N84. 
 1874
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 Tf, 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
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 California State Library 
 
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 of the Lt'ijisliituro nn<l its officere during the session of the same, 
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 '^-^by^
 
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 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN," "AVILLION," "AGATHA'S HUSBAND/ 
 
 "THE HEAD OF THE FAMH^Y," "OLIVE," 
 
 *'THE OGILVIES," &c., &c. 
 
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 1874.
 
 
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 LOED 
 
 ?R 
 
 ERLISTOUN 
 
 fe^;S3rt . 
 
 A LOVE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "Jean," I said, "Lord Erlistoun is com- 
 ing." 
 
 "Is he?" said cousin Jean — not our cousin, 
 I should add, but we called her so for conven- 
 ience, to save telling the not-easy-to-be-told facts 
 concerning her and her poor father. 
 
 " Jane, my dear, is tliat jiiano viell in tune ? 
 Do see about it. And vrc must have the velvet 
 furniture uncovered to-day ; Lord Erlistoun's 
 coming." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'll remember, Mrs. Browne." 
 
 "Jean — oh, cousin Jean — Russell and I shall 
 miss the rook-shooting. It is to be put oft' till 
 Monday ; Lord Erlistoun's coming." 
 
 This last of the various interruptions made 
 Jean stop her practice. She was fond of the 
 two lads, and they of her. 
 
 " Never mind, Algernon. The young rooks 
 will have f<jur more meriy May days ; and after 
 all, I think I would rather see a worse fellow 
 than you shooting them." 
 
 " A worse fellow ? Eh ? Lord Erlistoun ?" 
 
 "Well, he may be ; I don't know him." 
 
 "Jane — my dear Jane !" She never would 
 remember to say "Jean." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Browne." But mischief was 
 too strong in the lass ; her merry eye caught 
 mine ; she repeated solemnly out of last week's 
 "Punch," which lay on the drawing-room ta- 
 ble, 
 
 " To II'Apsley 'oiise next day, 
 Drives lip a broosh and four, 
 A gracious Prince sits in that shay; 
 (I mention him witli Iwr !)," 
 
 Of course, I knew as well as Jean that one 
 of my good mother's few faults was a propensity 
 to "mention with hor" any member of our 
 British aristocracy. She had it, I have heard, 
 from the time when honest Thomas Brown be- 
 came clerk to Browne and Co., merchants, with 
 many a true word spoken in jest about tiic pos- 
 sibility of chan.;ing the final e, which was the 
 only thing in either his name or character that, 
 in his pngress upward, my father ever consent- 
 ed to alter. She was then Susan Steel, a young 
 milliner and dressmaker ; very pretty. As Mrs. 
 Browne, of Lythwaite Hall, mother of many 
 children — none now living but the three boys 
 and myself — she was often pretty still ; and she 
 took a pleasure — very excusable, considering all 
 
 the years she had kept herself neat and spruce 
 in cotton and linsey-woolseys — in making the 
 best of her good looks with handsome gowns. 
 
 She made the best, too, of every thing about 
 her — house and carriages, servants and plate — 
 even to "my sons at Cambridge," though I 
 often thought they all bothered her at times, es- 
 pecially the latter. Poor dear ! the only thing 
 she never could make the best of was me. 
 
 I was new to the splendors of Lythwaite 
 Hall. It was only lately that my father had 
 bouglit it, and settled down among the landed 
 gentry ; only lately — probably through his act- 
 ive labors in the Great Exhibition, which that 
 year mingled together all classes — that I had 
 heard of his having Lords on his visiting ac- 
 quaintance. I was not too pleased, moreover, 
 that any visitors should break in upon this, one 
 of my rare visits home, for I take a good while 
 to become accustomed to new people ; I did, 
 even to cousin Jean. Jean and I were good 
 friends now ; yes, the best of friends. 
 
 We had taken a long walk that very morning 
 — in the garden to the lily-of-the-valley bed, 
 then across the park by the trout stream, and 
 home by the rookeries, under the three horse- 
 chestnuts ; for Jean said, laughing, that when 
 her " ship came home," and she owned a park, 
 she would have it full of horse-chestnut trees. 
 I remember the saying, since it quite convinced 
 me that she and I had been, both in our speech 
 and our silence, carrying on trains of thought, 
 and plans for the future, as wide apart as the 
 Poles. 
 
 Our " ships" rarely do come home, or are 
 meant to come home, are they, cousin Jean ? 
 
 I am but a plain man, I know. There is no 
 poetry in me ; if there ever was, the Liverpool 
 docks and Liverpool 'Change beat it all out of 
 me nearly twenty years ago. Whether it ever 
 might revive depended upon certain things, 
 which I had tried that morning to find out, 
 without troubling any body, or making any talk 
 in the family. I did find them out ; or rather, 
 I found out — in safe time — that there was no- 
 tliing to find. So ended the whole matter, and I 
 was once again Mark Browne, eldest son of hon- 
 est Tom Browne, tlic merchant's clerk ; belong- 
 ing to a prior order of existence from Charles, 
 Russell, and Algernon Browne, my brothers, 
 born after a long intcr\'al, in days of prosperity. 
 Nice, handsome lads they were ; well-grown, 
 
 Qf^f^r^fin
 
 6 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 well-cUiicated, accustomed to case and luxury. 
 No wonder they got on so merrily with cousin 
 Jean, and that Jean should have such a liking 
 for the boys. 
 
 She was fond of my mother, too, and humor- 
 ed her peculiarities capitally ; followed her this 
 morning from chair to chair, taking the covers 
 off with a most domestic and inexhaustible pa- 
 tience, worthy of a "poor relation," and then 
 with a lively spirit, very unlike any poor rela- 
 tion, bursting into a song or two for her own 
 entertainment. 
 
 "Just sto]) one minute, my dear ; — don't you 
 think Lord Erlistoun," etc., etc. 
 
 And having stopped and settled tlie import- 
 ant question, Jean was off again with her ditty : 
 
 " ' O no, O no, says Earlistoun, 
 
 For that's a thinp that niaunna be ; 
 For I am sworn to Bothwell Hill, 
 \Miere I maun cither gae or dec." 
 
 "Mark, who is Lord Erlistoun?" 
 
 "Just Lord Erlistoun; I know no more. 
 What were you singing about liim ?" 
 
 "Oh, that Earliijtoun was quite another per- 
 son — an old ballad-hero of mine. Nobody you 
 know — notliing you would care about." 
 
 Sometimes Jean was mistaken. She knew 
 much that I did not know, but that was no 
 reason why I should not care about it. True, 
 my learning and my literature had been chiclly 
 in ledger and cash-book, like my father's before 
 me ; and, until lately, in the incessant whirl of 
 money-making, I liad had little leisure for any 
 other interests. Still, Jean Avas mistaken. 
 
 But I did not contradict her. I let her sing 
 out her song, and watched her sitting at tlic 
 piano 171 tlie green-shaded drawing-room, with 
 one slender sunl)eam sliding across the Vene- 
 tian lilind, and dancing to the music on the top 
 of her head. Ah, bonny cousin Jean ? 
 
 To return to Lord Erlistoun. 
 
 It had since struck me as one of those coin- 
 cidences we afterward trace with some curiosity, 
 that Lord Erlistoun should have first a])peared 
 at our house on this day. He was not expected 
 till the morrow ; and I had gone to my room. 
 When my mother tried to open my door it was 
 bolted, for a wonder. 
 
 "Mark, do go down ; your father's out, the 
 boys gone a walk with Jane, and I'm this fig- 
 ure. Oh, dear me, what shall I do, for Lord 
 Erlistoun's come." 
 
 Yes, there I could see him from my window, 
 lazily walking up and down in front of the por- 
 tico — a tall, slight young man, in a giay shoot- 
 ing-dress and a Glengarry bonnet. Nothing 
 very alarming about him, as I liinted to my 
 mother. 
 
 " Nonsense, Mark — for shame ! Only do go 
 down stairs." 
 
 Usually I dislike .strangers, and especially 
 "fine" strangers, but this morning all things 
 apfteared the same to me and all people alike. 
 The only thing worth doing seemed the simple 
 necessity of small everyday duties, as they lay 
 to my hand. 
 
 " Mother, don't vex yourself — indeed Til 
 go. How long am I to keep him out of the 
 way " 
 
 V" 
 
 " Until dinner-time if you can. Mercy me ! 
 and there's no game to-day for dinner!" 
 
 I thought, what mere trities do women, even 
 the best of women, sometimes seize on to worry 
 their lives out ! But I went down. 
 
 "Lord Erlistoun, I believe?" 
 
 " Mr. Browne — I beg pardon, Mr. — " 
 
 "I am Mark Browne. I am sorry my fiither 
 is not at home to welcome you." 
 
 "All my own fault, indeed — I mistook the 
 day fixed for my visit. Still, may I intrude?" 
 
 His manner presupposed an answer — the 
 only one jiossible. Probably his society was not 
 usually considered an intrusion. I bade him 
 welcome, and we shook hands, with a mutual 
 covert inspection and dim recognition of having 
 met somewhere, but no allusion was made to 
 that prior acquaintance by either. 
 
 I remembered him distinctly. We hard-work- 
 ing classes seldom see even among our women, 
 seldomer still among our men, that noble, yet 
 delicate outline of face which is commonly called 
 "aristocratic ;" not unjustly cither, for it is the 
 best type of mere jdiysical beauty. We rarely 
 boast — we poor fellows, stunted in early growth 
 by toiling in close offices and living in town 
 homes — siuh lithe, tall figures, combining the 
 strength of manhood and the grace of woman- 
 hood, even down to the long hands and almond- 
 shaj)ed nails — I remember noticing them. No; 
 each rank has its own advantages — physical de- 
 velopment rarely belongs to ours. It depends 
 on chances frequently out of our power, or prior 
 generations who Iccpieath us their personal tyjie 
 to start with ; aftcrwaid, on learing, education, 
 and modes of life. 
 
 I saw at a glance what any sensible man must 
 see, nor need be ashamed or afraid to see, that 
 for certain qualities you might as well institute 
 a comparison between a working cob and a race- 
 horse as between Lord Erlistoun and Mark 
 Browne. l*erhaj)s the instinctive train of 
 thought which led to that comparison, or rather 
 distinction, indicated too much self-conscious- 
 ness. But there arc jjosilions when a man will 
 and does think of himself, r.nd comjiarc himself 
 voluntarily or involuntarily witii oilier men; 
 such an one was mine this day. 
 
 "This is a verypretty place,'' said Lord Erlis- 
 toun. 
 
 He was correct ; many a nobleman's I Jiavc,^ 
 seen not half so fine. My father took great de- 
 light tiicrein ; and it was not without a certain 
 satisfaction that I did the honors of it to our 
 guest, through gardens, conservatories, ])leas- 
 uie-grounds. There was a jilcasant jjridc in 
 showing to Lord Erlistoun that we also — we 
 money-makers — could love nature and art, and 
 expend wisely and lil)eral]y what we did not 
 inherit but earned. And in going over the 
 place, I was myself forcibly struck with the 
 whole thing — with my fathers princely style of 
 expenditure, and with the contrast it formed to
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 the little dark merchant's office in Liverpool 
 which originated and maintained it all. 
 
 Sometimes I thought — but a son has no busi- 
 ness to comment on a father — on so excellent 
 a father. 
 
 Our walk came to an end, likewise our con- 
 versation. We talked over the state of Europe, 
 the Great Exhibition, etc. — topics which were 
 possible meeting points — until they successive- 
 ly fell dead. I am not a conversationalist my- 
 self, but I like to hear others ; and am obliged 
 to own that I found Lord Erlistoun's company 
 rather uninteresting. 
 
 I left him safe in his apartments ; whence, 
 to every body's relief, he did not emerge till 
 dinner-time. 
 
 He must have found it a dull meal ; my 
 father still absent — my mother, brother, and 
 cousin being all I could introduce him to. I 
 remember the boys, strong in Cambridge ease 
 and "knowledge of the world," coming readily 
 forward, till quenched by the grave politeness 
 which it was impossible to make free with ; and 
 my mother, whose hearty apologies for "pot- 
 luck," were met by a smile which expressed by 
 its very resen-e the most amiable ignorance of 
 what "pot-luck" might be. 
 
 My dear good mother — hot-cheeked and hur- 
 ried — a little too warm and too fat for her li,j,lit- 
 colored silk dress, and her white gloves, that 
 would not come on properly — with her uneasy 
 attempt at ease, and her incessant stream of 
 talk, in which the "li's" — that unlucky letter 
 which we had never yet succeeded in safely im- 
 pressing on either her or my father — appeared 
 and disappeared at pleasure — I wondered what 
 Lord Erlistoun thought of his hostess. 
 
 Possibly nothing ; for no outward indication 
 testified that he ever had any thoughts at all. 
 I have seen close-tempered men — iron-visaged 
 fellows, whose faces were as hard as a locked 
 chest — but then you guessed from that very fact 
 that there was something inside ; proud, sensi- 
 tive men, who tried to wear a countenance like 
 a mask, yet through which now and then, by 
 some accidental flash of the e,\e, you fe!t sure 
 it was a mask, with the natural flesh and blood 
 behind it. But I never in my life saw such a 
 smooth, courteous, handsome negation as Lord 
 Eilistoun's physiognomy seemed, this first day 
 of acquaintance. 
 
 "What do you think of him, Jean," I said, 
 when, my father having returned late, I was 
 free — free to settle myself in the usual corner, 
 and watch Jean geing about her usual evening's 
 ways, which she did not alter, nor seem to in- 
 tend altering, for our grand gnest. She had 
 merely bowed when I introduced him to "my 
 cousin." She was not usually much noticed, 
 and something in her manner rather evaded 
 than attracted notice, when we had company. 
 And yet it often seemed, to me at least, as if 
 she, of the whole fomily, looked most at ease, 
 most natural, in the beautiful rooms of Lyth- 
 waite Hall. 
 
 "What do you think of him?" I repeated, 
 
 as she stood by the tea-table ; ending a long 
 discussion by persuading my mother it would 
 be much better to let her make the tea, as she 
 always used to make it, country fashion, in spite 
 of Lord Erlistoun. 
 
 "What do I think of him ! — wait a minute — 
 (John, leave the lamp there). Yes, I think him 
 very handsome, and remarkably well dressed." 
 
 "You are jesting?" 
 
 "Not at all— the latter quality is no slight 
 one. Any man can dress like a dandy; but 
 it takes a man of some taste to dress like a gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 " And his manners ?" 
 
 "I have seen worse and better." 
 
 "My dear Jane, how can you judge? So 
 elegant, so polite ! accustomed, as one might at 
 once perceive, to the very highest society." 
 
 " But, mother, Jean has been accustomed 
 to good society, too." 
 
 ' ' I was accustomed for six-and-twenty years 
 to my father's." She said this with pride, yet 
 no unholy pride. I saw the tremble on her lip, 
 and hastened to talk of other things. 
 
 Once in my life I had seen Jean's father. 
 He was not a man ever to be forgotten, even 
 by a young lad. Why he married into the 
 Brown family, or whetlier the Emma Brown 
 he chose had qualities in herself enough to 
 make her his fit wife, and Jean's mother, I 
 never could learn. She died early. We never 
 heard of either father or daughter, save that 
 occasionally we saw his name in newspapers 
 and magaziires, and my father would say, 
 " That's surely poor Emma's clever husband," 
 till we heard of him one day in a newspaper 
 obituary. Authors usually die in poverty; but 
 he left Jean enough to bring in fifty pounds a 
 year. So, just for a visit, my father fetciied her 
 to Lythwaite, and then somehow we couldn't part 
 with her. This was all her history that 1 knew of. 
 
 Of herself — she was a tall, dark-haired girl. 
 Pei)]de did not generally adinire her; at least 
 our sort of ];eo]jle ; bright coin].lexions, plump 
 fi__ures, well set-off by gay dresses, were their 
 notion of beauty. If the I'artlienon Athene 
 (I have a head of her in my oflice-parlor over 
 the bookcase, which 1 bought at an old curios- 
 ity shop, for some turn of tiie brow and hair 
 which reminded me of J an) — if Athene her- 
 self were to ajipear at one of their parties in a 
 high black si.k gown, a little white frill round 
 her throat, and not a ribbon or jewel on neck, 
 arm, or finger, they would doubtless have called 
 the goddess a " rather plain young woman," as 
 I have often heard Jean called. 
 
 A "young woman" she decidedly was — not 
 a jiiil. She had seen a good deal of the world, 
 in London and elsewhere ; her character and 
 manner were alike formed ; that is, if she could 
 be said to have a "manner," when, under all 
 circumstances, she was so simply and entirely 
 natural ; not always the same — few people are, 
 e.\ce])t the very resen-ed, the sophisticated, or 
 the dull ; but in all her various moods she was 
 — as alone she cured to be — hersulf.
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 There was no pretense about her — no ten- 
 dency to petty or polite humilities. I think she 
 knew she was not plain ; and was rather amused 
 by the ill-educated taste of those who considered 
 her so. I tliink, too, that in a harmless, wo- 
 manly way, she took pleasure in her own chissic 
 features, large and noble, her father's features, 
 and in her father's beautiful hereditary hands. 
 For his sake, partly ; slie was tiie sort of womnn 
 to have something true and goud at the root of 
 her very vanities. 
 
 I describe her as she was to us who knew 
 her — not to strangers. She rarely " came out" 
 to strangers ; or, cxcejit when she was really 
 interested in them, made any show of ap);ear- 
 ing so. Nor, in the extremely quiet mood she 
 was in to-night, was I surjiriscd that Lord Erlis- 
 toun merely noticed her face (he, accustomed to 
 art, must have seen it was handsome), as if it 
 were picture or statue, and quitted it. She 
 bore the look, or was unconscious of it, witii 
 those "level-fronting eyelids" of hers, full of 
 Other thoughts — sometimes thoughts evidently 
 far away. She had had a hard life, you saw 
 that ; she had gone through a great grief, you 
 saw tliat too, at least sonic might ; but so mucli 
 discernment was jirobahly not to be expected 
 from a young man like Lord Erlistoun. 
 
 " How old do you think he is, Jane ?" 
 
 "Who? Lord Erlistoun ? Really one can 
 hardly jud^e so speedily. But ' liuike' will in- 
 form us, Mrs. Browne." 
 
 " I told you, my dear, that was by no means 
 a useless purcliase, " said my mother, turning 
 over with no displeasure our till I.itely unknown 
 necessity ; the book which some satirist calls 
 the "British Bible." "Here it is— Nugent, 
 Baron Erlistoun. Dear me, only twenty-four, 
 just Charles's age — younger than vou, Jane." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Here the subject of discussion unwittinj,ly 
 ended it by o]jeniiig the drawing-room door, 
 looking rather tired, but still listening, with the 
 blandest courtesy, to every word ui my father's. 
 Now, my father's talk was always woriii listen- 
 ing to ; but then, like most old men, he had 
 a trick of long-windedness, and it is trying to 
 have the wisest sayings and the best of stories 
 half-a-dozen times over. The young man 
 turned, pcrhaj)S, a little too quickly, to my 
 motiier, when she came to the rescue ; and 
 there was ju>t the slightest shade of personal 
 interest, beyond his invariably jiolitc interest in 
 every thing, wiien among the long list of people 
 whom he "had not thj honor of knowing" — 
 the flilc of our friends, wliom my inolher had 
 anxiously invited to a dinner party for his en- 
 tertainment to-morrow, she chanced to light 
 on some wlnmi he did know. Lady Erlistoun 
 (" my mother," he explained) " was acquaint- 
 ed with the bishop and liis lady, very nice 
 people." 
 
 " ("harming jieople 1" (all, wliy so ecstatic, 
 good mother of mine, for you had only dined 
 there once, I know) "and that sweet little 
 niece of theirs — she's not out yet thou,ii, the 
 
 heiress. Lady Emily Gage. You know her, of 
 course ?" 
 
 " Lady Erlistoun does. Allow me," and 
 here Lord Erlistoun rose in a languid manner, 
 to bring my mother's cup to the tea-table. It 
 cost him some trouble, and her a thousand apol- 
 ogies; but Jean's eyes had a spice of mischief 
 in them as she looked on. 
 
 " Don't stir, Mark. A little exercise won't 
 harm him. Let him do at Rome as the Ro- 
 mans do." 
 
 He stood by, while she filled the cup, made 
 some slight remark or acknowledgment, and re- 
 tired. Then, in great dearth of entertainment, 
 and witli a dead, heavy atmosphere of restraint 
 creeping over the room, he was set to whist 
 with tlie parents and Charlie till bedtime. 
 
 Jean and I contemplated the party in silence ; 
 my mother's round, rosy, c(mtciitcd face — my 
 father's, rather coarse and hard-featured, but 
 full of acuteness and power — and between them 
 this elegant young man, whose exquisite refine- 
 ment was only one remove from, and yet just 
 clear of, j ositive eft'eminacy. 
 
 "I wonder what on earth he came here for," 
 Jean said, meditatively. " He must have h:;d 
 some very strong motive, or be sadly in want 
 of novelty, before he — " 
 
 No, cousin, you need not have hesitated ; I 
 traced your involuntary thought; I, too, was 
 aware of what our house was and its ways ; 
 also how they and we must necessarily appear 
 to one so totally diflerent from us as Lonl Erlis- 
 toun. It is folly to disguise an abstract truth 
 — I never do. 
 
 " I sec what you would say, Jean ; before he 
 came among such inferior folk as we aie — he, 
 accustomed to the higli breeding of fashionable 
 life. That slow, listless, faultless manner of 
 his, which, I perceive, is fidget ting my jioor 
 mother beyond expression, is, I suppose, high 
 breeding? You know." 
 
 "No, I am glad to say I do not know. Mark, 
 you ought to be ashamed of yourself" (and I 
 was, seeing the indignant color Hush all over 
 her dear face) ; " I do not know, and never mean 
 to know. What have I to do with fashionalile 
 life ? I know how good you are — all of you — I 
 love you." 
 
 Ay, Jean, speak up, frank and warm. Sure- 
 ly you loved us, every one and all alike. 
 
 Alter Lord Erlistoun had been li_ht('d duly 
 to his repose — and the greatest nobleman in tlie 
 land, as his hostess secretly avowed, need not 
 hav;! desired u better furnished or handsomer 
 c hamber— we began to breathe. Of course \vc 
 ' talked him over" as families will among them- 
 s -Iv^s — and thank Heaven, with all our increase 
 of fortune, we had never ceased to be a family. 
 Jean, stealing slowly into the j)lace of tlie little 
 daughters that had died, or else by the natural 
 force of lier cliaractcr making a place for her- 
 self, took her due share in the discussion. She 
 gave full merit where merit was, but was severe 
 and sarcastic upon various small peculiarities 
 which had struck tlie family with unackiiowl-
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 edged awe ; namely, that under-toned, soft 
 drawl, that languid avoidance of the letter R, 
 and that nimini-j)imini fish-mouthed "Oh." 
 
 " I should like to compel him for once into 
 a good honest English round "O," of either 
 pleasure or pain. Boy as he is, I wonder if he 
 is still capable of either, or of the expression of 
 them. I wish he may be." 
 
 "Not altogether a kind wish, Jean." 
 
 "Yes it is," she said, after a moment's 
 thought. "Any pain is better than stagna- 
 tion ; any expression of feeling better than the 
 elegant hypocrisy which is ashamed of its ex- 
 istence." 
 
 And then she turned laughingly to put her 
 arm round my mother's neck, and tell, apropos 
 of nothing, how twice that day she had been 
 addressed in the village as " Miss Browne." 
 
 But no, Jean, you could never have been my 
 mother's daughter. I saw clearer than ever 
 to-night, the something in your mien, manner, 
 and tone of thought, distinct from all of us. 
 Perhaps you knew it too, much as you loved and 
 respected us — honest, honorable Brownes. 
 
 k?o thought I, and my thought had a truth in 
 it ; but was not the whole truth. " Each after 
 his kind," was the original law of things ; and 
 that ''like attracts like" is no less an absolute 
 and never-to-be-ignored law. Bat sometimes 
 we decide too hastily, and witli mere surface 
 judgment, upon what it is that constitutes sim- 
 ilarity. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Lord Erlistoitn spent a whole week at Lyth- 
 waite Hall. " Why he di<l so, or if he found 
 any pleasure in it, we really could not tell. 
 He deported himself agreeably to all ; Avent 
 meekly with my mother to various solemn din- 
 ner-parties ; took his due share in our own com- 
 pany-keeping in his honor ; at other times he 
 shot or fished with Charles — Algernon and Rus- 
 sel having vanished — nay, even walked and 
 talked amiably with me. With Jean, who had 
 little leisure, and perhaps less inclination to 
 spend it in doing nothing, his intercourse was 
 chiefly confined to " Good-morning, Miss Jane" 
 (having discovered that her name was not 
 Browne, but being too courteous or too idle to 
 find out what it was), and a brief, equally civil 
 and indifferent, "Good-morning, Lord Erlis- 
 toun." 
 
 He did not seem to take any interest in one 
 of us more than another — if indeed it was his 
 habit to feel interest in any thing. The only 
 occasional gleam visible in those soft, large, lazy 
 eyes was once or tuice over the post-bag, on 
 getting an accidental letter or two : " My moth- 
 er's letters" — as once, when my mother, in her 
 homely way, ventured the ghost of a jest, lie re- 
 plied, with such overwhelming bland dignity 
 that the dear old lady was quenched for ever- 
 more. 
 
 Still, as Jean observed, it was a good sign in 
 
 him to like — if he did always like, of which we 
 were not sure — but at any rate to be interested 
 in his mother's letters. 
 
 We knew — from "Burke" of course — who 
 his mother was ; a member of a noble, indeed, 
 a truly noble family ; also from that most use- 
 ful book, and from various things he himself let 
 fall, that she had managed a somewhat dilajji- 
 dated property through his long minority, faith- 
 fully and well. There were some sisters, but 
 he was the only son. 
 
 "I think," Jean observed, one night when, 
 as usual, after he had gone to bed, the rest of 
 us were sitting in committee upon him, making 
 that domestic dissection of character which, as 
 I said before, families and friends iv,U make, 
 and the only thing is to take care that it is made 
 in good humor, justice, and charity, "I think 
 mucli ought to be forgiven to an only son." 
 
 Tlie next morning, during the garden walk, 
 which, by mutual consent, had become a habit 
 with my cousin and me, we being always the 
 earliest risers in the household, the subject was 
 again recurred to. 
 
 "Jean," I said, "if he stays over another 
 week — and I think he will, for I heard him 
 promise the Bishop to come to that child's par- 
 ty given for Lady Emily Gage — you really will 
 have to take your turn in amusing him. He 
 hangs heavy on my mother's hands, sometimes." 
 
 " Your poor dear mother !" half-amused, yet 
 with a vexed air, no doubt at things which vex- 
 ed me myself occasionally ; but they were in- 
 evitable, and it was no use noticing them. 
 "Mark," she added, seriously, "if a young man 
 of four-and-twenty — handsome, well-educated, 
 and by no means stupid — having been Lord 
 Erlistoim from his school-days — having travel- 
 ed a good deal, seen court life, common life, 
 nobody knows what life, at home and abroad — 
 his own master, possessing a good fortune, to- 
 gether with a mother and sister, whom he seem-; 
 not to dislike, though to love them and own it 
 might be a display of feeling quite inqjossibij 
 — cousin, if such a young man is not able to 
 amuse liimself, all I can say is, that it is a very 
 great shame." 
 
 "I did not know you had reasoned so much 
 and felt so strongly concerning him." 
 
 "Not him, but the simple right and wrong 
 of the question, of which he is a mere illustra- 
 tion." 
 
 " Yet you appraised him categorically. You 
 must have observed him a good deal." 
 
 "A little; one can not live in the same 
 house with people without forming some judg- 
 ment upon them." 
 
 "Do you dislike him, or his manner? His 
 high-bred manner, I mean ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, I like it ; it is the exter- 
 nal sign of those qualifies which a few have 
 and twice as many imitate. His case may be 
 either the one or the other ; I don't know yet. 
 If we only could break this fine outside enamel 
 and get at the real substance underneath, sup- 
 posing there is any I"
 
 10 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 "Do you think there is?" 
 
 "I am not sure. Mark, do you understand 
 me? I like refinement; I love it! in every- 
 thing and every body. It is really charming 
 to me sometimes to hear Lord Eriistoun's low- 
 toned voice, and see his quiet way of doing lit- 
 tle civilities, little kindnesses — especially to wo- 
 men. I i;ive him credit for every thing he is, 
 and would not wish to see him less, but moi'C ; 
 I would like to make a man of him." 
 
 '' Hush !" I said, for she was too much in 
 earnest to notice, on the other side of the es- 
 palier, footsteps ; also tlie top of a gentleman's 
 hat. " 'Tis himself; I think he heard you." 
 
 "I think he did." Jean set her lips togeth- 
 er, and held her head erect. Nevertheless, she 
 colored, as was not unnatural ; still more deep- 
 ly when, at the path's end, Lord Erlistoun cross- 
 ed in front of us. Would he pass on ? No ; 
 he turned and bowed. 
 
 "A fine day; you are walking early. Miss 
 Jane," with a steady gaze, thoui.h he, too, seem- 
 ed to have had those "hot cheeks" which arc 
 said to trouble people who are talked of behind 
 their backs. "1 have been stealing your lilies 
 of the valley ; may I restore some ?" 
 
 Leisurely keejiing a few and ])resenting her 
 with the rest, with a matter-of-course air, as a 
 mere "devoir" to her sex, he lifted his hat 
 again, and sauntered on. 
 
 "Jean, I am sure he heard." 
 
 "I hope he did; it was the truth, and per- 
 haps he docs not often hear the truth ; it may 
 do him good." 
 
 That notion of "doing good" to a person, 
 whicii women have, the best and sincerest wo- 
 men often most dangerously ! Ah, Jean ! I 
 thought to myself, take care! But fating those 
 eyes, bent forward meditatively as she walked 
 — those eyes neither downcast nor passionate, 
 neither a child's nor a girl's, but a woman's, 
 with a woman's steady heart, I felt ashamed to 
 say of what I wished her to " take care." 
 
 I was absent in Liverjjool all day, but, with 
 hard traveling, managed to return at ni^ht. 
 We had a family j)arty — ])ostj)()ncd a little, 
 waiting our guest's possible dc])arture, till at 
 last my father insisted on its being postponed 
 no longer — a party of poor relations. By 
 "poor" I mean not indigent, but less wealthy 
 and in a less honorable position than ourselves, 
 kindred wliom, in climbing up tiic ladder, my 
 father had passed one by one, and now stood 
 toward them in the envied yet, perhaps, unen- 
 viable position of "the great man of the fam- 
 ily." 
 
 An odd, heterogeneous gathering it was, as 
 we were aware it would 1)e under jircsent cir- 
 cumstances. My motiicr had been seriously 
 alarmed at the idea of it for days. "Mercy on 
 us! what shall we do witli Lord Erlistoun?" 
 "What will Lord Erlistoun think of so-and- 
 60?" and my fatlier had invariably answered 
 her with that dogged twist of the moutli which 
 had lielfjcd him up to the top of the tree, and 
 that merry twinkle of the little bright eyes 
 
 which had kept some enjoyment for him when 
 he got there. 
 
 "Molly" — he still said " Molly'' sometimes 
 in private, "I — don't — care." 
 
 I So the good jieople came. I found them all 
 in the drawing-room when I returned home. 
 
 Heaven forbid I should be hard ujion poor 
 relations, even the dozens that, lying jierdu 
 during a man's struggling days, spring up like 
 
 1 mushrooms every where under liis feet in the 
 summer of his jirosperity ; and the scores, still 
 worse and more trying, who, unable or unwill- 
 ing to help themselves, expect always to be 
 helped by somebody — him, of course; who, 
 wherever he goes, cling like a fringe of burrs 
 to his coat-tails, not a whit the better or great- 
 
 i or in tliemselves for sticking there, and to the 
 
 1 unhappy rich man neither a use nor an orna- 
 ment. Yet, lot every man do his duty, even 
 
 [ to these : my father always did. 
 
 It was good to see him now and then, on oc- 
 casions like this, fill his house with honest folk, 
 who, no doubt, spent weeks after in comment- 
 ing on the grand cstalilishment of " cousin 
 Tom ;" to watch him, and even my mother, 
 gradually warm up into old acquaintanceships 
 and ohl recollections, till at last the verytones 
 and manners, half worn -oft', of earlier days 
 would revive, and we would hear them both 
 talking as broad Lancashire as any body pres- 
 ent. 
 
 They did talk very broad, these "country 
 cousins," or so it seemed to me to-night. I 
 was accustomed to it pretty veil in the way of 
 business, and with men ; but women ! And 
 then they dressed so showily, so tastelessly ; 
 those Liverpool ladies seemed so horribly afraid 
 of being thought any thing less than "ladies," 
 and so convinced that the only traveling jiatent 
 of ladyhood consisted of clothes. They ];aid 
 great court to my motlier ; there was always 
 an admiring grouj) of listening gazers round her 
 ruddy velvet gown, and she was pleasurably and 
 amiably consi ious (.f it, too, dear soul ! thuugli, 
 perha])s, just a thought too ]iatronizing. But 
 with all her j)leasantiiess, and the pains she 
 took to amuse them, they seemed at first to 
 have ignored altogether, and then to stand a 
 little in awe of my cousin Jean. 
 
 Must a man be blind with jioring over a life- 
 time of ledgers? or deaf, from hearing the in- 
 cessant rustle of notes and chink of sovereigns ? 
 I was neitlier. 
 
 Let me give all credit to those worthy people, 
 my kindred ; many of them good wives, good 
 mothers, good daughters, lively and jilcasant in 
 their own homes, though a little awkward and 
 ill at ease — more so than we were ourselves — 
 in oin"s. But when Jean crossed the room, in 
 her soft, rich, black dress ; when Jean's low 
 tones struggled through that awful Babel of 
 loud voices, what a contrast ! and yet she was 
 of tliein, too — her niotlier was a Brown. But 
 luitiire itself Iiad made iicr what she was; dif- 
 ferent from tlicse, possibly from all other wo- 
 men — oh, how different I
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 11 
 
 Some one else saw it besides myself; other 
 eyes traced her, with slow observation, across 
 the room and back again. Once or twice when 
 she was talking, I saw him quit the books 
 of prints in which he had taken refuge and 
 listen. 
 
 Doubtless, Lord Erlistoun had spent a very 
 dull day. My father, shrewd and wise — neither 
 wishing to show off his titled acquaintance, nor 
 thinking himself justified in mixing up hetero- 
 geneous classes against their will — had desired 
 that his guest should be left entirely free to 
 find his own level, and join in the society about 
 him as much or as little as he chose. Ferhaj)s 
 for their comfort, if not their sagacity, some of 
 our good relations did not even know tliat the 
 young man who sat so quietly aloof, and talked 
 so little, was Nugent, Baron Erlistoun. 
 
 "Ask him to play chess with you," said 
 Jean, passing me toward the piano, where some 
 of the old folk had begged for one of her old- 
 fasliioned songs. 
 
 I had intended asking him ; so we soon sat 
 down face to face to our mimic battle. 
 
 Let me do him justice, as I tried to do that 
 evenin,^ A finer face I have never seen ; not 
 a mean line in it. Something eclectic even in 
 his way of handling the chessmen ; balancing 
 over a poor pawn, in doubtful choice, those 
 white expanded fingers, laden with a ring that 
 valued — (I know in a business capacity some- 
 thing about the value of diamonds) — nay, his 
 every action, down to his way of lounging back 
 on the crimson velvet chairs, had a freedom 
 and repose — in addition to that last grace, the 
 easy self-possession which gives the effect of 
 entire unconsciousness — at once admirable and 
 enviable. 
 
 Let me do myself justice now. I did not 
 envy him. Physically I might have done a 
 little — there are times when most men feel 
 keenly Nature's niggardness ; but spiritually, 
 never ! In any great moral battle — as in this 
 sham one we were fighting, somewhat unequal- 
 ly, as I soon saw, I had an internal conviction 
 which would be the victor — which would hold 
 out toughest, strongest, and longest. Lord Erlis- 
 toun or I. 
 
 He lost, as I expected, but replaced the men, 
 seeming to make no account of losing. 
 
 " Do you like the game. Lord Erlistoun ? 
 To enjoy chess requires a certain hard, mathe- 
 matical, calculating quality of brain." 
 
 "Which I have not? Very probably. Nev- 
 ertheless, it amuses: 'pour passer le temps.' 
 Your move, I believe ?" 
 
 He leaned back, and we began another game, 
 keeping up the chess-players' solemn silence, 
 nor distracted therefrom even by Jean's sing- 
 ing. 
 
 She rarely sang in public at Lythwaite. 
 Either she disliked it, or her taste in music was 
 too "old-fashioned" for our elegant friends. 
 Now it struck home. People's songs they were, 
 with the people's life in them ; passionate or 
 tender, merry or sad, but always fresh, warm- 
 
 blooded life. One felt rather sorry for an ago 
 too refined to understand them. 
 
 "You like music, Lord Erlistoun?" 
 
 " Yes. You should have heard ' Ernani' 
 last winter at La Scala. It was very fine. " 
 
 " My taste in music is low. I had rather 
 hear an English or Scotch ballad than a dozen 
 operas." 
 
 " Chacun a son gout," said Lord Erlistoun, 
 smiling. 
 
 Jean burst out again, like a mavis from a 
 tree-top, with another of those diities made for 
 all time — such as " Huntingtower," "Robin 
 Adair," or " The Bonnie House o' Airly." To 
 see her — to hear her — with her heart both in 
 voice and eyes — her true uomauly heart — tried 
 me. I could not jilay chess for it. Lord Erlis- 
 toun apparently could, for ho won. Just as we 
 were rising, Jean looked across at me, merrily 
 and mischievously— I know she did it out of 
 pure mischief — and began afresh — 
 
 " 'O billie, billie, bonnie billie. 
 
 Will ye gae to the woods wi' me? 
 We'll ca' our horse hame masterlcss, 
 
 And gar them trow slain men are we. 
 ' O no, O no,' says Earlistoun." 
 
 Lord Erlistoun looked up quickly ; Jean went 
 on — 
 
 " ' O no, O no,' says Earlistoun, 
 
 ' For that's a thing that maunna be ; 
 For I am .sworn to Bothwell Hill, 
 Where I maun either gae or dee.' " 
 
 The ballad continued, verse after verse, in a 
 wild, plaintive old tune, about this young laird's 
 rising "i' the morn," his 
 
 " ' Farewell, father, and farewell, mother. 
 And fare ye well, my sisters three ; 
 And fare ye well, my EarliEtoun, 
 For thee again I'll never see.' " 
 
 And so on, ending, I think, with 
 
 " Alang the brae, beyond the brig, 
 O many there lie cauld and still; 
 And lang we'll mourn, and sair we'll rue 
 The hluidy battle o' UolhwcH Hill." 
 
 The last line fell in a faint echo, as if the sing- 
 er herself were moved by tlic sweet old song. 
 Lord Erlistoun rosv?. 
 
 ' ' That ballad — I never heard it before — may 
 I look at it?" 
 
 "You can not, unluckily; I sing it from 
 memory." 
 
 " Will you sing it again ?" 
 
 " Some time, but not to-night, I think." 
 
 Was Lord Erlistoun so surprised by being 
 refused any thing by any body, that he did not 
 ask again ? Nevertheless, he still stood by the 
 piano, talking to her. 
 
 ' ' ' The bluidy battl j o' Bothwell IlilL' There 
 was hard fighting in the days of our forefathers. 
 We live an easier life now." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "I mean — let me help you with that music- 
 stand; I mean, there is a diff'erence between 
 the men of to-day and the hero of your ballad ; 
 Alexander Gordon, gf Earlistoun, I think you 
 said ?"
 
 12 
 
 LOED ERLISTOUN. 
 
 " Certainly, a difference." 
 
 Lord Erlistoun was silent. 
 
 Presenily he made another attempt at con- 
 versation 
 
 "I rather fancy I have a legitimate rifjht in 
 that pretty ballad of yours. We are descended 
 collaterally, I believe, from those same Gordons 
 of Earlistoun." 
 
 Jean's attention was caught. "Ah, indeed ? 
 Earlistoun near Dalr}-, a tall gray castle, among 
 trees, in the bottom of a wide valley surrounded 
 by low pastoral hills?" 
 
 "You seem to know the place better than I 
 do myself. In truth, save the fact that the first 
 Lord Erlistoun chose to take his title from the 
 old castle, I know very little of those far-away 
 Scottish ancestors of mine. I have been so 
 much abroad ; have become so thoroughly a 
 cosmopolite." 
 
 "I jicrceivc that." 
 
 "Do you?" as if he wished to discover 
 whether the percejjtion was favorable or un- 
 favorable. "You are interested, I see, in those 
 days of gone-by romance. Yet I thought you 
 rather contemned old fiimilies?" 
 
 Yes, he had certainlv overheard us this morn- 
 ing — Jean felt he had. Her color rose pain- 
 fully even ; but she was neither ashamed nor 
 confused. 
 
 " I woidd be son-y to contemn any thing for 
 being old ; or, on the other hand, to value any 
 thing merely because it was old." 
 
 "You believe, tlien, there is some little truth 
 in the doctrine of race ?" 
 
 He said it not without pride ; but a pride too 
 accustomed to its possessions to mind either con- 
 denmation or justificati(jn from others. Jean 
 answered with something of the same feeling, 
 though drawn from a different source. 
 
 "Thus far I do believe; that, seeing how 
 fast races decline and funilics dwindle and die 
 out — when a family has maintained itself notable 
 above others for centuries, the chances are that 
 its members must have suflReient fine (jualities, 
 and tlie whole race enough vitality, to keep it 
 worthy of note." 
 
 " If so, can it be a mean thing to respect 
 one's i)rogenitors ?" 
 
 " I never said that, Lord Erlistoun. Any 
 one who ever h(jnored a dear fatlier can under- 
 stand something of the delight of honoring re- 
 mote forefathers — when they were deserving of 
 honcjr. Hut" — and her great bri-ht eyes flashed 
 light and life enough to kindle a whole race — 
 "I think it far, far beneath the honor of a liv- 
 ing man to go trading all his days upon a heap 
 of dead men's dust." 
 
 Pcrliajis never in all his days, among his 
 noble English peeresses, his liussian ]irincesses, 
 his I'aris "Haronnes" — had Lord Erlistoun seen 
 a woman sjicak her mind out, with all her hon- 
 est heart, in this way. Evidently sini))ly be- 
 . cause it u-us her mind ; wiiliout any reference 
 to or thought of her interlocutor. lie looked 
 certainly a good deal surprised. With some 
 curiosity, if not admiration, his eyes rested on 
 
 the dark, glowing face — then he stooped to help 
 her arrange her music. 
 
 " ' Dowglas,' " reading the lettering on a vol- 
 ume ; " 'Jean Dowglas.' I beg vour pardon 
 —is that—" 
 
 "My name? Yes; my father was Scotch. 
 My mother's name was Browne." 
 
 Ay, Jean, lift your head — speak uj) proudly 
 of that poor young mother, who had no "gen- 
 tle" blood, yet who left some of the bold plebeian 
 energy of us Brown cs in you, to help you after 
 she died. 
 
 " Dowglas," repeated Lord Erlistoun. " Spell- 
 ed, I see, with the v; as a very old branch of 
 the Douglases still persists in spelling it?" 
 
 This was meant as a question, apparently; 
 but whether she belonged to that "'very old 
 branch" or not Jean did not vouchsafe to say. 
 
 "Jean, too. Have I not always heard you 
 called Jane?" 
 
 "My father called me Jean. Thank you. 
 Do not trouble yourself any more with that 
 music, i)ray." 
 
 She moved away, and busied herself for the 
 rest of the evening in entertaining the poor re- 
 lations. I did not see her speak again to Lord 
 Erlistoun. He sat in his arm-chair, occupied 
 with his book of prints, till at length finding 
 some person worth talking to — as doubtless 
 every one present was, if only one would dis- 
 cover the right key to unlock their hearts and 
 lives — he began talking with a good will. 
 
 When we all separated for the night, I no- 
 ticed that he held out his hand, which Jean had 
 never touched before — in a manner that made 
 it impossible for her to refuse it. 
 
 "Good-night, Miss Dowglas." 
 
 "Good-night, Lord Erlistoun." 
 
 CHArTER IIL 
 
 I WKNT to Liverpool next day, but my mother 
 made me promise to return every Saturday, re- 
 maining till Monday. I did not look well, she 
 said, and she thought it was a curative measure; 
 but I myself was not so sure of tliat. 
 
 A week in the ofhce, with odd evenings spent 
 in walking swiftly up and down the busy Liver- 
 ])ool streets, or taking a two-penny breeze on 
 the river, to see the sun setting behind the 
 Great Orme's Head, and coloring into some- 
 thing like beauty the long and sandy line of 
 the Mersey shore ; while all the while I knew 
 it was lighting up wavy grass meadows. May 
 hedges, and merry rookeries far away, in those 
 lovely si)ring evenings, which I never knew so 
 lovely any where as at Lytiiwaite Hall. 
 
 A clerk in our house, speaking of my father's 
 new jilace one day, said he knew it well wiicn 
 he was a boy. He once spent a whole May 
 month tiicre with a cousin of his, who was dead 
 now. He told me how they used to agree to 
 rise early and stroll about the garden before any 
 one else was up ; go fishing in the trout stream,
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 18 
 
 and rook shooting in the shruhberies — only she 
 did not like that; how they generally went to 
 church the field way, where he helped her over 
 the stiles ; and how he had still the clearest 
 recollection of her face as she sat opposite to 
 him listening to the sermon. She was dead 
 now, and buried — had been for years. He 
 thought he should like to get a holiday, and go 
 to that village church again some Sunday. 
 
 Oil, Jean, my cousin Jean ! if you and I had 
 been giii and boy together, years ago — if we 
 could be boy and girl still, and go hand in hand 
 tlirou^h the gardens and over the meadows of 
 beautiful Lythwaite Hall ! 
 
 When a man lives an exceedingly practical 
 and busy life, when of necessity the one spot of 
 — rommce will you call it? — in his character 
 must be reduced to a very small space of time 
 and thought, daily, close pressed down, locked 
 down, as it were — it is astonishing what vitality 
 it preserves, and how, in the brief moment or 
 two he allows it liberty, it ajipears to rule and 
 sway his whole being. 
 
 I seemed to have lived a year in the short 
 railway transit between Liverpool and Lythwaite 
 Hall. 
 
 My mother was unfeignedly glad to see me. 
 She had been worried about a good many things, 
 she said, but that was nothing new. Poor body ! 
 she was always worried. " Could not Jean help 
 her?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, no! she did not like to say any thing to 
 the poor dear girl." 
 
 "Mother, is any thing the matter?" 
 
 But that minute, through the dusk of the gar- 
 den, I heard Jean's laugh, and saw two figures 
 moving slowly up and down her favorite walk — 
 our favorite walk. 
 
 "Don't go to them, Mark — please don't. It 
 isn't Charlie — it's Lord Erlistoun." 
 
 "Not gone yet?" 
 
 " No ; nor seems inclined to go. And I can t 
 help thinking — though I wouldn't mention it to 
 her or any body for the world — that this visit of 
 his may turn out a very good thing for our dear 
 Jane." 
 
 "A very good thing!" When women say 
 that, they mean marriage — supposed to be the 
 best possible thing for any woman. My mother 
 — the worthiest creature alive, and not a bit of 
 a match-maker — she also undoubtedly meant 
 marriage. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun wanting to marry Jean Dowg- 
 las ! Plain Jean Dowglas — the Brownes' cous- 
 in, Jean Dowglas. Things must have gone 
 very far indeed for even my mother to take into 
 her innocent head such a "very good thing." 
 
 It must be understood here that the matter ' 
 struck me — who perhaps knew her better than 
 my mother did, or any of us — solely in the li^ht 
 of Lord Erlistoun's wanting to marry Jean ; a 
 very diflTerent thing from her consenting to niarry 
 him. 
 
 "But if it does come to that," said my 
 mother, after listening to all my excellent good 
 reasons to the contrary, and then repeating her j 
 
 own — "what will your father say? and what 
 will his mother say about our having had liim 
 here — to entrap him, perhaps? and what will 
 all the world say" — a little pleasure lurking in 
 her lament — "our poor cousin Jane to be made 
 Lady Erlistoun?" 
 
 "Hush, mother !" — for nearer came that little 
 laugh — they two were in full and lively argu- 
 ment about something ; they noticed nobody 
 till we were close upon them, and then Jean 
 turned with a start of surprise. 
 
 "Oh, Mark — I am so pleased!" with un- 
 feigned pleasure. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun likewise, with extended hand 
 and an air of real friendship, was "exceedingly 
 glad" to see me. 
 
 We all j(uned company, and paced up and 
 down the garden till nearly starlight. Jean 
 linked her arm in mine, and, turning to Lord 
 Erlistoun, went on with the argument. I don't 
 remember what it was about— in fact, I did not 
 hear much of it. I only recollect noticing the 
 perfect frankness and freedom of her tone — 
 mingled with a certain decision and independ- 
 ence which usually marks the intercourse be- 
 tween a woman and a man younger than her- 
 self, and jiossibly younger still in character. 
 
 Twenty-four and twenty-seven. Com]jara- 
 tively, a woman and a boy. Often a boy wor- 
 shi[)S a woman, sometimes permanently, always 
 devotedfy, for as long as the passion lasts ; but 
 it is rarely that a woman's love goes backward 
 on the dial of life, to expend itself in all its 
 depth and power — as a true woman alone can 
 and ou^ht to love — upon a ^oy. 
 
 When starlight was exchanged for candle- 
 light, and I had full opportunity of noticing 
 them both, I saw nothing in any way to ( on- 
 trovert this opinion. Not even when coming 
 back into the drawing-room, after all the rest 
 were gone, Jean found me still sitting over the 
 fire, and stopjjcd to talk a minute or two ujion the 
 nearest and most natural topic — Lord Erlistoun. 
 
 "He is here still, you see, Mark. He ap- 
 pears to like Lythwaite and our steady-going 
 home ways. And, upon my word, I think they 
 have improved him very much — don't you?" 
 
 " He certainly is a great deal altered." 
 
 " For the better ?" 
 
 "Possibly — yes — I think, for the better." 
 
 "I am sure of it. Not all surface-puliteness 
 now, j'ou may see his kind heart through it. 
 And he is beginning to feel the useh'ss waste 
 of his life hitherto ; thinks of dashing into poli- 
 tics, or piddic business, or literature. He longs 
 for something to live for — something to do. He 
 says he often envies you, Mark, that you hare 
 something to do." 
 
 " Does he ?" 
 
 "Cousin" — after a pause — "I am afraid jou 
 don't quite like Lord Erlistoun, as indccil none 
 of us (lid much at first ; but we shouM be slow of 
 judging. We never know how much good may 
 lie hid in peo])le, nor how good they may finally 
 grow. I have great hopes of Lord Erlistoun." 
 
 I looked suddenly up at her, doubting for the
 
 14 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 raoracnt — only a moment — whether she, too, 
 were playing off the usual feminine hyj)ocrisy, 
 or whether she was still her true self — my sjjot- 
 less Jean Dowglas. Ay, she was. 
 
 "Jean," I said, feeling somehow that iow I 
 ought to say it at all costs — " take care." 
 
 " Of what ?" 
 
 Could I answer I — But she was no child. 
 After a moment I saw she had answered the 
 question for herself. 
 
 "I understand you; and, Mark, though it 
 was not quite kind of you to say that, still, such 
 friends as we are, I should be very sorry if for a 
 moment you misunderstood me. No ; I am not 
 in the least afraid of — what you suijjjose." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Why not! Because I know myself, and 
 trust myself. When we are girls," and she 
 sighed — "out of our very innocence and igno- 
 rance we make mistakes sometimes ; but not 
 afterward. A young man must be blind indeed 
 — very blind, and a little conceited too, if he 
 can not discern at once from the manner of a 
 sincere woman, whether she simply likes him, 
 or loves him." 
 
 "That is true." 
 
 " So, cousin Mark," smiling, " do not be un- 
 just again, either to me or to Lord Erlistoun." 
 
 No, I wished not to be. I made every cdort 
 to see things justly, and as Jean herself saw 
 them ; and, perhaps, her vision was cle\ir then. 
 Perhaps, had Lord Erlistoun left that day, or 
 even the next, he might have merely carried 
 away with him the remembrance of a noble and 
 unworldly woman, who, in the totally opposite 
 world in which he dwelt, might have been nn 
 element of jMirity and goodness, lasting at inter- 
 vals all his life long. But iti these things, peo- 
 ple frequently go on safe and sure to a certain 
 point — they cross that, on some idle hour, in 
 some unconscious way, and there is no going 
 back, ever again. 
 
 On the Sunday evening we took a walk, Jean, 
 Lord Erlistoun, and I ; through the same fields, 
 which our old clerk in Liverjjool had been talk- 
 ing of. It was such an evening as, perhaps, 
 poor old fellow ! he had enjoyed many with that 
 little cousin of his ; the sort of evening which 
 always puts me in mind of Wordsworth's foolish- 
 wise rhymes — Jean repeated them, sitting on a 
 stile, eating clover-honey — 
 
 '"Oh, who would go parading 
 In London, and masqutrading 
 On siicli a nit;lit of June, 
 "With tliat hcauliful coft half-moon, 
 And all tlitse iiuiocont hlisKcs, 
 Of such a niglit as this is?" " 
 
 " ^\1io would indeed ? But T am afraid I 
 must soon." And Lord Krlistoun leaned against 
 the stile, listening to the sad, sleepy, far-off 
 "caw-caw" of the rookery — looking up at the 
 face of the "soft half-nuKjn," and tluni, at an- 
 other face ; also (juiet, also liitlier sad — as if in 
 the pathos of the hour .Jean had gone back into 
 former years — sanctuaries of her checkered life, 
 whither uo one could follow her. 
 
 "Miss Dowglas.s" — she started slightly ; "I 
 wish you knew my mother. You would like her, 
 for many tilings — and I think likewise — " He 
 stopped — "I had a letter from licr this morn- 
 ing ; would you feel interested in reading it ?" 
 
 " Thank you ; you know my fancy for read- 
 ing strangers' letters. Sometimes they let one 
 into bits of character unknown to the corre- 
 spondents themselves." 
 
 " I wonder what you will find out here I" — 
 and he lingered over it — the delicate-tinted, 
 scented envelojie, with its exquisite handwriting 
 and large coroneted seal, Hjefore he put it into 
 Jean's hands. "Read it all, if you will, ex- 
 ce])ting, indeed, the crossed page. She has but 
 one fault, this good mother of mine — like her 
 one crossed page." 
 
 Jean read and returned the letter. "But I 
 ought to tell," she said, smiling, "that I saw 
 one word — I tliink the name of ' Emily or Emc- 
 lia' — on this momentous page." 
 
 "Oh! no! quite a mistake!" — with one 
 passing flash, fierce and bright, that showed 
 what fire lurked in even Lord Erlistoun's eyes. 
 He put the letter in his jiockct and returned to 
 the subject we had been lazily canvasi^iug alurg 
 the fields, as if in contrast to every thing around 
 us, namely, London life, "high" life — as set 
 forth in that most sjjarkling, hateful, and melan- 
 choly of fictions, whose very brilliancy tortures 
 one like the jihantasmagoria of disease — Thack- 
 eray's "Vanity Fair." 
 
 "Tlie question seems," Jean said, "is it a 
 true picture of that sort of life ? — I would never 
 shrink from any truth merely because it wus 
 jiainful — but, is it true ? I have no means of 
 judging. Is it true. Lord Erlistoun ?" 
 
 "I am afraid, in a great measure, it is." 
 
 "Then, I would nither say to any sister of 
 mine, like Ilandet, ' (Jet you to a nunnery ; go, 
 go, go,' than see her thrown out into the great 
 world, to grow into the sort of woman you have 
 described sometimes. I couldn't liel|> thinking 
 so, even in the cathedral this morning, when I 
 looked across the aisle to the pretty baby-face 
 of that little Lady Emily Gage." 
 
 Lord Erlistoun knocked the mud off liis boots 
 — he was not afraid of muddy boots now — say- 
 ing, carelessly, 
 
 " Miss Dowghis, what is your opinion tf that 
 small schotil-girl ?" 
 
 " Lady Emily ? Indeed, I have no possible 
 grounds for forming an o| inion at all. I only 
 now and then have felt sorry, looking at her, to 
 think how soon her child-life will cnii. I always 
 feel great jiity for an heiress. She has less than 
 the common chances of us women." 
 
 " How do you mean ? that she is likely to be 
 loved for any thing except herself "i"' 
 
 " Or if she were, she would be unlikely to be- 
 lieve it. Poor little Lady Emily." 
 
 "Dcm't waste your pity over Lady Emily. 
 You might spcntl a fragment of it iqion us men 
 — men of the world — who never find a woman 
 to believe in ; who are nought, flattered, hunted 
 down, as it were ; afraid to look at a pretty face
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 lest it should be only a bait to hook us with ; 
 afraid to trust a warm heart, lest it should turn 
 out as Iiollow as this worm-cast under my foot. 
 What chance is there for us men, when we have 
 lost our reverence for women?" 
 
 "Not for all women," said Jean, gently; for 
 he had spoken with passion, as certainly I never 
 in my wildest thought expected to hear Lord 
 Erlistoun speak. " You have told me of your 
 mother." 
 
 "And what does my mother do, even my 
 mother?" his tone was lowered, but I could not 
 help hearing' it. " She writes me that there is 
 a charming creature just ready for me — one 
 whose estate joins mine, and therefore will ne a 
 most suitable match, with a good fortune — and 1 
 am poor, you know — good birth, good looks, and 
 in short, every thing convenient, except love. 
 Shall I go in a year or so, propose to her, and 
 marry hsr ?" 
 
 " 1 thought you said that for ten or fifteen 
 years to come you were determined not to mar- 
 ry?" 
 
 " So I was. I abhor matrimony. Of course 
 after a time I must settle down, as others do, 
 but I will have my liberty as long as I can. 
 When I do sell myself, it shall be tolerably dear, 
 even though it be to this young lady. I won't 
 tell you her name, l?st perhaps I might finally 
 marry her." 
 
 Whether lie was in earnest altogether, I know 
 not, but Jean was. You should have seen her 
 look of mingled pity and scorn. 
 
 "Lord Erlistoun, we will if you please dis- 
 cuss a less serious subj^'ct ; on this, you and I 
 could never think alike." 
 
 "Could we not?" 
 
 Perhaps he felt that, regarding sideways the 
 dark, noble face, on which the last bit of sunset 
 was s'aining, a pale face too, for she did not look 
 either particularly well, or particularly young, 
 while in his unwonted energy, stronger than 
 ever I saw the distinction before spoken of, be- 
 tween the woman and the boy. Equally strong 
 between the one who, living in the world, lived 
 only for it, and its ideal of happiness ; and the 
 other who, also abiding in it, and enjoying it so 
 far as fortune allowed her, had yet an ideal, a 
 spiritual sense, far, far beyond it. 
 
 " You think, I perceive, that I am fit for no- 
 thing better than to turn out one of those peo- 
 ple you hate so in ' Vanity Fair' — a Marquis of 
 Steyne, perhaps?" 
 
 " I never said so or thought so. Lord Erlis- 
 toun." 
 
 ' ' What would you have me do, then ? W^hat 
 would you have me be ?" 
 
 I, leaning on the other gate-post, apart from 
 them, was struck by this speech. It is not a 
 light matter when a man arrives at asking a 
 woman "what she would have him be?" I'er- 
 haps Jean was struck too, for she replied, rather 
 coldly — 
 
 " Indeed, you are the best judge of that ; ev- 
 ery man must be the keeper of his own con- 
 science." 
 
 " But he may gain a better self, a purer con- 
 science, to help liim. Miss Dowglas, shall I 
 take my mother's advice and marry?" 
 
 "No!" and the truth in her, the duty of 
 speaking it, seemed to make Jean forget every 
 thing else. "After the fashion of marriage 
 you have told me of, undoubtedly no ! For 
 those who see no clearer — know no better — 
 much may be allowed ; but for you who do — 
 nothing." 
 
 I saw Lord Erlistoun smile to himself. ' ' You 
 do not quite understand me." 
 
 "Yes, I think I do, but we see things from 
 such opposite points of view. You have always 
 been used to consider marriage as a bargain, a 
 convenience, a matter of necessary respectaljili- 
 ty ; I think it a sacred thing. There can be no 
 medium in it, it must be either holy or unholy ; 
 entire happiness, or utter wretchedness and sin. 
 For man or woman to marry without love — not 
 merely liking, or decent respect, but downright 
 love — is, to my thinking, absolute sin." 
 
 Lord Erlistoun replied never a word. All 
 along the still twilight fields he scarcely made 
 one observation. It was my hand that helped 
 Jean over the stiles ; he did not ofter to do it. 
 My hand, large and hard it might be, not like 
 his ; but a man's pulse beat in it — it could sup- 
 port, and it could hold fast, too. 
 
 " Will you take another turn up and down 
 the walk. Miss Dowglas?" 
 
 " No, it is too late ; I had rather go in." 
 She slipped away. Was it with the same 
 sort of instinct that, whenever Lord Krlistoun 
 came near her, for the whole remainder of the 
 evening, she slipped away ? 
 
 Well do I remember that evening and the 
 look Jean had. Her face was a little flushed, 
 and there was a certain unquietness in it. She 
 sat at the piano a long time singing ; it had 
 become a custom, I found, that she should sing 
 every night, and to no lack of listeners. What 
 she chose, in spite of one or two hints to the 
 contrary from Lord Erlistoun, who seemed a 
 little surprised at our narrow notions about 
 " Sunday" music, were songs of Ilandel and 
 Mendelssohn, among which, I remember, were 
 some of their solemnest and most spiritual — 
 " I know that my Redeemer liveth," and " Oh 
 rest in the Lord;" ending, at my father and 
 mother's desire, with an old-fashioned Method- 
 ist hymn. We were Methodists when I was a 
 child, and how the tune carried me back to the 
 little hot chapel in Rathbone Street, where, 
 after some fierce, coarse, strongly emotional 
 sermon, the congregation rose, and their stout 
 Lancashire voices threw the chorus backward 
 and forward, women and men alternately. 
 " For we're marcliiug on Enimaniicrs ground, 
 
 AVe Boon shall hear the trumpet sound. 
 
 And we all shall mett at Jesus' feet, 
 And never, never part again. 
 
 No, never part again — no, never part again — 
 
 Oh, never part again — no, never pari again; 
 
 For we all shall meet at Jesus' feet. 
 And never, never part again!" 
 
 Oh, life :— life so full of partings ! I have
 
 1« 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 often qnietcd the pain of it with a bit out of 
 that old Methodist liymn ; with the echo of that 
 "never part again." 
 
 I was up eai ly on the Monday, as usual, hut 
 my father caugiit and carried me off to look 
 at some horses he had bought for the new 
 brougham, so that I did not get my early walk 
 with Jean. She had taken hers, thougli ; for I 
 met her in the hall laying her hat aside. !She was 
 late, and we waited some minutes for her, before 
 she came down to make breakfast. All break- 
 fast time she was exceedingly silent and grave. 
 
 Lord Eriistoun did not appear till the meal 
 was nearly over. When he did, I noticed that 
 Jean blushed burning hot — in trouble and pain 
 — a very anguish of blusiiing. He did not 
 speak to her, even to wish her good-morning, 
 but took his seat near the foot of the table, and 
 entered with my father into a long and ener- 
 getic discussion on politics. In tlie course of 
 it I overheard that he had some thought of 
 Standing for a small borough in the South of 
 England, and to do so it Avould l)C imuiediatcl}' 
 necessary for him to leave for London. 
 
 I breathed. Yes, he was going away at last. 
 Maybe 1 could even feel sorry for the young 
 man. 
 
 He did not seem much moved himself. He 
 carried things \\ith a high hand, and stood talk- 
 ing with energy and ein/in'sstiiier/f of the great 
 pleasure he had enjoyed at Lythwaite Hall ; 
 but I noticed he did not give any of us the 
 slightest invitation to return the visit. 
 
 Ay, in a few hours he would be gone. The 
 new element he iiad brought into our house- 
 hold — as he certainly had, since different char- 
 acters and classes nuist necessarily act and re- 
 act upon one another — would depart with him. 
 My mother miglrt cease to put herself and her 
 house into full-dress every evening, and my 
 fatiier to bring out his claret every day as if for 
 a dinner-party. We should go back to our old 
 ways, and Lord Eriistoun to his. Could we? 
 or could he ? Can any new experience in any 
 life be merely temporary, leaving no result be- 
 hind? I doubt it. 
 
 Nevertheless, he would most probably van- 
 ish completely out of our sjiliere, as if he had 
 dropjied at J.,ythwaite from a balloon, and gone 
 up again by the same ethereal conveyance. 
 Would any body miss him? Would any body 
 care ? 
 
 Of this, too, I was not quite sure. 
 
 " Liking," not loving ; used in opposition to 
 loving, rather; but most certainly she had said 
 the word, and she did not even " like" every 
 body. 
 
 " Mark, are you going to walk to the sta- 
 tion ? I'll walk with you." 
 
 So once again went Jean and I under the 
 chestnut trees, where the white flowers now 
 lay strewn, soiled, and scentless, beneath our 
 feet. 
 
 "Cousin, you had Letter reconsider the chcst- 
 hufs that are to be in your park. Vou see ' it 
 is not always May.' " 
 
 " Ah, no !" with a slight sigh. " Mark, yotj 
 need not make public that foolish speech of 
 mine." 
 
 " About owning a park? You never mean 
 to own one, then ?" 
 
 Whether, involuntarily, I put into this ques- 
 tion some meaning below the surface, 1 know- 
 not : but Jean answered, seriously and em- 
 phatically, "No." 
 
 Still, as she walked along, though her head 
 was erect and her footfall firm, and she talked 
 easily and cheerily upon our usual family top- 
 ics, I fancied I could trace at times the same 
 unquietness of mien, as of a good and true na- 
 tiu'e not quite satisfied \\ith itself. She was 
 "out of sorts," as j)eople say — out of harmony 
 with herself and with the lovely June morning. 
 It seemed almost to give her pain. 
 
 Waiting at the station — for she would wait 
 — she took my arm to walk up and down the 
 platform. 
 
 "Oh, Mark," clinging a little, "I wish you 
 were not going away ; there is some comfort in 
 you." 
 
 I asked her, after some consideration, if any 
 thing was troubling her — would she tell me? 
 
 " No, I had rather not. In fact, I ought not. 
 It is, after all, really nothing. It will be quite 
 over by-and-by. If I were not sure of that, as 
 sure as — There's your train !" 
 
 "The next train goes at li 40. Express, re- 
 member. Lord Eriistoun wished me to inquire. 
 He goes by it." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" 
 
 "Jean — one word. Are you sorry or glad 
 he is going?" 
 
 " Very glad — heartily glad." 
 
 " But he may change his mind again — he 
 has a trick of doing so. Ah, Jean, take care." 
 
 "I /utve taken care." 
 
 " You are not angry at my saying this?" 
 
 "No. Good-by!" 
 
 My sight rested on her there, for as long ag 
 the whiiling train allowed, standing fixed and 
 firm, with her shawl gathered tight round her, 
 as if nothing in her or about her was to be left 
 loose, subject to any stray wind of fancj-, feel- 
 ing, or chance. 
 
 CIIAI'TEIl IV. 
 
 Business kept me in Liverpool for three 
 weeks, without intermission. My father could 
 only find time to go down once to Lythwaite 
 for a day and a night. The iniessant burden 
 and responsibility of money-making, money- 
 turning, and money-sj)ending — the cruel slavery 
 of riciics — sometimes weighed heavily upon even 
 his stout heart. 
 
 "Oh, Mark!" he would sometimes say to mc, 
 when we w^cre haying om* heads together over 
 business matters in the small jiarlor until long 
 after office-hours, "I sometimes think I'd ha' 
 done better to ha' left thee a clerk, as I was 
 myself when thee wert a bit of a lad, going
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 IT 
 
 back'ards and for'ards twixt this and tlie little 
 house at Everton. Heiglio, my boy ! I hope 
 thee'll get more good than thy father gets out 
 of Lythwaite Hall." 
 
 It did sometimes seem to me strange that lie 
 and I, working here in this musty rooni under 
 the coarse flare of gaslight, sometimes lifting 
 our eyes from the mass of papers and mazes of 
 figures to exchange a word or two, then again 
 silence ; it seemed passing strange that he and 
 I should have any part or lot in the splendors 
 of Lythwaite Hall. " 
 
 For its splendors, they might go to the winds, 
 but then it had some sweetnesses too. Every 
 Sunday — that bein;,' the only day I had time to 
 let them come — I used to be haunted by wafts 
 from the May-hedges, by the sound of rooks 
 cawing, or the soft single twitter of young 
 thrush^'s going to sleep in the rustling trees. 
 
 On Monday, when my father came back, I 
 asked him if all were going on well at home. 
 
 "All well, and j)articularly quiet ; your moth- 
 er," with a twinkle of his keen eye, "your poor 
 dear mother has quite given up telling folk how 
 very much she misses Lord Erlistoun." 
 
 He was gone, then, safe and sure. Well, let 
 him go, and prosperity go with him. He was 
 a fine fellow in his way, but he could have done 
 us little good, or we him. Why he came among 
 us at all, whether from self-interest (yet, rich 
 and influential as my father was, common jus- 
 tice condemned me for suspecting the young 
 nobleman of that), or whether it was one of 
 thos2 mere idle adventures which an idle youn;^ 
 man is prone to, I was still ignorant, and, to 
 throw no further mystery over the matter, I re- 
 main ignorant to this day. 
 
 Sometimes, in the dull round of business, 
 which chained my father and mys?U' as effect- 
 ually as if we were two horses in a mill, or two 
 convicts working, hand -fasted, side by side, 
 there would suddenly come across me a vision 
 of that easy, enjoyable lifj, jjictures from which 
 Lord Erlistoun had given us at Lythv.aitc, and 
 I had seen Jean's eyes light up on listening — 
 pictures of summer sunrises in the A1|!S — of 
 summer sunsets over the Euganean hills — of 
 exquisite moonlights, brighter than our dull 
 northern days, while lazily rocking on the blue 
 Mediten'anean seas, or skimming in and out 
 among the lovely isles of the Grecian Archipel- 
 ago. All pleasure, nothing but pleasure, bound- 
 ed by no duties, burdened with no cares. 
 
 Yet would I have exchanged lives ? No. 
 
 One Saturday afternoon, when I was just 
 thinking of him, thinking, too, whether it would 
 be possible to get away by the last train that 
 night for a little, a very little "pleasure," my 
 notion of pleasure, our housekeeper ushered into 
 the back parlor " Lord Erlistoun." 
 
 I was surprised, and probably I showed it, for 
 lie looked rather awkward, that is, awkward for 
 him. 
 
 Again — as I seem always to keep on saying — 
 let me be just to him ; let me not deny that del- 
 icate courtesy, that charming grace which made 
 B 
 
 the least thing he did well done, which, after 
 the first, forced the little dark parlor and me to 
 catch the influence of his comjiany. He gave 
 no reasons for his visit, except a slight ajjology 
 for " interruption," but sat down as if determ- 
 ined to be friendly and at ease. 
 
 We talked upon ordinary topics ; then, on his 
 inquiring after mv "family," about Lythwaite 
 Hall. 
 
 "You go down every Saturday, I believe?" 
 
 Was that the reason of his coming ? Was 
 it only through me that he could hear, as, in 
 spite of all his calm politeness, he seemed ner\'- 
 ously eager to hear, anv tidings of Lvthwaito 
 Hall? 
 
 At my age a man is seldom without some 
 penetration, especially when his observation is 
 sharpened by ceitain facts which concern no 
 one but himself I think I can detect false- 
 hood in feeling or expression, and can likewise 
 respect any feeling which is evidently honest 
 and true. 
 
 Jean had "taken care," she jflainly said. 
 Perhaps one might even afford a little tem- 
 ])orary regret for the temporary jiain of youRg 
 Lord Erlistoun. 
 
 I told him I did not go every Saturday, but 
 intended to be at home to-night. 
 
 "Ah ! indeed ! It must be a pleasant thing 
 to be able to say, as you say it, that thoroughly 
 English word, 'home.'" 
 
 Thereu])on we diverged, in an abstract way, 
 upon different branches of this same subject. I 
 detected in Lord Erlistoun's conversation many 
 turns of thought, nay, even of phrase, whidi 1 
 recognized as my cousin Jean's. I have often 
 noticed this fact — how one person will involun- 
 tarily imitate, not merely the tone of mind, but 
 slight peculiarities of word or gestures belonging 
 to the one other person who has most influence 
 over him or her. 
 
 Again, I say, both on this account and from 
 a certain restlessness which, well as lie disgui.-ed 
 it, pervaded his whole manner, thoughts, and 
 plans — for he poured out to me, unwillinj, and 
 unresponsive confidant, a great many of these 
 — I could not help feeling sorry for Lord Erlis- 
 toun. 
 
 Rising to leave, he said, suddenly, " You are 
 going iiomo to night ; might 1 burden you with 
 these :" 
 
 Two letters, one addressed to my mother, the 
 other to Miss Dowglas. Probably he noticed my 
 surprise, for he continued — 
 
 "They are, you perceive, ft-om Lady YaYis- 
 toun. She wished them delivered to-night, and 
 I think — I have reason to bcHevc — your Lyth- 
 waite jjost is uncertain. May I ask of you tiiis 
 favor, on the part of my mother?" 
 
 He always spoke somewhat haughtily when 
 mentioning the word "favor;" and yet to-day 
 there was a hesitating humility about hiui, too. 
 
 " I was not aware of any shortcomings in 
 the Lythwaite jwst ; but I will deliver theM 
 safely." 
 
 " Thank you. And you return on Monday ?"
 
 18 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 "I really can not inform you, Lord Erlis- 
 toun." 
 
 All these miles the letters seemed to lie burn- 
 ing in my pocket. Men, especially young men, 
 Tiait about as they will, in circles lower or 
 higher than their own. If honorable in them- 
 selves, there is no reason why they should not 
 be accepted and acceptable ; but with women it 
 is dirtcrent — or society thinks so. "What on 
 earth did Lady Erlistoun want with my motlier 
 and my cousin Jean ? 
 
 I reached home late : they had not expected 
 me. The drawing-room windows were dark ; 
 however, in the little breakfast-room I found 
 them both, presiding over a large heap of new 
 household linen, my mother looking busy and 
 pleased, as she always did when on any excuse 
 she could put off the fine lady and be the house- 
 wife once more ; Jean rather pale and anxious, 
 but she brightened up when she saw me at the 
 door. 
 
 "Ah, cousin Mark!" 
 
 "Mark, my dear boy!" 
 
 Lord Erlistoun had said truly ; it was pleas- 
 ant coming home. I did not for an hour or 
 more deliver the two letters. My mother opened 
 hers in a flutter of curiosity. 
 
 "Dear me ! Bless my heart I Why, Jane." 
 
 But Jean had taken up hers and gone out of 
 the room. 
 
 When she came back it was merely to say 
 "Good-night, Msrk;" and she said it hastily. 
 Two hot roses burnt on each cheek, but her 
 hand was very cold. It struck to my heart. 
 
 I am no advocate for the romantic dignity of 
 silence — that is between two people who, how- 
 ever much or little their mutual regard, under- 
 stand and believe in one another. With such, 
 silence is often no virtue ; merely cowardice, 
 selfishness, or pride. 
 
 "Don't go," I said, "I want to speak to 
 you." 
 
 " I cant ! I must not stay." 
 
 " Only a minute ; sit down" — for she was trem- 
 bling. " Lady Erlistoun is coming to call here 
 on Monday. IJid you know ?" 
 
 " Yes, he told me." 
 
 He! — that little momentous word! But I 
 passed it over ; it would not do to stand upon 
 trifles now. 
 
 " Cousin, I should like to know — not that I 
 have the smallest right to ask, and you must 
 not answer if you have the slightest objection, 
 but I should just like to know, in explanation 
 of something he let foil, whetlier you have heard, 
 since he left, from Lord Erlistoun ?" 
 
 She paused a moment, and then said slowly 
 and sadly, " He has written to me almost every 
 day, but I have never answered a single letter." 
 
 Ko need to ask what the letters were about ; 
 no need to guess what their effect must have 
 l>een, coming thus, every day — and strong must 
 have been the imjiulse to make Lord Erlistoun 
 do any thing regularly every day — coming from 
 a young man fresh in all the passion, the poetry, 
 the energy of his youth. 
 
 I stood silent by the chimney-piece ; meeting 
 in the mirror over it, a familiar face — well known 
 in Liverpool warehouses and on the Liverpool 
 'Change. Seeing, too, in the distance beyond, 
 that poor flushed face of Jean's. At last she 
 turned rind hid it on the sofa-pillow. 
 
 "Do help me, Mark! I have been so very 
 miserable." 
 
 I took a chair and sat down ; opposite the 
 grate, with my back to her ; and said something 
 or another. Then I waited — and waited in vain. 
 My mother called from ihe stair-case " Mark, it's 
 bedtime — see that the house is locked up" — and 
 I answered from the parlor-door, to jircvcnt her 
 coming in. 
 
 "Now Jean, tell me?" 
 
 She told me ; just what I had feared — nay, 
 expected. There is no necessity to give her 
 precise words ; indeed, she exjilained no more 
 than the bare fact that she might have been 
 Lady Erlistoun. 
 
 " I thought you said you had ' taken care?' " 
 
 "Ay, that's the thing. It was my jride, my 
 wicked self-reliance. I thought 1 was doing 
 him good ; I wanted to do him pood; I liked 
 him to like me. But I never thought — Oh Mark, 
 if I did wrong, I have been punished." 
 
 Punished ! Then, even though his letters 
 came day after day ; even though by some un- 
 accountable means he had persuaded his lady- 
 mother to visit and condescendingly investigate 
 his choice — there was no fear. I had judged 
 her rightly. Our Jean would not marry Lord 
 Erlistoun. 
 
 " I know it will not last — he is too young. 
 After a little it will seem to him no more than 
 a dream. And I may have done him some good 
 after all. Was I so wrong, Mark ?" 
 
 I did not attemjjt, from any false kindness, 
 to compromise the truth. I said, it was likely 
 that she had been in some way wrong, since, as 
 she had herself acknowledged, under similar cir- 
 cumstances, the w Oman is rarely free from blame. 
 
 " Ay — that is it — that is my self-reproach and 
 fear — Yet oh, Mark, if you knew what it was 
 to feel your youth going — to feel, too, that you 
 never had had its full value, that there had 
 been no hajjiiiness in it, and now it was going, 
 gone ; and if some one came and loved you, or 
 thought he did ; said you were the only creature 
 in the world who could make him happy, make 
 him f/ood ; if you saw, too, that there was some 
 truth in what he said; that if you had been 
 younger or he older, or if other things liad been 
 more level between you both — you might — " 
 
 "Jean," I said, startled by the exjrcssion of 
 her eyes, "do you /ove Lord Erlistoun?" 
 
 "I am afraid I do." 
 
 So in a moment the whole face of things was 
 altered ; so, in less than a moment, that "ship'- 
 which Jean used to laugh about, as being with 
 most jjcople so long in "coming home" — went 
 down, down, w ithout the flai)])ing of n sail, or 
 straining of a mast, to the bottom of the sea! 
 
 Otherwise, I might have perceived something 
 unnatural in those five slow words, something
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 19 
 
 not right in any car except the lover's being 
 the first to hear them. As it was, I simply 
 heard them in all their force and significance 
 to both our lives, and, so recognizing them, en- 
 tered upon the duty of mine. 
 
 This was plain as daylight. There are none 
 who feel so sacredly the absolute right of love 
 for love than those to whom fate has denied its 
 possession. 
 
 Jean came behind me and laid her hand on 
 my shoulder. She might! Henceforward, I 
 could no more have touched it — except cousinly 
 or brotherly, than I could have put out my own 
 to steal the crown jewels. 
 
 "Well, Mark." 
 
 "Well, Jean." 
 
 "I think 'tis time we said good-night." 
 
 "Good-night, then." A look up into her 
 bending face — which was pale, drawn, and hard. 
 "You will be happy, never fear." 
 
 " No, what I told you has no refei'cnce to — 
 to that. If any thing, it prevents it ; and makes 
 easier what I did upon instinct, for his good as 
 well as mine. No, Mark; I shall always re- 
 main Jean Dowglas." 
 
 With a smile, that made her fiice saint-like 
 in its sadness — she passed out of my sight. 
 
 But we can not be in a state of saint-hood 
 always. Certain facts which four dun walls 
 might that night have borne witness to, till such 
 time as the rookery was all astir in the weary 
 dawn, gave me a clew to certain other facts, 
 which Jean's exceeding paleness, next morning, 
 and that alone, betrayed. 
 
 There was, happily, no one at home but us 
 three. I kept my mother safe out of the way 
 the best part of Sunday, and on Monday fore- 
 noon. 
 
 My good mother! she behaved admirably. 
 Only a few nods and winks in confidence with 
 me, and an affectionate lingering over Jean, in- 
 dicated her perception of what was going on — 
 or her prophetic vision at what was undoubtedly 
 coming. After the first expi-ession of pleasure, 
 she did not even refer to Lady Erlistoun's visit, 
 and, moreover, gave me a hint to the same pur- 
 port. 
 
 "You see, she doesn't like to be noticed. 
 Very natural — I was just the same myself when 
 your father was courting, Mark, my dear." 
 
 Monday came. My mother was rather fidg- 
 ety — dressed herself directly after breakfast in 
 her gayest silk gown, and strongly objected to 
 Jean's, of some soft gray stuff — mouse-color — 
 her usual morning dress. 
 
 "Oh, don't, i)lease," Jean answered, in a 
 weaiy tone, " what does it signify ?" 
 
 " Well !" my mother commented, after watch- 
 ing her stand arranging the drawing-room flow- 
 ers, her customary daily duty, and then sit down 
 to work in the far window, ' ' Well, I don't tliink 
 it does signify. Poor Emma Brown ! I won- 
 der what she would have thought of her daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 And my mother wiped her eyes, for all she 
 seemed so proud and pleased. 
 
 Not many minutes after, she rushed back into 
 the drawing-room, all in a flurry — Lady Erlis- 
 toun's carriage was coming u]) the avenue. 
 
 " Who is in it ?" I asked. Jean did not stir. 
 
 " Only herself. Dear me — how very odd of 
 Lord Erlistoun !" 
 
 I thought dirt'erently. 
 
 Lady Erlistoun was a very handsome woman. 
 You saw at once where her son had inherited 
 his delicate profile, his full soft eye. The like- 
 ness might have been stronger when she was 
 young, or would be, as he grew old. In their 
 world, the years between twenty-four and forty- 
 four eflfect much. 
 
 She resembled her son in manner too. She 
 paid various elegantly implied compliments to 
 my mother on the exceeding beauty of Lyth- 
 waite Hall, and her own dcsii-e to see it — then 
 went on graciously to exjjlain how she happened 
 to be staying a night at the Bishop's, and was 
 unwilling to return North without having had 
 the pleasure of making Mrs. Browne's acquaint- 
 ance, and so on, and so on — never alluding to 
 anyparticularobjectof her visit, nor noticing, ex- 
 cept by the customary acknowledgment, the lady 
 who was presented to her as " Miss Dowglas." 
 
 Nor when, after this formal introduction, 
 Miss Dowglas slowly retreated to her seat, 
 could a less sharp eye than mine have detected 
 the occasional wandering of Lady Erlistoun's — 
 keenly inquisitive as women are of women — 
 anatomizing her at a glance from top to toe. 
 
