmore lay feverish and unconscious on 
 the bed, watched over by the pale young minister, and his 
 clumsy-handed, tendor-hearted father. The mother, with 
 strangely gleaming eyes, sat beside the hearth, with face 
 averted, beating her foot upon the rug and pressing her lips 
 close together. She was a woman to make one afraid as she 
 looked then a " bear robbed of her whelps," a fierce lioness 
 crouching beside the lair that treachery and cruelty have deso 
 lated, and lashing silently with the wrath and hate that fill her. 
 Dr. Catherwood felt a shiver as he looked at her ; there was a 
 dangerous meaning in her eyes as she saw that he came in 
 alone. 
 
 " I have sent Miss Upham home," he said, in a low voice, as 
 he passed by her, " and you yourself had better go to bed." 
 
 A sneer passed over her features as she turned away her 
 head. 
 
 " Richard and Mr. Brockhulst will sit up for the present," he 
 went on, " and I shall not go away at all. You may as well 
 take a little rest ; I shall watch every change." 
 
 " No doubt you will," she muttered, under her breath ; " no 
 doubt, it will be worse for the parson s grandson if you do not 
 bring him through it will be no fault of yours if Julian 
 Upham sleeps to-morrow night in jail ; you ll do your best to 
 bring my boy through this. Oh, yes. I know you will. I 
 know how good you are, all you rich people, and how you hold 
 together." 
 
 " Listen," said Dr. Catherwood, putting his hand with a 
 pretty heavy emphasis upon her shoulder and speaking into 
 her ear as he leaned down ; " let me hear no more of this ; as
 
 A VIGIL. Io7 
 
 surely as I do, you will have cause to rue it. I will save tlie 
 boy if he can be saved, but not because his living or his dying 
 will make a straw s difference in Julian Upham s future. I 
 want you to understand fully, now, at this point, before the 
 doubt about his recovery is quite gone, and before I have 
 spoken to any one but you, that there are witnesses, of whom I 
 am one, who can prove Julian s act was one of self-defence ; 
 that Harry was struggling to do what Julian did accidentally. 
 Julian might as well have been the victim. Harry is twice as 
 strong as he, and ought to be ashamed for daring to lay a fin 
 ger on a boy who isn t half his size. If he gets better, he 
 shall be made an example of, should such a thing occur again. 
 They are both bad boys, though everybody inclines to Julian s 
 side, because he is so little. I do not for my part think Harry 
 is any more to blame than he. He is not wickedly bent, I 
 think, but you have brought him up badly ; and this, I hope, 
 will be a lesson to you. You must have some authority over 
 him, or you will see worse scenes than this. I have not said 
 half as much as I might say, or as I meant to say when I 
 began. I am sorry for you, and I should not have spoken, but 
 I thought it best to stop you from making trouble for your 
 self and for your boy, if he ever lives to feel the need of a fair 
 name and the good-will of those around him. Now, I want 
 quiet in the room, and you must leave it, or be silent and not 
 make a sign that you are here." 
 
 Phoebe Gilmore s face was white and her lips purple with the 
 swelling passion that gleamed out from her eyes, but she was 
 mastered by the unexpected sternness and authority of one to 
 whom all looked for sympathy and kindness. It was the first 
 time in her life she ever had been subdued, by man or woman, 
 when her temper had once got possession of her ; she was 
 fairly stunned by the force of a will so much stronger than her 
 own, so rough and ruthless, too, where all the world would 
 have been tender and considerate. His hand had been heavy
 
 138 A VIGIL. 
 
 and strong upon her shoulder, his voice low but stern, with a 
 vehement intention in every accentuated syllable; his eyes, 
 when she once met them, had had a look that she had trem 
 bled under. She threw one glance after him as he moved 
 towards the bed, whence a faint moan had come, and then 
 sat like a stone and gave no sign that she heard or had an 
 interest in what was going on around her. 
 
 The doctor s cheek was a little flushed as he bent over the 
 oed, and his cool hand a thought less steady as he laid it on 
 the boy s fevered skin ; there was a dark, angry trouble in his 
 eyes, too, unlike their ordinary clear, true light, for, Christian 
 man as he was, he had that moment spoken an untruth, that 
 moment laid a cruel lash on one whose suffering should have 
 made her sacred. It was the only way to manage her, the 
 only way to prevent a scandal and to spare Christine. lie had 
 said he would save the boy if he could be saved, but .not be 
 cause it would make a straw s difference in Julian s future. 
 What a strange contradiction was his troubled, darkened glance, 
 as the fever thickened and quickened in the child s swollen 
 veins, as the black bruise between his eyes deepened and grew 
 broader ! What a tale his unsteady fingers told as he strove 
 to measure out the draughts, whose effects he watched with 
 such ill-concealed anxiety ! He had an interest in Harry Gil- 
 more s safety that he hoped to conceal from others, that he felt 
 made him a coward and a hypocrite. It was all very well to 
 persuade Christine and to force it upon this woman that Julian 
 had no concern in his recovery ; but he knew too well what 
 fallacy it was. If this boy died, Julian s future would receive 
 a blight from which it could not be redeemed ; the scandal, the 
 publicity of what would follow the death of his young victim, 
 would never be forgotten would cling to him for life, make 
 him what naturally he inclined to be, would lead him to what 
 nothing but tenderness and watchfulness extreme could save him 
 from the career of an outlaw and a reprobate. If there were
 
 A VIGIL. 139 
 
 any good latent in him, this horrid and sickening occurrence 
 would crush it out completely, would ripen into early maturity 
 the evil of his nature. 
 
 Julian s doom was written if the miller s son should die ; 
 before the light of morning crept into that low room where he 
 lay it would be decided; and the hours seemed like a lifetime 
 to the two men who watched beside him.
 
 140 A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 
 
 " Many a shaft at random sent, 
 
 Finds mark the archer little meant ; 
 And many a word at random spoken, 
 May heal or wound a heart that s broken." 
 
 " Is your master down ?" said Dr. Catherwood, as he came 
 upon the tidy maid next morning sweeping the steps of the 
 Parsonage piazza. 
 
 " Not yet, sir," she answered, pausing as he passed, with a 
 very pleasant, blushy smile. " It is half an hour to breakfast- 
 time. No one is down but Master Julian." 
 
 " And where is he ?" Dr. Catherwood turned shortly round 
 and spoke with something pained and hurried in his tone. 
 
 " Gone off to fish, I think, sir ; I saw he had a pole and 
 creel. Most likely he is at the brook." 
 
 " Send him to me, will you, if he returns before the family 
 come down ?" he said, going on into the house. 
 
 The windows of the parlor were all open, the cool morning 
 breeze was waving the white curtains, the room was all in order, 
 all fresh from Ann s feather brush and tidying touch. There 
 was no trace of its inhabitants of the night before , the cush 
 ions of the sofa were shaken out and smoothed, and laid ex 
 actly in their places ; the books upon the table were lying at 
 right angles with the edges ; Christine s work-box was shut, and 
 the piano was closed and the music-rack was in good order ; in 
 fact, the room looked as if it were asleep or in a happy trance. 
 Dr. Catherwood threw himself upon the sofa and pushed the
 
 * 
 
 A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 141 
 
 cushion under his head. He was tired, though he did not care 
 to acknowledge it. Even the most perfect physique feels a lit 
 tle languor under the trial of a sleepless night and intense men 
 tal activity for many hours. 
 
 Half an hour to breakfast, he thought, as his eyes fell on the 
 clock ; that was a real annoyance, for he was hungry, and had 
 no time to lose, besides. What should he do ? Why, wait of 
 course ; and so his troubled eye closed, and his knit forehead 
 smoothed itself out, and he slept profoundly. 
 
 Christine coming down presently, gave a start and almost 
 dropped the vase of flowers she held, as she caught sight of 
 him asleep upon the sofa. She came in softly after a moment, 
 darkened the blinds a little, threw a sofa blanket over him, and 
 stole away to the piazza to watch for his awaking through the 
 window. When he awoke, it was to see her face watching his 
 through the white curtains, like an angel looking through the 
 clouds. It was gone like a gleam of light, though ; as he raised 
 his eyes, he called " Christine," and presently she came in at 
 the door looking pale and frightened, and stopping as far from 
 the sofa as she could, and yet be in the room. 
 
 " Is breakfast ready ?" he said, not getting up, but throwing 
 the sofa blanket back. 
 
 " In a moment," she said, turning and about to disappear. 
 
 " Come here," he said, " I want to speak to you. Is youi 
 father down ?" 
 
 " No that is I believe he isn t well this morning ; he will 
 not come down." 
 
 " So we shall take our breakfast alone together. After you 
 ring the bell for Ann, come here ; I want to see you, as I said." 
 
 Christine went across the room and rang the bell for Ann, 
 and then came and sat down beside him. Madeline would have 
 been very much shocked that he did not rise, only passed his 
 hand through his hair and pushed the sofa cushion a little 
 higher, and lay looking at Christine, who sat before him with a
 
 142 A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 
 
 curious expression. " I am desperately tired," lie said, pulling 
 out his watch. " I must have been asleep three quarters of an 
 hour ; how long since you came down ?" 
 
 " About that time," Christine said, faintly. 
 
 " And you have been waiting for me ? Why did you not 
 wake me up ?" 
 
 " Why ? I was very glad that you should have some sleep ; 
 I knew you must be tired." 
 
 "But if you will tell the truth, you will say you were very 
 glad when I waked up ; you know you want to hear how the 
 boy is, though you do not dare to ask me." 
 
 " I know you would not be here if he were not better," she 
 said, half reassured by his quiet manner, though not quite able 
 yet to banish doubt. 
 
 " Well, Christine, thank God, he is better," said her compa 
 nion with a sudden movement, rising and taking her hand in 
 his. " Heaviness has endured for a night ; you and I never 
 will forget." 
 
 For a moment the tears swam in Christine s eyes. " Voyons," 
 he said, in a changed tone, letting go her hand and turning to 
 the window, " ring again for Ann ; I am not only tired but 
 hungry." 
 
 "Ann is coming," Christine said, going to the table quickly 
 and bending down to make the tea. Ann put the biscuits and 
 the omelette, and the thin slices of pink ham upon the table, 
 and placing a chair said : " Shall I call Dr. Catherwood, 
 Miss ?" 
 
 Ann was rather sentimental about the visitor and her young 
 mistress; she and the laundry-maid were quite agreed that 
 something would come of it. She always watched Christine 
 very sharply when Dr. Catherwood was there, and she saw that 
 there were tears upon her eyelashes as she said yes, and sat 
 down. 
 
 They had their breakfast quite en Ute-d-tete. Julian did not
 
 A FEW MINUTES QTJIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 143 
 
 come in, and while Ann went up stairs to take a biscuit and a 
 cup of coffee to her master s room, Dr. Catherwood said : 
 
 " Send away Ann, will you ? I want to have a few minutes 
 quiet talk with you about Julian, while I am finishing my 
 breakfast." 
 
 A few minutes quiet talk about Julian ! A few minutes quiet 
 talk about the sword that was flashing above her head swaying 
 by a hair ; a few minutes quiet talk about the pain that swelled 
 her heart to bursting at the mention of his name. Dr. Cather 
 wood knew that she had eaten all the breakfast that she could 
 before he spoke, and this time was as good as any other. So 
 after Ann was sent away with an intelligent ^elevation of the 
 eyebrows, as she softly closed the door, he said in an easy tone, 
 though not a trifling one, as he pushed his plate of fruit back 
 and leaned forward on his arm : 
 
 " Julian s a bad boy, Christine, there is no denying it, and I 
 have been thinking latterly you could not do a better thing 
 than to send him away to school. He s fourteen now, and he 
 needs more discipline than he can get at home. I do not think 
 his companions here are altogether the most improving for him, 
 and though I like Mr. Brockhulst very much, I do not think 
 him particularly well fitted to manage such a boy as Julian. I 
 have thought about it a good deal ; it is no new idea, and this 
 last escapade has only confirmed me in it. Your father, I fancy, 
 would approve of it." 
 
 " It is impossible," said Christine, quickly ; " I hope you will 
 not speak to him about it. Julian cannot go away from home ; 
 it is utterly impossible." 
 
 " I do not understand," said Dr. Catherwood, surprised at 
 her decision. " You do not think it would benefit him ?" 
 
 " There are reasons that make it utterly out of the question," 
 she returned, hastily then paused and looked up in alarm lest 
 she had been rude. 
 
 " Suppose you tell me what they are," he said, with a smile,
 
 144 A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 
 
 meeting her eye. " We are en rapport about this matter, are 
 we not? and I cannot even conjecture why you feel so about 
 his leaving you." 
 
 "I am afraid I cannot tell you," said Christine, looking 
 troubled. 
 
 " Perhaps I can save you the trouble. Is it because you 
 cannot bear to part with him ? That would do for a mother to 
 say, but not for you. You love Julian faithfully and dutifully, 
 but he does not add to the pleasure of your life. You would 
 be much younger and lighter-hearted if he were away from you 
 a while. He is a great, a wearing, a constant trial to you." 
 
 Christine frowned and turned her face away ; she felt that no 
 one had a right to say that to her. 
 
 "Besides, it would be a weakness I should regret to see in 
 you, keeping him by you to save yourself from any silly scruple 
 or uneasiness about him. By-and-by he must leave you ; 
 whether for his good or evil. He cannot or will not stay always 
 at home. You will do well to anticipate the necessity and send 
 him when it may be of benefit to him." 
 
 " He will not go till he is old enough to do without me, and 
 to know how to defend himself against against " 
 
 O O 
 
 " Against whom ? They tell you dreadful stories about 
 schoolboys, no doubt, but you must remember they are not 
 many of them founded on fact. I have been a boy myself, 
 yon know ; ever so long ago, to be sure, but not so long but 
 that I can remember how many boys I thrashed, and how many 
 boys thrashed me. Julian is able to take care of himself, 
 depend upon it. He will be cock of the walk before he has 
 been at school a month ; he will need no one to defend him." 
 
 " I am not so foolish, Dr. Catherwood. I am not thinking 
 about that. I know Julian will not suffer as much as most boys 
 in that way. It is not that I mean. You cannot understand 
 me. The reasons that make it impossible to send Julian away 
 would apply to no other child on earth he is one alone by
 
 A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 145 
 
 himself, poor boy. He must never go away from here till he 
 is a man. He has a home, though he lacks all else that other 
 children have." 
 
 " Tell me," said her companion, with hesitation and anxiety ; 
 " you cannot mean I am afraid this seems unwarrantable 
 but you know how deep the interest that I feel it is not possi 
 ble that the expenses of his education are any difficulty. For 
 give rne for asking, Christine but I had always understood I 
 had never had a doubt his his mother s fortune was ample 
 for all that." 
 
 Christine colored a little, then forced herself to speak. "I 
 am sure if any one has a right to know, you have, Dr. Cather- 
 wood. I ought to have told you before, perhaps, but everything 
 connected with with that time, is so painful. He has not any 
 thing, I suppose; all the money went before they came to us. 
 But that would never be a difficulty. What they call mine, 
 you know, is just the same as his. I should never have used 
 a quarter of it, even if I had not promised he should have the 
 half." 
 
 "Promised," said her companion, raising his head; "pro- 
 mis"ed whom ?" 
 
 " Helena my sister his mother," she returned, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " And your father consented to this ?" he said, rising and 
 walking backward and forward through the room and stopping 
 before her. 
 
 "My father knows nothing about it," she said, looking up 
 quickly ; " and that is what I want to say, you must never speak 
 to him about it ; I said he should never know." 
 
 " Ah !" he said, with a sigh of relief, " that is all right. I 
 shall never mention it to him, you-may be sure." 
 
 There was a pause, while Dr. Catherwood walked up and 
 down the room, and Christine pushed her chair back from the 
 table. 
 
 7
 
 146 A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 
 
 " Well," he said, after a few moments standing and looking 
 out of the window, his face away from her, " then, is it that you 
 do not want to go to him about it, and make any confession of 
 your promise? Because I could arrange it for you, if you 
 chose, without any necessity of speaking to him on that matter." 
 
 " It is not that," said Christine, speaking as if it cost her a 
 great effort ; " my father would not spare anything in educat 
 ing Julian. He knows how I would feel, and his own income 
 is sufficient to give him every advantage. lie shall have a 
 tutor ; he shall not be neglected ; but he must not go away 
 from home. I cannot break my promise." 
 
 Her companion turned suddenly towards her, but averted his 
 face again without speaking. 
 
 " I wish you knew, and I did not have to tell you," she said, 
 in a voice that sounded very plaintive ; " I want you to know 
 all about him, but it hurts me so to think it over, much more to 
 talk of it to any one. We have been very unhappy here, Dr. 
 Catherwood, though we all seem well enough now. I am the 
 only one left of a great many that were a great deal better and 
 more lovely; and the best, the most beautiful of all, had better 
 have died when she was a little child like the others, than h ave 
 lived to see the misery she did. That was Julian s mother, the 
 oldest of all, and my father s darling. Oh, if I had only died 
 in her place, and left her to comfort him and to take care of 
 Julian ! But that could not be, and I must try to do the best I 
 can for them. What made her misery was well, it was the 
 worst thing that can happen to a woman an unhappy mar 
 riage; a marriage to a man that hated, and ill-treated, and per 
 secuted her. Oh, I shudder at his very name ! I dread to 
 think poor Julian must ever know it. I would give anything 
 if I could spare him the misery of knowing what his father 
 was. Such cruelty it was that killed Helena it was that that 
 drove her about the world trying to hide her boy from him. It 
 was that that made her pet and pamper Julian, dreading the
 
 A FEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 147 
 
 day he might be stolen from her ; and it was that that made 
 her make me promise I never would lose sight of him till he 
 was a man. I would watch over him night and da} 7 , and keep 
 him from his father. That was my promise. No considera 
 tion can possibly induce me to break through it. I know you 
 will not try to do it. I am sure you will help me do my 
 duty, and not try to make it hard to me. Julian must stay at 
 home, as his mother said he must, and I must watch him as I 
 said I would. Here he is almost safe, if anywhere. That 
 man, whom I have to call his father, has been led to think he 
 never came back here ; that Helena left him at a school in 
 Germany. He would not look for him here; he would not 
 know him if he saw him, he is so altered ; his name is dropped 
 completely, and, besides, bad and daring as the man has always 
 been, he would not dare to come and claim him out of his 
 grandfather s house out of the refuge his poor mother brought 
 him to when she was flying from his wickedness and cruelty. 
 If he were away at some strange place, there is no knowing 
 what might happen. So you see you must not talk to me about 
 letting him go away ; it is impossible. You have often told 
 me not to worry about Julian ; now you see I cannot help it. 
 I am very sorry I never told you before. I have often wanted 
 to, but I never could make up my inind. You know now what 
 is my life s work, my life s duty, Dr. Catherwood, to hide Julian 
 from his father, and to make up to him in some way for the 
 misfortune of his birth." 
 
 There was a moment s perfect silence ; Christine sat looking 
 before her without moving, a flush upon her cheek, and with a 
 resolved, womanly look. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood, when at last he turned from the window, 
 looked very pale and stern ; even his lips were ashy, and there 
 was a blue line around them as he spoke : 
 
 " We will not talk any more about it now," he said, going 
 into the room beyond. " Perhaps it will be best for you to keep
 
 148 A PEW MINUTES QUIET TALK ABOUT JULIAN. 
 
 him with you ; you know I cannot judge. I must now go to 
 Harry. Tell your father I was sorry not to see him this morn 
 ing ; if he needs me he will send me word, I know." 
 
 Christine sat silent for several minutes after he had ceased 
 speaking before she realized that he had gone ; then she looked 
 up and started. There was something in his manner, though 
 she had not seen his face, that had made her feel he had been 
 displeased with what she said, and yet she knew she had done 
 right to say it. And there was something more that she was 
 trying to make up her mind to say ; she had looked up with 
 the words upon her lips, when she found that he had gone. 
 This young girl had a very sacred idea of friendship ; she felt 
 that she owed it to Dr. Catherwood, who was her best and 
 truest friend, to tell him all about Helena and the promise she 
 had made to her, and there could be no better time than now. 
 It was not very important, but she should feel better if he knew 
 it all, and he would understand her better, and her position in 
 society. He had spoken to her several times about the world 
 and the men she would meet in it, as she knew he would not 
 have spoken if he had known all. He had told her one day 
 she must not marry any of the silly boys whom Madeline had 
 around her ; and that Mr. Brockhulst even was too young and 
 immature to be a lover fit for her. Such things made her un 
 comfortable when they came from him, even though he said 
 them carelessly, for she felt that he had a right to know all, and 
 that she was not quite honest in keeping silence about anything 
 that would influence her life so much, even though it gave her 
 the greatest pain to speak of it. He should know all about it, 
 the very first moment that she was alone with him, she re 
 solved ; getting up and going to her father s room with the paper 
 in her hand, pausing to say one thankful prayer for Harry Gil- 
 more as she passed the sunny window of the upper hall that 
 opened on the garden.
 
 A DANGER AVERTED. 149 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A DANGER AVERTED. 
 
 " Our many deeds, the thoughts that we have thought, 
 They go out from us thronging every hour ; 
 And in them all is folded up a power 
 That on the earth doth move them to and fro ; 
 And mighty are the marvels they have wrought, 
 
 In hearts we know not, and may never know." 
 
 FADER. 
 
 DR. UPHAM did not leave his room for a day or two after this ; 
 he wondered a great many times why Catherwood did not come 
 in, and Christine wondered too, though she did not say anything 
 about it. She had met him once or twice at the miller s cot 
 tage, where she went a great many times every day, and he 
 had been very kind, though always in a hurry, and she had not 
 had the courage to ask him why he did not come ; it was a 
 thing so openly absurd to ask him to come to the Parsonage, 
 which was exactly like his home to him. lie had said the last 
 time as he went out of Harry s room, " I m sorry Dr. Upham 
 isn t better; if he needs me, I know he will send me word." 
 
 There was a good deal of sickness in the neighborhood, it is 
 true; the Doctor s two horses were getting some hard work; 
 all the babies within ten miles were taking advantage of this 
 bad August weather to cut their teeth and to be very ill ; but 
 there had been a month of diphtheria early in the season, and 
 Dr. Catherwood had always found time to be at the Parsonage 
 at least once a day, and to take one meal out of every three at 
 the table there. 
 
 So Christine wondered and felt very unhappy, and thought
 
 150 A DANGER AVERTED. 
 
 herself an ingrate when she looked at Harry Gilmore and saw 
 that he was getting well. A few days ago she had thought 
 if Harry got well there would be nothing else to wish for in 
 the world ; now he was getting well, and her heart was heavy 
 with a trouble she could not even understand. She tried to 
 relieve her conscience by being very kind and attentive to 
 Harry, taking him nice things from the Parsonage, getting him 
 new books, and knives, and pictures, and sitting by him for 
 hours and reading to him. All these attentions Mrs. Gilmore 
 received in a silent and ungracious manner, and with a gleam 
 of the eye that was even more than ungracious. Christine did 
 not understand it, but it made her very uncomfortable, and 
 going down to the cottage became a dreaded business. 
 
 There were occasionally one or two neighbors sitting there, 
 very straight in their chairs, with their best shawls on, and 
 Christine thought they looked at her as if she were one of the 
 Borgias. It was very likely they did, for the village was all 
 aflame on the subject of Julian s crime, but of course nothing 
 came to Christine s ears. And Dr. Upham s temporary illness 
 had kept him from all knowledge of the story, for Christine 
 had not had the courage to tell him of it, nor indeed the heart 
 to worry him with it while he was suffering so much in body. 
 She had followed Dr. Catherwood s advice and had not said 
 anything to Julian, leaving it for him to do, and he had not 
 done it, she was almost sure. Julian had been more than 
 usually restless and unruly. Crescens and he had had many 
 fierce encounters, and Christine with a shudder had heard him 
 answer one of the servants with a rude and mocking laugh 
 who had asked him if he wasn t ashamed of himself to be 
 acting so when Harry Gilmore lay half dead from what he d 
 done to him. She could only be silent and pray with a very 
 heavy heart. 
 
 At last, one evening, the third after these occurrences, when 
 Christine took her father s cup of tea up to him, he said, turn-
 
 A DANGER AVERTED. 151 
 
 ing a little restlessly in his arm-chair: "I do not see why 
 Catherwood does not come ; I think I should like to see him. 
 I do not quite understand this pain. Ring for Ann and let her 
 go down for him." 
 
 Christine rang for Ann and sent her down to the Doctor s 
 cottage. The Doctor was at home, lying at half length on the 
 cane sofa of the porch, smoking a lazy cigar after the day s 
 work, and listening to the rush of the water over the dam. 
 He did not move when he saw Ann coming down the path, 
 only said : " Well, Ann ?" when she paused at the step, and 
 slowly took the cigar out of his mouth. 
 
 Ann delivered her message with the peculiar blushiness of 
 pretty servant maids when they have messages to deliver to 
 nice gentlemen, and Dr. Catherwood in return smiled a little 
 and said : " Tell Doctor Upham I will come up presently." 
 
 He smoked his cigar quite out, and lay listening to the water 
 for a while after he had thrown it from him, then walked up 
 and down the path several times before he went into the house 
 and rang the bell. Rebekah, a silent, sturdy machine of a 
 housekeeper, brought the lamp, and placed the tea upon the 
 table in the little parlor, and withdrew. He poured out first 
 one cup and then another, and drank them slowly. Rebekah 
 came in and laid the evening paper on the table ; he did 
 not unfold it, but at last got up, rang the bell, and left the 
 house. 
 
 The fields at evening ! how sweet and thoughtful and calm 
 they were ! He crossed them slowly, and went in at the Par 
 sonage gate just as Ann was pulling the hall lamp down to 
 light it. There was no light in the parlor ; Dr. Catherwood 
 looked in, and caught sight of Mr. Brockhulst walking up and 
 down, and looking rather disturbed and uncomfortable. 
 
 "Oh, good evening," the latter said, stopping as he saw the 
 new-comer. " I was waiting till you came. Miss Upham said 
 perhaps her father had better sec you first before I went up-
 
 152 A DANGER AVEKTED. 
 
 stairs, but if he is any more unwell, perhaps I had better post 
 pone my business ; to-morrow will do just as well." 
 
 There was something in Mr. Brockhulst s manner that said 
 his business was very disagreeable, and he would be very glad 
 to postpone it himself if there were any excuse for doing so, 
 and Dr. Catherwood began immediately to conjecture of what 
 it treated. Could it be Julian ? Mr. Brockhulst had the air 
 of one who acts on the defensive, so Dr. Catherwood said, seat 
 ing himself : 
 
 " I have not seen Dr. Upham for several days. I do not 
 know how much amiss he is. If you want to see him on any 
 parish business, no doubt he can attend to it ; such matters are 
 not apt to trouble him, I think. The Doctor has a very clear 
 head ; I have seen him go through a great deal of hard think 
 ing when he was suffering very acute pain." 
 
 " It is nothing in regard to parish business," said Mr. Brock 
 hulst, uncomfortably and with an evasive manner. " But, I 
 think, very possibly, it will be better to put off my interview 
 till morning. I should like to see him before school-time. I 
 will call, I think, a little after eight." 
 
 " Apropos" said his companion, now quite certain what the 
 business was, "what progress does Julian seem to make? I 
 have often meant to ask you ; he is a bright boy ; I have 
 noticed him a good deal ; but very difficult to manage, I should 
 apprehend." 
 
 " It is of him I am come to speak to Dr. Upham," he said, 
 with a sudden change of plan. " Dr. Catherwood, I am very 
 unpleasantly fixed about that boy." 
 
 " Ah !" said the Doctor, with mild interest. 
 
 " The fact is," said the young minister, sitting down beside 
 him, and speaking in a tone of resolution ; " the fact is, Dr. 
 Catherwood, I have determined that that boy shall be taken away 
 from the school. I am willing his grandfather should put it in 
 any shape he pleases. I do not want to make unpleasant feel-
 
 A DANGEli AVEETED. 153 
 
 ing, but I will not be troubled with him any longer. I might 
 as well give up my school at once." 
 
 "That is unfortunate," said Dr. Catherwood ; "as you say 
 it puts you in a very unpleasant position ; you being, as it were* 
 merely an assistant to the Rector, and he having planned the 
 school and being so long a teacher of one himself." 
 
 " As to that," returned the younger man, with a touch of 
 asperity in his tone, " there may be many ways of looking at it." 
 
 " And," continued Dr. Catherwood, without noticing the in 
 terruption, "I can understand how you feel about the impolicy 
 of offending any of the Doctor s friends among the vestry, such 
 things are always so much magnified. I am afraid there would 
 be a great clamor made. But if it is necessary if the boy 
 has done anything that cannot be overlooked, of course such 
 considerations fall to the ground entirely. You must sacrifice 
 your own interests to the interests of the school." 
 
 " I cannot think Dr. Upham would be unreasonable," said 
 the other, " if I explained all to him ; I feel certain he will 
 remove the boy without making any noise about it." 
 
 "It may be so," returned Dr. Catherwood ; but, lowering his 
 voice, " I will say to you what has come to my knowledge, use 
 it as you please ; Julian is to be educated at home. It is not 
 intended to send him away till he is of age ; so that if he can 
 no longer be under your tuition he will probably have a mas 
 ter in the house. This, of course, would draw a good deal of 
 attention to the change ; and as Dr. Upham was instrumental 
 in procuring scholars for you and furthering your plans, there 
 would be a good deal said about the fact of his grandson s 
 being sent away as soon as the class was well established." . 
 
 " I cannot help that," he said, resolutely. " Dr. Upham will 
 be certain to agree with me when he knows all I have had to 
 undergo." 
 
 "Oh, of coufrse, if there is anything flagrant, anything that 
 cannot be overlooked, as I said, your excuse would be accepted 
 
 V*
 
 154 A DANGER AVERTED. 
 
 by those concerned, whatever the world may say. Julian is a 
 trying boy. I have no doubt but I think he may be managed, 
 if things are started right. He is wilful, you see, and turbu 
 lent, but I have never seen the boy yet who was not to be led 
 by a judicious flattery. Besides, one is apt to overrate such 
 faults as his ; now, for instance, about this little affair with 
 Harry Gilmore " 
 
 " Yes, about that," said the clergyman, in a tone of suppressed 
 excitement. " It would be difficult to overrate that, I think." 
 
 "On the contrary," said Dr. Catherwood, with firmness, "it 
 would be difficult to place it at its real value, having had such 
 unfortunate results. But there are not two boys wrestling in 
 your playground at recess every day, who do not commit as 
 serious a fault, only there is no precipice over which one may 
 push the other ; and the lucky boy who manages to keep upper 
 most gets nothing but a lecture from his mother for his damaged 
 pantaloons. Consequences are not always true corollaries. 
 Motives, I think, are admitted to have a certain weight, if not 
 in law, at least in morals. A boy of twelve has a right to all 
 the doubt that can exist in his judge s mind ; and if his judge 
 has been a boy himself within ten or twenty years, he will not 
 find it difficult to excuse the hasty blow, the animal instinct of 
 defence, the brute delight in strength, the blind and uncalculat- 
 ing triumph. Harry Gilmore is as much to blame as Julian 
 TJpham ; if you expel one, you must expel both. And if you 
 expel both, Mr. Brockhulst, you send two boys out into the 
 world with a brand upon them that they never can outgrow. I 
 have watched those two; I know how nice a hand they need ; 
 and I trust you will forgive me if I say, in all the heavy charge 
 that lies upon you, there is no heavier and no holier than the 
 charge of them. Two men, honoring or dishonoring their 
 manhood, will look back to this time, perhaps through life, and 
 bless or curse you for the bias that you gave them." 
 
 There was a moment s silence, broken by the sound of a foot
 
 A DANGER AVERTED. 155 
 
 upon the piazza, and a flutter of white muslin at the parlor 
 door. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Cly bourne!" said Dr. Catherwood, rising and 
 meeting her, while Mr. Brockhulst started and bowed stiffly. 
 
 " Why, what a darkness," said Madeline, coming in with a 
 little hesitation. " Is Christine lost anywhere in it ? or are you 
 two gentlemen here alone?" 
 
 " We two gentlemen are here alone," returned Dr. Gather- 
 wood, with a smile. 
 
 "A pair of owls in the belfry could not be dismaller; I hope 
 you bring the dawn under your wings. Ah, and there comes 
 Miss Christine !" 
 
 Christine came in, and Dr. Catherwood, after a few words to 
 her, excused himself, and went up-stairs, and left the clergyman 
 with the young ladies. 
 
 In five minutes also the clergyman excused himself and 
 went away, and Madeline, coloring angrily at his departure, sat 
 down beside the window and begged Christine to counter 
 mand the order for the lamp. Christine was very willing, and 
 the two ^sat in the darkness by the window, looking out into 
 the dark and silent garden. 
 
 Madeline was very impatient and very much out of humor 
 with everybody, and Christine was very triste and quiet. 
 
 " Do you suppose Dr. Catherwood means to spend the even 
 ing in your father s room?" said Madeline, at last. "For if 
 he doesn t come down soon and talk to me I shall go away. 
 You are too dull to be endured, Christine. I came to be 
 amused ; I have had the gloomiest three days ! Wait till you 
 have to stay at the Hill and take care of Mrs. Sherman through 
 a headache, and you will know what ennui is. I should not 
 have stayed an hour if mamma had not made me : entre nous, 
 Christine, Mrs. Sherman is a selfish old affair, and only cares 
 for us because we make her some amusement. I hope it may 
 please Heaven to remove me before I am forty-five, if my latter
 
 156 A DANGER AVERTED. 
 
 end roust be like hers. Why, Christine, she s an old hypocrite ; 
 her character all comes to pieces like her body, and I warn you 
 to keep away from her dressing-room and sick-bed, if you want 
 to preserve your reverence for her." 
 
 " Hush," said Christine, simply. 
 
 " No, I will not. Why should I ? Don t you suppose she 
 would say I was a bad-tempered girl if anybody asked her ? 
 She will not think there is any necessity for being honorable 
 after she has got all she wants out of me. I ve eaten of her 
 salt to be sure, but I only ate it while I was paying her 
 well for it. You think it is necessary to be so grateful ? 
 Do you suppose all she does is for us? No; it is for her 
 self. We have youth and spirits, and she can t buy them 
 with all her money. We amuse her and make people like 
 her house, and she can t spare us. She is useful to us and 
 gives us pleasure, and we re useful to her and give her plea 
 sure. We are square. I do not afflict myself." 
 
 " I do not ask you to afflict yourself, but I cannot face such 
 things as those. I do not believe I am more easily deceived 
 than you, but I am willing to try not to see what makes 
 me despise myself and other people." 
 
 " No ; I really believe you are not a simpleton, Christine, 
 though you have much the air of being one. Sometimes I 
 think you are a hypocrite, which is rather better on the whole, 
 though not quite what I should like to see my daughter, if I 
 had one, as Mrs. Sherman would say. What a blessed Provi 
 dence that she hasn t one ! I think she has a mind to adopt 
 you, Christine ; she found I was too many for her the second 
 time she saw me, but she praises you ad nauseam. Oh, to hear 
 her talk to Colonel Steele about you. The old intriguer. 
 I believe she thinks it s next best to having a lover herself, 
 to secure one for somebody she has in tow. The ruling 
 passion is strong yet. And the Colonel, I firmly think, be 
 lieves he is certain of you, arid your nice little property,
 
 A DANGEIl AVERTED. 157 
 
 Christine, don t forget that, if you please. You are very 
 pretty and sweet, and if I were a man I think I should lie 
 tangled in that auburn hair of yours. I do not know any 
 eyes that would please me half as well, but I ve heard, men 
 liked pretty fortunes as well as pretty faces. And when they 
 come together ! Oh happy Colonel Steele ! He thinks his 
 cup of happiness is full. He is coming to the Hill on Satur 
 day, and you are to be invited there to stay over Sunday. 
 See if you are not. I heard the whole arrangement when 
 he went away. Mrs. Sherman thinks I am such a fool ; she 
 flatters me about him and pretends she thinks he likes me. 
 Well, I believe he does, only not quite as well as he does 
 you. He might, perhaps, if I had eighty thousand dollars. 
 But I haven t, dear. I have got to marry it, instead of its 
 marrying me. So you see it s a question of trade any way ; you 
 are to be bought or you are to buy. Oh, pretty, pleasant, 
 happy barter ! For my part, Christine, I am disillusionized. 
 I think that a woman s life is horridly flat, degrading." 
 
 " I think that you are out of humor," said Christine, 
 simply. 
 
 Madeline gave an impatient toss to the branch of honey 
 suckle that she was holding in her hand ; it fell out on the 
 dark grass-plot below the window, and then Madeline leaned 
 forward and looked after it. 
 
 " Yes, I believe I am," she said, with a half sigh. " I ought 
 to believe it, for I am told so every hour at home by some 
 one. There is a horrid picture of a shrew in an old spell 
 ing-book of Raymond s. It would not surprise me in the least 
 if I grew to look exactly like it. I feel the likeness creep 
 ing into my face every day. I went to the glass only this 
 morning to see how far it had gone." Christine laughed a 
 little. " I want to ask you something," Madeline said, turn 
 ing to her abruptly. "Don t you think a woman is a fool 
 who submits herself and her fancies to the direction of a man
 
 158 A DANGER AVERTED. 
 
 who is not yet her lover? He has no right to say what she 
 shall do and what she shall not. It is no concern of his 
 whether she dances or sits still, whether she wears pretty 
 clothes or makes herself a fright. And has she not a right 
 to resent it, if he shows by his manner disapproval and re 
 sentment ?" 
 
 " Why, I cannot tell exactly," said Christine. " If she cares 
 for him she will try to please him, and if he cares for her, he 
 will expect it of her." 
 
 " But it is presuming in him to expect anything of her till 
 he declares himself her suitor," said Madeline, with hauteur. 
 
 "But I was imagining that she loved him," said the other, 
 " and then she could not help trying to suit his fancy ; she 
 would naturally give up what he did not like, without thinking 
 anything at all about it." 
 
 "Oh, you tiresome, tiresome innocent!" cried Madeline, with 
 impatience. " What a wife you ll make ! Dear limp, abject 
 creature ! Happy Colonel ! It is a sharne only one man can 
 marry you ; you are so exactly the ideal wife, yon could consti 
 tute the happiness of three or four. There comes Dr. Gather- 
 wood. I mean to ask him if he does not think you the perfect 
 woman nobly planned. Dr. Cathervvood !" 
 
 Dr. Cathervvood was passing through the hall ; he did not 
 look into the parlor, and it is quite possible that he did not 
 mean to do it ; but Madeline s gay voice obliged him to turn 
 towards it, and he entered with his usual pleasant smile. 
 
 Christine had only time to say, " I do not like this, Made 
 line," in a tone quite the reverse of limp and abject, before Dr. 
 Catherwood was seated beside them, and Madeline, roused, ani 
 mated, and coquettish, was repeating to him the questions that 
 she threatened. Was not Christine the perfect woman nobly 
 planned ? Was she not his, every man s ideal wife ? Could a 
 man desire anything more submissive, enduring, faithful, tender, 
 and true ? Was a wife to be thought of who had any will ?
 
 A DAGGER AVERTED. 159 
 
 Was anything so lovely as a woman without prejudices with 
 out temper without enthusiasm and wasn t Colonel Steele 
 the happiest of men ? 
 
 Fortunately for all, Madeline asked so many questions that 
 no one man could answer them at once, and Dr. Catherwood 
 was cool enough to make a choice. 
 
 " About this Colonel Steele," he said, with a smile, looking 
 into Christine s face, "I have been meaning to ask something 
 about him. It seems to me he comes very often to the Hill ; 
 which of the two young ladies lays a claim to his devotion ?" 
 
 " Oh, Christine, sans doute. Christine is the happy victor, 
 though she does not acknowledge openly the fact. As for me, 
 I am not ashamed to acknowledge conquests when I make 
 them ; I wear all my scalps ; I hope to have dozens at my belt ; 
 but the ideal woman doesn t ; the ideal woman never wants 
 but one." 
 
 " Then, Miss Christine is not the ideal woman ; I know she 
 has ambition ; I know she is glad to think she has brought the 
 young minister to her feet, as well as the military gentleman ; 
 and if you knew all that I know, Miss Clybourne, you would 
 feel sorry for the parson, if you do not feel sorry for the Colo 
 nel. One of them will be a very miserable man." 
 
 " Oh, as to that," cried Madeline, with a tinge of pique in 
 her voice, which Dr. Catherwood was happy to observe, " as to 
 that, I do not believe it will be fatal in one case or the other. 
 The Colonel is too old to take the disease in its severest form, 
 and as to the clergyman, I think it will be very light ; he has 
 had it once already, and any attack coming now would be 
 merely sympathetic." 
 
 " Thank you," said Christine, a little angrily. 
 
 " The Colonel is a marrying man, they say," went on Dr. 
 Catherwood, gravely. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Madeline, tartly, " that is well understood." 
 
 " It must be that that makes me like him so," said Christine,
 
 160 A DAXGEB AVERTED. 
 
 getting up and going towards the table. " He is so much 
 pleasanter than Mr. Leslie and the striplings who come some 
 times to the Hill. Ann, you may bring the lamp in now." 
 
 There was something about Christine that was exasperating 
 to Madeline s saucy nature a something that was growing, too. 
 She evidently had had enough of the Steele question, and 
 neant to table it. Dr. Catherwood had never seen her so much 
 the woman as to-night. 
 
 " Well," cried Madeline, " that means I am to go, for I 
 expressly asked that the lamp should not be brought in till I 
 went away. Dr. Catherwood, will you see if the maid is wait 
 ing for me ?" 
 
 " The maid is, Miss Clybourne, but do I not outrank her ? 
 Let me take you home." 
 
 Christine watched them go away together; then, going back 
 into the parlor, turned down the lamp, and sat alone a long 
 while in the darkness.
 
 A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 161 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 " The star of the unconquered will, 
 
 He rises in my breast, 
 Serene, and resolute, and still, 
 And calm, and self-possessed." 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " THEN I may come at five ?" said Colonel Steele, rising and 
 taking his straw hat from among the books and flowers upon 
 the table in the Parsonage parlor. 
 
 It was Saturday, and the Colonel had come up in the morn 
 ing train ; but Mrs. Sherman had to communicate to him the 
 tidings that Christine was not coming to spend Sunday at the 
 Hill. She did not wish to leave her father, though Mrs. Sher 
 man feared that was merely an excuse, as the Rector now left 
 his room and seemed as well as usual. 
 
 " She has taken alarm at something, she is such a shy crea 
 ture," said Mrs. Sherman. " But that does not discourage me ; 
 it only shows me she has feeling and is not indifferent." 
 
 The Colonel bit his lip ; he was not inspired with the same 
 confidence. He assented, however, to Mrs. Sherman s plan 
 for the afternoon, and went down to the Parsonage to tell Chris 
 tine they were coming for her to ride at five o clock. 
 