 Jean sat still — proudly quiet, unmistakably 
 fair. 
 
 "Miss Dowglas, will you take nie to sec your 
 rcsery ? Erlistoun has spoken much of your 
 beautiful roses." This was the first time she 
 had mentioned her son's name. 
 
 Jean crossed the room. Lady Erlistoun 
 watched her — every step, every trick of gesture 
 and action of hands, as she showed the flowers 
 in the vases ; listened attentively to every word 
 that fell from her lips, diopi)cd easily in that 
 low-toned, pure English — not, alack ! as mj 
 dear, good Lancashire mother talked. 
 
 Let another mother meet equal justice ! Slio, 
 who had been used all her lite to these extern- 
 al refinements, valuing them far beyond tiieir 
 worth, and yet they are worth no little, as indi- 
 cations of greater tilings — let her be judged 
 fairly ! Nay, I doubt now, if even my mother's 
 son and Jean's cousin had a right to feel his 
 heart so hot within him, while tiiis noble lady 
 stood conversing with and investigating the 
 other lady — (yes, she recognized that self-evi- 
 dent fact, I saw) — whom her only son desire^ 
 to set in her own place, as Lady Erlistoun. 
 
 And for Jean '? 
 
 Once or twice, at the bent side-face, at some 
 accidental family tone, which you can detect 
 in most voices, I could see Jean's composure 
 stirred ; othonvise she was, as she was sure to 
 be, simply herself. Her mind she could dis- 
 guise — or rather conceal — and in degree her 
 feelings, but her character never. To attempt 
 it would have been to her an ignoble hypocrisy.
 
 20 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 I followed them as they moved slowly up and 
 down the garden, talking of books, pictures, 
 continental life — as Jean could talk if neces- 
 sarj-, and did so. In no way could I detect in 
 her the least faltering — the least paltering with 
 what she owed to herself, or to us Browiies. 
 
 Us Brownes. Though Lady Erlistouu was 
 extremely gi'acious, tht ugh she had too much 
 self-respect not to fultill to tlie last letter what- 
 ever courtesy she had evidently set herself to 
 perform — si ill one felt, if one ilid not see, the 
 noft, intangible, but inevitable line she drew be- 
 tween Jean Douglas and "us Brownes." 
 
 In leaving, she held out her hand — "I trust 
 we shall meet again. Miss Dowglas?" 
 
 "You are kind to wish it, Lady Erlistoun." 
 
 And so they parted. When, after seeing her 
 to her carriage, I returned to bid my mother 
 and cousin good-by, for I was starting, I found 
 Jean had gone uj) at once to her own room. 
 
 Two days after, my father showed me a letter 
 from Lord Erlistoun, inclosing another from 
 his mother, and from himself a formal applica- 
 tion for Miss Dowglas's hand. 
 
 A very extraordinary thing, the old man said 
 — quite unaccountable. If he had known what 
 was going on, he should have set his hice against 
 it — he didn't like those sort of man iagcs. But 
 in this case, when the other party had shown 
 such respect and consideration toward the dear 
 girl, and toward us likewise, when it must be 
 a thoroughly disinterested atliiir, for he remem- 
 bered telling the young fellow himself, that, ex- 
 cept her fifty pounds, Jean had not a penny ; 
 —why, he hardly knew what to say about it. 
 
 I suggested that none of us ought to say any- 
 thing. Jean was her own mistress — she must 
 decide. 
 
 "You're right, my dear boy — of course she 
 must." And not sorry to liave the responsibil- 
 ity lifted off his shoulders, my fatlier, in his own 
 honest way, wrote to that effect. 
 
 In four days more I learned, or at least judged 
 from obvious evidence, that she had decided ; — 
 Lord Erlistoun was again my father's guest. 
 
 That Saturd:iy I did not go down to Lyth- 
 waite Hall. 
 
 * <ti i|c « * « 
 
 Youth and love — first love ; — let not those 
 who have passed them l)y turn back and deny 
 cither : they are glorious things. 
 
 In time I became accustomed to the new 
 order of circumstances — could go home and see 
 those two jiacing the garden of mornings, or 
 talking of evenings in the summer Sunday twi- 
 light, without feeling that their position toward 
 each other was unnatural or wrong. 
 
 This came easier, j)erhai)s, because I saw Jean 
 looked hapj)y. Not at first ; but when she saw 
 liow haf)i)y her lover was — how gradually, under 
 hi-r influence, his whole tone of mind seemed 
 changed, Ikjw his character settled and deep- 
 ened, the fine qualities in him strengthening and 
 the frivolous ones vanishing awjiy — tlicMi Jean 
 likewise became at case and content. She evi- 
 dently loved him; and love ahjiie will make 
 
 people happy — for a time, not permanently, at 
 least not that sort of love * 
 
 Even now, sometimes I fancied — could it be 
 only fancy ? — a slight shade of doubt — like as 
 when she had asked me so pitifully that night, 
 "Was I so very wiong ?'' We had never spok- 
 en together confidentially again ; indeed it was 
 an understood thing in the family, that Jean 
 did not like to be spoken to on the subject of 
 Lord Erlistoun. When and where she ^as to 
 be married, my mother said she herself had 
 not the least idea — it seemed "rather odd of 
 Jane." 
 
 But, either from the inherent weakness of 
 human nature, or something different in the girl 
 herself, every body in the household treated her 
 ^\ith great consideration, and (offered not the 
 thadow of a reproach to the future Lady Erlis- 
 toun. 
 
 I was not of them, and had no call to be. 
 Their Jean I^owglas was not mine — never had 
 been. It was a very different thing. And one 
 day, when she was mentioning scmcthing she 
 intended to alter in the Lythwaitc garden " next 
 year"' — I determined to find out the truth about 
 her engagement. 
 
 "Next year?— you forget" — and I looked at 
 her left hand, where, as 1 had noticed, she wore 
 no ring. 
 
 With a rather sad smile she turned to me. 
 "Ko, I did not forget — I know what you are 
 thinking of, but you are mistaken. I told you 
 the truth that night." 
 
 "That you should always remain Jean 
 Dowglas?" 
 
 "1 believe I always shall." 
 
 I could not just then find vords, or her man- 
 ner sto])ped me. She went on— 
 
 "Mark I wish to tell you one thing — which 
 is all that any body has a right to know, and I 
 have said it from the first, only nobody here 
 seems to believe it — that Lord Erlistoun is not 
 engaged to me." 
 
 "Jean," I cried, for it was hard to think her 
 less than the woman I had always thought her, 
 and yet keep silence, " for the third time I say, 
 Take care ! You are attenqiting a dangerous 
 game — you are plaving with edged tools." 
 
 "Ami?" 
 
 " Beware ! Two people may go on together 
 easy and friendly for a long time ; but after love 
 is once confessed, or even susi]ectcd, they vivst 
 be lovers, or nothing. I speak as a man. You 
 Avomen know not what you do ; you are toying 
 with burning coals when you play fast antl loose 
 with a man's heart. It is worse than folly — 
 wickedness. Let there be no half-measures — 
 take him, or reject him — love him, or let him 
 go." 
 
 I Pj>oke hotlv, out of the bitterness of ray 
 soul ; but she ^^as neither hurt nor angr}'. A 
 little reproach there was in her eyes, as if in me, 
 at least, she had looked for something she did 
 not find. 
 
 " Mark, can not you understand the possibili- 
 ty of loving and letting go ?"
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TowAUD the end of the season, which lasted 
 longer than usual that year, we all went up to 
 London for a month, not with any great show, 
 or to enter on expensive gayeties — my father, 
 without assigning any reason, forbade that. He 
 went back to Liverpool, leaving the family un- 
 der my charge, at a liandsome lodging in Baker 
 Street. There was only my mother and Jean, 
 Charles (now the Reverend Charles — we were 
 very proud of that "Reverend") having gone 
 to his curacy and promised living ; and Russell 
 and Algenion being away, on a reading tour. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun called at Baker Street almost 
 daily ; in the Fark I had continually to lift my 
 hat to that handsome carriage, where, placed 
 beside Lady Erlistoun's smiling fashionable face, 
 was one I knew ; not altered — no outward cir- 
 cumstances could alter Jean, except that, by the 
 contrast, it seemed sometimes a little gi-aver 
 than it used to be. 
 
 Well, she had chosen her lot ; she was old 
 enough to know her own mind, and to be the 
 arbitress of her own destiny. 
 
 Frequently, in my duty as tempoi-ary head 
 of the family, I took my mother and cousin to 
 the recei)tions at Erlistoun House. There, hav- 
 ing nothing better to do, I used to moralize on 
 the sort of life they led — this noble old family — 
 nobler in strict purity of blood than many mod- 
 ern Dukes and Earls. And, theirs being a type 
 of many others, though of none other had I any 
 experience — I often, in that whirl of society, 
 which makes a centre of contemplative solitude 
 for any man who chooses, took notes of a few 
 facts that we parvenus, we daring swimmers, 
 who have struggled into unknown waters by the 
 main strength of our hands, are rather slow to 
 learn. 
 
 It seemed to me, that we are looked down 
 upon, not so much for what we are as for what 
 we assume ; that the secret of " aristocratic" 
 ease, is its conscious possession of so much that 
 assumption becomes needless. Alas, if we in 
 our generation were as wise as these children of 
 the world, if we valued our sterling ore, our hon- 
 est manhood and womanhood, as much as they 
 their lovely filagree-work of external refinement, 
 if we were never asliamed of ourselves, I think 
 these, our "betters'" in breeding and education — 
 if such they be, the only tangible betterness they 
 j)Ossess over us, would be shamed into acknowl- 
 edging that nobility which worth alone possesses 
 — that power which needs no asserting, since it 
 " Cometh not from man but God." 
 
 I know that night after night I, Mark Browne, 
 whose father was a clerk and whose mother was 
 a milliner, have gone among the best of the 
 land, the high, the wise, and the fair; the high- 
 er I went being the more courteously entreated ; 
 that there, amidst velvets and diamonds, I have 
 watched Jean Dowglas, always Jean Dowglas, 
 in her simple attire and free, noble manners ; 
 speaking as she chose, dressing as she chose ; 
 for she obstinately refused to spend a shilling 
 
 more than her own humble income ; different 
 from all, fearless of all ; yet compelling for her- 
 self and more than herself, an invariable, in- 
 stinctive reverence. 
 
 Let no one bely truth by doubting the power 
 of it. In the foolish strife between patrician 
 and plebeian, jack-daws and jays, it is only our 
 sham feathers that make us despised, and de- 
 servedly, because all shams are despicable. We 
 that keep our own honest plumage shall always 
 be respected and respectable birds. I never 
 heard one sneer, or saw one covert smile against 
 either poor Miss Dowglas or "those wealthy 
 Brownes." 
 
 This was one view of the subject, but I noted 
 another. 
 
 Splendid as this sort of life was, having ap- 
 pai-ently no aim beyond that of the old Atheni- 
 ans, "to tell or to hear some new thing;" to 
 seize on some new plan of beauty or delight — it 
 seemed to me exceedingly sad and strange. Not 
 for people in their first youth, when the faculty 
 of enjoyment Is so intense that it must needs 
 be right rationally to enjoy- — but afterward. I 
 dwell not here on the dark under-side of such 
 a life, but simply on its brightness — a glare like 
 living in a house all glass, with no shadowy cor- 
 ners in it — or tossing from wave to wave with 
 a dazzling sunshiny sea, without anchorage or 
 rest. 
 
 Sometimes coming from one of those assem- 
 blies, where in the whole of Erlistoun House 
 you could not find a single nook to make a fire- 
 side of — not a single bare jeweled neck where 
 you could fancy a child nestling to and lisping 
 " mother," I would catcli from Jean's corner in 
 the dark carriage, a faint, half-involuntary sigh. 
 
 No wonder Lord Erlistoun had been struck 
 by the pleasantness of our middle-class "home." 
 In his sphere, except as an order to the coach- 
 man, they seemed hardly to know tlie meaning 
 of the word. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun came to iis — rr rather to Jean, 
 as I have said, incessantly. And now, catch- 
 ing an occasional flicker of the fire that smoul- 
 dered in his dark eyes — indicating the " sub- 
 stance underneath" which Jean had once said 
 she should like to get at — ah, foolish Jean ! I 
 began to perceive some reason why, for his own 
 sake, it was better that he should be allowed to 
 come. 
 
 His mother never hindered him. All her 
 plans for him seemed to have vanished in air, 
 conquered or made void by his own impetuous 
 will. She was a wise woman — Lady Erlistoun ; 
 something better than a mere woman of the 
 world, too ; for Jean always said when ques- 
 tioned that she "liked" her. 
 
 One forenoon Jean and I sat together, in 
 total silence, for I had ])usiness letters to attend 
 to ; and the i)resent surfeit of "pleasure" made 
 me feel business to be even a respite and rest. 
 Jean was by the window, watching the rattling 
 confusion of the London street ; she hardly 
 looked like the rose-cheeked, active Jean Dowg- 
 las, who used to loiter about w ith me. of early
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 spring mornings, before Lord Erlistoun had 
 ever been seen ol: heard of at Lythwaite Hall. 
 
 Those far-away days were never mentioned 
 now. Hapjiily, I can j)ut aside times and sea- 
 sons, thoughts and feelings, when I will — that 
 is, when my conscience wills. Not destroying 
 aught — nothing save evil may be destroyed — 
 but locking all uj) and keeping the key. I 
 never contest any thing with any l)ody — I sim- 
 j)ly resign. Absolutely and utterly ; let small 
 rights go with the great ones ; I never would 
 claim, or beg, or struggle for one iota that was 
 not freely and solely mine. 
 
 Thus, Jean and I rarely talked to one anoth- 
 er more than habit made necessary ; thus, to- 
 day, Iicaring a knock at the door, I merely ob- 
 served that it was doubtless Lord Erlistoun, and 
 began putting aside my jtajjers. 
 
 " No, it is Lady Erlistoun ; I was expecting 
 her. Mark, do not go; I wish you would not go." 
 
 Of course, I obeyed. 
 
 Lady Erlistoun had never before called at 
 this early, familiar hour, rarely alone, as now. 
 She sftlutcd Jean, French fashion, in Iier lively 
 loveless way, thanked her for admitting herself 
 so early, hojjcd she was not weary with her ex- 
 ertions last night. 
 
 " But really, 7)in c/ure, your singing is per- 
 fection. Mr. Browne, why did you not tell me 
 of it before ? Sucli charniing sim])lii-ity, and 
 yet thorough finish of style ! Your cousin might 
 have studied under Garcia himself." 
 
 "I did for a little while" — Lady Erlistoun 
 look surprised — "At one time I meant to be a 
 professional singer." 
 
 "Oh, indeed." 
 
 " It would not have been quite the life I 
 would have chosen, but it appeared necessary I 
 should cam my own living. I had only my 
 voice, and I would thankfully have used it. 
 However, I had no need, and may not have." 
 
 "No, certainly not," and the visitor began 
 talking graciously to me — would have talked 
 me out of the room if she could — for that was 
 the usual result of her benignity toward me. 
 But Jean's directness ended all dithculty. 
 
 "I believe, Lady Erlistoun, you h.-xd some- 
 thing to say to mc? Need I banish my cousin 
 Mark, who is as good as a brother to mc who 
 have none ?" 
 
 Lady Erlistoun bowed a negative. " My 
 communication is very simjde — jrossibly Erlis- 
 toun had t(jld you, his lady confessor? Nay, 
 he said his decision depended on yours. Truly 
 there could not bo a more devoted worshiper 
 than my son, at this fair shrine." 
 
 Her light recognition, implying the lightness 
 of the bond — did it hurt Jean ? However, she 
 replied, steadily. 
 
 " Lord Erlistoun is kind ; nor could he leave 
 any decision concerning him in safer hands; but 
 as you both knew, I claim no right to influence 
 his plans." 
 
 Lady Erli.stoun smiled. "I see. He must 
 make his own confession, implore his own ab- 
 solution." 
 
 " I trust he knows me better than to do 
 either." 
 
 Jean's earnestness surprised the mother into 
 something of the same. She asked in a low 
 tone, 
 
 "Miss Dowglas, am I to understand that no 
 tie exists between you and my son ? Is the 
 engagement broken ?" 
 
 "There never was any on his side, as I 
 thought he had long since told you. He has 
 always been free — perfectly free." 
 
 A glitter in Lady Erlistoun's eyes — faint re- 
 flex of that in her son's sometimes. "Do not 
 let us argue nominal jioints ; I will tell you 
 this plan of mine, which I have long desired to 
 carry out. It is, that my son and I should take 
 a tour together through Italy, Greece, and the 
 Holy Land. A charming country, the Holy 
 Land ?" 
 
 This last remark, addressed to me, I answered 
 by one or two more, to give Jean time. Pres- 
 ently she said, 
 
 ' ' Would it be a long tour, Lady Erlistoun ?" 
 
 " Only two or three years, or a little less." 
 
 "And when should you start?" 
 
 "Immediately." 
 
 Jean inquired no further, but sat quiet. Some- 
 thing — it could not be color, for she was now al- 
 ways pale — faded out of her face, like the light 
 cast 071 a window when the sun goes down — 
 faded too gradually to indicate that it was un- 
 expected, or in any sense a sudden loss ; still it 
 was a loss ; a something that had been, and was 
 not. 
 
 "Tell me, what do you think of this plan, 
 Miss Dowglas?" 
 
 "I think, if Lord Erlistoun wishes it, and 
 since his mother wishes it, he will — there can be 
 no doubt that you ought to go." 
 
 "'Ought' — your favorite word. Nay, you 
 have ingrafted it on a certain young friend of 
 ours. He is always talking of what he ' ought' 
 to do. Seriously" — and there was a kindliness 
 under her sjjortive air — "a mother owes thanks 
 for any good influence which at a critical time 
 of his life is exercised over her son." 
 
 Jean's mouth trem>)led. 
 
 " 1 am really sorry to take him from you for 
 this tour; but you know him as I know him, 
 my dear Miss Dowglas — a noble fellow — the 
 soul of honor, both in jirinciple and jiracticc ; 
 but a little — just a little — however, that will 
 amend." 
 
 What would amend? Jean must have known, 
 for she answered slowly and firmlv — "1 believe 
 it will." 
 
 "Once,— I may speak before your cousin, I 
 know ? once I wished Erlistoun to marry early ; 
 and even now, I thiuk"^ — lusitatiug, with a j)ass- 
 ing survey of the face and form, less fresh and 
 fair than it was under the first maternal inves- 
 tigation in the Lythwaite drawing-room — "I 
 think sometimes if you would listen to him — " 
 
 "No," Jean interrupted hastily, "he had 
 better 7iot marry early. It would not be for hi» 
 good that he should marry me."
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 23 
 
 *' Have you told him so ?" 
 
 "From the first. But he will not hear it. 
 He will not let me go. He loves me, «o!"." 
 
 Oh, what depths of meaning lay in that half- 
 uttered — I know she did not mean to utter it — 
 that quickly smothered "now." 
 
 Lady Erlistoun might have heard it, or might 
 not. i sus])ect she did, and understood it like- 
 wise. Taking Jean's hand, she said, out of the 
 heart that may have beat truly, or even passion- 
 ately some time, jjossibly, since she married at 
 twenty, for another Lord Erlistoun, 
 
 " I never wish my son to love a nobler wo- 
 man." 
 
 From that day I ceased to avoid Jean's lover 
 so much as I was accustomed to do. The lover 
 in him interested me in spite of myself; this 
 persistent pursuit and absorbing worship of the 
 woman who had taken liold of his best self as 
 well as of his imagination, and had become to 
 him higher and purer than a passion, an ideal. 
 
 Yet, there was no lack of passion either — 
 quick jealousies, brief angers ; all that sparkling 
 and crackling of a fire which burns fierce, bright, 
 and fast ; but one can not readily detect that 
 while it is burning. 
 
 A young man, passionately, deeply, and dis- 
 interestedly in love, has alwaj-s in him some- 
 thing worthy of respect. Nor, while women 
 are still women, and to be loved touches and 
 ennobles their nature as to love ennobles a 
 man's, did it seem any marvel or shame that 
 this devotion of his was not altogether wasted 
 on a mere idol, marbly cold. For all Jean said, 
 I, catching many a look and tone less sedulously 
 guarded now that the time of parting drew near, 
 began to feel sure that, though she might test 
 her lover's faith, or, for his own sake, refuse to 
 bind him by a formal engagement — still, soon 
 or late, she would marry Lord Erlistoun. 
 
 The day before his departure, his cab was at 
 the door before nine o'clock. I heard his quick 
 footstep springing up the stairs and his familiar 
 entrance into the back drawing-room, where 
 Jean stood watering her flower-stand ; of all 
 the gifts lie would have loaded her with, she 
 refused every thing but flowers. 
 
 "I am come to stay all day — may I?" 
 
 Jean smiled ; she was busy over a sickly 
 lieliotrope, withering in London air — ''I can't 
 keep it alive, you see." 
 
 "Never mind it — keep it while 'tis worth 
 any thing, and then throw it away. But you 
 did not answer me. Say, may I stay ? or do 
 you Avish me to go ?" 
 
 "No!" her hand slipped into his. "This 
 last day? No." 
 
 He had never spent a whole day in Baker 
 Street before — he soon became very restless, 
 pacing uj) and down the dull drawing-room 
 suite, which was all our establishment. No 
 charming nooks to sit and talk in, as at Erlis- 
 toun House — no sunshiny gardens to make love 
 in, as at Lythwaite Hall. If, indeed, Jean had 
 allowed any " love-making ;" which she did not. 
 Only in the eyes that, however (juiet siic v, as, 
 
 seemed always to take note of him and his en- 
 joyment, you could see the utter unselfish love, 
 which, abhorring all coquetry, found its best 
 demonstration in silence. 
 
 At last, when he had sat listening amiably to 
 my good mother's long-winded confidences of 
 our lodging-house woes — Jean put her work 
 away, and jiroposed we should all go once more 
 to our frequent haunt, the Crystal Palace. 
 
 "But it is Thursday — one of the people's 
 days?" 
 
 "I am one of the people: I should like to 
 
 go." 
 
 So she went. 
 
 Already it is half forgotten — soon it will be- 
 come a mere tale to tell our children — that 
 People's Palace of 1851. Yet, oh! the beauty 
 and wonder of it, when you came out of dusty 
 London, and stood in the lofty nave, with its 
 captive trees, green but motionless — its lines of 
 white statues — its crystal fountain. The fairy- 
 land it was ! Till, advancing, you caught the 
 " hum innumerous" of the moving crowd, which 
 thenceforward never left you. Such a grand, 
 touching, infinitely human crowd: its huge 
 mass giving an impression of solitude — its con- 
 fused incessant noises producing the sense of 
 silence. 
 
 I liked to be carried along by that living sea, 
 or else, from one of the end galleries, to watch 
 it rolling on, ,each atom bearing its imknown 
 individual burden of pleasure or pain. I liked 
 to recognize, by my yearning over them, that 
 every one of these was my brother or my sister 
 — noble or ignoble, rich or poor, learned or U7i- 
 learned, sinful or innocent — no less my brother 
 and my sister ; and as such, never to be over- 
 looked by me, since not one of them was for- 
 gotten before God. 
 
 Sometimes, too, when the great organ began 
 to sound, I would try to solve many a troubled 
 problem concerning myself and these, by think- 
 ing of them, not as now, the most of them laden 
 with useless sorrow, or tainted with apparently 
 irredeemable sin — but as that " great multitude, 
 which no man can number," which, out of 
 all "nations, and kindreds, and people, and 
 tongues," shall yet make the innumerable com- 
 pany of the Church of the First-born. 
 
 Feelings like these dwarfed all minor ones, 
 and caused me, when every hour or so I saw 
 emerging from or disappearing in the throng 
 its only two units in which I had any personal 
 interest, to look on them much as I should have 
 done on meeting in that wondrous company, 
 where, we believe, we shall have lost all per- 
 sonality that is not too pure to suffer pain. 
 
 I think they enjoyed that day. I myself can 
 still see, as then. Lord Erlistoun's tall head and 
 Jean's slender, sober-liued figure, moving down 
 the long transepts or loitering in the gorgeous 
 courts. And once, fixing a rendezvous, I found 
 them sitting among "the people" — who were 
 dining out of big baskets and filling clumsy 
 drinking-cups at the crystal fountain — nay. Lord 
 Erlistoun rose .-ind took much pains to do the
 
 24 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 tame for some cross, child-laden woman, whose 
 sole answer was a gruff "Thank'ee; you be 
 civiler tlian most o' the young gentlemen." 
 
 Would he have done it of himself? I thought, 
 or only for Jean's smile ? Any how, it was bet- 
 ter done than undone. 
 
 Day waned : a semi-twilight shadowed the 
 courts, while quaint refractions of sunshine 
 flitted about tiie many-colored carjiets and mo- 
 tionless banners of all nations hun^' along the 
 aisles. 
 
 "Let us all come and sit quiet somewhere 
 until the bell sounds." 
 
 They two went and sat in the alcove — many 
 will remember it, made of iron-work from Coal- 
 brookdale. They talked earnestly — of wliat I 
 did not hear, nor ever wish to know. Let no one 
 ever desire to break the sanctity of anotlier's past. 
 
 I can think of Jean, even now, as sitting 
 there, her hands crossed, her eyes declined on 
 her lap, listening ; or speaking, with sweet eyes 
 lingering on his face — a face beautiful in itself, 
 and beautiful to her. Heaven knows. I will nut 
 deny it, or him. God love him ! he was Jean's 
 first love. 
 
 The gong of dismissal sounded. It made 
 her start- — she was often nervous now. That 
 dull, heavy boom seemed to pierce her through 
 and through ; when she rose from her chair she 
 could hardly stand. 
 
 " She is worn out," I said; "we must take 
 her home." 
 
 "Yes, yes. Only five minutes more, for one 
 last walk through the beautiful nave — can you, 
 Jean ?' 
 
 She smiled assent. 
 
 "So, leaning on Lord Erlistoun's arm, she 
 wnlked slowly through, till at the door she 
 6topi)cd, and turned to look back. 
 
 Last year, crossing to Kensington Gardens, 
 I, too, stopped, as it might be, on that very spot, 
 and called to mind how we three stood and 
 looked back on that fairy palace, with all its 
 glory of color, form, and sound. What was 
 left of it? Nothing, save (and I tliought, liap]>y 
 for those to whom this is left, after tlie clearing 
 away of their youth's crystal palaces !) free space, 
 light, and air; where tiie sun may still shine 
 and tiie grass grow. 
 
 Coming home, Loi'd Erlistoun found a note 
 from his mother, which, with a gesture of an- 
 noyance, he passed on to Jean. 
 
 " iJut I will not go — I wonder she can ex- 
 pect it. This, my last night, to be wasted at 
 the Bishop's ; she knows I hate going there. 
 Jean, if vou knew" — lie stopped. 
 
 "I know one thing," said Jean's persuasive 
 Toicc, " that you will not refuse your mother — 
 it is her rif;lit." 
 
 "And iiavc you no right? Not even this 
 last night! you arc cruel." 
 
 "Am I?" Jean took out her watch; her 
 hand sliook much, but she sjiokc tlccisively — 
 " Vou will have time enough fur both. See — 
 one, two, three hours longer with us, then you 
 ghall go." 
 
 A few more restless reproaches, such as she 
 often had to bear and to smile down, as now. 
 But her smile always calmed him, and — another 
 of those facts which sometimes set me pondering 
 as to the future — her will always ridcd. 
 
 A quiet hour or so in the slowly-darkening 
 drawing-room, I read at the window for as long 
 as I could, my mother dozed on the sofa. Lord 
 Erlistoun jirotestcd against lights ; .so we had 
 only the fantastic glimmer of the street gas- 
 lamp dancing on the wall. By it I could just 
 trace Jean's motionless figure leaning baik in 
 tlic arm-cluiir — anotlier figure sitting beside her 
 — lastly on the he;;rth-n;g at her feet. One 
 would have smiled, remembered the dignified 
 behavior of Loid Ei listuun at Lythwaite ; but it 
 was a matter beyond smiling at, now. 
 
 " Will nobody talk ?" said Jean, after .i long 
 silence. 
 
 Some desultory conversation ensued, about 
 people and bocks, and then his thoughts de- 
 serting him, or assuming lover-like forms that 
 were necessarily limited in ex]iression, tliough 
 on the whole be observed little restraint in the 
 presence of my mother and me — Lord Erlistoun 
 took to rej)eating joetry. 
 
 What a voice it was- — rich, deep, and low ; 
 how — stealing through the dark, with intention- 
 al emphasis, it must have gone direct to any 
 heart tliat was young and loved him. Even 
 me it touched in a measure ; some fragments 
 in particular ; because I afterward found them 
 in a book, and because of the deeper meaning 
 they caiTied than I then wist of. It was a love 
 poem, of course. 
 
 "In many mortal forms T rashly Fought 
 Tlio shadow of this idol of my thought; 
 And some wtro fair, but beauty dies away, 
 Others were wise, but honeyed words betray; 
 And one was true — .Vh, why not true to me! 
 Till, like a hunted deer that could not Hee — "' 
 
 The young man goes rambling on, in language 
 intoxicating with its loveliness, half earthly, half 
 heavenly — till be finds the one — the last — and 
 thus describes licr : 
 
 " Soft as an incarnation of the sun 
 When light is changed to day, this glorious one 
 Floated into the cavern where 1 lay, 
 And called my spirit, and the dreaming clay 
 ■\Vas lifted by the thing that dreamed below 
 As smoke by fire, and in her beauty's glow 
 1 stood, and felt the dawn of my long night 
 Was penetrating me with living light; 
 I knew it was the vision vailed from mc 
 So many years; that it was — "' 
 
 "Emily;" supplied Jean, with a little soft 
 laugh, " why did yon jiausc over it? 'tis one of 
 tlie sweetest names I know." 
 
 "I hate it." 
 
 Lord Erlistoun started to his feet and would 
 say no more j>o('try. Certainh', it had struck 
 me as odd that a lover on the eve of parting 
 should expend his feelin;;s in another man's 
 words, or indeed in any words at all. But love 
 fakes so many forms, that what seems false to 
 one nature may be cssentiiilly true in another. 
 
 He continued his old restless walk \\\> and
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 25 
 
 down the room ,• Jean sighed, and then went 
 and opened the piano. 
 
 " Do you remember this, Mark? you used to 
 like it, though you do not care for music." 
 
 Not every body's music ; but this, it was a 
 "song without words" — Mendelssohn's. She 
 had played it with the sunbeam dancing on her 
 head that May forenoon at Lythwaite. Before 
 many bars it was broken in upon by Lord Erlis- 
 toun. 
 
 "'Tis too tame, too quiet. Jean, play some- 
 thing / like, or rather do not play at all. 
 Hark I" — the church clock struck — " only one 
 hour now." 
 
 lie seized her left hand, the other moving 
 vaguely over the treble keys, and began talking 
 to her in a low voice, as lovers do. 
 
 I went back to the window. In the middle 
 of the street, singing in a high voice, cracked 
 now, yet not without the ghost of former tune- 
 fulness — stood a woman with a baby in her 
 arms, and a boy at her side. Clustering round 
 the gin-palace, farther down, was a knot of still 
 wretL-heder women — some with children like- 
 wise — dragging in or out refi-actory husbands — 
 or worse ; while appearing and disappearing 
 under the doctor's red lamp opposite our door, 
 passed score after score of all sorts of faces — 
 hardly one in the whole number a contented or 
 good face — which make up the phantasmagoria 
 of London streets of a night. 
 
 Without, such sights as these ; within, those 
 two, repeating delicious poetry and whispering 
 together over soft music ! God help us ! I said 
 to myself, is there nothing in the world but love, 
 nothing to live for but happiness? 
 
 Oh, Jean, I was hard to thee ! Hard even 
 at that moment — and blind, as we almost al- 
 ways are, when we severely judge. I caught 
 Lord Erlistoun's voice, so impetuous that it was 
 impossible not to hear. 
 
 "At I'ast you will write to me? you will 
 not forbid my writing to you as often as I 
 please ■;"' 
 
 " Did I not promise, long ago ?" 
 
 " I know, you have made me every promise 
 I could desire, though you will take none from 
 me. Once, again, wiiy will you not? Do you 
 think me changeable?" 
 
 Jean repeated, half-jesting, half-sadly, the 
 lines: 
 
 •' In many forms I rashly sought 
 The sliadow of this idol of my thought." 
 
 "I was not the first of these, you know." 
 
 "But you will be the last. Oh, Jean, do 
 you not believe I love you?" 
 
 " I do— yet— " 
 
 " Stop, I know what is coming — the old ar- 
 gument ; that your experience and mine have 
 been so different ; that you have lived for work 
 and I for enjoyment ; that my youth is but just 
 begun ; while yours; — " 
 
 " You brought me back my youth," she mur- 
 mured. Oh, yes — I have been very happy I" 
 
 " Have been 1 'Tis always hnvr hcpn ,•" and 
 he said something more, rapidly — incoherent- 
 
 ly — ^his manner being fierce and tender, by 
 turns. 
 
 "No," Jean replied, "it is not these things 
 I am afraid of. External differences are no- 
 thing with union at the core — love and trust, 
 and — faithfulness." 
 
 "Enough; I know," he said, bitterly. "I 
 am not one of your 'faithful' temperaments. 
 You judge me — most wise woman ! by the tinge 
 of my skin, and the color of my hair." 
 
 "Lord Erlistoun!" 
 
 "No — I deny it not, I am a very different 
 J)erson from your cousin Mark there. I am 
 southern to the very core : my blood seems to 
 run like fire sometimes — and you set it alight 
 — you stand by and watch it burnin-^. Jean, 
 you do not love me, you never loved me I" 
 
 Jean did not answer for a minute, "Then 
 you think when I promised — you know what 
 — I was false to myself, and w^,rsc, to you, 
 after the crudest falseness any woman can 
 show ?" 
 
 "Forgive me — oh, forgive me! I love you 
 — yet I am always grieving you." 
 
 Again Jean paused before replying. "1 tnke 
 the grief with the love, and would have done 
 the same, twenty times over, because I have 
 hope in you." 
 
 She did not say " faith ;" faith, the very root 
 and foundation of love ; but he never noticed 
 that. "Yes," Jean repeated, "great hope. 
 That is the way with us women, we care less 
 for your loving than for what you are ; we can 
 lie content if, quite apart from us, we see you 
 every thing that you ought to be. I could.' 
 
 "Jean, I will be any thing, every thing, if 
 you will be my Jean." 
 
 He tried to clasp her, apparently — for she 
 shrank visibly from him. 
 
 " Oh, do not !" in an accent of pain, "I feel 
 as if it were not right; I could not unless" — 
 she drop])ed her face u])on her hands, "I know 
 Me shall never be more to one anotlier than we 
 are now." 
 
 What he replied I can not say ; nor what far- 
 ther last words passed between them. Let all 
 rest sacred, as last words should. 
 
 When Jean called me from my room to bid 
 him good-by. Lord Erlistoun was sttiuding by 
 the now lit lamp, exceedingly pale ; l)utj)roud; 
 more like the Lord Erlistoun of Lythwaite times 
 than as we knew him now. My nuither, out of 
 her dear warm heart, extended her hand with a 
 good wish and blessing ; when, very much to 
 her surprise, he lifted the hand and kissed it. 
 
 " Tiiank you all for all your kin(hicss ; 1 ho])e 
 to return it one day, two years hence. Two 
 years, and remember" — he turned to me ; whetlier 
 he liked me or not I think he trusted me — " how- 
 ever free she holds me, I hold Jean Dowglas as 
 my wife. Take care of her, until she is my 
 wife. Good-bj'." 
 * >i: Jtf m * * 
 
 He had not been gone a month when there 
 befell our family what, as I am not writing our 
 history but tluit of Lord Erlistoun, I will stato
 
 26 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 briefly — as things fatal for life, more terrible 
 than death, often are stated. 
 
 A defalcation, in its cliaracter worse than 
 mere recklessness, and involving years of long 
 concealed, systematic fraud, was hrouglit to 
 light concerning a partner in our firm of Browne 
 and Co. His name matters not, it is now blot- 
 ted out from the face of the earth ; the wretched 
 forger destroyed himself. 
 
 My father did the only thing an honest man 
 could do ; sacrificed his wealth to his integrity. 
 He jjaid his liabilities to the last penny — then 
 laid down his head in j)eace, and died. The 
 flight of his coffin borne out through its gates, one 
 snowy winter day, is almost my last remem- 
 brance of Lythwaite Hall. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It was a little first-floor lodging, sunshiny, 
 neat, and clean. Nothing remain:; of it now : 
 a month since, in a new line of railway, I dashed 
 through what had been the parlor, with its two 
 balconied windows, each adorned with three pots 
 of evei-green ; over which, on fine evenintis, a 
 broad ray of sunshine came across the head of 
 the sofa. " See that the house faces westward," 
 had been Jean's private orders, " that she may 
 always have the sun at the end of the day." 
 Blank now looked those walls, cut out of the 
 line of Pleasant-row — yet I thought how many 
 a quiet hour we had passed within them, and 
 what a harlioruf rest the place had been for my 
 mother and Jean ! 
 
 After the general break-up, we thus disposed 
 of the family. Charles took Russell with him 
 to his curacy. I being otlered a situation ( f 
 trust in a London house, stijiulated for a small 
 clerkship there, where Algernon might begin 
 the world. Poor lads I a far different begin- 
 ning of the world to any they had looked for ; 
 but the stout honest workingman's blood in them 
 was stronger than tlicir luxurious rearing ; after 
 the wreck they jiluuged in, fearless, and jire- 
 pared to strike out for the land ! 
 
 "Now — about my mother?" 
 
 "Your mother is mine, Mark," said Jean, 
 determinedly. 
 
 And so, from that morning, when she had 
 dressed her tenderly in that cruel garb which 
 custom C(^mpels (I never thought how cruel it 
 was till then), had brought her down stairs and 
 set her in the midst of her children, a widow, 
 •with her gay gowns laid aside forever, her life's 
 story closed, and henceforth bound to receive 
 from every one of us double honor, and double 
 care — from that hour Jean took altogether upon 
 herself the jilacc and duties of my mother's own 
 daughter. • 
 
 They luid not always agreed together before, 
 being in most things so opjjositc ; but now my 
 motlier's every weakness was held sacred, cveiy 
 failing gently borne with ; all patience accord- 
 ed to her fretfulncss; all trouble silently taken 
 out of her hands. For, from the lime of her 
 
 widowhood, she grew suddenly old ; lier energy 
 and activity forsook her ; she leaned upon all of 
 us in turn, for every thing, and upon no one so 
 much as Jean Dowglas. 
 
 So I brought them with me to London, set- 
 tled them in Pleasant-row, and left them to 
 comfort one another, as women can. They had 
 Algernon, too, of evenings ; but I did not lire 
 with them myself, for many reasons. 
 
 My mother's daughter! So she was, and I 
 liad sense enough to be thankftd, though the 
 fact had its painfid jihase at times. But no 
 man ought to be a hypocrite in the smallest 
 word. I do not remember ever once calling 
 Jean Dowglas my "sister" 
 
 About Lord Erlistoun. During our time of 
 trouble she never mentioned his name ; it did 
 not seem to be one of those names that one does 
 turn to in tinu> of trouble. But after we were 
 settled, I brought to her, redirected from l^yth- 
 waite Hall, a foreign letter: I might have 
 known who it came from by Jean's eyes — she 
 was no hyjiocrite neither. 
 
 " Does he know what has happened ?" — For 
 I wisheil^o learn. 
 
 "1 wrote and told him. At least as much 
 as was necessarv, as much as concerned my- 
 self." 
 
 "And what does he say?" 
 
 Jean's vivid blush answered. 
 
 "1 see, of course. Cousin," I said, feeling 
 that some one of us ought to say it, "you must 
 decide for yourself without reference to my moth- 
 er. "We have no claim upon you ; Lord Erlis- 
 toun has." 
 
 " I know he has." 
 
 "Then go, go and be happy." 
 
 She shook her head, "Mark, that is not like 
 you. How could one be happy with any thing 
 left undone? Besides" — she stopped short here, 
 and rcccnimenccd the sentence — " I do but keep 
 to my first resolve, made not unadvisedly, nor 
 in haste. I think it was scarcely wrong, or 
 hard." 
 
 "Hard! the love that must last a lifetime 
 may surely wait two years." 
 
 I spoke bitterly, mindful of the scores of young 
 lovers whose "small weak fiame" can not en- 
 dure from month to month even ; who believe 
 the greatest misery on earth is that "wailing!" 
 Fools and faint-hearted ! ^^'hat is a man's love 
 worth if he can not love on to eternity ? 
 
 As for a wonnin's — I glanced at Jean. Her 
 fingers were tightly folded over the letter ; her 
 mouth, though it smiled, was somewhat drawn. 
 It had not, and never had had, that look of rest 
 which I used to fancy the kiss of betrothal ouglit 
 to leave behind ; sacred and satisfied ; never to 
 be obliterated by any after care. 
 
 " Cousin, if you ])lease, wc will not discuss 
 this suV)ject." 
 
 1 obeyed her ; delivering in silence any letter 
 that came afterward ; they being, from Jean's 
 uncertainty of residence, always addressed to 
 my care. Sometimes we heard nothing what- 
 ever of their contents. Sometimes, of Sunday
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 27 
 
 afternoons, my mother, who was never denied 
 any thing now, would beg for a bit out of Lord 
 Erlistoun's descriptions of Vienna and Constan- 
 tinople ; of desert marches, camels, and Arabs ; 
 the Pyramids and the Nile ; Easter in the 
 Church of the Nativity ; moonlight nights under 
 the cedars of Lebanon — a life, such as a young 
 man glories in ; full of incessant excitement, 
 beauty, and change. Change, especially, seemed 
 to be the necessary element, the craving delight 
 of this young man's existence. 
 
 "He seems very happy," my mother would 
 often say. " Eh dear ! it's a great thing to be 
 happy." 
 
 " Yes — yes," and Jean's happiness, which evi- 
 dently lay in these letters or fra;^ients of let- 
 ters, which she did 7tot read — would follow her 
 for days and days, like an invisible atmosphere ; 
 making a Santa Sophia out of the small parlor 
 at Pleasant liow, and briglitcuing the dull sub- 
 urban streets she paced along into a veritable 
 Holy Land. 
 
 I suppose most people have, some time or 
 other, had such illusions. 
 
 They are most vivid, if not most jiatural, in 
 a colorless life, such as now was hers. In vain 
 she said that she was "used to it ;" that it was 
 only going back to the straitened ways of her 
 early youth ; it must have been a change. Even 
 to my mother, far less sensitive in tastes or feel- 
 ings — the task of making sixpence do the work 
 of a shilling, after half a lifetime of plenty, 
 came bitterly hard. Gradually I discovered 
 that the whole cares of the dwindled household 
 had fallen into Jean's liands. 
 
 It used to cost me many a pang then ; it 
 does not now. I glory in thinking of her in 
 her well-worn dresses and neacly mended gloves, 
 while, somehow or other, my mother's were 
 always fresh and new ; in remembering the 
 miles she would trudge down muddy London 
 streets — ^" Oh, we can do, Mark; we're young 
 and strong ; but we must take your mother a 
 drive somewhere, soon ;" in calling to mind her 
 thoughtful ways as she followed me to the hall- 
 door for some private word or two, " I did not 
 like to say any thing up stairs, it might trouble 
 your mother." 
 
 My mother, 711 ine. May Heaven forget me 
 when I forget thee, Jean Dowglas ! 
 
 Looking back, one often- Avonders to see 
 through what strangely opposing circumstances 
 one has been happy ; positively happy. We 
 were so, I think, that year ; our change and 
 loss were both sudden, not lingering; the first 
 left behind it neither disgrace nor anxiety ; it 
 was all over and done with ; we started anew 
 without a single debt or fear. And for the death 
 which ended worthily an honored and beloved 
 life, why, there was peace in that too. I have 
 at times envied my dear father the smile witii 
 which that Saturday night he turned himself 
 and closed his eyes to his last rest. " Twelve 
 o'clock, is it, Susan, lass ? Well, I ha' done all 
 my work, and now it's Sunday." 
 
 And now I must say a word about myself; 
 
 though the most of this history belongs to a 
 portion of me as distinct from my everyday 
 self, which men generally knew, as Liverpool 
 was from Lythwaite Hall, or Mincing Lane from 
 Pleasant How. 
 
 My father, as I have indicated, was a man 
 of ever-active energy and rough hewn, but re- 
 markable power. To the last he held every 
 thing in his own hands, and did every thing 
 himself that was possible for him to do. Even 
 I, his son, became at times a mere supernumer- 
 ary. Until his death, my work had been al- 
 most that of a machine ; I had never had any 
 responsibility ; afterward the sense of it, doubled 
 by its exceeding newness, by my peculiar tcm- 
 pci'ament, and by other facts which it is need- 
 less now to jiarticularizc, yet which passively, 
 if not actively, will always influence a man's 
 life, never left me for a moment. 
 
 After a time Jean found it out ; I mean this 
 grinding sense of responsibility, this terror of 
 the future, balanced between health on the one 
 side — I was, or looked, not strong — and pounds 
 shillings and pence in tlie other, which by me 
 must be earned. When pressed I made this 
 confession. 
 
 "I see. I had not thought of that before. 
 Poor Mark! we must take better care of you. 
 I am glad you told me." 
 
 A few weeks after, coming in unexpectedly 
 one evening, my mother met me with — "Where 
 do you think Jean has gone ?'' 
 
 It might have been across the seas, for the 
 start it gave me, but it was only to Belgravia — 
 that region, familiar once, foreign as Africa to 
 us now. A host of imaginations took wing at 
 once, but I only said, 
 
 " She should not have gone alone. Who did 
 she want to see ?" 
 
 " She wouldn't tell ; she said I must wait till 
 she came home. Ah, here she is I Well, my 
 bonny Jean." 
 
 "13onny" was hardly the word, and yet she 
 looked strangely lovely. The old sparkle of the 
 eye, the old stateliness of carriage, which among 
 ever such splendors made her seem at once fa- 
 miliar with and superior to them all. She kiss- 
 ed my mother and then went away to take her 
 bonnet off", saying we should hear all in a min- 
 ute. But it was several miiuites ; the unwont- 
 ed flus;h had faded ; she was our own quiet 
 Jean. 
 
 "Yes, Mark, I have done a daring thing — 
 entered on an engagement without your knowl- 
 edge, advice, or consent. Look here." 
 
 She showed me an advertisement for "A 
 first-class singing mistress. No })rofcssional or 
 operatic artistes need apply." 
 I " Do you notice ? a sini^ing 7«i.s7?rs.>;. They 
 are afraid of a master for her, poor thing ! She 
 is hedged in by propriety on everj- side ; she is 
 an heiress ; actually our own poor little heiress, 
 Lady Emily Gage.'"' 
 
 j The Cathedral, Lythwaite Hall, and that 
 I "night of June" in tlie Sunday meadows, how 
 they came back ;o uie I
 
 2« 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 *'Lady Emily Gage— how strange!" 
 "Not so strange, it's being herself, as that 
 she should have lemembered me. She did." 
 "At the Cathedral?" 
 
 "Ko — but last year — at Erlistoun House. 
 If you recollect, they knew her.'' 
 
 This, then, caused Jean's brightness of mien ; 
 this sunny rift out last year's history, wliich, but 
 for the foreign letters, often seemed no more 
 tlian a dream, to us at least. Such security 
 must end. 
 
 "Jean," I said, "you should have told me 
 before you took such a step as this. For you to 
 teacli at all is, to my mind, ill-advised — to be- 
 come governess, or singing-governess, or what- 
 ever you call it, to the Bishop's niece, strikes 
 me as simply impossible." 
 
 " Hardly ; since I have already promised." 
 Here my mother, catching my meaning, fol- 
 lowed it up loudly. 
 
 "My dear, what have you gone and done! 
 what will Lord Erlistoun say?" 
 Jean was silent. 
 
 "If you had been Miss Anybody, it would 
 have been hard enough, my poor child ! But 
 for you to turn singing-mistress — ycu, Jean 
 
 Dow glas, that is to be Lady " 
 
 " Uh don't — don't." Her expression of acute 
 pain silenced even my mother. " Let me say 
 a word, and then you and Mark must let me 
 alone. Being Jean Dowglas, I must act as 
 Jean Dowglas, w ithout reference to any bod}-. I 
 believe — " her voice shook a little, " no man 
 would tliink the less of one he cared for, for 
 doing any thing or every tiling that she thought 
 right. It is rigiit fur me to help to earn money ; 
 I can do it, and wisii to do it ; this is the easiest 
 way. Besides, I have promised. Don't let us 
 talk any more." 
 
 She then gave us a detailed account of her 
 proceedings, and described Lady Emily, now 
 nearly grown uj), and one of the loveliest creat- 
 ures ever seen. 
 
 " There is a curious simj)licity about her, too, 
 like a phim witii the bloom on it. She said she 
 knew my face quite well, and used to creep into 
 dark corners to listen to my singing. After- 
 ward, she had often wondered who I was, and 
 what iiad become of me." 
 
 "What, doesn't she know?" broke out my 
 mother. 
 
 " You forget, nobody knows, nor must know. 
 It is much better thus, and much easier for me." 
 It stung me, the idea of her going among 
 these jtcojile with "nobody knowing." The 
 whole position of matters indicated something 
 jarring — sonietliing not right. True, Jean's 
 own will had g(ncriied every thing — there was, 
 strictly 8j)oaking, none to l)lame ; yet I was ir- 
 ritated and sore. 'J'ho feeling did not wear off 
 for some time. 
 
 Yet good rather than evil apparently accrued 
 from tills jilan. Money was the least thing 
 Jean gained. Slie soon taught out of love, also 
 — which is a teaching that makes happy. It 
 filled up a ■:crtain blank in her life that I had 
 
 already begun to notice between the somewhat 
 irregular and lengthening spaces, when those 
 foreign letters came ; and supplied the lack of 
 many wants that in our narrow humdrum way 
 of existence a young woman, constantly occupied 
 in tending an old and friendless one, was sure 
 to feel — refinement, cheerful sympathy, associa- 
 tions with those after her own kind. 
 
 These exj>laiiations I used to make, regard- 
 ing her ardent delight in this new interest, for- 
 eign to us and ours. But mine was an extern- 
 al judgment, as those of mankind often are. 
 
 One Sunday Lady Emily alighted, like a bird 
 of Paradise, on the mundane regions of I'leas- 
 ant Ilow ; and then I found out, or thought I 
 had, a good deal. 
 
 " Jean, that ' child,' as you call her, is just 
 like a little lover to you." 
 
 Jean smiled — "Well, am I not better, cer- 
 tainly safer than a lover to her? Don't laugh, 
 Mark. Girls often choose their ' first loves' 
 among women — I did myself. What do you 
 think of Lady Emily ? Is she altered ?" 
 
 "I forget what she used to be; but I think 
 she is growing very like i/ou." 
 
 Jean laughed in merry incredulity. "What, 
 dark and fair, thin and soft-rounded, seventeen, 
 and nearly twenty-nine. How old I am grow- 
 ing !" She turned grave for a moment, then 
 went back to the argument in question. 
 
 Yet my observation had a truth in it. 'ihat 
 similarity, either natural or acquired, which I 
 have before noticed is often discernible in peo- 
 ple attracted to one another, already showed it- 
 self between these two. The stronger nature 
 of course made the impression ; in twenty dif- 
 ferent ways I could trace in Lady Emily the in- 
 fluence of Jean. 
 
 I remarked one day, " that she seemed to go 
 to Pleasant Kow a good deal." 
 
 " Yes, they trust her with me, and she likes 
 coming." 
 
 "Truly, I think she would come to Kcwgate 
 if you were there." 
 
 " I know slie would," Jean answered, with a 
 soft, grateful tenderness in her tone. "Mark. 
 I am neither Quixotic nor romantic — now ; yet 
 it goes to my heart that this child loves me. 
 She lias been brought up like a nun, almost ; 
 she is as harmless as a dove, and as sweet as a 
 flower. I want to keep the dove her ' silver 
 wings,' to let nothing soil the lovely white 
 flower." 
 
 "You can not. Her lot is cast in the world 
 — she must meet it." 
 
 "I feel that, and I would not wish to keep 
 her from it. But I would like to make her 
 strong for her perilous place — safe in it, and 
 worthy of it. I want — " 
 
 "To 'do-hcr good?'" 
 
 Had I thought that phrase would have so 
 wounded Jean, I would have cut m)' tongue out 
 before I uttered it. Her lip quivered with pain 
 as slie answered, 
 
 "Do not say that. I shall never say it 
 again."
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 29 
 
 "Perhaps it is safest not said, or thought, but 
 you need not cease to do it. One like you has 
 only to live in order to do people good." 
 
 "Thank you, cousin." Her eyes swam in 
 tears ; she sat down silent. 
 
 I had brou;j;ht her a letter that day, which I 
 think she had been expecting a long time. Cor- 
 respondence seemed more difficult to Lord Er- 
 listoun in the capitals of civilized Europe than 
 to the amateur Bedouin in the Syrian desert. 
 
 "We men, accustomed to take our sweetest 
 draughts in small guljjs, during the intervals of 
 our busy or ambitious lives, can never fully un- 
 derstand how women actually live in letters. 
 They may not own it, even to their own hearts ; 
 when the deep root of love — and safer than love, 
 trust — is there, you may cut it down over and 
 over again, and it will blossom up afresh ; but 
 — 'tis cruel handling. 
 
 I found this out, when, during an absence of 
 Lady Emily's, her fond, girlish letters came reg- 
 ularly once a week — never missing a day. ' ' As 
 sure as the sun," my mother obseiTcd, "real 
 lovers' letters." 
 
 Jean turned away. 
 
 When her pupil returned there was a grate- 
 fulness almost pathetic in the way Jean respond- 
 ed to this love — childlike in its demonstration 
 still, though in most other things the young lady 
 had ceased to be a child. She had learned to 
 have a will and a judgment of, her own, and to 
 exercise both in the innumerable ways with 
 which one of her rank and foitune can use a 
 a woman's best "rights" — personal influence. 
 A lovely and lovable creature slie was ; beside 
 her exquisite fresh bloom, I sometimes fancied 
 even Jean looked faded and old. 
 
 Jean, faded ? — Jean, growing old ? I pon- 
 dered. Would a man — say any man — regard- 
 ing the fiice he loves, think with alarm, or with 
 a solemn and yearning tenderness, of how it 
 will look when it is growing old ? 
 
 Another winter passed — another summer ; in 
 the autumn my father would have been dead 
 two years. 
 
 Two years. Was it with another chronolo- 
 gy than this of death that Jean now laid aside 
 her black gowns ? Her looks and her step light- 
 ened ; voluntarily or involuntarily, she was evi- 
 dently hoping, if not believing. 
 
 About this time I myself received a letter 
 from Lord Erlistoun. 
 
 It stated his extreme regret that circumstan- 
 ces of which Miss Dowglas was aware — he had 
 written to her by the same mail — prevented his 
 immediate return to England. That he must 
 leave in my charge for a few months longer, 
 " his best treasure in the world." 
 
 I gave Jean the letter without comment, and 
 she made none. Her time was just then fully 
 occupied, for Lady Emily was going on a tour, 
 to Switzerland I believe ; and it was hard for 
 Jean to refuse her " little lover's" earnest wish 
 for her companionship. 
 
 "I can't," she said, when I urged too — prom- 
 ising to remove all scruples on account of my 
 
 mother — " I can't go abroad. Oh, no ! I waa 
 never fit for any thing but quiet and liome." 
 
 And after Lady Emily was gone, she seemed 
 to turn more than ever to what, if peace, unity, 
 and affection could make it so, was indeed, 
 witli all its narrowness, a "home." I can see 
 her now, as she used to sit on Sunday after- 
 noons, crouching down with her arm across my 
 old mother's lap, and her great wistful, weary 
 eyes fixed opposite on me, as I tried to amuse 
 them and make them merry. Sometimes, after 
 listening and laughing a little, she would end 
 with a sigh of relief : 
 
 " Oh, Mark, how comfortable you are I" 
 
 These " treasures," which some are readier 
 to prate of than to prize, yet others must neither 
 covet ncr steal ! Thank God, I was always true 
 to myself, and to both of these. 
 
 Day by day I watched Jean's round cheek 
 straighten into the line which marks youth's de- 
 parture. Once, stooping her head as she sat, 
 she said, "Mark, see here!" and in an under 
 lock of her hair were distinct white threads, too 
 many to count. 
 
 I hardly know the sort of feeling it gave me, 
 except that it was not altogether one of pain. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 "In a few months"' had been Lord Erlis- 
 toun's date of return — indefinite as most of his 
 dates were. During November, December, 
 January, February, March, I brought his letters 
 to Pleasant Row, at the usual uncertain inter- 
 vals, and with the visual variable post-marks — . 
 then they paused. 
 
 It was again spring. I think there is a time 
 of life before we learn to recognize and acqui- 
 esce in the mysterious law of mutation, in our- 
 selves as in the external worKl, when the return 
 of spring is intensely painful. Walking with 
 her by the railings of budding suburban gar- 
 dens, catching at street-corners bits of so t 
 white and blue spring skies — I could trace in 
 Jean's profile an expression that went to my 
 heart. 
 
 Not a word she said ; but often a knock at 
 the door would make her start and tremble ; 
 and I noticed that she never went out or came 
 in without leaving the careful message, "I 
 shall be back at such and such an hour," or the 
 question, studiedly careless — "Has any body 
 been ?" 
 
 No ! There never was any body ; and she 
 used to walk up stairs, slowly, wearily ; then, 
 after a few minutes, come out of her own room 
 with her bonnet off and her hair smooth — palo 
 and quiet ; tliat day and its chances were over. 
 
 I broke through my customary rule, and used 
 to come up to Pleasant Row almost every even- 
 ing. One day I got a holiday, and invited 
 myself to (''iner with them, laden with a nose- 
 gay and "many ha])j)y returns" to my cousin 
 Jean. 
 
 The tears started involuntarily as she said,
 
 30 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 "Thank you, Mark; ijou remembered it." 
 Alas, no one else. 
 
 I had formed my plan, a little to lighten the 
 heaviness of this day ; I laid before her two 
 green tickets inscribed witli " ISacred Harmonic 
 Society, Exeter Hall." It did one good to see 
 the brightening of her eyes. 
 
 "To-night! and it is the 'Lobjesang' and 
 'Requiem.' Oh, Mark!" 
 
 " You'll go then, madam? In an omnibus, 
 with your bonnet on, and sit all in the crowd 
 among the people ? Avith an individual who 
 doesn't understand music ?" 
 
 "Cousin Mark!" She laughed, which was 
 all I wanted. 
 
 So cheerily out into the spring evening, then 
 (shutting the omnibus-door upon the sunset, and 
 jolting into the gas-lit London streets, we went 
 together, my cousin Jean and I. Her hand on 
 my arm, her voice talking at my side, her bright 
 look turned back every minute as I ]>ut her in 
 front of me and tried to keep her safe amidst 
 the waiting crowd, thankful to my heart that for 
 ever such a little while I could have her to my- 
 self, and make her happy ; that this night, at 
 least this hour, should be marked with a white 
 stone. 
 
 I suppose nowhere in the world are music 
 meetings like these at Exeter Hall ; counting 
 musicians by hundreds, and audience by thou- 
 sands. Nowhere, ])robably, can a true music- 
 lover feel keener jjleasurc than to be among that 
 sea of heads, looking up the sloping hill of mu- 
 sic-stands, gradually appropriated, till on the 
 sweet discords of universal tuning booms out 
 the solid, majestic C, of the great organ. Then 
 the murmurous human waves calm down — the 
 feast begins. 
 
 Mendelssohn's "Hymn of Praise," Every 
 body knows it, its noble opening symphony 
 which musicians love; and the chorus, '■'■All 
 that hath life and breath, sivg to the Lord." 
 Jean turned to me — her eyes beaming. The 
 great music-flood came pouring out, rolling and 
 rolling round us ; with a happ}' sigh, she jjlunged 
 in it, and was swallowed up and lost. 
 
 And to me, better than music it was to watch 
 her absorbed listening face, as the soft notes of 
 ^'^ I iruUcdfor the Lord," dro]ii>cd like oil into 
 her troubled heart, till after " \\'alch)iia)i, trill 
 the nitjht soon pass'^" burst the chorus "■The 
 night is departinfj — drjiartinr/.'" — then itbrimmed 
 over. Large tears gathered and fell, washing 
 away the hard lines of pain, and leaving lic^r 
 dear face as peaceful as a ciiild's. I knew it 
 would do her good ; and though the features 
 quivered, and tears were dro])]iing still, I saw 
 that licr spirit, as well^as her voice, was joining 
 in the line which makes the beginning and end 
 of this "Lobjesang"— "All that hatli life and 
 breath, sing to the Lord." 
 
 I let the healing dew fall, and would not talk 
 to her. In tlie interval I stood uj), vaguely 
 noticing the jieople round us ; intelligent, ex- 
 pressive countenances, as one mostly sees in 
 an audience at E.xeter Hall ; then across the 
 
 division to tlie ten-and-sixpenny "reserved" 
 folk, who probably did not enjoy it near so much 
 as we. It amused me to glance along row after 
 row of those bright-colored opera cloaks and 
 bare decked heads ; and then think of the bent 
 head beside me — the one among all those thou- 
 sands, every hair of which, jioor gray hairs and 
 all ! was more i)recious than gold to — one other. 
 
 I think — I am sure — for that moment, in its 
 silence fuller than whole months of my usual 
 life, I had quite forgotten Lord Erlistonn. It 
 was a shock almost like seeing a ghost rise from 
 the dead ; or, better simile, like the quiet Elys- 
 ian-dwclling dead being suddenly confronted by 
 an apparition of flesh and blood — that out of 
 these rows I saw a young man's tall liead rise. 
 
 The height, the carriage, the imjetuous toss 
 back of the hair — I could not be deceived ; it 
 was Lord Erlistoun. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun, here in England ? — going to 
 concerts, sitting payly among his own friends — 
 his mother, and two other ladies were with him. 
 And what of Jean Dowglas ? 
 
 I sat down doggedly, without a word or sign ; 
 ])lacing myself so that Mlien she turned to me 
 she must turn from him. I need not ; for she 
 never stirred, only said, with a soft comfortable 
 sigh- — 
 
 "Oh, iMark, this has been such a happy birth- 
 day !" 
 
 That decided me. Come what would, this 
 day — perhaps the last, should he licrs; and mine. 
 
 So I sat by her, careful and close, and heard 
 in a sort of dream, Mozart's Mass for the dead — 
 the crash of the "Dies Ir.-e'' — the "Rex tre- 
 menda;" — the "Agnus Dei," with its heavenly 
 close, like the shutting of the peaceful gates of 
 the grave upon all human ])ain — "Dona nobis 
 requiem." 
 
 Then the evening w as over. 
 
 Very quietly, close, arm and arm, Jean and 
 I went out with the press ; just one minute, and 
 I should have had her safe out into the street, 
 but it was not lo be. 
 
 There is a spot at the foot of the stair-case, 
 just where the two streams of audience mix. 
 Here, direct face to face, we met Lord Erlis- 
 toun ! 
 
 Smiling and talking, with that air of absorbed 
 attention which it \\as hi,^ habit to bestow on 
 any woman, as if she were to him, for the time 
 being, the only woman in the world ; with his 
 handsome head stoojiing over and his careful 
 cliivalric arm protecting the lady in his charge 
 — undoubtedly, Lord Erlistoun. 
 
 He might have passed us by unperceived, but 
 this lady's eyes were quicker. " Miss Dowglas ! 
 my dear Miss Dowglas !"' cried the hapjiy voice 
 of Lady Emily Gage. 
 
 So — a pause and a greeting. It lasted only 
 a moment, for there Mas a call of "Lady Erlis- 
 toun's carriage," and tliey two were pressed on- 
 ward in the crowd ; Jean and I being left to- 
 gether. She hung heavily on ray arm. I said, 
 " Shall we go home?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 31 
 
 We had scarcely got clear ont into the Strand, 
 when some one touched me. 
 
 "Mr. Browne 1 where is she ?" 
 
 Jean leaned slightly forward ; he sprang to her 
 side and caught her hand. 
 
 "I must go home with you — where is your 
 carnage?" He had forgotten, doubtless, hut 
 recollected soon. " It will be pleasanter walk- 
 ing. You must allow me," taking firm posses- 
 sion of Jean's passive arm, he hurried her on, 
 as if hardly knowing what he said or did. 
 
 "My mother is gone home with them — we 
 are staying there ; we have not been in England 
 more tlian a day or two. This meeting is so 
 strange, I can hardly believe it. Jean, oh, 
 Jean !" — with a sudden alarmed glance, for 
 hitherto she had not uttered one word. 
 
 I called a vehicle ; Lord Erlistoun almost 
 lifted her into it. He sat opposite, holding both 
 her hands, and gazing at her, till slowly the 
 color came back into her face. She took her 
 hands gently away, saying, in a tremulous 
 voice — 
 
 " You are welcome home." 
 
 We reached Pleasant Row. The narrow door 
 and dark stair-case — the little parlor, with tea 
 laid out, and the kettle singing on the fire, 
 seemed considerably to surprise Lord Ei'listoun. 
 When my mother came forward, in her widow's 
 cap and altered looks, he was more than sur- 
 prised — moved. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Browne — my dear Mrs. 
 Browne," he kept saying; greeting her with a 
 friendly sympathy that was even affectionate, 
 and by its unexpectedness startled the dear old 
 lady into a few natural tears. 
 
 "You find us sadly changed, indeed. Lord 
 Erlistoun." 
 
 "No, no, no," he repeated several times; re- 
 placing her in her arm-chair, and taking his 
 S3at by her, with an air of earnest friendliness. 
 
 And Jean Dowglas? She stood looking on, 
 forgotten for the moment — yet her pale face 
 was all radiant. When at last Lord Erlistoun 
 turned round in search of her — she had gone. 
 Several minutes, and various though brief ex- 
 planations, passed before we heard her hand on 
 the door. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun rose, took that hand and 
 kissed it, openly. "Jean, I have been hear- 
 ing a great deal which you never told me. In 
 all those long good letters of yours, you never 
 once told me ?" 
 
 Half-reproachfully he spoke ; and again, with 
 a sort of tender deference, kissed her passive 
 hand. 
 
 Then, her manner being equally pnssive, 
 though composed, Jean took her place and Ijc- 
 gan to pour out tea. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun was certainly altered. Youn- 
 ger-looking if possible, as a man in his settled 
 prime is often younger than an unsettled h/nsi: 
 boy. His impetuosity was lessened ; and tliere 
 was about him a new atmosphere of repose which 
 in itself is strength. He talked as much as or 
 more than he used to do — chiefly of his travels; 
 
 mentioning incidentally, in reply to a question 
 of mine, that they had traveled liome with the 
 Bishop and Lady Emily, whom they met in 
 Switzerland : but his conversation was on the 
 whole general rather than personal, and inter- 
 spersed with fits of gravity and silence. 
 
 Thus we all sat till very late ; Lord Erlistoun 
 and Jean side by side, like lovers. Yet I no- 
 ticed not one lover-like whisper — not one glance 
 of discontent at the presence of my mother and 
 me. He was evidently satisfied with things as 
 they were ; content to have her sitting by him, 
 liimself iinengrossed and uncngrossing ; testify- 
 ing none of those exquisite sweet selfishnesses, 
 tliat passionate personality of right, whicli marks 
 the line, often so fine as to be all but ini])crcep- 
 tible, between mere affection, however trusting 
 and true, and love — absolute lordly love, that, 
 giving all, requires all, and will have it — or no-' 
 thing. 
 
 Did Jean see this, or seeing feel it? Did 
 she understand as a man would, that to any true 
 lover it would have been torment to have to sit 
 looking at her sweet face — two otlier faces look- 
 ing on? That after this long parting, to part 
 from her again, though but for twelve hours, 
 with that quiet good-night, that ciisy lifting of 
 her cool fingers to cool lips, would have been 
 intolerable — impossible ? 
 
 Wliere was all his passion gone to? His 
 passion ? Pshaw ! A petty flame 
 
 " That doth in short, like paper set on fire, 
 Burn — and expire." 
 
 What had he known — this boy ' ' in love"— - 
 of the real passion, strong as silent — capable of 
 any endurance, daunted by no opposition ; like 
 the fire in the heart of a mountain, out of its 
 very fervency growing pure ; patient under loss 
 — yet content with no medium between total 
 loss and total gain ; exacting, jjerhaps, yet sup- 
 plying all that it exacts ; the love that swallows 
 np all other petty loves, and rises sole and com- 
 jdete, unalienated and unalienable — the love 
 that a man ought to have for iiis wife ? 
 
 Again, for the hnxidredth time, I was unjust 
 to Lord Erlistoun. Once more, as I paced the 
 solitary street, till the moon set behind the ter- 
 race opposite, and Jean's long-lingering candle 
 went out in the attic-story of Pleasant Row, I 
 judged hastily, uncharitably, as we always must 
 when measuring other people by our own line 
 and rule. I forgot — alas, that we less seldom 
 forgot ! — how Providence never makes any two 
 trees to grow after one pattern, or any two 
 leaves of the same tree exactly alike. 
 
 This was Friday — or rather Saturday — for I 
 did not reach home till dawn. On Sunday 
 morning I rose and walked ten miles out into 
 the country to a little church I knew ; not ap- 
 pearing at Pleasant Row till evening. 
 
 Jean was out. They had called for her in 
 the carriage — Lady Erhstoun and Lady Emily 
 Gage ; the latter was to return with her after 
 dinner. 
 
 "Does Lady Emily know? I think she 
 ought, " I said, after a long pause.
 
 32 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 "About Jean's engagement? Most likely. 
 But I take no notice, Jean is so very particular." 
 
 " He was here yesterday ?" 
 
 " Oil, yes, and Lady Erlistoun likewise. 
 They treat her with great respect, you see. Poor 
 Jean, how I shall miss her when she is mar- 
 ried—" 
 
 " Hush, I hear carriage wheels." 
 
 They entered all together, Jean, Lady Emily, 
 and Lord Erlistoun. The latter, of course, was 
 ynvited by my mother to remain. 
 
 Liuly Emily looked surprised, but said no- 
 thing : except afterward, with a pretty childish 
 willfulness, observing that " if he staid lie was 
 not to interrupt the thousand-and-one things she 
 had to say to her dear Miss Dowglas." 
 
 Ko ; it was ])lain the liapjiy, innocent creat- 
 ure did not know ; Jean had not told her. I 
 thought — was it right or wrong of Jean ? 
 
 She gave them, Lord Erlistoun and Lady 
 Emily, tiie guests' places at either corner of the 
 old-fashioned sofa, and herself sat opposite, at 
 the tea-table. The smile, always ready to an- 
 swer Lady Emily's, though exceedingly soft was 
 very grave, as if she were a great deal older tiiaii 
 either of these. 
 
 A strange evening — I often now look back 
 and w under at it ; at the mysterious combiiui- 
 tions of fate that arise, not only among evil but 
 good j)eo{)lc — placing them in positions where 
 1 ight seems hardly distinguishable fnmi wrong ; 
 where every step is thick with netted temjita- 
 tions, every word, even of kindness or affection, 
 like the whipping of anotlier with a rod of 
 thorns. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun comported liimself blameless- 
 ly. If in Lady Emily's artless admission it came 
 out tliat they had been incessantly together, 
 dreaming over art and poetry in Italian cities — 
 learning great lessons, and forming noble plans 
 of life under the shadow of the Alps — it also 
 came out that this bond had hitiierto never 
 passed the limits of simple " friendship." Like- 
 wise that its foundation had evidently been in a 
 certain other friend, whom, w itiicjiit n;iming, he 
 said she resembled, but whom slic in iter hu- 
 mility never thought of identifying with tliat 
 dear friend of her own, who used to talk to her 
 "just like Lord Erlistoun." 
 
 " ' Tlie noblest woman lie ever knew,' he said 
 you were" — whispered she with her arm round 
 Jean's waist. "I might have guessed it could 
 be none other than my own Jean Dowglas." 
 
 Jean kissed her. They were standing at the 
 window — where, far over chimneys and roof- 
 tofjs, spread the bright soft sky. 
 
 " \Vhat a lovely evening! Lord Erlistoun 
 was saying on Friday morning, at Kichmoiid— 
 that he never remembered so beautiful a spring." 
 
 No? Not that at Lythwaite Hall? He had 
 forgotten it. He was gazing, with an uneasy 
 air, at the two faces, strongly contrasted, and 
 yet bearing a shadowy likeness each to each, 
 the woman's and tiic girl's. 
 
 Steadily, with the manner of one not startled 
 into very sudden conclusion, but to wliom i)rc- 
 
 vision has been already preparation, Jean looked 
 down into those hapjiy eyes. 
 
 '' My cliild, at your age, and Lord Erlistoun's 
 — every thing is, and ought to be, beautiful 
 spring." 
 
 He heard, as she must have meant him to 
 hear. Shortly afterward I noticed that he took 
 occasion to sit by her .^ide, and talk desultorily 
 but pointedly to Miss Dowglas, and her alone. 
 Jean listened. 
 
 I'eople think they can be generous hypocrites, 
 and hide their feelings marvelous well ; but 
 they can not. All vain tenderness, conscience, 
 pride of honor, fear of giving jiain, can not 
 swaddle up a truth. Through some interstice of 
 glance or action it will ajipear, naked and cold, 
 yet a tangible, living truth. 
 
 Thus, though he sat by her side, paid her 
 every observance, though in every tone of his 
 voice was unfeigned regard, even tenderness, as 
 if conscious of some involuntary wrong, still to 
 one who knew what love is and is not, it became 
 clear as dayliglit that Lord Erlistoun's present 
 feeling for Jean Dowglas was r.o more that of 
 two years since — than the wax simulacra he was 
 now eloquently describing to her, set in church 
 niches and dressed uj> with flowers, compared 
 with the warm breathing womaiihocd, adored 
 yet beloved, of the saint that once had been.' 
 
 His reverence, his esteem, remained ; but his 
 love had died. Of natural decay ? or, perhaps, 
 at his age and with his temperament, of an 
 etpially natural change — substitutioii ? If so, 
 that fact had been cai cfully and lionorably con- 
 cealed. He was neither coxcomb nor brute — 
 he was a gentleman. His attentions all that 
 evening, without being marked, remained sole 
 and undivided, and the ol ject cf them was un- 
 doubtedly Jean Douglas. 
 
 Once or twice I saw L<idy Emily glance at 
 them both with a flitting troubled susjiicion ; 
 then smile her hapjiy smile. No, it wi.s not 
 I)ossil)le. 
 
 This young man, in the full glory of his youth, 
 toned down by a maturer wisdom, learned — no 
 matter how or from w h( m ; his cai ccr just open- 
 ing before him — a career worthy of a true En- 
 glish nobleman, in his hands the triple power of 
 lank, wealth, and education, and the will worth- 
 ily to use all three. And .Icr.n Dowglas, a wo- 
 man past her prime — youthful jileasures having 
 ceased to be her jileasures — having been beaten 
 to and fro in the world till even in her bright- 
 est moods her very enjoyment was grave, and 
 you could trace at times a certain weariness of 
 asj>ect, which betokened that the haven she 
 sought was less hapj iiiess than rest. 
 
 No! love might exist, or that lingering re- 
 gard wliich assumed its name ; but unity, that 
 oneness of sympathy in life and life's aims, 
 w hich alone makes marriage sacred or desirable 
 — between these two, was no longer possible. 
 
 Lady Emily departed — Lord Erlistoun jiut 
 her in the carriage ; then, instead of returning, 
 asked me if I would walk with him for half an 
 hour?
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 33 
 
 "We strolled up the road together ; at first in 
 silence, then, as with a tacit right, he asked me 
 various questions concerning our family and 
 Jean. Finally, in a manly, serious way he 
 thanked me for my fulfillment of my " charge," 
 and hoped I should ever remain his "good 
 cousin." 
 
 Returning, we found Jean sitting by the 
 newly-lit lamp, a book open before her. She 
 had been reading to my mother the Evening 
 Psalm. She looked up as we entered. 
 
 "Did you think I was gone?" said Lord 
 Erlistoun. 
 
 "No; oh, no." 
 
 He sat down by her, and began to enter 
 more fully into his plans about attempting the 
 sole vocation which is readily open to young 
 men in his position — politics. All his remarks 
 v.'ere clear and good, evidently the result of 
 much thought and a deep sense of responsibil- 
 ity for all the blessings of his lot. 
 
 "They are many," Jean said, gently. 
 
 "Do you think so?" He sighed. "Yes, 
 you are right. Surely you did not imagine I 
 thought otherwise ?" 
 
 "I should not be likely to imagine any thing 
 unworthy of you." 
 
 "Thanks — thanks." He then asked if she 
 approved of his plan of life. "I used to call 
 you my conscience, you know. Are you sat- 
 isfied?" 
 
 "I am satisfied." 
 
 Something in her manner struck him. He 
 gave a quick glance at her, but under the 
 shadow of the long, thin hand, the mouth 
 which spoke looked not less sweet than ordi- 
 nary. 
 
 Still Lord Erlistoun seemed not quite at 
 ease. He began to move about the parlor, 
 taking up one or two things that ornamented 
 the chimney-piece — small relics saved out of 
 the wreck, which Jean had bought in at the 
 •ale. 
 
 "I think I remember this yase. It used to 
 •tand on the side-table at — " 
 
 " Oh, do not !" At the sharp pain of Jean's 
 voice, he turned — took her hand. 
 
 "Did yon think I had forgotten Lythwaitc?" 
 
 "No, no — you will not, you could not. If 
 jou wished ever so, you could not forget." 
 
 "I hope," he began, but Jean had recollect- 
 ed herself now. 
 
 "It hurts me to talk of Lythwaite ; we will 
 not do 80 any more." 
 
 "As you please." 
 
 And I saw that either she had removed her 
 hand, or it had slipped from his. He did not 
 attempt to take it auain. They sat talking. 
 Bide by side, as friend with friend, until the 
 time that his carriage arrived. 
 
 Lingering about, still restless, he began tam- 
 ing over Jean's little book-shelf. 
 
 "Ah, did I give you this? how fond I was 
 
 of it once ! Here is my mark, too ;" and he ran 
 
 over the lines to himself, warming over them as 
 
 he went. They were the very same he had re- 
 
 C 
 
 peated with such fervid passion the night before 
 he left England. With the same intonation, yet 
 different, he repeated them now, up to the same 
 close — 
 
 " I knew it was the vision vailed from me 
 So many years — that it was — 
 
 "'JE'7«i7y.'" 
 
 Again, for the second time, Jean had suj;*- 
 plied the word, in a low, steady voice, as con- 
 veying the simple statement of a fact — no more. 
 Lord Erlistoun started violently, crimsoned up 
 to his A-ery brow, shut the book, and pushed it 
 away, saying, hurriedly — 
 
 "I must take to blue-books now — I have 
 done with poetry. Good-night, all — good- 
 night, Jean." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Life, like love, has its passive as well as act- 
 ive phase — its season of white winter, when all 
 external vitality ceases, and the utmost exercise 
 of reason and faith is necessary to convince us 
 that any vitality exists at all. We walk on, 
 darkly and difficultly, as far as each day will 
 caiTy us — no farther. 
 
 Thus, for many days, I knew not how many, 
 did I go to and fro between my lodgings and 
 Mincing Lane, pleading press of business to 
 excuse my absence, if excuse were needed, at 
 Pleasant Row. In all there happening I was 
 as powerless as if I abode at the North Pole. 
 It was better to keep away. 
 
 But as firmly as I believe in the life of na- 
 ture, sleeping under the snow, so I believe, and 
 did then, in the everlasting vitality of truth, of 
 right, and what is in one sense lesser than, yet 
 in its purest form identical with both these — 
 love. Yes, I believe in love. Despite its many 
 counterfeits and alloys, some so like it that for 
 a time they may even pass current for it ; with 
 all its defilements and defacements, too pitiable 
 to be unpardonable — I doubt not that at the 
 core of every honest man's and woman's heart 
 lies that true coin which, its value found, is a 
 life's riches, and if never found, is yet a life's 
 possession ; being still pure gold, and stamped 
 with tha image and superscription of the Great 
 King. 
 
 I had learned much in these few years ; I, 
 Mark Browne, was no longer the Mark Browne 
 whose rough-built castle in Spain crumbled 
 down at a word or two, lightly uttered under 
 those chestnut-trees. It fell as, being baseless, 
 it perhaps deserved to fall ; the sole architectu- 
 ral effort of a too-late developed youth ; we men 
 build differently. It seemed now as if I had 
 never been thoroughly a man till the responsi- 
 bility of those two dear women fell on me, mak- 
 ing me conscious at once of my weakness and 
 my strength. 
 
 Ay, my strength ; " magna est veritas et pre- 
 Talebit," as runs the little Latin I ever had op- 
 portunity to learn. A man who has truth in 
 himself must be very dim-sighted not to detect
 
 34 
 
 LORD ERLISTOLTf. 
 
 the true from the false in ethers, and he who 
 can trust liimself is not afraid tu trust fate — that 
 is, Providence — for all things. 
 
 My poor Jean ! my sorely-tossed, tempted, 
 long-tried Jean, with neither father, brother, 
 nor friend ; not a heart, that she knew of, to 
 lean against for counsel or rest ! Sometimes I 
 thought I would go to her ; and then — No. My 
 old doctrine, that silence may be lawful, hypoc- 
 risy never, took from me the possibility of being 
 Jean's counselor. Besides, all she did must be 
 out of her own unbiased rectitude ; all she had 
 to suffer must necessarily be suffered alone. 
 
 Oh, no, Jean, not alone! If people could 
 tell, afterward, the burdens they have borne for 
 others, secretly and unasked, the days of sick- 
 ening apprehension, the niyhts of sleejiless care, 
 when, rationally or irrationally, the mind recurs 
 with a womanish dread to all possible and prob- 
 able evils, and racks and strains itself, beating 
 against the bounds of time, distance, or neces- 
 sity, when it would give worlds only to arise and 
 
 go- 
 
 At last, one evening, I snatched up my hat 
 
 and went. 
 
 A carriage was driving from the door of 
 Pleasant Row ; I turned up the next street. 
 There it passed me again, and I saw leaning 
 back in a thoughfulness that was absolute mel- 
 ancholy, the sweet face of Lady Emily Gage. 
 My cynical mood vanished in an abstract sort 
 of pity for four persons who shall be nameless, 
 but whose names, no doubt, ministering angels 
 knew. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun I found sitting with my 
 mother: both started, and "thought it was 
 Jean." 
 
 " Is Jean out alone, and in this pouring 
 rain?" 
 
 "I can't help it, Mark — she will go. But I 
 forget you do not know she has taken fresh pu- 
 pils, and works as hard as if all her life she in- 
 tended to be a poor singing-mistress." 
 
 Lord Erlistoun sprang uj), and went to the 
 window. There he stood, till the knock at the 
 door announced Jean. 
 
 Dripping, muddied, with a music-book under 
 her arm — pale, with the harassed look that all 
 teachers gradually get to wear — she stood be- 
 fore this young man, by nature and education 
 so keenly sensitive to external things. Perhaps 
 she felt the something, tlie intangible something, 
 which all his courteous kindliness could not 
 hide ; she flushed up, and with a word or two 
 about "never taking cold," went to her room. 
 
 Contrasts are good, Init not such contrasts as 
 these. Yet different from them, and more mo- 
 mentous, were other things that tliroughout the 
 evening incessantly arose, making Jean start 
 like one who, trying to walk steadily, is always 
 treading here on a thorn aiul there on a sharp 
 stone; those little th'ngs which, involuntarily, 
 unconsciously, ire ths betrayal of love's decay. 
 
 She took her work. Lord Erlistoun sitting by 
 her, idle ; she asked him, mechanically, where 
 he had been all the week ; and he answered, in 
 
 a sort of apology, giving a long list of engage- 
 ments "impossible to avoid." 
 
 "I did not mean that; I know you must be 
 very much occupied. You were at the draw- 
 ing-room on Thursday?" 
 
 " Yes ; it was necessary, returning from 
 abroad and expecting soon to return, on the 
 diplomatic business I told you of" 
 
 Jean bent her head. "Lady Emily was 
 there. I saw her dressed. She looked very 
 beautiful — did she not?" 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 Here my mother broke in with Lady Emily's 
 message, and how, finding Lord Erlistoun here 
 and Jean absent, she would not stay. ' ' She 
 was rather cross — if so sweet a creature could 
 be cross. I fancy her gay life does not suit her; 
 she looks neither so well nor so happy as she 
 did six months ago." 
 
 Lord Erlistoun's was a tell-tale countenance 
 at best ; it told cruel tales now, and Jean saw 
 it. Hers expressed less of doubt or pain than 
 infinite compassion ; but when he looked up he 
 started as if he could not bear her eyes. 
 
 "What are you so busy about ? You are al- 
 ways busy." 
 
 ' ' I am correcting counter-point exercises of 
 my pupils." 
 
 "Those pupils," he repeated with irritation. 
 "Mr. Browne, can not you, whose influence 
 here seems at least equal to my oMn, represent 
 how unnecessary, how exceedingly unsuitable 
 it is for Miss Dowglas to continue taking pu- 
 pils?" 
 
 "She never had any, until now; with the 
 exception of Lady Emily Gage." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 Jean said gently, "My pupils do me no harm 
 but good. To work is necessary to me. I have 
 worked all my life ; I believe it always will be 
 so." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 " I will tell you another day." 
 
 "Jean — Miss Dowglas — I trust that you — " 
 
 "Hush, i)ray — I said another day." 
 
 Lord I>listoun somewhat haughtily assented. 
 Eor the rest of the evening he talked chiefly to 
 my mother and me — scarcely to Jean at all. 
 But just before leaving he drew her a little 
 aside. 
 
 "I have never, in the short time since my 
 return, been able to have speech Avith you alone. 
 May I call to-morrow ? and, in the mean time, 
 will you please me by accepting this?" 
 
 lie placed on the third finger of her left hand 
 a ring lilazing with diamonds. Before she could 
 sjicak, he was gone. 
 
 During the short time I remained after him, 
 Jean sat where he had left her, the ring still 
 flashing on her hand — winch was now begin- 
 ning to lose its shajjcly roundness, and grow 
 thin and worn-looking, like an old woman's 
 hand. 
 
 Next day, a carriage and pair astonished 
 Mincing Lane, and in the dim office which, at 
 this time of the afternoon, I usually had all to
 
 LORD ERLTSTOUN. 
 
 myself, entered Lord Erlistoun. He was evi- 
 dently in much a^^itation. 
 
 "Pardon me, I will not detain you two min- 
 utes; but I wished, before waiting upon your 
 cousin, to ask if you had in any way counseled 
 or influenced this letter?" 
 
 My surprise was enough to testify my total 
 ignorance. 
 
 " I thought so ; I always knew you for a man 
 of honor — you would suggest nothing tliat could 
 compromise mine. Read this, and judge be- 
 tween us." 
 
 The idea of a third party judging between 
 two lovers ! — I hesitated. 
 
 "I beg you to read it; you being in some 
 sense her guardian, I claim this as my right." 
 
 A brief letter: 
 
 "My Deak Feiend, — With this, I return your ring. 
 Some day, I may take from you some other remembrance, 
 as from a friend to a friend, but — no ring. 
 
 " What I have for some time wished to say, I now 
 think it better to write; namely, to ask you to remove 
 from your mind any feeling of being engaged to mc. 
 The reasons whiclr made me always resist any formal 
 engagement on your part have proved just and right. 
 You were always free — you remain free. I knew you 
 better than you knew j-ourself, and I do not cast upon 
 you tlie shadow of blame. 
 
 "I believe that once you loved me dearly; that, in 
 some degree, you will always love me; but not with the 
 full and perfect love that you owe to your wife, or that 
 alone I could ever consent to receive from my husband. 
 Therefore, I am determined to remain, as I shall be al- 
 ways, 
 
 "Your sincere and affectionate friend, 
 
 " Je.VN DOWGI..4.8." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Browne?" 
 
 My heart beat horribly; yet I could not but 
 answer him. 
 
 "I am sure my cousin means what is here 
 written, and that in the end it Mill be better 
 thus for both." 
 
 "And by what right — But I forget, I re- 
 quested your opinion. Now it is given, will 
 you further favor me by accompanying me to 
 Pleasant Row ?" 
 
 The young man's state of mind was so ob- 
 vious that, as Jean's nearest and only friend, I 
 resolved to go. We scarcely exchanged a word 
 till we were in her presence. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun advanced haughtily, "Miss 
 Dowglas, I intrude, in consequence of a letter 
 received" — but at sight of her he broke down. 
 ' ' Jean, what is your meaning ? What have I 
 done to offend you ?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Then explain yourself. I must have an 
 explanation." ^ 
 
 At his violence, Jean turned as white as 
 marble ; but once more, with the feeling, higher 
 than any thing that women call "proper pride," 
 which hud made her from the very commence- 
 ment of his passion consider hiin and his good 
 first — she controlled herself. 
 
 "Before I answer — answer me one word 
 truly ; I know you would never either say or 
 act a falsehood. Do you love me as you did 
 three years ago ?" 
 
 He did not reply ; he dared not. 
 
 "Then, whatever men's code of honor may 
 be, in the sight of God it would be utter dis- 
 honor in you to marry me." 
 
 My mother left the room ; I would have fol- 
 lowed — but Lord Erlistoun called me back. 
 "Stay! my lionor, which this lady calls into 
 question, requires that at this painful ci-isis I 
 should have witnesses." 
 
 He then addressed Jean. " I am to under- 
 stand that you consider my hand unworthy of 
 your acceptance ?" 
 
 " I did not say unworthy — but you know," 
 steadily regarding him, " you know well, there 
 does not now exist between you and me the 
 only thing which makes marriage right or holy." 
 
 "What is that; — if I may ask you to name 
 it?" 
 
 ^^ Love. Understand me; I never doubted 
 your honor. I know } ou would marry me, be 
 to me most faithful, tender, and kind ; but that 
 is not all — I must have love. No half heart, 
 charitably, generously given. My husband's 
 whole heart— or none." 
 
 "Is it the old complaint, of my 'faithless 
 temperament ?' " said Lord Erlistoun, bitterly. 
 "Because you were not my 'first love,' as the 
 phrase is ?" 
 
 "No, I am not so foolish — most men's last 
 love is safer than their first ; yours will be. 
 But it iimst be the last. I had best tell you 
 the whole truth." Jean spoke quickly and ex- 
 citedly, as if out of long pent-np endurance : 
 " You used to call mc an angel, but I am a mere 
 woman^a very faulty woman too. I know 
 what jealousy is ; hard to bear in friendship, 
 worse in love, but in marriage I could not bear 
 it. It would madden me — it woitld make me 
 wicked. Therefore, even for my own sake, I 
 dare not marry you." 
 
 "Dare not?" 
 
 "Do not be angry; I blame you not; but 
 let us not shut our eyes on the truth. Love can 
 change, and does ; better in a lover, where it is 
 still remediable and excusable, than in a hus- 
 band whom even to forgive would be, in some 
 measure, to despise." 
 
 "You despise mc? oh, Jean I" 
 
 At the angtiish of his tone her composure 
 melted away in a moment. 
 
 " No, no, you could not help it ; it was I that 
 ought to have known — I was a woman, you were 
 only a boy — it was natural, it was almost right 
 you should change." She knelt down by the 
 table where he leaned, his hands before his face 
 — "I did not mean to hurt you so. Nugent, 
 Nugent!" 
 
 "You despise me," he repeated, "and you 
 have reason, for I despise myself. No, Jean, I 
 can not tell you a fitlsehood ; I do not love you 
 — in that way." 
 
 Perhaps the truth, hitherto verbally uncon- 
 firmed, had not, till then, come upon her in its 
 total irrevocableness, for Jean slightly shivered. 
 Lord Erlistoun went on, jjassionately : 
 
 "I know not how it came about; I do not 
 know myself at all ; but it is so. For months
 
 36 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 I have been a coward and a hypocrite ; every 
 day has been a torment to me. To escajje I 
 was going to make myself a hypocrite for life. 
 Jean, don't despise me — pity me I" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Will YOU help me?" 
 
 "IwUL" 
 
 She separated, and took fast hold cf one of 
 his clenched hands, a lover's hand no longer ; 
 then looking round, with a faint movement of 
 eye and lip, she dismissed me from the room. 
 
 Once the bell rang to send away Lord Erlis- 
 toun's carriage ; and once afterward Jean came 
 to the door and called my mother. 
 
 " I want a piece of bread and a glass of 
 wine." 
 
 When we came in, Jean was standing by 
 him, while he ate and drank this last sacrament 
 of parting. lie needed it, for he was ghastly 
 pale, and his liands sliook like a jierson in ague. 
 What he had told licr must have cost her much, 
 but evidently every thing was told. 
 
 Jean spoke. " Aunt and cousin Mark, Lord 
 Erlistoun wishes to bid you good-by. He is 
 going abroad again immediately. When he re- 
 turns, I have told him he will find us all his 
 fiiithful friends," Avith unmistakable emphasis 
 on the word. No fartlier explanation. 
 
 He staid a little longer, resting his head 
 back on the sofa, while Jean sat watching him. 
 Oh, what a look it was ! Scarcely of love, but 
 of inexitrcssible tenderness, like a mother's over 
 a suffering child. Passion burns out ; person- 
 al attachment dies out ; the desire of individual 
 appr()j)riation altogether vanishes away ; but I 
 believe this tenderness over any thing once 
 loved to be wholly indestructible. Shame upon 
 any man or woman who would wish otherwise ! 
 for to kill it would be to kill tlie belief in love 
 itself, to doubt which is the very death of the 
 soul. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun rose. Jean said she would 
 walk with him a little way, and he sat down 
 again v/ithout ojjposition. He seemed totally 
 guided by her. Only once, as if some irritating 
 thought would not be controlled, I heard him 
 whisper, 
 
 "It is tiseless ; I can not consent. You 
 must not tell her." 
 
 "I must; it is only right. Kothing is so 
 fatal in love as concealment. I must tell her 
 every thing." 
 
 "Jean !" 
 
 "You are not afraid of me? Of me, Nu- 
 gent ?" 
 
 At that, the only reproach she had ever made, 
 he yii'lded utterly. " Only write to me. This 
 suspense will be intolerable until you do." 
 
 " I will write — once." 
 
 "Not again?" 
 
 " Not again." 
 
 He looked up ; just a little lie saw — if a man 
 ever could see into a woman's heart. 
 
 " One word. Say you are not imliai)i)y !" 
 
 Jean j/aused a moment, then replied, "I be- 
 lieve it is not the will cf God that any one of 
 
 His creatures should have the power of making 
 
 another }iermaneiitly unhappy." 
 
 "And you forgive me?" 
 
 Jean stooped over him as he sat, and kissed 
 him on the forehead — the first kiss she ever 
 gave him, and the last. 
 
 They went out of the hou.se together, walking 
 slowly arm in arm along the quiet streets, where 
 lamps were being lit in snug parlors, children 
 fetciied in from play to bed, and hard-working 
 husbands waited for, late coming home. 
 
 There is here a burying-ground — surrounded 
 with houses now, but then only shut in by a 
 railing, through which one could catch both 
 sight and scent of the flowers which grew lux- 
 uriantly over and about, bordering the graves. 
 At the corner of this railing I saw Jean Dou- 
 glas and Lord Erlistoun ))ause, stand a minute, 
 as if with claspe'd hands ; then tlieir ways part- 
 ed. He went on toward town ; she walked 
 slowly back, witliout turning. 
 
 No ; in the pathway which with her here 
 ended, we return no more ! 
 
 One heart, at least, bled for thee, Jean ; viij 
 Jean I 
 
 At safe distance, I followed her to Pleasant 
 Kow ; but she passed the door. Thehce, up 
 streets and down streets, witli a pace some- 
 times rajjid, sometimes heavy and slow, along 
 the familiar i)laces that had been, as I once 
 called them, her '' Holy Land" — keeping out of 
 her siglit, but never losing sight of her — I fol- 
 lowed my cousin, Jean Dowglas. 
 
 At last siie went back to the corner of the 
 cemetery, the spot where Lord Erlistoun had 
 left her. Tlicrc, for many minutes, she stood 
 leaning on the railing, looking across over the 
 graves. 
 
 I let her stand. Better that she should bury 
 her dead out of her sight. Who is there among 
 us that has not at some time done likewise ? 
 Who is there that, in all this busy world, does 
 not own some graves ? 
 
 At length, I crossed over and touched her on 
 the arm. 
 
 " Jcanl" 
 
 " Oh, ]\Iark, take me home — take me home !" 
 
 I took her home. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I TOOK Jean home. 
 
 Saying tliis, it seems as if I Inul included all 
 — as if it were the sufficient cx])lanation of our 
 two lives, cxteriuil and internal, from that day 
 forward. Knowing my cousin as well as I now 
 did, I was fully aware tiiat, even among her 
 own sex, lier character Mas a j)eculiar one. 
 Their ])etty daily j)rovender of work or ])lay was 
 not enough to satisfy tiie hunger of her sjiirit, 
 aitive and restless as a man's, yet burdened 
 witli those csi)ecial wants and weaknesses that 
 we are wont to designate as " women's na- 
 ture." Slie might iiave conquered them all in
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 37 
 
 time, and survived to dwell in that paradise of 
 peace, lit with the reflected glory of the next 
 world, which is possible even here ; but in this 
 world there was but one thing that her heart 
 could ever recognize and rest in as home. 
 
 I loved Jean Dowglas. She was the only 
 woman I ever did love. She came and stood 
 over my life like a star ; clouds arose between 
 me and it; I "wandered in night and foulest 
 darkness," as the man sings in that "Lob- 
 gesang" — how its tunes haunt me to this day ! 
 — but my star never faded, never fell. 
 
 With us, as Jean said it was with her sex, 
 the test of a true attachment — hear it, ye co- 
 quettes, ye selfish mean prudes, who think to 
 make us the better lovers by making us the 
 greater fools — is, when we prize a woman less 
 for her love than for herself; for what she is, 
 and what she does ; for that image of bright 
 excellence, which every man born of woman 
 ought to see shining before him all his life 
 through, attained or not — like a star in the sky. 
 If it falls, God help him ! for its falling is like 
 that of the star Wormwood, which draws a third 
 of heaven after it. 
 
 I loved Jean. At first, after this fashion of 
 abstract worship ; then nearer, nearer — recog- 
 nizing all her foibles ; not blind even to her 
 very faults ; yet never losing the reverence, the 
 sense of tender mystery, which all who love 
 should have for one another, else, by a violent 
 or a natural death, the love most assuredly dies. 
 And so it happened that in the time of her 
 trouble I took her "home." 
 
 She was perfectly ignorant of this ; ignorant 
 as a child ; she looked to me for every thing 
 >vith a tacit pitiful simplicity, also like a child. 
 But I was a man, and strong as a man ought to 
 be when Heaven apparently gives his destiny — 
 perhaps more than his, into his own hands. 
 
 Young, self-presuming simpletons may waver 
 — I never. did; cowards and passionate may 
 shrink back, afraid of their fate or themselves 
 — I was afraid of nothing. Fortune's vicissi- 
 tudes, lapse of years, trouble, suspense, uncer- 
 tainty — all these things are as nothing, and less 
 than nothing, to a man who truly loves a woman 
 whom he esteems worth his winning. Either 
 she is not, or he does not deserve to win her, 
 unless he can conquer them all. 
 
 So much of myself, which here I shall leave ; 
 as it is a subject which concerns myself alone. 
 
 Lord Erlistoun quitted England ; not imme- 
 diately ; but he never came again to Pleasant 
 How. Lady Emily did, more than once ; pale 
 and sad-looking, my mother told me, but more 
 tenderly loving than ever to our Jean. Shortly, 
 bhe too disappeared from London, and I heard 
 cf her no more. If Jean did — she kept a ])as- 
 sive silence, which it would have been cruelty 
 to break. 
 
 At midsummer we left Pleasant Row ; left it 
 to the shriek of the engines and the curl of the 
 ^ray, spectral steam. They will never tell any 
 tales — those two bare walls, roofless, open to the 
 Bky. 
 
 I found a little cottage, some miles out of 
 London, where I established my mother and 
 Jean. Algernon likewise ; that he might have 
 every chance of keeping up health in the work 
 from which he must not shrink. Poor lad ! but 
 we all of us have something to endure. 
 
 "Oh, how pleasant !" sighed Jean, beholding 
 the cottage; the fields, and the flowers. "Only 
 my pupils — " 
 
 "You must give them up." 
 
 "Must?" 
 
 " If you please — at least for the present while 
 you honor me by taking charge of my mother 
 and that obstreperous boy. They will give you 
 quite trouble enough." 
 
 " Oh, Mark!" She smiled and consented. 
 
 Sunday by Sunday I found her cheeks looking 
 less wan and her step lighter. There is hardly 
 any trouble which can not be borne easier in the 
 country, among fields and flowers. 
 
 About this time I had a sort of calenture my- 
 self ; a desperate craving that was granted to 
 my cost. I fell ill ; and was a month absent 
 from Mincing Lane. 
 
 I had seen Jean's care over others ; her 
 watchful tenderness, her power of entire devo- 
 tion to those who needed her, but I had never 
 experienced it myself till noAV. Every trivial 
 circumstance of every day and hour of that 
 month still remains vivid in my memory. I 
 may yet bless Heaven for it. I did even then at 
 times ; not always. 
 
 When I recovered, it was winter ; then, rapid- 
 ly as time seems to gallop when one has fairly 
 left youth behind, it was spring. For nearly a 
 year the trains had been passing and repassing 
 through our old parlor at Pleasant Row. 
 
 Not a syllable heard I of Lord Erlistoun, 
 He might have been dead — or married, as Avas 
 indeed more likely. Caught, doubtless, by the 
 next fair face that crossed his way, since, ap- 
 parently, some retributive fate had swept from 
 him that sweet fond one of Lady Emily Gage. 
 As for Jean, hers, dear heart ! was to him no 
 more than dust and ashes now. 
 
 So thought I, but I was mistaken. One day 
 I found on my table a packet addressed "Miss 
 Dowglas." 
 
 How dared he even to write her name ! 
 
 I carried the letter in my pocket all Saturday, 
 half of Sunday, in the village church, up and 
 doAvn the peaceful fields. Jean's spirit seemed 
 peaceful as they ; she was a little more silent 
 than usual, perhaps, but with an inexpressible 
 calm in her and about her. I could not give 
 her the letter. 
 
 After tea, when Algernon had gone out and 
 my mother was asleep, she said, 
 
 "Mark, I wanted to tell you something. 
 You sent me this ' Ga/if/nani' on Friday last, 
 did you know what was in it?'* 
 
 "No." 
 
 "See." 
 
 I read. "Married at the British Embassy, 
 J^aris, Nwjcnt, Baron Erlistoun, to the Lady 
 Emily (j'age."
 
 38 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 I folded up the paper slowly and returned it ; 
 as I did so, it was my hand tliat shook, not 
 Jean's. 
 
 " You see," she said, "all is as was right to 
 be. I knew it would happen so in the end. I 
 am very glad. Only, somehow, if they had 
 told me themselves — " 
 
 I gave her Lord Erlistoun's letter. 
 
 Two letters I saw were inclosed. She read 
 them one after the other without moving from 
 her place, without even turning aside ; then 
 took up and unfolded a little j^ackct which ac- 
 companied them. It was a ring made of hair, 
 a dark lock and a fair one, set in gold, with 
 their two names engraved inside ; ''Xugeut" — 
 "Emily." 
 
 Jean put it on her finger, looked at it, twisted 
 it up and down, till slowly her eyes filled — ran 
 over. 
 
 "It was very kind. God bless them. God 
 bless them botli !" 
 
 This was all. 
 
 For another year our life flowed on, without 
 change or prospect of change. At least, to 
 three of us, my mother, Jean, and me. The 
 boys were all grown uji, Charles even contem- 
 plating matrimony, though he had faithfully 
 educated Russell and started him as a private 
 tutor before indulging in that luxury. Alger- 
 non had been transferred to a situation in Liver- 
 ])ool, where still lingered in good repute our 
 honest name of Browne. 
 
 "They tell me, if I Mere to start as a mer- 
 chant, on my own account, I might nuikc a for- 
 tune yet, Jean." 
 
 " Should you ?" She answered mc with that 
 open smile which showed at once her total ig- 
 norance of for whom alone the fortune would 
 be worth making ; and so, without referring to 
 the matter again, I turned my ways back to 
 Mincing Lane. 
 
 And still, in rain or sunshine, green leaves 
 or snow, I came, on Sundays, to look after "my 
 household," as I called my motlier and Jean. 
 
 A quiet household — though dear and home- 
 like. At least as much so as the just law of na- 
 ture and possiliility allows two solitary women, 
 of ditt'crcnt ages, oi)]iosite in character, and un- 
 allied by blood, to make, to themselves a home, 
 or rather a habitation. Sometimes I wondered 
 if Jean f^-lt tliis distinction ; if her present life 
 were sufficient to her; or, supposing her Mon- 
 day morning thoughts ever followed mc from 
 the sunsiiiiiy jessamine porch into the shadows 
 of Mincing Lane, whether she thought my life 
 was sufficient to me? 
 
 I was no coward. I did not comjilain of my 
 lot, nor dasli myself to ])i(!ces against its stony 
 boundaries. If Heaven had set them, let them 
 Stand ! if not, mine was a strong hand still. 
 
 Once only, I confess to have been Ijeaten by 
 fate, or the devil, or possibly both. I was hur- 
 rying down Gheapside, anxious to shut up the 
 office, the business of which tiie firm now left 
 almost entirely in my hands. I wanted to catch 
 the last breath of au autumn afternoon down the 
 
 river ; less for pleasure than for health, which 
 a man whose sole capital it is has a right to 
 economize ; and mine had somewhat dwindled 
 of late. 
 
 There was a " lock" in the street, which de- 
 tained and annoyed me ; I was apt to be irri- 
 table at little things now. That pair of pranc- 
 ing grays which stopped the crossing, what right 
 had they and their owners caracoling lazily 
 along the smooth ways of life, to come and 
 balk us toiling men out of our only possession, 
 our time ? 
 
 I just glanced at the occupants of the carriage 
 — only two, a lady and gentleman, talking and 
 smiling to one another ; young, handsome, hap- 
 py-looking. When they had passed I knew 
 them; Lord and Lady Erlistoun. They did 
 not see me, and I was glad of it. I am afraid 
 the devil was uppermost for many minutes after 
 then. 
 
 So they were in England again ? "Would 
 they seek us? would Jean wish it? would she 
 dare wish it ? I could not tell. I racked my- 
 self with conjectures ; trying to measure a wo- 
 man's nature by a man's ; arriving at what is 
 usually tlie only safe and wise conclusion, viz., 
 that we know nothing about the sex at all. 
 My sole certainty was in her own words — that 
 Heaven never allows to one human being the 
 power of making another "permanently unhap- 
 py." 
 
 How a few quiet words, spoken naturally, as 
 we were crossing the Sunday fields, settled all ! 
 I could have smiled. 
 
 "Mark, I had yesterday an invitation that I 
 sliould like to accept, "^"ill you try to fake a 
 (lay's h(;liday and go witn me to sec Lord and 
 Lady Erlistoun ?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 I called for Jean early one forenoon. She 
 was sitting quite ready, in her bonnet and shawl, 
 reading ; but she looked up at my entrance — 
 that bright involuntary look which, caught un- 
 exjiectedly, is worth untold gold. 
 
 The lanes to the station were sunshiny and 
 dewy ; Hollingboume, the chief property of the 
 heiress Lady Emily, was about thirty miles 
 down our line of railway. We walked briskly, 
 rejoicing in the jjleasant day. Jean said, she be- 
 lieved none but those who rarely had it, could 
 fully ajipreciate the deliciousness of a holiday. 
 
 " Then a life of labor is the best. Do you 
 think so, Jean ?" 
 
 " I do. Far the highest and noblest." 
 
 " More so, for instance, than that of Lord 
 Erlistoun ?" 
 
 I felt almost reproved at her grave and soft 
 reply. 
 
 "Lord Erlistoun's is, and will be more so as 
 he grows older, a noble life too. I always felt 
 sure of that. He was like a good shij), gallant 
 and true, but blown about hither and tliithcr for 
 want of an anchor to hold by. He has found 
 it now, in his wife's heart." 
 
 "Do you think a man's life is never com- 
 I)let,; without a wife?"
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 39 
 
 ** Some men's are not — he is one. He needs 
 to be happy in order to be good. I used to 
 think the same myself once. Now it seems to 
 me that those cliaracters are nearer perfectness 
 in whom to be good is the first aim ; who, living 
 in and for the All-good, can trust Him with their 
 happiness." 
 
 I said, looking at her sideways for a moment, 
 "I think so too." 
 
 Thus talking we reached the station, and 
 Jean put her purse into my hand with a wicked 
 little trick of independence she was prone to, 
 however unavailing. 
 
 "Well, second-class, of course," she warned 
 me. 
 
 "No. I never mean to let you travel second- 
 class again." 
 
 Jean laughed and submitted. When we 
 were in the carriage she leaned back, watching 
 the whirling landscape in silence ; but my land- 
 scape was her face. 
 
 No longer, by the utmost flattery, to be call- 
 ed a young face ; roundness and coloring gone, 
 the large aquiline features distinctly, not to say 
 harshly marked — it was noble still, but beauti- 
 ful no more ; imless for that mellowness, like 
 the haze of autumn which never comes until 
 the summer of life is altogether gone by. A 
 sweetness, a repose, indicating her total recon- 
 cilement to youth's passing away — her perpet- 
 ual looking forward to that which alone gives 
 permanent content in earthly jileasures — the rest 
 which is beyond them, the pleasures which are 
 for evermore. 
 
 The train stopped at a small wayside station. 
 A carriage was waiting, and a gentleman. 
 
 "MissDowglasl" 
 
 " Lord Erlistoun ?" 
 
 They met — not quite without emotion ; but 
 only so much as old friends might naturally 
 meet with, after long absence. No more ; not 
 a particle more. 
 
 " Emily is here too. She is longing to see 
 you," and he hurried Jean to the little waiting- 
 room, where Emily fell on her neck and shed a 
 few tears. She seemed more affected than ci- 
 ther of them, this fortunate, happy, loving and 
 beloved Emily. 
 
 That day jiassed like a dream ; in and about 
 Hollingbourne, which was a spot lovely as dream- 
 land, and with those two, fit owners of it all, 
 who seemed in their position and themselves, 
 familiar and yet strange, known and yet un- 
 known, as people are whom one has to do with 
 in dreams. 
 
 " We asked no one to meet you," said Lord 
 Erlistoun, " we wanted this first visit to have 
 you all to ourselves ; and besides we do not in- 
 tend to be swamped in society just yet ; we feel 
 as if we never could have enough of solitude." 
 
 His natural, unconscious "we," — his evident 
 delight in this same "solitude," — at least so 
 much of it as was possible in a house like a 
 palace, and an estate like half a shire, — ay, 
 Jean was right. His last love had been the 
 true one ; he had cast anchor and found rest. 
 
 ' ' Yes, she looks well, and happy too, " I over- 
 heard him say ; his eyes, fonder than any lover's 
 eyes, watching his young wife, as she flitted 
 about her splendid conservatory, a flower among 
 the flowers; "and, I think, Jean, every day 
 she grows more like you." 
 
 This was the only time he called her "Jean," 
 or that in speaking to her his voice dropped 
 into any thing of the old tone. The only time 
 that Jean's countenance altered — though for no 
 more than an instant. No angel in heaven 
 could have worn a happier smile than Jean 
 Dowglas now. 
 
 They both walked with us to the station — 
 they seemed to be in the habit of walking to- 
 gether a good deal. Our last sight of them was 
 standing on the platform, arm in arm ; Lord 
 Erlistoun lifting his hat in adieu, with his pecul- 
 iar stately air — Lady Erlistoun leaning forward 
 to catch one more look, in her fond childish 
 way, of her "dear Miss Dowglas." 
 
 Jean closed her eyes, as if to shut in the pic- 
 ture and keep it there. Opening them a few 
 minutes after, she met mine and smiled. 
 
 "Have you liked your holiday ?" 
 
 "Yes ; and you ?" 
 
 "I have had a happy day. I was very glad 
 to see them." 
 
 " Shall you go again often ?" 
 
 " No, I think not. Their current of life runs 
 so widely diflerent from mine. I do not wish 
 it otherwise. I think, Mark, I am coming to 
 that time of life when one's chief happiness is 
 home." 
 
 We happened to be alone in the carriage ; 
 the lamp shone dimly on Jean's figure — leaning 
 back, with her hands crossed : outside all was 
 pitch-black nothingness. Thei'e might have 
 been nothing and nobody in the wide world but 
 her and me. 
 
 "Jean, something happened to me last week 
 that I should like to consult you about. Shall 
 1 now ?" 
 
 She turned and listened. 
 
 I told her how, this Michaelmas, my salary 
 had been doubled. How, then speaking to the 
 head of our firm upon Algernon's conviction 
 that the good name of "Browne and Son" was 
 still enough to launch "Brown, Brothers," and 
 float them into smooth water, if they had only 
 a handful of capital to start with— the worthy 
 old fellow, once a creditor of my father's, had 
 offered me as a loan the amount of his long 
 jjaid debt. 
 
 " ' Use it, or lose it, or give it me back any 
 time these ten years. 'Tis as good as thine 
 own, lad, for nobody would ever have paid mc 
 a penny of it, except thy honest fathei'.' " 
 
 Jean's eye sparkled as I ended my tale. 
 
 "Would you like me to accept it and start 
 afresh ? You think it would not be too late ?" 
 
 "Nothing right to do is ever too late. And 
 this seems right, for Algernon's sake. Also," 
 her voice dropping tenderly, "for the sake of 
 your father." 
 
 "Yes — he would bo happy, if ho knew his
 
 «0 
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 memory could help us still — my dear old fa- 
 ther 1" And for the moment I thought only of 
 him, and of the pride of once more building up 
 our honest name in my native town, and among 
 my own people. 
 
 Jean asked, if I had any hesitation in accept- 
 ing this loan, for which I might pay interest 
 shortly, and repay the whole in ten years ? 
 
 "But what if I do not live ten years ?" 
 
 "Nonsense." 
 
 "So you think me immortal, as those seem 
 to be whose life is valueless to themselves and 
 everj- body else ?" 
 
 " That is not my cousin Mark — as you well 
 know." 
 
 After a while, I asked her if slie could not 
 understand my fear of taking this loan, and 
 perhaps failing, and leaving the debt as a legacy 
 to Algernon. 
 
 " But is it not for Algernon's sake that you 
 would undertake the risk ?" 
 
 "Not entirely, Jean," and out came the bit- 
 terness of years — "I have never in my life had 
 any thing to live for except duty and honor. 
 At least let me hold these until the end." 
 
 Jean sat thinking for some time ; then she 
 turned to me. 
 
 " Mark, I also feel that the only things worth 
 living for are duty and honor. AVill you trust 
 me with yours?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "You asked my advice — this is it. Accept 
 this good man's money ; use it well : repay if 
 you can. If not, and I live, I will. Otherwise 
 at my death I will take care that it is jiaid. 
 Now, sliall you be content ?" 
 
 Probably few men ever feel as I did then. 
 Not for the matter of "gcnerosit}-," "obli^^a- 
 tion," — there was that in my heart which coun- 
 terbalanced both, nay, smiled at the thought of 
 their existing at all, between Jean and me — 
 but the goodness, the tenderness, which, whether 
 or not indilFerent to my personality, understood 
 and cherished, and was ready to guard to the 
 death, the true j«e, which I valued above all 
 things else, — my conscience and my honor. 
 
 "Will you be content?" she said again. 
 "Will you ti-ust mc ? I would you, and always 
 did." 
 
 " Do you trust me, Jean ?" 
 
 "More than any body in the whole world." 
 
 Doubtless slie wondered that I replied no- 
 thing, that I did not even touch her extended 
 liand, tliat I lifted her out of the railway car- 
 riage, and walked with her through the solitary 
 star-lit lanes, almost without a word. That 
 when we fcnind my mother gone out with Al- 
 gernon, not to b<j back for an hour, I sat down 
 stupidly by the parlor fire mute — as death, if you 
 will. " ilold tiic last fast," s.ays the proverb. 
 
 When Jean came down stairs, with her bon- 
 net off, in her white colhir and braided liair, 
 she made a discovery of a change in the parlor, 
 •Which indeed I had myself forgotten. She 
 looked at once to me, and I attempted no de- 
 nial. 
 
 " Yes, I thought the hired tin kettle had been 
 strummed enough in its day, and merited su- 
 perannuation. Do you like your new piano, 
 even though I chose it ?" 
 
 " How kind you are !" 
 
 Not another word. No folly of ' ' obliga- 
 tion." If there had been, if she had not taken 
 it quite naturally, as I would have wished to 
 see her take a mountain of diamonds, were it 
 mine to oiler her, I also should probably never 
 have said another word. 
 
 She sat down and played for some time, I 
 sitting over the fire. 
 
 "Mark, have you forgotten this? you have 
 not asked for it for a long time." 
 
 — My tune, which always brought back my 
 cousin Jean, in the Lytliwaite drawing-room, 
 with the sunshine on her hair. Also, because 
 this "Lied ohne worte" seemed to my fancy to 
 tell a whole life's story ; a duet in which you 
 can hear distinctly the man's voice and the 
 woman's ; separate ; together ; then wandering 
 apart again in troubled involved i)hrases, but 
 always in extremity comes back the tune in the 
 bass, sweet and firm ; at last the treble air is 
 caught up with it, and both fall into a melody 
 more " comfortable " — to use Jean's word-^than 
 any bit of music I know. Ending in two notes 
 several times recurring, which sa}', as plain as 
 notes can say it, "Come home, come home, 
 come home." 
 
 Sometimes, when a vase is brimful, a touch, 
 the shadow of a touch — and over it runs. 
 
 " Did you like your tune ?" 
 
 " Yes — but come and sit by the fire, Jean." 
 
 She did so — one on each side the hearth ; 
 making two of us. Only two. Supposing it had 
 been "my ain iire-side !" — I, who never in my 
 life had had a fire-side of my own — my very 
 own. 
 
 "How pleasant a wood fire is, Mark! But 
 when you go to Liverpool, we shall cease to 
 have one fire-side to sit over and talk together." 
 
 "We never had, except on Sundays. You 
 forget, I have only had you for my Sunday 
 blessing." 
 
 " Have I been a blessing? I am glad. It is 
 something to be a blessing to somebody. It was 
 more than I deserved." 
 
 She shaded her eyes from the fire, which 
 blazed and crackled as if it knew winter was 
 coming, but burned cheerily and was not 
 afraid. 
 
 Now or never. 
 
 "Jean," I said, "if I go to Liverpool, and 
 can make a fortune there, or at least a com- 
 j)etence, will you come home?" 
 
 "Your motlier and I?" 
 
 "My mother, if she chooses, but I meant 
 you. I can not do without you. I could once, 
 five years ago, because it was necessary and 
 right; but now I can not. "I"is not worth 
 making a home — I will not do it — except for 
 you." 
 
 "Me! me?" 
 
 She looked steadily into my face, and found
 
 LORD ERLISTOUN. 
 
 41 
 
 out all. She drooped her head lower and lower, 
 almost into her lap, and burst into tears. 
 
 I said no more. It may be months, years, 
 before I say any more. I would not take my 
 life's ransom unless it were a free gift. 
 
 Algernon and I — "Browne Brothers" — are 
 working our best. We have hardly any holi- 
 days, except an occasional evening stroll, with 
 
 a western breeze blowing in the tide, and the 
 sunset throwing colors, beautiful as Paradise, 
 along the sandy flats of the Mersey shore. 
 
 I write either to my mother or Jean every 
 Sunday. Now and then, Jean writes to me, 
 only a line or so, expressing little or nothing ; 
 and so it may be for God knows how long, or 
 forever. 
 
 But sometimes I think —
 
 AL¥YN'S FIEST ¥IFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Yes — she loved him. 
 
 It was a thing which has liappened over and 
 over again — which will hajjpcn while the world 
 endures ; almost the saddest tiling which can 
 occur in the life of a woman : he only liked her 
 — she loved him. 
 
 I use these impersonals in commencing, be- 
 cause they seem to come naturally in writing of 
 the two concerned. " He" and " she" were 
 then, and for years after, the most important ob- 
 jects in my circle of existence — my brother, Al- 
 wyn lieid, and Marjory Blair. He lived with 
 me, earning his bread as a teacher of languages 
 in our country neighborhood ; s!ie was his pu- 
 pil. At least this was tlie tie between tiiem at 
 first ; gradually I found he had gained the foot- 
 ing of a friend in the house. Old Mi', and Mrs. 
 Blair were simple people ; fonder even than 
 grandparents are proverhially allowed to be. 
 They liked every body who liked Marjory. 
 
 And Alwyn told me — as I doubt not, both in 
 word and manner, he had openly expressed at 
 th-; farm, for he was a warm-hearted, impuls- 
 ive, and demonstrative fellow — that he liked 
 Miss Marjory very much indeed. 
 
 She was the first woman he had known inti- 
 mately — that is, the first who possessed youth, 
 grace, and a cultivated mind ; and at his age all 
 women are angels. I feel sure that, for a little 
 space, his fancy had thrown the glamour of a 
 poetical ideal over the sim])le manners and mild 
 expressive face of Marjory Blair. Fur a day 
 and a iialf he even contested with me tiiat she 
 was handsome. However, that notion faded 
 away, and lie contented himself with avouching 
 that it was her soul which made her beautiful, 
 since in her were combined the finest intellect 
 and the highest moral nature he had ever found 
 in a woman. He used to talk of her qualities, 
 taking her to pieces, anatomizing her, as it were, 
 by the hour together, proclaiming continually 
 her perfection, and how very, very much he 
 liked her. 
 
 At first I was uneasy fur his sike, remember- 
 ing that Air. Blair was a rich farmer, and my 
 brother a poor teaciicr of languages. After- 
 ward, on keener observation, I grew satisfied on 
 liis account. 
 
 "^ Thus things went on for a whole summer ; it 
 was not until the fall of the year that I myself 
 was formally invited to the farm. 
 
 Coming home, after having for a long even- 
 ing watched Miss Blair and Ahvyu, I just drew 
 
 from my own mind the conclusion, which after- 
 ward became only too clear, thinking it sadly 
 over to myself — in almost the same words which 
 head this chapter. 
 
 Ay, Marjory lo^•ed him. Poor little girl ! 
 
 1 could not think he was to blame ; he was 
 a very honorable fellow. He did not "make 
 love," as the saying is, in the slightest degree. 
 The "love" made itself — sprang instinctively 
 in response to his goodness, his kindness, his 
 tenderness. For she was a feeble and delicate 
 creature ; and for Alwyn to feel and to show a 
 protecting fondness over such an one, was as 
 natural as the breath he drew. Then he was 
 so totally different from all other young men in 
 our parts. He had nothing to do but to be him- 
 self — his natural, true self — without any seeking 
 to please — to make almost any woman care for 
 him. 
 
 And so this fate befell poor Marjory, who was 
 simple and lonely, and perhaps, from her weak 
 health, too much given to look to the dreamy 
 and romantic side of things. Also, the cu}) — 
 the universal cup — being held to her \i\)s rather 
 later than to most, for she was four-and-twenty 
 — six months older than Alwyn — she drank — 
 drank ; thinking, jierhajts, that it was his be- 
 loved hand which held it, when, in fact, it was 
 the hand of the angel of doom. 
 
 I was very sorry, indeed, for poor gentle Mar- 
 
 She did not betray her feelings in any un- 
 maidenly way ; in fact, they were scarcely be- 
 trayed at all, except by accidental flushings and 
 tremblings ; a certain restless wandering of the 
 eye toward any corner of the room wlierc he 
 was ; a certain intentness of ear whenever he 
 was speaking, however hard she tried tokec]) up 
 conversation with mc the while. For all things 
 else (these little things no one would notice, or 
 did notice, save me) she was just what I expect- 
 ed to find her — graceful, sinijde, retiring. He 
 had painted her correctly, which no lover would 
 have done. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of her?" said he, 
 eagerly, as we walked home. 
 
 "All that you think of her, and something 
 more." 
 
 " That is right ; I felt sure you would like 
 her. She is the very sweetest girl we know. 
 If ^he were only a little prettier, and — don't 
 you agree with me ?^ — just a trifle less pale ; a 
 degree more of rounded outline." 
 
 "I thought you hated fat women." 
 
 " Ugh! — so I do. But she is so very thin.
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 43 
 
 Ah, she will never live. She is too good for 
 this world." 
 
 He sighed, and then began talking of how 
 far she had got in Italian, and how in their 
 lessons this morning, Petrarch's description of 
 Laui'a had seemed to him exactly like Marjory. 
 
 "Did you tell her so?" 
 
 "I don't remember; yes, I think I did. Why 
 not ? It really was very like her. I could not 
 help it ; could I now ?" 
 
 I glanced up at his fine earnest face, so free 
 from all a young man's self-conceit with regard 
 to women. "Oh no," I said; yet my heart 
 sighed " Poor Marjory ! " 
 
 All love stories are more or less alike ; it is 
 just the same thing repeated in different forms 
 — very often the same form — to the world's end. 
 The world would weary of it sorely, save that 
 the perpetually throbbing universal heart of the 
 young generation attracts the history to itself, 
 and makes it always new. 
 
 People who have seen around them a life- 
 time of loves rise and set, climax, change, and 
 cease, sometimes ended by the will of fate, 
 sometimes going out like faint candles in vapor, 
 rarely, if ever, growing to be a light to lighten 
 the world, as a happy and pure mutual love 
 ought always to be — learn to view these things 
 differently, and it often seems both idle and 
 rather mournful to write about them at all. 
 
 This innocent, sad love-tale of Marjory Blair 
 I watched, week by week, till the year closed. 
 No one else seemed to notice it at all. Wheth- 
 er or no the parties concerned suspected the 
 truth, of themselves or of each other, it was 
 quite impossible to divine. Marjory was so 
 very quiet, composed, and silent, that at times 
 I was doubtful whether my tco anxious pity 
 had not exaggerated the danger. Perhaps she 
 was not in love at all ? 
 
 For Alwyn, he went on praising her to me 
 in the most indefatigable and earnest way ; but 
 then he had done the same, or nearly the same, 
 of at least six young women, all of Avhom he 
 warmly admired, but without loving a single 
 one. 
 
 I repeat, he was not to blame — I, his sister, 
 who he declared loved him best and judged him 
 hardest of any one alive, say so. He was hand- 
 some, gay, ignorant of care. His was, in the 
 highest degree, the poetic eclectic temperament, 
 which being exceedingly sensitive and difficult 
 of choice, is successively attracted by what is 
 grand in one woman, rare in another, and love- 
 ly in a third, but wholly satisfied by none. It 
 is therefore set down by the mere matter-of- 
 fact half of the world as essentially false and 
 inconstant. 
 
 I do not join in that hue and cry. It is con- 
 stant to the one inward truth of its nature — its 
 ideal of abstract perfection constantly pursued 
 and seldom found. 
 
 Let me not be supposed to excuse willful faith- 
 lessness — the capricious fancy that wearies of 
 an imaginary idol as soon as it finds the least 
 flaw in it ; the selfish cruelty which enjoys all 
 
 the sweetness of a pleasant bond, yet evades its 
 responsibilities, duties, and burdens. 
 
 All that I mean is to defend my brother Al- 
 wyn, and all men of his type, from wholesale 
 blind accusations of fickleness and heartlessness 
 in love. The error is in using the word "love" 
 at all, to such mere dreams of the imagination. 
 I used to count on my fingers Alwyn's "sweet- 
 hearts," and smile at his fancied adorations, as, 
 year by year, they rose and sank like waves in 
 the tide. It was only a tide ; ebbing and flow- 
 ing ; I knew that the gi-eat deep sea of his man- 
 hood's love lay calm and still below them all. 
 
 The question was whether the time were now 
 come, and the woman. Would Miss Blair be 
 she? 
 
 I doubted. In the first place, she was not 
 beautiful enough — a man like Alwyn, more 
 than most men, requires a degree of absolute 
 beauty in a wife. Poor Marjory, with her small 
 sickly fiice, was often almost plain. Then she 
 changed so. A word or look of his would some- 
 times, for an hour or two, transfigure her into 
 another being — a creature of brightness and 
 joy ; again another chance word, and all the 
 light was gone out of her ; she became a pale, 
 spiritless, ordinary girl. 
 
 At such times, on going home, Alwyn would 
 say to me, " Really I never saw a woman alter 
 like Miss Blair. How very plain she looked to- 
 night!" 
 
 Poor little Marjory ! 
 
 For my brother, he was utterl}' unconscious — 
 utterly ! Never was there a young man more 
 simple-minded, more free from self-conceit. 
 
 "I am only a poor teacher of languages," he 
 would say. ' ' I can't marrj^ ; every body knows 
 it. It will be at least ten years before I can 
 venture to love any woman, therefore I am quite 
 safe." 
 
 And I truly think he believed so. It never 
 crossed his mind that, from his pure goodness 
 and singleness of character, to say nothing of 
 his other qualities, some unlucky woman might 
 come to love him. 
 
 Have I not said enough — I hope so ! to prove 
 unto any one, calmly and impartially viewing 
 the story, that no wrong could be laid at Alwyn's 
 door ? 
 
 Thus the year went round. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Alwtn and I spent a rather dreary Christ- 
 mas. We knew not how it was, but his ])upils 
 had fallen oft", and so had mine. Ours was a 
 thinly populated district, and I found no new 
 children replacing the little boys who, one after 
 the other, were transferred from me to gram- 
 mar and foundation schools. I speculated be- 
 ginning what was always my great aversion, a 
 girl's boarding-school. 
 
 "But then I should have to get rid of you, 
 Alwyn ?"
 
 44 
 
 ALAVYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 He looked surprised, and colored like a maid- 
 en, when I showed him how impossible it was 
 that so good-looking and attractive a young man 
 could abide, as a disguised hawk, in a dovecote 
 of young ladies. 
 
 But tliis vague idea of mine, foolishly thrown 
 out, worked deeper than I dreamed. He be- 
 came troubled, restless — the dull home life grew 
 irksome to him ; lie wanted to try his fortune 
 in a wider sphere. 
 
 Finally, after much argument, after looking 
 at our future on every side, and seeing it grow 
 paler and cloudier as we gazed, one winter day, 
 when we sat at home from morn till eve, shut 
 in gloomily by the incessant snow, he made his 
 determination. 
 
 It was to go back to Germany, where for a 
 year he had once studied, and try to settle there 
 permanently, as a teacher in one of the uni- 
 versities. 
 
 The pang of parting was not small — but one 
 gets inured to pangs. And none could be sharp- 
 er than to see him wasting here the prime of 
 his youth ; sinking into a mere idle dreamer, if 
 nothing worse. I wished to see him a man in the 
 world of men. I consented that he should go. 
 
 The day after, tiie snow ceased, and over a 
 beautiful white fairy world rose up the first Jan- 
 uary sun. 
 
 "I will begin a new life with a new year," 
 said Alwyn, as he gayly ate his breakfast, and 
 planned a journey into the nearest town, to make 
 all arrangements for his departure. He would 
 be absent till evening. 
 
 "Have you forgotten Miss Blair was to come 
 to us on New- Year's morning ?" 
 
 " I declare I hadi" He looked disappointed. 
 
 " And your pretty New-Year's gift that you 
 took such pains to get for her?" 
 
 "Well, you can give it, Charlotte; it will be 
 all the same." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "No; by-the-by, not quite. Besides, I like 
 to see her face when she receives a present: it 
 is so childlike, with such a wondering grateful- 
 ness in the innocent eyes. No," laying down 
 his great coat ; " no, Charlotte, I must stay." 
 
 "As you choose." 
 
 "I wonder," said he, after half an hour's 
 reading over the fire, "I wonder what Mar- 
 jory will say to my going away. I siiall miss 
 her very much ; she has been such a j)ieasant 
 friend." He mused fur another five minutes. 
 "But then she will write. I wonder how she 
 does write, by-the-Ijy. If there is one thing I 
 like more than another, it is a real, iiatural wo- 
 man's letter. It is almost better than conversa- 
 tion. Do you think she will write to me, Char- 
 lotte?" 
 
 "How can I tell, my dear?" 
 
 "I am afraid she will be .sorry to part: so 
 Fhall I. Perhaps, on the whole, you liad bet- 
 ter tell her instead of me. I must not tliink 
 of these good-bys that are coming, or I shall 
 waver in my purpose, as you sometimes say I 
 have a haiiit of doing." 
 
 "Only in little things, Alwyn." 
 
 In this — which was a greater thing than it 
 seemed, as I well knew — he wavered for a good 
 hour at least. Finally he departed, leaving the 
 field open to me. I saw the idea of telling 
 Marjory of his departure jjained him, nor did 
 he hesitate to show it. He had a very tender 
 heart. 
 
 I sat and waited uneasily. Of late Marjory 
 had got into a habit of coming about my little 
 house and me, generally on the days when t^he 
 knew Ahvyn was absent on his rounds of teach- 
 ing. I had become used to see her enter, tim- 
 idly lay aside her bonnet and shawl, and sit 
 down for a chat, just as if she belonged to me. 
 She was never very loving to me — always rath- 
 er shy ; but I felt she liked me for myself indi- 
 vidually, with a feeling quite difterent from the 
 showers of affection which Alwyn's sister had 
 had the honor of receiving from a great many 
 other young ladies, and which the said sister, 
 with an amused comjilacency, set down at their 
 true value accordingly. 
 
 But I liked this girl, she was so gentle, so 
 thoroughly true. And if in her half-avowed 
 liking for me crept in some tenderer aljoy — 
 why, that was sincere too. When I saw it, it 
 only made me smile, or sigh. We women 
 ought not to be hard upon one another. 
 
 It was noon before she came. I took off her 
 bonnet and her wet shoes ; she had very dainty 
 little feet. I made her put them on my lap to 
 warm them, which she long resisted, but finally 
 received the perhaps unwonted fondling with a 
 blushing, beaming smile, and sat chatting mer- 
 rily until some sound in the house made her 
 start and slip into a formal attitude. 
 
 "You need not move; Alwyn is away. He 
 was obliged to go out on business for the whole 
 day. He hopes you will excuse him." 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 " He left this book as a New-Year's gift. He 
 would have liked to have given it to you him- 
 self, but thought I should do it as well." 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "He hopes you will read it sometimes, and 
 not forget what good friends you and he have 
 been all this old year." 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 Her fingers could not untie the string ; she 
 was trembling. 
 
 " Supjiose, my dear, we put the parcel by 
 till you go home." 
 
 She obeyed, not unwillingly ; but many, many 
 times I saw her innocent eyes turn, with a glad 
 light in them, to the shelf where it lay. Some- 
 how I wished he had not given it to her. But 
 it was his habit. Half the poetry-books in the 
 neigliborliood oweil their distribution to Mr. 
 Alwyn lleid. However, Marjory did not knovr 
 this. 
 
 We spent a quiet morning. She looked so 
 hapjiy that I could not tell her any thing. I 
 felt all day like a smiling executioner with a 
 dagger under his sleeve. I wished Alwyn had 
 not chosen me to communicate the unpleasant
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 45 
 
 fact of his departare for Germany — too unpleas- 
 ant for him to do it himself. Yet, perhaps, 
 considering all things, it was best. I was a 
 woman, and — once — I had been young. 
 
 The early gloaming came ; and all the win- 
 ter Marjory was forbidden to be out after dusk. 
 I wrapped her delicate chest Avell, and myself 
 put on her little shoes. The executioner-like 
 feeling was upon me stronger than ever. I 
 postponed my melancholy duty till the last 
 minute, when — a poor substitute for Alwyn— 
 I slipped her arm under mine, and saw her 
 home. 
 
 It was along a field-path ; on every side, in 
 smooth white waves, the deep snow lay. There 
 was a little bridged brook we had to cross, where 
 she stood and looked down. 
 
 " How merrily the water gurgles on between 
 the two shelves of ice ! This stream never 
 wholly freezes, your brother told me. He talk- 
 ed so beautifully about it, one day lately." 
 
 "Did he?" 
 
 *' I wanted him to write a poem on the sub- 
 ject, and he said he would. He jjromiscd me 
 faithfully to finish his book, and come over 
 and read it to us regularly every evening this 
 sfiriuLC." 
 
 "Ah, this spring!" 
 
 She looked up quickly, very tenderly, in my 
 face. "Is anv thing amiss ^\itll you, Miss 
 Eeid ?" 
 
 "Amiss, my dear?" I was jnitting her off, 
 when something whispered me that now was 
 the best — the only time to do what I had prom- 
 ised. And it must be done. "Yes, I fear I 
 am rather dreary." 
 
 "Is it about — " She stopped, coloring in- 
 tensely. 
 
 "About my school falling off? Well, part- 
 ly ; partly about — about Alwyn. He is too 
 clever a fellow to rust here in a country village. 
 I wish he were away." 
 
 She started, then reassumed her usual mono- 
 syllabic answer, "Oh, yes." 
 
 "I think — it is possible — nay, verj' probable 
 — that he will go away." 
 
 No answer. She was leaning on the rail of 
 the bridge. Slie held it very tight and firm. 
 
 I felt I must be firm, too. No paltering, for 
 present pity or fear of present pain, with the 
 truth — which I k7iew was the truth. No un- 
 steady holding of the knife — its .stroke must be 
 sharp, swift, and keen. It was safest so. 
 
 "He has no ties here — none, he says. He 
 wishes to go out into the world, and make his 
 way there for himself. I think any friend of 
 Alwyn's must be glad that he should go. His 
 sister is, though it will cost her much — much." 
 
 The little hand made a slight motion toward 
 mine, but stopjied half-way. She said, in a 
 low, carefully guarded tone, 
 
 " It is very hard for you. Will he be absent 
 long ?" 
 
 " Indefinitely. He is gone to-day to com- 
 plete his plans. He thinks of proceeding at 
 once to Germany." 
 
 " Oh, to Germany ! It is a — a fine country, 
 Germany. Shall we walk on, Miss lieid ?" 
 
 " If you please, my dear." 
 
 She did not take my arm, but moved on 
 alone, with a slow but unfaltering step. 
 
 I was very thankful the disclosure was so ' 
 well over. I would not trust myself to any 
 more s))ccch on the subject, but went on point- 
 ing out the red frosty sky, the white tracery of 
 the trees, and every thing that could make a 
 conversation. 
 
 She answered — just answered, and no more. 
 
 " Take care. Miss Blair ; the road is all ice 
 — you will fall." 
 
 "Shall I?" 
 
 " Let me help you. You shiver." 
 
 " I am so cold." 
 
 With one slight moan, she slipped from my 
 hold and dropped into a snow-drift in the ditch 
 bank, as white as the snow that buried her. 
 
 I carried her in my arms across the field 
 home. She came to herself just as we reached 
 the farm-gate, and insisted upon walking. 
 
 " Uon't tell any body. It was only the cold." 
 
 And then she lost consciousness again. 
 Hours passed before she spoke another word. 
 
 The doctor said it was the shock of the fall 
 in the snow acting ixpon her nen-ous system, 
 sensitive in the highest degree. She must be 
 kejit very quiet indeed, or he would not answer 
 for the consequences. 
 
 I went home to Alwyn with a hea^y con- 
 science. I felt as if between us we two were 
 conspiring the death of that poor child. Even 
 I — how wrong it was of me to let her come, to 
 let him go to and fro, when I might, perhaps, 
 have found excuses to keep them asunder ! Or 
 why did I not give some liints — surely it was in 
 the power of a woman and a sister so to do — to 
 save her, poor innocent, from building her love 
 palace upon such shifting sands ? For such, 
 alas ! I felt sure they were. 
 
 Still, I thought I would sound Alwyn. He 
 was so full of his German i)lans that it was mt 
 till tea was over that he thought of asking about 
 Miss Blair. 
 
 " Did she like her present ?" 
 
 " Very much, I believe." 
 
 " Did you tell her of my going away ? Ho'w 
 did she receive the news ?" 
 
 " Very quietly." 
 
 He looked rather disappointed. Ah ! poor 
 human nature. Alwyn loved so to have people 
 liking him- — harmlessly liking him, as lie liked 
 them — especially women. He had very few 
 male friends. 
 
 " But surely she said something — some little 
 hint of regret ? What passed between you ? 
 Tell me, word for word." 
 
 "I believe she said ' that Germany was a fine 
 country.' " 
 
 " Nothing more ?" 
 
 " Why should you desire more ?" 
 
 He laughed. " Oh ! I can't tell ; only I like 
 my friends to care for me a little. I thou-ht she 
 did. Perhaps I was mistaken. That is all."
 
 46 
 
 AL^^^^^'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 "Alwyn," I said, looking earnestly at him 
 across the tea-table, "do you really wish Mar- 
 jory Blair to care for you ?" 
 
 " In a friendly way — yes !" 
 
 "In anv other way ?" 
 
 "No."" 
 
 After a silence, during which he gulped his 
 scalding tea and asked for another cup, lie said, 
 
 " Charlotte, what could put sucli a question 
 in your head ? You know I never meddle with 
 those sort of things. I can not — I dare not — 
 'make love,' as the phrase goes, to any girl; 
 or if I could and dared, Marjory Bhiir — sweet, 
 gentle creature — is not the girl for me." 
 
 " I was sure of that." 
 
 " She is too pure, too meek," he continued ; 
 " I want a woman, not an angel. I should feel 
 myself black by the side of her. Also, she is 
 so very small and pale, and she has just a little 
 — a little red tinj;e in her luiir. Couldn't marry 
 a girl whose locks were any thing but dark! 
 Quite impossible." 
 
 I did not smile. I was very restless and 
 miserable. JNIy brother called me "rather cross' 
 more than once tliat evening. As for telling 
 him wliat had happened, the hours of anguish 
 I had ])asse(l on ^larjory's account, I found it 
 simply impossible. 
 
 It was a real relief when about nine o'clock 
 the young doctor, Ahvyn's sole associate in tlie 
 village, came in for a game at chess. He had 
 been again sent for to the farm, he said ; Miss 
 Ulair was very ill indeed — dangerously so. 
 
 Alwyn sprang up — -"Charlotte, what's this? 
 You never told me she was ill." 
 
 "It was only a fall she had — a slip in the 
 Bnow," said I, sullenly. 
 
 "Nay, more than that, I suspect," obser\'ed 
 the young doctor. " Slie has had a great shock 
 of some kind — something here, or perhaps 
 here," and lie touched successively his fore- 
 head and his left side, with a suspicious glance 
 at Alwyn. 
 
 My brother did not notice it, he was too 
 mucli grieved. 
 
 " O Cliarlottc, you should have told me. 
 What can have befallen her ? What sliock can 
 she have received? Poor gentle little soul! 
 Toor dear Marjory 1" 
 
 "I dare say she will be better soon," said 
 the young doctor, witli an expressive smile. 
 " Ccme, Keid, we shall have more chess ]ilay- 
 ing. I don't believe you will go to Germany." 
 
 After that I was quite prepared for the news 
 which mot me on every hand in our viUage next 
 day, that Miss Marjory Bhiir was d\ iiig for love 
 of my brother Alwyn. In my agony of remorse 
 and ])ain I told, God forgive me! to half a 
 dozen gossips at least half a dozen absolute 
 lies. 
 
 I went to sec the poor child afterward. Ilcr 
 grandmother received mc very frigidly indeed. 
 . Marjory did not know mc at all. She ke])t talk- 
 ing incessantly about the snows — "the cold, 
 cold snows" — whispering now and then in a 
 low, fond, frightened voice the ward "Alwvn." 
 
 I felt like a guilty thing when her grand- 
 parents took me solemnly into the chilly state 
 parlor and shut the door. 
 
 "I wish to speak to you. Miss Reid," said 
 the old man. "Confidentially it must be, and 
 candidly. Will you answer in the same way ?" 
 
 "If possible." 
 
 " It is about our poor child." 
 
 "Our darling, our only one," echoed the 
 grandmother, wcejiing. 
 
 "We are old folk, or we should have been 
 wiser. We have found it out now. It is not 
 her fault, poor pet ! Though we could have 
 wished things ditlerent ; she might have looked 
 higher." 
 
 ' ' Sir I" A momentary flash of sisterly haugh- 
 tiness, which was gone as soon as I looked at 
 the sorrowful old coujjle, and thought of the 
 almost dying girl up stairs. 
 
 " But he is a fine young fellow, and, on the 
 whole, we are content. She loves him — her 
 words betra_yed her when slie did not know what 
 she was talking about ; she shall marry liim if 
 she likes. Miss Reid, will you tell us liow long 
 your brother has been courting our Marjory ?" 
 
 " I can not tell. This is so sudden." 
 
 "Perhaps he has not told you," said the 
 grandmother, kindly. ' ' Yet he ought — so good 
 a sister. And he must be so proud of being 
 chosen by our Marjory." 
 
 I rose ; I hardly knew what I was about. I 
 muttered something about going home and ex- 
 plaining all to-morrow. 
 
 "Yes, go tell him we forgive him. He shall 
 sec her as soon as she is better. Her old 
 grandtather will not have her fretting. Say, 
 he shall marry her at once, and he need not 
 go to Germany." 
 
 Homeward through the snowy fields I ran, 
 feeling drawn around me an inexplicable net 
 of sorrow, and gloom, and wrong. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 "Is she very ill, Charlotte?" 
 
 "Very ill, indeed." 
 
 Alwyn looked thoroughly miserable, as lie 
 had done all day. Had he shown his grief less, 
 or struggled against it more, I would have been 
 more satisfied. As it was, I felt to a horrible 
 degree that uncertainty of action in which right 
 and wrong seem to change places, till one hard- 
 ly knows the one from the other. 
 
 Fate, or circumstance, or his own error, liad 
 led my brother into a jjosition whence his next 
 movement must inevitably create misery and 
 wrong to some person — doubtless to more than 
 one. A choice only lay of the lesser misery — 
 the lesser wrong. 
 
 W he had then, or ever had had, any prior 
 attachmem, if his temperament had been stern- 
 er, and not, as I knew it to be, inclined to love 
 every hiiinan being who cared for him, there 
 could not be the slightest doubt that he was not 
 bound — in fact, it woukl liavc been an absolute
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 47 
 
 sin — to marry Marjory Blair. As matters stood, 
 I wavered. He was fond and yielding in his na- 
 ture, his conscience tender, his sense of honor 
 keen, and to be loved was a necessity of his ex- 
 istence. Besides, he would need so much de- 
 votion, so much forbearance throughout life ; 
 safer, I thought, for him to marry a woman who 
 loved him, than a woman whom he loved. 
 
 Whether mj' theory grew out of evidence, or 
 I found evidence to suit my theory, I can hard- 
 ly tell, but I reasoned thus : No one will ques- 
 tion the fact that a man's love, however pas- 
 sionate and intense, must, from its very nature, 
 after murriage become calmed and settled down, 
 often temporarily cooling, until the new bond, 
 which lias in it more of aifectionate friendship 
 than passion, is formed between the pair — this 
 bond which, once formed, endures forever ; 
 while, on the other hand, almost invariably, 
 the wife's love grows, becomes more deep, more 
 patient, more fond than ever the girl's could be. 
 llomance changes into household tenderness, 
 exacting caprice is merged into the humblest 
 devotedness. Out of ten men who have mar- 
 ried in a state of maddest adoration, I would 
 engage to find, at the end of the second year, 
 at least eight couples where the wife loved the 
 husband more than the husband the wife. 
 
 I began to question whether my brother 
 might not do worse than save from lasting sor- 
 row the foolish, faithful heart of Marjory Blair. 
 
 "What are you thinking of?" said he to me, 
 when for half an hour I had been pretending to 
 sew and he to read, till on looking up we found 
 it was pretense on either side. 
 
 I paused a moment, then dashed at once into 
 the honest truth : "I was thinking of poor Mar- 
 jorv." 
 
 '"'So was I." 
 
 "What about her?'" 
 
 "That she must be of even more delicate 
 constitution than I feared. Such a trivial 
 thing — a mere slip in a snow-drift- — to produce 
 this dangerous illness." 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 "Are you quite sure it was nothing more 
 serious ? Did you not tell me it was that, and 
 only that ?" 
 
 "No, I never did. It would have been tell- 
 ing a falsehood." 
 
 "Charlotte, you are cross with me about 
 something." 
 
 "Not cross with you, only very miserable on 
 account of you. Oh, Alwyn, why did not na- 
 ture make you an ugly, commonplace, harmless 
 fellow, like the generality of mankind?" 
 
 And putting back his hair, I looked into his 
 noble, handsome face, with a vague sense of 
 pity for all womankind. The more so as he 
 looked up in real unconsciousness of my mean- 
 ing. One could not but forgive him, for half 
 the mischief he did sprang from his own entire 
 humility. 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense, Charlotte; I am far 
 too sad for that. Talk of poor Miss Blair. How 
 soon will she be herself again ?" 
 
 "God knows!" 
 
 ' ' Surely in a week or so she will be well, at 
 at events. I must see her before I leave." 
 
 " Why so ? To grieve her, torture her, break 
 her heart ? Brother, you shall not. You men 
 have no more feeling than a stone. I would 
 give the world if you had never exchanged a 
 word with that poor child." 
 
 "Charlotte!" 
 
 "Do you know what has come of it, your 
 daunderings up to the farm, your Italian read- 
 ings, your walks in green lanes, looking at the 
 moon ? I feared how it would end — I saw it 
 coming weeks ago." 
 
 "Sister Charlotte" (angrilv), "don't be a 
 fool." 
 
 ' ' I wish to Heaven I were ! Would it were all 
 my fancy, and no one were to blame ! She is 
 not — poor, fond darling ! I don't know tliat you 
 are either. You could not help it, Alwyn. But 
 you have done a cruel thing. You have bro- 
 ken a girl's heart." 
 
 " I ? " 
 
 "Now don't look so astonished and innocent. 
 You know it too — or it is high time you did. I 
 have spoken the simple truth. Her friends 
 asked me to day ' how long my brother had been 
 courting IMarjory ?' " 
 
 " I protest, I never said a word of love to her 
 in my life !" 
 
 ' ' Foolish boy, do you think that love is ex- 
 pressed and won only by words ?" 
 
 He hung his head. 
 
 "But, whatever you did, or whatever you 
 said, the case stands thus — you have made 
 that poor girl's life miserable, and now you 
 are going aw.T,y and taking her peace with 
 vou. She loves vou to the verv bottom of her 
 soul." 
 
 "Loves me? Oh, Charlotte?" 
 
 His head dropped on the table ; he turned as 
 pale as death. 
 
 We remained silent for many minutes. I 
 sewed on fast till I could not see for crying. 
 
 " God forgive me," he said at last, " I meant 
 no harm. What am I that she should care for 
 me? Poor Marjory! Sweet, gentle angel!" 
 
 He actually wept. 
 
 " Charlotte, first tell me all that passed." 
 
 I told him, disguising nothing. He was great- 
 ly affected. 
 
 "Oil, my unworthiness, my unworthiness ! 
 To make so many people miserable. What a 
 wretch I must have been!" 
 
 I tiied to comfort him, but the case was too 
 clear. He must have erred in some degree, per- 
 haps more than I knew, or a modest, shy maid- 
 en like Marjory would never have so blindly 
 thrown her heart away. Also, other obscr\'ers 
 would never have been so deceived as to the re- 
 lation existing between them. 
 
 Still he had done no more, in faci; much less, 
 than hundreds of young men do, and pass un- 
 blamed through the world, while the foolish 
 young women are only laughed at. But his 
 sensitive conscience exaggerated the folly into
 
 48 
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 the blackest crime. lie was overwhelmed with 
 remorse. 
 
 '•Charlotte, tell me, what must I do ? How- 
 can I atone ? If the most complete, heart-brok- 
 en—" 
 
 "Your broken heart will not exactly heal 
 hers." 
 
 "Do you think hers will never heal? Do 
 women never get over these — these things ?" 
 
 "Get over! as a horse leaps a hedge, either 
 falls staked in the middle or limps for life after- 
 ward. Oh yes, certainly they get over it. It 
 is a case of kill or cure, according to the pa- 
 tient's strength. For my part, I think poor lit- 
 tle Marjory will be returned among the ' killed.' " 
 
 "Oh, husli ! Sister, you ought not to speak 
 in that light, unfeeling manner" — (unfeeling ? 
 I ?) " What should I —what can I do ? Ought 
 I to — to marry her?" 
 
 "Ask your own heart that question." 
 
 I left him, went to lock the house and dis- 
 miss our maid .Mary's jo, who was courting as- 
 siduously by the kitchen fire. How much sim- 
 pler and happier these affairs are often carried 
 on in kitchens than parlors ! 
 
 "Alwyn, take your candle ; it is time for bed." 
 
 " Sister, come here. Give me some helj) — 
 advice. I feel half crazy." 
 
 I came, smoothed his hot forehead and kissed 
 him. My poor boy ! He was paying dearly 
 for all his follies. 
 
 "Tell me, Alwyn, did you ever for any 
 moment feel a spark of love, not mere senti- 
 mental friendship, but downright love, for that 
 gentle creature, whom many men would really 
 adore ?" 
 
 " Would they ? Yes, I know it. At times, 
 even I have fancied — but then I smothered the 
 feeling down. I dared not love, you know. 
 And to think of her loving me — me that am not 
 worthy, not half worthy, of a girl like her!" 
 
 "You might grow worthier. Slie might help 
 you to concpicr your faults and become a noble 
 man. You may never in your whole life find 
 such love again, and from such a woman." 
 
 "I feel that." 
 
 "Arc you quite sure that, honoring and lik- 
 ing her, you do not in some vague fashion love 
 her?" 
 
 " As a friend, a companion, a comforter, yes ; 
 as my wife, no!" 
 
 " Then she had better, ay, and if she knew it 
 she would rather a thousand times, suffer any 
 anguish— struggle witii it— beat it down— out- 
 live it — or, if that may not be — die of it — than 
 live and be married to you." 
 
 I took up my candle and went to bed. 
 
 It was two o'clock before I lieard Alwyn quit 
 the parlor and go up stairs. As he passed my 
 room I called him. 
 
 He answered, opened the door and stood a 
 minute outside. He had a f)alcr, more reso- 
 lute, and calmer face than I ever saw him wear. 
 
 "Do you want any thing, Charlotte?" 
 
 "Yes — no. Alwyn, dear, what time do you 
 wish to breakfast ?" 
 
 " Early. I am going to London. Probably 
 shall be away a week. Meanwhile will you 
 send me news of — the farm, everv day?" 
 
 "I will." 
 
 "And you will manage to let them know 
 that I am not — at least not yet — going to Ger- 
 many ?" 
 
 "Thank Heaven for that ! Yet, Alwyn — " ^ 
 
 But he had closed the door and vanished. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Two days after he wrote me a long letter, 
 full of tenderness. 
 
 He said, ' ' he ought to be grateful everlast- 
 ingly for the love of two such women as my- 
 self and Marjory. That he would try to de- 
 serve and keep both to the end of his days." 
 
 "He should not be able to live with me 
 again," he added, " having got employment in 
 London, which would at least keep him above 
 want ; but he would try to visit me as often as 
 was jiracticable." 
 
 For what had passed between him and me on 
 that imhajjpy evening (he mentioned th'e date), 
 he begged me never to reveal it to any human 
 being. "He had quite made up his mind now. 
 She was a noble creature, worthy of all love. 
 She should never know to her dying day that he 
 had married her from gratitude.'" 
 
 The last sentence was written on a half- 
 sheet ; his letters were always careless and frag- 
 mentary. 
 
 So my brother would be married. Of what 
 had been all my own — I should henceforth have 
 only a part. Of all his many confidences in me 
 this must necessarily be the last, or nearly the 
 last. For the future, himself and all belonging 
 to him must be shared with her, who had the 
 deepest, tendcrest, most solemn right to him 
 and to all his secrets. 
 
 But there was one secret which, as he said, 
 must be kcjit from her forever — one trust which 
 must forever remain mine, or rather kej)t faith- 
 fully and silently between my brother and me. 
 To no conceivable chance must be left the pos- 
 sibility of Marjory's finding out "that he had 
 married her from t/rati/ude." 
 
 I was a lone woman. Any accident happen- 
 ing to me would leave all my pajiers in the 
 hands, and open to the inspection of — my only 
 brotlier hitherto — now, of my brother's wife — or 
 betrothed wife. 
 
 Being of a nervously cautious temperament, 
 I never like to leave any thing that must be 
 done, undone for a single day. That very 
 night I determined to look through Alwyn's ac- 
 cidental letters for the ))ast year, and destroy 
 all which bore the slightest reference to Miss 
 Blair. 
 
 This entailed considerable sacrifice. Yet his 
 letters — and he wrote many — were beautiful in 
 themselves, and I had been used to keep every 
 scrap of his writing — naturally precious to me.
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 49 
 
 So I resolved on not burning the whole, but 
 merely cutting out passages here and there — 
 especially tite passage. Having done so, and, 
 as I believed, seen it safely in aslies under the 
 grate, I felt easier in my mind. 
 
 The remainder of the lad's dear letters, many 
 of which he had written to me quite in his boy- 
 hood, I tied up, not without some natural emo- 
 tion, which rather hurried my fingers and blind- 
 ed my eyes, and put the packet by against the 
 time when my brother and his wife would have 
 the examining of the papers of mc — the "dear 
 sister departed." 
 
 I sent Alwyn daily tidings of Miss Blair ; but 
 in one thing I acted contrary to his desires. 
 Knowing him, perhaps, better than he knew 
 himself, I thought it safest to say nothing at the 
 farm about him. 
 
 Marjory slowly recovered. By the week's 
 end she was able to sit up and be carried down 
 stairs. No one talked to her concerning her 
 sudden illness, or even mentioned my brother's 
 name. But she saw me about her continually, 
 tending her and watching over her, as if with a 
 sort of right. She seemed to feel it and be 
 glad. 
 
 Yet there was in her a great change— a quiet 
 recognizing of her inward wound, and setting 
 herself to meek endurance of the same. The 
 struggle was altogether silent. If it lasted 
 long, it would, I foresaw, speedily destroy the 
 frail tabernacle of such a loving spirit, which 
 loved the more intensely from its total unself- 
 ishness and its want of that useful quality called 
 Pride. 
 
 She was one of those fortunate beings who 
 find it "not so difficult to die." 
 
 On Sabbath afteraoon, when all the house 
 was quiet, she came down into the parlor, and 
 sat reading her Bible ; then leaned back mus- 
 ing, with her hand on a bunch of snowdrops, 
 the first out of my garden borders. She looked 
 as frail and fair as they. 
 
 All of a sudden, without giving any notice 
 of his approach, and so quietly that the grand- 
 parents were not even roused from their doze 
 on either side of the fire, my brother walked 
 into the room. 
 
 He was a great deal more agitated than Mar- 
 jory. After the first minute she sat calm in 
 her chair, and answered his questions about 
 her health in the most ordinary way, as in his 
 many, many visits beforetime. It is astonish- 
 ing what even the weakest of women can do 
 when need compels. 
 
 Mrs. Blair woke, looked pleased, and asked 
 him to stay to tea. Alwyn staid. He was a 
 trifle less gay than his wont, but there was 
 about his manner a tender repose infinitely more 
 attractive. 
 
 He paid very little formal attention to Mar- 
 jory; only I saw him earnestly looking at her 
 •ometimes, at which she would start, and grow 
 the color of a rose. 
 
 After tea, Mrs. Blair asked me to come and 
 we the chickens — chickens in Januarvl — but I 
 D 
 
 humored the open ruse, and coaxed the old man 
 after us to the kitchen fire. 
 
 "We must leave the young folk together, 
 you know, Miss Reid," said the grandparents. 
 
 It was a very, very long hour, and I do not 
 remember in the least what the worthy old 
 couple talked to me about. 
 
 Later, the farmer obser\-ed, with a chuckle, 
 that he was sure, if ever so much in love, the 
 young folk must want their supper, and some- 
 body ought to summon them. "Do vou go, 
 Miss Reid." 
 
 I went, previously making an ingenious clat- 
 ter at the handle of the parlor door. 
 
 Idle precaution ! My brother, who was sit- 
 ting with his arm round Marjory's waist, did 
 not remove it when I entered. He testified no 
 annoyance at my intrusion, no shyness at the 
 fond attitude in which I found them. Alas I 
 he was doing only that which it was his duty 
 to do. 
 
 " Come here ! Nay, don't shrink, dear Mar- 
 jor}^ Charlotte, here is your sister. Take her, 
 and love her always." 
 
 The young betrothed ran into my bosom, and 
 wept out her happy heart there. 
 
 Poor Marjory ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Thet were married early in the summer, and 
 went to live in London. Marjory had a liitle 
 fortune of her own ; but my brother, through tlie 
 situation he had obtained, was sufficiently inde- 
 pendent to have married without it. They be- 
 gan life prosperously enough. 
 
 Both wished me to live witb them ; but I be- 
 lieve this is usually a great mistake : that hus- 
 band and wife are better beginning life alone 
 together. So I kept firmly to my school : 
 though many a time, when the noisy little lads 
 were gone, I sat by my still fireside and thought 
 of theirs. 
 
 Often I used to get Maijory's letters. They 
 were very frank and free. She was freer with 
 me even than with her husband. She lovetl 
 him so, it made her afraid of him. 
 
 The honeymoon letters were as happy as a 
 bird singing in a Ma3'-bush. He was so kiitd 
 and so tender over her, she said : almost like a 
 mother or a sister. He watched-her every step ; 
 it made her often wicked enough to feel glad 
 she was not strong, that she might have his fond 
 care perpetually around her. As for the joy of 
 being near him, doing little things for him, 
 knowing that she utterly and entirely belonged 
 to him, now and forever — there could be no- 
 thing like it in this world ! 
 
 Love ! — that incomprehensible, wonderful 
 thing, intangible as air, a mere modicum of 
 which suffices to some excellent, cold-blooded 
 creatures, but which to others is the sole atmos- 
 phere in which they live and move, without 
 which they suffocate and die — poor Marjory ;
 
 50 
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 love was to her the very breath of life. Beyond 
 it was nothingness. 
 
 It is a mournful thing, seeing we are not yet 
 angels, whose sole existence is love, and that 
 we have not yet arrived at that angelic develop- 
 ment which is wholly satisfied with, and absorbed 
 in, the Love Divine ; it is, I say, a very mourn- 
 ful thing when any human being is constituted 
 thus. 
 
 At Christmas-time Alwyn wrote to me, " Sis- 
 ter, you must come." So I packed up my trunk 
 for a month, and went. 
 
 It was the oddest thing imaginable for me to 
 be knocking at my brother's own door, and to 
 have to inquire in a formal manner for "Mr. 
 Rcid." Neither of them knew the precise hour 
 of my coming; so I appeared at tlie new house 
 as a stranger. It was about five : their dinner 
 hour. I saw the cloth laid as I passed. From 
 the drawing-room floor a figure came fluttering 
 — nay, flying down. 
 
 "Ahvyn! you are in capital time to-day." 
 
 Then seeing me, the little mistress of the 
 house discovered her mistake. Her sisterly 
 welcome was very fond — tearfully so. 
 
 " I am sure — if we had known — I am so sor- 
 ry Alwyn is not here to meet you." 
 
 "Never mind; I dare say he will be home 
 in a minute." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" Her old monosyllables. 
 
 She brightened up, and busied herself about 
 me in a thousand ways, as if she could not suf- 
 ficiently impress upon me the sweet fact that 
 now, and for always, I had got a sister. 
 
 It was sweet — there could be no doubt of it. 
 
 Sweet to have her flitting round, insisting on 
 doing twenty little things that I never let any 
 body do for me before ; to feel that I had a right 
 to her love and care — that she was my own prop- 
 erty, my sister — my Alwyn's wife. Then we 
 came and sat down by the drawing-room fire, 
 and I admired the pretty house most indefati- 
 gably. » 
 
 Nevertheless, conversation paused, flagged, 
 sank into that lull which always oppresses those 
 closely uzited, who, meeting after a long ab- 
 sence, during which much has happened, have 
 so many things to say that they can not say 
 one. 
 
 Marjory's eyes wandered continually to the 
 clock on the mantle-piece. 
 
 "You must not mind it, thou^^h, Charlotte; 
 it is always too fast. Those pretty French 
 clocks rarely go well. But Alwyn liked it. He 
 
 He has a perfect passion 
 
 ka.s exquisite taste 
 
 "He always had. 
 .*br the beautiful." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" 
 
 .Just the faintest shadow passed over her face, 
 making me vexed at the remark I had inno- 
 cently made. 
 
 Mrs. Keid — how strange the name seemed — 
 was many degrees further frum being beautiful 
 tiian Maijory Blair. London iiir did not suit 
 her — Bhe was grown paler than ever. Dark cir- 
 cles underneath tlieni seemed almost to take 
 
 away the light of her soft, dove-like eyes — the 
 : only really pretty feature she had. She looked 
 1 much older than before her marriage. 
 : When seeing me gaze earnestly at her, she 
 ; asked me with a smile, " if I thought her alter- 
 I ed?" I was very much puzzled what to reply. 
 " Come, you must be hungry," she said, after 
 
 listening and starting at every foot in the street. 
 
 " Shall we ring for dinner?" 
 I Of course I said no ; but we shared between 
 
 j ' 
 
 j us a piece of bread, and sat quiet. 
 
 More weary waiting, with fragments of talk 
 ' between, till a church-dock near struck loudly 
 seven. Then Marjory rose. 
 I " Some business must have detained my hus- 
 band. He is sure to be at home before we have 
 done dinner." 
 
 But she ate with a sick, sad face, and could 
 hardly keep up the ordinary civilities of the ta- 
 ble. 
 
 "Is Alwyn often late?" 
 
 ' ' Not oftener than he can help. He is much 
 engaged, and his occupation" — (he was secreta- 
 ry to a fashionable author) — "leads him into a 
 great deal of acquaintance. He is so much ad- 
 mired — you can't think — in every circle into 
 which he goes." 
 
 " Do you go with him ?" 
 
 For I had heard somewhere of the difference 
 in this respect between literary men and liter- 
 ary men's wives. 
 
 " Sometimes I do — when my health allows. 
 He is verv careful over me — too careful, almost. 
 Ah! Hark!" 
 
 His quick run up the steps, I knew it well! 
 his loud, ra})id knock. The wife was another 
 creature in a moment. 
 
 "Is that you, my dear? Keally Maijory, 
 why will you open the street-door?" 
 
 He came in, threw down his hat, shook back 
 his curls. He was the same fine handsome fel- 
 low as ever — or handsomer. She was a mere 
 pale shadow by his side. 
 