 " Very well," said Christine, for there was nothing else to say ; 
 besides, she was extremely fond of riding, and never felt quite 
 so happy as when on a horse s back. She had no horse of her 
 own ; Julian had fallen heir to her pony, and though the Rec 
 tor had several times spoken of looking out for a saddle-hocse
 
 162 A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 for her, it never had been done, and one of the many favors 
 that were in Mrs. Sherman s gift was the use of a pretty bay, 
 who trotted, and paced, and cantered a merveille, and seemed 
 by nature designed for a lady s use. Madeline generally rode 
 a black horse of the Judge s, a wild, high-spirited animal no 
 woman ever should have mounted. Mr. Leslie took his chance 
 among the farm and carriage-horses, while Colonel Steele 
 brought his own horsp with him, .as became a Colonel of caval 
 ry and a gentleman of expensive tastes and habits. 
 
 " Fatherj" said Christine, that afternoon, opening the study 
 door a little way, "if Julian does not come in at six, will you 
 remind Crescens to go for him ? lie was only to stay two 
 hours at the brook. I shall not be back till seven or eight, I 
 fear. I am going to ride, you know." 
 
 " Ah, with whom, my dear ?" said the Rector, pushing back 
 his chair and holding out his hand. Christine came in, hold 
 ing up her habit, and tripping a little among its folds, as she 
 went across the room. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood was sitting by her father, and smiled her a 
 pleasant welcome. She had not seen him since the evening of 
 Wednesday, when he went home with Madeline. 
 
 "With whom are you going?" repeated her father, looking 
 affectionately and proudly at her as she stood beside his chair. 
 
 "With Madeline and the gentleman from the Hill," said 
 Christine, coloring. "I told you all about it at the dinner- 
 table, father." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I forgot," he returned ; " but does not Mrs. Sher 
 man go with you ? I should like it better." 
 
 "Oh, yes; Mrs. Sherman goes in the carriage. I did not fancy 
 you would have any aversion to my going, but if you have " 
 
 " No, no, my child, I can trust yon. I am afraid you can guide 
 yourself better than I can guide you. Good-bye." He sighed 
 as she stooped to kiss him, and with a smile to Dr. Catherwood 
 wjent out of the room.
 
 A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 163 
 
 " Catherwood," said the Rector, uneasily, after the door had 
 closed, " that child is a dreadful burden to me ; I do not know 
 what to do for her." 
 
 Dr. Catherwood smiled. " Why do anything for her, my 
 dear sir ? You struck a mine of truth when you said she could 
 guide herself. I never saw a woman, young or old, better fitted 
 to sustain herself; she has wonderful strength, young as she is. 
 I know she is entirely to be trusted." 
 
 " Yes, thank God," said the father, reverently ; " she is true 
 and pure. But the world is strong and cunning strong and 
 cruel ; and she is but a child. Catherwood," and he turned his 
 eyes upon his companion earnestly, " I wish I could give her to 
 a good man before I die. I am old ; time is going fast. Every 
 year I feel, before the next comes round, she and the boy may 
 be alone, without a relative, a friend on earth to look to. I 
 have no ambition for her ; she has more money, poor child, 
 than she needs. I want to give her to a true and honorable 
 gentleman, one who will love her and satisfy her heart; who 
 will protect her and shield the boy, and take my place towards 
 them both more than take my place, perhaps ; a younger man 
 would be better for them, would know better how to guard 
 them. I am old and worn out. I long to go; this only holds 
 me back. Christine is a good child, Catherwood ; she would 
 make any man that loves her happy. She surprises me every 
 day with something fine and sensible ; her mind is growing 
 fast. I do not know where a man would look to find a better 
 wife ; she is so young she would take any one I chose for her, 
 and love him I am sure. I do not ask anything for her but af 
 fection and protection ; this world s favors I do not seek for 
 mine ; I look only for a man upon whose honor and integrity 
 I can rely ; a man, Catherwood, whose heart I have read, upon 
 whose age and judgment I feel I can rely, and whose life I know 
 to have been pure." 
 
 There was a pause ; the Rector looked earnestly and wist-
 
 164 A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 fullyinto his companion s face; there was no misinterpreting 
 what was so simple-minded and unworldly ; the appeal came 
 straight from the father s troubled heart ; he trusted his friend 
 to the utmost limit that one friend can trust another. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood sat looking steadfastly before him, his eyes 
 fixed upon the floor. Christine had been offered to him 
 Christine, with her youth, her loveliness, her wealth in her 
 fair, dawning womanhood, with her loyal and earnest affec 
 tion, with her true, untainted heart, of which he was perhaps 
 already master. There was a future to cover and obliterate 
 any hateful past ; a future that, coming so late in the life of any 
 man, might well astound him with its rich and luxuriant promise. 
 
 There was a silence of many moments ; the Rector did not 
 take his eyes from off his companion s face, but he could read 
 nothing on it. Its perfect repose and kindliness he could not 
 fancy covered a black storm of rebellion and temptation ; and 
 in his voice, when he raised his eyes and spoke, he did not de 
 tect the faintest tremble of emotion. 
 
 " I do not know," he, said, " whether I am quite right in say 
 ing what I do, since it is nothing but conjecture ; but I have 
 always taken so much interest in your daughter, that I have 
 observed the impression made upon her by those with whom 
 she has been thrown ; and also the impression she has made 
 upon the minds of the men whom she has met. She is univer 
 sally admired ; but among her admirers there is one who per 
 haps promises as much as any you can hope to find. He is a 
 man of good intellect and acquirements, kind-hearted, I think, 
 and well calculated to render happy any woman who was dis 
 posed to love him. Colonel Steele is not a personal friend of 
 mine ; he is a travelling acquaintance and an occasional compa 
 nion. I do not know a great deal of his life, but I should 
 think it would bear scrutiny. He has lived before the world 
 continually in a very open and well-conducted manner ; and if 
 I understand him, is a man to whom a father need not fear to
 
 A MOMENT OF TEMPTATION. 165 
 
 trust a daughter, provided always he was the daughter s 
 choice. I am certain you never would urge upon your child a 
 marriage to which her heart was disinclined. I understand 
 and honor your feelings, Dr. Upham, more than I can tell you, 
 and I sincerely trust you may see the consummation of your 
 best hopes for your daughter s happiness. She is fast ripening 
 into a womanhood of the noblest type ; and the man who has 
 the happiness to win her love, and the right to ask her hand, 
 may thank Heaven for its generosity." 
 
 Dr. Upham sighed heavily as he rose, and paced up and 
 down the room. " We seldom get our wishes, Catherwood," 
 he said; "but I am willing she should be happy in Heaven s 
 way, if I cannot see her happy in mine. Do you think 
 she likes this man ? I had hardly noticed him. I never 
 dreamed " 
 
 " I cannot say she likes him ; perhaps she hardly knows her 
 self as yet." 
 
 " I must speak to her ; I must know about it," he murmured, 
 as he crossed the floor ; " but, Catherwood," he added, after a 
 moment, stopping before him, " I am afraid of the influence of 
 my wishes on her. I cannot trust myself. I want her to 
 choose for herself, since I do not know the man. You had bet 
 ter speak to her about it, find out how she feels, and tell me 
 the result. Do not blame rue ; I have had such a calamity ; I 
 have such cause to dread this step. I cannot trust myself to 
 speak. Find out this thing for me, and bring me word, my 
 friend." 
 
 Dr. Catherwood was silent, and then made the promise that 
 he asked, and went out in time to see Mrs. Sherman drive away 
 from the door in her open carriage, with Mr. Brockhulst on 
 the seat beside her, and Madeline, Christine, Mr. Leslie, and 
 Colonel Steele riding on horseback in advance.
 
 166 A ROUGH EXPEDIENCE. 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 
 
 ** If you break your plaything yourself, dear, 
 
 Don t you cry for it all the same ? 
 I don t think it is such a comfort, 
 One has only one s self to blame." 
 
 A. PROCTOR. 
 
 THE afternoon was not what Mrs. Sherman had put down 
 in her programme ; it was bright and rather promising when 
 they first started, but about three miles out of town, the horizon 
 began to swell its pile of thunder-heads, small clouds scoured 
 over the heavens, and the sun, though still shining, had an out- 
 of-place, unnatural look, from contrast with the dark below. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman began to be uneasy, and to ask Mr. Brockhulst 
 and the coachman if they thought there would be a storm. 
 The coachman thought it would blow over, and Mr. Brock 
 hulst could give no opinion. By-and-by the riding party 
 slackened their pace and waited for the carriage to come up, 
 and asked what was to be done. No one wanted to go home, 
 but all felt a vague apprehension that that was just what should 
 be done ; still the coachman said it would blow over, and Made 
 line said it had looked just so last week and had not rained, 
 and Mr. Leslie was certain they could get back in time if it 
 began to sprinkle ; so it was concluded they should ride on 
 another mile, and see how things looked at that time. 
 
 They rode on another mile, and then stopped and held 
 another council. The storm had not made any progress cer 
 tainly ; the west was lowering, but the sun was shining ; the 
 clouds had not grown in size, and they had been looking at
 
 A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 167 
 
 them so long they could not tell whether they had increased 
 at all in blackness. When people start out on a party 
 of pleasure, it takes an angel with a drawn sword in his hand 
 to turn them back. The very horses, in this case, seemed to 
 scorn the indecision of their riders, and to fret under the 
 restraint of bit and bridle, as they paused in consultation ; par 
 ticularly Madeline s black, whom she found it impossible to 
 hold, and whose restive movements caused her to exclaim, 
 rather impatiently : 
 
 "One thing or the other, good people; Guido and I are 
 tired of indecision." 
 
 " Let us go," cried Colonel Stecle, with animation ; " we can 
 find plenty of shelter if it should rain." 
 
 " A storm among the mountains would be glorious," said Mr. 
 Leslie ; " a thing to be remembered all one s life." 
 
 "Well, anything for an adventure," eaid Mrs. Sherman, 
 yieldingly. 
 
 " I trust we shall not be detained beyond eight o clock," re 
 marked the young minister, rather anxiously. 
 
 " It strikes me you are all unwise," said Christine, as she fol 
 lowed her companions. 
 
 Their destination was an inn of some celebrity among trout- 
 fishers and sportsmen, situated in a wild spot near the summit 
 of the lowest of the group of mountains which rose gradually 
 
 from among the hills surrounding . Mrs. Sherman had sent 
 
 a servant up in the morning to order tea to be prepared for them, 
 and it was proposed to leave there about nine o clo.ck, coming 
 home by the light of the harvest moon, now at the full. 
 
 Two members of the party were sailing under sealed orders 
 Mr. Brockhulst and Christine. It was feared that the latter 
 was too shy a fish to rise to any bait so palpable and strong as 
 tin excursion of such length and with Colonel Steele for her 
 companion, and she was only asked indefinitely to join a riding- 
 party. Mr. Brockhulst, also, Mrs. Sherman knew, would never
 
 168 A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 
 
 be caught in such a worldly company at such an hour on the 
 night of Saturday ; so she used a little of the serpent s wis 
 dom, and sending the cavalcade ahead, called herself at the cot 
 tage where he had his rooms, aud sent the servant up with a 
 message to him a message so worded that it conveyed to his 
 mind the idea his benefactress was waiting for him at the door, 
 to know if he would spend a half hour with her in the carriage, 
 if he possibly could spare the time, to talk over something in 
 connection with the parish, while she gave him a little airing 
 and secured an uninterrupted conference. 
 
 With a weary sigh he pushed aside his uncompleted sermon, 
 closed half-a-dozen books of reference lying by him on the 
 table, and prepared himself to obey the unwelcome summons. 
 Reckless as he was in the use of himself, he had an impression 
 that he was not wise in sitting up till two o clock on Sunday 
 morning to finish a sermon to be preached that day. There 
 was four hours work on it yet, and if he went to drive with 
 Mrs. Sherman it could not be touched till ten, for at seven 
 came tea, at eight came a class of youths to be prepared for 
 Confirmation, and at ten would come the resumption of the 
 sermon a sermon written at the request of his vestry, and pro 
 mised for that occasion. He had walked at least eight miles 
 in the morning, visiting some distant parishioners, and had no 
 need whatever of the air in fact, needed rest much more for 
 Saturday was a terrible day with him, all the parish work of 
 the week being crowded into it on account of the holiday he 
 gave his class of boys. 
 
 But Mrs. Sherman s wishes could not be disregarded ; no 
 doubt she had something of importance to say to him, and it 
 showed a very unchastened spirit to rebel so much against the 
 interruption. 
 
 He looked very pale and languid as he took his place beside 
 her in the carriage, and his forced, patient smile really was very 
 touching.
 
 A EOUGII EXPERIENCE. 169 
 
 " You are working too hard, my dear young friend," said his 
 benefactress, with a most interested air. " Do not let me hear 
 of any more, eight-mile walks while you are so weak. Why 
 did you not send to the Hill ? You know there is always a 
 horse there for you. And this matter of the Confirmation 
 Class three evenings in the week I implore you to discontinue 
 it. I shall take every pains to interrupt and interfere with it. 
 You need relaxation and amusement ; you are in my hands for 
 this afternoon, and I shall see that you do not escape me." 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst looked alarmed, as well he might. 
 
 As they drove up to the Parsonage, they caught sight of 
 Madeline pacing her horse up and down under the trees, while 
 Colonel Steele was opening the gate for Christine, who was 
 just coming out. Mr. Brockhulst changed color. 
 
 " Are you ready for your ride, mes amis ? We will go on 
 together. It will be very pleasant," said Mrs. Sherman, art 
 lessly, and as if she thought the meeting quite a charming lit 
 tle coincidence. 
 
 Madeline looked the embodiment of good style on horse 
 back ; she wore a black cloth habit and a high beaver, hat ; 
 her whole costume was as masculine, rigid, and modish as was 
 possible. She looked extremely handsome, too, and her figure 
 showed to the best advantage ; all women thought she had 
 attained the happiest point, but the male eye turned with more 
 admiration towards the pretty girlish figure of Christine. Her 
 habit was navy blue cloth, and her hat a straw, bound with 
 blue velvet to match, with a long drooping blue feather. 
 
 Colonel Steele, as he put her on the horse and adjusted her 
 small foot in the stirrup, wished he had Dr. Catherwood at ten 
 paces, with a Colt s revolver and a just cause of provocation. 
 
 After the second council of war and the second resolution 
 to proceed, they began the ascent of the mountain, and the 
 equestrians got a good deal in advance of the carriage, which 
 was an unsuitably heavy one for such a road. Mrs. Sherman 
 
 8
 
 170 A BOUGH EXPERIENCE. 
 
 tried to make herself very agreeable to her companion, who 
 could not succeed in making himself anything but absent- 
 minded and uneasy. Mrs. Sherman looked a goad deal at the 
 sky, and Mr. Brockhulst looked a good deal in a furtive man 
 ner at his watch. There was a growing conviction in the mind 
 of the one that there was a storm coming up, and in that of the 
 other that the Confirmation Class would go by the board that 
 night. 
 
 A half hour passed ; the ascent of the mountain was neces 
 sarily a very slow one ; the road was always a bad one, and 
 two or three hard rains during the week had gullied and 
 injured it very much. For a long distance the trees on either 
 side were so thick the sky was scarcely to be seen, and the 
 increasing darkness was to be accounted for by that circum 
 stance. But in about half an hour they emerged from the 
 woods upon an open plateau, from whence they looked down 
 upon the distant town and its surrounding hills, and out upon 
 the thunder-clouded west. Above them, on the other side, 
 rose precipitous and overhanging rocks ; the air was hot and 
 still, with an occasional shivering current of chill running 
 through it. There was " a going in the tops of the trees," 
 and then a hush ; a twitter of some frightened bird, and then 
 a cowering down in silence. All nature seemed appalled and 
 apprehensive, hanging on the breath of that fearful mass of 
 tempest that lay black and sullen in the west. 
 
 The clouds had swollen and grown almost over the whole 
 heaven; the sun was quite obscured, but colored the clouds 
 before it with a reddish lurid light that made them a feature 
 of terror in the landscape. And at intervals there went 
 through the black bank of cloud a swift, thin thread of flame, 
 that seemed to leave them infinitely blacker and more dense. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman with difficulty suppressed a scream as they 
 came out of the cover of the gloomy woods upon this broad 
 and threatening expanse of sky. A few rods before them
 
 A. KOUGH EXPEKIENCE. 171 
 
 halted the riding-party, who had only reached the spot that 
 moment, owing to a long delay occasioned by the turning 
 of Christine s saddle and the loss of Madeline s whip. They 
 all looked pretty grave, excepting Madeline, who called out 
 laughingly to Mrs. Sherman that they had a prospect of 
 the adventure she desired. Colonel Steele, riding quickly up 
 to the carriage, asked the coachman how far to the inn it 
 was, and whether there was any shelter by the way. Mrs. 
 Sherman was by this time in a very hysterical state, and was 
 calling upon all her gods to get her safely out of this. The 
 coachman, in rather a dazed state, was trying to remember 
 how many miles it was to the inn, but could not. Only he 
 was certain of this, they were more than half way up the 
 mountain, and the only thing was to go straight ahead. 
 
 " Then drive on, at the best rate you can," said Colonel 
 Steele, with authority, springing from his horse to assist Mr. 
 Brockhulst in putting up the top and fastening down the 
 apron of the carriage. " The young ladies had better get in 
 here." 
 
 " No, indeed," cried Madeline ; " if we ride fast we can 
 get to the inn half an hour before the carriage. I shall not 
 dismount." 
 
 " Then, Miss Upharn, you must let me take you down. 
 Mr. Brockhulst, will you ride Miss Upham s horse and give 
 up your place to her ?" 
 
 " No," said Christine. 
 
 "Christine, I command it," cried Mrs. Sherman, in an ecstasy 
 of excitement, and Colonel Steele waited for no further per 
 mission, but lifted her from the horse and put her in the carriage. 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst, who fortunately was a very good horse 
 man, mounted the bay mare and rode forward, joined in a 
 moment by Colonel Steele ; Madeline and Mr. Leslie leading 
 the advance. The carriage soon was lost to sight. 
 
 " I must keep back a little," said Colonel Steele, looking
 
 172 A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 
 
 down the road anxiously. "Mr. Brockhulst, you had better 
 ride on, keeping an eye upon Miss Clybourne. She may 
 need both you and Leslie before the ride is over. That black 
 brute has the very devil in his eye to-day." 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst needed no further hint ; he was within two 
 rods of the young horsewoman before Colonel Steele had fairly 
 turned his horse around. The road, now descending slightly 
 through a rocky and damp ravine, was too narrow for him 
 to ride beside her ; but she turned her head and caught sight 
 of his anxious face with a peculiar satisfaction. 
 
 Presently the great, slow drops of rain began to patter 
 down upon the leaves above them with a dull, deliberate 
 regularity ; then a strong swaying of the branches suddenly 
 commenced ; then came a sharp glaring blaze of lightning, 
 and then a peal of thunder that burst with deafening echoes 
 among the ledges overhead. Madeline was a girl of good 
 spirit and most unusual courage, but she could not quite 
 repress a little scream, and she raised her right hand to her 
 eyes as if to rub out that horrid gleam. The little move 
 ment gave Guido the advantage ; he took the bit between 
 the teeth and made a plunge. 
 
 " Check him, check him, Miss Clybourne ! Don t let him 
 have his head," cries Mr. Leslie, like a fool, for who was going 
 to let him have his head if it could be helped ? 
 
 Madeline uttered some impatient advice to him to keep 
 quiet, and grasping the reins firmly, shook Guide s stubborn 
 head about until he came to terms that is, until he consented 
 to go up an opposing hill at a hand-gallop instead of on a mad 
 run. It was only a temporary subjugation, though, she and her 
 companion knew. Half her strength was gone before she was 
 up the hill, and she saw with a sinking of the heart the rough 
 precipitous way that succeeded it before the next winding of 
 the road brought them again on the ascent. 
 
 She was not frightened ; she knew perfectly well what she
 
 A BOUGH EXPERIENCE. 173 
 
 was about ; she could have managed six wild horses at once if 
 she had only had the strength. He would never master me 
 if I were not a woman and so weak, she thought; and the 
 vexatious idea lent her another spasm of power, and she fairly 
 brought him under for the moment. The road was too narrow 
 
 D 
 
 for the three to go abreast ; so as Madeline slackened up, Mr. 
 Leslie trotted briskly along beside her, and Mr. Brockhulst 
 fell into place behind them, holding the amiable bay in his 
 hand and never taking his eyes off Madeline. 
 
 The rain was now falling fast ; the blackness was less intense, 
 but the rain was blinding, and the wind, now roaring loudly in 
 the trees, made all the horses restless and prone to start, while the 
 uncertainty of their footing increased every moment. Before 
 they had gone fifty rods further, the road was one broad stream ; 
 a thousand little rills were pouring into it from the rocks above; 
 there seemed a deluge ; the air was full of the sound of water. 
 
 The path grew rougher and wilder ; it gave Madeline a mo 
 mentary sense of giddiness as she caught a glimpse, by aid of 
 the flashes that were now dancing round them thicker and 
 faster, of the road they were approaching, winding around the 
 mountain on the edge of a precipice that seemed to go down, 
 down, without a curve, to the forest-tops below them. This 
 crazy road, over which it was rather an adventure to ride at 
 any time, was as much out of repair as it is often the lot of a 
 road to be. There were not half-a-dozen travellers a day passing 
 over it, and they rarely were equestrians ; generally sportsmen 
 with gun and bag or creel and pole, and the occasional lumber- 
 ino; cart and sure-footed beast sent down from the little inn for 
 
 O 
 
 the few supplies the two families needed who lived upon the 
 mountain. There were rough bridges, occasionally mended by 
 a log, oftener left gaping from freshet-time to freshet-time, and 
 there were gullies down the mountain side that sometimes 
 shook the nerves of even the sure-footed nag who had never 
 been used to any better or smoother manner of highway. Mrs.
 
 174 A KOUGH EXPERIENCE. 
 
 Sherman, in her tnirst for an adventure, had taken the word of 
 some enthusiastic fisherman who had gone up on foot, and was 
 entirely unprepared for what she found herself surrounded by, 
 and Colonel Steele and Mr. Brockhulst were perfectly aghast. 
 Mr. Leslie, of course, was frightened ; but it did not take much 
 to frighten him. 
 
 Madeline held her lips very tightly pressed together, and did 
 not open them when her companion made some feeble and 
 spasmodic attempts to make her speak. She was thinking : 
 " Will my head reel when I reach that giddy bit of road 1 
 Have I the strength and nerve to last me till we pass it, or are 
 they to fail me at that moment ? Has the time come ?" 
 
 They were rapidly approaching the dreaded place ; Madeline 
 held herself firm and erect upon her horse ; she grasped the 
 bridle till her fingers felt like stone. Mr. Brockhulst, with a 
 face as pale as ashes, rode close behind her and never took his 
 eyes away from her ; Mr. Leslie kept his place with difficulty 
 beside her, for Guide s moderation was his horse s extreme of 
 speed. 
 
 Just as they neared the spot, only separated from it by a 
 rude, uncertain bridge, and just as Madeline was feeling she 
 would come out victorious, there flamed across the heaven such 
 a piercing, blinding light, and such a frightful crash of thunder 
 burst over their very heads, shattering and shivering the air, 
 and stunning the senses like a blow, that all three horses sprang 
 wildly forward ; Guido cleared the bridge at a bound, made a 
 misstep, regained his footing, and sped wildly on, while Mr. 
 Leslie s steed stumbled and fell utterly, a helpless heap of horse 
 flesh. 
 
 Alas ! for Madeline. If her fingers had been of bronze, 
 laced in and out of those iron strips of reins, if her strength 
 had been " the strength of ten," it would have availed but lit 
 tle. To the viciousness and stubbornness of the brute s nature 
 was added sudden and frantic terror ; he was blinded by his
 
 A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 175 
 
 fright and fury. The whole violence of the storm seemed 
 hurled upon them at this point, exposed and open, round which 
 the wind swept fiercely, and against which the rain fell in strong 
 and heavy sheets. The horse saw nothing, regarded nothing ; 
 he was running madly upon destruction. 
 
 He flew forward, straight as an arrow shot from a steel cross 
 bow ; the road, ten rods further on, took a sharp curve round 
 the mountain side. Below lay the rocky precipice, the gloomy 
 gorge the tree-tops far, far down below. 
 
 Madeline still sat firm, erect, holding those binding strips 
 of iron in her powerless hands, seeing little more than the 
 blinded horse beneath her saw feeling cold, and dumb, and 
 stolid. "One minute more," she was saying to herself; "one 
 minute more how will it feel how long will it last how 
 shall I know " 
 
 Over and over the words ran through her mind ; she knew 
 the truth, the awful danger, but the knowledge of it had come 
 too suddenly, too vividly, and had stunned her. 
 
 All this Mr. Brockhulst saw with feelings that no words can 
 convey. There was but one thing to be done, one move possi 
 ble to save this fearful game to reach the outer edge of the 
 precipice first; to get the outside track and press Guido in ; to 
 turn him, if only a hair s breadth inward ; to break, in even a 
 faint degree, his headlong course ; and, if possible, to keep 
 beside him till the danger passed. It seemed an even throw ; 
 perhaps Flite was not steady enough to do the work required 
 of her ; perhaps nothing could turn and startle Guido now. 
 But there was a chance. He cheered his willing, obedient 
 horse to one strong effort ; bounded to her side there was still 
 room for him ; one instant more, he was a hair s breadth in 
 advance ; another, Flite s hoof had struck the precipice she 
 shuddered, faltered, and regained her footing. Guido rushed 
 by her, struck against her, sprang violently back, inward from 
 the edge, and then dashed on.
 
 176 A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 
 
 But the work was done. Still the young rider sat erect and 
 firm, and beside her, now white and trembling and unnerved, 
 her companion rode. The road beyond rose straight before 
 them up the mountain side, and along it flew the two horses, 
 across tumbling streams, deep gullies, broken bridges, through 
 the storm and darkness; on, on, as people ride in dreams of 
 terror. 
 
 At last there came a widening of the road, an, open field, 
 some fences, and through the lulling storm presently they heard 
 the bark of dogs, the tinkle of cow-bells, and by-and-by a 
 human voice. And the road brought up abruptly at the very 
 door of a low, rough, wooden building which stood directly 
 across it, from the windows of which a light was shining, and 
 on the piazza of which three or four men sat smoking, who 
 sprang up in alarm at the wild apparition. Guido found insur 
 mountable objections presenting to his further progress, and 
 stopped short with a start and shudder. One man sprang to 
 his bridle, another hastened to dismount Madeline. 
 
 But her fingers were so laced in and out of the reins she 
 hardly could unwind them ; her gloves were torn in strips and 
 stained with blood, the only evidence of the good fight she had 
 made. 
 
 " You have had a hard ride of it," said the man, disentan 
 gling her wet habit from the pommel and lifting her to the 
 ground. She caught at a post of the little piazza to keep her 
 self from falling, overcome by a sudden sense of giddiness, but 
 recovered herself instantly, answered carelessly, and walked 
 into the house. 
 
 There was a perfect tempest of agitation in her heart, but she 
 made a stubborn resolution to keep it all down out of sight. 
 She had seen Mr. Brockhulst come up a minute after her and 
 dismount, and now she had a perverse fear that he would come 
 to her and say something about the awful danger they had 
 passed through, and the undeserved mercy that had kept them
 
 A BOUGH EXPEBIENCE. 177 
 
 still in life. She would do anything rather than let him say 
 that ; she shuddered to think of what had passed ; she was 
 frightened at her own wickedness, but she found herself more 
 impatient than penitent, and she felt that any one who advised 
 her to be grateful would do it at his peril. She was blaming 
 herself unnecessarily, her nerves were so shaken, her brain so 
 overwrought, she would have been made of iron if she had 
 retained control of them. Some women would have cried and 
 fainted; others would have been frozen into apathy and silence. 
 But all Madeline s strong nature was thrilling, and clanging, 
 aud jarring with the intensity of its reaction, and she felt like 
 defying whatever came across her path. 
 
 The women of the house collected about her with many 
 questions, condolences, and offers of assistance. 
 
 Yes, they had been caught in a terrible storm. 
 
 No, she did not want anything till the rest of the party came. 
 
 Yes, they might dry her boots if they pleased. 
 
 No, she did not care to go to the fire. 
 
 She would be much obliged if she could be left quietly 
 alone. 
 
 So the women went away, considerably in awe of the grand 
 young lady who preferred sitting alone there in her dripping 
 habit, to coming into the kitchen and being warmed and dried. 
 
 By-and-by Mr. Brockhulst came in looking very pale, and 
 found her walking restlessly about the room, snapping her riding- 
 whip through her fingers. She turned abruptly as he entered, 
 and looking at him over her shoulder said, with a laugh : 
 
 " I told them we should get here first." 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst did not answer, but simply walked across the 
 room and stood looking from the window down the road, grow 
 ing dimmer every moment with the passing storm and coming 
 light. Presently he said, turning : 
 
 " You would do well, Miss Clybourne, to go to the fire and 
 have your clothes dried, I should think." 
 
 8*
 
 178 A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 
 
 " I d rather wait till the others come," she said, carelessly. 
 " All the damage is done to my habit that can be done. And 
 my poor hat, that I fondly hoped to look so fine in at the 
 Park this autumn ! Well, it s a lesson to me not to wear my 
 silver-mounted harness when I go on such crazy country expe 
 ditions. I wonder how Christine and her navy blue are com 
 ing out of the adventure ?" 
 
 At this moment the landlord, a good-natured, thick-set, 
 sharp-witted countryman, presented himself at the door, and 
 with a hand on each post, stood looking in in silence for a 
 while ; then nodded his head and said : 
 
 " Young woman, as far as I m capable of judging, you ve had 
 a mighty risky ride. I wouldn t have given half a dollar for 
 your chances coming round the ledge on that awful wild black 
 brute. If he was my horse, I d knock him in the head. I 
 wouldn t have a devil such as that around my place. And I 
 look upon your getting here alive as one of the wonders folks 
 say is never going to cease." 
 
 Madeline laughed carelessly and said it was rather a surprise 
 to herself, but received all the man s congratulations in such a 
 nonchalant fashion, that he presently shrugged his shoulders 
 and took himself away. 
 
 There was another silence, during which Madeline seated her 
 self at a little melodeon in one corner of the room and began 
 to hammer out of its reluctant keys a gay and familiar tune. 
 Her companion, rising and going to the door, stopped with his 
 hand upon the latch. 
 
 " You will not consent to change your dress or go in to the 
 fire?" he said, as she paused for a moment. 
 
 " Oh, no," she returned. " I am quite comfortable. I ll 
 amuse myself till the others come with playing on this wheezy 
 little melodeon, or looking at the works of art about the room. 
 Have you noticed this one right above me ? Daniel in the 
 Lion s Den. Poor Daniel ! I wonder if the people pestered
 
 A ROUGH EXPERIENCE. 179 
 
 him as much about his miraculous deliverance as they do me ? 
 and whether he felt as cross as I do !" 
 
 When Madeline was alone, she closed the melodeon impa 
 tiently, and did not look again at Daniel, but spent a very 
 miserable and solitary half hour, till she heard the sound of 
 wheels and the voice of Colonel Steele as he hurried up in 
 advance of the carriage. 
 
 "Brockhulst, is that you? All safe? Thank Heaven! 
 -From Leslie s story I was prepared for anything." 
 
 He rode back to the carriage to give the welcome news, and 
 presently the carriage itself was at the door, and Mrs. Sherman 
 was being lifted out of it, a perfect wreck of the style and 
 stateliness that had stepped into it three hours before. Her 
 modish French bonnet seemed to have lost all self-respect, and 
 was a miserable spectacle flimsy, drooping, shapeless. Her 
 flounces were damp and muddy, the shawls wrapped around 
 her by her companions had a very ludicrous expression, and her 
 hair was entirely out of curl. Madeline met her at the door 
 of the little parlor with a laugh. 
 
 " How do you like your adventure so far, Mrs. Sherman ?" 
 she cried, while Mrs. Sherman staggered to a chair and only 
 answered by a groan. 
 
 By this time the others had all reached the parlor door, and 
 Christine, putting her arm round Madeline, whispered : " I am 
 bo thankful you are safe." 
 
 Madeline released herself and exclaimed derisively : " Spare 
 me a scene, rny love, if you are not anxious for one ! I think 
 I had a better ride than you, though the landlord does say 
 Guido is a devil. We had better not let the Judge hear that ! 
 He would never let me take him out again." 
 
 " I should think not," muttered Colonel Steele, below his 
 breath, while aloud he went on to pay Madeline some compli 
 ments upon her horsemanship, in which Mr. Leslie joined as 
 well as his injured condition would permit, and in a few mo-
 
 180 A BOUGH EXPERIENCE. 
 
 ments all, even to Mrs. Sherman, cheered by the sight of a 
 wood-fire built up quickly on the hearth, and a comfortable- 
 looking supper in the adjoining room, were laughing and chat 
 ting merrily about Madeline s adventure as if, within the hour, 
 she had not stood upon the brink of a destruction as appalling 
 as could be pictured to the imagination. 
 
 The young clergyman, unable so quickly to dispel the awful 
 images that had stamped themselves upon his mind, went from 
 the room and out into the dark and chilly night, where the tem 
 pest was wailing itself to sleep, and the tempest-wrung forests 
 were shivering still with the recollection of its fury. It seemed 
 a profanity to him to rush from the presence of such danger 
 into so heartless and mocking a gaiety. He felt the distance 
 between him and Madeline growing greater every moment. 
 Her self-will and worldliness alarmed him, her levity chilled his 
 love. He must conquer all feeling for her, or be lost to the 
 life to which he was devoted. 
 
 And while Madeline, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes, 
 stood in the circle round the blazing fire, and roused them all 
 to merry peals of laughter by her wit, outside, under the dark 
 and cloudy sky, there was a resolution taken that changed the 
 color of all her future life.
 
 EAVESDBOPPING. 181 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 EAVESDROPPING. 
 
 " Sorrow comes to all ; 
 
 Our life is checked with shadows manifold ; 
 But woman has this more she may not call 
 ller sorrow by its name." 
 
 JBAN INGELOW. 
 
 THE little inn contained three sleeping-rooms for the accom 
 modation of that infinitesimal portion of the travelling public 
 who ever came upon its hospitality. Two were on the ground- 
 floor, one adjoining the dining-room, or what in winter did 
 duty for a kitchen ; the other, a very small one, opening out of 
 the little parlor. To this last Christine was consigned, Made 
 line sharing Mrs. Sherman s, separated from it by the narrow 
 entry. A small, dark chamber overhead was the fate of Mr. 
 Leslie and the clergyman, while Colonel Steele remained in 
 possession of the parlor and a blanket to lie down on by the 
 fire. 
 
 Christine s room was very primitive ; its furniture a rag 
 carpet, a wooden chair, and a washstand, a little mirror in a 
 black frame, and a very narrow bed ; the ceiling was so very 
 low and the window was so very tiny, that it would have seemed 
 almost impossible, if the restless wind outside had not pressed 
 in so strongly, to have drawn more than half-a-dozen breaths 
 in it. 
 
 She put out the dim little candle and then lay down, very 
 much in earnest about going to sleep. But sleep being one of 
 the few things not attainable by exertion of the will, she lay a
 
 182 EAVESDROPPING. 
 
 long while most perfectly awake, tired, and excited, and rest 
 less. She heard the wind outside and the occasional barking 
 of a dog, and the swaying of some branches against the roof 
 above. Then the window rattled violently in its clumsy case 
 ment, and the paper-shade before it shook and flapped, and 
 Christine thought she must get up and go and call Madeline to 
 come and stay with her, and then she was very much ashamed 
 of herself for having such a thought, being a self-controlled 
 and well regulated young woman, and having had to smother 
 midnight terrors without material assistance all her life. Poor 
 little girl ! she had had no mother s side to creep to when the 
 storm was against the wall, and " the blast of the terrible 
 ones " roared without ; she had learned to lie alone and silent 
 through whole wakeful nights, hardly breathing without pain, 
 hardly moving without fear. 
 
 This, therefore, was no new experience to her ; and one alle 
 viating circumstance in the night s discomfort, was the glearn of 
 the fire-light under the parlor door, and the occasional movement 
 in the room adjoining that proved its occupant not yet asleep. 
 The party had gone to their rooms early that is, at about ten 
 o clock. It was probably between half-past eleven and twelve 
 that Christine raised herself on her elbow and listened breath 
 lessly to a loud barking of all the dogs about the house, a 
 motley-voiced crew. Then a sound of talking outside, and the 
 entrance of some one into the narrow hall. Some wild and 
 desperate character, no doubt ; Christine thought it probable he 
 would cut all their throats before morning, but did not see that 
 she could do anything but listen. A man with the voice and 
 step of the landlord opened the parlor door a little way, and 
 began to speak in a deprecating and conciliatory manner to 
 Colonel Stcele, who, roused suddenly, had asked rather sternly 
 who was there. 
 
 The landlord was on the outside, and spoke in rather a thick, 
 low voice, and Christine could not catch all he said ; but she
 
 EAVESDROPPING. 183 
 
 put together the scraps of his communication and the replies of 
 Colonel Steele, and assured herself that a belated traveller had 
 arrived, for whom there was no possible accommodation but ano 
 ther blanket on the parlor floor. The lofts above were all full, 
 there were three or four more at present lying round the kitchen 
 fire, the ladies had the only two decent rooms he had, and he did 
 not see how he was going to manage it, if the Colonel would 
 not allow the gentleman to share the parlor with him. He 
 could answer for the gentleman s being quiet and civil, and 
 giving him no trouble ; hg really was very sorry, but he did not 
 see what else could be done. 
 
 The Colonel swore a little, as became him, and protested that 
 the thing was utterly impossible ; but finally yielded, as he had 
 meant to from the first, and as the landlord and the traveller 
 outside had known he meant to do. It is a little form of pro 
 test that is perfectly understood among travellers, and after it 
 was gone through with, the landlord ushered the guest into the 
 room, expressed his thanks to Colonel Steele, and closed the 
 door and went away. 
 
 Christine felt a chill of alarm ; the partition between them 
 was so thin, the door so slight and poorly fastened, she really 
 felt as if she must go and speak to Madeline ; she would rather 
 lie on the floor in their room than stay here. 
 
 At that moment she caught the sound of a familiar voice, an 
 exclamation of astonishment, and a short laugh of amuse 
 ment : 
 
 " Steele, upon my soul !" 
 
 " Catherwood, of all men in the world !" 
 
 " What are you doing here ?" 
 
 " Where under heavens did you come from ?" 
 
 Christine could hardly repress a little laugh of pleasure at 
 that moment ; she felt so reassured and comfortable, in fact per 
 fectly at home and perfectly protected ; she did not mind the 
 howling of the wind outside, nor the gnsty rattling of the window ;
 
 184 EAVESDROPPING. 
 
 she felt safe, now that she knew Dr. Catherwood was under the 
 same roof with them. She smoothed out her pillow, and with her 
 pretty hand under her cheek, lay down with a happy smile upon 
 her lips. But they went on talking, and she could not help hear 
 ing what they said. 
 
 " In the first place," said the Colonel, " how came you here 
 on this wild night at this late hour?" 
 
 " Never be surprised at meeting a country physician any 
 where at any time of night," returned the new-comer s voice. 
 " I was sent for this afternoon to see a very ill child at the log- 
 house just beyond, but not returning home for some hours, did 
 not get the message till the storm was quite inaugurated. I took 
 the brunt of it, I assure you, coming up the mountain ; and 
 having spent two hours with the boy, who has had a hard fight 
 for life, poor lad, and being thoroughly drenched, and tired, and 
 sleepy, I shall make no apology for accepting your urgent hospi 
 tality." 
 
 " Well, I m sorry, Catherwood, I kept you outside so long ; 
 really I did not dream I was to have the honor." 
 
 " That s all understood. Now, if you please, how came you 
 here, and what separated you from the gay party with whom I 
 saw you last ?" 
 
 " The separation has not been a very long one ; they are all 
 bestowed somewhere in this spacious inn where, I shudder but 
 to think ; Mrs. Sherman never folded her wings so close before, 
 I m bound." 
 
 " You do not tell me," said his companion, in a tone of great 
 surprise, " that Mrs. Sherman left at five o clock this after 
 noon with the intention of coming to this place ?" 
 
 " I tell you just that thing," returned the Colonel ; " and I 
 need not assure you, after this date, I withdraw ; I never serve 
 under her again. What do you suppose was the crazy plan ? 
 To come up here for supper, and go back by moonlight ! By 
 moonlight, my good sir ; through those forests where moonlight
 
 EAVESDROPPING. 185 
 
 never yet found itself by any chance, and over those insane 
 bridges that are not safe at midday. The woman hasn t the 
 judgment of a yearling heifer. She has been in a state of 
 hysterics ever since the storm came on, and well she may be, 
 for I never thought those.two girls would get up here alive." 
 
 " They are safe, you said ?" Dr. Catherwood interrupted 
 quickly. 
 
 " Safe ? Yes, I suppose so ; but no thanks to her." 
 "Christine rode the bay?" he went on, with an ill-concealed 
 interest, as his companion paused. 
 
 "Yes, and Miss Clybourne that devil of a Guido. What 
 Mrs. Sherman was thinking of when she allowed her to ride 
 that brute, I cannot tell." 
 
 "But Chris , Miss Uph am, had no trouble with the bay?" 
 
 " No, none. I put her in the carriage when the storm began, 
 and made Brockhulst ride her horse. Leslie was thrown at a 
 very early date, and when we overhauled him, limping along, 
 with his great booby of a horse by the bridle, he gave us a most 
 dismal story. The last he saw of Miss Clybourne, Guido was 
 on a run, making straight for a precipice, and the bay had lost 
 his footing on the brink of it, with Brockhulst on his back. 
 This made it cheerful for the two ladies in the carriage ; but I 
 always make allowance for a story when it comes from Leslie, 
 and after tracking them safely beyond the gully, as they call the 
 precipice, I managed to keep them tolerably quiet till we got 
 up to the house. Miss Upham, that is ; Mrs. Sherman acted like 
 a fool ; and if it had not been for the younger one s good sense, 
 I don t know what would have become of us. What with 
 keeping a lookout for Brockhulst and his companion, whom I 
 thought we might come upon at any moment, in I don t know 
 what condition, and finding the road for that dolt of a coach 
 man, and making Leslie hold his tongue, and quieting my own 
 horse, who was ready to jump out of his skin at every flash of 
 lightning, and keeping Miss Upham s spirits up, and Mrs. Sher-
 
 186 EAVESDROPPING. 
 
 man s hysterics down, Catherwood, depend upon it, I bad my 
 hands full." 
 
 "I can well understand you had," said his companion; "Miss 
 Clybourne must have been in dreadful danger." 
 
 " It s enough to make one shudder to think what an escape 
 it was ! Brockhulst, as far as I can understand, has done some 
 thing to be proud of, in turning Guido in and getting the out 
 side track himself, just as they were rounding the curve there 
 above the gully. I don t know twenty men who would have 
 had the nerve and seen the moment when to do it. If it hadn t 
 been for that, by Jove, that girl would have been in eternity in 
 a minute and a half. The sky was as black as ink, except for 
 the occasional lightning, and Guido was on as mad a run as a 
 horse ever tried. When I saw the tracks about the edge of 
 the bank (one horse had been actually over and had struggled 
 up), I was afraid to trust myself to look below ; I waited for 
 the next flash of lightning before I saw the tracks ahead, and 
 knew that they had gone safely past it. But this girl has 
 spirit ; she never lost her presence of mind, and the men say 
 here, she came in as straight and firm in her seat as if she had 
 been trotting round the Park on a fine afternoon." 
 
 " She is an unusually strong character," said the other, in a 
 lighter tone. " How is it, my dear Colonel, is Mrs. Sherman 
 making up a match between her protege and you ?" 
 
 " No," said the Colonel, shortly. " I admire Miss Clybourne, 
 but I have never desired to marry her ; nor supposed !_ could 
 do so, if I did desire it." 
 
 He paused a moment, and then went on rather abruptly : 
 
 " Catherwood, I ve sometimes thought you and I were of the 
 same mind about the same woman. If that is so, I think we 
 Tiad better have a talk about it, and settle which has the best 
 chance. I do not wish to waste my time." 
 
 Every word of this Christine distinctly heard ; she could not 
 help hearing; till this sudden moment she had not tried not to
 
 EAVESDROPPING. 187 
 
 hear, for there seemed nothing but what she might as well hear 
 as not. Now, while she lifted herself on her elbow in amaze 
 ment and doubt what she ought to do, the rest came, and she 
 listened ; there are not many women who would, for those first 
 startled moments, have done otherwise. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood was silent, and then said, raising his head 
 and turning it towards the speaker, which brought his words 
 only the more distinctly to Christine : " You have opened the 
 way to a subject on which I am glad to speak to you. You 
 are mistaken in one thing ; I shall not interfere with you. You 
 should have known that from what passed between us on the 
 first night of our meeting at the Hill." 
 
 " On the contrary," said the other, stiffly, " I only interpreted 
 your desire for secresy as additional proof of what I feared ; and 
 excuse me, but I do not see any reason yet to change my 
 mind." 
 
 "We will not enter into that at present," said the other; "a 
 man s past life is not always the pleasantest thing to talk 
 about ; only I will thank you now for observing the silence I 
 requested. I have for some time seen where your fancy had 
 alighted. I cannot tell whether Christine returns your inter 
 est ; that is for you to discover for yourself. But I can tell 
 you one thing that you may be glad to know : her father, 
 who has not long to live, desires nothing so much as to see 
 his daughter safely married. He will not stand at wealth ; 
 Christine has that ; he only asks for an honorable and honest 
 man, who will be a kind protector to her after he is gone. 
 "With him my influence is great. I can further your suit or 
 ruin it. Tell me now, before the old man speaks to me about 
 you, can you make this girl happy if you win her love 1 You 
 know what I mean, Steele ; would she have your heart and 
 your whole life? Men that have wandered round the world as 
 we have, know there are many ways of spending away one s 
 soul, and bringing to a wife only the empty mockery of a heart
 
 188 EAVESDROPPING. 
 
 only the dregs of an impure and ill-spent life. I have no right 
 to question you, I know, only as might makes right ; and I tell 
 you, candidly, I can spoil your cause with Dr. Upham. But 
 we have met cordially for many years ; we might have been 
 friends, perhaps, if our meetings had been more frequent. I 
 wish you well ; I am willing to do all I can to promote your 
 honorable purposes ; but then, you must remember, this young 
 girl s happiness is very dear to me. Her father has shown him 
 self my friend ; for her, herself, I have a warm affection ; at 
 their house I have always met the kindest welcome. Let all 
 this be my excuse for asking you what you would otherwise do 
 well to resent indignantly. What have you to give Christina 
 Upham in exchange for her affection, if you win it? r 
 
 There was a moment s pause, and then the other answered : 
 " An affection as warm and sincere as any man at any age can 
 have to offer ; and a life that can be handled on all sides, and 
 that calls for no secresy in any of its episodes." 
 
 " That is more than I can say, you think," said Dr. Cather- 
 wood, with a short, sarcastic laugh. " Well, sir, you are right ; 
 I cannot say it; but I do not hold myself any worse man that I 
 cannot. I see from your tone you do not like what I have said. 
 Well, wait, my friend, till you are in my position, and then say 
 whether I have done right or not. I have had to do with a 
 most trusting and amiable old man, and he has asked me to ad 
 vise him of his daughter s suitors. He has put more into my 
 hands than I care to hold ; but I am the friend of the house, and 
 I will not betray the trust. No man shall approach that child 
 who is not as worthy of her as she is worthy of a man s whole 
 love, whole life, and service. I do well to prepare you, Steele, 
 you see. I do not open the guns till I have sent a summons." 
 
 Up to this moment Christine had listened hungrily, absorb- 
 edly, without a scruple she drank in every syllable without 
 breathing, actually without the exercise of thought the full 
 force of all only came in the pause after these last words ; then
 
 EAVESDKOPriXG. 189 
 
 she pressed her hands before her face, and burying it deeply in 
 the pillow, felt she was undone. Besides what she had heard, 
 was the way of having heard it; the shame of having stolen in 
 upon the confidence of these two men ; possessed herself of what 
 either of them would have died rather than have had her hear. 
 Her father s appeal to Dr. Catherwood.; Dr. Catherwood s 
 anxiety to provide for her ; his cool indifference as to what 
 might be her own desires ; his assertion that the father had not 
 long to live ; the dark allusion to something in his history that 
 could not be revealed all these were revelations that shook 
 the very earth beneath her. 
 
 In whom was she to believe ; what was she to lean upon ; 
 where to look for counsel now ? She had no one to look to, no 
 friend anywhere. He whom she had so trusted, who had so 
 understood and cared for her, to talk so coolly, to approve so 
 readily of her marriage with a man whom he knew so slightly, 
 towards whom he had no friendship, and for whom he must 
 have known she felt nothing but dislike. What did it all mean ? 
 Why had he changed so ? What had she done to estrange him 
 from her ? She remembered now fully all the change. Surely 
 he could not have done this three weeks ago. He had been 
 different with her since that night of Harry s accident that 
 morning, rather, after it, when she had talked with him of He 
 lena. But no ; it was her own heart that had deceived her ; 
 friendship did not mean to him what it meant to her, for he 
 talked with this man about it, and while bargaining her away 
 to him, said he had a warm affection for her, and that her 
 happiness was dear to him. 
 
 The ache, the agony of that long night ! She did not quite 
 know what the agony was;, she thought the ache meant only 
 disappointed friendship. She lay still, trying not to hear the 
 low words of the talkers in the room adjoining, turning her eyes 
 away from the gleam of fire-light that came from under the 
 door, and trembling at the sound of the crackling wood that
 
 190 EAVESDROPPING. 
 
 from time to time one of them piled upon the fire. Would 
 they never let the fire go out ; would their low voices never 
 cease ! She must not hear ; she would not even think of what 
 she had so wickedly become possessed ; but she should go mad 
 if this night did not soon end. 
 
 At last it ended, to the talkers in the other room at least ; 
 the fire went out, the voices ceased ; the two men were per 
 fectly silent, and were probably asleep. 
 
 But the "fayre morrowe" came at length; fau 1 to all eyes 
 that had not wept themselves blind through the long night of 
 pain.
 
 NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP S. 191 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIp s. 
 
 . " Bv ry spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought." 
 
 LUCILLE. 
 
 THAT Sunday was a dark day in the calendar of every mem 
 ber of the party who spent the Saturday night preceding at 
 
 the little shanty of an inn on the mountain. Dr. Cather- 
 
 wood was up and away by daybreak, and Colonel Steele was 
 looking after the horses at a very early hour, while the other 
 two gentlemen, immured in a dark little chamber over the 
 dining-room, close against the roof, did not receive the idea of 
 daylight till their door was opened by the landlord at about 
 eight o clock. 
 
 The truth was, poor Mr. Brockiiulst had not found the 
 night s experience any pleasanter than Christine had, and 
 towards morning had fallen into his first sleep a miserable, 
 harassing one, to be sure, but tenacious of its hold upon its 
 victim, whom it had all night played fast and loose with. 
 When the landlord spoke, he woke with a start, thought him 
 self for several minutes in the hold of a slave-ship, of which he 
 had been dreaming ; then looked at his watch and remembered 
 where he was and what the morning was, and almost wished 
 it was the dream, and the slave-ship the reality. Half-past 
 eight o clock on Sunday morning, and he ten miles away from 
 his post of duty ! The early service, the Sunday-school, the 
 Confirmation class all these were passed, duties neglected, 
 sins for ever on record to his shame ; but the morning service 
 might still be saved. He might reach the church before half-
 
 192 NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP S. 
 
 past ten, and spare himself the remorse that a failure to do so 
 would entail upon him. With that thought in his mind, he 
 had left the little room, before Mr. Leslie had fairly aroused 
 himself in his dark corner and begun to prepare for the morn 
 ing meal. At the stable he met Colonel Steele, who shook his 
 head. 
 
 " A gloomy prospect for getting down the mountain," said 
 the latter. " Guido is hors du combat, as might have been 
 expected. Flite has cut herself badly in one or two places on 
 the rocks, and ought not to be out of the stable for a week at 
 least ; one of the carriage-horses has had a bad attack, they 
 tell me, in the night, and indeed he looks pretty much used 
 up this morning, and Leslie s clumsy beast can hardly hobble 
 to his oats, owing to that pretty fall he had before he left you 
 yesterday. I do not see anything for it but to put my horse, 
 who is the only one in decent trim, before the carriage with the 
 other, and send the ladies down, while we wait here till we are 
 sent for." 
 
 " It is of the last importance that I should be in by 
 
 ten o clock," said the youag clergyman, in a hurried manner. 
 " I will not wait for breakfast. I will walk on." 
 
 " Walk ! My dear sir, I am a good walker myself ; but I 
 do not flatter myself that I could get within three miles of 
 
 before ten o clock, or half-past, either. The state of the 
 
 roads is terrible, you know, and the mud will make walking 
 very serious business. But we can arrange it for you to go 
 in the carriage, which I shall have got up at once, and the 
 ladies will no doubt be ready to go the moment breakfast is 
 completed. That is your only chance, and I think, if nothing 
 occurs to detain you, you may be in at the hour you wish. 
 You can direct the coachman to go at a good speed as soon as 
 you get off the mountain." 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst had to yield, as his good sense told him 
 Colonel Steele was right ; it was certainly not a thing for any
 
 NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP S. 193 
 
 man of average endurance to expect, to walk ten miles over a 
 villanous rough road in an hour and a quarter, and read ser 
 vice and preach a sermon at the end of it. He walked back 
 to the house, to find no one but Christine ready for breakfast. 
 Mrs. Sherman appeared after the lapse of a half-hour. She 
 was not in very good spirits; it would have been temper instead 
 of spirits at fault if she had been in the bosom of her family. 
 She had to wear her bonnet (which Madeline had ungraciously 
 straightened out for her, and which still looked rather cowed 
 and miserable), because she had no breakfast-cap, and because, 
 for reasons of state, she never appeared without some exterior 
 decorations on her head. Now, a bonnet at table never has a 
 look of domestic comfort and enjoyment, much less of convi 
 viality ; and Mrs. Sherman s bonnet may be used as a reason 
 for the entire absence both of comfort and enjoyment, not to 
 say anything of conviviality, at that Sunday morning s meal. 
 
 The weather was the finest to be imagined, and the sunshine 
 more than ever seemed "a glorious birth;" but the party all 
 looked like so many blinking owls exposed to its brilliancy. 
 Madeline seemed absolutely dull pale and haggard, and not 
 amiable when obliged to speak. Christine was very languid ; 
 Colonel Steele very solicitous to know if she were ill, and very 
 uncomfortable at her coldness and apathy. Mr. Leslie was 
 engrossed with the care of his sprained wrist and barked shins, 
 and Mr. Brockhulst s state of mind excused his silence. The 
 breakfast would not have been a long one, for no one seemed 
 inclined to eat except Mr. Leslie who never was known to 
 refuse his oats but Mrs. Sherman, totally thrown off her ba 
 lance by having slept on a straw bed and dressed herself and 
 come down without a cap, revolted openly at the coffee, and 
 demanded that a second boiling should be made. This occa 
 sioned great delay, and the second attempt proving no happier 
 than the first, Mrs.. Sherman sent word she would try ["the tea. 
 There was none made. Then let some be made. Again a 
 
 9
 
 194 NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP S. 
 
 long delay, during which Mr. Brockhulst tried to steady his 
 mind by repeating the Thirty-Nine Articles to himself, and say 
 ing the multiplication-table backwards. 
 
 But making the tea was a long operation ; the kettle had 
 got " off the boil," and the fire was nearly out, the coals 
 having been raked out to hurry up the second boiling of 
 coffee, and being now scattered and dead. There was a great 
 flying out to the wood-pile for chips, puffing and blowing at 
 the coals, and anxious listening for the first symptom of a 
 simmer from the kettle. During which time the party at the 
 table thumped a little with their egg-spoons, munch ed a little 
 toast, now very cold, talked about the weather, made a few 
 poor jokes upon the breakfast, listened secretly a good deal 
 to the march of events in the " lean to," and tried to be 
 polite while they all felt very much exasperated. 
 
 At length the tea came very feeble, of a pale copper color, 
 and with the tea-leaves floating on the surface ; the boiling of 
 the water having been anticipated a few seconds by the anx 
 ious maid, and the making of the tea being altogether pre 
 mature. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman pushed back her cup and rose from the 
 table ; would Colonel Steele order the horses to the door 
 immediately certainly Colonel Steele would. But Patrick 
 had not had his breakfast ; ten minutes were allowed to him, 
 and then the horses were at the door. Although Mrs. Sher 
 man had breakfasted in her bonnet, apparently armed cap-a- 
 pie for travelling, there was still much to be done before they 
 were en route. Madeline, who had to officiate as lady s maid, 
 could not make her gloves button nor get her mantelet 
 straight; and between the young belle s impatience and the 
 old belle s self-will, there seemed a chance they would spend 
 the balance of their days on the mountain. 
 
 Finally, they were off! just as the hands of the poor 
 clergyman s watch marked nine twenty -five ; an hour for a
 
 NO SERVICE AT ST. PHILIP S. 195 
 
 ten miles ride, of which six were of the roughest nature, and 
 with a heavy barouche, and horses who had never before 
 been together. In fact, the Colonel s horse was very little 
 used to going in harness, and submitted svith a very bad 
 grace to the unaccustomed yoke. About half way down the 
 mountain he began to kick, and at last succeeded in causing 
 some break in the harness which necessitated another delay. 
 Mr. Brockhulst and the coachman at last tinkered it up, and 
 going very slowly to prevent its giving way, proceeded on their 
 journey. 
 
 This was but the beginning of delays and accidents ; at half 
 
 past twelve the carriage drove into just in time to meet 
 
 the dispersing members of the Methodist, the Presbyterian, 
 and the Baptist meetings. Mr. Brockhulst kept his seat firmly, 
 but it must be confessed his heart sank very low as he caught 
 the wondering eyes levelled at the box where he sat beside 
 the coachman. Of course they met the Bishop : that he was 
 prepared for. He had felt certain of it ever since the possi 
 bility of this detention had dawned upon his mind. She 
 stared at the carriage, checked herself in a start of horror, 
 pressed her lips together, and walked quickly on. 
 
 But the worst of it was passing the church itself, with its 
 shut gate and locked door; the seeing half-a-dozen Sunday- 
 school children playing together at a corner, and the knowing 
 that this example of Sabbath-breaking by the minister was sink 
 ing deep into their minds. To do the young minister justice, he 
 only thought of the scandal as it would injure others, nevor 
 with the foar of its doing him personally any harm. Poor 
 fellow ! To the last day of his clerical career he felt the 
 effects of that Sunday s history. 
 
 And Madeline and Christine each thought, as they wel 
 comed the quiet of their own rooms, that the whole expedition 
 was one which they would be glad to banish from their memory 
 as well as from the memory of all who had had part in it.
 
 196 OLD HUNDRED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 OLD HUNDRED. 
 
 " A noble heart, like the sun, showeth its greatest countenance in its lowest estate." 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 FROM that day forth Mr. Brockhulst s path was no longer 
 strewn with roses ; those that bloomed for him at the Hill 
 were too thickly beset with thorns and of too bitter a per 
 fume to deserve the name of roses. He began to see through 
 Mrs. Sherman, and the sight brought him alarm and humi 
 liation. He began to understand Madeline, he thought, and 
 the knowledge gave him bitter pain. The certainty that he 
 had been deceived in his reading of the one character, made 
 him more certain that he had been deceived in the other. 
 He forswore the society of Madeline, and eschewed the Hill 
 as far as it was possible for him to do, considering his thou 
 sand parochial entanglements with Mrs. Sherman. He longed 
 to break away entirely from her influence and manage parish 
 matters as seemed good to him himself. But that was not so 
 easy. Mrs. Sherman had got things in her own hands, and 
 she had no idea of giving up the reins. Mr. Brockhulst found 
 himself helpless ; he himself had appointed Mrs. Sherman as 
 the head of the two charitable societies connected with the 
 church, and had placed her in charge of the parish school. 
 
 He literally found himself superseded in every department 
 but the strictly clerical one ; he still preached and administered 
 the sacraments at his own discretion, but the surplice or the 
 cassock in which he did it were not at all discretionary. 
 The music was taken entirely out of his control ; the change
 
 OLD HUNDRED. 197 
 
 worked by Mrs. Sherman in this department caused great 
 rejoicing among the more refined people of the congregation, 
 but there was a large proportion who shook their heads at 
 the strange preludes and unfamiliar chants, and sat down 
 doggedly at the beginning of the elongated To Deums and 
 pirouetting solos of the choir. A thoroughbred organist came 
 up every Saturday night from town ; one or two good voices 
 were found among the country girls, Colonel Steele sang a 
 fine tenor, and Madeline was prima donna. Her taste in music 
 was very pure, and her voice of extraordinary power. She 
 had found her greatest pleasure in this occupation for the 
 past month, and the music really had been very fine. They 
 were beginning to talk of it everywhere in town, and a good 
 many, not otherwise interested, were attending service for the 
 pleasure that the music gave them. A good deal that was 
 Popish and a good deal that was operatic was of course dis 
 covered ; but still people came to listen and to admire and 
 to find fault. Certainly the choir took a wide range in their 
 selections ; if Mr. Brockhnlst had known more of music he 
 would have been the first to have restricted them ; but he 
 only heard the voice of Madeline, and he listened for nothing 
 else. 
 
 But the old-fashioned people, with the Bishop at their head, 
 were alarmingly disaffected. Not even the inroads upon the 
 chancel had discdified them as much, nor the new hours for 
 service, nor the new principles upon which the charities were 
 dispensed. The abolition of the old tunes struck a blow deeper 
 than all these; the service no more seemed the same to them ; 
 the church was no longer home. 
 
 The leader in the choir of other days, a great, heavily-built 
 man, six feet tall, with a chest deep as an ocean cavern, had 
 given up his place with the best and most forgiving temper ; 
 but his friends could not submit to his deposition with as good 
 a grace. He was a favorite in the parish, and in the town as
 
 198 OLD HUNDRED. 
 
 well ; in his slow way, he was a good neighbor, a good brother, 
 a good church member, and had spent fifty very blameless years 
 among the people of . He was a brother of Richard Gil- 
 more, and never having married, was a good deal at his 
 brother s house, and very fond of Harry, who was his godson. 
 He had more energy and purpose than Richard had, and was 
 perhaps in every way a stronger man ; but the two were very 
 much alike in their easy, moderate tempers, and their safe and 
 wise philosophy. 
 
 Ever since he had been old enough to be proud of his deep, 
 bass voice, it had been at the service of the church, and the 
 great pleasure and interest of his life grew to be thorough exer 
 cise of this gift in that place. He was a really devout wor 
 shipper, with a good deal of the Methodist in him, which was, 
 however, satisfied with the expression that it found in music, 
 and which endeared to his great heart every line of the old 
 hymns he had sung for so many years. His voice was tremen 
 dous, an unequalled bass or strength and depth, but his accent 
 was deplorable, and his ear not of the best. In the old tunes 
 to which he was accustomed he was tolerably correct, but it was 
 quite impossible for him to turn the great torrent of his voice 
 into new channels; he could not keep up with the new organ 
 ist, and could not learn a note of his new part ; and so at last 
 he told the choir he was afraid he d only be a hindrance to 
 them, and he thanked em kindly for the pains they had been 
 at to teach him, but he guessed he d better give it up, and he 
 wished em good luck in all heartiness, and then he took up 
 his old music book, and with something swelling up painfully 
 in his throat, went down the winding steps from the organ-loft 
 for the last time. 
 
 On the next Sunday, even the musically-educated people 
 missed his deep, familiar bass with regret, but soon all was for 
 gotten in the glory of the new achievements of the choir. His 
 familiar sobriquet of "Old Hundred" still clung to him, but
 
 OLD HUNDRED. 199 
 
 his voice was never heard in church, and only resounded now 
 and then from under his low, blacksmith s shed between the 
 sturdy strokes that echoed from the anvil. He still came regu 
 larly to church, undeterred by the evil counsel of his brother s 
 wife, who was very bitter against the aristocratical intrusion. 
 He sat under the gallery and looked huge and clumsy, and very 
 nuch out of place, following the sermon with painful attention, 
 aid beating time involuntarily to the music. 
 
 Phoebe Gilmore took up the affront to her brother-in-law very 
 warmly. She left the church herself, and would have with 
 drawn Harry from the Sunday-school, but for Richard s posi 
 tive interdiction. He was not much of a church-goer him 
 self, but he meant Harry should be brought up to be ; and as 
 soon as the boy was well enough, he sent him back to school ; 
 but Master Harry had not lain on the bed for three weeks 
 and listened to the bitter talk of his mother and those sympa 
 thizing neighbors who loved to hear hard facts about their 
 betters, without acquiring a good deal of knowledge on the 
 subject. He imbibed his mother s prejudices in a degree, and 
 went very sullenly back to Sunday-school, where he made 
 himself so troublesome, and showed himself so stubborn, that 
 he was soon complained of to the clergyman, whose experience 
 with him in the class of every day made him quite ready to 
 believe the worst that could be told. 
 
 The consequence was, a warning to his parents that unless he 
 proved himself more docile, he would be dismissed both from 
 day-school and from Sunday-school. There was a terrible 
 scene at the cottage after this occurred, but Richard again car 
 ried the day, for the second time since this protracted campaign 
 commenced, and Harry was sent back to school, with so bad 
 a disposition towards it, though, that the course to be pursued 
 with him became a subject of serious discussion. 
 
 Mr. Brockhulst consulted several of his vestrymen, who unani 
 mously advised him (with the sound judgment usually dis-
 
 200 OLD HUNDRED. 
 
 played by people who only hear half a case) not to be tor 
 mented with the little rascal any further, but to dismiss him 
 from the school. So, to poor Richard s great dismay, this at 
 last was done, and Harry came home one morning, flushed 
 and frightened, with the dread letter in his hand. 
 
 Poor Harry ! The seeds that that morning s experience 
 planted were the deadly growth that blasted his whole future. 
 He did not deserve such a fate, happy, honest-hearted little 
 loafer, believing only what his passionate mother taught him 
 and acting up to the knowledge he possessed. In her vindic 
 tive utterings he thought he heard the truth ; in the depressed 
 and gloomy looks of his father, he read a confirmation of the 
 fate that turned every one against him. 
 
 Phoebe Gilmore, indeed, had excuse for some of her com 
 plaints. Harry always had been treated harshly. Julian 
 Upham set him on to much of his evil doings, and then left 
 him to bear the punishment. And now, since this notorious 
 affair in which Julian had so nearly proved the murderer of 
 Harry, things had gone on just the same as ever, and had cul 
 minated in the dismissal of Harry and the entire escape of 
 Julian from chastisement. 
 
 It was not very much wonder that money, and the authority 
 that money brings, explained all this to Phoebe s mind ; and 
 the contempt thrown on her brother-in-law s faithful services 
 for so many years, swelled the weight of grievances beyond her 
 power of mind. Her ambition had been baulked in so many 
 ways, it turned into a resentment against those who had so 
 baulked it, and she had no stronger feeling now than the desire 
 to oppose and injure them. She not only left the Church and 
 made herself prominent in another, but she spread all manner 
 of evil reports regarding those from whose communion she 
 withdrew. Indeed, such a scandal was created by what she 
 said of the young minister and Mrs. Sherman s ruling voice in 
 everything, that the whole town was soon strongly prejudiced
 
 OLD HUNDRED. 201 
 
 against the clergyman and his lady patroness, and the matter 
 came to the ears of those concerned. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman was strongly excited, and allowed her husband 
 no rest day or night till he consented to give Richard Gilmore 
 warning that the mill and cottage would be wanted for another 
 tenant after his lease expired. His lease was very near its ex 
 piration, and this was truly a heavy blow to the easy -going man 
 who had never dreamed of the possibility of ending his days 
 under any other roof. It was like beginning the world afresh, 
 and for the first day or two he went about the old mill and its 
 surroundings like a person in a dream. 
 
 Unfortunately, during these events, Dr. Upham was confined 
 by illness to his room. It was some time before it came to his 
 ears that Phoebe Gilmore had left the church and was in such 
 a state of mind regarding it. He sent for her to come to him 
 several times, but she never came, and so all chance of his 
 influence was lost. Christine she treated with such coldness, 
 it became impossible to do her any good through her, and the 
 result was, Phoebe went on in her unfortunate and sinful course 
 unchecked by any voice but that of her mild husband and his 
 brother. Harry s dismissal from the school, however, and the 
 notice to Richard to give up the mill, were so many arguments 
 on her side she thought, and indeed for a while did silence her 
 advisers. 
 
 Meanwhile, Richard began to look slowly round him for 
 something to do next spring when his day of going out should 
 come. Harry was turned loose on the town, and was fast 
 becoming a little vagabond. Phoebe still sowed her angry 
 seeds of mischief. Mrs. Sherman still did the Lady Bountiful, 
 and worked maliciously to put down the Bishop and Phoebe 
 and the disaffected. Mr. Brockhulst grew paler and thinner, 
 and worked himself to death without any heart in his work, 
 knowing that there was a fault somewhere hidden in it that 
 turned it into failure. Dr. Upham watched the troubles from 
 
 9*
 
 202 OLD HUNDRED. 
 
 his quiet room of sickness with many regrets, but with a seri 
 ous trust that they would all terminate harmoniously. Chris 
 tine felt them deeply, and kept as much away from the Hill as 
 it was possible for her to do, and tried to throw all her influence 
 on Mr. Brockhulst s side. Madeline was in a strange state of 
 restlessness and perverseness, now throwing herself heart and 
 soul into the quarrel, and riding rough-shod over all the village 
 people who had meddled in the matter, and now tossing it all 
 aside in disgust and laughing at both sides, and doing a great 
 deal of harm to all. Dr. Catherwood looked on thoughtfully, 
 and saw no way of doing good, and so was silent ; spending 
 most of his evenings at home, never going to the Hill and Par 
 sonage unless expressly sent for, and working with his usual 
 kindness among the poor and suffering. 
 
 And so the heat of summer evaporated and crystallized itself 
 into the bright, clear, sparkling days of autumn ; the nuts were 
 brown in the forests, the grapes hung ripe on the garden walls, 
 the leaves began to fall from the trees that shaded the broad 
 streets, and the hillsides grew yellow and brown.
 
 THE EXD OF THE SUMMER S CAMPAIGN. 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE END OF THE SUMMER S CAMPAIGN. 
 
 " Then hey, for a lass wi a tocher ; then hey, for a lass wi a tocher, 
 Then hey, for a lass wi a tocher ; the nice yellow guineas for me." 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 IT was one of the last and brightest days ot October; Made 
 line Clybourne s little room was full of trunks and boxes, and 
 dresses, folded and unfolded, and Madeline herself, with a dis 
 contented air, lay on the bed with a novel in her hand. Mrs. 
 Clybournc, with a very harassed and worn expression, was 
 busied about the packing ; Madeline felt this was not right, she 
 had made a great many remonstrances, and in truth would have 
 been more comfortable to have tired herself out with the work 
 than to have lain still and watched her mother do it. But she 
 had not been very well for the last month, and she was bidden 
 to keep quiet and to save herself for the evening. In the even 
 ing all the people from the Hill, Christine and one or two 
 others, were coming there to tea. The next morning Mrs. 
 Sherman was going to town for the winter ; the house at the 
 
 Hill would once more be closed, and the gay season of was 
 
 at its end. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman was secretly glad to be going. She was a lit 
 tle tired of " Dorcas" and the ragged school ; and the Bishop 
 and her colleagues were bearing pretty hard upon her. She 
 felt as if the town would be a very welcome change, and she 
 
 was turning her back on with a feeling of some relief. 
 
 She thought the church should take care of itself another year ; 
 it had proved ungrateful. She had been very anxious to take
 
 204 THE END OF THE SUMMERS CAMPAIGN. 
 
 Christine and Madeline both with her for a visit, to take off the 
 edge of the first few days ennui, but Christine was not to be 
 persuaded, and only Madeline was going. Mrs. Clybourne had 
 consented very readily to her daughter s being absent for a 
 month, and she sincerely hoped the month might be prolonged 
 into the season. It, wsis Madeline s only chance of seeing so 
 ciety at all, for her wardrobe, her musical education, and the 
 additional expenses of their more enlarged way of living, had 
 already, in these few months, eaten up two-thirds of the widow s 
 narrow income. 
 
 The wrinkles were deepening fast in Mrs. Clybourne s hand 
 some face ; she Looked thin and worn, and excepting in society, 
 was troubled and silent ; Madeline felt very unhappy atliome 
 things were not going right about the money, she was sure, al 
 though her mother made no confidante of her. She gave her 
 handsome clothes, and though Madeline wanted the handsome 
 clothes and yearned for them with the ardor of a young and 
 pretty woman, she felt uncomfortable at every dollar that was 
 expended for her decoration, and felt vaguely that it was not 
 right, and that she should have more self-respect and be more 
 happy if she could get altogether out of this state of things. 
 She hoped it would not last long ; of course it would not, she 
 should soon be in a position to relieve her mother s cares and to 
 forget there was such a thing in the world as the cares that nar 
 row incomes bring. No doubt it would have been nobler in 
 Madeline to have stood still for a moment, looked before and 
 after, shaken off the shackles of education and prejudice, re 
 leased herself from the trammels of the world, and taken the 
 purer and freer life. But Madeline was very young, ill-taught 
 in her duty, and strong in her ambition, and her respect for her 
 mother was still too great to admit of her independent action. 
 
 Mrs. Clybourne was relieved on more accounts than one, to 
 have her go with Mrs. Sherman. She saw that Madeline s stay 
 at home during these quiet winter months could have but one
 
 THE END OF TUB SUMMER S CAMPAIGN. 205 
 
 result after the turmoil and excitement of life at the Hill was 
 over, there would be nothing to counteract the germ of senti 
 ment which the mother had been so long combating ; she 
 knew her daughter s heart much better than the daughter did 
 herself. The young clergyman was a worse enemy to Mrs. 
 Clybourne s peace than even the fast melting income was. 
 She bad seen from the first the sort of romance that surround 
 ed him in Madeline s eyes ; she had interpreted correctly her 
 sudden interest in church and charity. She knew what her 
 restlessness and uncertain temper meant her delight in sacred 
 music, her enthusiasm for certain books and theories. She was 
 much too wise to betray the discoveries she had made. Made 
 line never guessed her mother had a suspicion of the foolish 
 thoughts that were dancing through her head all day, nor that 
 to her insight she owed it that they were so often broken in 
 upon and scattered by suggestions of ambition and hopes of 
 admiration and conquest in society. Madeline did not know 
 exactly whether she wanted to go to town or not ; her mother 
 filled her head with ideas of the pleasures that she had in pros 
 pect, but her heart was clinging unconsciously to the summer s 
 romance. She was angry and mortified by the neglect to 
 which she could not blind herself, but she felt a ho^e that her 
 absence would prove too strong a trial to him, and she should 
 see him at Mrs. Sherman s house in town, long before her visit 
 there was ended. 
 
 The summer s campaign, gay as it had been and full of plea 
 sure to the daughter, had been anything but satisfactory to the 
 mother. Among all the men who had surrounded Madeline, and 
 whose attentions to her had been lavish, there was not one whom 
 she could think of marrying, or who, in fact, seemed to think of 
 marrying her. Society, just then, was full of very young and 
 very insignificant men. Some of the gayest and most desira 
 ble of these stayed constantly at Mrs. Sherman s house ; they 
 were exquisites in dress, some of them tolerably amiable and
 
 206 THE END OF THE SUMMER S CAMPAIGN. 
 
 well bred, but most of them indifferently educated, belonging to 
 families of no social importance, and all, without exception, una 
 ble to marry any one who had not a fortune to bring to them. 
 Mrs. Clybourne, used to the more refined and exclusive society 
 of the last generation, could with difficulty reconcile herself to 
 the necessity of Madeline s associating with such men ; but see 
 ing that her success as a beauty depended upon her favor with 
 such as these, she laid aside her prejudices as became a faith 
 ful mother, and entertained them at her house, and bade Made 
 line be amiable among them. She could not fail to see that 
 constant intercourse with young men for whom she felt no 
 shadow of respect, and whose manners were free and careless 
 with every one they met, had lowered and altered Madeline s 
 tone of thought ; and not only her tone of thought, but her 
 manners, her style of dress, her choice of language, had suffered 
 a shade of change. Only a shade, however; for the magnet 
 within, with all its trembling vibrations, was as yet pointing 
 true, and the careful mother s whole ingenuity was now ex 
 pended in shattering that guide and diverting that strong influ 
 ence. 
 
 This bright, cool October day was a very trying one to Mrs. 
 Clybourne ; besides packing Madeline s trunks and putting the 
 last stitch upon a dozen things, neglected by the careless wearer, 
 and ordering and preparing tea for perhaps a dozen guests (no 
 insignificant duty this in such a household as hers), she had 
 two great weights upon- her mind ; the first was, the news of 
 the illness of one of Susie s children, at whose bedside she felt 
 she ought to be ; and the second, the arrival home, the day be 
 fore, of her worthless young son, Raymond. He had turned up 
 at intervals ever since she had first sent him off, at the precise 
 moment when she had felt that a straw more would break her 
 down completely. She had, at this time, been feeling quite 
 safe about him, and had, perhaps, been a little more lavish in 
 her expenditures on account of this very security that he was
 
 THE END OF THE SUMMER S CAMPAIGN. 207 
 
 doing well, and was out of the way for a long time to come. 
 With great effort she had obtained for him a valuable clerkship 
 in a mercantile house in China, where with decent industry she 
 was assured he could not fail to rise. She knew he had not 
 decent industry and she did not expect him to rise ; she only 
 hoped that as, in the strict discharge of duty, very little was 
 required of him, he might sit still for a while. Alas! he would 
 not even consent to do that ; he did not find life in Shanghai 
 to his taste ; he came back in the next steamer and presented 
 himself at home without any other excuse for what he had 
 done than that it was "too deuced unpleasant hot" 
 
 Poor Mrs. Clybourne ! Here he was again upon her hands 
 with his expensive tastes and reckless habits, when by the strict 
 est economy she had hoped to struggle through the winter by 
 herself, while Madeline stayed in town ; and he was sach an 
 injury to Madeline at just this time ; a loafer of a brother, having 
 neither dignity to protect nor good name to advantage a sister, 
 is always a serious drawback to her success. No man wants to 
 marry a girl whose brother is sure to be a disgrace, and whose 
 family are a dead weight on his hands. If Raymond had only 
 stayed a year away till Madeline s future lot was settled, he 
 might then have come back, and his mother would have shared 
 her slender income with him cheerfully, nay, given him all of it 
 that necessity did not claim, for she had no ambition but the 
 success and advancement of her children. 
 
 Meanwhile, she felt her duty was growing a hopelessly heavy 
 burden, and that life presented few charms to her of any kind. 
 Middle life is always a trying, weary point in the long journey, 
 even to those whose aims are high ; but when only lighted by 
 ambition, and still consecrated to the world in however generous 
 a form, it is gloomy beyond expression.
 
 208 ANOTHER CHANGE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 ANOTHER CHANGE. 
 
 " The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 
 The spring entombed in autumn lies ; 
 The stream dries up, the star is shot, 
 The flight is past, and man forgot." 
 
 KINO. 
 
 THE little parlor of Mrs. Clybourne s cottage looked bright and 
 cheerful enough to satisfy even its weary mistress that evening. 
 People from large houses often enjoy being entertained in small 
 ones, and Mrs. Sherman said with great truth, the hours she 
 spent at Mrs. Clybourne s were among the pleasantest she had 
 
 ever known in . 
 
 She was very tired of her great rooms and the monotonous 
 march of events in her household economy. She often declared 
 Mrs. Clybourne the happiest of women in having such a little 
 bijou of a house, without any care at all, without any housekeeper 
 to feel her importance and ride over her ; without any men- 
 servants to get impudent and be discharged ; without any 
 orders to give for dinner-parties, and without the Judge to be 
 dissatisfied with whatever she might do. Mrs. Clybourne 
 always smiled, and said cheerfully : " Yes, it was very pleasant ; 
 certainly she had a great deal to be thankful for." She knew 
 very well she should gain nothing by asking sympathy in her 
 mean and unromantic trials ; poverty is not a misfortune that 
 exalts the sufferer. Money troubles are troubles that had better 
 be kept always in the background. Mrs. Clybourne was wisely 
 silent about the years of her life, if they were all put together,
 
 ANOTHER CHANGE. 209 
 
 which she had spent in worrying to get the ends together, in 
 little devices to stretch out a cobweb along an acre without 
 breaking it the dulling of her " cunning brain," the drying up 
 and exhausting of all her nobler feelings, in the contemptible 
 but inevitable struggle with the little, mean, and sordid part of 
 living. 
 
 She meant, generously, that Madeline should know nothing 
 of this ; but Madeline was too quick to be deceived ; she knew 
 there was pinching poverty at the bottom of her mother s purse, 
 so rigidly shut against all self-indulgences, so conscientiously 
 opened whenever her amusement or advantage was in question. 
 And the only way to end all this was for her to make a wealthy 
 marriage, which she had a general intention of doing, though 
 she had grown rather averse to thinking about it, except in a 
 very general and indefinite way. 
 
 Although she had been ennuyee and out of spirits all day, 
 she looked very well and was very brilliant in the evening. 
 Mrs. Sherman had the Colonel, Mr. Leslie, and a Mr. Bowden, 
 staying at the Hill, whom she brought with her ; Christine, who 
 was looking her prettiest in a white dress and the favorite mala 
 chites ; and two of the Miss Richfielcls, completed the party. Mr. 
 Brockhulst had been too much engaged to come, and Dr. 
 Cathcrwood, as usual, had found some excuse for staying away. 
 Raymond was very gentlemanly looking, in fact it was the only 
 thing he was, and it generally carried him through a month of 
 favor with those he met for the first time, and Mrs. Sherman 
 with her usual discrimination was making quite a hero of him. 
 She regretted he had come back just as they were going away ; 
 he would have added so much to the pleasure of their summer; 
 but he must come and stay with them in town while Madeline 
 was there ; she should not let him off without a promise. 
 
 Mrs. Sherman was fond of cards, and Raymond of course 
 played with her. The others all fell into the same amusement, 
 and presently every one was more or less engrossed with whist
 
 210 ANOTHER CHANGE. 
 
 At the end of one game at his table, while shuffling the 
 cards for the beginning of another, Raymond said in his slow, 
 lounging manner : "What do you think I heard in the town 
 this afternoon ? Mr. Brockhulst has resigned, and his resigna 
 tion has been unanimously accepted." 
 
 " What !" cried Mrs. Sherman, with a start, while Madeline 
 dropped her cards into her lap. 
 
 " Impossible !" cried several voices. 
 
 " I have not the least faith in it," exclaimed Mrs. Sherman, 
 while the elder Miss Richfield said wisely, it did not surprise 
 her in the least, from what she had heard her father say. Now 
 Mr. Richfield was a warden, and all eyes turned upon Miss 
 Richfield with great interest. Miss Richfield felt herself 
 invested with a good deal of importance from that circumstance, 
 and declined to be explicit, as people always do when they feel 
 themselves invested with importance ; but she could only say, 
 it did not surprise her in the least ; on the contrary, it would 
 have surprised her much more if he had not resigned. This 
 was confirmation sure, corning from a warden s daughter, and 
 the fact was accepted in its naked deformity. 
 
 " The ungrateful man," exclaimed Mrs. Sherman, with great 
 warmth of manner ; " after all I have done for him well, I 
 never shall believe in clergymen again." 
 
 A great laugh of approval from the gentlemen followed this 
 remark ; ecclesiastical stock was going down, they said ; now 
 there would be some chance of appreciation for the laity. 
 
 " Yes," drawled Raymond, " now I shan t be waked up every 
 morning by that horrid bell at six." 
 
 " Now Miss Christine will have time to do something besides 
 go to church," said Colonel Steele. 
 
 "And Miss Madeline will not be always working sermon- 
 covers, and Gothic pattern slippers," added Mr. Leslie. 
 
 " And there will not be any more Fairs at present, I sup 
 pose," said Mr. Bowden, who had an aggrieved recollection
 
 ANOTHER CHANGE. 211 
 
 of the money he had been obliged to spend at the recent 
 festivity at the Hill. 
 
 " Shan t you see him to say good-by to him, Mrs. Sher 
 man ?" asked Madeline, trying to be very nonchalant as she 
 assorted her cards. "My lead, did you say?" and she played 
 the queen of trumps at random. 
 
 "Miss Madeline! what are you thinking of?" cried Mr. 
 Xeslie. 
 
 While Mrs. Sherman answered absently as she put down her 
 king : "See him 1 Why, no, unless he should come up in the 
 morning. But he will probably be in town after a day or two, 
 and then I shall tell him what I think of him. Mr. Clybourne, 
 if I only knew what trumps you held !" 
 
 And so the great news came and passed, and beyond a few 
 allusions to it in the course of the evening, there was no further 
 interest shown. Christine felt glad that it was over. She had 
 known this or something worse must come, and now it was a 
 relief to feel he was going away. She wondered to see Made 
 line taking it so quietly, but after all, she must have been mis 
 taken in Madeline s feelings towards him. The fact was, Made 
 line was thinking, " I shall surely see him in a day or two in 
 town, and then there will be an explanation. He will stay at 
 Mrs. Sherman s, and it will be all made up." 
 