 " Bless my soul — Charlotte ! Why, Marjory, 
 what a pleasant surprise !" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. We had begun dinner, you 
 see. She has been here ever since five." 
 
 "What a pity! I would have come homo 
 half an hour earlier had I known." 
 
 "I knew you would." 
 
 Marjory, thou wert truly of the angel kind ! 
 For worhls I could not have uttered those four 
 words with that perfect smile. 
 
 We sat round the fire, my brother, my sister, 
 and I. Alwyn was unfcignedly glad to see nic. 
 Wliatever miiiht be the vagaries of his imagin- 
 ation, and the attachments jiertaining thereto, 
 his attcction for me was always firm and sure. 
 
 He told me of all his phuis, aims, and hopes, 
 which had t.akcn a far wider range within the 
 last year. His marriage had, unconsciously to 
 liimself, licen the nnituring of his character, the 
 stepping-stone to his future — a future which to 
 me and his fond wife seemed limitless. 
 
 Marjory did not talk much. She sat idling 
 over some light sewing, often laid down, that
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 51 
 
 from under Iier shading hand she might look 
 across the table at Ahvyn, with a fullness of ad- 
 miring love. She did not hover about him, or 
 try to win from him those little attentions which 
 young wives rejoice in and expect ; it seemed as 
 if she neither were used to nor required them. 
 His mere presence in the room was sufficient to 
 her ; she desired no more. 
 
 I never, save this once, saw an instance of a 
 creature solely wrapped up in another human 
 being, whose love was too humble to be exact- 
 ing, too self-existent to burden the recipient. 
 
 Alwyn was very kind and tender to her, 
 •with the sort of tenderness which springs from 
 habit. He would go on talking for hours in his 
 brilliant, charming manner, without seeming 
 conscious of her at all ; but whenever he wanted 
 any thing, it was " jMarjory — wherc's Marjory ?" 
 
 On the whole, if I had been a person satisfied 
 with the outer surface of things, I should have 
 said they were a very happy married couple, — 
 happy in the sort of calm content, which gener- 
 ally comes after ten years of union ; a content 
 which ten more years would probably add to 
 rather than diminish. 
 
 But for that wild dream of youth, the perfect 
 love which of two makes one flesh, the satisfied 
 mutual love which in riper years becomes more 
 and more a vital necessity of existence, which, 
 receiving as much as it gives, is a rest, and 
 stay, and blessing, beyond any other blessing 
 which earth can afford : if Maijory ever thought 
 of or longed for this, God help her ! 
 
 These were my meditations when I lay down 
 to sleep for the first night in my brother's house. 
 
 The next night slumber was forbidden to my 
 eyelids. Poor, simple, countrified me ! I was 
 plunged into the very midst of that whirling 
 Maelstrom — a London literarj- party. 
 
 It was a gathering of lions at a great lion's 
 house. A lion of twenty j'ears ago, when they 
 roared much louder tlian they do now, when 
 they used to meet exclusively among themselves 
 for the express purpose of using their lungs, 
 and proving how much greater they were than 
 the minor beasts. 
 
 I never much liked literary people ; they talk 
 so fast and so continually about themselves. 
 They seem to think it is the grandest thing in 
 the world to handle a pen, to write about vir- 
 tues instead of showing them, to narrate noble 
 lives instead of living them. Alas ! I fear me 
 the former is often supposed to preclude the 
 necessity of the latter. 
 
 Thus I thought, when Alwyn for the first 
 hour kept me on his arm, bless him ! he was 
 not the least bit ashamed of his countrified old 
 sister; pointing out to me one after another, 
 the clever people, the celebrated people, the 
 people who were hung out as lanterns in the 
 world ; adding to each description various bio- 
 graphical or personal comments, frequently so 
 caustic and severe that they made me regard 
 him amazed, and caused Marjory's half remon- 
 strating, half pathetic whisper, "Oh, Alwyn!" 
 
 After a time he left us to take care of one 
 
 another, and we watched him, brilliant among 
 the most brilliant, noticed even among the most 
 noticeable, in the very centre of tlie throng. 
 Marjory's eyes followed him continually with 
 the fondest, proudest gaze. Few people came 
 to speak to her, indeed no one would have 
 guessed she was his wife ; she sitting in a cor- 
 ner with her pale face and plain high silk dress 
 — her wedding-dress, the boast of our village 
 dressmaker, but quite old-fashioned here. 
 
 ' ' Marjory, my dear, how tired you look ! 
 Had we not better go home?" 
 
 "Hush! he likes to stay late. Don't men- 
 tion such a thing." 
 
 But I did mention it, being a very daring and 
 determined person, and not in the least afraid 
 of my brother. Why should I ? He was but 
 flesh and blood. His wife and his sister need 
 not be always his humble, obedient slaves. So 
 I represented the case. 
 
 ' ' Go home, my dear Charlotte ? To be sure 
 I will, immediately. She is not ill, I hope, poor 
 child? She is too delicate for these crowded 
 rooms, I must go alone next time. Come, 
 Marjory. " 
 
 He led her out, leaning on his arm. They 
 could hardly get through the throng, he was so 
 beset by acquaintances. She seemed quite a 
 stranger to most of them. 
 
 "Who is she?" I heard asked behind them. 
 
 "Only Keid's wife." 
 
 ' ' What a fine clever fellow he is ! How 
 could he marry such an ordinary little thing!" 
 
 By the start Alwyn gave, by the deep flush 
 on Marjory's cheek, I think both the young 
 couple heard that comment. He answered it by 
 the most pointed and tender care over her until 
 we reached home. There he said, 
 
 "Now, Charlotte, I put my wife into your 
 charge. I am going back, just for one half 
 hour." 
 
 He did not return till long, long after mid- 
 night, t 
 
 A little figure all in white glided i)ast my 
 half-open door, and let him in. 
 
 "I could not help it, Marjory," he was say- 
 ing, as they repassed up stairs. "I would not 
 have kept you sitting up on any account, if I 
 had only thought of it. But then they were so 
 very entertaining." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It is strange, how differently strikes on us 
 the atmosphere of diflFerent households. Some 
 are so warm, fresh, and clear, we bathe in them 
 as in the light of a May-day. In others, the air 
 hangs heavy and close, as if always threatening 
 a stprm. Of many the atmosphere is still, cold, 
 and pale ; you can neither stir it to a tempest, 
 nor brighten it into sunshine. You walk in 
 it, and feel that if you lived there you would 
 pine and ^\-ithcr like a plant in a dark room, 
 which barely exists, and can never either blos- 
 som or grow.
 
 52 
 
 AL^^'YN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 This was somewhat the impression that Al- | 
 wj-n's home made on me. Ay, even thouj^'h it j 
 was a very beautiful, kind, quiet home, with no 
 disturbing element, but there was little brif^ht- 
 ness in it ; no laughing round breakfast tables, 
 no running to and fro, busy, merry, meeting at 
 intervals for a few minutes of cheerful (.hat, 
 and ending by a fireside circle, into which all 
 the cares and joys of the day are brought, 
 thrown in the midst, and danced round, till all 
 mingle haiijiily together, and the veriest witch's 
 caldron of jiain becomes a wholesome family 
 brew of sweetest savor. 
 
 We had no such circle ; my brother was al- 
 most always out of evenings. 
 
 I think — and my thinkings spring out of some 
 experience — that one of tlie saddest descriptions 
 one can give of a household — a virtuous and not 
 disunited household — is, that the master of it 
 "generally goes out of an evening." 
 
 Marjory, wlicn I hinted a little surjirise at his 
 so doing, said decidedly — very decidedly for her 
 — "that it was London ways. All clever men 
 did the same, and Alwyn's friends were most 
 of them celebrities. She was quite accustomed 
 to sit alone of an evening. She rather liked it."' 
 
 Of course I made no further remark. 
 
 So she and I used to sit together, five nights 
 out of the seven, occujjied in our women's work 
 and desultory women's talk — she seemed to talk 
 less than ever. But there was always a blank, 
 a want of the cheerful face we both loved best, 
 of the voice that, reading or talking, would have 
 been sweeter to us than any music in the world. 
 
 I remained a month in my brother's house, 
 and came home with a vague feelin;^ that there 
 was much satisfaction in living alone in the 
 country and teaching school. 
 
 When I left, Marjory hung about me affec- 
 tionately. I said, " liemeniber, if you are at 
 all ill or unhappy, you must come down to your 
 sister, my dear. Mind that she does, Alwyn." 
 
 JNIarjory's eyes turned to her husband, who 
 had been particularly tender over her tlic whole 
 of that day, for slic was weak and ailing this 
 winter time. "I unliapi)y?" she answered, 
 with a smile of the fondest incredulity. "You 
 must not wait for that, Charlotte, or you will 
 never see your sister." 
 
 So I hoped that an old maid's notion of mar- 
 ried life was a ridiculous Utojiia, and that tiicy 
 were really a very liappy couple after all. 
 
 In the spring I received from my sister-in-law 
 a parcel of little clothes. She said she was too 
 ill to make them herself. I made them for her, 
 nearly all ; sewing late and early, sometimes 
 merrily, oftcner still with tears. 
 
 At midsummer, on the brcaking-up day, 
 when my little pujiils were making such a clat- 
 ter that 1 could hardly hear my own voice, I re- 
 ceived a letter from Marjory. 
 
 It contained more of herself than her letters 
 uguaily did. They were generally all "Alwyn 
 — Alwyn," from bi-ginning to end. 
 
 She said her husband was away on a short 
 journey, and she felt very lonely. She dreaded 
 more particularly a longer absence he was about 
 to make ; a tour in Switzerland with his patron, 
 the titled author, who, she added, found it utter- 
 ly impossible to travel witliout the agreeable 
 comi)anionship of Alwyn Reid. And it would 
 be a great treat to Alwyn himself. Meantime 
 she wanted to come " home" (which word was 
 carefully erased, and " to the farm" substituted), 
 to be with her grandparents and me. 
 
 She came. Alwyn brought her. The samo 
 afternoon they appeared at my wicket-gate, jusk 
 as they used to appear when he went and fetched 
 her over to take tea with us. 
 
 That time might have been yesterday, so like 
 all seemed. The same yellow ribes was in flow- 
 er against the wall— the same standard rosc-tre?, 
 large white roses with wa.xen petals, of which he 
 once gave her one, saying it was the very picture 
 of herself. 
 
 She stood and gazed, evidently with an over- 
 flowing heart. 
 
 " Oh, Alwyn ! do you remember?" 
 
 "Remember what, my dear?" 
 
 "Every thing. In our courting diij-s, you 
 know." 
 
 He siglied, half sadly. 
 
 "I fear I never 'courted' much, Marjory." 
 
 " Ko ; I should not have liked it if you had ; 
 I could not have endured being 'made love to.' 
 But we were so ha])i)y — I was so ha])py. I did 
 not know that 1 loved you, or you me — only I 
 felt so very hajipy !" 
 
 " Mayst thou always be hapjiy, my little white 
 rose ! Not one of us all deserves happiness so 
 much." 
 
 He staid with her at the farm for a few days : 
 then he went away ; and I had my little sister 
 entirely to myself. 
 
 I saw a great deal of her ; penetrated fold 
 after fold into the pure calyx of the white rose, 
 and wondered at its rare perfectncss. 
 
 There arc two distinct classes of our sex — 
 women whom men love, and women whom wo- 
 men love. Marjory was of the latter, and, 
 though it 1)0 treason to mankind to say it, the 
 higlier order. Her attractions were wholly dis- 
 tinct from those "of the earth, earthy," which 
 gain a young woman many lovers. HerswuuKl 
 be more likely to win her only friends; but all 
 she did win she won forever. 
 
 Watching Alwyn closely, during the few days 
 of his stay, it had seemed to me, when the Lon- 
 don rust was rul'bed oft" him, that his nature 
 was growing purer and better — that toward his 
 wife, especially, a deep tenderness was springing 
 uj). As if his l(jve, omitting the jiassion-timc, 
 Iiad seized on the fricndsiiiji-stage of married 
 life, and was blossoming out; like an auricula 
 of mine which obstinately refused to flower at 
 tlie |)roi)er season, but in the middle of August 
 astonished me by putting forth the prettiest bud 
 in the world. 
 
 I augured that my brother's marriage would 
 some day become one of the man)- instances of
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 53 
 
 >ia>v almost impossille it is for a truly good man 
 not to love a noble and lovable wife who loves 
 him. 
 
 We spent a very happy month, my sister and 
 I, in talking of his future, in which was included 
 both of ours. And a little — a very little — of 
 another future, so dim, yet so near — so strange, 
 yet so wondrously beloved, which as yet lay in 
 the Almighty's hand among unborn souls. 
 
 On the last day of the month, the day before 
 Alwyn was expected home, Marjoiy came to 
 drink tea with me. She was restless with joy 
 — could not sit still for five minutes — kept on 
 smiling and talking, turning over and over again 
 my books and work. At last she came to my 
 desk, where I had been making out my mid- 
 summer school-bills, and began to amuse her- 
 self with its contents. 
 
 " I may, Charlotte ? You have no secrets, I 
 suppose ? At least none from me." 
 
 "None, ray child." 
 
 And I thanked Heaven it was so — that every 
 trace of the only secret I ever had to keep from 
 her had long since become dust and ashes under 
 my grate. 
 
 "Your correspondence is small. Only my 
 letters and Ahv3-n's — mine the most plentiful by 
 far. Are these all that Alwyn has written to 
 you since his marriage ?" 
 
 " Uo you want to read them, Mistress Jeal- 
 ousy?" 
 
 "No, thank you; I have read them all be- 
 forehand. He generally gives me his letters to 
 read. You don't mind that, sister, dear!" 
 
 "My pet, no!" 
 
 " Jealous" — slie went on moralizing. " Char- 
 lotte, what a strange feeling that jealousy must 
 be! Did you ever know what it was?" 
 
 "A little— once." 
 
 " I neverdid. Of course not ? I could never 
 feel it concerning any one but Alwyn. And to 
 be jealous of him, how impossible — how wicked 
 it would be!" 
 
 " Don't vou think so ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " I can understand people being jealous before 
 they are married, or engaged — but afterward ! 
 Why, such an idea would never come into my 
 head. How could it, when once I was sure, per- 
 fectly sure, that Alwyn loved me ; that he must 
 have maiTied me simply for love — since there 
 was nothing else in me he could marry me for." 
 
 "Foolish girl!" 
 
 "No, I repeat — notliing. I am not hand- 
 •some — or clever, or accomplished — no more to 
 compare with him than the night with the day. 
 Sometimes when I see what other women are — 
 the women be daily meets with, without caring 
 for any of them — I sit and marvel at my bless- 
 edness — at the infinite mercy of Heaven which 
 made Alwyn love me. Charlotte, do you re- 
 member the day I fell in the snow." 
 
 "I do remember it." 
 
 "I thought — no. at the time I thought no- 
 thing. It was as if somebody struck me — 
 stunned me. Something kept saying as loud 
 
 as a trumpet, 'Alwyn is going — Alwyn does 
 not care for you. You had better die.' And 
 I verily think I should have died." 
 
 " And been buried in the church-porch, 
 And Alwyn buried in the quire; 
 And out of her bosom there sprang a red rose. 
 And out of his bosom a brier." 
 
 I quoted this, adding, " Marjory, are you not 
 ashamed of such sentimentality ? You — a wife, 
 and — 3^ou know ! There, take your beloved's 
 letters, which he wrote me years before you 
 married him, and which were a great deal more 
 foolish and rhapsodical than any he ever wTites 
 now. Quick, take them !" 
 
 And I gave them to her, with this hand — 
 " this accursed right hand," as old Cranmer 
 moaned. So could I also moan ! Oh, would 
 it had rather been consumed in flames ! 
 
 I left her reading, and went about my house- 
 hold business, entering and re-entering several 
 times. She always looked up with a smiling 
 or an admiring comment, and once I heard her 
 laughing heartily to herself at some quaint pas- 
 sage. There was no fun like Alwyn's fun, we 
 both thought. 
 
 The last time I came in, after a little longer 
 absence from the room, my sister did not turn 
 round and smile. She was sitting, with the 
 letters carefully tied up on her lap — her head 
 thrown back against the wall. She was fright- 
 fully pale. 
 
 " What have you been doing, Marjor}', child?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing. Only laughing too much, I 
 think. I felt sick. I am better now." 
 
 I gave her a glass of water. Soon she look- 
 ed up in my face with a smile — such a soft, sad 
 smile, like that of a dying person. 
 
 " Thank you ; you are very kind. I think 
 you love me, Charlotte ?" 
 
 " Not a bit of it ; only on Alwyn's account. 
 Shall I put bv his letters? You have read 
 them?" 
 
 "All." 
 
 "They are very beautiful letters !" 
 
 "Very beautiful letters." 
 
 " Then having praised them as much as duty 
 requires, let us put them away and talk of some- 
 thing else." 
 
 " Oh, yes !" 
 
 She turned her chair round to the window, 
 and sat leaning out till it grew dusk. Soon 
 after I took her home as usual. Passing the 
 little bridge, she clung to my arm for a minute. 
 I asked her if any thing was the matter. 
 
 " It turned me sick again — the water. How 
 fast it runs — how fast it runs!" 
 
 I left her sitting at the supper-table with her 
 grandparents. I have in memory a perfect pic- 
 ture of her there ; white' as a statue — but then 
 she was always pale — with her light hair partly 
 dropping down, just as she had taken her bon- 
 net off; her eyes looking straight for^va^d, with 
 a melancholy blankness in them ; her thin hands 
 folded over each other on the table-cloth, one 
 finger tightly pressing the wedding ring. 
 
 Oil, my sister — my poor Marjory !
 
 51 
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In the middle of the following night I was 
 roused by a message from the farm. The jiains 
 of motherhood had prematurely come upon Al- 
 •wy-n's wife, and Alwyn was not here — would 
 not be here till morning ! 
 
 I rose, prepared to run across the fields at 
 once, without waiting for daylight. In passing 
 out, I stumbled over my desk. A horrible idea 
 flashed across my mind. I 7iiust be satisfied. 
 
 Ay, even before I went to her, I must be sat- 
 isfied. 
 
 I struck a light. I dragged out the packet of 
 Alwyn's letters — looked them over separately 
 and carefully. Inside one, with wliich it had 
 no connection, and into which it must have 
 slipped by the merest, the most fatal chance, I 
 found the small half sheet in which he had said, 
 '• she should never knotc till her dijiny day that he 
 had married her from gratitude." 
 
 Then I felt sure that she had read it. Like- 
 wise that, in a different sense, alas I to that in 
 which they were written — those words had and 
 would come true. 
 
 Going across those meadows, in the dawn, 
 with the dull stolid step with which one goes to 
 meet the Inevitable, I felt as certain as if I saw 
 it wTitten in the red lines along the east, that 
 the day then breaking would be my sister's " dy- 
 ing day." 
 
 She was perfectly calm. She smiled when I 
 entered, saying, " I knew you would come, 
 Charlotte." " 
 
 I remember once, when her throes were hard, 
 she spoke of Rachel at Ejihrath, and said, " If it 
 were a boy, she might almost call the child Be- 
 noni." 
 
 " But his father called him Benjamin," whis- 
 pered the old grandmother, scarcely knowing 
 what she was saying. "Look how Marjory 
 shivers ! Don't fret, darling ; Alwyn will be 
 here in an hour or two. Isn't it fortunate. Miss 
 Reid, that she should never have asked to see 
 her husband ?" 
 
 I motioned silence, for Marjory continued 
 .shuddering convulsively. At last she drew my 
 head down to hers, and put her li])S to my car. 
 
 " Do you think — tell no one I said so — but 
 do you think he will love my child, his own, 
 own child ?" 
 
 Very soon she grew delirious, and talked in- 
 coherently and fast, every sentence ending with 
 some thing about "gratitude." 
 
 When Alwyn came to the farm, he heard her 
 voice thus sharp and wild. Ho was not allowed 
 to see her. 
 
 If she had seen him — his intolerable remorse 
 and agony ! But it was too late ; I do not 
 think any human power, any human love could 
 tlien have saved her. 
 
 Alwyn rode ofl" like a madman in search of 
 all the medical help in tiie country. When he 
 came back, no frightful ravings met his car. 
 I wai waiting for him at the door. 
 
 Marjory was lying, very still and beautiful — 
 more beautiful ])erhaps than he had ever seen 
 her — with her little dead baby beside her. We 
 put it there. 
 
 He had no longer wife nor child — only his 
 poor heart-broken sister. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 After my brother became a widower, I gave 
 up my little school and went to keep his 
 house. 
 
 He had nobody but me ; for he had grown 
 an altered man. The brilliant London society 
 dropped from him — he could amuse it no longer. 
 A few people called once or twice to do the 
 civil to me, to inquire after "poor Mr. Reid," 
 and confide to me their hopes that he would 
 soon get over it and marry again — all men did 
 so. Gradually, however, they ceased their 
 visits, for they never saw him ; and were not 
 particularly attracted by his sister. So we two 
 were left in solitude. 
 
 His literary patron discovered that it was 
 useless to have a secretary who could not be 
 entertaining ; so he aided Alwyn in getting 
 the secretaryship to an insurance company. 
 Thither, day after day, Alwyn, who once hated 
 business, now patiently trudged — disappearing 
 after breakfast, ajipearing again at five — then 
 settling down with interminable office papers 
 before him until bedtime. 
 
 He never now went out of an evening. 
 
 Sometimes he would lift his eyes, and for 
 five minutes at a time, stare with a fixed, sad 
 gaze on the chair opixjsite, where she used to sit 
   — I always took care to sit at the other side my- 
 self — but from the day she was burtcd he never 
 mentioned Marjory's name. 
 
 Many months after, he happened to have a 
 short but sharp illness, and, unlike most men, 
 illness always made Alwyn gentle, loving, child- 
 like, and good. 
 
 I had been sitting up with him till late at 
 night, till after he had dropped into his first 
 sleep. Suddenly he started out of it, moaning 
 drowsily, "Don't go — don't go, Marjory." 
 
 I roused him, "It is only a dream, Alwyn, 
 dear." 
 
 He answered sharply, "You arc mistaken — 
 I wish you would leave me. She will not come 
 because you are in the room." 
 
 I was afraid he was delirious. My Itwks 
 must have grieved him ; for after a minute he 
 held out his hand. 
 
 " I did not mean to be cross with you, Char- 
 lotte. You arc very good to me. Nobody ever 
 loved me like you, except — " 
 
 I knew whom he meant. 
 
 After a while, lying broad awake, and speak- 
 ing in a rational tone, without any excitement, 
 he said to me : "Sister, I will tell you some- 
 thing which I never intended to tell any one. 
 It mi^^lit be tli'mght a delusion, a piece of down-
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 55 
 
 right insanity on my part, but it is as true as 
 that you are sitting here. You will not mention 
 it again. 
 
 " Is it likely, when you desire me not ?" 
 "Well, then, listen. Every night since the 
 first night we came hack into this house I have 
 seen, the moment I piit the candle out, her — 
 Marjory" — (he stopped) — "my dear wife Mar- 
 jory, sitting where you sit, with her hand laid 
 on her own pillow — what used to be her own — 
 looking at me. If I move, she vanishes— but 
 if I lie quiet, she sits there ; sometimes all night 
 long. Now do you believe me ?" 
 
 I paused a minute, then said, "Yes, I do. 
 That is, I believe it to he possible." 
 
 I think any woman who knows what it is to 
 love as Marjory loved my brother, will likewise 
 allow that such a thing is at least possible. 
 "What does she look like ?" 
 "Herself, exactly. But more as she used to 
 look as a girl, before — before I married her." 
 "Does she ever speak?" 
 "Never." 
 
 He lay quiet a few minutes, then broke out 
 into a sort of moan, " Oh, my poor Marjory, 
 what a blind fool was I! Sometimes, I fiincy, 
 she felt the truth — though, thank God ! she 
 never kne,/ it." 
 
 For I had not dared to tell liim the terrible 
 fact, which, in spite of the doctor's positive 
 declaration that she must inevitably have died 
 in childbirth, often made me feel as if I were 
 my sister's murderess. 
 
 "Charlotte, do j-ou think she knows I love 
 her now?" 
 
 " I do think it." 
 
 I wept ; I could not but weep. It seemed so 
 sad and strange that this love, the one hope 
 and desire of her existence, should only have 
 come after she had died. Y'et, poor Marjory, 
 she might have thought it worth dying for ! 
 
 Our conversation ceased. My brother never 
 recin'red to it, any more than if it had happened 
 in a dream of the night or a delirium during 
 his illness. 
 
 I do not know how long this delusion or 
 visitation — whichever it may be called — lasted. 
 In a few months my brother had become such 
 a quiet, grave man, wholly absorbed in business, 
 that any one would have thought him the last 
 person in the world to be subject to a supersti- 
 tious fancy. 
 
 His character totally changed. From having 
 been transparent as daylight and gay as sun- 
 shine, he grew reserved, subdued, sometimes 
 even cold — but cold only toward strangers. 
 Toward any one who liked or loved him, he 
 seemed morbidly anxious to return every grain 
 of that liking or loving. He was solicitously 
 kind, even to a fiiult. No creature heard from 
 him a sharp or angry word — none ever knew 
 hira pursue his own comfort or pleasure in pref- 
 erence to theirs. 
 
 We lived iu the house at Kensington — the 
 house where he had first brought his bride, and 
 where he had come back, a solitary widower — 
 
 for seven years. A peaceful life it was, with- 
 out any events of any kind. 
 
 My brother was now thirty-two years old. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I URGED Alwyn to pay the visit. 
 was a beautiful place. Sir 
 
 Ockham 
 (his for- 
 mer patron, who was still as much a friend to 
 him as a shallow, sentimental, fashionable lit- 
 terateur can be) eagei'ly pressed him to go. He 
 had been toiling at that insurance office early 
 and late, without any holiday, for seven years ; 
 except that once a year, so long as Mr. and 
 Mrs. Blair lived, he used to go down to the 
 farm, generally in the winter time. But that 
 stay was in the original, not in the corrupted 
 and pleasurable sense — a keeping of holy-day. 
 
 We always came up to London better and 
 calmer after this visit — not exactly to his wife's 
 grave, for we both held that the revisiting and 
 mourning over graves is a needless, almost a 
 sinful, thing to those who believe in the immor- 
 tality and perjjetual presence of the beloved lost 
 — but to the places sanctified by Marjory's liv- 
 ing presence, and Marjory's love. 
 
 It did not make him sad now. Human na- 
 ture is human nature ; and God's providence 
 allows not that there should ever be in any hu- 
 man heart a continual imhealed wound. 
 
 The snowdrops of seven winters had grown 
 over all that was mortal of Marjory and her 
 little babe. The widower, though never for- 
 getting either, lived on calmly and was com- 
 forted. 
 
 I was glad when he at last consented to min- 
 gle again for a brief season with the circle to 
 which he had once brightly belonged, and to 
 revisit Ockham Tower. 
 
 There was some slight bustle of preparation, 
 for his habits had become simjile even to home- 
 liness. As delicately as I could I started the 
 question whether he should not put off his deep 
 mourning, which he had worn all these years. 
 But he absolutely refused. 
 
 However, a handsome man never looks so 
 well as in black, and my brother was a very 
 handsome man still. His voice had a graver 
 tone — his fiice was somewhat sharper — with a 
 slight baldness over the forehead. Every trace 
 of boyish sentimentalism had become absorbed 
 in the maturity of middle age. You would 
 hardly recognize the Alwyn Keid of former days, 
 save from those "gentle manners" which had 
 won the heart of poor Marjory Blaii*. 
 
 I admired him very much myself, and thought 
 it probable that other women would do the 
 same. 
 
 While I was packing his portmanteau, he 
 said, hurriedly, 
 
 " Charlotte, do you think this is quite safe?" 
 
 He showed me the wedding-ring — hers, which 
 ho had always carried at his watch-chain, it be- 
 ing too small for any of his fingers.
 
 56 
 
 ALWYN'S FIKST WIFE. 
 
 "It is worn thin, yoa sec. I am afraid of 
 losinp it." 
 
 " You had better give it to me to keep until 
 yon come back." 
 
 I took it. It lies in my desk now. 
 
 My brother's letters from Ockhani Tower were 
 almost like his letters of ten years ago. Cer- 
 tainly in description, in humor, in the rare and 
 exquisite tact which, without effort, snys pre- 
 cisely what the recipient of the cjiistic likes to 
 hear, I never knew a correspondent like Alwyn. 
 His were not "show" letters, wTitten as if the 
 author were fully conscious that every line was, 
 or deserved to be, preserved in adanuintine rec- 
 ord for the edification of posterity ; nor were 
 they those formal, cold documents which very 
 clever and good people sometimes indite — mum- 
 mied epistles, with no more of the writer's true 
 soul in them than there is in the body of a de- 
 funct Egyptian. No. Alwyn was the prince 
 of correspondents. He wrote, not for himself 
 or too much of himself, but from himself to you. 
 Wrote, because he loved you, and liked to write 
 to you, because he knew you loved him, and 
 liked to hear about him. His letters were him- 
 self — his best, tenderest, noblest self. It was a 
 bright day whenever the postman brought one 
 to the door. 
 
 He told me a good deal about the people who 
 wer3 staying at Ockham — very jdeasant com- 
 pany, as it seemed. Among the rest — of two 
 lovely little girls, named llossiter, with whom 
 hs was greatly charmed. In his young man's 
 ti ne he had been particularly fond of children. 
 Tiicse tiny playmates, of from four to six, were 
 apjiarently great favorites of his. 
 
 They had a mamma who, he said, "was an 
 agreeable and lady-like woman." 
 
 In the three following letters, which came on 
 three several days when I had vainly expected 
 liim, he having fixed to return home, he did 
 not mention the Rossiters. His tone of mind 
 seemed different from what it had been in the 
 early part of his visit — restless, perplexed, with 
 a slight touch of sadness. 
 
 I had begim to be uneasy, when suddenly, 
 without giving me notice, he came back. He 
 had been absent a full month. 
 
 Tiiough it was late, we sat down to talk over 
 the fire. He seemed in high spirits — very com- 
 municative about every body and every thing, 
 with one excejition. 
 
 "Alwyn, you have forgotten to tell me any 
 thing about the Rossiters." 
 
 He turned toward the fire. "Oh, they are 
 very charming little girls." 
 
 "And their mother, I suppose the same ad- 
 jective may apjily to her?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Arc they her onlv children?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Is she a middle-aged jfcrson ?" 
 
 "About my age, or a little younger." 
 
 "And who is Mr. Rossiter?" 
 
 " Really, did I not tell you? Mrs. Rossiter 
 is a widow." 
 
 I An "agreeable" widow, of thirty, with two 
 
 I "charming and lovable" little girls! If the 
 
 subject had b.-en one that allowed jesting, I 
 
 I might have taken this excellent opportunity for 
 
 a little harmless joke at his exj)ense. As it 
 
 was, I only laid my hand upon his arm, and 
 
 looked at him, smiling. His color rose, I 
 
 ; thought. 
 
 ' ' What are you staring at me for, Charlotte ?" 
 ' spoken all but angrily. 
 
 I drew back, and sat gazing into the fire for 
 a long time. Thoughts, many and fast — pos- 
 sibilities Mliich I had long believed impossi- 
 bilities, traversed my brain, with dull, steady 
 ! tramp, like a regiment going to battle. Final- 
 ly, they fought the battle out — other and softer 
 thoughts took their place. 
 
 I looked sideways at my brother. He was 
 the last of our race. Youth, energy, hcpe, 
 were still strong within him. Life is often 
 only begun at two-and-thirty ; and a man can 
 not live forever upon a dream or a memory, as 
 a woman can. 
 
 Still the idea which had entered my mind 
 was painful. I was rather glad not to know 
 the whole truth at present, 
 
 "Brother, it is growing late." 
 
 " 8tay — ^just ten minutes — I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
 We sat down. It struck me forcibly, almost 
 with a chill of jjain, how exactly we were sit- 
 ting as we sat one winter night in my cottage, 
 before he married Marjory. 
 
 He dashed into the matter with a desperate 
 plunge — 
 
 "Mrs. Rossiter is a very agreeable woman." 
 
 " So you said." 
 
 "You would like her very much, Charlotte. 
 She wishes — in fact, I wish — that you should 
 visit her." 
 
 "Does she live in London?" 
 
 "In the season ; otherwise at her jointure- 
 house, Manor I'lace, in Shropshire." 
 
 " She has jjropertv, then." 
 
 "A good deal." 
 
 "And you think I shall like her. Do you 
 like her?"" 
 
 "Very much indeed." 
 
 "Alwyn, I am going to put to yon a plain 
 question ; answer it or not, as vou will." 
 
 "Goon." 
 
 "You know what I think of second mar- 
 j riages, at least for men ; thiit they are natural, 
 justifialde, often even advisable. I never should 
 object to— I mean regret — your making a wor- 
 thy second choice. Will it be Mrs. Rossiter?" 
 
 "Not yet; oh! (Charlotte, not yet. Don't 
 talk of my nuirrying — yet." And with one 
 wild, mournfid glance at the chair — we had 
 never moved it — he dropjjcd his face between 
 his hands. 
 
 " Have you any hesitation in telling me how 
 the matter stands between you — the engage- 
 ment?" 
 
 " Good Heavens ! there is none. How could 
 I form one without telliu' vou? Unlv she
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 57 
 
 lores me, Charlotte — loves me. I found it out 
 quite by chance." 
 
 "And you (the word 'love' stuck in my 
 throat), you return her feelini^s ?" 
 
 "I admire her. I have thought sometimes 
 I could be happy with her, if I could only 
 make her happy. Something in me cries out, 
 'Atone, Atone!' Charlotte, remember, she 
 loves me. I can not, I dare not, break another 
 loving heart." 
 
 Break the heart of a handsome widow of 
 thirty, rich, with two charming children? — I 
 could have smiled at the notion ; but it was a 
 sore point, made sorer by the never-ceasing 
 stings of conscience. Either he truly believed 
 what he said, or he deceived himself, led away 
 imconsciously by his long dormant and now 
 suddenly aroused craving after the refined and 
 the beautiful : his perpetual necessity of being 
 loved. 
 
 When I saw Mrs. Rossiter — he took me to 
 pay her a visit next day — I was by no means 
 certain whether he loved her, with the hiyh, 
 pure love that few men feel more than once — 
 but I was convinced that he desired to marry 
 her. 
 
 Let me do justice to this lady, who, as I de- 
 tected almost immediately, was deeply and gen- 
 erously attached to my brother. But what mar- 
 vel in that ? 
 
 She was what people call a "gentleman's 
 beauty;" that is, a beauty who attracts and 
 dazzles immediately. Of person rather large 
 and Juno-like ; cheerful, even brilliant in con- 
 versation, though not the least of the " intellect- 
 ual" stamp ; a thoroughly sensible, open-hearted 
 woman, accustomed to, and rather fond of, but 
 not spoiled by the world. 
 
 We dined with her. Coming home, Alwyn 
 did not ask me, as in that far day in a buried 
 life — buried from us as completely as the young 
 face which had then looked from under the 
 roses at tlie gate of the farm — he did not ask 
 me "how I liked her?" He only made the 
 careless oUservation, "that I seemed to like the 
 children." 
 
 "Yes, they are extremely pretty little girls." 
 
 We parted in a very friendly manner, and 
 with a sort of silent understanding, on the stair- 
 case. He kissed me before he went into his 
 room. 
 
 I marveled whether that night he saw the 
 figure sitting watching him, with its hand on 
 the vacant pillow that had been Marjorv's. 
 
 Yet surely had she known she would have 
 felt, as I did, that Avhatever makes the justi- 
 fiable happiness of the beloved can never be 
 the grief of those who love. 
 
 Mrs. Rossiter became Mrs. Reid. It was a 
 grand wedding ; St. George's, Hanover square ; 
 a dozen carriages ; ten bridesmaids, including 
 the two graceful children, in India muslin 
 flounced up to the waist ; and a Champagne 
 breakfast afterward. Nothing at all that could 
 remind the bridegroom of that dim village 
 churcli where, through the soft rain of a May 
 
 morning, we had walked ; just we five, the be^ 
 trothed pair, old Mr. and Mrs. Blair, and I. 
 
 Alwyn looked very well; composed, digni- 
 fied, rather grave, lieturned from the church, 
 the little girls jumped on his knee, and called 
 him "papa." He started; then kissed them 
 fondly, saying in a smothered tone, "that he 
 hoped always to keep and to deserve that name." 
 
 I have often thought those jrelty innocenta 
 had a great deal to do in making the marriage. 
 
 Well, it was all over quickly, like a dream. 
 I woke alone in my brother's old house, of 
 which I had so long been the mistress; of 
 which a large "To be Let" in one window, 
 and a "To be Sold by Auction" in another, 
 revealed that he was no longer master, nor I 
 mistress, any more. 
 
 But he had spent the last evening alone with 
 me, going quietly and solemnly through all the 
 rooms, choosing the furniture which she had 
 happened to like, and the little knick-knacker- 
 ies which had belonged to her in her maiden 
 days, or been wedding-presents afterward. All 
 these he gave to me, though without once men- 
 tioning her name. 
 
 Likewise, he made a settlement upon me of 
 the little fortune which Marjory brought him, 
 the principal of which he had never once touch- 
 ed. 
 
 All these gifts made me quite a well-to-do 
 woman. Ihalf hesitated to receive the last ; but 
 he imperatively bade me be silent. 
 
 "You know, sister, it is exactly what she — ^" 
 
 The sentence was never finished. 
 
 CIIAPTER X. 
 
 My old cottage near the farm being to let, 1 
 took it. It seemed a kind of satisfaction now 
 that some one who had been fond of Marjory 
 should live near the village church she was mar- 
 ried in, and (though that was against my creed, 
 yet instinct is often stronger than opinion) 
 near the white head-stone on which was her 
 simple name, "Marjory Reid," and which was 
 — I mourned — the sole memento left on earth 
 of such a pure and beautiful soul. 
 
 I erred. The Giver and Claimer of souls 
 knows His work better. Evil jierishes ; it has 
 done its work as a purifying and chastening 
 agent ; it dies, according to its natural tenden- 
 cy, which is to die. But Good is from its very 
 nature and origin immortal. 
 
 Eveiy Sunday I used to say to myself, pass- 
 ing by the head-stone, "Poor Marjory! what 
 w ert thou sent on earth for ? Only to love, suf- 
 fer, die, and be forgotten ?" 
 
 Oh, purblind unbeliever that I was! As if, 
 in the wondrous mechanism of God's universe, 
 wherein nothing is ever wasted. He should suf- 
 fer innocence and love to jiass away into obliv- 
 ion, having apparently done no work, efibcted 
 no good, and only lived less to enjoy than to 
 endure I
 
 58 
 
 AL^\^'N'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 If we could but see a little forward toward 
 the end ! 
 
 It so happened, from various counteracting 
 chances, that my brother and I did not meet for 
 several years. I was always disinclined to 
 travel, and he was fast bound at the estate in 
 Shropshire of which his marriage had made him 
 master. 
 
 An excellent master he proved ; filling; admi- 
 rably the difficult position of the husband of ''a 
 woman of jtroperty." He became a noted man 
 in tlie county ; a large agriculturist, a member 
 of parliament, a justice of the peace. Chil- 
 dren sprang up, one after tlie other, round his 
 board : he was to all api)carance a prosperous and 
 ha]ipy man. Nay, he liimself told me so. His 
 letters — for we maintained a steady correspond- 
 ence — gradually changed their character into 
 the business-like gravity of middle age. I hard- 
 ly knew it, till I hai)pcned to read one of those, 
 long ago, from Ockham Tower, and lay it side 
 by side with these. 
 
 .iVhv\-n was not my only Shropshire corre- 
 spondent. Mrs. Reid favored me rarely ; she 
 wa> not a ready pen woman ; but various minor 
 scr.iwls came to hand from tbe young Misses 
 Rossiter. One day I received a few lines of 
 wide-ruled pen-over-pencil writing, as if some 
 one had guided the little hand : ah, bless that 
 little hand ! it was of my own flesh and blood : 
 
 " Dear Aust, — I love you, and some of these days I 
 am coming to see you. Your affectionate niece, 
 
 "Maegaeet IIeid." 
 
 She was Alwyn's eldest child. 
 
 I will not confess to how many people in our 
 village I triumphantly showed that document. 
 I was growing a very weak-minded old woman. 
 
 On the day fixed — it was a day in winter, just 
 after the New Year — I sat awaiting my brother 
 and my niece. All was trim in my cottage, 
 over the ajjpearance of wliich I was morbidly 
 anxious, considering what the Misses Rossiter 
 had told me of the sjjlendors of Manor riacc. 
 Tliere was holly on the mantle-piece, and liolly 
 on the piano that no living lingers had ever 
 touched since — ah, I remember ! The garden 
 was trim and green ; and I knew by the snow- 
 drojis in my borders what a number Alwyn 
 would lind — where I supposed he would not 
 think of going now. 
 
 There drove up grandly a post-chaise and 
 four. A gentleman leaped out ; I could hardly 
 believe it was my brother Alwyn. 
 
 Tliose wlio live alone are prone to think that 
 the world stands still, and tliat the people tlierein 
 chcrisli memories and feelings which belong only 
 to solitude. Living here I had naturally lived 
 wholly in past days. I expected the Alwyn 
 Keid who marriccl Marjory: I found Ahvvn 
 Reid, Es(|., of Manor I'lace, magistrate of the 
 county of Salop, Imsband of Mrs. Reid, father 
 of a large and rising family. At first I was ilis- 
 appointed. Not afterward. Not when I had 
 his dauglitcr on my knee, and him by my side, 
 and saw the love between them. 
 
 Margaret was a veiy sweet-looking child ; 
 but I vainly traced any family line. Yet it 
 seemed as if she belonged to me familiarly — as 
 if she had come out of the far-back period of a 
 forgotten life. I found it almost impossible to 
 believe she was Mrs. Reid's daughter. 
 
 She made herself quite at home immediately ; 
 strayed about the house ; talked to Mary (who 
 had married her jo, buried him, and come back 
 to me) ; examined all the furniture, and espe- 
 cially the piano. 
 
 "It is locked. May I open it?" 
 
 " It has not been opened for many years, my 
 dear." 
 
 "Oh, please, aunt!" 
 
 I could not resist the name. I began fum- 
 bling among my bunch of keys. 
 
 " Whose piano was it ?" 
 
 "It belonged to — a lady — who is dead." 
 
 The child colored — interchanged a glance 
 witli her father. He said, gently, "Yes, it was 
 hers, Margaret!" and walked, first to the win- 
 dow, then quietly out of the room. 
 
 "Aunt, I know who that lady was. Papa 
 has told me about her. She was my half-mam- 
 ma ; I love her very much." 
 
 " Bless thee, my dear child." 
 
 "Don't cry now, aunt. I'apa and I never 
 do, and we often talk about her. I know her 
 quite well. Papa says I am just a very little 
 like her sometimes. Am I ?" 
 
 " It may be." 
 
 "Oh, I wish I were ! She wassogcod. Papa 
 loved her so. He says, the more I grow like her, 
 the more he shall love me every day." 
 
 I could hardly speak. Oh, Maijory, thou wert 
 living still — thou couldst not die. 
 
 "Aunt, now may I open her piano?" 
 
 The next day I had it put in tune. ]\Iarga- 
 ret was very happy ; she sat all the evening 
 jilayiiig her pretty, sim])le music by the firelight, 
 her ftither and I listening. It seemed as if the 
 spirit of the lost had come back to us in that 
 child. 
 
 It was a strange thing — which, while they 
 were staying here, struck other people besides 
 myself — that little Margaret n-as very like Al- 
 wyn's first wife. Not in face exactly, but in 
 manner and ways. As she grew older, the like- 
 ness rather increased than diminished. Year 
 by year — for from this time I visited my broth- 
 er's household nearly every summer — I watched 
 her bloom into womanhood. They were a hand- 
 some family ; she was at once the least hand- 
 some and the flower of them all. 
 
 iShe was her father's ri^ht hand. He loved 
 her better than all his other sons and daughters. 
 
 I do not think Mrs. Reid minded this, being 
 a kind-hearted, business-like woman, to whom 
 life was an easy, active, bustling aflair. She 
 brought up her family well, and from their cra- 
 dles began settling how she sliould put out her 
 sons in the world, and marry her handsome 
 daughters. She was aficctionate to her hus- 
 band, but always wondered what he could see so 
 especially charming iu that little plain Margaret.
 
 ALWYN'S FIRST WIFE. 
 
 59 
 
 How Mrs. Reid would have smiled — a calm, 
 good-humored, incredulous smile — if any one 
 had told her that all the good influence in house, 
 the higher spiritual influence, in opposition to 
 the very strong tide of worldlincss which was 
 always setting the other way, came from " lit- 
 tle plain Margaret," and through her from one 
 whom perhaps the good lady had hardly thought 
 of a dozen times, "Mr. Keid's first wife, who 
 died in childbirth, poor thing !" 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 My brother had nearly reached his threescore 
 years. The latter half of them he had had a 
 peaceful, uneventful life. I will pass it over 
 rapidly, for it seems to me now as if the years had 
 fled like lightning, and as if it were but yester- 
 day that he was a young man — the young man 
 who married Marjory. 
 
 And now he was an old man, wheeled about 
 in a garden chair, looking for all his pleasures, 
 amusements, comforts, to the one companion 
 who never failed him — his daughter Margaret. 
 
 Until the age of sixty he was a brave, sturdy 
 English gentleman ; the boldest hunter, the 
 keenest shot, the most active and the justest jus- 
 tice in the whole county. Sickness came and 
 changed his whole existence. He became an 
 invalid for life. His family gradually grew ac- 
 customed to the fact, and all went on as if he 
 were a mere adjunct of the household, to be ten- 
 derly treated, and paid great attention to when 
 they could spare time. But the true head of 
 Manor Place was Mrs. Reid. 
 
 They were rather a fractious family, especial- 
 ly when the sons and daughters grew up ; and 
 between them and the energetic mother storms 
 often arose. Never with the father. His study, 
 with Margaret and his books beside him, was 
 the sanctuary of the house. 
 
 Margaret has often told me, that did the chil- 
 dren bring never so many complaints, his con- 
 stant command was — for his least entreaty had 
 the weight of a command — "Respect your moth- 
 er!" " Obey your mother ! " " Bear with your 
 mother, she has much to bear." And to the 
 mother herself — though, well as she loved him, 
 she tried him sometimes — none ever heard him 
 give a harsh word. 
 
 I believe through all his life, in all his con- 
 duct to her, the one idea pursued him — of his 
 duty to atone to this woman, who loved him, 
 for all the anguish he had caused to the other. 
 
 "Charlotte," he said to me, one day looking 
 after Mrs. Reid as she sailed smilingly from 
 under the walnut shade where we were sitting, 
 "I think I have made her happy." 
 
 ' ' Papa, " murmured Margaret's fond voice be- 
 hind, "you make every body happy." 
 
 It was true. One I knew — one who had been 
 dead more than thirty years — would have re- 
 joiced to see into what perfection his character 
 had grown — how the faults of his youth had 
 
 melted away, and his virtues shone out clearer, 
 year by year. And could she have seen all this, 
 surely her true heart would have said, what mat- 
 ter if he were no longer hers? What matter if 
 she and her poor life were totally forgotten, so 
 that he thus nobly fulfilled his life, faithful to 
 himself and to his God? 
 
 But she was not forgotten — Alwyn and I often 
 talked of her when we were alone. Ay, and 
 sometimes to his children — to his eldest and 
 dearest child, he would speak (without any sac- 
 rilege to their mother, and his own good wife) 
 of the girl who was his friend when he was little 
 more than a boy — of the woman who had loved 
 him so faithfully, and died years before any of 
 them were born. Margaret said to me once, 
 she always felt as if her true mother — the moth- 
 er of her heart and soul, whose influence had 
 formed her mind and moulded her character, 
 had been her father's first wife. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The end must come. Let me hasten to it. 
 
 I sit once more in my little cottage ; Mar- 
 garet sits opposite. We are very silent ; we 
 have not got used to that change which our 
 black dresses show. She will put off hers in 
 due time for marriage white ; I shall wear mine 
 until I dress — that is, until they dress me — in 
 the simpler garment which no one ever lays 
 aside. 
 
 We have lost him — I have lost him, for a little 
 while, "a little while !" It is so comforting, so 
 comfortable to repeat the words, that I shall not 
 dwell upon the loss itself, except to narrate a 
 circumstance which occurred on the night be- 
 fore his departure, which I have often thought 
 of afterward. 
 
 It was my turn to sit up with Alwyn ; there 
 was no one in the room but me. He was 
 not sleeping, but lay quite still, with his eyes 
 open, looking earnestly on the curtains at the 
 foot of the bed. They were looped up, with 
 just space enough between for a person to 
 stand. 
 
 He lay so long, with his eye steadily fixed, 
 that at last I spoke. 
 
 "Alwyn, if I move the night-light, would you 
 try to sleep ?" 
 
 "No. Hush!" 
 
 " What are you looking at ?" 
 
 He made no answer for a minute ; then turn- 
 ing, heaved a deep sigh. ' ' You should not have 
 spoken. She is gone now." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Marjory." 
 
 I was greatly startled. Not that I disbelieved 
 the statement ; I have already declared tliat I 
 hold such visions or visitations to be at least 
 possible. But in this illness, tiiough it was not 
 a more severe attack tlian he iiad several times 
 recovered from, it seemed almost like a super- 
 natural warning.
 
 60 
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 *' Are you sure it was no fancy ? Have you 
 seen her before?" 
 
 ''Not for thirty years, until now. These five 
 nights she has come and stood there." He 
 ])ointed to the foot of the bed. " She looks so 
 calm, smiling, and glad. She is as young as 
 ever, while I — " 
 
 Alas, his white head, his withered, palsied 
 hands ! 
 
 While he was speaking, Mrs. Reid and Mar- 
 garet came in, and we ceased talking. 
 
 Thoy wisiied me to go to bed ; but a forebod- 
 ing, impossible to conquer, kept me in Alwyn's 
 room during the night. 
 
 At six in the morning my brother died. 
 
 His wife, his sons, and daughters, were all 
 
 surrounding him on either side the bed. At 
 its fuot no one was standing. Just when we 
 thought he was gone, he opened his eyes and 
 fixed them steadily there. 
 
 " Mar — Mar — " He tried in vain to utter the 
 name. 
 
 "Go to him, Margaret, my love!" sobbed 
 Mrs. Keid. " Go and kiss your dear father." 
 
 He heard, and faintly turned to reicive the 
 embrace of his wife and daughter. Then, turn- 
 ing uway from both, he stretched his hands with 
 a bright dying smile to the place where no one 
 stood, and f;iltered out distinctly, as if answer- 
 ing to a call, the words — 
 
 "Yes, Marjory." 
 
 He never spoke again. 
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I WILL relate to you, my friend, the whole 
 history, from the beginning to — nearly — the 
 end. 
 
 The first time that — that it happened, was on 
 this wise. 
 
 My husband and myself were sitting in a pri- 
 vate box at the theatre — one of the two large 
 London theatres. The performance was, I re- 
 member well, an Easter piece, in which were 
 introduced live dromedaries and an elephant, at 
 whose clumsy feats we were considerably amus- 
 ed. I mention this to show how calm and even 
 gay was the state of both our minds that even- 
 in;.;, and how little there was in any of the cir- 
 cumstances of the place or time to cause, or ren- 
 der us liable to — what I am about to describe. 
 
 I liked this Easter piece better than any seri- 
 ous drama. My life had contained enouj^h of 
 the tragic element to nuike me turn with a sick 
 distaste from all imitations thereof in books or 
 plays. For montiis, ever since our marriage, 
 Alexis and I had striven to lead a purely child- 
 ish, commonplace existence, eschewing all stir- 
 ring events and strong emotions, mixing little in 
 society, and then, with one exception, making 
 no associations boyond tiic moment. 
 
 It was easy to do this in London ; for we had 
 no relations — we two were quite alone and free. 
 Free — free ! How wildly I sometimes grasped 
 Alexis's hand as I repeated that word. 
 
 He was young — so was L At times, as on 
 fliis night, we would sit together and hiiigb like 
 children. It was so glorious to know of a sure- 
 ty that now we could think, feel, speak, act — 
 above all, love one anotlicr — haunted by no 
 (•oiintera(-ting spell, resp()nsil)io to no living 
 creature for our life and our love. 
 
 liut this had been our lot only for a year — I 
 
 had recollected the date, shuddering, i!i the 
 morning — for one year, from this same day. 
 
 We had been laughing very heartily, cherish- 
 ing mirth, as it were, like those who would ca- 
 ress a lovely bird that had been frightened out 
 of its natural home and grown wild and rare in 
 its visits, only tapping at the lattice fcr a min- 
 ute, and then gone. Suddenly, in the pause 
 between the acts, when the house was half dark- 
 ened, our laughter died away. 
 
 " How cold it is !" said Alexis, shivering. I 
 shivered too ; but not with cold — it was more 
 like the involuntary sensation at which people 
 say, " Some one is walking over my grave." I 
 said so, jestingly. 
 
 " Hush, Isbel," whispered ray husband, and 
 again the draft of cold air seemed to blow 
 riglit between us. 
 
 I should describe the position in which we 
 were sitting ; both in front of the box, but he in 
 full view of the audience, while I was half hid- 
 den by the curtain. Between us, where the 
 cold draft blew, was a vacant chair. Alexis 
 tried to move this cluiir, but it was fixed to the 
 floor. He passed behind it, and wraj)ped a man- 
 tle over my shoulders. 
 
 "This London winter is cold for you, my 
 love. I half wish we had taken courage, and 
 sailed once more for Hispaniola." 
 
 "Oh, no — oh, no! No more of the sea!" 
 I said I, w ith another and stronger shudder. 
 
 He took his former position, looking round 
 indifierently at the audience. But neither of 
 us s])oke. The mere word "Hispaniola" was 
 enough to tlirow a damp and a silence over us 
 both. 
 
 "Isbel," he said at last, rousing himself, with 
 a half smile, " 1 think you must have grown re- 
 markal)ly attractive. Look! half the glasses 
 opposite arc lilted to our box. It can not be to .
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 61 
 
 gaze at me, you know. Do you remember tell- 
 ing me I was the ugliest fellow you ever saw ?" 
 
 " Oh, Alex 1" Yet it was quite true — I had 
 thought him so, in far back, strange, awful 
 times, when I, a girl of sixteen, had my mind 
 wholly filled with one ideal — one insane, exqui- 
 site dream ; when I brought my innocent child's 
 garlands, and sat me down under one great 
 spreading magnificent tree, which seemed to me 
 the king of all the trees of the field, until I felt 
 its dews droii])ing death upon my youth, and my 
 whole soul withering under its venomous shade. 
 
 " Oh, Alex I" I cried once more, looking fond- 
 ly on his beloved face, where no unearthly beau- 
 ty dazzled, no unnatural calm repelled ; where 
 all was simple, noble, manly, true. " Husband, 
 I thank Heaven for that dear ' ugliness' of yours. 
 Above all. though blood runs strong, they say, 
 I thank Heaven that I see in you no likeness 
 to—" 
 
 Alexis knew what name I meant, though 
 for a whole year past — sinc6 God's mercy made 
 it to us only a name — we had ceased to utter it, 
 and let it die wholly out of the visible world. 
 We dared not breathe to ourselves, still less to 
 one another, how much brighter, liolier, hap- 
 pier, that Morld was, now that the Divine wis- 
 dom had taken — liiin — into another. For he 
 had been my husband's uncle ; likewise, once 
 my guardian. He was now dead. 
 
 I sat looking at Alexis, thinking what a 
 strange thing it was that his dear face should 
 not have always been as beautiful to me as it 
 was now. That loving my husband now so 
 deeply, so wholly, clinging to him heart to heart, 
 in the deep peace of satisfied, all-trusting, and 
 all-dependent human affection, I could ever 
 have felt that emotion, first as an exquisite bliss, 
 then as an inetfable terror, which now had van- 
 ished away, and become — nothing. 
 
 "They are gazing still, Isbel." 
 
 "Who, and where?" For I had quite for- 
 gotten what he said about the people staring at 
 me. 
 
 "And there is Colonel Hart. He sees us. 
 Shall I beckon him ?" 
 
 "As you will." 
 
 Colonel Hart came up into our box. He 
 shook hands with my husband, bowed to me, 
 then looked round, half curiously, half uneasily. 
 
 " I thought there was a friend with you." 
 
 "None. We have been alone all evening." 
 
 " Indeed ? How strange !" 
 
 " What ! That my wife and I should enjoy 
 a play alone together ?" said Alexis, smiling. 
 
 "Excuse me, but really I was surprised to 
 find you alone. I have certainly seen for the 
 last half hour a third person sitting on the chair, 
 between you both." 
 
 We could not help starting ; for, as I stated 
 before, the chair had, in truth, been left between 
 us, empty. 
 
 "Truly our unknown friend must have been 
 invisible. Nonsense, Colonel ; how can you 
 turn Mrs. Saltram pale, by thus peopling with 
 your fancies the vacant air ?" 
 
 "I tell you, Alexis, said the Colonel (he 
 was my husband's old friend, and had been 
 j)resent at our hasty and private marriage), 
 •' nothing could be more unlike a fancy, even 
 were I given to such. It was a very remarka- 
 ble person who sat here. E\cn strangers no- 
 ticed him." 
 
 " Him I" I whispered. 
 
 "It was a man, then," said my husband, 
 rather angrily. 
 
 "A very peculiar-looking, and extremely 
 handsome man. I saw many glasses leveled at 
 him." 
 
 "What was he like?" said Alexis, rather 
 sarcastically. "Did he speak? or we to him?" 
 
 "No — neither. "He sat quite still, in this 
 chair." 
 
 My husband turned away. If the Colone' 
 had not been his friend, and so very simple- 
 minded, honest, and sober a gentleman, I think 
 Alexis would have suspected some drunken 
 hoax, and turned him out of the box imme- 
 diatelv. As it was, he only said : 
 
 " My dear fellow, the third act is beginning. 
 Come up again at its close, and tell me if you 
 again see my invisible friend, who must find so 
 great an attraction in viewing, gratis, a dramatic 
 performance." 
 
 ' ' I perceive — you think it a mere hallucina- 
 tion of mine. We shall see. I suspect the 
 trick is on your side, and that yon are harbor- 
 ing some proscribed Hungarian. But I'll not 
 betray him. Adieu!" 
 
 "The ghostly Hungarian shall not sit next 
 you, love, this time," said Alexis, trying once 
 more to remove the chair. But possibly, though 
 he jested, he was slightly nervous, and his ef- 
 forts were vain. "What nonsense this is! 
 Isbel, let us forget it. I will stand behind you, 
 and watch the play." 
 
 He stood — I clasping his hand secretly and 
 hard; then, I grew quieter; until, as the droj - 
 scene fell, the same cold air swept past us. It 
 was as if some one, fresh from the sharp sea- 
 wind, had entered the box. And just at that 
 moment, we saw Colonel Hart's and several 
 other glasses leveled as before. 
 
 "It is strange," said Alexis. 
 
 "It is horrible," I said. For I had been 
 cradled in Scottish, and then filled with German 
 superstition ; besides, the events of my own life 
 had been so wild, so strange, that there was 
 nothing too ghastly or terrible for my imagina- 
 tion to conjure up. 
 
 " I will summon the Colonel. We must 
 find out this," said my husband, speaking be- 
 neath his breath, and looking round, as if he 
 thought he was overheard. 
 
 Colonel Hart came up. He looked ^-ery 
 serious ; so did a young man who was with 
 him. 
 
 "Captain Elmore, let me introduce you to 
 Mrs. Saltram. Saltram, I have brought my 
 friend here to attest that I have played off on 
 you no unworthy jest. Not ten minutes since, 
 he, and I, and some others saw the same gen-
 
 62 
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 tlcman whom I described to you half an hour 
 ago, sitting as I described — in this chair." 
 
 "Most certainly — in this chair," added the 
 young captain. 
 
 My husband bowed ; he kept a courteous 
 calmness, but I felt his hand grow clammy in 
 mine. 
 
 " Of what appearance, sir, was this unkno\\Ti 
 acquaintance of my wife's and mine, whom 
 every body appears to see except ourselves?" 
 
 " He was of middle age, dark-haired, ])ale. 
 His features were very still, and rather hard in 
 expression. He had on a clotii cloak with a 
 fur collar, and wore a long, pointed Charles-the- 
 First beard." 
 
 My husband and I clung-hand to hand with 
 an inexpressible horror. Could there be an- ^ 
 other man — a living man, who answered this 
 description ? 
 
 "I'ardon me," Alexis said, faintly. "The 
 portrait is rather vague; may I ask you to re- 
 paint it as circumstantially as you can?" 
 
 "He was, I repeat, a pale, or rather a sal- 
 low-featured man. His eyes were extremely 
 piercing, cold, and clear. The mouth close- 
 set — a very firm but passionless mouth. The 
 hair daik, seamed with gray — bald on the 
 brow — " 
 
 "Oh, Heaven I" I groaned in an anguish of 
 terror. For I saw again — clear as if he had nev- 
 er died — the face over which, for twelve long 
 months, had swept the merciful sea waves otf 
 the shores of Hisjianiola. 
 
 " Can you, Caj)tain Elmore," said Alexis, 
 " mention no other distinguishing mark ? This 
 countenance might resemble many men." 
 
 "I think not. It was a most remarkable 
 face. It struck me the more — because — " and 
 the young man grew almost as pale as we — "I 
 once saw another very like it." 
 
 " You see — a chance resemblance only. Fear 
 not, my darling,'' Alexis breathed in my car. 
 " Sir, have you any reluctance to tell me who 
 was the gentleman?" 
 
 "It was no living man, but a corpse that we 
 last year picked up off a wreck, and again com- 
 mitted to the deep — in the Gulf of Mexico. It 
 was exactly the same face, and had the same 
 mark — a scar, cross-shape, over one temple." 
 
 "'Tis he! He can follow and torture us 
 still ; I knew he could !" 
 
 Alexis smothered my shriek on his breast. 
 
 " My wife is ill. This description resembles 
 slightly a— a person we once knew. Hart, will 
 you leave us? But no, wo must probe this 
 mystery. Gentlemen, will you once more dc- 
 SLcnd to the lower part of tiie house, while we 
 remain here, and tell me if you still sec the— 
 the figure, sitting in this chair?" 
 
 They went. We held our breaths. The 
 Jights in the theatre were being extinguished, 
 the audience moving away. No one came near 
 our box ; it was perfectly empty. I'l\ce})t our 
 two selves, we were conscious of no sight, no 
 sound. A few minutes after Colonel Hart 
 knocked. 
 
 "Come in," said Alexis, cheerily. 
 
 But, the Colonel — the bold soldier — shrank 
 back like a frightened child. 
 
 "I have seen him — I saw him but this 
 minute, sitting there 1" 
 
 I swooned awav. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It is right I should briefly give you my his- 
 tory up to this night's date. 
 
 I was a West Indian heiress — a posthumous, 
 and, soon afterbirth, an orplian child. Brought 
 up in my mother's country until I was sixteen 
 years old, I never saw my guardian. Then he 
 met me in I'aris, with my governess, and for the 
 space of two years we lived under tlie same roof, 
 seeing one another daily. 
 
 I was very young ; I had no fiither or broth- 
 er ; I wished for neither lover nor husband ; 
 my guardian became to me the one object of 
 my existence. 
 
 It was no love-passion ; he was far too old 
 for that, and I comparatively too young, at 
 least too childish. It was one of those insane, 
 rapturous adorations which youngmaidens"some- 
 times conceive, mingling a little of the tender- 
 ness of the woman with the ecstatic enthusiasm 
 of the devotee. There is hardly a prophet or 
 leader notfcd in the world's history who has not 
 been followed and worshiped by many such 
 women. 
 
 So was my guardian, M. Anastasius — not his 
 true name, but it sufficed then, and will now. 
 
 Many may recognize him as a known leader 
 in the French political and moral world — as 
 one who, by the mere force of intellect, wielded 
 tlie most irresistible and silently complete power 
 of any man I ever knew, in every circle into 
 which he came ; women he won by his pol- 
 ished gentleness — meti by his equally polished 
 strength. He would have turned a compliment 
 and signed a deatli-warrant with the same ex- 
 quisitely calm grace. Nothing was to him too 
 great or too small. I have known him, on his 
 way to advise that the I'residont's soldiers should 
 sweep a cannonade down the thronged street, 
 stop to pick up a strayed canary-bird, stroke its 
 broken wing, and confnlc it with beautiful ten- 
 derness to his bosom. 
 
 Oh, how- tender ! how mild ! how pitiful ho 
 could be ! 
 
 When I say I loved him, I use, for want of 
 a better, a word which ill cxj)resses that feeling. 
 It was — Heaven forgive me if I err in using the 
 similitude; I — the sort of feeling the Shunamite 
 woman might have had for Elislia. Keligion 
 added to its intensity, for I was brought up a 
 devout Catholic ; and he, whatever bis jirivate 
 oi)inions might have been, adhered strictly to 
 the forms of the same Church. He was un- 
 married, and most peojilc suj)posed him to be- 
 long to tliat Order called — though often, alas! 
 how unlike Him from whom they assume their 
 name — tlic Society of Jesus.
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 63 
 
 We lived thus — I entirely worshiping, he 
 guiding, fondling, watching, and ruling by 
 turns, for two whole years. I was mistress of 
 a large fortune, and, though not beautiful, had, 
 I believe, a tolerable intellect, and a keen wit. 
 With botli he used to play, according as it suited 
 his whim — just as a boy plays with fire-works, 
 amusing himself with their glitter — sometimes 
 directing them against others, and smiling as 
 they flashed or scorched — knowing that against 
 himself they were utterly powerless and harm- 
 less. Knowing, too, perhaps, that were it other- 
 wise, he had only to tread them out under foot, 
 and stej) aside from the ashes, with the same 
 unmoved, easy smile. 
 
 I never knew — nor know I to this day — wheth- 
 er I was in the smallest degree dear to him. 
 Useful I was, I tliink, and pleasant, I believe. 
 Possibly he liked me a little, as the potter likes 
 his clay and the skillful mechanician his tools 
 — until the clay hardened, and the fine tools 
 refused to obey the master's hand. 
 
 I was the brilliant West Indian heiress. I 
 did not marry. Why should I? At my house 
 — at least it was called mine — all sorts and 
 societies met, carrying on their separate games ; 
 the quiet, soft hand of M. Anastasius playing 
 his game — in, and under, and through them all. 
 Mingled with this grand game of the Morld was 
 a lesser one — to which he turned sometimes, 
 just for amusement, or because he could not 
 cease from his metier — a simple, easy, domestic 
 game, of which the battledore Avas that same 
 ingenious hand, and the shuttlecock my foolish 
 child's heart. 
 
 Thus nmch have I dilated on him, and on 
 my own life, during the years when all its strong 
 wild cuiTcnt flowed toward him ; that, in what 
 followed when the tide turned, no one may ac- 
 cuse me of fickleness, or causeless aversion, or 
 insane terror of one who after all was only man, 
 "whose breath is in his nostrils." 
 
 At seventeen I was wholly passive in his 
 hands ; he was my sole arbiter of right and 
 wrong — my conscience — almost my God. As 
 my character matured, and in a few things I 
 began to judge for myself, we had occasional 
 slight differences — begun, on my part, in shy 
 humility, continued with vague doubt, but al- 
 ways ending in penitence and tears. Since one 
 or other erred, of course it must be I. These 
 diiferences were wholly on abstract points of 
 truth or justice. 
 
 It was his taking me, by a persuasion that 
 was like conjpulsion, to the ball at the Tuile- 
 ries, which was given after Louis Kapoleon 
 Bonaparte had seized the Orleans property — and 
 it was my watching my cousin's conduct there, 
 his diplomatic caution of speech, his smooth 
 smiling reverence to men whom I knew, and 
 fancied he knew, to be either knaves or fools — 
 that first startled me concerning him. Then it 
 was I first began to question, in a trembling, 
 terrified way — like one who catches a glimpse 
 of the miracle-making priest's hands behind the 
 robe of tlie worshiped idol — whether, great as 
 
 M. Anastasius was, as a political ruler, as a 
 man of the world, as a faithful member of the 
 Society of Jesus, he was altogether so great 
 when viewed beside any one of those whose 
 doctrines he disseminated, whose faith he pro- 
 fessed. 
 
 He had allowed me the New Testament, and 
 I had been reading it a good deal lately. I 
 placed him, my spiritual guide, at first in ador- 
 ing veneration, aftenvard with an uneasy com- 
 parison, beside the Twelve Fishermen of Galilee 
 — beside the pattern of perfect manhood, as set 
 forth in the preaching of their Divine Lord, 
 and ours. 
 
 There was a difference. 
 
 The next time we came to any argument — 
 always on abstract questions, for my mere indi- 
 vidual will never had any scruple in resigning 
 itself to his — instead of yielding I ceased open 
 contest, and brought the matter afterward pri- 
 vately to the one infallible rule of right and 
 wrong. 
 
 The diflfercnce gi-ew. 
 
 Gradually, I began to take my cousin's wis- 
 dom — perhaps, even his virtues — with certain 
 reser^-ations, feeling that there was growing in 
 me some antagonistic quality which prevented 
 my full understanding or sympathizing with the 
 idiosyncrasies of his character. 
 
 "But," I thought, " he is a Jesuit ; he only 
 follows the law of his Order, which allows tem- 
 porizing, and diplomatizing, for noble ends. He 
 merely dresses up the truth, and puts it in the 
 most charming and safest light, even as we do 
 our images of the Holy Virgin, adorning them 
 for the adoration of the crowd, but ourselves 
 spiritually worshij)ing them still. I do believe, 
 much as he will dandle and play with the truth, 
 that not for his hope of heaven would Anasta- 
 sius stoop to a lie." 
 
 One day, he told me he should bring to my 
 saloons an Englishman, his relative, who had 
 determined on leaving the world and entering 
 the priesthood. 
 
 "Is he of our faith?" asked I, indifferently. 
 
 "He is, from childhood. He has a strong, 
 fine intellect ; this, imder fit guidance, may ac- 
 complish great things. Once of our Society, he 
 might be my right hand in every Court in Eu- 
 rope. You will receive him?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 But I paid very little heed to the stranger. 
 There was nothing about him striking or pecul- 
 iar. He was the very opposite of M. Anasta- 
 sius. Besides, he was young, and I had learned 
 to despise youth — my guardian was fifty vears 
 old. 
 
 Mr. Saltram (jou will already haye guessed 
 that it was he) showed equal indifl^erence to me. 
 He watched me sometimes, did little kindnesses 
 for me, but always was quiet and silent — a mere 
 cloud floating in the brilliant sky, which M. 
 Anastasius lit up as its gorgeous sun. For me, 
 I became moonlike, appearing chiefly at my 
 cousin's set and rise. 
 
 I was not hajtpy, I read more in my Holy Book,
 
 61 
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 and less in my breviary ; I watched with keener, 
 harder eyes my cousin Anastasius, weiglicd all 
 liis deeds, listened to and compared his words. 
 My intellect worshiped him, my memoricd ten- 
 derness clung round him still, but my conscience 
 had fled out of his keeping, and made for itself 
 a higher and purer ideal. Measured with com- 
 mon men, he was godlike yet — above all pas- 
 sions, weaknesses, crimes ; but viewed by the 
 one perfect standard of man — Christian man — 
 in charity, humility, siu^Ie-miudedncss, guile- 
 lessness, truth — my idol was no more. I came 
 to look for it, and found only the empty shrine. 
 
 lie went on a brief mission to Rome. I 
 mar^•eled that, instead as of yore, wandering 
 sadly through the empty house, from the mo- 
 ment he quitted it, I breathed freer, as if a 
 weight were taken out of the air. His absence 
 used to be like wearisome ages — now it seemed 
 hardly a week before he came back. 
 
 I happened to be sitting with his nephew 
 Ale.\is when 1 heard his step down the corridor 
 — the step which had once seemed at every 
 touch to draw music from the chords of my 
 prostrate heart, but which now made it shrink 
 into itself, as if an iron-shod footfall had passed 
 along its strings. 
 
 Anastasius looked slightly surprised at seeing 
 Ale.\is and myself together, but his welcome 
 was very kind to both. 
 
 I could not altogether return it. I*liad just 
 found out two things which, to say the least, 
 had startled me. I determined to prove them 
 at once. 
 
 '•My cousin, I tliought you were aware that, 
 though a Catholic myself, my house is open, 
 and my friendship likewise, to honest men of 
 every creed. Why did you give your relative 
 so hard an impression of nie, as to suppose I 
 would dislike him on account of his faith ? 
 And why did you not tell me that Jlr. Saltrani 
 has, for some years, been a Protestant ?" 
 
 1 know not what reply he made ; I know only 
 that it was ingenious, lengthy, gentle, courteous, 
 that for the time being it seemed entirely satis- 
 factory, that we spent all three together a most 
 pleasant evening. It was only when I lay down 
 on my bed, face to face with the solemn Dark, 
 in which dwelt conscience, truth, and God, that 
 I discovered how Anastasius had, for some se- 
 cret — doubtless blameless, nay, even justifiable 
 purpose, told of me, and to me, two absolute 
 Lies! 
 
 Disguise it as he might, excuse it as I might, 
 and did, they were Lies. They haunted me — 
 flapping their black wings like a couple of 
 fiends, mojiping and mowing l)chind him when 
 he came — sitting on his shoulders, and mock- 
 ing his beautiful, calm, majestic face — for days. 
 That was the beginning of sorrows; gradnallv 
 they grew until they bhukened my whole world. 
 
 M. Anastasius was bent, as he had (for once 
 truly) told me, on winning iiis young ncjjhew 
 back into the true fold, making liim an instru- 
 ment of that great j)urpose wliiih was to hring 
 all Europe, the ropcJoni iisjjf, nn.icr the power 
 
 of the Society of Jesus. Not thus alone — a man 
 may be forgiven, nay, respected, who sells his 
 soul for an abstract cause, in which he himself 
 is to be absorbed and forgotten ; but in this case 
 it was not — though I long believed it, it was not 
 so. Carefully as he disguised it, I slowly found 
 out that the centre of all things — the one grand 
 pivot upon which this vast machinery for the im- 
 provement, or rather government, of the world, 
 was to be made to turn, was M. Anastasius. 
 
 Ale.\is Saltram might be of use to him. He 
 was rich, and money is power : an Englishman, 
 and Englishmen are usually honorable and hon- 
 ored. Also there was in him a dogged direct- 
 ness of purpose that would make him a strong, 
 if carefully guided, tool. 
 
 However, the young man resisted. He ad- 
 mired and revered his kinsman ; but he him- 
 self was very single-hearted, stanch, and true. 
 .Something in that truth, which was the basis 
 of his character, struck sym])athy with mine. 
 He was far inferior in most things to Anastasius 
 — he knew it, I knew it — but, through all, this 
 divine element of truth was patent, beautifully 
 clear. It was the one quality I had ever wor- 
 shiped, ever sought for, and never found. 
 
 Alexis and I became friends — equal, "earnest 
 friends. Not in the way of wooing or marriage 
 — at least, he never spoke of either ; antl both 
 were far, oh, how far ! from my thought — but 
 there was a great and tender bond between us, 
 which strengthened day by day. 
 
 The link which riveted it was religion. He 
 was, as I said, a Protestant, not adhering to 
 any creed, but simply living — not preaching, 
 but living — the faith of our Saviour. He was 
 not perfect — he had his sins and shortcomings, 
 even as I. We botli struggling on toward 
 the glimmering light. So, after a season, we 
 clasped hands in friendship, and with eyes stead- 
 flistly ujjward, deterniinetl to press on together 
 toward the one goal, and along the self-same 
 road. 
 
 I put my breviary aside, and took wholly 
 to the New Testament, assuming no name ei- 
 ther of Catholic or Protestant, Ijut simply that 
 of Christian. 
 
 When I decided on this, of course I told 
 Anastasius. He had ceased to be my spiritual 
 confessor for some. time ; yet I could see he was 
 sur[irised. 
 
 "Who has done this?" was all he said. 
 
 Was I a reed, then, to be blown about with 
 every wind ? Or a toy, to be shifted about from 
 hand to hand, and set in motion just as my 
 chance master chose ? Had I no will, no con- 
 science of my own ? 
 
 He knew where he could sting me — and did 
 it — but I let the words pass. 
 
 "Cousin, I'll answer like Desdemona. 
 ' Nobody ; I myself.' 
 I have had no book but this — wlmih you gave 
 me ; no priest, except the inward witness of my 
 own soul." 
 
 "And Alexis Saltram. 
 
 Not said in any wrath, or susjiicion, or inquiry
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 65 
 
 — simply as the passive statement of a fact. 
 When I denied it, he accepted my denial ; when 
 I protested, he suffered me to protest. My pas- 
 sionate arguments he took in his soft passion- 
 less hold — melted and moulded them — turned 
 and twisted them — then reproduced them to me 
 so different that I failed to recognize either my 
 own meaning or even my own words. 
 
 After that, on both sides the only resource 
 was silence. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "I WISH," said I to my guardian one day, 
 " as I shall be twenty-one next year, to have 
 more freedom. I wish even" — for since the dis- 
 covery of my change of faith he had watched 
 me so closely, so quietly, so continually, that I 
 had conceived a vague fear of him, and a long- 
 ing to get away — to put half the earth between 
 me and his presence — " I wish even, if possible 
 this summer, to visit my estates in Hispanio- 
 la?" 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "No ; Madame Gradellc will accompany me. 
 And Mr. Saltram will charter one of his ships 
 for my use." • 
 
 " I approve the plan. Alexis is going too, 
 I believe?" How could he have known that 
 which Alexis had never told me ? But he knew 
 every thing. "Madame Gradelle is not sulh- 
 cient escort. I, as your guardian, will accom- 
 pany and protect you." 
 
 A cold dread seized me. Was I never to be 
 free ? Already I began to feel my guardian's 
 influence surrounding me — an influence once 
 of love, now of intolerable distaste, and even 
 fear. Not that he was ever harsh or cruel — not 
 that I could accuse him of any single wrong to- 
 ward me or others ; but I knew I had thwarted 
 him, and through him his cause — that cause 
 whose strongest dogma is, that any means are 
 sacred, any evil consecrated to good, if further- 
 ing the one great end — Power. 
 
 I had opposed him, and I was in his hand — 
 that hand which I had once believed to have 
 almost superhuman strength. In my terror I 
 half believed so still. 
 
 " He will go with us — we can not escape from 
 him," I said to Alexis. " He will make you a 
 priest and me a nun, as he once planned— I 
 know he did. Our very souls are not our own." 
 
 "What, when the world is so wide, and life 
 so long, and God's kindness over all— when, 
 too, I am free, and you will be free in a year — 
 when—" 
 
 "I shall never be free. He is my evil ge- 
 nius. He will haunt me till my death." 
 
 It was a morbid feeling I had, consequent on 
 the awful struggle which had so shaken body 
 and mind. The very sound of his step made 
 me turn sick and tremble ; the very sight of his 
 grand face — perhaps the most beautiful I ever 
 saw, with its faultless features, and the half- 
 R 
 
 melancholy cast given by the high bald fore- 
 head and the pointed beard — was to me more 
 terrible than any monster of ugliness the world 
 ever produced. 
 
 He held my fortune — he governed my house. 
 All visitors there came and went under his con- 
 trol, except Alexis. Why this young man still 
 came — or how — I could not tell. Probably be- 
 cause, in his pure singleness of heart and pur- 
 pose, he was stronger even than M. Anastasius. 
 
 The time passed. We embarked on board 
 the ship Argo, for Hispaniola. 
 
 My guardian told me, at the last minute, that 
 business relating to Lis order would probably 
 detain him in Europe — that we were to lie at 
 anchor for twelve hours off Havre — and, if he 
 then came not, sail. 
 
 He came not — we sailed. 
 
 It was a glorious evening. The sun, as he 
 went down over the burning seas, beckoned us 
 with a finger of golden fire, westward — to the 
 free, safe, happy West. 
 
 I say vx, because on that evening we first be- 
 gan unconsciously to say it too — as if vaguely 
 binding our fates together — Alexis and I. We 
 talked for a whole hour — till long after France, 
 with all our old life therein, had become a mere 
 line, a cloudy speck on the horizon — of the new 
 life we should lead in Hispaniola. Yet all the 
 while, if Me had been truly the priest and nun 
 Anastasius wished to make us, our words, and 
 I believe our thoughts, could not have been 
 more angel-pui-e, more free from any bias of 
 human passion. 
 
 Yet, as the sun went down, and the sea-breeze 
 made us draw nearer together, both began, 1 re- 
 peat, instinctively to say "we," and talk of our 
 future as if it had been the future of one. 
 
 "Good-evening, friends!" 
 
 He was there — M. Anastasius ! 
 
 I stood petrified. That golden finger of hope 
 had vanished. I shuddered, a captive on his 
 courteously compelling arm — seeing nothing but 
 his terrible smiling face and the black wilder- 
 ness of sea. For the moment I felt inclined lo 
 plunge therein — as I had often longed to plunge 
 penniless into the equally fearsome v.ilderness 
 of Paris — only I felt sure he would follow me 
 still. He would track me, it seemed, througii 
 the whole world. 
 
 " You see I have been able to accomplish the 
 voyage ; men mostly can achieve any fixed pur- 
 pose — at least some men. Isbel, this sea-ah- 
 will bring you back your bloom. And, Alexis, 
 my friend, despite those clear studies you told 
 me of, I hope you will bestow a little of your 
 society at times on my ward and me. We will 
 bid you a good-evening now." 
 
 He transferred to his nephew my powerless 
 hand ; that of Alexis, too, felt cold and trem- 
 bling. It seemed as if he likewise were suc- 
 cumbing to the fate which, born out of one man's 
 indomitable will, dragged us asunder. Ere my 
 guardian consigned me to Madame Gradelle, 
 he said, smiling, but looking me through and 
 throu 'h,
 
 C6 
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 "Remember, my fair cousin, that Alexis is 
 to be — must be — a priest." 
 
 "It is impossible!" said I, stung to resist- 
 ance. "You know he has allof:;ether seceded 
 from the Catholic creed ; he will never return 
 to it. His conscience is his own." 
 
 "But not his passions. He is young — I am 
 old. He will be a priest yet." 
 
 "With a soft hand-pressure, M. Anastasius left 
 mc. 
 
 Now b3gan the most horrible phase of my ex- 
 istence. For four weeks we had to live in the 
 same vessel, bounded and shut up togetlier — 
 Anastasius, Alexis, and I ; meeting continually 
 in the soft bland atmosphere of courteous calm ; 
 always in public — never alone. 
 
 From various accidental circumstances, I dis- 
 covered how M. Anastasius was now bending 
 all the powers of his enormous intellect, his 
 wonderful moral influence, to compass his cher- 
 ished ends with regard to Ale.xis Saltrara. 
 
 An overwhelming dread took possession of 
 me. I ceased to tiiink of myself at all — my 
 worldly hopes', prospects, or joys — over which 
 this man's influence had long hung like an ac- 
 cursed shadow, a sun turned into darkness, the 
 more terrible because it had once been a sun. 
 I seemed to see M. Anastasius only with rela- 
 tion to this young man, over whom I knew he 
 once had so. great power. Would it return — 
 and in what would it result? Not merely in 
 the breaking off any feeble tie to me. I scarce- 
 ly trembled for tiiat, since, could it be so broken, 
 it was not worth trembling for. No ! I trem- 
 bled for Alexis's soul. 
 