 Christine had Colonel Steele for her partner, and she was 
 dreading every moment the breaking up of the party, and the 
 possibility of his going home with her. It was a short distance 
 to the Parsonage ; Ann, the waitress, was coming for her at 
 half-past ten o clock, but she knew very well Colonel Steele 
 would make Ann go back and would walk with her himself. 
 This would be his last opportunity of speaking to her till she 
 came to town to pay Mrs. Sherman the visit her father had 
 promised for next month ; and Christine was very right in con 
 jecturing he meant to find a chance to speak with her. He 
 rightly divined, if she had any kindness for him, this was the
 
 212 ANOTHER CHANGE. 
 
 best moment, when the freedom of country life was still on his 
 side, the sentiment called up by the ended summer, and the 
 breaking up of a pleasant and intimate companionship. He 
 played rather an inattentive game, he was listening so carefully 
 for Ann s step on the piazza, and was so much afraid lest Leslie, 
 or Bowden, or that wretched Raymond should get before him 
 in sending Ann away, and saying : " Miss Upham, it is too 
 early yet; you must let me walk over to the Parsonage with 
 you after our game is ended." 
 
 Christine was listening, too, for Ann s approach ; it was not 
 quite half-past ten when she heard the gate open ; her heart gave 
 a nervous little bound, and she resolved afresh upon the words 
 to use in declining Colonel Steele s kind offer and going off 
 instantly and alone with Ann. Colonel Steele heard the gate 
 open, too, and the words prepared an hour ago were upon his 
 lips, when a step came on the piazza, which was not Ann s by 
 any chance. It was a man s tread ; it crossed the piazza, 
 entered the hall, and the parlor door opened and admitted Dr. 
 Catherwood. 
 
 Colonel Steele ground his teeth together. The moment 
 Christine caught sight of him she dropped her cards and half 
 rose, and ejaculated in an apprehensive tone, " Julian ?" 
 
 Dr. Catherwood s brow contracted for an instant ; it was not 
 pleasant to feel the sight of him brought a painful association 
 only. " Well, what about Julian ?" he said, with a pleasant 
 smile, as he went up to the table where Mrs. Clybourne sat, and 
 apologized for neglecting her invitation. 
 
 " I fancied he might be ill and you had come for me," she 
 said, not entirely reassured by his deliberation. 
 
 " Well, I have come for you," he answered, returning to her 
 side ; " and Julian is ill, but not seriously. Now ! no alarm, no 
 hurry ; I assure you he is not much amiss. Go, get your cloak 
 while I make your excuses for you ; I know you will have no 
 peace till you get back to him."
 
 ANOTHER CHANGE. 213 
 
 Christine disappeared before he had finished speaking, and 
 when she returned she hardly gave him time to say good-night. 
 Mrs. Sherman, however, seized her and detained her several 
 minutes, kissing her good-by, and making her confirm her 
 father s promise about her visit in November, and all the gen 
 tlemen had much to say about their hopes of seeing her very 
 soon in the city for the winter, and Madeline had a great many 
 kisses to give and many charges about writing, and Colonel 
 Steelc had to content himself with a mere good-by, and see 
 her leave the house with the man of whom, notwithstanding all 
 his protests, he was sure he had reason to be much afraid.
 
 214 PHCEBE GILMORK S REMORSE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 PHCEBE GILMORE S REMORSE. 
 
 " And is there in God s world so drear a place, 
 Where the loud bitter cry is rais d in vain ? 
 Where tears of penance come too late for grace, 
 Aa on th uprooted flower the genial rain ?" 
 
 KEBLE. 
 
 WHILE Mrs. Sherman and the party at the Clybournes glanced 
 off their cards and chatted in parenthesis of Mr. Brockhnlst s 
 resignation, another group, in another very different room, 
 talked in a very different way about it. 
 
 A tallow candle stood on the deal-table of the kitchen in the 
 miller s house ; Phoebe sitting beside it, flashed her bright, sharp 
 needle in and out the heavy piece of work upon her lap, bent 
 her head down and listened silently to the two men talking by 
 her, only emitting now and then from her black eyes a gleam 
 of malicious pleasure, or from her compressed lips a sharp and 
 stinging sentence. Harry, on a bench beside the fire, roasted 
 chestnuts in the ashes, and did not lose a word said by his 
 elders. The miller and his brother were talking moderately 
 and sensibly ; the miller s wife was giving point and venom to 
 all their matter-of-fact remarks. She had a secret consciousness 
 that she had helped to bring this work about, and it gave her a 
 triumphant pleasure, but also a little sensation of remorse and 
 apprehension. It piqued her that neither her husband nor his 
 brother would express the exultation that they should have felt 
 in the downfall of the minister. 
 
 Old Hundred, sitting forward with his elbows squared and
 
 PHCEBE GILMORE S REMORSE. 215 
 
 his bands upon his knees, said openly that he was sorry that 
 the young minister had not tried a little longer ; it was a pity 
 for a man to give up heart the first mistake he made. Richard 
 did not say much one way or the other ; the fact was, Harry s dis 
 missal from school was a sore thing with him yet ; if he had been 
 capable of bearing malice towards any human being, he would 
 have borne it towards the man who had, however ignorantly, 
 struck him in the softest and tenderest corner of his heart. He 
 felt that his boy was injured and hardly dealt by, and he could 
 not quite forgive the offender. His heart was sore about a good 
 many tilings and very heavy when he thought about the 
 future. He did not see what he was to do. At his time of 
 life it was hard to begin the world afresh ; things looked insur 
 mountable to him now, that, when he was a younger man, would 
 have presented no barrier at all ; all doubts were burdens, and 
 all burdens lay like lead upon him. Still he was not bitter, 
 nor morose, not even sullen ; only silent, and heavy, and 
 depressed. 
 
 His brother came down almost every evening now, for he 
 felt that Richard needed him ; and though there was little said 
 or done to clear up the cloud, still the trouble drew them close 
 together and made a sort of strength between them. 
 
 Old Hundred had not much to offer Richard, except his 
 strong hand and great kind heart. He was not the sort of man 
 to be a prosperous man ; he had worked hard all his life, but his 
 earnings had not stayed by him ; and poor relations and poor 
 neighbors had had no compassion on his purse. All that he had, 
 and it was very little, was understood to be for Harry when he 
 was done with it. He began to wish now, when he saw his 
 brother s trouble and saw no way out of it, that he had been 
 a little harder-hearted, and had not given way to everything 
 that moved his pity. What had he to offer now to him and 
 his family, turned houseless on the world without a cent ahead? 
 Nothing, absolutely nothing, but a roof to shelter them. The
 
 216 PHOEBE GILMORE S KEMORSE. 
 
 little tumble-down cottage which stood by his blacksmith-shop 
 was so out of repair he could not fancy Phoebe living in it 
 without a sinking of the heart. lie had lived in it till he had 
 got used to its leaks, and cracks, and unsteady floors ; when the 
 wall fell down in one room, he shut it up and went into another ; 
 when the rain found its way through one corner, he moved his 
 bed into another, and so time had gone on crumbling his house 
 before his eyes for years, and he had not heeded its encroach 
 ments on his comfort ; but when it came before his mind as a 
 home for those he loved, it seemed indeed a ruin to him. He 
 lost no time in planning its renovation ; before spring it must be 
 fit to live in, and that by the work of his own hands, for there 
 was no ready money to lay out upon it. 
 
 He had come down to-night to propose to Richard to go up 
 to-morrow, and with him begin to work upon it, and so on 
 through the winter whenever they had a spare day ; in that 
 way neither need lose time nor money, reasoned the unworldly 
 brother. Poor old fellow, he felt himself a great unwieldy wall 
 about which these helpless ones could only cling and climb, and 
 find a miserable support by their own tenacity ; he could do 
 nothing for them but stand silent in his clumsy pity. Phoebe s 
 perverse course sometimes tried him very much, but he could 
 not find it in his heart to say anything to her, now they were in 
 such trouble and trouble of her own making, too. When they 
 were all together under one roof, he thought perhaps he might 
 persuade her by his daily kindness to give up these thoughts of 
 malice, and .to try the easier yoke and the lighter burden of 
 Christian charity. 
 
 He longed to see Richard taking the true view of his misfor 
 tunes, and getting up like a man to meet them, and calling them 
 by their right name. Phoebe s influence upon him was bad ; 
 it always had been, his brother thought, though people said 
 Phoebe had been the making of him, and had kept him up to 
 what he was. Her ambition indeed had been the stimulant
 
 PHCEBE GILMOEE S REMORSE. 217 
 
 tbat had made his life outwardly more prosperous than his 
 brother s, and inwardly less true and Christian. He was almost 
 a Christian ; he was very near the kingdom of God by nature, 
 but he j nst missed it by a hair s breadth. He was not strong 
 enough to put aside the daily promptings of the woman who 
 had been the love of his youth, and was the companion of his 
 life. She called herself a Christian ; well, that was not what 
 he called Christianity exactly, and he had not the wisdom to 
 discriminate between the pure standard he had within and the 
 imperfect life brought before his daily view, and so Phoebe had 
 been doing him evil and not good all the days of her life ; while 
 she thought, and the world said, she was the best one of the 
 two, and to her alone was owing all the prosperity that had 
 ever fallen to their lot. She did not feel as ready to embrace 
 the credit of their present state of trouble, though the world 
 did not hesitate to put a large share of it, too, upon her 
 shoulders. 
 
 She was so unreasonable and bitter whenever any mention 
 of their future plans was attempted, that it was tacitly under 
 stood between the two men that no allusions to them should 
 be made in her presence ; so, when anything was to be dis 
 cussed, Richard followed his brother slowly out into the path, 
 and the two generally stood for an hour or so beside the gate, 
 planning for her comfort and the boy s, and for hard work 
 and self-denial for themselves. When Old Hundred rose up 
 that night out of his chair, he seemed to threaten the ceiling, 
 but he stopped just short of it, happily, when he was erect, and 
 took his pipe out of his mouth, with a look towards Richard 
 that the latter understood. 
 
 " Will you give me a light, Phoebe," he said, approaching 
 the table, " and I ll take myself and my pipe out of your clean 
 kitchen before we get a-going ?" 
 
 "You needn t be so careful of it," she said, tartly, holding 
 the candle towards him. " I don t take any trouble to keep it 
 
 10
 
 218 PHCEBE GILMORE S REMORSE. 
 
 clean nowadays : I ll take pains to leave it smoked and black 
 and dirty as I can for your fine lady s tenant in the spring. It 
 would do my heart good to see it burned down to the ground 
 before it brought her in a cent of rent ; it s sure to do her some 
 kind of mischief, take my word for it." 
 
 "You make a mistake, Phoebe; you make a mistake," he 
 said, taking up his hat, and going slowly to the door, followed 
 by his brother. " I don t say it to hurt you, but I wish you 
 could feel different. It would make you easier, depend upon 
 it; it would make you easier." 
 
 And with that mild reproof he left her. 
 
 For a long time Richard and he stood by the gate in the 
 darkness, smoking and talking at intervals of what lay heavy 
 at the hearts of both. At last they parted with an agreement 
 to meet in the morning early at the cross-roads, Richard with 
 his horse and cart, and both with their shovels, to draw some 
 sand for the mason-work about the old house, upon which they 
 must begin next week. 
 
 In the morning, after the silent breakfast (breakfast was 
 always silent now), Richard put the horse before the strong, 
 new cart that must be sold with the other fixtures in the 
 spring, to pay off what there was no chance of his being able 
 to pay otherwise. He came into the kitchen, which was rather 
 dark and gloomy, the sun not being fairly above the horizon, 
 and got his pipe and paper of tobacco, and fumbled about the 
 cupboard for something which he could not find, and which, 
 in fact, he did not want so much as a cheery word from his 
 wife, who, busy about the table, turned her back upon him, 
 and did not offer a word to him of any kind. 
 
 She knew where he was going, and what his business for the 
 day was but she could not bring herself to speak of it with 
 any degree of moderation. The change was too bitter for her 
 pride, and she could not be brought to feel gratitude for the 
 shelter of her brother-in-law s roof. Richard felt sore at heart
 
 PIICEBE GILMORE S KEMOKSE. 219 
 
 about beginning the work without a word of encouragement 
 from her. There was absolutely nothing else before them if 
 they turned with contempt from this, and he must go forward 
 in it with her consent or without it but without her sanction 
 and advice he never had done anything before, and it came 
 heavy to him at just this time. She had forbidden him ever 
 to speak to her about it, when first it had been mentioned, and 
 so, though he lingered in the kitchen for some moments, he did 
 not dare to bring the subject up. She knew what he was 
 waiting for, and there was a storm within as she busied herself 
 silently about the breakfast, turning away from him. 
 
 At last he went out without a word, with a slow and heavy 
 step. As soon as she heard the wheels turning on the gravel, 
 she half-relented, and went quickly to the door. Twice she 
 raised her voice to speak, and twice the wicked spirit caught 
 back the words, and stubbornly and in silence she watched him 
 walk away beside the cart out into the dim and foggy road with 
 bent head and dull, slow step. 
 
 She felt a weight of lead upon her heart as she went back to 
 her work ; a weight that grew heavier and heavier as the day 
 went on. She found herself harsh and sharp with Harry, but 
 that was no unusual thing now ; she felt she had a right to pay 
 back even on him some of the evil coin that fate had foisted 
 on her. 
 
 The morning passed slowly away, though she worked hard, 
 and, with an unacknowledged compunction, tried to revoke her 
 evil resolution of the day before. She scrubbed and scoured 
 the kitchen till it looked cleaner and fresher than it had done 
 for many weeks ; then with a softness of heart she did not 
 admit even to herself, she arranged the dinner with express 
 reference to the taste and pleasure of her husband. This was 
 a soothing sort of occupation to her; she lingered on it with 
 some satisfaction, and though she knew from old experience the 
 moment his foot sounded on the threshold, the stubborn cold-
 
 220 PHOEBE GILMOKE S KEMOESE. 
 
 ness would come back, it still allayed her unspoken remorse 
 somewhat to feel she was providing for his comfort. 
 
 Twelve o clock struck ; then half-past, and still he did not 
 come. Harry came in, and was very much out of temper at 
 being kept waiting for his dinner ; his mother was harsh with 
 him, and sent him out again very angry. The room was all in 
 order ; the table was laid ; the dinner was steaming hot before 
 the fire ; Phoebe had nothing to do whatever ; and too tired 
 and spiritless to be impatient, she sat down by the window to 
 await her husband s coming. 
 
 Not till it was some time past one, did she experience abso 
 lute anxiety. Then she got up and walked to the door, then 
 down the path, looking up and down the road. There was no one 
 in sight, and she came back, feeling a little irritated. Perhaps 
 he had not meant to come home to dinner, or had agreed to 
 take his dinner with his brother, and had not told her, in 
 return for her obstinate silence about his going. But no ; 
 that was not Richard ; he could not have done a thing to vex 
 her, whatever provocation he might have ; neither could he 
 have forgotten. He was considerate and careful of giving 
 trouble, but she was so used to his slow, steady thoughtfnlness, 
 that she seldom reflected on her happiness in being married to 
 a man who was neither selfish, nor surly, nor tyrannical, but 
 who had put her will voluntarily in place of his own. 
 
 She softened a little while she thought of this a rare 
 thought with her and went over to the door again and 
 
 O O 
 
 listened. Presently she heard the lumbering of a cart along 
 the road, and, presto ! all the softness went. She glanced up 
 at the clock, and felt she had good reason to be angry at having 
 had her work put back an hour and more ; she felt sharp and 
 stubborn as she set the meat upon the table and stooped over 
 the kettle in which the potatoes lay white and mealy, over 
 done and ready to fall to pieces at the first touch of the ladle. 
 She had some tart words ready on her lips to greet her tardy
 
 PHOEBE GILMOBE S REMORSE. 221 
 
 husband s entrance with, but several minutes passed, and he did 
 not come. She went to the door. There the cart stood at the 
 gate, the horse docile and comfortable, pulling at a tuft of 
 grass beside it. The cart was half-full of sand, but the back 
 board was down, and the sand had been jolting out all along 
 the road. With a sharp misgiving, Phoebe ran down the 
 path and looked in both directions. There was no one coming; 
 there was nothing unusual in sight but a trail of the white sand 
 lying all along the road as far as she could see. The sun had 
 come out and was shining brightly, but the road was damp and 
 muddy with the early morning showers. The reins lay on the 
 ground, covered with mud and sand, through which they had 
 been dragging. What did this mean ? 
 
 Phoebe s hands shook as she fastened them to the post beside 
 the gate, and running into the house caught up her bonnet, 
 called to Harry, but did not wait to hear his answer, and 
 started down the road. She was very tired with her morning s 
 work, and the agitation and alarm had made her knees so 
 weak and trembling, that she had more than once to sit down 
 by the roadside to recover strength. She tried to persuade 
 herself there was nothing to alarm her in the horse s coming 
 home ; he had got unfastened and started off while Richard 
 was busy about something else ; but still she hurried on with 
 an apprehension of misfortune. 
 
 It was a long way to the bank where the men had started 
 to draw sand, a full mile and a half, and the road lay out of 
 town, and was lonely and unfrequented. Phoebe felt as if she 
 were in a nightmare she realized the distance so, and the pos 
 sible misfortune, and the hurry and the weakness of her limbs. 
 She seemed to be smothering, and she took off her sun-bonnet 
 and fanned herself with it as she hurried forward. Sometimes she 
 ran for a few steps, and then she had to stop and lean against 
 a tree or fence to get her breath and ease the leaping of her 
 heart. She could follow the trail of sand a long way ahead.
 
 222 PHCEBE GILMORE S KEMORSE. 
 
 Such a long way ! She felt as if it would have been easier if 
 she had not seen such a length of road stretching ahead of her 
 over which she had to go, before she got rid of this awful sus 
 picion,, the very presence of which in her mind, though nothing 
 but a suspicion and with almost no foundation, seemed enough 
 to drive her mad. 
 
 There was a turn in the road just this side of the embank 
 ment ; a clump of cedar-trees jutted down to the edge of the 
 highway from the bank above, and shut out all that was beyond. 
 When she reached it she paused a moment and pressed both 
 hands against her heart. She should see Richard as she 
 turned the corner if he were there and well, and she felt even 
 then a faint struggle of pride in betraying her excitement ; a 
 very faint struggle, though, that was lost in her anxiety ; and 
 hardly breathing from the intensity of her feeling, she went 
 forward a few steps, turned the corner, and looked towards 
 the quarter of the bank where the excavations had been made. 
 
 It was about two hundred yards from where she stood ; 
 many people, men and women, stood about it, with strangely 
 expressive faces ; the sound of shovels and picks was almost 
 all that was heard, except the occasional low voices of the 
 crowd, and the quick, sharp word of command and inquiry 
 from those out of sight behind the bank. There was a great 
 fresh mass of sand upon the ground below ; and above, a freshly 
 broken, uneven, ragged edge standing out, with grass-roots 
 dangling down, and pebbles and sand still rattling occasionally 
 from it. Phoebe knew all at that first glance as well as if she 
 had been there an hour ago when that last fatal spade-thrust 
 loosened the tiny atoms that had so long been impending. 
 She felt the horrid shock, the sudden blow, the instantaneous 
 darkness, the smothering, paralysing weight, the cry of agony, 
 muffled and unavailing. 
 
 It was very wonderful that she did not faint and fall. She 
 walked straight on towards the group, and stopped when in
 
 PHCEBE GILMORE S KEMOKSE. 223 
 
 full view of those at work. Some one caught sight of her, and 
 the crowd turned towards her. A murmur of pity and regret 
 broke from them ; the poor thing, they cried, while some of 
 the women ran towards her, and some of them shrank away. 
 They surrounded her, but she pushed them off and tried to 
 make her way up to the bank. 
 
 " Keep her back," cried one of the foremost men, in a 
 voice harsh and hoarse with feeling ; and the women drew her 
 back and forced her to stand quietly in their midst. She was 
 too weak to resist, and she stood supported by the arms of two 
 or three of them in full sight of the desperate workers. Her 
 face was grey and drawn into strong, sharpened lines ; her eyes 
 were fixed and staring. It was a scene of intense and painful 
 interest ; none the less striking and terrible that the sleeping 
 fields and bright autumn woods beyond were lying under a 
 brilliant sky, and that a glorious flood of sunshine was bathing 
 the whole place. The contrast of this outward quiet and the 
 horrible knowledge possessed by every mind, was most affecting; 
 the dreadful struggle for life, the death-pangs of two strong 
 men, the living anguish of those from whom they were torn 
 away, made the sunshine a most painful sight a sight that 
 added to the picture its most vivid touches. 
 
 The men worked with resolve and desperation ; the sweat 
 poured from their set and frowning faces ; the great cords stood 
 out on their bared arms ; there was no word spoken between 
 them, as one relieved the other and stood by for a few moments 
 to recover strength. A boy held a bucket of water and silently 
 dipped cupful after cupful to those who fell back exhausted 
 to give place to fresher hands. There were more men than 
 spades, and more spades than could be used upon the space 
 denoted by the freshly-opened sand, so that many had to stand 
 and watch while the few worked and the fewer still directed. 
 There were children staring with frightened looks, women 
 crying and wringing their hands, and a few standing about the
 
 224 PHOEBE GILMORE S REMORSE. 
 
 poor wife with silent faces of compassion. The click of the 
 spades, the fall of the soft sand, was painfully distinct through 
 the occasional whisper of the women and ejaculations of the 
 men. At last there was a smothered exclamation from the 
 foremost worker ; a pause of a single second, then a plunge of 
 all the spades into the yielding sand, a silence that seemed 
 to choke the breath, a low murmur of some feeling that she 
 could not understand, as she saw them throw away their spades 
 and bend down anxiously. The crowd pressed nearer, the men 
 cried harshly to them to keep back ; the boy s bucket of water 
 was in demand ; the foremost ordered the outside ones to move 
 back and give them air ; the crowd hardly breathed with the 
 intensity of their excitement. 
 
 At last the men in front rose up and shook their heads, and 
 sorrowfully took up their spades again. 
 
 All this while Phoebe had been struggling with her keepers ; 
 at last she burst from them and pressed forward through a 
 crowd that could not but give way at sight of her, up to where 
 the body lay. It was not Richard, it was his brother ; she did 
 riot glance again at him, but fixed her eyes upon the bank where 
 the men were hard at work, though with less heart, alas, this 
 time. 
 
 Meanwhile the women and some of the men gathered round 
 the lifeless body, unwilling yet to give him up. But the noble 
 fellow lay face upwards to the sunshine with such a placid look 
 of satisfaction and security, it seemed to mock their efforts. It 
 is no use, they said at last and then drew back and gazed at 
 him reverently. Not a bruise or wound about him, only a little 
 sand among his grizzled hair and on his working clothes. A 
 manly figure, grand in its proportions ; an honest face, noble in 
 its repose. There was no mark of death about him ; his flesh 
 was warm, his limbs fell supple and easy as in life only only 
 his heart was still, his pulse was gone. The sunshine fell full 
 upon him and on the awe-struck groups about him ; his face
 
 PHOEBE GILMORE S REMOKSE. 225 
 
 was still and happy as if all the goodness and kindness of his 
 life were passing in dreams before him their faces were pale 
 and ghastly at the thought of the death that seemed to have left 
 no shadow upon him who had passed through it. 
 
 At last there came another pause among the workers ; with 
 careful hands they dragged out his unfortunate companion and 
 placed him beside him on the grass. With a piercing cry 
 that rang for days in the ears of those that heard it, Phoebe 
 flung herself upon her husband s lifeless body. The women 
 shuddered and hid their faces ; the men walked away and tried 
 not to hear the agony that rent their hearts with pity. 
 
 Poor little Harry! What had he done to deserve his fate? 
 Everything seemed against him. That day and that night he 
 felt as if he were frozen, and were only half-awake after a 
 dreadful dream. He was afraid of his dead father ; he was 
 afraid of his wild-eyed mother ; he was afraid of the solemn- 
 faced neighbors ; he was afraid of his own self. He was too 
 old to run to his mother to be comforted, or to receive pity 
 from any one about him. He was too young to throw off his 
 grief and rush into excitement to get rid of it. He did not 
 understand it ; he was horror-stricken. The goodness and tender 
 ness of his heart were petrified ; he turned coldly away from his 
 mother s passionate embrace, and repaid with stubborn silence 
 the kindness of the neighbors. A heartless boy, an ungrateful 
 son, they said ; and that awful calamity was a long step down 
 in Harry s downward course. 
 
 And Phcebc, wild with remorse and grief, melting with a ten 
 derness that came too late ; widowed in heart ; hopeless, as far 
 as this world went was it, too, a step downward for her ? 
 Alas ! yes. She had cut herself off from all those with whom her 
 early religious life had been associated ; sho had made it im 
 possible for any of them to approach her except her old pastor, 
 whom the hand of disease alone kept back from her. The bet 
 ter feelings of her heart could only have been reached by him, 
 
 10*
 
 226 PHCEBE GILMORE S REMOKSE. 
 
 but to him she would not go, and he could not come to her. 
 The house was full of preachers and exhorters the leaders of 
 her new faith people with hearts full of goodness, with eyes 
 brimming with pity, with lips running over with piety. But it 
 all seemed cant to her, used to so different a religious school. 
 It was all associated with her perversity and error. She felt 
 her heart revolting from them, and they did her little good. 
 Her agony was intense ; her nature was wholly beyond their 
 experience and comprehension. In her first moments of dis 
 tracted grief, she had felt she could " curse God and die " 
 curse religion, curse all that she had sinned about, all that had 
 failed her in her hour of need. 
 
 People told her she had been a good wife, and asked her to 
 take comfort in that; and she thought of the honest love she 
 had undervalued, the strong influence she had abused, and she 
 wished that she were lying dead beside him to whom she had all 
 her life been doing evil. They called upon her to repose her faith 
 on the Maker whom she had always served, and she thought with 
 bitterness of the false service she had rendered and the cruel 
 wages with which she was being paid. They told her to trust 
 in her Saviour, when her Saviour was but a name to her. She 
 did not know His heart ; she had never felt His love ; there 
 was nothing to trust in there. They exhorted her to repent 
 and confess her sins, and she felt that she could hurl the coun 
 sel back into the very face of Heaven and cast herself down and 
 die. She had received at the Lord s hand double for all her 
 sins ; and when she rose up from the days of her bitter mourn 
 ing, it was with a heart of adamant, sinews and nerves of steel.
 
 THE ORDEAL. 227 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE ORDEAL. 
 
 "God satisfied and Earth undone." 
 
 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 DR. CATHERWOOD had told the truth about Julian s illness that 
 night. It was not serious ; it was only of a few days duration ; 
 and though it had its usual effect of making Christine look pale 
 and keeping Dr. Catherwood there through one night, and 
 bringing him to the house several times a day for the succeed 
 ing week, it did not leave any important results behind it. 
 His attacks were gradually lessening in their violence and fre 
 quency as he grew older, and Dr. Catherwood, who never 
 looked upon his health as anything but of the most precarious 
 nature, was beginning to speak and feel more encouragingly 
 about him. It was possible he might yet be a strong man, he 
 said ; though looking at the slight, pale, undersized boy, it was 
 difficult to see where he grounded his possibility. 
 
 After Julian s illness was passed, there had come a gap in 
 Dr. Catherwood s visiting at the Parsonage; then Dr. Upham 
 had been ill again, and he had been sent for, and now was 
 coming every day, at the Doctor s earnest and specified request. 
 Immediately upon Mr. Brockhulst s resignation, there had been 
 an urgent and affectionate appeal to him to resume the charge 
 of St. Philip s. It was pretty generally felt in the congregation 
 that they had had enough of the new regime, and that a return 
 to the old ways would be very acceptable to all. The conser 
 vative, substantial men, who had stood aside during the ascen-
 
 228 THE ORDEAL. 
 
 dency of the Sherman faction, now came forward, and the reins 
 of government were very gladly put back into their hands. 
 
 Dr. TJpham consented to resume his duties if his health should 
 permit ; but the fatigue consequent upon the first Sunday s 
 labors proved that it was certainly not equal to it. He still 
 hoped to be able to preach once a day, however, aided by a 
 clergyman temporarily called in as an assistant. The repose 
 that was felt throughout the church at this state of things must 
 have been most flattering to Dr. TJpham ; his people seemed to 
 think it impossible to do too much to make amends for their 
 former error ; and all his firmness and discretion were required 
 to keep things from sliding back into their former places without 
 too vigorous a bound, and thereby reflecting too strongly on his 
 predecessor s course. The music, for instance, under the Rec 
 tor s strict injunction, continued in the same hands as before. 
 The fine organist, who was a terrible expense, having been 
 engaged till spring, was still retained, and the class of boys was 
 placed under the care of a sober-minded young student of 
 divinity, without half Mr. Brockhulst s talents, but with a very 
 good and plodding mind that suited exactly the vocation. 
 
 So the weeks went on, and the time for Christine s promised 
 visit to town was come. She had received several rather 
 flighty letters from Madeline, full of contradictions, extravagances, 
 and sarcasms, and they only increased her dread of the ordeal. 
 Madeline described the life they led as very gay, an exaggera 
 tion of all the doings at the Hill some excitement every 
 evening, dinner-party, opera, or theatre ; and what would it be 
 after the season had begun ? Colonel Stecle was a great deal at 
 the house, besides all the others who were in the habit of 
 coming to the Hill. 
 
 " Many inquiries after you, my dear ; I m afraid they ll turn 
 your head with compliments when you come down." 
 
 Christine had done everything she could to escape the 
 chance of having her head turned ; but Dr. Uphain, fancying
 
 THE ORDEAL. 229 
 
 that her reluctance came from leaving him alone, insisted with 
 unusual warmth upon the plan, and she had no sufficient excuse 
 to offer for refusing to keep the promise that he had made for 
 her. 
 
 It was a soft, hazy November afternoon ; the sky was a faint 
 grey, the air was mild, the wind was still. Christine left 
 Crcscens still busy with her trunk for the journey of to-rnorrow, 
 and throwing her cloak around her, went out for a half-hour of 
 quiet in the garden. She went slowly down the long covered 
 walk, now strewed thickly with the dead leaves which rustled 
 as she moved along ; the vines above were almost bare of 
 foliage, but a few bunches of grapes still hanging on them 
 scented the air deliciously. The grass-plat looked sere and 
 yellow, the shrubbery was nearly leafless, the flower-beds were 
 tangled and overgrown, and covered with dead leaves ; by the 
 path some artemisias and other late flowers bloomed, but the 
 end of the year s luxuriance and verdure was stamped upon 
 the garden ; the soft, mild atmosphere could not deceive. 
 
 Christine sighed as she thought of the departed summer and 
 its many pleasures. She felt as if it had been all the youth 
 that she should ever know ; with its close had come a know 
 ledge, an awakening, that matured her in an instant. 
 
 " Duty must be life s leading star, 
 And conscious innocence its rest." 
 
 She stopped at the end of the long walk beside the drooping 
 tree, with the circular bench around its trunk, that in the early 
 summer had been such a thick and cool green bower, now naked 
 and leafless and dreary, and a verse of Keble s came mourn 
 fully across her mind : 
 
 "And if the world seem dull and dry ; 
 If long and sad thy lonely hours, 
 And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers 
 Bethink thee what thou art and where 
 A sinner in a life of care."
 
 230 THE ORDEAL. 
 
 She stood with her hand upon the branch nearest to her, and 
 looked into the leafless bower with a sad remembrance of the 
 happy hours that she had spent dreaming in it when the sum 
 mer was yet young. Some one else was thinking of that time, 
 too. Dr. Catherwood, coming down that moment from her 
 father s room, paused at the open door and looked out into the 
 garden with a thoughtful, almost a stern face, that softened and 
 then darkened again as he caught sight of the figure at the end 
 of the long walk. He thought of that " all golden afternoon " 
 when he had smoked his fragrant indolent cigar under the 
 shade of the now leafless tree, reading " Evangeline," with the 
 mignonette between its pages, and thinking of the lovely child 
 who presently, like a dream, had come fluttering down the 
 path to him. He thought of her girlish eagerness, with her 
 first note of invitation open in her hand of the simplicity he 
 smiled at then, the misgivings that seemed prophetic now. He 
 had felt that note was the first step in the separation that 
 must surely come between them. It had given him the first 
 warning that his pleasant intercourse with her must some time 
 end that the too charming and unconventional hours he 
 passed at the Parsonage were numbered. All this had been 
 fulfilled. The summer had brought all the changes in their 
 relative positions that he feared. But in one thing he had been 
 mistaken. In one thing Christine had been wiser than he. 
 The world had not hurt her. Flattery had not touched her 
 heart. She had ripened rapidly ; she was a woman now, where 
 five months ago she had been but a child. Life had matured 
 her, but had not changed her nature. His pretty violet 
 breathed still the same sweet woody perfume as when the moss 
 imbedded it and the budding forest4rees hung their fresh shade 
 above it. 
 
 He looked down the walk and started forward as if he must 
 yield to the impulse to go to her, then checked himself and 
 half-turned away. What a contrast was this to the face and
 
 THE ORDEAL. 231 
 
 figure that he remembered so well in that early summer sunset ! 
 As great a contrast as between that day of rosy, living June, 
 and this of dead, grey, still November. The change had not 
 come unperceived to him. He had watched the shadow steal 
 ing into her eyes, the color fading from her cheek, but it 
 seemed to come more fully to him now in its entirety as she 
 stood silent and motionless where then she. had stood trembling 
 with young life and happiness. 
 
 He turned back into the house and crossed the hall. She 
 was going to-morrow. When she came back she might be even 
 further from him than she was now ; he would go and speak to 
 her one moment : perhaps he would say to her what her father 
 had asked him to say discover from her if she looked favor 
 ably upon this suitor who seemed to have distanced all the 
 others and to have won for himself some sort of a place with her. 
 So he turned back towards the garden it was not often that 
 he wavered so went down the steps into the path, and ap 
 proached her slowly. 
 
 She did not hear till the leaves at her feet rustled, and 
 turning, she saw him standing by her. She changed color 
 slightly as he held out his hand. 
 
 " So you are going away to-morrow," he said, resting his hand 
 upon the rough heavy stem of the vine above him. "I thought 
 Mrs. Sherman would get you after all." 
 
 She merely smiled faintly ; a month ago she would have told 
 him she did not want to go, but that her father had insisted. 
 Times of confidence were over now. 
 
 " Miss Madeline has seduced you with her accounts of the 
 gay doings, I suppose," he went on. 
 
 " Madeline seems to be enjoying herself very much," Christine 
 answered, and then turned towards the house. He walked down 
 the path beside her, and as they neared the steps, he said 
 
 " Do not go in yet. Let us walk here awhile ; it is gloomy 
 in the house."
 
 232 THE OKDEAL. 
 
 " It is gloomy here, I think," she said, as in turning to re 
 trace their steps, her eyes wandered over the desolate garden 
 and fell upon the naked leafless bower. Tears involuntarily 
 rushed into them as she thought of the summer s past delights, 
 the coming separation, the abiding grief. 
 
 " You are too young to find autumn gloomy," said her com 
 panion, seeing the tears she turned her head away to hide. 
 
 " I am not any longer young," she had it on her lips to say, 
 but she did not speak. 
 
 "You have so much pleasure before you in your life, I hope," 
 he went on, " you need not regret the passing of one pleasant 
 summer. It is only when the pleasant summers lie all in the 
 past, and all that is to come is winter, that one has a right to 
 talk of gloom." 
 
 Christine was silent, and he went on presently in a more 
 cheerful tone. 
 
 " Your winter, I am sure, promises to be gayer even than 
 your summer. Mrs. Clybourne only yesterday was giving me 
 a short resume of all that has been going on, and a sort of 
 programme of all that was projected for the ensuing month." 
 
 " Those things give Madeline more pleasure than they give 
 me," she answered with simplicity. 
 
 " But they ought to give you pleasure," he persisted, " when 
 you think how much is done on your account. Mrs. Sherman 
 and Col. Steele both desire, above all things, you know, to 
 make you happy." 
 
 There was unconsciously to himself a slight sarcastic coldness 
 in his voice as he said this ; at Col. Steele s name a warm color 
 flushed over his companion s face, which his eye caught in 
 stantly, and his tone did not alter for the better as he con 
 tinued : 
 
 "I am unreasonable, Christine, perhaps, but, as an old 
 friend, I have been trying to persuade myself I have some sort 
 of a right to ask you about Col. Steele whether he satisfies
 
 THE OKDEAL. 233 
 
 you completely, and whether you mean to give him the happi 
 ness that a great many men will be seeking by and by, if they 
 have not already sought it. You are very young, Christine, to 
 make up your mind about such a step as this. I wish I knew 
 you were not in danger of deceiving yourself about your feel 
 ings in the matter." 
 
 " Dr. Cathcrwood," said his companion, pausing and turning 
 towards him as they reached the end of the walk again, "I 
 have something to say to you that will change your fear for 
 me. I am not in danger of deceiving myself about my feelings 
 for Col. Steele nor for any one else. Whatever might be my 
 feelings towards any one who desired to marry me, I could 
 have but one decision, could make but one irrevocable an 
 swer." 
 
 " I do not understand you," he said slowly, raising his eyes 
 and fixing them upon her. 
 
 " I mean," she said, speaking in a voice whose agitation 
 grew with every word she spoke, " I mean that I shall never 
 marry ; that I am bound by the most solemn oath with which 
 one can bind one s soul, to live unmarried ; that love, real or 
 fancied, has nothing to do with the fate I have before me. If 
 I loved with my entire soul, I could not marry ; if affection and 
 duty and authority all combined to urge it, I would die before 
 I broke my vow. Now, you know why the world ought not 
 to be my pleasure ; why I am marked out and different from 
 others : why it is my duty never to think of things that other 
 women think of." 
 
 " Christine !" he exclaimed, in a low tone, while his lips 
 grew white, " you must explain this to me. I do not know of 
 what you talk." 
 
 " I talk of something of which I hate to think," she said 
 with a shudder ; " something that I never yet have told to any 
 one. I meant to have told you long before, when I told you 
 about Julian, but I could not bear to speak of it I could not bring
 
 234 THE ORDEAL. 
 
 myself to put it into words. You ought to know. Perhaps 
 everybody ought to know ; but I do not want to have to 
 tell." 
 
 She shivered and put her hands for a moment over her face, 
 then resolutely conquering her voice, she raised her head, and, 
 leaning against the grape vine, went on speaking rapidly, 
 though low, with her eyes on the ground and her head 
 averted. 
 
 "I told you what I promised to Helena about Julian : be 
 sides that, she made me promise something else. It was only 
 an hour before she died; she looked so dreadfully, and the 
 room was so dim and so solemn. I was a little girl then, and 
 everything solemn frightened me ; and she sent the nurse away 
 and I was alone with her. She told me about Julian and 
 about his wicked father; and she made me promise on my 
 knees, solemnly and in the sight of God, I would never marry 
 to lead a wretched life like her, but would live for Julian, and 
 would be a mother to him, and to him only, while he lived." 
 
 There was a silence. Christine did not look up ; but, if she 
 had, she would have seen upon her companion s face a pallor 
 that would have terrified her. 
 
 After a few moments, she went on : 
 
 " At first, I did not think much about that part of the pro 
 mise ; but since I have been grown up I have seen that it was 
 a little hard upon me, and that circumstances might arise that 
 would make it very cruel." 
 
 The way in which she said the words very cruel was inex 
 pressibly pathetic : she said them half involuntarily, as if she 
 were trying not to blame her sister even in thought, but as if 
 the deep sigh of her heart had breathed itself out in ^yords 
 against her will. 
 
 "Cruel !" repeated her companion after a moment, in a voice 
 so low and deep and vehement, that she started and looked 
 towards him in alarm. "Cruel! The deep damnation of such
 
 THE ORDEAL. 235 
 
 an act as that ; the appalling thought of such a selfishness ! 
 Christine, it binds you no more than the wild curse of a maniac 
 it does not touch your soul, poor baby that you were. It is 
 as worthless as the brawling of the storm. It leaves you free 
 as air." 
 
 " I bound myself," she answered. " That was not Helena s 
 act; no one can undo it no one can persuade me : I made 
 the vow myself. I made it and I must keep it, if it breaks my 
 heart." 
 
 "You shall not keep it," he said below his breath, with a 
 fierce vehemence of eye. "I will live to see it broken. I 
 will undo that treacherous woman s sin before I die. I will 
 save you from her tyranny. I will unloose the hold she has 
 upon you with her cold dead cruel hands. She has blighted 
 enough lives. She shall not turn yours, too, to bitterness, 
 my lamb. You shall not drag out your years in misery for 
 my " 
 
 He struck his hand upon his forehead and turned away with 
 vehement emotion. 
 
 "I hardly know what I have been saying," he resumed in a 
 more controlled tone presently. " I feel this cruelty, this in 
 justice to you, bitterly, Christine, and I would do anything to 
 remedy what has been dono against you. I want you to listen 
 to me, and believe me when I say, truly, as a Christian man, I 
 do not think r.s promise binds you. It was extorted from you 
 under circuu, stances of peculiar trial, when you were a mere 
 child ; a mere child in years and judgment no one but a luna 
 tic would think of valuing such a promise. Your father would 
 be perfectly right in forcing you to disregard it." 
 
 " My father would never force me to a sin as black as that ; 
 he could not force me to it, for my promise to the dead, made 
 in the name of heaven, comes before any duty to the living. 
 Dr. Catherwood, you are saying a great many things that I do 
 not like to hear. You are only driving me away from you by
 
 236 THE ORDEAL. 
 
 talking so. You do not respect me much if you think to move 
 me. I am as firm as if I were a great deal older, and wiser and 
 better than I am. Because you have seen me weak so often, 
 and because I have been guided by you in so many things, you 
 think that I am childish and unstable. I shall be sorry that I 
 told you this. I never have told any one before. Does it look 
 very childish that I have kept it to myself so long ? I would 
 have kept it to myself for life if I had not trusted you so 
 much." 
 
 " Christine ! forgive me," said her companion, tenderly. " It 
 was for your sake that I spoke as plainly as I did. I hoped to 
 prove to you, you were mistaken in your duty. I pray God I 
 may yet be able to convince you that you are. It seems to me 
 impossible that in time I cannot make you see it in the way 
 I do." 
 
 " You cannot," she answered ; " I was fourteen years old 
 when I made that promise. I was more thoughtful and relia 
 ble than most children of that age. I knew what I was doing, 
 and I did it with intention. Not one month before, I had taken 
 my confirmation vows. I was thought old enough for that. 
 I took this in the same spirit, with consciousness of the same 
 awful presence. Do not try to convince me of what your own 
 heart cannot be convinced. The faithful keeping of this 
 promise has become the intention of my life. If I broke it 
 now, I would be breaking the added resolutions of all the days 
 that have passed since it was made. Do not, if you are indeed 
 my friend, add any to the weight I have to bear. Forget what 
 I have told you. Never breathe it to my father, for you violate 
 my confidence if you do. Do not speak of it again to me, and 
 forget it if you can yourself." 
 