 It was a soul I had gradually learned — more 
 than ever, perhaps, in this voyage, of which ev- 
 ery day seemed a life, full of temptation, contest, 
 trial — a soul pure as God's own heaven, tiiat 
 hung over us hour by hour in its steady tropic 
 blue ; and deep as the seas that rolled everlast- 
 ingly around us. Like them, stirring with the 
 lightest breath, often tempest-tossed, liable to 
 adverse winds and currents ; yet keeping far, far 
 below the surface a divine tranquillity, diviner 
 than any mere stagnant calm. And tliis soul, 
 full of all rich impulses, emotions, passions — a 
 soul which, because it could strongly sympathize 
 with, might be able to regenerate its kind, M. 
 Anastasius wanted to make into a Catholic 
 Jesuit priest — a mere machine, to work as he, 
 the head machine, chose I 
 
 This was why (the thought suddenly struck 
 me, like lightning) he had told each of us sever- 
 ally concerning one another, those two lies. Be- 
 cause we were young ; we might love— we might 
 marry ; there was nothing externally to jirevent 
 us. And then what would become of his 
 scheme ? 
 
 I think tiiere was l)orn in me — while the most 
 passive slave to lawful, loving rule — a faculty of 
 savage rcsistiince to all unlawful and unjust pow- 
 er. Also, a something of the female wild-beast, 
 which, if alone, will lie tame and cowed in her 
 solitary den, to be shot at by any daring hunt- 
 er ; whereas if she be uot alone— if she have 
 
 any love-instinct at work for cubs or mate — her 
 whole nature changes from terror to daring, 
 from cowardice to fury. 
 
 When, as we neared the tropics, I saw Alexis's 
 cheek growing daily paler, and his eye more 
 sunken and restless with some secret struggle, 
 in the which M. Anastasius never left him for 
 a day, an hour, a minute, 1 became not unlike 
 that poor wild-beast mother. It had gone ill 
 with the relentless hunter of souls if he had 
 come near me then. 
 
 But he did not. For the last week of our 
 voyage, JI. Anastasius kept altogether out of 
 my way. 
 
 It was nearly over — we were in sight of the 
 shores of Ilispaniola. Then we should land. 
 ]\Iy estates lay in this island. Mr. Saltram's 
 business, I was aware, called him to Barbadoes; 
 thence again beyond seas. Once parted, I well 
 knew that if the power and will of my guardian 
 could compass any thing — and it seemed to me 
 that they were able to compass every thing in 
 the whole wide earth — Alexis and I should never 
 meet again. 
 
 In one last struggle after life — after the fresh, 
 wholesome, natural life which contact with this 
 young man's true spirit had given me^^I de- 
 termined to risk all. 
 
 It was a rich tropic twilight. We were all 
 admiring it, just as three ordinary persons might 
 do who were tending peacefully to their voyage- 
 end. 
 
 Yet Alexis did not seem at peace. A settled, 
 deadly pallor dwelt on his face — a restless anx- 
 iety troubled his whole mien. 
 
 M. Anastasius .said, noticing the glowing trop- 
 ic scenery which already dimly appeared in our 
 shoreward view. 
 
 " It is very grand ; but Europe is more suited 
 to us grave Northerns. You will think so, Alex- 
 is, when you are once again there." 
 
 "Are you returning?" I asked of Mr. Saltrara. 
 
 My cousin answered for him, "Yes, imme- 
 diately." 
 
 Alexis started ; then leaned over the poop iq 
 silence, and without denial. 
 
 I felt profoundly sad. My interest in Alexis 
 Saltram was at this time — and bnt for the com- 
 pulsion of op]iosing power might have ever been 
 — entirely apart from love. We might have 
 gone on merely as tender friends for years and 
 years — at least I might. Therefore no maiden- 
 ly consciousness warned me from doing what 
 my sense of right impelled toward one who held 
 the same faith as I did, and whose life seemed 
 strangled in the same mesh of circumstances 
 which Iiad nearly paralyzed my own. 
 
 "Alexis, this is our last evening; you will 
 sail for luirope — and we shall be friends no 
 more. Will you take one twilight stroll with 
 mc?" — and 1 extended my hand. 
 
 If he had hesitated, or shrunk back from me, 
 I would have flung him to the winds, and fought 
 mv own battle alone ; I was strong enough 
 now. But he sprang to mc, clung to my hand, 
 looked wildly in my face, as if there were the
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 G7 
 
 sole light of truth and trust left in the world ; 
 and as if even there, he had begun — or been 
 taught — to doubt. He did not, now. 
 
 "Isbel, tell me ! You still hold our faith — 
 you are not going to become a nun?" 
 
 "Never ! I will offer myself to Heaven as 
 Heaven gave me to myself — free, bound by no 
 creed, subservient to no priest. What is he, 
 but a man that shall die, whom the worms 
 shall cover ?" 
 
 I said the words out loud. I meant M. Anas- 
 tasius to hear. But he looked as if he heard 
 not ; only when we turned up the deck, he 
 slowly followed. 
 
 I stood at bay. " Cousin, leave me. I wish 
 to speak to JMr. Saltram. Can not I have any 
 friend but you ?" 
 
 " None, whom I believe you would harm and 
 receive harm from." 
 
 " Dare you — " 
 
 " I myself dare nothing; but there is nothing 
 •which my Church does not dare. Converse, 
 my children. I hinder you not. The deck is 
 free for all." 
 
 He bowed, and let lis pass ; then followed. 
 Every sound of that slow, smooth step seemed 
 to strike on my lieart like the tracking tread of 
 doom. 
 
 Alexis and I said little or nothing. A lead- 
 en despair seemed to bind us closely round, 
 allowing only one consciousness, that for a 
 little, little time it bound us together! He 
 held my arm so fast that I felt every throbbing 
 of his heart. My sole thouglit was now to sa}' 
 some words that should be fixed eternally there, 
 so that no lure, no power might make him 
 swerve from his faith. That faith, which was 
 my chief warranty of meeting liim — never, oh 
 never in this m orld ! but in the world everlast- 
 ing. 
 
 Once or twice in turning we came face to 
 face with M. Anastasius. He was walking at his 
 usual slow pace, his hands loosely clasped be- 
 hind him, his head bent ; a steely repose — even 
 pensiveness, which was his natural look — settled 
 in his grave eyes. He was a man of intellect 
 too great to despise, of character too spotless to 
 loathe. The one sole feeling he inspired was 
 that of unconquerable fear. Because you saw 
 at once that he feared nothing either in earth or 
 heaven, that he owned but one influence, and 
 was amenable but to one law, which he called 
 "the Church," but which was himself. 
 
 Men like M. Anastasius, one-idea'd, all-en- 
 grossed men, are, according to slight variations 
 in their temperaments, the salvation, the laugh- 
 ing-stock, or the terror of the world. 
 
 He appeared in the latter form to Alexis and 
 me. Slowly, surely came the conviction that 
 there was no peace for us on this earth while he 
 stood on it; so strong, so powerful, that at 
 times I almost yielded to a vague belief in his 
 immortality. On this night, especially, I was 
 stricken with a horrible — curiosity, I think it 
 was — to see whether he could die — whether the 
 grave could open her mouth to swallow him, 
 
 and death have power upon his flesh, like that 
 of other men. 
 
 More than once, as he passed under a huge 
 beam, I thought — should it fall ? as he leaned 
 against the ship's side — should it give way? 
 But only, I declare solemnly, out of a frenzied 
 speculative curiosity, which I would not for 
 worlds have breathed to a human soul ! I never 
 once breathed it to Alexis Saltram, who was his 
 sister's son, and whom he had been kind to as 
 a child. 
 
 Night darkened, and our walk ceased. We 
 had said nothing — nothing ; except that en 
 parting, with a kind of desperation, Alexis bur- 
 ied my hand tightly in his bosom, and whis- 
 pered, ' ' To-morrow ?" 
 
 That midnight a sudden humcane came on. 
 In half an hour all that was left of the good ship 
 Arr/o was a little boat, filled almost to sinking 
 with half-drowned passengers, and a few sailors 
 clinging to spars and fragments of the wreck. 
 
 Alexis was lashed to a mast, holding me 
 partly fastened to it, and partly sustained in his 
 arms. How he had found and rescued me I 
 know not ; but love is very strong. It has 
 been sweet to me afterward to think that I 
 owed my life to him — and him alone. I was 
 the only woman saved. 
 
 He was at the extreme end of the mast ; we 
 rested, face to face, my head against his shoul- 
 der. All along to its slender point, the sailors 
 were clinging to the spar like flies ; but we two 
 did not see any thing in the world, save one 
 another. 
 
 Life was dim, death was near, yet I think 
 we were not unhajipy. Our heaven was clear ; 
 for between us and Him to whom we were going 
 came no threatening image, holding in its re- 
 morseless hand life, faith, love. Death itself 
 was less terrible tlvan M. Anastasius. 
 
 We had seen him among the saved passen- 
 gers swaying in the boat ; then we tliought of 
 him no more. We clung together, with closed 
 eyes, satisfied to die. 
 
 " No room — off there! No room!" I heard 
 shouted, loud and savage, by the sailor lashed 
 behind me. 
 
 I opened my ej'es. Alexis Avas gazing on 
 me only. I gazed, transfixed, over his shoul- 
 der, into the breakers beyond. 
 
 There, in the trough of a wave, I saw, clear 
 as I see my own right hand now, the upturned 
 face of Anastasius, and his two white, stretched- 
 out hands, on one finger of which was his well- 
 known diamond-ring — for it flashed that minute 
 in the moon. 
 
 "Off!" yelled the sailor, striking at him 
 with an oar. " One man's life's as good as 
 another's. Off!" 
 
 The drowning face rose above the wave, the 
 eyes fixed themselves full on me, without any 
 entreaty in them, or wrath, or terror — the long- 
 familiar, passionless, relentless eyes. 
 
 I see them now ; I shall see them till I die. 
 Oh, would I had died ! 
 
 For one brief second I thought of tearing off
 
 68 
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 the lashings and giving him my place ; for I [ Mrs. Hart had been traveling with us some 
 had loved him. But youth and life were strong weeks. She was a mild, sweet-faced English 
 within me, and my head was pressed to Alexis's girl, who did not much like the Continent, and 
 breast. was half shocked at some of my reckless foreign 
 
 A fall minute, or it seemed so, was that face ways on board steamboats and on railways. 
 above the water ; then I watched it sink slowly, ! She said I was a little— just a little — too free. 
 down down. ' It might have seemed so to her ; for my south- 
 
 ern blood rushed bright and warm, and my 
 manner of life in France had com))letely oblit- 
 erated early impressions. Faithful and tender 
 woman and true wife as I was, I believe I was 
 ! in some things unlike an English woman or an 
 We, and several others, were picked up from English wife, and that Mrs. Hart thought so. 
 the wreck of the Anjo by a homeward-bound j Once — for being weak of nature and fiist of 
 ship. As soon as we reached London I became tongue, she often said tilings she should not — . 
 Alexis's wife.   there was even some hint of the kind dropped 
 
 That Avhich happened at the theatre was ex- before my husband. Hetiashed up — but laughed 
 aetly twelve months after — as we believed — the next minute ; for I was his, and he loved 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Anastasius died. 
 
 I do not pretend to explain, I doubt if any 
 reason can explain, a circumstance so singular 
 
 me! 
 
 Nevertheless, that quick glow of anger pained 
 
 me — bringing back the recollection of many 
 — so impossible to be attributed to either imag- things his uncle had said to me of him, whi< h 
 ination or illusion ; for, as I must again dis- then I heard as one that hcarcth not. The sole 
 tinctly state, we ourselves saw nothing. The saying which remained on my mind was one 
 apparition, or whatever it was, was visible only which, in a measure, I had credited — that his 
 to other persons, all total strangers. ; conscience was in his hand, "but not his pas- 
 
 I had a fever. When I arose from it, and sions." 
 things took their natural forms and relations, I hud known always — and rather rejoiced in 
 
 this strange occurrence became mingled with the 
 rest of niy delirium, of which my husband per- 
 suaded me it was a part. He took me abroad — 
 to Italy — Germany. He loved me dearly ! He 
 was, and he made me, entirely happy. 
 
 In our happiness we strove to live, not merely 
 for one another, but for all the world ; all who 
 suffered and had need. We did — nor shrunk 
 from the doing — many charities which had first 
 been planned by Anastasius, with what motives 
 we never knew. While carrying them out, we 
 learned to utter his name without trembling ; 
 remembering only that which was beautiful in 
 him and his character, and which we had both 
 so worshiped once. 
 
 In tlie furtherance of these schemes of good 
 it became advisaljle that we should go to Paris, 
 to my former hotel, which still remained empty 
 there. 
 
 "But not, dear wife, if any uneasiness or 
 lingering jjain rests in your mind in seeing the 
 old sjtot. For me, I love it ! since there I loved 
 Isbel, before Isbel knew it, long." 
 
 So I smiled ; and went to l*aris. 
 
 My husband proposed, and I was not sorry, 
 that Colonel Hart and his newly-married wife 
 should join us there, and remain as our guests. 
 I shrunk a little from rciniiabiting the familiar 
 rooms, long shut up from the light of day ; and 
 it was with comfort I heard my husband arrang- 
 ing that a portion of the hotel should be made 
 ready for us, namely, two saloons en suite, lead- 
 ing out of tiie farther one of which were a cham- 
 ber and dressing-room for our own use — oj)j)o- 
 site two similar apartments for the Colonel and 
 his lady. 
 
 I am thus minute for reasons that will ap- 
 pear. 
 
 the knowledge — that Alexis Saltram could not 
 boast the frozen calm of IM. Anastasius. 
 
 But I warned tame Eliza Ilai't, half jesting- 
 ly, to take heed, and not lightly blame me be' 
 fore my husband again. 
 
 Reaching Paris, we were all very gay and 
 sociable together. Colonel Hart was a grave, 
 honorable man ; my husband and I both loved 
 him. 
 
 We dined together — a lively pnrtie quarrcc. 
 I shut my eyes to the familiar objects about us, 
 and tried to believe the rooms had never echoed 
 familiar footsteps save those of JMrs. Hart and 
 the Colonel's soldierly tread. Once or so, while 
 silence fell over us, I would start, and feel my 
 heart beating ; but Alexis was near me, and 
 altogether mine. Therefore I feared not, even 
 here. 
 
 After coffee, the gentlemen went out to some 
 evening amusement. We, the weary wives, 
 contented ourselves with lounging about, dis- 
 cussing toilets and Paris sights. Esj)ecially the 
 fair Empress Eugenie — the wifely crown which 
 my old a\'ersii)n Louis Bona})arte had chosen to 
 bind about his ugly brows. Mrs. Hart vas 
 anxious to see all, and then fly back to her be- 
 loved London. 
 
 "How long is it since you left London, Mrs. 
 Saltram ?" 
 
 "A year, I think. What is to-day?" 
 
 "The twenty-fifth — no, the twenty-sixth of 
 May." 
 
 1 dropped my head on the cushion. Then, 
 that date — the first slie mentioned — had passeO 
 over unthought of by us. That night — the night 
 of mortal horror when the Artju went down — • 
 lay thus far buried in the past, parted from lU 
 by two blessed years.
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 C9 
 
 But I found it impossible to converse longer 
 vritli Mrs. Hart ; so about ten o'clock I left her 
 reading, and went to take half an hour's rest in 
 my chamber, which, as I have explained, was 
 divided from the salon by a small boudoir or 
 dressing-room. Its only other entrance was 
 from a door near the head of my bed, which I 
 went and locked. 
 
 It seemed uncourteous to retire for the night ; 
 so I merely threw my dressing-gown over my 
 evening toilet, and lay down outside the bed, 
 dreamily watching the shadows which the lamp 
 threw. This lamp was in my chamber ; but its 
 light extended faintly into the boudoir, sliowing 
 the tall mirror there, and a sofa which was 
 placed opposite. Otherwise, the little room was 
 half in gloom, save for a narrow glint streaming 
 through the not quite closed door of the salon. 
 
 I lay broad awake, but very quiet, contented 
 and happy. I was thinking of Alexis. In the 
 midst of my reverie, I heard, as I thought, my 
 maid trying the handle of the door behind me. 
 
 "It is locked, "I said ; "come another time." 
 
 The sound ceased ; yet I almost thought Fan- 
 chon had entered, for there came a rift of wind, 
 which made the lamp sway in its socket. But 
 when I looked, the door was closely shut, and 
 the bolt still fust. 
 
 I lay, it might be, half an hour longer. Then, 
 with a certain compunction at my own discourt- 
 esy in leaving her, I saw the salon door open, 
 and Mrs. Hart appear. 
 
 She looked into the boudoir, drew back hur- 
 riedly, and closed the door after her. 
 
 Of course I immediately rose to follow her. 
 Ere doing so, I remember particularly standing 
 with the lamp in my hand, arranging my dress 
 before the mirror iu the boudoir, and seeing re- 
 flected in the glass, with my cashmere lying over 
 its cushions, the sofa, unoccupied. 
 
 Eliza was standing thoughtful. 
 
 " I ought to ask pardon for my long absence, 
 my dear Mrs. Hart." 
 
 "Oh, no — but I of you, for intruding in your 
 apartment ; I did not know Mr. Saltram had 
 returned. Where is my husband ?" 
 
 "With mine, no doubt! We need not ex- 
 pect them for an hour yet, the renegades." 
 
 "You are jesting," said Mrs. Hart, half-of- 
 fended. "I know they are come home. I saw 
 Mr. Saltram in your boudoir not two minutes 
 since." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "In your boudoir, I repeat. He was lying 
 on the sofa." 
 
 " Impossible !" and I burst out laughing. 
 "Unless he has suddenly turned into a cash- 
 mere shawl. Come and look." 
 
 I flung the folding doors open, and poured a 
 blaze of light into the little room. 
 
 " It is very odd," fidgeted Mrs. Hart ; "very 
 odd, indeed. I am sure I saw a gentleman here. 
 His face was turned aside ; but of course I con- 
 cluded it was Mr. Saltram. Very odd, indeed !" 
 
 I still laughed at her, though an uneasy feel- 
 ing was creeping over me. To dismiss it, I 
 
 showed her how the door was fastened, and how 
 it was impossible my husband could have en- 
 tered. 
 
 "No; for I distinctly heard you say, 'It is 
 locked — come another time.' What did you 
 mean by that ?" 
 
 "I thought it was Fanchon." 
 
 To change the subject, I began showing her 
 some parures my husband had just brought me. 
 Eliza Hart was very fond of jewels. We re- 
 mained looking at them some time longer in 
 the inner-room where I had been lying on my 
 bed ; and then she bade me good-night. 
 
 "No light, thank you. I can find my way 
 back through the boudoir. Good-night. Do 
 not look so pale to-morrow, my dear." 
 
 She kissed me in the friendly English fashion, 
 and danced lightly away, out at my bedroom 
 door and into the boudoir adjoining — but in- 
 stantly I saw her reappear, startled and breath- 
   less, covered with angry blushes. 
 I " Mrs. Saltram, you have deceived me ! You 
 are a wicked French woman." 
 
 "Eliza!" 
 
 "You know it — you knew it all along. I 
 will go and seek my husband. He will not let 
 me stay another night in your house !" 
 
 "As you will" — for I was sick of her follies. 
 "But explain yourself." 
 
 "Have you no shame? Have you foreign 
 women never any shame ? But I have found 
 you out at last." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "There is — I have seen him twice with my 
 own eyes — tliere is a man lying this minute in 
 your boudoir — and he is — not Mr. Saltram !" 
 
 Then, indeed, I sickened. A deadly horror 
 came over me. No wonder the young thing, 
 convinced of my guilt, fled from me, appalled. 
 
 For I knew now whom she had seen. 
 ****** 
 
 Hour after hour I must have lain where I 
 fell. There was some confusion in the house 
 — no one came near me. It was early daylight 
 when I woke and saw Fanchon leaning over 
 me, and trying to lift me from the floor. 
 
 "Fanchon — is it morning?" 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "What day is it?" 
 
 "The twenty-sixth of May." 
 
 It has been he, then. He followed us still. 
 
 Shudder after shudder convulsed me. I think 
 Fanchon thought I was dying. 
 
 " Oh, madame ! oh, poor madame ! And 
 monsieur not yet come home." 
 
 I uttered a terrible cry — for my heart fore- 
 boded what either had happened or assuredly 
 would happen. 
 
 Alexis never came home again. 
 
 An hour after, I was sent for to the little 
 woodcutter's hut, outside Paris gates, where he 
 lay dying. 
 
 Anastasius had judged clearly ; my noble 
 generous husband had in him but one thing 
 lucking — his passions were "not in his hand." 
 When Colonel Hart, on the clear testimony of
 
 70 
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 his wife, impugned his v.ifc's honor, Alexis 
 challenged him — fought, and fell. 
 
 It all happened in an hour or two, when their 
 Wood was fiery hot. By daylight, the colonel 
 stood, cold as death, ])ale as a sliadow, by 
 Alexis's bedside. He had killed him, and lie 
 loved him ! 
 
 No one thought of mc. They let me weep 
 near my husband — unconscious as he was — 
 doubtless believing them the last contrite tears 
 of an adulteress. I did not heed nor deny that 
 horrible name — Alexis was dying. 
 
 Toward evening he revived a little, and his 
 senses returned. He opened his eyes and saw 
 me — they closed with a shudder. 
 
 "Alexis— Alexis!" 
 
 "Isbel, I am dying. You know the cause. 
 In the name of God — are you — " 
 
 "In tlie name of God, I am your pure wife, 
 who never loved any man but you." 
 
 "I am satisfied. I thought it was so." 
 
 He looked at Colonel Hart, faintly smiling ; 
 then opened his arms and took me into them; 
 as if to protect me with his last breath. 
 
 ' ' Now, "he said, still holding me, "my friends, 
 we must make all clear. Nothing must harm 
 her when I am gone. Hart, fetch your wife 
 here." 
 
 Mrs. Hart came, trembling violently. My 
 husband addressed her. 
 
 "I sent for you to ask you a question. An- 
 swer, as to a dying person, who to-morrow will 
 know all secrets. Who was the man you saw 
 in my wife's chamber?" 
 
 " He was a stranger to me. I never met him 
 before, any where. He lay on the sofa, wrapped 
 in a fur cloak." 
 
 " Did you see his face ?" 
 
 " Not the first time. The second time I did." 
 
 "What was he like? Be accurate, for the 
 sake of more than life — honor." 
 
 Jly husband's voice sank. There was terror 
 in his eyes, but not t/uU teiTor — he held me to 
 his bosom still. 
 
 " What was he like, Eliza?" repeated Colo- 
 nel Hart. 
 
 "He was middle-aged; of a pale, grave 
 countenance, with keen, large eyes, high fore- 
 head, and a pointed beard." 
 
 "Heaven save us! I have seen him too," 
 cried the Colonel, horror-struck. ' ' It was no 
 living man." 
 
 "It was M. AnastasiusI" 
 
 My husband died that night. He died, his 
 lips on mine, murmuring how dearly he loved 
 me, and how liajiiiv he had been. 
 
 For many months after then I was quite 
 liappy, too; for my wits wandered, and I 
 thought 1 was again a little West Indian giil, 
 picking gowans in the meadows about Dum- 
 fries. 
 
 The Colonel and Mrs. Hart were, I believe, 
 very kind to me. I always took her f(jr a 
 little playfellow I had, wlio was called Eliza. 
 It is only lately, as the year has circled round 
 again to the s]jrin^', that my head has become 
 
 clear, and I have found out who she is, and— 
 ah, me I — who I am. 
 
 This coming to my right senses does not give 
 me so much pain as they thought 'it would ; be- 
 cause great weakness of body has balanced and 
 soothed my mind. 
 
 I have but one desire : to go to my own 
 Alexis ; and before the twenty-fifth of ISIay. 
 
 Now I have been able nearl}' to complete our 
 story, which is well. ^My friend, judge be- 
 tween us — and him. Farewell. 
 
 ISBEL SaLTRA3I. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I THINK it necessary that I, Eliza Hart, should 
 relate, as simply as veraciously, the circum- 
 stances of Mrs. Saltram's death, which happened 
 on the night of the twenty-fiftli of ^Nlay. 
 
 She was living with us at our house, some 
 miles out of London. She had been very ill 
 and weak during May, but toward the end of 
 tlie montli she revived. We thought if she 
 could live till June she might even recover. 
 My husband desired that on no account might 
 she be told the day of the month ; she ■was, in- 
 deed, ])uri)osely deceived on the subject. When 
 the twenty-fifth came, she thought it was only 
 the twenty-second. 
 
 For some weeks .she had kept her bed, and 
 Fanchon never left her — Fanchon, who knew 
 the whole history, and Avas strictly charged, 
 whatever delusions might occur, to take no no- 
 tice whatever of the subject to her mistress. 
 For my husband and myself were again per- 
 suaded that it must be some delusion. So was 
 the physician, who nevertheless determined to 
 visit us himself on the night of the twenty-fifth 
 of May. 
 
 It happened that the Colonel was unwell, and 
 I could not remain constantly in Mrs. Saltram's 
 room. It was a large but very simple suburban 
 bedchamber, with white curtains and modern 
 furniture, all of wiiich I myself arranged in such 
 a manner tluvt there should be no dark corners, 
 no shadows thrown by hanging draperies or 
 any thing of the kind. 
 
 About ten o'clock at night Fanchon acci- 
 dentally quitted her mistress for a few minutes, 
 sending in her place a nursemaid who had lately 
 conic into our family. 
 
 This girl tells me that she entered the room 
 quickly, but stopped, seeing, as she believed, 
 the physician sitting by the bed, on the further 
 side, at Mrs. Saltram's rigiit hand. She thought 
 Mrs. Saltram did not see him, for she turned 
 and asked her, tiie nursemaid — " Susan, what 
 o'clock is it?" 
 
 Tlie gentleman did not speak. She says he 
 appeared sitting with liis elbows resting on his 
 knees, and his face partly concealed in his 
 hands. He wore a long coat or cloak — she 
 could not distinguish wiiich, for the room was 
 rather dark, but she could plainly see on his 
 little finger the sparkle of a diamond ring.
 
 M. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 71 
 
 She is quite certain that Mrs. Saltram did 
 not see tlie gentleman at all, which rather sur- 
 prised her, for the poor lady moved from time 
 to time, and spoke, complainingly, of its being 
 "very cold." A.t length she called Susan to 
 sit by her side, and chafe her hands. 
 
 Susan acquiesced — "But did not Mrs. Sal- 
 tram see the gentleman ?" 
 
 "What gentleman?" 
 
 "He was sitting beside you not a minute 
 since. I thought he was the doctor, or the 
 clergyman. He is gone now." 
 
 And the girl, much temfied, saw that there 
 was no one in the room. 
 
 She says Mrs. Saltram did not seem terrified 
 at all. She only pressed her hands on her fore- 
 head, her lips slightly moving — then whisper- 
 ed : "Go, call Fanchon and them all, tell them 
 what you saw." 
 
 "But I must leave you. Arc you not afraid?" 
 
 "No. Not now — not now." 
 
 She covered her eyes, and again her lips be- 
 gan moving. 
 
 Fanchon entered, and I too, immediately. 
 
 I do not expect to be credited. I can only 
 state on my honor what we both then beheld. 
 
 Mrs. Saltram lay, her eyes open, her face 
 quite calm, as that of a dying person; her 
 hands spread out on the counterpane. Beside 
 her sat erect the same figure I had seen lying 
 on the sofa in Paris, exactly a year ago. It ap- 
 peared more lifelike than she. Neither looked 
 at eacli other. When we brought a bright lamp 
 into the room the appearance vanished. 
 
 Isbel said to me, " Eliza, he is come." 
 
 " Impossible ! You have not seen him?" 
 
 "No, but you have ?" She looked me stead- 
 ily in the face. "I knew it. Take the light 
 away, and you will see him again. He is here, 
 I want to speak to him. Quick, take the light 
 away." 
 
 Alarmed as I was, I could not refuse, for I 
 saw by her features that her last hour was at 
 hand. 
 
 As surely as I write this, I, Eliza Hart, saw, 
 when the candles were removed, that figure 
 grow again, as out of air, and become plainly 
 distinguishable, sitting by her bedside. 
 
 She turned herself with difficulty, and faced 
 it. " Eliza, is he there ? I see nothing but the 
 empty chair. Is he there ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Does he look angry or terrible?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Anastasius." She extended her hand to- 
 ward the vacant chair. "Cousin Anastasius !" 
 
 Her voice was sweet, though tlie cold drops 
 stood on her brow. 
 
 "Cousin Anastasius, I do not see you, but 
 you can see and hear me. I am not afraid of 
 you now. You know, once, I loved you very 
 much." 
 
 Here, overcome with terror, I stole back to- 
 ward the lighted stair-case. Thence I still heard 
 Isbel speaking. 
 
 "We erred, both of us, cousin. You were 
 too hard upon me — I had too great love first, 
 too great terror afterward of you. Why should 
 I be afraid of a man that shall die, and of the 
 son of man, whose breath is in his nostrils ? I 
 should have \\orshiped, have feared, not you, 
 but only God." 
 
 She paused — drawing twice or thrice, heavily, 
 the breath that could not last. 
 
 ' ' I forgive you — for^^ive me also ! I loved 
 you. Have you any thing to say to me, Anas- 
 tasius?" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 " Shall we ever meet in the boundless spheres 
 of Heaven ?" 
 
 Silence — a long silence. We brought in can- 
 dles, for she was evidently dying. 
 
 "Eliza — thank you for all ! Your hand. It 
 is so dark — and" — shivering — "I am afraid cf 
 going into the dark. I might meet Anastasius 
 there. I wish my husband would come." 
 
 She was wandering in her mind, I saw. Her 
 eyes turned to the vacant chair. 
 
 "Is there any one sitting by me?" 
 
 "No, dear Isbel ; can you see any one ?" 
 
 " No one — yes" — and with preternatural 
 strength she started right up in bed, extend- 
 ing her arms. "Yes! There — close behind 
 you — I see — my husband. I am quite safe — 
 now!" 
 
 So, with a smile upon her face, 'she died.
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 " Having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience, and our bodies washed with pure water.' 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "Now, if I knew — Lord help mc ! I often 
 feel as if I did not know — whether the next life 
 be any better than this, whetlicr getting rid of 
 the body be any advantage to the soul — I would 
 gladly die to-morrow!" 
 
 ' ' By Jove ! Alick, / haven't the slightest wish 
 of thekind." 
 
 We two — Austin Hardy and Alexander Fyfe 
 — as we sat over the fire in my lodgings, in Bur- 
 ton Crescent, were not bad ty])es of two classes 
 of men, not rare in this our day, who may stand 
 convicted as moral suicides — mind-murderers 
 and body-murderers. 
 
 We were cousins, but at the o])posite poles of 
 society — he was rich, I jjoor. The world lured 
 him, and scouted me ; its pit of perdition was 
 opened wide for us both ; but he was kissed, 
 and I was kicked, into it. Now we both found 
 ourselves clinging to its brink, and glaring help- 
 lessly at one another from opposite sides, won- 
 dering which would be the first to let go, and 
 drop to — where ? 
 
 It was the 1st of November. I had sat hour 
 after hour, the MS. of my last book before me ; 
 the finished half on my left hand grinned at the 
 unfinished half on my right — to wit, a heap of 
 blank sheets, at least two hundred. Two hun- 
 dred pages that, by Christmas, must be covered 
 — covered, too, with the best fruit of my soul, 
 my heart, and my brains ; else my dear friend 
 the public would say, compassionately, "Poor 
 fellow ! lie has written himself out ;" or, snecr- 
 ingly, " If these authors did not know when to 
 stop !" 
 
 Stop ? — with life and all its daily needs, 
 duties, pleasantnesses (pshaw ! I may draw my 
 pen through that word), hammering incessantly 
 at the door ! With old Age's ugly face, soli- 
 tary and poor, jiceping in at the window — Stop, 
 indeed I 
 
 I had been in this agreeable frame of mind, 
 when my cousin Austin lounged into my room. 
 
 "Do I interrupt you ?" be said, for he was a 
 kiiully-hearted fellow, though not over-burden- 
 ed with brains, and ^vholly nninitiate in tlie life 
 of literature. 
 
 "Interrupt I no, my good fellow. I wish 
 you did," »aid I, with a groan. "There is no- 
 thing to intcrrnj)t. (Jne might as well spin a 
 thrcad-of-gold gown out of tliat sjiider-liiic 
 dangling from the ceiling, as weave a story out 
 
 of this skull of mine — this squeezed sponge, 
 this collapsed bladder ; it's good for nothing 
 but to be a dining-hall to a select party of 
 worms." 
 
 "Eh?" said he, innocently uncomprehend- 
 ing. 
 
 "Never mind. What of yourself. Hardy? 
 How is the hunting and the shooting, the bet- 
 ting and the play-going, the dinner-parties, the 
 balls?" 
 
 "All over." 
 
 He shook his head, and a severe fit of cough- 
 ing convulsed his large, strong-built frame. 
 
 "I'm booked for the other world. Pwish 
 you were my heir." 
 
 "Thank you ; but, for so brief a possession, 
 it wouldn't be worth my while." 
 
 I lit a candle, and we stood contemplating 
 one another. Finally, we each made the re- 
 mark with which I have commenced this his- 
 tory. Let me continue it now. 
 
 "Why do you want to die, Alexander Fyfe ?" 
 
 "To escape the trouble of living. Live! — 
 it's only existing ; I don't live — I never lived. 
 What is life but having one's full powers free to 
 use, to command, to enjoy ? I have none of 
 these. My body hampers my mind, my mind 
 destroys my body, and circumstances make 
 slaves of both. I look without — every thing is 
 a blank ; within — " 
 
 I beg to state to the reader, as I did to Aus- 
 tin the next minute, that I am not used to 
 whine in this way ; but I was ill, and I had sat 
 for five hours with a blank page before me, upon 
 wiiich I had written pi'ccisely five lines. 
 
 Austin's face expressed the utmost astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Why, I didn't know any thing amiss with 
 7/on ; you always seem to mc the ha])piest fel- 
 low alive. A successful autlior, with only your- 
 self to look after — no i)roi)erty, no establish- 
 ment, no responsibilities ; just a little bit of 
 writing to do each day, and be i)aid for it, and 
 all's right." 
 
 I laughed at his amusing unsophisticated no- 
 tion of an author's existence. 
 
 "Then, so hermit-like as you live here, all 
 among your books. My j)oor dear aunt iierself 
 if she could sec you — " 
 
 "Hush! Austin." 
 
 *' Well, I will ; but all the world knows what 
 a good woman she was, and you take after her. 
 You live like a saint, and have uo temjitation
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 73 
 
 to be otherwise. Now, I am obliged to go post- 
 haste to destruction, if only to save myself from 
 dying of ennui." 
 
 Another fit of coughing cut him short. I for- 
 got my own despair in pitying his, for he seemed 
 to hold that cheating vixen Life with such a 
 frantic clutch, and she was so visibly slipping 
 from him. There, at least, I felt myself better 
 off than he. This world was all my terror ; of 
 that to come, dark as its mysteries were, I had 
 no absolute fear. 
 
 " You're hard up, Austin, my boy. What 
 are you going to do ?" 
 
 "Notliing. It isn't consumption, they say. 
 It will turn to asthma, most likely. All my 
 own doings, the doctors say — would have knock- 
 ed up the finest constitution in the world, which 
 I had ten years ago" — with a piteous groan. 
 
 "Well, confess. What has done it?" 
 
 " Smoking, late hours, and," after a pause, 
 " hard drinking." 
 
 "Whew !" It was a very dolorous whistle, I 
 believe. 
 
 " What is a fellow to do ?" said Hardy, rath- 
 er sullenly. "Life is so confoundedly slow? 
 You want excitement — ^}ou take to the turf or 
 the gaming-table. If you win, you must drink 
 and be jolly ; if you lose, why drink, and drown 
 care. Then other perjilexities — womankind, 
 for instance : you run after an angel, and find 
 her out something on the other side of human- 
 ity ; or she's sharp and clever, makes a mock of 
 you, and man-ies your friend ; or she tries to 
 jump down your throat, and you might have 
 her so cheap, she isn't Avorth the winning ?" 
 
 "Is tliat the fiict in your case?" 
 
 "My lad, you'd find it so, if you had ten 
 thousand a year." 
 
 This was a doubtful compliment, certainly ; 
 but lie meant it in all simjdicity. Besides, I 
 knew enough of his affairs to be aware that the 
 circumstances he mentioned in this impersonal 
 fonn were literally true. 
 
 " I wonder, cousin, you are not weary of this 
 hunting after shadows. Why don't you mar- 
 ly?" 
 
 " Marry ! I ? — to leave a wife a widow next 
 year. Though that would raise my value in 
 the market immensely. Seriously, Alick, do 
 you think there is any woman in the world worth 
 marrying ? I don't, and never did." 
 
 I was silent. Afterward he said, in an alter- 
 ed tone — 
 
 "1 did not quite mean 'never.' Was she 
 fifteen or sixteen when she died, Alexander ?" 
 
 I knew he was thinking of his old child sweet- 
 heart, my little sister Mary. 
 
 "No, no; marrying is out of the question. 
 Whether I die early or late, I shall certainly 
 die a bachelor. Shall you ?" 
 
 " Very probably." 
 
 And, as I glanced at the two hundred blank 
 pages, and the two hundred more scrawled over, 
 I hugged . yself in the knowledge that, if it 
 came to starvation, there was only one to starve 
 — no jialc wife, fading slowly from a dream of 
 
 beauty into a weak slattern, peevish and sad ; 
 no sickly children, wailing reproaches into the 
 father's heart, not only for tlieir lost birthright, 
 but for their very birth. " No," I thought, with 
 set teeth and clenched palms, as if the time of 
 my youth were a bitter fruit between my lips, or 
 a poison-fiower in my hands, and I were grind- 
 ing both to powder— "No, as old Will hath it, 
 'jfi's better as it is .'" 
 
 " Still," cried I, rousing myself, for poor Aus- 
 tin's case was worse than mine, and he had 
 more responsibilities in the world — " still life is 
 worth a struggle, and you know you hate your 
 next heir. Once more, what are you going to 
 do ?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 "Have you any doctor?" 
 
 " Three." 
 
 " Then vou are a dead man, Austin Hardy." 
 
 " So I believe." 
 
 Again a long pause. 
 
 " I can't leave 3 ou this estate, Alick, you 
 know, and I have spent most of my rendy 
 money ; but I have left you my cellar atid my 
 stud — they will be worth a thousand or two ; so 
 you needn't kill yourself with this sort of work," 
 pointing to the MS., " for a few years to come. 
 Tliat w ill be one good out of my dving." 
 
 " Jly dear boy, if you say another woid about 
 dying, I'll — you see Corrie's Afghan cutlass 
 there — I'll assassinate you on the spot." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 "By-tlie-by," and a sudden brilliant thought 
 darted into my mind, " did you ever meet my 
 friend Corrie ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " The finest, wholcsomest, cheeriest fellow, 
 w ith a head big enough to hold two men's brains, 
 and a heart as large as his head. I had a let- 
 ter from him this morning. He ga^e up army 
 service some time since, began London practice 
 — searched fairly and honorably into all the 
 nonsense going — tried allopathy, homoeopathy, 
 kinesopathy, and. Heaven knows, how many pa- 
 thies besides ; and has finally thrown them all 
 aside, and, in conjimction witli his father. Dr. 
 
 Corrie, has settled in shire, and there set 
 
 up a water cure." 
 
 " A what did you say ?" 
 
 " A hydropathic establishment — a water cure. 
 Have you never heard of such places?"' 
 
 "Ah, yes, where people sit in tubs all day, 
 and starve on sanitary diet, and walk on their 
 own legs, and go to bed at nine o'clock — bar- 
 barians !" 
 
 " Exactly. They cut civilization, with all its 
 evils, and go back to a state of nature. Suppose 
 you were to try it ; you have so long been living 
 'agin nature,' as says our friend Nath.inicl 
 Bumppo— but I forget, you don't read— that if 
 you were to return to her motherly arms, she 
 might take you in, and cure you — eh ?" 
 
 " Couldn't— impossible." 
 
 So many possibilities frequently grew out of 
 Hardy's " imjiossible" that 1 was not a whit dis- 
 couraged.
 
 74 
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 ' ' Here is Corrie's letter, with a view of his 
 house on the top of the page.'" 
 
 "A pretty jilace." 
 
 "Beautiful, he says ; and James Corrie has 
 visited half the fine scenery in the world. You 
 see, he wants me to go down there, even with- 
 out trying what he calls ' the treatment.' " 
 
 "And why don't you?" 
 
 I laid my hand on the blank MS. leaves — 
 
 "Impossible." 
 
 Austin soon after went away. I shut tlie 
 shutters, stirred the fire, rang for the student's 
 best friend — a cup of hot tea, no bread there- 
 with. Yes, though rather hungry, 1 dared not 
 eat; we head-workers are obliged to establisli a 
 rigorous division of labor between the stomach 
 and the brain. Ugh! that one jjiece of dry toast 
 would spoil at least four possible jiages — can't 
 be ! And that uncut magazine, with a friend's 
 article therein, how temjiting it looks ! But 
 no; if I treat myself with his fiction I shall lose 
 the thread of my own ; and if I sit thus, staring 
 into the cozy fire, I shall go dream and tlien — . 
 Now for it. Approach, my MS., that I used so 
 to love — you friend, you mistress, you beloved 
 child of my soul I How comes it that you have 
 grown into a fiend, who stands ever beliind me, 
 goading me on with points of steel, ready to 
 pierce me whenever I drop ! But many a hu- 
 man friend, mistress, or child does just the same. 
 
 Now, surely I can work to-night. Come 
 back, dreams of my youth ! I am writing about 
 folk that are young ; so let's get up a good love 
 scene — a new sort of thing, if I can — for I have 
 done so many, and reviews say I am grown 
 "artificial." Reviews! Ten years ago what 
 cared I for reviews ! I wrote my soul out — 
 wrote the truth that was in me — fresh, bursting 
 truth, that would be uttered, and w ould be heard. 
 To writ3 at all was a glory, a rapture — a shout- 
 ing out of songs to the very w oods and fields, as 
 children do. I wrote beiause I loved it — be- 
 cause I could not help it — because the stream 
 that was in me would pour out. Where is that 
 bri;;ht, impetuous, flashing, tumbling river now? 
 Dwindled to a dull sluice, that all my digging 
 and draining will only coax on for a mile or two 
 in a set channel — and it runs dry. 
 
 Well, now for the page. These five lines 
 — rich day's work — what driveling inanity! 
 There it goes into the flame. Let's start afresli. 
 
 Once, twice, thrice, four times, a new page 
 flies, in fine, curling si)arkles, up the cliininey. 
 Thank Heaven, I have sufficient wit left, at 
 least, to see that I am a dull fool. Try again. 
 
 This time comes nothing! My pen makes 
 fantastic circles over the white jjage — little birds' 
 nests, witli a cluster of eggs inside — or draws 
 foolish, soft profiles, with the wavy hair twisted 
 u]) Greek fashion, as I used to scrawl over my 
 bedroom walls wiicn I was a boy. My thoughts 
 go "wool-gathering" — wandering up and down 
 . the world, and then come back, and stand mock- 
 ing and jibing at me. 
 
 How is it all to end? I can not write. I 
 have no more power of brain than the most ar- 
 
 rant dolt — that especial dolt whom I hear whist- 
 ling down the Crescent — 
 
 " cheer, boys, cheer, the world is all before us I" 
 
 Oh, that it were ! Oh, that I were a back- 
 woodsman, with a tree and a hatchet, and the 
 strength of labor in these poor, thin, shaking 
 hands ! Oh, that I had been born a plow- 
 lad, with neither nerves nor brains ! 
 
 My head is so hot — bursting almost. This 
 small room stifles me. Oh, for one breeze from 
 the old known hills ! But I should hardly feel it 
 now. 1 don't feel any thing much, ^ly thoughts 
 glide away from me. 1 only want to lie down 
 and go to sleep. 
 
 There ! I have sat twenty minutes by the 
 clock, with my licad on my hands, doing no- 
 thing, thinking nothing, writing notiiing, not a 
 line. The page is as blank as it was three 
 hours ago. My day's work — twelve golden 
 hours — has been absolutely nothing. 
 
 This can not last. Am I getting ill ? I don't 
 know. I never do get ill. A good wholesome 
 fever now — a nice, rattling delirium — a blister- 
 ing and bleeding, out of w hich one would wake 
 weak, and fresh, and j)eaceful as a child — what 
 a blessing that might be ! But I could not af- 
 ford it — illness is too great a luxury for au- 
 thors. 
 
 But — as I said to poor Austin some hoars 
 since — what is to be done? Something must 
 be done, or my book will never be finished. 
 And, oh, my enemy — oh, my evil genius, ihat 
 used to be the stay of my life — witli a sad yearn- 
 ing I turn over your leaves, and think it vould 
 grieve me, after all, if you, the pet babe of my 
 soul, were never to be born alive ! 
 
 If any thing could be done ! I do not drink ; 
 I do not smoke ; I live a virtuous and simple 
 life. True, I never was very strong, but then 
 1 have no disease ; and if I had, is not my soul 
 independent of my body? Can not I compel 
 my brain to work — can not I? for nil you used 
 to argue, my sapient friend, James Corrie, M.D. 
 And his known handwriting, looking me in the 
 face to-day, brings back many a sage, ])ractical 
 warning, disregarded when I was in health and 
 vigor, mentally and i)hysically — when it seemed 
 to me tiiat all authors' comjdaiuings were mere 
 affectations, vajjors, laziness. I know better 
 now. Forgive me, my hapless brethren, 1 am 
 as wretched as any one of ye all. 
 
 Can any thing cure me ? — any medicine for 
 a mind diseased? James Corrie, what sayest 
 thou ? 
 
 "For any disorder of the brain — any failure of the 
 mental powers — for each ami all of these stranfiji' lornis 
 in which the body will assuredly, in lime, taku her re- 
 venge upon those who have given up every thing to in- 
 tellectual pursuits, and neglected the common law of na- 
 ture — that mind and body should work together, an<l not 
 apart — 1 know nothing so salutary as going back to a stato 
 of nature, and trying tlie water cure.' 
 
 I sat pondering till midnight. It was a des- 
 perate chance, for each day was to mo worth- so 
 much gold. Yet what mattered that ? if each 
 day were to be like this day, I sliould go insane 
 by Christmas.
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 75 
 
 ' At nine a.m., next morning, I stood by my 
 cousin's bedside, in his chambers at the Albany. 
 He was fast asleep. His large, white, sculp- 
 tured profile, with the black hair hanging about, 
 was almost ghastly. I sat down, and waited 
 till he awoke. 
 
 " Hollo ! Alexander ! I thought you were a 
 water-demon, waiting to assist me into a bot- 
 tomless bath out of which I was to emerge at 
 the South Pole. Well, I'm meditating a simi- 
 lar plunge." 
 
 "I likewise." 
 
 "I am going to try the water cure." 
 
 "So am I." 
 
 "Bravo !" cried he, leaping out of bed. " I 
 am delighted to find there will be two fools in- 
 stead of one. We'll start to-morrow." 
 
 "I'm ready." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Give me tke whip, Fyfe. Who would 
 have thought of finding such a place, so near 
 London ! That's a very decent hill ; and that 
 moorland wind reminds one of your own Scot- 
 land." 
 
 "Ay," said I, gulping it down — drinking it 
 like a river of life. 
 
 The free, keen breeze ; the dashing across 
 an 'unknown country — made dimly visible by 
 a bleak, watery November moon ; the odd 
 curves of the road, now shut up by high rocky 
 sides, now bordered by trees, black and ghostly, 
 thongli still kecjung the rounded forms of sum- 
 mer foliage — above all, tie country wildness, 
 the entire solitude, when, not two hours ago, 
 we had been in the heart of London. That 
 drive has left a vivid impression on my mind. 
 It always seems like a journey in ii dream. It 
 made a clear division between the former life 
 and that which was at hand. 
 
 I said to myself, in a dreamy sort of way, as, 
 passing under a woody hillside, the little foot- 
 boy sjjrang down and opened the lodge-gate, 
 and we drove in front of a lighted hall door, 
 between two white shadowy wings of building 
 — I said, vaguely, "Old things are passed 
 away ; behold, all things are become new." 
 
 It is only in the middle of life, or when its 
 burden has become heavier than we can bear, 
 that one comprehends the stretching out of the 
 spirit, as it wuU yet stretch out of the husk of 
 the body into a fresh existence. It is not till 
 then that we understand the feeling which 
 created the fabled Lethe of Elysium — the full 
 deliciousncss of oblivion — the thirsty craving 
 after something altogether new. 
 
 Therefore, except to such, I can never ex- 
 plain the ecstacy of impression which this place 
 made upon me, as producing that involuntary 
 cry, "All things are become new." 
 
 Except its master ! That is, its real master ; 
 for Dr. and Mrs. Corrie were in tlie decline of 
 life, and nearly all the burden uf the establish- 
 
 ment fell upon their son, their only child. No, 
 James Corrie, I would not for the world have 
 any thing new in thee. Change could not im- 
 prove thee, nor novelty make thee more grate- 
 ful to an old friend's heart. 
 
 If I were to describe him literally as he stood 
 to welcome us, I fear the eUiect made would be 
 but small. 
 
 He was not a woman's man, my lady read- 
 ers ! He had no smooth blandness or charm- 
 ing roughness — the two opposite qualities which 
 make the fortune of fashionable physicians. 
 You would hardly take him for a physician at 
 all. His well-built figure ; his large, well-bal- 
 anced head, broad-browed, with a keen intel- 
 lectual eye, but with a pleasant humanity 
 smiling about the well-turned mouth — all indi- 
 cated the wholesome balance between the men- 
 tal, moral, and physical organization which 
 made James Corrie, more than any person 1 have 
 ever known, give one the impression of a true 
 man. 
 
 Not a mere poet, or a visionary, or a j hilos- 
 opher, or a follower of science, made up of 
 learning and dry bones, or a man of the world, 
 to whom " the world" was Alpha and Omega ; 
 but a combination of all these, which resulted 
 in that rare character which God meant us 
 every one to be, and which about one-thou- 
 sandth of us are — a man. 
 
 Dr. James Corrie was about forty. He had 
 married early; it was an unhap])y and childless 
 union. He had now been a widower about five 
 years. I do not know if womankind thought 
 him handsome, but it was a very noble and good 
 face. 
 
 " I like him," said Austin, decisively, when 
 he had left us in our apartments — a sitting- 
 room dividing two cheerful bedrooms — in each 
 of which the principal feature was a large shal- 
 low bath, standing on end in a corner, like a 
 coffin with the lid off. 
 
 "Tea at seven, bed at half past nine," I 
 heard Austin maundering drearily to himself, 
 as he brushed his curly hair, and reattired his 
 very handsome person. "How the — . But 
 I suppose one must not swear here — eh, Alick ? 
 Yoiir Dr. James is not in that line." 
 
 I laughed ; and we went down stairs. 
 
 It was a large, old-fashioned house, baronial- 
 like, with long corridors to pace, and lofty 
 rooms to breathe freely in. Something of the 
 old feudal blood in me always takes pleasure 
 in that sort of house, especially after London 
 lodgings. 
 
 A dazzle of light, coming from a large bright 
 table, of which the prominent ornaments were 
 two vases of winter flowers, and a great silver 
 urn. But abundance of delicate edibles, too ; 
 nothing implying future starvation, as Austin 
 indicated by the faintest wink of the eye to me ; 
 and then, with an air of satisfaction, resumed 
 his customary gentlemanly deportment. 
 
 We were introduced to Mrs. Corrie, a tall, 
 sjiare, elderly lady, wlio sat, "frosty but 
 kiudlv," at the heud of the table ; bc&ide her
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 the old Doctor ; at the foot, our friend, Dr. 
 James. There was also a Miss Jessie Corrie, 
 a niece, lively and good-lookinjr, though not so 
 voung as she might have been. A score of 
 heterogeneous patients, of both sexes and all 
 ages, in which the only homogeneity was a 
 general air of pleasantness and jileasure, com- 
 pleted the circle. Its chief peculiarity seemed, 
 that, large as it was, it had all the unrestrain- 
 edncss and coziness of home. 
 
 '• That is exactly what we want to make it — 
 isn't it, father?" said Dr. James, when, the 
 meal over, the Corrie family, and we two, stood 
 round the wide, old-fashioned, fagot-heaped 
 hearth. ''We want to cure not only the body, 
 but the mind. To do our patients real good, 
 we must make them happy, and there is no 
 hapjjiness like tfiat of home." 
 
 "True," I said, with a sort of sigh. 
 
 "And have you not noticed that one-half of 
 the chronic valetudinarians we see are those 
 who have either no home or an unhappy one ? 
 To such we try to give, if not the real thing, 
 at least a tolerable imitation of it. And in so 
 doing we double their chances of cure." 
 
 " I believe it ;" and, turning into the cheery 
 drawing-room, we gave ourselves up — Austin 
 thoroughly, 1 partially — to the pleasure of 
 being jilcascd. 
 
 '"Wl-U." said he, when we retired, "for a 
 sick hos]jital, this is the jollicst place I ever 
 knew. How do you feel ?" 
 
 I could iiardly tell. I was stupid-like, so 
 great was the change to me, after months of 
 hard work and almost total solitude ; besides, 
 Corrie and I had been talking over old times. 
 As I lay dozing, with the glimmer of the fire 
 on the tall, upright, cotfin-like bath, there 
 seemed to rise within it a mild, motionless 
 figure, beautiful, as a young man's first love, 
 in soft white dead-clothes, with shut eyes, and 
 folded hands, and an inward voice kept repeat- 
 ing my favorite saying — in its simi)licity one of 
 the truest and most religious that Shakspeare 
 ever wrote — " 'Tis better as it is !" 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Wi; began "tlie treatment" next day, in a 
 November morning, by the light of a candle. 
 I will not betray tlie horrors of the prison-house. 
 Of course, it was u trial. My turn over, I could 
 hardly lielp laughmg when I heard afixr off the 
 "roar of waters," and Hardy's smothered howl. 
 And when I found iiim out of doors tran)i)ing 
 tlie hoar frost, and gazing lugubriously over 
 tlie dim, bleak, misly hills — for it was before 
 sunrise — he, who was usually waked at eleven 
 A.M., to find a valet, silken dressing-gown, 
 coff 'C, hot rolls, etc., etc., I could not hide an 
 uncontrollable lit of mirth. 
 
 He took it good-humoredly ; he was a capital 
 fellow ; but he shook his head when I ])roposcd 
 tt) climii the hillside — the lo\ely hillside-, with 
 
 its carpet of fallen leaves, wliich left still foliage 
 enougli to dress the trees, like Jacob's youngest 
 darling, in a robe of many colors, yellow, brown, 
 red, dark-green — I never beheld more glorious 
 hues. Sick and weak as I felt, they stirred my 
 I soul to something of its old passion for beauty. 
 
 "Very well: and then I must go up the hill 
 alone. It is thirteen years since 1 saw the 
 j country in November ; it is fifteen years since I 
 watched the sun rise." 
 
 So on I trudged. I was free ! free ! I had 
 not to walk as I did in weary London, that the 
 mere motion might stir up some new thoughts 
 in my sluggish brains. Thoughts, not for the 
 mere pleasure of thinking, but that each might 
 be woven out for use and coined into gold. 
 
 My demon, with its two hundred white, 
 blank faces, was fifty miles away. 
 
 I did not see the sun rise. Who ever did 
 when he climbed for it ? But I found a sea of 
 misty moor, sweejjing in wave on wave of brown 
 heather — bow jturple it must once have been ! 
 — over which the wind blew in my face, as it 
 used to blow over the hills at Ijome. 
 
 I met it — I who two days since had cowered 
 before the slightest drauj^ht. My throat choked, 
 my eyes burned. I walked rapidly on, howling 
 out at the top of my voice fragments out of 
 Victor Hugo's song, "Le Fou de Tolede." 
 
 " Gasliljclza, rh<)mmc a la carabine 
 Cliantait ainsi : 
 Qucliiu'uii a-t-il connu Donna Sabine? 
 Quflqu'un d'ici? 
 
 Danscz, chantez, villageois, la nuit gagne 
 
 Lc mont Falu: 
 Le vent qui vicnt ii travers la montagne 
 
 Me rendra fou, oui, me rendra fou I 
 
 Dansez, chantez, villageois, la nuit tombcl 
 
 Sabine un jour 
 A tout donnee, sa bcaut<5 de colombe, 
 
 £t son amour, 
 
 Pour I'anneau d'or du Comtc de Saldagne, 
 
 Pour un bijou — 
 Le vent qui vient h travers la montagno 
 
 M'a rendu fou, oui, m"a rendu fou." 
 
 Breakfast early ; rosy looks ; cheerful greet- 
 ings ; every body seeming to take a kindly in- 
 terest in one another; the CoiTie family taking 
 an interest in each and all ; the wholesome 
 give-and-take system of life's small charities 
 going on around, so that, jicrforce, strangers 
 joined in the ])leasant trafiic. 
 
 These were my first daylight impressions of 
 Ilighwood. Austin's seemed the same. He 
 was busily engaged in doing the agreeable to 
 the bright-eyed Jessie Corrie and three other 
 ladies ; his public devotion to the sex being very 
 polytheistic in its tendencies. 
 
 I sat aloof and made j)rufessional "studies." 
 
 "Are these all the patients now with you, 
 Corrie ?" 
 
 "All but one." 
 
 Here I saw ]SIiss Jessie, filling a small tray 
 with comestibles, fake a chrysanthemum from 
 the centre vase, and lay it by the toast. 
 
 " KUice likes white chrysantheniunis." 
 
 "is Eilice your sister, Miss Corrie?"
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 77 
 
 "I have none." 
 
 "Your cousin, then?" 
 
 " No," half laughing, half blushing ; so I con- 
 cluded it was a man's name, and owned by the 
 invisible patient in whose floral tastes the lady 
 took an interest. 
 
 After breakfast, the dining-room was left de- 
 serted ; every body had something to do or suf- 
 fer; we nothing. Stay — nothing, did I say? 
 
 Enter John the bath-man. 
 
 "Gentlemen, will you please to be ready for 
 me at twelve, and half past?" 
 
 "There's something to suffer, at least," said 
 I, as Austin pulled a long face. Then we set- 
 tled, he into languid, I into restless dreariness. 
 
 "I shall go and smoke, Fyfe." 
 
 ''And I shall take to my writing." 
 
 "I'll sit with you ; come along." 
 
 I had not meant that, being of those owl-of- 
 the-desert authors who can best ply their trade 
 alone. But there was no help for it. Despite 
 my resolutions, and the maynmn opus left be- 
 hind, a n)iseral)le restlessness drove me to com- 
 mence some small operetto, so as anyhow to 
 steal a march upon my enemy, Time. 
 
 I was cutting folios preparatively, and in- 
 wardly execrating the unwelcome cominmy of 
 my cousin, who pufied gloomily over the fire, 
 when ill walked James Corrie. 
 
 "Welcome, doctor; take a cigar?" 
 
 "Against Highwood rules, my good sir," 
 said Corrie, pleasantly. 
 
 " Indeed ; but I never kept to a rule in my 
 life. Quite impossible ; couldn't give up my 
 cigar." 
 
 "So thought I once. Nor my glass of ale. 
 Nor my brandy-and-water at supper-time." 
 
 "Yet you did. What cured you ?" 
 
 "Necessity first. I became a struggling 
 man. I had real wants enough ; I could not 
 afford an artificial one. Now cigars cost me, 
 besides a hearty dyspepsia, thirty pounds a year ; 
 and thirty pounds a year will keep one man, or 
 two children from starving. It seemed a pity, 
 in this over-populated country, that I should be 
 slowly killing myself with what would save two 
 other human beings alive." 
 
 Austin dropped his weed, and paused a little 
 ere he lit another. 
 
 "And your strong drinks?" 
 
 "Once in my life, Fyfe, I knew what it was 
 to want water." 
 
 "When?" asked Austin, lazily, still irreso- 
 lutely poising his unlit Havana. 
 
 " Four years ago, on the Atlantic, in an open 
 boat, for five days." 
 
 " How many of you?" 
 
 " Six men and one woman, all dying of thirst. 
 I have never touched any thing but water since." 
 
 The doctor became silent. Austin looked at 
 him with a dawning interest. The second cigar 
 still remained in its case. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Hardy, I am sure, since you 
 have put yourself under my care, you will allow 
 rae to confiscate these contraband articles. I 
 belong to the ijrevcntive service, you know." 
 
 "But, doctor, how am I to drag through the 
 day without my cigar?" 
 
 "Leave that to me and mother Nature, or, 
 as our friend here would poetically say, the god- 
 dess Undine. By-the-by, Fyfe, what is this I 
 see? MS.?" 
 
 "Only an article I want to finish in the in- 
 tervals of my courting this said goddess of 
 yours." 
 
 "Can't be, my friend; she will not take a 
 divided heart. In her name I must seize all 
 this. Best to be ' off with the auld love before 
 you are on wi' the new.' " 
 
 " If Hardy will set the example. Come, old 
 fellow, we have only to fancy ourselves at school 
 again, with James Corrie instead of Birch for 
 our Tyrannus. Let's submit." 
 
 " I know it will be the death of me," groaned 
 Austin. But he met the doctor's cheerful, com- 
 ical smile, and smiled too. Somehow the ci- 
 gar-case vanished, likewise my MS., and I 
 rather think the two great pockets of Corrie's 
 shooting-jacket entombed both. 
 
 Making no more remarks on the subject, he 
 continued talking ; upon common topics, the 
 Eastern war, Highwood, its neighborhood, and 
 lastly, its inmates. 
 
 " What odd varieties of humanity must come 
 under your hands, doctor! How ever do you 
 manage to guide, control, and amalgamate them 
 all ?" 
 
 "By two simple rules — the law of truth and 
 the law of kindness. Sick people arc not un- 
 like children." Here we both slightly winced, 
 but the doctor took no notice. " Have we not 
 high authority for trying to become 'as little 
 children ?' That, it seems to me, is the prin- 
 ciple of the water cure ; that is how I strive to 
 carry it out." 
 
 "You certainly succeed. I have rarely be- 
 held more cheerful and happy faces. It is quite 
 a treat to look round at meal times. We have 
 seen all the patients, 1 think you said?" 
 
 " Except the one I mentioned." 
 
 "Who was that?" 
 
 "MissElliceKeir." 
 
 " I have heard about her," said Austin, lan- 
 guidly. "Something in your line, Fyfe; the 
 high, heroic dodge. For my part, I don't fancy 
 your middle-aged, strong-minded, self-devoted 
 females." 
 
 "Miss Keir would be as much surprised as 
 any one of her friends to hear herself put under 
 that category. Indeed, Mr. Hardy, you quite 
 mistake," said the doctor, quietly. 
 
 "What is she then?" 
 
 " She has been, and still is, a great suf- 
 ferer." 
 
 Something extra-professional and dignified 
 in Corrie suppressed my cousin. Besides, he 
 was too kind-hearted to make game of any 
 "great sufferer." 
 
 "But when our medico was gone, I scrupled 
 not to question what Austin had heard about 
 the 'high, heroic dodge.'" 
 
 "It might come in, you know. Any scrap
 
 78 
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 of an idea is valuable to such addled trains as 
 mine. I might put her into my next book." 
 
 "Do you put people in your books?" said 
 Austin, with an open mouth of slight alarm. 
 
 "Never, my good fellow. That is never in 
 toto, never to their injury, and never when I 
 tliink they would dislike it. I only make studies 
 of 'bits,' heads and feet, noses and eyes, as a 
 painter would. I wouldn't ' show up' any body. 
 It's mean. But," for I saw I was talking miles 
 over Austin's head, " what of Ellice Keir?" 
 
 " She is an American." 
 
 "Stop! a Yankee? Then I don't wish to 
 hear anotlicr word." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 No, it was useless trying to get up an in- 
 terest in any body or any thing. Chronic ill- 
 healrh of mind, or body, or both, is not cured 
 in a day. 
 
 True, the charm of change lasted for some 
 cight-and-furty hours or so, and I began greatly 
 to enjoy the morning bath, tlie moorland walk 
 to meet the sun, the cheery breakfast, where 
 food tasted well, and one was not afraid to eat ; 
 where conversation was pleasant, and one did 
 not tremble to use one's brains, nor to waste in 
 mere talk the thoughts which were one's stock 
 in trade, valuable as bullion gold. 
 
 But as the day crept on all this brightness 
 faded, and life becaras as dull and pale as it was 
 every where to me. 
 
 And still in solitary walks, amidst the soft 
 droppings or wild whirlings of dead leaves, and 
 the rustle of the dying fern ; in the still deeper 
 solitude of parlor circles, merry and loud, I 
 found myself moodily and cynically comment- 
 ing witii tiie preacher, " Vanity, vanity, all is 
 vanity." And out of the intolerable weight, 
 the leaden-folded cloak, wliich seemed to wrap 
 me round, or else to hang like a pall between 
 me and all creation — sometimes, a twitter of 
 a liinl, or sound of moorland wind, or hand- 
 breadth of rosy, winter sunset lighting u]) tiic 
 dull sky, I used to stretch out my hands, long- 
 ing to sob out like a child, yet able only to sigii, 
 " Oil, for the dreams of my youth !" 
 
 For Austin, he succeeded better. His sou! 
 did not trouble him much, or the dreams of iiis 
 youth either. His fine animal nature responded 
 to tiiis uncorrujjt animal existence. He grew 
 rapidly better, and lived apparently a very jolly 
 life, though at intervals still complaining of its 
 being so " slow." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I SAT by the dining-room fire, alone, for it 
 Was the forenoon. Let me draw the jncture of 
 that day. 
 
 A gloomy day. True November ; damp and 
 
 raw. Tlic terrace and the lawn was strewed 
 witii dead leaves ; and more kept falling, flut- 
 tering down one by one, like shot birds. The 
 only bit of warm color the eye could seiie on 
 was a tall cedar, between whose branches shone 
 a beech-tree beyond, making alternate lines of 
 dark-red and dark-green. Every day at break- 
 fast I used to look at it, often thinking, childish 
 fashion, that if I had to choose a vegetable ex- 
 istence I should like to be a beech, with its 
 ever-moving leaves, so vocal in their prime, so 
 rich in hue, to the very minute that they fall. 
 
 Maundering thus, thus "mooning" up and 
 down the lone room, my hands in my pockets, 
 thinking how long it was since I had been a 
 child — wondering whether in the next form of 
 existence I should be a child again. 
 
 Hark ! a harmonium ! I did not know there 
 was one in the house. In the next room, prob- 
 ably. Somebody playing it well, too. 
 
 Now, I do not care for music in general — not 
 the music one gets "in society." It is too 
 flimsy for me. The love-songs sicken me ; the 
 sad, ))laintivc songs, badly sung, are atrocious ; 
 well sung, they tear one's heart; and at thirty, 
 one begins to find that a very unnecessary piece 
 of laceration. 
 
 " What is life, tliat we should moan — 
 AVliy malvc so mucli ado?" 
 
 In Heaven's name, troll a merry stave and 
 liave done with it. As for piano-forte playing, 
 I had rather hear my aunt's kitten run over the 
 keys— at least, almost always. 
 
 But I like an organ ; an 1, second best, a 
 harmonium. I liked this one. Corrie found 
 me pacing uj) and down, or listening, rapt in a 
 state bordering on sublimest satisfaction. 
 
 "What a lovely tone — calm, liquid, grand! 
 Dreamy, too — like the dreams of one's youth, 
 with all the passion and pain burned out of 
 them. How exquisitely smooth and delicate 
 the touch ! and it isn't easy, for I have tried — 
 listen!" 
 
 "Yes — she pl.^ys very well." 
 
 "Who is it, doctor?" 
 
 "Miss Keir." 
 
 " Miss Keir ! She with her Yankee fingers 
 and Yankee soul !" 
 
 " My good friend, you mistake ; even if Yan- 
 kee were the terrible adjective you make it, 
 wiiicli I beg i(!ave to deny, having myself a great 
 respect for Brotiicr Jonathan. But Miss Keir is 
 a Canadian. She was born at Montreal. Come, 
 I will introduce you." 
 
 We entered— a lady rose from the instrument ; 
 a very little lady, almost elfishly small ; hands 
 and feet so tiny, you would have crushed them 
 with a touch. Dressed in black, of some soft 
 material that did not rustle, but caused her to 
 move softly nnd airily, without a sound. She 
 was neither young nor handsome in tiie least ; 
 but — and that "but" contradicts both asscrtioni 
 — slie liad very dark (Canadian eyes. 
 
 I say Canadian, because I have only seen 
 tlicm in Caiia(li:Mis by birtii or descent. Tiicy 
 arc neither Ivistern nor Southern, neither fiery
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 70 
 
 nor voluptuous ; but large, soft, calm, swim- 
 ming and trembling in a tender passionateness, 
 or breaking at times into a flash of the wild In- 
 dian blood — worth all your placid, pale-colored 
 English eyes. 
 
 "Mr. Fyfe — Miss Keir. He is a very old 
 friend of mine." 
 
 Miss Keir offered her hand, her pale little 
 hand, soft as a bit of snow, only it was so 
 warm. 
 
 Now, that is one of my crotchets — the Jeel of 
 a hand. Some it is martyrdom to me to touch. 
 I hate your tishy, your skinny, your dumpling, 
 your flal)by hands — a hand that is afraid — a hand 
 that clutches. I like a woman who comes and 
 lays iier soft, pure palm in mine, knowing I am 
 a man r.nd a gentleman, that I prize the little 
 passing angel and will entertain it honorably 
 and well. 
 
 Another crotchet I have — the tone, /. c, — 
 timbre of it voice. Venus herself would be in- 
 tolerable to me if she had the A-oice of some 
 women I have known. A voice is the test of 
 character — you can detect at once the true ring 
 in it, or the false ; of temper — however educa- 
 tion and the decorums of society may soften it 
 down — in critical moments, out it comes. I 
 tliink I never yet knew a thoroughly lovable 
 woman who had an ugly voice. 
 
 Miss Keir's voice was beautiful. Among other 
 Avomen it sounded like a thrush's note among a 
 congregation of sparrows — as rare, too. Yet her 
 manner and looks were so expressive, so spir- 
 ituelle — nay, rather let me use the English word 
 spiritual, for that more truly indicates the way 
 in whicli her soul seemed to be shining through 
 and glorifying her little frail body — that she re- 
 quired language less than most women. 
 
 We had all three a very long conversation. 
 We dashed at once in median res — tried or.r 
 several hands at solving some of the great world- 
 questions of our day — some of the greatest 
 problems of the universe. We grew earnest, 
 excited — that is, I did — then calm. She calmed 
 me. AVhat she said I know not. I can not tell 
 if she explained any thing, because the most 
 formidable of our spiritual, like our physical 
 mysteries, are utterly incapable of explanation ; 
 but she calmed me down — like as a man in great 
 mental anguish is quieted bj' being suddenly 
 brought out into the open daylight, the sum- 
 mer air. 
 
 I have great faith in instinctive attraction and 
 repulsion. I believe there are people — I am one 
 — who know at first meeting whom they will 
 love and whom they will hate, who will do 
 them harm, and who good. I believe this sen- 
 sation is plaee|l in them for warning and guid- 
 ance. I myself have never run counter to it, 
 except to my after peril. 
 
 It was blindly obeying this attraction, when, 
 on leaving, I requested permission sometimes to 
 join the Corries in Miss Keir's apartment. 
 
 She looked at the doctor ; he answered, smil- 
 ing — "You are so much better now, that you 
 may safely be allowed a little society — cspecial- 
 
 ]y tliat of so celebiatcd a literary character as 
 my friend Mr. Eyfe." 
 
 Literature ! faugh ! I had forgotten the very 
 word. 
 
 "Why did you tell her I was an author?" I 
 said, as we turned out of doors ; Corrie remorse- 
 lessly exacting the walk before the noonday 
 bath. "Why could you not let me stand for 
 once upon my own footing? let her judge me 
 not by what I do, but what I am. Yet"— and 
 a bitter conviction of what a contemptible speci- 
 men of manhood I had sunk to, forced itself 
 upon my mind— "Yet a hard judgment that 
 might have been." 
 
 " Not from her. She knows that some char- 
 acters, sorely tried, must be judged, not solely 
 from what they are, but from what they aspire 
 to be — and one day may be. Why should I 
 have kept incofj. your best self — your books? 
 She has read them all." 
 
 "Has she? I am sorry. No — glad. For 
 after all, with all my shams, she will find the 
 real Alexander Fyfe by snatches there. But 
 enough of myself. I want to talk about her." 
 
 "You seem greatly pleased witli her. Yet 
 few take to her at once, she is so very quiet." 
 
 "But her quietness gives one a sense of rest, 
 and her soft way of moving throws a harmony 
 over the room. She is not tmlike the instrument 
 she plays. You can not fancy her attuned to 
 the drawing-room ditties and ball-room jigs of 
 life — you can not conceive of her either beauti- 
 ful or young." 
 
 The doctor silently smiled. 
 
 "I mean, there is in her that which tran- 
 scends both youth and beauty — a cheerful sa- 
 credness — a wholesome calm. She seems to 
 do me good. I should like to know more of 
 her." 
 
 "That is very easy, if her health keeps im- 
 l)roving." 
 
 "Has she been long an invalid?" 
 
 "Four years." 
 
 " How did you meet her?" 
 
 "Literally, at the gates of death. In the 
 boat I told you of, after our ship went down — " 
 
 "Was she that one woman .saved?" 
 
 " She was. She had a brother and sister 
 with her, bringing them to Europe. I got 
 them into the boat. For six days she was the 
 strength of us all. Then the little sister died 
 on her lap. The brother survived." 
 
 James Corrie cleared his throat ; we walked 
 on a few yards — 
 
 " Such a quiet creature — who would have be- 
 lieved it of her?" 
 
 " Nobody does, and nobody need ; such deeds 
 arc not done for the world, and she has been 
 quite as heroic — if you will use the word — in 
 her illness since, as at the time of the ship- 
 wreck." 
 
 "How is .she affected?" 
 
 "With almost constant neuralgic and rheu- 
 matic ]uuus ; it is only witliin the last few 
 months that she has been able to walk — or even 
 to stand."
 
 80 
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 "And the brother?" 
 
 "He is walking the hospitals in Edinburjih. 
 She struggled on with him for six months till 
 she fell ill — fortunately in my mother's house. 
 She has never quite recovered." 
 
 "Do you think she ever will recover?" 
 
 "Certainly. That is— if it be the will of 
 God. Now, Fyfe, your hour is come — to the 
 ' dripping-sheet' — away !" 
 
 I left him; aid he walked rapidly up the 
 liLll. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 *' Small — plain — and not young ! Very at- 
 tractive descrijition, truly. I'lit the jiatients 
 here seem all middle-aged. Wliat witli haths 
 and walks to cut up the day, and your friend 
 Corrie to look after one, what with his awfully 
 honest, righteous eyes, one can't get the least 
 bit of harmless amusement." 
 
 " Except with Miss Jessie. You flirt enough 
 with her." 
 
 "Tut that verb in the passive voice — do, my 
 good fellow. I merely resjjond. What a wild 
 devil it is — just like pepi)ci* and mustard — 
 French mustard. It's tlie only bit of s])ice left 
 in your terribly wliolesome hydrojiathic diet. 
 I might amuse myself really with it if it were 
 only young." 
 
 " Le besoin de s'amitser, seems the only possi- 
 ble element in your affairs of this sort." 
 
 "Exactly so." 
 
 And he sauntered back into the drawing- 
 room, where, our aquatic duties all done, there 
 was usually a most merry circle till bedtime — 
 into wliich circle my friend Hardy had dropped 
 like a god-send, and even by his third ni^ht 
 made himself acceptable to every body there, 
 and especially to Miss Jessie Corrie. 
 
 Yet I had no qualms on her account ; if, in- 
 deed, I could have felt enough interest in life to 
 suffer qualms about any thing. The lady was 
 — like Isopel, in Borrow's "Lavcngro" (you sec, 
 unlike many authors, I do read other books be- 
 sides my own) — "large and fierce, and able to 
 take her own part." I did not think she had a 
 heart; anyhow, it did not matter it's being 
 broken — most people's are, else where would 
 all the poems and novels come from ? 
 
 "As you will, my good friends," thought I, 
 watching them lounging, flirting, and hnighing. 
 "It's a case of diamond cut diamond. .Skim 
 away over life's shallows in your painted jolly- 
 boats. You'll swamp no one — not even each 
 other; or, if you did, it's no business of mine." 
 
 But just at that minute I paused ; I caught 
 a tone of the harnjonium down stairs. 
 
 "Now," thinks I to myself, "I wonder what 
 those eyes down below would say if they were 
 looking on instead of mine. Would they have 
 my cynicism — my contemptuous laisscz-Jaire ? 
 But, Thysician, heal thyself:' How ran I 1)C 
 bold enough to jmll the mote out of another's 
 
 eye, when I am still blinded by the beam in my 
 own ? Blinder than ever — or else coming into 
 the light makes me feel it more — since morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Our fourth day at Highwood — Sunday ; Aus- 
 tin escorted a carriage full of ladies to church ; 
 he thought it more "respectable." For me — 
 
 Oh, thou one Father of the universe ! one 
 infinite and unapproachable Wisdom ! one all- 
 satisfying and all-perfect Love! when wilt Thou 
 visit me? when wilt Thou enlighten me? when 
 wilt Thou comfort me? I stand under the pine- 
 wood oia the hill-top, where the air is so rare, 
 and the wind so wild, it seems nearer to Thee. 
 1 long to die and learn Thy mysteries — to die 
 and be filled with Thy love. My soul cries out 
 unto Thee with an exceeding great and bitter 
 cry, which is often the only evidence it has of 
 its own existence. I do not believe in myself 
 at all, my worthless, aimless, broken-spirited, 
 miserable self; ))ut I believe in Thee. 
 
 "The fool hath said in his heart. There is no 
 God." But only the fool, or, perhaps, he who 
 pays a guinea toll to heaven on a silver charity- 
 plate, or keeps a bishop to pray for him. I pr.> 
 fer the hill-iop and Parson Breeze. 
 
 Descending the hill I met Corrie, antl went 
 in with him to speak to Miss Keir. He told 
 her what I bad been saying. 
 
 She pointed to a line she had been setting 
 as a copy for the lodge-keeper's lame daughter, 
 whom she usually taught to write of a Sunday: 
 
 " In every place he that lovetlt (!od, and woik- 
 cth righteousness, is accepted of Him." 
 
 That was the best sermon after all. That 
 was what the Divine I'rcacher on the mount 
 would have said to us, Ellicc Keir ! 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Watkk-cure ! I think, doctor, your sys- 
 tem is directed not only to the body but the 
 soul. Mine feels cleaner than of yore." 
 
 " Does it ?" 
 
 We were pacing the terrace walk, Miss Keir 
 and Miss Jessie watching us from the window. 
 It had become a matter of custom that I should 
 always sjjcnd a morriing hour or two in her 
 room. They were the best hours of the day. 
 
 "What a calm, clear mind hers is, j>uri(ied 
 by suffering, full of inward faitli ! How she 
 looks through all shams ri^ht down into trulii 
 — (jods truth! Like^ — if the simile were not as 
 hackneyed as Piccadilly in May — like a steady- 
 eyed astronomer looking down into a well. V\'a 
 see only the glarin^j noon without, or the black, 
 incrusted sides. She sees the stars at the bot- 
 tom. She knows where to look for them, be- 
 cause slie hr/iercs thctj are there." 
 
 "You are (juite poetical again." 
 
 " Yes, I think I could write my book, if you 
 would let me." 
 
 The doetor shook his head. 
 
 "And sometimes I could almost fancy that
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 81 
 
 Alexander Fyfe's boy-heart was only buried 
 with the old knight's under that sun-dial, and 
 that a trifle of digging would bring it to the 
 surface again, slightly decayed, perhaps, but a 
 human heart still." 
 
 " Are you thinking of marrying ?" said the 
 doctor, very gravely. 
 
 " No ; nor of loving, in that sense. It isn't 
 in me. But simply of resuscitating from fast 
 corruption that aforesaid portion of human anat- 
 omy, which we autliors trade in so much that we 
 leave no mateiual for home use." 
 
 "Do speak plainly ; I am but a plain man." 
 
 " For the which thank Heaven ! Merely, 
 Corrie, that we authors are liable, above most 
 people, to the danger that, while preaching to 
 others, ourselves should become castaways. We 
 persuade ourselves that to paint high virtue is 
 to exemplify it. We like to act leader and 
 chorus instead of principal — to talk rather than 
 to work. In brief, we write when we ought to 
 live." 
 
 " Possibly. But what are you driving at ?" 
 
 "This. Here have I been lauding up the 
 ideal these thirteen years ; have scribbled folios 
 on moral power, heroism, self-denial, and that 
 sort of thing." 
 
 " You have, indeed ; your writings are beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 "My writings! And what am I? A self- 
 cngrossed, sickly, miserable, hypochondriacal 
 fool." 
 
 "My dear fellow!" 
 
 " It is true ! And that woman, Ellice Keir, 
 who never wrote aline in all her days, she lives 
 a poem. Such a one as in all viij days I will 
 never be able to write." 
 
 "Ill tell her what j'ou say," answered the 
 doctor, smiling. " Come along." 
 
 He told her almost word for word. She 
 looked in his face, and blushed up to the eyes 
 — a vivid, tremulous, happy blush. 
 
 " Mr. Fyfe is quite mistaken, you know." 
 
 "I know he is mistaken in one thing. We 
 need only judge ourselves, as we trust we shall 
 be judged, according to our gifts. He whose 
 gifts it is to write great books, though himself 
 far below his own ideal, is, when not false to it 
 in his life, a means of ennobling other lives; 
 and thougli to my mind a great life is nobler 
 than any book, still, to have written a great 
 book is — to have done something. Never let 
 a rose-bush despise itself because it is not an 
 oak." 
 
 "Yes," Miss Keir added, her eyes turning 
 from Dr. James to me, " it should rather abide 
 in peace, and grow to the utmost perfection its 
 own roses. They are very dear and sweet." 
 
 She held out her hand. It M'as better to me 
 than a laurel crown. 
 
 Henceforward 1 began truly to live; the first 
 time I had lived for years. Up ere daylight, 
 instead of that stupor of body and soul which 
 nsed to last till near mid-day. Tlie baths, out 
 of which one comes merry as a child and strong 
 as a Hercules. The walks, clasping nature like 
 F 
 
 a mistress ; nature, always lovely and beloved, 
 even when she pelted me with rain-storms, 
 frowned at me through leaden skies, soaked 
 me with her soft, perpetual tears. 
 
 I will not say what it was to be, every day, 
 and many hours in the day, under the heavenly 
 darkness of light — if I may coin the paradox — 
 of the eyes of Ellice Keir. 
 
 She never grew, in mine, any younger or any 
 handsomer ; in truth, I hard^,■ thought of her 
 physical self at all. It was a pure, abstract 
 recognition of my ideal of moral beauty— more 
 perfect than in any woman I have ever known. 
 
 Pardon, pardon, O first love of ray youth! 
 Thine eyes are closed — closed ! 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "Well, if you ask me for my opinion (I don't 
 think one man has a right to give it to another 
 man — hardly even one friend to another friend, 
 without) — I consider you are not acting like that 
 most sensible, upright, gentlemanly youth I knew 
 ten years ago — Austin Hardy." 
 
 "Pshaw ! don't bring up ten years ago. Our 
 virtues wear out like our clothes. We can't go 
 shabby. Best get another suit." 
 