 " If I can," he repeated under his breath, then turning to her 
 in a pleading way, he said : "Dear Christine! let me say this 
 to you, let me remind you of one thing. By keeping religious 
 ly the letter of the promise, you make suffering for others be-
 
 THE ORDEAL. 237 
 
 sides yourself. By keeping the spirit of it, you can satisfy 
 your own conscience, and serve Julian as well." 
 
 " And affront heaven with a lie. No, Dr. Catherwood, you 
 cannot make me do that wickedness. I know God will not let 
 me fall so terribly. I am sure of strength, I think." 
 
 " Listen, Christine. You are looking at this only in a morbid 
 way. You have kept it a dark secret in your heart so long, 
 you do not know how it looks by daylight. Let me tell you 
 how it looks to me to me a man mature in years, temperate 
 in judgment, by the grace of God, a Christian." 
 
 " No, Dr. Catherwood, do not tell me. I know all that you 
 would say, but my mind cannot change. You must not talk 
 to me about it." 
 
 " But, Christine, think of -this. I know your father s dearest 
 earthly wish is to see you married safely before he is called to 
 leave you." 
 
 " My father will trust me when I tell him I am safer without 
 being married," she returned quickly, and with a change of 
 tone. That sentence of her companion s brought back memory 
 of painful times. 
 
 " Yes, he may submit, but he will be pained and disappoint 
 ed. I know how great a dread it is to him to leave you unpro 
 tected." 
 
 "God, perhaps, will leave him longer than you think; and 
 after that, duty is my best protection." 
 
 " But he will not see it so ; you will inflict a pang on him, 
 and on the the man whose happiness depends upon your love, 
 Christine." 
 
 "There is no one whose happiness depends on that," she re 
 turned. "The man the world has chosen for me, Dr. Cather 
 wood, would never have my love, even if I were at liberty to 
 marry him." 
 
 " Then you do not love this Colonel Steele ?" he said, fixing 
 a sudden and piercing glance upon her face.
 
 238 THE ORDEAL. 
 
 " You know I do not," she exclaimed almost bitterly, turning 
 suddenly to leave him. He caught her hand and drew her 
 back. 
 
 " Christine! " he said, in a low, smothered voice. "Look at 
 me ! Honestly and tell me from your heart if there is no 
 one else for whom you repent you made that vow ?" 
 
 She had started to leave him, but he held her hand, and she 
 turned her face around and their eyes met ; one moment, the 
 only one in life, fate said, in which they might look into each 
 other s eyes and read the truth ; one long, long draught of love 
 from the depths of each other s souls. 
 
 If "any other love tale and any other fate had been Chris 
 tine s, she would have listened with downcast eyes, with trem 
 bling blushes, with averted face ; but now, despairing, yearning, 
 tearless, she lifted her head and gazed with deep, passionate, 
 loving eyes, into eyes as deep, as loving, more passionate than 
 hers. O the desolate garden ! The still, grey, mournful sky! 
 The falling faded leaves ! What a strange pair of lovers stood 
 in the midst of that silent gloom, despairing, dumb. Knowing 
 for the first time the full bliss of loving ; knowing at the same 
 time the certainty of parting ; the cup just at their lips to be 
 struck aside 
 
 " Like water spilled upon the plain 
 Not to be gathered up again." 
 
 The whole capacity of their souls for happiness, the whole satis 
 faction of each in the other s love, the future that had been 
 possible, the desolation that was now inevitable all these, with 
 all their contingent and attendant circumstances, with all their 
 wealth of light, and depth of shade, crowded and filled the 
 moments that they stood thus hand in hand under the mourn 
 ful autumn sky. 
 
 The acknowledgment of a passion is in one sense its birth ; 
 till it has been spoken, it is not full, living, real ; this passion, 
 as it woke to life, dealt death to those in whose hearts it was
 
 THE OKDEAL. 239 
 
 born. A perfect love, a true marriage of souls, thwarted and 
 blasted and denied for ever its completion. No wonder that, 
 man and woman loving thus, thus joined by God in soul, they 
 felt in all its strength the cruelty and malice of the human 
 selfishness that had put them asunder for their earthly lives. 
 
 " There is no hope," Christine said at last, in a low, unnatural 
 dead voice. Her companion did not speak, did not attempt 
 any sort of a rejoinder. At that moment the shrill tones of a 
 child reached them from the house, calling petulantly her name. 
 
 " I must go," she said ; he shivered as the child s voice met 
 his ear, and unclasping her hand, without a word let her go 
 from him. He did not even watch her till she disappeared into 
 the house ; he turned away, and stood dumb and motionless 
 with his eyes upon the ground.
 
 240 HELENA S WORK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 HELENA S WORK. 
 
 " Shall I not weep, my heartstrings torn, 
 
 My flower of love that falls half blown, 
 My youth uncrowned, iny life forlorn, 
 A thorny path to walk alone I " 
 
 HOLMES. 
 
 CHRISTINE went directly up the stairs, and past the room where 
 Julian was calling for her petulantly. For the first time in her 
 life she did not answer him, did not hurry to find out his de 
 mand, but went towards her own room, and shut herself in, 
 and then threw herself upon the bed, with an audible cry of 
 wretchedness. She clasped her hands above her forehead 
 unclasped them, rose, and walked about the room. 
 
 The room began to feel to her like a prison, and she opened 
 the window and knelt down by it, and leaned her head forward 
 to catch the air. But the pine-trees before the house grew 
 close up against the window, and still she felt that she should 
 smother. Oh, what had she done to deserve this ! Why was 
 she born to such a fate ? Why had she not died like the other 
 children, who lay so still and safe there in the churchyard ? 
 Not like her to live to be old, and grey, and dull, to live years 
 and years in a misery that never would grow old. Not like 
 her lo hate life as she looked ahead, to hate life as she looked 
 back. Not like her to feel a bitter reproach against the dead, 
 a yearning, hopeless love towards the living, who to her must 
 be for ever dead. 
 
 O cruel sister selfish mother s love to which she had 
 been sacrificed. Helena s livid, ghastly face rose up before her
 
 HELENA S WORK. 241 
 
 and she reproached it in her misery, defied it in her despair. 
 She had often wondered, as she used to watch long silent nights 
 by Julian s bed, whether Helena knew, whether the spirit of 
 the mother was not near her, blessing her for keeping faith with 
 her, watching with her by her child s sick bed. She wondered 
 now if she were near ; she felt the air close and thick and 
 heavy, as the dusk came on, and she shivered with the thought 
 that her spirit might be even now within hearing of her 
 broken words, within touch of her throbbing, feverish brow. 
 She hoped she was there seeing the wreck she had made, 
 knowing the blight her cruelty had brought. She had no 
 right to be sleeping calm and still, while -she, the little girl 
 upon whom she had laid her monstrous burden, was struggling 
 and fainting, and gasping beneath its weight. Oh, she had done 
 a base thing to her motherless little sister ! She had bade her 
 keep it a secret from her father ; she had done well ; what 
 would his generous nature not have felt at such a selfish act ! 
 Oh, she prayed God Helena might know might feel might 
 see ; quick and dead were alike to her to-night, head and 
 heart burning up in the tortures of her new agony. She could 
 not fear the dead, for she longed for death itself, she craved it 
 passionately. She did not see how she possibly could live and 
 bear this pain. But she knew that she should, and that made 
 it what it was. 
 
 Life as it would be to her, and life as it might have been ! 
 Her innocent and pure mind had never, till that moment of 
 awakening, pictured to itself the happiness of married love, the 
 only earthly happiness that is worth the name. It seemed as 
 if earth had suddenly flowered into a paradise, and then the 
 gates had been shut upon her, and she had been left, dreary 
 and alone, in the waste without. A thousand powers of love, 
 a thousand new perceptions, new emotions awoke within her, to 
 turn now only to her further pain. Before, she had only half- 
 lived half-understood herself half-known the things about 
 11
 
 242 HELENA S WOEK. 
 
 
 
 her ; now, this strange necromancy had struck the scaffolding 
 away, and all things stood revealed. Behold the mysteries of 
 her nature! Behold its infinite capacity for happiness its 
 infinite capacity for suffering ! If she had never known the 
 possibility of this bliss ; if her whole nature had not been so 
 suddenly developed, she might have passed on through her 
 appointed years unjoyously but unrepiningly, with the simpli 
 city of childhood and the patience of faith, not knowing that 
 a great wrong had been done her ;_a deep cruelty ; a shameful 
 injustice. 
 
 And not only to her, but to the one whose love for her was 
 as much a part .of his life, his existence, as hers was for him. 
 What he suffered ! Every pang was doubled at the thought of 
 him, as every joy would have been doubled if joy had been 
 their destiny. For herself she felt agony ; for him she felt re 
 bellion. What had he done to be sacrificed to this selfish 
 mother he, a stranger, bound to her in no earthly way ? 
 Then she thought of how Helena had injured her child by her 
 selfish, avaricious, greedy requisitions. She pictured to herself 
 the home in which he would have been guarded and cherished ; 
 the manly gentleness and judgment by which his course would 
 have been directed ; the strong arm by which his youth would have 
 been protected. Now, he had lost all that. W T hat could he be 
 but an object of aversion to the one in whose path of happiness 
 he stood ? What would his future be, with only her guidance 
 and protection? Already he was beyond her control ; already she 
 felt her weakness and insufficiency ; and if they said truly, even 
 the help her father gave her must soon be gone. 
 
 The money for which she had been so exacting, could do 
 them both little good when there was no one to take care of it. 
 A lawless boy, with reckless habits, and the knowledge that he 
 had a right to money, what could there be to save him from 
 destruction ? Oh, the life that she saw stretching before her 
 along the desolate, aimless years cold, grey, cheeiless change
 
 HELENA S WORK. 243 
 
 coming upon all but her her young companions with babies 
 in their arms, with happy fireside interests, with love to 
 lighten duty ; Julian growing up out of her reach careless of 
 her affection ; her father gone ; her home desolate and lonely ; 
 her life a long regret, a smothered, unquenched, smouldering 
 rebellion. 
 
 She passed through years of suffering as she lay there alone 
 in the thick, dull twilight, pressing her hot hands against her 
 burning forehead, and moaning aloud sometimes in her, intole 
 rable pain. Through the darkness and the stillness of the 
 house, at last she heard her father s voice calling to her from across 
 the hall. For the first time in her life, she heard that summons 
 with impatience and answered it with tardy and unwilling 
 steps. She arose slowly, and pushing back her hair, exclaimed, 
 with reluctant despair : " O heavens ! cannot they let me alone 
 to-night !" 
 
 She felt, as she washed the tears off from her cheeks, smoothed 
 her dress, and opening her door, went out into the light, that 
 she had taken her first step in the long journey that lay before 
 her, hiding the anguish of her soul, and for duty and for pride 
 wearing on her face a serenity that would deceive.
 
 244 ONLY A MONTH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 OKLY A MONTH, 
 t 
 
 " Work without hope draws nectar In a sieve, 
 And hope without an object cannot live." 
 
 COLEEIDSE. 
 
 AFTER Christine had gone away to the city, Dr. Catherwood 
 did not come near the Parsonage for several days : then he was 
 sent for on some plea of illness in the household, and after that 
 he came every day, and stayed long, and left with a homesick, 
 heartsick regret each time. It was an effort to him to go when 
 he was first obliged to, after his parting with Christine : he 
 dreaded acutely going into the house again ; but that once over, 
 he found his greatest consolation there. He would spend hours 
 in Dr. Upham s room ; then coming down, he would go into the 
 parlor walk through the room where everything recalled her 
 open her books, and glance through them for some trace of 
 her in them, lift the lid of her work-box, touch the work that 
 had passed through her hands, and look long and hungrily 
 upon the little picture of her that hung beneath her mother s ; 
 a mere sketch, a soft shadow, a sweet thought of Christine, but 
 inestimably precious. To not even that had he a claim. That 
 little picture, hanging there obscurely month after month, at 
 tracting the eyes and thoughts of no one in the household 
 probably, of interest to no one, of value only in a possible ex 
 tremity, even that he could not ask for; even that he must 
 count the moments of looking at without betraying feeling. 
 His course he had not yet decided on : at first he had felt he 
 had strength for nothing but to go away from her ; he felt it
 
 ONLY A MONTH. 245 
 
 would be impossible for him to live near her and not make her 
 wretched, and he loved her too generously to be willing to 
 sacrifice her peace to his craving desire to look upon her face 
 and touch her hand sometimes. He felt that for himself there 
 was nothing but gloom ahead but for her, with her youth, her 
 sweetness of heart, her marvellous religious faith, there might 
 be a future of peace and satisfaction. So at first he meant to 
 go to separate himself for ever from her, to meet her eyes 
 never again on earth ; to trouble her peace no more. To pray 
 and make the prayer honest by his efforts, that she might for 
 get him and be contented with her lot. 
 
 But longer thought and more complicated reasoning brought 
 him nearly to an opposite conclusion, and it was a long while 
 before Ite knew whether he were listening to reason or yielding 
 to a selfish and tempting love. How could he leave her, 
 he reasoned, so unprotected, in such a trying life ? Her father 
 he watched with secret and growing apprehension : his active 
 life was ended ; he might linger a helpless invalid for years, or 
 his death might occur at any moment, Julian was a charge to 
 which he was unequal now the care of his property would 
 soon have to pass into other hands : upon his young daughter 
 would come the heavy weight of both, and the insufficiency of 
 her strength for either seemed to him an honest reason for 
 staying where he could relieve her of them, and make her 
 path an easier one. These doubts and waverings tormented 
 him, a man used to clear and rapid habits of thought, and 
 definite in all his plans. An illness that Julian had while Chris 
 tine was still away, settled the misgivings, and he resolved to 
 stay. He was certain he comprehended the boy s ailments as no 
 one else did, and as no one else could, could relieve Christine s 
 mind of the alarm she always felt about him. A sentence in 
 her letter to her father written after hearing that he had been 
 ill, settled his mind about it : 
 
 " I could not stay here as I do, but for your assurance that
 
 246 ONLY A MONTH. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood is constantly with Julian, and apprehends 
 nothing worse. While he is with him, I am willing to do as 
 you ask me to, and prolong my absence." 
 
 Christine s absence was prolonged a month ; her father, lonely 
 as he would have been without Dr. Catherwood, still urged her 
 staying, and felt great satisfaction in the thought that she was 
 happy. But his satisfaction lasted only till he saw her. Not 
 very apt to study the faces of those around him, he could not 
 help being struck with the change in his daughter s. She was 
 not the same Christine who had gone away from him, he was 
 sure ; and he watched her with a tender solicitude, while she 
 struggled bravely to keep up a cheerful manner. 
 
 But it was like a fresh wound, to come back to her quiet 
 unchanged home again, and to know that the long journey was 
 only shorter by one month than when she went away. She 
 had passed through such interminably long days since then, 
 had had such terrible experience in trying to make the conquest 
 of herself, that she was utterly disheartened to find herself no 
 further advanced in any way. She missed the excitement of 
 city life, which, though thoroughly distasteful to her, had been 
 a stimulant; and without it, she found she had no strength at 
 all. The stillness of the house, the length of the uneventful 
 hours, the monotony of the slowly rolling days, was it possi 
 ble she could live and bear them. The care of Julian, and her 
 attendance on her father, seemed no help in those early days of 
 her untoward fate. She could put no heart in what she did, 
 and hers was a nature that though capable of great sacrifices 
 for duty, was weak and lifeless when working only for that cold 
 task-master. 
 
 Besides, the blow had fallen on body as well as on mind; 
 she was literally only half alive. Mrs. Sherman had been glad 
 to send her home at last, for she felt she was on the eve of 
 some alarming illness. The excitement of getting home kept 
 her up for a day or two : then a feverish flush on her cheeks
 
 ONLY A MONTH. 247 
 
 at night gave place to a ghastly white in the morning, and Dr. 
 Upham took alarm. 
 
 It was the fourth day of her return to : through the 
 
 morning she had been with him in his study; but after dinner 
 she had excused herself and gone away to her own room. Five 
 o clock came, and Christine had not come to him, and, a good 
 deal disturbed by her unnatural appearance in the morning, her 
 father concluded to go to her room and see how she was feeling. 
 It was only across the hall, on the front side of the house. But 
 it was some weeks since the old man had been beyond his own 
 apartment, and he wrapped his dressing-gown about him and 
 went out with a cautious step into the dim and chilly hall. 
 Christine s door was standing ajar ; he pushed it softly open and 
 entered. She lay upon the bed, with her face upon her arms, 
 a burnino- flush on her cheeks, and a troubled dark look in her 
 
 O 
 
 eyes. 
 
 " Christine, my child," he said gently, standing before her ; 
 and when she saw him she gave a violent start and tried to 
 sit up. 
 
 " Christine, you are ill ; you make me quite uneasy. What 
 is the matter with you ?" 
 
 She tried to answer him in a reassuring way, but sank back 
 on the pillow faint and dizzy from her effort. He put his hand 
 on her forehead, and without waiting for any further answer, 
 started towards the door, saying half aloud, " I should have sent 
 for him this morning." 
 
 " Father," cried Christine, starting up in fright ; but her voice 
 was too weak : he had reached the door before she could com 
 mand strength enough to arrest his attention. She attempted 
 to rise and follow him ; but the hurry, the agitation, were too 
 much for her, and she fell back on the bed, breathless and pal 
 pitating. She heard her father call to Ann, heard Ann s light 
 step down the stairs, the closing of the door, and the message 
 to Dr. Catherwoocl was on its way.
 
 248 ONLY A MONTH. 
 
 How should she meet him ! Oh, what a cruel mistake her 
 father was making! This was enough to drive her into an ill 
 ness if she were not ill already. The hot fever seemed rushing 
 through her veins with double fire ; the beating of her heart 
 sounded so loud to her, she could hear nothing else. In a little 
 while it might have been half an hour, it might have been five 
 minutes Crescens came in softly with a light, and shading it, 
 placed it on a table in the furthest corner. As she was going 
 out, Christine motioned to her not to go away. The woman 
 raised her sulky eyebrows as she moved slowly across the room, 
 and taking out her work sat down by the shaded light. Chris 
 tine hardly knew why she wanted her to stay, only she was ter 
 rified at herself she dared not be alone when he came she 
 could not trust herself or him. Oh, she hoped he would not 
 come; she had never seen him since that day ; she was so mise 
 rable, she could not bear the meeting now. Perhaps he would 
 refuse to come would feel as she did, and know what she was 
 suffering from. 
 
 But no. By and by came Ann s step into the hall, followed 
 in a moment more by a quicker one that she knew as well upon 
 the walk outside, and then the opening and shutting of the 
 door. Christine listened to the footsteps on the stair, their 
 pause at the study door, the long parley between her father and 
 the new comer; and then she knew that he was corning in 
 alone. The room was very dim. The low lamp with its thick 
 shade made it almost twilight where the bed stood, with its 
 white curtain swept back, and its pillows crushed and disar 
 ranged by the feverish aching head that had tossed about upon 
 them. There were queer shadows on the ceiling ; Crescens 
 with her back to the door, looked, reflected dimly on it, like a 
 giantess stooping over her pile of work. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood paused a moment in the open door ; then 
 entering, quietly went up to the bed, and laid his hand upon 
 Christine s. For the moment of suspense before he spoke, she
 
 OXLY A MONTH. 249 
 
 neither saw nor comprehended. She felt that he was there, but 
 turmoil was in her brain, a giddy rushing in her pulses. But 
 when he spoke, there was something in his even quiet voice 
 that cut through the mists like a steady stream of light, that 
 made a terra firma for her to stand upon. It is impossible to 
 describe all that that tone expressed it told of a battle fought 
 and gained, of a course decided on, a place for both of them, a 
 new life inaugurated, a quiet putting down of passion and tak 
 ing up of fate. She felt that she had to do nothing but follow ; 
 that he had resolved what was best Tor them both, and that she 
 need only obey his lead. She need no more harass her poor 
 mind with the choice of paths before her; he had mastered 
 himself and all the difficulties of their relations, and would walk 
 on before her silently and with authority. All this his voice 
 expressed a voice as steady and firm as if emotion had never 
 shaken it, as if a heart of fire were not burning beneath it, a 
 
 O 
 
 soul of yearning tenderness were not throbbing tumultuously 
 against it. But no accent, no tremble of what was within, 
 found expression through it ; not the faintest vibration of the 
 tempest shook it. He sat down beside her, .with his cool steady 
 hand on hers, and said: 
 
 " I am afraid you are really ill. Why did you not send for 
 me before ? Your pulse is altogether wrong." 
 
 She gave a sigh of relief and turned her face towards the light. 
 
 "You have a good deal of fever," he went on, "and should 
 have given up long ago. I want you now to keep perfectly 
 quiet. I will give Crescens all directions about your medicine, 
 so do not trouble yourself to think at all. Let her undress you 
 now. I am going into your father s room, and if you are not 
 comfortable and likely to sleep, before bed-time she will let me 
 know." 
 
 " Very well," she answered simply, without looking towards 
 him, and with a few words more, he rose and went over to 
 Crescens. 
 
 11*
 
 250 ONLY A MONTH. 
 
 Christine watched him as he stood by the dim light, talking 
 with the woman in a tone too low for her to hear. She felt no 
 longer agitation and alarm ; a great weight was gone from her 
 mind. She felt not the least care of herself or the least anxiety 
 about the future. Her brain felt dull and heavy, but her heart 
 beat even and slow, and she only thought of rest and sleep. If 
 the hand upon her wrist had had the least tremble in it, the 
 work he was trying to do would have been undone, and fatally 
 undone perhaps. But he was a strong man, and had himself 
 well in hand. Not one of all the household guessed, through 
 the long weeks of suspense that followed that night, that their 
 anxiety, compared with his, was but a trifling and unmeaning 
 sentiment ; that his whole life lay in the chances of which he 
 talked so coolly ; that night and day he had no rest from the 
 gnawing agony, till the shadow of death passed away from the 
 still face in that dark room, and the warm life crept slowly back 
 into the chilly faint pulses he had counted and weighed his 
 hopes upon so long.
 
 MADELINE AXU CHRISTINE. 251 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 
 
 " I am half sick of shadows, said 
 
 The Lady of Shallot." 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 " O who can dare complain 
 When God sends a new duty, 
 To comfort each new pain ? " 
 
 A. PBOCTOB. 
 
 TVIREE years and a half have passed since then, and the Parson 
 age garden is again in bloom, the hawthorn is again shedding 
 its blossoms down on Christine s head as she walks there alone, 
 the birds are merry in every branch, the air is full of the smell 
 of the early flowers of summer, and " all is vernal rapture as 
 of old." 
 
 Not quite as of old, though, it all seemed and sounded to* 
 Christine. The songs of the birds sometimes "minded her o 
 the happy days " too much to make them very merry ; the 
 sight and smell of the returning flowers gave her no longer a 
 thrill of young delight, only a soft and quiet sense of pleasure. 
 The garden, with its old-fashioned beds, its sheltered walks, 
 was more to her now than it had ever been ; it was quieter 
 than the house ; no one came there but herself and the old 
 gardener. Julian never set his foot in it ; he was far beyond 
 boyhood and playtime now, and spent as little of his time at 
 home as he could decently arrange. The Rector was never 
 out of the house in these days, rarely out of his study ; so 
 Christine had the garden to herself. 
 
 She was walking there, this afternoon, with a thoughtful
 
 252 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 
 
 face, up and down slowly in the shade, sometimes reading, 
 sometimes looking far off at vacancy. She was dressed in 
 white, as she used to dress, with the same delicacy, the same 
 grace of style. But if her beauty had depended on her youth, 
 it would have been gone now. She looked more than three 
 years older ; she had almost lost the peculiar roundness and 
 freshness of girlhood ; few people would have noticed her now 
 for her beauty, though the best part of it still remained to her. 
 There was not a shadow of discontent about her face, not one 
 bitter and impatient thought had left its trace behind, only 
 there was a deep though tfulness always, a wistful regret some 
 times. She seemed almost painfully mature for one but little 
 over twenty ; people looked twice, and wondered what her 
 actual age was. 
 
 But in her life there was not much time left for repining and 
 regret. Quiet as it was, it was strong with motives and objects. 
 She had an intention, and she was living it out. Julian first 
 of all ; then her father, then herself. For Julian she was living, 
 and every day brought its disappointment, but she did not give 
 up. The care of her father was a sweet care, and his tender 
 ness repaid her doubly every day. For herself, she had taken 
 the inward resolution, which so few women ever take, of making 
 the most of her mind, perfecting and developing it as much as 
 possible. She had been driven to this, because she saw what 
 life was before her, and recognised the necessity of having as 
 many resources in it as possible. Many women waste fine 
 powers of mind, because they have no definite life for which to 
 prepare themselves ; they do not know what is going to be re 
 quired of them ; nobody talks to them of their minds after they 
 leave school ; it is all wonder and excitement then, waiting for 
 the turn of the wheel that is to dispose of them ; the precious 
 moments go by, the desire for improvement is weakened, all 
 steady pursuits are interrupted, and frivolity of purpose is suc 
 ceeded by discontent and a craving for excitement. And
 
 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 253 
 
 women go dragging through lives, in which they have need of 
 all their strength, only half developed ; creatures of emotion, 
 and not creatures of reason, fit companions neither for them 
 selves, if the wheel of fortune has nothing for them, nor for the 
 men who choose them for their pretty faces. It is a startling 
 thought, how little we use of what is given to us, how grossly 
 we see through eyes we might refine to keenest delicacy ; how 
 weakly we grasp at what effort would place within our reach, 
 how much beauty goes unnoticed, how much happiness lies 
 untouched, what wonders lie unread, what strength sleeps un- 
 exertecl. Childhood reigns dark in the mind*, circumstances 
 develop the heart, and the heart suffers without its help and 
 strength : suffers, sometimes, for errors of judgment and ill- 
 devised plans of life, which its proper cultivation could have 
 completely obviated. 
 
 And Christine had learned to find pleasure and strength in 
 study, after the keenness of her sorrow had passed away. She 
 had studied, first, to make herself companionable to Julian, and 
 to assist him in his detested lessons, and afterwards she had 
 gone on for her own sake when she discovered what a strength 
 and solace it became. Her desire for self-improvement was 
 an astonishment and pleasure to her father ; he was never tired 
 of watching the progress that she made. And now that all 
 the duties of mistress of the house came upon her, she needed 
 to be very much matured. 
 
 The Parsonage had always been an hospitable house. Not 
 only the clergy, but many of her father s early friends, men in 
 high position and of extended information, from neighboring 
 cities, visited intimately there. Intercourse with men of infor 
 mation and cultivation was very improving to her ; having no 
 coquetry or desire for admiration, she was able to profit in the 
 fullest manner by what they said, and entered into conversation 
 with men of all ages with an unembarrassed grace and simpli 
 city that is very rare among women of her years. The result
 
 254 MADELINE AND CHIUSTIXE. 
 
 was, she received a homage the most delicate and flattering ; 
 she became the admired companion of her father s older friends 
 the truest and most elevating influence of the younger men 
 whom sometimes she met. She was so peculiarly womanly, so 
 pure-minded, so simple, and yet so appreciative, she was like a 
 revelation to many of them, used principally to women think 
 ing about themselves. More than one loved her with more 
 than friendship but a hopeless love for such a woman is better 
 than the heart of an inferior one. 
 
 And " the little Upham girl," frightened and pale and flutter 
 ing only a few years ago, was fast becoming an influence in the 
 parish. She was taking the place that her poor mother left 
 vacant by her early death so long ago. She was winning the 
 hearts of all ; and by her fine tact and admirable judgment, was 
 bringing order slowly and imperceptibly out of the wild confu 
 sion in which the parish had been plunged by Mrs. Sherman s 
 interference. She had more system than most of the older 
 women, and much more quiet sense than any of the younger 
 ones ; and without their knowing anything about it, and hardly 
 knowing it herself, she was doing them a vast deal of good, and 
 making a revolution in St. Philip s. All this without the least 
 appearance of authority or prominence, and without creating a 
 suspicion in the minds of the most critical, that she had any 
 claims at all to being " a superior woman." She did not parade 
 her bookish tastes, nor her clear views about parish matters. 
 She listened very deferentially to her seniors, who liked her for 
 her respectful manner, and acted on her suggestions without 
 knowing to whom they were indebted for them. 
 
 This pleasant June afternoon, as she walked up and down 
 the shady path, she was reading a very learned book in a very 
 learned language, and she gave a little start when she heard 
 her name called from the house, and saw some one coming 
 down the steps, and threw the book upon the seat below the 
 grape vine. She was a little ashamed of it, it must be confessed,
 
 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 255 
 
 for it was a new attempt, quite a launch, in fact, upon the 
 ocean of letters, and she was somewhat doubtful whether she 
 had any right to go so far from shore. She turned towards the 
 intruder with a little flush on her cheek, and gave a cry of 
 pleasure when she saw that it was Madeline. The two young 
 women ran to meet each other with the enthusiasm of their 
 sex, and kissed each other several times before anything sensi 
 ble was said. 
 
 " When cWd you come ?" at last Christine asked, as her 
 friend held her off for a moment to look at her, and see what 
 ravages had been made by time during the six months which 
 had elapsed since they had seen each other. 
 
 " This morning," said Madeline. " I left mother in the 
 midst of the unpacking, and came over to see you to get a little 
 rest. I have all the summer before me to unpack. What is 
 the use of rushing into it at once ! But, Christine, how well 
 you look ! Pretty, if I may be permitted to be candid, and 
 younger by two years than I do. This city life is wearing me 
 out, my dear. I do not feel worth anything when I come home 
 in the spring. Every year I resolve I ll stay at home a winter 
 and try to knit up the ravelled sleeve ! But, so it goes. I get 
 so tired of the country before autumn, not all the king s horses, 
 nor all the king s men, could keep me in it through the winter. 
 It s a wonderful thing for the complexion ; you look like a clear 
 white rose, but rather thin, Christine. Dear, dear ! " holding 
 up her hand, " so clear and transparent of hue you might have 
 seen the moon shine through." 
 
 " It would need to be a vigorous moon," said Christine, put 
 ting her hand out of sight under her friend s. "Tell me what 
 sort of a winter you have had, and what has happened to you." 
 
 " Nothing has happened," she replied in a tone of ennui, 
 " that makes the winter pleasant to remember. The same 
 people, the same routine, gaiety repeated till it is dulness, 
 excitement multiplied till it is tameuess. But do not talk about
 
 256 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 
 
 it, ; I told you I came here to be rested, and to hear of some 
 thing different. How is your father how are the parish chil 
 dren what have you been reading ? Christine, sometimes I 
 think the happiest and healthiest hours of my life arc those I 
 spend with you in this dear old house. I think of them in 
 town, sometimes, and they rest me even to remember." 
 
 Christine had the tact % not to read her friend a lecture in her 
 present mood, so she gave her hand a little caress at these last 
 words, and began in a pleasant, piquant way, to sketch out 
 home affairs. She felt even more tenderness than usual for 
 Madeline, for she saw an exaggeration of the ordinary discon 
 tent and restlessness with which she came back from town. 
 
 Madeline was not happy : people said that who saw her in 
 society ; her heart was empty ; her time filled only with frivo- 
 , lity ; her mind wasted upon trifles, of which she felt the insig 
 nificance. The lord of her heart had not come ; society was 
 full of men as tired of it as she was herself. They flirted with 
 her to excite themselves and consume the time, and she accept 
 ed their devotion ; because devotion she must have, and there 
 was no one else to give it. There were very few marrying men 
 in the fashionable world just then ; the few there were, were 
 kept away by those by whom she was surrounded, and who gave 
 her the appearance of being undignified and easily amused. Ma 
 deline despised the men with whom she talked and danced and 
 rode. She felt herself superior to them ; and in the familiar inter 
 course of daily meetings, she grew accustomed to treating them 
 with an ease and carelessness that injured her with the more 
 refined and exacting part of the world. The men themselves 
 knew that she felt no regard for them, and that they would 
 have been terribly punished if they had gone beyond the limits 
 that she set them ; but her carelessness and indifference made 
 her less attractive in their eyes, and they sought her principally 
 because she was handsome and danced well, and was clever 
 enongh to save them the effort of sustaining conversation.
 
 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 257 
 
 They knew that she endured them because she was tenacious 
 of her reputation as a belle, and because their attentions were 
 necessary to her; and she felt this, with a terrible injury to her 
 self-respect, and with an impatience that was not always im 
 proving to her dignity of manner. 
 
 Many a night when she came home ennuy6e and heart-sore, 
 she cried out with bitter tears, that it was a life she hated ; that 
 if she did not get out of it, she should go mad. But there 
 seemed no way to get out of it. Things at home were misera 
 bly entangled. Little by little the income of the year had been 
 anticipated, till there were debts ahead. Raymond s habits 
 were growing worse, and every year more was demanded to 
 keep him from disgrace. Susie and her husband had got very 
 much behindhand ; their place was heavily mortgaged, and 
 there was an apprehension every year that it would have to go, 
 and that the whole seven would come upon the cottage. Ma 
 deline saw her mother was harassed and miserable ; she felt 
 the full burden of her cares and apprehensions, and she saw no 
 way out of the entanglement, but the one which she was ex 
 pected to open with her beauty and her cleverness. 
 
 Her beauty ! She hated it, and she felt it going from her 
 with a fierce disdain. It had done her no good only led her 
 into a false and trying situation. And her talents; she had 
 better have been without them, and then she would not have 
 rebelled so bitterly against her fate. She saw silly, simpering 
 girls marrying advantageously every day, and she decided that 
 a woman who is brought up to marry well had better have as 
 little brain as will get her respectably through society. Made 
 line saw too far ; felt too much ; read the world too quickly ; 
 people did not love her for it. After the first draught, she lost 
 her pleasure in society ; for the society in which she moved 
 was the most hollow and the least thoughtful in the great me 
 tropolis. She longed to shake off all connexion with it to 
 leave it for the quiet pleasures which Christine pursued. But
 
 258 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 
 
 how could that be done ? Never with her mother s sanction ; 
 never without a struggle for which she had not the strength. 
 
 Sometimes, in her passionate moments, she resolved to do it, 
 to save her self-respect and dignity, and to strive to solve the 
 entanglements at home in some other way than the way for which 
 she had been educated. But how ? Madeline had very clear, 
 good, common-sense, and she counted over her resources with 
 stinging self-contempt. There was her music ; well, she knew 
 just enough about music to be able to do nothing with it : she 
 had been brilliantly and superficially taught, and had had need 
 of all her talent to cover her want of actual knowledge. Then 
 she had quixotic schemes for teaching, but they only lasted till 
 she reflected that she knew nothing, and had no education 
 
 O 
 
 worth the name, and that she lived in a country where clever 
 New England girls, with well trained mincls and well directed 
 energies, were starving daily upon salaries that were insufficient 
 even for their compact wants. 
 
 So, after all the tempests, often and often recurring, it came 
 down to this, that she went back into the old life again 
 with the shadow of the conflict darkening her face, and 
 the tumult of it hardly quiet in her heart, to do the same 
 things, to meet the same people, and to hope for the same 
 result. 
 
 Raymond, never too delicate, was already beginning to say, 
 Mad. had no time to lose. Many of her young companions 
 were married ; of them none had had the beauty and the pro 
 mise that she had had ; and none had more needed the advan 
 tages of a wealthy marriage. Mrs. Sherman, after all, had 
 been of very little advantage to her ; the particular people said, 
 quite a disadvantage. Mrs. Sherman was very gay very 
 fashionable ; everybody visited her, but everybody did not 
 respect her. She had a reputation for match-making, which 
 made most men afraid of her, and the better sort of young 
 women shy of being considered on her staff. She always had
 
 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 259 
 
 Madeline with her ; some severe persons said she had proposed 
 her to every man in town. The sort of inen whom she had 
 about her were not the men who married handsome girls with 
 out anything in the way of money. 
 
 Col. Steele had been much the best of the lot, much more 
 than an average specimen. He had now been married more 
 thairtwo y6ars to a plain but sensible heiress, and was living in 
 cry good style upon her money, and now cut the Sherman 
 clique entirely as iooprononce and dashing for a family man of his 
 substantial claims. Sometimes he came up and talked to Ma 
 deline a little at parties, referring to " old times " in a patron 
 izing way that enraged her and made her feel as if she were 
 an octagenarian, lie asked always about his pretty little 
 friend, the minister s daughter, and wondered that she had 
 " never married " in such a good-natured and indifferent man 
 ner, it quite shook Madeline s belief in his former devotion 
 to her. 
 
 For the last two winters, the cottage had been shut up, and 
 Mrs. Clybourne, feeling keenly all that depended on the campaign, 
 had taken the field in person. She had attempted to withdraw 
 Madeline quietly from Mrs. Sherman; but, alas! it was not 
 easily done. She had already been classified in society, and no 
 one would have forgotten that she had been in a fast set, if she 
 had grown as tame as little Richfield herself. Besides, it was 
 difficult to dispense with Mrs. Sherman s carriage and opera-box ; 
 it was next to impossible to fight the battle without that brazen 
 veteran to rally the scattering ranks. For younger girls were 
 coining forward, and Madeline, now four years before the world, 
 was not the star that she had been at seventeen. A wearing 
 ml exciting life had made serious inroads on her beauty, and at 
 .vcnty-one she had no longer the look of freshness that belongs 
 rightly to that age. She knew a great deal of the world a 
 great deal too much ; she knew little of politics, for she was not 
 among men who cared for politics. Intellectually, she was re-
 
 260 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 
 
 trograding, for she had lost the habit of study, and found it 
 harder work than she had patience for, to regain what she had 
 lost. She kept up with the easy essay literature of the day, 
 and that was all. She felt always that she really knew nothing ; 
 and when in the society of men and women of higher and 
 more cultivated tastes, she had recourse to a frivolous and sar 
 castic sort of conversation to keep them from sounding her on 
 points she felt she was not capable of meeting. 
 
 And in her religious life she was prospering no better than in 
 her intellectual life. Her first experience had shaken her confi 
 dence in herself; she had discovered her motives so mixed, her 
 enthusiasm so ill-judged, she felt a disgust for herself and a 
 dread of another self-deception. She never remembered the 
 days when she had first believed in religion and duty and self-sacri 
 fice, without remembering the folly and the disappointment that 
 had succeeded them. She tried to obliterate them altogether, 
 and to drown the shame of having been deceived in the pride 
 of having proved herself superior in the end. She laughed at 
 what her heart still yearned for ; she envied those who could 
 believe in what she had rendered herself incapable of believing. 
 
 She was unpopular among the people of who had seen 
 
 her grow up among them, and had felt a good deal of pride in 
 her early beauty. Their society she found altogether too tame, 
 and the only excitement she could get out of it was in the at 
 tempt to astonish them, and to provoke comment by her daring 
 and unconventional manners. The mother saw all this, but she 
 saw it too late. What Madeline was she had made her : great 
 beauty, fine powers of mind, strong and tender feelings all 
 these materials she had had in her hands to work with, and 
 here was the result that she had brought about. She tried to 
 stifle these thoughts, and to convince herself that all was not 
 lost. There was no such thing as turning back, and the only 
 hope, she said, was in going forward and hardening herself 
 against regret. Sometimes though, the thought could not be
 
 MADELINE AND CHRISTINE. 261 
 
 kept back, that Madeline would have been happier if she had not 
 been thwarted in that first unwise fancy of hers. The young 
 clergyman had made a name for himself; and wiser and humbler 
 and as earnest as at first, had earned a position that Madeline 
 need not have blushed to share. Of course it would not have 
 filled the measure of the mother s former ambition ; but any 
 thing, she thought bitterly, would have been better than to see 
 her child thus miserably unsatisfied and restless, fast losing the 
 beauty that had gained her her position in society, heart-sore 
 and embittered by her aimless life. She heard now with interest 
 of Mr. Brockhulst s success, and the eclat that accompanied his 
 career ; and a sort of hope occasionally crossed her mind, that 
 he had not forgotten Madeline, and might some time come back 
 and renew his suit. What a downfall of ambition the exist 
 ence of that same hope expressed ! 
 
 And Madeline could not help listening when she heard his 
 name, and feeling a sort of jealous pride in his success, though 
 she was bitter against herself for feeling it, and tried to con 
 vince herself that she did not care. It had, unconsciously to 
 herself, something to do with her interest in the Parsonage, and 
 her eagerness to see Christine and to hear from her. That very 
 afternoon, before she had been half an hour in the garden with 
 her, she had asked carelessly, and with a strong touch of her 
 habitual sarcasm, whether .anything had been heard lately of 
 their ecclesiastical Don Quixote. Christine had answered " No," 
 and Madeline had found herself more ennuyee and restless than 
 before.
 
 262 VVOO D AND MARRIED AND A . 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 " WOOED AND MARRIED AND A. " 
 
 " Yon have too much respect upon the world ; 
 They lose it that do buy it with much care." 
 
 MEB. or VENICE. Act i. Scene I. 
 
 BUT Madeline was to hear something more of her old lover 
 before the day was over. A servant came down the path and 
 said that a lady was waiting in the parlor. 
 
 "The misery of it!" cried Madeline, as she glanced at the 
 card. "That little Richfield was my dread before she was mar 
 ried, but now, I think she must be appalling." 
 
 " Almost," whispered Christine, with a little shudder and a 
 laugh, as they went towards the house. 
 
 The little Richfield was married, and the little Richfield had 
 a baby, and had fallen quite naturally into the error of suppos 
 ing that these two facts were of as engrossing interest to the 
 public as they were to herself. She was fortunate in having a 
 very good husband, who was not ashamed of her, and who 
 thought her an average woman, made priceless and inestimable 
 by being converted into his wife. He gave her plenty of money 
 and told her to please herself in everything ; and the little wo 
 man, convinced that the world was standing still to watch her, 
 tried very hard to obey him and to please herself in everything. 
 Her baby had more clothes bought for him than any previous 
 
 baby in had ever had. A mass of lace and cambric, he 
 
 was daily promenaded in the arms of his nurse or driven in his 
 mamma s pretty carriage, the envy no doubt of all the babies
 
 WOO D AND MARRIED AND A . 263 
 
 who had their little chins tied np in woollen hoods, and laughed 
 ami crowed over their fourteen-year-old nurses shoulders, or 
 were dragged about the pavement in little wicker waggons, 
 tucked in with blanket shawls. lie was sent to see every one 
 whom his mamma desired especially to honor ; and that family 
 must have been fatally cut off from favor, of whom the little 
 matron could say with significant firmness, "I have determined 
 not to send baby there ..again." 
 
 Her thoughts circled consequently in rather narrow limits, 
 and her conversation took no wider range. Servants faults and 
 babies troubles were the principal themes, varied a little by the 
 goodness and devotion of some husbands, and the unsatisfactory 
 nature of others, the comfort of having plenty of money, and 
 the impossibility of living without it. She was naturally ag 
 gravating to all less fortunate people, and Madeline went into 
 the parlor sorely against her will. 
 
 Little Mrs. Dean had on a soft pretty French bonnet and 
 several very elegant articles of dress, and really seemed 
 almost handsome, overflowing with happiness, and looking all 
 the mother whenever her eyes rested on her baby. Madeline 
 sat silent and scornful while she chattered on. Christine, with 
 fortunate tact, appeared to listen and sympathize, while she was 
 really very much ashamed of her, and was truly anxious to get 
 her into more sensible ways. She had a real tenderness for the 
 pretty baby, though, and she took him in her arms with a mur 
 mur of sweet words. 
 
 " Him will ever go to mademoiselle," said the French nurse 
 admiringly, as the beautiful boy laughed in Christine s face and 
 stretched out his arms towards her. 
 
 At this moment Dr. Catherwood came up the piazza steps 
 and paused unperccived, at the entrance of the hall. Through 
 the open door he saw the group within, and as he looked, his 
 face grew clouded and his mouth grew stern. Christine with 
 a baby in her arms, a dimpled, rosy baby looking down at it
 
 264 WOO D AND MARRIED AND A . 
 
 with a wistful tender face, murmuring to it soft, low words ; it 
 was a hard thing for him to see. 
 
 Madeline sat aloof with an ungentle face, answering care 
 lessly the chatter of the young mother who was beside her, the 
 nurse was engrossed in smoothing out and folding up a beauti 
 ful India shawl that had served for a wrapper to the priceless 
 baby, Christine had him for the moment to herself, and she 
 stood opposite the door, the soft white mass of baby clothes 
 mixing with her own soft white drapery, a lovely, lovely picture. 
 She bent her graceful head a little and looked into his face, 
 holding one of his pretty hands against her cheek. 
 
 The expression of her eyes none saw but the new-comer, 
 himself unseen : it was a deep yearning hungry look of fond 
 ness. He pressed his lips together and walked across the 
 piazza with a heavy tread. 
 
 The sound of his steps roused those within. Christine hastily 
 put the baby back into the nurse s arms, Madeline sprang up to 
 speak to him, most glad to "be relieved of her companion, who 
 immediately remembered that she wanted him to look at the 
 child s teeth, which he had not seen since morning. So the 
 Doctor entered with his usual easy smile, the baby welcomed 
 him with a crowing, cooing noise, while the old Rector, bent and 
 thin, came in slowly from another door. Raymond a moment 
 after sauntered up the steps, and the quiet old parlor was soon 
 full of pleasant voices and faces. The baby was, of course, the 
 centre of interest; the mamma insisted on putting him in Dr. 
 Upham s arms and asking him to kiss him ; then Raymond in 
 sisted on taking him into his arms and tossing him up to the 
 ceiling : then Dr. Catherwood must look at his teeth, and 
 Madeline must notice the embroidery on his cloak, and Chris 
 tine must hold him for a moment to see if he were not heavier 
 than he was last week. 
 
 It was very pretty and amusing, for the baby was royally 
 benignant and gracious, and the little mother was so happy it
 
 AXD MAEKIED AND A . 265 
 
 was impossible to be out of, patience with her : even Madeline 
 softened somewhat towards her, till by an unfortunate allusion to 
 the fair of three years ago, she brought up the contrast in their 
 positions too strongly. Madeline thought bitterly of that day 
 when she and Christine had queened it so grandly among the less 
 favored beauties, when little Richfield had moped all the after 
 noon behind her pincushions and tidies, and all the evening 
 beside the folding doors. 
 
 " By the way," said Raymond, in his lounging way, stopping 
 to make eyes at the baby between every word " by the way, 
 I ve heard a piece of news to-day." 
 
 " A piece of news ?" cried Madeline, with animation. " Let 
 the child alone and tell us what it is." 
 
 " An engagement ?" asked the baby s mother, suspending her 
 caresses for a moment. 
 
 " More than an engagement," he returned, " a step further." 
 
 " A marriage ! Oh who, Raymond ? Don t be hateful." 
 
 " Couldn t be hateful if I tried, my dear. "Tis not my nature 
 to but I ll excuse you for being so impatient, for it s an old 
 flame of yours who s married " 
 
 " That is not being very definite," said Dr. Catherwood. 
 
 " Not Jack Leslie ?" questioned Madeline, with interest. 
 
 "Xo, nor any of that set somebody very different, my 
 dear, a horse of another color. Xobody less than your friend 
 the parson poor Brockhulst, whom you used to punish so. 
 For my part I m glad enough to hear it. If he had perished in 
 a decline you know it would have been on your conscience." 
 
 " Mr. Brockhulst married !" exclaimed little Mrs. Dean. 
 " Well, Maddy, I always thought he was a flirt." 
 
 " Pray, what sort of a choice has he ma de ?" asked Christine, 
 looking furtively towards Madeline as she tied the baby s cloak. 
 Madeline was sitting very still, clasping and unclasping a brace 
 let on her arm : she tried to speak, her lips moved a little, but 
 the words did not come. Her face was pallid ; it was fortunate 
 
 12
 
 266 WOO D AND MABRIED AND A . 
 
 the sun was down and there was so little light in the room. 
 Christine, in rather a hurried way, went on questioning Ray 
 mond and drawing attention from his sister s silence. 
 
 " Why, he s chosen a saint this time he s one who always 
 goes to the extremes, you know a pale sickly little thing who 
 never does anything but say her prayers and teach ragged 
 schools. I met her once last summer at the Livermores , to 
 whom she is related : I acknowledge she appalled me. But 
 then, it s proper to say she was as much afraid of me, and 
 turned very white and looked the other way whenever I said 
 anything to her. In that way we did not become very inti 
 mate, but I can testify she is a saint of the worst kind, and I 
 think Brockhulst has done well : they will be translated some 
 fine day together, there is not enough of cither of them to die." 
 
 " Well, I am very glad to hear that he is married," said Dr. 
 Upham ; " I am sure he will be happier." 
 
 "That depends a good deal upon the sort of woman he has 
 married," said Mrs. Dean sententiously. " A man puts his 
 happiness very much in his wife s hands." 
 
 " Oh, I have no doubt he has chosen wisely," said Christine, 
 anxious not to make Madeline speak. " He is at an age to 
 marry more to please his judgment than his fancy. He will 
 make his wife happy, too, I have no doubt." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; they are as well suited as any two disembodied 
 spirits possibly can be," said Raymond, whistling to the baby 
 and holding out his watch chain. " Livermore says they went 
 directly to the Denver Hospital after the ceremony, by way of a 
 wedding tour, and that they never see each other but once all day 
 long, and that is at a convivial meal consisting of bread and 
 water, which lasts juSt eight minutes by the clock." 
 
 " Livermore is good authority," said Dr. Catherwood. " I 
 never heard yet of his telling the truth by any accident." 
 
 "Take care; he s a friend of Madeline s," said the brother. 
 Mad., it s time we were going home."
 
 WOO D AND MARRIED AXD A . 267 
 
 " Yes," said Madeline, getting up and speaking as if she had 
 just escaped from nightmare ; " I am ready ; come." 
 
 " Stay with me," said Christine affectionately ; " you have 
 been away so long." 
 
 " Xo ; I had better go," she returned. " Where did I leave 
 my hat and parasol ?" 
 
 Christine went out with her into the garden where she had 
 left them. As they came back towards the house, Madeline 
 broke the silence by saying, in a low, cold voice : 
 
 "Christine, I suppose that you have concluded that I loved 
 that man. Do not be uneasy ; I shall not break my heart." 
 
 " No, Madeline ; I do not fear that you will break it, but 
 that you will harden it, which is far worse." 
 
 " Spare yourself; it has been adamant ever since I have been 
 a woman. It hasn t a natural or a human feeling in it. It is 
 a piece of workmanship that I never understood, and for which 
 I do not hold myself responsible. Stop : I don t want any 
 sympathy ; I am quite beyond all that, you know. You might 
 as well harangue one of those grave-stones over there. Good 
 by. Go in and tell Raymond I am ready for him ; I don t 
 want to be half an hour saying good night to that silly woman, 
 and kissing her tiresome baby." 
 
 Christine gave a sigh, kissed her friend, and sent Raymond 
 out to her to the gate. 
 
 " It seems to me," said Mrs. Dean, as she fastened the last 
 _oop in the baby s cloak and sent the nurse to call the carriage, 
 "it seems to me that Madeline is out of spirits. She is really 
 changed in every way." 
 
 " She is tired and ill to-day," said Christine quickly ; " she 
 has been unpacking all the morning ; she wants rest after her 
 winter of excitement." 
 
 " It is a great pity she has not married," returned the com 
 placent little wife. " She never will be happy till she does." 
 
 " I don t know about that," Christine answered rather insin 
 cerely, as she went down the steps and watched them drive away.
 
 268 SUSPICIONS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 SUSPICIONS. 
 
 " For it is with feelings as with waters, 
 The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb.". 
 
 THAT evening- Dr. Upham was not so well, possibly owing to 
 the excitement of seeing so many visitors in the afternoon. 
 Ann went down for Dr. Catherwood, who was out, but who 
 came up about nine o clock. Christine left him with her father, 
 and took her work to the parlor lamp and sat silently by it for 
 an hour. Iler eyes were troubled, and they wandered off her 
 work very often, and more than once she arose, walked to the 
 window, and listened very anxiously. Twice the gate opened, 
 and she quickly resumed her place, banished the care from her 
 brow, and looked up ready to greet the new comer cheerfully. 
 But it was only a servant with some message and a trifling in 
 vitation, and in the silence that ensued, the anxiety came back 
 redoubled. 
 
 Eleven o clock struck half-past and still the gate did not 
 open again. Christine pressed her lips together, and tried to 
 keep back the sudden tears that came with the sound of the 
 striking clock. She was not new to these vigils ; Julian was 
 no longer a child whom Crescens drove to bed at the bayonet s 
 point, but a great overgrown lad of seventeen, who scorned 
 Christine as he did Cresceus, and who considered that he owed 
 allegiance and submission to no living mortal. His grandfather 
 could only counsel his aunt could only sue; the youth had 
 long since taken the bit between his teeth and was going pell- 
 mell to destruction.
 
 SUSPICIONS. 209 
 
 All the evil in him, and there had always been more evil in 
 him than in any other child of Adam, had flowered out into 
 luxurious growth within these last three years. He was not 
 even a polite young villain ; he was a loafer, a tavern lounger, 
 a hard drinker, a rough swearer. His tastes led him to the 
 lowest haunts, and he brought away from them their enduring 
 brand. 
 
 He had outgrown the aristocratic look of his childhood. 
 He was still handsome, strikingly so ; but it was the lowest 
 and least pleasing form of beauty ; his eye was not only keen 
 and cold as it had always been, it had an evil brightness that 
 made Christina shudder ; and his month, the baby mouth tlwt 
 she had kissed a thousand times with almost a mother s fond 
 ness, had lost its childish beauty, and expressed all the sinful 
 passions of which his eyes showed the knowledge. 
 
 The first awakening to this fact, the first startling discovery 
 of the impurity and boldness of the boy, had been the worst 
 part of her trial. For a long time she had felt the distance 
 growing between them, had known that he was becoming more 
 than ever, something that she could not understand; but when 
 the first palpable, unmistakable proof came that he had fallen, 
 she had her burst of grief, her agony of disappointment, and 
 then she rose and went forward bearing her burden with silent 
 fortitude. She did whatever she could devise to make the 
 house attractive to him ; she invited those of his own age 
 there, and made it bright and cheerful with young girls and 
 music and pleasure, but, alas ! pleasure in which innocence and 
 purity could share was not pleasure to him ; he showed his 
 contempt and distaste without reserve, and Christine gave up 
 her stratagems with a sigh. To her father she never dared 
 disclose the full extent of his wrong-doing, but he knew enough 
 to be bowed down with sorrow. Remonstrance, warning, 
 counsel, only seemed to harden him ; Christine had ceased to 
 speak to him about his evil courses, and met him with manners
 
 270 SUSPICIOXS. 
 
 simple, affectionate, and free from all reproach. She could only 
 do this for him ; he should ever meet truth and purity at home ; 
 he should always find forbearance and tenderness waiting for 
 him there, whenever he would come for it. 
 
 The little town had not had such a promising scandal in it 
 since poor Helena s time. The boy was talked of in all circles, 
 and the worst made of his faults. There were many versions 
 of his treatment at home. Some said he never was reproved 
 nor warned ; others said that he had been cast off entirely, and 
 that his grandfather never saw him. Some were dissatisfied 
 with the leniency manifested towards him ; others were dis- 
 edified by the harshness with which report said he was treated. 
 In no case were the Rector and his daughter considered to be 
 doing right, and Christine was not wrong in feeling that Julian s 
 course was undoing all that her father s blameless life and her 
 own self-sacrifice would have done to lead the world to believe 
 in the Christianity that they professed. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood was the only one who acted at all as a 
 restraint to Julian ; he had no longer any influence with him 
 that went deep enough to promise any good result. He had 
 given up the hope of changing him ; he saw the disease had 
 struck too deep a root ; he only trusted to hold him so in check 
 as to prevent his total ruin now. If one germ of self-respect conld 
 be left alive there was a chance that, his mad boyhood past, it 
 might develop into something healthy. Julian hated him, and 
 appeared to revolt from his interference more than from any 
 other ; but in his presence he was subdued, and to his directions, 
 even when absent from him, he paid, under protest, a sort of 
 grudging and ungracious regard. Christine wondered at this, 
 and so did all others who were much about him ; Dr. Cather 
 wood had no hold over him, such as his aunt or his grandfather 
 
 7 o 
 
 might be supposed to have, from their power to supply him 
 with money or to withhold it from him. He had no authority 
 as a guardian, no influence as a benefactor, for such a claim the
 
 SUSPICIONS. 2Y1 
 
 boy would have scouted ; but he nevertheless kept him in awe 
 of his displeasure, and by the mere force of his determination 
 held him, absent and present, under something like restraint. 
 
 To him Christine had always gone when she was in per 
 plexity about her duty, and the boy soon found Dr. Gather- 
 wood knew fully his plans and purposes and resources, and had his 
 eye forever on him ; no revel so secret, no companion so sly, but 
 Dr. Catherwood knew fully all that could be known about them. 
 A larger portion of his time than Christine suspected was consumed 
 in this surveillance ; he was well known and much dreaded in 
 all the haunts of vice with which the growing town abounded, 
 and to his resolution and sharp management it was owing that 
 Julian long ago was not openly disgraced. The men whose 
 business it was to tempt and destroy the youths whom they 
 could get within their influence, stood in some awe of this 
 acute and determined guardian, and were rather shy of connect 
 ing themselves in any way with Julian s mad career. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood grew older and sterner-looking ; he did not 
 lose his genial and sympathetic manner when in the world, but 
 when silent and by himself the change was very visible. No 
 one had cause to say that he was altered, because towards 
 them he was the same. No sufferer was the poorer for the 
 withdrawal of his sympathy, no home where he was useful 
 could complain of his estrangement ; but towards himself, in his 
 inner life, he was solitary, stern, and gloomy. To meet him 
 driving alone out on some distant country road, absorbed in his 
 own thoughts, with knit brow and stern lips, one would have 
 said, that is a man too full of trouble and perplexity to do the 
 world much service. But the sudden softening of the hard- 
 drawn lines, the warmth of the fine smile at the sight of a 
 well known face, or the call to some act of kindness, would 
 dissipate the image of the self-absorbed misanthropist, and 
 place in its stead that of the genial, honest-hearted man of 
 feeling. Ilis self-control was beyond praise; his power of self-
 
 272 SUSPICIONS. 
 
 forgetfulness beyond precedent ; Christine looked at him with 
 secret wonder, questioning if he had forgotten, if he -were 
 reconciled to what he had so boldly rebelled against at first. 
 
 The thought filled her with jealous misery, and then brought 
 bitter penitence. Uad she not hoped and prayed he might for 
 get and learn another happiness ? But she had not believed that 
 it was possible ; she felt rebellion when she found that it had 
 come to pass. And her manner had a coldness and a deadness 
 in it when they were together that had the effect of making 
 him believe she had outgrown the youthful passion that her 
 eyes betrayed on that November afternoon in the old garden. 
 He almost doubted, as he recalled the scene, whether his own 
 passion had not colored all he saw of her emotion. What had 
 she said ? How had she betrayed the love that he had allowed 
 himself to believe in? She was so young, so impressionable, 
 had he not mistaken her emotion at learning his feelings to 
 wards her, for a depth of affection she never meant to express ? 
 He could not believe that one so young could have made the 
 conquest that she had made ; in his heart he thought her cold 
 and passionless, as she believed him indifferent and forgetful. 
 So true it ts that no hearts, however true, can bear the test of 
 rigid silence and suppression. Interviews now were painful, 
 and rarely sought for by either one of them. 
 
 But that evening, as Christine waited for Julian in the parlor, 
 she resolved to speak to Dr. Catherwood as he came down 
 from her father s room. She heard the door above close, and 
 Dr. Catherwood s step upon the stairs, and she felt the sort of 
 throb that she used to feel in those old, old days at the same 
 sound. A feeling of self-reproach chilled her voice and manner 
 as she went forward to the door and spoke to him. He follow 
 ed her into the room and sat down at the table, holding his hat 
 in his hand, and waiting for her to say why she had called him. 
 
 " You find my father weak, I fear, to-night ?" she said, dread 
 ing to come to what she had in mind.
 
 SUSPICIONS. 273 
 
 " Why, no ; not particularly. I cannot see that he loses 
 strength, though these little attacks depress him very much." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear you say so. I always fear I cannot 
 judge." 
 
 There was a pause, and then Christine went on, with an effort, 
 and abruptly : "Dr. Catherwood, is this thing to go on ? Julian 
 has not been home since yesterday." 
 
 Dr. Catherwood looked up thoughtfully. " I do not see any 
 help for its going on. I have weighed a great many plans in 
 my mind, and I do not find that any of them will answer. The 
 evil is in the hild. To send him away will only be to give 
 him a larger theatre ; to put him under stricter rule at home, 
 will only serve to add fresh stimulus to his vicious determination. 
 The only hope for him, it seems to me, is to guard him from 
 any open and notorious disgrace, and to act as if there were 
 something good in him that had not been brought out. I 
 need not say, do not lose your faitli in him ; you will cherish 
 a spark of that, I know, long beyond any other being. But 
 his ruin is accomplished when that dies ; many a man has 
 been saved by the faith of some woman in him, which has sur 
 vived his evil life and at last revived his own. It is, it has long 
 been, my care to save the boy from disgrace before the world ; 
 it lies with you to keep in his sight the fact that there is purity 
 and affection for him in his home. We can do nothing more 
 for him that I can see. Cease to perplex yourself about his 
 whereabouts. You know I am never ignorant of them. I 
 know where he is to-night ; where he has been since yesterday. 
 My eye is never off him. His personal safety I can satisfy you 
 of; of his moral safety you can judge as well as I." 
 
 " It is my only relief to know this," said Christine, the tears 
 swimming for a moment in her eyes. " You may think me 
 childish to have doubted it for an instant, and required re 
 assurance. But something has come to my knowledge that has 
 given me alarm. Did you know Harry Gilmore had come back ?" 
 
 12*
 
 274 SUSPICIONS. 
 
 "No," said her companion. "How have you ascertained 
 this ?" 
 
 " By a note that Julian carelessly mislaid, and the idea of 
 his being here would have given me uneasiness enough if the 
 note had not been what it is." 
 
 She took a crumpled piece of paper from her work-box and 
 gave it to Dr. Catherwood, who read it with a thoughtful face. 
 Christine watched him anxiously ; she might have saved her 
 self the trouble ; nothing that Dr. Catherwood chose to conceal 
 ever expressed itself upon his features. He chose to conceal 
 the alarm that her announcement gave him, and that the read 
 ing of the note increased ; and Christine only saw him serious 
 and deliberate, as he always was when he talked of Julian. 
 
 But there was cause for uneasiness to-night; Harry Gilmore, 
 sent off a year ago on some suspicion of his honesty, was here 
 again recalled evidently by Julian, as the note seemed to indi 
 cate. Dr. Catherwood had always felt that there was more 
 that he was glad not to know in that entanglement of Harry s. 
 He had done all he could to hush the matter up, and to get 
 Harry quietly away ; he felt that all the disgrace was not light 
 ing where it was deserved ; the miller s boy was again shielding 
 his more fortunate accomplice. But what could he do ? It 
 was not rendering justice to Harry to ruin Julian, too; and by 
 quieting the matter, even at a heavy expense to himself, he was 
 saving Harry from the punishment of law. But here was the 
 young reprobate returned to be the keener Julian s tool again, 
 no doubt. What did it mean ? There was no time to lose. 
 Dr. Catherwood rose, and trying to disguise his impatience to 
 be away, was saying good-night to his companion with an 
 unhurried manner, when the gate opened and Julian s quick 
 light step ran up to the piazza. He glanced in at the half- 
 open window, paused, and then entering the hall-door, came 
 resolutely into the parlor. Christine felt amazed. This was 
 so different from his ordinary way of skulking up to his own
 
 SUSPICIONS. 275 
 
 room without a word to any one, when he had stayed away a 
 length of time that challenged comment. 
 
 He looked very pale, and his voice was not quite steady 
 when he spoke, though his manner was an effort at more non 
 chalance than ordinary. He was haggard, and his dress was 
 careless ; Christine felt the repugnance that the sight of him 
 always now called forth, succeeded by the instinctive yearning 
 and pity that no change in him could overpower. Dr. Gather- 
 wood addressed him simply and commonplacely, with not very 
 much kindness in his tone and with some latent authority. 
 Julian showed ordinarily very little of the bully in Dr. Gather- 
 wood s presence, but to-night he made a faint effort at it. He 
 threw himself upon a sofa, and passing his hand through his 
 still beautiful golden hair, curling short upon his forehead, 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " I m tired beyond anything I ever felt. I ve been off all 
 day trouting in the brooks back of Negley s farm, a good eight 
 miles tramp there before sunrise and back since dark. Rosa 
 went with me ; I stayed all night with him to have our tackle 
 ready and be off betimes." 
 
 " Well, and what luck had you ?" 
 
 Dr. Catherwood s tone had nothing exactly sceptical in it, 
 but it had the effect of disconcerting Julian very much. He 
 changed color, caught his breath, looked down, and tried to 
 answer with indifference. 
 
 " Rather poor luck, I m afraid ; that is, I think, I I 
 should call it poor. I gave Ross the fish ; I didn t bring any 
 home." 
 
 It was so unusual for Julian to give any account of himself, 
 that Christine listened in surprise, sharing in Dr. Catherwood s 
 suspicions, and yet half-angry with him for confusing and dis 
 concerting the boy so. Dr. Catherwood s manner to him 
 latterly had provoked her, though she felt fully the necessity 
 of his knowing: there was some one he could not deceive. In
 
 276 SUSPICIONS. 
 
 this trying position Dr. Catherwood had consented to stand to 
 him, his hated mentor, his keen-eyed and uncompromising 
 judge ; interfering where it seemed he had no business to inter 
 fere, and detested in proportion as his authority was disputed. 
 Christine ought to have felt, and did feel grateful, but she often 
 found herself feeling that he Avas hard on Julian that no one 
 had any business to suspect what she knew but too well. It 
 was the true mother instinct ; how she came by it would have 
 been difficult to explain. 
 
 When Julian next spoke, it was with a nervous desire to 
 break the silence, and further to establish his whereabouts 
 through the day -and night just past. Dr. Catherwood only 
 listened, without a word of comment, and after a moment 
 turned to go, bidding good-night to Christine, and saying to 
 Julian as he passed him, " Come to my office about ten to 
 morrow morning, will you ? I would like to see you a few 
 moments." 
 
 Julian winced at the invitation, but did not dare to offer any 
 dissent from it; he said he would come, and then after Dr. 
 Catherwood had left the house, threw himself back again on the 
 sofa, and with a smothered passion begged Christine to tell 
 him what right that man had to order him about to please 
 himself. 
 
 "I did not know he did order you about," said Christine, 
 coldly, angry now at Julian for his disrespect to Dr. Cather 
 wood. 
 
 " Didn t he order me to be at his office to-morrow at ten 
 o clock?" he said, impatiently "and don t he give me as many 
 orders in the course of a month as if I were his slave ?" 
 
 " Why do you obey them, then ?" asked Christine, abruptly, 
 looking at him steadily. 
 
 He uttered a half-inaudible oath, and walked impatiently about 
 the room. 
 
 " By heavens, he ll find I ll not do it much longer !" he mut-
 
 SUSPICIONS. 277 
 
 tercd ; " to-morrow s the last day he ll have me dancing attend 
 ance on him at his office, the the " 
 
 " Julian, no more of that," said Christine, with a manner of 
 determination. " You know as well as I do what you owe to 
 Dr. Catherwood, and though at heart you are ungrateful, at 
 least you shall be outwardly respectful before me and in this 
 house, where from a child he has watched over you and cared 
 for you as no one but the best friend could have done. I firmly 
 believe you would never have come out of some of those terrible 
 illnesses, Julian, but for him." 
 
 " I wish I never had come out of them," cried Julian, with a 
 momentary spasm of some strong remorse as he plunged his 
 face in his hands and shook all over. " I wish to heaven he 
 had let me die." 
 
 " Julian, for your poor mother s sake " 
 
 " What do I care for my poor mother ! I owe it to her that I 
 was born, and to him that I am not dead. A curse upon them 
 both " 
 
 " Julian ! " exclaimed Christine with a shudder, sinking back 
 and covering her face. 
 
 The boy gave a contemptuous laugh as he raised his head, 
 and shaking back his curls, strode across the room. "Does 
 that shock you so ! Why, that gentleman in the Old Testa 
 ment that we hear so much about when we go to church like 
 good children to be told about our duty, used to curse right 
 and left about the day that he was born, and the people that 
 had anything to do with his coming into the world. I used to 
 think it rather queerish when I was a little fellow, but since 
 I ve come to man s estate I don t wonder half so much at Job s 
 breach of the commandment. Zounds !" he continued, in a 
 lighter tone, " but I feel like swearing roundly every morning 
 when the time comes to get up, and every night when there s 
 no way of getting off from going to bed. It s all a deuced 
 bore, Christine. Where shall I find a candle ? "
 
 278 SUSPICIONS. 
 
 Christine did not look up or speak to him. He glanced back 
 at her a little anxiously as he left the room, and paused when 
 half across the hall, evidencing an intention of going back to 
 counteract the serious impression that his first passionate words 
 had made upon her. His face grew more haggard when he 
 was out of the sight of any one; he looked, as he stood alone 
 in the hall with the candle in his hand, debating whether he 
 should go back and undo the mischief he had done himself by 
 his burst of remorse, like a beautiful fallen spirit his beauty 
 was so great, its marring so dark and awful. The cunning and 
 dangerous expression of his eyes, the worn and anxious lines 
 about his mouth, could not disguise his youth ; his skin was 
 exquisitely fair, his features perfect in their outline, his hair 
 was like a golden glory round his head. 
 
 " Shall I go back," he said to himself, glancing in stealthily 
 to the room where Christine sat motionless, " and risk over 
 doing it, and putting it into her head that I am frightened at 
 letting myself out so ? She is so terribly acute there s no 
 getting ahead of her at an ordinary pace. No ; I d better let 
 it go and trust that she ll forget it. Fool ! I d give my head 
 if I had held my tongue." 
 
 And with another dissatisfied glance back, he went slowly up 
 the stairs and shut himself into his rooms.
 
 UARKY DOES NOT COME HOME. 279 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 HARRY DOES NOT COME HOME. 
 
 " If the stone strikes against the earthen jar, woe to the jar ; and if the jar strik> s 
 against the stone, woe not the less to the jar." 
 
 SPANISH PROVERB. 
 
 PHCEUE GILMORE had sat waiting hour after hour that same 
 night for Harry, with feelings not unlike Christine s as she sat 
 waiting hour after hour for Julian. Phoebe s home was no 
 
 O 
 
 longer the cottage by the mill-dam where the vines shut out 
 the sunlight from the windows, and the rush of the water cooled 
 the air and soothed the ear, but the old tumble-down house 
 next the blacksmith s, just beyond the town, where Old Hun 
 dred had spent his fifty honest and contented years. It had 
 grown more tumble-down and rickety since Phoebe had come 
 into it. No one had hired the shed ; Old Hundred s custom had 
 gone to smiths more in the town, and no one was found to lease 
 or purchase the good-will and fixtures of the undesirable place. 
 The old man had left no will ; his little property had been divided 
 among his " heirs," and all that was left as Harry s portion 
 was an interest in this old house, for which a purchaser had 
 not been found, and in which Phoebe had permission to live till 
 one turned up. It was a wretched, starving life she led, work 
 ing hard with her needle, while Harry was loafing shiftlessly 
 about the town. Phoebe had given up the Methodists, and 
 they said the hand of Providence was in her troubles. She 
 had not come back to the Church, and the Church people said 
 she could not have expected any different result. Her better 
 neighbors were giving her up, and her poorer ones were begin-
 
 280 HARRY DOES NOT COME HOME. 
 
 ning to hold themselves above her, and she felt every man s 
 hand against her and her boy. The worldly people told her 
 she had ruined him by the way she had brought him up, and 
 the pious people told her she would have his perdition on her 
 soul for ever ; and she despised and defied them all, and yearned 
 and groaned in secret over the lad, and cursed the day in 
 which he and she were born. 
 
 Yes, she had ruined him; yes, if he were in eternal peril, 
 she alone would be held to answer for it. She knew it, and 
 she defied the wrath of heaven and the scorn of men. Harry 
 hated his home ; he shrank from his mother s alternate upbraid- 
 ings and fierce, tiger-like bursts of caressing and remorse. He 
 felt the pinching poverty and the continual gloom too oppressive 
 for his only half-deadened conscience, and the sight of his 
 mother s trouble too painful for his tender heart; for Harry 
 had a tender heart, and so went all the farther and surer 
 wrong when once he tried to smother it and get the upper 
 hand with it. 
 
 Julian Upham had been his continual associate till the trou 
 ble a year before, when all had seemed to turn away from him 
 in suspicion, and when the only course left for him was to fly 
 from suspicion and discovery and punishment. A bitter and re 
 vengeful hearthis mother had borne through the long and anxious 
 year that he had been away where, she knew not ; whether 
 living or dead she could only guess ; while Julian Upham, 
 equal, she could have sworn, in error and in danger, was living 
 unharmed and unsuspected in the town where her boy dared 
 not show his face. Once or twice, when Julian had looked out 
 of some tavern-haunt where Harry had spent his time before 
 he went away, through the darkness of the night he had caught 
 sight of her sullen, pallid face peering in, her threatening eyes on 
 him, and he had shuddered and drawn back, and tried to forget 
 the sight. 
 
 But now Harry had come back as stealthily as he had gone
 
 HAEEY DOES NOT COME HOME. 281 
 
 away, and he was alive and unchanged, except that he seemed 
 older and had a more sullen and hang-dog look. She did not 
 dare to ask what life he had been leading. She only felt, he 
 was in her arms again ; his brown hair soft and silky to her 
 touch, his lips red and warm, as she hung over him stealthily 
 while he slept. 
 
 He had been home two days and nights ; during the 
 first day he had hung about the house; the night he had 
 spent away ; the day again at home, and about twilight he had 
 gone out; and now she sat late into the night watching for him, 
 and wondering if he would come back. The outskirt of this 
 little town was always dull and silent. To-night s stillness was 
 an awful oppression to the lonely woman ; she knew she could 
 have heard a footstep a quarter of a mile off on the flagged 
 walk that led from the town to the end of the street on which 
 the house was situated. Her ear was strained to the uttermost 
 to catch the lightest sound ; no one passed along the walk 
 no vehicle rolled through the street ; from eight until eleven 
 there was not the sign of any living presence in the dreary 
 suburb. 
 
 Phoebe sat on a low seat by the blackened and cold hearth, 
 rocking herself slowly backward and forward in her chair now 
 stopping to listen, now rocking to break the silence. She was 
 not a woman to give way to womanish and superstitious fancies ; 
 but there was one that haunted her nightly in this desolate abode, 
 and through all the wakeful, remorseful nights that she had 
 passed in it, it had been her constant torture. There was a 
 door leading out of the kitchen, now the only habitable room 
 the house contained, a door closed and padlocked that led into 
 the old blacksmith s shed. Through that door there came 
 nightly the dull, regular sound of strokes upon the anvil ; mo 
 notonous and smothered, as if from within a deep and sand- 
 choked cave ; all night long she heard them in the intervals of 
 sleep. She had grown so accustomed to the sound that she
 
 282 HARRY DOES NOT COME HOME. 
 
 had ceased to feel the throb of terror it had caused at first, 
 only a chill as of a cold wind creeping across her, and she 
 would fall asleep again. But this night she was overwrought 
 and unnerved ; she felt as if the muffled beat upon the anvil in 
 the low, dark, old shed would drive her mad ; she rocked her 
 chair heavily upon the bare and sounding floor to drown it, bat 
 it was not drowned. The roar of cannon at her side would not 
 have drowned it. It seemed to have its own place in the 
 changing currents of the air, and to sound on in her ear un 
 ceasingly. No wonder that her hair was white and her eyes 
 were wild with such nights following such days as hers! 
 
 She pressed her hands tight against her temples and pushed 
 back the hair, groaning aloud in the intolerable agony of her soul. 
 Oh, for one touch of Harry s living hand one sight of breathing 
 flesh and blood ! Would he never come ! There was no clock 
 to tell the hours in that miserable home; it was very lato, she 
 knew, by the terrible length of time that had passed since dark 
 came on. She drew her apron over her head and went out of 
 the house down to the path ; there was no gate, and the fence 
 had long since fallen to decay. She stood leaning against an 
 old tree-stump beside the path and listened. The night was 
 dark and still ; not a breath of air stirred ; not a star gleamed 
 in the sky. Presently she heard the town clock strike one. 
 Distant as it was, she heard it with all distinctness, the night 
 was so very still. Then Harry would not be back ; she shivered 
 and turned again into the house. Would he come back at all ? 
 A sudden terror seized her. She remembered he had said a 
 gruff" good-night, and had come back and made some clumsy 
 attempt at a caress as he went away in the twilight. 
 
 She seized the flickering tallow candle and hurried up into 
 the loft where he had slept. The old clothes which he had 
 worn, and which were the only ones she knew of his having, 
 were lying on the floor, kicked into a corner, shoes and hat and 
 all. He had gone out in some different suit which she had not
 
 HAEKY DOES NOT COME HOME. 283 
 
 noticed in the dark. Every article that he had brought with 
 him a pistol, a little case of tools, a dingy wallet stuffed with 
 papers all of which he had kept since he returned in a chest 
 beside his bed, were gone. The conviction rushed upon her mind 
 Harry was not coming back. She set down the candle for a 
 moment and tried to collect herself and understand what it all 
 meant. It meant Harry was again the accomplice in some 
 evil deed; again the tool of more wicked and artful brains 
 than his ; again placed in peril of his life, perhaps ; again lost 
 to her touch, to her sight, for years for years ! perhaps for 
 ever. The craving, terrible mother-love burst forth in a cry of 
 anguish ; the thought of separation from her child was like a 
 mortal pang. 
 
 She sprang to her feet, rushed down, passed the old shed 
 where. the beat upon the anvil was sounding ceaselessly, and 
 out into the night, towards the silent, sleeping town.
 
 284 BY JULIAN S BEDSIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 BY JULIAN S BEDSIDE. 
 
 u O holy night ! from thee I learn to bear, 
 
 "What man has borne before ! 
 Thou layest thy fingers on the lips of care, 
 And they complain no more." 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 CHRISTINE was sitting half-undressed in her own room, with 
 her arm upon the window-sill, her hair loose upon her shoulders, 
 a white wrapper thrown about her. The light was burning 
 low upon the table ; the window was open to the dark, still 
 night. Her eyes were wet with tears ; her attitude expressed 
 languor and weariness. Two hours had passed since she came 
 to her room, and yet she had not gone to bed. She heard the 
 town clock strike one, and she half-arose and then sank wearily 
 back again ; and leaning her forehead on her crossed arms on 
 the window-sill, remained motionless for half an hour. 
 
 She was aroused by the sudden opening of the gate, the 
 sound of a quick step on the walk, a sharp blow on the 
 knocker. Fortunately, the knocker was a stiff affair and did 
 not yield easily to the hand ; it came down with a slow, sullen 
 noise that would not have waked the lightest sleeper. 
 
 Christine sprang up, fearing she knew not what, and taking 
 the candle in her hand hurried down the stairs. A natural 
 feeling of fear would have made her hesitate before she slid 
 back the bolt, but that she longed to prevent a second knock, 
 which would perhaps have roused her father, whose nights 
 were most disturbed and wakeful now. She pushed back the 
 bolt, turned the key, and with a choking sense of apprehen-
 
 BY JULIAN S BEDSIDE. 285 
 
 sion, opened the door a little way. It was pushed strongly 
 from without; Christine retreated several steps, and held the 
 candle up before she recognised, in the haggard woman in the 
 door-way, the once familiar face of Phoebe Gilmore. 
 
 Her eyes were sullen and flaming, her dress was pitiably 
 poor, and her fine black hair had turned to grey since Chris 
 tine had seen her last. She had some fierce words on her lips" 
 as she came in at the door, but the sight of Christine checked 
 her for an instant, but only for an instant. 
 
 " I have come for ray boy," she said, fiercely. " I know the 
 place to come for him ; I have held my tongue for a year or 
 more. I am not going to hold it any longer. Call Julian 
 down and tell him Harry Gilmore s mother wants to see him." 
 
 " I do not believe Julian can tell you anything about your 
 boy, Phosbe," said Christine, retreating another step ; for the 
 woman s manner was frightful enough. " Come in and tell me 
 
 O O 
 
 why you think he can." 
 
 " You know as well as I do why I think he can. You know 
 whose money hushed things up and sent the boy away. You 
 know who always hatches up the mischief, and who always 
 bears the blame. It s gone on long enough, my delicate young 
 woman. You re very sweet and pretty, and very pious, people 
 say. But it s gone on long enough. Because you are the 
 minister s daughter isn t a reason that you should be always 
 kept from learning ugly words. Ministers are all very well in 
 their way, but if they don t look after their sons and daughters 
 they must bear the consequences of it. I m a poor woman, and 
 I don t go to church and am not much thought of by you pious 
 people ; but I ve got a right to be heard, and the law will hear 
 me if you won t. The law, my nice young lady, the law ! And 
 Julian Upham shall answer for his work some time before he s 
 an old man, depend upon it. Some time before he s a much 
 older man than he is now. Call him down, for I am not going 
 away without a sight of him."
 
 286 BY JULIAN S BEDSIDE. 
 
 " Listen," said Christine, in a quiet voice. " Julian is asleep. 
 I do not want to wake him ; I do not want to wake my father. 
 Come in the morning. You can see him then." 
 
 "Hist," said the woman, in a voice that made Christine 
 shudder. " You are very clever, but I am clever, too ; I know 
 as well as you do that Julian is not in the house. That is what 
 I came to know. That is what I mean to swear before the 
 magistrate to-morrow." 
 
 " He is in the house," said Christine, with a firmness that 
 startled her. " He has been in it several hours." 
 
 " Can you swear that ?" said her companion, tauntingly. 
 
 "I can swear that," she returned, unmoved. 
 
 " Show him to me or I can swear you could not." 
 
 " I shall not show him to you," she said, with deliberation, 
 "but upon one condition. That you go noiselessly up with me 
 to the door of his room, look at him without awakening him, 
 and go away without disturbing any member of the house. If 
 you promise this you can go up with me now." 
 
 "I promise," said the woman, after a moment of silence. 
 
 Christine felt a shiver as she took up the candle from the 
 hall-table and went towards the stairs, the woman following 
 closely. She had long felt that Pho?be was half insane ; her 
 words and looks to-night confirmed her in the belief that her 
 mind had been shattered by her dreadful trials. To be going 
 stealthily through a dark and silent house at the dead hour of 
 night, with no help at hand, and with a fierce and half-crazed 
 enemy at her back, was not a thing that all women could 
 have done composedly. Christine was very pale, and the hand 
 that held the candle shook almost imperceptibly ; but her voice 
 was firm and her step deliberate. 
 
 "You had better take off your shoes," she said, pausing 
 before they reached the upper landing. " They make a noise, 
 and I do not want to wake my father." 
 
 The woman stooped and slipped off her loose heavy shoes ;
 
 BY JULIAN S BEDSIDE. 287 
 
 this gave Christine an advantage ; it gave her an excuse to 
 pause and get her companion beside her, which was much more 
 comfortable than having her out of sight and carrying the shoes 
 kept one of the hands employed, which Christine s active fancy 
 was imagining continually in a tight grasp around her throat. 
 The corridor was long and dark, and the candle flickered and 
 gave but a dim, faint light; at the door of Julian s room Chris 
 tine paused again, and said : 
 
 " Remember your promise ; you are not to speak nor wake 
 him, nor go to the bed ; only to look at him, and then go 
 away." 
 
 " I remember," said the woman, doggedly ; and Christine, 
 with a thousand misgivings, softly turned the handle of the 
 door and entered. 
 
 Phoebe followed her closely ; Christine paused a few feet 
 from the bed, and laying her hand on the woman s arm to keep 
 her back, held the candle so that the light fell full upon the 
 bed. It was a pretty bed, with delicate white coverings, and 
 pillows with wide embroidered trimmings. Upon the wall 
 above hung a picture, bought for its resemblance to Helena ; 
 the face haughty, coquettish, and defiant a face that it was 
 difficult to think of as a mother s, bending over a cradle, or 
 smiling down upon a waking baby. The furniture of the room 
 was graceful, and showed that the boy had had all loving arts 
 employed to make him pleased at home. The shelves were 
 tilled with books ; there were easy chairs, and a sofa with a 
 beautiful embroidered cushion. Phoebe thought bitterly of the 
 loft where Harry flung himself down to sleep at night, or where 
 in dangerous times he hid himself by day ; and as her eyes 
 fell upon the boy fast asleep upon the soft, luxurious bed, with 
 his gold-colored hair upon the fair white pillow, and his grace 
 ful arm flung over the dainty coverlet, there passed an expression 
 across her face which it was well her companion did not see. 
 
 Christine was looking at him with a yearning tenderness;
 
 288 BY JULIAN S BEDSIDE. 
 
 he was so beautiful when he slept, where could the vicious 
 and evil temper be that made her life so miserable ! 
 
 There was a perfect silence ; could the boy have opened his 
 eyes and looked up, what a strange sight would have met 
 them ! His beautiful young aunt with her fair unbound hair, 
 gazing at him with tender eyes, and holding back the strange, 
 haggard, evil-eyed woman, whose gaze seemed to devour him. 
 Unconscious of what passed around him, he slept on and never 
 knew the love and the revenge that had watched above his 
 bed ; and because he did not see it he did not believe in it one 
 child among many who will not believe in the guardianship 
 they do not see. 
 
 " Are you satisfied ?" Christine whispered low, as her com 
 panion drew a long deep breath and moved back a step. Her 
 clenched hand relaxed as Christine spoke. 
 