 "But let it be, at least, as decent as the 
 former." 
 
 "If it can, i. e., if there's any cash to get it 
 with. But let's talk plain English. What have 
 you to say ? Do you think I shall get into a 
 scrape ?" 
 
 " Not a bit of it. Miss Jessie is a wise one, 
 and a sharp one, too. She isn't the least like- 
 ly to break her heart for you. She only co- 
 quettes a little." 
 
 "Mighty little. Your friend the doctor 
 keeps such a steady look-out, one would think 
 he wanted her for himself. Then the old peo- 
 ple ; I suppose it's their duty to watch black 
 sheep for the credit of their establishment. 
 Never was there a fellow who had so few oppor- 
 tunities of love-making, even if he chose. But 
 I don't choose. I only want to amuse myself." 
 
 " That is — you find yourself in a world where 
 people live, work, struggle ; and all you can do 
 is to amuse yourself! Tired of all other shams, 
 you put on the largest sham of all — the highest, 
 strongest feeling a human being can have — 
 love — just ' to amuse yourself.' " 
 
 "You're civil, Alexander." 
 
 "I'm honest." 
 
 "Don't fly into a passion; you know I al- 
 ways listen to you. Why did you not give me 
 this sermon a week ago ?" 
 
 "Why, indeed!" 
 
 " There's something changed about you, my 
 boy. You don't talk such rigmarole as you 
 used to do, nor in such a savage tone. Also, 
 you look quieter — not so nervous. You will 
 grow into a ' show case,' as our friend Corrie 
 would say. It is really the water-cure." 
 
 " Probably. But never mind me. I'm talk-
 
 82 
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 ing about you, and Miss Jessie likewise. Mark 
 me, Austin, that young woman — " 
 
 " Hold there. Middle-aged. Twenty-seven, 
 at least ; else I might have thouglit seriously 
 of her — for a quarter of an hour. !Slie is a good 
 figure, large and lady-like — very decent reijui- 
 sites for Mrs. Hardy. More I can't expect. 
 Well, what about ' that young woman ?'" 
 
 " Merely, that she never had any heart at all ; 
 or, if she had, she has worn it on her sleeve, till 
 llie daws have pecked it away." 
 
 ''Just like mine." 
 
 " I wonder you'll even condescend to play at 
 folly — still worse, at mock sentiment, with her. 
 She who is all false, from top to toe, without 
 and within." 
 
 "Heigho! So am I." 
 
 " You're not, Austin Hardy. You think it 
 fine to sham vice ; you're too lazy to struggle 
 through to virtue ; but you're an honest fellow 
 at heart." 
 
 '• Hold your tongue, Alick," said he, in a 
 gruft' voice. "Here comes the lovely young 
 Jessie. Welcome ! She is just in time to 
 spread her petals to the sunrise, my fair Flower 
 of Damblanc!." 
 
 For — and let me premise that this is a most 
 original scene for a tryst, and quite j)eculiar to 
 a iiydropatliic establishment — I ought to have 
 said that we were taking our morning walk, all 
 things being yet dusky, in the cloudy winter 
 dawn. Though in the cast, and up even to the 
 zenith, the sky was catching a faint rosy tinge ; 
 and between the two pinewoods one vivid sul- 
 phur-colored cloud showed that somewhere, far 
 below the visible horizon, the sun was begin- 
 ning to shine. 
 
 I maintain, from personal experience at 
 High wood, that sunrise in general is what a 
 scho(d-boy would call "a great liuinbug" — "a 
 dead take in." But still it has a peculiarity of 
 its own, especially on a winter morning. The 
 worthy old sun seems to climb up so doggedly 
 ]iertinacious, so patiently strong, though sliorn 
 of his beams — struggling through mist and damp 
 to smile upon a poor earth, who is too weary, 
 ragged, and wan to welcome him. But steadi- 
 ly he rises — like a high honest purpose dawning 
 in the hopeless winter of a man's days, when 
 time is short and weather bleak; yet steadily 
 he rises, and comes at last to daybreak — day- 
 light — ay, unto perfect noonday. 
 
 1 began to think sometimes on this wise — as 
 if even thougli it was but yesterday that I had 
 sat and watclied my sun go down — watclicd sto- 
 ically, with oi>en eyes that never blenched or 
 moistened ; yet every morning at this hour, it 
 seemed as il' it m'KjIit rise to-morrow. 
 
 And Austin ? 
 
 CHAI'TEU IX. 
 
 " Bless my life ! Is that your wonderful 
 Miss Keir? What a very plain woman!" 
 It was her first appearance in tlie evening 
 
 circle, and I had ofTorcd Hardy to introduce 
 him. Of course, receiving this reply, I im- 
 mediately turned, and left him to his own de- 
 vices. 
 
 A " plain woman" was she ? Perhaps. I 
 could not tell ; I had scarcely thought about it. 
 If I did now, it was only vaguely, thinking of 
 an observation once made on a lady, a friend 
 of mine. Its object told it me herself, with a 
 simple, grateful pleasure, touched even to tears : 
 " He said, he never knew whether I was pretty 
 or not ; he only knew that he loved me." 
 
 And I loved Ellice Keir, in that sort of harm- 
 less way, with a tender friendship which, when 
 both arc well advanced in life, so as to make it 
 safe and free, it does a man good to bestow, 
 and is sweet for a woman to receive. So I 
 reasoned. Oh ! fool, fool, fool ! 
 
 She sat in tlie fireside arm-chair, the same 
 little black-stoled figure, the sound of whose 
 voice was seldom heard, yet whose mute smile 
 created around her a circle of brightness. Sun- 
 like, she appeared to draw from the various 
 calyx of every human heart some perfume — 
 usually the best perfume it had. 
 
 Gradually nearly all the party gathered around 
 her : and a few stragglers only were left apart, 
 including Hardy and Miss Corrie. At last \ 
 heard him behind me. 
 
 "How glad every body seems to have Misa 
 Keir back here again !" 
 
 "That is not wonderful." 
 
 "There is a general seceding to her. I sup- 
 pose I must e'en follow the herd. Come, you 
 may introduce me, if you like." 
 
 " By no means. How could you be expected 
 to do the civil to such 'a very ))lain woman ?'" 
 
 "Ton my life, and so she is. But there's 
 something odd about her. Those eyes — I felt 
 them at the farthest corner of the room. They 
 seem to be finding me out.. Confess — have 
 you been telling her any of my misdeeds?" 
 
 "Austin Hardy!" 
 
 "Well, it would not be like you. Now for 
 it ; lead the victim to the horns of the altar. 
 I'm prepared." 
 
 But Miss Keir was already retiring. A mere 
 introduction passed — no nidrc. 
 
 "Ah!" said Austin, drawing a deep breath, 
 and giving me a slight wink, as Miss Jessie 
 came on in full sail up to the chair where he 
 was lounging. " No matter ; I shall go back 
 to my old silly ways. It's easier now that wo- 
 man is out of the room." 
 
 Hardy held out fin- one evening — two — the 
 beginning of the lliird ; said she was clever, 
 and he hated clever women ; quiet, and he 
 liked to be amused. Afterward, I saw him 
 listening, with ];olitc, abstracted smile to the 
 large dose of "amusement" Miss Jessie always 
 furnished ; but his eyes were riveted on the 
 fireside circle, now a brighter circle than ever, 
 since Miss Keir was its centre. No, not its 
 centre ; for her attracti(m in society was more 
 of the passive kind. She did not shine her- 
 self, but she created a fnsh, clear atmosphere,
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 83 
 
 in which every one else shone brighter than 
 before. Finally, Hardy was discovered leaning 
 behind the velvet arm-cliair, attentive to the 
 discussion. It was something about Northum- 
 berland mines, and the improvement of the 
 miners. 
 
 " Miss Keir is speaking to you, Mr. Hardy." 
 
 It was really droll to see him bend forward 
 with that eager, pleased face, to "such a very 
 plain woman." 
 
 "Yes, my property does lie among the min- 
 ing country, but I never troubled my head much 
 about it. I hnve had no time." 
 
 " No time ?" 
 
 " That is, I r?ar I have never had energy 
 enough to m.ikc time. I am a very lazy fellow, 
 as Fyfe would toll you." 
 
 She smiled again, and said something more 
 which I did not hear. Austin brightened up. 
 
 " Ay, my cousin has always a good w ord for 
 me; but, indeed, I am not fit for any thing 
 of the sort. I couldn't take the trouble. My 
 property is the greatest burden of my life." 
 
 Here Jessie Corrie tittered out some very 
 commonjilace remark, to which he replied with 
 one of his usual fulsome speeches to women ; 
 but still kept talking to Miss Keir — 
 
 "Duties of property did you say? Dread- 
 ful word, 'duty!' Quite out of my line. Be- 
 sides, it's too late now. With my ill-health — " 
 
 Here he seemed conscious of her amused look 
 resting on his brawny figure and ruddy face — 
 
 " Well, I fear j'ou and the doctor must find 
 out a better man for the carrying out of your 
 philanthropic plans. I have been too long given 
 up to the uo-nothing system." 
 
 Yet he lingered and listened, gradually with 
 some real Interest gleaming through his elegant 
 languor; now and then joining in the conver- 
 sation with a woi'd or two of the capital good 
 sense he could fur.iish at will, though he was 
 not cursed to any heavy degree with that com- 
 modity called "brains." At parting, Miss Keir 
 shook hands with him, with a friendly word or 
 two. 
 
 ' ' By Jove, Fyfe, that isn't a bad sort or" wo- 
 man, just for a change. I'm rathei" tireJ o/ 
 beauties. One is obliged to tiiink before one 
 speaks to her, just as if she were a man." 
 
 "Her sex is indebted to, you." 
 
 " Pshaw! she is not a bit of a woman." 
 
 " Altogether a woman, I think." 
 
 "Well, have your own way." 
 
 He stood long meditating, a rare fact for 
 Austin Hardy, 
 
 " There is some sense in those schemes of 
 hers. When I was twenty-one I used to have 
 grand notions about improving my estates, and 
 living patriarch of the country side, after the 
 good old fashion. But all vanished in smoke. 
 It's too late now." 
 
 "No good thing is ever too late. Did you 
 not hear her saying so ? She thinks you might 
 carry out many of the Doctor's sanitary and 
 educational schemes. She told me she wished 
 you would." 
 
 " Did she ? But I have not the power, and 
 it isn't worth while. Let the world jog on as 
 it likes, it will last my time. However, per- 
 haps I may just hear what she says on the sub- 
 ject to-morrow." 
 
 I smiled to myself, and was satisfied. 
 
 " By-the-by, Alick, I altogether forgot to bid 
 good-night to Jessie Corrie." 
 
 Substitution is the true theory of amendment. 
 Knock a rotten substance out by driving a sound 
 wedge in. 
 
 So thought I, when, two days after, I saw 
 Austin making himself busy — at least as busy 
 as a man can well be who is going through the 
 water treatment — in this new interest, which 
 perhaps was the only real interest he was 
 capable of. It roused his best self— that for 
 which nature intended him— the active, up- 
 right, benevolent country gentleman. 
 
 He took to plans, drawings, blue-books, 
 works on political economy, and spent half th« 
 morning in that little parlor I so loved, with 
 Dr. James Corrie and Miss Keir. 
 
 The former said to me, watching him — 
 
 " Here's a change in our friend Mr. Hardy. 
 I farcy he, too, is participating in the spiritual 
 water-cure." 
 
 " It appears so." 
 
 Nor did I grudge him that healing. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It was a November day — November, yet so 
 mild, so sunshiny, so heavenly calm, that but 
 for the thinned trees, the brown heather, the 
 withered fern, you would have thought it 
 spring. 
 
 Her pony's feet were up to the fetlock in 
 dead beech-leaves, making a soft rustle as we 
 climbed the hill after her. We — that is, Aliss 
 Corrie, Hardy, Dr. James, and I. The old 
 Dr. Corrie and his wife were a good way be- 
 hind. They, too, had made a point of joining 
 the triumphant procession which celebrated 
 Miss Keir's return to the outer world ; for 
 every body loved her — every body ! 
 
 She seemed to know and feel it — to sun her- 
 self in it almost as a child does. For, though 
 thirty years old, there was still in her a great 
 deal of the child. Trouble had passed over 
 her, ripening, not blasting, and left her in the 
 Indian summer of her days, a season almost as 
 beautiful as spring. In tliat golden briglitness, 
 one of us at least lived, morning, noon, and 
 eve, and half believed it was the return or 
 May. 
 
 "This day seems made on purpose for you, 
 Miss Keir," said Austin, as he struggled up the 
 hill, assisting Miss Jessie kindly and courteous- 
 ly (jierhaps more kindly and courteously than 
 ever since his manner had gradually sunk to 
 tliat and nothing more). The lady looked 
 cross, and compkiined of damp leaves. In her 
 was nothing of the Indian summer, but am
 
 84 
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 affectation of pirlishness, a frantic clinging to a 
 lost youth, Avhifh is at once the sudJest and 
 most hateful thing I know. 
 
 " Eight hours since, when Hardy and I took 
 our morning walk, this moor was all white with 
 hoar-frost. Are you quite sure you arc not 
 cold. Miss Keir ?" 
 
 "Let me run and get her my fur cape, 
 Alick. Will you help Miss Currie for a minute 
 or two?" 
 
 " Mr. Hardy is certainly better ; he has 
 learned to run like any school-boy," said the 
 doctor, with an amused satisfaction. 
 
 "And to fetch and carry like any spaniel," 
 observed Miss Jessie Con-ie, whose regard 
 cooling down gave out a satirical spark or two 
 occasionally. " IMarvelous change ! A month 
 ago, he thouglit of nobody in the world but his 
 dearly-beloved self." 
 
 " lie was ill then," I said. 
 
 Laugliing at my sharpness, she bent forward 
 to a whisper of Miss Keir's, which she repeat- 
 ed aloud, with variations, afterward. 
 
 "Mr. Hardy, Elliee is much obliged. She 
 says you run like a school-boy, and carry like a 
 spaniel, and have learned at last to think of 
 other folk in the house besides vour beloved 
 self." 
 
 " Did she say so ?" 
 
 That hurt look on Austin's hlase visage was 
 something new — new as the odd shyness with 
 which he gave the fur to me to wrap her in — 
 lie, the erewliile officious squire of dames I 
 
 Elliee turned on him her briglit, true, heart- 
 satisfying smile. 
 
 "Jessie mistakes a little. I said tliat Mr. 
 Hardy thinks of every body in the house ex- 
 cept himself." 
 
 Austin showed tliat he could not only run, 
 but blush like . any school-boy ; so pleasant 
 seemed her jiraise. 
 
 On we went througli tlie moorland, down in 
 the ferny dell where those three cedars stood, 
 huge and dark, with the faint sunbeams on 
 tlicir tops, and damp carthincss at their feet. 
 
 " This will not do," said Dr. James. 
 "Very unsanitary spot. There's a wholesome 
 breeze and a grand view half-way up Torbury 
 Hill." 
 
 So we ascended, knee-deep in lieather, in 
 which poor Miss Jessie was stranded. Austin 
 took her safely home, and came " tearing" 
 back, his hair flying all abroad, and his clothes 
 catching on furze-bushes. How his London 
 friends would have stared ! I told him so. 
 
 "Never mind. You arc growing just as 
 much of a boy yourself, old fellow ! I think. 
 Miss Keir, it must be something in the air of 
 Highwood tliat makes one young." 
 
 He might have .said, only he never made one 
 of his in-etty spceclics to her, that she herself 
 furnished no exception to the rule. For, in 
 truth, her cheek liad a girlish rosiness ; a tint 
 like the inside leaves of those delicate, peacli- 
 colored chrysantiiemums she was so fond of. 
 I think — oh, contemptibly-sentimental tliought ! 
 
 — I would like to have my grave planted witk 
 chrysanthemums. They come so cheerful and 
 fair in the winter time, and they always remind 
 me of Highwood and of Elliee Keir. She once 
 said they looked like a handful of happiness 
 gathered when one is growing old. 
 
 But we all eschewed age to-day — ay, even 
 the doctor, whose general gravity was such 
 that most of the patients looked upon him as 
 more antiquated and reverend than his father. 
 He threw off his antiquity now. He strode 
 through the heather, led the pony, pointed out 
 the sunset. He had always the keenest sense 
 of natural beauty ; his large gray eye softened 
 and brightened as it turned on Elliee Keir. 
 
 "How strange, how sad it must be to have 
 to seek out God in nature ! To us all natura 
 is but an emanation of from God." 
 
 I listened. He and she together — CIuMStiap 
 man and Christian woman — had said some 
 sweet, Christ-like words to me ere tliis ; better 
 still, had lived before me. It seemed strange 
 now that I had ever cried out in that temporary 
 insanity of unbelief with which this history be- 
 gins. I stood "clothed, and in my right mind." 
 It will be imagined the sort of feeling with which 
 I often looked, as to-day, from one face to the 
 other — what calm, noble, blessed faces they 
 were I — especially hers. 
 
 Austin did the same. He had a great kind- 
 ness for tiie doctor ; and as for Miss Keir — 
 
 "Do you know," he said, stepping closer to 
 her .saddle, " this ])lace is curiously like Nether- 
 lands. The country-side is all barren moor, 
 just as this, dotted with tumble-down huts, 
 where those brutes of riotous miners live. Ah! 
 you smile. It shall not be so another year. 
 Indeed, it shall not, Miss Keir. I'll see what 
 I can do." 
 
 "Bravo! What you can do will be no lit- 
 tle, Mr. Hardy." 
 
 " Thank you, doctor. And there, behind 
 just such a fir-wood as that, the house stands. 
 Poor old Netherlands, I have not been there 
 these ten years. It is getting sadly dilapidated, 
 my steward tells me — but then it's his interest 
 to tell me lies — they all do. "\\'hat were you 
 saying, Miss Keir?" 
 
 He bent forward to hear her. 
 
 "I never thought of that," he answered, dep- 
 recatingly. Bless me, it never struck me my 
 laziness was harming any body but myself; but 
 for tiie future, 1 promise, and Fyfc knows I 
 never break my promise. Doctor, you may 
 well cry ' Bravo !' There's a good star rising 
 over poor tdd Netherlands. You must come 
 and see me there." 
 
 Then, in a lower tone, 
 
 " Will you come too. Miss Keir?" 
 
 She hesitated, colored slightly, or I fancied 
 so ; finally, gave a smiling assent. Austin 
 thanked her, and stood looking toward the fir- 
 wood, that lay in a black bank under the sun- 
 set. 
 
 "Poor old Netherlands — dear old Nether- 
 lands!" he murmured more than once, in the
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 85 
 
 soft tone he liacl used years ago, when talking 
 to my little sister, Mary. 
 
 I also was young then. Heavens ! what it 
 is to be young ! 
 
 "Oil, my youth — my youth!" cried out my 
 heart too, and seemed to catch at its last gleam- 
 ing, even as each wave of moor, each stump of 
 tree caught at the sun as he was going down, 
 with a wild clutch, as knowing that tliis glim- 
 mer was indeed the last — that afterward there 
 would be nothing but gloom. But he went 
 down, and it was light still. 
 
 "This is the strangest winter evening," I 
 said. "It will not grow dark. Did you ever 
 see such a dainty, bright new moon?" 
 
 "We must go home for all that," insisted the 
 doctor, smiling. 
 
 " Not yet — just one minute longer, Miss 
 Keir." 
 
 I put my arm on her pony's neck. I could 
 not see her face, but a fold or two of her gown 
 — just enough to feel she was there. I fancied 
 I heard her sigh. No wonder — every thing was 
 so still and beautiful. 
 
 For me, my sigh was almost a sob. My soul 
 was come into me again. I was no longer a 
 wretched clod, passionless, brainless. I could 
 feel, enjoy, create ; I was again au author, a 
 poet — greater yet, I was a man. 
 
 "Oh, thank God, this is like my youth! 
 And I am young — I am only thirty-two. I 
 might live my life out yet." 
 
 "Live it!" said the brave, kind voice of 
 James Corrie. 
 
 "Live it!" said the silent smile of EUice 
 Keir. 
 
 "I will!" 
 
 Though the vow was then taken somewhat in 
 blindness of what was, and was to come, still, 
 God be witness, I shall never break it either to 
 Him — or these. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 "I've done it, Alick— I thought I could." 
 
 And Hardy, after a three days' absence — I 
 supposed in London — burst into our sitting- 
 room, a huge peripatetic snow-drift. 
 
 "Done what?" 
 
 "I forgot — you don't know yet. But I'll 
 tell you in a minute, when I'm not out of 
 breath." 
 
 "Did you come in by the six o'clock train, 
 to-night?" 
 
 " Surely." 
 
 * ' Nobody expected you. You must have had 
 to walk across the country." 
 
 "Of course I did." 
 
 "Tell it not at the Albany, lest Highwood 
 should be inundated with a flood of bachelors 
 seeking the water-cure ! That I should have 
 lived to see Austin Hardy, Esquire, taking a 
 four-mile night-walk through a heavy Christ- 
 mas snow !" 
 
 ' ' Pshaw, don't make game of a fellow ; it's 
 only what a man ought to do, if he's any thing 
 like a man." 
 
 He certainly looked every inch "a man." 
 His languid affectations, his fashionable drawl, 
 were gone. Even his dress — that Stultzian 
 toilet once rivaling the Count himself — was 
 now paid no more attention to than any decent 
 gentleman is justified in paying. His hair friz- 
 zled, guiltless of Macassar ; as for his oils and 
 his perfumes, the water-cure seemed to have 
 washed them all away. Altogether he wa^a 
 very fine fellow indeed — in the physical line. 
 My own small corporeality shrunk into insig- 
 nificance beside him. 
 
 But I had been sitting for two hours looking 
 direct into those eyes, which looked as steadily 
 into mine, in bright and friendly communion — 
 those eyes which always sent a deep peace, a 
 quiet rest down to the very bottom of my soul. 
 No ; I did not envy Austin Hardy. 
 
 " Now, my good fellow, when you have shak- 
 en off" your snow, sit down and inform me of 
 this mighty deed." 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing — a mere nothing," with 
 that air of positive sliyness, w^hich was in him 
 so new and so comical. "First, is all well at 
 Highwood ?" 
 
 "Certainly. You surely did not expect any 
 great internal convulsions to happen here in 
 three days?" 
 
 "No ; but when one is away, you know, one 
 fancies things. How deliciously quiet this place 
 seems, after knocking about for some hundreds 
 of miles!" 
 
 "Some hundreds of miles! Why, where 
 have you been?" 
 
 "To Edinburgh." 
 
 "To Edinburgh! You who grumble at a 
 fifty miles' journey ! In this snow, too ! What 
 important business dragged you there?" 
 
 "Oh, none. Only I thought I ought." (The 
 amusing novelty of Austin Hardy's doing an un- 
 pleasant tiling because he ought !) "I went to 
 see young Harry Keir." 
 
 I was very much astonished. 
 
 "You see," he added, poking the fire hard, 
 "I couldn't bear her sad looks when the young 
 fellow and his doubtful prospects were men- 
 tioned. He is a real fine fellow — only wants 
 giving a start in life, and he'd get on like a 
 house on fire. Now, last week a thought struck 
 me—" 
 
 "Will you kindly leave off" striking showers 
 of fir-wdod sparks into my face?" 
 
 "I didn't like telling her beforehand, lest, 
 if it failed, she should be disappointed. She 
 loves that lad — though, by-the-by, he isn't ex- 
 actly a lad ; he took his doctor's degree this 
 year, and is mighty clever, too — heigho ! She 
 is fond of him and he of her. And, by Jove ! 
 so he ought to be." 
 
 "But you have not yet told me — that is, if 
 you were going to tell me — " 
 
 "Certainly, though there's little to tell. 
 Merely, that I went to Edinburgh, found out
 
 86 
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 the young man ; then hunted up my friend, 
 
 Lord C , ■who is starting to Italy with his 
 
 sick son. A tolerable hunt, too — followed him 
 first to Yorkshire, and then to Bath. But it's 
 all settled now. Keir is appointed traveling 
 physician at £200 a year. Not a bad notion — 
 eh, Alick? The young fellow is so glad — it 
 quite does one good to think of him." 
 
 "Does she know?" 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 "How happy she will be!" 
 
 And it was he w ho had the power to give her 
 this happiness ! For the first time in my life I 
 envied Austin Hardy. 
 
 "When shall you tell her?" 
 
 "I don't know — I — I wish you would, Fyfe. 
 You would do it so much better than I." 
 
 "No— no." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I WAS present when she was told — told in 
 an awkward, unintelligible, and even agitated 
 fashion, which no one would have expected 
 from that finished gentleman, Mr. Austin 
 Hardy. 
 
 She looked from one to the other of us 
 vaguely. "I don't understand." 
 
 Hardy repeated the information — just the bare 
 fact of her brother's appointment, which young 
 Keir himself would confirm to-morrow. 
 
 She believed at last, asking pardon for her 
 doubt. " But," with that rare tear, which 
 showed how many could have, or had once 
 flowed down her dear face, "Harry and I are 
 not used to being so happy." 
 
 No more than this. Nothing in her of the 
 tragic commodity — nothing that jirofcssional 
 passion-mongers like me could study a scene 
 out of. But my "studies" had gone to the 
 winds weeks ago I 
 
 "And who has done me this kindness, for 
 •which I must be grateful all my days ? Whom 
 must I thank?" 
 
 He, generous fellow, had omitted that trifle. 
 
 Of course, I told her all. 
 
 Miss Keir was very much affected. She 
 held out both her hands to him. 
 
 "Thank you. God bless you!" 
 
 But Hardy had disappeared. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 That night, after the drawing-room was de- 
 serted, I sat alone there. 
 
 I leaned my check against the velvet arm- 
 chair, which still seemed to keep the impress 
 and Cv-en the perfume of her black hair. Long 
 meditations seized me. All my past life glided 
 before me in a moving ])icture — tlie latter lialf 
 of it standing still like a di(jranui under my 
 gaze. Then it began less to fade than to change 
 — new foinis mingling with the old, confusedly 
 
 at first. Gradually the old shapes melted out, 
 without any sense of loss, and the new, the 
 transcending beautiful and perfect scene stood 
 out before me vivid as life itself. 
 
 I said in my heart: "Every man, at every 
 great crisis of his existence, has a right, within 
 reasonable and honorable bounds, to secure his 
 own happiness, to grasp at the cuj> which he 
 feels would be his soul's strength and salva- 
 tion. It shall be so. Therefore, to-morrow — 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Rising, I paced the room. My weak nerv- 
 ousness was gone — my spirit was strung up to 
 its utmost pitch. I was able to remove mount- 
 ains. My brain felt clear — my heart throbbed 
 with all the warmth of my youth. Oh ! what 
 a youth was mine ! In this moment it all came 
 back. I could have written a great book, have 
 lived a great life ; have achieved the most dar- 
 ing ex])loit, have nerved myself to the most 
 heroic sacrifice. 
 
 This was what she had made of me — she, 
 and he, James Corrie, whom I honored with 
 all my soul. But— I loved her. 
 
 Strange, solemn love — more solemn than in 
 any young man's love — love that comes in au- 
 tumn season — wild as autumn blasts — delicious 
 and calm as autumn sunshine. Delicious, not 
 merely as itself, but as the remembrance of by- 
 gone sjtring — clung to as we cling to every soft 
 October day that dies, knowing that afterward 
 nothing can come, nothing will come, nothing 
 ought to come, but winter and snows. This 
 fatal love — I say fatal, simply implying that it 
 came of fate, which means of God — was upon 
 me, Alexander Eyfc, now. 
 
 I will not deny it, nor murmur at it, nor blush 
 for it : I never sought it, nor ruslied in tlie way 
 of it — it was sent — and therefore was right to 
 come. 
 
 Slowly, and rather loth, I went to my cham- 
 ber. In our parlor I saw Austin Hardy. 
 
 He was sitting over the fire. I should have 
 passed him, but he turned round. Such a face 
 — such a wan, haggard, wretched face — that I 
 stoj)ped. 
 
 "What have you been doing, so late up? 
 Are you ill ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Has any thing happened? Come, tell mc 
 — we were lads together." 
 
 He groaned — "Oli, that I were a lad again I 
 Alick, Alick, if you would helj) me to begin my 
 life afresh, and make it in any way worthy of — " 
 
 "Of— out with it." 
 
 "Of EUice Keir." 
 
 I had at times suspected this — had even tried 
 to grasp at the ])ossibility of it. Boldly too, as 
 we dash at some horrible doubt that we know 
 lies in wait for us — jiin it to the ground and 
 worry it — with a sort of hope that it will citlier 
 vanish into air at our touch, or that we shall 
 succeed in slaying it, leave it dead at our feet, 
 and go on (nir w-ay, safe and free. 
 
 But now, when the beast met me — when — 
 l)sliaw ! let me say it in plain English — when I
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 87 
 
 knew that my cousin loved and wished to marry 
 Ellice Keir, it drove me mad. 
 
 All kinds of insanities whirled through my 
 brain. If I had any connected impulse at all, 
 it was to fly at his throat and strangle him. 
 
 But only — God be my witness I — because he 
 dared to love Iter. Any certainty that she 
 loved him, \vould — I feel it would — liave sanc- 
 tified him in my eyes ; I could not have done 
 him any harm. 
 
 Of course feelings like these subside, and one 
 smiles at them afterward, as I smile now. But 
 I would not like to live througli that five min- 
 utes again. 
 
 It passed in total silence. I am thankful to 
 say I never uttered a sound. 
 
 Austin at last raised his head, and looked 
 at me. I steadily met his eyes. There was no 
 mistaking mine. 
 
 "My God, Alick!— You too?—" 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 We stood face to face, unblenching, for a 
 full minute or more. Then I said — • 
 
 " Strike hands. Fair fight- — no quarter — or, 
 if you will, let us both fly, and the devil take 
 the hindmost." 
 
 For I was very mad indeed. Austin, on the 
 contrary, was very quiet — nay, meek. We 
 seemed to have changed natures. 
 
 " No," he said, at length, "Flying is useless; 
 I should drop dead on the road. I'll take my 
 chance. It must be as you say — a fair fight, 
 and no quarter." 
 
 "It shall be." 
 
 Again a long pause. 
 
 "What do you purpose doing?" 
 
 " What do jjou purpose ?" 
 
 Neither answered the other's question. Each 
 looked in the other's face, savagely, and dropped 
 his eyes in a sort of jjity for the misery imprint- 
 ed there. 
 
 "I wish it had not come to this, Alexander. 
 We, that should have been brothers, if I had 
 married little Mary." 
 
 That child's name calmed us. Both, looking 
 aside, half extended an involuntarv hand. 
 
 "Let us not be enemies yet. We do not 
 know whether — " 
 
 "Tell me honestly, Austin, have you no be- 
 lief in her preference — no tangible liope — ?" 
 
 "Before Heaven, not a straw!" 
 
 I breathed freer. I did not refuse his hand : 
 we had been friends so many, many years. 
 
 "Fair play, Alick?" said Hardy, almost 
 piteously. "Is it fair play? You are a far 
 cleverer fellow than I. You can talk with her 
 and interest her. Slie likes you — respects you. 
 Now, I — oh, what a wretched, trifling, brainless 
 fool I must appear to her!" 
 
 Boor fellow ! — poor open-hearted, simple- 
 minded soul ! 
 
 "Lad, lad," — with my hand on his shoulder 
 as when we used to stand fishing in the silvery 
 Tyne — "do you think a woman only cares for 
 brains?" 
 
 He shook his head, hopelessly. " I can't say. 
 
 I don't know. God forgive me" — with a bitter, 
 remorseful humiliation — " till now I have hard- 
 ly known any tiling of t^ood women. That's 
 it," he added, after a pause — " it is not merely 
 losing her, you see ; if I lose her I shall lose 
 myself — the better self she put into me. My 
 only chance of a new life hangs on her. Think 
 how she would help me — think what a man she 
 would make of me. If I married her — Hold 
 your hands oflf! Are you mad, Fyfe ?" 
 
 "I am afraid so." 
 
 She married I Married ! — sitting by another 
 man's fireside ; the wife of another man's 
 bosom — the mother of another man's children ! 
 Reason could not take it in ; imagination beat 
 it off, even from the merest outworks of the 
 brain. If once allowed to enter the citadel, 
 there would have been a grand explosion — a 
 conflagration reaching to the very heavens, 
 burning down to such a heap of ruins that no 
 man could rebuild a city thereon any more. 
 
 But this is what they call "fine" writing. 
 Better say, in common polite phrase, that the 
 idea of this lady's marriage — and to my cousin 
 — was rather trying to a person of my excitable 
 temperament. 
 
 I believe Austin was roused from his own 
 feelings to contemplate mine. I have a vague 
 recollection of his startled, shocked look, and 
 the extreme gentleness of his tone. "Do sit 
 down ; there's a good fellow ! I knew you didn't 
 mean me any harm." 
 
 Also, I mind his watching me as I paced the 
 room — watching with a disturbed, grieved air — 
 and muttering to himself — 
 
 "Poor lad — he was always M-eakly. His 
 mother used to say a great misfortune would 
 kill him or turn his brain." 
 
 "I hope it would." 
 
 "Alick — don't say that." He tnmed npon 
 me absolutely brimming eyes. Now, it so hap- 
 pened that, being her sister's child, Austin's eyes 
 were not unlike my mother's. What could I do 
 but come and sit down opposite to- him, and try 
 desperately to struggle against the strongtendeii- 
 cy which I knew my mind had — which almost all 
 minds similarly constituted, and hard worked, 
 have likewise — to lose its balance, and go rock- 
 ing, rocking, in a pleasant motion that seems 
 temijorarily to lull pain, till it plunges over, over 
 — one hair-breadth, and it is lost in the abyss 
 whence Reason is absent for evermore. 
 
 '• That is right — sit down. I should be sorry 
 if I wronged you, Alexander ; sorry that any 
 thing should turn you against me. You, the 
 only fellow who never flattered nor quizzed me 
 — who has stuck by me through thick and thin, 
 for my own sake, I do believe, and not for my 
 property." 
 
 And lie Mas the only fellow who, ignorant of 
 the gimcrackery of literature— disregarding my 
 petty "reputation" — my barren "laurels" — 
 loved heartily, and had loved from boyhood, not 
 the "celebrated author," but the man Alexan- 
 der Fyfe. 
 
 Such a friendship as ours, cemented by its
 
 88 
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 inconp-uitics, was rare — and precious as 
 Love could not, sliould not, annihilate 
 
 ven' 
 rare 
 it. 
 
 ••Austin, let's to bed. 
 clearer in the morning 
 bless you, my boy." 
 
 We shall sec things 
 Good-night. God 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 NKVEnxnELESS, it was a horrible night, and 
 a hoiTible waking. Things stand so ghastly 
 plain in the face of day. 
 
 Yet, blessings on you, friendly Aquarius, who 
 came so welcomely at dawn, with pail after pail 
 of icy torrents, cooling all the fever in my blood, 
 leaving behind, on soul as well as body, a warm, 
 heroic, healthy glow. I do believe half the pas- 
 sions, crimes, and miseries of humanity would be 
 calmed down imder the influence of water-cure. 
 In the hall, quaffing our matutinal glass, clear 
 as crystal, refresliing as the e//.r//' vita; my cous- 
 in and I met face to face — faces, strange, no 
 doubt, and pallid still, but very different from 
 last night. 
 
 N(j reference to that ; temporarily the ghost 
 was laid. 
 
 " Good-moming." 
 
 "Good-morning. Starting for your walk? 
 'Tis damj), rather." 
 
 " V'cry. Are you for the wood ?" 
 "Probably. And you for the moorland?" 
 "Ay." 
 
 So tacitly we parted. Generally we walked 
 together, but not now. 
 
 Up the hillside, through tlic mass of red 
 beecli-leavcs her pony had trampled through ; 
 how dead and dank they now lay, slowly pass- 
 ing into corruption. Up, up — it is my habit 
 never to rest till I have climbed as far as one 
 can climb — up, steadily, till I came out. on the 
 level moorland. 
 
 It was all in a soft mist. Not a breath stir- 
 ring ; not a waft of cold December wind. The 
 year had laid itself down to die patiently. It 
 would not struggle any more. Only sometimes 
 a great drop would come with a ])lash from some 
 fir-tree hard by, like a heavy involuntary tear. 
 Hut the leaden sky would not yield ; the rain 
 refused to fall. 
 
 I walked for a whole hour pondering. The 
 text of my meditations was Austin's saying of 
 last night — 
 
 " She is my better self. If I lose her, I shall 
 lose my soul." 
 
 Now I, weak as my body was, had my soul in 
 my own hand. 
 
 I might die — probably I sliould ; but I did 
 not l)clieve that any stroke, however heavy, 
 woulil drive out of my heart tin; virtue which her 
 blessed influence had imjilanted there. Mis- 
 cry might kill mc, or (possil)ly, tlioii^ih I trusted 
 in God's mercy not!) niigiit make me a lunatic, 
 but it never would make me a criminal. Him, 
 it might. 
 
 I took my determination — at least, for a time 
 — till things altered, or till I saw some dim 
 light. Oh no ! Unless I sought for it, toiled 
 for it, prayed for it, how could such a fellow as 
 I hope to see the faintest love-light shining on 
 me from her sweet eyes ? 
 
 So no wrong to her in that determination of 
 mine. 
 
 Again Austin and I met in the midst of a 
 cluster of cheerful patients — somehow patients 
 always are cheerful at the water-cure. We were 
 cheerful, too. I felt, and something in his voice 
 causing me to look at him hard, showed me he 
 felt, too, an extraordinary calm. 
 
 He followed me to our rooms. 
 
 "Alexander, just one word. I have thought 
 over last night, and somewhat changed my 
 mind." 
 
 " So have I." 
 
 "I shall not speak to her — not just yet." 
 
 "Nor I." 
 
 Again we looked fixedly at one another — 
 again, hand to hand, we rivals, yet almost broth- 
 ers, closed. 
 
 "Thank you, Austin." 
 
 "You are a good fellow, Fyfe." 
 
 "I think," said I, brokenly, " this is rig]it — 
 this is how she would wish it to be. AVe must 
 not hate one another for love of her, who has 
 been a saving angel to us both." 
 
 "Ay, so she has." 
 
 "Let her be so still — let every thing go on 
 as usual, till some chance gives either a sign 
 of her regard. 'J'hen, each for himself! a fair 
 struggle, and Heaven comfort the one who 
 falls !" 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Day after day, during the whole of those 
 strange two weeks, did things "go on as usual." 
 That is, we met her at breakfast, at dinner, at 
 supper ; sometimes walked with her, drove with 
 her, i)asscd every evening in her j)resence, with- 
 in sound of her voice, within brushing of her 
 dress. Twice every day — fool ! how one of us 
 used to court and wait for the minute — we each 
 touched her hand. And many times a day that 
 same one — I will not answer for the other — 
 would, standing by her, in serious fireside ar- 
 gument, or easy meal-time, look down, right 
 down — she had a curiously steady, earnest, in- 
 nocent gaze, when she was talking — into the 
 inllnitely tender depths, the warm, dark s|)len- 
 dors of her eyes. 
 
 Yet neither of us, by word or look, sought to 
 win, or by any word or look of hers could found 
 a hope that we might win, her ))reference. 
 
 And, night after nigiit, when the day's ordeal 
 was over, we used to sit silent over the fire in 
 our own room, sometimes b)' chance catching 
 sight of one anotlicr's faces, and recognizing 
 there the marvelous self-denial, the heroic self- 
 control, which kejit deferring, each for the other'a 
 sake, the delicious, the fatal day.
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 89 
 
 We sat — not unlike two friends drifting sea- 
 ward in a crazy boat, incapable of a double 
 freight, who sit sadly gazing — willing to pro- 
 long the time, yet knowing that, under certain 
 definite circumstances, and within a certain 
 definite time, one or the other must go down. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 She was sitting talking with me in Dr. 
 James's study ; no one there but our two selves 
 — not a face to watch hers save mine — and 
 those pictured faces on the walls, which she 
 was so ibnd of — rare prints gathered by James 
 Come on his wanderings : — grand old Buona- 
 rotti, th J angelic, boyish Raffaelle, and Giotto, 
 with that noble, irregular profile, serious, sweet, 
 and brave. 
 
 "It is not unlike Di-. James himself, I fancy." 
 "Do you think so ? So do I sometimes." 
 And Miss Keir sewed faster at her work — a 
 collar or handkerchief for Harry, who had been 
 at Highwood now for several days. 
 
 "What a pure nature it is !" continued I, and 
 still looked at the Giotto, and thinking of James 
 Corrie. "So very tender, for all its steadfast- 
 ness and strength. I hardly ever honored any 
 man as I do our friend the doctor. Do not 
 you?" 
 
 " He has been the kindest friend in the world 
 to Harry and to me 
 
 I must try to tell him so 
 Surely, not 
 
 away 
 
 ,'? 
 
 "And to me, also, 
 before I go away." 
 
 "You are not going 
 yet?" 
 
 That start — that look of earnest regret. What 
 a leap my heart gave ! 
 
 "I thought — I understood," with a slight 
 hesitation, "that you were to stay at Highwood 
 till after the New-Year?" 
 
 "Did James Corrie say so? And do you 
 wish it ?" 
 
 And that warm, soft color which, during all 
 our talk, had been growing, growing, now seemed 
 glowing into scarlet under my gaze. No; I 
 would not take away my eyes. I would see 
 whether they could not light up in hers some 
 tithe of the hidden fire that I knew must be 
 burning in my own. 
 
 I was right! She did tremble — she did 
 blush ; vividly, almost like a girl of fifteen — 
 this calm, this quiet EUice Keir. 
 
 "I ought; indeed I ought to leave. My 
 book — you know — my — " 
 
 Stammering, I ceased. 
 
 She laid her work down, and looked me 
 straight in the face, in her peculiar way, saying 
 softly— '■' 
 
 "No; you must not go. Yo'ii are not strong 
 enough. Besides, I want you to stay — ^just a 
 week longer. Never mind your book." 
 
 "Miss Keir, you know I would thrust it and 
 all the books I ever ^vrote into that flame this 
 minute, if — " 
 
 I remembered my pledge. Ay, A-iJitin — sa- 
 credly. 
 
 "If what?" 
 
 ' ' If Miss Keir will tell me the reason Avhy 
 she wishes me to stay ?" 
 
 I said this in an exaggeration of carelessness 
 — even trying to make a joke of it. I did not 
 expect to see that strange, unwonted blush rise 
 again over face and throat, nor to see her very 
 fingers tremble as she worked. 
 
 What was to become of me? One second 
 more, and I should have forgotten all — she 
 would have known all. Thank God it was 
 not so. 
 
 I snatched up a book, muttered some vague 
 apology, and rushed out of her sight. 
 
 No ; this could not go on. An end must be 
 put to it somehow. While she was iiuiifterent, 
 quiet, composed — merely the lady who smiling- 
 ly shook hands with me morning and night, I 
 could bear it. But to see her, as I saw her 
 this morning — all the woman stirred in her, 
 blushing, trembling — not Miss Keii-, but Ellice 
 — Ellice ! It could not be. The crisis nnist 
 come. 
 
 I made up my mind. But first I went in 
 search of Austin Hardy — hesitatingly and slow; 
 for involuntarily a wild conviction had forced 
 itself on my mind (forgive me, thou essence 
 of most simple and pure womanhood ! but we 
 men have such delusions sometimes) a con- 
 viction that Austin, at least, would never win 
 Ellice Keir. 
 
 I went to meet him in the garden with a 
 strange pity — even a sort of remorse. I found 
 him walking, talking, and laughing with Harry 
 and Ellice Keir. 
 
 "Yes, certainly, we will come, both Harry 
 and I, and see all these wonderful changes and 
 improvements at Netherlands. I am so happy 
 to think of them all. You will not forget one 
 of them. You promise ?" 
 "I promise." 
 
 She spoke earnestly — Harry too : so earnestly 
 that they did not notice me. They stood still 
 under the great cedar. Harry Keir — what a 
 gleesome face the young fellow had! — was toss- 
 ing up and catching cedar cones. 
 
 "Yes; I will promise every thing. Nether- 
 lands shall begin a new life, like its master, 
 please God ! It shall hardly know its old like- 
 ness. It and the people belonging to it shall 
 be the pattern of the whole country. Will that 
 make you happy ?" 
 
 " Very happy. Few things more." 
 "And — " Ay, dear Austin, I heard and 
 honored the self-command which smoothed 
 down to inditference that tremulous tone — 
 "when will you do me that honor? It shall 
 be quite a festival when you visit Netherlands. 
 Fyfe — ah, my dear fellow, are you there ? — 
 Fyfc shall be asked, and all our good friends at 
 Highwood." 
 
 "Bravo!" cried Harry, with a laugh, as he 
 tossed up his biggest fir-cone ; " and Dr. James, 
 of course."
 
 90 
 
 THE WATER CURE. 
 
 " Most certainly. Every one whom she cares 
 for — every one who honors lier. And now, Miss 
 Keir, will you too promise ? — When will you 
 come to Netherlands ?" 
 
 "1 hope — some time — next year?" 
 
 Were my eyes dazzled by that red torrent 
 which seemed to roll pouring in upon my brain ; 
 or did I again see, as an hour before, that same 
 warm, tremulous, exquisite blush — such as is 
 always coming and going in a woman's face 
 when she loves, and is very hajjin" ? 
 
 Not a word more. She was gone. Austin 
 and I stood under the heavy shade of the cedar. 
 Was it that which made his face and my heart 
 seem so dark and cold ? 
 
 "Now, Hardy?" 
 
 " Well, I hear vou. The lime has come ?" 
 
 " I think it has."" 
 
 I saw him watching her on the terrace where 
 she and Harry were walking merrily. The sun 
 was shining tliere. As he looked all the gloom 
 passed out of his countenance ; it seemed to 
 gatlier the sunshine too. 
 
 Jealousy ! I had written pages on jjages about 
 it — learned "to throw myself into tlic feeling," 
 as our literary cant goes— fluttered myself I had 
 sketehcd beautifully, to the very life, tlie wholiJ 
 thing. I3ut now, to realize what I had de- 
 scribed — and fancy indulged in a cruel spas- 
 modic laugli to see how very real 1 had done 
 it — now to feel the horror gnawing at me, like 
 that fiend the old monk-painter painted, Avho 
 afterward came and stood at his elbow till he 
 died ; to feel not only through my brains but in 
 my heart that jealousy of whicli we jioets prate 
 so grandly — make into such pathetic novels, 
 such withering tragedies — jealousy, which we 
 say leads to hatred, madness, min-der ! I could 
 believe it — I could jjrove it. I jdumbed its low- 
 est depths of possible crime in tliat one minute 
 wlicn I watched my cousin Austin watching 
 EUice Keir. 
 
 I had loved Austin — did so still. Yet for that 
 one minute — hajipily it was only one — I hated 
 him, loathed him. 1 believe I could have seen 
 liim shot down, and mounted over his dead bodv 
 to tlie citadel of my frenzied hope — as our ])Oor 
 fellows are perhaps doing tliis day as I write, iu 
 the trendies before Sebastopol. But, "better 
 is he that rulcth his spirit than he wlio taketh 
 a city." I ruled mine. 
 
 " Austin, tills must end." 
 
 "It must. When?" 
 
 " To-day if you will. There— look, she has 
 gone within doors." 
 
 We stood— the crisis was at hand. Our life- 
 l>oat reeled — quivered. Very pale sat we. Which 
 would be the one to go down ? 
 
 " Who is to Iciirn his fortune first ?" said 
 Hardy. 
 
 " Let's draw lots." I lau-hed— I felt spurred 
 on t« any kind of insane folly. " Let's toss up, 
 us the children do; or, since the coin of the 
 realm is as dross to you, and as life's worth to 
 me — let's take to the scntiimntal, tlic poetical. 
 Here, choose." 
 
 I tore off a sjnig of cedar and a sprig of a 
 yew-tree hard by, and held out to him the two 
 stems, the leaves being hidden. 
 
 " Now, which ? Who is for his cedar-palace, 
 and who for his branch of yew ?" 
 
 I know Hardy thought I was losing my wits 
 fast. He looked at me witli pity. "No," he 
 said, gently; "no child's play — we must be 
 men. Go you in and speak to her first." 
 
 He leapt the hedge into the field. So it be- 
 came my doom. Best, far the best. 
 
 The door luijipened to be fastened. I thought 
 I would get into the house, as I often did, by the 
 low windows of the doctor's study. Standing 
 there I looked in. 
 
 James Corrie sat at his table, not writing, but 
 thinking. His chin was on his folded hands — 
 his eyes out-looking, calm and clear. What a 
 noble face it was — the face of one who has gone 
 through seas of trouble, and landed at length 
 in serene, soul-satisfying joy. 
 
 Twice I knocked at the pane, and he did not 
 perceive me. Then hearing me call, he came 
 forwra'd, smiling. 
 
 I said 1 would not interrupt him, as I was 
 going to Miss Keir. 
 
 "Just stay one minute. I wanted to =;ay a 
 word to vou — in fact, by the particular wish of 
 Miss Keir." 
 
 I sat down. 
 
 James Corrie folded his newspajicr, closed 
 Ills desk, looked — something different from what 
 James Corrie was wont to look, but happy, in- 
 effably ha))])y. 
 
 " I am waiting to hear — " 
 
 "Ay, and you shall hear, my old friend, for 
 I know }i)u will rejoice. Simply this. Miss 
 Keir has told me you intend leaving us, and she 
 wishes, most earnestly, that you would stay till 
 after the New Year." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "Even if Alexander Fyfe were not welcome 
 for his own sake, as he knows he is, still wliat- 
 ever adds to her hapjuncss must necessarily add 
 to mine. 
 
 He whom I knew she held — as in his simple 
 goodness all good women might hold him — like 
 a very brother ; lie who, slie said, had been to iier 
 "the kindest friend in the world" — strange for 
 him to sjjeak to me thus! I'crhaps, in spite of 
 myself, I had l)etraycd my feelings. Did he 
 think — did lie guess — 
 
 "I see, ^sia, you do not quite understand me. 
 You do not know — in truth, being neither of us 
 young, we were rather unwilling it siiould be 
 known or talked about — that Miss Keir and 
 myself have been engaged for two years. 'J'hat, 
 God willing, next Saturday, New-Year's morn- 
 ing, will be our wedding-day." 
 
 CHAPTER XVH. 
 
 No — I was rigiit ; it did not slay me. This 
 misery i)assed by, and destroyed neither my life 
 nor Austin's soul.
 
 THE LAST HOUSE IN C- 
 
 STREET. 
 
 91 
 
 God's mercy sir.nigthened me ; I was able to 
 heli> and streii<j;then him. It was very fortunate 
 that only I was jjresent when the truth came 
 out. 
 
 Tliat truth neither James Corrie nor his wife 
 have everyuessed or will ever learn. Why should 
 they ? It would only pain them in their hapjti- 
 ness. And what blame to them? It was all 
 our own delusion. He is still the worthiest man, 
 and she the noblest woman, we ever knew. God 
 bless them ! 
 
 Hardy has <iOiie home to his estates, where he 
 intends always to reside. If he is able to carry 
 out one-half of his jmrposes, no wealthy land- 
 owner in England will be more useful, more 
 
 honored in his generation, than Austin Hardy, 
 Esquire, of Netherlands ; and widely different ' 
 as our fortunes are, he and I shall be as brothers 
 until death. 
 
 j For myself, I am now in my old London 
 
 I haunts, finishing my long-untinished book. It 
 
 I will be a difterent book from what it was to 
 
 j be ; different, oh how diifei-cnt ! from what it 
 
 ! might have been. But it will be a very 
 
 tolerable book still — wholesome, cheerful, brave. 
 
 Such an one as is the "/o trhimjihe" of 
 
 a great spiritual Marathon — such an one as I 
 
 never could have written in all my days, had I 
 
 not, in body and soul, undergone the Water 
 
 Cure. 
 
 THE LAST HOUSE IN C- STREET. 
 
 I AM not a believer in ghosts in general ; I 
 see no good in them. They come — that is, are 
 reported to come — so irrelevantly, purposeless- 
 ly — so ridiculously, in short — -that one's com- 
 mon sense as regards this world, one's supernat- 
 ural sense of tiie other, are alike revolted. Then 
 nine out of ten of the "capital ghost stories" are 
 so easily accounted for; and in the tenth, when 
 all natural explanation fails, one who has dis- 
 covered the extraordinary difficulty there is in 
 all society in getting hold of that very slippery 
 article called a fact, is strongly inclined to shake 
 a dubious head, ejaculating, "Evidence! it is 
 all a question of evidence !" 
 
 But my unbelief springs from no dogged or 
 contemptuous ske))ticism as to the possibility — 
 however great the improbability — of that strange 
 impression u]ion, or communication to, spirit in 
 matter, from spirit wholly immaterialized, which 
 is vulgarly called '* a ghost." There is no cre- 
 dulity more blind, no ignorance more childish, 
 than that of the sage who trios to measure 
 "heaven and earth and the things under the 
 earth," with the small two-foot rule of his own 
 brains. Dare we jjresume to argue concerning 
 any mystery of the universe, " It is inexplica- 
 ble, and therefore impossible ?" 
 
 Premising these opinions, though simply as 
 opinions, I am about to relate what I must con- 
 fess seems to me a thorough ghost-story ; its ex- 
 ternal and circumstantial evidence being indis- 
 putable, while its psychological causes and re- 
 sults, though not easy of explanation, are still 
 more difficult to be explained away. The ghost, 
 like Hamlet's, was "an honest ghost." From 
 her daughter — an old lady, who, bless her good 
 and gentle memory ! has since learned the se- 
 crets of all things — I heard this veritable tale. 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. MacArthur to me — it 
 was in the early days of table-moving, when 
 young folk ridiculed and elder folk were shocked 
 
 at the notion of calling up one's departed an- 
 cestors into one's dinner-table, and learning the 
 wonders of the angelic world by the bobbingsof 
 a hat or the twirlings of a plate — "My dear," 
 continued the old ladv, "I do not like trifling 
 with spirits." 
 
 " Why not ? Do vou believe in them ?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 ' ' Did you ever see one ?" 
 
 "Never. But once I heard one." 
 
 She looked serious, as if she hardly liked to 
 speak about it, either from a sense of awe or 
 from fear of ridicule. But it was impossible to 
 laugh at any illusions of the gentle old lady, 
 who never uttered a harsh or satirical word to 
 a living soul. Likewise the evident awe with 
 which she mentioned the circumstance was rath- 
 er remarkable in one who had a large stock of 
 common sense, little wonder, and no ideality. 
 
 I was rather curious to hear Mrs. MacArthur's 
 ghost-story. 
 
 "My dear, it was a long time ago, so long 
 that you may fancy I forget and confuse the 
 circumstances. But I do not. Sometimes I 
 think one recollects more clearly things that 
 happened in one's teens— I was eighteen that 
 year — than a great many nearer events. And 
 besides, I had other reasons for remembering 
 vividly every thing belonging to this time — for 
 I was in love, you must know." 
 
 She looked at me with a mild, deprecating 
 smile, as if hoping my youthfulness would not 
 consider the thing so very impossible or ridicu- 
 lous. No ; I was all interest at once. 
 
 "In love withMr. MacArthur," 1 said, scarce- 
 ly as a question, being at that Arcadian time 
 of life when one takes as a natural necessity, 
 and believes in as an undoubted truth, that all 
 people, that is, good people, marry their first 
 love. 
 
 "No, my dear; not withMr. MacArthur.''
 
 92 
 
 THE LAST HOUSE IN C- 
 
 STREET. 
 
 I was so astonished, so completely dumb- 
 foundered — for I had woven a sort of ideal round 
 mv pood old friend — that I suffered Mrs. Mac- 
 Arthur to knit in silence for full five minutes. 
 ^Iv surprise was not lessened when she said, 
 with a gratified little smile — 
 
 " He was a young gentleman of good parts ; 
 and he was very fond of me. Proud, too, rath- 
 er. For though you might not think it, my 
 dear, I was actually a beauty in those days." 
 
 I had very little doubt of it. The slight 
 lithe figure, the tiny hands and feet — if you had 
 walked behind Mrs. MacArthur down the street 
 you might have taken her for a young woman 
 still. Certainly, people lived slower and easier 
 in the last generation than in ours. 
 
 " Yes, I was the beauty of Batli. Mr. Ever- 
 est fell in love with me there. I was much 
 gratified ; for I had just been reading Miss 
 Burney's 'Cecilia,' and I thought him exactly 
 like Mortimer Delvil. A very pretty story, ' Ce- 
 cilia ;' did you ever read it?" 
 
 "No." And, to arrive quick at her tale, I 
 leaped to the only conclusion which could rec- 
 oncile the two facts of my good old friends hav- 
 ing had a lover named Everest, and being now 
 JMrs. MacArthur. " Was it his ghost you saw?" 
 " No, my dear, no ; thank goodness, he is alive 
 still. He calls here sometimes ; he has been a 
 faithful friend to our family. Ah I" with a 
 slow shake of the head, half pleased, half pen- 
 sive, "you would iiardly believe, my dear, what 
 a very pretty fellow he was." 
 
 One could scarcely smile at the odd phrase, 
 j>ertaining to last-century novels and to the loves 
 of our great-grandmothers. I listened patiently 
 to the wandering reminiscences which still fur- 
 ther delayed the ghost-story. 
 
 "But, Mrs. MacArthur, Avas it in Bath that 
 you saw or heard what I think you were going 
 to tell me? The ghost, you know?" 
 
 " Don't call it l/iat ; it sounds as if you were 
 lau;;hing at it. And you must not, for it is 
 really true ; as true as that I sit here, an old 
 lady of seventy-five ; and that then I was a 
 young gentlewoman of eighteen. Nay, my dear, 
 i wili tell you all about it." 
 
 "We had been staying in London, my father 
 and motiier, Mr. Everest, and I. He luid per- 
 suadeil them to take me ; he wanted to show 
 me a little of the world, though even his world 
 was but a narrow one, my dear — for he was a 
 law student, living poorly and working hard. 
 
 "He took lodgings for us near the Tcmjiie ; 
 
 in C Street, the last house there, looking 
 
 on to the river. He was very fond of tlie river ; 
 and often of evenings, wlien his work was too | 
 heavy to let him take us to Kanelagh or to the 
 play, he used to walk with my father and moth- 
 er and me, up and down the Temple Gardens. 
 Were you ever in the Teiiii)lc Gardens? It is 
 a pretty place now — a <iuiet, gray nook in the 
 midst of noise and bustle ; the stars look won- 
 derful through tliose great trees; but still it is 
 not like what it was then, when I was a girl." 
 
 Ah! no; impossible. 
 
 "It was in the Temple Gardens, my dear, 
 that I remember we took our last walk — my 
 mother, ]\Ir. Everest, and I — before she went 
 home to Bath. She was ver}' anxious and rest- 
 less to go, being too delicate for London gaye- 
 ties. Besides, she had a large family at home, 
 of which I was the eldest ; and we were anx- 
 iously expecting the youngest in a month or 
 two. Nevertheless, my dear mother had gone 
 about with me, taken me to all the shows and 
 sights that I, a hearty and happy girl, longed to 
 see, and entered into them with almost as great 
 enjoyment as my own. 
 
 "But to-night she was pale, rather grave, 
 and steadfastly bent on returning home. 
 
 "We did all we could to persuade her to the 
 contrary, for on the next night but one was to 
 have been the crowning treat of all our London 
 pleasures : we were to see Hamlet at Drury 
 Lane, with John Kemble, and Sarah Siddons ! 
 Think of that, my dear. Ah! you have no such 
 sights now. Even my grave father longed to 
 go, and urged in his mild way that we should 
 jiut off" our departure. But my mother was de- 
 termined. 
 
 " At last Mr. Everest said — I could show yoa 
 the very spot where he stood, with the rivcT — it 
 was high water — lapping against the wall, and 
 the evening sun shining on the Southwark 
 houses opposite. He said — it was very wrong, 
 of course, my dear ; but then he was in love, 
 and might be excused — 
 
 "'Mad.un,' said he, * it is the first time I 
 ever knew vou think of yourself alone.' 
 
 "'Myself, Edniond?' 
 
 " 'Pardon me, but would it not be possible 
 for you to return home, leaving behind for two 
 days only Mr. Thwaite and Mistress Dorothy?' 
 
 " 'Leave them behind — leave them behind!' 
 She mused over the words. 'What say you, 
 Dorothy ?' 
 
 " I was silent. In very truth, I had never 
 been parted from her in all my life. It had 
 never crossed my mind to wish to part from her, 
 or to enjoy any jjleasurc without her, till — till 
 within the last three months. 'Mother, don't 
 sujjjwse I — ' 
 
 " But here I caught ."sight of Mr. Everest and 
 stopped. 
 
 " 'Pray continue, Mistress Dorothy." 
 
 "No, I could not. He looked so vexed, so 
 hurt; and we had been so hajjjiy together. Also, 
 we might not meet again for years, for the jour- 
 ney between London and Bath was then a seri- 
 ous one, even to lovers ; and he worked very 
 hard — had few ]deasures in his life. It did in- 
 deed seem almost selfish of my motlier. 
 
 "Though my lips said notliing, pcrhai)S my 
 sad eyes said only too much, and my mother 
 felt it. 
 
 " She walked with us a few yards, slowly and 
 thoughtfully. I could sec her now, with her 
 pale, tired face, under the cherry-colored ribbons 
 of her hood. She had been very handsome as 
 a young woman, and was most sweet-looking 
 still — my dear, good mother !
 
 THE LAST HOUSE IN C- 
 
 STREET. 
 
 93 
 
 " 'Dorothy, we will no more discuss tliis. I 
 am very sorry, but I must go liome. However, 
 I will persuade your father to remain with you 
 till the week's end. Are you satisfied ?' 
 
 " 'No,' was the first filial impulse of my heart; 
 but Edmond pressed my arm with such an en- 
 treating look that almost against my will I an- 
 swered, 'Yes.' 
 
 ' ' Mr. Everest overwhelmed my mother with 
 his delight and gratitude. She walked up and 
 down for some time longer, leaning on his arm 
 — she was very fond of him ; then stood look- 
 ing on the river, upward and downward. 
 
 " 'I suppose this is my last walk in London. 
 Thank you for all the care you have taken of 
 me. And when I am gone home— mind, oh, 
 mind, Edmond, that you take sfxicial care of 
 Dorothy.' 
 
 "These words, and the tone in which they 
 were spoken, fixed themselves on my mind — 
 first, from gratitude, not uiimingled with regret, 
 as if I had not been so considerate to her as she 
 to me ; afterward — but we often err, my dear, 
 in dwelling too much on that word. We finite 
 creatures have only to deal with 'now' — nothing 
 whatever to do with ' afterward.' In this case, 
 I have ceased to blame myself or others. What- 
 ever was, being past, was right to be, and could 
 not have been otherwise. 
 
 " My mother went home next morning, alone. 
 We were to follow in a few days, though slie 
 would not allow us to fix any time. Her de- 
 parture was so hurried that I remember nothing 
 about it, save her answer to my father's urgent 
 desire — almost command — that if any thing 
 were amiss she would immediutajy let him 
 know. 
 
 '"Under all circumstances, wife,' he reiter- 
 ated, ' this you promise ?' 
 
 " ' I promise.' 
 
 '' Though when she was gone he declared she 
 need not have said it so earnestly, since we 
 should be at home almost as soon as the slow 
 Bath coach could take her there and bring us 
 back a letter. And besides, there was nothing 
 likely to happen. But he fidgeted a good deal, 
 being unused to her absence in their happy 
 wedded life. He was, like most men, glad to 
 blame any body but himself, and the whole day, 
 and the next, was cross at intervals with both 
 Edmond and me ; but we bore it — and pa- 
 tiently. 
 
 " ' It will be all right when we get him to the 
 theatre. He has no real cause for anxiety about 
 her. What a dear woman she is, and a pre- 
 cious — your mother, Dorothy!' 
 
 '• I rejoiced to hear my lover speak thus, and 
 thought there hardly ever was young gentlewo- 
 man so blessed as I. 
 
 "We went to the play. Ah, you know no- 
 thing of what a play is, nowadays. You never 
 saw John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. Though 
 in dresses and shows it was far inferior to the 
 Hamlet you took me to see last week, my dear 
 — and though I perfectly well remember be- 
 ing on the point of laughing when, in the most 
 
 solemn scene, it became clearly evident that the 
 Ghost had been drinking. Strangely enough, 
 no after events connected therewith ever were 
 able to drive from my mind the vivid impression 
 of this my first play. Strange, also, that the 
 play should have been Hamlet. Do you think 
 that Shakspeare believed in — in what people call 
 ' ghosts ?' " 
 
 I could not say ; but I thought Mrs. Jlac- 
 Arthur's ghost very long in coming. 
 
 "Don't, my dear— don't ; do any thing but 
 laugh at it." 
 
 She was visibly affected, and it was not with- 
 out an eftbrt that she proceeded in her story. 
 
 "I wish you to understand exactly my posi- 
 tion that night— a young girl, her head full of 
 the enchantment of the stage — her heart of 
 something not less engrossing. Mr. Everest 
 had supped with us, leaving us both in the best 
 of spirits ; indeed, my father had gone to bed, 
 laughing heartily at the remembrance of the an- 
 tics of Mr. Grimaldi, Avhich had almost obliter- 
 ated the Queen and Hamlet from his memorj% 
 on which the ridiculous always took a far stron- 
 ger hold than the awful or sublime. 
 
 "I was sitting — let me see — at tlie window, 
 chatting with my maid Patty, who was brushing 
 the powder out of my hair. The window was 
 open half-way and looking out on the Thames, 
 and the summer night being very wann and 
 starry made it almost like sitting out of doors. 
 There was none of the awe given by the solitude 
 of a closed room, when every sound is magni- 
 fied, and every shadow seems alive. 
 
 "As I said, we had been chatting and laugh- 
 ing ; for Patty and I were both very young, and 
 she had a sweetheart, too. She, like every 
 one of our household, was a warm admirer of 
 Mr. Everest. I had just been half scolding, 
 half smiling at her praises of him, when St. 
 Paul's great clock came booming over tlie silent 
 river. 
 
 '"Eleven," counted Patty. 'Terrible late 
 we be. Mistress Dorothy : not like Bath hours, 
 I reckon.' 
 
 " ' ^lother will have been in bed an hour ago,' 
 said I, \\ith a little self-reproach at not having 
 thought of her till now. 
 
 "The next minute my maid and I both start- 
 ed up with a simultaneous exclamation. 
 
 "'Did you hear that?' 
 
 " 'Yes, a bat flying against the window.' 
 
 '"But the lattices are open. Mistress Doro- 
 thy.' 
 
 " So they were ; and there was no bird or 
 bat or living thing about — only the quiet sum- 
 mer night, the river, and the stars. 
 
 " ' I lie certain sure I heard it. And I think 
 it was like — just a bit like — somebody tapping.' 
 
 " 'Nonsense, Patty !' But it had struck me 
 thus — though I said it was a bat. It was ex- 
 actly like the sound of fingers against a ])ane — 
 very soft, gentle fingers, such as, in passing into 
 her flower-garden, my mother used often to tap 
 outside the school-room casement at home. 
 
 " ' 1 wonder tiid IVahcr hear any thing. It —
 
 94 
 
 THE LAST HOUSE IN C- 
 
 STREET. 
 
 the bird, vou know, I'atty — might have flown 
 at his window, too ?' 
 
 " ' Oh, :\Iisticss Dorothy 1' Patty would not 
 be deceived. I yave her the brush to finish my 
 liair, but her hand shook too much. I shut the 
 window, and we botli sat down facing it. 
 
 "At that minute, distinct, clear, and unmis- 
 takable, like a jicrson giving a summons in 
 passing by, we heard once more the tap])ing on 
 the pane. But notliing was seen ; not a single 
 shadow came between us and the open air, the 
 bright starlight. 
 
 '•Starilcd I was, and awed, Init I was not 
 friglitcneil. The sound gave me even an inex- 
 plicable delight. But I had hardly time to rec- 
 ognize my feelings, still less to analyze them, 
 when a loud crv came from my father's room. 
 
 '"Dolly— Dolly:"' 
 
 " Now my mother aiid I had both one name, 
 but he always gave her the old-fashioned pet 
 name — I was invariably Dorothy. Still I did 
 not pause to think, but ran to his locked door 
 and answered. 
 
 "It was a long time before he took any no- 
 tice, though I heard him talking to himself, and 
 moaning. He was subject to bad dreams, espe- 
 cially before his attacks of gout. So my first 
 alarm liglitcncd. I stood listening, knocking 
 at intervals, until at last he replied. 
 
 " 'What do'ce want, child?' 
 
 " 'Is any thing the matter, father?' 
 
 " 'Notliing. Go to thy bed, Dorothy.' 
 
 "'Did you not call? Do you want any 
 one?' 
 
 '"Not thee. O Dolly, my poor Dolly'— 
 and he seemed to be almost sobbing, ' "Why did 
 I let tliee leave me!' 
 
 " 'Father, you are not going to be ill? It 
 is not the gout, is it ?' (for that was tlie time 
 when he wanted my mother most, and, indeed, 
 wlien he was wholly unmanageable by any one 
 but her). 
 
 " 'Go away. Get to thy bed, girl ; I don't 
 want 'ec.' 
 
 "I thought he was angry with me for having 
 been in some sort the cause of our delay, and 
 retired very miserable. I'atty and I sat up a 
 good while longer, discussing the dreary pros- 
 pect of my father's having a fit of the gout bore 
 in London lodgings, witli only us to nurse him, 
 and my mother away. Our alarm was go great 
 that we rpiite forgot the curious circumstance 
 which liad tir>t attracted us, till Patty spoke isp 
 from her bed on the floor. 
 
 " 'I lio|)e master beant going to be very ill, 
 and that noise — you know — came for a warn- 
 ing. Do 'ee think it u-us a bird, Mistress Dor- 
 othy ?' 
 
 '"' 'Very likely, 
 sleep.' 
 
 " But I did not, for all night I heard my fa- 
 ther groaning at intenals. I was certain it was 
 the gout, and wished from tlic bottom of my 
 licart that wc had gone home with iiiotiicr. 
 
 " What was my surprise when, (juite early, 
 I heard biin rise and go down, just as if no- 
 
 Now, Patty, let us go to 
 
 thing was ailing him ! I found him sitting at 
 the breakfast-table in his traveling coat, looking 
 very haggard and miserable, but evidently bent 
 on a journey. 
 
 " ' Father, you are not going to Bath ?' 
 
 " 'Yes, I be.' 
 
 " 'Not till the evening coach starts,' I cried,^ 
 alarmed. 'We can't, you know.' 
 
 " 'I'll take a post-chaise, then. A\'e must 
 be oft' in an hour.' 
 
 "An hour! The cruel pain of parting 
 (my dear, I believe I used to feel things keenly 
 when I was young) shot through me, through 
 and through. A single hour, and I should 
 have said good-by to Edmond — one of those 
 heart-breaking farewells when we seem to leave 
 half of our poor young life behind us, forgetting 
 that the only real parting is when there is no 
 love left to part from. A few years, and I 
 woiulered how I could have crej)t away and 
 we])t in such intolerable agony at the mere bid- 
 ding good-by to Edmond — Edmond, who loved 
 me ! 
 
 " Every minute seemed a day till he came in, 
 as usual, to breakfast. My red eyes and my 
 father's corded trunk explained all. 
 
 " 'Dr. Thwaite, you are not going?' "* 
 
 " 'Yes, I am,' repeated my father. He sat 
 moodily leaning on the table — would not taste 
 his breakfast. 
 
 " 'Not till the night coach, surely ? I was 
 to take yon and ^Mistress Dorothy to sec Mr. 
 Benjamin West, the King's j)ainter.' 
 
 " 'Let King and painters alone, lad ; I am 
 going home to my Dolly.' 
 
 "Mr. Eferest used many arguments, gay and 
 grave, upon which I hung with earnest con- 
 viction and hojie. He made things so cl;'ar 
 always. He was a man of much bri;;hter parts 
 than my father, and had great influence over 
 him. 
 
 " 'Dorothy,' he whispered, ' iielp me to ])er- 
 suade the doctor. It is so little time I beg for 
 — only a few hours — and before so long a i)art- 
 ing.' — Ay, longer than he thought, or I. 
 
 " 'Chihlren,' cried my father, at last, 'you 
 are a cotijilc of fools. Wait till you have been 
 married twenty years. I must go to my Dolly. 
 I know there; is something amiss at home.' 
 
 " I should have felt ahirmed, but I saw Mr. 
 Everest smile ; and besides, I was yet growing 
 under his fond look, as my father spoke of our 
 being ' married twenty years.' 
 
 "'Father, you have surely no reason for 
 thinking this? If you have, tell us.' 
 
 "My father just lifted his head, and looked 
 me woefully in tiic face. 
 
 " 'Dorothy, last night, as sure as I see you 
 now, I saw your mother.' 
 
 '■ ' Is that all?' cried Mr. Everest, laughing. 
 ' ^^'ily, my goocl sir, very likely you did. You 
 were dreaming about her.' 
 
 " 'I had not gone to sleep.' 
 
 " ' How did you see her?' 
 
 " ' Coming into my room, just as she used 
 to do in our bedroom at home, with the can-
 
 THE LAST HOUSE IN C- 
 
 STREET. 
 
 95 
 
 die in her hand, and the baby asleep on her 
 arm.' 
 
 " ' Did slie speak ?' asked Mr. Everest, with 
 another and rather satirical smile. ' Remem- 
 ber, you saw Hamlet last night. Indeed, sir — 
 indeed, Dorothy — it was a mere dream. 1 do 
 not believe in ghosts ; it would be an insult to 
 common sense, to human wisdom — nay, even to 
 Divinity itself.' 
 
 ' ' Edmond spoke so earnestly, justly, and 
 withal so affectionately, that perforce I agreed ; 
 and even my father became to feel rather 
 ashamed of his own weakness. He, a sensible 
 man and the head of a family, to yield to a 
 mere superstitious fancy, springing, probably, 
 from a hot supper and an overexcited brain ! 
 To the same cause Mr. Everest attributed the 
 other incident, which somewhat hesitatingly I 
 told him. 
 
 " 'Dear, it was a bird — nothing but a bird. 
 One flew in at my window last spring ; it had 
 hurt itself; and I kept it, and nursed it, and 
 petted it. It was sucli a pretty, gentle little 
 thing, it put me in mind of Dorothy.' 
 
 " 'Did it?' said I. 
 
 " 'And at last it got well and flew away.' 
 
 " 'Ah ! that was not like Dorothy.' 
 
 "Thus, my father being persuaded, it was 
 not hai'd to persuade me. We settled to remain 
 till evening. Edmond and I, with my maid 
 Patty, went about together, chiefly in Mr. West's 
 Gallen', and in the quiet shade of our fiivoritc 
 Temple Gardens. And if for those four stolen 
 hours, and the sweetness in them, I afterward 
 suffeied untold remorse and bitterness, I have 
 entirely forgiven myself, as I know my dear 
 mother would have forgiven me long ago." 
 
 Mrs. MacArthur stopped, wiped her eyes, 
 and then continued, si)eaking more in the mat- 
 ter-of-foct way that old people speak in than 
 she had been lately doing. 
 
 " Well, my dear, where was I ?" 
 
 " In the Temple Gardens." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Then we came home to dinner. 
 My fatlier always enjoyed his dinner and his nap 
 afterward. He had nearly recovered himself 
 now — only looked tired from loss of rest. Ed- 
 mond and I sat in the Avindow, watching the 
 barges and wherries down the Thames. There 
 were no steamboats tlien, you know. 
 
 " Some one knocked at the door with a mes- 
 sage for my father, but he slept so heavily he 
 did not. hear. Mr. Everest went to see wliat it 
 was ; I stood at tlie window. I remember me- 
 clianically watching the red sail of a Margate 
 hoy that was going down the river, and think- 
 ing with a sharp pang how dark the room 
 seemed to grow in a moment with Edmond not 
 there. 
 
 " Re-entering, after a soniewliat long absence, 
 he never looked at me, but went straight to my 
 father. 
 
 " ' Sir, it is almost time for you to start' (oh I 
 Edmond). ' There is a coach at the door ; and, 
 pardon me, but I think you should travel quick- 
 ly.' 
 
 " My father sprang to his feet. 
 
 "'Dear sir, wait one moment; I have re- 
 ceived news from Bath. You have another 
 little daughter, sir, and — ' 
 
 " ' Dolly, my Dolly !' Witliout another word 
 my father rushed away, leaped into the post- 
 chaise that was waiting, and drove ofl". 
 
 " ' Edmond !' I gasped. 
 
 " ' My poor little girl— my own Dorothy !' 
 
 " By the tenderness of his embrace, less lover- 
 like than brother-like — by his tears, for I could 
 feel them on my neck — I knew, as well as if he 
 had told me, that I should never see my dear 
 mother an}' more. 
 
 "She had died in childbirth," continued the 
 old lady after a long pause — "died at night, at 
 the same hour and minute that I had heard tlio 
 tapping on the window-pane, and my father h:",d 
 thought he saw her coming into his room with 
 a baby on her arm." 
 
 "Was the baby dead, too?" 
 
 " They thought so then, but it afterward re- 
 vived." 
 
 "What a strange story!" 
 
 " I do not ask you to believe in it. How and 
 why and wliat it was I can not tell ; I only know 
 that it assuredly was as I have told it. 
 
 "And Mr. Everest?" I inquired, after so.me 
 hesitation. 
 
 Tlie old lady sliook her head. "Ah, my 
 dear, you may jjerliaps learn — though I liojie 
 you will not — how very, very seldom things 
 turn out as one expects when one is young. 
 After that day I did not see Mr. Everest for 
 twenty years." 
 
 " How wrong of him — how — " 
 
 "Don't blame him; it was not his fault. You 
 see, after that time my father took a prejudice 
 against him — not unnatural, ])ei haps ; and she 
 was not there to make things straight. Besides, 
 my own conscience was very sore, and there 
 were the six chiklren at home, and the little 
 baby had no mother : so at last I made up my 
 mind. I should have loved him just the same 
 if we had waited twenty years. I told him so ; 
 but he coiikl not see tilings in that light. Don't 
 blame him — my dear — don't blame him. It was 
 as well, jierhaps, as it happened." 
 
 " Did he marry ?" 
 
 "Yes, after a few years; and loved his wife 
 dearly. When I was about one-and-thirty, I 
 married Mr. MacArthur. So neither of us was 
 uidiapijy, you see — at least, not more so than 
 most jieople ; and we became sincere friends 
 afterward. Mr. and Mrs. Everest come to see 
 me still, almost every Sunday. Why, you fool- 
 ish child, you are not crying?" 
 
 Ay, I was — but scarcely at the ghost-story.
 
 A FAMILY II LOVE. 
 
 This is the age of complainings. Nolnxly 
 suflers in silence ; nobody breaks his or her 
 heart in secrecy and solitude : they all take 
 " the public" into their confidence — the conven- 
 ient public, which, like nnirder, 
 
 Ilath no tongue, but spouks 
 'With most miraculous organ. 
 
 Of course, it is neither the confider's fault nor yet 
 the confidant's, if the winds sometimes whisjier 
 that King Midas has asses' ears. 
 
 JNIine is no such confession. I have no gos- 
 sij) to retail of my neighbors : I am a very quiet 
 gentleman, who prefer confining my interests 
 and observations to my own household, my own 
 immediate family. Ay, there lies my inevita- 
 ble grief, there lurks my secret wrong ; I am the 
 unhappy elder brother of a family in love. 
 
 The fact dimly dawned upon mc, widening by 
 degrees, ever since I came home from India last 
 year, and took upon myself the charge of my 
 five sisters, aged from about — But Martha 
 might object to my particularizing. Good little 
 I'atty I what a merry creature she was when she 
 went nutting and fishing with me. And what 
 ugly caps she has taken to wearing, poor dear! 
 And why can't she speak as gently when scold- 
 ing the servants, as I rememl)er our sweet- 
 voiced, pretty mother used always to do ? And 
 why, in spite of their mutual position, will she 
 j)ersist in calling Mr. Green, with a kind of 
 frigid solemnity, " Mr. Green ?" Hut he does 
 not seem to mind it: probably he never was 
 called any thing else. 
 
 lie is a very worthy person, nevertheless, and 
 I have a great respect for him. When my sis- 
 ter Martha — Miss Heathcote, as she has been 
 called from her cradle — by letter announced to 
 me at Madras that she intended to relinquish 
 that title for the far less euphonious one of Mrs. 
 Green, I was, to say the least of it, suqn-ised. 
 I had thought, for various reasons (of no mo- 
 ment nowj, that my eldest sister was not likely 
 to marry — 1 ratiicr hoped she would not. We 
 might have been so comfortable, poor Patty and 
 I. However, I had no business to interfere with 
 either her happiness or her destiny ; so when, 
 the tirst Sunday after my arrival at home, a cozy 
 carriage drove uji the avenue, and a bald, rather 
 stout little man got out, to be .solemnly intro- 
 uiKcd to mc as " Mr. Green," I submitted to the 
 force of circumstances, and to the duties of a 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 He has dined with us every Sunday sinc-e. 
 He and I are cajiital friends; regularly, when 
 the ladies retire, he informs me what the Funds 
 have been at, day by day during the past week, 
 
 and which is the safest railway to buy shares in 
 for the week following. A most worthy person, 
 I repeat ; will make a kind husband, and I sup- 
 pose Martha likes him ; but — . However, poor 
 girl, she is old enough to judge for herself, and 
 it is no business of mine. Some time, before 
 long, I shall give her away at the old parish 
 church — quietly, without any show ; I shall see 
 her walk down the church-aisle with old Mr. 
 Green — he in his best white waistcoat, and she 
 in her sober gray poplin, which she insists on 
 being married in — not the clear soft muslin and 
 long laee vail I quite well remember seeing 
 Patty working at and blushing over, we won't 
 say how many years ago. Well, women arc 
 better married, they say; but I think I would 
 rather have had Martha an old maid. 
 
 My second sister, Angeline, was fifteen when 
 I left England ; and the very loveliest creature I 
 ever beheld. Every body knew it, every body 
 acknowledged it. She could not walk down the 
 street without people turning to look after her; 
 she could not enter a room without creating a 
 general whisjier: "Who is she?" The same 
 thing continued as she grew up to womanhood. 
 All the world was at her feet ; every one said 
 she would make a splendid marriage — become 
 a countess at least ; and I do believe Angeline 
 herself had the fullest confidence in that jnoba- 
 bility. She refused lovers by the dozen ; every 
 letter I got told me of some new slaughter of 
 Miss xVngeline's. I would have pitied the poor 
 fellows, only she was such a dazzling beauty, 
 and no man falls out of love so safely as a man 
 who falls in love with a beauty. I never heard 
 that any body died either by consumption, cord, 
 or i)istol, through the cruelty of my sister An- 
 geline. 
 
 j But, like most crxiel damsels, she paiil the 
 penalty of her hard-heartedness ; when I came 
 home I found Angeline Heathcote, Angeline 
 Heathcote still. Beautiful yet, beautiful exceed- 
 ingly ; a walking picture, a visible poem : it 
 was a real jileasure to me to have such a hand- 
 some creature alunit the house. Though jx'ople 
 did say, with a mysterious shake of the head, 
 that, handsome as she was, if I had only seen 
 my sister two or three years ago ! Anil Ange- 
 line herself became tenacious on the subject of 
 new gowns, and did not like it to be generally 
 known whether she or Charlotte was the elder. 
 (Jood, jilain, merry Charlotte, who never thought 
 about either her looks or her age ! 
 