 "Yes, I am satisfied," she said, going towards the door, 
 stopping to glance back at the sleeper once before she reached 
 it. She went before Christine through the hall and down the 
 stairs with a quick, excited tread; and stopping to put on her 
 shoes as she reached the hall-door, drew her shawl around her 
 and went out, without a word or a look towards her conductor. 
 
 Christine bolted the door after her with a sensation of pro 
 found relief, and hurried through the house to secure all the 
 other fastenings before she went to her own room to ponder 
 over the strange events of the night, and to apprehend a thou 
 sand evils coming in their train.
 
 A KOBBEKY. 289 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 A ROBBERY. 
 " Qui se oouche avec des chiens, se leve avec Jes puces." 
 
 A NEW excitement filled the town of on the next day ; an 
 
 excitement that struck a chill to Christine s very heart, and 
 that made Dr. Catherwood look darker and more perplexed 
 than ever. The bank had been robbed ; a wholesale and 
 tremendous robbery. Raymond Clybourne, recently made a 
 teller in it, had disappeared ; suspicion, of course, fastened itself 
 upon him, but it was evident the robbery was the work of two 
 or three at least. All sorts of conjectures were rife, and the 
 testimony of more than one person, that young Gilmore had 
 been seen about the place within a day or two, had directed 
 inquiry towards him. 
 
 For three days nothing else was talked of; every possible 
 step was taken to apprehend the suspected parties. No trace 
 of them could be discovered. Phoebe Gilmore was cross- 
 examined as to the return and departure of her son. The un 
 happy woman was maddened to find every word she said was 
 forging chains for Harry. She entered an accusation against 
 Julian, and reiterated her conviction that in both cases of her 
 son s delinquency he had been an accomplice and abettor. But 
 all this passed for the bitter spleen of a half-crazed. mother ; the 
 ancient grudge she bore the minister s family was remembered, 
 and as there were plenty to testify to Julian s whereabouts on 
 the night of the robbery and on the day preceding it, she 
 found herself powerless to do an injury where she so burned to 
 do one. 
 
 13
 
 290 A ROBBERY. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood had not been idle. He bad bad but a short 
 interview with Julian, but more than one with the directors of 
 the bank, in which he was a large stockholder. The Clybourne 
 family were plunged in the most terrible affliction ; no one 
 dared to go to them but Dr. Catherwood : even Christine was 
 afraid to seek Madeline for the present time. 
 
 And Julian a little pale and haggard, but doggedly self- 
 possessed he went about his ordinary amusements and occupa 
 tions; somewhat ostentatiously perhaps keeping himself in 
 sight, and speculating more than seemed altogether natural on 
 the recent astounding news. He was at home rather more 
 than usual ; Christine felt all the time a strange and growing 
 apprehension of some new development ; but she did not even 
 define it to herself. His occasional caresses made her shudder, 
 and then filled her with self-reproach. What did she suspect? 
 He had always grudged the half hour in the clay which de 
 cency, and perhaps policy, had demanded he should spend with 
 his grandfather. The old man was sad and silent always after 
 seeing him. He felt that things were going wrong ; he for 
 bore to disgust him with good advice, and he felt his inability 
 to influence him ; and looking to Dr. Catherwood for his actual 
 guidance, he kept silence and seemed unmoved. But during 
 the week that succeeded the bank robbery, Julian had gone 
 often to the study, spending a large part of his time at home 
 there, and evidently endeavoring to ingratiate himself with his 
 grandfather. What progress he made no one ever knew ; the 
 subject of his grandson was sealed between Dr. Upham and 
 his family. 
 
 A long week it was to Christine ; her apprehensions did not 
 subside ; her sleep was restless and broken. One night, just 
 eight from the unhappy one when Phoebe Gilrnore made her 
 strange visit to the Parsonage, Christine woke from her uneasy 
 slumber with a start, and with the impression that some noise 
 had roused her. But it was so vague she could not recall its
 
 A ROBBERY. 2 Jl 
 
 nature. For a long while she lay quietly, trying to forget it 
 and trying to sleep. But at length she resolved it would do 
 no harm to go and look at Julian, and assure herself that he 
 was safe. Many times within the last week she had gone to 
 his room at night, and soothed herself by seeing him innocently 
 and peacefully asleep. She prepared herself hastily, and light 
 ing a candle went towards his room. A painful apprehension 
 struck her, when, as she reached it, the cold night wind from 
 an open window within blew out the newly lighted candle. It 
 seemed an interminable time before she could relight it and 
 come back to the room. Shading it with her hand, she entered. 
 
 A scene of careless confusion an empty bed, an open win 
 dow ; Christine s heart died within her. She shut the window, 
 put the candle on a stand beside it, and sat down. Julian was 
 gone. This confirmed her dread for him. And yet, perhaps, 
 impatient of the restraint and coldness at home, he had rushed 
 into larger liberty. Other boys had done it and outlived the 
 folly. Perhaps he would return ; perhaps this was but for a 
 few days adventure. But the sack of his drawers, the confusion 
 of his room, did not look like that exactly. Everything of 
 value was gone ; a pair of richly-mounted pistols and a handsome 
 dirk that had been among his mother s valuables, and had al 
 ways decorated a panel in his room, were taken down ; his 
 clothes had evidently been looked over with care, and the best 
 portion of them taken. What was to be done ? Christine did not 
 know ; he was gone. Pursuit was vain. Her first thought was 
 to shield him. None should know that he had fled from her so 
 ungratefully. With a heavy heart she began to fold up and re 
 arrange his clothes. The servant in the morning must not sus 
 pect that he had left his room for longer than the day ; before 
 night she could arrange something to say in explanation of his 
 absence. It was a sad task, indeed, but Christine was used to 
 sad work. 
 
 Presently she saw something that broke her composure down
 
 292 A BOBBERY. 
 
 completely. A little picture of herself that she had given him, 
 and that hung beside his glass, was gone. lie had taken it ; he 
 had felt a little love and a little tenderness as he thought of leav 
 ing her. Oh, her darling boy, her poor lost Julian ! With a burst 
 of sobs she flung herself upon the bed and pressed her face 
 down upon the pillow. Her heart had yearned for years for 
 some token that he loved her some sign that his heart was 
 human, and now it came too late. Perhaps it was her fault 
 that he was what he was. The most self-torturing thoughts 
 succeeded each other in her mind she had not pursued the 
 right method with him ; she had been too cold, too exacting. 
 She had sacrificed her life to him with the purest motive, and 
 had lost him by some involuntary error. What should she say 
 to Helena ? How should she answer before Heaven for this 
 soul ? All his faults were covered by this little charity of ten 
 derness. She loved him as she always loved him when asleep, 
 when absent, or when ill. She thought of him as her little 
 son, the dear charge of her early girlhood, the object of her 
 prayers, her love, her solicitude, before any other object came to 
 dispute her heart with him. Oh, that was .the sin, she feared. 
 She had kept to the letter of her promise, and had violated 
 its whole spirit. Everything seemed changed. Julian was no 
 longer the sinner but the sinned against. She lay till dawn 
 crept faintly in at the windows, in an agony of self-reproach 
 and misery. The approach of daylight roused her ; she arose 
 and resumed her task of putting the room in its ordinary shape. 
 Just as she had completed it and was turning to leave the 
 room, her eye caught something now visible in the pale grey 
 light, lying on the floor under the dressing-glass. She stooped 
 to pick it up. It was her picture, the delicate frame crushed in 
 by the tread of a careless foot. A cold steel seemed to cut into 
 her heart at that sight. She dropped the picture into the near 
 est drawer and turned the key, and went out of the room feel 
 ing as if she dreamed.
 
 A KOBBERY. 293 
 
 The study door was open ; she glanced into it as she passed. 
 Her father s door was closed which communicated with it. 
 Both these things were unusual. She entered hastily, and went 
 up to her father s private desk ; the lock was broken, the con 
 tents rifled. She tried hurriedly to restore it to its usual look, 
 adjusted the broken lock, and thought of the moment when her 
 father must know what she did. She had no prayer to say just 
 then. She passed by the window that looked into the church 
 yard, but it did not seem peaceful now, only cold and dead and 
 hopeless. The grey dawn was breaking into a cold and stormy 
 day. The rain was beginning to patter against the panes, and 
 the wind blew in gusts that shook and bowed the tender young 
 green branches of the trees. How could they how could the 
 sweet frail flowers in the garden beds below, live through this 
 cold and cruel storm. 
 
 She turned shivering away.
 
 294 DE PEOPUNDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 " And cold before my summer s done, 
 And deaf in Nature s general tune, 
 And fallen too low for special fear, 
 And here, with hope no longer here, 
 "While the tears drop, my days go on." 
 
 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 DR. CATBERWOOD looked out from the window of his little par 
 lor that morning, as he heard the gate-latch lifted. A carriage 
 stood at the gate, and a lady was coming down the path. It 
 was Christine with a cloak wrapped around her, bowing her 
 head to meet the storm of wind and rain that was sweeping 
 round the house. He hurried out to the door. He divined 
 what had brought her. She had come to his house but 
 twice before once when Mrs. Sherman brought her there to 
 luncheon, that summer four years ago, and once when she had 
 been in some trouble about the boy. She always seemed afraid 
 of the place, and looked away when she passed it. He felt a 
 strange sensation of satisfaction that she had had to come to it 
 at last. He opened the door, and taking her hand, drew her in 
 from the storm, and led her to the bright fire in the grate of the 
 little room. 
 
 " Take off this wet cloak," he said. " This is a terrible 
 storm for June." 
 
 " It is no matter about the cloak," she said, loosening it a 
 little and sinking down into the chair he placed for her beside 
 the fire. Her face was ashy pale, and the black shade beneath 
 her eyes made them look larger and darker than ever. Her
 
 DE PROFUXDIS. 295 
 
 lips wore livid, and she seemed so chilled for a few moments it 
 was impossible for her to speak. 
 
 " Let me give you something," he said, moving towards the 
 sideboard. 
 
 " No," she said, rising and arresting his hand ; " there is 
 nothing the matter with me ; I am only cold. I came to tell 
 you, Julian has gone away." 
 
 " I am not surprised. I felt sure that he would go." 
 
 " That is not the worst. I want you to know it all," said 
 Christine, covering her face. 
 
 Dr. Gather wood looked anxious and alarmed as he l.ed her 
 back to her chair in silence. 
 
 " He has taken everything from my father s desk, and you 
 must tell him. for I cannot. I think it would kill me if I 
 had to do it." 
 
 Dr. Catherwood grew suddenly pale, as if the news had 
 sickened him. He passed his hand across his forehead, which 
 was wet with a sudden moisture, and turned away to the 
 window for a moment. Christine did not look up, and presently 
 he turned back to her and said in a voice that betrayed no 
 unusual feeling : 
 
 " Christine, God knows all about this boy. You have done 
 your duty." 
 
 A low cry escaped her lips as if he had touched on too 
 quivering a chord. But he knew what he was doing. 
 
 " You have given up everything for him," he went on, " and 
 I know would at any time have died to assure yourself of his 
 present and eternal safety. You have been judicious. I have 
 looked on, and have seen all ; you may rest assured you have 
 i ewer errors of judgment to regret than most have who govern 
 children. I have wondered often at your great discretion. I 
 believe the only course that presented a chance of saving him 
 has been pursued. For his own sake, for yours, for my own, I 
 have exerted all my ingenuity to win him to a better life. I
 
 296 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 have failed. You have failed. I believe an angel from heaven 
 would have failed. We cannot go into the past and see who is 
 responsible ; all that concerns us is to know, in this possible 
 actual present, we have done our duty. The children of many 
 prayers, Christine the children of devoted love, of pious 
 homes, with mothers and with fathers watching every breath 
 they draw, go strangely and fatally to ruin ; from the time they 
 begin to live drawing surely towards their evil end. What it 
 means we know not now, but we shall know hereafter. A 
 few tears, my poor little Christine, but no self-reproach, no vain 
 regrets, no struggling to solve the riddle by unjust accusations 
 and self-condemnation. Be brave as you have always been ; be 
 wise and patient." 
 
 "I cannot be patient," she exclaimed. "Is there nothing 
 more to do ? Must we let him go without an effort ; is there 
 not a chance that we can bring him back ?" 
 
 " Not one, I fear. Be reasonable, Christine ; all that man can 
 do, I will, to find him and to bring him home ; but do not lay 
 up disappointment for yourself. His cunning is beyond belief. 
 He will escape detection and will yet run a long career, it seems 
 to me. Of his personal safety I think you may be reasonably 
 secure. He is not one to risk himself unwisely. Though 
 you may not hear of him, it is reasonable to think that he is 
 safe." 
 
 " His poor mother ! what shall I say to her !" murmured 
 Christine in a broken voice. 
 
 " Say to her that you have more than done your duty ; that 
 if human devotion and self-sacrifice could have atoned for the 
 sinful past, yours would have atoned for it, and her boy would 
 have been saved." 
 
 He spoke in a low voice, with his face turned from her. 
 
 At last she rose and drew her cloak about her. 
 
 "You will tell my father?" she said, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Yes, as soon as it becomes necessary," he answered, in his
 
 DE PROFUNDIS. 297 
 
 ordinary tone. " In the meantime, say to no one that he is 
 gone. In a few days, when I have made all the investigations 
 that are possible, it may gradually come out that he has gone 
 away to sea, to join the army, to the West. I will arrange 
 all that. He will escape suspicion, I trust, and that is the one 
 chance there is that he may finally be won back to his home. 
 Some time we may be able to let him know you have lovingly 
 concealed his sin, and that it need not stand between him and 
 a fair life in the future. It is the only hope." 
 
 Christine took a step or two towards the door and then 
 paused, and with a painful hesitation said : " I hope you do not 
 blame me for coming to you so for asking such favors from 
 you. I know it must seem strange. I cannot quite understand 
 how I can do it but " 
 
 " But you listen to your heart, Christine, which tells you it 
 is right. Continue to believe it, not only for your own sake 
 but for the sake of duty. I have taken npon myself this charge. 
 Do not feel pained to have to call upon me ; if you had no 
 interest in him, I should have done the same for him." 
 
 Christine raised her head with an involuntary look of sur 
 prise. He added, hastily : 
 
 " The grandson of Dr. Upham can never be indifferent to 
 me." 
 
 She turned hastily away, and pulling her cloak around her, 
 with some half-inaudible words hurried out into the storm. 
 
 13*
 
 298 MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 
 
 "Life is too short for logic ; what I do 
 I must do simply ; God alone must judge, 
 
 For God alone shall guide. 
 
 I hare snapped opinion s chains, and now I ll soar 
 
 Up to the blazing sunlight, and be free." 
 
 KINGSLEY. 
 
 MADELINE CLYBOURNE was walking up and down her own room 
 like a caged tigress ; her face was pale, her eyes were burning 
 with indignant fire. Mrs. Clybourne, more haggard and thinner 
 than ever before, sat by the window with a fixed though troubled 
 expression, striving to stem the torrent of her daughter s ex 
 cited words, and to conquer some resolution she had formed. 
 
 It was autumn, some six months after Raymond s disgrace and 
 disappearance six months which had been spent in retirement 
 and silence at the cottage ; and now, for the first time since that 
 event, Mrs. Clybourne had begun to talk to Madeline about 
 going into the world again about keeping up her position in 
 society not giving up what they had both worked so hard to 
 obtain not surrendering upon the first rebuff. It seemed 
 strange that so painful a trial as this had not broken Mrs. 
 Clybourne s spirit ; but the truth was, her ambition had a very 
 deep root, and all this ambition was for Madeline. Of Raymond 
 she had long expected some such thing as this ; she knew him to 
 be utterly unprincipled, and all she ha d hoped for him for many 
 years had been an exemption from notorious disgrace. When 
 the blow came, she nerved herself to bear it, and she inwardly 
 pledged herself never to give up the fight till she was beaten
 
 MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 299 
 
 back inch by inch from the ground that she had so long disputed. 
 Mrs. Clybourne was not softened by this discipline; how we 
 bear our trials is not a question of the moment ; it is as we have 
 spent our lives and fitted ourselves to meet them. Mrs. Cly 
 bourne had made herself very strong to resist humiliation and 
 very stubborn to resent the pity of the world. 
 
 She had been dreading for some time the effect her wishes 
 might have upon her daughter, but it was now time she knevr 
 them. She anticipated a storm, and she was confident she 
 could weather it safely. Mrs. Sherman, just returned from 
 Europe, had written her a very characteristic though kind- 
 hearted letter, telling her to send Madeline to her for the 
 winter, and she would provide for her and take her out into 
 society. This offer proceeded partly from an impulsive good 
 ness of heart which she had not quite worn out, and which was 
 still strong enough to actuate her if the action did not involve 
 any trial to her selfishness ; and partly from a desire to have 
 again with her the high-spirited girl with whom she always 
 quarrelled, but who gave a sort of fresh interest to her blaze life. 
 
 " Madeline," said her mother, quietly, " if you are perverse 
 and refuse to go to town this winter, let me assure you of one 
 thing before another comes around you will be forgotten." 
 
 " I hope I may be," she said, bitterly. " To be forgotten is 
 the best thing that can happen to those that bear the name of 
 Clybourne. Forgotten ! good heavens, they have little to 
 remember of me that I do not want to forget myself; I wish I 
 could blot it all out for ever. I wish I could forget them as 
 they will forget me forget that I ever was part of so untrue 
 and miserable a life. Mother, you need not ask it of me ; I will 
 not go back to it." 
 
 " You will behave ungratefully and cruelly then, Madeline. 
 You will repay the care of my whole life most shamefully." 
 
 Madeline turned abruptly round and stood still; her face 
 flushed suddenly.
 
 300 MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. 
 
 " Mother, I never meant to reproach you with it ; I never 
 meant to remind you you had done it ; but if you say that I 
 say look at me ! What have you made me what have you 
 brought me to ! A wretched woman, eating my own heart out 
 with discontent and misery ; a useless, frittered mind, an ill- 
 governed, fretful temper, a heart that cries out day and night 
 in its intolerable and bitter loneliness. Mother ! your children 
 have disappointed you, but you have had them in your arms ; 
 they have filled your time, your thoughts, your love. My 
 father died, but you have the memory of the days when your 
 hearts beat against each other and your lips met in a thousand 
 kisses. But I I have no memories. I have no hopes, no 
 aims, no duties. You have kept away from me all healthy food, 
 and my soul is starved and savage. It only made my sister 
 weak and puny it has made me desperate and wicked. You 
 should have judged me better ; you should have given me 
 something to stop the gnawing at my heart. I could have 
 done a good work in the world. I am a head and shoulder 
 above other women ; I am capable of greater things than they. 
 And what am I now ? My soul dwarfed and undeveloped 
 my intellect wasted my powers unused my name disgraced 
 stung to madness by the failure of my life and you look at me 
 coldly and say I am ungrateful and undutiful, and tell me to 
 go back to the artificial glare and stifling heat of that place I 
 hated years ago! You tell me to go back and live it all over 
 again the trifling and the meanness and the falsehood now 
 since this great shame has fallen on us now, mother ! 
 No ; I will not go back ! No ; I will defy and set at naught 
 any authority that commands me to do that You need not 
 ask it of me." 
 
 Mrs. Clybourne looked very pale ; she was not quite prepared 
 for this ; but she had conquered Madeline so many times before 
 through the girl s sense of duty to her and by the force of her 
 own older if not stronger will, that she did not give up.
 
 MADELINE SNAPS THE CHAINS. f 301 
 
 " Madeline, this is quixotic and absurd. You are saying some 
 very foolish things. You are excited ; you will feel differently 
 by and by." 
 
 " I am not excited. I should have given you the same 
 answer any time that you had asked me for the six months past." 
 
 " I trust too much to your good sense, Madeline, to believe 
 this of you. You talk as if your life were ended, whereas in 
 reality it has just begun. At twenty, and with your beauty " 
 
 " Do not talk to me about my beauty," she cried, passionately. 
 "I hate it ; I wish that I had never had it! It is going from 
 me, and you know it. You look at me, when you think I do 
 not notice, with a troubled and unhappy look. No, you have 
 spent your capital there is nothing left ; we must begin the 
 world again impoverished. I hate myself when I look in my 
 glass, when I think of the hours that I have spent before it, the 
 foolish and vain dreams that it has inspired me with. When I 
 remember the thousand times that my fingers have plaited my 
 hair, I loathe it, and long to cut it off and wear a cap, and 
 change myself to my own eyes. I do not care for the world s 
 eyes any longer ; approving or disdaining, they have lost their 
 power with me. There is something deeper ; there is another 
 life. I have outgrown the other. You cannot crowd my soul 
 down into it again. You must let me live my life now. I have 
 lived yours long enough." 
 
 " Never ask my consent," said Mrs. Clybourne, rising to go 
 out, " to withdraw yourself from the world and live a different 
 life from that which your birth and station fit you for. If my 
 authority does not bring you to submit, your own good sense, I 
 trust, will, at last." 
 
 Mrs. Clybourne left the room and went down stairs, quite 
 pale and shaken in nerves, but quite confident that she should 
 trin mph in the end. She had a good many material considera 
 tions, which, presented to Madeline in proper form, could not fail 
 to have their weight. Susie with her five noisy children, and
 
 302 MADELINE SNAPS TUB CHAINS. 
 
 cumbering, heavy husband, were coming to the cottage next week, 
 the last dollar of their badly invested fortune gone, and it would 
 be worse than torture to Madeline to live in the house with them. 
 Besides, Mrs. Clybourne s slender income would barely supply 
 the family needs ; one person less in the household would be a 
 great relief, and Mrs. Sherman s generous offer to provide for 
 all Madeline s wants, could not be thrown aside. Madeline 
 must, should, be brought to reason; "hope springs eternal;" 
 this winter s campaign might restore all, and bring the long 
 looked-for piece of fortune. 
 
 The next morning, going into Madeline s room, the mother s 
 courage and high spirit gave way for the first time in all her 
 hard and struggling life. Madeline was gone with her plain 
 est clothes, half-a-dozen favorite books, a little writing desk, 
 and a tiny work-box that she had had given her when a little 
 girl. A very affectionate but determined letter came to light, 
 promising her mother that she should hear from her, and that 
 in every way that was possible she would respect her wishes ; 
 stating that she knew the home resources, and that in no way 
 could she add to them, while she remained at home, or ease her 
 mother s cares. Susie would be more of a comfort to her, she 
 supposed, than she had ever been or ever could be, with their 
 different views. She reminded her mother that she had told 
 her not to ask her consent to what she was about to do, and, 
 knowing that she could not make her see it as she did, she had 
 taken this method of solving the difficulty, and assumed for 
 herself the responsibility of giving up the world. She hoped 
 for brighter days, when she should resume her place by her 
 mother s side, and share with her the hopes and pleasures of a 
 wiser life, if she could but find out where it lay. 
 
 All the trials of Mrs. Clybourne s life seemed as nothing when 
 compared with this : she felt that all the promise of this world 
 was over, and sank on her knees by Madeline s empty bed, for 
 the first time an humbled woman.
 
 TWO YEARS LATER. 303 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 TWO TEARS LATER. 
 
 " Surely this is the birthday of no grief, 
 That dawns so pleasantly along the skiea." 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 Two years had passed since then, two long years of anxiety and 
 silence. Julian had not been heard from : the most careful 
 investigation had left it still a mystery whether he had gone 
 abroad or remained in America, calling himself by some other 
 name and disguising his appearance so effectually that none of 
 those upon the watch for him were able to detect him. Ray 
 mond Clybourne and Harry Gilmore were less adroit in their 
 concealment; Raymond had been heard of in Havana, and 
 the police had been more than once on the track of Harry, and 
 had lost it. 
 
 By some strange good fortune, Julian s name never was asso 
 ciated with theirs, though the nearness of the time of their 
 disappearance would have seemed to warrant it. But Dr. 
 Catherwood had been so careful in disconnecting all traces of 
 Julian with them, and had given so dexterous a coloring to his 
 departure, that all were blinded. The boy had always professed 
 a passion for the sea, and it was very easy to make people 
 receive the impression that he had sailed for the Mediterranean, 
 and would perhaps be absent years, sailing in some vessel that 
 traded between its ports. 
 
 At first people were disposed to inquire a. -good deal about 
 him ; but by and by they began to forget to ask, and before 
 the end of these two years he had pretty much died out of
 
 304 TWO TEARS LA.TEK. 
 
 mind, and Christine had very little trouble in evading inquiries 
 about him. 
 
 Between her father and herself there was an oppressive 
 silence in respect to him. Sometimes, when her heart ached to 
 bursting with apprehension and yearning, it would have been 
 an unspeakable relief to have thrown herself into her father s 
 arms and wept out her anguish. But since the day when the 
 dreadful news of Julian s crime had been communicated to him, 
 he had been perfectly silent regarding him, and no one had 
 dared to break the silence. His health was sinking slowly but 
 surely ; his daughter clung to him more closely each month, 
 as she saw the desolation ahead drawing towards her steadily. 
 
 With Dr. Catherwood the silence was almost as oppressive. 
 Since that morning when she had gone to him with the news, 
 there had been a restraint, a coldness between them that it was 
 almost impossible to break through. His manner had lost 
 some of its self-control; he did not seem to trust himself as 
 formerly, and she never could forget the chill of his last words on 
 that morning. Altogether, this last two years had been the 
 saddest and hardest of her life. She had passed through 
 moments of worse anguish in others, but the aggregate of 
 suffering was greater now. While Julian was a present object 
 of anxiety and unhappiness, there was the relief of action 
 and exertion, and, though she did not acknowledge it to her 
 self, the constant support and sympathy of Dr. Catherwood. 
 Now, there was no longer any reason for this, and they were 
 almost strangers. It was the one softening influence of her 
 life withdrawn ; she had had no other real sympathy and 
 pleasure, and she felt the loneliness almost insupportable. She 
 knew that her father s life was drawing to its close, and that 
 she could almost count the days that would be soothed by the 
 touch of his living hand. The future looked so dark and 
 desolate ; the present was so grey and still. There was a dull 
 monotony about the days that made her sometimes uncontrolla-
 
 TWO TEAES LATEE. 805 
 
 bly impatient of them ; but at last their monotony was broken, 
 and she repented with a pang of her impatience. 
 
 It was November ; fires had not been lighted yet; the season 
 was very late ; the leaves had yellowed without brilliant tints, 
 and still hung on the trees; the days were mild and hazy; the 
 nights starless and still. It was the morning of the seventh ; 
 Christine was sitting by her father s bedside, when he roused 
 himself and said : 
 
 " It is time for the mail, my daughter; is it not?" 
 
 "Yes, father," she said, rising. "I will put on my bonnet 
 and go down to the office for it. I have an errand in the town, 
 besides." 
 
 Dr. Upham s one interest in the outside world now seemed 
 to be the receipt of the daily mail. He had always been par 
 ticular about hearing from the post-office as soon as it was 
 opened ; and he continued to count the moments till some 
 messenger brought him the assurance that nothing of import 
 ance had come to him, either through public or private sources. 
 The servants were apt to loiter a little on the way, or not to be 
 so promptly attended to at the office ; so Christine knew she 
 pleased her father best by going for the letters and papers her 
 self, and bringing them directly to him. It was a pleasant 
 walk for her sometimes the only one she had in the 
 course of the day for most of her time now was demanded by 
 him. 
 
 She was a little early this morning, and she loitered rather 
 slowly along the broad, quiet walk, strewed with yellow leaves 
 and shaded with yellow boughs that made an artificial sun 
 shine under the pale, grey sky. was a pleasant, quiet 
 
 town even in its busiest streets. The post-office was in the 
 principal one a. large and rather dark building, formerly used 
 as a store-house. There was a great square room in front 
 where people waited for their letters, and where men read the 
 papers ; and at the back of it ran a partition that shut off the
 
 306 TWO YEARS LATER. 
 
 office proper, and in which was the window through which the 
 mail matter was delivered. 
 
 Just as Christine reached the door of the office, there was a 
 noise and excitement in the cross-street below, a rush to the 
 door of the people waiting for the mail, and she was obliged 
 to give way and step back on the pavement and gaze with the 
 gazing crowd towards the scene of the excitement. It 
 was only a moment s sight, and Christine hardly compre 
 hended it. 
 
 A cart rolled along, followed by men and boys, who were 
 drawn after it by curiosity alone, for they were mostly silent, 
 and only the noise of their feet was heard shuffling and tram 
 pling upon the pavement. In the cart there was some one strug 
 gling and screaming a woman s voice, smothered and silenced 
 by those who held her, and then bursting out shrill and 
 piercing. Christine did not see her face; sickened and 
 frightened, she turned away from the sight. There were some 
 exclamations and a good many shrugs and shakings of the 
 head as the people turned back and re-entered the office. 
 
 The mail was not open yet. Christine thought she would 
 go out and walk for a few moments, but she feared coming 
 upon the horrid sight again, and in truth it had made her so 
 faint she scarcely dared trust herself to walk at once ; so she 
 took a seat that some one kindly placed for her and waited, 
 listening meanwhile to the talk of those around her. 
 
 Near her stood a well-dressed, quiet-looking woman, who was 
 asking the man beside her who it was they were -carrying off 
 on the cart, and what the matter with her was. 
 
 " Why," said the man, who seemed very much pleased to 
 find some one who had not heard all about the occurrence, 
 " that was Phoabe Gilmore, whom they are carrying to the 
 mad-house. She s been half-crazy for three years or more. I 
 suppose you ve often seen her round the streets ?" 
 
 " No," said the woman, sedately ; " I m a stranger in the 
 
 t
 
 TWO YEARS LATER. 307 
 
 place. I never saw her to my knowledge. What set her off 
 worse at last ?" 
 
 " Why," said the man, laying down his yesterday s paper 
 across his knee and smoothing it out with a good deal of care, 
 " that man that was found murdered by the dam this morning 
 was her son, you see ; and from the minute that they took the body 
 home there was no two men could hold her. She s given the 
 sheriff a wound he ll bear the scar of to his dying day, and 
 she ll do more mischief, I m afraid, before they get her locked 
 up, for she s like a tiger." 
 
 " And so it was her son that was killed," said the woman, 
 with interest ; she was not so great a stranger but that she 
 had heard of that. 
 
 " Yes, poor fellow ! He wasn t much of a loss to her or to 
 the town, for he s been in mischief ever since he wore frocks ; 
 but "it s hard upon a woman to have to see her own flesh 
 and blood hacked up and murdered in that awful way." 
 
 " They found him down by the dam, didn t they ?" said the 
 woman, evidently anxious for any new particulars that might 
 come to light in the man s rendering of the story. 
 
 " Beyond the dam, down in a well that belongs to the old 
 house the Gilmores used to live in when Richard kept the mill. 
 He d made a good fight for it, poor fellow, by the looks of things 
 around the well. There was blood and the deep marks of their 
 boots in the ground half-a-dozen yards back from it where they 
 wrestled ; it must have been after night-fall and as black as tar. 
 And there are marks of blood upon the curb where he clung 
 to it with his hands, and his fingers were all mangled dreadfully 
 where the fellow stamped upon em to make him let go his 
 hold and fall. The well was dry and full of stones, and the fall 
 did up the work." 
 
 " It is the worst thing I ever heard of," said the woman, 
 looking a little pale, but not willing to give the subject up ; 
 " and they haven t got much idea who it was, they say ?"
 
 308 TWO TEAKS LATER. 
 
 " The whole of what they ve got to go upon is this," said the 
 man, folding his newspaper up tight and slapping it upon his 
 hands : " There is a fellow up here at the Factory, Jarvis by 
 name (a drinking man, by the way, and not the best sort of a 
 witness to go upon the stand), who swears, as he was going 
 out on the Turnsbury road last night, he saw two men coming 
 towards the dam. It s a pretty lonesome road, and was almost 
 night-fall, and as there were two of them, Jarvis most likely 
 did not let the grass grow under his feet as he went past em. 
 He ll swear to young Gilmore, which don t do much good, con 
 sidering all the town has a chance of swearing to him, poor 
 fellow ; but about the fellow with him, he can only say he was 
 a little slighter than Harry, and dressed in sailor s clothes like 
 him. His face was turned away from him, and so he can t say 
 anything at all about his face. He don t think they either of 
 them saw him, or took much notice of him if they did, for there 
 were high words going on between them, and the quarrel had 
 begun, no doubt. He can t testify to anything he heard em 
 say, so I take it he was pretty badly scared, and made all the 
 hurry he knew how. There hasn t been a trace found as yet ; 
 but they re working hard for it, I can tell you. The town 11 
 turn out to a man before they let him go ; for though Harry 
 Gilmore wasn t any great credit to it ever, folks don t like to feel 
 there can be murder done so near their doors and nobody be 
 found to swing for it." 
 
 The man slapped the newspaper down again upon his open 
 palm, and moved away towards the window of the office, open 
 now for the distribution of the mail. Almost all the people 
 waiting had been served and had gone away before Christine rose 
 from her seat and went up to the window. The clerk was a 
 young man who had rather a chivalrous admiration for the 
 beautiful young lady who came every day for her father s 
 letters, and he noticed with concern that she looked pale and 
 ill. Nobody else noticed it, though, and she went home through
 
 TWO YEARS LATER. 309 
 
 an unfrequented street and across the churchyard, and up to 
 her own room, without meeting any of the household. 
 
 " You are late, Christine," said her father, gently, as she 
 entered the room with the papers in her hand. 
 
 " A little, perhaps," she said, bending down to kiss him. 
 She read the papers through, and sat by him with her work in 
 her hand as usual. 
 
 What long hours, though, they were till Dr. Catherwood 
 came and took her place and left her at liberty to be alone 
 awhile. She always left the room a few minutes after he 
 entered it ; to-day he looked at her a little anxiously, but she 
 avoided his eye, and went out. When he came down stairs 
 after his hour with Dr. Upham, he went towards the parlor 
 with some idea that he might find her there. But she was 
 occupied with visitors, and he merely said a few words of 
 commonplace and went away. 
 
 There were a great many visitors at the Parsonage that day ; 
 some who came from the ordinary impulses of idleness, of 
 civility, of kindness; some who came on business, and one or 
 two who came for pure gossip, and to talk over the crime and 
 horror of the day. All, from whatever motives they came, 
 talked of it, and Christine felt as if she should go mad and be 
 Phoebe Gilmore s maniac companion if they did not go away 
 and leave her, and cease their hideous conjecturing. The im 
 pression she gave to most of her visitors was, that she felt very 
 little interest in the affair in any way, and that she was rather 
 cold and quiet in her manners when any sort of gossip was 
 discussed. 
 
 In the afternoon when Dr. Catherwood came again he 
 seemed of a different mind, and did not seek an interview with 
 her. He saw that by this time she had heard the news, and 
 that his hope of telling it to her and softening the shock was 
 over. He stayed a long time with Dr. Upham that afternoon, 
 reading a new political pamphlet to him, and leaving him even
 
 310 TWO YEAES LATEK. 
 
 more than ever cheered and diverted by his visit. He passed 
 Christine on the stairs with his old half-affectionate, half-cheery 
 smile, and went out into the street with a haggard and suffer 
 ing face. 
 
 That evening the little Dean, nee Richfield, came and volun 
 teered to remain to tea. She had two or three more babies by 
 this time, and as they had a great many teeth to get among 
 them, and a great deal of croup and whooping-cough and 
 measles and fever to go through, she did not enjoy them quite 
 as much as she did the first one, and felt in fact a good deal 
 bored by having to stay at home so much and being waked up 
 so many times at night. She was very fond of coming to see 
 Christine and complaining of her troubles, as at first she had 
 been very fond of coming to her and boasting of her pleasures. 
 Christine was generally patience and gentleness itself with her ; 
 in fact, she was so sympathetic she really felt the little woman 
 was hardly used by fate in having such a host of duties to per 
 form for vvbcii she was no more fitted than a kitten. 
 
 i>ut this evening her puny, whining troubles seemed con 
 temptible to Christine ; she could not offer anything but silence 
 and endurance. She hoped that she would have thought it her 
 duty to go home early to the children ; but it was ten o clock 
 before she said anything about returning to her nurserv ,,,-es. 
 She had just rung the bell for her carriage and \va> putting on 
 her cloak, when it seemed to dawn upon ner that Christine 
 looked weary and unhappy. 
 
 " Now, Christine, dear," she said, " I am afraid that I have 
 bored you a little bit this evening. But really you can form 
 no idea what a life mine is; and^t seems very natural to us 
 married women to come to you unmarried ones, who have no 
 cares to weigh upon you, to get a little repose and quiet. My 
 dear, if you should ever marry, you will know what respon 
 sibilities life has ; you cannot have the least idea of it till 
 you do."
 
 TWO YEARS LATER. 311 
 
 "I suppose not," said Christine, with a faint smile. This 
 seemed such supreme irony, she could not say anything else. 
 
 As she went to the door with her and kissed her good-night 
 upon the steps, a boy came in at the gate and approached her 
 slowly. 
 
 " Do you want me ?" said Christine, as the boy stood looking 
 at her stupidly. " It is you, Tom ; is it ? Well, come up and 
 tell me what it is." 
 
 Mrs. Dean got into the carriage and drove off, and Tom came 
 up the steps. He was a dirty, ragged fellow, for whom Chris 
 tine had a kindness, and who had been a scholar of hers when 
 younger. He always seemed shy of her ; but he had a very 
 strong admiration for her, and thought in his clumsy way that 
 if she should ever touch his arm or his hair with that beautiful 
 white hand of hers, as she used to do sometimes, he should not 
 know how to conduct himself he should be so excited. He 
 never managed to speak above a whisper in her presence, and 
 looked so stupid and confused whenever she addressed him, that 
 she had almost given up saying anything to him beyond an 
 unsuggestive How are you, Tom ? with her involuntarily sweet 
 smile. He stood by the door struggling with his diffidence ; 
 suddenly he plunged his hand into his pocket, and, drawing out 
 a scrap of paper, held it towards her. 
 
 "You mustn t tell," he faltered, "that I brought it to you; 
 and I mustn t either, the man said." 
 
 " What man, Tom ?" said Christine, in a low tone, feeling 
 her limbs giving way beneath her, and resting her hand against 
 the door. 
 
 " The man down there," he said, pointing in the direction 
 of the mill-dam. " He crawled out of the woods and called 
 me. He s very bad, I guess. He told me to bring it to you, 
 and I mustn t ever tell." 
 
 All this was delivered in a thick whisper, with a choking of 
 the breath between the pauses.
 
 312 TWO YEARS LATER. 
 
 " And you never must," said Christine, laying her hand upon 
 his arm. " Promise me, Tom, you never will. I have always 
 liked you, and I believe you will do this thing for me." 
 
 " You needn t be afraid," he stammered, in a tremor of con 
 fusion, starting down the steps. 
 
 Christine went in the parlor to the light. Her heart was 
 throbbing frightfully, and there was a cloud before her eyes. 
 It was several minutes before she could read the few words 
 scrawled upon the paper. They were very few, and there was 
 no name ; there needed none ; she wanted no assurance who had 
 sent for her. She sat down, stunned and trembling, and tried 
 to be silent and to think. Her father s bell rang, and glancing 
 at the clock, she saw that the hour was past when she ordi 
 narily read prayers by his bed, and made the thousand minute 
 arrangements for the night which recur so monotonously in the 
 sick-room. 
 
 " You are late, Christine," her father said, for the second 
 time that day. His tone was very gentle and not reproachful ; 
 only one of surprise that she could possibly have failed to 
 anticipate him as she always did. 
 
 It was easy to say the prayers ; her whole soul was one wild 
 prayer ; but it was not so easy to spend the long hour that was 
 needful in the adjustment of the apartment for the night, in 
 the arrangement of innumerable meaningless details. When 
 at last she stooped to kiss him, he put his hand upon her head, 
 as he ever did, and said : 
 
 " Good-night, my child. God bless you always !"
 
 MIDNIGHT IN HARRY S OLD HOME. 313 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 MIDNIGHT IN HARRy s OLD HOME. 
 
 " In all the mansions of the house on high, 
 Say not that Mercy has not one for him." 
 
 HOLMES. 
 
 THE lamps were not burning in the streets of that night 
 
 at twelve o clock, for the moon was due, and it was not the 
 fault of the municipal rulers if it did not shine. Therefore it 
 was not surprising that of the four thousand souls in the town 
 not one had any knowledge of, or interest in, the slight figure 
 in the grey cloak that stole along in the thick shadow of the 
 houses through the least frequented streets and out into the 
 western suburbs, in the direction of the lonely mill. The town 
 had been growing since the night Julian was dragged senseless 
 out of the ice-covered pond, but it had grown away from it, 
 in another direction ; and all this road was as lonely and as un 
 frequented as it was then, when Christine, then as now, hurried 
 along it with a beating, anxious heart. She could hardly be 
 lieve the direction that the note had given her ; but the only 
 thing she could do was implicitly to follow it. The scene of 
 the murder was not the most probable place in which 
 to seek the murderer; perhaps this was the reason that she 
 had been told to come to the miller s house to meet him ; but it 
 was a terrible place of rendezvous were his nerves of iron 
 that he could bear it ! 
 
 She reached the limit of the fence that bounded the enclosure 
 of the old place, and paused to listen. No one was following her ; 
 
 14
 
 314 MIDNIGHT IN ii AERY S OLD HOME. 
 
 there was no sound but the rush of the water over the 
 
 dam 
 
 " The air was hushed and still and close 
 As a sick man s room, when he taketli repose 
 An hour before death." 
 
 She pushed her way through a broken part of the fence, 
 crossed the old garden rank weeds, dry and brittle, breaking 
 and crackling at every step. At last she found her way into 
 what had once been the centre path of the garden, where the 
 weeds were not so thick. She had avoided entering by the 
 gate in the front of the house, not only because she felt this 
 to be the more secret and safer way, but because she dreaded 
 the sight of the old well, where, not twenty-four hours before, 
 the brutal and revolting deed had been committed. She did 
 not know exactly where it stood ; it was long since she had 
 been in this enclosure, but she fancied the well stood at the 
 other side of the house, in view from the gate, if she had gone in 
 that way. 
 
 With a feeling of sudden horror, as if the scene of last night 
 had been brought before her eyes, she found herself confronting 
 the spot she had avoided. The long sweep of the well-pole was 
 visible dimly against the sky, standing like a giant gallows over 
 the broken curb and ruined well. The blood seemed to curdle 
 in her veins. She could hardly persuade herself she did not 
 hear the smothered cries for help ; the curses, the blows, 
 the deadly, fatal fall. 
 
 The scene in the old mill, on that beautiful August evening 
 years ago, mixed itself up strangely with this one of her 
 imagination. The thrill of horror with which she had watched 
 helplessly the struggle between the boys, the mingled sense of 
 relief and terror with which she had seen Julian triumph and 
 heard poor Ilarry fall, all these things came back to her as 
 vividly as if to-night s sun had just gone down upon them. 
 She had prayed n. articulately and instinctively for Julian s
 
 MIDNIGHT IN HAKBY s OLD HOME. 315 
 
 safety, as she watched them. And Julian had been saved for 
 this for shame and everlasting contempt for a crime which 
 made even her strong faith falter. Oh, that he instead of Harry 
 had gone down ! That the waves had closed over and choked 
 his breath before it had polluted his whole life with falsehood 
 that his soul in its comparative innocence had been taken away 
 from the evil to come ! How should she meet him how 
 touch the hand that had done such a fearful deed of wicked 
 ness ? 
 
 She turned her head away from the gloomy object that 
 stretched across her path, and hurried towards the house. 
 
 The neglected vines, that had nearly framed themselves 
 across the porch, had since the morning been rudely torn away 
 to afford entrance for men and officers who had searched it 
 from garret to cellar, and had gone away and pronounced it 
 undisturbed for months. As she pushed open the door softly 
 and made her way across the desolate kitchen, she thought of 
 poor Phoebe in her narrow cell, and Richard mouldering in his 
 lonely grave, and Harry lying above-ground for the last time 
 to-night, a murdered, mangled corpse. She remembered the 
 cheerful, well-kept room of old, the bright fire, the shining 
 window-panes, the father s easy content, the mother s thrift and 
 energy, the boy s beauty and health ; this was all surely some 
 frightful dream from which she should awake. 
 
 She made her way carefully across the room with outstretched 
 hands, feeling for the door that led up to the little kitchen 
 chamber. Her hand touched the latch ; she lifted it and began 
 to ascend the stairs where Harry s feet had climbed so often, 
 where Phoebe s energetic tread had so many times resounded. 
 She did not feel fear, but a dazzling, unsettling sense of horror 
 and of sin. 
 
 The room was bare of furniture, but several boxes stood in it, 
 and some rubbish lay upon the floor. The two dormer win 
 dows, open to the sky, admitted the faintest light) not much
 
 316 MIDNIGHT IN HABEY S OLD HOME. 
 
 more than enough to show Christine where she stood, and what 
 was within reach of her hand. A dark object in one corner 
 below the window moved; and yet, sure of it as she was, she 
 heard no sound. She dared not speak ; in fact, at that moment, 
 she could not have commanded voice enough to articulate a 
 word. She began to be afraid for herself, a thought that had 
 not crossed her mind before. There was some lirinw being in 
 
 O O 
 
 this room with her, this lonely, smothering place ; if it were 
 Julian, he would speak ; if it were he who had sent for her, he 
 would know that she was come. 
 
 Several minutes passed. The dark object in the corner, 
 which Christine now distinctly discerned to be the figure of a 
 man half-raised from the floor, did not stir a hair s breadth. 
 
 This figure seemed to her so much larger than she remem 
 bered Julian ; she only longed for strength to go away ; for 
 when she tried to move, she found herself in a helpless and 
 benumbed condition. The weakness of her limbs had come 
 very suddenly, with the first doubt of Julian s presence and the 
 first throb of personal fear. At last she made a few hurried, 
 uncertain steps towards the door, and then, through the giddy 
 and wild fluttering of her nerves that almost deafened her, she 
 heard her name pronounced. She stopped, and steadying 
 herself by grasping the post of the door by which she stood, 
 turned back her head and listened. After a moment it was 
 repeated in a husky and strange voice. She looked towards 
 the corner ; with a groan the man had sunk down again upon 
 the floor, and all was silent. 
 
 ******* 
 
 An hour later, Christine was standing alone upon the 
 porch of Dr. Catherwood s cottage. A light was shining 
 through the half-closed shutters of the little parlor, and, putting 
 aside the vines and looking in, she saw Dr. Catherwood pacing 
 up and down the room. She could not see his face, for the 
 light was low ; she could only conjecture from his restless
 
 MIDNIGHT IN HAERY S OLD HOME. 317 
 
 movements that some deep anxiety was keeping him from 
 sleep. He started as she touched the window lightly, and 
 coming forward quickly, opened it. 
 
 The window was a casement that opened to the floor ; he 
 gave a look of surprise as he beheld Christine standing before 
 it. She entered hastily, and, pushing the window to behind 
 her, said, in the breathless voice of one who has an overpower 
 ing fear and wish, and who forgets effects and preliminaries and 
 explanations : 
 
 " There is not a moment to be lost it will be daylight soon 
 some place must be found he is hiding in the miller s 
 house and that is madness, you must see." 
 
 "You forget I do not know what you are talking of," 
 said her companion, huskily. 
 
 Christine saw on his face the look of sickening pain that she 
 had seen when she told him of Julian s theft ; he must have 
 said this only to gain time. She knew that, as well as this, 
 was no surprise to him ; but it seemed as if the certainty drove 
 home a stab that staggered him. 
 
 " You do not guess ?" she said with a shudder, sinking down 
 into a chair. "Oh, do not make me tell you it is too awful." 
 
 " No, you need not tell me," he said, turning from her and 
 walking once or twice across the floor. Christine bowed her 
 face down upon the table before her and burst into tears. 
 
 "Christine," whispered her companion, bending over her, 
 struck with remorse at his own share in this, having made her 
 speak when he should have sustained her and forgotten him 
 self. " Christine, poor child ! forgive me ; I know it all. I 
 want your help you must not give way restrain yourself, 
 and let me tell you what to do there is no time to lose." 
 
 " No, no there was no time to lose, but I have lost it. I 
 cannot do anything I have come to the end of my endurance 
 I I am worse than helpless I have no strength no mind 
 no thought."
 
 318 MIDNIGHT IN H AERY S OLD HOME. 
 
 It was too true, her strength and fortitude had given way, 
 and she was helpless; she had staggered under her terrible 
 burden, till, throwing it into stronger hands, she had sunk down 
 fainting and undone. Dr. Catherwood stooped over her with a 
 tenderness that was almost agony ; he pressed his lips upon her 
 hair, and grasped her slender wrists, and tried to draw her 
 hands back from her face, reassuring and comforting her with 
 broken words of endearment and of sympathy. At last the 
 paroxysm of grief passed, and exhausted and almost fainting, 
 her head fell back upon his shoulder and her eyes closed. That 
 poor, tear-stained, pale, and wretched face it wrung his heart to 
 look down at it. He folded his arms about her, and carrying 
 her to a sofa, laid her gently on it. For a few moments he 
 thought that it was worse than fainting; he forgot the terrible 
 hurry and the coming daylight in his anxiety to feel th e beating 
 of her heart again, and see the light of consciousness in her 
 half-closed eyes. At last she opened them and fixed them 
 on him. 
 
 " Go to him," she whispered. " He is wounded he is very 
 ill, and needs you." 
 
 " I will go at once," he answered, rising ; " and, Christine, 
 try to dismiss all anxiety for him if you can. I will save him 
 if he can be saved."
 
 A DEATH-BED. 319 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 A DEATH-BED. 
 
 " Quls talia fando 
 
 Temperet & lacrymis ?" 
 
 VlEG. JEN. IL 6. 
 
 IT was a dark, still night again ; the third terrible and oppres 
 sive night since this new trial had begun. In the long room 
 that faced the parlor, in Dr. Catherwood s little house, Christine 
 sat by the bedside of Julian, watching what she knew, and 
 what Dr. Catherwood knew, were his last moments. He had 
 sent Harry into eternity, but Harry had sworn with his dying 
 breath he should follow him before many days were over. 
 
 It had been a fierce and desperate reckoning between them. 
 None ever knew the chance word or threat that had lighted the 
 fatal quarrel. Harry had fallen, the victim as ever, but had 
 left his revenge assured. Stubborn, silent, Julian was meeting 
 his fate. His sufferings were so great there was no chance to 
 talk to him of preparation ; all that could be done was to alle 
 viate them as far as practicable and save the moments for him, 
 if possibly at the end there might be some quiet for repentance. 
 He had suffered great agony in the removal to where he now 
 was ; it had been accomplished, though, with entire secresy and 
 safety, and no one guessed, save the woman who was Dr. 
 Catherwood s only servant, that the open, smiling, pleasant cot 
 tage held the murderer whom all the town were hunting for. 
 Christine had come down at night, across the fields, and had 
 not been seen by any one, and had gone back in the grey 
 dawn before there was a waking soul in .
 
 320 A DEATH-BED. 
 
 This enforced stillness and darkness and secresy made the sick 
 room doubly awful ; the sight of Julian s sufferings, and the 
 certainty of their end, would have made it terrible enough, but 
 the constant fear that disgrace and punishment might invade it, 
 added to its gloom a thousand shades of blackness. 
 
 It was eleven o clock. The room was still as if vacant, save 
 "for the labored and irregular breath of the sufferer on the bed ; 
 Christine, with one arm beneath his pillow, knelt beside him, 
 trying to ease the agony of his respirations by a change of 
 attitude ; Dr. Catherwood, with his hand upon the wrist that 
 was lying on the coverlet relaxed and almost pulseless, was 
 looking in his face with keen and breathless scrutiny ; the 
 woman beside them held the shaded lamp so that it fell upon 
 his features. 
 
 There was no fear now of troubling him by its glare ; the 
 blindness of death was creeping fast over his open eyes the 
 dimness of the dark prison was already closing round his senses. 
 The great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead and 
 upon his lips ; a harsh expression of suffering settled round his 
 mouth, a livid color spread itself over his face ; there was no 
 room to doubt, the dissolution of soul, and body was at hand. 
 Sinning soul and polluted body, the one to be hurried into high 
 and irrevocable eternity, the other to be laid in the corrupting 
 grave waiting for the resurrection of condemnation, the reward 
 of shame and everlasting contempt the inheritance of those 
 who have despised salvation ; and not one prayer, not one 
 moment for thought and retrospect and penitence only the 
 dreadful struggle, only dying, revolting, tortured nature. 
 Christine had seen one death-bed before; how many features 
 were repeated here ; how much of that hopeless scene came 
 back to add to the gloom of this ! 
 
 Presently, across the darkness of the room (for, excepting 
 when the light of the shaded lamp fell upon the bed, there was 
 utter darkness), there came the gleam of a lantern past the
 
 A DEATH-BED. 321 
 
 window, left open to give air to the suffocating sufferer, and the 
 stillness was broken by the sound of steps upon the walk out 
 side, and men s voices, and a pause before the door. 
 
 The thrill that this disturbance gave to those within was 
 indescribable. A moment before, the awe was of another and 
 a grander kind ; the thought of eternity, even in its form of 
 dread, ennobles the mind ; this sudden shock of human fear, 
 of worldly panic, of the commonplace and tangible, rushing in 
 upon the unknown and the vast, created a reaction that was 
 very painful. Dr. Catherwood started to his feet and motioned 
 Rebecca to the door. Christine felt that the tremor that 
 passed through her communicated some dim idea of danger to 
 the dying boy whom she supported. She felt his breath choke 
 for a moment; he raised his head. The woman had taken the 
 lamp with her in her alarm. Dr. Catherwood had followed her 
 quickly to the door ; they were both outside it now, parleying 
 with the new corners. Christine was alone in darkness with 
 the dying. She felt him sinking back upon her heavily. He 
 gasped : 
 
 "They re coming after me they re here. Christine, you 
 mustn t leave me you must save me." 
 
 There was a spasmodic movement a sudden clenching of 
 the hands, a sudden relaxation ; the head fell back, the breath 
 came with a low, wailing gasp, and then came no more. Chris 
 tine s shoulder pillowed a lifeless corpse ; the awful moment of 
 mystery had come in the silence and darkness while she alone 
 was by him. 
 
 She knelt, chilled with awe, while the human voices outside 
 mixed strangely with the unearthly voices that her soul seemed 
 to hear in the dark, still air above her where the last breath of 
 the dead boy floated. " Christine, you must save me." 
 " Promise me, promise me on your knees that you will live for 
 him." Helena s dying, livid face and white attenuated hands 
 seemed so actual and so vivid to her that she felt every moment 
 
 14*
 
 322 A DEATH-BED. 
 
 a horror of their touch. What was she saying now? welcom 
 ing her lost boy to his eternal woe. Bars, bars black aud huge 
 .across the deep blackness of the sky, seemed to have risen up to 
 keep those two lost souls apart. Christine s heart died with 
 fear, longing to turn away and not to see ; but the eyes of the soul 
 cannot be shut. She could not pray. The moments seemed 
 like days, while she was kneeling frozen into stone, fighting 
 away that vision. She could hear the steps of those who had 
 come in, on the floor above and through the hall. She knew 
 they were searching the house, looking for him whom she held 
 in her arms ; but that seemed the unreal, these faces gathering 
 blackness in the air above her seemed the real. 
 
 At last the spell was broken the door opened, and 
 Rebecca entered, bringing a dim light. Christine staggered to 
 her feet. The woman motioned her quickly to a door, opening 
 into a lobby, that stood half open. 
 
 "They insist on coming in," she said, hastily, taking her 
 place beside the bed, and drawing the light away so that it 
 should not fall upon it. 
 
 Christine mechanically obeyed her, and half drew the door 
 shut after her. The men from the hall entered by the other 
 door ; the foremost one was saying in a manner of apology : 
 
 " You know, Dr. Catherwood, this seems rather hard to be 
 intruding on you at a time like this ; but people will talk, 
 and since it had got round that there had been some one seen 
 coming out of here at night, why it seemed just as well to 
 satisfy them and go through the house. A man respected in 
 the town like you, Dr. Catherwood, of course don t fall under 
 any suspicion of harboring the criminal, but it might have 
 been without your knowledge, and you see " 
 
 " Of course ; I understand you," said Dr. Catherwood, in a 
 firm, low tone. " You have done perfectly right ; all the other 
 parts of the house are searched ; in this room, I will give you 
 my oath, there is no one but my son, now lying at the point of
 
 A DEATH-BED. 323 
 
 death, and the woman who is in attendance on him. If you can 
 spare me the pain of disturbing him by the search, I will thank 
 you ; if not, then let me ask you to make the time as short as 
 possible." 
 
 The men, touched by his tone and manner, and by the glance 
 they had of the figure on the bed in the dim and solemn light, 
 turned back and went into the hall, followed by Dr. Gather- 
 wood. They were talking to him as they paused in the lobby 
 into which Christine had retreated. She shrank into the 
 shade, and heard with bewildered incredulity their words and 
 those of Dr. Catherwood. One man, apparently the officer, for 
 he seemed to be the spokesman, was saying, as they approached 
 the lobby, that it was a disagreeable task, and he hoped Dr. 
 Catherwood had no ill feeling towards them for intruding ; he 
 only wanted to do his duty, and so he must ask him to repeat, 
 on oath, the statement he had made just then within. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood then repeated, on oath and with distinct 
 ness, that the room out of which they had just come, con 
 tained no one besides those named by him before his son, 
 Francis Catherwood, aged nineteen, recently returned from Ger 
 many, now lying dangerously ill of hsemorrhage ; and the woman, 
 Rebecca Alstan, employed in attendance on him. The man 
 bowed in silence and moved towards the door with his two 
 subordinates ; there was something in Dr. Catherwood s manner 
 that made further questioning impossible, official or personally in 
 quisitive ; he occupied a position among his townsmen that made 
 these petty officers feel their duty in this case an involuntary 
 impertinence. Whatever there was in Dr. Catherwood s state 
 ment that would have staggered them coming from a less 
 respected man, seemed unquestionable from him. 
 
 After a few words of rather clumsy condolence and apology, 
 they left the house; Rebecca started up from her position by 
 the bedside as she heard the outer door close, and hurried into 
 the hall ; Christine, half unconscious of what she did, went back
 
 324 A DEATH-BED. 
 
 into the room, standing in Rebecca s place at the head of the 
 bed, as if the poor wretch lying on it still needed an attendant. 
 Rebecca had left the light upon the table ; it was shining 
 faintly now upon the bed. 
 
 Dr. Catherwood entered from the hall, and stopped midway 
 in the room, for he saw the face upon the bed in its ghastly and 
 settled sleep. His expression had been very haggard and worn 
 before he caught that sight ; it changed slowly, very slowly, into 
 something worse and of deeper suffering. He almost staggered 
 to the bed, and, resting his hand upon the foot of it, gazed long at 
 the lifeless body. At last he raised his eyes and met Christine s 
 fixed upon him with the expression of a person just recovering 
 consciousness gaspingly, after a hideous dream. 
 
 " You do not mean," she said, almost in a whisper, with her 
 wide open eyes fixed upon him, " that what you told those men 
 is true ?" 
 
 " Yes, Christine," he answered in a hollow voice, leaning 
 forward, his hands clasped upon the foot of the bed. " It is 
 true that poor boy is mine your unhappy sister was my wife. 
 God forgive us both ! We were two children two wilful, wicked 
 children. We have gone through deep waters since those days." 
 
 The long, dead past seemed to have come back to him, some 
 sudden revelation of memory ; he leaned his head down in his 
 hands and was silent. When he looked up, Christine had 
 fallen on her knees beside the bed, and had hidden her face in her 
 hands ; but when he approached her, she started up and shrank 
 away from him. 
 
 " I want to go away from here," she said in a smothered, 
 agitated voice, making her way towards the door with trepida 
 tion. 
 
 " One word, Christine," he said, in a tone of supplication, 
 putting his hand out to stop her ; but she avoided him and was 
 gone before he could say another word. He turned back, sank 
 into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.
 
 DUST TO DUST. 325 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 DUST TO DUST. 
 
 " The slumberer s mound grows fresh and green, 
 
 Then slowly disappears ; 
 The mosses creep, the grey stones lean, 
 
 Earth hides his days and years ; 
 But long before the once loved name 
 
 Is sunk or worn away, 
 No lip the silent dust may claim 
 
 That pressed the breathing clay." 
 
 THE bell was tolling, " a slow set bell ;" the grey, dull November 
 afternoon was drawing to its close. The first sound of it had 
 fallen upon Christine s heart like a heavy, deadening blow ; she 
 was standing by her father s bedside when it began to ring, and 
 she started hurriedly to leave the room. 
 
 " Don t go away, my child," he said, feebly, reaching out his 
 hand. For two days he had been far weaker and worse than 
 Christine had ever seen him before. 
 
 " I will not go, father," she said, in a smothered voice, taking 
 his hand with a caress, and then going to the window. 
 
 This window overlooked the garden and the churchyard. 
 The leaves had fallen from the trees, and there was nothing to 
 hide the sight of the funeral train as it entered the gate and 
 paused at the church door, met by the priest in his white robes 
 with the open book in his hand. Christine stood leaning her 
 face against the pane and gazing at the solemn sight in stupefied 
 and dull despair. This double death, this strange truth and 
 apparent falsehood, bewildered her and made her uncertain of 
 all things save the terrors of eternity ; and on them her mind
 
 326 DUST TO DUST. 
 
 had dwelt till it had become benumbed. That bell that had 
 just stopped tolling, and had called so many people into 
 church, was acting its part in the great falsehood ; and the 
 minister, with the solemn words of burial on his lips, was help 
 ing to cover up the crime ; the coffin lid, the pall with its heavy, 
 mournful folds what brave and mocking hypocrisies they were ! 
 And yet, what was false, except the life in which for so many years 
 she had had part! That body, over whom the priest was say 
 ing holy words, was the body of the only son of him who 
 walked behind it with such a haggard face. The plate that 
 bore the words 
 
 " FRANCIS CATHERWOOD, 
 
 Born at Strasbourg, Oct. 19th, 18, 
 
 Died at , November 17th, 18 ," 
 
 told the truth ; the lips that had said Julian Upham all these 
 years had told the lie. 
 And yet, while 
 
 "All the congregation sang 
 A Christian psalm for him," 
 
 while consecrated ground was broken to receive his body, his 
 soul black with the crime of murder, stained with a thousand 
 sins of inclination and of choice was far beyond the reach of 
 prayers. The kind friends of him who was the only mourner, 
 fancied they stood beside the coffin of a stratiger, one long 
 absent from his father s home, only returned to it to die ; when, 
 in reality, its lid covered a face that had been familiar to old 
 and young in the town, before sin and suffering had effaced the 
 last traces of youth and fairness from it. 
 
 The father s high name and honor had been the son s shield, 
 dying and in death. No word of doubt or of suspicion went 
 abroad ; that Dr. Catherwood had a son living, had been a 
 married man, excited wonder. But there had been nothing in 
 his life among them to justify any one in making his conceal-
 
 DUST TO DUST. 327 
 
 ment of it a reproach or scandal. Generous of sympathy and 
 kindness to others, he had always maintained a reserve about 
 that which concerned himself and his past history, that had 
 rather given the impression he might some day appear in a 
 different light. No one could blame him that he had chosen 
 to be silent when he had never made any pretence of openness. 
 The explanation that he gave to the few friends who came to 
 him in this trial, was very simple and concise, and meant for the 
 ear of the world, which in due course it reached. 
 
 This son of an early marriage had been separated from him 
 for years by unavoidable circumstances ; had lived among the 
 family of his mother, who had died while he was still a child, 
 and had earnestly requested he should be brought up by 
 them, lie had received word from them to meet the boy, who 
 arrived from Germany, and was brought to his father s house only 
 to die. lie had inherited pulmonary weakness from his mother, 
 and aggravating circumstances had hastened the disease. 
 
 However much further friends and gossips desired to go, they 
 never ventured beyond that limit, for Dr. Catherwood under 
 stood, better than most men, governing conversation, and hold 
 ing the minds of those with whom he talked in check. It is 
 rather a delicate matter to ask any man who his wife was, who 
 has been dead a dozen or so of years, and what the aggravating 
 circumstances were which hastened his child s decease. From 
 these materials, which were strictly all that any one was pos 
 sessed of, there was built up a theory, which, in a little while, 
 took the proportions of a family history, and which sounded 
 very much as follows : Dr. Catherwood, travelling abroad when 
 very young, had seen and fallen in love with a beautiful young 
 German girl, the daughter of a watchmaker, who had married 
 him, borne him one child, and died, requesting on her death-bed 
 that her child might be brought up in her own country and by 
 her 6wn family. Dr. Catherwood, too generous to disregard 
 her wish, and too refined to live in the watchmaker s family
 
 328 DUST TO DUST. 
 
 himself, had settled a handsome annuity upon the child and 
 given him up to them. The " aggravating circumstances " 
 were variously stated. Some said the watchmaker had proved 
 a villain, and had maltreated the boy while he benefited by the 
 annuity ; others suspected that the boy himself had not turned 
 out well, and that he had been sent to the father to reform 
 when his health was deeply injured by his reckless habits; 
 while it was imagined by some that the voyage had been a very 
 Irving one, and that the lad s ignorance and inexperience had 
 subjected him to much exposure by the way. 
 
 All this was circulated freely in the town, and the result 
 was, more interest than ever felt in the favorite doctor, and 
 more people present at the church on the day of his son s 
 burial than often came together for a week-day service. Indeed 
 this new topic almost superseded that which ten days ago had. 
 been so absorbing, and poor Harry seemed in the way to be 
 forgotten and unavenged. People had settled down into the 
 belief that the murder had been committed by some rough 
 sailor comrade, hanging about him with the hope of plundering 
 him of the wages of his last long voyage, and escaped beyond 
 pursuit hours before the murder was discovered. Everything 
 proper and energetic seemed to have been done, and, as yet, 
 with no result; the story grew to be an old one, and people 
 lost their zest about it. They grew to be certain, in their own 
 minds, that the murderer was hundreds of miles out at sea by 
 this time, little suspecting that they had buried him with honors 
 in the churchyard of St. Philip s. 
 
 "For whom do they ring that bell, my child?" said the old 
 Rector, feebly, turning his head upon the pillow in the direction 
 of the window. 
 
 " Don t you remember, father," returned Christine, in a 
 husky voice, "I told you about Dr. Catherwood s son ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I recollect," he answered, with a sigh ; " I am
 
 DUST TO DUST. 329 
 
 always giving you the trouble to repeat ; my memory is sharing 
 the debility of my frame, I see. But this son it does not 
 surprise me. I always believed he had a history ; he never 
 showed a disposition to be candid. Poor Catherwood ! I doubt 
 not there has been suffering he interested me deeply from the 
 first. He has such an appreciation of domestic pleasures and 
 such strong powers of affection, that it must have been some 
 thing very stern that kept him from this boy, just at the age to 
 be a solace and pleasure to him. Ah ! It seems to explain to 
 me the deep interest that he always took in our poor Julian." 
 
 Dr. Upham s voice sank ; Christine knew he would say no 
 more. Whenever any allusion to his grandson escaped him, it 
 was followed by a sudden and painful silence. 
 
 This silence Christine broke by a low, involuntary moan ; 
 she had listened to the deep, solemn roll of the organ, and she 
 almost fancied that she heard the full responses of the people 
 and the strong voice of the minister as he pronounced the 
 prayers ; presently there came a lull and then a tramp of feet 
 along the aisle, and they came out from the side door of the 
 church, following the corpse to the broken sod and the fresh 
 gravel heap below Helena s grave. Christine sank down on her 
 knees and tried to follow the prayers ; it was not till the grating 
 sound struck her ear, of the ropes against the coffin and the 
 scattered gravel rattling on it, as they lowered it down into the 
 earth, that she gave that low cry, and shuddering and sobbing, 
 hurried out of the room. 
 
 That poor sinner whom they were burying out of sight, was 
 her little orphaned charge, her darling Julian the yellow-haired 
 boy whom she had held tight against her heart while they 
 buried his poor mother, not ten feet from where they were laying 
 him down now. All the sin, the pollution, the punishment, 
 was forgotten ; the natural human grief was breaking out, and 
 sobbing and shuddering upon her bed, Christine was in a safer and 
 beter condition of mind than she had been for many days before.
 
 A LETTEK. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVL 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 "If In his cheek unholy blood 
 
 Burned for one youthful hour, 
 Twas but the flushing of the bud 
 That blooms a milk-white flower." 
 
 HOLMES. 
 
 Two days passed ; the Rector wondered that Dr. Catherwood 
 had not yet remembered him and overcome his grief enough to 
 pay him his accustomed visit; Christine wondered how she 
 should meet him, and what the next step must be. She did 
 not conjecture very much about it. Even now she had the 
 feeling, from long habit, of depending upon him for placing 
 their relations rightly. 
 
 But every ring at the bell, every foot upon the stair, gave 
 her a strange sensation of excitement, and brought the question 
 to her mind, "Can I meet him calmly now?" and every assur 
 ance that it was not he, found her a little weaker and less 
 nerved to meet him. 
 
 Dr. Upham needed him very much ; he had become de 
 pendent on his daily visit, and his two last nights had been 
 very restless ; he said more than once to Christine that he 
 thought it would be best to send down a messenger to the 
 cottage. 
 
 " Wait an hour or two ; see if he does not come," she said, 
 soothingly ; and in that way she pleaded off till twilight. 
 
 She had gone out into the hall for the purpose of summoning 
 Ann to go down to the Doctor s cottage, when she met Ann 
 with a letter in her hand.
 
 A LETTER. 331 
 
 "Dr. Catherwood s man just brought this for you, Miss 
 Christine," she said, and Christine turned silently back into her 
 own room, wondering that she had not thought that this would 
 be the way before ; it was very certain to her, before she read 
 the letter, that she should not be* called upon to meet Dr. 
 Catherwood again. She lit a candle slowly, and sat down to 
 read it at a table upon which there were pens and ink and a 
 desk full of other letters. There was no fire in the room and it 
 was very chilly, but she did not feel it at all ; she felt burning 
 hot, and her hands were feverish and unsteady as she broke 
 the seal : 
 
 " No doubt you have expected before this some explanation 
 from me, some palliating story of the long hypocrisy that has 
 just come to an end. I have not much to tell you that you do 
 not know or may not guess. I do not anticipate working any 
 change in your feelings towards me, but I will go through the 
 form of telling you that I do not blame myself as much as you 
 blame me, and that I am certain some time you will look back 
 to this and say your horror and aversion were misplaced. Your 
 sister lies dead and silent in the churchyard near your home, 
 Christine; I shall henceforth be as silent to you and be further 
 off than she. I do not accuse her. I do not reproach the 
 dead ; she has put on immortality, and I am only now a mor 
 tal man ; the most holy Judge eternal will decide between 
 us in the world to come. It is years since I have had a vin 
 dictive feeling in my heart. Forgiveness has been more the 
 habit of my mind than the expression of my lips; but with lip 
 and pen, and in every mode of reparation possible to me, I 
 have committed myself to it. I would have died, for her boy. 
 I lived for him, as you know, though he hated me as if his 
 mother s soul were animating him. Sometimes I wonder how 
 it could have been, when I loved that baby with sueh tenderness, 
 when I loved the mother with such passion.
 
 332 A LETTER. 
 
 "But that was long ago. The farther I go back, the more 
 self-reproach there is, and it is right you should hear that. 
 
 " I was not twenty when I married ; we were both children. 
 Helena s character, if I can give it to you dispassionately, was 
 a singularly unhappy one to be committed to the life that lay 
 before us. She was totally without discipline ; and she had 
 lived in a -home of religious faith without imbibing a single 
 principle of religion. I cannot account for it ; as far as I ever 
 saw into her heart, it was all heathen. When I first began to 
 realize her after we were married, I fancied her bright and 
 volatile and without strong feelings. There was a bubble and 
 sparkle of vanity and coquetry upon the surface that made me 
 think the tide was shallow. But it was the bubble and sparkle 
 of a maelstrom ; a stronger nature I have never seen ; a strength 
 of selfishness and a power of hatred that I have never met in 
 man or woman since ; and a power of love, too, which her 
 absorbing passion for her child revealed. But I did not know 
 that it was there ; I never was able to call it out. I think she 
 fancied that she loved me when we married ; my affection 
 for her was unbounded, but it was jealous and exacting, like a 
 boy s affection. She never understood me; her love had the 
 very briefest existence. We had not been a month in the gay 
 society of Paris before I found she was dissatisfied, wearied by 
 the hours we spent together, and always seeking for excitement, 
 and sometimes excitement not innocent and justifiable for a 
 young wife to seek. The discovery was maddening to me, 
 undisciplined as herself, and loving her with an unreasoning 
 love. 
 
 " There begins the sin. I have a terrible recollection of the 
 storm that succeeded the night that she first openly defied my 
 jealousy and showed me her indifference. My conduct after 
 that justified all she could have said about it. I was a madman. 
 I made every moment of her life a torture to her, as min-e was 
 to me. I forbade her society. I watched her day and night ;
 
 A LETTER. 333 
 
 but a word from her would have changed all. She never spoke 
 it, hardening herself against me, and, with all a woman s keen 
 devices, goading and taunting and tormenting me. I think she 
 hated me beyond all power of language to express, and I loved 
 her, even then, to madness and folly. 
 
 " That was a terrible honeymoon such conflicts make deep 
 marks upon the soul ; we threw the whole strength of our 
 youth into the battle, and that first year added ten to both our 
 lives. I never saw beauty fade so rapidly as hers ; and, for 
 myself, people looked at me with wonder when I went into the 
 world making a pretence of nonchalance and gaiety. I look 
 back to this insane and sinful time with unspeakable remorse. 
 There came a little truce to this at last ; before I was twenty, 
 one I was a father, and, in her danger and her suffering, Helena 
 instinctively turned to my love for support. I fancied that I 
 had won her back ; the days were full of perfect bliss spent 
 beside her and her baby in that quaint old town, where the bells 
 rang softly day and night over the quiet houses. 
 
 " After that I cease to blame myself, for she knew I loved 
 her, and was ready to give up everything for her and for the 
 child. She could have done anything with me then ; I had 
 forgotten all, though she had not. With the return of health and 
 strength, there came the old distrust and coldness the first 
 mixing with the world showed me my happiness had been 
 nothing but a dream. But I had learned wisdom, and I deter 
 mined to forbear. For my child s sake as well as for my own, I 
 resolved to be gentle with her, and to win her affection by my 
 constant care for her. But the love that we do not return has 
 little value for us : she was too careless of my wishes, too 
 anxious for admiration, not to outrage my feelings every mo 
 ment. She loved her child with such a jealous fondness, that 
 she resented every caress I gave him, and fancied that the 
 change in me towards her resulted solely from my desire to 
 keep him with me. It was impossible for her to forget ; every
 
 334 A LETTER. 
 
 angry word I had ever spoken, I believe, lived in her mind dis 
 tinctly to the moment of her death. It is useless to give you 
 the details of that which followed ; she had evil advisers ; there 
 was wrong on both sides; she had never understood me; she 
 never could forgive ; she left me. You may have heard some 
 of the troubles that succeeded that. I was human ; I had not 
 yet learned self-control, and the child was mine as well as hers. 
 I do not blame myself for the steps I took, though events have 
 proved them to have been unwise. The law gave him to me, 
 and then followed the years of banishment and concealment 
 that cost her her health and comfort and respectability, killed 
 the last throb of love I felt for her, and destroyed the last hope 
 of rescuing the child from her influence. 
 
 "Many years before I found him here in , I had 
 
 given him up in intention to her. I doubt whether I could 
 have had the heart to force him from her even if my search had 
 been successful at the first ; but I longed so to see him, to hold 
 him in my arms once again, that for three years after I lost 
 sight of them I gave myself up to the pursuit. 
 
 " A fortune came to me from Virginia, burdened with the 
 condition of taking the testator s name. That aided me in de 
 stroying the traces of my former condition. How successful I 
 was in the change is proved by the many quiet and unsuspected 
 years I have spent in . 
 
 " The excitement of travel and constant change of scene had 
 deadened somewhat the sharpness of my regrets and longings, 
 and the philosophy of the Divine Benefactor had emptied my 
 heart of the last taint of bitterness, when I so strangely found 
 myself with my boy in my arms beside his mother s grave. It 
 was long before I could determine how to meet this strange 
 emergency whether to claim the boy and take him from you, 
 as I had every right to do, or leaving him with you, to declare 
 myself, which I knew was tantamount to another separation from 
 him, for a few days had served to show me the light in which
 
 A LETTER. 3-15 
 
 the boy s father was regarded, and the bitter rejection that his 
 claims would have received. Gentle as you are, Christine, I 
 had a feeling that you would have had no mercy for your 
 sister s execrated husband, and the result has shown me that I 
 was not wrong. 
 
 " I hated this hypocrisy. I began it with a regard only for 
 your happiness and the peace of your father s old years. I 
 doubted, from month to month, whether I was equal to the 
 sacrifice. Finally it came to be no sacrifice, and the greatest 
 dread of my life became that I must some time let you know 
 to whom you had given your confidence and kindness. It be 
 came a tangled web it had better never have been begun. 
 
 "You know the rest. You can judge whether in any other 
 position I could have done my duty more fully to the boy ; 
 whether by outraging his dead mother s wishes, taking him 
 from the home where there seemed the most promise of bene 
 fiting him, tearing him from the love of one better and ten 
 derer to him than his mother, I could have done a juster and 
 wiser thing. It would have been easier to myself, happier for 
 me in a thousand ways ; what it would have been for him, I 
 have not sight clear enough to determine. 
 
 " So let me leave this painful subject, never, probably, to be 
 revived again in words, for I owe no explanation to any other 
 human being. I leave it in your hands to say what may seem 
 wise to you to Dr. Upham. If you think best not to disturb 
 his few remaining moments of life by a shock so great as this 
 would be, you may present my departure to him as the result 
 of complications occasioned by my son s death ; and you may 
 say to him that nothing save the necessity of instant departure 
 from these scenes would have made it possible for me to leave 
 thus abruptly a friend so valued. 
 
 " I have longed to see his face once more, but I have judged 
 it best (as you will not find it difficult to understand) to end 
 my connexion with your house at once. In saying such a
 
 336 A LETTER. 
 
 farewell as this is, I cannot feel that it is ended without revert 
 ing a moment to our past relations a thing which under other 
 circumstances would, I know, have seemed unwarrantable ; but 
 you will understand this to be said without presumption, and 
 with the calmness of a man who feels his part in life is ended, 
 and who judges dispassionately of what has gone before, and 
 knows that there is nothing to come after. 
 
 " I have no doubt you have long seen reason to feel thankful 
 that you kept faith with Julian s mother. Your ardent and 
 childlike affection for me deceived you ; I have not been blind 
 to the change that has come, nor could I have wished it other 
 wise. I have not one reproach to make, I have no feeling of 
 bitterness. You were a child, and you did not understand 
 yourself; I should have been wiser, and estimated more truly 
 the emotion you evinced. To have hoped that that young 
 feeling would have outlived years of silence and the shock of 
 such a discovery as this, would have been folly. I have not 
 been disappointed, for my judgment warned me that it would 
 be so, with only one exception : I was not prepared for what 
 your face told me when you left me. I had fancied there would 
 be a struggle, that past feelings of kindness would have revived 
 their force for the moment. But and it is the only wrong in 
 my whole life of which I feel any sting if I had any claim 
 to talk of forgiveness towards you, I would say, I forgave your 
 unspoken resentment, as I know you have, ere this, forgiven 
 me all the unintentional evil which I have brought into your life. 
 
 " I thank Heaven that with me disappears the last link that 
 connected your life with the sins and misfortunes of those who 
 have gone. I feel a satisfaction in remembering your youth, 
 and your still fresh capacities for happiness. You are free now ; 
 you have borne the yoke of duty with a most perfect heroism. 
 God bless you, and all who may make you happy. 
 
 "EDWARD CATHERWOOD."
 
 A JUNE TWILIGHT. 337 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 A JUNE TWILIGHT. 
 
 "Was never payne but it had joye at last 
 In the fayre morrowe." 
 
 IT was a soft June evening, almost twilight; but .the fading of 
 June days is so gradual, it is difficult to say where day ends 
 and night begins. Christine had been leaning long over the 
 rough bridge under which the mill-stream rushed, listening to 
 the monotonous melody, and watching the darkening of the 
 water as the sunset died away. But she thought little of the 
 water and of the sunset ; she was struggling with herself pride 
 and reason against the yearning of her heart and the clamor 
 of an hourly growing misery. 
 
 Her father was dead ; home was now lonely, lonely beyond 
 expression ; and the silent months had gone on without bringing 
 her any news of Dr. Catherwood. She had written to him 
 when her father died, and had sent for Rebecca and committed 
 the letter to her care. The woman did not know his address, 
 might not know it for months to come, but if she found it out 
 she would forward it to him. She was grim and silent, and 
 intercourse with her was always personally painful to Christine. 
 The poor girl asked her faintly to let her know if she should 
 hear from him, and the woman went away saying something 
 below her breath, that might or might not be a promise. 
 
 Christine hoped it was, and for months lived upon the hope. 
 She often passed the cottage and looked wistfully in at its closed 
 windows, hoping to catch sight of Rebecca somewhere about 
 
 15
 
 338 A JUNE TWILIGHT. 
 
 the house or garden ; but Rebecca was never to be seen, and 
 from no one else was there any hope of hearing anything. Dr. 
 
 Catherwood was not forgotten in , but no one was in 
 
 correspondence with him ; no one knew anything more than 
 that he was travelling in Europe, and seldom if ever wrote 
 to . 
 
 Anxiety often reaches its climax without any perceptible 
 acceleration from circumstances. That day Christine found 
 herself more heavy-hearted than ever, and that evening she 
 felt ready to endure any mortification and humiliation rather 
 than not hear from Rebecca what she knew of Dr. Catherwood. 
 Her resolution taken, she hurried across the dam, and did not 
 stop till she reached the gate that led to the cottage. If she 
 paused before opening it, it was only because her hand trembled 
 so she could not lift the latch. The twilight had grown pretty 
 thick, and she could only see, as she went down the path, that 
 the windows were dark as ever, and the porch overgrown with 
 untended vines. Her black dress brushed against the shrubs 
 and weeds that had crept into the path, and the long grass hid 
 the flower-beds that used to make the little garden bright. 
 
 She hurried round the corner of the house ; there were a 
 good many trees standing close to it, and it seemed very dark. 
 A side entrance stood open : she knocked faintly ; no one 
 answered; again, and after a moment of silence, she went in. 
 Half way through the passage, a door opened opposite her, 
 and she paused. It was Rebecca, who had heard her and was 
 coming from the sitting-room which she occupied now alto 
 gether, a small nondescript apartment opening out of the 
 dining-room. 
 
 " Who is it ?" she said, in a voice that made Christine want 
 to be nobody. But she made an effort and said who she was, 
 and then added, after a silence : 
 
 " I came to know to ask that is did you ever send my 
 letter to Dr. Catherwood ?"
 
 A JUKE TWILIGHT. 339 
 
 The woman said she had, and was horribly silent again. By 
 this time Christine was a little more under the influence of her 
 anxiety, and a little less under the influence of her shyness. 
 
 " I want to know if you have heard from him ?" she said. 
 
 Rebecca probably looked at her, but it was so dark she could 
 not see her ; her tone was very disagreeable as she said : 
 
 " Heard from him ? About what ?" 
 
 "About himself," said Christine, a little impatiently. "I 
 asked you to let me know if you heard from him, and you knew 
 I was anxious." 
 
 " That s your mistake ; I didn t know anything of the kind," 
 she returned, tartly. 
 
 " Was he well where was he and had he received my let 
 ter?" questioned Christine. 
 
 " He hasn t written," returned the woman, coldly ; " so I 
 can t say whether he s got your letter or no." 
 
 " Then you haven t heard ?" she said, ready to cry. 
 
 " Well, one can hear without getting letters sometimes, can t 
 one ?" she retorted, with a sort of viciousness. 
 
 " From whom have you heard from him he is not ill ?" fal 
 tered Christine, in a voice that told even the spinster Rebecca 
 the story of her heart. 
 
 Rebecca made a motion, a gesture of pointing to the door, 
 to which Christine had her back. 
 
 She started and turned round quickly ; some one stood in the 
 doorway ; in her agitation she could not distinguish who, but a 
 sudden frightened, smothered feeling made her hurry to reach 
 the door and to get out into the air. That some one on the 
 threshold took her hand and held her fast. 
 
 " I came back last night," he said. " Don t go away from 
 me, Christine." 
 
 There was something in his tender, protecting, familiar voice 
 that rang through Christine s lonely heart ; she had no answer 
 but tears, and he would have liked none so well. He drew her
 
 340 A JUNE TWILIGHT. 
 
 to him, and laid her head upon his shoulder, holding her hand 
 against his lips and whispering his tender love. 
 
 Poor Christine ! The fight was all over, and the day of 
 peace begun. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " Christine," said Dr. Catherwood, coming one day into the 
 room where his wife sat sewing alone in a sunny, white-cur 
 tained window, with a face as bright and soft in her solitude 
 as if she were hearing beautiful music or reading lovely verses. 
 " Christine, I have good news to tell you of Madeline, your 
 friend." 
 
 " Good news !" cried Christine, starting up. " Oh, I know ! 
 she is going to be married !" 
 
 " For shame, Christine," he said, with grave reproach in his 
 voice, though with something not quite accordant in his eyes. 
 " For shame as if there were no other good news could be 
 told about a woman. I expected something stronger-minded 
 of you. I shall punish you by not telling you a word more 
 of your friend to-day." 
 
 "Ah," pleaded Christine, "tell me. How can I wait? I 
 take it all back. She has turned composer author; she has 
 studied medicine is going to found a hospital. Only tell 
 me." 
 
 " No, not a word to-day. There is no use in questioning 
 me, remember." 
 
 THE END.
 
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