 Yet Charlotte was the first who brought me 
 into trouble — that trouble which I am now 
 called upon to bemoan. I had not been at
 
 A FAMILY IN LOVE. 
 
 97 
 
 home three months when there came a young 
 pentleman — a very lively and pleasant young 
 gentleman, too — who sang duets with the youn- 
 ger girls, and made hims-elf quite at home in my 
 family circle. I myself did not much meddle 
 with him, thought him a good-natured lad, and 
 no more — until one fine morning he astonish- 
 ed me by requesting five minutes' conversation 
 with me in my study. (Alas! such misfor- 
 tunes come not singly — my study has never 
 been safe from similar applications and conver- 
 sations since.) 
 
 I was very kind to the young man ; when he 
 blushed, I looked another way ; when he trem- 
 bled, I invited him to take a chiiir. I listened 
 to his stammering explanations with the utmost 
 patience and sympathy ; I even tried to help 
 him out with them — till he came to the last 
 clause. 
 
 Now, I do say that a man who asks you for 
 your purse, your horse, your friendship, after 
 only four weeks' acquaintance, has considerable 
 courage ; but a man who, after that brief period 
 since his introduction, comes and asks you for 
 your sister — why, one's first impulse is to kick 
 him down stairs. 
 
 Happily, I controlled myself. I called to 
 mind that Mr. Cuthbert was a very honest 
 young fellow, and that if he did choose to risk 
 his whole future upon the result of a month's 
 laughing, and singing, and dancing at balls — 
 certainly it was his affair, not mine. My busi- 
 ness solely related to Charlotte. I was just dis- 
 patching it in the quickest and friendliest man- 
 ner, by advising the young fellow to go back to 
 college and not make a fool of himself in vain, 
 when he informed me that my consent only was 
 required, since he and Charlotte had been a 
 plighted couple for the space of tliree whole 
 days! 
 
 I have always held certain crotchets on the 
 paramount rights of lovers, and the wrong of 
 interfering with any apparently sincere vows: 
 so I sent for Lotty — talked with her ; found slie 
 was just as foolish as he. That because he 
 Avas the best waltzer, the sweetest tenor singer, 
 and had the handsomest mustache she knew— | 
 our lively Charlotte was quite 'contented to 
 dance through life with Mr. Cuthbert, and de- ' 
 cidedly proud of having his diamond ring on her 
 third finger, and being considered "engaged" 
 — as indeed they were likely to remain, if their 
 minds changed not, for the next ten years. 
 
 So, Avhat could I do ? Nothing but deal i 
 with the young simpletons — if such they were 
 — according to their folly. If true, their love 
 would have time to prove itself such ; if false, 
 they would best find out that fact by its not be- 
 ing thwarted. I kissed away Lotty's tears, 
 silly child ! and next Sunday I had the honor 
 of carving for brother-in-law elect No. 2. 
 
 It never rains but it pours. Whether Ange- 
 line was roused at once to indignation and con- 
 descension by Charlotte's engagement — which 
 she was the loudest in inveighing against — or 
 whether, as was afterward reported to me, she 
 G 
 
 was influenced by a certain statistical news- 
 paper paragraph, maliciously read aloud by 
 Mr. Cuthbert for general edification, that wo- 
 men's chances of matrimony were proved by the 
 late census to diminish greatly between tlie ages 
 of thirty and thirty-five ; but most assuredly 
 Angeline's demeanor changed. She stooped to 
 be agreeable as well as beautiful. To more 
 than one suitor whom she had of old swept 
 haughtily by did she now graciously incline ; 
 and the result was — partly owing to the gayeties 
 of this autumn's election — that Miss Angeline 
 Heathcote, the beauty of the county, held a 
 general election on her own private account. 
 
 Alas for me! In one week I had no less 
 than four hopeful candidates requesting "the 
 honor of an interview" in my study. 
 
 Angeline's decision was rather dilatory — they 
 were all such excellent matches; and, poor girl 
 — with her beauty for her chief gift, and with all 
 the tinsel adoration it brought her — she had 
 never been used to think of marriage as any 
 thing more than a mere worldly arrangement. 
 She was ready to choose a husband as she would 
 a wedding-gown — dispassionately, carefully, as 
 the best out of a large selection of articles, each 
 rich and good in its way, and warranted to wear. 
 She had plenty of common sense, and an acute 
 judgment ; as for her heart — 
 
 "You see, Nigel," she said to me, when 
 weighing the respective claims and merits of 
 Mr. Archer and Sir Rowland Griffith Jones — 
 "you see, I never was sentimentally inclined. 
 I want to be married. I think I should be bet- 
 ter married than single. Of course, my hus- 
 band must be a good man ; also, he should 
 be a wealthy man ; because — well I — because 
 I rather like show and splendor : they suit 
 me." 
 
 And she glanced into the mirror at some- 
 thing which, certainly, if any woman has any 
 excuse for the vanities of life, might have plead- 
 ed Angeline's. 
 
 "But," I argued — half sorrowfully, as when 
 you see an ignorant child throwing gold away, 
 and choosing sham jewels for their pitiful glis- 
 tering, "you surely would think it necessary to 
 love your husband ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; and I like Sir Rowland extremely 
 — perhaps even better than Mr. Archer — though 
 fie has been fond of me so long, poor fellow ! 
 But he will get over it — all men do." 
 
 So, though the balance hung for a whole 
 week doubtful — Heaven forgive the girl ! but 
 true love was not in her nature, and how can 
 people see further than their lights go? — I \\as 
 soon pretty certain that fate would decide the 
 marriage-question in favor of the baronet. As 
 Lotty said, Angeline would look magnificent in 
 the family diamonds as Lady Griffith Jones. 
 
 The Welsh cause triumphed ; Mr. Archer 
 quitted the field. He had been an old ac- 
 quaintance ; but — what was that to Sir Row- 
 land and X'10,()00 a year? 
 
 After Angeline's affair was settled, there came 
 a lull in the family epidemic — possibly because
 
 98 
 
 A FAMILY IN LOVE. 
 
 the head of the family grew savage as a bear, 
 and for a full month his sjiirit hugged itself into 
 fierce misanthropy, or rather misogyny, con- 
 temning the whole female sex, especially such 
 as contemplated, or were contemplated in, the 
 «7iholy estate of matrimony. 
 
 No wonder! I could not find peace in my 
 own house ; I had not my own sisters' society ; 
 not a single family fireside evening could I get 
 from week's end to week's end ; not a room 
 could I enter witliout breaking in on some tiite- 
 a-tetc ; not a corner could I creep into without 
 stumbling upon a pair of lovers. For a little 
 while these fond cou[)les kept on their good be- 
 havior toward me — preserved a degree of re- 
 serve toward each otlier out of respect to the 
 head of the liouse, the elder brother ; but grad- 
 ually it deteriorated — ceased. Nay, I, who be- 
 long to the old generation — which was foolish 
 enough to deem caresses hallowed things, that 
 the mere pressure of a beloved woman's hand, 
 not to s])eak of her sacred mouth, was a thing 
 not to be made a public show of — never to be 
 thought of without a tender reverence, adelicious 
 fear — I, Nigel Heathcote, have actually seen 
 two young men, strangers a little year ago, kiss 
 my two sisters openly before their whole family 
 — before their brother's very face ! 
 
 Jly situation became intolerable. I fled the 
 fireside ; I took refuge in my study. AVoe be- 
 tide the next lover who should assail me there! 
 
 Surely that fatality would not again arrive 
 for some time. When the elder ones were once 
 married and away, surely I, and Constantia, 
 and little Lizzie, might live a few years in fra- 
 ternal peace, unmolested by the haunting shad- 
 ow of impending matrimony. 
 
 It occurred to me that in the interval of the 
 weddings I would send for an old friend, a 
 bachelor like myself — an honest, manly fellow, 
 who worked hard from circuit to circuit, and 
 got barely one brief a year. Yes, Will Launce- 
 ston would keep me company ; and we would 
 spend our days in the woods, and our evenings 
 in my study, safe out of the way of lovers, wed- 
 dings, and womankind. 
 
 I had just written to him, when my sister 
 Martha came in with a very serious face, and 
 told me "she wished for a little conversation 
 with me." 
 
 Ominous beginning ! But she was not a 
 young man, and could not well attack mc con- 
 cerning any more of my sisters. At least so I 
 congratulated myself — alas, too soon ! 
 
 My sister settled herself by the fire with a 
 serious countenance. 
 
 "My dear Nigel." 
 
 "My dear Martha." 
 
 "I wish to considt you on a matter which 
 his recently come to my knowledge, and has 
 given me much pain and some anxiety." 
 
 "Indeed!" and I am afraid my tone was 
 liss sympatlii/.ing than eager, since from her 
 troubled neiwous manner, 1 thought — I hoped, 
 the matter in question indicated the secession 
 of. Mr. Green. "Goon. IsitaLout" — I stojjpcd 
 
 and corrected myself hvpocritically — " about the 
 girls?" 
 
 She assented. 
 
 "Whew!" — a disappointed whistle, faint and 
 low. "Still, go on. I'll listen to any thing 
 except another proposal." 
 
 JIartha sliook her head. "Alas, I fear it 
 will never come to that ! Brother, have you no- 
 ticed ? — but men never do — still, I myself have 
 observed a great change in Constantia lately." 
 
 Now, Constantia always was diflercnt from 
 the other girls — liked solitude and books, talked 
 little, and had a trick of reverie. In short, was 
 what young people called "interesting," and 
 old peojile "romantic" — the sort of creature 
 who, did she grow up a remarkable v.oman, 
 would have her youthful peeuliaritics carefully 
 and respectfully noted, with "I always said 
 there was a great deal in that girl ;" but who, 
 did she turn out nothing particular, woulil be 
 laughed at, and probably would laugh at her- 
 self, for having been "very sentimental when 
 she was young." Nevertheless, having at one 
 time of my life shared that imjmtation, I was 
 tender over the little follies of Constantia. 
 
 " I think the girl reads too much, and sits 
 with her eyes too wide open, Martha; is>ather 
 unsocial, likewise. She wanted to get out of 
 the way of the weddings, and positively refused 
 to be Angeline's bridesmaid." 
 
 "Ah!" sighed Martha, "that's it. Poor 
 foolish child, to think of falling in love — " 
 
 I almost jumped ofV my chair. "I'll not 
 hear a woi'd of it — I declare I will not ! I'll 
 keep the young fellow oflt'my premises with man- 
 traps and sj)ring-guns. I'll go back to India 
 if you tell me of another "engagement." 
 
 "No chance of that;" and Martha shook 
 h?r head more drearily than ever. ' ' Poor child, 
 I fear it is an unfortunate attachment!" 
 
 I brightened up — so much so, that my sister 
 looked, nay, gently hinted, her conviction that 
 I was a " brute." She expected I would have 
 been as sorry as she was ! 
 
 "No, Martha; I am rather glad. Glad, aft- 
 er my experience of these 'fortunate' love-af- 
 fairs, to find that one of my sisters has the wo- 
 manly courage, unselfishness, and simplicity to 
 conceive an ' unfortunate' attachment." 
 
 Perhaps this speech hurt Martha, and yet it 
 need not. She and I both knew and res])ected 
 one another's youth ; and if we differed in ojiin- 
 ion concerning our middle age, why, I was as 
 likely to be wrong as she. 
 
 She' did not at first reply; and then, without 
 comment, siic explained to mc her uneasiness 
 about Constantia. The girl had long played 
 confidante to Mr. Archer in the matter of An- 
 gelinc, and, as often happens, the confidante 
 had unwittingly taken too great interest in one 
 of her i)riiHi|ials, until she found herself envy- 
 ing the lot of the other. When Mr. Archer's 
 dismissal finally broke ofi" all his intercourse 
 with our family, tliere was one of my sisters who 
 missed him wearily, cruelly ; and that was — not 
 Angeline.
 
 A FAMILY IN LOVE. 
 
 90 
 
 I was touclied. Now, no doubt Constantia 
 had been very foolish ; no doubt she had nour- 
 ished and encouraged this fancy, as romantic 
 girls do, in moonlight walks and solitary dreams; 
 hugging her pain, and deluding herself that it 
 was bliss. Little doubt, likewise, that the feel- 
 ing would wear itself out, or fade slowly away 
 in life's stern truths ; but at present it was a 
 most sincere passion, sad and sore. Foolish and 
 romantic as it mi.^ht be, in itself and in its girl- 
 ish demonstrations, I could not smile at it. 
 It was a real thing, and as such to be re- 
 spected. 
 
 Martha and I held counsel together, and act- 
 ed on the result. We took Constantia under 
 our especial charge ; we gave her books to read, 
 visits to pay, work to do; keeping her as much 
 as possible with one or other of us, and out of 
 the way of the childish flirtation of Cuthbert 
 and Charlotte, or the formal philandering of 
 Sir Rowland and the future Lady Griffith Jones. 
 And if sometimes, as Lizzie told me — my little 
 Lizzie, who laughed at love and lovers with the 
 lightness of sixteen — Constantia grew impatient 
 with Lotty's careless trilling, and curled her lip 
 scornfully when Angeline paraded the splendors 
 of her irovsscau, we tried to lead the girl's mind 
 out of herself, and out of dreamland altogether, 
 as much as possible. 
 
 "But suppose," Lizzie sagely argued — "sup- 
 pose, when Angeline is married, Mr. Archer 
 should come back ? He always liked Constan- 
 tia extremely. Who knows but — " 
 
 I shook my head, and desired the little cas- 
 tle-builder to hold her tongue. 
 
 She was our sole sharer of the secret ; and I 
 must say, though she laughed at her now and 
 then, Lizzie was extremely loving and patient 
 with Constantia. After a time we left the two 
 girls Avholly to one another, more especially 
 as my time was now taken up with my friend 
 Launceston. 
 
 Oh the comfort, the relief, of the society of a 
 man ! — a real honest man — who had some ster- 
 ling aim and object in life — some steady work 
 to do — some earnest interest in the advance of 
 the world, the duties and pursuits of his brother 
 men ; who was neither handsome, witty, nor ac- 
 complished ; who rarely shone in ladies' society ; 
 in fact, rather eschewed it than otherwise. For, 
 he said, nature had unfitted him to act the part 
 of a mere admirer, and adverse fortune forbade 
 him to appear in the character of a lover ; so he 
 held aloof, keejjing his own company and that 
 of one or two old friends like myself. 
 
 I was fond of Launceston ; I wished my fam- 
 ily to like him too ; but they were all too busy 
 about their own affairs. Evening after evening, 
 I could not get any of my sisters to make tea 
 for us, or give us a little music afterward, ex- 
 cept the pale, dull-looking Constantia, or my 
 bonny rose of June, littie Lizzie. At last, we 
 four settled into a small daily comparty, and 
 went out together, read together, talked together 
 continually. I kept these two younger ones as 
 much as possible in our unromautic practical so- 
 
 ciety, that not only my mind, but Launceeton's, 
 in its thorough cheerfulness and healthiness of 
 tone, might unconsciously have a good influence 
 ufjon Constantia. 
 
 The girl's spirit slowly began to heal. She 
 set aside ner dreaming, and took with all the 
 energy of her nature to active work — women's 
 work — charity-school teaching, village-visiting, 
 and the like. She put a little too much "ro- 
 mance" into all she did still; but there was life 
 in it, truth, sincerity. 
 
 "Miss Constantia will make an admirable 
 lady-of-all work," said Launceston, in his quaint 
 way, watching her with his kindly and observ- 
 ant eyes. " The world wants such. She will 
 find enough to do." 
 
 And so she did : enough to steal her too from 
 my side, almost as much as the three fiancees. 
 The circle in my study dwindled gradually down 
 to Lizzie, Launceston, and me. 
 
 We were excellent company still, we three. 
 I had rarely had so much of my pet sister's soci- 
 ety ; I had never found it so pleasant. True, 
 she was shyer than usual, probably from being 
 with us two, older and wiser people — men like- 
 wise — but she listened to our wisdom so sweetly 
 — she bore with our dry, long-worded learning 
 so patiently — that my study never seemed itself 
 unless I had the little girl seated at my feet, or 
 sewing quietly in the window-corner. And 
 then she was completely a " little girl ;" had no 
 forward ways — no love notions, or, ten times 
 worse, marriage-notions, crossing her innocent 
 brain. I felt sure I could take her into my 
 closest heart, form her mind and principles at 
 my will, and one day make a noble woman of 
 her, after the jattern of — But I never men- 
 tion tliat sacred name. 
 
 I loved Lizzie — loved her to the core of my 
 heart. Sometimes with fatherly more than even 
 brotherly pride, I used to talk to Launceston of 
 the child's sweetnesses, but he always gave me 
 short answers. It was his way. His laconism 
 in most things was really astonishing, for a man 
 under thirty. 
 
 One day, when Angeline's grand wedding 
 was safely over, and the house had sunk into 
 a pathetic quietness that reminded one of the 
 evening after a funeral — at least so I thought — 
 Launceston and I fell into a discussion, which 
 stirred him into more demonstrativeness than 
 usual. The subject was men, women, and 
 marriages. 
 
 "I am convinced," he said, "that I shall 
 never marry." 
 
 It was not my first hearing of this laudable 
 determination ; so I let it pass, merely asking 
 his reasons. 
 
 "Because my conscience, principles, and 
 feelings go totally against the system of matri- 
 mony, as practiced in the world, especially the 
 world of womankind. All the courting and 
 ])roi)osing, the presents and the love-letters, the 
 dinners to relatives and congratulations of 
 friends, the marriage-guests ami mariiage-set- 
 tlcraents, the white lace, white satin, and white
 
 100 
 
 A FAMILY IN LOVE. 
 
 favors, carriaj^e, postillions, and all. Heigh-ho, 
 Heathcote, what fools men are !" 
 
 I was just about to suggest the possibility of 
 naming one, say two, wise individuals among 
 our sex, when in stole a white fairy — my pret- 
 ty Lizzie, in her bridesmaid's dress. Her pres- 
 ence changed the current of conversation ; until 
 from some remark sh? made about a message 
 Angeline had left as to the proper way of insert- 
 ing her marriage in the Times newspaper to- 
 morrow, our talk imperceptibly fell back into 
 the old channel. 
 
 " I, like you, Launceston, hate the whole 
 system of love and maiTying. It is one great 
 sham. Beginning when miss, at school, learns 
 that it is the ai)ex of feminine honor to be a 
 bride — the lowest deep of feminine humiliation 
 to die an old maid. Continuing when she, a 
 young lady at home, counts her numerous 
 'offers;' taking pride in what ought to be to 
 her a source either of regret or humiliation. 
 Ending when, time slip])ing by, she drops into 
 the usual belief that nobody ever marries her 
 first love ; so takes the best match she can find, 
 and makes marriage, which is merely the visi- 
 ble crown and completion of love, the pitiful 
 dishonored substitute for it. I declare solemn- 
 ly, I have seen many a wife whom 1 held to be 
 scarcely better than no wife at all." 
 
 I had forgotten ray little sister's presence ; 
 but she did not seem to hear me — nor Launces- 
 ton either, for that matter. His earnestness 
 had softened down ; he sat, very thoughtful, 
 over against the window where Lizzie had 
 taken her sewing. What a pretty picture she 
 made ! 
 
 "Come here, my little girl," I said; "I 
 should not like thee to go the way of the world ; 
 and yet I should be satisfied to give thee away 
 some day, quietly, in a white muslin gown and 
 a straw bonnet, to some honest man who loved 
 thee — and was loved so well, that Lizzie would 
 never dream of marrying any other, but would 
 have been quite content, if need be, to live an 
 old maid for his sake to the end of her days. 
 That's what 7 call love — eh, my girl ?" 
 
 Lizzie drooped her head, blushing deeply. 
 Of course ; girls always do. 
 
 Launceston said, in a tone so low that I 
 quite started: "Then you do believe in true 
 love, after all ?" 
 
 " It would be ill for me — or for any human 
 being — if I did not. And I believe in it the 
 more earnestly because of its numberless coun- 
 terfeits. Nay" — and now when, after this gay 
 marriage-morning, the evening was sinking 
 gray and dull, my mind inclined pensively, even 
 tenderly, to the sister who had gone, the other 
 two sisters who were shortly going away from 
 my hearth forever — " nay, as since in the 
 falsest creed there lurks, I hope, a modicum of 
 absolute truth, I would fain trust that in the 
 poorest travesty or masquerade of love, one 
 might find a fragment of the sterling commod- 
 ity. Still, my Lizzie dear, when all our brides 
 •re gone, let us congratulate ourselves that 
 
 for a long time we shall have no more en- 
 gagements." 
 
 "You object to engagments?" said Lizzy, 
 speaking timidly and downfaced — as I rather 
 like to see a young girl speak on this subject. 
 
 "Why, how should you like it yourself, my 
 little maid? To be loved, wooed, and wedded, 
 in public, for the benefit of an amused circle 
 of friends, neighbors, and connections. To 
 have one's actions noticed, one's affairs can- 
 vassed, one's feelings weighed and measured ; 
 to be congratulated, condoled, and jested with. 
 Horrible ! literally horrible ! My wonder is 
 that any true lovers can ever stand it." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," said Launceston, 
 vehemently. " No man ought to place the giil 
 he loves in such a position. Whatever it costs 
 him, he ought to leave her free — altoyetlier free 
 — and ofi'cr her nothing until he can olfer her 
 his hand, at once, and with no delay." 
 
 "Bless my soul, Launceston, what are you 
 in such excitement about ? Has any body been 
 offering himself to your sister? Because — you 
 mistook me. Ask her, or Lizzy, or any good 
 woman, if they would feel flattered by a gentle- 
 man's acting in the way you suggest ? As if 
 his hand — with the ring in it — were every thing 
 to tliem, and himself and his true love nothing 
 at all!" 
 
 Launceston laughed uneasily. "Well, but 
 what did you mean ? A friend of mine would 
 like to know your opinion on this matter." 
 
 "My opinion is simjily — an opinion. Every 
 man is the best judge of his own affliirs, c:- 
 pecially love-affairs. As the Eastern proverb 
 says : ' Let not the lions decide for the tigers.' 
 But I think, did / love a woman" (and it 
 pleased me to know I was but speaking out fier 
 mind who years ago lived and died, in her fond 
 simplicity wiser than any of these) — " did I love 
 a woman, I would like to tell her so — ^just to 
 herself, no more. I would like to give her my 
 love to rest on — to receive the hcl)) and conso- 
 lation of hers. I would like her to feel that 
 through all chances and changes she and I were 
 one ; one, neither for foolish child's-play nor 
 headlong j)assion, but for mutual strength and 
 support, holding ourselves responsible both to 
 heaven and each other for our life and our love. 
 One, indissolubly, whether we were ever mar- 
 ried or not ; one in tliis world, and — we pray — 
 one in the world everlasting." 
 
 Was I dreaming? Did I actually see my 
 friend Launccst»)n take, unforbidden, my youn- 
 gest sister's hand, and hold it — firmly, tenderly, 
 fast? Did I hear, with my own natural ears, 
 Lizzie's soft little sob, not of grief certainly, as 
 she sli]ij)ed out of the room, as swift and silent 
 as a moonbeam ? 
 
 Eh ! wliat ? Good Heavens ! Was there 
 ever any creature so blind as a middle-aged 
 elder brother! 
 
 Well, as I told Launceston, it was half my 
 own fixult; and I must bear it stoically. Pcr- 
 ha])s, on the wiiole, tbings might have been 
 worse, for he is a noble I'ciluw, and no wonder
 
 A LOW MARRIAGE. 
 
 101 
 
 the child loves him. They can not be married 
 just yet meanwhile ; Lizzie and I keep the 
 matter between ourselves. They are very 
 happy — God bless them ! and so am I. 
 
 P.S. — Mr. Archer reappeared yesterday — 
 looking quite well and comfortable ! I see 
 clearly that, one day not distant, I shall be left 
 lamenting — the solitary residuum of a Family 
 in Love. 
 
 A LOW lARRIA&E. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale st«od a good while talking 
 at the school-gate this morning — Mrs. Roch- 
 dale, my mistress once, my friend now. My 
 cousin, the village schoolmisti'css, was bemoan- 
 ing over her lad George, now fighting in the 
 Crimea, saying, poor body, " that no one could 
 understand her feelings but a mother — a mother 
 with an only son." 
 
 !Mrs. Rochdale smiled — that peculiar smile 
 of one who has bought peace through the " con- 
 stant anguish of patience" — a look which I can 
 still trace in her face at times, and which I 
 suppose will never wholly vanish thence. We 
 changed the conversation, and she shortly after- 
 ward departed. 
 
 A mother with an only son ! All the neigh- 
 borhood knew the story of our Mrs. Rochdale 
 and her son ; but it had long ceased to be dis- 
 cussed, at least openly, though still it was told 
 under the seal of confidence to everj' new-comer 
 in our village. And still every summer I used 
 to see any strangers who occupied my cousin's 
 lodgings staring with all their eyes when the 
 manor-house cannage passed by, or peeping from 
 over the blinds to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Roch- 
 dale. 
 
 No wonder. She is, both to look at and to 
 know, a woman among a thousand. 
 
 It can do no possible harm — it may do good 
 —if I here write down her history. 
 
 First let me describe her who even yet seems 
 to me the fairest woman I ever knew. And 
 why should not a woman be fair at sixty ? Be- 
 cause the beauty that lasts till then — and it can 
 last, for I have seen it — must be of the noblest 
 and most satisfying kind, wholly independent 
 of form or coloring ; a beauty such as a young 
 %voman can by no art attain, but which, once 
 attained, no woman need ever fear to lose till 
 the coffin-lid, closing over its last and loveliest 
 smile, makes of it "a joy forever." 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale was tall — too tall in youth — 
 but your well-statured women have decidedly 
 the advantage after forty. Her features, more 
 Boft than strong — looking softer still under the 
 smooth-banded gray hair — might have Leeu 
 good ; I am no artist — I do not know. But it 
 was not that ; it was the intangible, nameless 
 grace which surrounded her as with an atmos- 
 
 phere, making her presence in a room like 
 light, and her absence like its loss ; her soft but 
 stately courtesy of mien in word and motion 
 alike harmonious. Silent, her gentle ease of 
 manner made every one else at ease. Speak- 
 ing, though she was by no means a great talk- 
 er, she always seemed instinctively to say just 
 the right thing, to the right person, at the right 
 moment, in the right way. She stood out 
 distinct from all your "charming creatures," 
 "most lady-like persons," "very talented wo- 
 men," as that rarest species of the whole race 
 — a gentlewoman. 
 
 At twenty-three she liecame Mr. Rochdale's 
 wife ; at twenty-five his widow. From that 
 time her whole life was devoted to the son 
 who, at a twelvemonth old, was already Lem- 
 uel Rochdale, Esquire, lord of the manor of 
 Thorpe and Stretton-Magna, owner of one of 
 the largest estates in the county. I'oor little 
 baby ! 
 
 He was the puniest, sickliest baby she ever 
 saw, I have heard my mother say ; but he grew 
 up into a fine boy and a handsome youth ; not 
 unlike Mrs. Rochdale, except that a certain 
 hereditary pride of manner, which in her was 
 almost beautiful — if any pride can be beautiful 
 — was in him exaggerated to self-assurance and 
 haughtiness. He was the principal jierson in 
 the establishment while he yet trundled hoops ; 
 and long before he discarded jackets had as- 
 sumed his position as sole master of the manor- 
 house — allowing, however, his mother to re- 
 main as sole mistress. 
 
 He loved her very much, I think — better than 
 horses, dogs, or guns ; swore she was the kind- 
 est and dearest mother in England, and hand- 
 somer, ten times over, than any girl lie knew. 
 
 At which the smiling m.other would shake her 
 head in credulous incredulousness. She rarely 
 burdened him with caresses ; perhaps she had 
 found out early that boys dislike them — at least 
 he did. To others she always spoke of him as 
 "my son," or " Mr. Rochdale ;" and her pride 
 in him, or praise of him, was always more by 
 implication than by open word. Yet all the 
 house, all the village, knew quite well how 
 things were. And though they were not often 
 seen together, except on Sundays, when, year 
 .nfter year, she walked up the church-aisle, 
 holding her little son by the hand ; then, fol-
 
 102 
 
 A LOW MARRIAGE. 
 
 lowed by the sturdy school-boy ; finally, leiui- 
 in'^ proudly on the youth's proud arui — every 
 body said emphatically that the young squire 
 was "his mother's own son ;"' passionately be- 
 loved, after the fashion of women ever since 
 yonng Eve smiled down on Cain, saying, " I 
 have gotten a man from the Lord." 
 
 So he grew up to be twenty-one years old. 
 
 On that day ^Irs. Itochdale, for the first time 
 since her widowhood, opened her house, and in- 
 vited all the country round. The morning was 
 devoted to the poorer guests ; in the evening 
 there was a dinner-party and ball. 
 
 I dressed her, having since my girlhood been 
 to her a sort of amateur milliner and lady's- 
 maid. I may use the word "amateur" in its 
 strictest sense, since it was out of tiie great love 
 and reverence I had for her that I had got into 
 this habit of haunting the manor-house. And 
 since love begets love, and we always feel kind- 
 ly to those we have been kind to, Mrs. Roch- 
 dale was fond of me. Through her means, and 
 still more through herself, I gained a better 
 education than I should have done as only her 
 bailitJ''s daughter. But that is neither here nor 
 there. 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale was standing before the glass 
 in her l)lack velvet gown — she never wore any 
 thing but black, with sometimes a gray or lilac 
 ribbon. She had taken out from that casket, 
 and was clasping on her arms and neck — white 
 and round even at five-and-forty — some long- 
 unworn family jewels. 
 
 I admired them very much. 
 
 ' ' Yes, they arc ])retty ; but I scarcely like to 
 gee myself in diamonds, Martha. I shall only 
 wear them a few times, and then resign them 
 to my daughter-in-law." 
 
 "Your daughter-in-law? lias Mr. Roch- 
 dale—" 
 
 "No" (smiling), "Mr. Rochdale has not 
 made his choice yet, but I hope he will ere 
 long. A young man should nuirry early, es- 
 pecially a young man of family and fortune. I 
 shall be very glad when mv son has chosen his 
 wife." 
 
 She spoke as if she thought he had nothing 
 to do but to choose, after the fashion of kings 
 and sultans. 
 
 I smiled. She misinterpreted my thought, 
 saying, witli some little severity: 
 
 " Martha, you mistake. I repeat, I shall be 
 altogether glad, even if such a chance were to 
 ha])ijen to-day." 
 
 Ah, Mrs. IJochdalo, was ever any widowed 
 mother of an only son " altogether glad" when 
 first startled into the knowledge that she her- 
 self was not his all in the world '? that some 
 strange woman had risen ii]), fur whose sake he 
 was bound to " leave father and mother and 
 cleave unto his wife?" A righteous saying, 
 but hard to be understood at first by the moth- 
   era. 
 
 It aftcnvard struck mc as an odd coincidence, 
 that what Mrs. Rochdale had wislied might haj)- 
 pen did actually hapjien that same nigh:. 
 
 The jjrettiest, and beyond all question the 
 "sweetest," girl in all our county families — 
 among which alone it was probable or permissi- 
 ble that our young squire should "throw the 
 handkerchief — was Miss Celandine ChUde, 
 niece and heiress of Sir John Childe. I was 
 caught by her somewhat fanciful name — after 
 Wordsworth's flower — which, as I overheard 
 Mrs. Rochdale say, admirably expressed her. 
 
 I thought so too, when, peeping through the 
 curtained ballroom-door, I caught sight of her, 
 distinct among all the young ladies, as one's eye 
 lights upon a celandine in a spring meadow. 
 She was smaller than any lady in the room — 
 very fair, with yellow hair — the only real gold 
 hair I ever saw. Her head drooped like a flow- 
 er-cup ; and her motions, always soft and quiet, 
 reminded one of the stirrings of a flower in the 
 grass. Her dress — as if to humor the fancy, or 
 else Nature herself did so by making that color 
 most suitable to the girl's complexion — was some 
 g.'vuzy stuff, of a soft pale-green. Bright, deli- 
 cate, innocent, and fair, you could hardly look 
 at her without wishing to take her up in your 
 bosom like a flower. 
 ^ The ball was a great success. !Mrs. Rochdale 
 came up to her dressing-room long after mid- 
 ni.;ht, but with the bright glow of maternal pride 
 still burning on her cheeks. She looked tjuite 
 young again, forcing one to acknowledge the 
 fact constantly avouched by the elder genera- 
 tion, that our mothers and grandmothers were a 
 great deal handsomer than we. Certainly, not 
 a belle in the ballroom could compare with Mrs. 
 Rochdale in my eyes. I should have liked to 
 have told her so. In a vague manner I said 
 something which slightly approximated to my 
 thought. 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale answered, innocent of the com- 
 jiliiU'-nt, "Yes, I have seen very lovely M'omen 
 in my youth. But to-night my son pointed out 
 several whom he admired — one in particular." 
 
 "Was it Miss Childe, madam?" 
 
 "How acute you are, little Martha! How 
 could you see th.at?" 
 
 I answered, rather deprecatingly, that from 
 the corner where I was serving ices, I had heard 
 several i)eo]ilc remark JMr. Rochdale's great at- 
 tention to Miss Childe. 
 
 "Indeed !" with a slight sharpness of accent. 
 A moment or two after she added, with some 
 hauteur, ' ' You mistake, my dear ; Mr. Rochdale 
 could never be so uncourteous as to pay exclu- 
 sive attention to any one of his guests ; but Miss 
 Childe is a stranger in the neighborhood." After 
 a pause: "She is a most sweet-looking girl. 
 My son said so to me, and — I perfectly agreed 
 with him." 
 
 I let the subject drop — nor did Mrs. Roch- 
 dale resume it. 
 
 A month after I wondered if she knew what 
 all the servants at the manor-house, and all the 
 villagers at Thorpe soon knew quite well, and 
 discussed incessantly in butlers' jmntries and 
 kitchens, over pots of ale and by cottage-doofi 
 — that our young squire from that day forward
 
 A LOW MARRIAGE. 
 
 103 
 
 gave up his shooting, his otter-hunting, and 
 even his coursing, and " went a-courtiug" sed- 
 ulously for a vi'hole month to Ashen Dale. 
 
 Meanwhile Sir John and Miss Childe came 
 twice to luncheon. I saw her, pretty creature ! 
 walking by Mrs. Rochdale's side to feed the 
 swans, and looking more like a flower than 
 ever. And once, stately in the family-coach, 
 which tumbled over the rough roads, two hours 
 there and two hours back, shaking the old 
 coachman almost to pieces, did Mrs. and Mr. 
 Rochdale drive over to a formal dinner at Ashen 
 Dale. 
 
 Finally, in the Christmas-week, after an in- 
 terval of twenty lonely Christmases past and 
 gone, did our lady of the manor prepare to pay 
 to the same place a three-days' visit — such as is 
 usual among county f\imilies — the "rest-day, 
 the pressed day," and the day of departure. 
 
 I Avas at the door wlien she came home. Her 
 usually bright iind healthy checks were some- 
 what palu, and her eyes glittered ; but her eye- 
 lids were heavy, as with long pressing back of 
 tears. Mr. Rochdale did not drive, but sat 
 beside her ; he too seemed rather grave. He 
 handed her out of the carriage carefully and 
 tenderly. She responded with a fond smile. 
 Mother and son went up the broad stair-case 
 arm in arm. 
 
 That night the sen-ants who had gone to Ash- 
 en Dale talked "it" all over with the servants 
 who had staid at home ; and every point was 
 satisfactorily settled, down to the bride's fortune 
 and pin-money, and whether she would be mar- 
 ried in Brussels or Honiton lace. 
 
 Yet still Mrs. Rochdale said nothing. She 
 looked happy, but pale, constantly pale. The 
 squire was in the gayest spirits imaginable. He 
 was, as I have said, a very handsome and win- 
 ning youn ,' fellow ; rather variable in his tastes 
 and easily guided, some people said — but then 
 it was always the old who said it, and nobody 
 minded them. AVe thought Miss Celandine 
 Childe was the hajipiest and luckiest girl imag- 
 inable. 
 
 She looked so when, after due time, the 
 three-days' visit was returned ; after which Sir 
 John departed, and Miss Childe staid be- 
 hind. 
 
 That evening — it was just the time of year 
 when "evenings" begin to be perceptible, and 
 in passing the drawing-room door I had heard 
 the young master say something to INIiss Childe 
 about "primroses in the woods" — that evening 
 I was waiting upon Mrs. Rochdale's toilet. She 
 herself stood at the oriel window. It was after 
 dinner — she had come up to her room to rest. 
 
 " Look here, Martha." 
 
 She pointed to the terrace-walk leading to 
 the pool. There were the two young people 
 sauntering slowly past — he gazing down on her, 
 she with her eyes drooped low, low, to the very 
 ground. But her arm rested in his, in a safe, 
 hap})y, clinging way, as knowing it had a right 
 there to rest forever. 
 
 "It is so, Mrs. Rochdale?" 
 
 " Ay, Martha. What do you think of ray — 
 my children?" 
 
 A few tears came to her eyes — a few quivers 
 fluttered over and about her mouth ; but she 
 gazed still — she smiled still. 
 
 "Are you satisfied, madam ?" 
 
 " Quite. It is the happiest thing in the world 
 — for him. They will be married at Christmas." 
 
 " And you— " 
 
 She put her hands softly on my lips, and said, 
 smiling, "Plenty of time to think of that — 
 plenty of time." 
 
 After this day she gradually grew less pale, 
 and recovered entirely her liealthy, cheerful 
 tone of mind. It was evident that she soon be- 
 gan to love her daughter-elect very much — as 
 indeed, who could help it? — and that by no 
 means as a mere matter of form had she called 
 them both " my children." 
 
 For Celandine, who had never known a moth- 
 er, it seemed as if Mrs. Rochdale were almost 
 as dear to her as her betrothed. The two ladies 
 were constantly together ; and in them the pro- 
 verbially formidable and all but impossible pos- 
 sibility bade fair to be realized, of a mother and 
 daughter-in-law as united as if they were of the 
 same flesh and blood. 
 
 The gossips shook their heads and said, "It 
 wouldn't last." I think it would. Why should 
 it not ? They were two noble, tender, unselfish 
 women. Either was ready to love any thing 
 he loved — to renounce any thing to make him 
 happy. In him, the lover and son, was their 
 meeting-point, in him they learned to love one 
 another. 
 
 Strange that women can not always see this. 
 Strange that a girl should not, above all but her 
 own mother, cling to the mother of him she 
 loves — the woman who has borne him, nursed 
 him, cherished him, suftered for him more than 
 any living creature can suffer, excepting — ay, 
 sometimes not even excepting — his wife. Most 
 strange, that a mother, who woidd be fond and 
 kind to any thing her boy cared for — his horse 
 or his dog — should not, above all, love the creat- 
 ure he loves best in the world, on whom his 
 happiness, honor, and peace are staked for a 
 lifetime. Alas, that a bond so simple, natural, 
 holy, should be found so hard as to be almost 
 impossible — even among the good women of 
 this world ! Mothers, wives, whose fault is it? 
 Is it because each exacts too much for herself, 
 and too little for the other — one forgetting that 
 she was ever young, the other that she will one 
 day be old? Or that in the tenderest woman's 
 devotion lurks a something of jealousy, which 
 blinds them to the truth — as true in love as in 
 charity — that " it is more blessed to gij'e than to 
 receive?" Perhaps I, Martha Stretton, spin- 
 ster, have no right to discuss this question. 
 But one thing I will say : that I can forgive 
 much to an unloved daughter-in-law — to an un- 
 loving one nothin;/. 
 
 And now, frcjm this long digression — which 
 is not so iiTclevant as it at first may seem — let 
 me return to my story.
 
 104 
 
 A LOW MAERIAGE. 
 
 The year grew- and waned. Mrs. Rochdale [ 
 said to me, when it was near its closing, that it 
 had been one of the happiest years she had ever 
 known. i 
 
 I believe it was. The more so as, like many 
 a season of great hai)piness, it began with a con- 
 quered pang. But of this no one ever dared to 
 hint ; and perhaps the mother now would liardly 
 have acknowledged, even to herself, that it bad 
 temporarily existed. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The young people were to have been married 
 at Christmas ; but early in December the long- 
 invalided Lady Childc died. This deferred the 
 wedding. The lover said, loudly and often, 
 that it was "very hard." The bride-elect said 
 nothing at all. Consequently every lady's- 
 maid and woman-servant at the manor-house, 
 and every damsel down tlic village, talked over 
 Miss Ciiilde's hard-heartedness ; especially as, 
 soon after, she went traveling with poor broken- 
 liearted Sir John Childe, tliereby parting with 
 liL-r betrothed for three whole months. 
 
 But I myself watched her about the manor- 
 house the last few days before she went away. 
 Oil, Lemuel Rochdale, what had you deserved, 
 that Heaven should bless you with the love of 
 two such women — mother and bride ! 
 
 Celandine went away. The manor-house 
 was verj' dull after she was gone. Mrs. Roch- 
 dale said she did not wonder that her son was 
 absent a good deal — it was natural. But this 
 she only said to me. To others, she never took 
 any notice of his absence at all. 
 
 These absences continued — lengthened. In 
 most young men they would have been unre- 
 marked ; but Lemuel was so fondly attached to 
 bis mother that he rarely in his life had spent 
 Ills evenings away from home and her. Now, 
 iu tiie wild March nights, in the soft April twi- 
 ligiits, in the May moonlights, Mrs. Rochdale 
 s;t alone in tiie great drawing-room, where 
 they had sat so happily last year — all three of 
 them. 
 
 Siie sat, grave and quiet, over her book or 
 lier knitting, still saying — if she ever said any 
 thing — tliat it was quite "natural" her son 
 shoulil amuse himself aliroad. 
 
 Once I heard her ask him, "Where he had 
 been to-night?" 
 
 lie hesitated; then said, "Up the village, 
 mother." 
 
 " What, a;;aiu ? How fond you are of moon- 
 liglit walks up tlie village !" 
 
 "Am I ?" whipping his Imots witli his cane. 
 
 "Why, motlKT, moonlight is — very jiretty, 
 you know ; and the evenings here are — so long." 
 
 "True." His mothiT half sighed. "But 
 soon, you know. Celandine will be back." 
 
 It might iiave been my mistake, but I thought 
 the young man turned scarlet, as, whistling his 
 dog, he hastily quitted the room. 
 
 "How sensitive these lovers are!" said Mrs. 
 Roclidale, smiling. "He can hardly bear to 
 hear her name. I do wish they were married." 
 
 But that wish was still further deferred. Sir 
 John Childe, fretful, ailing, begged another six 
 months before he lost his niece. They were 
 young ; and he was old, and had not long to 
 live. Besides, thus safely and happily betrothed, 
 why should they not wait ? A year more or less 
 was of little moment to those who were bound 
 togctlier firm and sure, in good and ill, for a 
 lifetime. Nay, did she not from the very day 
 of her betrothal feel herself Lemuel's faithful 
 wife ? 
 
 Thus, JNIrs. Rochdale told me, did Celandine 
 urge — out of the love w Inch in its completeness 
 hardly recognized such a thing as separation. 
 Her mother that was to be, reading the passage 
 out of her letter, paused, silenced by starting 
 tears. 
 
 The lover consented to this further delay. He 
 did not once say that it was ' ' very hard." Again 
 ]\Irs. Rochdale began to talk, but with a tone 
 of fainter certainty, about their being married 
 next Christmas. 
 
 Meanwhile the young squire a])peared quite 
 satisfied ; shot, fished, lounged about his prop- 
 erty as usual, and kept up his spirits amazingly. 
 
 He likewise took his moonlight walks up the 
 village with creditable persistency. Once or 
 twice I heard it whispered about that he did not 
 take them alone. 
 
 But every one in the neighborhood so liked 
 the young squire, and so tenderly honored his 
 mother, that it was some time before the faint- 
 est of these ill whispers reached the ear of Mrs. 
 Rochdale. 
 
 I never shall forget the day she heard it. 
 
 She had sent for me to help her in gathering 
 her grajjes ; a thing she often liked to do her- 
 self, giving the choice bunches to her own friends, 
 and to the sick pocr of Iier neighbors. She 
 was standing in the vinery when I came. One 
 moment's glance showed me something was 
 amiss, but she stopped the question ere it was 
 well out of my lijjs. 
 
 "No, nothing, Martha. This bunch — cut it 
 while I hold it." 
 
 But lier hand shook so tliat the grapes fell 
 and were crushed, dyeing purple the stone floor. 
 I jiickcd them uj) — she took no notice. 
 
 Suddenly she jMit her hand to her head. "I 
 am tired. We will do this another day." 
 
 I followed her across the garden to the liall- 
 door. Entering, she gave orders to have the 
 carriage ready immediately. 
 
 "I will take you home, Martha. I am go- 
 ing to the village." 
 
 Now the village was about two miles distant 
 from the manor-house — a mere cluster of cot- 
 tages ; among which were only three decent 
 dwellings — the butcher's, the baker's, and the 
 school -house. Mrs. Rochdale rarely drove 
 through Thorpe — still more rarely did she stop 
 there. 
 
 She stopped now — it was some message at
 
 A LOW MAKRIAGE. 
 
 105 
 
 the school-house. Then, addressing the coach- 
 man — 
 
 " Drive on^ — to the baker's sliop." 
 
 Old John started — touched his hat hurriedly. 
 I saw him and the footman whispering on the 
 box. Well I could guess why ! 
 
 "The baker's, Mrs. Rochdale? Can not I 
 call ? Indeed, it is a pity you should take that 
 trouble." 
 
 She looked me full in the face ; I felt myself 
 turn crimson. 
 
 "Thank vou, Martha ; but I wish to go my- 
 self." 
 
 I ceased. But I was now quite certain she 
 knew, and guessed I knew also, that which all 
 the village were now talking about. What could 
 be her motive for acting thus ? Was it to show 
 her own ignorance of the report ? No, that 
 would have been to imply a falsehood ; and 
 Mrs. Rochdale was stanchly, absolutely true in 
 deed as in word. Or was it to prove them all 
 liars and scandal-mongers, that the lady of the 
 manor drove up openly to the very door where — 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale startled me from my thoughts 
 with her sudden voice, sharp and clear. 
 
 "He is a decent man, I believe. Hine, the 
 baker?" 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 " He has — a daughter, who — waits in the 
 sliop ?" 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 She pulled the check-string with a quick jerk, 
 and got out. Two small burning spots were 
 on either cheek ; otherwise she looked herself — 
 her tall, calm, stately self. 
 
 I wondered what Nancy thought of her — 
 handsome Nancy Hine, who was laughing in 
 her free loud way behind the counter, but who, 
 perceiving the manor-house carriage, stopped, 
 startled. 
 
 I could see them quite plainly through the 
 shop-window — the baker's daughter and the 
 mother of the young squire. I could see the 
 very glitter in Mrs. Rochdale's eyes, as, giving 
 in her ordinary tone some domestic order, she 
 took the opportunity of gazing steadily at the 
 large, well-featured girl, who stood awkward 
 and painfully abashed, nay, blushing scarlet ; 
 though people did say that Nancy Hine was too 
 clever a girl to have blushed since she was out 
 of her teens. 
 
 I think they belied her — I think many people 
 belied her, both then and aftenvard. She was 
 "clever" — much cleverer than most girls of her 
 station ; she looked bold and determined enough, 
 but neither unscrupulous nor insincere. 
 
 During the interview, which did not last two 
 minutes, I thought it best to stay outside the 
 door. Of course, when Mrs. Rochdale re-en- 
 tered the carriage, I made no remark. Nor 
 did she. 
 
 She gave me the cake for the school-children. 
 From the wicket I watched her drive oil', just 
 catching through the carriage-window her pro- 
 file, so proudly cut, so delicate and refined. 
 
 That a young man^ born and reared of such 
 
 a mother, with a lovely fair creature like Celan- 
 dine for his own, his very own, could ever lower 
 his tastes, habits, percejitions, to court — jieople 
 said even to win — unlawfully, a common village- 
 girl, handsome, indeed, but with the coarse 
 blowsy beauty which at thirty might be positive 
 ugliness — surely — surely it was impossible ! It 
 could not be true what they said about young 
 Mr. Rochdale and Nancy Hine. 
 
 I did not think his mother believed it either; 
 if she had, could she have driven aw ay with that 
 quiet smile on her mouth, left by her last kind 
 words to the school-children and to me? 
 
 The yoimg squire had gone to Scotland the 
 day before this incident occurred. He did not 
 seem in any hurry to return ; not even when, 
 by some whim of the old baronet's, Sir John 
 Childe and his niece suddenly returned to 
 Ashen Dale. 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale drove over there immediately, 
 and brought Celandine back with her. The 
 twoJadies, elder and younger, were gladly seen 
 by us all going about together in their old liaj:- 
 py ways, lingering in the green-house, driv- 
 ing and walking, lau;,hing their well-known 
 merry laugh when they fed the swans cf an 
 evening in the pool. 
 
 There might have been no such things in 
 the world as tale-bearers, slanderers, or — bakers' 
 daughters. 
 
 Alas ! this was only for four bright days — 
 the last days when I ever saw j\Irs. Rochdale 
 looking li.app}' and young, or Celandine Chikle 
 light-hearted and bewitchingly fair. 
 
 On the fifth. Sir John Childc's coach drove 
 up to the manor-house, not lazily, as it gener- 
 ally did, but with ominously thundering wheels. 
 He and Mrs. Rochdale were shut up in the 
 library for two full hours. Then she came out, 
 walking heavily, with a kind of mechanical 
 strength, but never once drooping her head or 
 her eyes, and desired me to go and look for 
 Miss Childe, who was reading in the summer- 
 house. She waited at the hall-door till the 
 3'oung lady came in. 
 
 "Mamma!" Already. she had begun, by 
 Mrs. Rochdale's wish, to give her that fond 
 name. But it seemed to strike painfully now. 
 
 "Mamma, is any thing the matter?" and, 
 turning pale, the girl clung to her arm. 
 
 "Nothing to alarm you, my pet; nothing 
 that I care for — not I. I know it is false — 
 wholly false ; it could not but be." Her tone, 
 wann with excitement, had nevertheless more 
 anger in it than fear. Celandine's color re- 
 turned. 
 
 " If it be false, mamma, never mind it," she 
 said, in her fondling way. "But ^\hat is this 
 news ?" 
 
 " Something that your imcle has heard. 
 Something he insists upon telling you. Let 
 him. It can not matter either to you or to me. 
 Come, my child." 
 
 What passed in the library of course never 
 transjjired ; but about an hour after I was sent 
 for to Mrs. Rochdale's dressing-room.
 
 106 
 
 A LOW MARRIAGE. 
 
 She sat at her writing-table. There was a 
 firm, hard, almost fierce expression in her eyes, 
 verv painful to see. Yet when Celandine glided 
 in, with that soft step and white face, Mrs. 
 Rochdale looked up with a quick smile. 
 
 "Has he read it? Is he satisfied with it?" 
 and she took, Avith painfully assumed careless- 
 ness, a letter newly written, which Miss Childe 
 brought to her. 
 
 The girl assented ; then, kneelin.; by the 
 table, i>ressed her cheek upon Mrs. Rochdale's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Let mc write, mamma, just one little line, 
 to tell him that I — that I don't believe — " 
 
 "Hush I" and the trembling lips were shut 
 with a kiss tender as firm. " No ; not a line, 
 my little girl. I, his mother, may speak of 
 such things to him. Not you." 
 
 It did at the moment seem to me almost 
 sickening that tliis pure fragile flower of a girl 
 should ever have been told there existed such 
 wickedness as that of which not only Sir John 
 Childe, but the #a^e neighborhood now ac- 
 cused her lover ; and whiih, as I afterward 
 learned, the baronet insisted should be at once 
 openly and explicitly denied by Mr. Rochdale, 
 or the engagement must be held dissolved. 
 
 This question his mother claimed her own 
 sole right to put to her son ; and she liad jiut 
 it in the letter, which now, with a steady hand 
 and a fixed smile — half-contemptuous as it 
 were — she was sealing and directing. 
 
 " Martha, put this into the post-bag your- 
 self; and tell Miss Childe's maid her mistress 
 will remain another week at the manor-house. 
 Yes, my love, best so." 
 
 Then, sitting down wearily in the large arm- 
 chair, I\Irs. Rochdale drew Celandine to her ; 
 and I saw her take the soft small figure on licr 
 lap, like a child, and fold her up close in the 
 grave, comforting silence of inex])ressiblc love. 
 
 It was a four-days' post to and from the moors 
 where Mr. Rochdale was staying. Heavily the 
 time must have passed with those two poor wo- 
 men, whose all was staked upon him — upoii 
 his one little "yes" or "no." 
 
 Sunday intervened, when they both a]>peareu 
 at church — evening as well as morning. With 
 this excej)tion, they did not go out ; and were 
 seen but rarely about tlie house, except at din- 
 ner-time. Then, with her companion on her 
 arm, Mrs. Rochdale would walk down, and take 
 lier seat at the foot of the long dreary diniiig- 
 table, jilacing Miss Childe on her right hand. 
 
 The old butler said it made his heart ache to 
 see how sometimes they both looked toward the 
 liead of the board — at the em])ty chair there. 
 
 The fifth day came and passed. Ko letters. 
 The sixth likew ise. In the evening, his mother 
 ordered Mr. Roclidale's chamber to be got ready, 
 a.s it was " not im])robable" he might unex- 
 pectedly come home. IJut he did not come. 
 
 They sat up half that niglit, 1 believe, both 
 Mrs. Rochilalc and Miss Childe. 
 
 Next morning tiicy breakfasted to;.'ether as 
 nsuul in the dressing-room. As I crossed the 
 
 plantation — for in my anxiety I made business 
 at the manor-house every day now — I saw them 
 both sitting at the window, waiting for the post. 
 
 Waiting for the post ! Many a one has 
 known that heart-sickening intolerable time ; 
 but few waitings have been like to theirs. 
 
 The stable-boy came lazily up, swinging the 
 letter-bag to and fro in his hands. They saw 
 it from the window. 
 
 The butler unlocked the bag as usual, and 
 distributed the contents. 
 
 " Here's one from the young master. Lord 
 bless us, what a big un!" 
 
 "Let me take it up stairs, William." For 
 I saw it was addi'essed to Miss Childe. 
 
 Mechanically, as I went up stairs, my eye 
 rested on the direction, in Mr. Rochdale's large 
 careless hand ; and on the seal, firm and clear, 
 bearing not the sentimental devices he had once 
 been fond of using, but his business seal — his 
 coat-of-arms. With a heavy weight on my 
 heart, I knocked at the dressing-room door. 
 
 Miss Childe opened it. 
 
 "All, mamma, forme, for ?«e .'" And with 
 a sob of joy she caught and tore open the large 
 envelope. 
 
 Out of it fell a heap of letters — her own pret- 
 ty, dainty letters — addressed "Lemuel lioch- 
 dale, Esq." 
 
 She stood looking down at them with a be- 
 wildered air, then searched through the envel- 
 ope. It was blank — (juite blank. 
 
 '^W/tat does he mean, mamma? I — don't 
 — understand." 
 
 But Mrs. Rochdale did. "Go away, Mar- 
 tha," she said, hoarsely, shutting me out at the 
 door. And then I heard a smothered cry, and 
 something falling to the floor like a stone. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Ladies did not appear at lunch. Word 
 was sent down stairs that Miss Childe was "in- 
 disposed." I could not by any means get to 
 see Mrs. Rochdale, though I hung about the 
 house all day. Near dark I received a message 
 that the mistress wanted me. 
 
 She was sitting in tlie dining-room without 
 lights. She sat as quiet, as motionless as a 
 carved figure? I dared not speak to her ; I 
 trembled to catch the first sound of her voice — 
 my friend, mv mistress, my dear Mrs. Roch- 
 da'le ! 
 
 "Martha!" 
 
 " Yes, madam." 
 
 " I wish, Martha — " and tlicre the voice 
 stopped. 
 
 I hardly know what prevented my saying or 
 doing, on the impulse, tilings that the com- 
 monest instinct told me, the moment afterward, 
 ought to be said and done by no one — certainly 
 not jjy me — at this ( risis, to .Mrs. liochdale. So, 
 with an ell'ort, 1 stood silent in the dim light — 
 as silent and motionless as herself.
 
 A LOW MARKIAGE. 
 
 107 
 
 " I wish, Martha"— and her voice was steady 
 now — " I wish to send you on a message, which 
 requires some one whom I can implicitly trust." 
 
 My heart was at my lips ; but, of course, I 
 only said, "Yes, madam." 
 
 ' ' I want you to go down to the village to the 
 — the — young person at the baker's shop." 
 
 "Nancy Hine." 
 
 "Is that her name? Yes, I remember ; Nan- 
 cy Hine. Bring her here — to the manor-house ; 
 without observation, if you can." 
 
 " To-night, madam ?" 
 
 "To-night. Make any excuse you choose; 
 or, rather, make no excuse at all. Say Mrs. 
 Rochdale wishes to sjjcak to her." 
 
 "Any thing more?" I asked, softly, after a 
 considerable pause. 
 
 "Nothing more. Go at once, Martha." 
 
 I obeyed implicitly. Much as this, my mis- 
 sion, had surprised, nay, startled me, I knew 
 Mrs. Rochdale always did what was wisest, best 
 to do under the circumstances. Also, that her 
 combined directness of purpose and strength of 
 character often led her to do things utterly un- 
 thought of by a weaker or less single-hearted 
 woman. 
 
 Though a misty September moonlight, I walk- 
 ed blindly on in search of Nancy Hine. 
 
 She was having a lively gossip at the bake- 
 house door. The fii-e showed her figure plain- 
 ly. Her large, rosy aPms. whitened with flour, 
 were crossed over her decent working-gown. 
 People allov/ed — even the most censorious — 
 that Nancy was, in her own home, an active, 
 industrious lass, though too much given to dress 
 of Sundays, and holding herself rather above 
 her station every day. 
 
 "Nancy Hine, I want to speak with you a 
 minute." 
 
 "Oh! do you, Martha Stretton ? Speak out, 
 then. No secrets here." 
 
 Her caixjless, not to say rude, manner irri- 
 tated me. I just turned away and walked down 
 the village. I had not gone many yai-ds when 
 Nancy's hand was on my shoulder, and, with a 
 loud laugh at my sudden start, she pulled me, 
 by a back door, into the shop. 
 
 " Now, then ?" 
 
 The baker's daughter folded her arms in a 
 rather defiant way. Her eyes were bright and 
 open. There was in her manner some excite- 
 ment, coarseness, and boldness; but nothing un- 
 virtuous — nothing to mark the fallen girl whom 
 her neighbors were j;ointing the finger at. I 
 could not loathe her quite as much as I had in- 
 tended. 
 
 "Now, then?" she repeated. 
 
 I delivered Mrs. Rochdale's message word 
 for word. 
 
 Nancy seemed a good deal surprised — not 
 shocked, or alarmed, or ashamed — merely sur- 
 prised. 
 
 ' ' Wants me, does she ? Why ?" 
 
 " She did not say." 
 
 " But vou guess, of course. Well, who cares ? 
 Not I." ' 
 
 Yet her brown, handsome ii^ce changed color. 
 Her hands nervously fidgeted about, taking off 
 her apron, " making herself decent," as she call- 
 ed it. Suddenly she stopped. 
 
 " Has there been any letter — any news — from 
 young Mr. Rochdale?" 
 
 " I believe there has ; but that is no business 
 of—" 
 
 "Mine, you mean, eh? Come, don't be so 
 sharp, IMartha Stretton. I'll go with you, only 
 let me put on my best bonnet first." 
 
 "Nancy Hine," I burst out, "do you think 
 it can matter to Mrs. Rochdale whether you go 
 in a queen's gown or a beggar's rags, except 
 that the rags might suit you best ? Come as 
 you are." 
 
 "I will," cried Nancy, glaring in my face; 
 "and you, Martha, keep a civil tongue, will 
 you? My father's daughter is as good as you, 
 or your mistress either. Get out of the shop. 
 I'll follow 'ee. I bean't afeard !" 
 
 That broad accent, broadening as she got 
 angry ! those abrupt, awkward gestures ! what 
 could the young squire, his mother's son, who 
 had lived with that dear mother all his days, 
 have seen attractive in Nancy Hine ? 
 
 But similar anomalies of taste have puzzled, 
 and will puzzle, every body — especially women, 
 who in their attachments generally see clearer 
 and deeper than men — to the end of time. 
 
 Nancy Hine walked in sullen taciturnity to 
 the manor-house. It was already late — nearly 
 all the household were gone to bed. I left the 
 young woman in the hall, and went up to Mrs. 
 Rochdale. 
 
 She was sitting before her dressing-room fire 
 absorbed in thought. In the chamber close by 
 — in the large state-bed which JNIrs. Rochdale 
 always occupied, where generationsof Rochdales 
 had been born and died — slept the gentle girl 
 whose hap]iiness had been so cruelly betrayed. 
 For that the engagement was broken, and for 
 sufiicient cause, Mr. Rochdale's answer, or rath- 
 er non-answer, to his mother's plain letter made 
 now certain, almost beyond a doubt. 
 
 "Hush; don't wake her," whispered Mrs. 
 Rochdale, hurriedly. "Well, Martha?" 
 
 ' ' The young woman — shall I bring her, ma- 
 dam ?" 
 
 "What! here?" Words can not describe 
 the look of repulsion, hatred, horror, which for 
 a moment darkened Mrs. Rochdale's face. Per- 
 haps the noblest human being, either man or 
 woman, is born, not passionless, but with strong 
 passions to be subjected to firm will. If at tliat 
 moment — one passing moment — she could have 
 crushed out of existence the girl w ho had led 
 away her son — (for Nancy was older tliau he, 
 and "no fool") — I think Mrs. Rochdale would 
 have done it. 
 
 The next instant slie would have done no- 
 thing of the kind ; nothing that a generous 
 Christian woman might not do. 
 
 She rose up, saying, quietly, " The young per- 
 son can not come here, Martha. Bring her 
 into — let me sec — into tlic drawing-room.
 
 108 
 
 A LOW MARRIAGE. 
 
 There, entering a few minutes after, we found 
 Mrs. Rochdale seated on one of the velvet couch- 
 es, just in the light of the chandelier. 
 
 I do not suppose Nancy Hine had ever been 
 in such a brilliant, beautiful room before. She 
 was ajijiarently quite stunned and dazzled by it ; 
 courtesied humbly, and stood with her aims 
 wrapped up in her shawl, vacantly gazing about 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale spoke. "Nancy Hine, I be- 
 lieve, is your name ?" 
 
 "Yes. my lady. That is — um — yes, ma'am, 
 my name is Nancy." 
 
 She came a little forwarder now, and lifted 
 up her eyes more boldly to the sofa. In fact, 
 they l)uth regarded each other keenly and long 
 — the lady of the manor and the village girl. 
 
 I observed that Mrs. Rochdale had resumed 
 her usual evening-dress, and that no trace of 
 mental disorder was visible in her apparel — 
 scarcely even in her countenance. 
 
 "I sent for you, Nancy Hine — (^lartha, do 
 not go away, I wish that there should be a wit- 
 ness to all that passes between this young wo- 
 man and myself) — I sent for you on account of 
 certain reports, more injurious to your charac- 
 ter, if possible, than even to that of — the other 
 person. Are you aware what reports I mean ?" 
 
 "Yes, my lady, I be." 
 
 " That is an honest answer, and I like hon- 
 esty," said Mrs. Rochdale, after a prolonged 
 gaze at tlie face, now scarlet with wholesome 
 blushes, of the baker's daughter. With a half- 
 sigh of relief, she went on. 
 
 " You must also be aware that I, as the moth- 
 er of — that other person, can have but one mo- 
 tive in sending for you here — namel}', to ask a 
 question which I more than any one else have 
 a ri;4lit to ask, and to have answered. Do you 
 understand me ?" 
 
 " Some'at." 
 
 "Nancy," she resumed, after another long 
 gaze, as if struck by something in the young 
 woman ditferent from what she had expected, 
 and led tjicreby to address her differently from 
 wJKit she had at first intended — "Nancy, I will 
 b,; plain with you. It is not every lady — every 
 mother, wlio would have spoken with you as I 
 speak now, witliout anger or blame — only wish- 
 ing to get from you the truth. If I believed the 
 worst — if you were a poor girl whom my son 
 had — had wronged, I would still have jjitied 
 you. Knowing liini and now looking at you, I 
 do not believe it. I believe you may have been 
 foolish, light of conduct ; but not guilty. Tell 
 me — do tell me'' — and tlic mother's agony broke 
 tlinmgli tlie lady's calm and dignilied demeanor 
 — "one word to assure me it is so !" 
 
 IJut Nancy Hine did not utter that word. She 
 gave a little faint sob, and then drofipcd her 
 Jiead with a troubled awkward air, as if the i)res- 
 cncc of Lemuel's mother — speaking so kindly, 
 and looking her through and through, was more 
 than she could l)(>ar. 
 
 That jioor mother, whom this last hope had 
 failed, to whom her only son now ajiijcared not 
 
 only as a promise-breaker, but the systematic 
 seducer of a girl beneath his own rank — between 
 whom and himself could exist no mental union, 
 no false gloss of sentiment to cover the foulness 
 of mere sensual passion — that poor mother sank 
 back, and put her hand over her eyes, as if she 
 would fain henceforth shut out from her sight 
 the whole world. 
 
 After a while she forced herself to look at 
 the girl once more — who, now recovering frcm 
 her momentary remorse, was busy casting ad- 
 miring glances, accomjianied with one or two 
 curious smiles, around the drawing-room. 
 
 "From your silence, young woman, 1 must 
 conclude that I was mistaken ; that — but I will 
 s])are you. Y'ou will h.avc enough to suffer. 
 There now remains only one question wliich I 
 desire — which I am comi)elled — to ask: How 
 long has this — this" she seemed to choke over 
 the unuttered word — " lasted?" 
 
 " Dunnot know what you mean." 
 
 "I must sjfcak plainer, then. How long, 
 Nancy Hine, have you been .my son's — Mr. 
 Rochdale's — mistress ?" 
 
 " Not a d.ay — not an hour," cried Nancy, vio- 
 lently, coming close to the sofii. "Mind what 
 you say, Mrs. Rochdale. I'm an honest girl. 
 I'm as good as you. I'm Mr. Rochdale's irifcJ'' 
 
 Mr. Rochdale's mother sat mute, and watch- 
 ed the girl take from a ribbon round her neck a 
 ring — an unmistakable wedding-ring, and sli]) it 
 with a determined push on her large working- 
 woman's finger. This done, she thrust it right 
 in the lady's sight. 
 
 "Look'ee, what do 'ce say to that? He put 
 it there. All your anger can not take it off. I 
 am Mrs. Lemuel Rochdale, your son's wife." 
 
 "Ah!" sin-inking from her. But the next 
 minute the true womanly feeling came into the 
 virtuous mother's heart. "Better this — than 
 — what they said. Better a thousand times. 
 Thank God." 
 
 With a sigh, long and deep, she sat down, 
 and again covered her eyes, as if trying to realize 
 the amazing — impossible truth. Then she said, 
 slowly, "Martha, I think this" — she hesitated 
 what name to give Nancy ; finally gave no name 
 at all — "I think she had better go away." 
 
 Nancy, quite awed and moved — all her bold- 
 ness gone — was creei)ing out of the room after 
 me when Mrs. Rochdale called us back. 
 
 "Stay; at this hour of the night it is not 
 fitting that — my son's wife — shoidd be out alone. 
 Martha, ask your father to see her safe home." 
 
 The baker's daughter turned at the door, and 
 said, "Thank'ee, my lady;" but omitted her 
 courtesy this time. 
 
 And Mrs. Rochdale had found her daughter- 
 in-law ! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Erk wc knew what had happened the whole 
 dynasty at the manor-house was changed. Mrs. 
 Rochdale was gone ; she left before her son re-
 
 A LOW MARRIAGE. 
 
 109 
 
 turned from Scotland, and did not once see 
 him. Mrs. Lemuel Rochdale, late Nancy Hine, 
 was installed as lady of the manor. 
 
 Such a theme for gossip had not been vouch- 
 \ /sated our countr}' for a hundred years. Of a 
 ' surety they canvassed it over — talked it literally 
 threadbare. 
 
 I\Irs. Rochdale escaped it fortunately. She 
 went abroad with Sir John and Miss Childe. 
 All the popular voice was with her and against 
 her son. They said he had killed that pfetty 
 gentle creature — who, however, did not die, 
 but lived to suffer — perhaps better still, to over- 
 come suffering ; that he had broken his noble 
 mother's heart. Few of his old fiiends visited 
 him ; not one of their wives visited his wife. 
 He had done that wliich many "respectable" 
 people are more shocked at than any species of 
 profligacy — he had made a low marriage. 
 
 Society was harder upon him, harder than he 
 deserved. At least, they despised him and his 
 marriage for the wrong cause. Not because his 
 wife was, when he chose her, a woman thor- 
 oughly beneath him in education, tastes, and 
 feelings — because from this inferiority it was 
 impossible he could have felt for her any save 
 the lowest and most degrading kind of love — 
 but simply because she was a village girl — a 
 baker's daughter. 
 
 Sir John Childe said to Lemuel's mother, in 
 a lofty compassion, the only time he was ever 
 known to refer to the humiliating and miserable 
 occurrence: "Madam, whatever herself might 
 have been, the disgrace Avould have been light- 
 ened had your son not married a person of such 
 low origin. Shocking ! — a baker's daughter." 
 
 " Sir John," said Mrs. Rochdale, with dignity, 
 "if my son had chosen a woman suitable and 
 worthy of being his wife, I would not have 
 minded had she been the daughter of the mean- 
 est laborer in the land." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Miss Martha !" called out our rector's wife 
 to me one day, "is it true, that talk I hear of 
 Mrs. Rochdale's coming home?" 
 
 " Quite true, I believe." 
 
 "And where will she come to? Not to the 
 manor-house ?" 
 
 " Certainly not." I fear there was a bitter- 
 ness in my tone, for the good old lady looked at 
 me reprovingly. 
 
 " My dear, the right thing for us in this world 
 is to make the very best of that whith, having 
 happened, was consequently ordained by Provi- 
 dence to happen. And we often find the worst 
 things not so bad, after all. I was truly glad 
 to-day to hear that Mrs. Rochdale was coming 
 home." 
 
 " But not home to them — not to the manor- 
 house. She will take a house in the village. 
 She will never meet them, any more than when 
 she was abroad." 
 
 " But she will hear of them. That docs great 
 good sometimes." 
 
 "When there is any good to be heard." 
 "I have told you, Martha, and I hope you 
 have told Mrs. Rochdale, that there is good. 
 When first I called on Mrs. Lemuel, it was 
 simply in my character as the clergyman's wife, 
 doing what I believed my duty. I found that 
 duty easier than I expected." 
 
 "Because she remembered her position" — 
 ("Her former position, my dear," corrected 
 Mrs. Wood) — " because she showed off no airs 
 and graces, but was quiet, humble, and thank- 
 ful, as became her, for the kindness you thus 
 showed." 
 
 "Because of that, and something more. Be- 
 cause the more I have seen of her the more I 
 feel, that though not exactly to be liked, she is 
 to be respected. She has sustained tolerably 
 well a most difficult part — that of an ignorant 
 person suddenly raised to wealth ; envied and 
 abused by her former class, utterly scouted and 
 despised by her present one. She has had to 
 learn to comport herself as mistress where she 
 Mas once an equal, and as an equal where she 
 used to be an inferior. I can hardly imagine 
 a greater trial as regards social position." 
 
 "Position? She has none. No ladies 
 eAC0])t yourself will visit her. Why should 
 they ?" 
 
 "My dear, why should they not? A wo- 
 man who since her marriage has conducted her- 
 self with perfect pro})riet3', befitting the sphere 
 to which she was raised ; has lived retired, and 
 forced herself into no one's notice ; who is, 
 wliatever be her shortcomings in education and 
 refinement of character, a good wife, a kind 
 mistress — " 
 
 " How do you know that?" 
 " Simply because her husband is rarelv ab- 
 sent a day from home ; because all her servants 
 have remained with her, and spoken well of her, 
 these five years." 
 
 I could not deny these facts. They were 
 known to the whole neighborhood. The proud- 
 est of our gentry were not wicked enough to 
 shut their eyes to them, even when they con- 
 temptuously stared at Mrs. Lemuel Rochdale 
 driving drearily about on long summer after- 
 noons in her lonely carriage, with not a single 
 female friend to pay a morning visit to, or sufler 
 the like infliction from ; not even at church, 
 when, quizzing her large figure and heavy gait 
 — for she had not become more sylph-like 
 with added years — they said she was growing 
 "crumbie," like her father's loaves, and won- 
 dered she would persist in wearing the finest 
 bonnets in all the congregation. 
 
 Nay, even I, bitter as I was, really ])itied her 
 one sacrament day, when she unwittingly ad- 
 vanced to the first "rail" of communicants, 
 upon which all the other "respectable" Chris^ 
 tians hung back till the second. After that, 
 the Rochdales were not seen again at the com- 
 munion. Who could marvel ? 
 
 It was noticed — by some to his credit, by
 
 110 
 
 A LOW MARRIAGE. 
 
 others as a point for ridicule — that her husband 
 always treated her, abroad and at home, witli 
 respect and consideration. Several times a few 
 huutiny; ncij^hbors, lunchini; at tlie manor- 
 house, brouglit word how ]Mrs. Lemuel Roch- 
 dale had taken the mistress's place at table, in 
 a grave, taciturn way, so that perforce every 
 one had to forget entirely that he had ever joked 
 and laughed over her father's counter with the 
 ci-dcvaut Nancy Hine. 
 
 For that honest old father, he had soon ceased 
 to give any trouble to his aristocratic son-in- 
 law, having died quietly — in a comfortable and 
 honorable bedroom at the manor-house, too — 
 and been buried underneath an eciunlly com- 
 fortable and honorable head-stone to the mem- 
 ory of "Mr. Daniel Hine ;" "baker" was omit- 
 ted, to the fireat indignation of ourviUagc, who 
 thought that, if a tradesman could "carry no- 
 thing" else, he ought at least to cany the stig- 
 ma of his trade out witli him into the next 
 world. 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale came home to the only house 
 in the neighborhood which could be found suit- 
 able. It was a little distance from the village, 
 and three miles from tlie manor-house, ilany, 
 I believe, wished her to settle in some other 
 part of the country ; but she briefly said that 
 she "])rcferred" living here. 
 
 Her jointure and an additional allowance 
 from the estate, which was fully and regularly 
 paid by my father — still Mr. Rochdale's stew- 
 ard — was, I believe, the only link of association 
 between her and her former home. Nor did she, 
 apparently, seek for more. The only jiossible 
 or pro])able chance of her meeting the inhabit- 
 ants of tlie manor-house was at Thorpe Church ; 
 and she attended a chapel-of-ease in the next 
 parish, which was, as she said, "nearei\" She 
 fell into lu'r old habits of charity — her old sim- 
 ple life ; aiul though her means were much re- 
 duced, every one, far and near, vied in showing 
 her attention and respect. 
 
 But Mrs. Rochdale did not look hapjjy. Siie 
 had grown much older — was decidedly "an 
 elderly lady" now. Instead of her fair, calm 
 aspect, was a certain unquiet air, a perjjetual 
 looking and longing for something she did not 
 find. For weeks after she came to her new 
 house she would start at strange knocks, and 
 gaze eagerly after strange horsemen i)assing the 
 window, as if she thought, " he vui^ come to 
 see his mother." But he did not; and after a 
 time she setth'd down into the patient dignity 
 of hoijcless jjain. 
 
 Many peojjle said, because Lemuel's name 
 was never heard on her lijjs, that slie cherished 
 an implacable resentment toward him. That, 
 I thought was not true. She miglit have found 
 it hard to forgive him — most motiiers would ; 
 fcut did any mother ever find any pardon im- 
 possible ? 
 
 She had still his boyish portrait hanging he- 
 side his father's in her bedroom; and once, 
 opening by chance a drawer usually kejit locked, 
 I found it contained — what? Lemuel's child- 
 
 ish muslin frocks, his boyish cloth cap, his fish- 
 ing-rod, and an old book of flies. 
 
 After tliat, who could believe his mother 
 " imjdacable ?" 
 
 Yet she certainly was a great deal harder than 
 she used to be ; harsher and quicker in her 
 judgments ; more unforgiving of little faults in 
 those about her. "With regard to her son, her 
 mind was absolutely impenetrable. She seem- 
 ed to have fortified and intrenched herself be- 
 hind a strong endurance ; it would take a heavy 
 stroke to reach the citadel — the poor desolate 
 citadel of the forlorn mother's heart. 
 
 The stroke fell. None can doubt \^Tio sent 
 it, nor why it came. 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale was standing at the school- 
 house door, when my cousin's lad, George, who 
 had been to see the hunt ])ass, ran hastily in. 
 
 "Oh! motlier, the squire's thrown and kill- 
 ed." 
 
 " Killed !" Oh, that shriek ! May I never 
 live to hear such another ! 
 
 The tale, we soon found, was incorrect ; Mr. 
 Rochdale had only been stunned, and seriously 
 injured, though not mortally. But — his poor 
 mother ! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 For an hour she lay on the school-house 
 floor, quite rigid. AVe tliouglit she would never 
 wake again. When she did, and we slowly 
 made her understand that things were not as 
 fatal as she feared, she seemed liardly able to 
 take in the consolation. 
 
 "My bonnet, Martha, my bonnet! I must 
 go to him." But she could not even stand. 
 
 I sent for my father. He came, bringing 
 with him Dr. Hall, who had just left ^Mr. Itoch- 
 dale. 
 
 Our doctor was a good man, whom every 
 body trusted. At sight of him, Jlrs. Rochdale 
 sat iij) and li.ncnod — we all listened ; no attempt 
 at cold or jiolite disguises now — to his account 
 of the accident. It was a sinq)le fracture, cura- 
 ble by a few weeks of perfect quiet and care. 
 
 "Above all, my dear nunlam, quiet,'' — for 
 the doctor luid seen ]\Irs. Rochdale's nervous 
 fastening of her cloak, and her quick glance at 
 the door. " I would not answer for the results 
 of even ten minutes' mental agitation." 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale comprehended. A spasm, 
 .sharp and keen, crossed tiie nnlia))i)y mother's 
 face. With a momentary ])ride she drew back. 
 
 "I assure you. Dr. Hall, I had no — that is, 
 I have already clianged my intention." 
 
 Then she leaned back, closed her eyes and 
 licr quivering mouth — fast — fast ! — folded (juiet- 
 ly her useless hands; and seemed as if trying 
 to commit her son, patiently and unrepining, 
 into the care of the only Healer — He "who 
 woundeth, and His lianus make whoie." ' 
 
 At last she asked suddenly, "Wlio is with 
 him?" 
 
 "His wife," said Dr. HaH, without hesitation.
 
 A LOW MAEEIAGE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " She is a. good and tender nurse ; and he is 
 fond of lier." 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale was silent. 
 
 Shortly afterward she went home in Dr. Hall's 
 carriage ; and by her own wish I left her there 
 alone. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Aftek that dreadful day, every night and 
 » morning for five days I went up to the manor- 
 house, and back again to Mrs. Rochdale's cot- 
 tage, bringing tidings, and hearing the further 
 report, never missed, which came to her through 
 Dr. Hall. It was almost always favorable ; yet 
 the agony of tliat "almost" seemed to stretch 
 the mother's powers of endurance to their ut- 
 most limit — at times her face, in its stolid fixed 
 quietness, had an expression half-insane. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of the sixth day — it 
 was a rainy December Sunda}', and scarcely any 
 one thought of stirring out but me — I was just 
 considering whether it was not time to go to 
 Mrs. Rochdale's, when some person, hooded and 
 cloaked, came up the path to our door. It was 
 herself 
 
 "Martha, I w-ant you. No, thank you; I 
 will not come in." 
 
 Yet she leaned a minute against the dripping 
 veranda, pale and breathless. 
 
 "Are you afraid of taking a walk with me in 
 this rain — a long walk? No? Then put on 
 your shawl and come." 
 
 Though this was all she said, and I made no 
 attempt to question her further, still I knew as 
 well as if she had told me where she was going. 
 We went through miry lanes, and soaking woods, 
 where the partridges started up — whirring across 
 sunk fences, and under gloomy fir-plantations, 
 till at last we came out opposite the m.inor- 
 house. It looked just the same as in old times, 
 save that there were no peacocks on the terrace, 
 and the sw^ans now never came near the house 
 — no one fed or noticed them. 
 
 "IMartha, do you see that light in my win- 
 dow? Oh, my poor boy !" 
 
 She gasped, struggled for breath, leaned on 
 my arm a minute, and then went steadily up, 
 and rang the hall-bell. 
 
 "I believe there is a new servant; he may 
 not know you, Mrs. Rochdale ;" I said, to pre- 
 pare her. 
 
 But she needed no preparation. She asked 
 in the quietest way — as if paying an ordinary 
 call — for "Mrs. Lemuel Rochdale." 
 
 " Mistress is gone to lie down, ma'am. Mas- 
 ter was worse, and she was up all night with him. 
 But he is better again to-day, thank the Lord !" 
 
 The man seemed really affected, as though 
 both "master" and " mistress" were served with 
 truer than lip-service. 
 
 "I will wait CO see Mrs. Lemuel," said Mis. 
 Rochdale, walking right into the library. 
 
 The man followed, asking respectfully what 
 name he should sav. 
 
 "Merely a lady." 
 
 We waited about a quarter of an hour. Then 
 Mrs. Lemuel appeared — somewhat fluttered, 
 looking, in spite of her handsome dress, a great 
 deal shyer and more modest than the girl Nancy 
 Hine. 
 
 "I beg pardon, ma'ara, for keeping you 
 waiting; I was with my husband. Perhaps 
 you're a stranger, and don't know how ill he has 
 been. I beg your pardon." 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale put back her vail, and Mrs. 
 Lemuel seemed as if, in common phrase, "she 
 could have dropped through the floor." 
 
 "I daresay you arc surprised to see me here," 
 the elder lady began ; " still, you will well im- 
 agine, a mother—" She broke down. It was 
 some moments before she could command her- 
 self to say, in broken accents, "I \vant to see 
 — my son." 
 
 "That you shall, with pleasure, Mrs. Roch- 
 dale," said Nancy, earnestly. " I thought once 
 cf sending for you ; but — " 
 
 The other made some gesture to indicate that 
 she was not equal to conversation, and hastily 
 moved up stairs — Nancy following. At the 
 chamber-door, however, Nancy interrupted her, 
 
 " Stop one minute, please. He has been so 
 very ill ; do let me tell him first, just to ].re- 
 pare — " 
 
 "He is my son — my own son. You need 
 not be afraid," said Mrs. Rochdale, in tones of 
 which I know not whether bitterness or keen 
 anguish was uppermost. She pushed by the 
 vife, and went in. 
 
 We heard a faint cry, "Oh, mother, my dear 
 mother!" and a loud sob — that was all. 
 
 Mrs. Lemuel shut the door, and sat down 
 on the floor outside, in tears. I forgot she had 
 been Nancy Hine, and wept with her. 
 
 It was a long time before ]\Irs. Rochdale 
 came out of her son's room. No one inter- 
 rupted them, not even the wife. Mrs. Lemuel 
 kept restlessly moving about the house — some- 
 times sitting down to talk familiarly with me, 
 then recollecting herself and resuming her dig- 
 nity. She was much imjirovcd. Her manners 
 and her mode of speaking had become more re- 
 fined. It was evident, too, that her mind had 
 been a good deal cultivated, and that report had 
 not lied w hen it avouched sarcastically, that the 
 squire had left off educating his dogs and taken 
 to educating his wife. If so, she certainly did 
 her master credit. But Nancy Hine was al- 
 ways considered a "bright" girl. 
 
 Awkward she was still — large and gaitche and 
 underbred — wanting in that simple self-pos- 
 session which needs no advantages of dress or 
 formality of manner to confirm the obvious fact 
 of innate "ladyhood." But there was nothing 
 coarse or repulsive about her- — nothing that 
 would strike one as springing from that intern- 
 al anJ ineradicable "vulgarity," which, being 
 in the nature as much as in the bringing-up, no 
 education or external refinement of manner can 
 ever wholly conceal. 
 
 I have seen more than one "lady" of unde-
 
 112 
 
 A LOW MARRIAGE. 
 
 niable Lirth and rearing, who was a great deal 
 more "vulgar" than Mrs. Lemuel Rochdale. 
 
 AVe were sitting by the dining-room fire. 
 Servants came, doing the day's mechanical 
 service, and brought in the tray. 
 
 Mrs. Lemuel began to fidget about. 
 
 "Do you think. Miss Martha, she will stay 
 and take some supper ? "Would she like to re- 
 main the night here? Ought I not to order a 
 room to be got ready ?" 
 
 But I could not answer for any of Mrs. Roch- 
 dale's movements. 
 
 In process of time she came down, looking 
 calm and happy — oh, inconceivably happy !~ 
 scarcely happier, I doubt, even when, twenty- 
 seven years ago, she had received her new-born 
 son into her bosom — her son, now bom again to 
 her in reconciliation and love. She even said, 
 witii a gentle smile, to her son's wife, 
 
 "I think he wants you. Suppose you were 
 to go up stairs?" 
 
 Nancy fled like lightning. 
 
 "He says," murmured Mrs. Rochdale, look- 
 ing at the fire, "that she has been a good wife 
 to him." 
 
 " She is much improved in many ways." 
 
 "Most likely. My son's wife could not fail 
 of that," returned Mrs. Rochdale, with a certain 
 air that forbade all further criticism on Nancy. 
 She evidently was to be viewed entirely as "my 
 son's wife." 
 
 jNIrs. Lemuel returned. She looked as if 
 she had been crying. Her manner toward her 
 mother-in-law was a mixture of gratitude and 
 pleasure. 
 
 ' ' My husband says, since you will not stay 
 the ui.nht, he hopes you will take supper here, 
 and return in the carriage." 
 
 "Thank you; certainly." And Mrs. Roch- 
 dale sat down — unwittingly, jjcrhaps — in her 
 own familiar chair, by the bright liearth. Sev- 
 eral times she sighed ; but the hapjjy look never 
 altered. And now, wholly and forever, passed 
 away that sorrowful look of seeking for some- 
 thing never found. It was found. 
 
 I think a mother, entirely and eternally sure 
 of her son's perfect reverence and love, need not 
 be jealous of any otiier love, not even lor a wife. 
 There is, in every good man's heart, a sublime 
 strength and purity of attachment, which he 
 never does feel, never can feel, for any woman 
 on earth except his mother. 
 
 Supper was served ; Mrs. Lemuel half-ad- 
 vanced to her usual place, then drew back, with 
 a deprecating glance. 
 
 But Mrs. Rochdale quietly seated herself in 
 the guest's seat at the side, leaving her son's 
 wife to take the position of mistress and hostess 
 at the head of tiie board. 
 
 Terliaps it was I only who felt a choking 
 pang of regret and humiliation at seeing my 
 dear, my nolile Mrs. liochdalc sitting at the 
 same table with Nancy 1 1 inc. 
 
 After that Sunday the mother went every 
 day to see her son. This event was the talk 
 »f the whole village : some worthy souls were 
 
 glad ; but I think the generality were rather 
 shocked at the reconciliation. They "always 
 thouglit Mrs. Rochdale had more spirit;" "won- 
 dei-ed she could have let herself down." " But, 
 of course, it was only on account of his illness. 
 She might choose to be ' on terms' with her son, 
 but it was quite impossible she could ever take 
 up with Nancy Iline." 
 
 In that last sentiment I agreed. But then 
 the gossips did not know that there was a great 
 and a daily-increasing difference between Mrs. 
 Lemuel Rochdale and "Nancy Iline." 
 
 I have stated my creed, as it was Mrs. Roch- 
 dale's, that lowness of birth does not necessarily 
 constitute a low marriage. Also, that popular 
 opinion was rather unjust to the baker's daugh- 
 ter. Doubtless she was a clever, ambitious girl, 
 anxious to raise herself, and glad enougli to do 
 so by marrying the squire. But I believe she 
 was a virtuous and not unscrupulous girl, and 
 I finnly believe she loved him. Once married, 
 she tried to raise herself so as to be worthy 
 of her station ; to kecjj and deserve her hus- 
 band's affection. That which would have made 
 a woman of meaner nature insufferably proud, 
 only made Nancy humble. Not that she abated 
 one jot of her self-resjiect — for she was a high- 
 spirited creature — but she had sense enough to 
 see that the truest self-respect lies, not in exact- 
 ing honor which is undeserved, but in striving 
 to attain that worth Avliich receives honor and 
 obser%-ance as its rightful due. 
 
 From tliis (juality in her probably grew the 
 undoubted fact of her great influence over her 
 husband. Also because, to tell the truth — (I 
 would not for worlds Mrs. Rochdale should read 
 this page) — Nancy was of a stronger nature than 
 he. Mild tempered, la/y, and kind, it was easier 
 to him to be ruled than to rule, provided he knew 
 nothing about it. This was why the gentle Cel- 
 andine could not retain the love which Daniel 
 Mine's energetic daughter won and was never 
 likely to lose. 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale said to me, when for some 
 weeks she had observed narrowly the ways of 
 her son's household, "I think he is not un- 
 happy. It might have been worse." 
 
 'J'henceforward the gentry around Thorpe 
 were "shocked" and "really quite amazed'' 
 every week of their lives. First, that poor Mr. 
 Rochdale, looking very ill, but thoroughly con- 
 tent, was seen driving out witli his mother by 
 his side, and his wife, in her most objectionable 
 and tasteless bonnet, sitting opposite. Second- 
 ly, that the two ladies, elder and younger, were 
 several times seen driving out together, only 
 they two, alone! The village could scarcely 
 believe tliis, even on the evidence of its own 
 eyes. 'J'hirdly, that on Christmas-day Mrs. 
 Rochdale was observed in her old jilace in tlic 
 manor-house pew ; and when her son and his 
 wife came in, she actually smiled! 
 
 After tiiat every body gave up the relenting 
 mother-in-law as a lost woman I
 
 A LOW MARRIAGE. 
 
 118 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Three months slipped away. It was the 
 season when most of our county families were 
 in town. When they gradually returned, the 
 astounding truth was revealed concerning Mrs. 
 Rochdale and her son. Some were greatly 
 scandalized, some pitied the weakness of moth- 
 ers, but thouy,ht that as she was now growing 
 old, forgiveness was excusable. 
 
 "But, of course, she can never expect us to 
 visit Mrs. Lemuel?" 
 
 "I am afraid not," was the rector's wife's 
 mild remark. "Mrs. Rochdale is unlike most 
 ladies ; she is not only a gentlewoman, but a 
 Christian." 
 
 Yet it Avas obser\-able that the tide of feeling 
 against the squire's "low" wife ebbed day by 
 day. First, some kindly stranger noticed pub- 
 licly that she was "extremely good-looking;" 
 to confirm which, by some lucky chance, poor 
 Nancy grew much thinner, probably with the 
 daily walks to and from Mrs. Rochdale's resi- 
 dence. Wild re]jorts flew abroad that the 
 squire's mother, without doubt one of the most 
 accomplished and well-read women of her gen- 
 eration, was actually engaged in "improving 
 the mind " of her daughter-in-law ! 
 
 That some strong influence was at work be- 
 came evident in the daily change creeping over 
 Mrs. Lemuel. Her manners grew quieter, gen- 
 tler ; her voice took a softer tone ; even her at- 
 tire, down, or rather up, to the much abused 
 bonnets, was subdued to colors suitable for her 
 large and showy person. One day a second 
 stranger actually asked ' ' who was that distinguc- 
 looking woman ?" and was coughed down. But 
 the effect of the comment remained. 
 
 Gradually the point at issue slightly changed ; 
 and the question became: 
 
 "I wonder whether INIrs. Rochdale expects 
 us to visit Mrs. Lemuel ?" 
 
 But Mrs. Rochdale, thougli, of course, she 
 knew all about it — for every body knew every 
 thing in our village — never vouchsafed the slight- 
 est hint one way or the other as to her expecta- 
 tions. 
 
 Nevertheless the difficulty increased daily, 
 especially as the squire's mother had been long 
 the object of universal respect and attention 
 i'iom her neighbors. The C[uestion, " To visit 
 or not to visit?" was mooted and canvassed far 
 and wide. Mrs. Rochdale's example was strong ; 
 yet the "county people" had the prejudices of 
 their class, and most of tliem had warmly re- 
 garded poor Celandine Childe. 
 
 I have hitherto not said a word of Miss Childe. 
 She was still abroad. But though Mrs. Roch- 
 dale rarely alluded to her, I often noticed how 
 her eyes would brighten at sight of letters in 
 the delicate handwriting I knew so well. The 
 strong attachment between these two nothing 
 had power to break. 
 
 One day she sat poring long over one of Cel- 
 andine's letters, and many times took oft' her 
 glasses — alas ! as I said, Mrs. Rochdale was an 
 H 
 
 old lady now — to wipe the dews from them. 
 At length she called in a clear voice, "Martha!" 
 and I found her standing by the minor smil- 
 ing. 
 
 "Martha, I am going to a wedding!" 
 
 "Indeed! Whose, madam?" 
 
 "Miss Childe's. She is to be married next 
 week." 
 
 "To whom!" I cried, in unfeigned astonish- 
 ment." 
 
 "Do you remember Mr. Sinclair?" 
 
 I did. He was the rector of Ashen Dale. 
 One of the many suitors whom, years ago, popu- 
 lar re))ort had given to Miss Childe. 
 
 " Was that really the case, Mrs. Rochdale?" 
 
 " Yes. Afterward he became, and has been 
 ever since, her truest, tenderest, most faithful 
 friend. Now — " 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale sat down, still smiling, but 
 sighing also. I, too, felt a certain pang, for 
 which I blamed myself the moment after, to 
 think that love can ever die and be buiied. 
 Yet surely the Maker of the human heart knows 
 it best. One thing I know, and perhajis it 
 would account for a great deal, that the Lemuel 
 of Celandine's love was not, never had been, 
 the real Lemuel Rochdale. Still — 
 
 Something in my looks betrayed me ; for 
 Mrs. Rochdale, turning round, said, decisively, • 
 
 "Martha, I am very glad of this marriage,- 
 deeply and entirely glad. She will be happy 
 — my poor Celandine !" 
 
 And happy she always has been, I believe. 
 
 After Mrs. Rochdale's return from the wed- 
 ding, she one day sent for me. 
 
 " Martha" — and an amused smile about her 
 mouth reminded me of our lady of the manor 
 in her young days — "I am going to astonish 
 the village. I intend giving a dinner-party. 
 Will you write the invitations ?" 
 
 They were, without exception, to the "best" 
 families of our neighborhood. Literally the 
 best- — the worthiest; people, like Mrs. Rochdale 
 herself, to whom "position" was a mere cloth- 
 ing, used or not used, never concealing or meant 
 to conceal the honest form beneath, the common 
 humanity that we all owe alike to father Adam 
 and mother Eve. People who had no need to 
 stickle for the rank that was their birthri-ht, 
 the honor that was their due ; w hose blood was 
 so thoroughly "gentle" that it inclined therti- 
 to gentle manners and gentle deeds. Of such 
 — and there are not a few throughout our En- 
 glish land — of such are the true aristocracy. 
 
 All Thorpe was on the qui vive respecting this 
 wonderful dinner-party, for hitherto — gossip 
 said bv^cause she could, of course, have no gen- 
 tleman at the head of her table — Mrs. Rochdale 
 had abstained from any thing of the kind. Now, 
 would her son really take his rightful place at 
 the entertainment? and if so, what was to be 
 done with his wife? Could our "best" fami- 
 lies, much as they esteemed Mrs. Rochdale, 
 ever, under any possible circumstances, be ex- 
 pected to meet the former Nancy Iline? 
 
 I need not say how the whole question served
 
 114 
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 for a week's wonder ; and how every body knew 
 every other body's thoughts and intentions a 
 great deal better than "other bodies" theni- 
 selres. Half the village was out at the door or 
 window, when on this memorable afternoon the 
 several carriages were seen driving up to Mrs. 
 Rochdale's house. 
 
 Within, we are quiet enough. She had few 
 preparations — she always lived in simple ele- 
 gance. Even on this grand occasion she only 
 gave what cheer her means could afford — no- 
 thing more. Show was needless, for every 
 guest was not a mere acquaintance, but a friend. 
 
 Dressed richly, and with special care — how 
 well I remembered, that is, if I had dared to 
 remember, another similar toilet I — Mrs. Roch- 
 dale sat in her chamber. Not until the visit- 
 ors were all assembled did she descend to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 Entering there — she did not enter alone ; on 
 her arm was a lady of thirty; lar;j;e and hand- 
 some in figure ; plainly but most becomingly 
 attired ; — a lady to whose manners or appear- 
 ance none could have taken the slighest excep- 
 tion, and on whom any stranger's most likely 
 comment would have been, "What a fine-look- 
 ing woman ! but so quiet." 
 
 This lady Mrs. Rochdale at once presented 
 to the guests, with a simijle, unimjjn^ssive quiet- 
 ness, which was the most impressive effect she 
 could have made — 
 
 " My daughter, Mrs. Lemuel Rochdale." 
 
 In a week, "every body" visited at the ma- 
 Bor-house. 
 
 « * « « 4< >t< 
 
 Perhaps I ought to end this history by de- 
 scribing the elder and younger Mrs. Rochdale 
 
 as henceforward united in the closest sympatlijr 
 and tcnderest affection. It was not so; it would 
 have been unnatural, nay, im{)ossible. The dif- 
 ference of education, habits, character, was too 
 great ever to be wholly removed. But the 
 mother and daughter-in-law maintain a socia- 
 ble intercourse, even a certain amount of kindly 
 regard, based on one safe point of union, where 
 the strongest attachment of both converges 
 and mingles. Perhajjs, as those blessed with a 
 su])erabundance of faithful luve often end by 
 deserving it, Mr. Rochdale may grow worthy, 
 not only of his wife, but of his mother, in time. 
 
 Mrs. Rochdale is quite an ckl lady now. You 
 rarely meet her beyond th':-, lane where her small 
 house stands ; which she occujies still, and ob- 
 stinately refuses to leave. But meeting her, 
 you could not helj) turning back for another 
 glance at her slow, stately walk, and her ineffa- 
 bly beautiful smile. A smile which, to a cer- 
 tainty, would rest on the gentleman u]on whose 
 arm she always leans, and whose horse is seen 
 daily at her gate, with a persistency etiual to 
 that of a young man going a-courting. For 
 people say in our village that tlie squire, with 
 all his known affection for his goud wife, is as 
 attentive as any lover to his beloved old moth- 
 er, who has been such a devoted mother to 
 him. 
 
 One want exists at the manor-house — there 
 are no children. For some things this is as well ; 
 and yet I know not. However, so it is; and 
 since it is, it must be right to be. When tliis 
 generation dies out, probably- the next will al- 
 together have forgotten the fact that the last 
 ]Mr. Rochdale made what society ignomiuiouslj 
 terms " a low marriage." 
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 " Jamks, the house is let." 
 
 " Which ?" said Mr. Rivers, never looking up 
 from his dinner— for a dozen {)atients, scatter- 
 ed over a dozen square miles, were awaiting 
 him. 
 
 "The house — the Double House. The one 
 that every body thought would never get a ten- 
 ant. But it has got one," 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "A Dr. Merchiston, a physician , but, luck- 
 ily for us, he does not practice. He is a man 
 of large fortune." 
 
 " Married ?— children ?" 
 
 " I really don't know. But I should rather 
 think not. Most family men would object to 
 that very inconvenient house. It might suit an 
 eccentric bachelor, who could live alone in the 
 oac half, and shut up his domestics in the oth- 
 
 er, locking the door of communication between. 
 But for a mistress and mother of a family — dear 
 me ! — one might as well live in two separate 
 houses. One never could hear the children cry 
 of nights, and the maids might idle as much as 
 they liked without — " 
 
 Here I turned round, finding I was talking 
 to the air. My husband had disappeared. It 
 was in vain to attempt to interest him about the 
 Double House, or the people that were coming 
 there. 
 
 But as to the rest of our village — speculation 
 ran wild concerning the new-comers. First, 
 because a grave, dignified, middle-aged gentle- 
 man like Dr. Merchiston — of such composed 
 and (juiet manners, too — had chosen to live in 
 this eccentric and uncomfortable mansion ; for, 
 as before stated, it went b/ the name of the
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 115 
 
 Double House, and consisted of two houses 
 joined together by a covered passage and door 
 of communication, each having its separate en- 
 trance, and being, in fact, a comjdete dwelling. 
 Secondly, because, when the furniture was sent 
 in, it was discovered to be the appointments of 
 two distinct habitations ; namely, two drawing- 
 rooms, two dininy;-rooms, two liitchens, and so 
 on. The wonder grew — wlien Dr. Merchis- 
 ton, accom})anicd by an elderly person, "Mrs. 
 Merchiston's maid," (there was a Mrs. Mercliis- 
 ton, then I) inducted into the establishment 
 two distinct sets of domestics ; two cooks, two 
 housemaids, etc. 
 
 And now every body waited for the master 
 and mistress, who, we learned, had to make a 
 long journey from London by post — fur all this 
 happened when I was a 3'oung married woman, 
 more than forty years ago. I had my hands 
 empty then — possibly, my head, too, for I re- 
 member loitering about the whole day, and sit- 
 ting lazily at parlor windows, just to catch the 
 first sight of niy new neighbors. Nay, I will 
 confess that wlien the chaise and four thun- 
 dered past our liouse I peeped from under the 
 blind. 
 
 In the carriage I saw only the elderly female 
 servant, and a figure leaning back. Dr. Mer- 
 chiston was certainly not there. 
 
 Half an hour afterward he galloped past in 
 the twilight to his own door, which closed upon 
 him as quickly as it had, a short time before, 
 closed upon the others. 
 
 " Well, they are come," said I to James that 
 evening. 
 
 " Who ?■' lie ejaculated, most provokingly. 
 
 " The Merchistons, of course. And nobody 
 is a bit the wiser." 
 
 My husband ])ut on his quaintest smile (a 
 merry man, children, was your grandfather) — 
 "Never mind — there's Sunday coming." 
 
 My ho])es revived. I led a dull life in 
 James's long absences, and had been really 
 anxious for a neighbor — a pleasant neighbor — 
 a true gentlewoman. Yes, of course, we should 
 see the Merchistons at church on Sunday, for a 
 large pew had been taken, cushioned and has- 
 socked to perfection ; besides, the doctor look- 
 ed like a respectable church-going gentleman. 
 
 And sure enough, when service began, above 
 the high ])ew, distinct to the eye of the whole 
 congregation, rose his tall head and shoulders. 
 
 He was in the prime of life, though his hair 
 was already, as we say of a September tree, 
 "turning." He had a large, well-shaped head, 
 very broad across the crown, just where my 
 grandson tells me lies the bump of conscien- 
 tiousness ; but we never thought of such folly 
 as phrenology in my days. For the face — I do 
 not clearly remember the features, but I know 
 the general impression conveyed was that of a 
 strong will, capable of any amount of self-con- 
 trol or self-denial. The eyes, thougli honest 
 and clear, had at times much restlessness in 
 them ; when steady and fixed, they were, I 
 think, the saddest eyes I ever saw. His coun- 
 
 tenance was sickly and pale, though he flushed 
 up once or twice on meeting the universal 
 stare — which stare increased tenfold when he 
 actually repeated audibly and devoutly the re- 
 sponses which the Kubric enjoins on the con- 
 gregation, and the congregation usually dele- 
 gates to the charity-boys and the clerk. 
 
 Except this we could find nothing extraor- 
 dinary in Dr. IMerchiston's a]ipearance or be- 
 havior. He sat in his pew alone ; he went 
 out as he had entered, silently, quietly, and 
 alone. In another pew sat two of the house- 
 servants and Mrs. Merchiston's maid. The 
 lady herself did not come to church at all that 
 day. 
 
 It was rather disappointing — since, by Ape- 
 dale etiquette, no one could call on Mrs. Mer- 
 chiston until she had a]ipeared at church. But 
 Me heard during the week that the Hector had 
 called on Dr. Merchiston. 
 
 1 tried to persuade Mr. Rivers to do the same 
 ^it would be only kind and neighborly. After 
 half an hour's coaxing, which, aj parently, was 
 all thrown away, he briefly observed, 
 
 "Peggy, I've been." 
 
 " Oh ! do tell me all about it, from the verj' 
 beginning. Which door did you knock at ? 
 The one with a brass plate, and 'Dr. Merchis- 
 ton' on it ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you saw him? You were shown up 
 to the drawing-room or ihe library — which ?" 
 
 "Library." 
 
 "Was he alone ? Was he polite and pleas- 
 ant ? Did you see bis wife ? 
 
 Two nods and a shake of the head were all 
 the answer I received to these three questions. 
 
 "Dear me ! How odd I I hoi)e you inquired 
 after her ? How did her husband say she was?" 
 
 "Quite well." 
 
 "Nothing more?" 
 
 "Nothing more." 
 
 "Well — you are the most provoking man to 
 get any thing out of." 
 
 "And you, my Peggy, are one of those ex- 
 cellent women who will never cease trying hard 
 to get out of a man things which he absolutely 
 does not know." 
 
 I laughed ; for what was the use of quarrel- 
 ing? Besides, didn't I know all James's little 
 peculiarities before I married him? 
 
 "Just one question more, James. Have 
 they any children?" 
 
 " Didn't ask." 
 
 So the whole Merchiston affair stood precise- 
 ly where it was — until the next Sunday. Then, 
 in the afternoon, as I walked to church, I saw 
 a lady come quietly out of the Double House, 
 at the left-hand door — not the one witii the 
 brass name-plate — close it after bei', and jiro- 
 ceed alone across the road and down Church- 
 alley. 
 
 She paused a moment in the church-yard 
 walk, which was very beautifid iu the May 
 afternoon, with the two great trees meeting 
 overhead, and throwing checkers of light and
 
 116 
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 shade on the path leading to the porch. She 
 looked arounil as if she admired and enjoyed 
 this scene, with its picturesque groups of twos 
 and threes — fathers and mothers, husbands and 
 wives, lingering about and talking till the chime 
 of bells should cease. She looked apparently 
 with a kindly interest on them all, and then, 
 as if suddenly conscious that they looked back 
 inquisitively at her, dropped her vail and hur- 
 riedly entered the church. 
 
 I heard her asking the sexton in a low voice, 
 which seemed to belong to a woman still young, 
 "which was Dr. Merchiston's pew?" 
 
 She was shown in, and then — being small of 
 stature — she entirely vanished from my gaze 
 and that of the congregation. 
 
 Could it be tliat this was ^Irs. Merchiston ? 
 
 I do not exaggerate when I .say that I had six 
 successive "drop])ers-in" on the Monday morn- 
 ing — to my great inconvenience, fur I was mak- 
 in.; my cowslijj-wine — I should say, my lirst at- 
 tempt at this potent liquor — and that the sole 
 subject of conversation was Mrs. Merchiston. 
 
 •'What a tiny woman!" "How plainly 
 dre-scd ! why, her pelisse was quite old-fashion- 
 ed." "Yet somebody said she was young." 
 "He does not seem above forty, either." "How 
 straiige that he sliould let her go to church 
 rtlouc — the first time of her appearance, tool" 
 
 Such were the comments, blended with a 
 small quantum of lately-elicited facts, which 
 reached me concerning my new neighbors. 
 " Very odd people — exceedingly queer — ought 
 to be inquired into," was the general conclusion. 
 All the village began to discuss the Double 
 House, the duplicate establishment, and the 
 notable facts that, since their arrival. Dr. Mer- 
 chiston had been seen out every daj^, Mrs. Mer- 
 chiston never; that Dr. Merchiston had come 
 to church, Mrs. Merchiston staying at home, 
 and vice versa. 
 
 The result was, the Apedale ladies cautiously 
 resolved to defer " visiting" the strangers a little 
 longer, till assured of their respectability ; and 
 I being myself a new-comer, hating gossip, 
 scand;il, and censoriousness, with the virulence 
 of warm-hearted, all-credulous youth, inly de- 
 termined to call the next day. 
 
 But first, of course, I asked my husband's 
 leave ; and gaining it, hazarded a question or 
 two further, since James, from his profession 
 and long standing in the county, knew every 
 body and cvf^ry thing. 
 
 "Who is he. Peg? I know no more than 
 that he is Evan Merchiston, M.D., of the Uni- 
 versity of Gla'sgow." 
 
 "And Mrs. Merchiston?" 
 
 "Was Barbara, only child of Thomas and 
 Barbara Carrie, late of Apedale in this county, 
 who were drowned at sea in seventeen hundred 
 and—" 
 
 "Stop, stop! you are like an animated tomb- 
 Htone reading itself aloud. The very stone — I 
 have seen it in our owti church-yard. And so 
 she was born at Apedale? That accounts for 
 their coming to settle here." 
 
 "Precisely. Any thing more, Peg?" 
 
 " No, James ;" for I was ashamed of my own 
 doubts, as if that soft, mild face 1 caught a 
 glimpse of under the vail, and the manly, be- 
 nevolent head which I had watched the j)revious 
 Sunday, did not prove, despite all gossij), that 
 the Merchistons were "respectable"— even in 
 mi/ sense of the word, which was wider than 
 that of my neighbors. "A respectable man" — 
 as James once said when he was court in j, me — 
 " a respectable man is one who is al" ays worthy 
 of respect, because he always respects both him- 
 self and other peojjle." 
 
 Perhaps it was to jirovc my own "respecta- 
 bility" in this sense — and justly I might respect 
 myself — namely, the ha])py woman who was 
 James Kivers's wife — that 1 dressed myself in my 
 very bast muslin gown of my own working, and 
 my i)retty green silk spencer and h:it that my 
 motiicr gave when I was marrieii, i)re])aratory to 
 ' calling on Mrs. Merchiston. 
 
 At the Double House arose a puzzle. There 
 were two front doors, and which sliould I knock 
 at? After some doubt, I thought I could not 
 do better than follow iu my husband's st','j)S, so 
 I gave a summons at the door with the brass 
 ]ilate on it. 
 
 A man, half valet, half groom, answered. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Merchiston at home?" 
 
 "I don't know, ma'am ; I will inquire, if you 
 please. Will you be so kind as to knock at the 
 other door?" 
 
 Upon which, with some abruptness, he shut 
 this one, and left me outside. 
 
 "Well," thought I, "what can it signify 
 which door I go in at? though 'tis rather odd, 
 too." 
 
 However, I did as I was bidden, and was 
 shown by a ne;it maid-servant into a very hand- 
 some i)arlor — drawing-room you would call it 
 now, but drawing-rooms had not then reached 
 Apedale. 
 
 By the ap])earance of a recently vacated sit- 
 ting-room you can make a very good guess at 
 its occupant. I soon decided that Mrs. Mer- 
 chiston was young, iiu'lined to elegant tastes, 
 especially music, tintt she had no children, was 
 left a good deal alone, iind probably found her- 
 self in that dreariest i)Osiii(in for an active mind 
 — that of a lady with nothing to do. 
 
 After a considera])ly long interval she ap- 
 peared. Her v.clcomc was courteous, even 
 friendly, though not without a sli,^ht nervous- 
 ness and hesitation. 
 
 It certainly had not been her toilet that 
 kept me waiting, for she was in the simjdest 
 possible morning-gown of nankeen, and her 
 hair would not have taken a minute's dressing, 
 as it curled all round her head in natural, wavy 
 curls like a child's. Verv childlike, too, were 
 both the figure and face ; I coukl h:irdly believe 
 that she must be, from the date of her parents' 
 death on the tombstone, nearly, if not quite, 
 thirty years old. She was not exactly i)retty, 
 but the cxjircssion of her blue eyes Wiis very 
 beautiful, perfectly simple, trusting, guileless,
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 117 
 
 and gay. She was, in short, just the sort of 
 woman that I should have expected a grave 
 man like Dr. Merchiston to choose out from the 
 world of much cleverer and lovelier women, 
 and love deeply, perhaps even madly, to the 
 end of his days. 
 
 I was quite satisfied, nay, charmed with her. 
 When we parted, after a much longer chat than 
 etiquette required, I invited her warmly to our 
 house. 
 
 " I shall be happy to come in a friendly way, 
 but I believe Dr. Merchiston does not wish for 
 much visiting." 
 
 This was the first time the doctor's name had 
 entered into our conversation, so I politely in- 
 quired after his health, stating that I had seen 
 him in church, and hoping I should soon have 
 the pleasure of an introduction to him. I ex- 
 pected she would take the hint, send for her 
 husband, and perform the desired introduction 
 now. 
 
 But Mrs. Merchiston did nothing of the kind; 
 she merely answered my inquiries as briefly as 
 civility allowed, and evaded the subject. 
 
 Curiosity was too strong ; I could not let it 
 
 go- 
 
 "I hope sincerely that it is not on account 
 
 of illness that Dr. jMerchiston abstains from 
 visiting. My husband thought ho looked in 
 rather weak health." 
 
 " Does he look so ? In weak health ? Oh 
 no — oh no !" 
 
 All the wife was indicated in that start — 
 that flush — that paleness. Yet she had answer- 
 ed indift'crently when I inquired after him ; and 
 in her conversation and the surroundings of 
 this room there was no more trace of Dr. Mer- 
 chiston than if he never entered there, or in- 
 deed no longer existed. Likewise in her form 
 of speech I liad noticed not the habitual happy 
 "we" wliich most married people learn to use, 
 but the sad, involuntarily selfish "I" of spin- 
 sters and childless widows. It was incompre- 
 hensible. 
 
 I hastened to atone for my inadvertence. 
 "Indeed, my dear Mrs. Merchiston, you need 
 not be alarmed. It must be only his natural 
 paleness which strikes a stranger; while you 
 who see him every day — " 
 
 "Oh, that is it — that is it," she hurriedly 
 answered, and took me to the window to show 
 me her flowers. Very soon after, I departed. 
 
 Some weeks passed ; she returned my visit, 
 and, of course, I paid a second. Several of our 
 village wives and mothers called likewise. It 
 was always the same story : they had been re- 
 ceived with courtesy, were delighted with Mrs. 
 Merchiston, but no one ever saw her husband. 
 And when the fathers of families, one after 
 another, jwid their respects to the doctor, they 
 likewise returned well pleased, pronounced him 
 a pleasant, good-hearted, gentlemanly fellow, 
 but wondered that he never introduced them to 
 his wife. 
 
 Two dinner-parties were made for the new- 
 comers, and the invitations accepted ; but ere 
 
 the first, Mrs. Merchiston was "slightly indis- 
 posed ;" and at the second, Dr. Merchiston was 
 " unavoidably absent on business." So that to 
 both dinners each one came alone ; neverthe- 
 less, the impression they severally left behind 
 was that of "exceedingly nice people." 
 
 At this time I did not go out much ; and 
 some weeks after, your mother, children, was 
 born. She cost me a long illness, almost my 
 life ; but she throve well, and at last I recov- 
 ered. Mrs. Merchiston was among my first 
 visitors. 
 
 I was glad to sec her, for she had been very 
 kind. Many a basket of fruit and flowers had 
 came from the Double House to ours. I 
 thanked her as warmly as I felt. 
 
 " And your husband, too — I do believe he ha.s 
 shot half the partridges in the county for my 
 benefit — I have had so many ; besides, it was 
 he who rode twelve miles to fetcli James that 
 night they thought me dying." 
 
 "Was'it?" 
 
 " Did you not know ? Then do tell him, 
 Mrs. Merchiston, how much I thank him for 
 his goodness — for the comfort, the help he was 
 to my ]ioor James ! Ah ! he could understand 
 what a husband feels when his wife is dying." 
 
 Mrs. Merchiston stooped over the new cradle 
 with the little one asleep. She did tiot speak 
 a word. 
 
 "But you will tell him," pursued I, earnest 
 in my gratitude. " What an excellent man 
 he must be I" 
 
 "He is," she answered, in a tone evidently 
 steadied carefully down, even to coldness. "Jt 
 is always a pleasure to him to do a kindness to 
 any one. May I look at the baby?" 
 
 She walked up and down the parlor, lulling 
 it on her arms. It nestled its wee face into 
 her bosom. 
 
 " Ko, I am not your mother, little one. 
 Ah, no!" 
 
 She gave the child back to me and turned 
 away. Her eyes were full of tears. 
 
 Then taking a chair by me, and softly strok- 
 ing baby's fingers, she said, "Children, I bb- 
 lieve, are a great responsibility and a heavy 
 care ; but I think it is a sadder thing still ne\er 
 to have had a child. There can be no love, no 
 happiness like a mother's ; it often atones for 
 the loss of all other love — all other happiness." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 " Yes, at times. Because motherhood must 
 forever taktr away the selfislmess of grief. How 
 could a woman feel selfish or desolate — how 
 could she indeed know any personal grief at all, 
 if she had a child ?" 
 
 " You are speaking less as a wife would feel 
 than a widow. And you and I, Mrs. Merchis- 
 ton, can not, need not, dare not, talk as wid- 
 ows." 
 
 "God forbid," she said, with a shiver. 
 
 I took an early opportunity of sending babj 
 away, and talking of everyday things. 1 have 
 great ]iity for a childless wife, unless, as larely 
 ha]ipens in this world, her marriage is so su-
 
 lis 
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 premclv hnppy that the briinniiii"^ cup leaves 
 not another drop to be desired. Yet even then 
 its sweetness is apt to cloy, or become a sort of 
 dual egotism, which feels no love, sympathizes 
 with no sorrow, and shares no joy, that is not 
 strictly its own. Forgetting, perhaps, that per- 
 fect wedded union is not meant for the satisfac- 
 tion of the two only, but also that from tlieir 
 eneness of bliss they may radiate a wide liijht 
 of goodness and blessedness out upon the world. 
 
 I rather wondered, knowing from rejwrt and 
 from my own experience what good people the 
 Merchistons were, that they did not botli try 
 more to live this life, which would certainly have 
 made them hapjiier than slie, at least, ajipeared. 
 Yet, as I said, I pitied her. No one can see 
 the .skeleton in his neighbor's house, or the worm 
 in his friend's heart : yet we know, as our ex- 
 perience of life grows wider, that both must as- 
 suredly be there. 
 
 Mrs. Merchiston and I had a very jdcasant 
 chat ; the baby had opened our hearts. \Yc 
 were growing better than ac(iuaintance — friends. 
 We planned social evenings for the ensuing 
 ■winter, in wiiich, when he came in, Mr. Itivers 
 cordially joined. 
 
 "And I Jiope we shall see the doctor too, 
 madam," continued he, breaking out into im- 
 pressiveness, and discarding laconicism ; "tliere 
 isn't a man alive I respect more than your hus- 
 band." 
 
 She colored vividly, but merely observed, 
 "You arc right — I thank you." 
 
 AVe were all standing at our door, she being 
 just about to take leave. Suddenly she drew 
 back within. At that moment there passed 
 close by — so close that he must liave touched 
 his wife's dress — Dr. Merchiston. 
 
 He looked in, distinctly saw us all, and we 
 him. 
 
 " Doctor — doctor !" cried my husband. 
 
 In crossing the street. Dr. Merchiston turned, 
 bowed in reply, but did not stop. 
 
 " Excuse me, I had sometiiing to say to 
 him," cried James, and was otf, without a 
 glance at Mrs. Merchiston. 
 
 But when I looked at her I was really 
 alarmed. Her limbs were tottering, her coun- 
 tenance pale as death. I helped her back into 
 the parlor, and made her lie down ; but all my 
 efforts could scarcely keep her from fainting. 
 At length she said, feebly — 
 
 "Thank you, I am better now. It is very 
 wrong of me. But I could not help it. Oh, 
 -Mrs. Rivers" — with a i)iteous, bewildered look 
 — " if you had been his wife, and had not seen 
 him for two wiiole years I" 
 
 "Him! Is it possible you mean j-our hus- 
 band?" 
 
 "Yes, my own husband^ — my dear husband, 
 who loved me when he married me. God knows 
 what I have done that he slioidd not love me 
 now! — Oh me! what have I liocn saying?" 
 • " Never mind wluit you have been saying, my 
 df-ar l.idy, I shall keep it all secret. There now, 
 it will do you good to cry." 
 
 And I cried too, heartilj-. It seemed very 
 dreadful. That young, fond, pretty creature, 
 to live under the same roof as her husband, 
 and not to have seen him for two whole years. 
 Here was explained the mystery of the Double 
 House — here was confirmation entire of those 
 few straggling reports which, when 1 caught 
 them flying abroad, I had utterly quenched, de- 
 nied, and disbelieved. I was greatly shocked, 
 and, as was natural. I took the woman's side of 
 the question. 
 
 "And I thought him so good, and you so 
 happy! ^Yhat deceivers men are!" 
 
 " You are mistaken, Mrs. Kivers, in one man 
 at least," she returned, with dignity; "your 
 husband spoke truly when he saiii there was no 
 man living more worthy of respect than Dr. 
 Merchiston." 
 
 " He has not lost yours, then?" 
 
 " In no point." 
 
 " And you love him .still ?" 
 
 " I do ; God pity me — I do." She sobbed 
 as if her heart were t)rcaking. 
 
 There Mas then but one conclusion to be 
 drawn — one only reason for a good man's thus 
 mercilessly i)uttiiig away his wife, — some error 
 on her i)art, either known or imagined by^him. 
 But no ! when I looked down on her gentle, in- 
 nocent, childlike face, I rejected the doubt as 
 impossible. Nor hail I detected in her any of 
 those inherent, incurable faults of temper or of 
 character, the " continual drojijiing that weareth 
 away the stone," which, if divorce be ever justi- 
 flalde for any thing short of crime, would have 
 justified it in some marriages I have seen. 
 
 "Does any body know? Not that I mind, 
 but it might harm liim. Mrs. Kivers, do you 
 think any body at Apedale knows ?" 
 
 " Alas, in a village like this, there can be no 
 such thing as a secret." 
 
 She wrung her hands. "I thought so — I 
 feared so. But he came to live in the country 
 because the doctors said London air was killing 
 me. I wish it had killed me — oh, I ^ish it 
 had!" 
 
 I have seen the look of desjiair in many a 
 wronged, miserable wife's eyes, but I never saw 
 it so Tnournfully jilain as in those of poor Bar- 
 bara ^Merchiston. I took her to my arms, though 
 she was older than I, and asked her to let mc 
 comfort her and be her friend, if she had no 
 other. 
 
 "Not one — not one. But" — and she started 
 back with a sudden fear — "you will not be my 
 friend by becoming an enemy to my husbanil?" 
 
 "I have no such intention. I condemn him 
 not : to his own Master let him stand or fall." 
 
 Probably this was harshly s])oken, for she 
 took my hand, saying, imploringly, " Tny do 
 not misjudge cither him or me. I was very 
 wrong in betraying any thing. But my life ia 
 so lonely. I am not strong; and this shock 
 was too much for me. How ill he looked — how 
 gray he has grown ! Oh, Kvan, my poor hus- 
 band !" 
 
 To see her weejiing there, without the slight-
 
 THE DOUSLE HOUSE. 
 
 119 
 
 est anger or woiincied pride, roused both feel- 
 in;^s ill me. I determined to fathom this mys- 
 terious affair; and, braving the usual fate of 
 those who interfere between man and wife — 
 namely, being hated by both parties— to try 
 and remedy it if I could. 
 
 " Tell me, my dear Mrs. Merchiston — believe 
 me it is from no idle curiosity I ask — how long 
 has this state of iliings lasted?" 
 
 "For five years.' 
 
 "Five years!" I was staggered. "Entire 
 separation and estrangement for five years ! 
 And for no cause ? Arc you sure — oh, forgive 
 me if I wound you — but are you sure there is 
 no cause ?" 
 
 " I declare before Heaven — none ! He has 
 never blamed me in word or deed." 
 
 "Nor given you reason to blame him?" said 
 I, with a sharp glance, still strongly inclining to 
 the rights of my own sex. 
 
 " Me — blame him ? — blame my husband ?" 
 she answered, with a look of half-reproachful 
 wonder. "I told you he loved me." ' 
 
 "But love changes," continued I, very cau- 
 tiously, for it was hard to meet her large inno- 
 cent eyes, like a gazelle's, with your hand on its 
 throat. "Men sometimes come to love other 
 women than their wives." 
 
 She flushed indignantly all over her face. 
 "You wrong him — you wickedly wrong him. 
 His life is, and always has been, as spotless as 
 my own." 
 
 Well, thought I, I give it up. Either she is 
 extraordinarily deceived, and the hypocrisy of 
 that man is such as never was man's before, or 
 the problem is quite beyond my solving. Yet 
 — one more attempt. 
 
 "Juft a word. Tell me, ilrs. Merchiston, 
 how and when did this sad estrangement be- 
 gin?" 
 
 " Six months after our marriage. "VVe mar- 
 ried for love ; we were both alone in the world ; 
 we were all in all to one another. Gradually 
 he grew melancholy — I could not find out why ; 
 he said it would pass away in time. Then he 
 had a fever — I nursed him through it. When 
 he recovered — he — sent me away." 
 
 The brute ! I thought. Just like a man ! 
 "But how ?" I said aloud. "What reason did 
 he give ? What excuse could he offer ?" 
 
 "None. He only wrote to mo, when away 
 on a short journey, and told me that this sepa- 
 ration must be — that it was absolutely inevita- 
 ble — that if I d'.^sired it he would leave me al- 
 together — otherwise, it was his earnest wish we 
 should still live under the same roof. But nev- 
 er, never meet." 
 
 "And you never have met?" 
 
 "Very rarely — only by the merest cbance. 
 Then he would pass me by, never lifting his 
 eyes. Once — it was in the first few weeks of 
 our separation — I met him on the stair-case. 
 I was different from what I am now, Mrs. Riv- 
 ers ; very proud, outraged, indignant. I flung 
 past him, but he caught me in his arms. I 
 would not speak; I stood upright in his clasp 
 
 like stone. ' We have been happy, Barbara.' 
 'But never can be again,' I cried, passionately. 
 'No,' he said; 'I know that — never again.' 
 He held me close a moment or two, then broke 
 from me. We have never met since." 
 
 Such was her story, which the more I dived 
 into it, became the more incomprehensible. No 
 condemnatory evidence could be found against 
 the husband ; in all things Mrs. Merchiston's 
 comforts were studied, her wishes gratified. 
 She said it often seemed as if an invisible 
 watch were kept over her, to provide a;:ainst 
 her least desire. I could only counsel the poor 
 wife to patience, hope, and trust in God. 
 
 She left me a little comforted. I asked her 
 would she not stay ? was she not afraid of meet- 
 ing him in the street? 
 
 "Oh, no," she sighed, "he seems to know 
 intuitively my goings out and my comings in. 
 I never see him^never — not even by chance. 
 I can not guess how it hajipened to-day. How 
 ill he looked I" she added, recurring again to 
 wljat seemed uppermost in her thoughts. " Mrs. 
 Rivers, will you entreat yoin- husband to watch 
 over him — to take care of him? Promise me 
 you will." 
 
 I ])romised her, poor tender thing ! and in- 
 wardly determined to watch him myself with a 
 closer eye than that of my simi le-he:irted hus- 
 band, to whom, of course, I told the whole mat- 
 ter. 
 
 He, like me, was now fairly bewildered. 
 " Peggy," he said, "hadn't you better let the 
 thing alone ?" 
 
 "Let it alone," I cried, "such cruel sorrow, 
 such a flagrant wrong — never!" 
 
 "Well," kissing me, "perhaps you are ri^ht, 
 Peg, my dear. Happy folk ought to help the 
 miserable." 
 
 I set to work. Woman's wit is keen, and I 
 had my share of the qualitj'. 
 
 We invited Dr. Merchiston to our house ; he 
 came, at first rarely, then frequently. Of course 
 Mrs. Merchiston was always included in these 
 invitations, and, of course, we received duly the 
 formal apology. Gradually this ceased, am] he 
 came still. He must have known that she came 
 tuo, on other days: often he found books and 
 work of hers lying about my table ; yet his vis- 
 its ceased not. He seemed to like to come. 
 He and my husband became stanch friends, 
 but as for me, despite his courtesy, my heart 
 remained angry and sore against him. 
 
 Yet I must confess that we found him all liia 
 wife fondly believed ; a man of keen intclhct, 
 high ])rincij le, generous and tender heart. If 
 I had not known what I did know, I should 
 have avouched, unhesitatingly, that the world 
 did not contain a nobler man than Dr. Merchis- 
 ton. Excepting, of course, my James. 
 
 For his manners, they were simple, natural, 
 kind ; not in any way eccentric, or indicative 
 of vice or folly. Among our neighbors his 
 character rose to the highest pitch of estima- 
 tion ; and when, at last, the fatal trutli was 
 known (alas! what household misery can ever
 
 120 
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 long be liiil, especially in a country place), all 
 sorts of excuses and apologies were made for 
 him. 
 
 And cruelly, mournfully — as it always falls 
 on the weaker side — fell the lash of the world's 
 tongue upon his wife. 
 
 But I — and one or two more who knew and 
 loved her — stood boldly by Mrs. Merchiston 
 through fair report and foul. And I believe, 
 60 great was the mingled awe and respect which 
 the Doctor impressed upon all his acquaintance, 
 that no portion of these calumnies against her 
 reached her husband. 
 
 Three months slipped by without change, 
 save that Mrs. Merchiston's sad lot grew sadder 
 fitill. Her few acquaintance dropped her ; it 
 was so " extremely inconvenient." One lady 
 Tvas on thorns wiienever Mrs. Merchiston called, 
 lest Dr. Merchiston sliould chance to call like- 
 wise; another tried every conceivable diploma- 
 C7 to bring about their meeting — it would be 
 "so very amusing." Gradually the unfortu- 
 nate wife could nor walk down our village with- 
 out being pointed at, or crossed aside from, till 
 she rarely went out at all. 
 
 Dr. Mcrciiision, too, was seldom seen, except 
 by his immediate friends, none of whom dared 
 breathe a word to him concerning his domestic 
 affairs, save the simple 'inquiries of courtesy 
 after Mrs. Merchiston, to which he invariably 
 answered in the customary form, as any other 
 husband would answer. I think, in flict I know, 
 that all this time lie believed her to be living at 
 peace ; perfectly iiappy in her beautiful house 
 in our cheerful village, and in a small society 
 of her own choosing, of which I was the chief. 
 He once hinted as much to me, expressing his 
 great pleasure that Mrs. Merchiston and myself 
 were fast friends. 
 
 I hardly know what possessed me that I did 
 not then and there burst out upon him with a 
 piece of my mind ; any " woman of spirit" — as 
 James sometimes called me — would have done 
 it. What was he but a man ? 
 
 Ay, there was the difficulty. His perfect 
 manliness disarmed one; that quiet dignity of 
 reserve, which, I have noticed, while women 
 are ready enough to complain of their hus- 
 bands, keeps nine men out of ten from ever 
 Baying a word against their wives. Then, too, 
 the silent deprecation of his sickly mien, and 
 of the inetlable, cureless melancholy which, the 
 moment he ceased conversation, arose in his 
 dark eyes. What could a tender-hearted wo- 
 man do? Beginning by hating and despising, 
 I often ended in pitying him, and every time I 
 fp,w him all my determinations to attack him 
 about his domestic wickedness vanished in air. 
 
 Besides — as James astutely observed — if a 
 wife obstinately persists in blindly obeying her 
 husband, never asking the why and the where- 
 fore of his insane and incomprehensible will, 
 and concealing from him that she is wasting 
 away in slow misery, what business has a third 
 party to accuse or even acipiaint him of the 
 fact? 
 
 Was no other plan to be tried ? Yes ; acci- 
 dentally one was forced into my mind. 
 
 On a winter's afternoon, when I sat with my 
 baby over our happy Christmas fire, Mrs. Mer- 
 chiston came rushing in. 
 
 " Hide me — any where ; let nobody find me. 
 ilrs. Rivers, they hoot at me down the street. 
 They say — oh, I dare not think what they say, 
 and I dare not tell him. Perhaps — oh, horror! 
 — perhaps he thinks so too." 
 
 Long shudders possessed her; it was some 
 time before she gained the slightest composure. 
 It was not difficult for me to guess the cause of 
 her anguish. 
 
 "Never mind wicked tongues, Mrs. ^Merchis- 
 ton, they will cease if let alone. Only live in 
 peace and patience. Hope in God still." 
 
 "I can't," she said, with a wild look that I 
 had not before seen. ''How should I hope in 
 Him? He has forsaken me ; why should I live 
 any longer? Oh! save me, save mc ! I.,et me 
 go away from here, from my husband. I must 
 go, their cruel tongues will kill mc." 
 
 "You shall," I cried, with a sudden idea, 
 as suddenly converted into a resolution , "you 
 shall, and I will help you." 
 
 Whereupon I explained all to her; somewhat 
 hastily, for I was afraid of Mr. Rivers coming 
 home ; he who had just a man's notion of mar- 
 ital authority, and the wickedness of conjugal 
 rebellion. But this was a case in which I set 
 even him at defiance — or rather, I trusted to my 
 own iuHucnce to convince him that, acting from 
 my conscience solely, I acted right. 
 
 Mark me, children, I would have a woman 
 submit to any lawful authority, even unjustly 
 and cruelly exercised, so long as the misery 
 does not ruin her soul. When the torment 
 goads her thus far — when, like Job's wife, the 
 devil tempts her to "curse God and die," then, 
 I hoM, all duty ceases, except to her Maker 
 and herself, the creature which He made ; let 
 her save her own soul and flee! 
 
 My counsel to Mrs. Merchiston was this : at 
 once — openly if she could, secretly if tliat was 
 impossible — to leave her husband, absolutely 
 and entirely, exacting no maintenance, making 
 neither excuse nor accusation. 
 
 It necessarily followed that she must earn her 
 own bread ; and she must immediately seek a 
 position that would place her f.iir fame above 
 suspicion, both now and at any future time. 
 
 This is how I planned it. 
 
 I had a sister, a wcll-jointurcd widow, with 
 a large family. I jiroposed to i)lace my poor 
 friend with her as a governess. Mrs. Merchis- 
 ton eagerly assented. She had lieen a teacher, 
 she said, in her youth, so that the duty would 
 be easy, and she could fullill it well. 
 
 "And oh!" she cried, while the tears ran 
 down her face, "I shall be in a household, a 
 li<iine among children. Perhaps the little things 
 will love m '." 
 
 Poor desolate soul ! 
 
 I will not detail the many evening lectures 
 that were required to bring my husband to my
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 121 
 
 own way of thinking;. For one thing he inex- 
 orably hekl our, and finally I agreed with him 
 that Dr. Merchiston should be openly and hon- 
 orably informed of liis wife's intended dc]jarture. 
 She wrote to him herself in our house. James 
 and I both read the letter. It was as follows : 
 
 "Dear Hush and, — Forgive my addressing you 
 against your implied desire. Forgive my asking once 
 more, and for the last time, what have I done to you ? 
 Why are you estranged from me? I can no longer sus- 
 tain the life I lead. I desire to leave you. I am going 
 to be a governess, as I was before we were married. Al- 
 ready all my plans are formed, but I could not part from 
 you without this forewarning and farewell. 
 
 " Your wife, Barb.-vea." 
 
 This — the last and most carefully, even coldly 
 worded, of the many letters she wrote and tore 
 up — was left, to avoid remarks, by my own serv- 
 ant at Dr. Mcrchiston's door. 
 
 On the evening of that day Mrs. Merchiston 
 came to my house. She looked wliite and shiv- 
 ering, but not with the cold. Her poor blue 
 eyes, so warm and kind, had a frosty glitter in 
 them tliat was strange and sad. 
 
 "Ko answer," she kej)t repeating; "no an- 
 swer — none. Now I must go." 
 
 I replied that every thing was ready ; our gig 
 would be at the door in a minute ; it was a 
 bri-ht moonlight night, and I myself would ac- 
 comi any her to my sisters house. 
 
 "It is not far — not so very far, Mrs. Rivers? 
 Not so far but that I can always hear of him, or 
 — if he should be ill at any time — " 
 
 " You can go home at once." 
 
 " Home !" she echoed, piteously. Then, as if 
 stung into one desperate effort, the last struggle 
 of her tender and feeble nature, she sprang into 
 the gig, I fcdlowing her. 
 
 I was scarcely seated, reins in hand, for I 
 was determined that no other than myself should 
 have thecreditof eloping with Mrs. Merchiston, 
 than I felt on my right arm a grasp like a vice. 
 
 " Mrs. Rivers, whom have you there? Is it 
 my wife ?" 
 
 "Yes, Dr. Merchiston," I cried, not in the 
 least fri_.;htencd by tlic look and tone ; " j'cs, it 
 is your \\ ife. I am taking her to where she will 
 live in peace, and not be killed by inches any 
 longer. Stand aside ; let me drive on." 
 
 " In one moment. Pardon me ;" he passed 
 in front of the horse to the other side. " Bar- 
 bara ? Is that you, Barbara ?" 
 
 No wr>rds could describe the ineffable tender- 
 ness, the longing anguish of that voice. No 
 wonder tliat it made her grasp my arm, and cry 
 wildly on me to stop. 
 
 " it is not ten minutes since I received your 
 letter. Barbara, grant me one word in the 
 presence of this lady, by whose advice you are 
 leaving your husband." 
 
 " By whose advice did you forsake your wife. 
 Dr. Merchiston ?" I began, boldly ; but by the 
 carriage-him]) 1 caught si.;lit of his face, and it 
 seemed like that of a man literally dying — dying 
 of despair. "Mrs. Merchiston, snjipose we re- 
 enter my house for a while. Doctor, will you 
 lift your wife down ? She has fainted." 
 
 Soon the poor lady was sitting in my parlor, 
 I by her side. Dr. Merchiston stood opposite, 
 watching us both. He was neither violent nor 
 reproachful, but perfectly silent. Nevertheless, 
 I felt somewhat uncomfortable, and glad from 
 my heart that James was safe ten miles off. and 
 that I alone had been mi.xed up with this affair. 
 
 "She is better now, Mrs. Rivers. I may 
 speak ?" 
 
 " Speak, sir." 
 
 "I wiil pass over my present trying position. 
 Of course, I perceive — in fact, I was already 
 aware — that Mrs. Merchiston has acquaintec) 
 you with our sad, inevitable estrangement." 
 
 "Why inevitable ? When there has been no 
 quarrel on either side? When, cruel as you 
 have been to her, she has never breathed a word 
 to your discredit?" (He groaned.) "When, 
 as I understand, you have not the shadow of 
 blame to urge against her?" 
 
 "Before Heaven, none. Have I not declared 
 this, and will I not declare it before all the 
 world ? She knows I will." 
 
 " Then why, my dear sir, in the name of all 
 that is good and honorable — nay, even in the 
 name of common sense, why is your estrange- 
 ment inevitable ?" 
 
 He seemed to cower and shudder as before 
 some inexpressible dread ; once he glanced 
 wildly round the room, as if with the vague 
 idea of escaping. Finally, he forced himself 
 to speak, with a smile that was most painful to 
 witness. 
 
 "Mrs. Rivers, even though a lady asks me, 
 I can not answer that question." 
 
 ' ' Can you if your wife herself asks it ? I will 
 leave you togeiher." 
 
 As I rose to go. Dr. Merchiston interposed. 
 The cold sweat stood on his brow ; he looked — 
 yes, I thought so at the moment — like a pos- 
 sessed man struggling wiih his inward demon. 
 
 "For God's sake, no ! For the love of mercy, 
 no I Stay by her ; take care of her. I will speak 
 in your presence; I will not detain you long.' 
 
 "You had better not. See," for the ].oor 
 wi e was again insensible. Dr. Merchiston 
 ru he I to her side; he chafed her hands; he 
 lell on his knees before her ; but as she opened 
 her eyes he crept away, and put the room's 
 length between them. 
 
 " Now may I speak ? You wished to leave 
 nie, Barbara. To go whither?'' 
 
 I told him, concealing nothing; he seemed 
 greatly shocked. 
 
 "Mrs. Rivers," he said at length, " such a 
 scheme is impossible. I will never consent to 
 it. If she desires, she shall leave my house, for 
 yours or any other. She shall have any lu.xuries 
 she jdeases ; she shall be as free from nie as if 
 I were dead and she a widow. But that my 
 wife shciiild (juit the shelter of my roof to earn 
 her daily bread — 1 never will allow it." 
 
 From this decision there was no appeal. The 
 wife evidently desired none ; her eyes began to 
 sliine with joy, and even I took hojie. 
 
 "But, Dr. Merchiston, can there be no
 
 122 
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 change ? Y.>n loved one another once. Love is 
 not yet dead ; love never wholly dies. Surely — " 
 " Madam, silence !" 
 
 Could it be his voice that spoke ; his once 
 calm, low voice ? I was now really terrified. 
 
 He rose and walked about the room ; we 
 two sat trembling. At last he stopped in his 
 old position, with his hand on the mantle-piece. 
 
 "Mrs. Kivcrs, my extremely ])ainfiil posi- 
 tion — you will acknowledge it is such — must 
 excuse any thin^ in me unbecoming, uncourt- 
 eous." 
 
 I assured him he had my free pardon for any 
 excitement, and I hoped he felt calmer now-. 
 
 'Terfectly, perfectly; you must see that, do 
 you not ?" 
 
 "I do," said I, with a sense of bitterness 
 against the wliole race of mankind, who can 
 drive poor womankind almost out of their 
 senses, while they themselves preserve the most 
 sublime composure. 
 
 "I will now, with your permission and in 
 your presence, sjieak to my wife. Barbara" — 
 in a (piiet equal tone, as if addressing an ordi- 
 nary person — "I told you five years a^o tiiat it 
 is not I who am inexorable, but fate, even if tlie 
 life we th'.'u began to lead should last until my 
 death. I repeat the same now. Yet, for these 
 five years yon have been at peace and safe. 
 Safe," he repeated, with a slight pause, " under 
 my roof, where I can shelter and ]irotect you 
 better than any where else." 
 
 "Protect her?" And then I told him— how 
 could 1 help it? — of the slights and outrages to 
 which tliL'ii- manner of life had exposed her. 
 How e\ ery idle tongue in the neighborhood had 
 wagged at her expense, and to both their dis- 
 honor. It was terrible to see the effect jiro- 
 duced on him. 
 
 " Hush! tell me no more, or — Barbara, for- 
 give me ; forgive me that I ever made you my 
 wif^;. There is but one atonement ; shall I 
 make you mi/ iridow /" 
 
 "Doctor Merchiston," 1 cried, catching his 
 arm, " are you mad?" 
 
 He started, sliuddered, and in a moment had 
 recovered all his self-control. 
 
 " Mrs. liivers, this is a state of things most 
 tcrribi ', of uliiuli I was totally ignorant. How 
 is it to be remedied ? — Granting, as you must 
 grant, the one unalterable necessity?" 
 
 I tliouglit a minute, and thi'n pro])osed, to 
 silence the tongue of all A])e(lale, that the bus- [ 
 band and wife should openly walk to church 
 together every Sunday, and kneel together in ! 
 the lions ! of God. And may He for-ive me if \ 
 in tills scheme I had a deeper hope than I be- 
 trayed. 
 
 "I will do it," said Dr. Merchiston, after a 
 pause. '• B.irbara, do you consent? Will you 
 come horn • ?"' 
 
 "I will." 
 
 "But lo tlic old life? In notliiii" chanced 
 — for changed it can not, must not be ?" 
 
 " Under any circumstances I will come 
 home." 
 
 ' Thank you ; God bless you. It is better 
 
 so. 
 
 There was a quiet pause, broken only by one 
 or two foint sobs from her. At last they ceased. 
 Dr. ^Merchiston took his hat to dej)art ; as he 
 was going, his wife started uji and caught him 
 by the hand. 
 
 "Husband, one word, and I can bear all 
 things. Did — did you ever love me ?" 
 
 "Love you? Oh, my little Barbara!" 
 
 " IJo you love me?" 
 
 "Yes," in a whisper, sharp with intolerable 
 pain; "yes." 
 
 "Then I do not mind any thing. Oh no, 
 thank God ! I do not mind." 
 
 She burst into hysterical langhter, and thrcAv 
 herself into my arms. It was only my arms 
 she could come to — her husband was gone. 
 
 She went home as she had jjromiscd, and 
 the old life began once more. AVithout the 
 slightest chan;;e, she told me — save that rcgu- 
 larl}' on Sunday mornings he knocked at the 
 door of communication between the double 
 house, kejit always locked on her side, by his 
 desire — that she found him waiting in the hall, 
 and they walked arm in arm, as silently and 
 sadly as mourners after a corjise, to the tjiurch 
 door. In the same way returning, he imme- 
 diately ])iirted from her, and went his way to 
 his own apartments. 
 
 A})cdale was quite satisfied, and circulated 
 innumerable exjdanations, which had probably 
 as much truth in them as the former accusa- 
 tions. 
 
 Dr. Merchiston came as usual to play chess 
 with my husband, and no illusion was ever 
 made to the night which had witnessed so 
 strange a scene in our house. 
 
 Mrs. Merchiston improved in health and 
 cheerfulness. To a woman the simple convic- 
 tion of being loved is su))port and strength 
 through tlie most terrible ordeal. Once sure of 
 that, her faith is infinite, her consolation com- 
 plete. After his "Yes," poor little Barbara 
 revived like a flower in the sun. 
 
 Not so her husband. Every body noticed 
 that Dr. Merchiston was wasting away to a 
 shadow. On Sundays, especially, his counte- 
 nance, always sallow anil worn, seemed to me 
 to have the ghastly look of one whom you know 
 to be inwardly fighting a great soul-battle. 
 You feel at once the warfare will be won — but 
 the man will die. 
 
 And still, as ever, of all the imiicnetrable 
 mysteries that life can weave, that man and his 
 secret were the darkest. 
 
 At least to me. Whetlier it was so to my 
 husband, whose reserved habits and wide ex- 
 perience of human nature lielped to make him 
 what, thank Heaven, he always was — much 
 wiser than I — I do nut know ; but I often 
 caught bis grave ]>enctrating eye intently fixed 
 cm Dr. Merchiston. So intu'h so, that more 
 than once the Doctor recoiled from it uneasily. 
 But Mr. Bivers redoubled his kindness ; in 
 truth, I never knew James, who was very un-
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 123 
 
 demonstrative, and usually engrossed between 
 interest in his patients and his domestic affec- 
 tions, attach himself so strongly to any male 
 friend out of his own home, as he did to Dr. 
 Merchiston. 
 
 He seized every opportunity to allure our 
 neighbor from his morbid, solitary in-door life 
 to a more wholesome existence. They rode 
 out together on the medical rounds — James 
 trying to interest him in the many, many op- 
 portunities of philanthropy with which a coun- 
 try surgeon's life abounds. Sometimes — one 
 day I especially remember ^ — Dr. Merchiston 
 said he thou-ht Mr. Kivcrs had familiarized 
 him witli every possible aspect of human jiain. 
 
 " Not all — I have yet to show you — indeed, 
 I thought of doin;^ so this morning — the black- 
 est aspect human suffering can show. And 
 yet, like all suffering, a merciful God has not 
 left it without means of alleviation." 
 
 "Wiiat do you mean? I thought we were 
 going to some hosiiital. For what disease ?" 
 
 "No physical disease. Yet one which I 
 believe, like all other diseases, is capable of 
 prevention and cure — mental insanity." 
 
 Dr. Merchiston grcAv as white as this my 
 pa])er. He said, in a confused manner, which 
 vainly tried to simulate indifference — "You are 
 right. But it is a painful subject^insanity." 
 
 I did not wonder that my husband tried to 
 change the conversation, and his morning plan 
 likewise. It was evident that in some way the 
 topic strongly affected our friend. Probably he 
 had had a relative thus afflicted. 
 
 It must be remembered that, forty years ago, 
 the subject of insanity was viewed in a very 
 different light from what it is at present. In- 
 stead of a mere disease, a mental instead of a 
 bodily ailment — yet no less susceptible of reme- 
 dy — it was looked upon as a visitation, a curse, 
 almost a crime. Any family who owned a 
 member thus suffering, hid the secret as if it 
 had been absolute guilt. "Mad-house," "mad 
 doctor," were words which people shuddered at, 
 or dared not utter. And no wonder! for in 
 many instances they revealed abysses of igno- 
 rance, cruelty, and wickedness, horrible to con- 
 template. Since then more than one modern 
 Howard has gone among those worse than 
 prisons, cleared away incalculable evils, and 
 made even such dark places of the earth to see 
 a hopeful dawn. 
 
 Throughout his professional career, one of 
 my husband's favorite "crotchets," as I called 
 them, had been the investigation of insanity. 
 
 Commencing with the simple doctrine, start- 
 ling bat true, that every man and woman is 
 mad on some one point — that is, has a certain 
 weak corner of the mind or brain, which re- 
 quires carefully watching like any other weak 
 portion of the body, lest it should become the 
 seat of rampant disease, he went on with a 
 theory of possible cure— one that would take a 
 wiser head than mine to explain, but which ef- 
 fectually removed the intolerable horror, misery, 
 and hopelessness of that great cloud overhang- 
 
 ing the civilized and intellectual portion of the 
 world — mental insanity. I do not mean the 
 raving madness which is generally superin- 
 duced by violent passions, and which by-gone 
 ages used to regard as a sort of dcmcniacal 
 possession— \\ hich it may be, for aught I know 
 • — but that general state of unsoundness, un- 
 healthiness of brain, which corresponds to un- 
 healthiness of body, and like it, often requires 
 less a physician than a sanitary ccmmissioner. 
 
 This may seem an unnecessary didactic inter- 
 polation, but I owe it to the natural course of 
 my story, and as a tribute to my dear husband. 
 Besides, it formed the sulject of a conversation 
 which, the question bting voluntarily revived by 
 Dr. Merchiston, he and James held toj^ether dur- 
 ing the whole afternoon. 
 
 It was good and pleasant to hear these two 
 men talk. I listened, jleascd as a woman who 
 is contented to appreciate and enjoy that to 
 winch herself can never attain. And once 
 more, for the thousandth time, I noted with ad- 
 miration the wonderfully strong and lucid in- 
 tellect with which Dr. Merchiston could grasp 
 any subject, handle it, view it on all j oints, and 
 make his auditors see it too. Kvcn on this 
 matter, which still seemed to touch his symjia- 
 thies deeply, es] ecially %\l;en he alluded to the 
 world's horror and cruel treatment of insane 
 persons— insane, perhajis, only(<n s( me) articu- 
 lar point, while the rest of the brain A\as clear 
 and sound — even there his powers of reasoning 
 and argument never failed. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Kivcrs, smiling, as they 
 shook hands at the doer, "I am }.lad to have 
 found some one who can understi.nd my hobby. 
 You are certainly one of the clearest-headed 
 men I ever knew." 
 
 "You truly think so ? I thank you, Eivcrs," 
 said the Doctor, earnestly, as he disajjpearcd 
 into the dark. 
 
 I remember this nij.ht's conversation vividly, 
 because, in Heaven's inscrutable mercy — ay, I 
 !ct7/ write "mercy'' — it was the last time Dr. 
 Merchiston entered our house. 
 
 The next morning he bowed to me at the 
 window, riding past on his gayJy curveting 
 horse, looking better and more cheerful than he 
 had done for a long time. 
 
 That evening my husband was summoned to 
 the Double House. Its master had been thrown 
 from his horse, liis leg and his ri}.ht arm frac- 
 tured. If all went well, James told me, and I 
 had rarely seen him so moved — the patient 
 would be confined to his bed, bound there hand 
 and foot, helpless as a child, for three or four 
 months. Boor Dr. Merchiston ! 
 
 "Is his wife with him ?" was the first question 
 I asked. 
 
 "Ye;?, thank God, yes!" cried James, fairly 
 burstiug into tears. I was so shocked, so 
 amazed by his emotion, that I never inquired 
 or learned to this day how it came about, or 
 M hat strange scene my husband had tliat evening 
 witnessed in the Double House. 
 
 There was a long crisis, in which the balance
 
 124 
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 •wavered between life and death. Life tri- 
 umphed. 
 
 I went almost every day ; but it was lonp be- 
 fore I saw Mrs. Mcrchiston : when I did. it was 
 the strangest sight ! Her looks were full of the 
 deepest peace, the most seraphic joy. And yet 
 she had been for weeks a nurse in that sick 
 room. A close, tender, indefatigable nurse, 
 sach as none but a wife can be ; as fondly 
 watchful — ay, and as gratefully and adoringly 
 watched, my husband told me, by the sick 
 man's dim eyes, as if she had been a wife bound 
 for years in near, continual household bonds, 
 instead of having lived totally estranged from 
 him since the first six montiis of union. 
 
 But no one ever spoke or tliought of that now. 
 
 Dr. Mcrchiston slowly improved ; though he 
 was still totally helpless, and his weakness re- 
 mained tliat of a very infant. 
 
 In this state he was when I was first admitted 
 to his :-ick chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Mcrchiston sat at the window, sewing. 
 The room was bright and pleasant; she Iiad 
 brought into it all those cheerfulnesses which 
 can alleviate the long-to-be-endured suffering 
 from wliich all danger is past. When I tliought 
 of the former aspect and atmosi)]iere of the 
 house, it did not seem in the least sad now ; for 
 Barbara's eyes had a permanent, mild, satis- 
 fied light; and her liusband's, which were ever 
 dwelling on her face and form, were full of the 
 calmest, most entire happiness. 
 
 I sat with them a guod while, and did not 
 marvel at his saying ere I left — " that he thor- 
 oughly enjoyed being ill." 
 
 With what a solemn, sublime evenness is life 
 motcd out! Barbara has told me since that 
 those five moniiis fulluwing her husband's acci- 
 dtMit were the mo<t truly happy hsr life had ever 
 known. 
 
 "Look at him," she whispered to me one 
 evening when he lay by the window, half dozing, 
 lia\ iug been for tiie first time allowed a fiiint at- 
 tem])t at locomotion, though he was still obliged 
 to '>e waited upon hand and foot — " Mrs. Rivers, 
 did you evvir see so beautiful a smile ? Yet it is 
 notliing compared to that he wore when he was 
 very, very ill, when I first began to nurse and 
 tend him; and he did nothing but watch me 
 about the room, and call me his Barbara. I am 
 here, Evan I — did you want me?" 
 
 She was at his side in a moment, smoothing 
 his pillow, leaning over and caressing him. I 
 tliink he was not aware of there being any one 
 in the room but their two selves, for he fondled 
 lier curls and her soft cheeks. 
 
 "My Barbara, we have had a little ray of 
 comfort in our sad life. How hap])/ we have 
 been in this sick room 1" 
 
 " We Itave, hern, Evan ?"' 
 
 "Ay; but nothing lasts in this world — no- 
 thing!" 
 
 "Husband, that is like one of your morbid 
 sayings when we were first married. But I 
 will not have it now — I will not, indeed." And 
 she closed his mouth with a pretty petulance. | 
 
 He lified his liand to remove hers, then sunk 
 back. 
 
 "I am growing strong again; I can use my 
 riglit arm. Oh, Heaven! my right arm! lam 
 not helpless any longer." 
 
 "No, thank God! But you speak as if you 
 were shocked and tcmfied." 
 
 " I am — I am. With strength comes — Oh, 
 my Barbara !" 
 
 His wife, alarmed at the anguish of his tone, 
 called out my name. Dr. Mcrchiston caught 
 at it. " Is Mrs. Kivers there ? Bid her come in; 
 bid any body come in. Ah! yes, that is well." 
 
 After a pause, wliich seemed more of mental 
 than i)hysical exhaustion, he became himself 
 again for the rest of the evening. 
 
 The next day he sent for me, and in Mrs. 
 Merchiston's absence, talked with me a long 
 while about her. He feared her health would 
 give way ; he wished her to be more with me ; 
 he ho])ed I would impress upon her that it made 
 him miserable to see her spending all her days 
 and niglits in bis sick room. 
 
 '• What ! in the only place in the world where 
 she has real hap])iness?" 
 
 " Do you think so ? Is she never happy but 
 with me ? Then Heaven forgive me ! Heaven 
 have pity on me !" he groaned. 
 
 " Dr. JMerchiston ! you surely do not intend 
 to send your wife from you again — your forgiv- 
 ing, loving wife?" 
 
 Before he could answer she came in. I went 
 away thoroughly angry an(i miserable. That 
 evening I indul.;cd James with such a long ha- 
 rangue on the hcartlessness of liis sex, that, as 
 I said, he must have been less a man than an 
 angel to have borne it. When I told him the 
 cause, he ceased all general arguments, sat a long 
 time thoughtful, burning his Hessians against 
 the bars of the grate, finally sent me to bed and 
 did not himself follow until midnight. 
 
 Dr. Merchiston's cure progressed ; in the 
 same ratio his wife's cheerfulness declined. He 
 grew day by day more melancholy, irritable, and 
 cold. By the time he was released from his 
 helpless condition, the icy barrier between them 
 had risen up again. She made no complaint, 
 but the facts were evident. 
 
 My husband and I by his express desire spent 
 almost every evening at the Double House. 
 Very ))ainful and tircary evenings they were. 
 Convalescence seemed to the poor jiatient no 
 happiness — only a terror, misery, and jiain. 
 
 One night, just as we were leaving, making 
 an attcnijit at cheerfulness — for -it was the first 
 time he had ])crformed the feat of walking, and 
 his wife had heljjcd iiini across the n)om with 
 triumphant joy — he said, breaking from a long 
 reverie, " .stay — a few minutes more ; Kivers 
 — Mrs. Rivers — I want to speak wiih you both." 
 We sat down. He fell back in his chair, and 
 covered his eyes. At length Mrs. Mcrchiston 
 gently took the hands away. 
 
 "Evan, you don't feel so strong as usual to- 
 night?" 
 
 "I do ; alas, alas, I do," he muttered. —
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 125 
 
 "Would I were weak, and lay on that bed 
 again, as powerless as a child. No, Barbara ; 
 look, I am strong — well." He stood up, stretch- 
 ing his gaunt ri;j,ht arm, and clenching the 
 hand; then let it drop, affrighted. "My little 
 Barbara, I must send tliec away." 
 
 " Send mc away?" 
 
 " Send her away?" 
 
 "Peggy," cried my husband, in stern reproof, 
 "be silent:" 
 
 I'he poor wife broke out into bitter sobs. 
 "Oh, Eviin, what have I done to you? Dear 
 Evan, let me stay — only till you are well, quiie 
 well." 
 
 For, despite what he said about his strength, 
 his countenance, as he lay back, was almost 
 that of a corpse. Barbara's clinging arms 
 seemed to him worse than the gripe of a mur- 
 derer. 
 
 "Take her away, Mrs. Rivers ; take my poor 
 wife away. You know how she has nursed me ; 
 you know whether I love her or not." 
 
 "Love her!" I cried bitterly; but James's 
 hand was upon my shoulder. His eye, which 
 with its gentle firmness could, they said at the 
 Hospital, control the most refractory and soothe 
 the most wretched patient, was fixed upon Dr. 
 Merchiston. I saw the sick man yield ; the 
 bright hectic flush came and went in his cheek. 
 
 "Rivers, my good friend, what do you wish 
 me to do ?" 
 
 "A very simple thing. Tell me — not these 
 poor, frightened women — but me, your real rea- 
 son for acting thus." 
 
 "Lnpossible." 
 
 "Not quite. It may be I partly guess it al- 
 ready." 
 
 Dr. Merchiston started up with the look of a 
 hunted wild beast in its last desjiair, but my 
 husband laid his hand on his, in a kind but res- 
 olute way. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, you are safe in telling me. 
 Will yoti do it ?" 
 
 The patient hesitated, held up his thin hand 
 to the light with a wan smile, then said, "It 
 can not matter for long ; I will." 
 
 James immediately sent us both out of the 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. Merchiston was a ver_v weak woman, 
 gentle and frail. She wept until her strength 
 was gone ; then I jiut her to bed in her maid's 
 charge, and waited until Mr. Rivers ended his 
 conference with her husband. 
 
 It was two hours before James came out. 
 At sight of him my torrent of curiosity was dried 
 up ; he looked as I had sometimes seen him 
 coming home from a death-bed. To my few 
 questions he answered not a word. 
 
 "But at least," said I, half crying, "at least 
 you might tell me what I am to do with poor 
 Mrs. Merciiiston." 
 
 "Yes, yes." He thought a minute. "She 
 must go home with us ; the sooner the better." 
 
 "You agree, then," I burst out, breathless; 
 "yon agre? to this separation?" 
 
 "Entirely." 
 
 "You join with her wicked husband in his 
 ingratitude — his brutality — " 
 
 "Peggy !" James caught me by the shoul- 
 ders, with the sternest frown that ever fell on 
 mc in all our peaceful married life; "Peggy, 
 may Heaven forgive you! You do not know 
 what you are saying." 
 
 I was completely awed. 
 
 " Dr. Merchiston has told you the secret, and 
 you are determined to keep it ?" 
 
 " Implicitly, while his poor life lasts." 
 
 My husband was a man of inviolable honor. 
 He never would tell a patient's secrets, or a 
 friend's, even to me, his wife ; nor was I the 
 womiin to desire it. I urged no more. 
 
 During the ten days that Mrs. Merchiston re- 
 mained in my house, jart of the time she was in 
 a sort of low fever, which was the happiest thing 
 for her, poor soul ! I made not a single inquiry 
 after her husband ; I knew that Mr. Rivers was 
 with him at all hours, as doctor, nurse, and 
 friend. 
 
 One day, when Mrs. Merchiston was sitting in 
 the ])arlor with mc, he looked in ar the door. Slie 
 ditl not see him. He quietly beckoned me out. 
 
 "Well, James?" 
 
 " Speak lower, Peggy, lower ; don't let her 
 hear." 
 
 And then I saw how very much agitated he 
 was ; yet even that did not quite remove the 
 bitterness with which I could not help mention- 
 ing the name of Dr. Merchiston. 
 
 "Peggy, Dr. Merchiston is dying." 
 
 I liad not expected this ; it was a great shock. 
 
 "I feared it would be so," continued James; 
 "I have seen him sinking this long time. Now 
 the mind is at peace, but the worn-out body — " 
 
 "His wife — his poor wife," was all I could 
 utter. 
 
 "Yes, that is what I came to say. She 
 must go to him ; he wishes it much. Do you 
 think she will ?" 
 
 I smiled, sadly. "Ah ! James, she is a wo- 
 man." 
 
 "And you women can forgive to all eternity. 
 Heaven bless you for it ! Besides, she will know 
 the whole truth soon." 
 
 I asked not what this "truth" was. What 
 did it matter ? he was dying. 
 
 "But are you sure, James, there is no hope 
 of his recovery?" 
 
 "None, I believe, and am almost glad to be- 
 lieve it. There is no man I ever knew whom 
 I so deeply pity, and shall so thankfully see 
 gone to his last rest, as Dr. Merchiston." 
 
 These were strong words, enough to calm 
 down every wrong feeling, and made me fit to 
 lead the wife to her husband's sick — nay, death 
 chamber. 
 
 How we brought her thitlicr I forget. I only 
 remember the moment when we stood within 
 the door. 
 
 Dr. Merchiston lay on his bed, as for five 
 long months he had jiatiently and cheerfully 
 lain. He had something of that old quiet look 
 now, but with a change — the strange, awful
 
 12C 
 
 THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 
 
 chanj:^e which, however fond friends may de- 
 ceive themselves, is always clearly visible to a 
 colder gaze. You say at once, ''That man will 
 die." 
 
 "When Barbara came into the room he stretch- 
 ed out his arms with the brightest, happiest 
 smile. She clung to him closely and long. 
 Thera was no for^jiveness asked or bestowed ; 
 it was not needed. 
 
 "I am so content, my Barbara, content at 
 last!" and he laid his head on her shoulder. 
 
 " Evan, you will not j^art from me again ?" 
 
 " No ; I need not now. They will tell you 
 why it was. You l)elievc — you will always be- 
 lieve how I loved vou ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Stoop. Let me hold her dose as I used to 
 do — my wife, my little Barbara. Stoo;) down." 
 
 She obeyed. He put his arms round her, 
 and kissed her with many kisses, such as he 
 had not given her since she was a six months' 
 bride ; their memory remained sweet on her 
 lij.s till she was old and gray. 
 
 Dr. ^lerchiston died at the next sunrise, died 
 jjcacefully in Barbara's arms. 
 
 ^ :)( ^ ^ ^ ik 
 
 Tlirec days after my husband and I stood by 
 lh3 coffin, where, for the last few minutes on 
 earth, tlie features, which had been so familiar 
 to us for the last two years, were exposed to 
 our view. James said — toucliing the i'oreliead, 
 v.liirh was ]ilacid as a dead baby's, witii all the 
 wrinkles gone — 
 
 '■Thank the Lord!" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "For this blessed death, in which alone his 
 sufferings could end. He was a monomaniac, 
 and he knew it." 
 
 Before speaking again my husband, rever- 
 ently and tenderly, closed the coffin, and led 
 me down stairs. 
 
 The funeral over, and we two sitting quietly 
 and solemnly by our own fireside, James told 
 me the whole. 
 
 "He was, as I said, a monomaniac. JIad 
 on one point only, the rest of his mind being 
 clear and sound." 
 
 "And that ])oint was — " 
 
 "The desire to murder his wife. He told 
 mc," pursued James, when my horror had a 
 little subsided, "that it came upon him first in 
 tlie very honeymoon, beginning with the sort 
 of feeling that I have heard several jicople say 
 that they had at the climax of happiness — the 
 wish there and then to die — together. After- 
 ward, day and night, whenever they were alone, 
 the temptation used to haunt him. A physi- 
 cian himself, he knew that it was a monomania ; 
 but he also knew that, if he confessed it, he, 
 sane on all other points, would be treated as a 
 madman, and that his wife, the only creature 
 he loved, would look on him with horror for- 
 ever. Tlierc was but one course to save him- 
 self and her ; he took it, and never swerved 
 from it." 
 
 '•But in his illness?" 
 
 "Then, being perfectly helpless, he knew he 
 could not harm her, and in great bodily weak- 
 ness most monomanias usually subside. His 
 left liim entirely. When he grew stronger it 
 returned. You know the rest. His life was one 
 long torture. Peace be with him now!" 
 
 "Amen!" I said, and went to comfort the 
 widow. 
 
 The terrible fact, which Dr. Merchiston had 
 desired should be told her after his death, did 
 not seem to affect Barbara so nuich as we fear- 
 ed. Love to her, as to many other wonu'ii. 
 was the beginning and end of all things — sulli- 
 cient for life, and even in death wholly undy- 
 ing. 
 
 "He loved mc — he always loved me," she 
 kept saying, and her days of mourning became 
 the dawn of a perennial joy. 
 
 She lived to be nearly as old as I am now, 
 remaining one of those widows who are "wid- 
 ows indeed," forever faithful to one love a«d 
 one memory. 
 
 TRB END.
 
 
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